Album review: Frank Turner: 'Poetry of the Deed'

FRANK TURNER: 'Poetry of the Deed' (Xtra Mile)

Okay, let's get one thing straight: this is not, I repeat not, Frank Turner's album. As the wandering Winchesterian is likely to insist, 'Poetry of the Deed' is a collaborative effort, with his backing band playing just as important a role as his beloved acoustic guitar. Oh sorry, did I say 'backing band?' I do apologise. What I meant, Mr. Turner, was 'fellow members of your super-duper, egalitarian, not-at-all-secondary folk rock outfit'. Yeah, that's better. Didn't mean to offend anyone, you understand. Didn't mean to underestimate the importance of wonderfully enigmatic percussionist Nigel Powell, or delightfully curly-haired guitarist/mandolin-plucker Ben Lloyd. They're all unquestionably talented young men, and they all bring their own distinctive style to the mix; but you see, it's just that, well, they're not really credited, are they? Oh sure, their names appear inside the album booklet - hell, they even get to thank their nearest and dearest - but whatever happened to acknowledging them in your recording moniker? Where did all of those 'Frank Turner and the ________ Band' (fill in the blank as you please) suggestions disappear to? If memory serves, you spent an entire tour in late 2008 hunting for a suitable name for your new group and now, as their album is finally unleashed on the general public, you keep hogging the limelight? Where's the fairness in that?

Perhaps this may be a little persnickety, but it certainly seems to matter when one considers how much of a swerve this record is from Turner's previous material. From the moment that the ivories are first tickled in the opening seconds of 'Live Fast, Die Old', it is quite obvious that 'Poetry' was arranged and rehearsed with the full band, as opposed to Frank simply recording the majority of the music himself. Ben's distorted guitars, Matt's sombre organ parts, and Nigel's penchant for the old tambourine and maracas create a character of their own, one that owes more than a great deal to the sort of folky wistfulness of Americana. This isn't necessarily a bad thing in itself - hell, the style is responsible for giving us bands as disparate and remarkable as The Gaslight Anthem and The Band - but when introduced to Turner's strengths, his uncanny knack for transforming introspection and melancholia into something universal and euphoric, it just doesn't seem to gel. Instead, it threatens to swamp his voice, to negate the ordinarily evocative power of his music. Simplicity has always been the key to the guy's success - tracks like 'The Real Damage', 'I Knew Prufrock Before He Got Famous' and 'Long Live the Queen' strike such an incredible chord because they strip everything down, communicating heartfelt, sincere emotion without ever seeming contrived. Here, as his acoustic gets lost in the mix in favour of lashings of fake piano, half-arsed harmonica and intrusive harmonies (guys, those 'oooooohs' in 'Journey of the Magi' are embarrassing), Frank is in danger of losing the essence of his music, the heart and soul of what he does.

At times, it almost feels like he's trying to hide behind his band, as if he isn't comfortable with the spotlight bearing down so overwhelmingly on him. Tracks like 'Sunday Nights' and 'Our Lady of the Campfire' would have positioned Turner squarely at the forefront on previous records, but here he is bogged down by a curious desire to sound like Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, circa 'Born to Run', a feat that it would take nothing short of a miracle to achieve. It's tempting to speculate that he has perhaps lost confidence in his own abilities, although such psychoanalysis is somewhat unfair. It may simply stem from a desire to move on, to not regurgitate the same successful formula, which is certainly no bad thing; it's just rather unfortunate that this new avenue doesn't appear to suit him. Songs like 'Sons of Liberty' and 'Richard Divine', the record's biggest departures, are ill-advised: the poor excuse for a jig in the former seems throwaway and pointless, while Turner's attempt to turn into an observational storyteller in the latter only demonstrates just how much better he is at turning the magnifying glass on himself.

Things aren't all bad, mind. For the most part, Frank sticks to his tried-and-tested lyrical concerns, with the majority of songs falling into one of two distinct brackets: the self-reflective and the didactic (minus anything remotely political, which is a bit of a shame, although the jury's out on how long he could've milked the whole 'disillusionment' thing anyway...) His strengths as a wordsmith generally shine through, once again demonstrating how even the most mawkish and cliched couplets can harbour great beauty. 'Faithful Son's wistful ode to the ol' parentals is unashamedly cheesy, but all the more endearing for it. 'The Road' has the corniest chorus of the year ('to the east/To the east' ... 'To the west/To the west' ... etc.) but its lugubrious tale of a fast-moving, unrelenting life is irresistibly expressive. 'Poetry of the Deed' is charmingly celebratory, finishing on the wonderful line 'life is too short to live without poetry/So if you've got soul darling, now come on and show me.' And then there's 'Dan's Song', a perfectly simple two minute ode to the joys of friendship that sounds the most like Turner as we previously knew him, and 'Try This At Home', 1:57 of purest rabble rousing, raising the spectre of 'Back in the Day' with its abrasively fast pace and delectable call-to-arms. The track is by far the best thing on the album, instructing the listener to 'tear down the stars now and take up your guitars', while also throwing in the odd dig at certain types of 'musician' for good measure ('there's no such thing as rock stars, there's just people who play music/And some of them are just like us and some of them are dicks').

It's possible that I have been a little harsh on poor Frank Turner. 'Poetry of the Deed' is by no means a bad album; hell, judged on the standards set by a great many of today's most successful alternative artists, it's a pretty good one. And maybe the style change has just thrown me for a loop. Two or three months down the line, perhaps I'll be waxing poetic about its brilliance, about how it simply takes the listener some time to get adjusted; but then, that's a distinctly disappointing notion in itself. 'Sleep is for the Week' and 'Love, Ire and Song' are such immediate records, they strike you with such an almighty suckerpunch on first listen, that it's hard to feel satisfied with 'Poetry of the Deed's mild shove of your shoulder. Only 'Try This At Home' and 'Dan's Song' really have the instantaneous timelessness of tracks like 'Prufrock' and 'Worse Things Happen at Sea', and it's significant that these are both the simplest and the most familiar sounding tracks on the album. Frank's desire to further incorporate the members of his live band within the recording process often overshadows his own artistic expression, masking his talent with over-production and intrusive and unnecessary instrumentation. For all this may be a brave departure, it's one that can only be judged as partially successful. (6.5/10)

Album review: Stellastarr*: 'Civilised'

STELLASTARR*: 'Civilised' (Bloated Wife)

The music industry can be a bloody cruel bugger at times. No matter how gifted, original or downright cool your band is, sometimes, things just don't work out. The mysterious, shady individuals that make the wheels go round on the gargantuan rock/alt machine truly cannot be fathomed; your band may have all the ingredients that are supposedly needed for success, or happen to be making a particular brand of music that's proving to be a gold mine at the time, and yet the executives just don't wanna hear about it. You find yourself ignored, consigned to playing no-name pubs in the arse end of nowhere for the rest of your days, fending off reams of pissed-up fortysomethings who think "you've really got something" and that "you could really go far." "Oh yeah?," you ask through gritted teeth, "Well, you go tell that to my dole officer, mate."

While New York City's Stellastarr* (the asterisk is important, in case you've never heard of 'em before) aren't quite this destitute, their brush with the industry has proven frustratingly fruitless and fleeting. The major label that signed 'em put out two records - 2004's eponymous debut and 2006's 'Harmonies for the Haunted', at a time in which the band's sound, indie guitar pop oscillating between spiky and jangly, taking in the melodic sensibilities of bands like The Killers but having the darker edge beloved of acts like Bloc Party, We Are Scientists and Interpol, was what all the cool kids were listening to. By all rights, with singles as gorgeous as 'Sweet Troubled Soul', 'Love and Longing' and 'Somewhere Across Forever', Stellastarr* should be absolutely huge by now, playing Academy 1s across the country, if not teetering on the edge of arena stardom. It's an absolute crime that a track as majestically poppy as 'My Coco' isn't an indie dancefloor classic, sitting comfortably next to 'All These Things That I've Done' and 'I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor' as an anthem for the noughties generation. Unfortunately, somewhere along the line, things went horribly wrong for Shawn Christensen and co. Blame poor marketing, lack of publicity, limited distribution, whatever you like: the fact remains that the reason cannot really be pinpointed. Their failure to translate to the mainstream is inexplicable, and third LP 'Civilised', released earlier this month, is just further proof of this fact.

