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?
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Album Review. Viking Moses - Swollen & Small.
Neutral Milk Hotel are one of the most overlooked bands of the last ten years. Led by the exceptionally talented and now very low key Jeff Mangum, they were seemingly loved only by those who knew a thing or two. A hidden gem, waiting to be uncovered. Which, if you haven’t – yet - you should do - now.
Viking Moses – Brendon Massei, mainly - are even less well known. Quite what the point is of this venture (Viking Moses doing songs by Neutral Milk Hotel) with pals Steve Gullick and The Virgin Passages, is debatable. They’re not exactly bringing NMH to a wider audience.
So a personal project doubling up as a prelude to the re-issue of NMH’s debut record - On Avery Island - seems the most likely explanation. Massei proclaims Mangum his greatest influence. Covering him then, was probably a pleasure.
Not that you’d know it. For there are only four songs here (three from On Avery Island, one from second record In The Aeroplane Over The Sea) and all but one are from the gloomier, death obsessed and more abstract side of the back catalogue. NMH were never exactly happy, but miserable people have levels of miserable-ness - and this is pretty fucking miserable.
First off, the originally vaguely high tempo-ed opener “You’ve Passed” is turned from the fuzzy, folky twang it once was into a much slower, shorter, acoustic model. The vocals pretty much just imitate, but the lack of background noise means greater emphasis is put on the skewed vocal melodies disguised in the prototype.
Much the same is achieved with second track “Gardenhead/Leave Me Alone”: fuzz reduced, melodies exposed and the energy flattened. Instead of the lively, rolling riff of the original, the guitar track is reduced to a repetitive garden-shed clunking. And again, the lack of noisy accompaniment highlights the bizarre, dreamy lyrics. Check these baby’s out: Leave me alone, for you know this isn't the first time/In fact this is twice in a row /That the angels have slipped through our landslide/And filled up our garden with snow/And I don't wish to taste of your insides /Or to call out your name through my phone. It’s not exactly 9-til-5 lamenting.
“Where You’ll Find Me Now” is a fairly straightforward cover of a fairly straightforward NMH song (it’s relative, obviously, none of it is that straightforward). But the same can’t be said for “Holland 1945” - the solitary track from the In The Aeroplane Over The Sea album.
Viking Moses take it from what was essentially a punky, pop song based around an obsession with Anne Frank and stretch it out into a stringy, pingy, hillbilly Americana number complete with backing vocals and a distant harmonica. It - and all these songs - is much sadder than the original.
One thing to be taken into account with Mangum is that he’s a song-writer of the Jeff Buckley, Bob Dylan ilk. Not in sound, at all, but in that his creations have no ‘way’ to be played. Everything is open to interpretation.
Key lyrics, special notes, rhythms and structures. Mangum himself played around incessantly. Massei then, is simply offering us his interpretations. I hope for his sake he’s not always in this mood, for that would be a dark place indeed. Instead I’m going to imagine these people, just doing their thang, and not really giving a fuck if anybody likes it or not. It’s not essential, but it’s a great collectible.
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.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Live Review. Los Campesinos - The Spitz - 5/3/07.
Los Campesinos means “The Peasants” in Spanish. This is weird, sort of, but emulates the vibe flowing through these - a kind of forced wackiness that entertains. That name means nothing, probably, but it made me laugh and they’re such a crazy bundle of charming, innocent abandon that you can’t help but enjoy them.
Seven students at Cardiff University they are. Seven. Everything about this lot screams ‘out of the ordinary’, and their sound refreshingly follows suit. If you’re going to be a bit zany/off-kilter/left-of-centre, you may as well go the whole hog.
Here, tonight, at the Spitz, they totally swamped the stage and were all over the bloody place at times, but they managed to never sound bad. There’s a kind of jangly riot feel to the whole thing - if someone fucks up, someone else will sort it out. They are strange, and difficult to pin down, and that is a good thing. They love Pavement, for sure, but the rest…
They use triangles and other such twee percussive instruments. They chat torrents of shite between songs including an explanation of why they shout: “Don’t read Jane Ayre” in Please Don’t Tell Me To Do The Math(s). It transpires the dude, Gareth Campesinos, hasn’t even read her and wants us to treat it as a throwaway comment – so we do. So gentle and polite are these folk, you have to obey.
They have fast, jangly, danceable riffs; they have a ballad; they have men, women, a whole bunch of people ready to love them and lyrics like: “I’m sticking your fingers into sockets/to kick-start your little heart.” Their single - We Throw Parties, You Throw Knives - is a quickly spat tale with quirky, fit-in-as-many-as-you-can man-sung lyrics and sweet girl-sung melodies. They are a gloriously young and fascinating pop band.
These are nice, intelligent people intent on doing something different and doing it well. God knows how they’ll make any money with seven of ‘em but that’s beside the point – you bloody capitalists you. Los Campesinos sold out The Spitz after one single. They are rising fast - catch them while you can.
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.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Album Reviews (TWO!!). See Below...
Holly Golightly & The Brokeoffs
You Can’t Buy A Gun When You’re Crying
Wild Billy Childish & The Musicians Of The British Empire
Punk Rock At The British Legion Hall
Holly Golightly - Capote invented, Hepburn immortalised – excels in re-hashing a distinguished past. Playing country and bluegrass music with The Brokeoffs (one Texan – Lawyer Dave) she becomes a mystical, saddening presenter of deepest, darkest American heartache.
Train sounds and softened electro-acoustic guitars keep the dream (nightmare) alive whilst stories of firearms, relatives lost and god-fearing paranoia ensure an authentic, uber-listenable, ‘inevitable-bad-ending’ drama. Check the amazing album title too.
Childish shares none of these concerns, remaining a self-referential puritan ever keen to promote his credentials.
Within the Kinks-y blues music, swipes are taken at Kylie Minogue, John Peel and Tracy Emin: “I was asked to appear on Celebrity Big Brother/Only because I was some two-bit artists lover,” before explaining how his former Buff Medways were ‘proper’ punk-rock revered by Cobain and Jack White but ignored nonetheless.
