Alela Diane - The Purcell Rooms 11/10/07

To read the published review, click here.

Alela Daine occupies a place in folk music entirely of her own. She’s alone on stage at The Purcell Rooms to scratch out her personable view of the world at large. She seems fresh from the dusty, arid plains of America and sings like not a drop of coarse liquor has tainted her vocal chords. And she stands so still.

Her guitar work is almost patronisingly simple, but her grace and charm sparkle above and beyond it. She taught herself, we think. On a rickety old chair on the front porch of the rural set wooden house her Granddad lives in, we think. We imagine her laughing on a hand built swing and eating home made pecan pie before nervously and self consciously practising her lines.

She’s ever so slightly hunched tonight, with skin like milk. Her hair is tied to one side and she’s wearing a skirt, a waistcoat with nothing underneath and yellow cowboy boots too big for her. We can imagine her playing with horses and cows with her older brothers on her father’s ranch, we think.

And then she sings with a voice so warm and shrill it melts the stuffy properness of the all-seated venue in the Southbank Centre. She plucks new song My Brambles before gliding her way through much of her only record, The Pirate’s Gospel.

Her style remains the same throughout: fragile, unshakeable, and poignant. But her subject matters are diverse, with only pirates and Jesus bestowed with repeat mentions. That makes sense, given the album title. She covers button collections, motherhood and new shoes.

She’s inspired by a plastic bag found in a dead ladies house with the label ‘pieces of string too short to use’ on it. “It’s funny how people only remember the weird stuff when you die,” she says.

She sings of fear and regret on album highlight The Rifle: “Papa get the rifle from its place above the French doors/They’re coming from the woods, they’re coming from the woods/Brother I’m so sorry you watched the paintings burn.”

She plucks and cheers along with imaginary shipmates on the albums self-titled morale booster. “While some folks row way up to heaven/I’m gonna sing the pirates gospel/I’m gonna sow these feet for dancing/I’m gonna keep my eyes wide open/Yo ho yo ho yo ho ho/We’re gonna sing the pirate’s gospel/We’re gonna chant the pirate’s gospel.”

And so it rolls on. Her apparent purity and authenticity is quite something. You don’t doubt her roots, you just hope she doesn’t fall in with the wrong crowd. Sure she might be pretending, but everyone pretends, and it’s the one’s we believe that are special. And fucking hell do we believe.

Alela Diane is the best thing to happen to female folk music in a long time. This is what it would’ve been like seeing Joni Mitchell, Joan Baez et al back in the sixties when folk still mattered to people. Only better.

Beirut - The Flying Cup Club (4AD)

Check out the published version here, on the Gigwise website.

Zach Condon is, already, a musical colossus. At 21, he’s surely the youngest man ever to completely dominate a genre. He owns Balkan pop. He arguably invented it, but he’s certainly the leader. You’ve got A Hawk And A Hacksaw, Gogol Bordello and Devotchka among others, but none have managed to capture the world’s imagination like Condon.

The Flying Cup Club, like The Gulag Orkestar before it, is a culturally significant romp through grief, goulash and gaiety. It’s fantastic, unstoppable and impossible not to be consumed whole. And it’s more of the same, to an extent. It’s stripped back a tad, but when you’ve power over spellbinding mirage of ideas and accordions, only a fool would change their direction.

Advancements from record number one include: more strings, piano and religious imagery, wiser lyrics, and a distinct nod to French-ness. (Many of the song titles are French – ‘Nantes’, ‘Un Dernier Verre (Pour La Route)’, ‘La Banlieue’).

‘Cliquot’, for example, asks of St Peter: “What melody will lead my lover from his bed/What melody will see him in my arms again?” It’s suggestive, for sure, and the co-vocals between Condon and Final Fantasy’s Owen Pallett are delectable. They sound like orphaned angels.

The plucked strings on ‘Forks And Knives (La Fete)’, meanwhile, sound understandably like that of Pallett, who’s an ever present on the record. The crispness of ‘Guyamas Sonora’ is potentially of his making, too. On this basis alone, he’s a valuable addition.

Despite clear differences, all of the eeriness and world-weariness of Orkestar remain. The projected misery is what gives Condon’s work its tint of fascination. It’s so aesthetically pleasing, orchestral and beautiful that his melancholy must almost be pleasant. Then again, he’s a maestro at expressing himself. And it’s perfectly reasonable to be aware of misery without being miserable yourself.

The last minute of In ‘The Mausoluem’ is perhaps the record’s most perfect moment. The strings ache with energetic, agitated solemnity. The backing (what sounds like) organ and basic drumming are so expressive that Condon doesn’t need too sing. It’s a powerful example of a more stripped down band. There’s less theatre and it prospers because of it. ‘Cherbourg’ boasts a simple accordion riff, a tentative three-drum rhythm and Condon’s directness: “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you smile.”

Beirut as a group manage to capture everything that Michael Palin hasn’t in his most recent beige-trousered Eastern European adventure. That might be unfair to Condon’s new found French influences – allegedly: Francois Hardy, Charles Aznavour, Jacques Brel and the country itself – but there’s a definite lineage from his journey from Orkestar to where we are now.

Maybe it’s just the smells, feelings, anxiety, excitement, joy and wonder that go hand in hand with sucking up the life of new places and people. Condon is this decades ramblin’ man. Totally apolitical and utterly in tune with the highs and lows of the human spirit, The Flying Cup Club is a terrifyingly good example of modern song-writing.

Blitzen Trapper - Koko, London - 12/11/07

Read the real version by clicking here, Kruger Magazine's website. If you like.

There’s always a band that people talk about and all your cool friends know about but you’ve still never heard of. Isn’t there? Yes there is. Blitzen Trapper are mine. Supporters of Two Gallants this time round, I’d never heard them. But three albums in – two self-released, one on Sub Pop – and some proper credibility have got them pockets of mockery that ‘cult’ bands seem to demand in a you-only-like-them-because-no-ones-ever-heard-of-them kind of way. They’ve also a devoted following.

