How many times have you said great gig, shame about the venue? Those times when you go to see a band and stare at a digital face on a large screen. Its rare that you get to see the band, ‘before they were famous’, and those times are extra-special, not just for their rarebility but for their quality.

So you may have guessed, I’m a small venue kinda gal. Wembley arena sized gigs just don’t do it for me. I just crave the intimacy of a small venue, to see the face of the person who is singing in the flesh, to watch the sweat dribble from the drummer’s forehead, and hear the band’s sound reverberated from moist walls. So to be watching ‘The Veils’ at the 100 club, a club that has been around for over half its title in years, a club that has gone through over 100 genres of music during that time, a club where the top 100 bands like ‘The Clash’ and ‘The Sex Pistols’ performed before anywhere else, was intimacy of a fine vintage.

I’d seen The Veils for the first time at BarFly in Camden. Their supporting act, comprising of a girl screaming at a toy doll, proved strange for a second, then quickly moved over to very annoying and seemed to taint The Veils’ performance. This time, The Veils had picked a fellow Wellington, NZ band for the supporting act who sounded a cross between Ray Charles and The Beach Boys played at the wrong speed. The main singer was a blond haired boy who looked like he had just hit puberty and, thanks to a distorted mike, had a voice to enforce this. The double bass player was brilliant, with his taped up bass, long curly hair and grinning finger plucking. I really liked them.

the veils

The Veils themselves would probably, when standing side by side, take up the same room as an average american. The are extremely skinny. The lead singer has got the funeral omish look going on, with his black hat with large ironed brim and white shirt. He is perfectly complimented by his girlfriend/bass-player’s shy, hiding behind black hair, mysterious allure that reminds me of the girl from The Incredibles.

Their sound sometimes took on the voice of The Cure’s Robert Smith, broken, surprisingly, by a kiwi accent between songs. It may have been the venue, but The Veils were much better this time around. They seemed more comfortable with the audience and more at home in the dingy basement of the 100 times better club.