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.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Bone Thugs 'N' Harmony
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.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Comedy: Demetri Martin
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
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
Friday, January 11, 2008
Top 6 Burning Effigies
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.
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.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
SPORT
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.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Alela Diane - The Purcell Rooms 11/10/07
To read the published review, click here.
Alela Daine occupies a place in folk music entirely of her own. She’s alone on stage at The Purcell Rooms to scratch out her personable view of the world at large. She seems fresh from the dusty, arid plains of America and sings like not a drop of coarse liquor has tainted her vocal chords. And she stands so still.
Her guitar work is almost patronisingly simple, but her grace and charm sparkle above and beyond it. She taught herself, we think. On a rickety old chair on the front porch of the rural set wooden house her Granddad lives in, we think. We imagine her laughing on a hand built swing and eating home made pecan pie before nervously and self consciously practising her lines.
She’s ever so slightly hunched tonight, with skin like milk. Her hair is tied to one side and she’s wearing a skirt, a waistcoat with nothing underneath and yellow cowboy boots too big for her. We can imagine her playing with horses and cows with her older brothers on her father’s ranch, we think.
And then she sings with a voice so warm and shrill it melts the stuffy properness of the all-seated venue in the Southbank Centre. She plucks new song My Brambles before gliding her way through much of her only record, The Pirate’s Gospel.
Her style remains the same throughout: fragile, unshakeable, and poignant. But her subject matters are diverse, with only pirates and Jesus bestowed with repeat mentions. That makes sense, given the album title. She covers button collections, motherhood and new shoes.
She’s inspired by a plastic bag found in a dead ladies house with the label ‘pieces of string too short to use’ on it. “It’s funny how people only remember the weird stuff when you die,” she says.
She sings of fear and regret on album highlight The Rifle: “Papa get the rifle from its place above the French doors/They’re coming from the woods, they’re coming from the woods/Brother I’m so sorry you watched the paintings burn.”
She plucks and cheers along with imaginary shipmates on the albums self-titled morale booster. “While some folks row way up to heaven/I’m gonna sing the pirates gospel/I’m gonna sow these feet for dancing/I’m gonna keep my eyes wide open/Yo ho yo ho yo ho ho/We’re gonna sing the pirate’s gospel/We’re gonna chant the pirate’s gospel.”
And so it rolls on. Her apparent purity and authenticity is quite something. You don’t doubt her roots, you just hope she doesn’t fall in with the wrong crowd. Sure she might be pretending, but everyone pretends, and it’s the one’s we believe that are special. And fucking hell do we believe.
Alela Diane is the best thing to happen to female folk music in a long time. This is what it would’ve been like seeing Joni Mitchell, Joan Baez et al back in the sixties when folk still mattered to people. Only better.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Beirut - The Flying Cup Club (4AD)
Check out the published version here, on the Gigwise website.Zach Condon is, already, a musical colossus. At 21, he’s surely the youngest man ever to completely dominate a genre. He owns Balkan pop. He arguably invented it, but he’s certainly the leader. You’ve got A Hawk And A Hacksaw, Gogol Bordello and Devotchka among others, but none have managed to capture the world’s imagination like Condon.
The Flying Cup Club, like The Gulag Orkestar before it, is a culturally significant romp through grief, goulash and gaiety. It’s fantastic, unstoppable and impossible not to be consumed whole. And it’s more of the same, to an extent. It’s stripped back a tad, but when you’ve power over spellbinding mirage of ideas and accordions, only a fool would change their direction.
Advancements from record number one include: more strings, piano and religious imagery, wiser lyrics, and a distinct nod to French-ness. (Many of the song titles are French – ‘Nantes’, ‘Un Dernier Verre (Pour La Route)’, ‘La Banlieue’).
‘Cliquot’, for example, asks of St Peter: “What melody will lead my lover from his bed/What melody will see him in my arms again?” It’s suggestive, for sure, and the co-vocals between Condon and Final Fantasy’s Owen Pallett are delectable. They sound like orphaned angels.
