Frontman James Smith takes to the stage with a slouchy, Sunday-morning laziness before breaking into a performance that dances just on the right side of a nervous breakdown.
Dressed in the red trousers of an upper-class English Sloane Ranger, Smith is already agonising to pervert expectations. Spitting vitriol about the rich while dressed in their uniform, Smith raises his middle finger as subtly as one raises a glass.
While the recorded versions of songs from Yard Act’s debut album ‘The Overload’ are tightly strung machines, the band use them as mere jumping off points in concert. Even as a fan, it’s impossible to sing along; Smith riffs on his own lyrics, behaving more like a town crier or beat poet than a wind-up doll. ‘Tall Poppies’ is treated to an unreleased extra chorus, while ‘Rich’ becomes slam poetry. He invokes his Muse in real time, letting ideas wail through him at will.
Songs like ‘The Trapper’s Pelts’ are – on their recorded releases – the sonic equivalent of tracing a finger down someone’s back, but in person they become anthems that close into fists. Smith chases his music’s tail, utterly hounded by his own lyrics.
It is instinct to watch out for Yard Act; their live performances are evolving into legacy. Smith acts out the role of the tortured rock-star; whether this persona is fiction or method acting seems up for debate. He howls at the crowd like a spirit unleashed, and weeps to his lyrics like the tortured hero of a melodrama. It’s erratic and frantic – even a little self-indulgent – but utterly mesmerising. Seeing the band play is a story to tell and retell for years to come.
The most iconic frontmen of this decade’s biggest bands are an eccentric bunch – Alex Turner of Arctic Monkeys, Matty Healy of The 1975, and perhaps even Grian Chatten of Fontaines D.C. – but James Smith is already carving out an alien space among them. He may be fashionably late to the party of the post-punk scene, but the movement had hardly started until he walked in.