It's certainly no secret that Iron & Wine shows aren't exactly the most raucous of affairs. For the most part, when the beautifully bearded Samuel Beam casually saunters onstage, flanked by his bevy of very-blooded-talented musical maestros, and starts weaving his melancholic tales of love and loss, the standard response is one of mesmerisation; the performance is so striking that you remain rooted firmly to the spot, unable to avert your eyes from the stage, content to allow the beauty to swallow you whole. Where other artists command the body, making drunken imbeciles throw themselves into one another with reckless abandon, Iron & Wine penetrates the soul, tugging at the heartstrings and piercing the gut, crafting the kind of emotional connection that most struggling wannabes in this business we call 'the arts' can only have wet dreams about. Indeed, so powerful is tonight's foray into the depths of regret-tinged Americana that Newcastle is practically stunned into silence; a pin dropping in the general vicinity of The Sage's glorious Hall 1 would probably send reverberations as far as the nearby Millennium Bridge. Samuel is quite taken with this attentiveness, remarking that we're all 'so well behaved', which would be reason to 'bring [his] kids here', but really, in our hearts, we're as battered and bruised as the most vociferous of headbangers.
It certainly helps that Sam has brought good friend and fellow musical entrepreneur Daniel Martin Moore along for the ride. His careful blend of sun-drenched folk and wayward country strikes an immediate chord with those who've managed to position bums on seats early enough, aided rather admirably by both the venue's inherent brilliance - it may be an irritating muso cliche, but the acoustics really ARE amazing - and the production crew's sound grasp of atmospherics. It's the subtle touches that prove the most evocative: just check the quiet lighting oscillations during the touching 'In the Cool of the Day', shrouding Daniel in darkness when his vocals pause momentarily, and carefully illuminating the inexorably talented pianist instead, drawing our attention to the poetry of the musicianship. Things are a little more strained when Daniel heavies his hand, teaching us all about the perils of mountain top removal - the boulders that shoot through the air are 'the size of Wales', lazily - as the lesson in humanitarian environmentalism jars with the 'softly, softly' approach of the rest of his performance (perhaps he would've been better letting the track speak for itself?), but on the whole, this is an admirable introduction and a most appropriate preface to the magic that follows.
Of course, Moore is no competition for the 105 career-spanning minutes that Iron & Wine bestow upon their adoring followers; all thoughts of wiry, besuited Kentucky boys are obliterated within the first few seconds of a progressively colossal 'Rabbit Will Run', Samuel taking each and every one of our hands and leading us on a bewitching journey through the spit-and-sawdust nooks and crannies of southernmost America, across the empty plains on a painfully gentle 'Carousel', over the rivers and seas through the cascading ebbs and flows of 'Cinder and Smoke' and 'Tree By The River' and into the blinding lights and cadaverous hustle and bustle of the big city on the astutely observational 'Walking Far From Home', the opening track from tremendous new record 'Kiss Each Other Clean' and quite probably the highlight of the show. It's quite remarkable how immediately evocative a great many of these tracks are; a few carefully chosen words are all Samuel needs to immerse the listener in his world, to make each and every one of us feel like the songs were written for us and us alone. That several hundred hard-working punters from Northern England can share in this most personal and unique of experiences is further testament to the sheer genius of the performance.
The show isn't perfect; cracks do show on occasion, as a few minor technical hitches lead Sam to ask whether we're 'cool with [them] fucking up the songs [we] love' and the set does meander a little at the midpoint, transgressing for a little too long down a slightly proggier path, but for the most part, this is a beguiling ride, near flawless in both conception and execution. Iron & Wine's unenviable grasp of music's most powerful of abilities - to move you - makes every last one of the captivated faithful want to be up on that stage, sharing their own stories with an attentive audience, making equally as unfathomable, yet astonishing, sounds with the most straightforward, yet comprehensive, arsenal of instruments. They may not provoke the most feverish of reactions, but Iron & Wine create the most enduring of experiences, assuring you of a night you'll never forget. Music doesn't get much more wonderful than this.
