2.16.2011


There's nowhere to hide at the Hotel Cafe in L.A., a fantastic venue I've mentioned on these servers before. The tiny stage barely rises off the floor, which is jammed with tables and a cramped standing-room area, so that the overall effect is like seeing a concert in your living room. So long as you dimmed the lights and hung some velvet curtains, you understand. But I mean you can get close enough to see nosehairs.

And when I showed up there on a Wednesday night, after a quick trip on the L.A. subway, which exists, and whose eerie flourescence unsettles you on the best of days, I arrived expecting to take in a bit of mild failure. This was mostly due to a combination of the weird vibes lingering from the subway, the fact I didn't like the name of the band I was headed there to see, a Leeds quintet called Scars On 45, and the slightly odd feeling one gets when one walks into such a romantical candlelit type of place solo and slightly drunk.

So it was all that more impressive that I walked out quite impressed by the show.

The band on before Scars On 45, which went by the even less-fortunate moniker of Nightmare & The Cat, started countering my expectations right off, conjuring a rocking shoegaze-y type of cocky haze, and featuring a particularly excellent guitar player, whose spell-binding work on a gorgeous green Gretsch was impossible to look away from.

And when Scars On 45 took the stage - scruffy, unassuming, and very British in the way I want to believe all British people are British (drily witty, boozy, and with awesome accents) - the fullness of their sound seemed to push the place's walls back, to turn the small room into a much bigger venue.

Now, part of this is because their music falls squarely into the vein of broad, tasteful, melodic pop/rock, pioneered by artists like Train and Coldplay, that's specifically designed to fill arenas. But Scars On 45 also resonates on a more indie level, resembling, say, Snow Patrol plus a chick singer, or Margot & The Nuclear So & Sos with a British accent. Think dramatic melodic peaks, think, and maybe this sounds bizarre, OK, but the band does feature dueling male/female vocals, and at a couple of moments, they even reached a smooth Fleetwood Mac-esque breakdown feel.

Those touchpoints - arena or indie or classic - all have big sounds, and the Leeds quintet does too, layering their instruments in a dense sheen of elegantly-arranged, propulsive rock Frontman Danny Bemrose has a full, smooth voice in the manner of, well, the frontmen of the aforementioned bands, appropriately emotive and flexible and relatively soaring. Aimee Driver's delicate layer of harmony adds a surprising heft to the tunes, providing them with an almost studio veneer.

The band powered through their set at the Hotel Cafe, big and melody-soaked and sounding of their influences, but also staking out their own territory, with Driver's presence remarkably impactful. Shyly smiling from under black bangs, she exuded a tentative confidence, like Meg White with a bit more pep, and in reverse: instead of shrinking from the spotlight, Driver seemed to just be awakening to the pleasures of standing in it.

Bemrose, a former member of the Huddersfield Town Football Club, a professional team in England whose status is about equal to a AAA team in Major League Baseball, who apparently picked up a guitar after breaking his foot and ending his career, gave off a properly earnest charm, with no trace of ex-athlete detectable, all Chris Martin without any Wayne Rooney.

"We're English, so we'll be doing our best to drain the bar after if you want to come say hello," he quipped mid-set, before starting in on another one with a big chorus.

3.5 / 5 Stars

review by brian