The band have put this record out on their own, having been abandoned by their label, and perhaps this is for the best. The DIY ethic puts them at a distinct advantage: 'Civilised' has more room to breathe than its predecessor which, at times, seemed a little like it was weighed down by compromise; by the feeling that they needed to write more 'epic' songs in order to crossover to the audience much loved of the hugely successful Snow Patrol and Coldplay. Indeed, the abundance of ballads and slow-movers on 'Harmonies for the Haunted' seemed to suggest that the band were being nudged towards the mums and dads, the crowd that has lined Gary Lightbody and Chris Martin's pockets with gold. Here, there is very little of this polish. 'Civilised' owes much more to the messy aggression of 'Stellastarr*', unleashing reckless guitars at every opportunity. 'Robot' is a wall of amped-up noise, featuring a single repeated refrain from Shawn, and it sounds positively thrilling. The track has the spine-tingling urgency of 'Pulp Song' and 'Jenny', helping to remind us all why we fell hopelessly in love with them to begin with.

Naturally, there are moments of pristine pop perfection too. Lead single 'Graffiti Eyes' is a wonderfully angular beast with delicious harmonies; 'People' glistens with the sparkle of a thousand Smiths, Cure and R.E.M. records; 'Move On' comes on like the finest Stone Roses song that John Squire never wrote, Shawn's elated melody soaring with the majesty of Ian Brown's vocals for his actual band (we don't count all that solo shite), before morphing into a four-to-the-floor stomper that would make Bloc Party proud. Indeed, many of Michael Jurin's riffs have the sort of sprawling elegiac quality of Russell Lissack's best work, and the tracks are littered with them, underscoring the words rather than simply leaving it all to the art of chord-strumming. This makes the record sound so much more interesting: 'Sonja Cries' derives most of its power from the twinkle toes plucking that drives it, complementing Shawn's bittersweet vocals so poignantly.

Such sounds give the album a highly evocative feel. Tracks like the beautiful 'Tokyo Sky' have the power to transport you from the mundane four walls of your bedroom to somewhere far more exalted, feeling positively cinematic. You can envision yourself travelling through the streets of Tokyo, looking in awe at the sheer size and scale of it all, or driving along its snaking, neon-splattered streets, roof down, album on, soaking up the atmosphere. 'Civilised', as with all of Stellastarr*'s albums, sounds metropolitan. This is the noise of the city, with all its intense thrills, myriad possibilities and crushing comedowns.

The album is perhaps lacking anything truly astounding; much of 'Civilised' has been done before, and it never really escapes from the trappings of the sugar-coated spiky indie-rock sound that the band have cultivated for themselves. Still, this is no bad thing, as the style is a delectable one, producing a series of tracks that take you to a world far beyond your own, that sound simultaneously intense, august, uplifting and bittersweet. Once again, there are singles galore, with hooks you just won't be able to resist sinking your teeth into. And so what if no one else has the gumption to recognise them? Stellastarr* are now, and will probably always be, one of the most stunning bands we have. (8/10)

Album review: Maximo Park: 'Quicken the Heart'

MAXIMO PARK: 'Quicken the Heart' (Warp)

Concerned by the growing number of indie bands embracing dance music? Frightened by the inexplicable popularity of such style swerves, and the way in which your favourite groups seem to be jumping on the bandwagon with the greatest of glee? Does it keep you awake at night, sweating in your Subpop PJs? Have you put a parental lock on the once-reliable MTV2, lest you stumble across an offending track? Are you petrified about the future of alternative music? Well fear not dear reader, for here's one band you can always rely on. While their dependence on the wiry synths provided by mind-bogglingly hyperactive keyboardist Lukas Wooler may be steadily increasing, Maximo Park will never lose the indie-pop heart of the music: in the space of three albums, they have managed to remain relatively steadfast, producing energetic, hook-laden numbers without a trace of techno, grime or, heaven help us all, crunk. With 'Quicken the Heart', we have more of the same - Maximo know what you want and by God, they know how to give it to you.

As usual, their intrinsic command of melody produces some truly impressive tracks. 'The Kids Are Sick Again' is a blistering effort, promising a chorus but never quite delivering until the final minute or so, by which point the listener is far more susceptible to its charms. The song cleverly avoids becoming repetitive or predictable which, in turn, only makes its hooks more memorable. There are obvious singles everywhere on this record: 'Calm' is an effortless singalong, designed to claw at your skull, 'A Cloud of Mystery' has sass and sway, washing over you in a sea of dirty guitars and 'Wraithlike' is positively menacing, an invective two and a half minute flurry of jagged riffs and unusual rhythm changes. There is a slightly darker, more sombre, feel to the album, however, but Maximo quite rightly entrench it in the sort of raw energy that made debut 'A Certain Trigger' such an exciting listen (and its absence in 'Our Earthly Pleasures' such a distinct disappointment.) Paul Smith's penchant for storytelling remains, lending considerable verisimilitude, but in tracks like 'The Penultimate Clinch', with its cold Joy Division bass and drums, it's a hell of a lot darker.

Regrettably, 'Quicken the Heart' loses a great deal of this energy and versatility as it slouches its way into the final half. The meandering groove of 'Let's Get Clinical' is truly ill-advised, swamping the song in lethargy, refusing to let the melody seep through. 'Roller Disco Dreams' and 'Tanned' seem to bleed into one another, neither offering the listener anything to get excited about. Despite its promising title, 'Questing, Not Coasting' continues the trend, slumping into the sort of polished 'maturity' that haunted 'Pleasures', rejecting the band's natural inclination to crank the volume and sounding worryingly like late 90s indie nobodies Monaco. This weariness really damages the record, limiting its impact and exposing some of its limitations: at times, the refrains feel too familiar; while they are initially appealing, it doesn't take long before they begin to prove tiresome. 'In Another World' is probably the worst offender: listen to that chorus and tell me that it isn't just 'Girls Who Play Guitars' in a different key.

Predictably, Maximo Park's third effort is a perfectly comfortable record, the sound of a band settling into their well-honed sound. Often, this proves rather refreshing, especially when one considers the deluge of artists currently taking U-turns in an attempt to satisfy the ever-changing zeitgeist. The Park certainly have the ability to harness their considerable talents and ear for melody in order to create some damn fine singalongs, and there are plenty here. Unfortunately, their biggest strength is also their most infuriating weakness, as their familiarity quickly turns to predictability and the songs lose their power. There is little different here, and what is is ill-advised or sluggish, leaving the album sounding tired and dull in its latter stages. While I'm certainly not advocating a dalliance with grime, perhaps Maximo Park could do with an injection of fresh blood and a dose of fresh energy. 'Quicken the Heart' generally does what it's supposed to but sadly, in this day and age, that often isn't enough. (6/10)

Album review: Fake Problems: 'It's Great To Be Alive'

FAKE PROBLEMS: 'It's Great To Be Alive' (SideOneDummy)

Fake Problems are a really rather charming band. Their fusion of the musically barmy and the lyrically smirk-raising is a wonderfully endearing formula and one that makes 'It's Great To Be Alive' such a fulfilling record. Theirs is a sophisticated mash-up of styles, taking in indie, punk, country, folk, rock and even skiffle (we kid you not), but never sounding trite or over-complicated. The experimentation with instrumentation creates a pot pourri of sounds to satisfy even the most picky of palettes: there are cowbells, trombones, violins and even penny whistles in this cut-and-paste collage, which gives the album the sort of playful vibrancy that's made such disparate acts as Gogol Bordello and Modest Mouse so engaging.

There are shades of so many other contemporaries in Fake Problems' musical cooking pot too. They adopt the grandiose layers of The Arcade Fire, but simultaneously manage to be as ruff and ragged as Defiance, Ohio, with their brand of frayed country punk. Perhaps the most common comparison, however, is to anarcho-folk-punksters Against Me!, whose Tom Gabel owes more than a passing resemblance to Chris Farren (vocally, not physically, you understand.) Crucially, however, 'It's Great To Be Alive' - as you may have guessed from the title - is a far more celebratory effort than much of Against Me!'s work. Where the Gainesville five-piece are concerned with politics and social injustice, Fake Problems find their muse in joy, in eulogising the mundane.

