Redcarsgofaster are a sextet from Leicestershire. They play the kind of music you can dance too first, and then think about later, a non-too-common combination in the current musical climate. They are on the small indie-label High Voltage and are yet to receive the critical acclaim they deserve. Their lead-singer is called James Summers, and I caught up with him for a small chat about philosophy, the current ‘9-til-5’ lyrical trend and earplugs…
Hello James, I’m Tom from Maps Magazine. First things first, bland is bland etc; how did you all meet and what made you form a band?
I’ve known Andy (guitarist) since I was five. The rest of us all met at college in Leicester. We formed in 2003 and to be honest it just began as something to do and we didn’t take it very seriously. The first time we realised we might be any good was after winning a Battle Of the Bands competition. There were only really two other bands in the comp that were decent but it was amazing to win and it meant we got our arses in gear and made a demo in 2005. We sent that off to High Voltage and they featured it in an early compilation. We’ve been with them ever since.
Give a brief run-down of how your songs are generally born. Are there any trends to the bands creative process?
Andy, Dave (guitar) and Matt (guitar) tend to lie at the origin. They come up with a riff or an idea and it develops from there. I step in later on to add the lyrics.
Your lyrics have a philosophical edge. In the song ‘Micro’ you declare “I’ve read books on the power of the will, I know accounts of human behaviour, but I can’t read you.” I read on Myspace, I think, that you did a Philosophy degree. This is of great interest to me as I did too. To what extent does what philosophy has taught you influence how you write?
Massively. A lot of bands these days don’t really write very interesting lyrics and just retread the same old shit. I like to try and write about things I know about and am interested in. I hate inane lyrics. My favourite lyricists are people like Nick Cave and Thom Yorke. They have the ability to take everyday phrases and make them terrifying. I really don’t like by-the-by everyday observations, the whole ‘9-til-5’ thing, it’s boring. I like lyricists that take their levels of thought one step further, and I like to try and do that.
What other bands made you want to be in your own group?
Radiohead, Super Furry Animals, At The Drive-In and Idlewlid.
Are you comparable to Cedric from ATD-I? That’d be ace.
Well, I’m not as limber as him and I can’t do back-flips and shit but I try and put as much energy in as him. I really put most of my energy into playing live, it’s what it’s all about.
Which philosophers have influenced you the most?
I really love Immanuel Kant and Bertrand Russell.
Okay, interesting. Now both of those are very analytic thinkers, which fits with how I interpreted ‘Micro’. To me, you are saying that no matter how many theories or philosophies you study, you cannot rationalise love and matters of the heart.
I suppose you could interpret it like that. I don’t think I was being that specific. At university though, Kant actually blew my mind. He changed the way I looked at everything. I think when you read a book that makes you change the way you think, that is the ultimate, you can’t possibly achieve anything else. Like I was saying, ‘9-til-5’ lyrics will never do this. Music should be about escapism, or at least thinking about the bigger picture, outside of the box. I can’t be arsed to write lyrics like, “I bought some chips, they were shit, I’ve wasted a quid, what the hell am I gonna do now” etc.
So where are you all based, and is it difficult to get together and play?
It is difficult yes. Three of us live in Leicester, and the rest are spread out over Sheffield and London. At the time of speaking we haven’t practised in over a month. It gets to me, but juggling jobs, uni and a band is quite difficult. We a load of gigs over the summer (2006), so we needed a break to get some money in and start afresh in the New Year. We’ll hopefully be making a 7 track mini-album around April or May next year.
Does the band make money?
We pretty much break even every gig but that’s about it. It’s tough.
Does Leicestershire have a good scene? I’m pretty ignorant about it. Or does it begin and end with Kasabian?!
It’s better than it was. Obviously it’s nothing like London or Manchester. Gig going is not exactly a high priority for your average resident.
What new music do you like then? Who have you played with that wet your whistle?
I adore Forward Russia and I really love Kubichek. There are two bands called Shut Your Eyes And You’ll Burst Into Flames, and Rotary Ten who really deserve a lot more attention than they get. To be honest, I really don’t like a lot of new music. Bright Eyes and Sufjan Stephens. They’re good.
Last Wednesday I went to see Richard Hawley at Shepherds Bush, just as a punter, and it was absolute quality, a really good gig. I don’t get to a lot of gigs though. When you’re in a band and you spend ages gigging, you sort of relish the break. Plus I think I’m going a bit deaf.
Really?! Nightmare. Do you wear earplugs?
Yeh. When I go to gigs I do sometimes, not when I’m playing though, you lose too much of what’s going on around you. Supposedly, for like £150, you can get properly good earplugs that don’t take out frequencies and just reduce the volume. Most earplugs reduce frequency and volume though, so you can hear fuck all.
Okay, so it’s nearing the years end, and it’s list time. What’s your album of the year?
I have three. The Eraser by Thom Yorke; Breaking And Entering OST by Underworld and News And Tributes by The Futureheads. That Futureheads album is very underrated. It’s a travesty that they’ve been dropped.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Live Review. Future Of the Left - London Luminire - December 1st.
Future Of The Left have fine lineage. Three parts from two deceased bands they are: two ex-Mclusky -Jack Egglestone (drums) and Andy Falkous (guitar, vocals); and one ex-Jarcrew - Kelson Louis Tregurtha Mathias (bass, vocals). Both were Welsh bands, both heavy, both commercially pretty darn unsuccessful - and both superb. This is also the second spin-off since Mclusky’s demise after John Chapple’s creation of Shooting At Unarmed Men – another fine musical output. Talent throughout – hurrah!
Angry, punk-rock is clearly very much alive and kicking in Britain. Falkous is a ferocious little fella. Quite small he is, still with his massive side-burns but with newly grown hair and freshly slimmed body. He berates, mocks and taunts the crowd something rotten, any slightly throw-away comment made by an audience member is ripped to shreds, as if ‘twere a cultured stand-up comic on the stage
He’s an obnoxious little bastard though. Genuinely funny for sure, but he loves to piss people off. “This one’s for that cunt who got poisoned and won’t get out of the news.” Below the belt? Definitely. But the bands he fronts would be nothing if he wasn’t fully charged with un-necessary belligerence. He’s like Kelly Jones for arseholes. Someone’s gotta do it.
Mathias too is a fine frontman in his own right, restricted somewhat though he is by the addition of a bass guitar to his person, his yelping and sharing of vocals with Falko is perennially effective. Their combined guitars, of course, ooze ‘fuck you’ disdain and their sound is visceral, powerful and rude. They echo, naturally, Fugazi, Shellac and Pixies. Far from being imitators though, their lyrical content ploughs the same simultaneously-ferocious-and-amusing furrows as Mclusky, and provide their tower of originality.
The way Falkous’s neck veins look like they’re about to burst as he screams his verging-on-the-inane blurbs is quite the testament to the fact that what he’s singing really gets on his nerves. “Take her to the Body Shop” he screams incessantly in an early tune, “violence solves everything,” he continues on another. Mocking? Literal? Think for ourselves is perhaps a more suitable adage.
There is, in my ears, more Mclusky than Jarcrew evident in this amalgamation of talent. Mathias’s bass reminisces somewhat with the old times but there is none of the playful electro or spazz-influences that the ‘Crew boasted; instead Falkous’ character and fondness for balls-out rock dominates proceedings. This is no quibble but a worthy observation. As is this: these lot are one of the finest, funniest, interesting rock outfits around right now – pennies at the ready for the album y’all…
Angry, punk-rock is clearly very much alive and kicking in Britain. Falkous is a ferocious little fella. Quite small he is, still with his massive side-burns but with newly grown hair and freshly slimmed body. He berates, mocks and taunts the crowd something rotten, any slightly throw-away comment made by an audience member is ripped to shreds, as if ‘twere a cultured stand-up comic on the stage
He’s an obnoxious little bastard though. Genuinely funny for sure, but he loves to piss people off. “This one’s for that cunt who got poisoned and won’t get out of the news.” Below the belt? Definitely. But the bands he fronts would be nothing if he wasn’t fully charged with un-necessary belligerence. He’s like Kelly Jones for arseholes. Someone’s gotta do it.
Mathias too is a fine frontman in his own right, restricted somewhat though he is by the addition of a bass guitar to his person, his yelping and sharing of vocals with Falko is perennially effective. Their combined guitars, of course, ooze ‘fuck you’ disdain and their sound is visceral, powerful and rude. They echo, naturally, Fugazi, Shellac and Pixies. Far from being imitators though, their lyrical content ploughs the same simultaneously-ferocious-and-amusing furrows as Mclusky, and provide their tower of originality.
The way Falkous’s neck veins look like they’re about to burst as he screams his verging-on-the-inane blurbs is quite the testament to the fact that what he’s singing really gets on his nerves. “Take her to the Body Shop” he screams incessantly in an early tune, “violence solves everything,” he continues on another. Mocking? Literal? Think for ourselves is perhaps a more suitable adage.