Saturday 19 March 2011
Friday 11 March 2011
Review: Surfer Blood w/No Joy (Newcastle O2 Academy 2, 06/03/11)
There's a veritable genre war taking place across Newcastle's wind-and-rain battered city centre this evening; at one end of town, just off the tracksuit-and-trampcoat laden Northumberland Street, Scottish post-hardcore noiseniks Flood of Red are trying desperately to stomp a mudhole in the refurbished Trillian's rock bar and prove to all and sundry that their particular brand of scuzzy, punky emo rock is the most exciting thing you could hope to immerse yourself in on a Sunday night. Meanwhile, a few hundred metres away, past the garish fracas of the world-renowned Bigg Market and through the meandering, well-hidden Victorian side streets, grungy lo-fi Floridians Surfer Blood have organised the counter battle, flying the flag for sun-kissed indie, attempting to convince 300 or so scene kids in Sonic Youth T-shirts to throw their floppy fringes to the wind and just, you know, dance.
Problem is, on this most dreary of ends to the week, Newcastle struggles to do much of anything at all, and Surfer Blood have a pretty gosh darn hard time trying to convince anyone to move a muscle. Montreal and Los Angeles-based shoegaze outfit No Joy bear the brunt of the indifference, with applause decidedly muted, despite the female singers' dangerously skimpy wardrobe choices and valiant attempts to break My Bloody Valentine's volume record. And when the main act grace us with their presence, they do so to as little fanfare as possible, with only the occasional impromptu whoop or hand-clap signaling that anything more than a soundcheck is taking place. Granted, the guys don't exactly make much of a fuss over their onstage debut, slouching out sans intro music and barely saying anything at all, but one would expect a crowd of supposed fans to at least work themselves into some semblance of excitement at the arrival of their hosts.
Of course, it's questionable whether many of the faces intensely studying Surfer Blood tonight have even bothered listening to their output. Despite a relatively brief, straightforward set consisting almost entirely of tracks from the superb 2010 debut 'Astro Coast', audience participation is minimal and most mouths are wired shut, even during the funky-as-fuck Summer-anthem-that-never-was 'Take It Easy' (JP does his usual party trick and heads into the 'pit', wielding his microphone like a weapon) and, even more unforgivably, during 'Swim', the band's biggest, most well-hyped, single and most ludicrously fun slice of scuzz pop in a pretty top notch arsenal. A few fairly quiet devotees in the front row mumble the words sheepishly to themselves, conscious of the fact that no one else seems bothered, but for the most part, there is very little activity. Somewhat unfortunately, it's patently obvious to the Floridians themselves and their set loses a little of its lustre as a result, as if the boys gave up bothering after a few tracks, all too aware that a reaction was unlikely to be forthcoming.
That's not to say, however, that SB don't put in a mighty commendable performance; this is as note-perfect a representation of their hazy East coast sound as you're likely to get, with 'Fast Jabroni ' and a punchy 'Floating Vibes' sounding positively monumental. The problem, however, is that it lacks that little something more, the extra ingredient to make the show seem more like an event than another night on the job. The crowd has a lot to answer for, sure, but there is a noticeable gap stage right too, as the maracas-wielding keyboard/percussionist/all-round nutcase appears to have disappeared into the void. Without him, Surfer Blood seem to be a rather more professional outfit, losing some of the lunatic charm they exuded during their recent Interpol support slots.
Blame the Sunday night; blame the frustratingly benign folk of Newcastle; blame the band dynamic; blame whatever; tonight, Surfer Blood aren't anywhere near as glorious as they can be, and despite putting in a solid performance, they lack the spark so desperately needed to set our hearts ablaze. As a stand for all that is good, pure and reckless about contemporary lo-fi indie, it can only be judged partially successful, and as competitors in this evening's Battle of the Genres, Surfer Blood come out on the receiving end of a punk-shaped suckerpunch. Sorry guys, but the Scots win again. Probably.
Problem is, on this most dreary of ends to the week, Newcastle struggles to do much of anything at all, and Surfer Blood have a pretty gosh darn hard time trying to convince anyone to move a muscle. Montreal and Los Angeles-based shoegaze outfit No Joy bear the brunt of the indifference, with applause decidedly muted, despite the female singers' dangerously skimpy wardrobe choices and valiant attempts to break My Bloody Valentine's volume record. And when the main act grace us with their presence, they do so to as little fanfare as possible, with only the occasional impromptu whoop or hand-clap signaling that anything more than a soundcheck is taking place. Granted, the guys don't exactly make much of a fuss over their onstage debut, slouching out sans intro music and barely saying anything at all, but one would expect a crowd of supposed fans to at least work themselves into some semblance of excitement at the arrival of their hosts.
