And so to the ten finest records released this year...
10. FOALS: Total Life Forever
9. SURFER BLOOD: Astro Coast
8. FRIGHTENED RABBIT: The Winter of Mixed Drinks
7. FAKE PROBLEMS: Real Ghosts Caught On Tape
6. TITUS ANDRONICUS: The Monitor
5. THE GASLIGHT ANTHEM: American Slang
4. VILLAGERS: Becoming A Jackal
3. THE XCERTS: Scatterbrain
2. AGAINST ME!: White Crosses
1. THE NATIONAL: High Violet
Tuesday 28 December 2010
Monday 27 December 2010
Top 75 Albums of 2010: 40-11
40. MINUS THE BEAR: OMNI
39. SUNDOWNER: We Chase The Waves
38. BLOOD RED SHOES: Fire Like This
37. FAR: At Night We Live
36. LOCAL NATIVES: Gorilla Manor
35. LOS CAMPESINOS!: Romance Is Boring
34. BEACH HOUSE: Teen Dream
33. DINOSAUR PILE-UP: Growing Pains
32. DIVE DIVE: Potential
31. MALE BONDING: Anything Hurts
30. INTERPOL: Interpol
29. COMEBACK KID: Symptoms and Cures
28. THESE NEW PURITANS: Hidden
27. BROKEN SOCIAL SCENE: Forgiveness Rock Record
26. 65DAYSOFSTATIC: We Were Exploding Anyway
25. THE DILLINGER ESCAPE PLAN: Option Paralysis
24. DEFTONES: Diamond Eyes
23. AVI BUFFALO: Avi Buffalo
22. THE BLACK KEYS: Brothers
21. THE TALLEST MAN ON EARTH: The Wild Hunt
20. TWO DOOR CINEMA CLUB: Tourist History
19. MIDLAKE: The Courage of Others
18. VAMPIRE WEEKEND: Contra
17. LES SAVY FAV: Root For Ruin
16. THE KISSAWAY TRAIL: Sleep Mountain
15. BOMBAY BICYCLE CLUB: Flaws
14. BAD BOOKS: Bad Books
13. MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE: Danger Days (The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys)
12. PULLED APART BY HORSES: Pulled Apart By Horses
11. ARCADE FIRE: The Suburbs
39. SUNDOWNER: We Chase The Waves
38. BLOOD RED SHOES: Fire Like This
37. FAR: At Night We Live
36. LOCAL NATIVES: Gorilla Manor
35. LOS CAMPESINOS!: Romance Is Boring
34. BEACH HOUSE: Teen Dream
33. DINOSAUR PILE-UP: Growing Pains
32. DIVE DIVE: Potential
31. MALE BONDING: Anything Hurts
30. INTERPOL: Interpol
29. COMEBACK KID: Symptoms and Cures
28. THESE NEW PURITANS: Hidden
27. BROKEN SOCIAL SCENE: Forgiveness Rock Record
26. 65DAYSOFSTATIC: We Were Exploding Anyway
25. THE DILLINGER ESCAPE PLAN: Option Paralysis
24. DEFTONES: Diamond Eyes
23. AVI BUFFALO: Avi Buffalo
22. THE BLACK KEYS: Brothers
21. THE TALLEST MAN ON EARTH: The Wild Hunt
20. TWO DOOR CINEMA CLUB: Tourist History
19. MIDLAKE: The Courage of Others
18. VAMPIRE WEEKEND: Contra
17. LES SAVY FAV: Root For Ruin
16. THE KISSAWAY TRAIL: Sleep Mountain
15. BOMBAY BICYCLE CLUB: Flaws
14. BAD BOOKS: Bad Books
13. MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE: Danger Days (The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys)
12. PULLED APART BY HORSES: Pulled Apart By Horses
11. ARCADE FIRE: The Suburbs
Sunday 26 December 2010
Top 75 Albums of 2010: 75-41
75. CROCODILES: Sleep Forever
74. RAZORBAX: Something To Believe In
73. BAD RELIGION: The Process of Belief
72. THE WALKMEN: Lisbon
71. THE FLATLINERS: Cavalcade
70. THE MORNING BENDERS: Big Echo
69. DUM DUM GIRLS: I Will Be
68. WEEZER: Hurley
67. THE RIOT BEFORE: Rebellion
66. OF MONTREAL: False Priest
65. ALKALINE TRIO: This Addiction
64. SMOKE OR FIRE: The Speakeasy
63. PORTUGAL, THE MAN: American Ghetto
62. THE SWELLERS: Ups and Downsizing
61. THE UNWINDING HOURS: The Unwinding Hours
60. WE ARE SCIENTISTS: Barbara
59. MANIC STREET PREACHERS: Postcards From A Young Man
58. BELLE AND SEBASTIAN: Write About Love
57. WOMEN: Public Strain
56. THE DEAD WEATHER: Sea Cowards
55. EELS: End Times
54. FIRST AID KIT: The Big Black and the Blue
53. PERFUME GENIUS: Learning
52. SLEIGH BELLS: Treats
51. MOTION CITY SOUNDTRACK: My Dinosaur Life
50. WEEZER: Death To False Metal
49. EVERYTHING EVERYTHING: Man Alive
48. EDWYN COLLINS: Losing Sleep
47. JIMMY EAT WORLD: Invented
46. SUFJAN STEVENS: The Age of Adz
45. BAND OF HORSES: Infinite Arms
44. THE FALL: Your Future, Our Clutter
43. EELS: Tomorrow Morning
42. JOANNA NEWSOM: Have One On Me
41. OFF WITH THEIR HEADS: In Desolation
74. RAZORBAX: Something To Believe In
73. BAD RELIGION: The Process of Belief
72. THE WALKMEN: Lisbon
71. THE FLATLINERS: Cavalcade
70. THE MORNING BENDERS: Big Echo
69. DUM DUM GIRLS: I Will Be
68. WEEZER: Hurley
67. THE RIOT BEFORE: Rebellion
66. OF MONTREAL: False Priest
65. ALKALINE TRIO: This Addiction
64. SMOKE OR FIRE: The Speakeasy
63. PORTUGAL, THE MAN: American Ghetto
62. THE SWELLERS: Ups and Downsizing
61. THE UNWINDING HOURS: The Unwinding Hours
60. WE ARE SCIENTISTS: Barbara
59. MANIC STREET PREACHERS: Postcards From A Young Man
58. BELLE AND SEBASTIAN: Write About Love
57. WOMEN: Public Strain
56. THE DEAD WEATHER: Sea Cowards
55. EELS: End Times
54. FIRST AID KIT: The Big Black and the Blue
53. PERFUME GENIUS: Learning
52. SLEIGH BELLS: Treats
51. MOTION CITY SOUNDTRACK: My Dinosaur Life
50. WEEZER: Death To False Metal
49. EVERYTHING EVERYTHING: Man Alive
48. EDWYN COLLINS: Losing Sleep
47. JIMMY EAT WORLD: Invented
46. SUFJAN STEVENS: The Age of Adz
45. BAND OF HORSES: Infinite Arms
44. THE FALL: Your Future, Our Clutter
43. EELS: Tomorrow Morning
42. JOANNA NEWSOM: Have One On Me
41. OFF WITH THEIR HEADS: In Desolation
Shackled to the road
At the close of 2010, I will have travelled a sum total of 18,831 miles (roughly) outside of Newcastle. Well bugger me sideways.
http://www.travellerspoint.com/member_map.cfm?user=screenaged
http://www.travellerspoint.com/member_map.cfm?user=screenaged
Boxing Day 15 (#12: 26/12/10)
1. Bomb the Music Industry!: Big Ending
2. MC Lars: Internet Relationships Are Not Real Relationships
3. Flogging Molly: Man With No Country
4. James: Waterfall
5. Nerf Herder: Garage Sale
6. Against Me!: Ache With Me
7. School of Seven Bells: Connjur
8. Green Day: Walking Alone
9. Mansun: Soundtrack 4 2 Lovers
10. Therapy?: Straight Life
11. No Use For A Name: Black Box
12. Green Day: Horseshoes and Handgrenades
13. New Found Glory: Love Fool
14. The Wannadies: How Does It Feel?
15. Tegan & Sara: Someday
2. MC Lars: Internet Relationships Are Not Real Relationships
3. Flogging Molly: Man With No Country
4. James: Waterfall
5. Nerf Herder: Garage Sale
6. Against Me!: Ache With Me
7. School of Seven Bells: Connjur
8. Green Day: Walking Alone
9. Mansun: Soundtrack 4 2 Lovers
10. Therapy?: Straight Life
11. No Use For A Name: Black Box
12. Green Day: Horseshoes and Handgrenades
13. New Found Glory: Love Fool
14. The Wannadies: How Does It Feel?
15. Tegan & Sara: Someday
Saturday 25 December 2010
Review: Futurefest 2 (The Futureheads/Frankie and the Heartstrings/Little Comets et al, Newcastle O2 Academies 1 and 2, 23/12/10)
Hot on the heels of last year's rip-roaring success of a soirée, the North East's favourite post-punk indie noiseniks are back for another round of pre-Christmas pints in the air, arms around mates frivolity and just like 09, they've brought a boatload of bezzie friends along for the ride.
Regrettably, fellow Sunderland stalwarts Coal Train (terrible, terrible name, guys) fail to translate in a half empty Academy 1, their particular brand of softer, more introspective indie rock losing a great deal of its edge in such a cavernous environment. The band's lack of animation certainly doesn't help matters; while things do become moderately interesting when the guitars are permitted to make a bit of a racket, for the most part, the band stay stock still, more intent on shoegazing than interacting with their audience. It's early days yet for these guys, of course, and their decidedly Wilco-esque ditties are well worth investigating, but tonight, Matthew, they simply don't cut the mustard.
Where The Sea Starts, on the other hand, have the hundred or so bemused punters in Academy 2 eating out of the palms of their spindly hands, despite a few unfortunate setbacks, the most notable of which is the fate that befalls a synthesizer, falling unspectacularly from the stool it is perched on halfway through the set. The boys plough on, however, creating thirty minutes of intriguingly oblique math-rock soundscapes, cut from the same cloth as Battles and, even more interestingly, American prog-punk pioneers Minus the Bear. Newcastle doesn't really know how to react at first - the tempo is awkward, the beats out of time - but WTSS win us over with their sheer, unrelenting skill. There's some seriously impressive musicianship in this ragtag-looking bunch and while their unusual output may not exactly have crossover appeal, they're certainly a darn sight more interesting than Coal Train.
At the opposite end of the spectrum, Frankie and the Heartstrings unleash half an hour of purest pop on an impressively substantial crowd, firing off addictive choruses and irresistible hooks like there's no tomorrow. Frankie pouts, preens and flounces around the stage throughout, bearing all the hallmarks of a 1980s Morrissey (minus the obligatory flora and fauna) and providing the 'sex' quotient promised by their self-created record label. It's a winning combination, effortless in its simplicity; with tracks as ludicrously straightforward as 'Ungrateful' and 'Hunger' - all you really need to learn are a few 'oh ohhhhh oh's - these boys will surely go far. Look out for the debut LP, due for release in early 2011. It's gonna be massive.
