Brooding over the piano, a side-silhouette of handsome misanthropy, Tom Smith glares into his keys, shouting at white and black with his perfected projection; deep and thick with thought.
He acts as Editors conductor, his voice the hands, moving and swinging songs into life. His left profile remains in glum excellence until the moment in “In This Light and On This Evening” when the glorious explosion of exquisite distaste occurs and results in a quick switch of his face, now we are treated to a twisted smirk, accompanied by the bow of a bird; showman like, he announces that the audience must stand, applaud and watch a band mature before their very eyes!
The brilliant thing about Editors and in particular their progression as a group is that they took their own route. When people thought they were shifting towards stadium rock, they stepped towards synthesisers and took the enigmatic part of the 80’s – now they rest in a cove of their own.
Now Tom is a bird of prey with a warped depression, seemingly signalling the vultures of his art. An art first edgy, then epic and now elusive in its atmosphere.
The atmosphere created in the Philharmonic Hall is one to savour – the venue, as grand as it is has a subtle intimacy – it may be the curved walls or the Greek drawings on each side of the theatre, but something about it conjures up an anarchic majesty – watching Editors feels like a moment, not a concert – the two, venue and band, are a match made in Heaven.
Behind the group, a backdrop of a dystopian village provides electronic assistance. Four windows to a woeful world flash and signal lyrics, giving Editor’s live sound a bruised and battered quality – as though they are sound tracking the world’s impending doom in a movie directed by Kubrick, it’s dark but not a gimmick, instead it’s a classy addition to a show that truly deserves that title; show.
With a full-throttle, bottle emptying of his deepest fears and desires, the out-stretched palms and jittering qualities of Tom’s voice and body make it easy to mark him a sexier Ian Curtis, but that’s a simple, lazy comparison. Editors are not Joy Division#2; they are their own breed of brokenness.
Songs like “The Big Exit” owe more to James Bond than they do to miserable-Manchunians, horn out the moody hymn and pass it to Bassey and you have an even darker continuation to the 007 franchise – one even the buff, no-nonsense Mr Craig couldn’t make sinister enough.
Shaken and stirred, the audience is treated to devastatingly sullen blows of epic organ in the shape of “Smokers Outside The Hospital Doors” and reminded of the original sound of Editors, the quicker blows of shiny sadness that first caught the post-Libertines generation eye –“Munich” and “Blood” songs that still sound as ominous and relevant – five years on.
And on the day that Carl and Pete settled their differences and presumably planned the spending spree, Tom offered his own insight to their reunion; a reluctant guffaw, before returning to his craft; a heart-breaking, soul-crushing, fist-clenching saturation of musical elegance.
Bands will always reform and Chancellors always debate, the songs of the James Bond franchise will never be truly menacing, and just as these things will never change, nor will the Editors, for they will constantly evolve. And as they evolve and become more heartfelt and interesting, as they grow and provide lost cynics with a voice, all four of them will remain cautious and conniving, seemingly plotting the demise of broken-Britain one sentence, chorus and concert at a time.
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