Murder Me Rachael - Tom Howard's blog.

Look at me, I'm a tough guy

2008-07-09T05:44:00.000-07:00

I've been fascinated by my appearance for a long time.

I was a vain teenager, for sure. I used to gel my hair, meticulously position my spikey quiff, agonise over my trainers, pray to God for some facial hair, spend absurd periods of time adjusting the 'hang' of my jeans and only wear jackets I could imagine Liam Gallagher in.

I'm sure you were the same.

But shortly after turning 18, a disastrous thing happened. I began to lose my hair. And when you're not unattractive but not the most attractive kid in school and fairly self-obsessed, this is literally the worst thing in the world.

I would hate to estimate the time I spent during my college and university years attempting to cover a receding hair line and a bald spot. I hated it, I had less hair than my dad, and I desperately wanted to hide it.

My first tactic was to grow an afro, which was pretty successful for a while. People that aren't balding are surprisingly ignorant to the key signs of hair loss, so no one seemed to notice. Or they didn't tell me. But long hair hides all, as myself and Andre Agassi proved.

But it only worked for so long, it became lank, and there were obvious gaps. And as is the way with premature balding, to stop myself looking like a middle aged man the hair got shorter and shorter.

Until, five years after the worst thing that ever happened to me happened to me, I starting sporting a skinhead. It was without doubt the most liberating day of my life.

I was no longer hiding anything. Gone was the fear of everybody uncovering my secret: I was laying myself bare. And because I'm still only a bit bald, not totally bald, loads of people think it's a lifestyle choice. And I love it.

But the strangest thing to happen when you get a skinhead, is people treat you differently. Such is the powerful symbolism of people with skinheads that the general public seem scared of you. The stereotype is alive and well. And I like that too.

People don't cross the road to avoid me or anything, but I definitely get less jip. My brother thinks I'm Mike Skinner, or Zane Lowe, or a tough guy. My gran thinks I'm a psychopath. Normal people just think I'm tough.

Sometimes I sport a beard, longer than my hair, and then I get even less jip. But the real influence of my appearance became prevalent in a swimming pool changing room yesterday. I was at my local, getting into my clothes, on my own, in the small room kept seperate from the main room. It's more pleasant.

In came a kid, of around ten, who took one look at me and walked out. He scampered up to his dad, and I heard him say: "I don't want to change in there daddy, there's a man with a skinhead."

Awesome.

Those pre-match Wimbledon interviews

2008-07-06T13:51:00.000-07:00

This article originally appeared here.

You know what I'm talking about.

That bit just before the players walk out on court where Gary Richardson sticks a microphone into a players face and asks them inane questions when the last thing in the world that the player wants to be faced with is inane questions.

It's dementing.

Firstly because the players won't talk. Why would they? Gearing up for the most important game in your entire career and you're asked how you're feeling. Er, DUH. Nervous, et cetera. Now I'm all up for real journalism and stuff, and getting in there when other people can't. But blood and stones spring to kind.

Secondly those interviews feel wrong. I don't want the BBC to be doing that for me. I want those players left the hell alone. They're too intrusive. No one is ever going to enlighten the viewer about how a professional tennis player actually feels before they walk out onto centre court because they're too worried about getting annihilated by Roger Federer, Rafael Nadal or a Williams sister. Ask any of those four and they won't talk because they're too worried about being annihilated by each other.

Thirdly, because of the above two reasons, they are universally rubbish. Answers like "I'll try my best" and "I'm pretty nervous" or "it's going to be tough" or "yes of course I'm looking forward to getting to the final" and "no, I actually don't think I have any chance of winning" and "yes, I really do think I can win Wimbledon one day" poor out of the poor athletes mouths as they fulfil a contractual obligation that ain't good for no one.

Still, the tournament as a whole was great and the final was phenomenal and it was fantastic to see Rafa Nadal win. Not only for the joy on the monster's face but it's good for the game isn't it? Yes it is. Unlike pre-match interviews.

Tom's magic bag

2008-07-01T14:38:00.000-07:00

A strange thing keeps happening.

I've got an Adidas rucksack. It's unremarkable: blue and white, rucksack shaped, holds things while I walk. Except what it also does when I walk, is open all by itself.

I've tried a number of things to prevent, and the one which proved most succesful was zipping the zip in such a way that both parts of the two-part zipper were tuked away at one end of the zip. And it worked, for ages. But then today, with a bag overladen more than usual, the rucksack came undone, twice in one twenty minute journey.

But the two strangest things about this debacle, is that in a period of around a year that it's been happening, not one thing has fallen out of it, and not one person has alerted me too it.

