Review: The Xcerts (Newcastle O2 Academy 2, 10/04/11)

There's something decidedly arresting about Xcerts shows; be it the brutality of the discordant behemoths from 'Scatterbrain' that tumble down upon our poor unsuspecting heads, the primal intensity that seems to emanate from every pore in the three bodies onstage, or the ferocity with which Murray assaults his guitar and bellows the precious words to all of his songs, there is no room for let-up, no space for anything remotely resembling a breather (well, except for when Murray timidly asks whether we're okay). Only a fool would deny that tonight's sixty, all too brief, minutes were anything other than resolutely captivating, a ferocious whirlwind of visceral punk rock with the power to make even the staunchest of bubblegum pop lovers throw their beloved Rebecca Black CDs onto the funeral pyre, light the blue touch paper and run.

It matters not that this debut North Eastern headline show (criminally, The Xcerts have only ever been the perennial support act round these parts) is sparse of punter, nor that of the handful of stragglers in attendance, approximately 60% are family members of the brilliantly youthful local curtain-raisers, mums and dads providing moral support to their beloved sons. The Xcerts play to one man and his dog as if they're headlining, um, Shepherd's Bush Empire (let's at least be moderately realistic, eh?), offering Newcastle the same level of unfathomably relentless energy as they undoubtedly bestowed upon the more clued up folk of Edinburgh the previous night, and in so doing, earn the unwavering respect of their audience, particularly those for whom the headline show was a meagre afterthought. Before long, the passive onlookers become active participants, creating a minuscule pit at the barrier and responding enthusiastically to Murray's occasional, barbed witticisms (he calls out a doctor friend in the audience for his inability to diagnose a problem with his tongue, and thanks two girls in the front row for their participation in a Twitter row with a particularly unkind troll). By show's end, they're chanting endlessly for an encore, making more noise and demonstrating more enthusiasm than countless sold out shows that have taken place downstairs in Academy 1.

It's clear that The Xcerts relish every morsel of this appreciative warmth; making no bones about their position in this fickle old bastard we call the music industry, the band continually thank the thirty or so folk for even bothering to show up, remarking that they were expecting to play to their roadies and support. Such a humble, modest approach only makes them still more endearing, particularly when such comments are followed by performances that the most wizened of big league artists could do with taking a good, hard look at. For a band so young, only two full lengths in, they demonstrate a remarkably advanced understanding of how to put on a damn fine rock show, unleashing jawdroppingly raw punk monsters one minute - 'Scatterbrain' invokes the spirit of 'In Utero' Kurt Cobain and forces it to tongue Jesse Lacey circa 2009, 'Slackerpop' threatens to fall apart at the seams with every successive chord - and providing moments of the most painfully bittersweet beauty the next. Indeed, Murray's - virtually - solo rendition of 'Aberdeen 1987', performed entirely on brusque electric guitar for added eeriness, is so powerful it nary brings a tear to the eye, particularly when Murray lays his instrument to rest and allows his cracked, broken voice to sing unaccompanied. It's undoubtedly the unforgettable highlight of a damn fine evening, and the proof positive, if any evidence were ever needed, that these boys have more talent in their collective little fingers than around 60% of the contemporary alt scene put together.

The set has many other moments of sheer brilliance, from the monstrous 'Gum' to the colossal 'Crisis In The Slow Lane', from the raucous 'A Distant Memory' to the much-appreciated encore reshuffle to incorporate fan requests 'He Sinks, He Sleeps' and 'Cool Ethan'. However, the number of amazing tracks is arguably matterless; the fact remains that The Xcerts infuse every passing second of their performance with absolutely everything they have to give, and then some, offering their utmost to each and every crowd, irrespective of size, shape or musical predilection. The handful of guys and girls lucky enough to find themselves ensconced in Newcastle's Academy 2 this evening bore witness to one fucking phenomenal Scottish rock outfit, talented beyond their years, showing just about every other two-bit alt kid with an electric guitar exactly how it's done. If you missed it - which you probably did - then shame on you.