Of course, it's questionable whether many of the faces intensely studying Surfer Blood tonight have even bothered listening to their output. Despite a relatively brief, straightforward set consisting almost entirely of tracks from the superb 2010 debut 'Astro Coast', audience participation is minimal and most mouths are wired shut, even during the funky-as-fuck Summer-anthem-that-never-was 'Take It Easy' (JP does his usual party trick and heads into the 'pit', wielding his microphone like a weapon) and, even more unforgivably, during 'Swim', the band's biggest, most well-hyped, single and most ludicrously fun slice of scuzz pop in a pretty top notch arsenal. A few fairly quiet devotees in the front row mumble the words sheepishly to themselves, conscious of the fact that no one else seems bothered, but for the most part, there is very little activity. Somewhat unfortunately, it's patently obvious to the Floridians themselves and their set loses a little of its lustre as a result, as if the boys gave up bothering after a few tracks, all too aware that a reaction was unlikely to be forthcoming.
That's not to say, however, that SB don't put in a mighty commendable performance; this is as note-perfect a representation of their hazy East coast sound as you're likely to get, with 'Fast Jabroni ' and a punchy 'Floating Vibes' sounding positively monumental. The problem, however, is that it lacks that little something more, the extra ingredient to make the show seem more like an event than another night on the job. The crowd has a lot to answer for, sure, but there is a noticeable gap stage right too, as the maracas-wielding keyboard/percussionist/all-round nutcase appears to have disappeared into the void. Without him, Surfer Blood seem to be a rather more professional outfit, losing some of the lunatic charm they exuded during their recent Interpol support slots.
Blame the Sunday night; blame the frustratingly benign folk of Newcastle; blame the band dynamic; blame whatever; tonight, Surfer Blood aren't anywhere near as glorious as they can be, and despite putting in a solid performance, they lack the spark so desperately needed to set our hearts ablaze. As a stand for all that is good, pure and reckless about contemporary lo-fi indie, it can only be judged partially successful, and as competitors in this evening's Battle of the Genres, Surfer Blood come out on the receiving end of a punk-shaped suckerpunch. Sorry guys, but the Scots win again. Probably.
Sunday 6 March 2011
Review: Les Savy Fav (The Cluny, Newcastle, 02/03/11)
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Wednesday 2 March 2011
Review: Rock Sound Exposure Tour (Dinosaur Pile-Up/The Xcerts, Newcastle O2 Academy 2, 28/02/11)
Hot on the heels of a victorious King Tut's show, Newcastle's sparsely populated, depressingly muted Academy 2 must seem like a colossal leap backwards for the guys and girls - um, are there any? - of the 2011 Rock Sound Exposure Tour. Granted, tonight's headliners, the unnervingly intense Japanese Voyeurs, have had to withdraw from the tour due to vocal chord problems (lead singer Romily probably belched that one belch too far), leaving the two local supports to prop up the bill and Dinosaur Pile-Up with an unexpected main slot, but it's hard to believe that any of the 100 or so punters in attendance this evening even knew who they were anyway. This is a crowd of casual observers, curious locals and self-conscious scenesters, none of whom seem able to muster up any semblance of enthusiasm for the cream of contemporary British talent that's attempting to put on a rip-roaring rock 'n' roll show in front of them.
The Xcerts suffer particularly badly, forced to contend with arms-folded disinterest and an audience too frightened of their social standing to make a beeline for the barrier. The gulf between band and crowd is achingly, embarrassingly palpable; forget the Academy, this might as well be your local drinking hole, playing host to some no-name local act while everyone tries to have a nice pint and a chat. Sure, pockets are attentive, and everyone is at least polite enough to applaud at the appropriate moments, but the lack of atmosphere is utterly, utterly depressing, sucking the life and soul out of the party. Such a reaction, frankly, is criminal. Granted, Murray and co. aren't exactly the 'hands in the air, now scream!' type, and perhaps they are guilty of not trying to engage with these armchair onlookers, but the sheer power and intensity of their all-too-brief performance should speak for itself.
