Wednesday 02/06/04 Kasabian @ 100 Club, London

On the off-chance that Kasabian make it big – and I mean memorably big – we'll spare the vultures who like to strike at a band on their way down, by doing the opposite: attempting a eulogy while they are (so to speak) still on their way up. Call it foresight, a preemptive strike, what you will…here goes:

‘Here lies Kasabian, rock band of sorts, who through all their arrogance and try-hardness, noise and narcissism, could not escape one simple nagging truth: we’d heard it all before.’

Yes, even before Kasabian step on stage at London’s 100 Club, Gigwise is fighting an overbearing weight of scepticism. Leaflets placed on tables around and about the stage turn out not to be flyers or programmes or anything else vaguely musical at all. They are in fact copies of Kasabian’s own ‘Manifesto’, promoting their home-brewed-brand of revulsion, erm, revolution. Proffering such world-changing philosophies as ‘Creativity is overrated, integrity is everything...’.

Quite.  And we wonder why they’re called artists.

Just as Marx starts to turn in his grave, Kasabian start to play and the reality dawns that these are not mere words. Creativity has been well and truly banished from the Kasabian stage-show in favour of a set of tribute impersonations of the vainest singers in rock. Couple this with long, drawn out medleys of mantras; and you've got a band that sound like rocked-out northern Maharishis.

Tom, the lead singer, minces onstage in dandy-man’s shirt and bath-shrunk denims, dressed like a 60’s Mick Jagger, with a face that remarkably resembles the great-unwashed Ian Brown. The mantra begins, "Music is my home, Music is my home, Music my home", the guitarist bounces a la pogo stick as the sound rises and the keyboards warp and buzz. It’s powerful, entrancing stuff. Something grates, though. Perhaps it’s the well documented commendation from Liam Gallagher that’s stuck, but isn’t this guy hanging off the Mic in the exact same way as the Manc W**k himself? The crowd loves it, no problem there. Song two: the guitars sound like they’re being played underwater, like bubbling farts as the drums kick-in hard and a white-boy rap is repeated over and over…and over. It’s about track 3 that we start to really get on edge. It starts well, a high paced, single chord, poppy affair, with backing-vocals that sound like a sitar riff. Good. Hang on – doesn’t this guy sound remarkably like Liam Gallagher? Why is he standing with his back to the crowd like an early days Jim Morrison? Why the hell is he repeating the same lyric over and over and over again? Are these guys trying to brainwash me?

50 minutes later (yes, it was that short) and the Kasabian set is over. The (mostly male) crowd storm the stage and embrace the band in a scene reminiscent of a Morrissey concert (there’s another vain comparison for you). I awake from my trance and leave, confused. The questions begin to form in my mind. I look down at the Manifesto and read the first few words: "Who is the man behind the mask?" Funnily enough this question seems to sum up the night.

When Kasabian find out the answer to who they are, they may just have a chance.

Photos by Joe Wilkins