Review: Roddy Woomble (Cluny 2, Newcastle, 02/04/11)

Thirteen years ago, if anyone had intimated that floppy-fringed Scottish art school student Roddy Woomble, frontman of blissfully chaotic indie-punk outfit Idlewild - once described, brilliantly, by a certain music weekly as sounding like 'a flight of stairs falling down a flight of stairs' - would one day set up home on an island just off the west coast of Scotland, blog about the joys of hill walking and write songs about 19th century crofters, they probably would've been written off as stark raving bonkers and carted off to the nearest loony bin. In 1998, no one really expected this ragtag ball of relentless energy to mellow out and produce wistful folk music, but looking back now, the signs were always there: the melancholic subtext in the lyrical material, the frequent exploration of themes of identity and nationality and especially, a strong preoccupation with a particularly Scottish aesthetic, reflected prominently in the band's visuals and artwork. Woomble has taken a perfectly logical journey to the place we now find him, his experiences having shaped him into a brilliantly reflective, endearingly delicate and wonderfully wise artist, capable of commanding and captivating his audience.

And so it is that on this refreshingly quiet Spring evening, deep in the heart of Newcastle's picturesque Ouseburn, Roddy has the undivided, rapturous attention of 400 or so over-eager, yet unfailingly polite, Geordie hearts and minds; a veritable full house for Cluny 2, the more refined elder brother of the infamous drinking hole. This mismatched bunch, of all shapes, creeds, genders, persuasions and musical affiliations, hang on Woomble's every word, mesmerised by the tales of self-realisation on the steps at Edinburgh Waverely or the odes to the M87, the road that snakes up towards the well-populated metropolis that is the Isle of Skye. Perhaps it's this verisimilitude that makes his work so accessible; in peppering his lyrics with snippets of day-to-day life, Woomble grounds his lyrics in an endearingly honest and open form of realism.

Thus, we mouth the carefully-crafted words (there's no singing in this most polite of environments, you understand) and immerse ourselves in the deeply personal experiences that Woomble deigns to share with us. Often, the climate is a decidedly uplifting one, particularly with the tracks from new record 'The Impossible Song and Other Songs' which, despite having been released into the wild a meagre twelve days ago, receive as warm a reception as the more familiar material. On current single 'Roll Along', Roddy provides us with a much-needed reality check, marrying a tale of perseverance to a lilting, countryfied boogie, while elsewhere, there's a celebratory calm and content to the elegiac 'Gather the Day' and 'Make Something Out of What It's Worth', guaranteed to force even the staunchest of frowns into an appreciative smile.

There are highs in the older material too: Idlewild track 'Take Me Back to the Islands' is a most welcome surprise and an unquestionably perfect fit; 'I Came Down From The Mountain' is spectacular, riding along on the crest of the eminently talented Sorren Maclean's lullaby-like picking. 'The Weight of Years', tonight's closer, is stunning too, with a world-weary Woomble perfectly conveying the tired, yet reflective, melancholia at the heart of the song. It's a decidedly sombre note to finish on, particularly following a note-perfect rendition of Idlewild's biggest chart success, 'You Held the World in Your Arms' which, after nine long years, still has the power to send shivers tingling down the spine (aided admirably tonight by Seonaid Aitken, who provides live violin parts for probably the first time in the song's long history), but ultimately, it feels logical; the set is essentially a journey through the inner workings of our host's psyche, moving from jovial celebration to contemplative reflection and finally, to contented resignation at life's inherent transience.

For all Roddy Woomble may not be the angst-ridden, bile-spewing art school punk he once was, that certainly doesn't denigrate any of his achievements. Having matured into one of the finest poets - and yes, folks, that what he is - of our generation, the Idlewild frontman is only just scratching the surface of his unquestionably wealthy pool of talent and tonight's Cluny 2 show is proof positive of that fact. With an audience so rapturously attentive and a set this superbly crafted, this could never be anything other than a resounding success. Truly beautiful stuff.

Review: Sucioperro (Live Lounge, Durham, 01/04/11)

Alert the Audience isn't having much luck with local gigs by Scottish bands of late. First Glasvegas face the unfounded ire of a bunch of po-faced, (probably) crack-addled hecklers at their intimate Sunderland show, and now, less than a week later, JP Reid's fantastic post-rock outfit Sucioperro suffer an unwarranted technical horrorshow at Durham's new-born Live Lounge, of the kind that forces them to abandon the performance altogether after four all-too-short songs, on the grounds that it really, truly, is impossible for them to play.