He gets away with it though, thanks to lyrics such as this: “Rupert Murdoch rules the waves/Richard Branson doesn’t shave/Joe Strummer’s moulding in his grave,” - a treasure and observer of the worst injustices.
Two thumbs up for these.
You Can’t Buy A Gun When You’re Crying
Wild Billy Childish & The Musicians Of The British Empire
Punk Rock At The British Legion Hall
Holly Golightly - Capote invented, Hepburn immortalised – excels in re-hashing a distinguished past. Playing country and bluegrass music with The Brokeoffs (one Texan – Lawyer Dave) she becomes a mystical, saddening presenter of deepest, darkest American heartache.
Train sounds and softened electro-acoustic guitars keep the dream (nightmare) alive whilst stories of firearms, relatives lost and god-fearing paranoia ensure an authentic, uber-listenable, ‘inevitable-bad-ending’ drama. Check the amazing album title too.
Childish shares none of these concerns, remaining a self-referential puritan ever keen to promote his credentials.
Within the Kinks-y blues music, swipes are taken at Kylie Minogue, John Peel and Tracy Emin: “I was asked to appear on Celebrity Big Brother/Only because I was some two-bit artists lover,” before explaining how his former Buff Medways were ‘proper’ punk-rock revered by Cobain and Jack White but ignored nonetheless.
He gets away with it though, thanks to lyrics such as this: “Rupert Murdoch rules the waves/Richard Branson doesn’t shave/Joe Strummer’s moulding in his grave,” - a treasure and observer of the worst injustices.
Two thumbs up for these.
Album Review. Jesu - Conqueror.
Metal can be beautiful. In the same way that say, a bulldog can. Not pretty, but beautiful. I’m thinking Isis mainly, when I say that, whom, fittingly, the main man here – metal legend Justin Broadwick – has recently remixed. It can also be extreme music, for sure. Violent, intrusive, totally bereft of any mass appeal, containing the ability to shatter any kind of peaceful sonic landscape.
This ‘ere Conqueror, by that there Jesu is a fairly relaxing affair, as it goes. The whole feel of the album is one of head-tired whimsy. The tight, intensity of the guitaring and the slow speed with which it all develops give it that certain ‘I must spend a bit of time with this record’ feel that draws you back to it over and over and over. In the most bizarre circumstances too. I never thought I’d find myself listening to epic metal in the bath, for instance.
It’s the bits other than the obvious that make this record great though. The vast soundscapes of ‘Weightless and Horizontal’; the electronic bleepery in the title track; the deserted breakdowns throughout; the obliterating heaviness of Brighteyes and the somehow ill-fitting, machine manufactured vocal in ‘Medicine’. Purists don’t like the vocal, apparently. Maybe that’s why I like it. I’ve not grown up with Broadwick. I’m aware of Napalm Death (former band) and their greatness, and I’ve tentatively heard of Godflesh (another former band), but they weren’t exactly the soundtrack to my teenage years.
Coming in at a later age then, my knowledge is belated. But the density, the endless hidden layers and the almost oppressive sadness that slowly embeds deep into my brain make this record at the very least - monumentally affecting; and at the most - a majestic piece of work.
This ‘ere Conqueror, by that there Jesu is a fairly relaxing affair, as it goes. The whole feel of the album is one of head-tired whimsy. The tight, intensity of the guitaring and the slow speed with which it all develops give it that certain ‘I must spend a bit of time with this record’ feel that draws you back to it over and over and over. In the most bizarre circumstances too. I never thought I’d find myself listening to epic metal in the bath, for instance.
It’s the bits other than the obvious that make this record great though. The vast soundscapes of ‘Weightless and Horizontal’; the electronic bleepery in the title track; the deserted breakdowns throughout; the obliterating heaviness of Brighteyes and the somehow ill-fitting, machine manufactured vocal in ‘Medicine’. Purists don’t like the vocal, apparently. Maybe that’s why I like it. I’ve not grown up with Broadwick. I’m aware of Napalm Death (former band) and their greatness, and I’ve tentatively heard of Godflesh (another former band), but they weren’t exactly the soundtrack to my teenage years.
Coming in at a later age then, my knowledge is belated. But the density, the endless hidden layers and the almost oppressive sadness that slowly embeds deep into my brain make this record at the very least - monumentally affecting; and at the most - a majestic piece of work.
Live Review. Figurines - Hoxton Bar & Grill - 26/2/07
The temptation to overdo things is too much for some. A little bit of this, here. A little bit of that, there. But sometimes, one must think to ones self: no need, there’s just no freakin’ need. However skilled we may be at the yielding of our sonic armoury, maybe we should just keep it simple. Not just do things because we can, but because they sound good. You get me? Course you do.
Arise the young, Danish, Figurines. Named the Figurines and Danish by birth, precisely, and oh my they excel at carving a tune. Simple, catchy, danceable and ever so loveable tunes. The tiny, fashionable Christian Hjelm leads proceedings like a talented farm boy, sick to the back of his ill-fitting tweed of the endless Nick Valensi domination on First Impressions Of Earth.
Five men yes, but each with a simple task. Frontman – singing, chords, occasional solo. Guitarist – chords, occasional solo. Bassist – bass. Drummer - drums. Keyboard/organist – keyboard/organ. They are an ode to simplicity, a master-class in understatement. The set is half an hour - they play nine songs. It’s all you need, no chance of boredom, a perfect preview of their skills.
Figurines appear like children deliberately deprived of prog-rock and jazz by two and half minute song loving parents, in order to produce the most intelligently un-adulterated pop music on the planet. And they fucking do. They’ve been doing it for ages too. The under-appreciation of this band is criminal. Although half full, the initially disinterested crowd can’t get enough. Surprised mutterings of, “that was bloody good actually,” fill the room. Third on the bill they were, third.
A travesty. Their album’s been out a while in the U.S see, but you can make them famous over here in March when they release Skeleton. With that title their genius is revealed. If one word describes them best, that is it – ‘skeleton’. Stripped down to the bones, the core structure remains. No flesh, no flab, no nothing, just everything that the rest is built on.
Less is more, people.