This is fair. On occasion, they rock. On other occasions, they roll. Sometimes they drum out medium pace Americana, or just play some folk tunes. They are a living, breathing example of what happens when you’ve no-one piling pressure on your flow and tightening up your stuff. Their consistency is non-existent except in everything they do being ‘good’; and they are all the better for it.

It’s refreshing indeed to see them doing their thing. Having listened extensively to new record ‘Wild Mountain Nation’, you’d struggle to pin them down. They’ve got riffs, like Nirvana; quirky country numbers, like the softer White Stripes moments; and songs like ‘Devils A-Go-Go’, that are so funked up and rocked out in mangled time signatures that the Arctic Monkeys wouldn’t even understand.

More importantly tonight, they’re like a whirlwind in a desert, clearing the mess for Two Gallants, who became the calm after the storm. And Two Gallants rocked, so that tells its own story.

Album Review. Fire Engines - Hungry Beat (Acute Records)

Yeah, so i've decided to be a bit more interactive with my blog, chat to my fans and all that (ha!), so this, as form of an introduction, is a review I just did for Amelias Magazine - www.ameliasmagazine.com/amelias_blog - check it.


Seems to me that back in the 80’s there were a whole load of post-punk, art-punk outfits dotted around the country, most of whom are largely forgotten. A prominent concentration of these was centred in Scotland. Somehow though, overshadowed by the continuing success of the very English The Fall and Gang Of Four, bands like Josef K and Orange Juice (both fellow Scots) seem to have fallen by the wayside. More forgotten than all of these, p’raps due to a mere eighteen-month existence, are Edinburgh’s Fire Engines.

They boast all the necessary attributes that’s seen a host of mainstream hugging bands ranging from mediocre to less so – Franz Ferdinand, Bloc Party and The Futureheads – adopt their angular, feisty, wired, anti-melody. But they sound like anything but the sheeny reinterpretation that’s been jumped upon and made enormous.

Yeah, so I’m on a bit of a downer at those three; and, I’ll admit, four years ago I was kind of digging Franz et al, but the more I’ve investigated their lineage, the more I resent the way it’s been adapted to something lightweight. Take Candyskin with it’s vivid sexual imagery, razor sharp jangle, David Henderson’s vocal squeaks and distortions; or Get Up And Use Me with a cowbell intro, Television lick, pop bass, spazzy screams and repetition; it all sounds so goddamn urgent. Re-adapted for the radio friendly modern age, there’s no bite.

Then there’s the double, Velvet Underground-meets-twisted-guitar-solo instrumental freak outs of Lubricate Your Living Room Parts 1 & 2 which rock and roll like two distorted beasts on the end of the gritty, barely sung, absurdly spiky Murray Slade led title-track.

Make no mistake, this is pop music; sure the lyrics are ambiguous and the mood’s aggressive, but the songs are tight, short and witty. Highly influential too, judging by Bobby Gillespie’s claim that neither The Jesus And Mary Chain nor Primal Scream would’ve existed without them. They don’t make ‘em like they used to.

Interview. Herman Dune.

It’s weird meeting people you’re already familiar with. Occupational hazard, of course, but it’s the whole ‘meeting your idols’ thing. Don’t do it, and all that. Herman Dune aren’t my idols, but I like them, a lot, and have done for a while – so I’m a little nervous at the prospect.

We meet at the Liverpool Street Travelodge. David Herman Dune and Neman Herman Dune are relaxed, relaxing people, both with excellent facial hair. David is chief song-writer, singer and guitar player. He is tall and wearing a locket around his neck. “It has a picture of my girlfriend in one half, and a picture of a teddy bear in the other,” he reveals. As will become increasingly apparent, he is a sweet, gentle man.

They have been regulars to London over the years, primarily because their highly personable version of folk music was a favourite of John Peel. They’ve never been to the east end though. “I hadn’t realised they have bagels here, have you seen that shop (on Brick Lane) where they have an ‘ei’ instead of an ‘a’ in the word Bagel?” David asked.

I tell him yes. His love of words and word play shines. His music imitates his personality – exciting, excitable, fresh and inquisitive. He continues: “Have you seen that other shop (on Cheshire Street) that sells shoes, like Keds, for five pounds? Where the guy is rude and just hands them over in a bag?” I tell him yes. His enthusiasm makes me happy. His personality sparkles. He’s a thoughtful conversationalist.

He even had nice things to say about their modest accommodation: “whenever Bob Dylan goes on tour, he stays in Travelodges. So before, I had to stay in them, financially; and now I just have too.”

He’s more forthcoming than Neman – their percussionist - a slightly shyer, handsome counterpart who bides his time. They are very much a duo having known each other for the best part of fifteen years, and they have the same adopted surname. “We weren’t born ‘Herman Dune’, but I’d say it’s our surname because we chose it a long time ago,” explains David, slightly mysteriously.

The bands nationality is, apparently, a matter of confusion. Their Wikipedia entry states that ‘the band is often mistaken for being Swedish.’ This is weird. Here are the facts: David is Swedish and Neman is French. So they’re not just Swedish, but French too. See? Neman: “we play around with the nationality thing a bit, we don’t really see it as important.” Point taken - so remember that, and shut up about it…

Herman Dune’s core membership has recently been reduced to two, since Andre, David’s (blood) brother, departed. David gave an abrupt explanation: “He’s gone solo. He won’t be on the next record, he’s gone for another project.”

Thankfully their desire to remain touring, recording musicians is unharmed by the member revolution. This time round, they’re over here for a bit of press and to record a session for Rob Da Bank’s Radio 1 show. We go to a café, have a coffee, and wait for a taxi to take us to Maida Vale studios.

En route we pick up The Wave Pictures - two dudes, Dave Tattersall (guitar) and Franic Rozycki (bass). In the Taxi we talked about Herman Dune’s new single, ‘I Wish That I Could See You Soon’ getting played by Jonathan Ross on Radio 2 – a somewhat remarkable feat for a band so firmly routed in the ‘underground’ sector of musical fandom. Dave Wave Picture explained who Ross was, describing him as “having a lisp.”

David thought about this for a second before surmising, “cool, like Tom Waits.” We explained that he was really rather different to Waits, but some influences were emerging. Waits/Dylan – romantic, chameleon-like, travelling craftsmen. What fine company to occupy your mind with.

