Franz Ferdinand live at Newcastle Arena 27th November 2005

With the current spate of UK guitar bands riding roughshod over the charts at the moment, this overdue resurgence has been likened, somewhat unfairly, to a pitiable Saturday morning re-enactment of the Britpop Wars of 10 years ago.

Parallels have been crudely drawn, linking the pouting young pups of today with the great bands of the mid-90s. The stage has been set and the places have been taken. The boundless verve of The Kaiser Chiefs sees them aligned with the fresh-faced  Supergrass of yore (cruelly so, as they’re pretty much the same age). The kitchen sink drama of The Arctic Monkeys has them coarsely correlated with Pulp (thankfully without the 18 year holding pattern). Mercifully, the musical descendents of Welsh janglers Catatonia- a group whose singer Cerys Matthews sounded like a Rabbi coughing up a pube – have yet to make an appearance.

There are, however, a number of glaring non-attendances in the schedule, but at present there is only one band big enough to fill the desert boots of the mighty Blur or the big floppy red shoes of unintentional clown Liam Gallagher.

That band is Franz Ferdinand.

Whilst they have the ability to knock out crowd-pleasing anthems that appeal to the everyman, they also have the literary aspirations and spirit of adventure that suggest  they’ll be above peddling pointless nostalgia to the masses in years to come. So whose position do they take?

Before the concert even begins, there is a buzz around the arena that this will be a homecoming of sorts for Alex Kapranos, as his family from nearby Sunderland will be turning up (possibly in a stolen Cortina). Factor in that local heroes The Futureheads are in attendance, and the mood of the evening is somewhat heightened.

First up on stage are The Rakes, and they sadly disappoint. With the Jam infused etchings of their debut album, they fail to fill the cavernous arena, as their sound is as thin as their name suggests. Whilst they trudge their way, workmanlike, through their debut ‘Capture/Release’, they only manage to ignite the emotions of the crowd during an untitled new song towards the end of their set, which displays a dynamic not heard in their output to date. The song suggests a possible future for The Rakes which could elevate them above the ranks of being their fans’ third favourite band. In the Britpop re-enactment, they are The Bluetones. They just need to write their ‘Slight Return’ to guarantee their place in history as a footnote in the story of Franz Ferdinand.

Next up is Editors. Whilst some find Tom Smith’s harrowing baritone to be as natural as a pair of Jordan’s breasts, others complain that it lacks the urgency of Paul Banks’ maudlin bleatings. Live however, there is comfort to be found in the marriage of Smith’s booming voice and Chris Urbanowicz’s monochrome soundscapes. In comparison, Interpol’s Banks sounds like a distraught Larry the Lamb in an echo chamber. 

As such, songs like ‘Bullets’ and ‘Munich’ in their live, unbridled state are well within reach of the skewed majesty of ‘Obstacle 1’ and ‘Evil’. In the re-enactment, they are Marion.

When Franz Ferdinand come onstage, ripping into new album opener ‘The Fallen’, the excessive opprobrium afforded their new album vaporises into thin air. Whilst sounding neutered and embryonic on record, ‘The Fallen’ sounds muscular and tight in the live environment, as do the many other new songs, which didn’t quite work before. Songs from their debut, such as the yearning ‘Come on home’, and the strutting ‘Michael’ are fantastically well received too, but the highlights of the evening are surprisingly the new songs.

Current single ‘Walk Away’ sees drummer Paul Thompson, resplendent in a Fire Engines T-shirt, playing wild surf guitar as their new (but ever so slightly over-literal)  video plays behind them.

‘The Outsiders’ sees Paul joined on drums by two anonymous underlings and together they beat out a tribal rhythmic head f*ck that resonates like a death-rattle headache two hours later. It verges on religious intensity and inspires near shamanic disorientation amongst the crowd, and as such should come with a health warning. It is the defining moment of a magical homecoming gig.

New album highpoint ‘Eleanor put your boots on’ is a slight disappointment though. On record it is gingerly played, but live it is manhandled into a leaden stomp that strips it of its original elegance.

Another slight let down is ‘This Boy’, which still sounds like a Bad Manners ska workout in places. It brings to mind Kapranos’ earlier incarnation in be-quiffed rockers Fonz Ferdinand, sorry, The Karelia, but the song is soon rescued by its terrace-friendly anthemic chorus.

Minor gripes aside, Franz Ferdinand are near perfect, playing what feels like a Greatest Hits set.

With their inherent ability to reshape their own songs, adding extra dimensions whilst keeping things fresh, the question posed earlier as to whose shoes they fill, is easily answered. In years to come, expect to find an animated Kapranos and friends suckling on the teats of a six nippled electrobeast whilst collaborating on the side with gifted musicians from The Congo.

The finale to this wonderful night is a rousing ‘This Fire’, which sends the auditorium spilling out onto the streets of Newcastle in a heightened state and a willingness in some to re-evaluate that second album.

At such an unprecedented rate of growth, by album number 3 they’ll be nigh on unstoppable. U2 and Coldplay, better take cover.

Ash Barua