Miles Kane / Telegram

Miles Kane
Miles Kane

Preston 53 Degrees

With my ears still buzzing from the guitar assault of eye-catching Anglo-Welsh four-piece Telegram, it took a few songs to adapt to Miles Kane and his band.

There was no doubting the passion, on the stage and the dancefloor, but the sound was a little soupy for starters.

Whether it was down to a few tweaks or me audibly re-aligning, I’m not sure, but Miles was soon delivering that rock’n’roll sexy soul riff he’d promised.

Telegram set the bar high, a raucous six-song salvo leaving its mark, complemented by an added visual dimension – with a guitarist who could pass for Ronnie Wood’s grandson and a bassist who seemed to have stepped out of late ’60s Haight-Ashbury.

But this was a Kane crowd first and foremost, here for an express train performance from the Meols master.

Actually, I didn’t recognise him at first.

Gone was the younger Paul Weller look, his new barnet suggesting more The The-era Johnny Marr or dare I say it, Phil Daniels.

But there was no mistaking the songs, with the night time the right, from debut single Inhaler and Counting Down the Days onwards.

We were spoiled for choice for catchy riffs, each song seemingly with a cut-out-and-keep singalong, and next was Kingcrawler and the sublime Better Than That.

The band were definitely upping the stakes, Ben Parsons’ trumpet giving away First of my Kind before a call to scream and shout on the Weller co-penned You’re Gonna Get It. From there it was Telepathy and the near-anthemic Taking Over, then the Arctic Monkeys track penned in his honour, Wirral Riddler.

There was a brief chance to catch the collective breaths while the main man tried to work out where the biggest noise was coming from - left, right or centre.

It was inconclusive, of course, Miles deciding we were all ‘one big happy family, then tearing into My Fantasy, and of course it’s never too late for Tonight.

An extended Give Up incorporated the Rolling Stones’ Sympathy for the Devil, so I suppose it was quite fitting that the laddish element got carried away and a couple of punches led to Miles stopping the proceedings while calm was restored and someone’s evening was prematurely ended.

But thankfully this was no Altamont situation, the good time vibe quickly restored for a big finish, the wailing intro of the wondrous Rearrange going down a storm before Phill Anderson’s down and dirty bass signalled Come Closer as we saw Miles away.

He returned for an impassioned Marc Bolan-esque solo acoustic run through Colour of the Trap, the Kane gang back in tow to see us off in style with Don’t Forget Who You Are.

You could hear the ‘la-la-la’s all the way down Brook Street, Fylde Road and beyond.

And word has it that Miles delighted his faithful with a post-set drink across the road in the Ferret.

Malcolm Wyatt