Okay, so as I said, what happened to the cerebral stuff? What happened to the shows I referred to in the Turbonegro post, the ones that aren't ninety minutes of pure fun ..?
Last night Tortoise took to the stage at the Royal Festival Hall in London. That's the band Tortoise, at whose door the blame for the invention of the horribly named 'Post-Rock' genre is usually laid (often with dog turd connotations) and not the animal tortoise, which is a slow and lumbering creature given to going nowhere fast and retreating into its shell on a regular basis.

Come to think of it ...
Anyhow, the point is this. I love Tortoise. They are perhaps in my top five bands currently operating. So why do they frustrate me so much? Take the picture above - could a band look more aloof and unapproachable, as if they're waiting to be questioned about their tax returns. I know it's supposed to be ironic, and probably Kraftwerkian, but it just gives off wrong messages instantly. Then there's the unpredictability, for as a live prospect Tortoise can be very unpredictable indeed, veering from captivating to catatonic. I think the best metaphor for them would be the lover you really do care about, but whose foibles make it hard to see why you fell for them in the first place.
Last night was fairly typical. I think the review in tonight's Evening Standard actually preempted what I was going to say, which is that when they're at their worst the five members of Tortoise look like they all drifted in from different bands (not as unlikely as you might think, as they all have at least two side projects apiece.) There's cute Johnny, second from left above, who drums like a demon and looks as though the band is his life. Then there's annoying John, centre, whose demeanour either suggests a graceless arrogance, an overdependence on the kind of drugs nobody else in the group is using, or the sheer disbelief that any of us care about what he's up to. The guitarists amble away at the back, and Dan (on the right) seems amazed that he's been drafted into the group in the first place.
But close your eyes and the sound of Tortoise can very often be beautiful, and sometimes very unexpected. Bizarrely, their very best song, the one they encored with and that got the biggest cheer of the night, Seneca, is the closest they get to the absolute conventions of real rock music, albeit still in a brainy way, climbing an escalator that has Hendrix at the bottom and Steve Reich at the top. And can you believe it - they got the crowd down the front to dance. (Or rather, Johnny, for whom I admit I have a soft spot, got them down to dance. Johnny is the only member who ever speaks to the audience. John looks like he hates it when he does that. Maybe that's why John walked off stage first when they finished, ahead of the others, not even looking us in the eye.)
Ultimately I think this is a band that benefits from playing in small clubs or venues where people make some attempt at engagement - they've always been at their best at the All Tomorrow's Parties weekends or at the Thrill Jockey records 10th anniversary show, gigs where people are a bit fired up, a bit connected. Adrift on the stage at the RFH with a polite, all-seated audience listening with the rapt attention normally reserved for Stockhausen or a rendition of Bach's Cello Suites - well, it just doesn't work.
Message to Tortoise: we still love you. Start looking like you love us back.