The deliciously spiky Little Comets are going to be huge too... so much so, in fact, that Academy 2 is so packed before they've even played a note that security are turning people away. Consequently, we're unable to witness their undoubtedly splendid set, but we'll settle for another quick listen to the wonderful 'Isles', one of the year's very best singles, on our respective iPods before the main attraction. Fortunately, within minutes of Ross's gangly frame meandering stage-left, the collective disappointment at being turned away from the upstairs room is quickly forgotten and the party truly begins. There's no dicking around from our headliners this evening: Barry, resplendent in sparkly suit and still sporting that ludicrous quiff, launches headfirst into the familiar opening bars of indie pop gem 'The Beginning of the Twist' with barely time for a hello, and the 'bouncy bouncing' (their words, not ours) begins. Four albums and countless globetrotting tours in, and The Futureheads are one well-oiled, super-slick rock 'n' roll juggernaut, tighter than a badger's proverbial and masters at giving their insatiable crowd just what they want, when they need it most.
The set worms its way through their rich back catalogue, firing away hit after hit but peppering proceedings with the occasional newbie from recent release 'The Chaos'. Predictably, it's lead single 'Heartbeat Song' that receives the warmest reaction, although the eponymous track rocks like a bastard this evening too. Still, it's the early material we really want and the boys don't disappoint: 'Robot', 'Carnival Kids', 'He Knows', 'Meantime', a brilliantly sexy 'Decent Days and Nights', hell, even once-in-a-blue-moon non-album single 'Area': they're all here, dusted down, polished up and unleashed in a torrent of extra-spiky, ultra-scuzzy guitar noise. There's 'Hounds of Love' too, of course, but that's a given. The masses lap it up, and the guys do their usual, by now slightly predictable 'split the crowd down the middle' schtick, but it's the other classics that are the highlight , and the icing on the proverbial cake comes with closer 'Christmas in the 1980s', the band's very own Yuletide ditty. It's a fitting end, reminding us why we're gathered here in the first place and setting the scene for the days to come.
So, another year, another Futurefest, another bevvy of brilliant bands (well, mostly) thrown together under one roof and given the chance to shine. The Futureheads may be the masters of their craft but there's plenty other bright stars here to watch out for too. Futurefest 3 can't come soon enough.
Regrettably, fellow Sunderland stalwarts Coal Train (terrible, terrible name, guys) fail to translate in a half empty Academy 1, their particular brand of softer, more introspective indie rock losing a great deal of its edge in such a cavernous environment. The band's lack of animation certainly doesn't help matters; while things do become moderately interesting when the guitars are permitted to make a bit of a racket, for the most part, the band stay stock still, more intent on shoegazing than interacting with their audience. It's early days yet for these guys, of course, and their decidedly Wilco-esque ditties are well worth investigating, but tonight, Matthew, they simply don't cut the mustard.
Where The Sea Starts, on the other hand, have the hundred or so bemused punters in Academy 2 eating out of the palms of their spindly hands, despite a few unfortunate setbacks, the most notable of which is the fate that befalls a synthesizer, falling unspectacularly from the stool it is perched on halfway through the set. The boys plough on, however, creating thirty minutes of intriguingly oblique math-rock soundscapes, cut from the same cloth as Battles and, even more interestingly, American prog-punk pioneers Minus the Bear. Newcastle doesn't really know how to react at first - the tempo is awkward, the beats out of time - but WTSS win us over with their sheer, unrelenting skill. There's some seriously impressive musicianship in this ragtag-looking bunch and while their unusual output may not exactly have crossover appeal, they're certainly a darn sight more interesting than Coal Train.
At the opposite end of the spectrum, Frankie and the Heartstrings unleash half an hour of purest pop on an impressively substantial crowd, firing off addictive choruses and irresistible hooks like there's no tomorrow. Frankie pouts, preens and flounces around the stage throughout, bearing all the hallmarks of a 1980s Morrissey (minus the obligatory flora and fauna) and providing the 'sex' quotient promised by their self-created record label. It's a winning combination, effortless in its simplicity; with tracks as ludicrously straightforward as 'Ungrateful' and 'Hunger' - all you really need to learn are a few 'oh ohhhhh oh's - these boys will surely go far. Look out for the debut LP, due for release in early 2011. It's gonna be massive.
The deliciously spiky Little Comets are going to be huge too... so much so, in fact, that Academy 2 is so packed before they've even played a note that security are turning people away. Consequently, we're unable to witness their undoubtedly splendid set, but we'll settle for another quick listen to the wonderful 'Isles', one of the year's very best singles, on our respective iPods before the main attraction. Fortunately, within minutes of Ross's gangly frame meandering stage-left, the collective disappointment at being turned away from the upstairs room is quickly forgotten and the party truly begins. There's no dicking around from our headliners this evening: Barry, resplendent in sparkly suit and still sporting that ludicrous quiff, launches headfirst into the familiar opening bars of indie pop gem 'The Beginning of the Twist' with barely time for a hello, and the 'bouncy bouncing' (their words, not ours) begins. Four albums and countless globetrotting tours in, and The Futureheads are one well-oiled, super-slick rock 'n' roll juggernaut, tighter than a badger's proverbial and masters at giving their insatiable crowd just what they want, when they need it most.
The set worms its way through their rich back catalogue, firing away hit after hit but peppering proceedings with the occasional newbie from recent release 'The Chaos'. Predictably, it's lead single 'Heartbeat Song' that receives the warmest reaction, although the eponymous track rocks like a bastard this evening too. Still, it's the early material we really want and the boys don't disappoint: 'Robot', 'Carnival Kids', 'He Knows', 'Meantime', a brilliantly sexy 'Decent Days and Nights', hell, even once-in-a-blue-moon non-album single 'Area': they're all here, dusted down, polished up and unleashed in a torrent of extra-spiky, ultra-scuzzy guitar noise. There's 'Hounds of Love' too, of course, but that's a given. The masses lap it up, and the guys do their usual, by now slightly predictable 'split the crowd down the middle' schtick, but it's the other classics that are the highlight , and the icing on the proverbial cake comes with closer 'Christmas in the 1980s', the band's very own Yuletide ditty. It's a fitting end, reminding us why we're gathered here in the first place and setting the scene for the days to come.
So, another year, another Futurefest, another bevvy of brilliant bands (well, mostly) thrown together under one roof and given the chance to shine. The Futureheads may be the masters of their craft but there's plenty other bright stars here to watch out for too. Futurefest 3 can't come soon enough.
Christmas 15 (#11: 25/12/10)
What festive delights do you have in store, oh iPod?
1. Noah and the Whale: I Have Nothing
2. New Order: Blue Monday
3. My Morning Jacket: Aluminium Park
4. R.E.M.: Femme Fetale
5. Thrice: Music Box
6. Frenzal Rhomb: I Went Out With A Hippy and Now I Love Everyone
7. PJ Harvey: The Whores Hustle and the Hustlers Whore
8. Anti-Flag: The Consumer's Song
9. My Chemical Romance: I Never Told You What I Do For A Living
10. Skunk Anansie: Twisted (Every Day Hurts)
11. The Futureheads: Yes/No
12. Rilo Kiley: Breakin' Up
13. The Early November: I Took A Beating
14. NOFX: Showerdays
15. Manic Street Preachers: Emily
Oh come on! 'Emily'? Jesus Christ...
1. Noah and the Whale: I Have Nothing
2. New Order: Blue Monday
3. My Morning Jacket: Aluminium Park
4. R.E.M.: Femme Fetale
5. Thrice: Music Box
6. Frenzal Rhomb: I Went Out With A Hippy and Now I Love Everyone
7. PJ Harvey: The Whores Hustle and the Hustlers Whore
8. Anti-Flag: The Consumer's Song
9. My Chemical Romance: I Never Told You What I Do For A Living
10. Skunk Anansie: Twisted (Every Day Hurts)
11. The Futureheads: Yes/No
12. Rilo Kiley: Breakin' Up
13. The Early November: I Took A Beating
14. NOFX: Showerdays
15. Manic Street Preachers: Emily
Oh come on! 'Emily'? Jesus Christ...
Friday 24 December 2010
Review: We Were Promised Jetpacks (w/The Seventeenth Century), Glasgow QMU, 18/12/10
Come one, come all, to the We Were Promised Jetpacks Christmas party, brought to you by M&S crackers, ear-shatteringly noisy guitars and one absolutely cracking bill that features, as its most pleasant surprise, the utterly wonderful The Seventeenth Century who tonight manage to almost upstage the main attraction. The band's sound is quite unlike anything currently worming its way through the Zeitgeist, with the possible exception of British Sea Power, but even then, arguably, the Century have a stranglehold over the Brighton boys by virtue of the sheer intensity of their performance.
Mournful trombone and melancholic violin are married to the unquestionably unique harmonics of lead singer Mark Brendan Farmer, whose mouth contorts into shapes previously thought inconceivable in order to deliver a truly outstanding vocal range, sounding fascinatingly unearthly. And as if this wasn't enough, the cataclysmically epic sounds that come tumbling from the stage, that build and build and build before launching themselves from the toppermost high and soaring over all our heads, are created with such intense fervor by the band members that their instruments very nearly meet a decidedly sticky end (Mark's violin, in particular, suffers badly at his hand). It all makes for riveting viewing and raises the bar another twenty notches for the Jetpacks to surpass.
Thankfully, WWPJ bring their A-game this evening, unleashing an unforgiving torrent of calamitous noise on the 300 strong Queen Margaret's Union, an impressive capacity for a band with as little commercial success. The boys find the time for a few heartfelt thank yous - well deserved given the roaring singalongs that accompany EVERY track from last year's superb debut 'These Four Walls', not simply the singles - and to pull the odd Christmas cracker (bassist Sean dons the paper hat but refuses to tell the rubbish joke), but the focus is primarily on showering us all in abrasive guitar chops, ear-shattering feedback and the kind of cathartic 'build to release' formula that even the Karma Sutra can't perfect. For such a refined, pint-sized band, the Jetpacks make one hell of a noise; the cacophony emanating from Adam and Michael's combined Telecaster thrashings is a force to be reckoned with and gives the group their edge, lending serious weight to the band's sound.
Wisely, the Edinburghians choose not to deviate from their winning formula; if anything, the new material aired tonight, making up approximately half of the set, amps everything up to 100. The guitars on suitably intense opener 'Circles' are even louder, the choruses still more massive, the spits and snarls through which Adam's delivers his impenetrable vocals even more ferocious. It all bodes extremely well for the forthcoming second record, giving us all something delicious to look forward to in 2011. Inevitably, though, it's the familiar material that hits the most home runs: the 'Ships', the 'Sleeves', the 'Short Bursts'. These are the beauties that the knowledgeable among us have come to know and love, the stupendously sporadic stabs of indie-rock brilliance that the punters have taken to their hearts, and that tonight, send voices soaring, arms in the air and bodies flying stagewards. It's an endearing sight and one that, with a smidgeon of luck and a healthy helping of hard work, should continue apace into the new year.
If tonight is any indication, and there's any justice left in this crazy old thing we call the music business, 2011 belongs to We Were Promised Jetpacks. And The Seventeenth Century. You read it here first, kids. Now make it happen.