You'd think (wouldn't you?) that someone, somewhere in London, would tap me on the shoulder and warn me that all the belongings I am currently carrying are in danger of being scattered across the pavement and road never to be seen again. Or maybe I'm being naive and people are waiting behind me for stuff to fall out so they can pick it up and pocket it.

But I'm beginning to think the bag might be magic. Even when on my bike nothing has ever, ever, (it must have happened over ten times), ever fallen out, even with it wide open. I'm not sure which I find more disconcerting though, that people look at my precarious position and feel no need to act. Or that on my back I carry a magic holdall.

Something, someday, has to give.

Wimbledon: No Murray for me

2008-06-28T04:28:00.000-07:00

This article was originally published on www.4sportsake.com, to see: click.

I don't care that he's British, I don't care that he's our great white hope, I don't care that he's the most likely member of the home countries to be the first player to win Wimbledon for hundreds of years, or whatever. I don't like Andy Murray.

He seems a snarling, scruffy, ungrateful grump of man. Personality wise, he is to Tim Henman what Gordon Brown is too Tony Blair. And I had no particular affiliation to Tim 'Robinsons adverts' Henman either.

But why? I'm not a particularly avid patriot, but in almost all other sports I can get behind a Brit somewhere along the line. I think in individual sports, nationality matters less. Where they come from is irrelevant and it's personality more than anything that shines through.

Would you want to spend time with Murray or Henman? Probably not. With John McEnroe or Boris Becker? Probably. I could be completely wrong of course. Andy Murray might be the Stephen Fry of the tennis world and constantly regale me of stories from 'the tour'.

For now though, it will be the charmingly unpredictable giant Marat Safin and the rugged street fighting of Rafael Nadal that I'll be sporting, whilst hoping that one day British tennis gets a decent player with a big enough personality to go with their skills.

Cinematic knowledge: Fargo

2008-06-28T02:17:00.000-07:00

So I've seen the Big Lebowski and No Country For Old Men, which were the entirity of Joel and Ethan Coen knowledge.

In many ways titans of American film, 1996's Fargo is a two Oscar winning, multi Oscar nominated feature length depiction of the phrase 'desperate times call for desperate measures'.

William H Macy is Jerry Lundegaard, a nervous and insecure car salesman in lots of debt. He needs money, fast. So he hires two hitmen (Steve Buscemi and Peter Stormare)to pretend to kidnap his wife. They are to demand a ransom, which Lundegaards' wife's rich Dad is to cough up for, and Lundegaard is to pocket the remaining money, once the hitman have been paid off.

It goes wrong, of course. And people die, of course. Bu it's a curling, twisting and comic in a way that only watching a man lose first his dignity, and then everything else important to him in life can be.

The Coen's are so classy, though. And they make a hero of the small-town heavily pregnant policewoman Marge Gunderson (Frances McDormand) into a hero. But more poignantly, her simple approach to life, her persistent rather than killer questions, her love of roadside diners and all you can eat buffets and ending up the victor in the film, are an ode to good, honest living.

The script mocks hillbilly pronunciation and attitudes, but ultimately there seems to be a degree of respect paid to the virtues of living an honest life, without deception or deceit.

Working on a Saturday

2008-06-28T01:31:00.000-07:00

Working on a Saturday has its perks.

Or one, at least: the journey to work. Never are the roads quieter, the queues for ticket machines shorter, the trains more sparse, dustbin men more noticeable or the people stranger.

Because people really are strange. Usually walking down Pentonville Road involves flurries of people dodging, resisting full english breakfasts for under a fiver, but today I got to see a small, bald Asian man wearing Adidas tracksuit bottoms and a black cagoule kiss is hand, reach down and touch the pavement, draw and imaginary cross on his chest with his fingers and hop on the number 73.

Superstition, I don't know. But I stopped thinking about when a taster sized pot of Eton Mess - a mixture of fresh fruit, whipped cream and meringue - was put in my hand. It was good, and needed, and took the edge of the 0805 to Bedford, a train that always leaves five minutes earlier than advertised.

A point which the two all-in-black and dosing drunkards would've been entirely unaware. Monday to Friday the seats are home to free newspapers and overweight briefcase carriers. Once more, I was cheered by reprobates.

And they were friendly two, in their own way. "Where's this train going?", drunk man A demanded. "Bedford," the man opposite said. "Does it go to St Albans?", drunk man A persevered. "Yes," the man opposite said. "Have we missed it?", drunk man A wondered. "No," the man opposite said.

And with that, he got up, went to the toilet, and I didn't see him again for the rest of the journey. Leaving drunk man B to sit up, swap seats, locate his shoes and apologise.

Like learning to ride a bike

2008-06-26T07:28:00.000-07:00

This article was originally published on www.london-ers.com, to read it, click here.