The album certainly benefits from this proclivity for the upbeat: 'The Dream Team' has the most memorable chorus of the year and it's an absolute beauty to behold. 'I wanna be the American dream', sings Chris, before adding, 'but I need you right next to me if I'm ever gonna feel free.' The synonymising of the macrocosmic with the micro, the gargantuan outside world with the simple unit of two, captures the very essence of love, what it is to give yourself completely to another. The 'you and me' of the song is so glorious that you just can't help but assume the role of the singer's companion, no matter how inappropriate it may seem. There's much of this elsewhere too, such as in the simplistic '1,2,3,4' which has the same theme, demonstrating how love usurps all.

All of this is as catchy as hell too; for all it may seem a little cheesy at first, the two-step stomp of 'Diamond Rings' will be revolving around your frontal lobes for days. 'Don't Worry Baby' is even better, featuring some of the most absurd lyrics this side of a Spike Milligan compilation, and the most inspired set of 'la la la's since Bowling 4 Soup went 'gay.' For all this is excessively chirpy however, there are more sombre moments on the record. The last three tracks allow a potent melancholy to seep in and it buoys its impact: 'Too Cold to Hold', with its straightforward acoustic lilt, is particularly moving. There are other thematic excursions too. The band explore gang mentality on 'Tabernacle Song' and manage to capture the sort of lighters-aloft, arms-around-your-mates euphoria of their peers' best singalongs (the Molly's 'Alive', Murphys' 'Kiss Me, I'm Shitfaced', anything by The Living End etc.) There's even time for a bit of swing too: 'Alligator Assassinator' is just the Cherry Poppin' Daddies on acid. No, really. It is.

Sounding like the bastard love child of about a dozen of your favourite bands - Against Me!, Gogol Bordello, Flogging Molly, even The Arcade Fire and Frank Turner at times - it's quite remarkable that Fake Problems have actually managed to create an album that so deftly delineates an identity of their own. 'It's Great To Be Alive' is a rapturous record, bursting with life and bristling with ingenuity. You just can't help but fall for its illustrious charms and in so doing, you'll probably end up feeling a whole heck of a lot better too. (8.5/10)

Album review: Brakes: 'Touchdown'

BRAKES: 'Touchdown' (Rough Trade)

There's never been anything particularly ordinary about Brakes. Formed by Thomas and Alex White of the Electric Soft Parade when they came upon the considerable talents of vocalist Eamon Hamilton, the outfit has based its currently fairly short-lived career on being nothing short of utterly barking. Debut 'Give Blood' features a six second song, as well as a number of other excitingly brief, rivetingly energetic numbers with barmy lyrics like 'Cheney's 'Cheney, Cheney, Cheney, Cheney, Cheney, Cheney, Cheney/Stop being such a dick!' and 'Hi How Are You's verbal lambasting of those that natter incessantly during gigs. As well as these visceral moments, however, Brakes indulge in unashamed pop too, having produced one of the decade's greatest dancefloor fillers in the - ironic? Who knows? - 'All Night Disco Party', a trend that continued apace into 2006's 'The Beatific Visions', an album that features a track called 'Porcupine or Pineapple' ('Spikey! Spikey!') and a one about 'do[ing] the spring chicken!'

This eccentricity is what has made Brakes such an endearing band, standing out from the crowd of identikit indie starlets who ordinarily adorn the pages of the music press. For better or for worse, however, it has been reigned in on new release 'Touchdown'; while this remains a musically unusual record, Eamon's lyrics are far less abstract, feeling crushed by the weight of personal experience. There are aggressive moments here, replete with the kind of raw, jagged guitar playing that characterises 'Give Blood': 'Why Tell the Truth?' morphs from a lilting strum to an intense rock beast, 'Red Rag' is a practically unlistenable ninety second thrashfest and 'Don't Take Me To Space (Man)' works a filthy Joy Division bassline around a wall of supersonic guitars. Interestingly though, the tracks are thematically bittersweet, entrenched in the melancholia of world-weariness. Eamon sounds withdrawn, rarely allowing his voice to communicate the anger and frustration he more than likely feels. Where once opener 'Two Shocks' would have spat out of the starting block with ferocity, here it slouches, feeling as defeated as its central hook, 'all I grew was disillusioned.'

This intrinsic fatigue does occasionally threaten to negate the power of the record; the sorrowful dirge of 'Oh! Forever', for example, is a particularly difficult listen. However, as with all Brakes records, there is enough stylistic diversity to keep things afloat. When Eamon unleashes his acoustic and gets down to demonstrating his country roots, 'Touchdown' feels a touch (hah! See what I did there?) more euphoric. Sure, 'Worry About it Later' is certainly no 'NY Pie'; it isn't going to send your spirit soaring high over the buildings in your neighbourhood, awash with joy, but it is the most satisfying moment on the album, its bittersweet ode to a much loved individual striking a potent chord. 'Your heart's been skipping like a jumping bean' is the closest Eamon gets to his previously carefree self, a wonderfully stark, fantastically ridiculous simile to make you grin from ear to ear.

'Touchdown' is a distinctly weird record but then, would we really expect anything else from Brakes? It confounds expectations by largely abandoning the uplifting eccentricity of their earlier material, choosing instead to marry their off-puttingly raw sound to a series of rather melancholic lyrics that reveal the band's world-weariness. For the most part, it works quite well, although the album does seem to be teetering on the edge, constantly running the risk of being so downbeat that it loses the listener's attention. Still, a valiant effort, and if not Brakes' best work, it's still no bloody BrokeNCYDE. (7/10)

Live review: The Get Up Kids, Manchester Academy 2 (18/08/09)

THE GET UP KIDS: Manchester Academy 2, 18/08/09

The Get Up Kids’ influence on modern rock music is insurmountable; the list of contemporaries who owe everything to the band’s marriage of introspective lyricism and punky guitar pop is about as long as Manchester’s meandering Oxford Road, on which tonight’s retrospective is taking place, in a building that houses a meagre 800 over-excited souls. It’s a curious quirk this, for the alumni of the Get Up Kids School of Emo are arguably better known and far more successful than their masters, but it’s one that also puts the band at a distinct advantage. Those that do know who they are, who grew up with their irresistible hooks and sumptuous harmonies, quite literally adore them; theirs is a fanbase bereft of stragglers, devoid of those who simply come for the hits and then fuck off home. And while there are plenty of hardened fans here in their old tour T-shirts, there are just as many who didn't get a chance to experience the GUK live show back in t'day, and this combination creates a positively vibrant atmosphere. It matters little that the average Joe on the street looks bemused when told who's playing, or that the passengers on a delayed train into Manchester look distinctly perplexed when scores of skinny jeaned kids start getting antsy when it looks like they won't make it in time. For now, here, tonight, the Get Up Kids are the most important band in the world, and they mean absolutely everything.

For so long, the idea of a reunion has seemed like such an unobtainable dream that it takes a little while for the reality to sink in. When the five slightly aged, but no less distinctive, bodies saunter onstage at 9pm with little fanfare, the moment seems to lack the gravitas it should so obviously exude, but then they launch headfirst into a blistering 'Coming Clean' and all doubts are quickly erased. The band deliver a career-spanning set, covering everything from EP tracks (including their two best, most playful covers: The Cure's 'Close to Me' and the Replacements' 'Beer for Breakfast') to the polished anthems of 'Guilt Show', but there's little distinction in crowd response (well, aside from the occasional tosspot shouting "old stuff!", as if he was going to get anything else). 'Four Minute Mile's angsty, messy 'Don't Hate Me' sits comfortably next to the wistful balladry of 'Valentine', and while the abundance of tracks from 'Something to Write Home About' probably elicit the most lunacy, - argy-bargee abounds during a raucous 'Ten Minutes', and the superbly anthemic 'Action and Action' and 'Red Letter Day' - judging the audience on their willingness to jump into one another is a bit of a faux pas. These guys pay attention. There isn't a face in the crowd that isn't glued to the stage for every single song, mesmerised by their power. The Get Up Kids are simply riveting no matter what they play; so slow-burners like 'Campfire Kansas', 'Martyr Me' and 'Holy Roman' leave just as indelible an impression as their arms-in-the-air rock brothers, which is quite remarkable when you consider the simplicity of the performance. This is not a band who do jumping jacks across the stage; they remain fairly static, meandering around but not cavorting around, and yet they are thoroughly enthralling. You could hear a pin drop during the otherworldly 'Walking on a Wire', so mesmerised is the crowd.

