The Lemon Twigs provide the perfect Great North Run tonic
“What a band,” an elder statesman of the crowd proclaims as we shuffle out towards the bar; the sound of The Lemon Twigs‘ cover of Del Shannon’s ‘Runaway’ still ringing. “What a f–king band,” he repeats for good measure.
Indeed, this urgent exclamation of appreciation is palpable from everyone, some are muttering it to mates, some are shouting it randomly. The show we’d all just witnessed had a rare magic to it. It was the sort of show that energises you—that has you oozing out of the venue in search of bars that are open late on a Monday, texting mates who are almost certainly at home with their children: ‘In town if you’re about?’
That energising element was just as well for the few in the audience who had concluded in The Great North Run around 34 hours earlier. In truth, as I entered Newcastle’s indie venue, The Grove, my medial ligament feeling as though someone had taken a sledgehammer to it, both hip flexors screaming like nervous fliers encountering turbulence over the Bermuda triangle, and my body experiencing a general catastrophic inner turmoil, a warm bed beckoned with more promise than an evening of live music.
Thankfully, The Lemon Twigs are a boon of goodwill. They’re the sort of band who could make locally anaesthetised hip replacement surgery bearable, never mind standing for a few ecstatic hours the day after a soaking half marathon (ran in the creditable time of 1hr48m, I might add). In fact, most of the pain was eased as soon as they leapt into the air like gambling lambs and delivered the first few bars of the opening balm, ‘My Golden Years’, a jangling aural dose of Voltarol.
Jubilant, enthused and brimming with awe-inspiring talent, they make you aware that you’re in the presence of musical greatness in a manner akin to how a puppy makes you aware you’re in the presence of cuteness. There is an odd combination of seamless ease, an eagerness to please, and shear integrity that proves utterly unique and entirely impossible to resist.
From hand-picked covers of classic local act The Animals to quietly dishing out signed shirts to a young disabled man in the audience, they hark back to the classic (and faultless) cliche that if the band is having fun and giving off a grateful energy, the audience will repay that in kind. There were even tears from my better half who then, unnervingly, proceeded to mutter, “I’m going to scream, ‘I love you Michael’,” like a 15-year-old before regaining a soupçon of dignity and holding it together.
As per the fourpiece’s own brand of effervescent integrity, they regaled the audience with a cover of The West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band, honouring their heroes and curating a sense of cultural exchange rather than indulging in the new pretentious trend of pretending inspirations don’t exist. And that is ultimately the defining triumph of The Lemon Twigs: they’re talented and effusive enough to follow their whims and know that alone is enough to ensure that a fresh spin on what they love will be delivered.
So, over the course of a set that showcased their career to date – most notably the last two stellar albums, Everything Harmony and A Dream Is All We Know – with acoustic moments from Brian D’Addario, hi-jinks when Michael threatened to smash his brother around the head with his guitar, plenty of instrument swapping and a few searing solos, The Lemon Twigs melted away aches and pains like an ice cream assuaging the tantrum of a toddler, reaffirming why they’re one of the best bands of their generation.
The best overheard comment: “I like the drummer best, he looks like he’d give you the best sex of your life.”
