I pretty much cosign on Eric’s thoughts on the Vaselines show. This was not the occasion to hyper-analyze music; it was simply (but not merely) a time to let about 17 very fine songs breeze through your headspace and put a Scottish-pop spring in your springtime.

As I implied in my comment to Eric’s review, the Vaselines excel just as much cracking wise as they do at crafting hummable tunes; it’s not every day you hear a 40something female musician cheekily and wittily extol the benefits of semen facials onstage. And she was just getting warmed up at that point...

Frances McKee and Eugene Kelly have aged as well as their songs, and their pickup band ran through just about everything you’d want the Vaselines to run through on a quasi-reunion tour. A few songs occasionally seemed to lag behind the recorded versions’ tempos, but there really were no major flaws with the execution. Kelly and McKee’s voices have always been flat, so they had nothing to lose in the way of vocal range. Thankfully, their melodies are so pliable and memorable, that kind of flaw doesn’t mar enjoyment of their small but adorably formed catalog of songs. The two new Vaselines numbers, while sweetly likable, weren’t as amazing as “Son of a Gun” (played first when it should’ve been played last) or “Dying for It”—but then not much else is.

One couldn’t help comparing last night’s Vaselines gig with My Bloody Valentine’s April 27 performance at WaMu Theater: Two well-preserved UK groups coming back about 20 years after their peak, with something to prove to large crowds, most of whose members missed them during their heyday. But as fun and funny as the Vaselines were last night, this gig was but a pinprick compared to My Bloody Valentine’s nuclear bomb. Sorry to beat a deceased equine, but I’m afraid MBV have set the bar so damned high that nearly every other show I see for a long while henceforth will be tinged with this sort of disappointment.