They talk Regina Spektor too. They know her boyfriend, but Nemen didn’t know they’d hooked up: “no way!” he exclaimed, before sitting back thoughtfully in his chair. He is the reflective contradiction to David’s open amiability. I like him a lot.

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Maida Vale is a strange maze of studio’s and corridors. It’s bizarrely quiet considering everyone there is making music. It has an aura of greatness. Nemen ushered me over to look at a full orchestra playing in a studio so big you could fit a ferry in. Massive it was.

I asked him if he’d like to play with an orchestra. “Yeh, but I wouldn’t know how. I really love Joanna Newsom’s new record with the orchestra, but we’d have to get an arranger in.” Herman Dune with an orchestra, mental.

Their session, I’m told, is quick compared to other bands. Three new songs and a Bob Dylan cover. As a band they create a sort of other-worldly brand of folk. The simplicity, honesty and beauty of he whole thing is humbling. During the Peel years they obviously mastered their art.

The four of them play like hard-touring veterans rather than two separate groups that come together occasionally. Neman is hilariously energetic – always keen to increase the percussive input, whether with maracas, bongos, or a frog with a serrated back to run a wooden baton along.

Whilst listening to a run-through of a song David asked me how I was feeling. I assured him I was fine and returned the question. He looked me in the eye and smiled: “I love recording here”.

Maida Vale sessions have been important for them – they’re a more accomplished outfit because of them. According to Nemen “they taught us how to record. It used to be stressful, but now we’re good”. David: “we’re much happier in the studio now, we have more fun”.

Maybe that’s why the new record, Giant, sounds chirpier than older stuff then. It’s not because you found love? David: “I don’t think so. No. I just uh…” He trailed off. Love and spoken word often don’t work so well together. “We’re just more relaxed.”

Have the Peel tributes contributed to their seemingly rising star? Or maybe their major label deal has helped? David pleads ignorance: “I don’t know what it is. I don’t think (Peel) has much to do with it. I’m pleased that more people are hearing us though. I like my songs, I want as many people to hear them as possible.”

Their tour with the Kooks probably helped too. David reveals that they were told the crowd wouldn’t like them, “but they were great.” I suggest that the Kooks perhaps have a slightly shallow, ‘less-than-cool’ reputation over here and that your average Herman Dune fan probably ain’t your average Kooks fan. Nemen: “they’re really good musicians, and nice guys.” David: “they didn’t get drunk every night or anything, they watched us play. I like them, they have good songs.”

Un-corrupted by ideals of ‘cool’, they smartly and casually do their own thing without getting bogged down in music industry bullshit. They can appreciate anyone trying to make it with song. They are decent, unblemished people, immune to the poison of the snide press, there aren’t too many others like that out there - and I respect them utterly.

Live Review. Murder By Death - Bush Hall - 11/4/07

Murder By Death hail from Bloomington, Indiana, United States; and they look amazing. Frontman Adam Turla is sporting the best sideburns in rock whilst wearing a jacketless, pin-striped three-piece suit. Cool as fuck. Drummer, Dagan Thogerson, looks like Steveo from Jackass in a flat hat, and bassist Matt Armstrong is wearing black, and chain smoking, in a strictly non-smoking venue. Awesome. There’s also a funky female on cello – more about her later.

Sound-wise, they’ve two things that set them apart from others of their ilk: said cello, and Turla’s doom riddled and heart wrenching story-telling – vaguely reminiscent of Waits and Dylan at their image invoking best thy are. This being so, you’d think they’d make an effort to highlight them both. You’d think.

No problems with the cello, played like a weapon by Sarah Balliet, the dainty counterpart to the three burly dudes aside her. The vocals though, jeez. Tonight, it’s as if any old clumsy wordsmith is up there, not the imaginative, world-weary, whiskey soaked troubadour/rocker that Turla normally is.

They’re solid without the lyrics for sure, and their more chorus-laden rocky numbers, ‘Boy Decide’ par example, kick ass. But solidity is bullshit, anyone can do solid and these hard drinkin’, tough talkin’ scrappers know it. It’s left to the one-man-and-his-guitar showstopper ‘Shiola’ to do the man justice: “She sleeps in comfort in my arms/she is plain but she is mine… Is it wrong to love a family of ghosts?” he croons in the best Johnny Cash impression that exists right now.

Album highlights ‘Brother’ and ‘Sometimes The Line Walks You’ (more Cash homage) are cascading, rollicking, demonised rock ‘n’ roll tunes played right, but you need the words to fully engage.

Thank God for Balliet then, yielding her cello as if she means to do harm. So jagged are her movements that she appears like a puppet on a string, a mechanised doll or a dark angel. She’s a beautiful torturess playing with your heart strings whilst the rest of the band beats the living shit out of you and spits Budweiser in your face. She’s so damn entrancing that you don’t even realise your own misfortune until your bleeding and stinking of piss; and even then, you just don’t care. You just feel kinda warm and stupid.

Murder By Death, when (not if) they get the sound right, will soon be ripping up a saloon near you… I suggest you get involved.

OLD Live Review. Fujiya & Miyagi - 9/02/07 - Camden Barfly

Barfly on a Friday night – rammed. Not as you might expect with sweaty youths, oh no, an older crowd is in tow tonight for a couple of hot, new electro-ey acts – wicked.

The (definitely) sweatiest, (maybe) youngest and (for sure) the wearers of the tightest t-shirts in the room were To My Boy. Two in numbers they are, fun, energetic and exuberant also. Bands at this stage in their careers are always interesting – eager to please, healthy muscles, a certain fearlessness. Their willingness to give it their all oft supersedes any professionalism but fuck it, whipping the top floor into a frenzy is no mean feat.

My mood however, was one of confusion. There’s quite a bit going on with these see – bleepery, speedy beats, quirky vocals – and it’s a tad overwhelming on first listen. Amalgamation occurs, rawness abounds and blurring naturally follows.

This may or may not be their fault. On record (Myspace) they are crisp, tight, original and a blast. Edgy, difficult, noisy, spikey, everything you need really if electronica is to be worth a watch - I Was A Cub Scout with more of an eye for a frolic or two. If you need a reference point, that’s it.

