Screenaged Kicks

15 for 2012

2012-01-03T04:09:00.001-08:00

In no particular order, I give to you 15 confirmed album releases to get all excited about in 2012.

1. THE MACCABEES: Given to the Wild (9 January)

What better way to spend that £15 HMV gift card you got for Christmas from your gran than on this (probable) gem? If the first two singles are anything to go by, the third album from the most underrated band in indie is gonna be a beaut.

2. PULLED APART BY HORSES: Tough Love (23 January)

Will it be as brutal as their eponymous debut? Just listen to 'V.E.N.O.M.'

3. THE TWILIGHT SAD: No One Can Ever Know (6 February)

A hotly anticipated release this, particularly off the back of spectacular new single 'Sick' and the deliciously sinister 'Kill It In The Morning' (below).

4. BAND OF SKULLS: Sweet Sour (21 February 2012)

Looks like February's gonna be a hell of a month, huh?

5. THE CRIBS (Spring/Summer 2012)

Apparently, according to this interview conducted at 2011's Latitude Festival, the new record will sound like Queen. Could be interesting. Check them out at a few small scale dates in early March.

6. EUGENE MCGUINNESS: The Invitation to the Voyage (Autumn 2012)

Having already released a strong contender for indie dancefloor filler of the year in lead single 'Lion', expect 'The Invitation to the Voyage' to contain more of the same.

7. DRY THE RIVER: Shallow Bed (March 2012) (debut)

The hottest tip for 'biggest breakthrough of 2012', Dry the River will follow up stonking 2011 releases 'No Rest' and 'New Ceremony' with an album hopefully as heartbreakingly epic.

8. GENERAL FIASCO (Spring/Summer 2012)

The follow-up to 2010's stupendously addictive 'Buildings' is due for release this year. Expect big things.

9. LET'S BUY HAPPINESS (debut)

Look, if it doesn't happen in 2012, it probably never will, okay? Having released countless tremendous singles and EPs, it's about time Newcastle's Let's Buy Happiness got round to unleashing the long-promised debut LP on the world. It'll skyrocket them to superstardom. If there's any justice in the world.

10. FATHERSON (debut)

Manchester Orchestra meets Twin Atlantic meets The Xcerts. Or something. They're Scottish, they sound incredible. Nuff said.

11. METRIC: Realities (Spring 2012)

Frankly, with their track record, we're convinced that Metric can do absolutely no wrong. Hopefully, given the parallels, 'Realities' will pick up where 'Fantasies' left off and give us more deliciously dark indie-pop gems.

12. MUSE (Autumn 2012)

According to Matt Bellamy, Muse feel like they've drawn a line under 'a certain period for the band' and that their forthcoming sixth release, expected late this year, will herald the dawning of a new era. Quite what that will entail is anyone's guess but hopefully, it'll be as spine-tinglingly out of this world as everything else they've ever recorded.

13. MUMFORD & SONS (Summer/Autumn 2012)

Well, given that they've now just about taken over the entire Western world, Mumford & Sons will be looking to consolidate their position upon release of their sophomore record later this year. If the new songs they've debuted live thus far are any gauge, there's no reason why they can't headline festivals within a year or so.

14. BLOC PARTY

Yes, it's now official folks... Kele has finally got all of that awful gymtastic dancefloor house pap out of his system and he's back recording with three of the most talented musicians this country has to offer. Expect a new record at some point in 2012 and hopefully, it'll sound more 'So Here We Are' than 'One More Chance'.

15. SILVERSUN PICKUPS: 3 (Spring 2012)

This will be incredible. Trust me.

Oh, it might not be a bad shout to expect something new from Biffy Clyro, Frightened Rabbit, Yeah Yeah Yeahs and The Gaslight Anthem either. Good year? Are they ever anything but?

POKE playlists: December 2011

2012-01-02T13:36:00.000-08:00

December 30th 2011

David Bowie: Speed of Life

Noah and the Whale: L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N.

Rilo Kiley: Moneymaker

Tears for Fears: Laid So Low (Tears Roll Down)

Death Cab for Cutie: You Are A Tourist

British Sea Power: Observe the Skies

Bright Eyes: Jejune Stars

Los Campesinos!: Hello Sadness

The Spinto Band: Oh Mandy

Tegan and Sara: Walking With A Ghost

Vampire Weekend: Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa

Fanfarlo: Drowning Men

Gomez: Hangover

Tapes 'n' Tapes: Just Drums

Beirut: Santa Fe

The Divine Comedy: Neapolitan Girl

Aloe Black: I Need A Dollar

Eric B & Rakim: Don't Sweat the Technique

Nina Simone: Love Me or Leave Me

Hellicopter Girl: White Revolving Circles

Stricken City: Pull Down the House

Burning Hotels: Beach

The Naked and Famous: Girls Like You

Sparks: When Do I Get To Sing 'My Way'?

Foster the People: Helena Beat

The Killers: On Top

MGMT: Time to Pretend

Suede: Metal Mickey

Franz Ferdinand: The Dark of the Matinee

Talking Heads: And She Was

Wild Beasts: Reach a Bit Further

Eurythmics: Sex Crime (1984)

Ida Maria: Queen of the World

SBTRKT: Pharoahs

Feist: 1 2 3 4 (Van She Remix)

LL Cool J: Phenomenon

Prince: When Doves Cry

Scissor Sisters: Invisible Light

The Go! Team: Milk Crisis

Austra: Beat and the Pulse

Clock Opera: A Piece of String

Metronomy: The Bay

Arcade Fire: No Cars Go

The Cure: Friday I'm In Love

R.E.M.: Orange Crush

The Vaccines: Post Break-Up Sex

Arctic Monkeys: Fake Tales of San Francisco

The Smiths: Panic

The White Stripes: My Doorbell

Interpol: Evil

Joy Division: Digital

Bo Diddley: Bo Diddley

The War on Drugs: Baby Missiles

The Strokes: Machu Picchu

Crystal Castles: Not in Love

Kele: Tenderoni

Everything Everything: MY KZ YR BF (Grum Remix)

Crystal Fighters: Champion Sound

Bombay Bicycle Club: Shuffle

Thao + Mirah: Eleven

Kate Bush: Hounds of Love

Florence and the Machine: Drumming Song

Goldfrapp: Train

Depeche Mode: Enjoy the Silence

Pet Shop Boys: Domino Dancing

Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five: The Message

Chemical Brothers: Hey Boy, Hey Girl

The Prodigy: Girls

Dubstar: Not So Manic Now

Blondie: Union City Blue

Eddie Cochran: Come On Everybody

Nancy Sinatra: These Boots Are Made For Walking

Jonathan Richman: California Desert Party

Cher: For What It's Worth

December 16th 2011

Arcade Fire: Haiti

Los Campesinos!: By Your Hand

Gang of Four: I Love A Man In Uniform

Miami Horror: Holidays

Battles: Sweetie & Shag

of Montreal: Sex Karma

Foals: Olympic Airwaves

The National: Bloodbuzz Ohio

The Maccabees: Pelican

Wild Beasts: Thankless Thing

Emily Wells: Symphony 3: The Story

Feist: See Lion Woman

Pulp: Do You Remember The First Time?

Amy Winehouse: Stronger Than Me

Belle and Sebastian: Step Into My Office Baby

Little Dragon: Ritual Union

Cloud Control: There's Nothing In The Water

David Bowie: John I'm Only Dancing

Little Comets: Joanna

Young the Giant: My Body

Sons and Daughters: Rose Red

The Vaccines: Norgaard

The Long Blondes: Once and Never Again

Band of Skulls: I Know What I Am

The Futureheads: Skip to the End

Fun Lovin' Criminals: Korean Bodega

Smashing Pumpkins: 1979

Bran Van 3000: Drinking In L.A.

Beck: The New Pollution

Chad Jackson: Hear The Drummer (Get Wicked)

A Tribe Called Quest: Can I Kick It?

The Explosions: Garden of Four Trees

tUnE-yArDs: Bizness

Cher: For What It's Worth

Fredo Viola: Original Man

Bjork: Violently Happy

Emiliana Torrini: Jungle Drum

Adam Ant: Goody Two Shoes

Good Shoes: Under Control

Bloc Party: The Prayer

Suede: Filmstar

Metronomy: The Bay

New Order: True Faith

Talking Heads: Road to Nowhere

The White Stripes: Seven Nation Army

T-Rex: Get It On

Iggy Pop: The Passenger

Neon Neon: Told Her On Alderaan

School of Seven Bells: The Night

St. Etienne: He's On The Phone

Azari + III: Manic

Eurythmics: Right By Your Side

Eugene McGuinness: Lion

Suede: Beautiful Ones

Foster the People: Pumped Up Kicks

Neneh Cherry: Buffalo Stance

Blondie: Call Me

Martha and the Muffins: Echo Beach

The Cure: Close to Me

Depeche Mode: Just Can't Get Enough

Blur: Girls and Boys

Pulp: Babies

Two Door Cinema Club: Something Good Can Work

Propellerheads f/Shirley Bassey: History Repeating

Violent Femmes: Blister in the Sun

Beach Boys: I Get Around

The Kinks: All Day and All of the Night

Prince: Raspberry Beret

Madonna: Material Girl

Scissor Sisters: Filthy/Gorgeous

Chemical Brothers: Do It Again

Azealia Banks: 212

Beyonce: Single Ladies

Betty Boo: Doin The Do

Kelis: Trick Me

Ike and Tina Turner: Nutbush City Limits

Goldfrapp: Ride A White Horse

Florence and the Machine: Dog Days Are Over

The Temper Trap: Sweet Disposition

The Smiths: Panic

Joy Division: Love Will Tear Us Apart

Arcade Fire: Rebellion (Lies)

Interpol: Evil

Foals: Cassius

Vampire Weekend: A-Punk

Buzzcocks: Ever Fallen In Love (With Someone You Shouldn't've?)

Ramones: Sheena Is A Punk Rocker

The Gossip: Standing In The Way of Control

Franz Ferdinand: Take Me Out

The Killers: Somebody Told Me

Editors: Munich

Blue Boy: Remember Me

KRS-One: Sound Of Da Police

En Vogue: My Lovin'

Roots Manuva: Watch Me Dance

David Bowie: Golden Years

Elvis Costello: I Don't Want To Go To Chelsea

The Vapors: Turning Japanese

Devo: Whip It

Yeah Yeah Yeahs: Date With The Night

Men Without Hats: The Safety Dance

Kate Bush: Babooshka

Eurythmics: There Must Be An Angel (Playing With My Heart)

Martha Reeves and the Vandellas: Dancing In The Street

Alphabeat: Fascination

Erin McKeown: It's A Very Queer Christmas

Top 20 Gigs of 2011

2012-01-01T08:18:00.000-08:00

Of the 66 gigs I attended this year (excluding 3 festivals), these were the 20 finest performances...

20. WILD BEASTS, Manchester Cathedral (17/11/11)
19. JIMMY EAT WORLD performing 'Clarity' and 'Bleed American', HMV Forum, London (22/06/11)
18. SAVES THE DAY, Electric Ballroom, London (26/04/11)
17. INTERPOL, O2 Academy, Leeds (22/03/11)
16. MANIC STREET PREACHERS performing 'all' of their singles, O2 Arena, London (17/12/11)
15. THE SUBWAYS, O2 Academy, Newcastle (25/09/11)
14. LOS CAMPESINOS!, The Cockpit, Leeds (11/11/11)
13. REVIVAL TOUR (BRIAN FALLON, DAN ANDRIANO, CHUCK RAGAN, DAVE HAUSE), Northumbria University, Newcastle (01/10/11)
12. LOW, The Sage, Gateshead (18/05/11)
11. PULLED APART BY HORSES, The Cluny, Newcastle (11/01/11)
10. ARCADE FIRE, Hyde Park, London (30/06/11)
9. BRIGHT EYES, The Sage, Gateshead (12/07/11)
8. THE NATIONAL, Edinburgh Corn Exchange (23/08/11)
7. DANANANAKROYD (last ever show), The Cluny, Newcastle (12/11/11)
6. FRANK TURNER (secret show), Santiago's, Leeds (05/03/11)
5. LES SAVY FAV, The Cluny, Newcastle (02/03/11)
4. MANCHESTER ORCHESTRA, Manchester Academy 2 (05/10/11)
3. AGAINST ME!, The Cockpit, Leeds (18/11/11)
2. RYAN ADAMS, Glasgow Academy (25/06/11)
1. WEEZER, Brixton Academy, London (06/07/11)

66 gigs by city/town

Newcastle - 29
London - 8
Leeds - 7
Manchester - 5
Los Angeles - 4
Gateshead - 3
Durham - 2
Glasgow - 2
San Francisco - 2
Edinburgh - 1
Middlesbrough - 1
Milton Keynes - 1
Sunderland - 1

Festival locations:

Leeds - 1 (Leeds Fest)
Balado, Kinross - 1 (T in the Park)
Sheffield - 1 (Tramlines)

Top 50 Albums of 2011

2012-01-01T07:57:00.000-08:00

Alright pop pickers, it's time for the definitive list of the best (read: my favourite) fifty long-players released this year. Read 'em and weep.

