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You could be forgiven for wondering just how the hell they got to this point.
Floating almost anonymously through the hallways of pre-stardom and indisputable-greatness,
the chances are you were gawping/dribbling/whatever at The White Stripes/The Strokes/Starsailor/Whoever
and didn't ever even consider you might be looking the wrong way. Meanwhile, right
under your red and white face paint Elbow release tender emotive classic after
classic ('Newborn', 'Any Day Now', 'Red', 'Powder Blue', 'Newborn' again), latch
onto tours, blowing the likes of Doves and Grandaddy away with ease and seemingly
without intention, before doing the same in just about every toilet venue in the
country themselves. The hint really came when they consequently rammed stages
at this year's festivals and comes even stronger tonight in a long sold out Astoria,
with a thriving audience's passionate vocal acknowledgment of every single for
a start, and then just about everything else they play. Guy may quip about how
they do "prefer to play these intimate venues", but you can't help but feel it's
all about to get even bigger. 
And appropriately songs you thought just couldn't ever get any bigger - the
emotional runaway train launching from your blind-side into full overwhelming
view at 'Newborn's climax, 'Coming Second' and its solemn crushing march, the
swooping enormity of 'George Lassoes The Moon', the volcanic build in 'Can't Stop'
- lull you in, blossom, burst and completely flatten you, draining you of just
about all available emotion. 'Presuming Ed (Rest Easy)' that languishes at ground
level on record is really eased up onto a cloud here with sumptuous use of a male
vocal quartet, 'Bitten By The Tailfly' - already belligerent and hostile - throws
horns into the cantankerous commotion to sharp effect and a cello lends wings
to the already beautiful live version of 'Red'. Undeniable signs abound of a band
unable to stem their natural growth in stature, ambition and, most noticeably,
confidence.
Now we see a band bounding high on a sonic Richter scale
all of their own making, Guy and Mark visibly at ease, using the stage, letting
go, when this time last year the focus, although no less intense, was undoubtedly
more inward and cautious. Guy's crowd-banter from the off marks him out as much
more self-assured and solid touring has only driven his angelic granite outhouse
voice to become even more devastatingly perfect. As he forces out the mournful
peak of 'Powder Blue' against such a deep silky musical backdrop, reminisces delicately
over 'Scattered Black And Whites' and utters those first beautiful twisted romanticisms
of 'Newborn' even the walls seem close to weeping. Perhaps not since Thom Yorke's
rough, troubled, but painfully pure vocals on the likes of 'Street Spirit' and
'Fake Plastic Trees' has a man's voice been able to encourage such a captivated
swelling response from a live audience. And on this evidence, not since Radiohead
launched themselves into the stratosphere post-'The Bends' has a band looked like
they could go so far carried on the wings of their own possibility.
James Berry for Crud Magazine© 2001
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