This is an odd one. The Constantines, a yardstick band in Canada—i.e. a band that is used mainly as a comparison like Arcade Fire—is holed up tonight in London, sweating through the walls of a venue they outgrew nearly five years ago. But here we are at the Wilmington Arms, a steaming back room in central London with eighty others in eyesight of Canada’s venerable indie heroes, or to the few expats in here, ‘that’ band to be exact.

To Canadian rock fans, The Constantines share the stature of Broken Social Scene or The New Pornographers. Their albums are genre defying, especially 2005’s Tournament of Hearts. That one alone prompted a whole slew of bearded, flannel-clad men to start bands that sound like them. I for one am guilty of this, and I’m only one of many. But all is not well with the band. Their new album, Kensington Heights, has received lukewarm support over here and as a result, overseas The Constantines have yet to jump over that hump from bars to concert halls, acclaim to sales. So to some, this is just another indie gig by a band working seeking to accelerate their career and build their fanbase. For me, it’s a wildly exhilarating treat.
 
But I’m late, stepping inside as the second song is being worked through and the venue, well, it is rammed. Getting a beer is an ordeal. We find ourselves perched at the back, and vocalist/guitarist Bryan Webb’s head is the only visible element. But it’s loud, very loud, and The Constantines embrace the raucous intimacy from the onset. Their angular guitar work fits the space and sounds rejuvenated by the anachronistic surroundings. It’s tight sure, but the steam seeping off people smacking their hands on the ceiling fuels the fire. This is special, very special. I’m seeing the Constantines with only a handful of others.
 
As to be expected, much of the set freeze frames through Kensington Heights, including “Hard Feelings” and the autobiographical “Trans Canada”. Yet, it is not the songs that are important; it is the intensity of each stanza. They play with a rapturous zeal to the point that it is nearly overpowering, making us lean on the back wall for support. The boys know that, outside of England, they have surpassed these rooms, but returning to one is not disheartening – it’s refreshing. “I Will Not Sing a Hateful Song” is not only verbally uplifting, it is brash and pugnacious, drowning the room in enough reverb to spill my beer. It’s welcome. Everyone is soaked in sweat.
 
As always, the familiar songs engender the greatest response. From the onset a smattering of Canadian expats at the front clamored for the salacity of Tournament of Hearts. And it came. After stating they are retiring it for the definite future, they roll through “Working Full Time” before hardening the blow once more with the even older and distorted “Nighttime/Anytime”. The walls shriek, bruised by the reverb coiled through this, knowing full well they are constraining something much bigger, fuller, and intense. But it is all pure jubilance, as Webb and company react profoundly to the room, ending it all with a dirty cover of the Rolling Stones’ “Street Fighting Man”. The distortion is pummeling, as if the band is performing within a conk shell, but at the same time it is utterly entrancing. It’s tough to look away, even though all we can see is Webb’s head. The sound is screaming out each note, daring us to stare.
 
Unfortunately, it is all over too soon, and after an hour we are back in the bar, reeling in what we just saw. I expect The Constantines may never again play a smaller room. And if they do, they probably will never play it so well.