9/10
Arise the young, Danish, Figurines. Named the Figurines and Danish by birth, precisely, and oh my they excel at carving a tune. Simple, catchy, danceable and ever so loveable tunes. The tiny, fashionable Christian Hjelm leads proceedings like a talented farm boy, sick to the back of his ill-fitting tweed of the endless Nick Valensi domination on First Impressions Of Earth.
Five men yes, but each with a simple task. Frontman – singing, chords, occasional solo. Guitarist – chords, occasional solo. Bassist – bass. Drummer - drums. Keyboard/organist – keyboard/organ. They are an ode to simplicity, a master-class in understatement. The set is half an hour - they play nine songs. It’s all you need, no chance of boredom, a perfect preview of their skills.
Figurines appear like children deliberately deprived of prog-rock and jazz by two and half minute song loving parents, in order to produce the most intelligently un-adulterated pop music on the planet. And they fucking do. They’ve been doing it for ages too. The under-appreciation of this band is criminal. Although half full, the initially disinterested crowd can’t get enough. Surprised mutterings of, “that was bloody good actually,” fill the room. Third on the bill they were, third.
A travesty. Their album’s been out a while in the U.S see, but you can make them famous over here in March when they release Skeleton. With that title their genius is revealed. If one word describes them best, that is it – ‘skeleton’. Stripped down to the bones, the core structure remains. No flesh, no flab, no nothing, just everything that the rest is built on.
Less is more, people.
9/10
Live Review. The Hold Steady - Hoxton Bar & Grill - 15/2/07
The Hold Steady are ridiculous. They know what they love and they love it a lot. Feel good, old school American rock with a healthy splat of what use to be called heavy metal – Guns ‘n’ Roses, Motley Crue etc - but isn’t actually anything of the sort, is their tipple.
I would suggest that they also love, with undiluted homage, Bruce Springsteen. This then, was a very American sounding affair, so the venue – Hoxton Bar & Grill – was a suitably across-the-Atlantic-influenced hovel. The residents of which were a mixture of the middle aged and the long haired. Like I said - ridiculous. I felt like I was in a time warp.
Anyway, the scene is set, onto the music…
Keyboard backed, Les Paul rock riffs and elaborate solo’s were the main ingredient, covered often by Craig Finn’s highly distinctive and easily detestable speak/sing drawl. It’s big, it sounds dumb but it definitely isn’t, and Finn is without doubt one of the strangest front men I’ve ever witnessed.
Not a young man, naturally, but owning the traits of a weird child constantly and incessantly demanding attention. No doubt most performers crave this somewhat, but I’ve never seen it quite this blatant. It does somehow make him fairly likeable though, in a ‘bloody hell, he is enjoying himself’ type of way. You wouldn’t want to be his friend though. This band are quite probably a vehicle from which he can tell us about himself, which he does a lot, but crucially, he does it superbly.
They have crowd-pleasers galore. Their new record is a fun-time romp including Chips Ahoy and Southtown Girls which’re genuine anthems. These guys want big. Their music is massive, their skills are honed and they’re all wrong in a small venue. Their pure, unadulterated brand of power/sport rock is pretty much the antithesis of anything vaguely new wave or progressive, and it could, given half the chance, delight thousands upon thousands of people at a time, no problem. If you like that sort of thing.
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.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Album Review. Murder By Death - Il Bocca Al Lupo.
Guns, tattoo’s, jail, brotherly love, Pirates, whisky and Satan cover a few examples of MBD’s subject matters. There’s no fucking around here. Not a woman or a whimsy in sight. This is balls out, beards at the ready, fags and booze close at hand rock. Man rock.
Not Foo Fighter, pointless, idiot rock; but a natural-progression-from-Johnny-Cash rock. Storytelling, not bad rhymes; intricate shanty’s, not repetitive power chords; sideburns and beards, not designer stubble.
A cynic may find them guilty of sailing too close to Cash’s line. Adam Turla’s voice is alarmingly similarly, one track holds the lyric, “sometimes you walk the line/sometimes the line walks you”, but it’s homage, not replication, and their world-weary charm carries them through.
I believe these guys can fight, and I believe they can drink, and until I’m proved otherwise, I’m in.
Not Foo Fighter, pointless, idiot rock; but a natural-progression-from-Johnny-Cash rock. Storytelling, not bad rhymes; intricate shanty’s, not repetitive power chords; sideburns and beards, not designer stubble.
A cynic may find them guilty of sailing too close to Cash’s line. Adam Turla’s voice is alarmingly similarly, one track holds the lyric, “sometimes you walk the line/sometimes the line walks you”, but it’s homage, not replication, and their world-weary charm carries them through.
I believe these guys can fight, and I believe they can drink, and until I’m proved otherwise, I’m in.
Album Review. Maria Taylor - Lynn Teeter Flower.
There’s something going on here. Uniformity isn’t necessarily needless but the ‘Creek are plugging it something rotten. Post Azure Ray and it’s as you were for Maria Taylor, albeit more along the Jenny Lewis lines.
Synthesised, sensitivity reigns supreme, and the, Rilo Kiley, god fearing hicks-but-not-actually-hicks vibe is abundant. If it ain’t broke don’t fix it could apply, but you have to grow, no? Flogging a dead horse and all that.
Problem is, this horse lives on. There’s beauty in Taylor’s vocals and it’s perfect self-deprecating ex-boyfriend/girlfriend music. Clean Getaway has ‘O.C. credits’ written all over it and the beats and melodies on Irish Goodbye will keep dirt and harmonies in vogue.
From that perspective it’s a success - but where’s the goddamn subversive-ness gone? The horse needs to die, then we can all start afresh.
Synthesised, sensitivity reigns supreme, and the, Rilo Kiley, god fearing hicks-but-not-actually-hicks vibe is abundant. If it ain’t broke don’t fix it could apply, but you have to grow, no? Flogging a dead horse and all that.
Problem is, this horse lives on. There’s beauty in Taylor’s vocals and it’s perfect self-deprecating ex-boyfriend/girlfriend music. Clean Getaway has ‘O.C. credits’ written all over it and the beats and melodies on Irish Goodbye will keep dirt and harmonies in vogue.