50. THE COMPUTERS: This Is The Computers
49. NOAH AND THE WHALE: Last Night on Earth
48. COSMO JARVIS: Is the World Strange or am I Strange?
47. THE JOY FORMIDABLE: The Big Roar
46. I AM THE AVALANCHE: Avalanche United
45. LITTLE COMETS: In Search of Elusive Little Comets
44. MAZES: A Thousand Heys
43. COPY HAHO: Copy Haho
42. SMITH WESTERNS: Dye It Blonde
41. TELEKINESIS: 12 Desperate Straight Lines
40. CHRIS T-T: Disobedience (Chris T-T Sings A.A. Milne)
39. YOUNG LEGIONNAIRE: Crisis Works
38. BATTLES: Gloss Drop
37. BLACK LIPS: Arabia Mountain
36. VERONICA FALLS: Veronica Falls
35. DAN ANDRIANO IN THE EMERGENCY ROOM: Hurricane Season
34. GIRLS: Father, Son, Holy Ghost
33. FUCKED UP: David Comes to Life
32. BJORK: Biophilia
31. tUnE-yArDs: w h o k i l l
30. EXPLOSIONS IN THE SKY: Take Care, Take Care, Take Care
29. ARCTIC MONKEYS: Suck It and See
28. BEIRUT: The Rip Tide
27. THE PAINS OF BEING PURE AT HEART: Belong
26. PATRICK WOLF: Lupercalia
25. TV ON THE RADIO: Nine Types of Light
24. DEATH CAB FOR CUTIE: Codes and Keys
23. FLEET FOXES: Helplessness Blues
22. THE ANTLERS: Burst Apart
21. THE NAKED AND FAMOUS: Passive Me, Aggressive You
20. BOMBAY BICYCLE CLUB: A Different Kind of Fix
19. DAVE HAUSE: Resolutions
18. WILD FLAG: Wild Flag
17. IRON & WINE: Kiss Each Other Clean
16. THE VACCINES: What Did You Expect From The Vaccines?
15. CRAZY ARM: Union City Breath
14. BON IVER: Bon Iver
13. BRITISH SEA POWER: Valhalla Dancehall
12. THE BLACK KEYS: El Camino
11. WILD BEASTS: Smother
10. CAGE THE ELEPHANT: Thank You, Happy Birthday
9. TWIN ATLANTIC: Free
8. LOS CAMPESINOS!: Hello Sadness
7. BRIGHT EYES: The People's Key
6. RYAN ADAMS: Ashes and Fire
5. WE WERE PROMISED JETPACKS: In the Pit of the Stomach
4. THE HEAD AND THE HEART: The Head and the Heart
3. PJ HARVEY: Let England Shake
2. MANCHESTER ORCHESTRA: Simple Math

And the record of the year goes to... drum roll please...

1. FRANK TURNER: England, Keep My Bones

Consisting of 12 of his very finest lyrics, 'England, Keep My Bones 'is Frank Turner’s love letter to dear old Blighty, a collection of beautifully evocative and at times deliciously poignant poems that celebrate the people and places that make up this ramshackle little country. It’s undoubtedly his most consistent, and really bloody brilliant, work to date, moving effortlessly from one rousing chorus to the next; whether it’s the unashamedly atheist 'Glory Hallelujah' or the spine-tinglingly moving 'I Am Disappeared', these are songs that you just cannot resist singing along to. It’s no coincidence that this is his most successful album yet and long may the upward trend continue. Roll on Wembley.

And also... a special mention to Alex Turner's sublime soundtrack to Submarine, a truly beautiful piece of work that would most definitely be awarded Soundtrack of the Year status if I'd actually bothered listening to any other soundtracks. Probably.

Worst 20 Singles of 2011

2011-12-26T11:15:00.000-08:00

Forget Rebecca Black’s ‘Friday’ and that weird ‘Facebook Official’ rubbish, THESE are the real atrocities of 2011, the 20 tracks that took themselves seriously despite their distinct lack of redeeming features. Read on and listen at your peril...

20. KAISER CHIEFS: Little Shocks

Someone really needs to inform Ricky Wilson that the world doesn't care anymore; he can give it up now and only a handful of hangers-on (probably based somewhere in Halifax or something) will care enough to shed a flitting tear. And then they'll pick up their Kasabian records and get on with their lives. Honestly, the damage will be minimal. It won't even eat up many column inches in NME, Mojo and all of those other music publications 'that matter'. There will barely be a moment's pause for reflection... and that pause will consist almost entirely of a few thousand people ruminating on whether 'I Predict A Riot' was actually fairly prophetic after all. He really doesn't need to keep churning out these try-hard wastes of space anymore; the whole 'look at us, we're so kooky but loveable with it!' shtick just doesn't cut the mustard these days. Will any of this stop him? Does David Cameron listen to The Smiths?

19. RED HOT CHILI PEPPERS: The Adventures of Rain Dance Maggie

When oh when oh when will this catastrophically dire, abysmally decrepit bunch do the honourable thing and JUST. GIVE. IT. UP? The world does not need to be subjected to the same piss poor four minute plodathon, dressed up as rock 'n' roll because it has a funky bassline or two in it, every two or three years without fail. We've had enough, guys. We've moved on. Maybe you should too. Or at the very least, do a Korn and 'invent a new genre' (read: bastardise a few old ones). Just sayin'.

18. KIM WILDE: It's Alright

Link

East 17? Really, Kim? East 17? You recorded 'The Kids In America', for God's sake. The fact that you can do so much better than this virtually goes without saying. Oh, how the mighty have well and truly fallen.

17. KINGS OF LEON: Back Down South

What is it with 2011 and spirit-crushing mediocrity? In this more than any other year in recent memory, it seems we've been inundated with the 'middle-of-the-road', bands putting aside any inclination to breathe an ounce or two of life into their music and churning out mind-numbing, chart-friendly 'plodders' instead. 'Back Down South' is one of the worst offenders, a dirge so inconspicuously dull it makes the dishwater look interesting. This is the kind of track you'll hear on heavy rotation on Smooth FM, soundtracking your early morning drive into work because THERE IS NO OTHER OPTION, or you'll find on 'classic' compilation albums like The Very Best of Drivetime 2011 or 20 More Songs To Hang Yourself To. Hopefully, now that they're taking a 'well-earned' break from the hardships of the rock 'n' roll lifestyle, Caleb and co. might head back down south and find that sex that was on fire a couple of years back. We can but dream.

16. THE BIG PINK: Hit The Ground (Superman)

Look, we tolerated that song about girls falling like dominoes because, well, it was a little bit catchy and it had a decent enough chorus but guys, this is just taking the proverbial biscuit. Clearly trying to recapture the crossover appeal of their one and only BIG HIT, The Big Pink's 'Hit the Ground (Superman)' is essentially a crash course in over-egging the pudding, a song so desperate to be liked but simultaneously maintain hipster credibility points that it manages, quite spectacularly, to annihilate its chances of doing either. Too mundane to be popular and too desperate to be underground, this is the sound of a band falling flat on its flabby backside and no one caring enough to help 'em up. Woeful.

15. BEADY EYE: The Roller

Why does anyone still care enough to buy Liam Gallagher's music? Is it out of fear or something? Fear that he'll come round in his designer sarong and 'do your nut in'? (Oh wait, that was David Beckham, wasn't it? Apologies, I'm not well up on the #ukbritpopfashionscene, but I'm sure @chino_wanker can probably educate us all). Honestly guys, you really don't need to give this prick any more money. He's got enough. He's made enough of a career out of pilfering the one or two decent ideas that the Sixties gave us to keep him sleeping on a bed of gold for the rest of his days. You can stop now. 'The Roller' is just the latest in a seemingly never-ending line of cheap Beatles knock-offs, bereft of any semblance of originality or, indeed, any redeeming features whatsoever, dressed up as some sort of 'quintessentially British' nostalgia-fest. It isn't big, it isn't clever and it most definitely isn't any good. Now put that CD down and if you really must wallow in Britpop memorabilia, pick up the Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds LP instead.

14. ALL TIME LOW: I Feel Like Dancin'

Given that virtually everything about this cheap knock-off of a pop punk band is manufactured by money-grabbing record execs (oh come on... don't tell me that the whole 'strip naked to your Y-fronts and eat bananas seductively' thing a few years back was All Time Low's idea? Don't tell me they even have a thought to process between them?), it's depressingly hilarious, and actually quite offensive, that their 200-strong marketing team thought it prudent to throw them in a music video in which they attempt to highlight the shallowness of the industry and its obsession with product placement, image and sex. Self-reflexive my arse, this is just downright insulting. Perhaps we'd be able to forgive them if the song were up to much, which it isn't, or if they didn't feel the need to resort to casual homophobia every so often in an attempt to rustle up a few cheap laughs (check the look on the face of the floppy-fringed black haired one when he's sandwiched between two topless men who gyrate against him halfway through the video, or indeed, those immortal lyrics 'feelin' kinda crunk/I think some dude just grabbed my junk (woah!)/Now I know how Ke$ha must be feelin'). Frankly, I'm with the Scissor Sisters on this one: I definitely DON'T feel like dancing to this washed-up claptrap.

13. HOLLYWOOD UNDEAD: Hear Me Now

And so the seemingly unstoppable rock 'n' roll/hip hop juggernaut that is the Hollywood Undead 'phenomenon' rolls ever onwards, continuing its mission to annihilate any semblance of good taste from the rock scene and throw in a few unhealthy slices of misogyny along the way. These guys are setting us all back by about fifteen years with God-awful abominations like this track, recalling a time when listening to Crazy Town was actually considered a worthwhile pastime. Interestingly, 'Hear Me Now' is a minor departure from previous Undead releases in that it has no purile comedic hook and contains very few references to the band themselves and how awesomely macho they all are, but sadly, rather than use this blank slate to write something moderately entertaining, they've gone and stolen Good Charlotte's lyricbook instead. Which makes everything about seventy times worse. Natch.

12. HARD-FI: Good For Nothing

Hah! These things just write themselves, don't they?

11. SKRILLEX: First of the Year (Equinox)

THIS is what the kids are listening to? Bring back Add N To (X), all is forgiven.

10. KASABIAN: Days Are Forgotten

Hopefully, one day in the not too distant future, there will come a moment when Britain wakes up and realises that actually, Kasabian aren't God's gift to modern music but rather a very poor imitation of everything that was inexorably shit about Madchester, and everything they've ever recorded and produced, including all CDs, LPs, album sleeves, concert tickets, T-shirts and wooly jumpers are burned in a ritualistic funeral pyre of monumental proportions. Men and women, boys and girls alike will cast aside their differences and join hands in celebration of their epiphianic awakening and all will once again be right with the world. Kasabian, in effect, will be forgotten. And until that day, we'll just have to make do with whining on about how utterly nauseating their attempts at making something even closely resembling music actually are.