There is, in my ears, more Mclusky than Jarcrew evident in this amalgamation of talent. Mathias’s bass reminisces somewhat with the old times but there is none of the playful electro or spazz-influences that the ‘Crew boasted; instead Falkous’ character and fondness for balls-out rock dominates proceedings. This is no quibble but a worthy observation. As is this: these lot are one of the finest, funniest, interesting rock outfits around right now – pennies at the ready for the album y’all…
Live Review. I Was A Cub Scout - 93 Feet East - 28th November
People are getting better at things at younger ages these days. You have your Theo Walcott’s and Wayne Rooney’s; your David Cameron’s; your Andrew Murray’s and even your Huw Edwards’. All of whom boast a reasonable amount of power in their fields at a relatively young age compared to contemporary standards. It always used to be like this though – think Napoleon – but things tailed off with education and experience replacing inate skills. The absurdity.
The slight turn-around makes sense though. Natural talent combined with increasingly terrifyingly powerful science and technology will soon mean it is children, rather than adults dominating all spheres of the world. Maybe.
Anyway, new-ish duo I Was A Cub Scout, as with the apparently-good-but-possibly-just-novelty Tiny Masters Of Today and the excellent Be Your Own Pet (among others, obviously, but ya know, time/space etc) continue the trend of people being better at things younger. Of course, to bang on about their ludicrous youth is crude and even patronising, but it’s interesting nonetheless no? No? Fine. The music then…
Electro-y, emo-y, disco-pop-y darkness is the main agenda. Dark Saddle Creek moments are an obvious reference point. The most interesting thing about them though was the quality and use of the drummer (whose name I cannot find anywhere). Awesome he was, considering how young… Haha, a joke, of course, but he is bloody good. If it wasn’t for him I hazard daringly that the Scout would be rather dull.
That’s a stupid thing to say probably, because they do have him and he fills all the gaps superbly and acts as a alternative focal point for the band. Someone or something exceptional is required in any half decent rock-duo I tend to find. Jack White is a master of the art and the Lightning Bolt percussion defies belief.
Neither of these heights are scaled, yet, but they have potential and exhuberance galore. Todd, the lead singer, is an energetic ball of hair and self-taught dance moves who yelps into his mic atop his synthetic beats or guitar repetitions and seems to love the whole experience. Their youth as a band, rather than as people, plus their obvious talent would seem to be their main advantages. I Was A Cub Scout are thus very worthy indeed of a ‘watch this space’ tag.
The slight turn-around makes sense though. Natural talent combined with increasingly terrifyingly powerful science and technology will soon mean it is children, rather than adults dominating all spheres of the world. Maybe.
Anyway, new-ish duo I Was A Cub Scout, as with the apparently-good-but-possibly-just-novelty Tiny Masters Of Today and the excellent Be Your Own Pet (among others, obviously, but ya know, time/space etc) continue the trend of people being better at things younger. Of course, to bang on about their ludicrous youth is crude and even patronising, but it’s interesting nonetheless no? No? Fine. The music then…
Electro-y, emo-y, disco-pop-y darkness is the main agenda. Dark Saddle Creek moments are an obvious reference point. The most interesting thing about them though was the quality and use of the drummer (whose name I cannot find anywhere). Awesome he was, considering how young… Haha, a joke, of course, but he is bloody good. If it wasn’t for him I hazard daringly that the Scout would be rather dull.
That’s a stupid thing to say probably, because they do have him and he fills all the gaps superbly and acts as a alternative focal point for the band. Someone or something exceptional is required in any half decent rock-duo I tend to find. Jack White is a master of the art and the Lightning Bolt percussion defies belief.
Neither of these heights are scaled, yet, but they have potential and exhuberance galore. Todd, the lead singer, is an energetic ball of hair and self-taught dance moves who yelps into his mic atop his synthetic beats or guitar repetitions and seems to love the whole experience. Their youth as a band, rather than as people, plus their obvious talent would seem to be their main advantages. I Was A Cub Scout are thus very worthy indeed of a ‘watch this space’ tag.
Live Review. Good Shoes - Kings College London - 27th November
Good Shoes appear to be adored already. They’ve gone from playing small Barfly shows earlier this year, to Kings College Students Union with no album (out next year apparently) but a loyal fanbase. The Myspace phenomenon? A sign of their quality? The power of the NME? Ceratinly the crowd tonight knew a lot of the words to most of the songs, which probably means they’re doing something right.
They look good and young too. Remember when Oasis first started out, and Liam wore stupid anoraks and Noel looked like the council estate kid who got bullied? Wicked. But then they went and got all famous and subsequently all nice and trendy. Bands look cool when they look like shit. That’s why people who dress like bands look like wankers. Good Shoes are all ripped jeans, high-topped Nikes, ill-fitting t-shirts, detached hoods on heads - and they look ace. Shabby as hell.
They sound good too. Testament to the venue no doubt and a certain professionalism from the band – to the extent that lead singer Rhys Jones meekly suggested that stage-divers stage-dive either side of his microphone so as not to upset the sound. That’s correct, there were stage divers. I ain’t seen that shit since Nirvana. Good shoes, of course, sound nothing like Oasis or Nirvana, but like Gang Of Four, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah and The Libertines.
The guitars (Steve Leach) are all sketchy scrambled and urgent, the bass (Joel Cox) a perennial pounding, the drumming (Tom Jones) is fast, frantic punky, and the vocals have an impressive, shouty Mark E Smith quality to them complete with in-decipherable lyrics. A lot of bands are indulging in this new-wave post-punk shenanigans, and some do it much better than others. These chaps do it well, and they know it. That’s why they look like shit see, no need to be hyper-trendy yet, still got the tunes to get them through. That can all wait until they’ve sold their first coupla’ hundred thousand records.
They look good and young too. Remember when Oasis first started out, and Liam wore stupid anoraks and Noel looked like the council estate kid who got bullied? Wicked. But then they went and got all famous and subsequently all nice and trendy. Bands look cool when they look like shit. That’s why people who dress like bands look like wankers. Good Shoes are all ripped jeans, high-topped Nikes, ill-fitting t-shirts, detached hoods on heads - and they look ace. Shabby as hell.
They sound good too. Testament to the venue no doubt and a certain professionalism from the band – to the extent that lead singer Rhys Jones meekly suggested that stage-divers stage-dive either side of his microphone so as not to upset the sound. That’s correct, there were stage divers. I ain’t seen that shit since Nirvana. Good shoes, of course, sound nothing like Oasis or Nirvana, but like Gang Of Four, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah and The Libertines.
The guitars (Steve Leach) are all sketchy scrambled and urgent, the bass (Joel Cox) a perennial pounding, the drumming (Tom Jones) is fast, frantic punky, and the vocals have an impressive, shouty Mark E Smith quality to them complete with in-decipherable lyrics. A lot of bands are indulging in this new-wave post-punk shenanigans, and some do it much better than others. These chaps do it well, and they know it. That’s why they look like shit see, no need to be hyper-trendy yet, still got the tunes to get them through. That can all wait until they’ve sold their first coupla’ hundred thousand records.
Some Short Reviews. Rose Kemp - A Handful Of Hurricanes (Album) ...and... Grace/Boy Kill Boy/365/The Little Ones/Ripchord/Jeremy Warmsley (Singles)
Album:
Rose Kemp - A Handful Of Hurricanes
Would you care for a treacle-voiced British torturess intermittently forging monstrously powerful walls of sound reminiscent of The Smashing Pumpkins or Scout Niblett complete with some bona fide faux-Albini produced Shellac/Todd Trainer drumming sounds, whilst crooning about fear and violence? Yes please sir.
Singles:
Grace – Stand Still
Stand Still by Grace has nice, excitable rolling drums and uppity bass for starters, that almost get it to ‘good song’ level, before John-Paul Jones sings his bizarre words of patronising encouragement, aimed presumably at a less than thoughtful teenage crowd… “Touching tables made of wood, in a way that makes you perfect/Why try something twice, waste your precious time/If you stand still long enough, the world will come to you.” Quite.
Boy Kill Boy – Shoot Me Down
The problem with singles is: they’re too damn short, there’s too damn many, and not enough of them are any good. It’s enough to make you ponder with yourself that Shoot Me Down by Boy Kill Boy might be worth some of your pennies. Dreary balladry, it would seem, is the next step for these hyper-contrived, definitely-not-self-styled pretties - an attempt to cover all the potential bases of indie-rock perhaps; one that will go largely unnoticed, hopefully.
365 – One Touch
It’s not all indie music round here though you know; sometimes we like some brass backed beats with lyrics about instantaneous love/misogyny/casual sex, from new boybands like 365. One Touch (November 13th - Innocent Records) it’s called, and it’s less appealing than an evening jamming with Michael Jackson (2006, not 1986) and The Backstreet Boys at one of the ‘other’ members of *NSYNC’s house – which coincidentally is probably what these dudes wish they were doing.