From that perspective it’s a success - but where’s the goddamn subversive-ness gone? The horse needs to die, then we can all start afresh.
Live Review. Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!/Cold War Kids - Shepherds Bush Empire - 13/02/07.
Big stages expose little bands. This is the kind of stage that would’ve embarrassed Clap Your Hands Say Yeah a year and an album ago. They were dwarfed in the tent at Reading last year. Growing into your size is crucial. Being thrown into venues you’re not ready for works for only a few, and for Cold War Kids, they fall into the majority.
Not that they didn’t try. They’re a decent band and all, but they filled half the stage and half the stage only. Granted the back half seemed to be largely rammed with the aforementioned headliners equipment, but even in their corner they looked scared. Then again, not being scared, would probably make them sub-human, or vastly arrogant, the latter of which they certainly are not.
I say that with conviction thanks to the nature of their songs. Sensitive American indie-rock it is on the whole – nothing knew there then – but it’s the use of bass and the vocal that seem to set them apart from other similarly ilked contemporaries. Nathan Willett’s squawling rasp sporadically filled the gaps left by the rest of the band. He flitted between instrument-less and standing frontman, in the middle of the stage, dominating; and sat in the corner, on his electric piano. Not shy and engaging, just shy. Step forward sir Willett and show us what you got.
But not to worry. Hang Me Out To Dry is a tune indeed and I bet I wasn’t the only punter chanting “too, too, too many times” on my way to a half-time toilet break. This show won’t damage their reputation. They were received well, they played their hearts out and indisputably they’re brimming with potential – expect them back in a venue such as this sometime soon.
Meanwhile, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah! seem to have become a rather large monster of a band. Dispute poor reactions to thier live gigs, and mixed indeed reviews of the album, they’ve crept up to selling out Shepherds Bush Empire. Perhaps if you have a sort of love-them-or-hate-them vibe to your support, the more the haters hate, the more the lovers love - and devotion follows. Love is infectious. Hate also, but less so.
On my previous witnessing of CYHSY I’ve been sorely disappointed. No voice, no oomph, no confidence, no nothing. Hear, today, on this big stage, in front of all these people, they’re a different band. Their sound is full, their dynamic immense. They rip, balls first, into Some Loud Thunder, first track on the new record, and it’s dazzling. The annoying fuzz is gone and it sounds crisp. Album highlight Satan Says Dance follows and confirms a number of things.
Firstly, that Alec Ounsworth is a mighty weird individual. In his grey shirt, cream waistcoat, flannel trousers, bizarre shoes and thin fuzzy hair he could pass for a quiet intellectual. A librarian perhaps. Put him on stage repetitively singing “satan, satan, satan, satan,” with his fabulously cracked vocal, over a destructively pulsating bass-line whilst powerful red lights pump out onto one and all, a different figure is presented.
With his strange wiggle and timid banter, an anti-star is developing. A true eccentric. Sure his voice is odd, but it’s grown. It fills the room and leads the party.
Somewhere along the line they’ve acquired hits. Is This Love? went down like it was Debaser, and the bizarre encore-beginner of “clap your hands, well I feel so lonely,” from the skewed intro of their debut was greeted like a sing-along classic.
How did this happen? From being a band that you tentatively offered to friends but no-one had ever really heard of and people just complained about the voice, they’ve become heroes – not just that, at long last, they can play. Finally then, their potential has been realised. This was good, very good.
Not that they didn’t try. They’re a decent band and all, but they filled half the stage and half the stage only. Granted the back half seemed to be largely rammed with the aforementioned headliners equipment, but even in their corner they looked scared. Then again, not being scared, would probably make them sub-human, or vastly arrogant, the latter of which they certainly are not.
I say that with conviction thanks to the nature of their songs. Sensitive American indie-rock it is on the whole – nothing knew there then – but it’s the use of bass and the vocal that seem to set them apart from other similarly ilked contemporaries. Nathan Willett’s squawling rasp sporadically filled the gaps left by the rest of the band. He flitted between instrument-less and standing frontman, in the middle of the stage, dominating; and sat in the corner, on his electric piano. Not shy and engaging, just shy. Step forward sir Willett and show us what you got.
But not to worry. Hang Me Out To Dry is a tune indeed and I bet I wasn’t the only punter chanting “too, too, too many times” on my way to a half-time toilet break. This show won’t damage their reputation. They were received well, they played their hearts out and indisputably they’re brimming with potential – expect them back in a venue such as this sometime soon.
Meanwhile, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah! seem to have become a rather large monster of a band. Dispute poor reactions to thier live gigs, and mixed indeed reviews of the album, they’ve crept up to selling out Shepherds Bush Empire. Perhaps if you have a sort of love-them-or-hate-them vibe to your support, the more the haters hate, the more the lovers love - and devotion follows. Love is infectious. Hate also, but less so.
On my previous witnessing of CYHSY I’ve been sorely disappointed. No voice, no oomph, no confidence, no nothing. Hear, today, on this big stage, in front of all these people, they’re a different band. Their sound is full, their dynamic immense. They rip, balls first, into Some Loud Thunder, first track on the new record, and it’s dazzling. The annoying fuzz is gone and it sounds crisp. Album highlight Satan Says Dance follows and confirms a number of things.
Firstly, that Alec Ounsworth is a mighty weird individual. In his grey shirt, cream waistcoat, flannel trousers, bizarre shoes and thin fuzzy hair he could pass for a quiet intellectual. A librarian perhaps. Put him on stage repetitively singing “satan, satan, satan, satan,” with his fabulously cracked vocal, over a destructively pulsating bass-line whilst powerful red lights pump out onto one and all, a different figure is presented.
With his strange wiggle and timid banter, an anti-star is developing. A true eccentric. Sure his voice is odd, but it’s grown. It fills the room and leads the party.
Somewhere along the line they’ve acquired hits. Is This Love? went down like it was Debaser, and the bizarre encore-beginner of “clap your hands, well I feel so lonely,” from the skewed intro of their debut was greeted like a sing-along classic.