London in the sun is parks, pools, cafes and fun. But rather than laze about and spend money on sun-cream and barbecues, Tom Howard and Morag Lyall took it upon themselves to get Morag on her bike and riding. Here's what happened on her first foray into two wheels, pedals and saddles...

There comes a time in every man’s life to impart wisdom. Even the most dim-witted of males have bits of knowledge to share to brothers, sisters, lovers or most commonly and certainly most dangerously, children.

Measuring wisdom is hard, but I would say I have moderate amounts. Measuring children is easier, and I have none. So the person responsible for soaking up my information, was my pal Morag Lyall.

Morag can’t ride a bike. And before we met on drizzly-cum-sunny afternoon in Victoria Park with my bicycle (Joseph), a swampy hillock, a hungry squirrel and some internet notes, she didn’t even know how to stay on one.

Teaching someone to ride needn’t be difficult, and there's an abundance of guidelines on the internet. After some browsing, I went for www.ibike.org for the approval of users and the simplicity of the approach. It's as step-by-step a process as following a recipe or putting together a flat packed wardrobe.

Most advice you’ll find is directed at adult teaching child. Morag is 24, and bigger than a child. People always say you learn things faster when you’re young, but I’ve long held the view that children are, largely, idiots. Morag proved me right.

Stage one: the bike

The bike the learner sits on should have a low saddle, enabling him or her to have their feet flat on ground when sat on the saddle. This offers them greater control when they are moving, and means they can put their feet down when scared.

Unfortunately for Morag, she was on Joseph. And with me being 6 foot tall and her considerably less, we had to construct a saddle on the metal, purple frame out of a wrapped up cardigan. Helmet on, shoelaces, jumpers and trouser tucked in, on we went…

Stage two: balance

Next, face the learner down a gentle hill of about 20 feet that flattens out or goes uphill slightly at the end. Get them to coast down it, in a straight line, with their feet an inch above the grass.

Balance is key on a bike. Stay on the thing, and you’ve half the battle won. “I used to be a ballerina,” Morag said. And within half an hour she was rolling without a wobble. “Weeeee!” she would yell while careering out of my view, but she seemed confident.

So we climbed the hill, and she coped with that too. So we went to a bigger hill. And this time, after coasting down the hill she would find the peddles.

Stage three: peddling

At first, the learner only needs to find the peddles, and rest their feet. As they feel more confident, you can encourage them to pedal. Morag was so good, that three goes in she was off. And we repeated the process until she was confident.

Stage four: add turning and braking

And Morag was so confident she started turning left and right independently. She would brake, hop off Joseph at the first uphill climb, grin and say: “This is so much fun.” I couldn’t help but agree.

Stage five: standing start

This time, hold the learners bike, place the peddle under their strongest leg, give them a push start and tell them to peddle.

This is where teaching people how to ride isn’t like you remember, or how it looks on the tele. My instructions told me very firmly to not, under any circumstances, do the running alongside shouting: “Daddy’s got you! Don’t worry, Daddy won’t let you fall!” It’s not constructive, it’s distracting, and in mine and Morag’s case, it would be weird.

But she got it, predictably quickly. We did it again to check it wasn’t a fluke. I assured her she’d done it all by herself (she really had), we high-fived and sent her darting over Victoria Park’s most challenging terrain: concrete paths, puddles and tramps.

Not on the road though: according to www.ibike.org, new cyclists can sometimes take two years to be ready for the road. But those instructions were for children. And as we’ve established, children are idiots.

Info:

Where to learn:

Contact the British Cycling Association on 0161 274 2000, and they can tell you about initiatives in your area, teaching kids and adults to ride bikes. It is often free, but sometimes a small fee is involved.

What you need:

A bike and a helmet: any local bike shop: £100 - £500 for the bike; £20 - £100 for the helmet. A large grassy area: free

Instructions/Contact:

www.ibike.org: for instructions on how to teach people to ride.

www.britishcycling.org.uk: for information on cycling in Britain.

Interview: Hercules and Love Affair

2008-03-13T14:49:00.000-07:00

Originally published for Gigwise, here.

There’s something different about Hercules and Love Affair. Take a look around and you’ll see that dance music has become pretty macho of late. Whatever sub-genre you take – indie crossover, dubstep, electronica, nu-rave, whatever – it’s all dominated my men.

Not only that, but it’s kind of lost it’s fun and it’s soul. You get fucked and you listen and you dance. It’s become mechanical and you can’t connect. Not like when Massive Attack’s ‘Unfinished Sympathy’ was about and you could feel it on your skin. That was seventeen years ago.

And no one’s really noticed. I sure has hell hadn’t. But Andrew Butler, head honcho of disco revivalists Hercules and Love Affair certainly had: “Dance music has become very impersonal. I’m fond of music that exists beyond serving the purposes of being the soundtrack for a car commercial. I’m interested in emotional music and I’m interested in people. I’d rather hear about a person than a computer.”