Indeed, it certainly appears that the band take greater enjoyment in playing the tracks from their later albums; the college classics are ace, sure, but there's something for more powerful about the 'On a Wire' and 'Guilt Show' material. They tend to hint at what the band could be, were they still producing music, something that is mildly hinted at when a heckler shouts for a "new album!" towards the end of the set. Matt is "not at liberty to discuss" which only adds credence to the suggestion, making the audience cream their pants with excitement. And just as they do, 'I'll Catch You' soars over everyone, causing young lovers to embrace, old ones to exchange knowing looks and perfect strangers to become fast friends. It's a tender way to close the show, but it's the most appropriate, reminding everyone of just how much the band mean to us. The Get Up Kids soundtrack lives and underscore moments, and that's what tonight is about: celebrating a career that had a profound effect on everyone and everything it touched.

An emo kid in his chequered shirt and a punk dude with his new-born mohawk stand side by side, bellowing the words to this sombre ballad together and that, right there, is the very essence of the band. Across genres and scenes, personalities and types, The Get Up Kids cut a swathe of real emotion from the deepest denizens of their hearts, uniting even the unlikeliest of souls. This is what music should be about, how live shows should be done, and thank our lucky stars that we all got to see it at least one more time.

Album review: Idlewild: 'Post Electric Blues'

IDLEWILD: 'Post Electric Blues' (Self-released)

If ever any proof were needed that there is no justice in the world, one need only look to the story of Scotland's Idlewild, a band who have been slaving away for the better part of twelve years, consistently producing powerfully addictive, lyrically intriguing music, and receiving barely any recognition for it. Aside from a brief period in 2002, when 'The Remote Part' produced a top ten single and the zeitgeist touted them as 'the next R.E.M.' (a statement that subsequently fell on deaf ears), Roddy Woomble's band of merry men have been largely ignored by both the general public and the industry itself, leading to the crushing ignominy earlier this year of having Edith Bowman (Edith Bowman!) actually explain to the viewing audience who the band are as she introduced their T in the Park set, as if they were some fresh-faced young up-and-comers. Idlewild have years and years of experience on the majority of the acts currently plastered all over the pages of NME and they're a darn sight better than most of 'em too.

The reasons for their lack of success are undoubtedly manifold; timing, periods of absence, record company difficulties and all sorts of other concerns probably united to conspire against the band but, really, it matters little. Everyone gets their just deserts eventually and the best Idlewild can do is persevere, safe in the knowledge that they continue to produce wonderfully gorgeous music. 'Post Electric Blues', as is to be expected, is yet another accomplished record, although we certainly all had our doubts when the title was first announced. Fortunately, Roddy hasn't embraced the suffocating ennui of electropop or electroclash or whatever the hell it is that you should call the God-awful synth obsessed trollop that currently passes for indie music. No, 'Post-Electric Blues' refers to the comedown after the misguided euphoria of the electro movement, discussing the question of where such dalliances have left us, which way we can now turn. There is a song to match the moniker, a slow-burning stomper with the sort of lit theory laden lyrics that made 'These Wooden Ideas' such a charmer.

Thankfully, Idlewild tend to stick to what they do best, marrying larger-than-life hooks with glitzy, punchy guitar pop. 'Post Electric' owes more to 'Warnings/Promises' than previous release 'Make Another World'; its palate is less immediate and sonically intense, embracing the folky introspection of Woomble's solo work as much as providing guiltless rock thrills, but this only makes the album that much more interesting. Rod's wonderful guitar stabs are often accompanied by tinkles on the ivories, as in the lovely 'City Hall', there are experiments with brass and unusual percussion, elements that make lead single 'Readers and Writers' such a joy, and there is female vocal accompaniment, provided by the effortlessly talented Heidi Talbot, which adds a fresh dimension to the band's sound. She accentuates the power of wistful ballad 'Take Me Back to the Islands' but, perhaps more impressively, actually manages to make something glorious out of a series of 'la la la's, which is all she provides on 'Younger than America', the album's superlatively anthemic opener. Somehow, her minuscule contribution seems gargantuan, giving the track a sort of rapturous feel that sends shivers down the spine.

Interestingly, this is a decidedly summery album. The hooks and melodies, as well as the guitars and Rod's wonderful solos (the underscore to 'Dreams of Nothing' is of particular note) have a pleasantly jangly feeling to them, and even the ballads feel more celebratory and sun-drenched than melancholic. '(The Night) Will Bring You Back to Life' is just beautiful, working a simple, yet considerably wise, lyric around a completely straightforward bout of acoustic plucking. Idlewild have proven themselves as masters of the slow-mover through earlier material: 'Quiet Crown', 'The Bronze Medal', 'Not Just Sometimes but Always', 'American English' and countless others are some of the most moving ballads to ever worm their way out of a recording studio, and those on 'Post Electric' hold up just as well against their companions.

Regrettably, the album does seem to become a little less distinct towards its closing moments. For all its musical adventurousness, 'Circles in Stars', fittingly, just seems to go round in circles, never finding a melody, and 'To Be Forgotten', even more fittingly, quickly fades from the memory, feeling somewhat frustratingly like Idlewild-by-numbers. Perhaps, like 'Warnings/Promises' before it, 'Post Electric Blues' could do with trimming the fat, shaving off a couple of tracks - the band seemed to learn their lesson with 'Make Another World' which, at a meagre ten blisteringly intense tracks, packed if not a more powerful punch, then definitely a better aimed one. Still, such criticism doesn't negate the beauty of the remainder of the record. While this is no 'Remote Part' and it certainly doesn't reach the giddy heights of '100 Broken Windows' (how could it? How do you top one of the best albums ever written?), 'Post Electric Blues' is still a thoroughly addictive record, loaded with bright, bold melodies and sun-drenched guitars. Once again, Idlewild prove that they can pretty much do no wrong. Now all the world needs to do is wake up out of its self-obsessed electroclash slumber and realise it. (8/10)

Album review: Manchester Orchestra: 'Mean Everything to Nothing'

MANCHESTER ORCHESTRA: 'Mean Everything to Nothing' (Canvasback)

There’s something of a buzz surrounding Manchester Orchestra; following 2006’s impressively mature debut, ‘I’m like a Virgin Losing a Child’, the Georgia five-piece have become critical dahlings, and for once, it’s wholly justified. With ‘Mean Everything to Nothing’, the band have produced their magnum opus, a superlative distillation of their quintessentially bleak, yet unquestionably anthemic, sound.

This is a far more grandiose effort than their 2006 offering, benefitting greatly from Joe Chicarrelli’s studied production. The record is fit to burst with gigantic choruses and ballsy guitar gusto, but crucially, its mood is markedly crestfallen. ‘I’ve Got Friends’ is a strong contender for hook of the year, so effortless is its chorus, but the words themselves prevent you from ever experiencing the euphoria that the melody seems to suggest. With intoxicating fragility, Andy Hill tries to rebuke those who have betrayed him, but is ultimately defeated by his pain, resigned to his fate. ‘The Only One’, meanwhile, opens the record in gorgeously poppy style, taking a leaf out of Motion City Soundtrack’s book, but before long, the dissonant, out-of-tune keyboard underscore becomes distinctly disconcerting, hinting at a more sinister nuance to the track’s apparent simplicity.

Things are as forlorn elsewhere. ‘Pride’ is a monumentally evocative funeral dirge, painting a picture of utter hopelessness is excruciating Technicolor; ‘I Can Feel A Hot One’ is a piano-led number so tender and bittersweet, it could make grown men cry; and then there are the tracks concerned with the injustices of religion (a motif carried over from their debut), which are often highly provocative: ‘The River’s insistence (to God) that ‘I’m gonna leave you the first chance I get’ and ‘I’ve Got Teeth’s facetious ‘Jesus is coming, better act our age’ are positively dripping with spite, intensifying the power of the band’s lyrics and conveying the horrors of Bell’s past without delving into mawkishness.