How did this happen? From being a band that you tentatively offered to friends but no-one had ever really heard of and people just complained about the voice, they’ve become heroes – not just that, at long last, they can play. Finally then, their potential has been realised. This was good, very good.
Live Review. Field Music - A social club near Euston Station - January.
A social club could, in the right circumstances, be a perfect gig venue. Cheap beer, chairs, tables, pool table and so on. Distracting as they may all be, the vibe is guaranteed to have a certain relaxed tint to it.
On the other hand, it might mean that people who normally go to that social club every Friday night have been there since the early evening so the door-folk have stopped letting anyone in. This in turn means that half the people in the venue aren’t even there to see the band. Add on top of that the fact that this is an album launch and thus packed with journalists and industry workers, and you’ve got yourself some disinterested chatter.
Take into account now that social clubs don’t have the best sound-systems you’ve ever heard, that Field Music have only two members here tonight, and that they play twee indie-pop, and you probably have an inkling at the lack of intended audio experienced here.
Working-class ‘band of the people’ sentiments aside, gigs in social clubs are just fucking annoying.
Nonetheless, the first few rows seemed happy, and in front a garish gold curtain the two instrument swapping Sunderland-ers rolled out over an hour of catchy, quirky, well-written, nicely executed and genuinely intelligent one-guitar-and-a-drum-kit pop music. And from what I heard, it was pretty decent.
On the other hand, it might mean that people who normally go to that social club every Friday night have been there since the early evening so the door-folk have stopped letting anyone in. This in turn means that half the people in the venue aren’t even there to see the band. Add on top of that the fact that this is an album launch and thus packed with journalists and industry workers, and you’ve got yourself some disinterested chatter.
Take into account now that social clubs don’t have the best sound-systems you’ve ever heard, that Field Music have only two members here tonight, and that they play twee indie-pop, and you probably have an inkling at the lack of intended audio experienced here.
Working-class ‘band of the people’ sentiments aside, gigs in social clubs are just fucking annoying.
Nonetheless, the first few rows seemed happy, and in front a garish gold curtain the two instrument swapping Sunderland-ers rolled out over an hour of catchy, quirky, well-written, nicely executed and genuinely intelligent one-guitar-and-a-drum-kit pop music. And from what I heard, it was pretty decent.
Album Review. Ladyfinger (ne) - Heavy Hands.
I’ve had a moment – ‘07 breakthrough number one. Gentle taps on my indie-rock shell it started as. “Fuck off,” I thought; but when the first brick fell, destruction of my cobwebs via a punk-rock executioner followed.
Brutal it was, as the ferocity of Ladyfinger (ne)’s politicised punk-rock opened a massive chasm of fresh air and had my ears fucking spasming they needed it so bad. Where the hell have I been?
Sure there are some stupid lyrics (no religion for the upper classes/all expenses paid, trip to nowhere) but the energy, the intense aggression, the tight, spiky leads, the monstrously obnoxious vocals and 10 tracks in 32 minutes has me hooked.
I can officially declare my hunt for decent yielding of Telecasters temporarily nulled, shout “fuck yeah” and get myself some more of this shit.
Brutal it was, as the ferocity of Ladyfinger (ne)’s politicised punk-rock opened a massive chasm of fresh air and had my ears fucking spasming they needed it so bad. Where the hell have I been?
Sure there are some stupid lyrics (no religion for the upper classes/all expenses paid, trip to nowhere) but the energy, the intense aggression, the tight, spiky leads, the monstrously obnoxious vocals and 10 tracks in 32 minutes has me hooked.
I can officially declare my hunt for decent yielding of Telecasters temporarily nulled, shout “fuck yeah” and get myself some more of this shit.
Live Review. Future Of The Left - 100 Club - 31st January.
Promotion eh? From the Luminaire, Barfly et al to the 100 Club in a couple of months, and what have they done to deserve it? Materially, not a lot. A single, a fine single but that’s it. Thing is with these dudes though, you know, you just know that they’d pull it off. Strong is their character, flawless their pedigree, intimidating their confidence.
“If you wanna press, press us; if you wanna go, let’s go.” Jesus, that’s aggression for ya. “Violence solved everything, violence she solved everything,” continued Andy Falkous. And therein lies the contradictory genius of him and his bands.Violence a she? Surely not. Piss-taking, cock-sure Welshman they are, but with the sharpest of tongues – women are always the most brutal.
Musically, they pulverise. The bass is heavy and ever so dirty, the guitars spiky and obnoxious and the vocals tremendous. Falco and Kelson Louis Tregurtha Mathias (which is at least the best name ever) are un-paralleled with their sheer watch-ability right now. Falco has this way of twitching whilst he’s riffing and smiling an enormous, demonic grin over toward Kelson as he skilfully brings his bass to climax whilst wearing a crap shirt and pouring with sweat.
Jack Egglestone on the sticks mustn’t be overlooked either. His off-kilter drive prevents their more basic of riffage descend into ‘just rock’. His mild Thom Yorke-ness (appearance wise) insures their edge is all-encompassing and their desire to be different and original undeniable. They are hidden gems. It’s criminal that this lot have day jobs, appalling that they don’t play every day and abominable that this was their first show in two months.
Justifying the 100 Club, on their fifteenth show, after a two month break? That’s bigger than Mclusky ever were, far bigger than Jarcrew. They’ll have an album out soon, then they’ll be flying. Hidden no longer – God willing.
“If you wanna press, press us; if you wanna go, let’s go.” Jesus, that’s aggression for ya. “Violence solved everything, violence she solved everything,” continued Andy Falkous. And therein lies the contradictory genius of him and his bands.Violence a she? Surely not. Piss-taking, cock-sure Welshman they are, but with the sharpest of tongues – women are always the most brutal.
Musically, they pulverise. The bass is heavy and ever so dirty, the guitars spiky and obnoxious and the vocals tremendous. Falco and Kelson Louis Tregurtha Mathias (which is at least the best name ever) are un-paralleled with their sheer watch-ability right now. Falco has this way of twitching whilst he’s riffing and smiling an enormous, demonic grin over toward Kelson as he skilfully brings his bass to climax whilst wearing a crap shirt and pouring with sweat.