And an increase in women appearing on or cranking out the music could help serve that purpose. “Dance music totally needs more women in it. If it did I think it would be more emotive. It would resonate more with people, beyond lyrics and vocals. But even there, it would be wonderful if there were a whole new crop of female dance diva singers.

“There’s a machismo to DJ culture and dance music. It’s sort of aggressive. It’s less about emotional expression and more about sexiness and getting wasted and partying. It’s kind of such a bore.”

Hercules &Love Affair’s eponymous debut album was out last Monday (10 March) and is a cool ride through fresh versions of an underused dance genre – disco. But it’s unfair to pigeonhole them to disco. Some of the record is exceedingly camp (‘Hercules Theme’). But it flits from down-tempo old-school house music (‘Iris’), intricately experimental smoothness (‘Free Will’), to enormous, floor filling, emotive anthems (‘Blind’) and beyond.

‘Blind’ is the record’s lead single and features Antony Hegarty of Antony and the Johnsons fame. But it’s far from a cheap bringing in of a name vocalist to boost awareness. The track was recorded four years ago and it’s Hegarty’s best vocal performance. He sounds free, released from the heavy chains of his cripplingly introspective Johnsons.

But Hegarty is just one of Butler’s collaborator’s. The little known singer Nomi (male), and the acid-house DJ and singer Kim Ann (female) contribute heavily. And everyone involved in the album – including the producer, DFA’s Tim Goldsworthy – are pals. Butler: “It’s a collective endeavour to make fun dance music. When I first started writing I would write tracks and we would push one or other of our friends up against the microphone and we would get them to sing poems on the spot. That was maybe the prototype for what exists now.

“I became friends with Anthony maybe seven or eight years ago. He was all: ‘I’m a singer’, really casually. And I heard his album and was like” ‘Oh right, he’s just a singer’. He was so humbly conveying what his passion was, and we just bonded over shared musical interests

“He was there at the inception of H&LA. And it’s beautiful for me to realise my songs with the assistance of my friends.”

Butler thinks the four of them do a pretty good job of bridging the gap between dance music as fun but sounding like a computer. And dance music with an emotive and personal touch, preferably from a female – or at least female-like – source.

“I’m happy with the feminine voice that exists on my record. I’m proud of it, and I really sought that out on the record, I wanted people to feel that dance music could be really listenable and you could put it on and enjoy and you didn’t need to be a high on drugs or be in a proper nightclub to be moved by it or get it.

“It’s an extra level, it’s a very personal component to my album and a real emotional record.”

The soul on the record has a lot to do with where he’s coming from musically. The likes of Arthur Russell, Frankie Knuckles, Todd Terry: people able to inject high levels of personable verve into their music.

But the delicate touch and soft edge of the music comes from somewhere else. The band name is a reference to a Greek myth where the strongest man on earth – Hercules – loses his beloved. Butler is interested “in the idea of the strongest man being at his most vulnerable and the contradiction in that and the beauty in that.”

But his interest in Greek mythology stemmed from an obsession with his “patron godess” Athena. “As a kid I was a big mummy’s boy and I sort of likened her to my mother because she was a strong woman, a goddess of justice and war. But a just war, not just chaotic war: a woman of strategic war. The lyrics [in the song ‘Athena’] are about giving us a reason to fight for. It’s a feminist song. It’s basically a song about my mum.”

But I don’t want to leave you thinking that Butler and Hercules and Love Affair are some kind of girl power band. They are not, at all. And his appreciation of luscious sounds, beat build-up-drop-downs, synths, classic hooks, moments of self-control and originality are expert. Though it his appreciation of what a feminine voice brings to the record that is key to its success.

There’s sensitivity in his work that I hadn’t even noticed was missing in other dance music. But now I do, and it hurts.

Experience: Impaling one's ankle

2008-02-15T14:41:00.000-08:00

The most pain I have ever experienced was self-inflicted. It was the end of my degree and I was celebrating. We had gone out late and pubs were closed. I had been developing Irritable Bowel Syndrome throughout that year, and a rumble inside me warranted a desperate rush around town.

I had to find a hiding place. Behind a bin? Too obvious, too well lit. In Burger King? Closed. Under the shopping centre stairs? I have pride. Then I saw the fence, with the shaded solitude of grass behind it. I ran. The fence was five-foot high, but I was feeling cocky. I thought I could take it, and I wanted to be discreet.

I had cowboy boots on that evening. They were brown, pointed and fashionable in a Russell Brand, Pete Doherty way. I was going through a phase, you know. Anyhow, they had heels. They weren’t the kind of shoes you climb fences in. I did it anyway.

