PUBLICATION - MELODY MAKER ORIGIN - UK DATE OF PUBLICATION - Unknown SUBJECT - Live concert review, NORWICH U.E.A. TITLE - THE LA'S TIME AUTHOR - Andrew Mueller PHOTO - No credit given At no stage tonight does Lee Mavers throw a fist ceilingward and yell " Kick it! " Not once does he tell us that a funny thing happened on the way to the gig. The Man who could sulk for England stomps off at the end without even slightly tarnishing his reputation for epic surliness. He has not spoken a word or registered a single nuance of facial expression in the previous hour. He and his band have, however, trundled out a set of such grittily pristine pop that one can only suspect that there might have been something more to their claims of misrepresentation ( on their largely dull debut album ) and misunderstanding ( everywhere else ) than petulant delusion. The La's are actually quite brilliant. It's clear by the time they've trashed their way through the first songs as far as " Timeless Melody " that the sumptuous elegance of " There She Goes " and the Ringo minimalism of the drumkit are all signs pointing in the wrong direction. This isn't the forelock-tugging Beatles tribute you might expect. Like, The La's most cherished inspirations still date mostly from records released before they were born, but then everyone's do these days. Their deepest roots lie in the gut-bucket stomp of prime Creedence Clearwater Revival ( " Doledrum " , " Son Of A Gun " ) or, to a lesser degree, The Flying Burrito Brothers. Whatever, The La's aren't the painstaking pop classicists they've been drawn as. Instinctive, there's the word. It's the crucial, caring urgency of Mavers' dlivery that makes it all work. He manages to transcend his advanced state of sartorial disarray and ( by virtue of not trying to draw attention to it ) elevate his wretchedness to the point where you can believe that he suffers for this. And this  ( all great art being equal parts voyeurism and communication, and that ) matters. You start to think that maybe what The La's are doing is more important than a decentish impression of The Someloves. ( You've never heard of them? Your loss. ) " I Can't Sleep " and " Feelin' " are to their recorded incarnations what " Let It Bleed " -era Stones are to Any Trouble, both swinging monstruous hooks and even inducing Lee to wiggle his knees with comparatively reckless abandon. The audience reacts with a fair old degree of hysteria. And let's face it, viewers, it can't be the band's good looks. They finish with " Looking Glass " and grudgingly return for, of all things, a free-for-all instrumental jam in yer Cream-type crushing hippy muso bore vein. It's f***ing horrible, and, to judge by their ever-Bronsonesque visages, no joke at all. Scary. Then there's a reprise of " I Can't Sleep ", a spot of carping twixt frontman and guitarist, and another, edgier take at " There She Goes ". It's a fittingly glorious end. In love with the past and in touch with the present, The La's tonight are a supremely literate combination. They can spell binding, anyhow. ANDREW MUELLER.