Geese live at O2 Academy review – rock superstardom, here they come

Arguably the hottest band in the world right now, New York’s Geese arrived in Yorkshire with well deserved swagger. When hitting their stride in marvellously odd blues rock showstoppers they are a force to be reckoned with, but this set failed to capitalise on the sterling new album’s subtler material.

Cameron Winter is knee deep in 2122 – his band’s most elaborate, utterly bonkers rock ‘n’ roll confection, somewhere between stadium-raising Arctic Monkeys and Hairspray Motown on steroids – when he abruptly halts proceedings and fumbles for this phone. The audience mutter amongst themselves as he holds it up to the microphone, some wacky northern voice mumbling the word “bollocks” over a tinny electronic drum kit. It turns out it’s Chumbawamba’s hit Tubthumping, and the crowd eventually cotton on and start singing. “Leeds natives, everybody,” Winter says after a long two minutes of this, before kick-starting the rollercoaster finale of 2122. It’s a sign of a frontman and a band who, despite their critically acclaimed, highly fashionable brand of alt rock, staunchly refuse to take themselves seriously, to both refreshing and mildly irritating effect. Chumbawamba are in fact from Burnley, not Leeds, but the crowd gives a bemused cheer anyway.

It would take a lot more of these antics to ruin the surge of goodwill towards Geese in the room tonight (although Winter almost does just that when he ill-advisedly follows one fan’s demands to say “up the Mackem,” to loud boos). To say this band’s rise has been stratospheric would be to overstate the height of the stratosphere. Geese’s 2023 album of gonzo blues rock 3D Country was a modest success, but last year’s only-slightly-less-gonzo Getting Killed was the year’s most unlikely smash hit. Suddenly Cillian Murphy, Lewis Capaldi and Nick Cave were among the stars enthusiastically singing Geese’s praises, whilst chief songwriter Winter has been touted as the new Tom Waits, the new Leonard Cohen, the new Bob Dylan. Getting Killed came to dominate contemporary music discourse, and was notoriously adopted by pretentious, tote bag-sporting male New Yorkers looking for a trendy new avant garde indie upstart to boast about liking, much removed from all that girly Chappell Roan and Olivia Rodrigo nonsense. Indeed, Geese aren’t just from New York, they are New York, with their greasy hair and ramshackle take on rock that often calls to mind a rat-infested subway station, as well as the fact that all that grease and apparent street cred is really just a veneer to obscure the fact that the band members all come from considerable privilege and met at an exorbitant private Quaker prep school (New York is, after all, the most expensive city in the world).

If Geese are a band at risk of collapsing under the gravity of their own pop culture dominance of late, tonight they don’t sound like it. An early romp through the new album’s title track is a masterclass in art rock nonchalance, the band seamlessly switching gears from rambunctious blues to shimmering balladry at the drop of a hat. Winter’s singular vocals are the key, belching out war cries one second, emanating ghostlike falsetto the next. Tonight the rowdier songs from Getting Killed are played recklessly fast, to thrilling effect. Dominic DiGesu’s disgustingly dirty bass guitar tone charges through a punishing rendition of 100 Horses, whilst Max Bassin’s drumming on standout Bow Down is lyrical, inventive, and indisputably world class. Emily Green completes a faultless lineup, a guitarist with an exceptional attention detail who sounds at her best tonight skipping through a glorious, peppy Cowboy Nudes, her carefree demeanour belying the song’s technically finicky guitar part.

It’s the several nuanced, slower numbers from the new album that turn out to be Geese’s Achilles’ heel tonight. Husbands makes for an oddly understated opener, already a slow burn track on the album, but tonight there’s hardly a spark. Half Real, a gossamer thin elegy for a fickle relationship and an underrated gem from the new album, becomes a glacial dirge whilst the formerly uplifting Cobra ends up feeling like a ballerina musical box in need of a bit more winding up. Au Pays Du Cocaine survives, thank goodness, without too much tempo tinkering, and the sound of 2,300 fans belting along to Winter’s astoundingly poignant lyrics about homesickness and desperation is the night’s emotional zenith.

Cynics might point to unreleased song Apollo as a sign that the sudden fame is rushing to Winter’s head (the only lyric: “I’m going to the moon and you’re buying the ticket, motherfucker!”) and the minimalist construction – largely just Bassin’s repetitive drum groove – lacks the glorious chaos of Geese’s best songs, but it at least culminates in a good excuse for a mosh, DiGesu’s bluesy bass riff enough to send the fans into energetic ecstasy. Trinidad is tonight’s fiery finale, although the omission of the new album’s quivering highlight Long Island City Here I Come or surefire singalong I See Myself leaves a faintly underwhelming aftertaste, the band calling it quits after a passable 70 minute shift. Still, Trinidad’s schizophrenic decomposed funk makes for a worthy send off. The song is replete with profoundly strange guitar screeches and surreal lyrics about a murdered family, but tonight it’s lapped up as if it’s the UK number 1, fans screaming “There’s a bomb in my car!” as Bassin lets rip with one disorientating drum fill after another. A smattering crowd surfers take flight as Green’s guitar begins to sound more and more like a chainsaw ripping through steel. “Will you know what I mean?” Winter wailed in the anthemic chorus of tonight’s opening song, Husbands. An hour later, with fans emerging from the cacophony sweaty and exhilarated, giddily discussing the future market value of their new Geese t-shirts, the answer appears to be a resounding yes.