Fujiya & Miyagi play a different fiddle. Deep, bassy, witty, cynical, cocky, patronising and… middle aged. Oh the contrast, but here it is: the night began with a flurry, a cider-blur and now, clarity. A more perfect combo of support/headliners I cannot recall.

Fujiya & Miyagi pretend to be Japanese and sing about it. They also chant there own name and in Collarbone sing about which body parts are attached to various other bodyparts: “toe-bone up the ankle bone, ankle bone up to the shin bone, shin bone up to the knee bone,” after declarations of having “to get a new pair of shoes, to kick it with her, now kick it wid you…” because of numerous broken bones thanks to tripping over his shoelaces.

In many ways they have to be heard to be believed. It’s clever, it’s funny, and it’s also so very danceable. There’s a proper bassy, krautrock undertone to the tunes, which are short, sweet and riddled with various “uh, uh’s” and diversions into French.

“You’re off your, you’re off your, you’re off your bleedin’ rocker” they speak/sing at you. Street-speak yes, but smarter than The Streets. Non-aggressive 30-40 year olds providing a wave of sound upon which to ride, laugh and think. What else do you need?

Album Review. Viking Moses - Swollen & Small.

Neutral Milk Hotel are one of the most overlooked bands of the last ten years. Led by the exceptionally talented and now very low key Jeff Mangum, they were seemingly loved only by those who knew a thing or two. A hidden gem, waiting to be uncovered. Which, if you haven’t – yet - you should do - now.

Viking Moses – Brendon Massei, mainly - are even less well known. Quite what the point is of this venture (Viking Moses doing songs by Neutral Milk Hotel) with pals Steve Gullick and The Virgin Passages, is debatable. They’re not exactly bringing NMH to a wider audience.

So a personal project doubling up as a prelude to the re-issue of NMH’s debut record - On Avery Island - seems the most likely explanation. Massei proclaims Mangum his greatest influence. Covering him then, was probably a pleasure.

Not that you’d know it. For there are only four songs here (three from On Avery Island, one from second record In The Aeroplane Over The Sea) and all but one are from the gloomier, death obsessed and more abstract side of the back catalogue. NMH were never exactly happy, but miserable people have levels of miserable-ness - and this is pretty fucking miserable.

First off, the originally vaguely high tempo-ed opener “You’ve Passed” is turned from the fuzzy, folky twang it once was into a much slower, shorter, acoustic model. The vocals pretty much just imitate, but the lack of background noise means greater emphasis is put on the skewed vocal melodies disguised in the prototype.

Much the same is achieved with second track “Gardenhead/Leave Me Alone”: fuzz reduced, melodies exposed and the energy flattened. Instead of the lively, rolling riff of the original, the guitar track is reduced to a repetitive garden-shed clunking. And again, the lack of noisy accompaniment highlights the bizarre, dreamy lyrics. Check these baby’s out: Leave me alone, for you know this isn't the first time/In fact this is twice in a row /That the angels have slipped through our landslide/And filled up our garden with snow/And I don't wish to taste of your insides /Or to call out your name through my phone. It’s not exactly 9-til-5 lamenting.

“Where You’ll Find Me Now” is a fairly straightforward cover of a fairly straightforward NMH song (it’s relative, obviously, none of it is that straightforward). But the same can’t be said for “Holland 1945” - the solitary track from the In The Aeroplane Over The Sea album.

Viking Moses take it from what was essentially a punky, pop song based around an obsession with Anne Frank and stretch it out into a stringy, pingy, hillbilly Americana number complete with backing vocals and a distant harmonica. It - and all these songs - is much sadder than the original.

One thing to be taken into account with Mangum is that he’s a song-writer of the Jeff Buckley, Bob Dylan ilk. Not in sound, at all, but in that his creations have no ‘way’ to be played. Everything is open to interpretation.

Key lyrics, special notes, rhythms and structures. Mangum himself played around incessantly. Massei then, is simply offering us his interpretations. I hope for his sake he’s not always in this mood, for that would be a dark place indeed. Instead I’m going to imagine these people, just doing their thang, and not really giving a fuck if anybody likes it or not. It’s not essential, but it’s a great collectible.

Live Review. Los Campesinos - The Spitz - 5/3/07.

Los Campesinos means “The Peasants” in Spanish. This is weird, sort of, but emulates the vibe flowing through these - a kind of forced wackiness that entertains. That name means nothing, probably, but it made me laugh and they’re such a crazy bundle of charming, innocent abandon that you can’t help but enjoy them.

Seven students at Cardiff University they are. Seven. Everything about this lot screams ‘out of the ordinary’, and their sound refreshingly follows suit. If you’re going to be a bit zany/off-kilter/left-of-centre, you may as well go the whole hog.

Here, tonight, at the Spitz, they totally swamped the stage and were all over the bloody place at times, but they managed to never sound bad. There’s a kind of jangly riot feel to the whole thing - if someone fucks up, someone else will sort it out. They are strange, and difficult to pin down, and that is a good thing. They love Pavement, for sure, but the rest…

They use triangles and other such twee percussive instruments. They chat torrents of shite between songs including an explanation of why they shout: “Don’t read Jane Ayre” in Please Don’t Tell Me To Do The Math(s). It transpires the dude, Gareth Campesinos, hasn’t even read her and wants us to treat it as a throwaway comment – so we do. So gentle and polite are these folk, you have to obey.

They have fast, jangly, danceable riffs; they have a ballad; they have men, women, a whole bunch of people ready to love them and lyrics like: “I’m sticking your fingers into sockets/to kick-start your little heart.” Their single - We Throw Parties, You Throw Knives - is a quickly spat tale with quirky, fit-in-as-many-as-you-can man-sung lyrics and sweet girl-sung melodies. They are a gloriously young and fascinating pop band.

These are nice, intelligent people intent on doing something different and doing it well. God knows how they’ll make any money with seven of ‘em but that’s beside the point – you bloody capitalists you. Los Campesinos sold out The Spitz after one single. They are rising fast - catch them while you can.

