FELT ARE hinged around guitarist and singer (in that order) Lawrence, a lovably naive, hick-ish figure from a village just outside Birmingham. They are in love with an image of themselves as a cultish glamour band following in the tradition of the Velvet Underground, their true value and worth destined not to be recognised until years after their demise.
Lawrence seriously considers Felt to be better then any other group around. This is not the common London kind of raving ego but an actual belief in their complete superiority which is bolstered by a degree of latent insanity.
Felt gigs are as rare as poets in the stock exchange: Lawrence prefers chip shops to rock venues. On stage, he has a charisma roughly equal to that of a dead jellyfish and moves with the grace and precision of an injured antelope.
His singing is plain embarrassing. Felt would be more fun if they stuck to their idea of performing entirely instrumental sets. It is the wondrous guitar tones that Lawrence somehow always manages to produce which makes the rest of what they do bearable.
Danse Society went a long way towards being the most pompous, over-rated heap of garbage it has over been my misfortune to encounter. Watching their set made me realise just how human Felt are.
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