I proper love it here,” cackles Damon Albarn, halfway through what is, theoretically, a bijou warm-up date in what is for Blur a small ven...
I proper love it here,” cackles Damon Albarn, halfway through what is, theoretically, a bijou warm-up date in what is for Blur a small venue. The intention is for the reunited foursome to iron out the creases in their set in time for their marquee slots at the Isle of Wight and London’s Hyde Park. There is also the small matter of a world tour touting The Magic Whip, Blur’s surprise, late-life baby of an album, released in April. Albarn’s shirt is badly ripped; what is left of it is saturated with sweat. Guitarist Graham Coxon, The Magic Whip’s chief midwife, has long since taken off his chunky specs; his guitar is howling above the din of a brass section, four backing vocalists, familiar from previous tours, and double drummers (Dave Rowntree in regulation Fred Perry, and percussionist Karl Vanden Bossche). Bassist Alex James periodically dangles a cigarette from his lip in defiance of the 25 years gone and any smoking bans passed. The band are visually represented by four neon-lit ice-cream cones and introduced by ice-cream van music: kitsch Anglicana cut through with orientalist anomie. Named for a Chinese firecracker, The Magic Whip is, in part, about dissociation, about far eastern cities and their discontents, but it’s also a tale of how Albarn and his childhood best friend, Coxon, found one another again after many years of estrangement. Less