9. COLDPLAY: Every Teardrop Is A Waterfall

It's somewhat fitting, don't you think, that in a year characterised by conservativism, by austerity, unemployment and rampant xenophobia, the Worst 20 Singles List is dominated so prominently by the bland and the inoffensive? It is surely no coincidence that in this climate of inexplicable Tory popularity, Chris Martin's Coldplay reign supreme. Headlining Glastonbury, embarking on sold out stadium tours, reaching no. 1 countless times over... it's all symptomatic of the desperately 'safe' and 'traditional' times we live in. 'Every Teardrop Is A Waterfall' is the kind of song you can see topping The Daily Mail's 'End of Year Polls', with an accompanying sentence or two about'harkening back to an age when music was safe for the whole family to listen to' or some such utter and complete bullshit. Fortunately, if the cycle of history is anything to go by, this climate of mediocrity will soon be swept away by a tidal wave of disaffection and malcontent, by bands borne of disenfranchisement, wearing the scars of oppression, burning with a passionate hatred and a desire to change the world. And until then, we'll just have to listen to our Wild Beasts records if we want to hear something subtly daring, avoiding everything written by this lot AT ALL COSTS. Does David Cameron listen to Coldplay? Isn't he IN them?

8. BLACK VEIL BRIDES: Fallen Angels

It would be very easy to mock Black Veil Brides for their ridiculous image (think Motley Crue, Kiss, Guns 'n' Roses and Steel Panther in a very messy orgy), their patently stupid name or even their excrutiatingly corny music videos but frankly, all of that pales in comparison to the rancid sack of horseshit that is their music. Put it this way: 'Fallen Angels' makes everything Skid Row ever recorded seem like 'Bohemian Rhapsody'. Nuff said.

7. THE HORRORS: Still Life

As every music critic and his mother trips over himself to pen hyperbolic love letters to Faris Badwan's left testicle, the world fails miserably to realise that actually, this Horrors malarky is one colossal joke at every flexi-bike riding, lensless-spectacles wearing dickhead's expense. Oh look, it HAS to be, okay? Surely this lot can't ACTUALLY take themselves seriously? That would just be too ridiculous to even contemplate. Imagine: 'Still Life', a cheap shoegaze knock-off too mundane to be a 'Screamdelica' Z-side, an ACTUAL attempt at making something interesting? It doesn't bear thinking about, does it?

6. NICKELBACK: When We Stand Together

Does anyone REALLY like Nickelback? Like, truly and sincerely enjoy listening to their music? Or are the hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians who buy their albums actually doing so at gunpoint, under threat of being forced to listen to Chad Kroeger's nails-down-a-chalkboard voice on repeat FOR EVERY MINUTE OF THE REST OF THEIR LIVES? Is this some sort of colossal mind-control experiment, where subliminal messages in the sickeningly saccharine lyrics of songs like this particular horrorshow force the listener to rush down to the local HMV and immediately purchase 6 copies of the band's latest record? Surely there can be no other explanation for their popularity? Well, at least Detroit Lions fans agree: http://www.change.org/petitions/the-detroit-lions-replace-nickelback-as-the-halftime-show-for-the-thanksgiving-game

5. KID ROCK/SHERYL CROW: Collide

Honestly, is there anything in this world more hopelessly inoffensive, more irritatingly insipid, more vomit-enducingly saccharine than contemporary Kid Rock? His transformation from ho-fucking, monkeybar-swinging American Bad Ass to softly, softly M.O.R. money machine is perhaps the single most soul-destroying personality change in the history of modern music; and when you consider that his previous recordings were the audio equivalent of being shat on by a herd of diahorretic elephants, that truly is saying something. Not content with unleashing one slice of catatonic hellspawn on the world with 2002's 'Picture', Mr. Rock opted to team up with dull-as-dishwater-wunderkind Sheryl Crow again nine years later (careers faltering a little, d'ya think?) to produce something with even less life in its oh-so-painful four and a half minutes than its predecessor. Quite an achievement, yes, but certainly not one to be proud of. If this is what 'Kid Rocking in the free world' is all about then get me Justin Hawkins's one way ticket to hell (and back!) stat.

4. KORN (f/SKRILLEX & KILL THE NOISE): Narcissistic Cannibal

Jonathan Davies thinks rather a lot of his band's new material. So much so, in fact, that he has gone on record to claim that, in 'The Path of Totality', Korn have created an entirely new genre of music and if you don't like it (fan or no), well, you're just an uneducated stick-in-the-mud, afraid to open your ears to new sounds. I'd quite like some of what this guy is on, quite frankly, as if 'Narcissistic Cannibal' is any indication, all Korn have done is get Skrillex and Kill the Noise to add a few breaks and loops to an otherwise fairly bogstandard slice of turgid nu-metal. And yes Jonathan, that's what it is. I don't care how filthy you think the term is; if you don't want to be pigeon-holed, YOU NEED TO START MAKING SOMETHING THAT SOUNDS DIFFERENT. Not just getting a few imbeciles with turntables to mess around with your usual formula so that it sounds a bit like Nine Inch Nails. Or Pitchshifter. 'Future metal' my arse.

3. LIMP BIZKIT: Shotgun

Ten years on from the heyday of nu-metal and still Fred Durst has not learned his lesson: that the world needs Limp Bizkit about as much as it needs a full-frontal lobotomy performed by a chimpanzee. On crack. Or something. Labouring under the mistaken impression that his band has any relevance whatsoever, Durst took it upon himself to bring the old gang back together in 2011 'because it just felt right' or 'they needed some cash to support their respective habits' or whatever and 'Shotgun' was the result: a song that would sit comfortably on 2001's 'Chocolate Starfish and the Hot Dog Flavoured Water' or ANY OTHER LIMP BIZKIT RECORD EVER MADE EVER BECAUSE IT'S SO FUCKING MINDLESS. Same three chords, same irritating whine, same meaningless lyrics about the band or Fred or 'hot tits' or some such, same trumped-up twit massaging his ego. Given that it bombed spectacularly upon release, perhaps, if we're lucky, this will be the last we see of them for another ten years, eh?

2. METALLICA & LOU REED: The View

This is a joke, right? James Hatfield and Lou Reed must be sitting smoking a few cigars on Venice Beach, their feet resting on some prostitute's back, laughing their asses off that thousands of unsuspecting Metallica fans invested their hard-earned dollars, pounds, Euros, pesetas and every other currency on the planet to purchase THIS putrid pile of horse manure. Surely? They can't ACTUALLY think that their hopeless hotchpotch of abrasive guitar riffs and spoken-word ramblings based on Frank Wedekind's plays about 'a tempestuous woman named Lulu who was both a muse and a mystery' is anything other than a load of ultra-pretentious wank, right? They HAVE to know. The alternative is just to horrible to contemplate. I mean, 'I am the table! I am the ten storeys! I AM THE TABLE!'? Come on.

1. BROKENCYDE: Still The King!!!

Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God. Is it December 2012 yet? Because this absolutely MUST be what the apocalypse sounds like; and far from being a pretty fucking cool soundtrack, it's actually the audio equivalent of having your intestines slowly ripped out by a hundred starving crocodiles. Never mind Worst Single of the Year, 'Still The King!!!' is the worst thing created in a hell of a long time; it's debatable whether it can even be described as 'music' in the conventional sense of the word, and frankly unfathomable how anyone in their right frame of mind - or otherwise, to be honest – could derive any semblance of enjoyment from listening to it. And maybe that's the point: maybe brokENCYDE are striving to be disliked, to create something bereft of redeeming features, in order to stand out from the crowd or bring about the end of the world or something. Either way, you definitely should be worried. Batten down the hatches now kids; if this is a sign of things to come, then Heaven help us all.

Live review: Athlete (w/My First Tooth, The Cluny, Newcastle, 27/07/11)

2011-07-31T09:38:00.000-07:00

Conventional indie wisdom has it that Athlete are something of a one trick pony; a band for whom one slightly saccharine, but ultimately rather sweet, lighters-aloft ballad will always be the high watermark of their career, a brief moment of passable success which they will never repeat. Way back in the Winter of 04/05, when Coldplay were still melting hearts with their Rush of Blood and (almost) X&Y ballads, Wires, that moving tale about the desperation and euphoria of childbirth, proved to be a very timely slice of mawkishness, and the great British public swallowed it whole, choking back the tears at the same time. For a short while, it looked like Athlete could be pretenders to Chris Martin's throne, the album from whence said smash hit came proceeding to fly off the shelves, and the band's crowds continuing to grow and grow with every performance. Sadly, subsequent releases failed to recapture the winning formula and a series of rather trad, MOR singles consigned the band to the same indie scrapheap that Travis have been keeping warm for the last five years. Nowadays, if you ask your average alt aficionado, they'll tell you that Athlete's days are numbered, that they'll never repeat past glories and, quite probably, that those glories weren't exactly 'all that' in the first place.

There's a grain or two of truth in this; Athlete certainly aren't the most thrilling band in the world, and for all they may try their damndest, they'll probably never write another Wires. As demonstrated by tonight's set, they're a decidedly monochrome outfit, peddling more or less the same formula with each and every song and rarely venturing outside of their comfort zone. This is perhaps why they've invited My First Tooth along on their mini sojourn around the UK; while the Northampton-based four piece certainly aren't purveyors of all things death metal, they do have a slightly more varied pallet than their successors, largely thanks to their charming penchant for instrumentation. Vocalist Sophie Galpin bangs her drum, shakes her maracas, abuses her violin and occasionally plays the mandolin, adding a luscious extra layer to their joyous indie-folk (oh and Ross Witt, her partner in crime, gets a go at the mouth organ). They're a lively bunch, talkative and endearing, and their songs have an impressively sophisticated knack for making the sugar sweet seem palpable. They are also far too cute for their own good; so much so, in fact, that when they politely ask us to stomp along to a few of their tracks, we simply cannot help but oblige.

To be fair to Athlete, their status as the nicest boys in rock certainly helps their cause too; tonight, for all the set may occasionally lull, it isn't long before Joel grabs our attention again, his engaging patter scoring major points with this most jovial and polite of crowds. He jokes about the absence of their drummer - who could not make it to Newcastle for reasons unknown - and his unflattering laptop replacement which, in light of the fact that this is a 'stripped back' tour, actually seems rather fitting. He's forceful, yet restrained, about encouraging the crowd to sing along, particularly during the opening Half Light, and playfully boisterous about their choice of support act, cheekily chastisting the crowd when they don't respond with sufficient enthusiasm to his request for a round of applause in their honour, begging everyone to "just give them a tenner for God's sake, they are very poor."

However, for all it is Joel's charm that ultimately sees the band through, as well as the occasional realisation that actually, yes, you do know this one (Rockscene, anyone? El Salvador?), the success of tonight's show is largely the result of one stupendously drunken woman and her doting husband, whose very vocal presence has the effect of breaking the ice and transforming the performance into something more communal. Stumbling inelegantly around the front row, Julie, as we later discover she's called, is clearly having the time of her life (although whether she'll remember that fact in the morning is another matter), dancing to songs without a beat, making up the words to the tracks that she doesn't know and occasionally screaming lyrics at the top of her voice at the most inopportune moments (usually when, you know, there are no lyrics).

It is these barbed utterances that first elicit a response from the band, Joel choosing to cut short the Beautiful middle eight because he's in a fit of hysterics. Perhaps inevitably, she becomes the focal point of the whole show, prompting a round of applause in her honour, chants of her name and even a section of the set of her own when Joel actively encourages her to sing out of tune, at the top of her voice, as he strums the opening chords of The Getaway, which he plays unplugged in the middle of the crowd. For all she's rather worse for wear by the end, looking like she's about to vomit all over the monitors during a triumphant Wires, she essentially manages, single-handedly, to give the show the extra edge it needed to become something memorable. Kudos to Athlete for responding in kind, and kudos to her husband for keeping her on her own two feet.

Without Julie, there's a good chance that this evening's reimagining of Athlete's hits may have seemed like just another gig; passable, sure, endearing perhaps, and inoffensive certainly. With her, the barriers between band and audience are dismantled and the show feels more participatory, something that we're all in together. That it takes a sloshed fiftysomething to elicit such a feeling is perhaps a little telling but, at the end of the day, it's the overall experience that matters and this, ladies and gentlemen, is one that the good folk of Newcastle won't forget in a hurry. If Athlete can play more shows like this - charming, pleasant and occasionally unpredictable - then perhaps they can recapture the spirit of 2005. Quick, someone call Julie, we've got a job for her...

