Sandwiched between a surprise Foo Fighters set and headliners Arctic Monkeys, Royal Blood take to the Pyramid stage on Friday night in second billing – a milestone, or stumbling block, for any great band. But the stakes are higher still for the West Sussex duo, as they emerge from an international incident at Radio 1’s Big Weekend in Dundee, when singer Mike Kerr lashed out at a “pathetic” crowd that failed to appreciate their rock bona fides, before flouncing off stage with middle fingers raised.
The vainglorious outburst was rooted in the authenticity fetishism that is at the heart of every argument about rock’s supremacy, which explains its intrigue, and hilariousness, to a streaming-era audience that is broadly not factional and genre-agnostic. Then again, in an age of asinine, media-friendly posturing, it was so uncalculated as to be almost admirable – a rare case of a band whipping up a PR storm, in these enlightened times, not by patronising pop-star women or consorting with far-right provocateurs, but through the old-fashioned medium of being a bit of a dick.
Though they don’t mention the incident, Kerr and drummer Ben Thatcher – who are joined by keyboardist Darren Watts – seem intent on correcting the narrative with a crowd-pleasing display of rock showmanship. After opener “Out of the Black”, Thatcher strides from the kit in his Arctic Monkeys T-shirt and pounces to the front of the stage, waving his arms to amp fans: this, their enthusiasm suggests, is a real crowd for their real rock music.
But their chest-puffing never quite connects. As much as Royal Blood emulate the rock archetype, stalking across the stage and casting out stares heavy with import, their riskless songs inspire no devotion. Where you might expect scenes of adrenalised bacchanalia, tightly packed fans bob politely, like encouraging parents at a battle of the bands.
Thatcher eventually stands on his kit and gestures to open a mosh pit in the crowd, who acquiesce. The diehards remain engaged for a few songs, but the pit quickly shrinks to more of a mosh puddle. Royal Blood exploit the same reserves of Queens of the Stone Age brawn that have equipped Arctic Monkeys and Muse for world-slaying rock/pop crossovers. But where those bands’ charismatic frontmen subvert machismo with witty, submissive lyrics and flamboyant performances, the duo’s hefty riffs, devil-horns showmanship and shallow mantras lack the introspection needed to show what makes the macho impulse interesting. Kerr is the crowd-pleasing Rod Stewart to Alex Turner’s freewheeling Elvis Costello, the Dan Auerbach to his Jack White – a sort of control group against which riskier artistry can be measured.
Still, the set hits all its marks, the waves of distortion almighty, the choruses catchy and Kerr’s widdly bass riffs sufficiently virtuosic to satisfy the metal heads. During closer “Figure It Out”, when he switches from plucking the riff to tapping it one-handed while raising his fingers in the air, you believe, for a moment, that there is life in the old cliches yet. But it is impossible to imagine them, in future years, rising to the challenge of shooting up the festival bill. Perhaps Kerr’s outburst, during Big Weekend, bubbled up from a painful realisation about Royal Blood’s own place in the landscape. The worry is not that they were cheapened by association with the casual crowd and wilfully throwaway pop, but that it is precisely where Royal Blood’s people-pleasing, flat-pack anthems belong.