The plucked strings on ‘Forks And Knives (La Fete)’, meanwhile, sound understandably like that of Pallett, who’s an ever present on the record. The crispness of ‘Guyamas Sonora’ is potentially of his making, too. On this basis alone, he’s a valuable addition.
Despite clear differences, all of the eeriness and world-weariness of Orkestar remain. The projected misery is what gives Condon’s work its tint of fascination. It’s so aesthetically pleasing, orchestral and beautiful that his melancholy must almost be pleasant. Then again, he’s a maestro at expressing himself. And it’s perfectly reasonable to be aware of misery without being miserable yourself.
The last minute of In ‘The Mausoluem’ is perhaps the record’s most perfect moment. The strings ache with energetic, agitated solemnity. The backing (what sounds like) organ and basic drumming are so expressive that Condon doesn’t need too sing. It’s a powerful example of a more stripped down band. There’s less theatre and it prospers because of it. ‘Cherbourg’ boasts a simple accordion riff, a tentative three-drum rhythm and Condon’s directness: “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you smile.”
Beirut as a group manage to capture everything that Michael Palin hasn’t in his most recent beige-trousered Eastern European adventure. That might be unfair to Condon’s new found French influences – allegedly: Francois Hardy, Charles Aznavour, Jacques Brel and the country itself – but there’s a definite lineage from his journey from Orkestar to where we are now.
Maybe it’s just the smells, feelings, anxiety, excitement, joy and wonder that go hand in hand with sucking up the life of new places and people. Condon is this decades ramblin’ man. Totally apolitical and utterly in tune with the highs and lows of the human spirit, The Flying Cup Club is a terrifyingly good example of modern song-writing.
Blitzen Trapper - Koko, London - 12/11/07
Read the real version by clicking here, Kruger Magazine's website. If you like.
There’s always a band that people talk about and all your cool friends know about but you’ve still never heard of. Isn’t there? Yes there is. Blitzen Trapper are mine. Supporters of Two Gallants this time round, I’d never heard them. But three albums in – two self-released, one on Sub Pop – and some proper credibility have got them pockets of mockery that ‘cult’ bands seem to demand in a you-only-like-them-because-no-ones-ever-heard-of-them kind of way. They’ve also a devoted following.
This is fair. On occasion, they rock. On other occasions, they roll. Sometimes they drum out medium pace Americana, or just play some folk tunes. They are a living, breathing example of what happens when you’ve no-one piling pressure on your flow and tightening up your stuff. Their consistency is non-existent except in everything they do being ‘good’; and they are all the better for it.
It’s refreshing indeed to see them doing their thing. Having listened extensively to new record ‘Wild Mountain Nation’, you’d struggle to pin them down. They’ve got riffs, like Nirvana; quirky country numbers, like the softer White Stripes moments; and songs like ‘Devils A-Go-Go’, that are so funked up and rocked out in mangled time signatures that the Arctic Monkeys wouldn’t even understand.
More importantly tonight, they’re like a whirlwind in a desert, clearing the mess for Two Gallants, who became the calm after the storm. And Two Gallants rocked, so that tells its own story.
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.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Album Review. Fire Engines - Hungry Beat (Acute Records)
Yeah, so i've decided to be a bit more interactive with my blog, chat to my fans and all that (ha!), so this, as form of an introduction, is a review I just did for Amelias Magazine - www.ameliasmagazine.com/amelias_blog - check it.
Seems to me that back in the 80’s there were a whole load of post-punk, art-punk outfits dotted around the country, most of whom are largely forgotten. A prominent concentration of these was centred in Scotland. Somehow though, overshadowed by the continuing success of the very English The Fall and Gang Of Four, bands like Josef K and Orange Juice (both fellow Scots) seem to have fallen by the wayside. More forgotten than all of these, p’raps due to a mere eighteen-month existence, are Edinburgh’s Fire Engines.