Mournful trombone and melancholic violin are married to the unquestionably unique harmonics of lead singer Mark Brendan Farmer, whose mouth contorts into shapes previously thought inconceivable in order to deliver a truly outstanding vocal range, sounding fascinatingly unearthly. And as if this wasn't enough, the cataclysmically epic sounds that come tumbling from the stage, that build and build and build before launching themselves from the toppermost high and soaring over all our heads, are created with such intense fervor by the band members that their instruments very nearly meet a decidedly sticky end (Mark's violin, in particular, suffers badly at his hand). It all makes for riveting viewing and raises the bar another twenty notches for the Jetpacks to surpass.
Thankfully, WWPJ bring their A-game this evening, unleashing an unforgiving torrent of calamitous noise on the 300 strong Queen Margaret's Union, an impressive capacity for a band with as little commercial success. The boys find the time for a few heartfelt thank yous - well deserved given the roaring singalongs that accompany EVERY track from last year's superb debut 'These Four Walls', not simply the singles - and to pull the odd Christmas cracker (bassist Sean dons the paper hat but refuses to tell the rubbish joke), but the focus is primarily on showering us all in abrasive guitar chops, ear-shattering feedback and the kind of cathartic 'build to release' formula that even the Karma Sutra can't perfect. For such a refined, pint-sized band, the Jetpacks make one hell of a noise; the cacophony emanating from Adam and Michael's combined Telecaster thrashings is a force to be reckoned with and gives the group their edge, lending serious weight to the band's sound.
Wisely, the Edinburghians choose not to deviate from their winning formula; if anything, the new material aired tonight, making up approximately half of the set, amps everything up to 100. The guitars on suitably intense opener 'Circles' are even louder, the choruses still more massive, the spits and snarls through which Adam's delivers his impenetrable vocals even more ferocious. It all bodes extremely well for the forthcoming second record, giving us all something delicious to look forward to in 2011. Inevitably, though, it's the familiar material that hits the most home runs: the 'Ships', the 'Sleeves', the 'Short Bursts'. These are the beauties that the knowledgeable among us have come to know and love, the stupendously sporadic stabs of indie-rock brilliance that the punters have taken to their hearts, and that tonight, send voices soaring, arms in the air and bodies flying stagewards. It's an endearing sight and one that, with a smidgeon of luck and a healthy helping of hard work, should continue apace into the new year.
If tonight is any indication, and there's any justice left in this crazy old thing we call the music business, 2011 belongs to We Were Promised Jetpacks. And The Seventeenth Century. You read it here first, kids. Now make it happen.
The 15 #10: Christmas Eve 2010
1. Rancid: Burn
2. Rufus Wainwright: Old Whore's Diet
3. The Vandals: Marry Me
4. Rammstein: Rammstein
5. MC Lars: Rapbeth (Foul Is Fair)
6. Our Lady Peace: Do You Like It?
7. The Queers: Ursula Finally Has Tits
8. Tiger Army: Atomic
9. Ash: Lose Control
10. Ryan Adams: This Is It
11. Hey Mercedes: Weekend Starts On Wednesday
12. Off With Their Heads: Horse Pills and the Apartment Lobby
13. The Hidden Cameras: Golden Streams
14. Everclear: Broken
15. Bad Brains: No Conditions
2. Rufus Wainwright: Old Whore's Diet
3. The Vandals: Marry Me
4. Rammstein: Rammstein
5. MC Lars: Rapbeth (Foul Is Fair)
6. Our Lady Peace: Do You Like It?
7. The Queers: Ursula Finally Has Tits
8. Tiger Army: Atomic
9. Ash: Lose Control
10. Ryan Adams: This Is It
11. Hey Mercedes: Weekend Starts On Wednesday
12. Off With Their Heads: Horse Pills and the Apartment Lobby
13. The Hidden Cameras: Golden Streams
14. Everclear: Broken
15. Bad Brains: No Conditions
Thursday 23 December 2010
The 15 #8 and #9 (22 and 23/12/10)
Aaaaggh. Forgot to do this yesterday.
1. R.E.M.: Boy In The Well
2. Fugazi: Guilford Fall
3. Idlewild: Take Me Back To The Islands
4. Face to Face: Helpless (Sugar)
5. Head Automatica: Head Automatica Soundsystem
6. The Kissaway Trail: Prelude
7. James: Semaphore
8. Screeching Weasel: More Problems
9. Marilyn Manson: Leave A Scar
10. Off With Their Heads: Call The Cops
11. Foxboro Hot Tubs: Highway 1
12. Ryan Adams: Bartending Lines
13. Saves The Day: Do You Know What I Love The Most?
14. Lucky Boys Confusion: Arizona Stand
15. Thunderbirds Are Now!: This World Is Made Of Paper
1. Skindred: Start First
2. Foo Fighters: End Over End
3. Scissor Sisters: She's My Man
4. Alexisonfire: Keep It On Wax
5. AFI: pH Low
6. The Joy Formidable: Austere
7. Jump, Little Children: Not Today
8. Young Knives: Diamonds In The West
9. AFI: This Celluloid Dream
10. System of a Down: Chop Suey
11. Fenix TX: Song For Everyone
12. Sleater Kinney: Start Together
13. Stars: My Favourite Book
14. Brakes: Isabel
15. Goldfinger: 99 Red Balloons
1. R.E.M.: Boy In The Well
2. Fugazi: Guilford Fall
3. Idlewild: Take Me Back To The Islands
4. Face to Face: Helpless (Sugar)
5. Head Automatica: Head Automatica Soundsystem
6. The Kissaway Trail: Prelude
7. James: Semaphore
8. Screeching Weasel: More Problems
9. Marilyn Manson: Leave A Scar
10. Off With Their Heads: Call The Cops
11. Foxboro Hot Tubs: Highway 1
12. Ryan Adams: Bartending Lines
13. Saves The Day: Do You Know What I Love The Most?
14. Lucky Boys Confusion: Arizona Stand
15. Thunderbirds Are Now!: This World Is Made Of Paper
1. Skindred: Start First
2. Foo Fighters: End Over End
3. Scissor Sisters: She's My Man
4. Alexisonfire: Keep It On Wax
5. AFI: pH Low
6. The Joy Formidable: Austere
7. Jump, Little Children: Not Today
8. Young Knives: Diamonds In The West
9. AFI: This Celluloid Dream
10. System of a Down: Chop Suey
11. Fenix TX: Song For Everyone
12. Sleater Kinney: Start Together
13. Stars: My Favourite Book
14. Brakes: Isabel
15. Goldfinger: 99 Red Balloons
Tuesday 21 December 2010
The 15 #7: 21/12/10
No Lucky Boys Confusion today? Come on, iPod...
1. Tapes 'n Tapes: Cowbell
2. Clor: Stuck In A Tight Spot
3. Fugazi: Great Cop
4. Bad Religion: Fuck Armageddon... This Is Hell
5. The Clash: Inoculated City
6. Bowling For Soup: I'm Gay
7. Snow Patrol: Black and Blue
8. Dropkick Murphys: The Fighting 69th
9. Tegan & Sara: Sentimental Tune
10. The Loved Ones: Living Will (Get You Dead)
11. Nine Inch Nails: Closer
12. Anti-Nowhere League: Johannesburg
13. Cobra Skulls: I Want Bigger Cobra Skulls
14. Ryan Adams: Carolina Rain (again??)
15. The Xcerts: Carnival Time
No LBC but the same ruddy Adams song and still more Bad Religion...
1. Tapes 'n Tapes: Cowbell
2. Clor: Stuck In A Tight Spot
3. Fugazi: Great Cop
4. Bad Religion: Fuck Armageddon... This Is Hell
5. The Clash: Inoculated City
6. Bowling For Soup: I'm Gay
7. Snow Patrol: Black and Blue
8. Dropkick Murphys: The Fighting 69th
9. Tegan & Sara: Sentimental Tune
10. The Loved Ones: Living Will (Get You Dead)
11. Nine Inch Nails: Closer
12. Anti-Nowhere League: Johannesburg
13. Cobra Skulls: I Want Bigger Cobra Skulls
14. Ryan Adams: Carolina Rain (again??)
15. The Xcerts: Carnival Time
No LBC but the same ruddy Adams song and still more Bad Religion...
Sunday 19 December 2010
The 15 #6: 20/12/10
1. Street Brats: Dead End Kids
2. In Case of Fire: Plan A
3. Silversun: Nobody
4. Minus the Bear: Pantsuit... Uggghhh
5. Los Campesinos!: Between an Erupting Earth and an Exploding Sky
6. Lucky Boys Confusion: City Lights
7. Josh Rouse: Under Your Charms
8. Dead Kennedys: Holiday In Cambodia
9. PJ Harvey: This Mess We're In
10. The Automatic: You Shout You Shout You Shout
11. Against Me!: Tonight We're Gonna Give It 35%
12. Yeah Yeah Yeahs: Hysteric
13. Johnny Foreigner: Cranes and Cranes and Cranes and Cranes
14. Random Hand: Answers
15. My Chemical Romance: Helena
And what have we learned from the past six days? That my 19,000 track iPod really, really likes Lucky Boys Confusion.
2. In Case of Fire: Plan A
3. Silversun: Nobody
4. Minus the Bear: Pantsuit... Uggghhh
5. Los Campesinos!: Between an Erupting Earth and an Exploding Sky
6. Lucky Boys Confusion: City Lights
7. Josh Rouse: Under Your Charms
8. Dead Kennedys: Holiday In Cambodia
9. PJ Harvey: This Mess We're In
10. The Automatic: You Shout You Shout You Shout
11. Against Me!: Tonight We're Gonna Give It 35%
12. Yeah Yeah Yeahs: Hysteric
13. Johnny Foreigner: Cranes and Cranes and Cranes and Cranes
14. Random Hand: Answers
15. My Chemical Romance: Helena
And what have we learned from the past six days? That my 19,000 track iPod really, really likes Lucky Boys Confusion.
Worst 20 singles of 2010
20. BEST COAST: Boyfriend
Bizarrely touted as heirs to the Pixies' lofty throne, Best Coast make the kind of distorted, two chord indie bollocks that used to get bands like Campag Velocet laughed out of the building. With a depressing lack of variety and a hilariously limited palette (girl loves boy, boy loves girl, it's unrequited, it's requited, repeat ad nauseum), these Californian washouts fit the zeitgeist's current penchant for fuzzy Americana perfectly: hell, with tracks as banal as 'Boyfriend' ('I wish he was my boyfriend/I'd love him til the very end') , no one really has to think too much. Win, win right? Guess again.
19. WE THE KINGS: Heaven Can Wait
Pop punk is back in vogue peeps, so out come the copyists, the cheap knock-offs with high pitched male vocals, hastily written lyrics about that unobtainable, but oh so incredibly beautiful girl, and more probably than not, a key change. We The Kings satisfy all the criteria; 'Heaven Can Wait' ticks all the required boxes... and for that reason alone, it is worthy of your contempt. As hum-drum and formulaic as you can get.
18. TINIE TEMPAH: Pass Out
Wish he bloody would.
17. ROLO TOMASSI: Party Wounds
Look, guys, if you just stopped verbally shitting all over your records with those unfathomably hideous 'vocals' (yes, we use the term very, very loosely), you might actually be onto something. The unusual rhythm and tempo changes show promise and that transition from abrasive hardcore to guitar-led funk at the minute mark is actually quite interesting. Why ruin it all by opening your mouths and letting the diarrhoea flood out? Throw out your microphones, become an instrumental band, then we'll talk.