I pulled myself on top. I’ve been back since to see the beast that defeated me, and getting on it was achievement enough. The spikes pointing from it were long, sharp and black. They were so obviously there to prevent people from jumping over. I had my feet either side of one, with two other spikes either side of each foot.

I didn’t bother steadying myself - I was in a hurry. I jumped on and off without stopping in between. My right foot got stuck and I tripped. I fell headfirst and heard a crack as my right ankle took the impact of my body as it failed to reach the floor. I was hanging off the fence, held on by a spike that had impaled my ankle.

And I was soiled. It was hot, and sat in the seat of my pants. But by then, that was a side issue. I grabbed the fence and hooked my ankle off the spike in one of those moments where you acquire strength beyond your ability. I dropped to the floor and lay there. It was cold and hard, not grassy.

I was lying on a grave and I was in a graveyard. I wished I had just gone in the street. Sod public humiliation, it must be better than this. I crawled to the centre, out of public view. I stripped and cleaned myself, ignoring my ankle that was as limp as dead prey. I threw undergarments away, pulled my jeans back on and looked at my ankle.

I tried pulling my boot off, but there was no friction. When I forced my hand down the back and levered it, my ankle just gave way. I used both hands. One to keep my ankle steady, one to ease the boot off. It was like skinning a dead rabbit.

I took off my sock and saw the gash. My ankle was ruined. I attempted to stand but the pain made my eyes water. I was sure it was broken. I crawled back to the fence and lay on my back. I still have the boots. The upper of the right one was punctured and the leather inside is stained with blood.

I was cold and scared. Not wearing a coat was a poor decision. People walked past the graveyard and I lay there quietly, hidden by darkness and embarrassed. I didn’t cry, but I was shaking with shock. I had my hands over my face, while I breathed deeply and worked out what to do. There was no way to get out. I was trapped. And I couldn’t stop being annoyed that I wasn’t going to be able to go on holiday.

I called 999 and chose ambulance. I explained myself and waited. First to arrive were two police officers – one male, one female - shining a torch in my face. They were checking I was for real, that I wasn’t just some junky. I told them the story, including the root of my shame. The policeman, initially sympathetic, looked at me and said: “This gets better and better.” They gave me a blanket and I was grateful.

Next to arrive was the fire brigade. They were wearing all the gear: hats, coats and boots. The graveyard, next to a church, gets bolted at night. So they had to cut me out. They kept saying: “You’ll have to pay for that bolt,” and asked my address. I gave it.

Then the ambulance came with a stretcher. The relief I felt turned sour when they stopped at the edge of the graveyard. They didn’t want to step on the graves. I crawled, carrying a cowboy boot, to the stretcher. They helped me on, I told them what happened and they were sympathetic.

In hospital I was put in a wheelchair in the waiting room. I was sat in my own shit, so I didn’t smell great. And I sat there, in my chair, bleeding onto the floor. I was given a painkiller but I kept groaning with pain and biting my tongue as a distraction.

I was x-rayed, stitched up and sent away in a taxi. I had to pay. I got home and had a bath. My ankle wasn’t broken, but I severely ruptured my ligaments. I was on crutches for a month and used a walking stick for another. I haven’t climbed a fence since. I tried, once, and got nervous and almost fell off.

At my graduation I had to hobble across stage – wearing the cowboy boots - in front of my year to collect my scroll and shake Neil Kinnock’s hand. For a couple of months I was isolated, holed up like a cripple. I have never felt more empathy than I did that summer for those unable to walk.

Bone Thugs 'N' Harmony

2008-01-29T01:47:00.001-08:00

Sam Allardyce might have been expelled from St James' Park, but all of his bad signings remain. Most notably, the ones with dodgy disciplinary records. I'm talking Joey Barton and Alan Smith, mainly.

By all accounts Alan Smith is a gentleman of the highest degree off the pitch, but on the pitch, he's an animal. Joey Barton is a tough guy, with no fear of getting aggressive in any given situation.

So who do the board bring in? Without even consulting Kevin Keegan? To oversee transfers, youth development and scouting? Of course! The man that once attacked a taxi driver with a brick and was no angel when in his football kit - Dennis Wise.

Now don't get me wrong, I quite like Dennis Wise, and his managerial record with Millwall and Leeds is decent. But he is a bit of thug. He's not delicate. And it sems that bringing him in will just be fighting fire with fire, no?

Wise, apparently, will have no involvement in the first team, that will be left to Keegan. And he is in fact what used to be known as a 'general manager'. And I think it would be genuinely farcical to suggest he will be to Keegan what Avram Grant was to Jose Mourinho, but on a few levels, the appointment seems bizarre.

Then again, I'd expect nothing less from the ever entertaining Toon army.

Comedy: Demetri Martin

2008-01-27T14:36:00.000-08:00

This article originally appeared on the Such Small Portions website, here.