At times, ‘Mean Everything to Nothing’ is a difficult listen. Its despondency is initially unwelcoming and takes some time to truly appreciate, but, as with all good things, perseverance pays dividends. The album harnesses the kind of emotional gravitas and packs the same incredibly stomach-churning punch as tour mates Brand New’s phenomenal ‘The Devil and God are Raging Inside Me’ and that really is no small feat. Manchester Orchestra splatter heart, soul, blood and guts all over this record, giving you everything they’ve got, and for that, they should mean everything to everyone. (9/10)

Album review: Twin Atlantic: 'Vivarium'

TWIN ATLANTIC: 'Vivarium' (Red Bull Records)

In case you weren’t aware, a ‘vivarium’ is ‘a place where animals are kept under natural conditions’, which is a rather fitting moniker for Twin Atlantic’s debut. The deception at the heart of the word – perceived freedom amongst captivity – cuts to the heart of the band’s sound; their raw, primal energy often feels like it is kicking against its own boundaries, refusing to be hemmed in or stilted by the conventions of song structure and accessibility.

This restlessness produces some truly masterful work. The record is hugely ambitious and playfully adventurous, mixing piano and cello with Biffy Clyro-esque guitar plucking and cataclysmic thrash to create a tornado of sound that sweeps you up and carries you along in its wake. The stalwarts of success are abandoned: there are stops, starts and rhythm changes everywhere. ‘Old Grey Face’ pauses several times between verse and chorus, before its hook ups an octave and a glorious key change catapults it into the stratosphere.

The album is thematically rich too, concerning itself with an array of interpersonal issues, putting the band in the same bracket as a host of superlative Scottish contemporaries (Sucioperro, The Xcerts, We Were Promised Jetpacks.) ‘Human After All’ is an ode to temptation, containing a fantastically chaotic final thirty seconds in which the song orgasms all over your speakers. ‘You’re Turning into John Wayne’ explores personal identity, observing the transformation of an individual’s nationality. And then there are more escapist moments, such as the absurd ‘Where Is Light? What Is Laughter?’ and the charming ‘Lightspeed’, which has the confident swagger and punch of a thousand Biffy tracks, stomping out of the starting block with insurmountable ferocity before morphing into the most grandiose chorus this side of a Muse album.

So much fun is had listening to ‘Vivarium’ – its tracks trawl so many corners of the psyche and stir up so many emotions – that when it winds to a close with the blissful ‘Better Weather’, you really don’t want it to end. At a meagre eight tracks, it doesn’t seem long enough; but then, that’s probably the point. The band capture the exquisite essence of their music by giving as succinct a statement as possible, thereby whetting our appetites perfectly. Simultaneously delicate, gargantuan, moving and absurd, ‘Vivarium’ is a gorgeously rich record, a near flawless snapshot of a band destined for greatness. Treasure this hidden gem while you still can. (9/10)

Meticulousness

So, the glorious soiree that is the Leeds Festival is almost upon us and, having pored laboriously over the line-up and the Clashfinder (which, more than likely, is somewhat inaccurate), my weekend will probably consist of the following:

Thursday (if I go)
The whole Dance to the Radio stage, culminating with Blood Red Shoes

Friday
12.00 - 12.30 Mariachi El Bronx (Main)
12.45 - 1.15 Pulled Apart by Horses (Festival Republic) vs Dinosaur Pile-Up (Radio 1) - clash
1.30 - 2.00 Chuck Ragan (Lock Up) - he of Hot Water Music fame, for those who don't know
2.15 - 2.45 A Wilhelm Scream (Lock Up)
3.10 - 3.50 Metric (Radio 1)
3.50 - 4.25 Snuff (Lock Up)
4.30 - 4.50 catch the end of Patrick Wolf (Radio 1)
5.40 - 6.20 Rival Schools (Lock Up)
6.35 - 7.20 Mad Caddies (Lock Up)
7.20 - 8.05 White Lies (Radio 1)
8.40 - 9.30 Glasvegas (Radio 1)
10.05 - 11.00 Rise Against (Lock Up)

Saturday
12.00 - 12.30 Bear Hands (Festival Republic)
12.45 - 1.15 In Case of Fire (Radio 1)
1.50 - 2.10 The Living End (Main) ...leaving a bit early to catch...
2.20 - 3.05 Frank Turner (Radio 1)
3.05 - 3.30 Magistrates (Festival Republic)
3.50 - 4.35 Brand New (Main)
4.55 - 5.45 Vampire Weekend (Main)
6.30 - 7.15 The Gaslight Anthem (Radio 1)
7.30 - 8.30 Bloc Party (Main) or 7.35 - 8.20 Gallows (Radio 1) - undecided
9.00 - 11.00 Radiohead (Main)

Sunday
12.00 - 12.30 The Plight (Lock Up)
12.45 - 1.15 Manchester Orchestra (Radio 1)
1.30 - 2.05 Alexisonfire (Main)
2.20 - 2.55 The Airborne Toxic Event (Radio 1)
3.00 - 3.30 Fake Problems (Lock Up)
3.45 - 4.15 Jack's Mannequin (Festival Republic)
4.30 - 5.05 A Place to Bury Strangers (Festival Republic)
5.35 - 6.20 Fall Out Boy (Main)
6.35 - 7.20 Bouncing Souls (Lock Up)
8.00 - 8.45 Black Lips (Festival Republic)
8.55 - 9.35 Anti-Flag (Lock Up)
10.05 - 11.00 Billy Talent (Lock Up)

Album review: White Lies: 'To Lose My Life'

WHITE LIES: 'To Lose My Life' (Fiction)

In case you hadn't noticed, White Lies have a bit of an obsession with death. It may have escaped your attention in amongst the sunny, blissed-out dreamscapes and chirpy harmonies of their mega hit singles but, honestly, if you look hard enough, if you plough through the dense metaphors and potent subtleties of their work, before long, you'll come to realise that... oh who am I kidding, it's fucking obvious, isn't it? White Lies' major thematic proclivity is about as well hidden as the punchline to an Andy Parsons joke; the red flags are everywhere. In fact, the word 'death' alone, never mind the countless synonyms for it, appears a whopping 3,964 times on 'To Lose My Life', or at least it certainly seems to once you've managed to scrape your forlorn, depressed carcass off the ground after listening to its decidedly morbid tales about humanity's mortality.

Fortunately for White Lies, while close scrutiny of their lyrics may make you want to reach for the nearest razorblade, simply listening to the music, letting the album wash over you per se, proves to be a far less hazardous and distinctly enjoyable experience. It's little surprise that the nation has taken the band to its collective heart, and this record to number one no less, when you consider that their sound marries the universalist catharsis of Glasvegas with the 80s synth stylings of the Killers, stopping off at Joy Division's miserablist boutique and Editors' angular, wiry guitar store along the way. With such big name influences, it's hard to go wrong; the resultant hybrid is one that transforms delicate melodies into explosive rhythms, firing huge choruses and memorable hooks left, right and centre. 'Death', the album opener and tone setter, begins softly enough, but before long, the quiet bass drum is joined by an almighty crashing snare, giving a sense of the gloriously loud indie beast that is to come. Cleverly, the band refrain from playing their ace too early and return to merely the bass drum after a quiet run through the chorus; it takes no less than three minutes for the track to unleash its full energy and it's all the better for it, as its power is fleeting but memorable. 'Unfinished Business', the debut single, adopts the same strategy and sounds colossal as a result.

This, without a shadow of a doubt, is an album of singles. Just about any one of its ten gorgeous tracks could feature on Jo Whiley's lunchtime show and get away with it, plugging into the hook-led palates of the average listener. Effectively, White lies have written ten decidedly dour pop songs, and that's certainly no small feat for a band with little history to speak of. 'To Lose My Life', the song, is a wonderfully anthemic piece, its chorus of 'let's grow old together/And die at the same time' sounding remarkably life-affirming. For all its morbidity, you want to follow his instruction, for its delivery is so impassioned and well meant. 'Farewell to the Fairground', meanwhile, sounds like New Order would had they not chosen to abandon the clinical sound of the Joy Division records - around a 'Blue Monday' drum beat, the singer laments the loss of a 'dead town' and invites the listener to 'keep on running!', away from this place and towards somewhere more like home. The refrain is repeated continually as the track explodes into a massive finish and it's damn well epic.

