POP MUSIC REVIEW : Red Lorry Yellow Lorry a Cut Above the Brood

Red Lorry Yellow Lorry has no truck with levity.

Still, the British band’s show Wednesday night at the Coach House was a cut above much of what has come out of the sorrow-and-gloom school of post-punk Anglo rock.

When broody Brit bands like the Mission U.K. come over and start putting on an angst- ridden act, the first reaction is to wish they’d quit the posing, buy some Chuck Berry records and learn to lighten up. It was harder to dismiss the lead Lorry, Chris Reed.

At his best, Reed fairly seethed with existential anger. Most rock singers tend to scream when trying to express extreme displeasure with the state of things. Reed’s rage took a shape that it so often takes in real life--a voice that gets extremely deep as it labors for self-control, only to betray itself by breaking into a low snarl.

Richard Thompson is a master of that not-quite-controlled burn. But where Thompson’s songs always communicate a well-drawn sense of character and situation that makes it clear just why his voice is glowering, the Lorrys’ material is sketchy and vague. Any bore can make general statements about how miserable and futile life is. The interest lies in the particulars (as long as we’ve dragged Thompson into this, it’s only fair to point out that no sooner will he finish one of his angry dirges than he’ll be off and rollicking with a gleeful tune).

The Lorrys’ 55-minute set did include a few numbers intended to introduce a degree of optimism. “The Rise” had an assured rhythmic surge and lyrics in praise of individualism and independence, and the slow and stately “Shine A Light” offered a prayerful melodic reach in its refrain. But Reed’s voice always remained low and clenched, precluding any convincing sense of uplift.

Velocity, rather than emotional tone, was the main source of variation in a monolithic set. Early on, the Lorrys tended to move slowly, playing numbers like “Big Stick,” basically a half-speed take on the Velvet Underground classic, “White Light, White Heat.” Acceleration was the rule later, and the set took on some welcome drive toward the end with “Monkeys On Juice” and “Shout At The Sky.”

Sonically, the Lorrys were most interesting when Reed’s distorted guitar haze served as a backdrop for splashes of Velvets/Jesus and Mary Chain feedback coloration from the new lead guitarist, Martin Scott (Scott got to ease into his new job, sitting out the first 20 minutes of the show while the Lorrys rolled as a trio). Drummer Chill and bassist Gary Weight, another newcomer to the band, provided the rumbling, marching rhythms that are the hallmark of darkling British post-punk.

With his face long and gaunt, jaw jutting, eyes narrowed, and a thin, ungiving line for a mouth, Reed had the look to convey intense bitterness and make it seem sincerely felt (with only 100 or so listeners in the house for the first official date of the Lorrys’ U.S. tour after a single East Coast warm-up gig, Reed may have had extra reason for feeling low). He cut a grim, taciturn figure that Max Von Sydow could have played. At any minute, one felt, a figure of Death would walk on stage and set up a chessboard, and they’d re-enact a few scenes from “The Seventh Seal.”

At least that would have showed some imagination in staging. Instead, the Lorrys went with the all-too-typical billows of smoke and occasional use of annoying, flashing headlights. The whole advantage of a club show is that the audience gets a close, human-scale look at musicians as they perform. The only conceivable purpose in putting up a curtain of smoke and an assault of blinding lights is to let the performer hide in an ego-pleasing fantasy: No, we’re not really playing a small place. We’re playing Madison Square Garden, or the Hollywood Bowl. Reed’s intensity would have allowed him to stand up to scrutiny without fog and dazing lights.

Kevin Utsler, singer for local openers Black Daphne, played a different stock role from the Anglo post-punk script: the melancholy man of feeling with the tremulously theatrical voice. He wasn’t very convincing, nor was he helped by vocal melodies that rose and fell with predictable sameness. The five-man band saved its show with crisp playing, mostly in mid-tempo songs that emphasized delicate, rippling dynamics while maintaining a sense of coursing motion.

Black Daphne’s recent addition of a percussionist to complement drummer Keith Utsler lent suppleness and shimmer to its sound. Lead guitarist Martin Beal’s economical playing was a consistent highlight, full of melody and appealing shifts in texture. Black Daphne has come a long way from the shapeless guitar rock it was playing about two years ago. The next step is for Utsler to forget the tepid Morrissey act and try to find his own voice.