Album Reviews (TWO!!). See Below...

Holly Golightly & The Brokeoffs
You Can’t Buy A Gun When You’re Crying

Wild Billy Childish & The Musicians Of The British Empire
Punk Rock At The British Legion Hall

Holly Golightly - Capote invented, Hepburn immortalised – excels in re-hashing a distinguished past. Playing country and bluegrass music with The Brokeoffs (one Texan – Lawyer Dave) she becomes a mystical, saddening presenter of deepest, darkest American heartache.

Train sounds and softened electro-acoustic guitars keep the dream (nightmare) alive whilst stories of firearms, relatives lost and god-fearing paranoia ensure an authentic, uber-listenable, ‘inevitable-bad-ending’ drama. Check the amazing album title too.

Childish shares none of these concerns, remaining a self-referential puritan ever keen to promote his credentials.

Within the Kinks-y blues music, swipes are taken at Kylie Minogue, John Peel and Tracy Emin: “I was asked to appear on Celebrity Big Brother/Only because I was some two-bit artists lover,” before explaining how his former Buff Medways were ‘proper’ punk-rock revered by Cobain and Jack White but ignored nonetheless.

He gets away with it though, thanks to lyrics such as this: “Rupert Murdoch rules the waves/Richard Branson doesn’t shave/Joe Strummer’s moulding in his grave,” - a treasure and observer of the worst injustices.

Two thumbs up for these.

Album Review. Jesu - Conqueror.

Metal can be beautiful. In the same way that say, a bulldog can. Not pretty, but beautiful. I’m thinking Isis mainly, when I say that, whom, fittingly, the main man here – metal legend Justin Broadwick – has recently remixed. It can also be extreme music, for sure. Violent, intrusive, totally bereft of any mass appeal, containing the ability to shatter any kind of peaceful sonic landscape.

This ‘ere Conqueror, by that there Jesu is a fairly relaxing affair, as it goes. The whole feel of the album is one of head-tired whimsy. The tight, intensity of the guitaring and the slow speed with which it all develops give it that certain ‘I must spend a bit of time with this record’ feel that draws you back to it over and over and over. In the most bizarre circumstances too. I never thought I’d find myself listening to epic metal in the bath, for instance.

It’s the bits other than the obvious that make this record great though. The vast soundscapes of ‘Weightless and Horizontal’; the electronic bleepery in the title track; the deserted breakdowns throughout; the obliterating heaviness of Brighteyes and the somehow ill-fitting, machine manufactured vocal in ‘Medicine’. Purists don’t like the vocal, apparently. Maybe that’s why I like it. I’ve not grown up with Broadwick. I’m aware of Napalm Death (former band) and their greatness, and I’ve tentatively heard of Godflesh (another former band), but they weren’t exactly the soundtrack to my teenage years.

Coming in at a later age then, my knowledge is belated. But the density, the endless hidden layers and the almost oppressive sadness that slowly embeds deep into my brain make this record at the very least - monumentally affecting; and at the most - a majestic piece of work.

Live Review. Figurines - Hoxton Bar & Grill - 26/2/07

The temptation to overdo things is too much for some. A little bit of this, here. A little bit of that, there. But sometimes, one must think to ones self: no need, there’s just no freakin’ need. However skilled we may be at the yielding of our sonic armoury, maybe we should just keep it simple. Not just do things because we can, but because they sound good. You get me? Course you do.

Arise the young, Danish, Figurines. Named the Figurines and Danish by birth, precisely, and oh my they excel at carving a tune. Simple, catchy, danceable and ever so loveable tunes. The tiny, fashionable Christian Hjelm leads proceedings like a talented farm boy, sick to the back of his ill-fitting tweed of the endless Nick Valensi domination on First Impressions Of Earth.

Five men yes, but each with a simple task. Frontman – singing, chords, occasional solo. Guitarist – chords, occasional solo. Bassist – bass. Drummer - drums. Keyboard/organist – keyboard/organ. They are an ode to simplicity, a master-class in understatement. The set is half an hour - they play nine songs. It’s all you need, no chance of boredom, a perfect preview of their skills.

Figurines appear like children deliberately deprived of prog-rock and jazz by two and half minute song loving parents, in order to produce the most intelligently un-adulterated pop music on the planet. And they fucking do. They’ve been doing it for ages too. The under-appreciation of this band is criminal. Although half full, the initially disinterested crowd can’t get enough. Surprised mutterings of, “that was bloody good actually,” fill the room. Third on the bill they were, third.

A travesty. Their album’s been out a while in the U.S see, but you can make them famous over here in March when they release Skeleton. With that title their genius is revealed. If one word describes them best, that is it – ‘skeleton’. Stripped down to the bones, the core structure remains. No flesh, no flab, no nothing, just everything that the rest is built on.

Less is more, people.

9/10

Live Review. The Hold Steady - Hoxton Bar & Grill - 15/2/07

The Hold Steady are ridiculous. They know what they love and they love it a lot. Feel good, old school American rock with a healthy splat of what use to be called heavy metal – Guns ‘n’ Roses, Motley Crue etc - but isn’t actually anything of the sort, is their tipple.

I would suggest that they also love, with undiluted homage, Bruce Springsteen. This then, was a very American sounding affair, so the venue – Hoxton Bar & Grill – was a suitably across-the-Atlantic-influenced hovel. The residents of which were a mixture of the middle aged and the long haired. Like I said - ridiculous. I felt like I was in a time warp.

Anyway, the scene is set, onto the music…

Keyboard backed, Les Paul rock riffs and elaborate solo’s were the main ingredient, covered often by Craig Finn’s highly distinctive and easily detestable speak/sing drawl. It’s big, it sounds dumb but it definitely isn’t, and Finn is without doubt one of the strangest front men I’ve ever witnessed.

Not a young man, naturally, but owning the traits of a weird child constantly and incessantly demanding attention. No doubt most performers crave this somewhat, but I’ve never seen it quite this blatant. It does somehow make him fairly likeable though, in a ‘bloody hell, he is enjoying himself’ type of way. You wouldn’t want to be his friend though. This band are quite probably a vehicle from which he can tell us about himself, which he does a lot, but crucially, he does it superbly.

