‘This song’s for all the weirdos’ remarks the charming cardigan-wearing Tim Burgess as he dad dances like it is an art form – of which his mastery is far more comprehensive than his audience’s. Behind him, a projection screens decades-old footage of these indie icons as the band caress their songs with the same energy and finesse as they did in the nostalgic videos backing them.
Much separates the Charlatans from their former selves, whose prolificacy throughout the 1990s comfortably matches their Madchester and Britpop contemporaries. Through triumphs, tragedies and haircuts that could classify as either, the band reached the 30-year milestone in 2020 only for the pandemic to postpone celebrations. A now equally impressive, but less satisfying, 32-years have elapsed since the band’s debut album. The two-year wait does little to affect the band or audience’s feel for the occasion, as the crowd are propelled through the years by a collective whose experienced precision does not detract from their still boyish exuberance.
For not far short of two hours there is all music and little conversation. Burgess’ playful demeanour during songs is a substitute for the tedium of long pauses between them. The hypnotic frontman appears equally keen to film the occasion as his audience, whose phones garishly glare back at Burgess’ own. It is a display that summarises the Charlatans’ high-spirited conduct, with crowd and band acting like schoolchildren recording their peers’ intentional missteps. With no frills in sight, the simplicity of traditional rock instrumentation blasts through the speakers with tremendous volume as each guitar chord, stab and solo rings through the venue to rival a particularly lively fanbase who themselves are energetically driven even 32-years on.
On a night that looks fondly and tastefully into the past without sickly sentimentality, the Charlatans do well, what they’ve done well for the last three decades and counting. While much is different, they still have their bite.