If 'To Lose My Life' has one flaw, it is that it is somewhat monochrome. The band rarely deviate from their admittedly successful formula and it does begin to wear a little thin towards the record's climax ('From the Stars' and 'The Price of Love' feel rather less impressionable). In a way, this is to be expected; as a debut, this has a very strong sense of purpose and a distinct concept. The band will grow and develop over time and their sound will surely expand. As an initial statement, however, 'To Lose My life' is a thoroughly impressive piece, managing to make the bleakest of subjects an accessible and enjoyable listen. With melodies this delicious and choruses this big, it should be many, many more years before White Lies pass on. Let's grow old with them, shall we? (8/10)

Album review: The Xcerts: 'In the Cold Wind We Smile'

THE XCERTS: 'In the Cold Wind We Smile' (Xtra Mile)

What is it about Scotland, huh? How is it that a country with such high unemployment, such significant levels of crime and such a growing need for regeneration (wander past the revitalised city centres of Edinburgh and Glasgow and you'll quickly find yourself bombarded with boarded-up windows and destitute souls) continues to produce some of the greatest music your ears are ever likely to hear? Its barren, bitter landscapes have given us the criminally underrated Idlewild, the enigmatic Biffy Clyro, the gargantuan Sucioperro and the cathartic Glasvegas, as well as some of the year's most promising upstarts in We Were Promised Jetpacks, Twin Atlantic and now these whipper-snappers, Aberdeen's quite unbelievably teenage Xcerts. Surely there must be something in the water? (Let's just forget that Texas ever happened, shall we?)

Of course, all of this isn't too surprising when you actually stop to think about it. Such regrettably dire socio-economic conditions are often the spark that's needed for angry young things to pick up guitars, and they subsequently become the subject matter from which their often lyrically invective, musically chaotic output is formed. 'In the Cold Wind We Smile' is no exception; in fact, in every respect, the album is quintessentially Scottish. The Xcerts observe the trials and tribulations of interpersonal relationships, describing eleven kitchen sink melodramas through music, while continually evoking the disenfranchisement of working class life within the country. The themes are bleak - death, unrequited love, loss - and the sound schizophrenically aggressive with it (think Biffy, '100 Broken Windows'-era Idlewild); however, crucially, the record is driven by an undercurrent of hope. The title itself denotes resilience in the wake of the bleak, and this sets the mood for the remainder of the album. On the wonderful 'Home Versus Home', Murray Macleod sings 'I lost love/You lost your father/I know it doesn't compare/But it's all part of home versus home.' There is a sense of acceptance in the words, an acknowledgement that, to put it crassly, the rough should be embraced alongside the smooth. This gives the album its edge, transforming a standard listening experience into a purgative one. Just check out the truly astounding 'Crisis in the Slow Lane', in which Murray bellows perhaps the most crucial chorus in the entire work: 'we all say we are tired of feeling low/Tired of being alone/But if we make it to see morning coffee/I swear you'll find an answer.' It's a joyous moment and one that sticks in the mind long after the CD's ground to an inglorious halt.

This lyrical catharsis is expressed sonically too, as the band's penchant for layering their sound, building from something straightforward to tremendous crescendo, imitates the psychological experience. There is a sense of release in almost every song, an epiphianic moment that sends shivers down the spine. 'Nightschool', for example, begins life as a fairly standard Get Up Kids/Motion City Soundtrack affair, full of piano parts and fiddly xylophone blips, before morphing into something of a rock monster, exploding in a haze of wiry guitars that offset the resolutely dour refrain 'we'll all burn out 'til there's nothing left at all,' making it somehow celebratory. Grief, pain, strife: all are welcomed with open arms, validated as crucial elements of the human experience, and it's wonderfully refreshing. And when the subject turns to love, things are just as ambiguous: 'Cool Ethan' and 'Lost but Not Alone' reminisce about what once was and could have been, but do so with eloquent restraint, never veering into mawkishness. Crucially, the lyrics are non-gender-specific, which gives them layers of intrigue and possibility, enhancing their power. Musically, they have the raw charm of 'Clarity'-era Jimmy Eat World, sitting somewhere between classics like 'Just Watch the Fireworks' and 'For Me This Is Heaven.'

'In the Cold Wind We Smile' is a surprisingly assured release from such young minds. Its lyrics are thankfully bereft of the usual hyperbole that typify teenage writing, and the musical accompaniment is a glorious mix of the best elements of the original emo bands (Get Up Kids, Sunny Day Real Estate, Saves the Day) and output from various contemporary Scottish acts (Biffy, Jetpacks et al.) It's an expressive, cathartic piece with a massive heart and a tonne of ambition. Domestic strife never sounded so thrilling. (9/10)

Album review: Bayonets: 'Wishes and Wishes'

BAYONETS: 'Wishes and Wishes' (Walnut Tree Records)

Not to be confused with the ageing aggro-punks of the same name, Hereford's Bayonets are a decidedly curious bunch. On the face of it, they appear to be another identikit emo-tinged outfit; one look at 'Wishes and Wishes'' inlay, with its black and white, melancholic images of the too-skinny, too-attractive-it-hurts band members, and ludicrously lengthy, self-absorbed track titles ('We Wish These Snakes Were Your Arms', anyone? 'Ten More Sleeps Until A Good Night's Sleep'?), and you've written them off as Hawthorne Heights wannabes or, worse still, Cute is What We Aim For. Thankfully, nothing could be further from the truth; while this is far from pop city, the land of the happy, chirpy and feel-good, 'Wishes and Wishes' is so much more sophisticated than your average alternative release, sounding rather like contemporary Brand New. The eight tracks on this record piss all over just about everything put out by, say, the Decaydance label, managing to capture a whirlwind of emotional torment without lapsing into cliche or musical monotony.

The key to the LP's success is its unpredictable arrangement. The essential elements remain the same throughout - Thom Craig seems to whimper, as if scared of the power of his vocals, Mark Gibbs' guitar solos lilt and sway, carrying the songs along on the crest of a monumentally intense wave ('Ten More Sleeps' succeeds thanks to its beautiful riff) and Joe Francis's drums crash around your ears, puncturing any tenderness that may have been created. However, Bayonets make a concerted effort to disrupt the natural ebb and flow of their songs; for all the album relies heavily on the traditional 'quiet/loud/quiet/loud' formula in order to create its particular brand of melancholia, it also takes unpredictable detours, often into somewhat less accessible, listener-friendly territory. 'We Wish These Snakes...' begins as a fairly standard slow, yet heavy, burner, before removing the guitars altogether. Thom is left alone to sing 'fuck you' in possibly the quietest, most tender fashion ever, and it's fucking terrifying. Hearing the words devoid of their aggression creates an air of unease, leaving you unsure as to quite how to take the track.

Elsewhere, the converse is true: 'Trample-City, J-Heat and Snowdays' becomes one gargantuan headfuck when, halfway through, it completely abandons its melody and spends a minute and a half swamped in a quagmire of cascading guitars. 'Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down' goes one step further and abandons the concept of playing altogether with a mid-section entirely composed of feedback. The song itself seems to literally collapse around you, the musical equivalent of a nervous breakdown. And let's not even get started on the bonus track's backing vocals that consist entirely of the kind of blood-curdling screams you'll have been likely to hear coming from Fred West's bedroom...