Demetri Martin - These Are Jokes (Comedy Central Records)

Demetri Martin is a very natural comedian. He looks and sounds very honest, in his simple clothes, a self-confessed “gay Beatles” haircut and a youth defying his thirty-five years.

He’s a Greek lad raised in New Jersey, and he’s really smart. He’s won awards and contributes for The Daily Show. His stand-up consists largely of deadpan one-liner, but his real talent lies in the different ways he brings them all to life.

Admirably on These Are Jokes, there’s a CD and a DVD, containing mostly different materials. The DVD is taken from a 2004 Comedy Central special where he uses David Shrigley like animations and a deliberately amateurish stage show including his Mum and Grandma to give his jokes new life. It works impressively.

On the CD, recorded in Chicago, he uses guests – Leo Allen and Will Forte – and song. Best of all is Sames And Opposites, sung in a moody Leonard Cohen style, including being impressively lyrical. “Earrings are the same as sneezes, two is okay, but ten is annoying”; “A squirrel is the same as a can, when there’s a bb gun in my hand”; Saying ‘sorry’ and ‘I apologise’ is the same, except when you’re at a funeral.”

The world he creates is admirable. He’s not particularly political of philosophical, or even deep. This is almost certainly deliberate. He strips things down his observations to well thought out surrealism: “I bet drowning is a really horrible experience, unless right before that you’re really thirsty. That’s why when I go out on the water I take a life jacket and a bag of potato chips. I wanna go out quenched.”

On the DVD there are clips of early gigs. One where he has a beard, plays a yo-yo and rides a unicycle, the other where he’s short haired, awkward and in a plain, grey sweatshirt. They just go to show how far he’s come. He is slick and masterful in his audience control. He is quiet and unenergetic enough to demand close attention to his words, meaning the smallest look, frown or smile is funny.

He slips easily from the banal: “If I have the choice between and escalator and an elevator, I always take the elevator. I tripped on an escalator once and fell down the stairs for an hour and a half”; to sociology: “Camouflage clothing is great when you’re in the woods and you want to blend in; when you’re in the city, it’s like: there’s an asshole”; to death: “Batteries are the most dramatic of objects. Everything else breaks or stops working. Batteries die.”

In short, the man’s impressive. Ambidextrous in the extreme, he uses his skills well, Bill Bailey like musicianship combining with his Woody Allen like observations. He’s also incredibly funny. “I think they named oranges before they named carrots,” being

Top 6 Burning Effigies

2008-01-11T14:56:00.000-08:00

I compiled this list for the February issue of All Out Cricket magazine, it;s relatively amusing...

1 - Darrell Hair Vs Pakistan - Lahore, Pakistan 2006

Being called a cheat isn’t cool. But on day four at The Oval of Test four in a five Test series against England, that’s exactly what happened to Pakistan in an incident dubbed by Imran Khan as “the biggest crisis in Test cricket history”.

Australian umpire Darrell ‘controversy’ Hair and fellow man-in-the-middle, West Indian Billy Doctrove, decided the match ball had been tampered with and blamed the bowling side, Pakistan.

England were given 5 runs and a replacement ball. Play continued until tea, after which a defiant Inzamam-Al-Huq refused to bring his side back out.

Too much time went past, the umpires awarded the match to England and chaos ensued. Amidst accusations of racism levelled at Hair and allegations of bad sportsmanship directed at the Pakistani’s, everyone got involved.

Michael Atherton criticised Hair, Nasser Hussain sided with Inzy, and Steve Waugh supported the umpires.

Needless to say, Hair not Doctrove was the umpire that made the decision that day and effigies of him as the Michelin man wearing a sun hat were burned on the streets of Lahore. More inventive than most, it must be said.

The ICC banned Hair from umpiring international matches and the Pakistani side were cleared of cheating, but Inzy was charged with bringing the game into disrepute and banned for four ODI’s.

Simply put it was a mess, a farce and a debacle that could have been avoided.

2 - Greg Chappell Vs Sourav Ganguly - Kolkata, India, 2005/6

Cricket players in India are national heroes. Mess with them and you mess with the whole country. Greg Chappell found this out the hard way.

Appointed coach of the Indian side in 2005, Chappell went about business with an out-with-the-old, in-with-the-new attitude. VVS Laxman was dropped and Suresh Raina and Venugopal Rao were brought in. At this point Sourav Ganguly was serving a 4-match ban and unavailable for selection.

On his return, he was reinstated for a tour of Zimbabwe. But poor form, inter-team tensions and a leaked email from Chappell saying Ganguly was unfit to lead the team set the ball rolling.

Harbajan Singh’s subsequent public criticism of Chappell resulted in a gagging order for the whole team. Then the whites really hit the fan.