Now, let's get one thing straight before we go any further: this is no Axl Rose prima-donna hissy fit. Firstly, Sucio aren't the type to disappoint their fans, irrespective of just how many they number. Sure, there are only a handful of punters here tonight (probably around 20 in total) but that's never stopped them before. One need only look to their other fairly recent North Eastern gigs for proof: one man and his dog turned up to the Trillian's show in Newcastle but that didn't stop them tearing a hole in the joint. The vast majority of folk at the York Stereo gig were there to support the preceding local acts but the 'perro gave it their all regardless. No, these guys are the very definition of consummate professionals and don't take such decisions lightly.

Second, and perhaps most importantly, from the moment JP strums the first discordant note and the howl of ear-piercing feedback muffles all semblance of melody and tune, it is painfully obvious to all and sundry that something is fundamentally wrong. Immediately following a relatively painful newbie from recent release 'The Heartstring and How To Pull It' (it's difficult to make out exactly what it is due to the sound problems), JP requests that the sound guy 'do the job he's fucking paid to do' and sort the damn thing out. Sadly, his pleas fall on deaf, or possibly dumb, ears and the calamity continues, Sucio trying desperately to disguise the fact that they sound like they're being forced to play in a wind tunnel. Things improve moderately during a passable 'Threads' but sadly, the dreaded squeals return and before long, JP is literally begging the guy to provide his band with conditions in which they can actually play to their fans without forcing everyone to wear earplugs. Sadly, we're not privy to his response, but given that Reid resorts to such drastic measures as asking the punters themselves whether they can do anything about the problem, we suspect he didn't take it too well. Cue one heartfelt apology to the attendees and a swift exit, never to return.

Interestingly, Durham doesn't take umbrage at such a decision. Where other crowds may have turned on their heroes, the handful of devotees and curious locals present tonight actually applaud in solidarity, recognising that yeah, what they were being forced to endure was decidedly sub-par. There is very little, if any, ill-feeling here, which says a lot about the integrity inherent in the band and a whole hell of a lot more about the poor Live Lounge, whose reputation of late isn't exactly glistening. If the owners aren't careful, the venue will make a name for itself as a place to avoid like the plague, and that's precisely the last thing that a sleepy city like Durham needs. There's no doubt that its opening was welcomed with justifiably open arms by a scene crying out for attention. Let's just hope it doesn't jeopardise its chances of a brighter future.

So, what to make of tonight, then? Well, the performance was a colossal disappointment by anyone's standards but then, Sucioperro know this. In the event, we bore witness to three people doing the only thing they could do when faced with such extenuating circumstances. JP's protest could be the wake up call that the Live Lounge needs and for that, perhaps we shouldn't write the night off as a complete disaster. Only time will tell, of course, and in the meantime, we have the promise on Twitter that the band will 'make it up' to us and there's one pretty gosh darn ace new record to tide everyone over. So just whip 'Heartstring' out, crank the volume up to 'ear bleed' and imagine what could've been.

Review: Glasvegas (Independent, Sunderland, 27/03/11)

And it was all going so, so well. The phenomenally unpredictable, rags-to-riches success story that was Glasvegas's last eighteen months in the depressingly boisterous and highly fickle music industry produced some of the most unquestionably uplifting highs this side of 'It's A Wonderful Life'; after years of trawling the spit-and-sawdust, glass-in-the-face pub circuit of inner - and outer - Glasgow, enduring gang warfare and emotional hardship, a desperately uncertain Zeitgeist took a good, hard look at one beautifully simplistic song about daddy issues and fell hopelessly in love. And so the 'Glasmania' began. Their heartbreakingly honest lyrics struck the loudest of chords with the everyman and lo, a legend was born. Gigs became emotionally cathartic experiences; grown men would cry openly in the front rows while mouthing 'Cheating Heart', thousands of ordinarily placid observers would turn theatres into football terraces, bellowing the anthemic 'Go Square Go' and bequiffed, leather-jacketed lead singer James Allan would have every face eating out of the palm of his hand, hanging onto his every word.

