Wednesday 15/02/06 Isobel Campbell, Jeniferever @ Brudenell Social Club, Leeds

The same ethereal impulses that work wonders on new single 'From Across The Sea' can let the band down onstage. Singer-guitarist Kristofer Jonson's habit of spurting out his vocals in breathless spurts with all the hesitation of a reluctant pupil being forced to recite poetry in front of his class does few favours to their honey-coated melodies, whilst the band's weakness for churning out their bits with a chronic aversion to showmanship can be a bit off-putting. But as soon as Jonson steps off-mic to concentrate on weaving webs of slow-burning brilliance Jeniferever's mini-epics suddenly acquire a devastating, hypnotic pull. By the time 'Swimming Eyes' from upcoming album 'Choose A Bright Morning' enters its goosebumps-inducing coda even those most audibly drawn to the twin temptations of the bar and chattering have no choice but to shut up and pay attention to the gigantically promising troupe responsible for conjuring this awe-inspiring aural equivalent of a particularly pretty sunrise.

 

Isobel Campbell has maintained a hectic schedule since ditching the cellist's post with the widely-worshipped Scottish art-pop institution Belle & Sebastian, clocking up a selection of solo and collaborative showcases for her featherlight voice and gift for a cinematic soundscape. Unfortunately, tonight's often clumsy attempt to replicate Ballad of the Broken Seas, her excellent collection of sweetly sinister country-folk duets with erstwhile Screaming Trees growler Mark Lanegan, suggest that her workaholic tendencies don't extend to rehearsing.

With Lanegan elsewhere injecting diesel and trimming his gravelly pipes with neat gin and a carton or two of non-filtered Camels, or whatever it is that rock 'n' rollers with bona fide bad-ass reputations to maintain get up to in their downtime, the male vocalist's patch is occupied by Eugene Kelly of Vaselines fame. Sadly, his dry, conversational tones sound nowhere near mean enough to provide the necessary guttural counterpoint to Campbell's candyfloss cooing. To make matters worse, he occasionally looks downright embarrassed to be imparting with some of the album's more off-colour couplets, which Lanegan devours with relish. Combine this with an overflowing cup of mistakes, an unhealthy reliance on pre-recorded string parts and a three-piece backing band who embody the term going through the motions, and the flat first half of the set fails to conjure an iota of the intimacy and enchantingly ominous atmosphere Campbell and Lanegan cook up on the album despite having recorded their vocal parts thousands of miles apart.

 

It does get better - the bongo-bothering, Nick Drake-esque 'Saturday's Gone' is a treasure, as is a sizzling scruff-blues take on Lanegan's wicked 'Wedding Dress', and the band and singers alike finally locate a gloriously harmonious groove on the perky psychedelic pop of 'Honey Child What Can I Do' - but for each gem there's a baffling misfire like the lacklustre lull through the country-rock perennial 'Love Hurts', a titanic tearjerker which in Campbell & Kelly's hands packs all the ache and conviction of heavily sedated Gram Parsons and Emmylou Harris fumbling for the lightswitch in the dark. Maybe the attraction consummated with aplomb on Ballad... was one of those rare affairs destined to work most satisfyingly as a long-distance relationship.