Live review: T in the Park Festival 2011, Day 3 (10/07/11)

2011-07-29T14:17:00.000-07:00

Day 3 at T finally sees the Main Stage casting aside all bubblegum pop pretenses (that honour is shifted to the unsuspecting NME Stage, where Tinie Tempah, Bruno Mars, Professor Green and euck, Youmeatsix bump manufactured uglies) and taking up its well-earned mantle as bastion of the finest quality indie rock known to the good people of these United Kingdoms, delivering a line-up fit to burst with the legendary, the stupendously talented and Cast. Frankly, the less said about John Power the better, and his successors All Time Low for that matter, although a surprise guest appearance from Rivers Cuomo at the very least raises an eyebrow or two.

No, it’s the return of everyone’s favourite punk-pop pioneers Blondie that’s the catalyst for the stage’s redemption, Debbie Harry still looking like the coolest fucker in the world, resplendent all in white (yes, even her hair) and effortlessly crooning her way through every last one of her band’s timeless, instant, life-affirming hits. With an Atomic here, a Heart of Glass there and the occasional Maria thrown in for good measure, this is the kind of set that most bands would sell their grannies to be able to play, jam-packed with tantalising singalongs and ridiculously addictive melodies. And so what if Debbie forgets a few words here and there… having paid her dues a million and one times over, she’s allowed the odd slip-up. Or three. Bless her, it’s all in good fun, right?

Rivers Cuomo certainly seems to think so. As the heavens open and the rain proceeds to lash down on everyone’s heads, the Weezer frontman takes it upon himself to lighten the mood and bring smiles back to our faces by continuing the midlife crisis he began at last year’s Reading and Leeds Festivals and being, quite simply, daft as a brush for 45 minutes. In a hit packed set that takes in covers of Teenage Dirtbag and Paranoid Android, the bespectacled one clambers down into the quagmire, getting up close and personal with both his audience and the mud, spending five minutes trying to figure out how to don a T in the Park poncho during the Undone intro before ultimately giving up and and wearing it as a cape. He high fives everyone, wears our hats, takes photos of himself with our cameras and occasionally, when he feels like it, plays a little bit of guitar. It’s a deft move, accurately judging the mood of the crowd and giving them exactly what they need to take their minds off the fact that they’re drenched from head to foot; by the time an extra-bouncy Buddy Holly rolls around, no one really gives a shit anymore. A triumph all round, then.

And while the precipitation withers and the sun breaks through the clouds for My Chemical Romance’s return to these hallowed shores, this doesn’t make their job any easier. Faced with a withering crowd and an air of palpable disinterest, MCR have everything to prove and by gosh, do they know it. Striding onstage with guns blazing, looking every bit the cartoon characters depicted on their most recent LP, Gerard, Mikey, Frank and Ray storm through a visceral speed-punk set, mixing the finest cuts from their colorful 2010 release Danger Days with the usual Three Cheers and Black Parade classics. This is no nonsense, four-to-the-floor stuff, an attempt to showcase the talent at the heart of the often image-conscious band and it works. The effort is commendable: Ray works more spidery wonders than usual, delivering guitar riff after guitar riff after guitar riff, Gerard finds whole new rock star poses to pull and shapes to throw and Frank nearly breaks his neck in the process of losing himself in the music. By the closing Famous Last Words, the crowds have doubled, the moshing has multiplied and the victory is assured. A job very well done.

There’s just enough time between the smoke settling on MCR’s blistering set and Jarvis Cocker strutting suggestively onstage to hot-tail it over to the BBC Introducing stage to catch Beth Jeans Houghton dazzling twenty or so mud-splattered individuals - one dressed in a crocodile onesie - with her quite remarkable voice and unique blend of traditional folk and softly-spoken indie. If there’s any justice in the world, she’ll be a household name in a year or two; Pulp, on the other hand, have been a household name for nearly twenty years, but one that was barely spoken for over ten, until Cocker and co did the admirable thing and found each other again. Sensibly, they trot out a greatest hits set, opening with a beautiful Do You Remember The First Time? and finishing on a glorious, celebratory, rip-roaring Common People. Unfortunately for Pulp, the section in-between, with the exception of a cathartic Sorted and a bootylicious Disco 2000, falls a little flat… although through no fault of Pulp’s. This certainly isn’t for lack of trying - Cocker is an instantly likable, extremely engaging frontman, telling stories, cracking jokes, handing out sweets and wiping his arse with the last ever edition of the News of the World, but sadly, this simply isn’t Pulp’s crowd. These rabid, rock-starved individuals are here for the Foo Fighters and this hour of terribly twee indie seems out of place on a day characterised by the heavier end of the guitar based spectrum.

Alas, no matter. Pulp are delightful anyway, and Dave Grohl and his band of merry men certainly surpass everyone’s expectations, delivering an appropriately apocalyptic two hour set to accompany the torrential downpour that resumes in full force. The show is essentially a downscale version of their Milton Keynes Bowl extravaganza, but the Scots love every whirlwind, rip-roaring moment… probably as much as the hundred or so devotees who make up the T-Break Stage audience for Kilmarnock’s finest Fatherson, singing every last word back at the three-piece, a shockingly young bunch to be peddling such obvious talent. Thankfully, the band respond in kind, blowing the roof off with their Manchester Orchestra-esque alt rock stylings and proceeding to experience, in their own words (or thereabouts) “the best thirty minutes they’ve ever played”.

There’s a similar situation taking place over at the Red Bull Stage, where the tent is packed to the rafters for Noah and the Whale, indie kids, pop freaks and alt-leaning chin-strokers alike uniting under a common, heartfelt love of the band’s really quite lovely new record. These are the kind of singalongs that beget headline slots; indeed, it’s arguable that these guys should’ve occupied that hallowed position on the bill this evening based purely on numbers alone. However, although less people seem interested, that honour deservedly belongs to Eels who tonight, play a 16 track, 50s-inspired rock-soul-and-roll bonanza, each band member dressed up to the nines in waistcoat, tie and suit pants, the brass section swinging into overdrive and E on uncharacteristically jovial form, barking bizarre adjectives at his audience and telling us all that he’s glad to be “fighting Foo”. Every track is shot through with an extra layer of urgency and a healthy dose of fun, Flyswatter developing a whole new lease of life with extra guitars, I Like Birds sounding like it’s on crack and Fresh Blood quite literally scaring the bejeesus out of everyone. For all the Foos got the numbers, Eels gave us the surprises, delivering one of those sets that you just WISH you’d been at. It’s a fitting end to a rich three days, demonstrating that more often than not, you just have to look a little harder to find the real magic. More T next year, vicar? Don’t mind if we do.

Live review: T in the Park Festival 2011, Day 2 (09/07/11)

2011-07-29T14:15:00.000-07:00

And so to Day 2 at T, where an abundance of suitably banal pop outfits litter the bill, the Main Stage line-up looking more akin to the soulless Party in the Park than Scotland’s Glastonbury. N-Dubz, Ke$ha, Beyonce, The fucking Script… they’re all here to satiate the masses before Chris Martin’s gigantic, two hour egofest, the event organizers perhaps hoping that a dose of populist chart razzmatazz might fare better with the Mondeo drivers and familial types that typically make up 97% of Coldplay’s audience.

They’re probably right, to be fair, but we don’t care enough to find out, preferring instead to sample some of the less well advertised delights on offer, stopping only to catch Slash play the opening 30 seconds of Sweet Child ‘o’ Mine, dampened somewhat by the onset of a torrential downpour, and the Manic Street Preachers go through the motions in a fairly unremarkable 40 minutes, Nicky Wire less animated than usual, reserved behind unnecessary sunglasses and James Dean Bradfield struggling with a rather hoarse voice. The set’s passable, sure, and all the relevant hits are present, but given that this is the group who were banned from this festival twelve years ago for going batshit crazy during an invigoratingly aggressive headline show, smashing everything to pieces and calling Billy Bragg and Kelly Jones every name under the sun, it feels a little disappointing.

Still, there’s plenty of merit if you look hard enough; case in point, Glasgow’s bloody excellent indie folksters Three Blind Wolves, who draw an impressive crowd to their lunchtime BBC Introducing set, wooing everyone with their luscious vocals and huge choruses. Over in the cavernous King Tut’s Wah Wah Tent - later the site of Ocean Colour Scene’s largest crowd since Britpop collapsed on its arse, all thanks to the rain - Everything Everything finally make their wonderfully intricate, blissfully unique sound translate within an environment larger than the back room of your local, Photoshop Handsome and MY KZ YR BF becoming the indie pop anthems they were always destined to be. And then there’s local heroes Woodenbox whose gritty folk punk stylings are reminiscent of early Against Me!, and the bustling T-Break audience love it.

For ultra victorious, potentially career-changing moments, however, look no further than The Xcerts’ BBC Introducing slot, which sees a visibly stunned Murray, Jordan and Tom drawing quite probably the stage’s largest, most vocal and downright bonkers crowd of the entire weekend. In twenty-five all too short minutes, the Aberdeenians unleash a thrillingly loud, cataclysmically erratic ball of unrelenting, white-hot energy on a dazed, confused and downright delirious crowd, Murray’s primal, gutteral vocals making filthy, aggressive, DANGEROUS love to Jordan and Tom’s distorted guitars and crashing drums. Crowdsurfers fly this way and that, Murray gets in amongst it, Crisis In The Slow Lane elicits a heartfelt singalong… and then the plug’s pulled, the misers backstage complaining that the band have overran, cutting an astonishing set in its prime and eliciting a chorus of embittered boos from a disgruntled, yet probably spent, audience. It’s terrible judgment, although there’s still no doubt in anyone’s minds that they’ve just borne witness to the performance of the weekend.

Thankfully, no such fate befalls New Yorkers The Head and the Heart during their T in the Park debut. They are permitted to deliver their deliciously textured alt-folk-country-indie-whatever amalgam in its entirety and it sounds epic, even within the limited confines of the T-Break Stage. Closer Rivers and Roads is particularly magical and elicits a rapturous response from a crowd notably unfamiliar with their material. Jimmy Eat World, on the other hand, find themselves faced with several thousand devotees during their hour long NME Stage showcase, boisterous singalongs accompanying the hit-heavy set as it careers along at breakneck speed, powering through Bleed American and A Praise Chorus, pummeling seven shades of shit out of Pain, Futures and Big Casino and prompting body-slamming and human pyramids during the gigantic closing salvo of The Middle and Sweetness. Expertly crafted and perfectly pitched, this is the work of a band at the very top of their game, absolute masters of their craft. And 23 sounds bloody heartbreaking in the early evening sun.

Heartbreaking is very much the name of the game over on the Red Bull Stage, meanwhile, as Villagers set about making the hundred or so ardent fans and drunken stragglers cry into each other’s drinks with a set heavy on the crushing introspection of Becoming a Jackal. Sadly, they’re pitted against The Strokes and Beyonce and as a result, don’t attract anywhere near the numbers that they deserve but the few who are in attendance are well aware that their choice is undoubtedly the right one, even if the ridiculous decision to pitch the tent next to the Dance Stage results in a thumping beat constantly intruding on the delicacy of the band’s sound. Fortunately, an amping up of the instrumentation by the rest of the band sees them through, and by the end, those present are buzzing with excitement, reminded of exactly why Villagers were the band on everyone’s lips around this time last year.

And so, finally, it’s down to Bright Eyes to round off the day for us, the execrable Swedish House Mafia, dull-as-dishwater Coldplay and frankly past it Primal Scream paling in comparison. From the moment Conor Oberst strolls nonchalantly onto the stage, dressed in wellies and rain-mack, swigging from a bottle of wine and sporting delightfully painted nails (“they’re the same colour as Beyonce’s!”, he notes), it’s apparent that we’re in for something of a treat. Oberst is in fine spirits, lively and talkative, witty and invective. He throws shapes, gets down in the front row, ‘enacts’ his lyrics and fires barbs at his rivals, adding an out-of-tune, sarcastic snippet of Sex on Fire to a sprawling, electrifying Road to Joy because Beyonce did it earlier and dedicating a tremendous Lover I Don’t Have to Love to “the time Chris Martin tried to suck my dick”, all the while remarking that he’s scoring “double points” for this evening’s performance… and he’s not wrong. As headline shows go, this is an absolute blinder, sounding massive and intimate in equal measure and far surpassing anything any of the other stage closers could even dream of. And yes, that definitely does include Coldplay covering Travis. Obviously.

