Suede’s new songs outshine old favourites in return to Camden

Thirty years ago, Suede stalked the dingy venues of Camden like a “snarling, growling rock beast”, in the smitten words of Melody Maker. This district — the fly-postered, leather-jacketed, kebab-wrappered citadel of London indie rock — was the proving ground for “the best new band in Britain”. It was where singer Brett Anderson whipped his microphone cable like a lion tamer during ecstatically received gigs and uttered louche remarks to interviewers about the inconvenience of being recognised. “You can’t go” — his voice a self-cultivated Cockney drawl — “and buy pornography.”

He and his fellow snarling, growling rock beasts were back in Camden this week for two shows at the Electric Ballroom, a murky, beer-sticky space that has hardly changed since 1992. In the meantime, much water has passed by Suede’s prow.

The decadent upstarts of 30 years ago were a thin-hipped concoction razored from David Bowie, The Smiths and London worship, “a group with all reference points so tightly packed that it consequently leaves no room whatsoever for originality, should any be lurking”, in The Smiths singer Morrissey’s acid but admiring estimation. Yet somehow this most mannered of bands have outlasted the rest of their Britpop generation. Vale Pulp, Blur and Oasis — but viva Suede.

They took to the stage with the beaming faces and cheery waves of middle-aged musicians grateful for the hand that fate has dealt them. Their new album Autofiction is a straight flush, crowning an impressive run of releases since they reunited in 2010. They proceeded to play it in full, starting with surging anthem “She Still Leads Me On” and ending with the brooding gothic-rock of “Turn Off Your Brain and Yell”. 

Anderson snapped instantly into frontman mode, crying out in dramatic quavering tones, a man of 55 summoning the wild hormonal swoops of a teenage boy’s breaking voice. The top three or so buttons of his black shirt were undone in customary raffish style. The fabric clung to him as sweat built up, produced by the exertion of a rock singer giving it his all.

There was an obvious threat to dignity here, in the mutton-dressed-as-lamb way of things. But neither Anderson nor the rest of the band sought merely to turn back the clock. Anchored by bassist Mat Osman and drummer Simon Gilbert, with siren riffs and smeary power chords from guitarist Richard Oakes (who replaced Bernard Butler in 1994), the music felt urgent and engaged. It lived in the present but was laced with memories of the past. Although Anderson’s stage routines presented him as a man of action, his lyrics were imbued with reminiscences of childhood and young adulthood, influenced by the two memoirs he has published in recent years. The sequence of tracks pivoted around a beautifully reflective ballad, “Drive Myself Home”, set to a sombre melody from keyboardist Neil Codling.

They took a brief break after playing Autofiction, which caused the momentum to stutter. “You still with me?” Anderson called out after they returned with “Snowblind”. A sequence of back-in-the-day favourites such as “The Drowners” and “Metal Mickey” provided a reinvigorating jolt of nostalgia. But the show’s second half failed to regain the heights of the earlier part. It was proof of Suede’s impressive longevity — the new songs outshone the old ones on their return to a former stamping ground.

★★★★☆

suede.co.uk