16. MIA: XXXO
Oh my God, like, MIA is just sooooo cool. Her records are like, totally relevant and stuff. I mean, calling your track 'XXXO', like, you know, from texts, it's just so real man. She sings about our lives dude. And that beat, it's like, so phat man, not even irritating at all. Totally awesome. Euck.
15. MGMT: Congratulations
Goes nowhere, says nothing, doesn't even have a catchy keyboard bit. Come on MGMT, for all your 'Oracular Spectacular' material was as irritating as a bout of genital herpes, at least it was annoying enough for us to give a shit. This exercise in abject boredom trudges so far down the dismal road of mediocrity that even Fran Healey fans are tempted to reach for the 'off' button. Truly mind-numbing.
14. WILLIAM CONTROL: Only Human Sometimes
No, William, you are not Gary Numan. You're barely even Gary Barlow. Give it up. Now.
13. FOXY SHAZAM: Oh Lord
Coming on like the bastard love child of Jake Shears and Justin Hawkins, Eric Sean Nally, a.k.a. Foxy Shazam, makes music that is every bit as shocking as his alias. As you might expect, this is flamboyancy squared, cubed even, with cat suits, falsettos and platforms taking pride of place next to a depressingly predictable glam-cum-punk rock sound. 'Oh Lord' is the worst of an awful bunch, crooning, pouting and preening along and managing to be as stale as a month old loaf of Warburtons. Essentially, The Darkness for pop punk/emo kids. Sends shivers down your spine, doesn't it?
12. KATE NASH: Do Wah Doo
Oh Goddddddddddddddddddddddddddd, make her stop! Please! I just can't take the meaningless lyrics, uncontrollable warbling and irritating mispronunciations any more! It's enough to drive you to insanity. Really. Nashism, that's what my psychiatrist calls it. I need a lie down.
11. CRYSTAL CASTLES: Celestica
Fancy making your own Crystal Castles record? Simple! Just take out your nearest Dictaphone, dust down your old Spectrum ZX81 and let the fun begin! Sprinkle with a side-helping of incomprehensible belching (males and females allowed) for added flavour and hey presto, you've got your next Hipster No. 1. Easy. Saves having to subject your ears to the originals, at any rate.
10. A DAY TO REMEMBER: Have Faith In Me
Seriously? THIS is where we've got to? This is where pop punk, emo and hardcore have taken us? Three minutes of self-absorbed, adolescent whinging, soundtracked by the most depressingly standard of three chord thrashings? This is what we're supposed to swallow? Well sorry boys, but we're not buying it. The discerning public deserves more than a series of well-worn cliches and half-baked Sixth form poetry. From the evidence of this, ADTR are no different to any of the 10,000 other so-called punk wannabes stinking up Kerrang! TV and for that, they deserve nothing other than your contempt. Put a sock in it Remember and bloody well give it up.
9. HURTS: Stay
Every indie dah-ling from Cambridgeshire to Shoreditch lined up, one by one, to shove their unnecessarily bespectacled faces up these Mancunian knobbers' arses this year, heralding their knock-off Pet Shop Boys sound as 'like, really revolutionary man.' Actually, it's just recycled 80s synth pop... and very, very bad 80s synth pop at that. The kind you might find on the 99p Lost Classics of the 80s CDs in the ASDA bargain bin; the sort of thing Spandau Ballet fans would probably consider listenable. 'Stay' is the epitome of their hideously polished, garishly trite sound and should therefore be avoided at all costs. Don't say we didn't warn you.
8. PENDULUM: Watercolour
THAT vocodered voice! THOSE pro-tools effects! MORE inane lyrics! ANOTHER inevitable build to a 'thumping' back beat! Throw 'em all together, stir lightly for three minutes and serve. Cold. To an army of drugged-up idiots too stupid to realise that these colossal w**kstains are taking them on one gigantic, money-grabbing ride every time they release a new record. Seriously guys, can anyone discern a difference between 'Watercolour' and any other track
released by Pendulum, like, EVER? Apart from the slightly amended diction? No, you bloody well can't, so stop trying. Put this God awful record down, tear up to your tickets to the next underground dubstep night (you know, the ones that cost you an arm and a leg) and get some taste. Please.
7. KELE: Tenderoni
Once upon a time, many aeons ago, Kele Okereke had something to say. Back in the hallowed Winter of 2004, this angular indie rock troubadour was singing about the vampirism of consumer culture, writing about the price of gasoline and making the kind of post-punk noise you just couldn't help but lose yourself in. Bloc Party's 'Silent Alarm' is an amazing record, one of the best of the decade, but pretty soon after its release, Kele, in his infinite wisdom, decided that he just wasn't interested in producing outstanding music. The chinks began to form in the armour: first we had 'The Prayer', a poor man's attempt to fuse indie and crunk. Then there was 'Flux', a cheap Chemical Brothers knock-off produced in a shoebox. By the time we got to 'innovative' (hah) third album 'Intimacy', Bloc Party had done away with guitars altogether, churning out early 90s minimal techno 'homages' like 'One More Chance' and the utter, utter abomination that is 'Mercury'. Kele, in effect, proceeded to take one gigantic three year shit all over his band's legacy, and while he's now flown solo and is at least no longer tainting the rest of the guys with this crap, the unrelenting disappointment remains.
Inspired, apparently, by his love of club culture (always down Popstarz, getting' hammered, d'you reckon?), solo album 'The Boxer', from which this monstrosity is taken, is a 45 minute exercise in electronica-wankery, owing much to the depressingly dated stylings of early 90s rave culture, designed to send the ultra-cool hipsters who fill up the pages of the NME into a frenzy of uncontrollable hyperbole and sickening sycophantism. Look, this is complete bollocks, okay? And for that matter, it's complete bollocks that's been done better by such luminaries as The Shamen and bloody Black Box. An almighty fall from grace. Shame.
6. LINKIN PARK: The Catalyst
Look, Chester, just because everyone and their granny is queuing up to worship at the altar of the Casio keyboard does not give you carte blanche to piss all over your legacy and produce a terrible electronica record. 'The Catalyst' is bloody awful and, for that matter, the title is something of a misnomer: it trudges along for four minutes, going absolutely nowhere, and couldn't inspire anyone to do anything. Come on guys, give us another 'Hybrid Theory'. Please?!
5. GOOD CHARLOTTE: Like It's Her Birthday
Not only have Linkin Park jumped squarely on the electronica bandwagon, but Good Charlotte appear to have taken the wheel, driving themselves so far beyond their traditional, um, pop punk sound that it's hard to recogni... oh wait, Joel's still attempting to sing, yeah, this is definitely Good Charlotte. It's somewhat amusing, if a little sad, that the Madden boys have such little self-respect that they'll clamour to fit in with whichever scene is flavour of the month, regardless of how idiotic it makes them appear. "Quick, get the synths out, they're popular, this'll make us a few million!" It would perhaps be forgivable if the track were any good but, predictably, it isn't. A real case of utterly transparent desperation.
4. 3OH!3: My First Kiss
As if one year of these Eurotrash rejects wasn't enough, the music press continued, somewhat unfathomably, to force 3Oh!3 down the throats of unsuspecting alternative music lovers in 2010, refusing to stop until they swallowed every last morsel of their horrendously dated, and unquestionably odious, electropop. Quite how this fetid cesspool of detritus managed to elbow its way into rock and indie club playlists is anybody's guess, but there it was, all Summer long, cosying on up to the Lady GaGa/Metallica mash-ups, making your sodding ears bleed. There really is no excuse for this crap. It's not big, it's not clever and it most certainly isn't funny. Oi, 3Oh!3... do one.
3. BEADY EYE: Bring The Light
Making a right Royal hoot out of Liam Gallagher's claim that the forthcoming LP will be 'better than Definitely Maybe', this four minute honky-tonk abomination sets new records for wanton laziness, stealing the piano parts from 'Great Balls of Fire' and setting them to a lyric more predictable than the transformation of day into night. 'Little James' ain't got nothin' on this blighter. Check out that chorus! Your nephew could scribble something better on the back of his packet of Coco Flakes. A real travesty, an undeniably atrocious record, which makes Alan McGee's desperate attempts to excuse it all the more laughable.
2. BRING ME THE HORIZON: It Never Ends
I believe it was the almighty Slipknot who once observed, most eloquently, that PEOPLE = SHIT. That there is anyone, and we mean anyone, in existence who can derive enjoyment from listening to the utter and complete doggerel churned out on a regular basis by this God awful excuse for a band is testament to its validity. That Oli Skyes and his band of merry noisemakers feel it is acceptable to subject the teenyboppers and emo kids who make up their audience to output like this provides further proof, and just reinforces the fact that, well, they're a bunch of masochistic bastards. Unfathomably, music press stalwarts have taken it upon themselves to lavish praise upon BMTH's latest release when, actually, it is the aural equivalent of week-long bout of explosive diarrhoea. Supposedly, this is a revolutionary record, a pioneering fusion of hardcore, metal, punk and, um., dubstep. What actually transpires is an unlistenable mess, as if Oli and co simply threw everything into the pot and hoped it would stick... and it didn't. 'It Never Ends', the lead single from it, is a song with no redeeming features whatsoever. There is simply no reason to listen to this crap and no justification for its existence. PEOPLE = SHIT indeed.
1. BrokENCYDE: Teach Me How to Scream
Well, congratulations BrokENCYDE! Not only have you managed to remain as unequivocally dreadful as you were last year - a feat that sent them rocketing to the no. 1 spot in 2009's Worst Singles of the Year - but you've also made a record that is a less enjoyable listening experience than anything produced by Bring Me the Horizon. That's no small feat ladies and gentlemen, and is proof positive that this caterwauling sack of horse manure is well deserving of its position at the top of the atrocity pile. Despite the best efforts of everyone with functional earlobes to prevent these fucktards from continuing to fuse screamo and crunk, and hence cripple the credibility of both genres and the very music industry itself, the guys from the CYDE have chosen to stick to their tried and, um, tested formula with 'Teach Me How to Scream' and consequently, have produced another embarrassingly unlistenable monstrosity. The screams! The lazy beats! Those offensively misogynistic lyrics! Oh, the horror! It's enough to make you want to chew your own foot off... actually, scratch that: listen to this for longer than three minutes and you'll have cannibalised your insides. Want to ensure a confession from Julian Assange? Make him listen to this on repeat. It's a sure fire winner. Undoubtedly the worst track released upon an unsuspecting public in 2010, and quite probably one of the worst things ever created. Why God, why?
Bizarrely touted as heirs to the Pixies' lofty throne, Best Coast make the kind of distorted, two chord indie bollocks that used to get bands like Campag Velocet laughed out of the building. With a depressing lack of variety and a hilariously limited palette (girl loves boy, boy loves girl, it's unrequited, it's requited, repeat ad nauseum), these Californian washouts fit the zeitgeist's current penchant for fuzzy Americana perfectly: hell, with tracks as banal as 'Boyfriend' ('I wish he was my boyfriend/I'd love him til the very end') , no one really has to think too much. Win, win right? Guess again.
19. WE THE KINGS: Heaven Can Wait
Pop punk is back in vogue peeps, so out come the copyists, the cheap knock-offs with high pitched male vocals, hastily written lyrics about that unobtainable, but oh so incredibly beautiful girl, and more probably than not, a key change. We The Kings satisfy all the criteria; 'Heaven Can Wait' ticks all the required boxes... and for that reason alone, it is worthy of your contempt. As hum-drum and formulaic as you can get.