They boast all the necessary attributes that’s seen a host of mainstream hugging bands ranging from mediocre to less so – Franz Ferdinand, Bloc Party and The Futureheads – adopt their angular, feisty, wired, anti-melody. But they sound like anything but the sheeny reinterpretation that’s been jumped upon and made enormous.
Yeah, so I’m on a bit of a downer at those three; and, I’ll admit, four years ago I was kind of digging Franz et al, but the more I’ve investigated their lineage, the more I resent the way it’s been adapted to something lightweight. Take Candyskin with it’s vivid sexual imagery, razor sharp jangle, David Henderson’s vocal squeaks and distortions; or Get Up And Use Me with a cowbell intro, Television lick, pop bass, spazzy screams and repetition; it all sounds so goddamn urgent. Re-adapted for the radio friendly modern age, there’s no bite.
Then there’s the double, Velvet Underground-meets-twisted-guitar-solo instrumental freak outs of Lubricate Your Living Room Parts 1 & 2 which rock and roll like two distorted beasts on the end of the gritty, barely sung, absurdly spiky Murray Slade led title-track.
Make no mistake, this is pop music; sure the lyrics are ambiguous and the mood’s aggressive, but the songs are tight, short and witty. Highly influential too, judging by Bobby Gillespie’s claim that neither The Jesus And Mary Chain nor Primal Scream would’ve existed without them. They don’t make ‘em like they used to.
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.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Interview. Herman Dune.
It’s weird meeting people you’re already familiar with. Occupational hazard, of course, but it’s the whole ‘meeting your idols’ thing. Don’t do it, and all that. Herman Dune aren’t my idols, but I like them, a lot, and have done for a while – so I’m a little nervous at the prospect.
We meet at the Liverpool Street Travelodge. David Herman Dune and Neman Herman Dune are relaxed, relaxing people, both with excellent facial hair. David is chief song-writer, singer and guitar player. He is tall and wearing a locket around his neck. “It has a picture of my girlfriend in one half, and a picture of a teddy bear in the other,” he reveals. As will become increasingly apparent, he is a sweet, gentle man.
They have been regulars to London over the years, primarily because their highly personable version of folk music was a favourite of John Peel. They’ve never been to the east end though. “I hadn’t realised they have bagels here, have you seen that shop (on Brick Lane) where they have an ‘ei’ instead of an ‘a’ in the word Bagel?” David asked.
I tell him yes. His love of words and word play shines. His music imitates his personality – exciting, excitable, fresh and inquisitive. He continues: “Have you seen that other shop (on Cheshire Street) that sells shoes, like Keds, for five pounds? Where the guy is rude and just hands them over in a bag?” I tell him yes. His enthusiasm makes me happy. His personality sparkles. He’s a thoughtful conversationalist.
He even had nice things to say about their modest accommodation: “whenever Bob Dylan goes on tour, he stays in Travelodges. So before, I had to stay in them, financially; and now I just have too.”
He’s more forthcoming than Neman – their percussionist - a slightly shyer, handsome counterpart who bides his time. They are very much a duo having known each other for the best part of fifteen years, and they have the same adopted surname. “We weren’t born ‘Herman Dune’, but I’d say it’s our surname because we chose it a long time ago,” explains David, slightly mysteriously.
The bands nationality is, apparently, a matter of confusion. Their Wikipedia entry states that ‘the band is often mistaken for being Swedish.’ This is weird. Here are the facts: David is Swedish and Neman is French. So they’re not just Swedish, but French too. See? Neman: “we play around with the nationality thing a bit, we don’t really see it as important.” Point taken - so remember that, and shut up about it…
Herman Dune’s core membership has recently been reduced to two, since Andre, David’s (blood) brother, departed. David gave an abrupt explanation: “He’s gone solo. He won’t be on the next record, he’s gone for another project.”
Thankfully their desire to remain touring, recording musicians is unharmed by the member revolution. This time round, they’re over here for a bit of press and to record a session for Rob Da Bank’s Radio 1 show. We go to a café, have a coffee, and wait for a taxi to take us to Maida Vale studios.
