Dananananaykroyd - those scottish, nimble hipped scamps behind what is quite possibly the most infuriating ‘I sound like a twat’ tongue twister of a band name to be quite so hyped up as these lads have been, are really much nicer than their smart arse (but loveable) title may suggest.
Seriously - they’re all heart really. Dual vocalists Calum Gunn and John Baillie Junior swing their fluorescent microphones about the place with perma-smiles wide enough to swallow the first four rows of infectiously manic fans. The rest of the band billow and wiggle and thrash and boogie with equal enthusiasm - I wish their energy could be compressed into little pills and prescribed to the general public every morning.
They’re heavenly, really - more pop than you realise - sounding like a modern, scottish remake of The Warriors made by the sickliest, sweetest joy-bashing creative team Disney has to offer. You half expect little animated blue birds to gust out from the amps and get involved in the merry onstage antics.
Last time they were in Liverpool Danananan - oh sod it, I’ll just call them Dan for short - played an intimate and high spirited set in the Static Gallery. Tonight they’re playing the theatre of The Masque and the sound is a bit off (some of their most sparkling and catchiest riffs - which sometimes make the bloody song - are lost in a din of rattle and fuzz), but also the space gives people the choice to stand as far away from the band as possible, should they want to.
Dan are not the sort of band who take well to this - they want everyone dancing, clapping, and hugging each other. They don’t want no stragglers brooding about in the back corners. And it is a bit of a shame - as awkward as forced participation can be, there’s nothing but big-time love when Dan do it, and it does work. They’re masters at concocting an atmosphere and breaking down audience barriers, but tonight the atmosphere is bleeding out of the perimeter of the 10 deep crowd at the front of the stage, and it shows.
But fuck all of that anyway. Because when they are good, the stage buzzes with the thrum of an oasis of highly charged aggressive and ill-tempered pop music. ‘Pink Sabbath’, is a particular little treat - sounding like the resulting audio love-child of sour strawberry sherbet cut with some gnarly class-A’s (Purple Revolver in no way condones this behaviour - sour strawberry sherbet can be dangerous and result in a most unattractive face squirm when abused).
There’s also some great song intros (probably noticeable because you can actually distinctly bloody hear them), involving some top-end hand claps (‘The Greater Than Symbol And The Hash’) and some refreshingly-amateur sounding group chanting (‘Some Dresses’ - and I’d worry about the band that had professional sounding group chanting).
It’s Dans’ clear desire for a constant party atmosphere that’s at the heart of the show though - replete even with party games! Interrupting the mid-set with what they like to call ‘the wall of hugs’ - kind of like Red Rover, but with a higher probability of ending in nose-smashing blood baths - Gunn and Baillie Junior split the crowd and inform them ‘right side - aim for the far left wall - left side aim for the far right wall. No moshing!! If we catch you moshing - you - are - OUT!’, they count to four and the two crowds speed towards one another and embrace strangers. It looks lovely - everyones a winner! The crowd is wall to wall with smiles. You can imagine them spearheading it as a new bromance-speed-dating craze for friendless young men looking for companionship on a Wednesday night.
Like most party games, though, it all ends in tears. It’s unclear as to what happens but some poor bozo in the crowd is getting called a prick by the guitarist, and Callum crawls out the beaming masses and begins an awkward conversation about the Liverpool Echo. ‘We got a copy of the Liverpool Echo in our dressing room...somebody had already read it though...err....did you read it John?’
‘No...I didn’t read it’
‘Did you read it sunshine?’ he points at a random member of the crowd who shrugs at him.
‘Oh well...’
And that’s it really.
By the end of the gig, it’s all gotten a bit (and I really don’t want to say this) monotonous and droll. Even the crowd who were so vibrant and eager earlier have been reduced to a measly nana-shuffle in the crowd.
Dan need a more compressed space with which to charm people (and they are very, very, overwhelmingly charming) and also to intimidate (in a nice way. I wish more bands had the guts to bully people into actually getting involved with the bloody gig), as well as allowing every second of their bewilderingly sweet-raucous mathematic riffs, screams and yelps to be heard as clearly as they deserve to be. Sadly tonight, a great deal of this magic is seeping out unheard, like an mp3 player that goes off in your bag, uses up all your battery and only has enough to power to play one song when you finally want to flaming well listen to something.
Oh well. At least we got a hug out of it.
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