The Little Ones – Lovers Who Uncover
The Little Ones Lovers Who Uncover sounds like Mercury Rev would probably sound if they went to hang out in some happy-clappy Hawaiian funk bar with a coupla’ post-rock guitarists. That scenario would probably be less weird than it sounds, but a whole load of fun. The b-side too retains the vibe and has bloody maracas - ace. This lot might be worth keeping an eye on.
Ripchord – Lock Up Your Daughters (And Throw Away The Key)
Ripchord sound like Just A Mustache era Thunderbirds Are Now! and probably don’t even realise, judging by the press release. This then, is a good thing. Speedy, urgent, sounds-casual-but-probably-isn’t, verse/chorus/verse/chorus with a bit of shouting, bratty lyrics and some nifty guitar work over a relentless bass and you have yourself a cracking little single that proves two things: British pop-punk isn’t all bad; and not everything Ian Broudie touches is easily scoffed at, responsible as he is for the production of Lock Up Your Daughters (And Throw Away the Key)
Jeremy Warmsley – Dirty Blue Jeans
Jeremy Warmsley is a young man with supreme control over words and sounds, which he combines expertly to make some of the most attention-worthy music released this year. Frantic his delivery is on Dirty Blue Jeans, a track riddled with contradiction thanks to a perennial sounds-like-a-recorder ditty that hovers throughout this otherwise gritty ditty. Lyrically velvetine and sonically intriguing and original - this is a gem.
Rose Kemp - A Handful Of Hurricanes
Would you care for a treacle-voiced British torturess intermittently forging monstrously powerful walls of sound reminiscent of The Smashing Pumpkins or Scout Niblett complete with some bona fide faux-Albini produced Shellac/Todd Trainer drumming sounds, whilst crooning about fear and violence? Yes please sir.
Singles:
Grace – Stand Still
Stand Still by Grace has nice, excitable rolling drums and uppity bass for starters, that almost get it to ‘good song’ level, before John-Paul Jones sings his bizarre words of patronising encouragement, aimed presumably at a less than thoughtful teenage crowd… “Touching tables made of wood, in a way that makes you perfect/Why try something twice, waste your precious time/If you stand still long enough, the world will come to you.” Quite.
Boy Kill Boy – Shoot Me Down
The problem with singles is: they’re too damn short, there’s too damn many, and not enough of them are any good. It’s enough to make you ponder with yourself that Shoot Me Down by Boy Kill Boy might be worth some of your pennies. Dreary balladry, it would seem, is the next step for these hyper-contrived, definitely-not-self-styled pretties - an attempt to cover all the potential bases of indie-rock perhaps; one that will go largely unnoticed, hopefully.
365 – One Touch
It’s not all indie music round here though you know; sometimes we like some brass backed beats with lyrics about instantaneous love/misogyny/casual sex, from new boybands like 365. One Touch (November 13th - Innocent Records) it’s called, and it’s less appealing than an evening jamming with Michael Jackson (2006, not 1986) and The Backstreet Boys at one of the ‘other’ members of *NSYNC’s house – which coincidentally is probably what these dudes wish they were doing.
The Little Ones – Lovers Who Uncover
The Little Ones Lovers Who Uncover sounds like Mercury Rev would probably sound if they went to hang out in some happy-clappy Hawaiian funk bar with a coupla’ post-rock guitarists. That scenario would probably be less weird than it sounds, but a whole load of fun. The b-side too retains the vibe and has bloody maracas - ace. This lot might be worth keeping an eye on.
Ripchord – Lock Up Your Daughters (And Throw Away The Key)
Ripchord sound like Just A Mustache era Thunderbirds Are Now! and probably don’t even realise, judging by the press release. This then, is a good thing. Speedy, urgent, sounds-casual-but-probably-isn’t, verse/chorus/verse/chorus with a bit of shouting, bratty lyrics and some nifty guitar work over a relentless bass and you have yourself a cracking little single that proves two things: British pop-punk isn’t all bad; and not everything Ian Broudie touches is easily scoffed at, responsible as he is for the production of Lock Up Your Daughters (And Throw Away the Key)
Jeremy Warmsley – Dirty Blue Jeans
Jeremy Warmsley is a young man with supreme control over words and sounds, which he combines expertly to make some of the most attention-worthy music released this year. Frantic his delivery is on Dirty Blue Jeans, a track riddled with contradiction thanks to a perennial sounds-like-a-recorder ditty that hovers throughout this otherwise gritty ditty. Lyrically velvetine and sonically intriguing and original - this is a gem.
Album Review. Richard James - The Seven Sleepers Den.
Ah, the second strike of the Gorky’s fall out. The name: 'The Seven Sleepers Den' is an extract from a John Donne poem, metaphysical musings galore. The sound: hyper-chilled acoustic profundities abound; some in Welsh, some in English, some with no words at all.
The Welsh language has never sounded more beautifully luscious. This is a less schizophrenic effort than Mynci compadre Euros Childs and provides an anecdote to the often overbearing 'Chops'. Two phenomenally creative individual forces have been unravelled on GZM’s hiatus; but James has the edge thanks, perhaps, to his greater patience.
Apart from slide-guitar stomp ‘Wanna See You Die’, he slips effortlessly and constantly from one perfect noise to another, This is ideal log-fire, loved one, bottle of wine, comfort fodder; lapping over you as it does like a blanket of soft warmth.
The Welsh language has never sounded more beautifully luscious. This is a less schizophrenic effort than Mynci compadre Euros Childs and provides an anecdote to the often overbearing 'Chops'. Two phenomenally creative individual forces have been unravelled on GZM’s hiatus; but James has the edge thanks, perhaps, to his greater patience.
Apart from slide-guitar stomp ‘Wanna See You Die’, he slips effortlessly and constantly from one perfect noise to another, This is ideal log-fire, loved one, bottle of wine, comfort fodder; lapping over you as it does like a blanket of soft warmth.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Two Short Reviews. Good Shoes - The Photos On My Wall (Single) ...and... Psychic Ills - Early Violence (Album).
Good Shoes - The Photos On My Wall:
Sketchy guitars – check. Vocals/delivery akin to various 70’s post-punk bands – check. Cheeky lyrics – check. Less than two minutes long – check. Nice little break a minute and a half in – check. Indie-schmindie – check. Nothing new then, but reasonably adept nonetheless; and it’ll please the scenesters – nice.
Psychic Ills - Early Violence:
If you like dense, lyrically sparse fuzz-rock with minute-long portions of feedback and slow, chugging repetition en masse that leave the overall impression that physical time and song structure are largely irrelevant, I recommend you consume this prelude to the current Ills material.
Sketchy guitars – check. Vocals/delivery akin to various 70’s post-punk bands – check. Cheeky lyrics – check. Less than two minutes long – check. Nice little break a minute and a half in – check. Indie-schmindie – check. Nothing new then, but reasonably adept nonetheless; and it’ll please the scenesters – nice.
Psychic Ills - Early Violence:
If you like dense, lyrically sparse fuzz-rock with minute-long portions of feedback and slow, chugging repetition en masse that leave the overall impression that physical time and song structure are largely irrelevant, I recommend you consume this prelude to the current Ills material.
Album Review. Thunderbirds Are Now! - Make History.
This lot create records by tweaking and pulling at their particular brand of ever-present post-punk: from hyperactive spaz, through uber-tight disco, to what is now a melodic and insightful brand of pop.
Uncertainty loomed after first perusal of Make History, dismissiveness even, but slowly – like illness that you know is coming but hasn’t hit yet – I got it. TAN! used to be more fun than sticking one’s head out of a car whilst being driven, in a car, on a motorway.
Now, Ryan Allen sings like a girl no more, they’ve observed and critiqued the world, got all raucously tuneful and written a wise LP about life and the people who are living it (they are dumb, misunderstood/we’d eat our young if they tasted good/people don’t impress me much) – ace.
Uncertainty loomed after first perusal of Make History, dismissiveness even, but slowly – like illness that you know is coming but hasn’t hit yet – I got it. TAN! used to be more fun than sticking one’s head out of a car whilst being driven, in a car, on a motorway.
Now, Ryan Allen sings like a girl no more, they’ve observed and critiqued the world, got all raucously tuneful and written a wise LP about life and the people who are living it (they are dumb, misunderstood/we’d eat our young if they tasted good/people don’t impress me much) – ace.
Live Review. Tapes 'n' Tapes - Kings College London - Wednesday 8th November 2006.
Tapes and Tapes are a lucky band for sure. $1000 to make their much revered debut, a clear gift for a quirky tune and a charm that, up close and personal, is unexpectedly endearing. These dudes look and act like American College kids done good, so Kings College London’s Tutu Club was in many ways an ideal venue, packed with people with whom they can relate. Plus it’s a considerably more intimate setting for the band than my previous encounter with them at this years Reading festival.