In late 2005 Chappell removed Ganguly as captain, replaced him with Rahul Dravid and dropped him from the ODI team. In early 2006 he was dropped from the Test team too.

India went mental. Effigies of Chappell were burned in Ganguly’s hometown of Kolkata and the issue made it into Parliament.

Ganguly was recalled later that year because of injuries, but dropped again. There was more fire and protests in Calcutta, including a blockading of rail transport in Bengal.
Chappell left his position in April 2007, and Anil Kumble is the current Test captain.

3 - Dhoni, Dravid, Sehwag Vs India - India, 2007

Cricket is just a game right? Right. Some things are more important than cricket right? Right. Not if you’re Indian. Cricket is everything. Life, death and gambling. Everything.

So you can imagine the pressure on the players when a World Cup happens. And you can imagine the kind of reaction you get if you don’t do quite live up to expectations.

Actually, you probably can’t. After a poor display by India in the 2007 World Cup including a five-wicket mauling by Bangladesh, no one and nowhere was safe. Effigies of Rahul Dravid, Virender Sehwag, Harbajan Singh and the previously sacred Sachin Tendulkar were all set alight.

But Mahendra Dhoni, out for a duck against Bangladesh, got it worst. Effigies, obviously, were torched. Plus his new house being built in Ranchi, East India was attacked by Jharkhad Mukti Morcha activists.

The boundary wall was destroyed, mock funerals for the players were held and the activists demanded that the house, a gift from the government, was given back. It wasn’t.

The other players had government troops protecting their homes to prevent similar ordeals. And you thought you were passionate.

Most disturbing were angry fans chanting: “Dhoni die, die”, and complaints from the lion-haired wicketkeeper-batsman’s distraught mother who told journalists: “People do not have sportsman’s spirit.” Indeed.

4 - Habibul Bashar Vs Bangladesh - Bangladesh, 2007

In the effigy burning world, news takes on a whole different complexion. And you may have noticed a recurrent them in our list: they are all in India and Pakistan.

So you can imagine the kafuffle when in April this year the Bangladeshi’s got in on the act. Fire spreads.

Even after beating India in the 2007 World Cup group stages, consecutive defeats to Australia (acceptable, surely) and New Zealand, ensured that captain Habibul Bashar got the petrol doused street protest treatment.

But wait. It wasn’t uncontrollable, cricket mad rabbles or desperate gamblers doing the idol burning, no. It was students at Dhaka University. Not your average protest, to be sure.

But the setting alight of the most successful captain in Bangladeshi cricket’s history sent out one very clear message: no one is safe. On the other hand it was a sign that Bashar had hit the big time, so pro’s and cons.

5 - Chris Broad Vs Sourav Ganguly - Kolkata, India 2006

The controversial umpire and father of Stuart had a trail of destruction leading up to the one that got him a spot on our list.

Having reported Muttiah Murilitharan once and Harbajan Singh twice for chucking their ‘doosras’, he also got cross with Shoaib Akhtar and Inzamam-Al-Huq, on separate occasions, for excessive appealing.

But it was his six-match banning of Sourav Ganguly for his Indian sides slow over rate that really made him some enemies. And he got the full works in Kolkata where a full size model of Broad was ignited.

Justified or not, it didn’t make him a popular man in India. Indeed, Sambit Bal, editor in chief of Wisden Asia said: “Broad has come to be hated in India, where people think of him as an officious, meddling sort of chap.” Blimey.

6 - Mike Denness Vs India - Port Elizabeth, 2001

There is a school of thought that says if you’re going to upset the Indian cricket team, and their fans, you may as well do it properly. English umpire Mike Denness is the headmaster of this school.

In a Test match between India and South Africa in November 2001 in Port Elizabeth in South Africa, he imposed punishment on no less than six Indian players. Yes, six.

Harbajhan Singh, Shiv Sundar Das, Deep Dasgupta and Virender Sehwag were all given a one-match ban for excessive appealing. Sourav Ganguly was banned for a match for failing to control his players’ behaviour, whilst Sachin Tendulkar was banned for one game for ball tampering, or “acting on the ball”.

Obviously, mayhem followed. Denness was branded ‘Denness the Menace’ by the Indian media, and a straw effigy of him astride a mule was paraded along the streets of India, receiving the inevitable flaming shortly afterwards.

Amidst accusations of racism it was demanded by both the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) and the South African cricket board that Denness not be allowed to referee the following two Tests. Their wish was granted.

The Test he had umpired was reduced to a “friendly five day match” and the series limited to the two remaining tests, which Dennes wasn’t even allowed into the venues for and South Africa won 1-0.

Denness was remarkably philosophical about the events: “If Tony Blair and George Bush have had effigies burned then I’m in good company.” Turning a negative, into a positive; very Eastern, ironically.