18. TINIE TEMPAH: Pass Out
Wish he bloody would.
17. ROLO TOMASSI: Party Wounds
Look, guys, if you just stopped verbally shitting all over your records with those unfathomably hideous 'vocals' (yes, we use the term very, very loosely), you might actually be onto something. The unusual rhythm and tempo changes show promise and that transition from abrasive hardcore to guitar-led funk at the minute mark is actually quite interesting. Why ruin it all by opening your mouths and letting the diarrhoea flood out? Throw out your microphones, become an instrumental band, then we'll talk.
16. MIA: XXXO
Oh my God, like, MIA is just sooooo cool. Her records are like, totally relevant and stuff. I mean, calling your track 'XXXO', like, you know, from texts, it's just so real man. She sings about our lives dude. And that beat, it's like, so phat man, not even irritating at all. Totally awesome. Euck.
15. MGMT: Congratulations
Goes nowhere, says nothing, doesn't even have a catchy keyboard bit. Come on MGMT, for all your 'Oracular Spectacular' material was as irritating as a bout of genital herpes, at least it was annoying enough for us to give a shit. This exercise in abject boredom trudges so far down the dismal road of mediocrity that even Fran Healey fans are tempted to reach for the 'off' button. Truly mind-numbing.
14. WILLIAM CONTROL: Only Human Sometimes
No, William, you are not Gary Numan. You're barely even Gary Barlow. Give it up. Now.
13. FOXY SHAZAM: Oh Lord
Coming on like the bastard love child of Jake Shears and Justin Hawkins, Eric Sean Nally, a.k.a. Foxy Shazam, makes music that is every bit as shocking as his alias. As you might expect, this is flamboyancy squared, cubed even, with cat suits, falsettos and platforms taking pride of place next to a depressingly predictable glam-cum-punk rock sound. 'Oh Lord' is the worst of an awful bunch, crooning, pouting and preening along and managing to be as stale as a month old loaf of Warburtons. Essentially, The Darkness for pop punk/emo kids. Sends shivers down your spine, doesn't it?
12. KATE NASH: Do Wah Doo
Oh Goddddddddddddddddddddddddddd, make her stop! Please! I just can't take the meaningless lyrics, uncontrollable warbling and irritating mispronunciations any more! It's enough to drive you to insanity. Really. Nashism, that's what my psychiatrist calls it. I need a lie down.
11. CRYSTAL CASTLES: Celestica
Fancy making your own Crystal Castles record? Simple! Just take out your nearest Dictaphone, dust down your old Spectrum ZX81 and let the fun begin! Sprinkle with a side-helping of incomprehensible belching (males and females allowed) for added flavour and hey presto, you've got your next Hipster No. 1. Easy. Saves having to subject your ears to the originals, at any rate.
10. A DAY TO REMEMBER: Have Faith In Me
Seriously? THIS is where we've got to? This is where pop punk, emo and hardcore have taken us? Three minutes of self-absorbed, adolescent whinging, soundtracked by the most depressingly standard of three chord thrashings? This is what we're supposed to swallow? Well sorry boys, but we're not buying it. The discerning public deserves more than a series of well-worn cliches and half-baked Sixth form poetry. From the evidence of this, ADTR are no different to any of the 10,000 other so-called punk wannabes stinking up Kerrang! TV and for that, they deserve nothing other than your contempt. Put a sock in it Remember and bloody well give it up.
9. HURTS: Stay
Every indie dah-ling from Cambridgeshire to Shoreditch lined up, one by one, to shove their unnecessarily bespectacled faces up these Mancunian knobbers' arses this year, heralding their knock-off Pet Shop Boys sound as 'like, really revolutionary man.' Actually, it's just recycled 80s synth pop... and very, very bad 80s synth pop at that. The kind you might find on the 99p Lost Classics of the 80s CDs in the ASDA bargain bin; the sort of thing Spandau Ballet fans would probably consider listenable. 'Stay' is the epitome of their hideously polished, garishly trite sound and should therefore be avoided at all costs. Don't say we didn't warn you.
8. PENDULUM: Watercolour
THAT vocodered voice! THOSE pro-tools effects! MORE inane lyrics! ANOTHER inevitable build to a 'thumping' back beat! Throw 'em all together, stir lightly for three minutes and serve. Cold. To an army of drugged-up idiots too stupid to realise that these colossal w**kstains are taking them on one gigantic, money-grabbing ride every time they release a new record. Seriously guys, can anyone discern a difference between 'Watercolour' and any other track
released by Pendulum, like, EVER? Apart from the slightly amended diction? No, you bloody well can't, so stop trying. Put this God awful record down, tear up to your tickets to the next underground dubstep night (you know, the ones that cost you an arm and a leg) and get some taste. Please.
7. KELE: Tenderoni
Once upon a time, many aeons ago, Kele Okereke had something to say. Back in the hallowed Winter of 2004, this angular indie rock troubadour was singing about the vampirism of consumer culture, writing about the price of gasoline and making the kind of post-punk noise you just couldn't help but lose yourself in. Bloc Party's 'Silent Alarm' is an amazing record, one of the best of the decade, but pretty soon after its release, Kele, in his infinite wisdom, decided that he just wasn't interested in producing outstanding music. The chinks began to form in the armour: first we had 'The Prayer', a poor man's attempt to fuse indie and crunk. Then there was 'Flux', a cheap Chemical Brothers knock-off produced in a shoebox. By the time we got to 'innovative' (hah) third album 'Intimacy', Bloc Party had done away with guitars altogether, churning out early 90s minimal techno 'homages' like 'One More Chance' and the utter, utter abomination that is 'Mercury'. Kele, in effect, proceeded to take one gigantic three year shit all over his band's legacy, and while he's now flown solo and is at least no longer tainting the rest of the guys with this crap, the unrelenting disappointment remains.
Inspired, apparently, by his love of club culture (always down Popstarz, getting' hammered, d'you reckon?), solo album 'The Boxer', from which this monstrosity is taken, is a 45 minute exercise in electronica-wankery, owing much to the depressingly dated stylings of early 90s rave culture, designed to send the ultra-cool hipsters who fill up the pages of the NME into a frenzy of uncontrollable hyperbole and sickening sycophantism. Look, this is complete bollocks, okay? And for that matter, it's complete bollocks that's been done better by such luminaries as The Shamen and bloody Black Box. An almighty fall from grace. Shame.
6. LINKIN PARK: The Catalyst
Look, Chester, just because everyone and their granny is queuing up to worship at the altar of the Casio keyboard does not give you carte blanche to piss all over your legacy and produce a terrible electronica record. 'The Catalyst' is bloody awful and, for that matter, the title is something of a misnomer: it trudges along for four minutes, going absolutely nowhere, and couldn't inspire anyone to do anything. Come on guys, give us another 'Hybrid Theory'. Please?!
5. GOOD CHARLOTTE: Like It's Her Birthday
Not only have Linkin Park jumped squarely on the electronica bandwagon, but Good Charlotte appear to have taken the wheel, driving themselves so far beyond their traditional, um, pop punk sound that it's hard to recogni... oh wait, Joel's still attempting to sing, yeah, this is definitely Good Charlotte. It's somewhat amusing, if a little sad, that the Madden boys have such little self-respect that they'll clamour to fit in with whichever scene is flavour of the month, regardless of how idiotic it makes them appear. "Quick, get the synths out, they're popular, this'll make us a few million!" It would perhaps be forgivable if the track were any good but, predictably, it isn't. A real case of utterly transparent desperation.
4. 3OH!3: My First Kiss
As if one year of these Eurotrash rejects wasn't enough, the music press continued, somewhat unfathomably, to force 3Oh!3 down the throats of unsuspecting alternative music lovers in 2010, refusing to stop until they swallowed every last morsel of their horrendously dated, and unquestionably odious, electropop. Quite how this fetid cesspool of detritus managed to elbow its way into rock and indie club playlists is anybody's guess, but there it was, all Summer long, cosying on up to the Lady GaGa/Metallica mash-ups, making your sodding ears bleed. There really is no excuse for this crap. It's not big, it's not clever and it most certainly isn't funny. Oi, 3Oh!3... do one.
3. BEADY EYE: Bring The Light
Making a right Royal hoot out of Liam Gallagher's claim that the forthcoming LP will be 'better than Definitely Maybe', this four minute honky-tonk abomination sets new records for wanton laziness, stealing the piano parts from 'Great Balls of Fire' and setting them to a lyric more predictable than the transformation of day into night. 'Little James' ain't got nothin' on this blighter. Check out that chorus! Your nephew could scribble something better on the back of his packet of Coco Flakes. A real travesty, an undeniably atrocious record, which makes Alan McGee's desperate attempts to excuse it all the more laughable.
2. BRING ME THE HORIZON: It Never Ends
I believe it was the almighty Slipknot who once observed, most eloquently, that PEOPLE = SHIT. That there is anyone, and we mean anyone, in existence who can derive enjoyment from listening to the utter and complete doggerel churned out on a regular basis by this God awful excuse for a band is testament to its validity. That Oli Skyes and his band of merry noisemakers feel it is acceptable to subject the teenyboppers and emo kids who make up their audience to output like this provides further proof, and just reinforces the fact that, well, they're a bunch of masochistic bastards. Unfathomably, music press stalwarts have taken it upon themselves to lavish praise upon BMTH's latest release when, actually, it is the aural equivalent of week-long bout of explosive diarrhoea. Supposedly, this is a revolutionary record, a pioneering fusion of hardcore, metal, punk and, um., dubstep. What actually transpires is an unlistenable mess, as if Oli and co simply threw everything into the pot and hoped it would stick... and it didn't. 'It Never Ends', the lead single from it, is a song with no redeeming features whatsoever. There is simply no reason to listen to this crap and no justification for its existence. PEOPLE = SHIT indeed.
1. BrokENCYDE: Teach Me How to Scream
Well, congratulations BrokENCYDE! Not only have you managed to remain as unequivocally dreadful as you were last year - a feat that sent them rocketing to the no. 1 spot in 2009's Worst Singles of the Year - but you've also made a record that is a less enjoyable listening experience than anything produced by Bring Me the Horizon. That's no small feat ladies and gentlemen, and is proof positive that this caterwauling sack of horse manure is well deserving of its position at the top of the atrocity pile. Despite the best efforts of everyone with functional earlobes to prevent these fucktards from continuing to fuse screamo and crunk, and hence cripple the credibility of both genres and the very music industry itself, the guys from the CYDE have chosen to stick to their tried and, um, tested formula with 'Teach Me How to Scream' and consequently, have produced another embarrassingly unlistenable monstrosity. The screams! The lazy beats! Those offensively misogynistic lyrics! Oh, the horror! It's enough to make you want to chew your own foot off... actually, scratch that: listen to this for longer than three minutes and you'll have cannibalised your insides. Want to ensure a confession from Julian Assange? Make him listen to this on repeat. It's a sure fire winner. Undoubtedly the worst track released upon an unsuspecting public in 2010, and quite probably one of the worst things ever created. Why God, why?
