| "The
thing is," he drawls, "you can over-analyse anything. With the fan club gig none
of us thought, 'What shall we do with Neil?' When we set up the stage, there I was,
squeezed to the front. I guess it's quite fortuitous. I get a lot of breathing
space." Ah yes, breathing space. Exactly what does Neil Codling do during those
moments of dead time when Brett Anderson is wrapped up in microphone cable and attempting
to throw himself off the top of Simon Gilbert's drum-riser, except kick back, put his feet
up and stare out into the audience? "I enjoy communicating," he grins, "I could stare at my shoes or gaze at a certain spot at the back of the room, but I'm in front of these people who've paid money to see us. I can't dance, so I'm usually just listening to the songs and looking at everyone. It's quite funny. When you stare out at people, sometimes they just stare back but sometimes they're quite unsure of what to do." There are even |
occasions
when Neil simply pushes his microphone stand away, rests his head on his hands and watches
the rest of the band perform. Why doesn't he just go offstage? "I revel in that situation. It's a perfectly natural thing for me. With songs like 'So Young' they're playing that and I think 'Right, I've got a contribution to make,' but if not, I can just relax for a bit. There's a real strength in silence. It's got presence. Once you're confident about how the music's coming across you can pretty much do anything." The following night, in an X Files-wash of purple stage light there can be seen the bobbing glow of Mat Osman's fag tip at the back. As white light breaks through and Simon Gilbert starts up a roisterous glam drum intro, enter Neil Codling, taking time out to light up a tab as he strolls acrossstage. He sits down just in time to hit his |
first
keyboard cue and hear a manic Barbie-waisted Brett Anderson belt out the start of the
sneering, arrogant 'Filmstar' - complete with that etirely apposite line, "Elegant
sir / In a terylene shirt / It looks so easy." By the time of 'She', the band outlined in banks of red light, Brett has, once again, slammed his mic stand into the stage and is whirling the microphone around his head in an enormous arc that barely misses the heads of Oakes, Osman and Codling. In their neo-beatnik costumes of black shirts, black hipsters and black leather jackets, the image is one of not-quite-right rebellion, a pill-popping ad copywriter's notion of mid-'60s New York Cool. Only Richard Oakes, pristine in blue denim, playing the guitar almost apologetically as if it were a nervous twitch, looks in any way out of place. Last night, in Liverpool, Oakes was like an afterhought, |
as
if someone had brought him in at the last minute to replace the stingy black-clad
guitarist who'd croaked the previous night.. Tonight, however, Suede are faultless. There's a bit of unnecessary lighter action during the unearthly lament of 'By The Sea' but thankfully, 'Animal Nitrate' is up next and such a Bic-related nonsense is ditched in favour of proper rock-pit scrummage. Similarly, Brett can't help but slip back into hisold mannerisms - holding the mic out to the audience and encouraging all to join him in an hilarious chorus of "Over twentywu-uh-urn, wu-uh-urn." The experience is only enhanced by the sight of Neil sitting for the duration of the song with legs crossed, fag in mouth, like some bored checkout girl at the end of her shift. Next up it's 'The Wild Ones' - another one that's got nothing to do with him - so Codling simply rests his |
head
on his hands and watches the rest of the band, seemingly in awe of the sepctacle in front
of him. This carries on into 'So Young' until, about halfway in, he decides to make a
contribution. Flicking his fag away, mid-smoke, in an arc of red sparks, he taps out
single plink-plink piano notes on the keyboard, notes that add a certain hilarious bathos
to the sight of a frantic Brett Anaderson, again wrapped in microphone lead, his black
shirt oily with sweat, singing "Let's chase the dragon" like a man possessed. With the whole venue now joining in on the "lalalala" refrains, show-closer 'Beautiful Ones' sounds uncannily like some off-the-rails '60s Health Authority jingle exonerating excessive drug use. Codling, only joining in on backing vocals after another leisurely drag on a fag, finishes his performance by crossing his arms, shirvering, delivering a small bow and exiting stage left, still smoking. |
"I
dunno, I guess he feels less connection with early songs..." Backstage, and Brett is
failing to convince in his attempts to rationalise Neil Codling's performance in terms of
things like musicianship. So he gives up. "You know that walk that he does from the side of the stage?" grins Brett. "He times that walk, times it so that he sits down at exactly the right time, just as he plays his first note." It's very Neil. "Everything he does is like that, very Neil. He's a professional. Neil Codling is a 24-hour job." |