Live review: T in the Park Festival 2011, Day 1 (08/07/11)

2011-07-25T12:08:00.000-07:00

It is a truth universally acknowledged that nothing, and we mean absolutely nothing, will ever dampen a Scotsman’s spirit. Regardless of how heavily the rain falls, how thick the mud is that he has to trawl through, or how fascistic the security that dogs his every move (retaining your ticket for the entire weekend, and having it scanned three times a day, as well as having a wristband, seems a LITTLE excessive, T), the Scottish reveller will always, and we mean always, make the most of his circumstances and have a doggarn good time. This determination, this passion, fire and spirit is what gives T in the Park its edge; the people make the event, and these folk are stark raving mad.

You need evidence? Check the hastily formed moshpit that confronts post-hardcore wannabes Autumn in Disguise within thirty seconds of their opening Red Bull Stage set. Seemingly oblivious to the depressingly formulaic nature of the music - quiet, loud, scream, sing, repeat ad nauseum - and the irritatingly choreographed nature of the performance - a star jump here, a “COME ON YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!” there - Kinross goes characteristically mental, sending bodies flying everywhere and faces into the dirt. Sadly, the much more deserving Floods manage only a handful of nut-cases, their invigorating brand of post-apocalyptic, thrashy hardcore having not yet reached the lips and blogs of the cool kids. The Londoners try their damnedest, and the few interested parties certainly make the most of the space, but it’s hard to avoid the feeling that all the effort is ultimately rather pointless.

No such troubles for Los Angelenos The Airborne Toxic Event, however, whose ever-growing audience across the other side of the festival on the admittedly rather daunting NME (read: second) Stage is undoubtedly a mini-triumph. While Sometime Around Midnight inevitably receives the warmest reception, T also falls in love with the lesser known material from the band’s new LP, particularly the eight-minute, politically-charged behemoth that is The Kids Are Ready To Die/Welcome to Your Wedding Day, apparently too controversial for the more conservative American listener but going down a storm over here. And once the sharply-dressed Yanks have high-tailed it from the stage, it’s time for something more homegrown to enthrall the masses.

Initially, the mass exodus that accompanies the end of Airborne’s set threatens to turn Twin Atlantic’s most high-profile show to date into something of a damp squib. Thankfully, it transpires that their fans were just off to get themselves a few pints in preparation for the 40 minute headfuck to follow. When Sam McTrusty walks out on stage, clearly dumbfounded by the sea of faces before him, and strums the opening chords of a thunderous Edit Me, you just know this is going to be something special. And as the number of bodies increases with each successive blast of rock ‘n’ roll brilliance, and Scotland sings EVERY word back at him, it becomes apparent that this could be the band’s turning point, their crossover moment… the thrust they need to break the barriers of toilet circuit venues and achieve more mainstream recognition. A spine-tingling Crashland is particularly indicative of this, Sam actually taking cues from the Rock Cliche Handbook and letting the crowd sing the chorus.

Around an hour later, something similar, although slightly less high profile, greets Sucioperro as they prepare to tear the T-Break Stage a new one, although we put up with half an hour of White Lies’ occasionally brilliant, often lifeless, indie miserabilia first (that second album really doesn’t need any more airtime, guys…) Sounding positively gargantuan with the addition of an extra guitarist and a keyboardist/megalomaniac who takes the occasional break from bolstering the Perrio sound to stagedive and participate in the many and plentiful pits, their Heart String heavy set simply oozes energy, the band seemingly reenergised, smothering everything in a palpable sense of urgency. Good to see the iconic Pain Agency armbands back too… although, in terms of crowd-pleasing visual gimmicks, it’s no match for what British Sea Power concoct for all and sundry this evening. For all they dress rather stoically - besuited, no less - the unveiling of two life-size robots made out of tinfoil, paper plates and Tennants cans, who proceed to fight each other for the duration of the band’s final songs (and throw the remnants into the crowd), provides a grin-inducing talking point for the rest of the festival. Oh, and they play a blinder too.

And so to the headliners. Preferring not to endure 90 minutes of an elephant vomiting up its insides, we decide to eschew Pendulum and head over to the Main Stage where Arctic Monkeys are looking suave as fuck, Alex Turner sporting the coolest haircut and leather jacket in the country right now, and nonchalantly blasting through the really bloody massive rock monsters from new album Suck It and See. Problem is, this nonchalance quickly turns into indifference, the Monkeys lacking any semblance of stage presence; their attempt to fill the silence between songs with a ‘happy birthday’ singalong only makes the lack of rapport all too obvious. Without the ability to engage with the audience, you really need to pack your set as tightly as possible with classics and sadly, Turner and co play silly buggers, unleashing only two tracks within the first half of the set from Favourite Worst Nightmare and not a one from that multi-million selling, hugely popular debut. Fourteen songs in, we finally get Dancefloor and things pick up, but it’s quickly followed by some Humbug or Suck It bollocks and we, along with many others, give up trying and head out in search of something better instead.

Imelda May’s funky Tainted Love cover is initially a promising prospect, although it quickly becomes apparent that she has no other tunes, so we pay the T-Break Stage another visit, where Glaswegians Otherpeople are dazzling fifty or so rabid devotees with their angular indie punk theatrics. It’s a far better experience than The Alex Turner Pisstake and even provides the festival with its unofficial anthem, a delightfully catchy little ditty called Acoustic Guitars about the proliferation of MOR dadrock. It’d probably have more potency tomorrow, when Coldplay are covering Travis, but we get the picture. A fitting end, then, and a perfect reminder that more often than not, the real treats are the ones you have to work a little harder to find.

Review: Social Distortion, London, O2 Shepherd's Bush Empire, 7/7/11

2011-07-16T07:37:00.000-07:00

If there is a single moment that defines this evening's Social Distortion performance - the final date of their extensive, month-long European tour - it must surely be Mike Ness's heartwarming invitation, at show's end, for two beaming young fans, fresh of face and ecstatic of demeanor, to join him onstage for a sobering, albeit brief, glance at the raucous masses who spill from Shepherd's Bush Empire's beautiful balconies and fall over one another in the all-too-small pit for a chance to get so much as a fleeting brisk past this most suave and downright fucking cool of punk legends.

The boys, understandably, look petrified but Ness doesn't let them linger for long; this isn't a crowd-pleasing attempt at a cheap pop, an oft-repeated gimmick for the sake of a few extra plaudits. No, Ness has a point to make: as he salutes the 'old guard', the middle-aged, generally balding men (and women) in traditional safety-pins-and-belt-buckles gear who make up approximately 60% of the crowd, thanking them for their perseverance, he also dares to address the elephant in the room, the spectre of ageism that looms heavily over our enjoyment of the carnivalesque punk rock extravaganza before us.

"We respect the old guard", he begins, "But we need to embrace the new too. Without the long-term fans, we wouldn't be here but without these guys, there'd be one around to continue the legacy when we're gone." It's an all too potent point, very well made, and it's one that undoubtedly wrinkles with the crusties in the audience, whose sneers and jeers at those who may not yet be of legal drinking age are palpable and, quite frankly, embarrassing. Age does not automatically beget punk rock credentials; these fans, on the barrier no less, lose themselves for the full ninety minutes, singing along to every word. The idiots who shout for them to "fuck off and do (their) homework" are tellingly stood at the back of the venue, chin-stroking their way through the performance. Your call: who's having the most fun?

Still, for all there are small pockets of conflict, the principle theme of the evening is unity. Social Distortion'a forthright, humanitarian slabs of aggro-rock have an undefinable ability to bring people together, fostering a sense of community rather than a mood of antagonism. It helps that they don't take themselves too seriously. While the songs may deal with controversial, often very heated, topics, the band keep the preaching to a minimum. They leave that to the very vocally anti-EDL Crazy Arm, - tonight's support - whose blistering, brilliant set is loaded with political comment. Instead of this, Social D choose to let the music speak for itself, letting themselves go and having a blast. From the artifact strewn stage - we count a toy truck, stopped clock, NO PARKING sign, pair of Everlast boxing gloves, a cat Buddha and a working set of traffic lights, amongst other things - to the slightly self-indulgent Hank Williams cover (but why not?), by way of a guest appearances from two African-American girls on the gorgeous 'California', one of them bearing the legend 'I HEART LONDON' on her hip, written in black felt tip, there is a definite sense of joviality about proceedings, giving the impression of a band comfortable enough in their own skin that they can afford to let loose.

This is a decision that pays dividends. The ultimately quite maudlin 'Story of my Life' transforms into something altogether quite different in this celebratory environment, essentially becoming the party tune you'd long forgotten about, eliciting euphoric singalongs and prompting a flurry of splendidly manic activity. Naturally, there's the obligatory 'Ring of Fire' cover to close, and it's as preposterous as ever, but even straighter moments like 'Don't Drag Me Down' and yes, the bloody magnificent 'Ball and Chain' seem somehow freer, released from the shackles of the altogether more serious records from whence they came. There are several cuts from pretty top notch current release 'Hard Times and Nursery Rhymes' too, and they're generally well received, but then, when they're being crooned by a man with as much sass and pizazz as Ness, looking like a 50s speakeasy regular in his braces and cowboy hat, with keyboards courtesy of a man dressed in the world's most garish shirt, you just can't help but fall head over heels in love with them on the strength of their absurdity alone.

So, for all a handful of London's most close-minded punk elite would like to draw the battle lines at tonight's show, Social Distortion swiftly and abruptly put pay to their plans, delivering a blinder of a set that quashes any semblance of conflict in an instant and has young and old, veteran and newbie alike dancing, skanking and moshing in the aisles. With a career-spanning set, a handful of excellent covers and a lorryload of style, Mike Ness and his fellow Los Angelenos razzle and dazzle us all, making the rather extortionate £25 we paid for the privilege seem completely worth it. Now nearly 30 years strong, long
may Social D's impenetrable, unique and occasionally downright hilarious legacy continue.

Review: Death Cab for Cutie, Manchester Academy 1, 04/07/11

2011-07-16T06:16:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, it seems like it must be a bit of a drag being in Death Cab for Cutie. Oh sure, they're a fairly well-respected act, having worked their way from seemingly never-ending spells in the world's very finest toilet circuits to selling out moderately sized venues in the space of ten slog-hard years, but no matter how sizable the venue, how populous the crowd, it always appears as if no one is particularly familiar with their material. Audiences applaud politely and observe, waiting for the or or two tracks they know from this episode of The OC or that installment of Six Feet Under. Conversely, it is achingly cool to include them on your bucketlist of obscure(ish) influences and consequently, every hipster within a five mile radius gravitates towards the venue of choice, minding their fringes throughout the set and chatting inanely to their oh-so-cool friends, paying more mind to being spotted at the show than to enjoying the music.

Death Cab must tire of this unfortunate affliction, especially when, as this evening, they desire nothing more than to be a four-to-the-floor, ballsy rock and roll band, complete with thrills, spills and appropriate rock star poses. A restless Ben Gibbard is just itching to make the masses move, swaying this, that and every other which way throughout, marching without actually marching, subsumed by the music, trying his very damnedest to get inside it. Thankfully, by some God-given miracle, the good folk of Manchester's Academy 1 - perhaps spurred on by the blistering heat - are less stoic than your average crowd, choosing to actually enjoy themselves rather than state at their feet. Sure, there are the chatterers - particularly annoying during the set's quieter moments - but fortunately, they're outnumbered by those who are sufficiently dedicated to give the show their all.

Indeed, there is a palpable sense of pride in the air this evening. While the band have played larger venues before, there is certainly a 'buzz' surrounding them at the moment, a buzz that sees them featuring prominently in the pages of broadsheet newspapers, on vampire movie soundtracks (although the song in question is notable by its very deliberate absence this evening) and at 65,000+ sell out concerts at ridiculous venues, a la their Foo Fighters support at Milton Keynes Bowl two days prior, a feat that Gibbard self-deprecatingly references mid-set, acknowledging the 'once in a lifetime' experience but confessing that they knew everyone was there to lose themselves to the Foos and that their particular brand of soft, introspective indie rock wasn't really going to cut the mustard. Still, the Death Cab of three or four years ago certainly wouldn't have found their way onto such a bill and now, as the world finally decides to pay a little more attention, it feels like the band may finally acquire the mainstream recognition they so obviously deserve.