Jack Egglestone on the sticks mustn’t be overlooked either. His off-kilter drive prevents their more basic of riffage descend into ‘just rock’. His mild Thom Yorke-ness (appearance wise) insures their edge is all-encompassing and their desire to be different and original undeniable. They are hidden gems. It’s criminal that this lot have day jobs, appalling that they don’t play every day and abominable that this was their first show in two months.
Justifying the 100 Club, on their fifteenth show, after a two month break? That’s bigger than Mclusky ever were, far bigger than Jarcrew. They’ll have an album out soon, then they’ll be flying. Hidden no longer – God willing.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Live Review. Redcarsgofaster/The Maple State/KBC - 15th January - Metro Club, London
Redcarsgofaster/The Maple State/KBC (High Voltage Sounds showcase)
15th January
Metro Club
January crowds man, bloody hell, they suck. I’m not exactly one for getting in the thick of things at the best of times, but usually there’s at least some idiots who jump around in the middle, on their own. Not today though, oh no. Metro club is bare and sparse of human life. Even those in attendance look jaded and shy. So much so that Redcarsgofaster singer/dancer James Summers beckons the crowd to come one step closer, to fill in the inexplicably bald arc that is sitting directly in front of the stage.
Which, graciously, they do. Another thing that signor Summers does and does well, is front an exciting, youthful, promising five-piece. They’re all iForward Russia! and Primal Scream-ey, complete with pumping drum and bassy under-drive (very danceable) and yelping-cum-shouting Bobby Gillespie-esque vocals.
The only trouble I have with these is that the rest of the music (guitars/keyboards) gets lost in a swirling ball of sound. There’s too many people, too many things going on. iForward Russia! are the same. I just can’t grip onto anything. It’s impressive and tight and sweaty and that, but also a confusing mess. To me, anyway. Potential - yes; can do better – I’m positive.
Onto The Maple State then. One less in numbers they are - being four friendly Mancunian youths playing crisp, Futureheads inspired, indie-pop. Pleasant it is too, if unremarkable. Again tight, again promising and with less going on than Redcars they’re easier to get to grips with - perhaps too easy. It’s a tad formulaic, but Gregory Counsell, singer/leader, is funny, handsome and effortlessly charming. Maybe this is the dependable antidote to the Pete Doherty led ‘will they/won’t they show’ mayhem. Jesus. I’d rather a crack-head.
Thank the Lord then for the KBC. Not crack-heads, I imagine, but a trio. Trio’s are always best. The evening has led up to this. Chop a few people out, get rid of the flab and what are you left with: three highly skilled musicians playing a frenetic, moody, sketchy and choppy brand of experimental indie rock. Explain experimental I hear you cry. Well, firstly - sporadic adaptation of Michael Brown’s drum kit from regular to electronic; secondly – frontman James Mulhollands ability to rip shreds into his little sampler desk plus his well-timed use of a megaphone; and thirdly – their willingness to use bass-or-guitar-only breakdowns in their songs. Chuck in good vocals and good songs and you’ve got yourself a winner.
High Voltage have uncovered a gem. They are a thrill, and refreshment indeed from a tired formula. I love this band. Mulholland see: dressed in black, cool haircut – check. Richard Ormerod on the bass: Adidas trainers, baggy jeans and a scruffy hoody. He’s a mess – but they look amazing. Substance over style see, not enough of that in London. Welcome then, Redcarsgofaster, The Maple State and KBC - our friends in the North.
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.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Live Review. Murder By Death - Camden Barfly - 11th January.
Murder By Death ooze hard-man, tattooed, cowboy charm. They’re not as dirty as I’d imagined (although it’s pretty dark, and after being in the Barfly for an hour or so, everybody’s dirty) but every bit as manly. They look exactly like cigarette and alcohol ravaged young men should – beards, sideburns, check shirts, earrings, all the gear.
They hail from Indiana and, I imagine, are hard drinking under-achievers. They don’t give a shit, of course, because they’re pissed, hopefully, but they’ve two albums out already in the U.S see, while their pending third long-player, In Bocca Al Lupo, will be the first on general release in England from March.
Three albums right, that’s like six years of hard toil with very little international reward, which, on this performance, is gob-smacking. Their sound is immense. Three dudes play the drums and geetars whilst petite female Sarah Balliet’s attractive hacking at her cello makes up a whisky-drenched, wild west sound pounding below the impressively lithe Adam Turla’s tales of jail break, lost love, alien invasions and the apocalypse. Indiana, it seems, gives one plenty of time to ponder.
I was cynical at first, big time, because there’s a real Johnny Cash-ness to Turla’s voice. “Deliberate, surely” - was my initial reaction. “These blood-sucking bastards are milking the world-weary Americana vibe,” was the immediate follow-up. But I think perhaps I’ll put aside my barbaric loyalty after this live show. His voice is monstrous and true and after all, MBD are all about the loyalty. To friends, family, fans, anyone on a wavelength: “I know there’s better brothers/but you’re the only one that’s mine,” they boom on new single Brother. Their craft is in storytelling, and they create blood-smattered, sweaty, sand-worn-boots-in-a-saloon-bar yarns. Clint Eastwood wouldn’t be out of place in the crowd; The Good, The Bad and The Ugly is on repeat on the tour bus.
This, of course, is probably bullshit. Clint Eastwood, believe it or not, isn’t actually a cowboy, but when it matters, you trust him. Perhaps MBD drink Smirnoff Ice and watch romantic comedies, but the point is, like the greats, like Cash, Dylan and Waits, they tell stories that are believable. Yes I can believe that Turla’s brother was in jail, why the hell not? I’m being hasty and presumptuous lumping them in with those three, perhaps the three greatest of all song-writers, but they are of similar ilk, and it’s a damn fine ilk.
They hail from Indiana and, I imagine, are hard drinking under-achievers. They don’t give a shit, of course, because they’re pissed, hopefully, but they’ve two albums out already in the U.S see, while their pending third long-player, In Bocca Al Lupo, will be the first on general release in England from March.