The 15 #5: 19/12/10
1. THE BRIEFS: Silver Bullet
2. FAKE PROBLEMS: The Dream Team
3. LUCKY BOYS CONFUSION: Breaking Rules
4. JOSH ROUSE: God, Please Let Me Go Back
5. JIMMY EAT WORLD: Kill
6. JIMMY EAT WORLD: Action Needs An Audience
7. GRAMMATICS: Rosa Flood
8. BAD RELIGION: What It Is
9. STELLASTARR*: Moongirl
10. SAVES THE DAY: When It Isn't Like It Should Be
11. EELS: Not Ready Yet
12. EDITORS: Forest Fire
13. RYAN ADAMS: Carolina Rain
14. NOFX: The Moron Brothers
15. JJ72: Long Way South
2. FAKE PROBLEMS: The Dream Team
3. LUCKY BOYS CONFUSION: Breaking Rules
4. JOSH ROUSE: God, Please Let Me Go Back
5. JIMMY EAT WORLD: Kill
6. JIMMY EAT WORLD: Action Needs An Audience
7. GRAMMATICS: Rosa Flood
8. BAD RELIGION: What It Is
9. STELLASTARR*: Moongirl
10. SAVES THE DAY: When It Isn't Like It Should Be
11. EELS: Not Ready Yet
12. EDITORS: Forest Fire
13. RYAN ADAMS: Carolina Rain
14. NOFX: The Moron Brothers
15. JJ72: Long Way South
Saturday 18 December 2010
The 15 #4: 18/12/10
And today's 15...
1. Bad Religion: Scrutiny
2. Mansun: I Can Only Disappoint U
3. [spunge]: Whinger
4. Bedouin Soundclash: Immigrant Workforce
5. American Hi-Fi: Where Did We Go Wrong?
6. Biffy Clyro: Cloud of Stink
7. The Vandals: Hocus Pocus
8. Hellogoodbye: Touchdown Turnaround
9. Fugazi: Burning Too
10. Reggie and the Full Effect: Thanx for Stayin'
11. She Wants Revenge: These Things
12. The Distillers: City of Angels
13. Pretty Girls Make Graves: Ghosts In The Radio
14. Bad Religion: Henchman
15. NOFX: I Live In A Cake
1. Bad Religion: Scrutiny
2. Mansun: I Can Only Disappoint U
3. [spunge]: Whinger
4. Bedouin Soundclash: Immigrant Workforce
5. American Hi-Fi: Where Did We Go Wrong?
6. Biffy Clyro: Cloud of Stink
7. The Vandals: Hocus Pocus
8. Hellogoodbye: Touchdown Turnaround
9. Fugazi: Burning Too
10. Reggie and the Full Effect: Thanx for Stayin'
11. She Wants Revenge: These Things
12. The Distillers: City of Angels
13. Pretty Girls Make Graves: Ghosts In The Radio
14. Bad Religion: Henchman
15. NOFX: I Live In A Cake
The 15 #3: 17/12/10
Slightly delayed, unfortunately, but yesterday's iPod shuffle treated my ears to...
1. Motion City Soundtrack: Everything Is Alright
2. R.E.M.: What's the Frequency, Kenneth?
3. Gogol Bordello: Rebellious Love
4. Random Hand: Danger Makes Enemies
5. Daft Punk: Robot Rock
6. Silversun Pickups: Sort Of
7. Lucky Boys Confusion: South Union
8. Tegan and Sara: Frozen
9. The Killers: Uncle Jonny
10. Motion City Soundtrack: Shiver
11. Anti-Flag: Red, White and Brainwashed
12. Biffy Clyro: Now I'm Everyone
13. Wire: Mr. Suit
14. Modest Mouse: I've Got It All (Most)
15. H2O: Mitts
1. Motion City Soundtrack: Everything Is Alright
2. R.E.M.: What's the Frequency, Kenneth?
3. Gogol Bordello: Rebellious Love
4. Random Hand: Danger Makes Enemies
5. Daft Punk: Robot Rock
6. Silversun Pickups: Sort Of
7. Lucky Boys Confusion: South Union
8. Tegan and Sara: Frozen
9. The Killers: Uncle Jonny
10. Motion City Soundtrack: Shiver
11. Anti-Flag: Red, White and Brainwashed
12. Biffy Clyro: Now I'm Everyone
13. Wire: Mr. Suit
14. Modest Mouse: I've Got It All (Most)
15. H2O: Mitts
Thursday 16 December 2010
The 15 #2: 16/12/10
No links today, just a lovely list.
1. The Academy Is: Season
2. Eels: Saturday Morning
3. Wire: Surgeon's Girl
4. Zebrahead: Check
5. Black Flag: Gimme Gimme Gimme
6. Lucky Boys Confusion: Mr. Wilmington
7. Idlewild: Mince Showercap Pt. 2
8. The Futureheads: This Is The Life
9. Rival Schools: High Acetate
10. The Temper Trap: Sweet Disposition
11. Rancid: It's Quite Alright
12. Scissor Sisters: Fire With Fire
13. Bad Religion: Henchman
14. Roger Miret and the Disasters: Janie Hawk
15. Mr. T Experience: God Bless America
1. The Academy Is: Season
2. Eels: Saturday Morning
3. Wire: Surgeon's Girl
4. Zebrahead: Check
5. Black Flag: Gimme Gimme Gimme
6. Lucky Boys Confusion: Mr. Wilmington
7. Idlewild: Mince Showercap Pt. 2
8. The Futureheads: This Is The Life
9. Rival Schools: High Acetate
10. The Temper Trap: Sweet Disposition
11. Rancid: It's Quite Alright
12. Scissor Sisters: Fire With Fire
13. Bad Religion: Henchman
14. Roger Miret and the Disasters: Janie Hawk
15. Mr. T Experience: God Bless America
Wednesday 15 December 2010
The 15 #1: 15/12/10
Starting a new thing. iPod set to shuffle all songs, first fifteen will be posted here for your enjoyment. Daily. Betcha can't wait.
1. Frenzal Rhomb: Disappointed
2. Cobra Skulls: Problems With Preconceptions
3. Bis: Monstarr
4. Dillinger Four: Like Eye Contact In An Elevator
5. Imperial Leisure: Man on the Street
6. Sleater Kinney: Wilderness
7. Rilo Kiley: August
8. Bad Religion: The Streets of America
9. Millencolin: Who's Laughing Now?
10. Future of the Left: My Gymnastic Past
11. Alexisonfire: We Are The End
12. Foo Fighters: Resolve
13. New Found Glory: I Don't Wanna Know
14. The Menzingers: A Lesson In The Abuse of Information Technology
15. Social Distortion: Untitled
1. Frenzal Rhomb: Disappointed
2. Cobra Skulls: Problems With Preconceptions
3. Bis: Monstarr
4. Dillinger Four: Like Eye Contact In An Elevator
5. Imperial Leisure: Man on the Street
6. Sleater Kinney: Wilderness
7. Rilo Kiley: August
8. Bad Religion: The Streets of America
9. Millencolin: Who's Laughing Now?
10. Future of the Left: My Gymnastic Past
11. Alexisonfire: We Are The End
12. Foo Fighters: Resolve
13. New Found Glory: I Don't Wanna Know
14. The Menzingers: A Lesson In The Abuse of Information Technology
15. Social Distortion: Untitled
Review: Idlewild: '100 Broken Windows' 10th Anniversary show (Manchester Academy 2, 13/12/10)
Ten years ago, the vest-topped, baseball-capped boys (and girls, in some cases) who roam the halls of Manchester's colossal Student's Union were probably still in nappies, cradling milk from their mother's bosoms, more than content that the only music in their lives was the lullaby sung lovingly to them every night by their doting parents to send them to sleep. It's understandable, then, that these acne-ridden, dour-faced individuals, here tonight to punch, cartwheel and stage-dive their way through 70 minutes of patently unlistenable 'metalcore' garbage courtesy of the abysmal Asking Alexandria, have never even heard of the band playing in the upstairs room, never mind the album they're here to recreate. When Idlewild released '100 Broken Windows' on 9 May 2000, these whippersnappers barely had control of their bowel movements, let alone the ability to appreciate art, so their ignorance is somewhat forgivable.
What is not forgivable, however, is that this collective of consummate professionals who, between them, seem to be physically incapable of producing a bad record, can only attract the attention of 600 of Manchester's finest patrons. It isn't a bad number, sure, and many would kill for such ticket sales, but when you've produced the greatest British record of the last decade, and you're playing it in its entirety, you deserve a little more attention. And that's no meaningless hyperbole either. In ten years, no other record produced in these hallowed Isles has had the same immediacy, or provided such a well-rounded listen, marrying intense, visceral rock thrills with thought-provoking and, at times, intriguingly cryptic lyricism. '100 Broken Windows' is a fascinating album, a work of contemporary art that grabs you by the scruff of the neck and refuses to let go, a behemoth that demands your undivided attention and gets it, every single time.
Live, it is every bit as captivating, effortless in its ability to induce uncontrollable mayhem. The opening bars of a spiky, restless 'Little Discourage' send this fandom-orientated crowd hurtling into one another, with all thoughts of personal safety (and hygiene) tossed to the wayside... and it just doesn't stop. One by one, every delectable classic is met with the same delirium, every precious moment is savored. 'I Don't Have the Map' raises the roof, 'Listen To What You've Got' sends bodies flying every which way and there's so much excitement surrounding a hugely energetic 'Roseability' that Manchester Academy 2 threatens to break the world record for biggest simultaneous orgasm. That Idlewild confess to not having had the time to practice speaks volumes about both the unparalleled genius of this record and the depth of skill within the band; tracks like the exuberant 'These Wooden Ideas' and the quietly beautiful 'The Bronze Medal' feel like long lost friends, sweeping us into their loving arms in an instant and reminding us why we fell head over heels for them in the first place.
Not that the 'wild rest on their laurels either. The indestructible Rod Jones, fresh from nursing a broken collarbone, stalks the stage, carelessly attacking his many, many guitars and looking every bit like the coolest fucker in the world. Allan Stewart makes a fine second-in-command, following Rod's lead, sweat dripping from every pore, and Roddy Woomble, while a little more refined than ten years ago, still screams with the best of 'em, making the climax to 'Rusty' one of the most visceral things you'll see all year. And the fun doesn't end at '100', oh no. Unlike many of their peers, Idlewild know their entire back catalogue and they aren't afraid to show it: check out eons-old B-side 'Meet Me at the Harbour', dusted down and polished up, sandwiched in-between a smattering of more familiar material - 'A Modern Way of Letting Go', 'American English' - and sounding colossal. It's just one delicious part of a six song encore to die for, culminating in a four-to-the-floor punk blast through 'Everyone Says You're So Fragile', 'I'm A Message' and the monstrous 'Captain', which, after thirteen years, is still the perfect incomprehensible whirlwind of noise and aggression on which to close any set.
The kids who shuffle out of the Asking Alexandria show may have more bruises and less clothing to show for their efforts but in ten years time, will they be revisiting the same venue for the anniversary tour? Will they hell. These guys have a shelf life of about two minutes; Idlewild's music endures. The numbers may not be what they deserve, but tonight, Woomble and co prove, one more time with feeling, that they are the most unforgivably underrated and all-round bloody brilliant band that we have. You owe it to yourself to see this show; quit your day job, eBay your granny... it's the best ninety minutes you'll ever have.
