Hooton Tennis Club
In support of their second LP Big Box of Chocolates out this month on Heavenly Records, it’s appropriate that I don’t know what I’m going to get from Hooton Tennis Club’s Norwich debut at the Waterfront Studio. Somehow the Liverpool quartet never visited with their first record – the whimsical, Britpop reminiscent Highest Point in Clifftown’– and it shows, in the size of tonight’s audience. But those of us who have pitched up are eager to hear some good, clean, indie-rock tunes.
Sole support SWEAT are the complete opposite of the Tennis Club boys. The South London five piece churn out apocalyptic pop that references everyone from Bowie and Prince to contemporary dance acts like Disclosure. PLW VIP (that’s Pink Love World, a conceptual nightclub that SWEAT’s music will transport you to) grooves seductively, conjuring images of grease and glitter, spilled perfume and androgynous strangers partying in venues cooler than perhaps The Waterfront presents itself.
Growing Concerns not only opens their new album, but Hooton Tennis Club’s set too. Whacked full of feedback, it’s a solid kick-off from the foursome and a confident introduction to the small but keen crowd that has gathered. Ryan Murphy and James Madden co-front, twinkling away on guitars and delivering devilishly smooth vocals on Big Box… cuts, like Katy-Anne Bellis and Sit Like Ravi. Having only been out six days, it’s clear not a lot of the album tracks are well known to the audience which makes for an unfortunate void in terms of participation. It’s when older material gets the spotlight when things perk up. On drums, Harry Chalmers leads Up in the Air from last year’s …Clifftown, which nauseatingly coaxes back summer vibes before dissolving into a tasty, noise-pop breakdown.
The show feels like it drags on. Newer songs are undeniably catchy but meld together in places to form one indistinguishable guitar driven lump. Despite the batshit shimmers of the McCartney/Lennon alluding to Lazers Linda, O Man Won’t You Melt Me? is more B-list singer-songwriter than Beatles, and Bootcut Jimmy The G is far too kooky for its own good. When the charismatic singles from the first record cut through – see Kathleen Sat On The Arm Of Her Favourite Chair, Jasper and P.O.W.E.R.F.U.L. P.I.E.R.R.E – the buzz gets going. But the novelty that comes from such unashamedly ordinary lyrics as “Spent the best days of my life / travelling on trains and drawing cartoons” that makes this band so charming loses a bit of its gloss when every other track seems to blend into one.
The act is tight and entertaining, there’s no denying. But it feels like tonight was not Hooton Tennis Club’s time. Sorry, boys.