There, in the tent, their charm, their subtleties and their sound were dwarfed by the enormity of it all. Too many people, too many wankers, too many other bands and not enough amps – festivals are an appalling place to watch live music: quantity is guaranteed, quality is sparse.
Here, as I view from on high, balancing on an excellently positioned balcony, they pay me back with a vengeance – thank Christ. Nothing pisses me off more than when great records are backed up by shoddy live shows…no names shall be mentioned…apart from Clap Your Hands Say Yeah…Ahem.
T ‘n’ T’s sound was crisp, the vocals were clear and they played like they were having a whale of a time. Scant words between songs is something which gigs are always better off for - apart from Cobain at MTV Unplugged: so poignant, so fragile, those words were songs - and the odd jibe went down well, but when you’ve got a record like The Loon under your belt, you may as well pipe down and play the bloody lot.
And they duly did, pretty much, and how they played. To begin: Just Drums and The Iliad, the first two tracks on the album, but no track three, not yet, that’d be ridiculous; first, a dash of old material, an eerie Omaha, and a much appreciated In Houston – omitted at Reading - oozing with cracked desperation. Then, chuck in Cowbell dripping with dirty revenge and the bombastically energetic Insistor to complete the hit parade and let Jacov’s Suite finish it all with a bass bashing “I-don’t-care-if-we’re-inde-minimalism-I’m-gonna-get-on-my-knees-anyway” finale. Sod encores.
Yes they sound like Pavement, but goddamnit Pavement were fucking great - and so are Tapes and Tapes… Roll on album number two and I’ll be seeing them again for definite y’all.
There, in the tent, their charm, their subtleties and their sound were dwarfed by the enormity of it all. Too many people, too many wankers, too many other bands and not enough amps – festivals are an appalling place to watch live music: quantity is guaranteed, quality is sparse.
Here, as I view from on high, balancing on an excellently positioned balcony, they pay me back with a vengeance – thank Christ. Nothing pisses me off more than when great records are backed up by shoddy live shows…no names shall be mentioned…apart from Clap Your Hands Say Yeah…Ahem.
T ‘n’ T’s sound was crisp, the vocals were clear and they played like they were having a whale of a time. Scant words between songs is something which gigs are always better off for - apart from Cobain at MTV Unplugged: so poignant, so fragile, those words were songs - and the odd jibe went down well, but when you’ve got a record like The Loon under your belt, you may as well pipe down and play the bloody lot.
And they duly did, pretty much, and how they played. To begin: Just Drums and The Iliad, the first two tracks on the album, but no track three, not yet, that’d be ridiculous; first, a dash of old material, an eerie Omaha, and a much appreciated In Houston – omitted at Reading - oozing with cracked desperation. Then, chuck in Cowbell dripping with dirty revenge and the bombastically energetic Insistor to complete the hit parade and let Jacov’s Suite finish it all with a bass bashing “I-don’t-care-if-we’re-inde-minimalism-I’m-gonna-get-on-my-knees-anyway” finale. Sod encores.
Yes they sound like Pavement, but goddamnit Pavement were fucking great - and so are Tapes and Tapes… Roll on album number two and I’ll be seeing them again for definite y’all.
Extended Album Review. Yo La Tengo - I'm Not Afraid Of You And I Will Beat Your Ass.
Yo La Tengo are not just a band. Ira Kaplan, Georgia Hubley and James Mcnew go above and beyond the call of duty; with their output, their integrity, their ‘cult’ status. Their dedication to their art has encouraged the growth of respect, amongst those who buy, those who try, and those who pay. With a growth of respect comes trust, and with trust a willingness for folk surrounding them to allow them freedom.
Freedom is a tricky concept – possibly overrated and probably misunderstood. Some people do not, and will never, know what to do with freedom, and this naturally applies to bands. It is what makes bands great in fact; that they are created by people, and some/most people are fragile and often lost. They need guides and a helping hand – a push in the right direction, and when they get this, they can produce, and by no means is this output lesser, but it is different, and less pure.
Artistic genius lies in the loners. Those that are out there doing it on their own and thriving from it. Members of this clan are fortunately limited and few can achieve it satisfactorily; those that spring to mind are Radiohead and Sonic Youth – they are among those that can harness the respect, recognise they deserve the respect and use the platform of trust to produce records born from pressure-less creativity.
I’m Not Afraid Of You And Will Beat Your Ass is one of these; it is the sound of a band letting rip. Yo La Tengo’s creative juices are gushing like an irrepressible geyser on this record.
Whilst press and fans alike have been complementary it has been suggested that the record is less accomplished, less seminal and less essential than there other work – but this is to miss the point. Music, especially when critics get the chance to stick there oar in, is often reduced to a ‘better-or-worse-than’ criteria that can be helpful, but at the same time is far from being a formula that can be relied on.
Yo La Tengo surpass this. It is art, they are creators and everything they do, I believe is part of a journey. They have garnered such respect that any doubt into the love and care and soul put into their work doesn’t even get the chance to root. This is not a case of blindness, they have earned my trust and until they give me a reason to doubt it, everything they produce is good art, real art. They have always been in love with music and still are; I like to think that like so many bands don’t do these days, they will almost certainly quit when the love is gone. They, like I, do not trust bad art.
This record emphasises all that Yo La Tengo do with first class adeptness. As much flowery word-smithery and well though out metaphors cannot hide the fact that as opener ‘Pass The Hatchet, I Think I’m Goodkind’ ploughs and rumbles it’s deep, dark riff at you through a cloud of distortion, it just sounds cool. That word can be desriptive, just listen to the song.
The starkly contrasting Beanbag Chair follows with its outrageously jaunty piano riff which stews nicely with the tenderness of Hubley’s voice on ‘I Feel Like Going Home’. Graze over the distinct trumpet-backed niceties of ‘Mr Tough’: “If you need to tell me something once, you won’t have to tell me twice/And if you ask for a nickel,I’m going to give you a dime,” through the still-innocent-in-love tweeness of Sometimes I Don’t Get You, “Sometimes I don’t know you/It’s like we never met/Sometimes I think I don’t know how to be on my own/Sometimes I won’t answer the door or talk on the phone” and the versatility of both Kaplan’s vocals and Yo La Tengo as a unit are clear as day.
The instrumental Daphnia is sweeping, eerie, and beautifully well thought out music, and at seven and a half minutes long, almost borders into classical, what with its intricacies. On Black Flowers they sound like Daniel Johnston with a violin backing – outsider music created not necessarily by outsiders, not in the way Johnston was, but by those with a deep understanding of outsider music, and indeed as is well documented – all music.
Yo La Tengo’s superiority lies in their adaptability and their switching from styles and genres as if they don’t exist. They make genres look foolish, childish. A hard rock riff, to a piano break, to a horn section, to an electro-riff with bongos in four songs and you have enough evidence that this lot remain masters of the art. The fact that there sound, approach and direction never seem to change that much throughout this, is testament to the single-minded force they are – they push boundaries and they test the water, but they do it together.
Freedom is a tricky concept – possibly overrated and probably misunderstood. Some people do not, and will never, know what to do with freedom, and this naturally applies to bands. It is what makes bands great in fact; that they are created by people, and some/most people are fragile and often lost. They need guides and a helping hand – a push in the right direction, and when they get this, they can produce, and by no means is this output lesser, but it is different, and less pure.
Artistic genius lies in the loners. Those that are out there doing it on their own and thriving from it. Members of this clan are fortunately limited and few can achieve it satisfactorily; those that spring to mind are Radiohead and Sonic Youth – they are among those that can harness the respect, recognise they deserve the respect and use the platform of trust to produce records born from pressure-less creativity.
I’m Not Afraid Of You And Will Beat Your Ass is one of these; it is the sound of a band letting rip. Yo La Tengo’s creative juices are gushing like an irrepressible geyser on this record.
Whilst press and fans alike have been complementary it has been suggested that the record is less accomplished, less seminal and less essential than there other work – but this is to miss the point. Music, especially when critics get the chance to stick there oar in, is often reduced to a ‘better-or-worse-than’ criteria that can be helpful, but at the same time is far from being a formula that can be relied on.
Yo La Tengo surpass this. It is art, they are creators and everything they do, I believe is part of a journey. They have garnered such respect that any doubt into the love and care and soul put into their work doesn’t even get the chance to root. This is not a case of blindness, they have earned my trust and until they give me a reason to doubt it, everything they produce is good art, real art. They have always been in love with music and still are; I like to think that like so many bands don’t do these days, they will almost certainly quit when the love is gone. They, like I, do not trust bad art.
This record emphasises all that Yo La Tengo do with first class adeptness. As much flowery word-smithery and well though out metaphors cannot hide the fact that as opener ‘Pass The Hatchet, I Think I’m Goodkind’ ploughs and rumbles it’s deep, dark riff at you through a cloud of distortion, it just sounds cool. That word can be desriptive, just listen to the song.
