The Clockworks experience didn’t begin on stage. It began outside with a lit cigarette and two men in Adidas Gazelles. They pushed through the heavy Tut’s doors and began chatting beside me. “Are you here to see The Clockworks?” I asked, a little bolder, brasher and dare I say, braver, than usual. I was half-hoping I could use my whole “The Clockworks? I sure hope it does,” patter on these unassuming middle-aged men and rally a good laugh.
Their demeanour changed when I told the pair I hadn’t listened to them. They turned away from their cigarettes to look at the blonde alien in Doc Martens. It was the equivalent of saying you’ve never heard of Stanley Kubrick in a gaff in the West End.
“They’re like The Smiths,” one said looking over thin-framed glasses. “Naw they’re no,” his pal retorted with a palpable annoyance. They told me I should’ve done my homework on them. It was’t the first time I’d been scolded for not doing my homework, but at least this time, I had a good excuse.
I didn’t want to be swayed by what they sounded like in a studio. I wanted the nitty gritty. I wanted the great gig in the sky. I wanted to feast my ears on the unknown. The same sort of thrill you get from setting foot off the plane in a new country or the anticipation of trying a new food for the first time. I didn’t just want to listen to The Clockworks; I wanted to experience them.
I tried to find my place in an already-packed King Tut’s crowd with a sea of shoulders that towered over a 5ft me. I could sense their presence. That’s when I knew they were a good band. Because a strong crowd can place them on a stage before they arrive.
The lights dimmed and the ever-so-slightly delayed chime of piano echoed through a very still room. This was not the jangle-pop quartet that had been promised to me outside. Frontman, James McGregor, struck more than just sad chords on a piano, but a heart-wrenching chord with the crowd. From a few lip syncs from the couple next to me, to a hair-raising chorus from every row — The Clockworks spread sentiment like marmalade on toast. Not your usual, but tasty nonetheless.
Now, I was initially nervous with the entry on stage. I’ve never been one for slow and melodic to kickstart a gig. It’s like getting three lines into a book and if it doesn’t hook me by the first few lines, you’ve lost me. But The Clockworks held my curiosity. What started with a ‘where are they going with this?’ turned to a ‘now you’re making it make sense’ when I heard the drumbeat of “Car Song”. What appeared polished and clean-cut had gotten a little tousled and back-combed, and by the chorus, I wasn’t just curious — I was gripped. For a moment, I had them painted as circles and was searching for an edge. Then there it was.
A left and a right. A left and a right. A left and a right, we all sang. Where, only a few songs earlier, I held embarrassment for not knowing their lyrics as a whole room belted them, I suddenly realised that their lyrics aren’t just hooks, they’re anchors. And, you could say… I’d been caught. This wasn’t a band that I had to do my homework for. I didn’t have to stay up late studying for the test. I could show up, come as I am and still feel like I was in unity. Not just a come as you are, but a come together. I wasn’t just a blonde alien in Doc Martens. I had played my part, and it was in The Clockworks experience.