In forty inexorably loud minutes, the Scottish three-piece summon the spirit of 'In Utero'-era Kurt Cobain and unleash a torrent of unrelentingly abrasive noise rock on these poor, floppy fringed souls, making the spit and sawdust viscera of current release 'Scatterbrain' seem like Lady GaGa by comparison. Spurred on, perhaps, by his audience's indifference, Murray manages to find all new levels of guttural anger, bellowing the words to 'A Distant Memory', 'Young (Belane)' and a brilliantly blistering 'Slackerpop' with an extra level of unabashed insanity. There is no let up: even the two debut album tracks on air tonight - a mournful 'Crisis In The Slow Lane', an emboldened 'Do You Feel Safe?' - are shot through with a brusque rawness that obliterates any semblance of pop sensibility that they may previously have contained.
And perhaps that's why Newcastle just doesn't seem all that arsed. Without an obvious hook to cling on to, the crowd actually have to work at fathoming The Xcerts out, and the arms-folded brigade just aren't in the mood for being challenged. Instead, they'd rather hum and nod along to really-very-bloody-obvious headliners Dinosaur Pile-Up, whose verse-verse-chorus power chord formula is an instant no-brainer and hence, an instant winner. Of course, there's nothing wrong with such a simple set-up, provided you have the melodies to back it up and unfortunately, at this, DPU are only partially successful. They have 'Mona Lisa', a galloping rock 'n' roll stallion, and the splendidly stupid 'My Rock n Roll', the bastard love child of contemporary Weezer and 'The Colour and the Shape' era Foo Fighters, but all too often, the hooks get lost amongst the monochrome chugging and the tracks lose any edge they may have had over one another, coming across instead like one long, drawn out exercise in A, D and G. They do perform well; their energy is commendable and the bassist's leap crowdwards during the encore is the most exciting thing to happen all evening, but you get the impression that they're only just scratching the surface of what could be, quite potentially, a bloody fucking ace rock outfit. And for all the audience are brave enough to line themselves along the barrier, there is still barely any movement; no energy to speak of; no atmosphere.
As a showcase for fresh talent, the Rock Sound Exposure Tour is a pretty riveting, darn good value night that'll open your eyes and ears to some talented musicians and maybe even persuade you to part with your hard-earned cash on that latest Xcerts album (or Dinosaur Pile-Up, if you ain't picky). As anything even remotely resembling a gig, however, if Newcastle is anything to go by, it's as exciting as the end credits to The Lord of the Rings, failing to excite the kids into any sort of reaction. Of course, tonight isn't anything to go by; it's a frustrating statistical anomaly in a sea of downright wild shows and is a blight on the city's recent track record as a worthwhile place to play. Let's hope our future rock stars don't write us all off at once, eh?
The Xcerts suffer particularly badly, forced to contend with arms-folded disinterest and an audience too frightened of their social standing to make a beeline for the barrier. The gulf between band and crowd is achingly, embarrassingly palpable; forget the Academy, this might as well be your local drinking hole, playing host to some no-name local act while everyone tries to have a nice pint and a chat. Sure, pockets are attentive, and everyone is at least polite enough to applaud at the appropriate moments, but the lack of atmosphere is utterly, utterly depressing, sucking the life and soul out of the party. Such a reaction, frankly, is criminal. Granted, Murray and co. aren't exactly the 'hands in the air, now scream!' type, and perhaps they are guilty of not trying to engage with these armchair onlookers, but the sheer power and intensity of their all-too-brief performance should speak for itself.
In forty inexorably loud minutes, the Scottish three-piece summon the spirit of 'In Utero'-era Kurt Cobain and unleash a torrent of unrelentingly abrasive noise rock on these poor, floppy fringed souls, making the spit and sawdust viscera of current release 'Scatterbrain' seem like Lady GaGa by comparison. Spurred on, perhaps, by his audience's indifference, Murray manages to find all new levels of guttural anger, bellowing the words to 'A Distant Memory', 'Young (Belane)' and a brilliantly blistering 'Slackerpop' with an extra level of unabashed insanity. There is no let up: even the two debut album tracks on air tonight - a mournful 'Crisis In The Slow Lane', an emboldened 'Do You Feel Safe?' - are shot through with a brusque rawness that obliterates any semblance of pop sensibility that they may previously have contained.
