Magnapop - Melody Maker Review

June 18th, 1994 - The Duchess of York, Leeds; The Clapham Grand, London

A three-year-old child could write this review. Three-year-olds, after all, are masters of repitition, especially when you need to tell the world you're happy. And if you need to jazz up the pronouncement, all you have to do is vary the emphasis, pitch, or add some percussion using a spoon and table.

Like this.

I'm in love with Magnapop. I'm - in - love - with - Magnapop. I looooove *Magnapop*. I (thump) love (thump) Magnapop (thump thump thump). I always kinda figured I liked 'em a lot. That was then. Now I love them more than anything.

Down the Duchess, of course, it's a pub like any other, all cramped stage and murky son et lumiere. Especially only because last time Georgia's fizzing fourpack were here, bassist Shannon found out first hand how much voltage isn't good for you and ended up out cold. Nowadays, with Magnapop getting bigger and noisier and poppier and tighter and more (occasionally life-threateningly) bouncy, the start of their gigs sounds like THIS:

"Piece of Cake" is one, a thumping, giant, metal thing, with Shannon flailing like the electrocuted do, and Linda singing hoarse, sweet, gritty, and twice as fast. More punk, more wallop, more sharp curves and swooping surprises (even when the house PA sounds like a gravel blanket). Then "Texas", guitarist Ruth (I'm - in - love - with - Ruthie, I'm in LOVE - thump thump - with Ruthie) pulling back into that big ol' riff with such tense assurance and sharp gunslinger's elbows you take it on faith that Magnapop have discovered the dirty secret of Everything Happening Together. It wheels and swings, Linda's voice soaring over the end like a weight lifted until, regretful. And, lest you think finesse is always about softness, "Lay It Down" is the boiling-over sound of a schoolyard gang, all tandem taunts and shouty bits.

But still, a bit cramped.

So it's instructional (no, sod it, it's marvellous) to trundle down days later to The Grand and find you're no longer watching them sing and hearing them dance; given a bigger stage, Magnapop fit their name at last. It's the lights, the space, the PA; Linda bathed in platinum, wickedly dimpled, looking as shiny and curvy as a chrome toaster (ahem), or Miss Georgia on a Harley; Shannon - still alive - manic as an untrained Alsatian off its lead; David roaring as he sweats like in "Deliverance". And it's the crowd, drawn in by the thumps (certainly) and the lyrics (the kind of addictive non-sequiturs that only the truly charming can get away with).

And it's the new songs. "My Best Friend" is astonishing, sad and sweet and longing and elegiac and - sorry - in the same heartstrings department as Elton's "Funeral For A Friend". I might just be hearing the best thing Magnapop has ever written. Certainly the drum breakdown at the end is the voice of God.

Bring on the big stages, then, cos I'm in love with Magnapop, and for once, dammit, my critical opinion isn't catching the night bus home alone.

Jennifer Nine