THE BEES are the exception that proves not only the “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” maxim, but also the “too many cooks. . .” adage. The band’s creative core of Paul Butler and Aaron Fletcher recorded the debut album Sunshine Hit Me as a duo, and even though it made the shortlist for the 2002 Mercury Music Prize, they elected to expand the group into a sextet for this year’s follow-up Free the Bees. As well as being a significant improvement on its predecessor, the album was more focused too — all the more remarkable given the increase in input.

It was rather less thrilling to discover that the Bees also flouted accepted wisdom when it comes to bands responsible for great albums also putting on great gigs. That they drew heavily on their second album for the bulk of their set was no surprise, but their largely lethargic and lacklustre showing, however, was. The band boast an agreeable sound that’s unrepentantly retro, but their performance was sadly far from fresh as well.

On record, songs such as Wash in the Rain and One Glass of Water are sparkling, near-perfect approximations of psychedelic pop that sound as if they were beamed straight into the studio from one of the famous festivals held on Butler and Fletcher’s native Isle of Wight during the first summer of love. Live, they were disappointingly laboured and lacklustre, and not helped any by the band’s lack of charisma or chemistry.

Pacing proved particularly problematic. The almost horizontally laid-back opener Punchbag set a torpid tone from which the set never really recovered. More up-tempo knee-tremblers such as Horsemen and, in this context at least, the somewhat aptly named No Atmosphere were watered down with the wearisome wah-wah workout of Angryman and an interminable I Love You, a syrupy, soporific song that gave the copious couples in the crowd an opportunity to slow dance while simultaneously murdering the set’s momentum.

Perversely, it was only at the end that the Bees came alive. The climactic crescendo of These are the Ghosts provided a much-needed frisson of excitement, while the enthusiastic encore of Chicken Payback had the crowd both squawking like demented cockerels and squealing like delighted children.

Sadly it was too little too late, and merely served to confirm the notion that while the Bees may have long players licked, they’ve still got plenty to learn about playing live.

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