The starkly contrasting Beanbag Chair follows with its outrageously jaunty piano riff which stews nicely with the tenderness of Hubley’s voice on ‘I Feel Like Going Home’. Graze over the distinct trumpet-backed niceties of ‘Mr Tough’: “If you need to tell me something once, you won’t have to tell me twice/And if you ask for a nickel,I’m going to give you a dime,” through the still-innocent-in-love tweeness of Sometimes I Don’t Get You, “Sometimes I don’t know you/It’s like we never met/Sometimes I think I don’t know how to be on my own/Sometimes I won’t answer the door or talk on the phone” and the versatility of both Kaplan’s vocals and Yo La Tengo as a unit are clear as day.
The instrumental Daphnia is sweeping, eerie, and beautifully well thought out music, and at seven and a half minutes long, almost borders into classical, what with its intricacies. On Black Flowers they sound like Daniel Johnston with a violin backing – outsider music created not necessarily by outsiders, not in the way Johnston was, but by those with a deep understanding of outsider music, and indeed as is well documented – all music.
Yo La Tengo’s superiority lies in their adaptability and their switching from styles and genres as if they don’t exist. They make genres look foolish, childish. A hard rock riff, to a piano break, to a horn section, to an electro-riff with bongos in four songs and you have enough evidence that this lot remain masters of the art. The fact that there sound, approach and direction never seem to change that much throughout this, is testament to the single-minded force they are – they push boundaries and they test the water, but they do it together.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Single Review. Sparklehorse - Don't Take My Sunshine Away.
‘Don’t Take My Sunshine Away’ is a cute, sweet, subversive effort at a love song that works pretty well on the whole with the simple declaration that “Baby you are my sunshine/Please don’t take my sunshine away” ruling the chorus and a well disguised ‘Heart-Shaped Box’ moment two and a half minutes involving a heavily distorted guitar solo ripping through the absent serenity that the majority of the track creates.
Whether this signifies a corruption of the love that Mark Linkous seems to be battling so hard to retain, or if he just thinks it sounds cool, I know not. I suspect the latter, and you know what? It does sound cool.
‘Ghost In The Sky (2006 version)’ and ‘Knives Of Sumertime’ are further confirmation that Linkous is a one-man, good mood construction machine. Like perhaps a snow machine at a particularly sparce Winter Olympics, he can pump out spring and summertime, on demand, like they’re the only seasons that exist. “You need summer? I’ve got summer,” is the kind of thing he’d say before blasting you with warm, glowing, relaxed sonic waves that make me think of gleeful spring-stepped children running in hay fields. He makes me feel like I’m getting a sun-tan in my cold room, in my bad chair, with a bowl or warm soup – and I cherish him for that.
Clearly he must live in his own world of niceness and joy, a different world to mine for sure, but whatever world that may be, I am certain that they are fully aware how talented he is.
Whether this signifies a corruption of the love that Mark Linkous seems to be battling so hard to retain, or if he just thinks it sounds cool, I know not. I suspect the latter, and you know what? It does sound cool.
‘Ghost In The Sky (2006 version)’ and ‘Knives Of Sumertime’ are further confirmation that Linkous is a one-man, good mood construction machine. Like perhaps a snow machine at a particularly sparce Winter Olympics, he can pump out spring and summertime, on demand, like they’re the only seasons that exist. “You need summer? I’ve got summer,” is the kind of thing he’d say before blasting you with warm, glowing, relaxed sonic waves that make me think of gleeful spring-stepped children running in hay fields. He makes me feel like I’m getting a sun-tan in my cold room, in my bad chair, with a bowl or warm soup – and I cherish him for that.
Clearly he must live in his own world of niceness and joy, a different world to mine for sure, but whatever world that may be, I am certain that they are fully aware how talented he is.
Single Review. Babyshambles and Friends - Janey Jones.
Babyshambles are still going, up to a point, and given their strife recently, this offering will do nicely in keeping interest and awareness in the music buying public – and it’s for a good cause too, splendid.
It’s not just them though, members of Test Icicles and The Paddingtons (among others) are reportedly on the track - not that you’d notice, given that the only people you can hear are Pete Doherty and…Carl Barat. Hearing Pete and Carl vocally spa again (sort of, they recorded their parts separately) won’t fail to bring out any Libertines sentiment that may be sitting in your soul., and the track sounds great.
Pete is a bloody mess, no doubt, but for anyone still holding a torch for the little scamp this will be a joy. He was born to cover The Clash, he’s probably been doing it since his blood ran clean and free. Let’s just hope that cover versions aren’t what it’s come to.
It’s not just them though, members of Test Icicles and The Paddingtons (among others) are reportedly on the track - not that you’d notice, given that the only people you can hear are Pete Doherty and…Carl Barat. Hearing Pete and Carl vocally spa again (sort of, they recorded their parts separately) won’t fail to bring out any Libertines sentiment that may be sitting in your soul., and the track sounds great.
Pete is a bloody mess, no doubt, but for anyone still holding a torch for the little scamp this will be a joy. He was born to cover The Clash, he’s probably been doing it since his blood ran clean and free. Let’s just hope that cover versions aren’t what it’s come to.
Album Review. Battle - Back To Earth.
If I ever encounter Battle, I’ll be sure to ask them about their favourite Cure and Smiths albums. I won’t patronise them though, oh no. Instead, I’ll compliment the classy, synth-backed homage of ‘Tendency’, the gloomy wit when pondering “how can you ever chase happiness when you don’t have the heart to be hurt” (in ‘I Never Stopped’) and the piercing dance-ability of ‘Isabelle’.
Then, I’ll eliminate the question in my notebook regarding their slim output and failure as yet to provide a full length debut, privately forgive them and explain the extent to which I appreciate how British this seven track mini-album sounds without it descending into half-witted, pub-rock nationalism.
Indie disco etiquette should dictate that this lot become large.
Then, I’ll eliminate the question in my notebook regarding their slim output and failure as yet to provide a full length debut, privately forgive them and explain the extent to which I appreciate how British this seven track mini-album sounds without it descending into half-witted, pub-rock nationalism.
Indie disco etiquette should dictate that this lot become large.
Album Review. The Long Blondes - Someone To Drive You Home
The words ‘style’ and ‘substance’ sprang immediately to mind on first encounter with this ultra-trendy, Sheffield-heralding, girl/boy garage outfit. Having cynically suspected the former to dominate I was delighted, after inspection of the fresh-from-Debbie-Harry-wannabee-school Kate Jackson, to deliberate over and decide that she might just be a British Karen O.
Elderly sister wiser-than-thou witticisms and advice-from-experience word smithery ensure she bubbles with kudos – and she can sing too, “nineteen, you’re only nineteen for God’s sake/you don’t need a boyfriend” her impressive pipes clamour on the ludicrously enjoyable ‘Once And Never Again”. ‘Giddy Srotospheres’, ‘Seperated By Motorways’ and ‘Weekend Without Makeup’ continue the indie-pop romp with choruses so darn catchy that involuntary movements of one’s body can virtually be expected.
Jackson is an all singing, all hip twitching, one-woman therapy group for indie-girl singletons. This woman will be a hero and if their hits carry them far enough, maybe they all will.
Elderly sister wiser-than-thou witticisms and advice-from-experience word smithery ensure she bubbles with kudos – and she can sing too, “nineteen, you’re only nineteen for God’s sake/you don’t need a boyfriend” her impressive pipes clamour on the ludicrously enjoyable ‘Once And Never Again”. ‘Giddy Srotospheres’, ‘Seperated By Motorways’ and ‘Weekend Without Makeup’ continue the indie-pop romp with choruses so darn catchy that involuntary movements of one’s body can virtually be expected.
Jackson is an all singing, all hip twitching, one-woman therapy group for indie-girl singletons. This woman will be a hero and if their hits carry them far enough, maybe they all will.
Album Review. Various - 30 Years Of Rough Trade
Rough trade are good at compilations and they duly create many, each it would seem with its own peculiar trait. This particular double disc of self-appraisal celebrates the shops thirty year history by asking famous fans and members of the label (Jarvis Cocker, Bjork, Thurston Moore, Bobby Gillespie, James Murphy) to pick their favourite offerings and we are presented with a chronological catalogue from almost every year from 1976 up until 2005 that Rough Trade has been releasing records.
Right from The Modern Lovers verbal gold – “some people try to pick up girls and get called assholes/this never happened to Pablo Picasso” – I was listening. A sonic safari ride through girl pop-punk (Kleenex), murder soundtrack schizophrenia (The Mekons), super funky, thrust-defying groove (Afrika Bambaataa And The Soul Sonic Force) plus a personal introduction to Adam And The Ants and I was the proverbial child in the also proverbial candy store of un-tapped resources of musical history – not to mention the fucking Pixies. Well you would put the Pixies in a compilation if you could, wouldn’t you eh? Disc one, then, is complete.
