Review: Anberlin, Rescue Rooms, by Francis Brian
IT seems appropriate to offer Anberlin a slice of British culture which accurately summarises their stay. Because luggage prices are crazy these days, here's a paraphrased quote from Churchill: Never has a band gained so much, by offering so little, for so long.
It might not be the best globe-hopping souvenir, but their blotchy rendition of Impossible deserves nothing else.
Paperthin Hymn's wallowing wails are the bake-sale equivalent of drizzling glass-shard icing on gravel flavoured cupcakes.
For some reason they're loved back home in the backward-south of Florida. The rollercoaster loops and ice-cream scoops must have addled their brains.
However, this crowd's muffled responses emphasise the laughable irony of a Christian rock group committing sordid sins against such a peaceful genre.
Self-Starter alone could have saddled them with a longer stint in purgatory.
Turning water into wine looks like birthday party magic compared to this band miraculously reaching a fourth album. Heavenly powers have clearly clocked some serious overtime.
But tonight's afflicted congregation isn't singing their praises.
Maybe God intentionally placed them far away from America's north-west corner – an apex brimming with saintly grunge greats. This divine intervention spared Anberlin the embarrassment of treading in mammoth footsteps with their pattering little hooves.
Feel Good Drag is passable, but it's hardly a hit worthy of mainlining tequila into your eyeball. At best it's tepid cola, watered down to Lidl-level.
Look on the bright side, the ticket stubs can be saved for secondary use – perhaps as the only £10 bookmarks outside Harrods.