Three albums right, that’s like six years of hard toil with very little international reward, which, on this performance, is gob-smacking. Their sound is immense. Three dudes play the drums and geetars whilst petite female Sarah Balliet’s attractive hacking at her cello makes up a whisky-drenched, wild west sound pounding below the impressively lithe Adam Turla’s tales of jail break, lost love, alien invasions and the apocalypse. Indiana, it seems, gives one plenty of time to ponder.
I was cynical at first, big time, because there’s a real Johnny Cash-ness to Turla’s voice. “Deliberate, surely” - was my initial reaction. “These blood-sucking bastards are milking the world-weary Americana vibe,” was the immediate follow-up. But I think perhaps I’ll put aside my barbaric loyalty after this live show. His voice is monstrous and true and after all, MBD are all about the loyalty. To friends, family, fans, anyone on a wavelength: “I know there’s better brothers/but you’re the only one that’s mine,” they boom on new single Brother. Their craft is in storytelling, and they create blood-smattered, sweaty, sand-worn-boots-in-a-saloon-bar yarns. Clint Eastwood wouldn’t be out of place in the crowd; The Good, The Bad and The Ugly is on repeat on the tour bus.
This, of course, is probably bullshit. Clint Eastwood, believe it or not, isn’t actually a cowboy, but when it matters, you trust him. Perhaps MBD drink Smirnoff Ice and watch romantic comedies, but the point is, like the greats, like Cash, Dylan and Waits, they tell stories that are believable. Yes I can believe that Turla’s brother was in jail, why the hell not? I’m being hasty and presumptuous lumping them in with those three, perhaps the three greatest of all song-writers, but they are of similar ilk, and it’s a damn fine ilk.
Album Review. Screaming Tea Party - Death Egg.
What a name - Screaming Tea Party. What a title – Death Egg. Can this fail to be brilliant? No. Hurrah! Right from the terrifying, menacing beginnings of Between Air And Air this six-tracker flits between brutality and sweetness like the two are intertwined – and the more I think about it, the more it makes absolute sense.
It’s the clown thing, the puppet thing, the fairground music thing, the child-catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang thing. Darkness hides in the most unlikely of sources - evil finds a home most prominently within innocence. Only one of these tracks exceeds 4.30 minutes and the simplicity of the chords dictates that it’s pop music, and it’s some of the most frighteningly original and skewed pop I’ve heard in a long time.
It comes as no surprise that there’s a female Japanese member in this three piece. Not to be sweeping or nothing, but there’s a cracking sickly/sweet hardcore scene seeping through our industry thanks to these dudes, and this lot, combining Japanese influence with a coupla’ East Londoners, have hit a magic formula.
The guitar solos are twisted, the chord changes simple, the vocals sometimes-male-sometimes-female and distorted, the flexibility impressive. The riffs are sometimes sweet, sometimes immense - Reckless Rabbit echoes Nirvana at their brutal best. There’s Jesus And Mary Chain and Velvet Underground in there too. How’s that for influences? That’s friggin’ perfect.
The bass is rampant throughout and seems to lie there, under the music, not too prominent but spine-crackingly effective. Like a shadow observed beneath you when you’re swimming in the sea, it’s terrifying without actually doing anything.
This is spot on. Spot the fuck on. These are easily the best wear-Nirvana-on-our-sleeve crew since God knows when. Nirvana’s greatest crime was the spawning of hours and hours of tedious crap. This hopefully, is about to change…
It’s the clown thing, the puppet thing, the fairground music thing, the child-catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang thing. Darkness hides in the most unlikely of sources - evil finds a home most prominently within innocence. Only one of these tracks exceeds 4.30 minutes and the simplicity of the chords dictates that it’s pop music, and it’s some of the most frighteningly original and skewed pop I’ve heard in a long time.
It comes as no surprise that there’s a female Japanese member in this three piece. Not to be sweeping or nothing, but there’s a cracking sickly/sweet hardcore scene seeping through our industry thanks to these dudes, and this lot, combining Japanese influence with a coupla’ East Londoners, have hit a magic formula.
The guitar solos are twisted, the chord changes simple, the vocals sometimes-male-sometimes-female and distorted, the flexibility impressive. The riffs are sometimes sweet, sometimes immense - Reckless Rabbit echoes Nirvana at their brutal best. There’s Jesus And Mary Chain and Velvet Underground in there too. How’s that for influences? That’s friggin’ perfect.
The bass is rampant throughout and seems to lie there, under the music, not too prominent but spine-crackingly effective. Like a shadow observed beneath you when you’re swimming in the sea, it’s terrifying without actually doing anything.
This is spot on. Spot the fuck on. These are easily the best wear-Nirvana-on-our-sleeve crew since God knows when. Nirvana’s greatest crime was the spawning of hours and hours of tedious crap. This hopefully, is about to change…
Album Review. Whirlwind Head - I Fucked Up Types Of Wood.
I’d never heard Whirlwind Heat before this, so to be presented with alternative versions of the songs from their third album made me question whether I was in fact the ideal fella to be doing this ‘ere review.
Sod it though eh? Treat an album on its merits and all that. Okay so I can’t comment on Whirlwind Heat’s creative journey up to this point, and I can’t begin to compare these songs to anything they’ve previously released, or indeed the songs that they are alternative versions of. What I can do though is say this: Kazoo’s, acoustic guitars and computer voices haven’t put me off wanting to hear more by these guys.
This album is most likely an experiment of sorts, sound-wise, but the lyrics are very good, I like the dudes voice and the structures are nice. Also, I can dig a bit of experimentation and they have a good name. One of their songs is called I Fucked Up Umbrella People, which makes me giggle like a twat every time.
Sod it though eh? Treat an album on its merits and all that. Okay so I can’t comment on Whirlwind Heat’s creative journey up to this point, and I can’t begin to compare these songs to anything they’ve previously released, or indeed the songs that they are alternative versions of. What I can do though is say this: Kazoo’s, acoustic guitars and computer voices haven’t put me off wanting to hear more by these guys.