What is not forgivable, however, is that this collective of consummate professionals who, between them, seem to be physically incapable of producing a bad record, can only attract the attention of 600 of Manchester's finest patrons. It isn't a bad number, sure, and many would kill for such ticket sales, but when you've produced the greatest British record of the last decade, and you're playing it in its entirety, you deserve a little more attention. And that's no meaningless hyperbole either. In ten years, no other record produced in these hallowed Isles has had the same immediacy, or provided such a well-rounded listen, marrying intense, visceral rock thrills with thought-provoking and, at times, intriguingly cryptic lyricism. '100 Broken Windows' is a fascinating album, a work of contemporary art that grabs you by the scruff of the neck and refuses to let go, a behemoth that demands your undivided attention and gets it, every single time.
Live, it is every bit as captivating, effortless in its ability to induce uncontrollable mayhem. The opening bars of a spiky, restless 'Little Discourage' send this fandom-orientated crowd hurtling into one another, with all thoughts of personal safety (and hygiene) tossed to the wayside... and it just doesn't stop. One by one, every delectable classic is met with the same delirium, every precious moment is savored. 'I Don't Have the Map' raises the roof, 'Listen To What You've Got' sends bodies flying every which way and there's so much excitement surrounding a hugely energetic 'Roseability' that Manchester Academy 2 threatens to break the world record for biggest simultaneous orgasm. That Idlewild confess to not having had the time to practice speaks volumes about both the unparalleled genius of this record and the depth of skill within the band; tracks like the exuberant 'These Wooden Ideas' and the quietly beautiful 'The Bronze Medal' feel like long lost friends, sweeping us into their loving arms in an instant and reminding us why we fell head over heels for them in the first place.
Not that the 'wild rest on their laurels either. The indestructible Rod Jones, fresh from nursing a broken collarbone, stalks the stage, carelessly attacking his many, many guitars and looking every bit like the coolest fucker in the world. Allan Stewart makes a fine second-in-command, following Rod's lead, sweat dripping from every pore, and Roddy Woomble, while a little more refined than ten years ago, still screams with the best of 'em, making the climax to 'Rusty' one of the most visceral things you'll see all year. And the fun doesn't end at '100', oh no. Unlike many of their peers, Idlewild know their entire back catalogue and they aren't afraid to show it: check out eons-old B-side 'Meet Me at the Harbour', dusted down and polished up, sandwiched in-between a smattering of more familiar material - 'A Modern Way of Letting Go', 'American English' - and sounding colossal. It's just one delicious part of a six song encore to die for, culminating in a four-to-the-floor punk blast through 'Everyone Says You're So Fragile', 'I'm A Message' and the monstrous 'Captain', which, after thirteen years, is still the perfect incomprehensible whirlwind of noise and aggression on which to close any set.
The kids who shuffle out of the Asking Alexandria show may have more bruises and less clothing to show for their efforts but in ten years time, will they be revisiting the same venue for the anniversary tour? Will they hell. These guys have a shelf life of about two minutes; Idlewild's music endures. The numbers may not be what they deserve, but tonight, Woomble and co prove, one more time with feeling, that they are the most unforgivably underrated and all-round bloody brilliant band that we have. You owe it to yourself to see this show; quit your day job, eBay your granny... it's the best ninety minutes you'll ever have.
Tuesday 14 December 2010
Review: Manic Street Preachers, Manchester Apollo, 14/10/10
It seems almost cliched to say it, but Manchester just gets the Manics. The band's iconic mythology, the tumultuous, inspirational story of a gang of terminal young things driven to kick against popular culture by the perpetual boredom of their small town roots, and catapulted to stardom following years of industry indifference, seems to resonate with the working class determinism that coarses through the veins of this most passionate of cities. The people here feel a kinship with Bradders, Wire and the Moore, and it's a love affair that's reciprocated twentyfold: it's why the boys from Blackwood keep coming back, time and again. It's why, thirteen glorious years ago, they chose to host the largest gig of their career at the Nynex. And it's why James begins tonight's performance with an audible, reflective sigh, before telling the 2,000 strong, packed-to-the-rafters Apollo that "it's great to be back in your beautiful metropolis." And then launching head-first into 'You Love Us' and inciting about fifty different kinds of mayhem.
Yes, these Mancunians get a tad excitable. They punch the air during a rabble-rousingly militaristic 'Faster', bellow every last incomprehensible word of the majestic 'Motorcycle Emptiness' and slam recklessly into one another for all three and a half minutes of the wall of energetic punk fury that is 'Motown Junk', clearly relishing every euphoric, absurd moment. It helps that this is a set designed to please, with twenty two classics (and 'Ocean Spray') drawn from the annals of the band's rich back catalogue. Anthem after anthem launches itself crowdwards: 'Your Love Alone is Not Enough' quickly morphs into a delightfully funky 'Roses in the Hospital'; a monumentally beautiful 'This Is Yesterday' soon transforms into the rock behemoth of 'Sleepflower', with barely a moment to catch your breath before the next riotous call to arms.
There are new tracks - five, to be precise - from the recently released 'Postcards From A Young Man', but even these seem to grow an anthemic quality of their own when given the freedom of a live setting, with the eponymous track in particular sounding gargantuan in this former theatre. And then there's the biggest and best surprise - a once-in-a-blue-moon airing of 'Yes', quite probably the greatest slice of prosaic vitriol ever to spill from the pen of the mighty Richard James Edwards, which stands out like the sorest of thumbs against the backdrop of elation that characterises the remainder of the set. Its dissonance is what makes it so bloody fantastic, however, and this is highlighted by the wave of hysteria that accompanies the opening bars.
And while the general atmosphere may be far less in keeping with the judgmental overtones of the album from which this beauty comes, the Preachers lose none of their power as a result. You may no longer find the swimming pool blue eyes and towering 9ft 5 frame of The Wire bent double over the Apollo monitors, screaming expletives into his microphone (as was the scene at this very venue way back in 2001), but he's still the single coolest bastard in rock and roll, resplendent this evening in matching leopard print jacket and miniskirt and looking effortlessly fantastic. He pouts, preens, shimmies and scissor kicks his way around the stage, seemingly unable to keep still, swept up in the euphoria of it all.
After twenty two years, the Manics are still the most monumental band on the planet. With a work ethic the size of Snowdonia and a back catalogue as grandiose, it's hard to go wrong, really. Add to that a dash and a half of glam, an unashamed refusal to bow to the demands of age and an audience after their own glitter-and-spraypaint hearts and you've got one of the finest rock shows this side of the Pennines. Same time and place next year lads, yeah?
Yes, these Mancunians get a tad excitable. They punch the air during a rabble-rousingly militaristic 'Faster', bellow every last incomprehensible word of the majestic 'Motorcycle Emptiness' and slam recklessly into one another for all three and a half minutes of the wall of energetic punk fury that is 'Motown Junk', clearly relishing every euphoric, absurd moment. It helps that this is a set designed to please, with twenty two classics (and 'Ocean Spray') drawn from the annals of the band's rich back catalogue. Anthem after anthem launches itself crowdwards: 'Your Love Alone is Not Enough' quickly morphs into a delightfully funky 'Roses in the Hospital'; a monumentally beautiful 'This Is Yesterday' soon transforms into the rock behemoth of 'Sleepflower', with barely a moment to catch your breath before the next riotous call to arms.
There are new tracks - five, to be precise - from the recently released 'Postcards From A Young Man', but even these seem to grow an anthemic quality of their own when given the freedom of a live setting, with the eponymous track in particular sounding gargantuan in this former theatre. And then there's the biggest and best surprise - a once-in-a-blue-moon airing of 'Yes', quite probably the greatest slice of prosaic vitriol ever to spill from the pen of the mighty Richard James Edwards, which stands out like the sorest of thumbs against the backdrop of elation that characterises the remainder of the set. Its dissonance is what makes it so bloody fantastic, however, and this is highlighted by the wave of hysteria that accompanies the opening bars.
And while the general atmosphere may be far less in keeping with the judgmental overtones of the album from which this beauty comes, the Preachers lose none of their power as a result. You may no longer find the swimming pool blue eyes and towering 9ft 5 frame of The Wire bent double over the Apollo monitors, screaming expletives into his microphone (as was the scene at this very venue way back in 2001), but he's still the single coolest bastard in rock and roll, resplendent this evening in matching leopard print jacket and miniskirt and looking effortlessly fantastic. He pouts, preens, shimmies and scissor kicks his way around the stage, seemingly unable to keep still, swept up in the euphoria of it all.
After twenty two years, the Manics are still the most monumental band on the planet. With a work ethic the size of Snowdonia and a back catalogue as grandiose, it's hard to go wrong, really. Add to that a dash and a half of glam, an unashamed refusal to bow to the demands of age and an audience after their own glitter-and-spraypaint hearts and you've got one of the finest rock shows this side of the Pennines. Same time and place next year lads, yeah?
Classic album review: Weezer: 'Pinkerton'
That ear-shattering squeal of feedback. Those disturbingly discordant guitars. Rivers's uncharacteristically gutteral yelps. Less than a minute into 'Pinkerton' and it's quite apparent that this is a very different Weezer than we're used to. Gone are the endearingly nerdy paens to Buddy Holly and Mary Tyler Moore; the dumb fun college rock of tracks like 'Surf Wax America' and 'My Name Is Jonas' has fallen by the wayside, replaced instead by something far darker, far more abrasive and far, far less inviting. It's hardly surprising, then, that this sophomore record was met with howls of objection from fans and critics alike upon its original release, way back in the Britpop and pop punk-tinged summer of 1996. The world just wasn't quite ready for the emo boys to grow up. Which is a pity, really, because with the right musical climate and enough support, this veritable masterpiece could have been Weezer's stepping stone to superstardom.
Bearing the hallmarks of an 'In Utero', this initially difficult and uninviting record slowly reveals its true genius upon closer scrutiny. For all Rivers's laments on opener 'Tired of Sex' may at first seem to be the self-serving moans of a man far too immersed in the spoils of fame, the brutal honesty of the intimate lyrics position the listener as an uncomfortable voyeur. It's an arresting formula and one that makes the album such a starkly fascinating listen. The fuzzy guitar chops and crashing drums that topple their way through 'Getchoo', 'No Other One' and 'Falling For You' are a far cry from the melodic riffs and see-saw harmonies of 'Holiday' and 'In The Garage'. The beauty, however, is that, even here, the album retains the irresistible sparkle of 'Blue'; in fact, at times, its masterful grasp of the mechanics of pop even manages to surpass the band's debut.
'Pinkerton's lightest moment, 'Pink Triangle' - an ode to the perils of discovering that the object of your affection swings the other way - has a hook to die for, as well as a backing medley that manages to be unashamedly good fun and unusually melancholic at the same time. And then there's 'The Good Life', the greatest single Weezer have ever written. Its bittersweet retelling of a mid-life crisis is set to the most masterfully simplistic chord progression in the Cuomo arsenal, producing a track that is effortless in its brilliance. 'El Scorcho' is almost as good, a romantic paen that morphs from creeping dirge to all out punk monster at the two minute mark... and then promptly switches back again, refusing to play ball.