They have crowd-pleasers galore. Their new record is a fun-time romp including Chips Ahoy and Southtown Girls which’re genuine anthems. These guys want big. Their music is massive, their skills are honed and they’re all wrong in a small venue. Their pure, unadulterated brand of power/sport rock is pretty much the antithesis of anything vaguely new wave or progressive, and it could, given half the chance, delight thousands upon thousands of people at a time, no problem. If you like that sort of thing.

Album Review. Murder By Death - Il Bocca Al Lupo.

Guns, tattoo’s, jail, brotherly love, Pirates, whisky and Satan cover a few examples of MBD’s subject matters. There’s no fucking around here. Not a woman or a whimsy in sight. This is balls out, beards at the ready, fags and booze close at hand rock. Man rock.

Not Foo Fighter, pointless, idiot rock; but a natural-progression-from-Johnny-Cash rock. Storytelling, not bad rhymes; intricate shanty’s, not repetitive power chords; sideburns and beards, not designer stubble.

A cynic may find them guilty of sailing too close to Cash’s line. Adam Turla’s voice is alarmingly similarly, one track holds the lyric, “sometimes you walk the line/sometimes the line walks you”, but it’s homage, not replication, and their world-weary charm carries them through.

I believe these guys can fight, and I believe they can drink, and until I’m proved otherwise, I’m in.

Album Review. Maria Taylor - Lynn Teeter Flower.

There’s something going on here. Uniformity isn’t necessarily needless but the ‘Creek are plugging it something rotten. Post Azure Ray and it’s as you were for Maria Taylor, albeit more along the Jenny Lewis lines.

Synthesised, sensitivity reigns supreme, and the, Rilo Kiley, god fearing hicks-but-not-actually-hicks vibe is abundant. If it ain’t broke don’t fix it could apply, but you have to grow, no? Flogging a dead horse and all that.

Problem is, this horse lives on. There’s beauty in Taylor’s vocals and it’s perfect self-deprecating ex-boyfriend/girlfriend music. Clean Getaway has ‘O.C. credits’ written all over it and the beats and melodies on Irish Goodbye will keep dirt and harmonies in vogue.

From that perspective it’s a success - but where’s the goddamn subversive-ness gone? The horse needs to die, then we can all start afresh.

Live Review. Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!/Cold War Kids - Shepherds Bush Empire - 13/02/07.

Big stages expose little bands. This is the kind of stage that would’ve embarrassed Clap Your Hands Say Yeah a year and an album ago. They were dwarfed in the tent at Reading last year. Growing into your size is crucial. Being thrown into venues you’re not ready for works for only a few, and for Cold War Kids, they fall into the majority.

Not that they didn’t try. They’re a decent band and all, but they filled half the stage and half the stage only. Granted the back half seemed to be largely rammed with the aforementioned headliners equipment, but even in their corner they looked scared. Then again, not being scared, would probably make them sub-human, or vastly arrogant, the latter of which they certainly are not.

I say that with conviction thanks to the nature of their songs. Sensitive American indie-rock it is on the whole – nothing knew there then – but it’s the use of bass and the vocal that seem to set them apart from other similarly ilked contemporaries. Nathan Willett’s squawling rasp sporadically filled the gaps left by the rest of the band. He flitted between instrument-less and standing frontman, in the middle of the stage, dominating; and sat in the corner, on his electric piano. Not shy and engaging, just shy. Step forward sir Willett and show us what you got.

But not to worry. Hang Me Out To Dry is a tune indeed and I bet I wasn’t the only punter chanting “too, too, too many times” on my way to a half-time toilet break. This show won’t damage their reputation. They were received well, they played their hearts out and indisputably they’re brimming with potential – expect them back in a venue such as this sometime soon.

Meanwhile, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah! seem to have become a rather large monster of a band. Dispute poor reactions to thier live gigs, and mixed indeed reviews of the album, they’ve crept up to selling out Shepherds Bush Empire. Perhaps if you have a sort of love-them-or-hate-them vibe to your support, the more the haters hate, the more the lovers love - and devotion follows. Love is infectious. Hate also, but less so.

On my previous witnessing of CYHSY I’ve been sorely disappointed. No voice, no oomph, no confidence, no nothing. Hear, today, on this big stage, in front of all these people, they’re a different band. Their sound is full, their dynamic immense. They rip, balls first, into Some Loud Thunder, first track on the new record, and it’s dazzling. The annoying fuzz is gone and it sounds crisp. Album highlight Satan Says Dance follows and confirms a number of things.

Firstly, that Alec Ounsworth is a mighty weird individual. In his grey shirt, cream waistcoat, flannel trousers, bizarre shoes and thin fuzzy hair he could pass for a quiet intellectual. A librarian perhaps. Put him on stage repetitively singing “satan, satan, satan, satan,” with his fabulously cracked vocal, over a destructively pulsating bass-line whilst powerful red lights pump out onto one and all, a different figure is presented.

With his strange wiggle and timid banter, an anti-star is developing. A true eccentric. Sure his voice is odd, but it’s grown. It fills the room and leads the party.

Somewhere along the line they’ve acquired hits. Is This Love? went down like it was Debaser, and the bizarre encore-beginner of “clap your hands, well I feel so lonely,” from the skewed intro of their debut was greeted like a sing-along classic.

How did this happen? From being a band that you tentatively offered to friends but no-one had ever really heard of and people just complained about the voice, they’ve become heroes – not just that, at long last, they can play. Finally then, their potential has been realised. This was good, very good.

Live Review. Field Music - A social club near Euston Station - January.

A social club could, in the right circumstances, be a perfect gig venue. Cheap beer, chairs, tables, pool table and so on. Distracting as they may all be, the vibe is guaranteed to have a certain relaxed tint to it.

On the other hand, it might mean that people who normally go to that social club every Friday night have been there since the early evening so the door-folk have stopped letting anyone in. This in turn means that half the people in the venue aren’t even there to see the band. Add on top of that the fact that this is an album launch and thus packed with journalists and industry workers, and you’ve got yourself some disinterested chatter.