High praise indeed so far, and I actually prefer disc two: from Joe Strummer gone solo; cowbell enhanced, guitar-lick-heavy trip-hop (Stock, Hausen and Walkman), deep, dark, experimental electronica (Stereolab and Nurse With Wound); to the aching serenades of Lal Waterson and Oliver Knight; the trembling beauty of Karen Dalton’s fragility and the ring-leading, woman admiring, sex-licked, circus freak show of James Luther Dickinson, it’s a relentlessly entertaining trip trough a small section of the Rough Trade archives that repeatedly transcends genres. It dips in quality occasionally, but provides so much of interest that it’s really hard to take any issue with that – and anyway, of course it does, it’s a double-disc compilation.
A number of things became clear to me throughout this celebration: firstly, the mass of quality artists that Rough Trade have had on their books over the years, and thus how influential they have been, to listeners and creators of music alike. Secondly, that as a label - whilst retaining a commendable ethic - they have deftly moved with the times, swapping from the dirty, dangerous, obnoxious punk-rock/butt-rock of the seventies, through hillbilly gospel (The Carter Family), overtly homosexual, sadistic clamourings to be fucked by a sailor (The Frogs), up to and including the way too well observed wit-fest of LCD Soundsystem’s ‘Losing My Edge’.
I knew I liked Rough Trade, but not this much. This is the best compilation I have heard this year, and I recommend you get yourself a copy, especially if you think you might like to hear Schneider TM vs Kpt. Michi. Gan turn The Smiths’ ‘There Is A Light’ into a slowed-down, synthed-up , ambient bleepathon. You might think this is a good thing, you might not.
Right from The Modern Lovers verbal gold – “some people try to pick up girls and get called assholes/this never happened to Pablo Picasso” – I was listening. A sonic safari ride through girl pop-punk (Kleenex), murder soundtrack schizophrenia (The Mekons), super funky, thrust-defying groove (Afrika Bambaataa And The Soul Sonic Force) plus a personal introduction to Adam And The Ants and I was the proverbial child in the also proverbial candy store of un-tapped resources of musical history – not to mention the fucking Pixies. Well you would put the Pixies in a compilation if you could, wouldn’t you eh? Disc one, then, is complete.
High praise indeed so far, and I actually prefer disc two: from Joe Strummer gone solo; cowbell enhanced, guitar-lick-heavy trip-hop (Stock, Hausen and Walkman), deep, dark, experimental electronica (Stereolab and Nurse With Wound); to the aching serenades of Lal Waterson and Oliver Knight; the trembling beauty of Karen Dalton’s fragility and the ring-leading, woman admiring, sex-licked, circus freak show of James Luther Dickinson, it’s a relentlessly entertaining trip trough a small section of the Rough Trade archives that repeatedly transcends genres. It dips in quality occasionally, but provides so much of interest that it’s really hard to take any issue with that – and anyway, of course it does, it’s a double-disc compilation.
A number of things became clear to me throughout this celebration: firstly, the mass of quality artists that Rough Trade have had on their books over the years, and thus how influential they have been, to listeners and creators of music alike. Secondly, that as a label - whilst retaining a commendable ethic - they have deftly moved with the times, swapping from the dirty, dangerous, obnoxious punk-rock/butt-rock of the seventies, through hillbilly gospel (The Carter Family), overtly homosexual, sadistic clamourings to be fucked by a sailor (The Frogs), up to and including the way too well observed wit-fest of LCD Soundsystem’s ‘Losing My Edge’.
I knew I liked Rough Trade, but not this much. This is the best compilation I have heard this year, and I recommend you get yourself a copy, especially if you think you might like to hear Schneider TM vs Kpt. Michi. Gan turn The Smiths’ ‘There Is A Light’ into a slowed-down, synthed-up , ambient bleepathon. You might think this is a good thing, you might not.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Album Review, version 2. The End Of The World: You're Making It Come Alive.
Flameshovel’s good rep and commendably mixed bag of artistes sufficed to get my eyes twinkling at this Brooklyn-dude-trio: their name perhaps an REM allusion, their discography boasting an appearance on The Manchurian Candidate soundtrack; my suitably wetted appetite surely ripe for fulfillment yes?
Alas, no.
The Hollywood flirtation of course is side-lined and these niche NYC’ers offer instead a lo-fi hybrid of The Walkmen and The National complete with floundering tit-bits of bass, bitterness and eloquent hookeries for one to sink docile canines into. Although sporadically absorbing it morphs into a phlegmatic-at-best journey that avoids blatant derivation in the main, primarily by lacking vocal or lyrical prowess, but only soars when imitating the aforementioned progenitors.
By the time Stefan Marolachaki declares “this all seems so stale, the words so obvious,” I say ‘here here’ to that and drink to my copy of ‘Alligator’.
Alas, no.
The Hollywood flirtation of course is side-lined and these niche NYC’ers offer instead a lo-fi hybrid of The Walkmen and The National complete with floundering tit-bits of bass, bitterness and eloquent hookeries for one to sink docile canines into. Although sporadically absorbing it morphs into a phlegmatic-at-best journey that avoids blatant derivation in the main, primarily by lacking vocal or lyrical prowess, but only soars when imitating the aforementioned progenitors.
By the time Stefan Marolachaki declares “this all seems so stale, the words so obvious,” I say ‘here here’ to that and drink to my copy of ‘Alligator’.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Album of the day/week/month/year/decade...Neutral Milk Hotel: In the Aeroplane Over The Sea.
Often, when reviewing an album, it’s important to give readers some yardsticks to deal with: an overall view of what a record sounds like, emotions it may recall, reference points to relate too, and all that bollocks. For some albums, this is just not fucking necessary. In The Aeroplane Over The Sea is so good it makes me want to sit down on my own and cry. Tears of joy yes, but also of sadness; a salty mixture of glee and despair. Glee because amongst all the shit, and the sewage, and the cunts, and the war, and the famine, and the stupid pretentious fucks that we all have to deal with day fucking in, day fucking out, I can come home and listen to Jeff Magnum. Jeff Magnum exists and so does this album. He probably doesn’t even give a fuck, he’s just swanning around trying to avoid the realization that he’s perhaps the most brilliant creator of pop songs on the fucking planet. This album also makes me want to say ‘fuck’ a lot, and that’s because swearing is often the best way to get a fucking point across; and that’s a fucking fact.
Album Review. The End Of The World: You're Making It Come Alive
Flameshovel can boast Tim Kinsella and his rampant experimentalism on their books, while TEOTW may crow about their breezy ditty ‘Little Theater’ featuring on The Manchurian Candidate soundtrack. This potential sonic amalgamation must surely be auspicious for their debut record yes? Yes?
No.
That track, of course, is side-lined and these niche NYC’ers decline the madness. Instead, they offer a lo-fi hybrid of The Walkmen and The National complete with floundering tit-bits of catchy bass, eloquent hookeries and thoughtful bitterness for one to sink their docile canines into. Although sporadically absorbing it morphs into a phlegmatic-at-best LP that avoids blatant derivation in the main, primarily by lacking vocal or lyrical prowess, but is in its prime when imitating the aforementioned masters of the genre. A block of mimetic, however beguiling, has never been an acceptable yardstick for art – just ask Plato.
No.
That track, of course, is side-lined and these niche NYC’ers decline the madness. Instead, they offer a lo-fi hybrid of The Walkmen and The National complete with floundering tit-bits of catchy bass, eloquent hookeries and thoughtful bitterness for one to sink their docile canines into. Although sporadically absorbing it morphs into a phlegmatic-at-best LP that avoids blatant derivation in the main, primarily by lacking vocal or lyrical prowess, but is in its prime when imitating the aforementioned masters of the genre. A block of mimetic, however beguiling, has never been an acceptable yardstick for art – just ask Plato.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Album review. Casiotone For The Painfully Alone: Etiquette
CFTPA exude a rare prettiness, fragility and child-like naivety throughout this record of heart-broken, yet recovering, electro-pop, to render it not nearly as depressing as you might expect, given the name and all. In fact, a broken heart could find great comfort here: an understanding ear, a kindred sprit, a freshly washed pillow, a big, bastard bowl of Alpen, things that keep you safe from harm.
This music is also, thanks to Owen Ashworth’s gruff, lumbersome vocal delivery, to be enjoyed by those who try to like The Postal Service or Death Cab For Cutie, but can’t because it’s just so wet and so lame and for pansies. This is a lesson in how to be depressed like Johnny Cash with a dodgy keyboard and an Amstrad, like a man, a big, bastard man; and it works, sporadically, as a starting point.
It’s not a new lover, not yet, but we all know that takes time.
This music is also, thanks to Owen Ashworth’s gruff, lumbersome vocal delivery, to be enjoyed by those who try to like The Postal Service or Death Cab For Cutie, but can’t because it’s just so wet and so lame and for pansies. This is a lesson in how to be depressed like Johnny Cash with a dodgy keyboard and an Amstrad, like a man, a big, bastard man; and it works, sporadically, as a starting point.
