The Research @ The Vine
By Lauren Strain
White rabbits, white rabbits, white rabbits. What a smushy cuddle of fluff and kitten-claws, lop ears and trucker caps The Research are. Like three-week-old felines with blinking pink circles of eyes and mussed up cotton-thread hair, there they sit with their borrowed plastic instruments (one of which keeps mischievously dropping its cymbal on the floor, thus paving the way for a clutch of impromptu cutesy karaoke sessions courtesy of Russell, accompanied solely by a fuzz of baby keyboard - we even get a nursery lullaby of 'Stairway To Heaven' to finish with) smiling like pigtailed teachers' pets with grazes on their knees in the corner of the playground. Indeed, their microscopic emeralds of songs are greeted by such glittering immaturity in the crowd that a whole sector of people are possessed by a fusion of the twist, the kangaroo-hop and a dash of flamboyant jazz hands. Such a wonderfully idiotic display has not been seen since a certain band performed on the unsigned stage at Leeds Festival. Ahem. To properly whizz back in time to those halcyon days of being approximately-nine-years-old, all we need now is a milk-and-biscuits break and a skipping rope.
Having said all that, however, these girls and boy really aren't kiddies anymore, as shown when they begin with the bittersweet honeypot vocals of 'I Love You, But...' In their innocent manner, they blearily mumble and 'baa-baa' out, in the space of a few transparent words, all the silliness and confusion of modern, adult life and love so endearingly and modestly that you want to grow great big cushioned wings to take their bruised little souls under. With a truly devoted local and a-little-bit-further-off-than-local ("Anyone here from Germany...?") following going ape-nuts to first single 'She's Not Leaving' and a couple of songs which Georgia may or may not have written depending on how embarrassed she's feeling, they're teensy Lego-character stars of their hometown and beyond, getting set to rocket off around the country with their liquorice n' sherbet treats. They've got skitter-scatter pop, tumbledown splashes of board-game noise and ramshackle intoxication all bundled up in cosy-knit cardigans with tasty smatterings of tunes good enough to chew.
Oh heck! I've forgotten about the support. Who were also wonderful. Here's a lil' smidgen concerning their loveliness...
Piskie Sits flutter in at the last moment like miniature heroes to replace the poorly Mother and the Addicks (get well soon, hugs to all) and astound us with their curvy cuts of melodious, drunken warbling, the slow 'uns being undoubtedly the most fantastic chops of the lot, all blonde-floppy-haired stumbling in the vicinity of some magnificently paced chordal climaxes. They're one of Russell's favourite bands. And rightly so, my lad. Secondly, Julian Donkey Boy from Manchester have an odd name. They also have a very frightened-looking young man in a jumper as a frontperson, a stunned little deer in the headlamps with a slightly flat (although I believe we're perhaps going for more 'deadpan' or 'nonchalant', really) voice and a startled array of acoustic-led paranoias. In direct opposition to the Sits, his faster ones are the highlights; mostly blinding, ramshackle batterings of the heart - yummy and touching.
A marvellous party all round, then. I even drank straight Coca Cola. I like being a child.
