Thursday 26/09/02 British Sea Power, Gene @ Stanley Theatre, Liverpool

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Tales of triumphant Imperialism? Rock-out numbers that metaphorically depict the battle of Trafalgar? Shanty-driven psychedelia? No. The name British Sea Power seems to make just as much sense to their music as if they had called themselves Afghani Air Dominance - pretty much none at all. However, what does fit is the word power, and BSP have an abundance of it in their spiky, edgy, trance inducing set.

'Bravery Already Exists' according to the badge of the drummer, and yes, it certainly should if you have to play in front of such a large audience consisting of thirty people, sometimes you're going to need that little bit extra - weirdness. For a start, the whole stage is covered with sprawling ivy, whilst a disturbingly large owl sits atop the Marshall stack, wide-eyed and ready for the kill, much like its human cohorts. The surrealistic scene unfolds further; as the keyboardist finds himself in a Flanders' field circa 1915, with tin-helmet firmly strapped on, the rest of the band wear trousers from a set of Robinson Crusoe, ready to wade into the water, only half way up the calf, mind. The bassist also has a particularly terrifying 'Nasty' Nigel stare, that seems to follow you around the room, unblinking, piercing.

This band confuses, intrigues, and above all, hypnotises what little crowd there is with heartfelt emotional combat, staccato vocals and Ian Curtis 'mentally unstable' movements. Any childhood traumas that have been pent up inside this band explode in a raucous omniscience of sound, with tantalising melodies that strike into your head. Debut single 'Fear Of Drowning' literally forces you to gasp for air, as the terror they speak of fills your mind, and, while the guitarist scales the PA stack, the bassist throws his guitar behind his head and always the singer and the owl keep staring, staring, they just won't stop staring.
Elegant and brave, bewildering and menacing, BSP are formidable foes.

The muse inside of Martin Rossiter is tortured and deeply perplexed proprietor of its host's soul. Above all else, it craves to have the answer to some cruelly inexplicable questions relating to the fortunes of his band. Just what happened to the promises made between the two of them all those years ago?

Gene seem to have an almost unique way of being out of genre and out of a time in which they should have been in, and nobody, try as they might, can quite realise where they should now go. Sauntering onto the stage with trademark left hand droop, tonight the Gene frontman begins to resemble a 'pub casual' Graham Norton, more owing to the closely cropped, approached middle-age haircut than any double entendre vocals.

Launching into 'We Could Be Kings', the half capacity audience give nods of recognition to perhaps the finest song of the Gene repertoire, whilst Martin works himself into a turmoil over his badly fitted earphones, which he soon, approvingly, removes. The band, however, steadily play on without breaching dangerous levels of over-excitement, that would hardly befit each of their 'shifty uncle' appearances. In contrast, Martin is keen for some speaker-climbing fist-pumping body-slinking action, with use of all the usual registered trademarks of the great Stephen M.

'Haunted By You' tries its hardest to tear at your heartstrings with emotional grappling-hooks, while the wall of face-grimacing passion that hits you from such slow burners as 'Walking In The Shadows' and 'Let Me Move On', threatens to melt the very souls of the punters underneath Martin's rotating hips. When he describes himself as a 'loveable oaf' after the ruminating 'The British Disease', you wonder whether this could be his suggested excuse for being the non-entity that he has perfectly crafted himself to be. Couples hold each other tightly during 'Never Walk Again', because with this agonising emotionality, you do not want to be alone tonight for fear of collapse due to sentiment overdose.

Martin finally careers over the edge of the emotional cliff during a tense between song break, when a shout of 'Hand In Glove' bellows from an audience member. "We're not gonna take this from what seems to be the same cunt that has followed us around for about eight fucking years now," he proclaims with a rare degree of charisma. Bemused whispers of "what's going on?" travel round those who have no realisation of what the dreaded S-word means to Gene. Guitarist Steve Mason looks on as his lead singer continues a verbal battle, which is only completed when another impassioned fan tells the whole gig that he is a brilliant guitarist in his own right, and not to let any cunt tell him otherwise.

Business returns as usual with triumphant versions of 'Fighting Fit' and 'As Good As It Gets', whilst a second encore of 'Is It Over?' proves the existence of an audience loyalty that has been rapidly disappearing over the years.

Gene have been billeted down in their trench of sensitivity and poignancy for some time now, but the lines of war have changed, and Rossiter cuts a figure reminiscent of Willem Dafoe's death scene in Platoon, arms aloft, about to be cut down after the struggle against the critics.

Tensions must run high if the same occurrences happen every gig, but for tonight, with a shrug of his shoulders and a look of consolidation, Martin responds to his muse and the promises made - be grateful you insatiable fiend, for us now, in these disinterested times, this is just about as good as it's going to get.