Mystery Jets sparkle, but it’s not quite the songs

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mysteryjets

London’s Mystery Jets are the kind of band that leave you talking about what they were wearing rather than what they were playing. Not that they were bad on Wednesday at Club NME at Spaceland – after all, most any second-tier band from the U.K. can come across the pond and rock the socks off an American counterpart. It’s just that on this night their shirts out-twinkled even the notoriously garish back curtain at the Silver Lake club.

The quartet’s bejeweled chemises matched their sparkling harmonies, and they were tight as anyone in the modest-at-best crowd (no doubt thinned by the $17 ticket price) could want. But the set, culled from two albums on the British indie label 679 (they had a U.S. release in 2007 on Dim Mak that folks were excited about for five minutes), lacked the wallop that would make true believers out of anybody who didn’t already know the lyrics.

On their visit to L.A. back in the fall of 2007, Mystery Jets seemed looser and almost dangerous, even with singer Blaine Harrison’s father in the band. The elder Harrison no longer plays in the live ensemble, but perhaps they could have used a little fiftysomething influence on Wednesday. Wearing their hearts on their sequined sleeves, Mystery Jets, vaguely recalling the likes of XTC, Suede and James, went on and on and on about girls and girls and girls. Effective for the date-nighters up front, anyway.

The band was just signed to Rough Trade in the U.K., and label founder Geoff Travis was quoted as saying his new charges are “the best British group since the Libertines.” Maybe on that third album.

Openers the Low Flying Owls, recently re-formed, played a raucous set full of good-natured swagger, even if their blaring approach did no favors to the dynamics of their old songs or their new. Hang on to those leather jackets, though.