No one likes being pigeon holed into a bracket they feel to be inaccurate. It happens all the time, right? Comments and comparisons that hold minimal validity can often be the work of a lazy journalist or a know-nothing blog-hungry web fiend, but sometimes it’s unavoidable. People need something to cross-reference in order to conjure some sort of vision of what they’re about to hear or see, primarily because it gives them a form of expectation.
The Ladders have been subjected to this finger pointing. Observations stating a sixties revival have been carelessly spat out, confirming this retro revolution, and heck, I’ve been guilty of the same crime. You take one look at the Rod Stewart barnets, hear a couple of soulful melodies and you assume this is some form of undisclosed restoration for the pop that’s past: but believe me, it aint.
Formerly of The On Offs and a handful of other projects, Danny Connors, the driving force behind this band, is a bit of a man about town. His noteworthy swagger and excitable demeanour transcends to the people he surrounds, an infectious enthusiasm for all things musical, all things rock and roll, all things teetering on the edge of oblivion and destruction via six strings and a shoddy microphone.
Connors and co. grace the stage later than planned. Soul-pop wit-riddled three-piece New Street Adventure won some hearts early on with an honest depiction of the world through their eyes: songs of a culturally famished society inhabited by street dwelling urchins prove to be both articulately penned and melodically constructed with the beating heart of Northern Soul very much alive and within their grasp. London parka-clad mod-punk troupe, The Supernovas, changed the pace a little with a rawkus assemblage of gritty and distinctly London-eqse punk-punches, guitars flashin’ into a whirlpool of distortion and cockney tongues, with a cover of Martha Reeves ‘Heat Wave’ proving to be an unlikely victor.
When The Ladders do finally hit the stage and shuffle into ‘If You Could See’ and ‘We Can Have It’ it all becomes clearer. Yes this is Danny’s band, yes he is the captain, the pilot, the daddy et al. But it’s just as much about him as it is The Ladders themselves. As Greg’s fingers race over the keys with precision and accuracy, brilliantly hitting swooning up-tempo strides and bobbing tuneful twinkles, instruments are swapped like football stickers in a playground while Connors takes refuge in the crowd for a short time to simply sit back and admire this rock-solid backbone of a band he’s got supporting him.
Songs such as ‘Temperature’ and ‘This Is My Heart’ jump into a legacy of legitimate pop, harking back to early Who, The Small Faces and even a touch of Mayfield cadence, with Connors showmanship hitting new heights, glazed eyes, focused and in a world of his own, this is where he belongs and we all know it.
R’n’B has made strides in recent years, and unfortunately the R’n’B we’ve come to know, and hate, is characterised by over-paid and under-talented money-hungry gob-shite’s, and that’s why The Ladders are here - to claim back soul and rhythm and passion and love and everything that makes this worthwhile from the blinged-out morons who have crafted something lacklustre and turned it into an institution of derogatory monotonous drones.
This is real R’n’B, this is real rock and roll, this is real fucking soul, and The Ladders are a lifeline in British music who are soon to be snapped up and cherished for brining something back, something we all thought had departed a long time ago, something that could possibly revitalise a lost generation of rock and rollers. We owe thanks to The Ladders, and Don McClean may need to switch up a few lyrics because I’m quite certain that the music is no longer dead, it lives in Northampton.
