Caught Live: The Vaselines @ Scala, London

The very idea of seeing the legendary Vaselines duo of Eugene Kelly and Frances McKee live was once a mythical, insubstantial kind of wish – much like hoping The Replacements might reform, or that you’d maybe bump into Kevin Shields in Tesco one day.

While those latter desires remain on that list of the extremely unlikely, The Vaselines have reformed (properly this time), made a new record and set out on an extensive tour. Okay, so it’s not the complete original lineup, but the key songwriting figures of Kelly and McKee are very much present, their interweaving personalities as intact on the band's new material as in their onstage banter.

It’s been just over twenty years since the release of the sole previous Vaselines LP, Dum-Dum, and that amount of time minus one week since the group first split. Of course, once Kurt Cobain ushered them into the pantheon of Great Undiscovered Songwriters via his numerous cover versions and constant praise, a reunion might have seemed inevitable. It happened – in fits and starts – but now we have The Vaselines back properly, perhaps for good, with a whole new generation of fans tonight packing out London's Scala for a taste of delicious Scottish pop.

Greeted with rabid enthusiasm, the laconic Kelly leaves the larking to McKee and instead stares stony-faced through the likes of ‘Molly’s Lips’, new crackers like ‘Sex With An X’ (the title cut from the Scots' recent Sub Pop comeback LP) and, of course, their mighty version of ‘You Think You’re A Man’. The tunes are undeniably great, the interplay between their voices irresistible, and when they hit their career peak of ‘Son Of A Gun’ they graduate from the simply superb to the practically divine.

McKee’s borderline-filthy banter with the crowd ("Mmmmm, come to mummy" she whispers at one point to a pocket of younger male fans) and constant slighting of Kelly ("He’s had his guitar wank now" she notes at the conclusion of a solo) bring to mind an uncomfortable visit to an aging relations’ house – hostilities spilled in public that may have been stirring for decades. However, much like their music, there is a sense of play to what they do that overrides all else.

Even at their downright filthiest ('Rory Rides Me Raw’ for instance) there is still a sense of naivety and natural charm, not to mention an inherent grasp of how beautiful pop music can be, that leaves a collective grin on the face of this newly-blessed audience.
 
It's an honour, then, to be able to finally tick this one off the list of unlikely indie dreams!