This album is most likely an experiment of sorts, sound-wise, but the lyrics are very good, I like the dudes voice and the structures are nice. Also, I can dig a bit of experimentation and they have a good name. One of their songs is called I Fucked Up Umbrella People, which makes me giggle like a twat every time.
Two Single Reviews. Tiny Masters Of Today - K.I.D.S... AND, Soho Dolls - No Regrets.
Tiny Masters Of Today
K.I.D.S
Tigertrap Records
Kids these days, bloody hell. They fucking rock! If I’d been making music like this before I’d hit puberty (or indeed, ever) God knows how I’d have turned out. It can’t be healthy, can it? Child stars never turn out okay.
Nonetheless, good press seems to follow these two, but I can’t help but feel their age may have something to do with it. This single is fine, and it’s noisy, and its kind of punk-rocky, but it’s pretty average. Its not particularly original or intelligent or nowt, and I hate to think people will just be oogling at heir youthfulness. Good luck to their carers and all that, but let’s just hope they don’t turn into some kind of freakshow. Two words: Michael… Jackson…
Soho Dolls
No Regrets
Filthy Pretty Records
“Hotter than your average bitch/flick on, flick off my switch.” Oo, dirty. Electronic too, two good things, very good. But somehow, this disappoints. It somehow drops short of what it could’ve been. Perhaps it’s the cheesy chorus, perhaps it’s that I just don’t believe the Soho Dolls. This is directionless, needless bottom-of-the-box fodder. It’s a radio edit too, but I’d be very surprised if I heard it on my, or any, transistor anytime soon.
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.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Interview. James Summers from Redcarsgofaster.
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Live Review. Future Of the Left - London Luminire - December 1st.
Future Of The Left have fine lineage. Three parts from two deceased bands they are: two ex-Mclusky -Jack Egglestone (drums) and Andy Falkous (guitar, vocals); and one ex-Jarcrew - Kelson Louis Tregurtha Mathias (bass, vocals). Both were Welsh bands, both heavy, both commercially pretty darn unsuccessful - and both superb. This is also the second spin-off since Mclusky’s demise after John Chapple’s creation of Shooting At Unarmed Men – another fine musical output. Talent throughout – hurrah!
Angry, punk-rock is clearly very much alive and kicking in Britain. Falkous is a ferocious little fella. Quite small he is, still with his massive side-burns but with newly grown hair and freshly slimmed body. He berates, mocks and taunts the crowd something rotten, any slightly throw-away comment made by an audience member is ripped to shreds, as if ‘twere a cultured stand-up comic on the stage
He’s an obnoxious little bastard though. Genuinely funny for sure, but he loves to piss people off. “This one’s for that cunt who got poisoned and won’t get out of the news.” Below the belt? Definitely. But the bands he fronts would be nothing if he wasn’t fully charged with un-necessary belligerence. He’s like Kelly Jones for arseholes. Someone’s gotta do it.
Mathias too is a fine frontman in his own right, restricted somewhat though he is by the addition of a bass guitar to his person, his yelping and sharing of vocals with Falko is perennially effective. Their combined guitars, of course, ooze ‘fuck you’ disdain and their sound is visceral, powerful and rude. They echo, naturally, Fugazi, Shellac and Pixies. Far from being imitators though, their lyrical content ploughs the same simultaneously-ferocious-and-amusing furrows as Mclusky, and provide their tower of originality.
The way Falkous’s neck veins look like they’re about to burst as he screams his verging-on-the-inane blurbs is quite the testament to the fact that what he’s singing really gets on his nerves. “Take her to the Body Shop” he screams incessantly in an early tune, “violence solves everything,” he continues on another. Mocking? Literal? Think for ourselves is perhaps a more suitable adage.
There is, in my ears, more Mclusky than Jarcrew evident in this amalgamation of talent. Mathias’s bass reminisces somewhat with the old times but there is none of the playful electro or spazz-influences that the ‘Crew boasted; instead Falkous’ character and fondness for balls-out rock dominates proceedings. This is no quibble but a worthy observation. As is this: these lot are one of the finest, funniest, interesting rock outfits around right now – pennies at the ready for the album y’all…
Angry, punk-rock is clearly very much alive and kicking in Britain. Falkous is a ferocious little fella. Quite small he is, still with his massive side-burns but with newly grown hair and freshly slimmed body. He berates, mocks and taunts the crowd something rotten, any slightly throw-away comment made by an audience member is ripped to shreds, as if ‘twere a cultured stand-up comic on the stage
He’s an obnoxious little bastard though. Genuinely funny for sure, but he loves to piss people off. “This one’s for that cunt who got poisoned and won’t get out of the news.” Below the belt? Definitely. But the bands he fronts would be nothing if he wasn’t fully charged with un-necessary belligerence. He’s like Kelly Jones for arseholes. Someone’s gotta do it.
Mathias too is a fine frontman in his own right, restricted somewhat though he is by the addition of a bass guitar to his person, his yelping and sharing of vocals with Falko is perennially effective. Their combined guitars, of course, ooze ‘fuck you’ disdain and their sound is visceral, powerful and rude. They echo, naturally, Fugazi, Shellac and Pixies. Far from being imitators though, their lyrical content ploughs the same simultaneously-ferocious-and-amusing furrows as Mclusky, and provide their tower of originality.
The way Falkous’s neck veins look like they’re about to burst as he screams his verging-on-the-inane blurbs is quite the testament to the fact that what he’s singing really gets on his nerves. “Take her to the Body Shop” he screams incessantly in an early tune, “violence solves everything,” he continues on another. Mocking? Literal? Think for ourselves is perhaps a more suitable adage.
There is, in my ears, more Mclusky than Jarcrew evident in this amalgamation of talent. Mathias’s bass reminisces somewhat with the old times but there is none of the playful electro or spazz-influences that the ‘Crew boasted; instead Falkous’ character and fondness for balls-out rock dominates proceedings. This is no quibble but a worthy observation. As is this: these lot are one of the finest, funniest, interesting rock outfits around right now – pennies at the ready for the album y’all…
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