Take into account now that social clubs don’t have the best sound-systems you’ve ever heard, that Field Music have only two members here tonight, and that they play twee indie-pop, and you probably have an inkling at the lack of intended audio experienced here.

Working-class ‘band of the people’ sentiments aside, gigs in social clubs are just fucking annoying.

Nonetheless, the first few rows seemed happy, and in front a garish gold curtain the two instrument swapping Sunderland-ers rolled out over an hour of catchy, quirky, well-written, nicely executed and genuinely intelligent one-guitar-and-a-drum-kit pop music. And from what I heard, it was pretty decent.

Album Review. Ladyfinger (ne) - Heavy Hands.

I’ve had a moment – ‘07 breakthrough number one. Gentle taps on my indie-rock shell it started as. “Fuck off,” I thought; but when the first brick fell, destruction of my cobwebs via a punk-rock executioner followed.

Brutal it was, as the ferocity of Ladyfinger (ne)’s politicised punk-rock opened a massive chasm of fresh air and had my ears fucking spasming they needed it so bad. Where the hell have I been?

Sure there are some stupid lyrics (no religion for the upper classes/all expenses paid, trip to nowhere) but the energy, the intense aggression, the tight, spiky leads, the monstrously obnoxious vocals and 10 tracks in 32 minutes has me hooked.

I can officially declare my hunt for decent yielding of Telecasters temporarily nulled, shout “fuck yeah” and get myself some more of this shit.

Live Review. Future Of The Left - 100 Club - 31st January.

Promotion eh? From the Luminaire, Barfly et al to the 100 Club in a couple of months, and what have they done to deserve it? Materially, not a lot. A single, a fine single but that’s it. Thing is with these dudes though, you know, you just know that they’d pull it off. Strong is their character, flawless their pedigree, intimidating their confidence.

“If you wanna press, press us; if you wanna go, let’s go.” Jesus, that’s aggression for ya. “Violence solved everything, violence she solved everything,” continued Andy Falkous. And therein lies the contradictory genius of him and his bands.Violence a she? Surely not. Piss-taking, cock-sure Welshman they are, but with the sharpest of tongues – women are always the most brutal.

Musically, they pulverise. The bass is heavy and ever so dirty, the guitars spiky and obnoxious and the vocals tremendous. Falco and Kelson Louis Tregurtha Mathias (which is at least the best name ever) are un-paralleled with their sheer watch-ability right now. Falco has this way of twitching whilst he’s riffing and smiling an enormous, demonic grin over toward Kelson as he skilfully brings his bass to climax whilst wearing a crap shirt and pouring with sweat.

Jack Egglestone on the sticks mustn’t be overlooked either. His off-kilter drive prevents their more basic of riffage descend into ‘just rock’. His mild Thom Yorke-ness (appearance wise) insures their edge is all-encompassing and their desire to be different and original undeniable. They are hidden gems. It’s criminal that this lot have day jobs, appalling that they don’t play every day and abominable that this was their first show in two months.

Justifying the 100 Club, on their fifteenth show, after a two month break? That’s bigger than Mclusky ever were, far bigger than Jarcrew. They’ll have an album out soon, then they’ll be flying. Hidden no longer – God willing.

Live Review. Redcarsgofaster/The Maple State/KBC - 15th January - Metro Club, London

Redcarsgofaster/The Maple State/KBC (High Voltage Sounds showcase)
15th January
Metro Club

January crowds man, bloody hell, they suck. I’m not exactly one for getting in the thick of things at the best of times, but usually there’s at least some idiots who jump around in the middle, on their own. Not today though, oh no. Metro club is bare and sparse of human life. Even those in attendance look jaded and shy. So much so that Redcarsgofaster singer/dancer James Summers beckons the crowd to come one step closer, to fill in the inexplicably bald arc that is sitting directly in front of the stage.

Which, graciously, they do. Another thing that signor Summers does and does well, is front an exciting, youthful, promising five-piece. They’re all iForward Russia! and Primal Scream-ey, complete with pumping drum and bassy under-drive (very danceable) and yelping-cum-shouting Bobby Gillespie-esque vocals.

The only trouble I have with these is that the rest of the music (guitars/keyboards) gets lost in a swirling ball of sound. There’s too many people, too many things going on. iForward Russia! are the same. I just can’t grip onto anything. It’s impressive and tight and sweaty and that, but also a confusing mess. To me, anyway. Potential - yes; can do better – I’m positive.

Onto The Maple State then. One less in numbers they are - being four friendly Mancunian youths playing crisp, Futureheads inspired, indie-pop. Pleasant it is too, if unremarkable. Again tight, again promising and with less going on than Redcars they’re easier to get to grips with - perhaps too easy. It’s a tad formulaic, but Gregory Counsell, singer/leader, is funny, handsome and effortlessly charming. Maybe this is the dependable antidote to the Pete Doherty led ‘will they/won’t they show’ mayhem. Jesus. I’d rather a crack-head.

Thank the Lord then for the KBC. Not crack-heads, I imagine, but a trio. Trio’s are always best. The evening has led up to this. Chop a few people out, get rid of the flab and what are you left with: three highly skilled musicians playing a frenetic, moody, sketchy and choppy brand of experimental indie rock. Explain experimental I hear you cry. Well, firstly - sporadic adaptation of Michael Brown’s drum kit from regular to electronic; secondly – frontman James Mulhollands ability to rip shreds into his little sampler desk plus his well-timed use of a megaphone; and thirdly – their willingness to use bass-or-guitar-only breakdowns in their songs. Chuck in good vocals and good songs and you’ve got yourself a winner.

High Voltage have uncovered a gem. They are a thrill, and refreshment indeed from a tired formula. I love this band. Mulholland see: dressed in black, cool haircut – check. Richard Ormerod on the bass: Adidas trainers, baggy jeans and a scruffy hoody. He’s a mess – but they look amazing. Substance over style see, not enough of that in London. Welcome then, Redcarsgofaster, The Maple State and KBC - our friends in the North.

Live Review. Murder By Death - Camden Barfly - 11th January.

