The comeback trail has, in its time, thrown up some far-fetched candidates. The highly inconvenient fact of John Lennon’s death didn’t prevent him appearing on a new Beatles single; Thin Lizzy’s busy touring schedule suggests they have long overcome the speed-bump of Phil Lynott’s passing.
Few rebirths, though, have been as unlikely as that of The La’s, a Liverpool band undone by the tortured brilliance of its leader, Lee Mavers.
Yet here they are, 15 years since their last (and only) record – a project disowned by Mavers on the grounds that, though perfect, it wasn’t perfect enough.
Wistful and melancholic, The La’s was an album of majestic excesses, a spiritual kindred of The Stone Roses and Loveless. Nevertheless, it is questionable that anyone would today remember The La’s had it not been for ‘There She Goes’, a hazy, wavering pop single that, in a three minute rush, referenced 30 years of rock history.
A sold out venue attests to the song’s lasting influence (you wonder how many other La’s tracks the average audience member could name off the bat).
Mavers is a notoriously brittle songwriter but if the weight of expectation sits heavily on his thin, hunched shoulders, he doesn’t permit it to show.
Calm and unsmiling, his features eerily untouched by the ravages of time, Mavers straps on a guitar with exaggerated nonchalance. The rest of the band, no less faceless than before, appear more pensive. Having witnessed Mavers self-destruct first time around, they can’t really be blamed.
Skewed heavily towards The La’s early 1990s output, tonight’s set clips spryly past (the smattering of new tracks feel uncertain and derivative).
Sweeping and graceful, their best material transmits a timeless sheen. ‘Looking Glass’ is vast and sad; ‘Feelin’ exudes a juddering charisma. ‘There She Goes’, when it belatedly surfaces, glimmers like a precious stone.