Franz Ferdinand + The Fiery Furnaces

In the words of misunderstood visionary Huey Lewis, it's hip to be square. Later, Franz Ferdinand will take to the stage clad in the sort of down-at-heel, thrift store garb last modelled by Tim Roth's unemployed uber-nerd Colin in Mike Leigh's grim eighties social drama, Meantime. But before Alex Kapranos and co. hit the stage, we're treated to Brooklyn five-piece The Fiery Furnaces, whose understanding of musical and sartorial aesthetics is equally unencumbered by contemporary notions of cool.
The entire set is a prolonged, exploratory jam, which, given that each song fades into the next with scarcely a single pause for breath (and there's much by the way of keyboard-heavy experimentation) arguably betrays an acquaintance with utterly outré early-nineties mavericks like Bark Psychosis, or – as those of a more sceptical disposition might contend – Phil Collins' jazz-rock vanity project, X.
Still, there's a degree of flair to the The Fiery Furnaces' quirky mix of fairground instrumentals and hollering, Soledad Brothers-flavoured blues rock which – to these ears at least – suggests that the band is destined for far more than mere novelty act status.
And so we come to the main event. Opening with sizzling takes on 'Cheating On You', 'Tell Her Tonight' and '40 Feet', it's clear that tonight the headliners want to be more than just good Franz. And when the band raise the roof with an absolutely staggering take on 'Take Me Out' – hi-hats hissing like it's CBGBs circa-1979, bassist Bob Hardy playing like a man who's rewriting da funk for a new generation, Alex swinging that fringe like he's living la vida loca – it's abundantly clear that we're in for a cracker.
To be frank, it's extremely doubtful whether many other bands could afford to place such a monumental song so early in the set and hope to maintain the pace. But as the gig goes on, it becomes increasingly obvious that Franz Ferdinand are a band with not only talent to burn, but also a hugely impressive grasp on the that oft overlooked commodity - stagecraft. Like Blur, U2 and REM before them, the chemistry between the four members is electric.
You've got Nick McCarthy stage-right, looking like Ian Curtis' doppelganger, with the jerky moves and perma worried frown to match. Then there's Kapranos, effortlessly interacting with the crowd, and throwing robotic shapes like a paranoid android straight from some David Byrne/Ralf Hutter overseen genetics lab, whilst Hardy has the lounge-lizard langour of Alex James at his most sybaritic.
Even when they're airing lesser-known early tracks, the crowd are rapt. And having treated us to outstanding renditions of 'Michael' and 'This Fire' – not to mention a triumphant encore comprised of 'Shopping For Blood' and 'Darts Of Pleasure' – the band depart to tumultuous cheers.
After such a stellar evening's entertainment, it's clear why Messrs. Kapranos, McCarthy, Hardy and Thomson find themselves at the centre of the pop cultural hurricane – put simply, Franz Ferdinand are as exciting as rock 'n' roll gets in 2004.
[photo by Liam Sweeney]