It is a mighty long way from the Ottoman Empire of the early 20th century to the present-day city of Leeds. But there is a line connecting both of these times and places. It is called The Sick Man of Europe. The incumbent of that title is now a band from London, and they are here in West Yorkshire on the opening night of their debut headline tour. After supporting Snapped Ankles on their UK tour earlier this year followed by a series of successful festival appearances over the summer, this promises to be something a bit special. And it is.
There is no fanfare, no fuss, merely a single red spotlight diffusing the pale colour onto a stage otherwise cast in deep shadow. Four men without names, without a public identity heighten the mystery, the intrigue. Once assembled they head towards ‘Slow Down, Friend,’ the first of half a dozen songs that they recreate from their self-titled debut album.
Released back in June, this live performance shows just how far The Sick Man of Europe sound has evolved on its journey from the studio to the stage. The differences can be measured in the times of the songs – helpfully annotated onto the printed set lists – yet the changes are far more radical than mere time itself. In concert, The Sick Man of Europe is transformed into a muscular beast, an industrial animal that can easily carry such glorious motorik noise on its broad shoulders.
The Sick Man of Europe may refer to the influences of Joy Division – the singer with no name echoes a distant Ian Curtis and a kind of kosmische Scott Walker – and the electropunk of Deutsch Amerikanische Freundschaft (DAF), but communicate in a far more modern musical language, one that occasionally seems to teeter on the brink of collapse yet always remains firmly resolute.
By the time of second song ‘Sanguine’ – the centrepiece of their album – the singer has shed his trench coat skin and begun to part the crowd as he weaves into their midst with a robotic dance that owes much more to Ian Curtis’s convulsive movements than ever it does Fred Astaire. Come ‘Apathy’ he is patrolling back and forth like some possessed sentry whilst his three cohorts lay down the most thunderous of grooves.
A cataclysmic ‘Transactional’ disappears into a vortex of nothingness whilst the singer vanishes out of The Attic’s front door and can be found propped up against the wall of the building just staring out into the still of a Wednesday night. It is as emotionally draining as it is physically dramatic.
Photos: Simon Godley
More photos of The Sick Man of Europe at The Attic, Leeds