Thankfully, they have a mighty fine new album to complement such a progression. The 'Codes and Keys' material wheeled out this evening sounds glorious; from the sashaying and swaying joyfulness of 'Stay Young, Go Dancing' to the majesty of sure-to-be second single 'Underneath the Sycamore', by way of the title track, the funky-as-hell 'You Are A Tourist' and the crescendoalicious 'Doors Unlocked and Open', played with such force it feels like it's about to fall apart, everything has an extra sheen to it, the tracks developing a whole new lease of life outside of the confines of the record. It's a thumping, aggressive, determined 'Some Boys' that's the highlight though, coming hot off the heels of a blissful, crowd-pleasing run through the much more accessible 'Soul Meets Body' and sounding, in spite of its fairly jaunty piano refrain, positively sinister.

The whole set is replete with such moments, Gibbard apparently determined to demonstrate the monstrous rock behemoth at the core of the band. Within the space of the first five songs, they've already assaulted 'The New Year', sending waves of guitar crashing down on our heads, torn through a once-in-a-blue-moon 'Why You'd Want to Live Here' and ran circles around a rip-roaring 'Company Calls', Gibbard roaming the stage, letting his music overtake him. 'Long Division' is similarly restless, shot through with an extra layer of rock theatrics, while 'Photobooth' and a hugely surprising outing for the brilliant 'Styrofoam Plates' feel like they've taken leaves out of the Foo Fighters' playbook, so intensely are they reimagined before our very eyes.

Of course, the quieter moments are equally as passionate: 'Grapevine Fires' is deliciously sensual, a delicate, sobering 'I Will Follow You Into the Dark', played solo by Gibbard mid-set, provides the singalong of the evening, while its seamless transition into the monumental 'I Will Possess Your Heart' actually sends shivers down the spine. Naturally, Death Cab whip out the full eight minute version, the track building and building until it simply cannot build any more, that gorgeous bass riff reverberating around all of our heads. For many, however, it's the one-two suckerpunch of the final songs of the encore that provide the biggest highlight, and justifiably so: 'Marching Bands of Manhattan' remains one of their finest tracks, its beautiful imagery losing none of its evocative power with the additional rock theatrics unleashed upon it, while closer 'Transatlanticism' is quite simply phenomenal, a seven minute poetic odyssey, dripping with beauty, the kind of song that becomes more than just a song. Tonight, it is an experience, Gibbard screaming "come on!" at us all well past the point at which the track is finished, and basking in the glory of the thousand-strong crowd bellowing it back at him, taking his words as their own.

With a set two hours in length, 25 tracks strong, and a crowd consisting largely of fans rather than partisan observers, tonight's Death Cab for Cutie gig is arguably one of a kind, a show characterised by warmth, appreciation and really bloody massive singalongs rather than casual chin-stroking and irritating between and through song chatter. It's an undeniable success and hopefully, a sign of much bigger and better things to come. On nights like this, being in Death Cab for Cutie must be the best damn job in the world.

Review: Arcade Fire (w/Mumford & Sons, The Vaccines, Beirut, Owen Pallett), Hyde Park, 30/06/11

2011-07-07T06:46:00.000-07:00

It's a frustrating fallacy that the best gigs to take place in the great outdoors are those in which the Heavens smile down on the collective masses, blessing them with clear skies, beating sunshine and nary a drop of precipitation in sight. While weather conditions can certainly play a part in one's enjoyment of the performance, more often than not, they accentuate rather than define it, adding to rather than setting the tone. Take the pathetic fallacy of Muse's triumphant Leeds Festival show in 06; 'Knights of Cydonia' would have been an appropriately apocalyptic opener without the on cue torrential downpour, but its presence became the delicious icing on an already scrumptious cake. And as it was for Matt Bellamy, so it is for Win Butler, Marcus Mumford and every other young pup lucky enough to grace the big ol' carnivalesque stage plonked in the middle of Hyde Park on this oh-so-fine June Thursday, the graciously scorching sun beating down on 60,000 extremely vocal Londoners, adding an extra dose of magic to an already extra special event.

But it almost didn't happen; 90 minutes after the doors swung open to reveal a cinematically-theme arena, complete with tent showing Arcade Fire's Suburbs movie and a stage with a cinema front and drape with bunting, the clouds took the sun from us and promptly took an extra vicious piss on our heads. To add insult to injury, the wind took it upon itself to blow said rain stagewards, prompting a flurry of activity as roadies and band members desperately tried to cover the precious equipment that had been left out in the apparent safety of the afternoon heat. More fool opener Owen Pallett's management but then, thankfully, it doesn't last long. It possibly cuts his all-too-brief set short by one or two songs but it's no matter; the few Pallett does play are received well, despite a few dodgy sound problems to begin, and London is sufficiently wooed by his decidedly sophisticated, and at times disturbingly sexual, violin playing to ignore any unfortunate blips anyhow.

It certainly helps that Owen has the fortune to be introduced by long-time friend and musical partner Win Butler, an honor sadly not bestowed upon The Vaccines, this afternoon's unquestionable black sheep, their proudly uncomplicated two chord indie rock palette standing out like a sore thumb in this multi-instrumental, muso rock jamboree. No matter, the boys don't let it phase them. Justin pulls shapes, strikes poses and shoves his band members around like a consummate rock professional, climbing atop the monitors, goading the audience into movement, whizzing around the stage on speed during an extra energetic 'Wrecking Bar' and getting the otherwise nonplussed in the audience to lose their inhibitions and dance along like loons to the very bloody daft 'If You Wanna', providing the first true 'moment' of the day. It's officially a success, even if they still really, really need to turn that bloody bass down in the mix. And play the uncensored version of 'Post Break-Up Sex', not the timid radio edit. Hell, if Mumford & Sons can whip out 'Little Lion Man', expletives and all, you can insert the appropriate 'fucking' into your most popular song, guys.

There are no such gripes with Beirut's very bloody lovely set, however; their brand of sun-tinged folk goes down an absolute storm this afternoon, desperate several thousand in attendance having absolutely no clue who they are. It's a shame really, especially as Marcus Mumford tells us all that they've been a huge influence on him since well before he even thought about forming a band. If there were any justice in the world, masterpieces like 'Santa Fe' and 'Vagabond' would be as ingrained in the public consciousness as the entirety of 'Sigh No More' but regardless, today's quite considerable exposure and triumphant performance should be enough to get them a few thousand extra record sales at the very least. And extra props for inspiring one punter to play - and bash - a green ukelele of his own throughout the show. When you bring out that kind of mad, you know you're onto a winner.

There's an entirely different atmosphere reserved for hometown heroes Mumford & Sons, however. In place of polite appreciation, we have a determination to tear seven shades of shite out of all of our vocal chords, London apparently hellbent on ruining its collective larynx, bellowing every last word like there's no tomorrow. For a fairly significant proportion of the crowd, this is the highlight of their evening, the performance they've paid their £48 to see. This is, of course, a terrible shame, since Butler and chums are about seventy times the band Mumford will ever be, but nonetheless, there's no denying the quite astonishing power of many of these humble, carefully crafted songs.

Love 'em or hate 'em, you cannot escape the spine-tingling beauty that is 60,000 voices singing the 'Roll Away Your Stone' and 'Little Lion Man' refrains in unison, a spectacle that brings embarrassingly cheesy grins to the faces of the band members, prompting each and every one to bring their A game, Marcus screaming words rather than singing them, Ben hammering away at his keyboard, stomping a mudhole in the stage. There are new songs - several, actually - and they are all received like long lost friends, London even learning the choruses during the songs and singing them back at the band. Mumford have Hyde Park eating out of the palms of their grubby hands and by the time gargantuan closer 'The Cave' rolls around, even the most stern of critics is forced to admit that this cannot be considered anything other than a glorious, well-deserved success.

And for a moment, this almost threatens to overshadow Arcade Fire's performance. Despite a suitably mood-setting introduction, in which a movie screen shows clips from The Suburbs film, when the opening bars of 'Ready to Start' begin, they don't quite have the rabble-rousing power that they should; sound problems blight the track. Its dark, angular stabs fall a little flat, failing to ignite that much-needed spark. Fortunately, this is a very temporary blip. By the next song, things are back on track as the band unleash a gigantic curveball in the form of 'Wake Up', their usual set closer, brought forward this evening so the band 'can see everyone's faces while it's still light'. It's a risky move but one that pays dividends. In the wake of 'Ready to Start's disappointments, it's a much-needed breath of familiar fresh air, invigorating the masses and producing the first of many bone-chilling, butterflies-in-stomach moments as the power of 60,000 voices bellowing the song's brilliantly simplistic, euphoric chorus is truly, truly astonishing. This wave of heartfelt emotion kicks the band into gear too, Richard Reed Parry sending drumbeats crashing around our ears with extra vigor, Will rolling around the stage like he's committed and Win so overcome with adrenalin that he throws his much-loved tambourine into the audience at song's end, with some lucky punter either having something to cherish for the rest of their days or one gigantic, percussion-shaped bruise to remember the evening by.

And the moments just keep coming: there's Regene looking and sounding like a Goddess, shimmying and shaking her way through an utterly gorgeous 'Haiti', a vision in a multi-colored dress and later, with similarly shaded streamers, dancing seductively to funky-as-hell closer 'Sprawl II'. There's the Chinese lantern propelled through the sky and over the stage as the band kick into the first bars of 'Keep the Car Running', Win directing all eyes skywards to gaze at the beautiful sight. There's the stunned, humbled, ecstatic faces of every member of the band as Hyde Park sings all the words to 'The Suburbs' in perfect harmony, the sight of the pom poms handed out before the show held aloft and glistening in the night sky; Win provoking the crowd into making as much noise as possible to annoy the rich neighbours, whose apparent objections have led to a turning down of the volume and a fairly early curfew. And of course, there's the undeniable beauty of the crowd singing the instrumental parts of 'Power Out' and 'Tunnels', overpowering the music.

The highlight, however, is undoubtedly the mid-set chaos caused by the trifecta of reckless abandon that is the messy, uncontrollable 'Month of May', the anthemic 'Rebellion (Lies)' and the jagged, abrasive 'Laika'. Pits open up, bodies are shoved in all directions and crowdsurfers make their way stagewards, all caught up in the unrelenting energy emanating from the stage. 'Month of May' in particular is a monumental piece of primeval, sprawling musicianship, threatening to fall apart at the seams with every passing moment and eventually doing so under the weight of Win's uncontrollable guitar chops, Parry's sporadic ad-libs and those bloodcurdling screams. And as it descends into a mess of glorious noise, the band having pummeled their audience, Win perched on the barrier, goading the sweat-drenched masses, the song morons into the opening drumbeat of 'Rebellion' before anyone's noticed, catching us all unawares and sending further shivers coursing down the spine.

By show's end, and the heartwarming, seemingly never-ending applause and chants that make their way from field to stage, causing the band to linger longer than expected, it's apparent that this really is Arcade Fire's night, their moment, their triumph. Those that come before do an admirable job and, in some cases, almost manage to match their masters, but in the end, the genius of the Fire's set, the power of their performance and the devotion of the crowd win out. With a little help from some spectacular weather and 60,000 beautiful voices, Arcade Fire pull off the biggest gig of their career with suitable aplomb. "We will never forget this night", says Win, beaming smile etched into his face. Nor will we Win, nor will we.

Review: Ryan Adams, Glasgow O2 Academy, 25/06/11

2011-07-01T09:05:00.000-07:00

Ryan Adams isn't exactly known for his gracious, crowd-pleasing hospitality. Famous among casual music lovers for refusing to continue playing until the heckler at one of his shows who hilariously shouted for 'Summer of 69' was removed from the premises, and more recently prone, in his gigs with the Cardinals, to eschewing his more famous material in favour of bouts of self-indulgence, Adams has a tendency to be a bit of a difficult bugger, cantankerously refusing to play the game and irritating a significant proportion of his audience as a result.