Occasionally, 'Wishes and Wishes' runs the risk of becoming too despondent for its own good. This is certainly no easy listen; there are no memorable hooks or life-affirming allegories to be found in its canvas of torment and suffering. However, there's no denying the considerable power of the band's music. With a fairly simple set-up, Bayonets have managed to create something unquestionably evocative. 'Wishes and Wishes' is a record that refuses to settle down, unloading its twisted, damaged psyche onto its listeners with the greatest of aplomb. For a debut, this is one hell of an achievement, and one that will not quickly be forgotten. (8.5/10)

Album review: Conor Oberst and the Mystic Valley Band: 'Outer South'

CONOR OBERST AND THE MYSTIC VALLEY BAND: 'Outer South' (Merge)

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Conor Oberst can do no wrong. With every quickfire release, Nebraska's youngest, boldest troubadour demonstrates how effortlessly prolific he is at telling the kind of bittersweet lyrical stories that guarantee the listener's absolute engagement; that evoke the kind of universalism that has made his peers (Dylan, Stevens etc.) such cultural icons. It's a remarkable feat given how productive the man is; hell, there's barely a single year in the last decade in which he hasn't unleashed a new album on the world's unforgiving ears. Under normal circumstances, such rapidity would indicate a lack of quality control, but then, Oberst is no ordinary individual. Whether in his Bright Eyes guise or, as here, alongside the Mystic Valley Band, he continues to demonstrate his quite considerable poetic and vocal talents and use them to create glorious, unyielding melodies; melodies that worm their way from your head to your heart and demand that you continue to revisit them, discovering all new riches that only amplify their power.

As expected, 'Outer South' is full of such delights. This is a vibrantly rich record, painted with fine strokes from a variety of brushes. The Mystic Valley Band have a far larger part to play than on their eponymous debut; each song is layered with playful instrumentation, taking in classic keyboard parts, trombone, acoustic and electric guitar and a whole host of interesting percussion, which both gives the tracks some lift and allows the band to develop an identity of their own. On their 2008 effort, Oberst was very much in the foreground, with the musical accompaniment feeling generally more Bright Eyes-esque. Here, there is the sense that the Mystic Valley guys have been given room to breathe, to explore their own sound and come to a sort of discernible palate of their own making. It's hard to imagine songs like the heavily politicised and accusatory 'Roosevelt Room' or the fantastically jaunty 'Slowly' being given the same treatment on a Bright Eyes LP. MVB is effectively a character of its own here, a companion to the melancholic persona adopted by Oberst. Occasionally, Conor doesn't even get a look in: several tracks on 'Outer South' are sung by other members of the group, and the record is sometimes better for it. 'Difference is Time', a slow, almost funeral, number, is given new dimensions by Jason Boesel's less fragile, deeper delivery, while the thoroughly ridiculous 'Air Mattress', a minute and a half paean to sleeping on 'the air mattress with youuuuuuuuuuuu' would probably have seemed trite and unconvincing in Conor's hands but in Taylor Hollingsworth's, it's a treat, having the same reckless, lightly comedic quality that made 'NYC (Gone, Gone)' from the debut album, such a joy to listen to.

Inevitably, there are plenty of traditional moments on the record too. Oberst's proclivity for the lilting stylistics of folk and country still shines through. 'Nikorette', the lead single, is as conventional as a Tammy Wynette hoedown, with about ten times the charm. He remains lyrically astute too, demonstrating on countless occasions just how talented a wordsmith he is. The songs are best described as poems; rather than tell a straightforward tale in everyday language, they tell engaging tales through pun, metaphor, simile and often, their own individual structures. 'To All the Lights in the Windows' takes snippets of Biblical tales and uses them as a preface to the celebration of love's otherworldly qualities, casting a sort of metaphorical macrocosm over the narrator's ode to his love. What would be enclosed and particular becomes universal and magic, all thanks to a little clever wordplay.

'Ten Women' is even better: around of soft acoustic lullaby, Oberst deconstructs a relationship that never was, beginning with his own promiscuity, discussing his 'ten women between you and me', then moving on to the 'two faces' that he shows to the world, before finally lamenting that 'one witness' is needed 'to mourn for our love'. Over the course of the song's three minutes, the possibility of love collapses and the listener is left shattered, as broken as the poor soul at the heart of the song's narrative. And then there's 'White Shoes', another solo Oberst moment, which juxtaposes calm delivery with jagged acoustic guitar, giving the song's observational qualities a rougher feeling. Its narrator's address to an unknown subject and insistence that 'anything you wanna do' will be fine by him would seem resigned if it weren't for the harsh soundtrack, which suggests that there is a more sinister edge to the tale. These subtleties enliven the album, making it far more than the sum of its parts.

'Outer South' isn't perfect, however; at sixteen tracks, it begins to overstay its welcome. Towards the latter quarter, things become a little repetitive - Oberst could do with trimming the fat somewhat. The biggest offender is surely 'Eagle on a Pole', in which the Mystic Valley Band cover one of Oberst's solo tracks from their previous record! Nothing is added that enhances the original and the track just gets lost amongst the other, infinitely superior, compositions that surround it. It's something of a cheat, feeling more like a need to fill time than a genuine, justified reimagining. Still, if you can overlook some of the excesses, there's a pretty darn brilliant album to be found here. Once again, Oberst proves that his skill with both the pen and the acoustic is virtually unmatched, and the Mystic Valley Band manage to considerably develop their own sound without overshadowing the star of the show. Probably the best alt-folk-country record you'll hear this year. Well, to come out of America that is (Frank Turner, I'm relying on you...) (8/10)

Jabberwocky

For Laura.

The Tales of Jeweeavop Vagonadgroins

Part One

Jeweeavop Vagonadgroins was having a hard day at the office. Labianair, her multi-million dollar business venture, had made a loss as a result of considerable jizmy activity in the trout-catching market that her department had invested in only eighteen months ago. Her assistant Muffy had given her a collection of Kleenex tissues in an attempt to ease the pain but sadly, Jeweeavop found that she would rather hang herself than take anything from Muffy, for she did smell rather pungently of the cabbage. More troublingly, Jeweeavop had a particular penchant for 'hoicking' the Kochs around on the sixteenth floor, and had already snuck out on her lunch break that day in order to do so, and by this point, the flooring of the place had become somewhat scrotalled. This was troubling her, though she was perhaps worrying unnecessarily. The floor was not completely scrotalled, as the droids had dropped in earlier to fix the underfloor heating.

Like most people and things she encountered, Jeweeavop did not get on with the droids. Aireet was a particular problem as he did not see eye to eye with her quim. Her quim was full and thick, whereas Aireet believed it should be runny like thin custard. Jeweeavop organised her quim regularly, much to Aireet's despair. On this day, her quim was surprisingly non-viscous and this only added to her woes. Quiffetidbrainer the Third, the MP who owned the office, was aware of Jeweeavop's consternation with her quim and had chosen to give her personal space to get over these troubles and her period. Quiffetidbrainer, who did not particularly understand beings of the female variety, was often known to insist that, "women on their periods are no good to anyone. They simply cannot make a good cup of tea if they are constantly bleeding all over the kettle."

Album review: Anti-Flag: 'The People or the Gun'

ANTI-FLAG: 'The People or the Gun' (SideOneDummy)

It's less than a year since Anti-Flag had their last great big shout at the world with 'The Bright Lights of America' and already, they're back with a new thirty minute rant, just as angry, pissed off and unashamedly vocal as before. Except, there's a fundamental difference: their major label contract with RCA is up and quite pointedly, it hasn't been renewed. Anti-Flag are back on an indie (the much-praised SideOneDummy) and they're apparently very happy to be so; hell, 'The People and the Gun's middle track is a minute-long screamathon titled 'You Are Fired (Take This Job... Ah, Fuck It).' Subtle.

However, the invective bile unleashed here seems a little spurious when one considers that it's only as a result of contract expiration - the band played the game and didn't like it, but they never once chose to opt out. Surely the revolutionary, state-smashing anarchist monster that Anti-Flag claims to be would bite the head off the corporate behemoth during their bout of sweaty sex, rather than be its prostitute? Of course, this hint of hypocrisy shouldn't really matter, since anyone with an ounce of sense understands the absurdity of the concept of 'selling out.' What's the point in only getting your radical message across to a handful of middle class snobs? Shouldn't the ambition be to reach as many individuals as possible? Anti-Flag seemed to understand this when they signed to RCA and frankly, from the evidence of this record, they were all the better for it. The band clearly benefit from some polish: 'For Blood and Empire' and 'The Bright Lights of America' are damn fine albums, whose message is made all the more potent by a smattering of experimentation and a distinct bout of quality control. On 'The People or the Gun', these are lost; instead, the band try to 'return to their roots' but often end up sounding messy and cliched.