FOOD

2008-01-10T10:35:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, I write about food too.

Click here to see a feature getting predictions from top chefs on who may or may not be on the Michelin radar when the results come out in January.

It was published in the January 3rd 2008 issue of Caterer and Hotelkeeper magazine.

SPORT

2008-01-02T15:37:00.000-08:00

Sometimes (often) I write about sport for www.4sportsake.com. It's a funky little blog with a mixture of professional and non-professional journalists giving their opinions on some very interesting matters in the world of sport.

Click here and you'll see what i've written. It features such highlights as fetishising Ronnie O'Sullivan, damning Liverpool and Rafa Benitez, and predicting the crumbling of Phil 'the power' Taylor's domination of darts.

As if that wasn't enough, you'll also get comments on cricket and the sports personality of the year.

You lucky people.

Alela Diane - The Purcell Rooms 11/10/07

2007-12-15T05:50:00.000-08:00

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)

2007-12-02T12:08:00.000-08:00

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

2007-12-02T11:57:00.001-08:00

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)

2007-08-21T07:55:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-04-14T13:57:00.000-07:00

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

2007-04-14T13:53:00.000-07:00

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

2007-03-25T11:49:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-03-20T09:12:00.001-07:00

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.

2007-03-13T08:25:00.000-07:00

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...

2007-03-02T07:53:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-03-02T07:52:00.000-08:00

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

2007-03-02T07:49:00.000-08:00

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

2007-03-02T07:44:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-02-18T07:02:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-02-18T07:01:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-02-18T06:51:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-02-18T06:48:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-02-18T06:46:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-02-18T06:45:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-16T04:15:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-01-15T04:41:00.001-08:00

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.

2007-01-15T04:41:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-01-15T04:40:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-01-15T04:37:00.000-08:00

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.

Interview. James Summers from Redcarsgofaster.

2006-12-18T06:37:00.000-08:00

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.

Live Review. Future Of the Left - London Luminire - December 1st.

2006-12-13T03:49:00.000-08:00

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…

Live Review. I Was A Cub Scout - 93 Feet East - 28th November

2006-12-13T03:48:00.000-08:00

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.

Live Review. Good Shoes - Kings College London - 27th November

2006-12-13T03:43:00.000-08:00

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.

Some Short Reviews. Rose Kemp - A Handful Of Hurricanes (Album) ...and... Grace/Boy Kill Boy/365/The Little Ones/Ripchord/Jeremy Warmsley (Singles)

2006-12-13T03:34:00.000-08:00

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.

Album Review. Richard James - The Seven Sleepers Den.

2006-12-13T03:33:00.000-08:00

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.

Two Short Reviews. Good Shoes - The Photos On My Wall (Single) ...and... Psychic Ills - Early Violence (Album).

2006-11-12T16:57:00.000-08:00

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.

Album Review. Thunderbirds Are Now! - Make History.

2006-11-12T16:54:00.000-08:00

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.

Live Review. Tapes 'n' Tapes - Kings College London - Wednesday 8th November 2006.

2006-11-12T16:49:00.000-08:00

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.

Extended Album Review. Yo La Tengo - I'm Not Afraid Of You And I Will Beat Your Ass.

2006-11-12T16:47:00.000-08:00

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.

Single Review. Sparklehorse - Don't Take My Sunshine Away.

2006-10-29T14:53:00.000-08:00

‘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.

Single Review. Babyshambles and Friends - Janey Jones.

2006-10-29T14:48:00.000-08:00

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.

Album Review. Battle - Back To Earth.

2006-10-29T14:42:00.000-08:00

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.

Album Review. The Long Blondes - Someone To Drive You Home

2006-10-29T14:02:00.000-08:00

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.

Album Review. Various - 30 Years Of Rough Trade

2006-10-29T13:57:00.000-08:00

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.

Album Review, version 2. The End Of The World: You're Making It Come Alive.

2006-09-12T15:24:00.000-07:00

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’.

Album of the day/week/month/year/decade...Neutral Milk Hotel: In the Aeroplane Over The Sea.

2006-09-02T11:14:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-02T11:04:00.000-07:00

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.

Album review. Casiotone For The Painfully Alone: Etiquette

2006-08-15T16:04:00.000-07:00

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.

Album Review. They Shoot Horses: The Boo Hoo Hoo Boo Album.

2006-08-15T16:03:00.000-07:00

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.

Album Review. Tapes n' Tapes: The Loon

2006-08-15T16:00:00.000-07:00

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”.

Benicassim FIB Heineken Festival 2006 Review.

2006-08-15T15:58:00.000-07:00

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.

Testing testing, one two, one two.

2006-08-08T07:43:00.000-07:00

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.