It took singer Gruff Rhys simply saying, in his thick Welsh brogue, “we are the Supeeer…Furryanim-als” to set Brixton Academy roaring for a full minute. Admittedly his timing was sublime, introducing the reformed Cardiff psych rockers of no little legend during the pause in Hello Sunshine before indie rock’s most romantic ever line: “I’m a minger, you’re a minger too, so come on minger, I want to ming with you”. But the instant standing ovation in the circle spoke to the deep alt-rock affection towards this most wild and visionary of post-Britpop bands, and the rare thrill of seeing them back ten years after their last reunion with a tour boasting all of the bells, whistles and rave yetis of their Millennium-straddling peak.
There was no sign of the dance tank in which they'd invade festivals in 1996 – a heavily armoured symbol of their madcap, barrier-crushing ethos in a world of Wonderwalls – but plenty of high jinks on display. To a techno strobe assault, accompanied by what sounded like a choir of electronic gremlins, Rhys entered singing Wherever I Lay My Phone (That’s My Home) with an oversized mobile to his ear, like Dom Joly fronting Orbital. To hype up the response to tropical Philly soul tune Juxtaposed With U – sung, naturally, through a vocoder – he held up a digital screen reading “Applause!”, then “Louder!”, then “Ape S***!”. There were songs about serious issues – drugs, religion, social injustice – but also dogs (the grunge glam Golden Retriever), club fights (Night Vision) and mullets (Ice Hockey Hair, an intergalactic anthem of pure euphoria and arguably the best song of the Nineties). And EDM-country favourite Slow Life? He sang that through the eye of a sullen Power Ranger helmet, dressed in hi-vis. Really.
Twenty-odd years ago, such gimmicks signified a psychedelic pop band operating far outside the narrow Britpop norms. Now they’re callbacks to the very root of today’s genre-hopping rock and pop culture, decades ahead of its time. Long before Wolf Alice and Cowboy Carter, SFA were cherry-picking from whichever style and form they fancied, and this best-of set was a thing of breathtaking scope. (Drawing) Rings Around the World was bubblegum krautrock. Northern Lites a mariachi samba. Do or Die was a space punk rampage, adorned with the sound of a deafening death ray cranking up. The Piccolo Snare, a modern Love.
At their most eclectic extreme, Receptacle for the Respectable became a Beatledelic montage, shifting from its brisk folk opening through a carnival chorus to a doom metal climax, the band crossing guitar necks like Musketeer swords. And the many moments of folk and country tenderness – Run! Christian, Run!, Demons, Mountain People – might emerge from yelp-along hits like God! Show Me Magic or melt into codas of acid house warfare.
It all made for a joyously irrepressible experience, celebrating one of the most unbounded maverick bands in rock history. I mean, during a disco break in their foul-mouthed rock’n’roll party anthem The Man Don’t Give a F***, they left the stage for three minutes and returned dressed as glory-rocking Bigfoots. Mythical stuff indeed.
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