It's perhaps something of a surprise, then, that tonight, at one of the final shows of his once-in-a-bloody-blue-moon acoustic tour, he seems hellbent on pleasing every last soul in the jam-packed building, slowly, cautiously unravelling a set peppered with cuts from his most successful LP, 2001's glorious 'Gold', alongside the very best moments from his other records. He is unquestionably nervous, appearing restless as he shuffles onto the intimately arranged stage, swathed in flattering blue, uncomfortably fumbling with his well-tuned guitar and cursing the less responsive monitors, which, as he jokingly remarks, 'were out late last night and aren't feeling so good.' He is quite clearly perturbed by this for the first few tracks, but he needn't be.

'Oh My Sweet Carolina' is the perfect opener, easing us all into the heady mix of melancholia, heartbreak and, occasionally, celebration (yes, it does happen, despite the singer's self-effacing claim that he 'wishes [he'd] written some happier songs') that is to follow, Adams's voice fluctuating between gorgeously cracked and soaringly powerful throughout. The track may not be as polished as he'd like it to be, but therein lies its genius. The cracks give the song its weight, its emotional gravitas, and the two minute applause at its end speaks volumes.

Adams is more satisfied, however, when the monitors begin behaving themselves and things go according to plan. He cracks jokes, self-deprecatingly apologizing for his apparent lack of fashion sense, telling us all that he had intended having a style war with support act Jesse Malin but that he quickly realized he couldn't compete as his wardrobe consists of seven of the same shirt. He's also keen to point out that the moshpit is about to break out any second, a playful way of commenting on the O2 Academy's all-seated set-up this evening, but serving instead to remind us of the muted nature of his material which, let's face it, just isn't suited to moshpits and punching people in the face. This is music to quietly appreciate, to chinstoke to, and therein lies its beauty.

Indeed, the audience barely even sings the material, not because they don't know it (judging by the whoops and wolf-whistles that greet each track, they most definitely do) but because to do so would detract from our appreciation of 'the moment'. It's deference that prompts the virtual silence during 'My Winding Wheel' and, indeed, the piano version of 'New York, New York' (now that really IS once in a blue moon), the crowd soaking it all up rather than losing themselves in the moment. When things get a little louder, such as on a majestic 'Firecracker' (oh, those harmonica parts shoot straight through you) and a rollicking 'Let It Ride', their voices are raised in unison, but for the most part, Glasgow takes a step back and lets Adams shine, allowing him to have his two and a half hours in the spotlight.

And yes, folks, you read that right. Tonight, Adams just doesn't stop, boldly defying the Academy's strict curfew and playing on until an ungodly 11.45pm, despite the house lights turning on after a particularly brutal 'Come Pick Me Up' - preceded by an incredible 'Sylvia Plath', giving everyone goosepimples on their arms and a gigantic lump in their throats - and half the audience nearly disappearing into the night. Seemingly having the time of his life, Adams saunters back onto the stage, thanking everyone for their patience and for sticking around (as if we wouldn't!) and proceeds to launch into what can only be described as a phenomenal encore, tearing through 'English Girls Approximately', 'Jacksonville', 'September' and, yes, a bloody brilliant 'Dear Chicago', despite his protestations to the contrary. However, it's tonight's closer that really gives the evening its edge, that extra special something to mark it out as one for the ages.

Having misheard a heckler's request as the nonsensical 'Goodnight Bob', Adams proceeds to
write a song around the refrain, starting out as a jokey thirty seconds centered around a Metallica-esque riff but soon turning into something far more tangible. The joke turns into a fully-fledged song, Adams bottling lightning before our very eyes, improvising every step of the way and comfortably, effortlessly proving his genius. Astutely, Adams declares himself satisfied at song's end and quite clearly, the awestruck crowd agrees with him, unleashing round after round after round of appreciative applause, bums rising out of seats and delivering one of the most deserving standing ovations this writer has ever seen.
It's the kind of magical moment gigs were made for and, brilliantly, something no one else is ever likely to experience.

If you were to walk into tonight's show without any prior knowledge of the floppy-maned troubadour onstage, you'd probably think he was one of the most crowd-pleasing SOBs in the 'alt country' (whatever the hell that is) genre. With razor-sharp wit, a penchant for self-deprecation and a set that showcases every last one of his finest moments, and qualities, Adams has his audience eating out of the palm of his hand. It's almost unfathomable to think that this is the same guy whose sets with his band could be deliberately difficult, or who used to be prone to deliberately omitting his more well loved material. Thank the Lord, then, that tonight, Ryan gives as good as he ever has, harnessing all of his talents to deliver something utterly amazing. If you were lucky enough to be at this show, you'll never forget it and if you weren't, you'll be kicking yourself until the end of your days. A truly magical evening.

Review: We Are Scientists (w/Tall Ships, Middlesbrough Empire, 13/06/11)

2011-06-17T15:26:00.001-07:00

"It's Monday night Middlesbrough, it's time to party!" On first glance at the eerily deserted streets of Teeside's finest drinking pit, you'd probably be forgiven for thinking We Are Scientists' quick-witted, astutely observational lead singer had missed the mark slightly with this evening's opening salvo. A cursory perusal of the city centre reveals a smattering of empty pubs, all offering karaoke nights and strict drug policies, shuttered shops and a punter-less Burger King, its beleaguered workers doubtless desperate for tonight's rock and roll show to kick out so the inebriated hoards will stagger into the joint, desperate for something, anything, to stave off tomorrow's inevitable hangover. For all intents and purposes, Middlesbrough's Monday night appears to have all the social vibrancy of a graveyard.

Woefully lifeless support Tall Ships are well aware of this fact; so much so, it appears, that their performance attempts to replicate the crushing mediocrity... and succeeds unequivocally. The lead singer mumbles his way through a disjointed, entirely incohesive set, never quite sure whether he wants to be in Biffy Clyro or Battles, but managing to be nowhere near as interesting as either. There is a depressing reliance on loops and effects, robbing the set of its authenticity, and all three band members fail to engage with anyone or anything, hiding behind their instruments instead of letting themselves go, looking categorically bored throughout their all-too-lengthy thirty minutes onstage. It's as if they were expecting disinterest, and in so doing, manage to create it, sucking the life and soul out of the party and provoking endless chatter amongst their audience (pockets even begin football chants while they're playing). To call this boring would be an insult to boredom; there's more action in the five person karaoke across the road in The Hairy Lemon than in this joyless, soul-destroying performance.

So is Keith royally mistaken in his assessment of a Middlesbroughian Monday? Well, of course not. His words are a self-fulfilling prophecy: all it takes is for one super-talented, uber-charismatic, devilishly handsome guitarist with silky smooth vocal chords to say it's party time and the masses make it so. As soon as he declares his undying love for the city, the punters are whipped into a frenzy and the lunacy begins; pits form left, right and centre, bodies slamming into one another during an electrifying 'Nobody Move, Nobody Get Hurt', limbs flying stagewards and being sent promptly back again, the Empire's theatrical facilities not really having the provisions for accommodating reckless crowdsurfers.

There is clearly much love for WAS in the building tonight; the earlier football chants become terrace-aping cries of 'We Are! We Are! Say We Are Scientists!', so vociferous that Keith and Chris actually seem visibly taken aback (no small feat for two guys so ordinarily cool, calm and collected). Every successive 'With Love and Squalor' classic is met with the same blind devotion, the same reckless abandon, so much so, in fact, that 'The Great Escape' threatens to deafen everyone within a two mile radius, so powerful is the crowd's attempt at vocalising the song's really bloody brilliant power chords.

The 'Brain Thrust Mastery' tracks prompt a flurry of activity too: 'Chick Lit' has boys and girls alike dancing in the aisles, 'After Hours' produces an almighty closing singalong and a particularly brutal 'Lethal Enforcer' prompts one over-excited punter to ask Chris to 'get [his] tits out', to which he replies, with razor sharp timing, that they had a lovely pair for us all but unfortunately, they got held up at customs. There's a great deal of this throughout the show, the back and forth between Keith and Chris proving almost as entertaining as the music itself. For the good folk of the Boro, this may even be preferable to certain portions of the set: the cuts from 'Barbara' don't exactly set the room on fire, despite being equally as ace as their counterparts. Even blistering opener - and recent single - 'Nice Guys' meets with a much more muted response, an unfortunate side effect, perhaps, of the band's temporary fall from indie grace.

Alas, no matter: WAS don't let such trivial matters stand in their way. With an arsenal of angular indie rock gems this delicious, even the smoggiest of townies can't stop himself dancing, and with the kind of charismatic stage presence that Freddie Mercury could only dream of, Keith, Chris and Andy cannot do anything other than succeed. Spectacularly. Flamboyantly. With style, panache and a bucketload of grace. And while we may have set the hyperbole generator into overdrive, they do prove that no matter how small the town, no matter how quiet the city, We Are Scientists will always, always bring the party. Middlesbrough, consider yourselves well and truly conquered.

Review: The Pains of Being Pure At Heart, The Cluny, 05/06/11

2011-06-17T14:49:00.000-07:00

Oh, the heartache. The introspection. The crippling self-awareness and destructive self-doubt. The eyes fixed firmly on the floor, while the mouth mumbles fragments of conversation. The complete inability to pluck up the courage to ask anyone out. Ever. Oh, the woebegotten life of the stereotypical Pains of Being Pure At Heart fan, doomed to pressing repeat on that 'Higher Than The Stars' EP forever, writing bad poetry about how statistically incapable he or she is of asking out that boy or girl from down the street. Oh, the Pains of Being Twee.

Or rather, that's the impression you might get from a casual listen to the band's music, or a fleeting glance at their terribly nice music videos, album artwork and occasional, modest interviews. The reality, it seems, is quite different. Oh sure, the cardigan brigade show up in full force at tonight's Cluny show but they're outnumbered by the boisterous indie brigade, intent on savouring the delights of a band who, at the end of the day, make the kind of wonderfully catchy, instantly memorable and delectably danceable indie pop songs that catapulted Morrissey and friends to superstardom in the Eighties. Tonight's setlist is a veritable goldmine of instant classics, their undeniable melodic sensibilities glistening in the haze of fourteen rounds of scuzzy guitar indulgence.

In a more just universe, TPOBPAH's set would be a marathon of superhits; the colossal opening triad of new album beauty 'Belong', first album rabble rouser 'This Love Is Fucking Right!' and the frankly gorgeous 'A Teenager In Love' would be the equivalent of The Cure playing 'Boys', 'Lovecats' and 'Close to Me' in a row; top ten smashes all and the kind of introduction that whips every punter in the building into a delirious frenzy, desperate to soak up every last morsel of the tracks they've come to know and love. Sadly, Pains aren't that lucky... or rather, the British public simply aren't that cool. Thankfully, these guys don't let that stop them blowing the proverbial roof off the venue and playing like they're headlining Wembley Stadium. The guitar chops are unforgiving and the hooks never-ending, wrapping themselves around the rapturously attentive audience like much-loved comfort blankets, smothering us all in their warmth.

Perhaps inevitably, it's the closing salvo that elicits the most enthusiastic reaction. For all the simplicity of the melodies allows every casual listener in attendance to learn the words to album tracks like the patently ace 'Terrible Friend', and the first few rows spend the majority of the show dancing like they're Morrissey on TOTP circa 1985, it takes a riproaring 'Come Saturday' and 'Young Adult Friction' to encourage every other scrawny indie kid in the building to abandon his/her inhibitions and shake their tushes like they've just popped down to the indie disco in time for 'This Charming Man'. The party continues into the encore, with an extra energetic 'Everywhere With You' following a sobering interpretation of 'Contender', the first song the band every wrote together, sounding heartbreaking tonight on solo electric guitar. It's an experience cherished by every soul lucky enough to be in attendance; and indeed, we're all thanking our lucky stars that Pains even made it to the venue after a particularly unfortunate breakdown on the motorway earlier in the afternoon.