En route we pick up The Wave Pictures - two dudes, Dave Tattersall (guitar) and Franic Rozycki (bass). In the Taxi we talked about Herman Dune’s new single, ‘I Wish That I Could See You Soon’ getting played by Jonathan Ross on Radio 2 – a somewhat remarkable feat for a band so firmly routed in the ‘underground’ sector of musical fandom. Dave Wave Picture explained who Ross was, describing him as “having a lisp.”
David thought about this for a second before surmising, “cool, like Tom Waits.” We explained that he was really rather different to Waits, but some influences were emerging. Waits/Dylan – romantic, chameleon-like, travelling craftsmen. What fine company to occupy your mind with.
They talk Regina Spektor too. They know her boyfriend, but Nemen didn’t know they’d hooked up: “no way!” he exclaimed, before sitting back thoughtfully in his chair. He is the reflective contradiction to David’s open amiability. I like him a lot.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Maida Vale is a strange maze of studio’s and corridors. It’s bizarrely quiet considering everyone there is making music. It has an aura of greatness. Nemen ushered me over to look at a full orchestra playing in a studio so big you could fit a ferry in. Massive it was.
I asked him if he’d like to play with an orchestra. “Yeh, but I wouldn’t know how. I really love Joanna Newsom’s new record with the orchestra, but we’d have to get an arranger in.” Herman Dune with an orchestra, mental.
Their session, I’m told, is quick compared to other bands. Three new songs and a Bob Dylan cover. As a band they create a sort of other-worldly brand of folk. The simplicity, honesty and beauty of he whole thing is humbling. During the Peel years they obviously mastered their art.
The four of them play like hard-touring veterans rather than two separate groups that come together occasionally. Neman is hilariously energetic – always keen to increase the percussive input, whether with maracas, bongos, or a frog with a serrated back to run a wooden baton along.
Whilst listening to a run-through of a song David asked me how I was feeling. I assured him I was fine and returned the question. He looked me in the eye and smiled: “I love recording here”.
Maida Vale sessions have been important for them – they’re a more accomplished outfit because of them. According to Nemen “they taught us how to record. It used to be stressful, but now we’re good”. David: “we’re much happier in the studio now, we have more fun”.
Maybe that’s why the new record, Giant, sounds chirpier than older stuff then. It’s not because you found love? David: “I don’t think so. No. I just uh…” He trailed off. Love and spoken word often don’t work so well together. “We’re just more relaxed.”
Have the Peel tributes contributed to their seemingly rising star? Or maybe their major label deal has helped? David pleads ignorance: “I don’t know what it is. I don’t think (Peel) has much to do with it. I’m pleased that more people are hearing us though. I like my songs, I want as many people to hear them as possible.”
Their tour with the Kooks probably helped too. David reveals that they were told the crowd wouldn’t like them, “but they were great.” I suggest that the Kooks perhaps have a slightly shallow, ‘less-than-cool’ reputation over here and that your average Herman Dune fan probably ain’t your average Kooks fan. Nemen: “they’re really good musicians, and nice guys.” David: “they didn’t get drunk every night or anything, they watched us play. I like them, they have good songs.”
Un-corrupted by ideals of ‘cool’, they smartly and casually do their own thing without getting bogged down in music industry bullshit. They can appreciate anyone trying to make it with song. They are decent, unblemished people, immune to the poison of the snide press, there aren’t too many others like that out there - and I respect them utterly.
Live Review. Murder By Death - Bush Hall - 11/4/07
Murder By Death hail from Bloomington, Indiana, United States; and they look amazing. Frontman Adam Turla is sporting the best sideburns in rock whilst wearing a jacketless, pin-striped three-piece suit. Cool as fuck. Drummer, Dagan Thogerson, looks like Steveo from Jackass in a flat hat, and bassist Matt Armstrong is wearing black, and chain smoking, in a strictly non-smoking venue. Awesome. There’s also a funky female on cello – more about her later.