However, all that could be about to change. Judging by the hostile atmosphere generated by pockets of dissatisfied punters at tonight's Independent show, the tide may be on the turn. The rot began to set in several months back when long-standing member and cult icon Caroline, the band's diminutive, yet unfathomably brutal, drummer, quit the group, citing 'personal issues'. Then James fessed up to the drugs binge that resulted in the infamous Coachella cancellation. Add to that a scene that has moved elsewhere in the three years since that infamous self-titled debut and recent rumours that the previously messianic Allen is faking it live and you have a recipe for potential disaster. Naturally, things aren't quite that bad this evening - in fact, they're positively glorious in the circumstances - but nevertheless, the tense undercurrent is palpable, transforming an otherwise triumphant performance into something far more uneasy, far less sure of itself and considerably less pleasant to be involved in.

It all starts with a well-timed heckle: three or four rows back from the front, a lonesome punter accuses the band of being shit and suggests that they 'do [their] fucking jobs'. Curiously, the general consensus appears to be that they're doing just that, the affably boisterous lads and lasses in the pit swigging their pints of piss in unison, admiring the effortless thrills and spills that make up opening newbie 'The World Is Yours' and gushing at James's particularly eye-catching choice of attire. Decked in sharp white from head to toe - besuited, naturally - he cuts a piercing figure, bellowing his innermost into the Sinatra-style 50s mic that he brandishes like a weapon, replacing the beloved guitar that he once carried with him to every show. Or at least, he *appears* to be bellowing his innermost. Some aren't so sure. Following a seemingly euphoric 'Cheating Heart', a handful of similarly dissenting voices pipe up, demanding that James 'stop miming' and essentially calling for his head on a platter. The name-calling ensues, the litany of expletives incenses the few grandmas present, and suddenly, a proportionally insignificant minority turns the gig into a battlefield, pitting themselves against both the band and the fans who take umbrage at their behaviour.

The nadir is reached a few songs later, when James cottons on to the problem. He calls out the last male shouting an objection, turns the house lights on and things threaten to turn very ugly. Thankfully, Allan maintains his calm throughout, reminding some very vocal fans that the gentleman is entitled to his opinion, but making sure he knows just how offended he is by the accusation. "I work bloody hard every night and that's insulting man", he offers, before cutting the dissenters down in one fell swoop. "Why would we mime out of tune?" It's a brilliantly self-effacing remark and one that elicits a round of applause from the remainder of the audience, but Allan doesn't stop there. To prove a point, he changes the lyrics to a hauntingly evocative 'Polmont on my Mind', imploring, "what do I have to do to prove I'm not miming?" Sadly, while the number and volume of protests decreases from herein, a few irritable voices remain, and the spectre of the accusation haunts the rest of the set, leading an otherwise mesmerised crowd to question whether there's any truth to the accusations, rather than focus their energies on getting lost in the whirlwind of sorrow and melancholy that is brilliant new single 'Euphoria: State of Mind' or appreciate the five minutes of unwavering beauty that is 'Ice Cream Van'.

Certainly, from a cursory glance at those responsible for the heckling, it would appear that the vast majority were looking to cause trouble; with nary a lyric mouthed and arms folded tight shut, these time-wasters seem to have spent their £12.50 to be as c**tish as possible (that these people even exist is enough to boggle the mind for eternity). However, post-gig, AtA does catch a snippet of explanation; seemingly, the criticism is based on the fact that James's vocals do not decrease in volume proportionally to the distance of the microphone from his face. Tellingly, such observations are made from the back of the venue; up close and personal, the guttural projection, the passionate intensity and often, the spit and phlegm are all too evident. One swift gander at 'Flowers and Football Tops', sung entirely by Allan with only a minor keyboard underscore, should be sufficient to silence any doubts; the quavering fragility in his voice is positively majestic, belted out with every fibre in his being.

It's a pity that such - probably - unfounded accusations besmirch an otherwise damn fine evening. While Alert the Audience cannot categorically confirm whether there's any truth in the notion that James was miming at any point in the performance, we can confirm that he did his utmost to discredit the naysayers and that 90% of Sunderland's finest indie kids loved every minute. As is par for the course, there were euphoric highs, heartbreaking lows and a whole heck of a lot of embarrassingly drunken arms-around-mates moments in-between. It would be a shame for a few setbacks and a bunch of Internet rumours put pay to all that.

