180. Royal Blood
Alexandra Palace
21 November 2017
I had already had my doubts. I had been to Royal Blood’s “secret” album launch earlier in the year; a not-so-secret affair that confirmed my suspicion that their gimmick, whilst impressive, might have the shelf life of supermarket sushi. Don’t get me wrong: the riffs are enormous, the noise glorious. But after twenty minutes of bass-as-guitar bombast, the whole thing starts to feel a bit… monochrome.
Still, optimism dies hard, so me and a couple of friends ventured north into the wilds of Alexandra Palace, a venue that’s equal parts architectural marvel and logistical nightmare. After braving the uphill trek and the dense fog of reheated meats wafting from the food court, we were greeted with a bonus, and, as it turned out, the night’s undisputed highlight: At the Drive-In.
Now there’s a band. A Texan post-hardcore explosion of limbs, noise and righteous chaos, like someone spliced The Stooges with a sandstorm. They made the whole of Ally Pally feel alive, no small feat for a venue where sound usually goes to die. One of my friends, a hardcore leaning ex-music journo, naturally, was there for them, not the main act. Sensible woman.
Then came Royal Blood. Look, they’re good. Let’s give them that. They make an almighty racket for two people, and they’ve somehow managed to turn Ally Pally, this vast, echoing aircraft hangar of lost ambition, into something resembling a gig venue. Mike Kerr wrings stadium-sized riffs from a bass guitar that’s been hotwired to the national grid, while Ben Thatcher pounds his drum kit like it slept with his girlfriend.
But twenty minutes in, it’s the same riff, same posture, same everything. It’s a miracle of volume and pedal trickery, but variety isn’t part of the deal. Somewhere around song five, I caught myself checking train times on my phone.
The crowd loved it, of course. The faithful moshed, fists pumped. But for me, the thrill had faded. The law of diminishing returns had kicked in, and by the time the encore rolled around, I found myself missing At the Drive-In’s glorious chaos and stage presence.
Because that’s the thing: when your support act does more in forty minutes than you manage in two hours, it’s not a great look. Royal Blood still sound huge. They still fill the room. But you can’t help but wish they’d colour outside the lines a little. The gimmick still works, it just desperately needs a second verse.