Sound-wise, they’ve two things that set them apart from others of their ilk: said cello, and Turla’s doom riddled and heart wrenching story-telling – vaguely reminiscent of Waits and Dylan at their image invoking best thy are. This being so, you’d think they’d make an effort to highlight them both. You’d think.
No problems with the cello, played like a weapon by Sarah Balliet, the dainty counterpart to the three burly dudes aside her. The vocals though, jeez. Tonight, it’s as if any old clumsy wordsmith is up there, not the imaginative, world-weary, whiskey soaked troubadour/rocker that Turla normally is.
They’re solid without the lyrics for sure, and their more chorus-laden rocky numbers, ‘Boy Decide’ par example, kick ass. But solidity is bullshit, anyone can do solid and these hard drinkin’, tough talkin’ scrappers know it. It’s left to the one-man-and-his-guitar showstopper ‘Shiola’ to do the man justice: “She sleeps in comfort in my arms/she is plain but she is mine… Is it wrong to love a family of ghosts?” he croons in the best Johnny Cash impression that exists right now.
Album highlights ‘Brother’ and ‘Sometimes The Line Walks You’ (more Cash homage) are cascading, rollicking, demonised rock ‘n’ roll tunes played right, but you need the words to fully engage.
Thank God for Balliet then, yielding her cello as if she means to do harm. So jagged are her movements that she appears like a puppet on a string, a mechanised doll or a dark angel. She’s a beautiful torturess playing with your heart strings whilst the rest of the band beats the living shit out of you and spits Budweiser in your face. She’s so damn entrancing that you don’t even realise your own misfortune until your bleeding and stinking of piss; and even then, you just don’t care. You just feel kinda warm and stupid.
Murder By Death, when (not if) they get the sound right, will soon be ripping up a saloon near you… I suggest you get involved.
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.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
OLD Live Review. Fujiya & Miyagi - 9/02/07 - Camden Barfly
Barfly on a Friday night – rammed. Not as you might expect with sweaty youths, oh no, an older crowd is in tow tonight for a couple of hot, new electro-ey acts – wicked.
The (definitely) sweatiest, (maybe) youngest and (for sure) the wearers of the tightest t-shirts in the room were To My Boy. Two in numbers they are, fun, energetic and exuberant also. Bands at this stage in their careers are always interesting – eager to please, healthy muscles, a certain fearlessness. Their willingness to give it their all oft supersedes any professionalism but fuck it, whipping the top floor into a frenzy is no mean feat.
My mood however, was one of confusion. There’s quite a bit going on with these see – bleepery, speedy beats, quirky vocals – and it’s a tad overwhelming on first listen. Amalgamation occurs, rawness abounds and blurring naturally follows.
This may or may not be their fault. On record (Myspace) they are crisp, tight, original and a blast. Edgy, difficult, noisy, spikey, everything you need really if electronica is to be worth a watch - I Was A Cub Scout with more of an eye for a frolic or two. If you need a reference point, that’s it.
Fujiya & Miyagi play a different fiddle. Deep, bassy, witty, cynical, cocky, patronising and… middle aged. Oh the contrast, but here it is: the night began with a flurry, a cider-blur and now, clarity. A more perfect combo of support/headliners I cannot recall.
Fujiya & Miyagi pretend to be Japanese and sing about it. They also chant there own name and in Collarbone sing about which body parts are attached to various other bodyparts: “toe-bone up the ankle bone, ankle bone up to the shin bone, shin bone up to the knee bone,” after declarations of having “to get a new pair of shoes, to kick it with her, now kick it wid you…” because of numerous broken bones thanks to tripping over his shoelaces.
In many ways they have to be heard to be believed. It’s clever, it’s funny, and it’s also so very danceable. There’s a proper bassy, krautrock undertone to the tunes, which are short, sweet and riddled with various “uh, uh’s” and diversions into French.
“You’re off your, you’re off your, you’re off your bleedin’ rocker” they speak/sing at you. Street-speak yes, but smarter than The Streets. Non-aggressive 30-40 year olds providing a wave of sound upon which to ride, laugh and think. What else do you need?
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?
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.
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