Augustines start their sold-out gig as they mean to go on – full tilt, blustering, anthemic, ragged and raucous. The crowd – a heartening mix of twenty to fifty-somethings, plaid shirt enthusiasts, canoodling couples – are ecstatic, as bearded, and fedora-topped, frontman Billy McCarthy launches into a triple header of favourites – Chapel Song, Headlong Into The Abyss, and the magnificent, magisterial Book Of James.
It feels like the Brooklyn three piece (which includes Eric Sanderson on guitars/vocals/keyboards and Rob Allen on drums) are on the cusp of something… the crowd are singing all the words to McCarthy’s songs, even the new ones, fists are pumped aloft, and soon the Ballroom fills with a beery, unabashed bonhomie.
But then the band (formerly We Are Augustines, before that, Pela) seemed on the cusp of something on the eve the release of their second, self-titled, album in 2014, after the acclaimed Rise Ye Sunken Ships from 2011. It didn’t quite set the world on fire as they might have hoped, despite stadium-ready anthems boldly hewn out the same rock face that bands like the National have found so rewarding.
Never mind. Augustines are steadily accruing fans, and the title song from the forthcoming album, Are We Alive, is a life-affirming slice of no surrender rock that suggest they are in it for the long haul. A profile-raising support slot with Noel Gallagher around Europe, and their live show fast becoming a must-see, might tip things in their favour this time round. Meanwhile, the packed-in crowd tonight are torn between wishing massive success for their new favourite band and wanting to keep them all to themselves.
Billy McCarthy is an effortlessly lovable frontman – a big, bruised handsome soul who gives every song everything he’s got. There’s nothing cynical about these maudlin but rousing tunes, no fey Mumford string twanging. Aware though, that, on occasion, he might be seen as being overly earnest, McCarthy turns tonight’s rendition of Philadelphia (City of Brotherly Love) into a knowingly syrupy singalong, and the audience lap it up. No one cares if McCarthy does wear a little too much of his heart on his sleeve, when the songs are ‘so fucking good’ as one audience member suggests.
An hour into the ninety-odd minute set, things start to sag a little from sheer pounding exhaustion, McCarthy beginning to resemble a bedraggled Jon Snow from the end of Game Of Thrones Season Five. But then comes Weary Eyes, a tune that sends shivers up the spine and prompts shameful weeping. And everything is re-invigorated for the encore, the hat is back on, and the band tear through their epic signature tune Walkabout, a sweltering, fiery Nothing To Lose But Your Head, and The Avenue.
Afterwards, newly converted Augustinians troop off to the tube station, humming the catchy coda from that final song, all the way to the platform, smiles all round and ready to spread the word. To quote Headlong, call the police, call your shrink, call whoever you want. Just tell them about Augustines.
David L. Hayles