And perhaps that's why Newcastle just doesn't seem all that arsed. Without an obvious hook to cling on to, the crowd actually have to work at fathoming The Xcerts out, and the arms-folded brigade just aren't in the mood for being challenged. Instead, they'd rather hum and nod along to really-very-bloody-obvious headliners Dinosaur Pile-Up, whose verse-verse-chorus power chord formula is an instant no-brainer and hence, an instant winner. Of course, there's nothing wrong with such a simple set-up, provided you have the melodies to back it up and unfortunately, at this, DPU are only partially successful. They have 'Mona Lisa', a galloping rock 'n' roll stallion, and the splendidly stupid 'My Rock n Roll', the bastard love child of contemporary Weezer and 'The Colour and the Shape' era Foo Fighters, but all too often, the hooks get lost amongst the monochrome chugging and the tracks lose any edge they may have had over one another, coming across instead like one long, drawn out exercise in A, D and G. They do perform well; their energy is commendable and the bassist's leap crowdwards during the encore is the most exciting thing to happen all evening, but you get the impression that they're only just scratching the surface of what could be, quite potentially, a bloody fucking ace rock outfit. And for all the audience are brave enough to line themselves along the barrier, there is still barely any movement; no energy to speak of; no atmosphere.
As a showcase for fresh talent, the Rock Sound Exposure Tour is a pretty riveting, darn good value night that'll open your eyes and ears to some talented musicians and maybe even persuade you to part with your hard-earned cash on that latest Xcerts album (or Dinosaur Pile-Up, if you ain't picky). As anything even remotely resembling a gig, however, if Newcastle is anything to go by, it's as exciting as the end credits to The Lord of the Rings, failing to excite the kids into any sort of reaction. Of course, tonight isn't anything to go by; it's a frustrating statistical anomaly in a sea of downright wild shows and is a blight on the city's recent track record as a worthwhile place to play. Let's hope our future rock stars don't write us all off at once, eh?
Tuesday 1 March 2011
Review: Little Comets, Northumbria University, 26/02/11
From the casual disinterest of a sparsely populated Bridge Hotel to this evening’s rapturously attentive, and impressively cramped, Northumbria University, Jarrow/Heaton/Sunderland-born indie upstarts Little Comets have come a long way in the last twelve months. Aided admirably by a series of deliciously spiky indie-pop singles, one impressively instant debut LP and a penchant for whippin’ out the old acoustic guitars on the Metro Airport line, the quirky, bejumpered four-piece have now reached that oh-so-coveted of turning points: the cusp of mainstream crossover. There’s an undeniable buzz around these guys; the kind of feverish excitement that enveloped Maximo Park just before ‘Apply Some Pressure’, that almost swallowed up The Futureheads before they’d had a chance to put out a record and that currently follows POP SEX stalwarts Frankie & The Heartstrings wherever they go. Having achieved a sort of ‘oddball’ local hero status, Robert, Michael, Mark and Matthew are on the fast track to indie superstardom and this is their celebratory homecoming.
It would be churlish to suggest that the ensuing triumph was inevitable, but even the most hard-nosed of cynics would have to concede that the odds were firmly in the Comets’ favour. Northumbria’s revamped, scaled-down Student’s Union bristles with excitement tonight as 500 beer-swilling alt kids (half of whom are too young to know what a double vodka and coke even is) lift their arms aloft, faces beaming with pride, and bellow the devilishly obtuse words to effortlessly catchy opener ‘One Night In October’ right back at their fellow Geordies. In typically eccentric fashion, the band eschew the track’s standard instrumentation and choose to treat Newcastle to a stripped-down acoustic reimagining, with all four members attempting to play the same strung-up guitar – tied to clotheslines for that added touch of bizarre – in unison. It’s a surreal sight, and it’s questionable whether it actually works, but the end result is categorically endearing. In celebration of the fact that this is their largest headline show to date, the Comets clearly felt obliged to do something special, to ‘mix it up a little’ (for want of better terminology), and hell, they do the honorable thing and whizz through the beefed-up version of the track towards the end of the set anyhow. Yes, you read that right folks, tonight, Little Comets play the same song twice and it’s a testament to the quality of their performance that the cheeky rascals get away with it.
