My friend took this one on the beach Sunday afternoon, through a colored filter so it looks like the photos on the covers of Belle & Sebastian records. Those are the survivors of last night's drinking who actually completed the seven-minute stagger to the majestic waterfront: acres of fine, flat sand, extending as far as the horizon to the left and right, flickering at a distance into the water and then a sky that's obligingly cloudless for a few minutes. The revelers look even paler than usual, snacking on extra-greasy cod and chips and wondering when somebody's going to take that guitar out of its case and start a Belle & Sebastian sing-along. "This whole beach smells like vodka," moaned the one lying down on the grassy dune.

The Japanese pop star (and Anglophone-world indie fave) Cornelius is up onstage in the pizza-sauna in this one. The lighting and film clips behind him are part of his hugely ornate, perfectly synced-up audiovisual presentation, which ranked very high on the "impressive" scale but not so high on the "anything else" scale.

I took this a few hours later. It's the climax of Belle & Sebastian's headlining set: eight fragile-looking young men and women bent over instruments that are mostly associated more with chamber music than with rock, knitting modest, ringing tones into little presents for the crowd. What I caught of Mercury Rev, who preceded them, was pretty boring (and Kevin Shields of My Bloody Valentine, who was supposed to have played with them, apparently didn't show up). Before them were Stereolab protégés Broadcast, who did a nice set of organ-driven, '60s-France/'90s-clubland tunes -- mostly the same ones they recorded a few years ago.

Didn't matter. That night's audience was utterly, passionately devoted to Belle & Sebastian -- aroar as each song began and ended, silent in between (except for the people in front who sang along). The band loved the audience right back, playing with grace, fluidity and confident elegance. We got songs from each of their records, four new ones and a levitational version of their best single, "Lazy Line Painter Jane," with dynamics and an organ part that explicitly recalled the Velvet Underground's "What Goes On." Guest singer Monica Queen stepped up to sing her verse from the record, a robust, melodramatic cry that slashed across Stuart Murdoch's filmy tenor. The crowd was howling. What could follow that? Not much, as it turned out: They closed with a joyful cover of "The Kids Are Alright," and there wasn't an encore -- just four more hours of dancing and then a "Big Bowlie Bye-Bye" beach party.

One final snap: This is that early morning seaside light falling on the Bowlie Weekenders as they stumbled out of their chalets with their bags, their hangovers, their Pastels badges, their sandy clothes and their weekend sweethearts and headed back home.
salon.com | May 4, 1999

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