Itâs been a rough 15 months, so itâs perhaps no surprise that James Smithâs
second gig back has left him with heartburn. “Seriously, has anybody got any
Gaviscon?? he enquires, clutching his chest a mere two songs in.
Someone in the audience politely obliges, while his bandmate scolds him for
eating pizza between sets and then lying down. Clearly, this whole performance
business is something that the frontman needs to limber back into.
If rockânâroll is in need of a Rennie, Yard Act could be the chalky antidote.
Back at their formative home venue for a matinee and evening show, this Leeds
quartet are something of a local treasure, but have made waves nationwide with
their blend of spoken-word social commentary and cherry-picked indie and no-wave
references. And tonight, helped along by some fetching band-designed beer mats, there’s a commitment to shaking off the lockdown rust together.
Though the blurb of said beer mat jokily promises that the set will be kept short â to avoid
âshoddy phone footage of new songs being littered all over the Internetâ â it is a
show highly worthy of a shaky Instagram story. Opener âStripâ has an irresistible
âSpirit in the Skyâ bass-line that gives way to loose-hipped capitalist critique,
while âDark Daysâ is the perfect meeting point between Franz Ferdinand and
Ian Duryâs Blockheads, befitting of both dingy pub backrooms and serious home-
stereo scrutiny. Frontman Smith seems to know that they are capable of
straddling both crowds. âAs we know, streaming is bad and I only listen to vinyl,â
he quips with a deadpan smile.
Judging by the three brand new tracks that are debuted tonight, Yard Act seem to be hard
at work refining their greatest strengths. âThe Overloadâ is full of rollicking
drums and singalong choruses, while âDead Horseâ is an almost guaranteed
future single: a smart, sharp take on Brexiteer groupthink that feels about as
catchy as a particularly aggressive airborne virus. âLand Of The Blindâ is perhaps
the most interesting of them all, a natural bedfellow to âPeanutsâ that borrows
creepy grooves from âFavourite Worst Nightmareâ-era Arctic Monkeys. Lyrically
speaking, it is seemingly about the nature of reparations â socio-political
compensations that donât go far enough, rugs pulled from under people after
their trust has already been won. It could be about Windrush, Boris Johnson,
cladding scandals, all three or none at all. Therein lies Yard Actâs genius â
whereas other politically-inclined acts have risked so-called âvirtue signallingâ in their specificity, Smithâs pen always finds a way to educate and explore rather
than preach.
By the time they get to their now-calling-card âFixer Upperâ (complete with new
spoken-word prequel about Alan, the man who has since moved in but âdidnât
bother to book a viewingâ), any early corona-nerves are well and truly shaken.
The band move that little bit more freely on stage, audience masks are tweaked
that little bit further to permit more audible cheers. Before Smith can finish the
final line of closer âThe Trappers Peltsâ, his mic falls off the stand and the gig is
ended, a befittingly-comedic sign that perhaps we have pushed our luck far
enough for one night. Thank god there was no deeper hiccup â if tonight is
anything to go by, Yard Actâs imminent future will be one of rude health. Next
time, weâll pack the antacids.
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