After The Guardian termed their music “disarming, breezy pop that’s tinged with melancholy”, the crowds that descended upon Fibbers last Sunday surely expected an emotional performance from Paper Aeroplanes.
Little could we prepare, however, for such raw and dark beauty, as we were launched, souls singing, into a minefield of elegant, depressive pop.
Opening the evening to a scattered crowd was Amie J Ryan, who quite quickly captured our attention with her thick, raspy voice. She and her fellow acoustic guitarists offered up a charming cocktail of jazzy folk, and calming upbeat melodies.If perhaps a little monotonous, it certainly made for gentle listening.
The Lake Poet’s frontman, Martin Longstaff then took to the stage. We looked on, a young sweet-faced boy with his guitar, in what seemed a daunting, black room. Yet all were instantly silenced as he began “Windowsill”, revealing an almost unbelievably sweet, high voice. “April”, which received a Radio 1 play earlier this year, had the seated audience swooning beneath his enchanting vocals. Longstaff’s set reached emotional highs with a song he wrote in honour of his late Grandma; I was surely not the only one be to totally transfixed and almost brought to tears. The beautifully colourful set then rolled out into a chilled, folky number with “City by the Sea.” This lad is certainly one to watch in the future.
With the danger of being upstaged by a superb opening act, Paper Aeroplanes had a tall task when the four of them (drummer and double-bassist included) stood before the Fibbers crowd (which had grown disappointingly little since the start of the night.) As if there had been no doubt of their succeeding in this task, the band stormed forward with “Days We Made” from their album “We Are Ghosts.” After an atmospheric opening, Howells’s striking vocals were fully paraded in “Time to Be” and we rattled on, encouraged to move closer to the stage on this cold November’s evening.
“So we don’t really do happy songs”, the vocalist pointed out. I am quite sure anyone seeking “happy” music would have left the gig long before now. It seemed we were all an equally depressive bunch, band and audience alike. Perhaps this was the reason behind the crowd’s virtual silence throughout the entire evening. Unphased, Paper Aeroplanes went on with their only self-confessed “happy” song, “My First Love.”
The set glided on, unveiling a fusion of dreamy vocal harmonies and folky wholesomeness. We found ourselves before the sweet, plucking melody and rich double bass of “Same Mistakes,” as meanwhile, (and to the singer’s delight) someone had been thrown out of the venue. A ‘rock and roll’ anecdote for the blog indeed.
We were introduced to “Fable” as the band’s “saddest song.” A simple melancholic melody overlay with Howell’s transcending voice made for a personal highlight. “Little Letters” offered an exciting change up, with pounding drums, pre-recorded piano and vocals entering into a register of passionate anger. Despite the most energy on stage as of yet, the crowd remained tame and docile, but that’s not to mean dissatisfied.
“Circus” was the final gift from Paper Aeroplanes album – and emerged as an emotional gem. Howell’s vocals were honey, dripping and seeping into our ears in a manner at odd with the bitterness of the lyrics; “nothing I do has a purpose.” Although beautiful, the song’s crashing climax felt a little restrained.
Despite winning the prize for the quietest audience in history, I am convinced every listener went away bowled-over by the sheer emotional punch of the performance. The overall set offered great diversity of colour and texture, and despite perhaps not reaching climactic highs, the band certainly reached every low possible. We were all transported to the dark, bitter and beautiful world of Paper Aeroplanes, and no one wished to leave.