Not that their set requires any padding, of course. Within the space of 15 songs - pretty much the entirety of their recent debut - Little Comets sparkle, shine and make highly inventive use of saucepans (one dangles from the ceiling alongside a tambourine for added percussion), all the while maintaining their unenviable knack for getting bodies moving. Their one new track is symptomatic of this, eliciting an enthusiastic jump-along after a meagre thirty seconds. It's quite probably their sexiest effort to date, driving its kitchen sink lyricism along on the crest of a groove-shaped wave that would put Jessie J to shame. Maybe. So lascivious is this beast that it almost pips the wonderfully playful 'Joanna', and that has the advantage of a brilliant slice of semantic ambiguity that sees the 500-strong faithful (almost) asking, 'do you wanna take me home?' It's precisely this kind of loveable quirkiness that separates Little Comets from their peers: who else could make a song about 'Adultery' sound so damn appealing, or get away with spelling out their country's name to form a chorus? ('Isles', you are a bloody cheeky blighter, but you sound glorious - and especially fast this evening - so we'll forgive you). No one, that's who. By gig's end, and the irresistible sporadic convulsiveness of the dumb-as-fuck 'Dancing Song', the Comets have the masses body-popping in their Converse, having successfully charmed each and every one.
A resounding success, then? Well, obviously. With their largest crowd to date and a level of local respect and adulation the size of Paul Smith's ego, Robert, Michael, Mark and Matthew could probably have played an hour of Barry Manilow covers this evening and still have left the masses hungry for more. They don't, of course; they deliver a balls-to-the-floor indie rock show of the highest order and prove themselves worthy of the Geordies' devotion. Today's Little Comets, tomorrow's massive stars.
It would be churlish to suggest that the ensuing triumph was inevitable, but even the most hard-nosed of cynics would have to concede that the odds were firmly in the Comets’ favour. Northumbria’s revamped, scaled-down Student’s Union bristles with excitement tonight as 500 beer-swilling alt kids (half of whom are too young to know what a double vodka and coke even is) lift their arms aloft, faces beaming with pride, and bellow the devilishly obtuse words to effortlessly catchy opener ‘One Night In October’ right back at their fellow Geordies. In typically eccentric fashion, the band eschew the track’s standard instrumentation and choose to treat Newcastle to a stripped-down acoustic reimagining, with all four members attempting to play the same strung-up guitar – tied to clotheslines for that added touch of bizarre – in unison. It’s a surreal sight, and it’s questionable whether it actually works, but the end result is categorically endearing. In celebration of the fact that this is their largest headline show to date, the Comets clearly felt obliged to do something special, to ‘mix it up a little’ (for want of better terminology), and hell, they do the honorable thing and whizz through the beefed-up version of the track towards the end of the set anyhow. Yes, you read that right folks, tonight, Little Comets play the same song twice and it’s a testament to the quality of their performance that the cheeky rascals get away with it.
Not that their set requires any padding, of course. Within the space of 15 songs - pretty much the entirety of their recent debut - Little Comets sparkle, shine and make highly inventive use of saucepans (one dangles from the ceiling alongside a tambourine for added percussion), all the while maintaining their unenviable knack for getting bodies moving. Their one new track is symptomatic of this, eliciting an enthusiastic jump-along after a meagre thirty seconds. It's quite probably their sexiest effort to date, driving its kitchen sink lyricism along on the crest of a groove-shaped wave that would put Jessie J to shame. Maybe. So lascivious is this beast that it almost pips the wonderfully playful 'Joanna', and that has the advantage of a brilliant slice of semantic ambiguity that sees the 500-strong faithful (almost) asking, 'do you wanna take me home?' It's precisely this kind of loveable quirkiness that separates Little Comets from their peers: who else could make a song about 'Adultery' sound so damn appealing, or get away with spelling out their country's name to form a chorus? ('Isles', you are a bloody cheeky blighter, but you sound glorious - and especially fast this evening - so we'll forgive you). No one, that's who. By gig's end, and the irresistible sporadic convulsiveness of the dumb-as-fuck 'Dancing Song', the Comets have the masses body-popping in their Converse, having successfully charmed each and every one.
A resounding success, then? Well, obviously. With their largest crowd to date and a level of local respect and adulation the size of Paul Smith's ego, Robert, Michael, Mark and Matthew could probably have played an hour of Barry Manilow covers this evening and still have left the masses hungry for more. They don't, of course; they deliver a balls-to-the-floor indie rock show of the highest order and prove themselves worthy of the Geordies' devotion. Today's Little Comets, tomorrow's massive stars.
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