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.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.
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