It’s not a new lover, not yet, but we all know that takes time.
Album Review. They Shoot Horses: The Boo Hoo Hoo Boo Album.
Imagine you are climbing a fence, a five foot metal fence, and as you jump off the top of the fence, to reach the other side, your foot gets twisted around and impaled on a spike on said fence and you, hapless fence-jumper, are left hanging, by your ankle. Imagine lifting yourself and thus your own foot off the spike by grabbing hold of the fence whilst upside down and falling onto the floor of what turns out to be a graveyard, in agony, unable to move, having soiled yourself, waiting for the emergency services.
Imagine the music that would enter your head in this situation (excluding, the obvious, ‘I Will Survive’); perhaps trumpet-shredding, electro-cabaret up-down, up-down pop that’s part-time circus, part-time birthday, part-time funeral music sung over by a man who sounds like he feels your pain but manages to channel it into a legible yelp that is at the same time admirable, abrasive, dangerous and camp. Soon we might all shoot horses. Eating horse is legal in France. Welcome to my world.
Imagine the music that would enter your head in this situation (excluding, the obvious, ‘I Will Survive’); perhaps trumpet-shredding, electro-cabaret up-down, up-down pop that’s part-time circus, part-time birthday, part-time funeral music sung over by a man who sounds like he feels your pain but manages to channel it into a legible yelp that is at the same time admirable, abrasive, dangerous and camp. Soon we might all shoot horses. Eating horse is legal in France. Welcome to my world.
Album Review. Tapes n' Tapes: The Loon
Hype is a curious phenomenon, containing the invariable inevitability of being a let-down. It is, as a rule, best avoided, as a buyer or a creator before the familiar pattern of: I can’t wait/I used to love it/I couldn’t give less of a shit, un-sheathes itself.
Tapes n’ Tapes however manage to avoid all this, for now, with tactful dodgings away from the correct fill to place here or the juiciest lyrical loop to initiate a sing-along there, by scrapping the flab, fucking off the tom-toms and emerging a snare-and-bass-drum-only indie-minimalism efficiency machine with all the necessarily intricate subtleties, time signature changes and a seeming myriad of highly literate yarns covering pirate love, starved sailor love, bitter love, love love, mum love and asceticism that mean they might just be the most interesting band with a ginger front-man, on the planet.
‘Insistor’ is at least the best single this year and will have you dancing and shouting in the garden before you can say “mmmm, a brand new, shiny, lascivious Pavement”.
Tapes n’ Tapes however manage to avoid all this, for now, with tactful dodgings away from the correct fill to place here or the juiciest lyrical loop to initiate a sing-along there, by scrapping the flab, fucking off the tom-toms and emerging a snare-and-bass-drum-only indie-minimalism efficiency machine with all the necessarily intricate subtleties, time signature changes and a seeming myriad of highly literate yarns covering pirate love, starved sailor love, bitter love, love love, mum love and asceticism that mean they might just be the most interesting band with a ginger front-man, on the planet.
‘Insistor’ is at least the best single this year and will have you dancing and shouting in the garden before you can say “mmmm, a brand new, shiny, lascivious Pavement”.
Benicassim FIB Heineken Festival 2006 Review.
Benicassim, I would imagine, is pretty quiet for the majority of the calendar year, it’s occupants doing nothing much other than fishing, attending bull-fights or smoking cheap cigarettes and perhaps preparing for the now annual FIB Festival in the middle of July that sees the population of this small sea-side town double. The invasion is largely of the British, a phenomenon I am led to believe has only recently developed since FIB’s selling of it’s arse to the NME, but one that is so prominent in the cafes, on the beach, in the campsites and in the arena itself, that it’s easy to feel like one has been sent away on an uber-trendy, England-is-cool-as-fuck-and-we-know-it, 18-25’s lager camp. Given that many car hire companies in Barcelona hadn’t even heard of Benicassim the town, let alone the festival, this transformation of a relatively rural unknown is pretty good going.
Cope with this though and you’re in for a treat. The campsites are also English heavy, but this could have a lot to do with the searing heat and the Spaniard’s knowledge that perhaps an apartment is the way forward and if you, the intrepid, integral, culture thirsty Englishmen, can last beyond the Heineken drinkers 4am bedtime, the continental festival experience comes into its own. Programmed music lasting until eight in the morning is exactly what the continental festival goer must expect and embrace, and it is here that the locals come out to play: shirts off, tanned as fuck, pills at the ready…one way ticket on the rave train.
The arena itself is purpose-built for the festival. By this I mean that the site was built solely for the festival; I’m not suggesting that Glastonbury, for example, just plonks 120,000 people wherever it feels like without building a designated area, if that was what I was suggesting, that would be ridiculous and that would make me an idiot. I am suggesting that the pre-meditated aspect of the arena has an effect on the general vibe of proceedings. Festivals are a strange breed, and depending on time slots, stages, weather and the like, the worst in a band can just as easily be produced as the best. We have all seen one of our favourite bands look like crap tossers in the middle of the day, on the main stage, at a big festival, where they just did not belong.
Whether for better or for worse, Benicassim manages to avoid much of this. No mud, just concrete; carefully positioned stages; meticulous lighting and sound-systems good enough for a decent venue, mean that very few external factors remain to destroy a bands live reputation. British festivals could learn a lot from this aspect of Benicassim; “but it takes away the soul,” some may argue. No it doesn’t, it is better in every way.
Five days of music and an all-night schedule would probably account for the first nights main act Scissor Sisters appearance at 3am, whose remarkably overrated camp, glam-pop managed to successfully bore the arse off the crowd for an hour; the lack of alternatives at this stage in proceedings presumably accounting for the majority that remained for the seemingly much anticipated Filthy Gorgeous in the encore…even spam tastes good if you’ve been eating shit for a week.
Praise the Lord then for pioneering disc spinner Erol Alkan, producer of The Long Blondes and re-mixer of Hot Chip, Mylo and Death From Above 1979, playing the sunrise in with his blend of dance and rock…everyone’s a winner.
Friday heralded the arrival of a revived Babyshambles in the electronico tent (decked out with a sprinkler system releasing a light film of water for sweaty ravers) complete with Time For Heroes and Shane Mcgowan joining Doherty for a rendition of Dirty Ol’ Town that was a joy for anyone still praying for the reckless scamp to recover from his tabloid-consuming problems.
The Walkmen followed with a set so filled with bitterness, fury and tentative contemplation that you chose to ignore the fact that half of the crowd only went to see them play The Rat. The fact that The Rat is a great song and that The Walkmen do it justice every time they play it, is another reason for a solidly blind eye.
The short walk from here to the main stage briefly saw The Ordinary Boys resort to a Ramones cover to try and regain that credibility lost by a bit of fame and a stint in a glorified prison, before watching The Futureheads churn out their brand of energetic, garage indie to a willing and participating audience, the nationality of which became abundantly clear when Barry Hyde’s shout out to Sunderland was actually met with a cheer. At a Spanish festival. I shit you not.
Roll on the incomparable, all-conquering Pixies; met as ever with hero-worship and adoration, the festivities were cut short mid-set for some seemingly essential re-enforcement of the front barriers that took half an hour and left the mighty foursome with little time to re-gurgitate their greatest hits at a slower pace, amidst requests to the crowd to not push forward. Far from wanting anyone to come to any harm at any of these events, this couldn’t help but be a disappointment.
The cloud of which The Strokes provided the silver-lining to, pumping out glorious pop song after glorious pop song and confirming themselves as a genuinely great, big bastard rock band, the kind of band that can follow the Pixies and positively out-shine them… without saying a fucking word. Pure class. If Julian Casablancas isn’t the coolest man on the planet, I’ll buy a ticket to see Scissor Sisters.
Saturday bore Morrissey, a musical giant dressed in orange pouring treacle-coated hopeless romanticism down the gaping ear cavities of a gleeful crowd of ever-faithfuls…you either love him or hate him. The same goes for Rufus Wainwright in the Vodafone fib club, entertaining the love-lorn with a Leonard Cohen song that everyone thinks Jeff Buckley wrote, very clever.
Franz Ferdinand are properly big these days and their songs match both the setting and the crowds; who would ever have thought on the first listen to their debut record that Matinee would become a stadium-rock monster within three years. Not I.
2 Many DJ’s entertained for two and a half hours with their bringing it up/taking it down/bringing it up/taking it down/bringing it up, add the bass…party! method of entertainment, mixing in Aphex Twin, The Prodigy, and The Arcade Fire. These gents are seriously good. Properly good dance DJ’s are hard to come buy, accessible ones even less so, a treasure indeed.
