Arcade Fire – MEN Arena
Canadian heavyweights finally growing into those stadium-sized breeches
Words Martin Guttridge-Hewitt
By August Bank Holiday it can often be impossible to imagine large events without a field, after spending three months trudging through one. But where festivals are a summer fad, arenas are built to last. And, as the biggest in Europe, Manchester’s MEN is probably the best plunge-pool to dive back into with the intention of becoming re-familiarised with monolithic indoor gigs.
There is a problem, however. When you walk down a dizzying staircase and gaze across a blurry sea in the opposite nosebleeds the band responsible can’t just be great, they need to be colossal. These are, after all, venues that nod to an arguably lost era of real frontmen and spectacle, and there’s plenty today’s heroes can learn about showmanship from yesterday’s power chords if many contemporary headliners are anything to go off.
But tonight’s big-room option is the Arcade Fire, who arrived in town to support the unquestionably spellbinding third LP, The Suburbs. And, reassuringly, Canada’s finest multi-instrumentalist oddballs intended to hammer home the point that you don’t have to be veterans to tear the roof off a stadium. Cue frantic drum hammering, and a lesson in commanding crowds.
“Get out of your seats!” yells Win Butler between the lyrics of ‘Ready To Start’. Moments in and already they have even the most awkwardly shy attendees in the stands on their feet, and 90-odd minutes later few had considered putting their backside back down. Even comparatively sedate fare like ‘Speaking In Tongues’ (a David Byrne-assisted track on the new record’s deluxe edition) retained enough rhythm to prevent cramp creeping in. Indeed, sandwiched beautifully between the steadily-building ‘Rococo’ and resoundingly anthemic ‘Intervention’, it was the perfect calm within a storm.
For the most part, though, this was a powerful, emotive assault, like watching some open-denomination religious group frantically spreading their gospel of melodic, crescendo-filled arrangements to a wide-eyed congregation. And, as should be the way when 15,000 or so people have been zealously thrusting heads back and forth to the thunderous ‘Wake Up’, heavy distortion provided seconds of relief while chords warmed up for a seamless rendition of ‘Neighbourhood’, one of many instances of a band in full apprehension of what it means to play live.
It might have been the stormy, monochrome footage of the band’s frontman providing on-screen imagery as a raw ‘Month of May’ rolled out for the first of several encore tracks, invoking classic Ian Curtis imagery. Perhaps it was the boundless talent exuding from each member as keyboards melded with guitars and a whole raft of other instruments. Either way it’s hard to contest that when we document defining rock icons from this century’s infancy, Arcade Fire will feature heavily.
Because in an age distinctly lacking future legends here’s one of the few truly stadium sized outfits born of this millennium. And, while the appeal has broadened between albums one and three, it’s not a case of selling out so much as consistently moving forwards without alienating the core faithful. The result is a sound at once unique and universal, with performances worthy of these enormous venues, negating any need to lament lost legends, and the associated theatrics.
