Terminally Groovie

LEAPS AND BOUNDS

JESUS JONES/NED'S ATOMIC DUSTBIN
ACADEMY, NEW YORK

I WOULDN'T cross the road to see this inspired pairing. I'd cross the city, the country, the Atlantic f***ing Ocean not to miss it. And even if the plane should get struck by lightning on the way (as it does), there are bigger and better things to panic about. Like, getting there in time for the Neds! Especially since the Neds, after weeks of touring America, are bouncing round a stronger, shinier dustbin these days.
Which is not to imply any sacrifice of the familiar tearaway bravado, the boisterous rough and tumble of the live sound, the cheery abandon with which they race around the stage, or their reliably endearing youthfulness (only singer Jonn is old enough to have a legal drink in America). Simply, the band have gained in confidence and arrived at a dynamic understanding of their own power.
Jonn's become brave enough to look at the audience, which, interestingly enough, has enabled him to develop a series of dances. Where once he would hold on to the mike for grim death and whirl around it madly, staring only at the floor, he's now prepared to let it go. He's taken up skipping. Leg-kicking. Prancing. Pogoing. The splits. He'll be jitterbugging next.
So what else is new with the dear boys? Well, there's Mat's hat, an enormous, flowery item which spends even less time on his head than his shirt does on his back. And there's new material too, notably "I Don't Wanna Do That" which is admirably uplifting, a clattering up-tempo.
Tears of joy and jubilation! Of the songs we know, "Until You Find Out" packs a killer punch tonight with its sharply defined rhythmic contrasts, "Cut Up" steps out with a firmly controlled swagger, and "Throwing Things" and "Selfish" are wonderfully dramatic.
Girls are screaming. People are clambering over each others' heads during "Happy". And the whole crowd's song-by-song reactions are rowdy enough to suggest that the Neds' peculiar parcel of energy and restraint, wit and great merchandising has an international future. If the vibrant "Grey Cell Green", the American single, gets what it deserves, they'll be up there soon with Jesus Jones.
Jesus Jones, of course, are pop stars, and they behave accordingly, from the moment they explode into view in a chaos of sound and vision (I love bands who run on) to the final, bizarre drama, in the middle of a slow-burning "Blissed", when Mike Edwards ventures right out to the edge of the stage, sits on a monitor and surveys his fans, communing with them, smiling placidly. It's one of the few quiet moments in the set, because for all of their ever-changing moods and atmospheres, Jesus Jones are men in a tearing hurry.
A polka-dotted Edwards paces the stage with determination, leg pumping furiously as he bashes the guitar strings, while bassist Al almost dislocates his neck in frenzies of headbanging and guitarist Jerry darts about tirelessly on the opposite side.
Then there's Iain, aka Barry D. If he was always a maniac, his madness knows no limits now. All in white, he spends more time jumping over his keyboard, capsizing it, dragging it round in crazy circles, leaving it behind while he acts the fool out front, than he does actually playing it.
Much of this activity subsides during the Joneses' current American hit, "Real Real Real", leaving its dreaminess uninterrupted, but immediately resumes with an upbeat version of "Who? Where? Why?"
Musically as well as visually, Jesus Jones refuse point blank to be boring. They make a virtue and a career out of being all-sorts, revelling in the fact that their ingeniously constructed patchwork of influences, thefts and nagging melodies, delicacy and lunacy, can assert itself in any number of shapes.
They are simple rock'n'roll ("Never Enough"). A campfire singalong ("Welcome Back Victoria"). Crazyhead fans (a cover of "I Don't Want That Kind Of Love"). Weirdos ("Info Freako"). Wild men of rock ("Trust Me"). A soft touch ("Right Here, Right Now"). But whatever it is that they happen to be at any given moment, the girls keep screeching, the fellows keep yelling, and we can all rest assured that the Joneses' world domination campaign is still very much on course. There's just no stopping some people.
CAROL CLERK