Electric Six

They've got something to put in you...

Does it really matter that half the band have changed? No not really. As out-of-order as it sounds, Dick Valentine is Electric 6 and absolute proof that being a knob can be a good thing. The guy politely claps himself at the end of songs and you don’t find yourself thinking that it’s such a truly twattish thing to do, but kind of endearing.

With the new release in just over a week, E6 have been feeding the fire of publicity without even having to try. They’re just a breath of fresh air in a claustrophobically intense world. Not exciting, but inspiring and that’s enough to be getting on with.

Danger! High Voltage! is as infectious and irritatingly, annoyingly, perversely wonderful, as we’d expect to be. Valentine doesn’t sacrifice that peculiar pronunciation of ‘voltage’ either, although maybe because nobody’s gonna tell him about it in case they get fired. Perhaps that’s what happened, I dunno, ask me in the morning. For now though we’re all singing along in the late afternoon heat, having a party and the only thing missing is a conga line. Oh look, there goes one over there. Oh well. It’ll be round again soon enough.

‘Let’s hear it for the people on Marijuana!’ (Mellow cheer). ‘Let’s hear it for the people on coke!’ (Initially anxious but soon busier cheer), ‘Heroin?’ (Biggest roar – for perverse reasons). You’d expect a bigger reaction from the stoners, but they probably didn’t react quickly enough. Can’t think why.

When all’s said and done, E6 are just a teensy weensy bit dull. OK, maybe dull is too strong, just not as exceptional as you’d like them to be. Kind of post-punk pedestrian and, well, just not exactly inspired. Yet, they release some surprising vibes for a band that are trying to come together again after a fragmentation in the public spotlight. They can just have fun with no pretensions other than the fact that from now on, it’s the Dick Valentine show. Just accept it.

Har Mar Superstar enters stage right and he demands to know why they haven’t taken him to the gay bar yet. So they do because it’d be rude not to, bless ‘em. We’re all welcome in the gay bar, it seems, because Mr. ‘they don’t call me Dick for nothing’ Valentine is buying the drinks and has something to put in someone. Whoever or more importantly, whatever that might be.

Closing with a surprising cover of Radio Ga Ga is so cheesy it works. So tongue-in-cheek it can taste it’s own colon, it just belongs. We find ourselves doing the clap thing, and doing it properly no less. As the sun dries the mud on our boots, the Other Stage becomes a little stadium rock oasis and Electric Six have just proved their point.

Smug bastards.

Paul Mills

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