Sunday kicked of proper with the all-embracing and utterly calculated idiocy of Madness who appeared to go down better than a litre and a half of ice-cold aqua at a boiling hot festival in Spain…
Main stage habits were abandoned at this phase for the Vodafone fib club tent and the hopelessly under-whelming We Are Scientists who seem to want to sound a bit like The Futureheads, but can’t because they’re from America and as such have no idea what it could possibly be like to write funny songs about how shit it is to live in the North-east of England.
This mattered not though, and any band or indeed any individual, can be forgiven for existing if you precede the skeptical, cynical joy of Art Brut. Unrelenting in their cutting observations, their humor and their brilliance, Eddie Argos led his band of far-too-clever-by-far compadre’s through a set by his own admission ‘three times as long as their only album’, and even did a We Are Scientists cover to confirm the ridiculousness of it all.
Herbert and Jennifer Cardini back in the electronico tent provided the electronic, bassy prelude to the main stage finale at 03.40 that was The Rakes. Has there ever been an indie rock band, that isn’t Madness, so intent on creating spiky-indie tunes just to dance to. Their was the most god-damn fun loving experience of my entire life and the fact that there was about 1,000 people in a space built for 10,000 mattered not a jot, not to me, or the band; long live The Rakes, their sense of fun and their willingness to dance their tits off at half past three in the morning.
Benicassim in many ways might just be the best festival in all of history. It has everything you could ever want from a holidy, let alone a festival. The beach is stunning, the beer is cold (although it is Heineken), there are water sprinklers in the tents, highlights of Benicassim’s been and gone play while you wait for the next band, you can buy paella in the arena and the music goes on all night. The only problem is, it is quite possibly the best British festival ever. Many people venture from blighty to get a feel of the continent, a different way of life, a different culture, and more importantly (presumably because the British have a tendency of being complete wankers), different people. Exit festival in Serbia for example is riddled with characters from the Eastern Bloc. As well as being held in a fortress, you don’t have to try to hard to get away from someone shouting “‘aving it large” or “I am completely off my tits” in a cockney accent. On the continent it is; continental it is not.
Cope with this though and you’re in for a treat. The campsites are also English heavy, but this could have a lot to do with the searing heat and the Spaniard’s knowledge that perhaps an apartment is the way forward and if you, the intrepid, integral, culture thirsty Englishmen, can last beyond the Heineken drinkers 4am bedtime, the continental festival experience comes into its own. Programmed music lasting until eight in the morning is exactly what the continental festival goer must expect and embrace, and it is here that the locals come out to play: shirts off, tanned as fuck, pills at the ready…one way ticket on the rave train.
The arena itself is purpose-built for the festival. By this I mean that the site was built solely for the festival; I’m not suggesting that Glastonbury, for example, just plonks 120,000 people wherever it feels like without building a designated area, if that was what I was suggesting, that would be ridiculous and that would make me an idiot. I am suggesting that the pre-meditated aspect of the arena has an effect on the general vibe of proceedings. Festivals are a strange breed, and depending on time slots, stages, weather and the like, the worst in a band can just as easily be produced as the best. We have all seen one of our favourite bands look like crap tossers in the middle of the day, on the main stage, at a big festival, where they just did not belong.
Whether for better or for worse, Benicassim manages to avoid much of this. No mud, just concrete; carefully positioned stages; meticulous lighting and sound-systems good enough for a decent venue, mean that very few external factors remain to destroy a bands live reputation. British festivals could learn a lot from this aspect of Benicassim; “but it takes away the soul,” some may argue. No it doesn’t, it is better in every way.
Five days of music and an all-night schedule would probably account for the first nights main act Scissor Sisters appearance at 3am, whose remarkably overrated camp, glam-pop managed to successfully bore the arse off the crowd for an hour; the lack of alternatives at this stage in proceedings presumably accounting for the majority that remained for the seemingly much anticipated Filthy Gorgeous in the encore…even spam tastes good if you’ve been eating shit for a week.
Praise the Lord then for pioneering disc spinner Erol Alkan, producer of The Long Blondes and re-mixer of Hot Chip, Mylo and Death From Above 1979, playing the sunrise in with his blend of dance and rock…everyone’s a winner.
Friday heralded the arrival of a revived Babyshambles in the electronico tent (decked out with a sprinkler system releasing a light film of water for sweaty ravers) complete with Time For Heroes and Shane Mcgowan joining Doherty for a rendition of Dirty Ol’ Town that was a joy for anyone still praying for the reckless scamp to recover from his tabloid-consuming problems.
The Walkmen followed with a set so filled with bitterness, fury and tentative contemplation that you chose to ignore the fact that half of the crowd only went to see them play The Rat. The fact that The Rat is a great song and that The Walkmen do it justice every time they play it, is another reason for a solidly blind eye.
The short walk from here to the main stage briefly saw The Ordinary Boys resort to a Ramones cover to try and regain that credibility lost by a bit of fame and a stint in a glorified prison, before watching The Futureheads churn out their brand of energetic, garage indie to a willing and participating audience, the nationality of which became abundantly clear when Barry Hyde’s shout out to Sunderland was actually met with a cheer. At a Spanish festival. I shit you not.
Roll on the incomparable, all-conquering Pixies; met as ever with hero-worship and adoration, the festivities were cut short mid-set for some seemingly essential re-enforcement of the front barriers that took half an hour and left the mighty foursome with little time to re-gurgitate their greatest hits at a slower pace, amidst requests to the crowd to not push forward. Far from wanting anyone to come to any harm at any of these events, this couldn’t help but be a disappointment.
The cloud of which The Strokes provided the silver-lining to, pumping out glorious pop song after glorious pop song and confirming themselves as a genuinely great, big bastard rock band, the kind of band that can follow the Pixies and positively out-shine them… without saying a fucking word. Pure class. If Julian Casablancas isn’t the coolest man on the planet, I’ll buy a ticket to see Scissor Sisters.
Saturday bore Morrissey, a musical giant dressed in orange pouring treacle-coated hopeless romanticism down the gaping ear cavities of a gleeful crowd of ever-faithfuls…you either love him or hate him. The same goes for Rufus Wainwright in the Vodafone fib club, entertaining the love-lorn with a Leonard Cohen song that everyone thinks Jeff Buckley wrote, very clever.
Franz Ferdinand are properly big these days and their songs match both the setting and the crowds; who would ever have thought on the first listen to their debut record that Matinee would become a stadium-rock monster within three years. Not I.
2 Many DJ’s entertained for two and a half hours with their bringing it up/taking it down/bringing it up/taking it down/bringing it up, add the bass…party! method of entertainment, mixing in Aphex Twin, The Prodigy, and The Arcade Fire. These gents are seriously good. Properly good dance DJ’s are hard to come buy, accessible ones even less so, a treasure indeed.
Sunday kicked of proper with the all-embracing and utterly calculated idiocy of Madness who appeared to go down better than a litre and a half of ice-cold aqua at a boiling hot festival in Spain…
Main stage habits were abandoned at this phase for the Vodafone fib club tent and the hopelessly under-whelming We Are Scientists who seem to want to sound a bit like The Futureheads, but can’t because they’re from America and as such have no idea what it could possibly be like to write funny songs about how shit it is to live in the North-east of England.
This mattered not though, and any band or indeed any individual, can be forgiven for existing if you precede the skeptical, cynical joy of Art Brut. Unrelenting in their cutting observations, their humor and their brilliance, Eddie Argos led his band of far-too-clever-by-far compadre’s through a set by his own admission ‘three times as long as their only album’, and even did a We Are Scientists cover to confirm the ridiculousness of it all.
Herbert and Jennifer Cardini back in the electronico tent provided the electronic, bassy prelude to the main stage finale at 03.40 that was The Rakes. Has there ever been an indie rock band, that isn’t Madness, so intent on creating spiky-indie tunes just to dance to. Their was the most god-damn fun loving experience of my entire life and the fact that there was about 1,000 people in a space built for 10,000 mattered not a jot, not to me, or the band; long live The Rakes, their sense of fun and their willingness to dance their tits off at half past three in the morning.
Benicassim in many ways might just be the best festival in all of history. It has everything you could ever want from a holidy, let alone a festival. The beach is stunning, the beer is cold (although it is Heineken), there are water sprinklers in the tents, highlights of Benicassim’s been and gone play while you wait for the next band, you can buy paella in the arena and the music goes on all night. The only problem is, it is quite possibly the best British festival ever. Many people venture from blighty to get a feel of the continent, a different way of life, a different culture, and more importantly (presumably because the British have a tendency of being complete wankers), different people. Exit festival in Serbia for example is riddled with characters from the Eastern Bloc. As well as being held in a fortress, you don’t have to try to hard to get away from someone shouting “‘aving it large” or “I am completely off my tits” in a cockney accent. On the continent it is; continental it is not.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Testing testing, one two, one two.
This is history. Right here, right now, this is history.
Bored of a tuesday, what to do...set up a blog. Why the bloody hell not.
Bored of a tuesday, what to do...set up a blog. Why the bloody hell not.
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