Album review: Max Raptor: 'Portraits'

Okay people, it's time we faced facts: that temperamental old sod we call society has pretty much given up the ghost and we're all heading to hell in a handcart. Fast. And with barely a moment's warning. Nature is flexing its biceps on entire nations; dictators are threatening to eradicate their 'coffee-addled' civilians; world leaders are chomping at the bit to bomb the shit out of still more countries, having apparently learned nothing from that whole Iraq thing; and here in the mighty British Isles, an unelected leader and his teet-suckling cronies are doing their God damndest to obliterate just about every institution that we hold dear, sucking the life blood out of the NHS, swinging the axe on public sector jobs and withdrawing the much-valued benefits that those without any gainful employment would look to to, you know, enable them to live. And that.

So we're fucked, basically... but it's okay. Someone will take a stand. Counterculture will throw us a bevvy of boisterous protest singers who'll write the anthems that unite a nation and send the walls of parliament tumbling to the ground. Right? Wrong. Take one glance at the alternative Zeitgeist and you'd think we'd never had it better. Apart from a smattering of King Blues singles - and they're always moaning on about something - our bands appear content to keep schtum on the subject, allowing the protest movements (UK Uncut etc.) to go it alone, as it were. Well, not so Max Raptor. With 'Portraits', their debut 8 track mini-album, these Derby-based punks mix the political with the personal in an effort to actually say something about the pretty desperate state of affairs we find ourselves in. And in so doing, they've created one of the most vital and intense records of the year.

There's no time for dicking around here, no room for chin-stroking pontification. Lead singer Will comes hurtling out of the gate spitting and snarling on the brilliantly venomous 'The King is Dead', shooting every line through with anger and resentment. It's a brutally bold statement, a stake to the heart of the bunting-and-boihaha that our precious leaders are currently trying to smother us in in an effort to throw a blanket over their own failings. In three deliciously aggressive minutes, Max Raptor decimate all of that, piercing the thinly-draped royal veil thrown up by middle England, drenching the penchant for all things monarchial in purest, visceral working class punk rock. And what's even more remarkable is that they achieve this without ever being *too* literal; the songs have a much-welcome ambiguity about them, drawing immediate inspiration from the intimately personal - subject matter includes domestic abuse and alcoholism - but transcending these boundaries and appealing to something far greater. In such a desperate socio-political climate, it's almost impossible not to read tracks such as 'Obey The Whips' as bile-soaked slices of anti-government rhetoric. It's a seething monster of a track, careering along on the crest of a steam-punk wave, all scuzzy, abrasive guitars and dirty bass lines that complement it's agreeably accusatory, discordant tone.

'Portraits' isn't all finger-pointing, however; on brilliantly punchy single 'The Great and the Good', Max Raptor make their affirmation, pledging allegiance to their cause, declaring that they'll 'wear this badge upon [their] chests', weaving their own twisted, euphoric anthem. It feels cathartic, particularly when coupled with the tellingly pointed 'conscience exists now even in the wicked', playing upon the 'us and them' mentality fostered by Cameron and co. and using it to their own advantage. And perhaps even more impressively, the band don't even need to mine the depths of socio-political hegemony to provide thrills. 'Portraits' works exceptionally well as a straightforward rock record, laden with irresistible riffs and addictive melodies. Second single 'Ghost' is a particular highlight, with a chorus that could topple mountains, while 'Carolina' and 'Beasts' demonstrate their musical diversity, venturing outside the conventions of four-to-the-floor punk 'n' roll and veering more towards groove-tinged rock, lending the record a much more rounded, and even sophisticated, feel.

For a debut album, 'Portraits' is one hell of an achievement, shooting acutely observational, politically-tinged punk songs through with the kind of roller-coaster riffs and guttural vocals that other acts spend years perfecting. In an industry dominated by crushing silence, spewing out bands with absolutely nothing to say, Max Raptor are a much-needed breath of fresh air, sounding urgent, important and above all, utterly relevant. You NEED this band in your life. Now. So get up off your ass and do something about it. You won't regret it.