Murder By Death ooze hard-man, tattooed, cowboy charm. They’re not as dirty as I’d imagined (although it’s pretty dark, and after being in the Barfly for an hour or so, everybody’s dirty) but every bit as manly. They look exactly like cigarette and alcohol ravaged young men should – beards, sideburns, check shirts, earrings, all the gear.

They hail from Indiana and, I imagine, are hard drinking under-achievers. They don’t give a shit, of course, because they’re pissed, hopefully, but they’ve two albums out already in the U.S see, while their pending third long-player, In Bocca Al Lupo, will be the first on general release in England from March.

Three albums right, that’s like six years of hard toil with very little international reward, which, on this performance, is gob-smacking. Their sound is immense. Three dudes play the drums and geetars whilst petite female Sarah Balliet’s attractive hacking at her cello makes up a whisky-drenched, wild west sound pounding below the impressively lithe Adam Turla’s tales of jail break, lost love, alien invasions and the apocalypse. Indiana, it seems, gives one plenty of time to ponder.

I was cynical at first, big time, because there’s a real Johnny Cash-ness to Turla’s voice. “Deliberate, surely” - was my initial reaction. “These blood-sucking bastards are milking the world-weary Americana vibe,” was the immediate follow-up. But I think perhaps I’ll put aside my barbaric loyalty after this live show. His voice is monstrous and true and after all, MBD are all about the loyalty. To friends, family, fans, anyone on a wavelength: “I know there’s better brothers/but you’re the only one that’s mine,” they boom on new single Brother. Their craft is in storytelling, and they create blood-smattered, sweaty, sand-worn-boots-in-a-saloon-bar yarns. Clint Eastwood wouldn’t be out of place in the crowd; The Good, The Bad and The Ugly is on repeat on the tour bus.

This, of course, is probably bullshit. Clint Eastwood, believe it or not, isn’t actually a cowboy, but when it matters, you trust him. Perhaps MBD drink Smirnoff Ice and watch romantic comedies, but the point is, like the greats, like Cash, Dylan and Waits, they tell stories that are believable. Yes I can believe that Turla’s brother was in jail, why the hell not? I’m being hasty and presumptuous lumping them in with those three, perhaps the three greatest of all song-writers, but they are of similar ilk, and it’s a damn fine ilk.

Album Review. Screaming Tea Party - Death Egg.

What a name - Screaming Tea Party. What a title – Death Egg. Can this fail to be brilliant? No. Hurrah! Right from the terrifying, menacing beginnings of Between Air And Air this six-tracker flits between brutality and sweetness like the two are intertwined – and the more I think about it, the more it makes absolute sense.

It’s the clown thing, the puppet thing, the fairground music thing, the child-catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang thing. Darkness hides in the most unlikely of sources - evil finds a home most prominently within innocence. Only one of these tracks exceeds 4.30 minutes and the simplicity of the chords dictates that it’s pop music, and it’s some of the most frighteningly original and skewed pop I’ve heard in a long time.

It comes as no surprise that there’s a female Japanese member in this three piece. Not to be sweeping or nothing, but there’s a cracking sickly/sweet hardcore scene seeping through our industry thanks to these dudes, and this lot, combining Japanese influence with a coupla’ East Londoners, have hit a magic formula.

The guitar solos are twisted, the chord changes simple, the vocals sometimes-male-sometimes-female and distorted, the flexibility impressive. The riffs are sometimes sweet, sometimes immense - Reckless Rabbit echoes Nirvana at their brutal best. There’s Jesus And Mary Chain and Velvet Underground in there too. How’s that for influences? That’s friggin’ perfect.

The bass is rampant throughout and seems to lie there, under the music, not too prominent but spine-crackingly effective. Like a shadow observed beneath you when you’re swimming in the sea, it’s terrifying without actually doing anything.

This is spot on. Spot the fuck on. These are easily the best wear-Nirvana-on-our-sleeve crew since God knows when. Nirvana’s greatest crime was the spawning of hours and hours of tedious crap. This hopefully, is about to change…

Album Review. Whirlwind Head - I Fucked Up Types Of Wood.

I’d never heard Whirlwind Heat before this, so to be presented with alternative versions of the songs from their third album made me question whether I was in fact the ideal fella to be doing this ‘ere review.

Sod it though eh? Treat an album on its merits and all that. Okay so I can’t comment on Whirlwind Heat’s creative journey up to this point, and I can’t begin to compare these songs to anything they’ve previously released, or indeed the songs that they are alternative versions of. What I can do though is say this: Kazoo’s, acoustic guitars and computer voices haven’t put me off wanting to hear more by these guys.

This album is most likely an experiment of sorts, sound-wise, but the lyrics are very good, I like the dudes voice and the structures are nice. Also, I can dig a bit of experimentation and they have a good name. One of their songs is called I Fucked Up Umbrella People, which makes me giggle like a twat every time.

Two Single Reviews. Tiny Masters Of Today - K.I.D.S... AND, Soho Dolls - No Regrets.

Tiny Masters Of Today
K.I.D.S
Tigertrap Records

Kids these days, bloody hell. They fucking rock! If I’d been making music like this before I’d hit puberty (or indeed, ever) God knows how I’d have turned out. It can’t be healthy, can it? Child stars never turn out okay.

Nonetheless, good press seems to follow these two, but I can’t help but feel their age may have something to do with it. This single is fine, and it’s noisy, and its kind of punk-rocky, but it’s pretty average. Its not particularly original or intelligent or nowt, and I hate to think people will just be oogling at heir youthfulness. Good luck to their carers and all that, but let’s just hope they don’t turn into some kind of freakshow. Two words: Michael… Jackson…


Soho Dolls
No Regrets
Filthy Pretty Records

“Hotter than your average bitch/flick on, flick off my switch.” Oo, dirty. Electronic too, two good things, very good. But somehow, this disappoints. It somehow drops short of what it could’ve been. Perhaps it’s the cheesy chorus, perhaps it’s that I just don’t believe the Soho Dolls. This is directionless, needless bottom-of-the-box fodder. It’s a radio edit too, but I’d be very surprised if I heard it on my, or any, transistor anytime soon.