Fly by Night, Fremantle. 1st March 2007

"Every gig has its ghosts." Its probably just a sly aside from Joey Burns, leading light of Calexico, about the unexplained blips of distortion randomly surfacing; or maybe some subterfuge for the unorthodox mojo his band are channeling. Every Calexico gig you feel, is unique to the events and settings around it; the paranormal not discounted. The Fly-By-Night is only a few doors down from the abandoned prison. Who knows what scores remain unsettled there?

They've made the venue's theirs by placing ponchos on the monitors, naturally, they're from Tuscon, Arizona - hot, dry and nowhere - we can relate; sympaticos. It's a land beautifully evoked in their delirious mix West Coast / Country / and Latin influences. A tense, fairly minimal opening crawls into being. Greg Chappel, Calexico's slide guitarist looks deathly serious, math teacher-esque, as if he's marking homework. JB whispers like Little Johnny Jewel slipping beneath the airport fence, with a chest full of lights, dreaming of the distant rush, the roar. It's an entrancingly built set. Rather than release a new album, tear down the setlist and start over again for the subsequent tour, it feels like they've painstakingly refined the same basic construction over time. This creature has been evolving for more than ten years now and there are many moments of pure cinema for the ears, as with this subtle development and chemistry the whole experience feels almost like a night at the movies. Tonight's gig was initially to be played outdoors, which would have been delicious, but was switched to unpredictable weather; although the fantastic ideal setting might have been somewhere under the cruel sunlight of the Nulaboor plain, possibly with The Man With No Name on vocals "Black Heart........ White Hunter......... Whatcha lookin at".

We're blessed with the epic heat of Quatro. Despite six band members actively contributing, the sound never becomes swamped. The man on the mixing desk must be genius. The sense of space is everthere. There effortless sense of motion, like a train moving across the barren country-side, or a breeze. Not Even Stevie Nicks, one of life's most pitifully heroic odes to driving off a cliff and, for once, how music doesn't save the day, is flung and wired with heavy multiple guitars and a heady climax. Its a transformation, from a phantom wind to the sound of the roof falling in, which is blissfully followed by Love's dark achievement Alone Again Or.

An eruption of close harmony trumpet sparks the arrival of Corona. Why don't more bands have close harmony trumpet? How many bands are that talented? The main set peaks with the mass tango smash of Crystal Frontier, the steady downward 'domph' of the double bass in 4/4 time becoming the perfect dancefloor for the people. I've spent more time properly dancing, or at least some veritable approximation of dancing rather nodding or full on moshing, at here than any other gig in recent memory. Why don't more bands have double bass players? Elements of the Specials' Ghost Town are gently woven in as only a band stranded on the Mexican border with a brass section can. All that's missing is a hot Latin lover to ballroom dance with, her skirt licking the air around her. Instead all I can do is trace jealous steps around my empty glass. Greg Chappel gets to his feet and actually smiles.

There's something intensely memorable about Calexico. The first time I ever heard them was on the early afternoon Mark and Lard show BBC Radio 1 returning home from Plymouth on reasonably clear December day that was absolutely unremarkable in every way - except that I can still hear clearly the climax of Crystal Frontier as I negotiated the final non-descript roundabout before Catchfrench. It's a unique territory they're navigating, a land under an unrepentant sun that's every bit as stupefying as any of life's other mysteries.

Transcribed by Christopher H James