STEREOLAB/BROADCAST
"ER, TA..." No, really, don`t mention it. "Er, ta..." Oh, stop it, will you!
Onstage banter the Broadcast way is positively fizzing through the Zap, and that one about the Peruvian monkey, the shopping trolley and the taxi driver - expect it any second... well, never, actually.Moreover, these waif-like things from Birmingham - who dress in nylon trews, austere military shirts and roll neck sweaters, and undoubtedly know a good library when they see one-appear so desperately nervous that, with every passing second, it seems increasingly likely they`ll evacuate the stage altogether and run for their young lives down Brighton`s rain-lashed seafront.That they don`t is a sensible enough decision. Their set outlasts the material that it`s strictly wise for them to air in public, naturally, but there`s something admirable in their union of slender out-rock, vague jazz meandereings, fragile indie and the deliverance of lyrics you`d need ears the size of an elephant`s to decipher.At the end they go out on a limb that, frankly, is too extreme to bear thinking about. Yes, they murmur: "Thanks..."Stereolab have been on the road for seven months. Thus, they`ve probably never been more honed to their quixotic goals - and yet, simultaneously, never more cerebrally frazzled. Not that they`ll let the latter state show, mind. That simply wouldn`t do.The stage is filled withe six figures nodding gently at the severity of the situation. There is only one way to advance from here, and that`s to whirr society to it`s very knees, then switch to a cute tune and repeat, repeat, repeat. So, cue `Transona 5`, followed by `Motoroll Scalatron` and `Crest` - gloopy balls of drone, hum, yelp, twisted torch song and softened chant and, indeed, the `Lab are calmly cruising now; not so much `on one` as seriously `in one`.Bizzarely, Stereolab`s zenith is sounding like Steppenwolf, or some such long lost gods of anthemic romp and stomp, with protracted grooving and distanced cool placed where pomp and big-haired drama once were. And, for certain, wigging-out has never been more formal, rigid or sytematic than when they set the Moog controls for the heart of the wibble. Painful gaps split each outburst of sound, with Laetitia and Tim co exchanging blank expressions as they rummage through boxes of percussive instruments, pulling out all manner of rattles and shakers for `La Boob Oscillator` and `Percolator`.That they don`t do more of the pop-shaped `The Noise Of Carpet` is a shame. That `Emperor Tomato Ketchup` is neatly thudded and plonked through, with a whiff of Blondie never far away, however, is wildly superlative. Esentially Stereolab balance their svelte music on a cliff edge, ready to pull the world out from underneath it, courtesy of whizzing synth, sending the package into an incessant free fall that`s fantastically mesmeric.And all of this sits way above the politico dribbling and stern`n`studied retro-future chic that`s supposed to be at the core of their puritanical axis. For, if Stereolab are a purposely awkward conundrum in essence, that never belies their gratifyingly metronomic soul or enthralling detatchment from us, the dizzy, dazed punters.So, what can we do with pop right now? Where can we send it? Somewhere else, at least, thanks to the `Lab. And in French, English or any other language, that`s just fine...Andy Crysell