The record was undoubtedly recorded in a hurry: eleven tracks, thirty minutes of standard heads-down punk thrashing, all sounding like they were finished in one take. This wouldn't necessarily be too much of a problem (even if it does make things somewhat monochrome) if it weren't for the major lyrical clunkers. There is far too much time spent swearing ('The Economy is Suffering... Let It Die!' is ruined because of it) and not enough spent thinking. Oh sure, there's a message throughout and the band's politics are as thrillingly anarchic as ever, but their expression feels rather more amateur. Chris #2 is given far too much time to himself; whereas on previous records, Justin Sane kept the crazy bassist's guttural growls in check with his own, rather more melodic inflections, here, Chris gets over half of the album to himself and at times, it hurts the message. He screams uncontrollably over the tracks, somewhat nullifying the potency of the words.

Still, this is an Anti-Flag album, so there are plenty thrills to be had. The band's targets are as inventively selected as ever, and credit should be given for not watering things down now that every two-bit-socio-political-wannabe's favourite target, His Holy Bushness, is no longer the most powerful man in the world. There's still plenty to shout about - injustice doesn't disappear simply because the figurehead changes. So, accusatory, humanitarian didacticisms abound, as Justin and Chris take a pop at Christian Conservatism on the fantastic 'Sodom, Gomorrah, Washington D.C.', which makes sophisticated use of the right wing's own rhetoric to criticise them, and the bleak social climate on the stomping, fists-in-the-air call to arms of 'The Gre(A)T Depression', which has the sort of anthemic quality that makes earlier classics 'Hymn for the Dead', 'One Trillion Dollars' and 'Turncoat' so downright irresistible.

Under 'The People or the Gun's brusque, unwelcoming surface, there is a good album struggling to get out. Anti-Flag are clearly reacting against what they see as their mistreatment by the major label they were signed to for three years, and in so doing, they have mistakenly rejected all of the lessons they learned during this time. Yes, there is much to be said for wanting to recapture some of the messy, organic quality that characterised their earlier work, but let's not forget that records like 'A New Kind of Army' and 'Die For The Government' are patchy at best, and lack the kind of anthemic, melodic quality that most punk bands need in order to survive. RCA gave Anti-Flag a chance to refine their art, to make something lasting rather than immediate, and for all 'The People or the Gun' may be a thrill ride on first listen, it won't take long before it begins to lose its lustre. (5/10)

Album review: Dreadnoughts: 'Victory Square'

DREADNOUGHTS: 'Victory Square' (Leech*Redda Records)

Describe any band as purveyors of Celtic or Irish punk and comparisons are instantly drawn to the grand daddies of the genre; your Dropkick Murphys, your Flogging Mollys and, indeed, the oldest and wisest of them all, your Pogues. These stalwarts have such a stranglehold on banjo/fiddle/violin/flute/whatever-the-hell-else-led music (and rightfully so mind you, since they do what they do frigging well), that it becomes difficult for any aspiring young upstarts to develop their own identity, to make their own mark in the sand; to get a foothold on the rope ladder of recognition.

Columbia's Dreadnoughts will undoubtedly encounter such problems. The sound, a brash amalgam of full throttle punk guitars and furiously assaulted ukulele/fiddle work, is somewhere between the Murphys and the Molly, channelling all the aggression of the Dropkicks - 'The Fang's voice is pure Al Barr - but demonstrating some of the delicate, wistful heart of Dave King's pet project too. At times, it is tempting to write them off as pretenders to the throne; indeed, there are a few moments on second long-player 'Victory Square' in which they become simply another Celtic punk band, lacking a spark of their own: 'Amsterdam' and 'Hottress', for example, are rather nondescript and predictable. However, judging the band on these alone would be a foolish move, ignoring the sheer unabashed fun of the rest of the record. Sure, theirs is a decidedly limited thematic palate, with its chief concerns being hot women (as on the aforementioned 'Hottress') and getting drunk ('pints of lager overflow/Way-hey Ivanhoe!' goes the rather spurious chorus of, um, 'Ivanhoe'), with the occasional ode to a much-loved locale thrown in for good measure, but then, this is hardly new territory. Such topics provide the fuel for the fires stoked by their peers, and it certainly doesn't hinder any of them. The trick, it seems, is to wrap it all up in the sort of musical 'knees-up' that guarantees that you'll want to get out of your chair and start shimmying, shaking and skanking your way across every square kilometre of your town.

The Dreadnoughts are absolute masters at this. For all its lyrical stupidity, it is impossible to deny 'Ivanhoe's flagrantly unyielding charms. 'The West Country' is even better, building from a quiet, swaying intro into a crescendoing drum roll that then explodes into a chorus so gargantuan, it threatens to trample all over you. There are sea shanties too: 'Grace O'Malley' is a brilliantly evocative ode to a beautiful lady that river dances its way to your heart, while the acapella 'Eliza Lee', a sister song to 'Legends Never Die''s 'Roll the Woodpile Down', infuses the record with a sort of authenticity, demonstrating that these guys are no chancers or bandwagon jumpers. They live and breathe this music; it may be fairly straightforward, unabashed, simple even, but therein lies its charm. There is verisimilitude here, a sense of reality and experience that is so sorely lacking in much contemporary rock music.

'Victory Square' isn't perfect - a few of the tracks feel a little too familiar for their own good - but even this, in itself, is quite endearing. Its imperfections make it more real and you just can't help but be struck by the passion, energy, heart and soul that has so clearly gone into every blisteringly intense second. The album is a labour of love for its authors, an expression of all that drives and inspires them, as well as a great big excuse to have one hell of a party; and really, do we need to ask for anything more? (8/10)

Album review: Sucioperro: 'Pain Agency'

SUCIOPERRO: 'Pain Agency' (Maybe Records)

Macabre by name and macabre by nature, Sucioperro’s second album comes tearing out of your speakers with the ferocity of a malcontent Velociraptor, clawing and gnashing at your senses. This is a perilously unforgiving record, awash with bitter, twisted melodies and ear-bleedingly distorted guitars. Heavy doesn’t even begin to describe the sort of brusque noise on offer here: at times, it feels almost like the band have discovered all new levels of volume, not satisfied with the ‘max’ setting on the studio’s equipment. Opening track ‘Liquids’ is recklessly extreme, painting its bleak picture of human dependency with a whirlwind of musical brushstrokes, a cacophonous litany of unpredictable clamour.

It’s a technique that they administer to great effect throughout the record, puncturing fairly catchy, accessible melodies with unusual stops and starts, unexpected course changes in the rhythmic structure of the songs. Beats move out of time, altering patterns; tracks slow to a deathly snail’s pace, as in the superlatively ominous ‘Hate Filters’, and then speed up again, schizophrenically messing with the listener’s head. And then there are the unusually delicate moments: straight after the bilious ‘Liquids’ comes the jangly, jaunty ‘The Dissident Code’ which, for all its melancholic subject matter, has the sort of irresistible hook and sparkly guitar work of an R.E.M. single. Such juxtaposition and antonymy make for decidedly unnerving listening; you’re never quite sure where the record is going to head next, which sudden, unusual avenue it’s going to turn sharply down. ‘Are You Convinced?’ transforms from fairly airy Biffy Clyro single territory to a colossal metal behemoth in its last forty seconds as JP Reid screams the album’s most crucial line into your earlobes: ‘do you think it fucking matters who we say we are, what we think we are and who we try to be?’

‘Pain Agency’ is an utterly terrifying record, laying bare a veritable horror show of human excess and depravity, delving deep into decidedly disturbing thematic territory and unleashing a tidal wave of criminally intense, magnificently harrowing guitar noise to soundtrack it. This is certainly no easy listen, but this is exactly what gives the record its power. From the lilting acoustic sway of ‘Conception Territory’ to the death metal tones of the thoroughly evil ‘Mum’s Bad Punk Music’, ‘Pain Agency’ refuses to be pigeonholed, taking the listener on a gloriously sporadic sensory journey and, for all the ride may be a harrowing one, it proves all the more rewarding for it. Pain never sounded, or felt, quite this good. (9/10)

Schemers, Scroungers, Rats

2008_08070110, originally uploaded by screenaged_kicks.

I'm rather fond of this photo. Took it at the King Blues' matinee show at The Duchess in York on Saturday (August 1st). Whole set can be found on my Facebook/Flickr pages.