I have a confession to make; a love affair has begun. Like a classic whirlwind romance, it’s all happened so quickly, I’m not sure where to start… Seven days ago I was blissfully unaware how a mid-afternoon phone call would cause such chaos. But it did and I still coming to terms with the consequences. ‘Would you like to see The Crimea at the Soundhaus next week’, asked the voice, as I had the receiver jammed between my ear and shoulder, trying to find my flaming pen and paper. ‘When they playing….yeah go on then,’ I replied. I couldn’t find my pen, but you never can in our office. ‘I’ll send you the album too so you can get a feel for them before you go.’ Conversation over, pleasantries exchange, I continued with my day, ignorant to what had just stirred into action. True to their word, day three arrived and so did a copy of Tragedy Rocks in the morning mail. I ripped open the jiffy bag, released the CD from its case and watched as it disappeared into the darkness of the player. Things began to take a turn and I really wasn’t prepared. | "I’m still only days into being enlightened to this band but already I love them" | |
I’d been told to expect ‘The Flaming Lips meets Radiohead’. Well if that’s the case, fine; but that’s way off the mark. I don’t even know where to pitch this one to you. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not ‘so original’. And it’s not 'everything you could ever want from your music' either. But I’m far from condemning it, quite the opposite. You see, I don’t have favourite bands; just like I don’t have best friends or favourite foods. Everybody adds something new, bringing their own unique qualities. The Crimea are no different. It’s clever, it’s witty, it’s personal, it’s real, it’s like something you’ve heard before but can’t quite remember where. It’s familiar. I aimed to sneak into the gig at the back, screened off from the band by the rows of adoring fans. It seems they’ve not quite reached those peaks just yet. Still it’s the punlic's loss. Those absent missed 40 minutes of aching, longing, tear-stained bitter-sweet pop. You should know by now, a quiet night in is never the best option! Front man Davey Macmanus is full of Tom Wait’s qualities. His guitar butt is tucked into his fleshy love-handles, while its neck is tossed from side to side. It’s a technique any soldier would be happy with if they were grass-cutting oncoming enemy. The belief flows from the stage. And so it should. I’m still only days into being enlightened to this band but already I love them. I’m willing them on, feeling sorry that not more are here to reward them for producing such brilliance. ‘We’re always surprised that anyone bothers to show up’ claims Davey before their final number. Well you shouldn’t be. In fact I’m quiet annoyed they weren’t queuing around the block to get in. But as the band themselves sing in White Russian Galaxy, ‘Who knows what goes on in her pretty little head’. Who knows indeed?! | 