If you prefer your Weezer with a generous portion of pop and a second or third helping of glitzy three chord power rock, you may wish to stay well clear of the abrasive, unfriendly stylings of 'Pinkerton'. You'd be a fool, of course, since this is the most rewarding listen the band have ever produced. Hidden beneath the brusque, angst-ridden surface is a record of great beauty, marrying melancholy and pain with some of the most sumptuous melodies you are likely to hear. 'Blue' may have the immediacy, but 'Pinkerton' has all the longevity. (9.5)
Bearing the hallmarks of an 'In Utero', this initially difficult and uninviting record slowly reveals its true genius upon closer scrutiny. For all Rivers's laments on opener 'Tired of Sex' may at first seem to be the self-serving moans of a man far too immersed in the spoils of fame, the brutal honesty of the intimate lyrics position the listener as an uncomfortable voyeur. It's an arresting formula and one that makes the album such a starkly fascinating listen. The fuzzy guitar chops and crashing drums that topple their way through 'Getchoo', 'No Other One' and 'Falling For You' are a far cry from the melodic riffs and see-saw harmonies of 'Holiday' and 'In The Garage'. The beauty, however, is that, even here, the album retains the irresistible sparkle of 'Blue'; in fact, at times, its masterful grasp of the mechanics of pop even manages to surpass the band's debut.
'Pinkerton's lightest moment, 'Pink Triangle' - an ode to the perils of discovering that the object of your affection swings the other way - has a hook to die for, as well as a backing medley that manages to be unashamedly good fun and unusually melancholic at the same time. And then there's 'The Good Life', the greatest single Weezer have ever written. Its bittersweet retelling of a mid-life crisis is set to the most masterfully simplistic chord progression in the Cuomo arsenal, producing a track that is effortless in its brilliance. 'El Scorcho' is almost as good, a romantic paen that morphs from creeping dirge to all out punk monster at the two minute mark... and then promptly switches back again, refusing to play ball.
If you prefer your Weezer with a generous portion of pop and a second or third helping of glitzy three chord power rock, you may wish to stay well clear of the abrasive, unfriendly stylings of 'Pinkerton'. You'd be a fool, of course, since this is the most rewarding listen the band have ever produced. Hidden beneath the brusque, angst-ridden surface is a record of great beauty, marrying melancholy and pain with some of the most sumptuous melodies you are likely to hear. 'Blue' may have the immediacy, but 'Pinkerton' has all the longevity. (9.5)
Album review: Fake Problems: 'Real Ghosts Caught On Tape'
Okay Fake Problems, you've got a lot to answer for. Having scheduled a fairly extensive UK tour for the Spring of 2010, hundreds of, um, hundreds of desperate fans were left sorely disappointed - heartbroken, even - when the entire soiree was abruptly cancelled earlier in the year. The reason? They needed time to finish recording their third album. Band and management were sure we'd understand. FP would return to our shores soon. Everything would be okay in the end, right? Well, seven months later and there's still no sign of the band making inroads anywhere even remotely close to these hallowed Isles, but we do have the fruits of their labour: the uber-kitschly titled 'Real Ghosts Caught on Tape'. Well boys, given all you've put us through, this better be bloody good.
Thankfully, the record surpasses all expectations. Where 'It's Great To Be Alive' honed the alt-folk-punk formula established on debut 'How Far Our Bodies Go', 'Real Ghosts' propells the band's sound into the stratosphere, creating eleven deliciously infectious pop anthems designed to worm their way into your subconscious and never, ever leave. From start to finish, this is an album of hooks, grooves and falsettos, cut straight from the Brian Wilson school of pop. Indeed, tracks as toe-tappingly catchy as '5678' could just as easily be long-lost Beach Boys recordings, shot through with an extra layer of guitar.
The lyrics are certainly scattershot enough, marrying some distinctly bleak themes with a series of rather more banal invocations: tremendous opener 'ADT' tells the bittersweet tale of a socially awkward youngster, coupling dejected epithets like 'if confidence is key, I must be locked out of the house' with the rather lighter chorus line of 'tap, tap your feet to your heartbeat'. Such ambiguity adds depth, while simultaneously ensuring that you just can't stop shaking your ass to the music. The rest of the album is equally as irresistible: 'Soulless' is a three minute slice of power pop brilliance, 'Complaint Dept' is funkier than a James Brown Greatest Hits and 'Grand Finale' does exactly what it says on the tin, providing an epic crescendo before the more sorrowful reflection of 'Ghost to Coast' kicks in.
Luckily for band and management alike, Fake Problems have managed to create the album of their career with 'Real Ghosts Caught On Tape'. This is thirty five minutes of alt-folk-funk-punk brilliance, morphing seamlessly from one pop gem to the next and guaranteeing its place on your music player of choice for the next six or seven months. You are forgiven, boys, for abandoning us all earlier this year; now just make sure you set about bringing this little slice of genius to the UK, yeah? (9)
Thankfully, the record surpasses all expectations. Where 'It's Great To Be Alive' honed the alt-folk-punk formula established on debut 'How Far Our Bodies Go', 'Real Ghosts' propells the band's sound into the stratosphere, creating eleven deliciously infectious pop anthems designed to worm their way into your subconscious and never, ever leave. From start to finish, this is an album of hooks, grooves and falsettos, cut straight from the Brian Wilson school of pop. Indeed, tracks as toe-tappingly catchy as '5678' could just as easily be long-lost Beach Boys recordings, shot through with an extra layer of guitar.
The lyrics are certainly scattershot enough, marrying some distinctly bleak themes with a series of rather more banal invocations: tremendous opener 'ADT' tells the bittersweet tale of a socially awkward youngster, coupling dejected epithets like 'if confidence is key, I must be locked out of the house' with the rather lighter chorus line of 'tap, tap your feet to your heartbeat'. Such ambiguity adds depth, while simultaneously ensuring that you just can't stop shaking your ass to the music. The rest of the album is equally as irresistible: 'Soulless' is a three minute slice of power pop brilliance, 'Complaint Dept' is funkier than a James Brown Greatest Hits and 'Grand Finale' does exactly what it says on the tin, providing an epic crescendo before the more sorrowful reflection of 'Ghost to Coast' kicks in.
Luckily for band and management alike, Fake Problems have managed to create the album of their career with 'Real Ghosts Caught On Tape'. This is thirty five minutes of alt-folk-funk-punk brilliance, morphing seamlessly from one pop gem to the next and guaranteeing its place on your music player of choice for the next six or seven months. You are forgiven, boys, for abandoning us all earlier this year; now just make sure you set about bringing this little slice of genius to the UK, yeah? (9)
Review: Minus the Bear, Newcastle O2 Academy 2, 16/11/10
It probably seemed like a good idea at the time. While tour mates Jimmy Eat World take a well-earned rest, Minus the Bear would high tail it to Newcastle for a show of their own in the shoebox that is Academy 2. On this frost-bitten evening however, icicles hanging from the rafters, you could forgive the boys from warmer climes for being downtrodden; for wanting nothing more than to pack away their fancy keyboards and FX pedals (of which there are many) and get the hell out of this joint.
To MTB's credit, though, there's no sign of the Winter blues, and the same is true of tonight's support: local noiseniks My Tiny Robots woo an initially reserved and polite crowd with a deliciously funky set. The eponymous closing track is particularly sexy, morphing into a gigantic rock beast with a thoroughly evil bass line. Leeds boys Sketches are even better, marrying the angular indie theatrics of Bloc Party and Editors with a more delicate touch, courtesy of the band's spidery, gangly lead singer, who remains perched on his tip toes for the duration of the set, looking like he's about to topple over. It creates an interesting contrast with the restless energy of guitarist Matt Hutt who, when he isn't driving each track with his wiry, high-pitched riffs, is ruthlessly assaulting the overblown lump of wood he holds in his hands. It makes for enchanting viewing and there are a fair few converts created as a result.
The crowd's adulation is reserved for the main attraction, however. Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, the mostly-bearded, high-spirited Minus the Bear are mesmerising; lead singer Jake Snider commands his 250 strong army with every silky smooth vocal, while Dave Knudson's sweat-drenched guitar tricks and FX jiggery-pokery captivate from the aggressive opening chops of a pulsating 'Secret Country' to the four-to-the-floor progpunk hybrid that is much-lauded closer 'Absinthe Party at the Fly Honey Warehouse'. And then there's the treasure trove of unfathomable noises emanating from Alex Rose's mini production corner, coating the overwhelmingly funky bass lines of the band's newer material with a deliciously obtuse sheen. 'Hold Me Down' glistens, 'Into the Mirror' sparkles and current single 'My Time', one of the highlights of the evening, has an irresistibly infectious charm, sheepishly worming its way through the enthralled crowd, goading the masses into a toe-tapping frenzy.
There are plenty of pleasant surprises too: a riotous tumble through the eons-old 'Spritz!!! Spritz!!!' nuzzles up comfortably to the blissful technicolor dreamscapes of the epic 'White Mystery'; an unusual juxtaposition on paper, perhaps, but one that translates perfectly live. The only drawback, sadly, is that it's all over far too soon: fourteen songs in and the band are ready to depart, despite the howls of objection from the insatiable crowd. Still, treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen, as they say; and as if in an attempt to placate our frustration, MTB make a point of personally thanking everyone in the first few rows, acknowledging the depth of love on show. It's a heartwarming gesture, and on this most bitter of evenings, it's all we really need. A veritable triumph.
To MTB's credit, though, there's no sign of the Winter blues, and the same is true of tonight's support: local noiseniks My Tiny Robots woo an initially reserved and polite crowd with a deliciously funky set. The eponymous closing track is particularly sexy, morphing into a gigantic rock beast with a thoroughly evil bass line. Leeds boys Sketches are even better, marrying the angular indie theatrics of Bloc Party and Editors with a more delicate touch, courtesy of the band's spidery, gangly lead singer, who remains perched on his tip toes for the duration of the set, looking like he's about to topple over. It creates an interesting contrast with the restless energy of guitarist Matt Hutt who, when he isn't driving each track with his wiry, high-pitched riffs, is ruthlessly assaulting the overblown lump of wood he holds in his hands. It makes for enchanting viewing and there are a fair few converts created as a result.
The crowd's adulation is reserved for the main attraction, however. Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, the mostly-bearded, high-spirited Minus the Bear are mesmerising; lead singer Jake Snider commands his 250 strong army with every silky smooth vocal, while Dave Knudson's sweat-drenched guitar tricks and FX jiggery-pokery captivate from the aggressive opening chops of a pulsating 'Secret Country' to the four-to-the-floor progpunk hybrid that is much-lauded closer 'Absinthe Party at the Fly Honey Warehouse'. And then there's the treasure trove of unfathomable noises emanating from Alex Rose's mini production corner, coating the overwhelmingly funky bass lines of the band's newer material with a deliciously obtuse sheen. 'Hold Me Down' glistens, 'Into the Mirror' sparkles and current single 'My Time', one of the highlights of the evening, has an irresistibly infectious charm, sheepishly worming its way through the enthralled crowd, goading the masses into a toe-tapping frenzy.
There are plenty of pleasant surprises too: a riotous tumble through the eons-old 'Spritz!!! Spritz!!!' nuzzles up comfortably to the blissful technicolor dreamscapes of the epic 'White Mystery'; an unusual juxtaposition on paper, perhaps, but one that translates perfectly live. The only drawback, sadly, is that it's all over far too soon: fourteen songs in and the band are ready to depart, despite the howls of objection from the insatiable crowd. Still, treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen, as they say; and as if in an attempt to placate our frustration, MTB make a point of personally thanking everyone in the first few rows, acknowledging the depth of love on show. It's a heartwarming gesture, and on this most bitter of evenings, it's all we really need. A veritable triumph.
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