THE SEAHORSES
Los Angeles Viper Room
IN THIS stuffed cubbyhole of a club, John Squire stands apart. He wears a camouflage shirt buttoned close to the throat, black jeans, soft shoes. His fair is full-on fringe mode, hanging lank to his chin.
But, of course, it's John Squire's neck that is under scrutiny tonight: as the curtains dissolve on the pre-show strains of The Beatles' 'I'm Only Sleeping', the neck of John Squire cranes out, and appears….. unencumbered.
For it appears that the man has chosen not to wear the yoke of history tonight. The players that surround Squire are no beasts of burden either: in their blue button-down shirts, jazzbo chingrowths, Lennon specs and photo-mullets, they are here to prove that their musical nature is closer to that of their chosen moniker, The Seahorses: unique, and just a little bit magical.
The boys have been in town since the new year started, working on their debut with journeyman helmsman Tony Visconti (who, as producer of classic Bowie and T Rex albums, appears to be a sentimental choice for Squire).
With their record at the 'let's overdub some more strings' stage, The Seahorses have acquiesced to playing an early evening showcase for their investors. Yet, somehow, 200 heavy-breathing Anglophiles have managed to pack the place.
Tonight's proceedings begin with 'Around The Universe', a melodic mid-tempo piece of sedentary pop which is decidedly un-funky, despite its blazing guitar intro. 'Blinded By The Sun', a slightly heavier 'I Want You To Know', and 'The Boy In The Picture' drop from the same sturdy tree, the announcement of their titles bracketed by the words "Cheers,", "Cheers" and "Cheers". There's no 'Waterfall' or 'She Bangs The Drums' in the bunch; instead of a sugar-rush, a glaze of grace coats the set. At times it seems like Squire is merely calling in lapsed loans from The Bluetones, and the workmanlike fashion with which the other 'Horses go through their paces doesn't help much either. On the mike, singer Chris Helme looks like Donovan, and sounds appropriately airy. Crucially, he consistently sings in tune, which must come as a welcome respite after Ian Brown. The Stuart Fletcher/Andy Watts rhythm section add a Buffalo Springfield lilt, but there's no Reni-style baggy beats to shuffle along to. It's a distinctly all vanilla, no fudge scenario.
Then Squire switches his gold-top Les Paul for a dark one and launches into the claws-out audience slayer 'Kill Pussycat Kill'. 'Love Me And Leave Me ' digs in deeper, its Liam-penned lyrics indicating that Gallagher is, after all, an absurdist: "I don't believe in Jesus / I don't believe in John / I believe I love orange sherbert / Our Kid just wrote a song".
Chris plays an acoustic solo 'Movin' On'. Emmboldened by the success of this busker's delight of a tune, he declares, "It's awfully windy tonight. You all spent hours doing your hair and the wind's gone and spoiled it." Clutching his '70s footie-shagpile locks, he adds, "Or it has done mine anyway."
When 'Love Is The Law' starts up, the floor of the club drops out, and suddenly we're all free-falling through the cavernous shaft of Squire's incendiary solo, spiralling downwards until his fingers curl the guitar strings into grappling hooks that pull everyone back up to the surface of the magic moment.
Then they're done. It's still early, and early days: they're not on top yet, but Squire's light shines on. They wave goodbye but this has just been a greeting.
Squire brushes his hair back and his face creases into a grin that glints with excitement for the future. He turns, bends, and straps on a rucksack where he's been stowing that yoke of history for the past 40 minutes. And trundles out into the Hollywood night, still smiling.
Peter Relic
Back To Media 1997