With time firmly against them, no soundcheck and a crowd expectant but perhaps not the most devoted, The Pains of Being Pure at Heart play tonight with the odds stacked against them somewhat, but manage to prove, hand over heart, that they are far more than a ragtag collective of tweeXcore peddlers, wallowing in adolescent sensitivity. Playing with the passion and intensity of a thousand heavier bands, TPOBPAH force you to sit up and listen, while simultaneously providing the kind of thrill-laden set that'll have your limbs throwing shapes in no time. Mark our words, these songs will be indie dancefloor standards before you know it. Now sit up and pay attention before you get lost in the melee.

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

2011-04-17T01:48:00.002-07:00

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)

2011-04-10T06:53:00.000-07:00

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)

2011-04-02T15:32:00.001-07:00

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)

2011-04-02T15:22:00.000-07:00

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'

2011-04-02T15:20:00.000-07:00

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.

Review: Iron and Wine (w/Daniel Martin Moore, The Sage, Gateshead, 16/03/11)

2011-03-19T03:51:00.001-07:00

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.

Review: Surfer Blood w/No Joy (Newcastle O2 Academy 2, 06/03/11)

2011-03-11T13:34:00.000-08:00

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.

Review: Les Savy Fav (The Cluny, Newcastle, 02/03/11)

2011-03-06T08:01:00.001-08:00

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Tim Harrington is stark raving bonkers. Not the self-aggrandising Dizzie Rascal kind of bonkers, you understand, but the kind of bonkers that makes the frontman of a New York-based post-punk art house outfit feel it necessary to don a yeti costume when walking out on stage, and subsequently disrobe to reveal a suitably unflattering morph suit underneath. Which he promptly appends with a sock to the groinal area for added girth, allowing all-comers, regardless of gender, to have a bit of a fondle. It's the delightfully eccentric, weirdly obtuse and pleasantly inclusive kind of bonkers, the sort that endears rather than infuriates, encouraging everyone to discard their inhibitions and join the party. Well, everyone except the rest of the band, who spend the entire 70 minutes of tonight's performance confined to the stage, playing their hearts out, mastering the wiry riffs and sporadic bass lines of their 'Root to Ruin'-heavy set while Newcastle ooohs, aaaahs and gawps at Tim and his penchant for French kissing the girls - and guys - in the audience with the best hair.

Of course, it's all part of the fun and you get the feeling that Seth, Sid, Harrison and Andrew are quite happy to step back into the shadows and allow Tim to hog the limelight, safe in the knowledge that they're the band's driving force, the workman-like post-punk juggernaut that provides this most rabid of audiences with its excuse to go full-on batshit crazy. Which they do. With suitable aplomb. Tonight, boys and girls, Newcastle casts aside its self-consciousness and discovers the fun that is to be had from simply slamming face-first into one another, while trying desperately to prop up Tim's ever-disintegrating microphone lead at the same time. His presence within the pit is pretty much a given at any Les Savy Fav gig, but it's endearing to see exactly how egalitarian the whole process is; there is no deference to be found here, no elevated status, no rock star pretension. Tim is essentially any other member of the crowd - well, apart from the disco glitter mask and one-piece bird costume - and the good folk of The Cluny treat him as such, throwing their arms around his shoulders and howling the words, hurling their sweat-drenched bodies into his.

Tim clearly loves every second and responds in suitably aloof fashion, roving around the venue, clambering onto the balcony area and stroking youthful punters' hair, standing atop the sound guy's booth and altering the lighting during a particularly sultry 'Sleepless In Silverlake' so that things can 'be sexier' and, perhaps most impressively, wandering through the doors that separate the venue from the main bar area and promptly frightening the poor locals who are just trying to have a quiet drink. The sight of a plump, shirtless, balding, heavily-bearded New Yorker screeching into a microphone while playing with his nipples is probably enough to give these innocent men and women nightmares for the rest of their lives... or wet dreams, whichever takes your fancy. You see, at its core, LSF's performance is an exercise in rampaging sexuality, with Tim progressing through various states of undress over the course of the evening and actively encouraging this delirious crowd to touch him in turn; hell, one guy has his fingers in the guy's mouth at one point, simulating a blowjob. And frankly, there's no denying that by night's end, Newcastle has one mother of a hard-on.

If there's any criticism to be made of tonight's show, it's the brevity of the set. LSF play for little over an hour, concentrating heavily on their current release and while there are innumerable gems amongst these tracks - most notably lascivious opener 'Lips n Stuff' and current single 'Let's Get Out of Here' - for a band with a five LP back catalogue, twelve tracks seems like a bit of a cheat. Still, it isn't all about the numbers; in fact, tonight they're arguably the least important part of a highly memorable, thoroughly invigorating and patently insane package. Les Savy Fav are a walking advertisement for inclusivity, successfully tearing down the barriers between musicians and listeners and transforming performance into something far more tangible and worthwhile. There really is method in the madness... but there's probably no excuse for the morph suit, guys. Just sayin'.

Review: Rock Sound Exposure Tour (Dinosaur Pile-Up/The Xcerts, Newcastle O2 Academy 2, 28/02/11)

2011-03-02T09:42:00.001-08:00

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?

Review: Little Comets, Northumbria University, 26/02/11

2011-03-01T10:58:00.000-08:00

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.

Review: My Chemical Romance (Newcastle Metro Radio Arena, 22/02/11)

2011-02-23T14:51:00.001-08:00

Look alive, sunshine. My Chemical Romance are in town, transported back through the annals of time from the desolated wasteland of the Divided States of America circa 2019, and they're about to paint the streets red, yellow, blue, orange and just about every other colour that still exists within the futuristic Californian rainbow. So BE RESPONSIBLE, boys and girls, TAKE YOUR MEDICINE; KILLJOYS, do your duty and MAKE SOME NOISE and everyone else, ready yourself for the comic book punk rock extravaganza of a lifetime. MCR are here to BUILD A BETTER YOU and they're about to do it now and do it oh-so-very loud.

Taking to the stage bathed in shocking Technicolor, looking like characters from Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World or some such, this is My Chemical Romance at their most bleedin' obvious, stripped of the funeral obliquity of the Black Parade era and free, once more, to engage in pure, dumb rock 'n' roll fun. Tonight's notably lengthy set is heavy on the 'Danger Days', and while the 6,000 strong Metro Radio Arena may save the loudest singalongs and most rapturous applause for the earlier material, it is the steampunk synth 'n' scuzz of such gems as the filthy 'Vampire Money' and the ass-shakingly sexy 'Planetary (GO!)' that shine the brightest and leave the most indelible impression.

For all 'The Black Parade' was a fantastically brave reinvention, and a superlative record, you get the feeling that this is what MCR were born to do; that these larger-than-life, unashamedly over-the-top fantasy figures that stalk the stage, battering their instruments and throwing the kind of camp poses that put Paul Smith to shame (we're looking at you, Gerard Way), are at their most comfortable in this environment, playing science-fiction tinged punk rock and blistering their way through their back catalogue like their very lives depend upon it. Just check the unwieldy sense of urgency that ploughs its way through a breakneck 'Na Na Na', surely one of the finest rock 'n' roll pop songs of the last ten years. The energy is exhilarating, the speed spine tingling and the brevity breathtaking.

And while 'Danger Days' may see MCR at their most cohesive, when they do plumb the depths of their earlier material, the chosen tracks complement their contemporary counterparts exceptionally well. Once-in-a-blue-moon 'Our Lady of Sorrows' benefits from six years of increased technical skill, sounding far more bombastic than it was ever meant to be; 'Give 'Em Hell, Kid' and 'Hang 'Em High' thunder along faster than a speeding bullet; 'Mama' brings the carnival to town, coming on like a slice of hyperbolic pantomime and prompting a mass clicking-of-the-fingers; and of course, 'Welcome to the Black Parade', 'Famous Last Words', 'I'm Not Okay' and 'Helena' rock like absolute bastards, aided and abetted by Ray Toro and Frank Iero's deliciously savage guitar assaults.

Inevitably, the crash queens and motor babies lose their minds to all of these, screaming each word 'til their lungs give out and, on a particularly rowdy 'Teenagers', threatening to obliterate the Arena's overly expensive flooring (it doubles as an ice rink, you know). Interestingly, however, for all these visceral rock 'n' roll thrills are invigorating, it is the quieter moments that provide the biggest highlights. The piano-led reinterpretation of 'The Ghost of You' drips with bitterest melancholy, while 'Cancer', featuring merely James Dewees on keyboard and a barely visible Gerard (bathed in smoke and cutting an eerily imposing figure in silhouette), sends shivers down the spine, so delicate and cracked is the boy Way's voice. It's a soberingly serious moment amongst the dumb fun of the rest of the evening and it's all the more powerful for it.

As boys, girls, mums, dads, freaks and creeps alike stumble out of the Metro Radio Arena tonight, their T-shirts emblazoned with slogans like ART IS THE WEAPON, their hearts and minds battered and bruised from the Technicolor punk rock show they've just witnessed, there's a sense of victory in the air. Victory for My Chemical Romance, who, by their own admission, were teetering on the brink of collapse after 'The Black Parade'; victory for the killjoys, whose devotion continues to prove well justified, and victory for the genre as MCR prove, categorically, that punk rock can translate to the cavernous corporate opulence of the arena environment without losing any of its heart. Louder than God's revolver and twice as shiny, MCR pump out the slaughtomatic sounds to keep you alive and look fucking fantastic doing it. The future IS bulletproof; the aftermath IS secondary and tonight, my friends, My Chemical Romance ARE fucking outstanding.

Review: British Sea Power (w/Teeth of the Sea, Journal Tyne Theatre, Newcastle, 14/02/11)

2011-02-19T04:42:00.001-08:00

There really is no question about it: British Sea Power are a decidedly weird bunch. With a penchant for soundtracking documentaries about islands (2009's 'Man of Aran') and a fondness for all things nautical, the Brighton six piece might be just about the closest thing we have to a quintessentially English band of utter and complete nutters; stark raving lunatics in every possible capacity. They're also refreshingly genuine, refusing with endearing steadfastness to bow to the pressures of that unforgiving beast we call the industry, looking and sounding about as far from the conventions of the Zeitgeist as you can possibly get. Let's face it - those waist-high trousers, sailor suits and pirate boots (we kid you not) are resolutely uncool, the kind of gear your average Topshop employee might puke all over, and frankly, we love 'em for it... which makes tonight's rather reserved performance a tad disappointing.

The completely unfathomable Teeth of the Sea set the scene aptly enough, baffling the few hundred that bothered to show up early with half an hour of cascading cadences, thundering drums, relentless distortion (thank you, Flying V) and precisely no lyrics whatsoever. It's suitably arresting, if slightly flawed in execution: bathed in the brightest of white lights, these Godspeed! wannabes lose a great deal of their lustre. This kind of deranged musical morbidity would be better suited shrouded in darkness; in the cold light of day, the performance falls largely flat. Thankfully, BSP suffer no such technical faux pas, but there is no denying that something is amiss.

Perhaps it's the venue; while the underused Journal Tyne Theatre has some of the finest acoustics in the city and makes an appropriate setting for British Sea Power's particular brand of untempered eccentricity, it is hampered somewhat by its inherent politeness. Punters have little option other than to park bums on designated seats, quietly observing rather than participating, and even when half the crowd get up off their backsides and make a beeline for the stage - promptly creating a pit and hence, one of the finest sights this theatre has ever seen - during 'We Are Sound', there is still very little activity to speak of, very little actual movement. It's a shame really as BSP are certainly heavy enough, bestowing this Valentine's Day crowd with a brash, brusque set taking in a large proportion of their rather more intense numbers (with a strong emphasis on superlative debut 'The Decline of British Sea Power'), the most notable of which is a deliciously messy, sprawling 'Spirit of St. Louis', which closes proceedings in suitably sporadic fashion.

But then, perhaps that's a problem in itself. Maybe these loved-up couples and terribly bitter cynics weren't out for a good rock 'n' rollicking. Maybe they wanted the twisted, maudlin British Sea Power, or the quiet, contemplative British Sea Power, the kind that rears its timid head in the gorgeous 'Blackout'. Or maybe we just expected more from the mad hatters: bereft of headfuckingly bizarre costumes (well, save for the sound guy's Viking helmet), overbearing flags (yes, they do play 'Waving Flags' and of course, it's amazing) and general weirdness, BSP appear a little exposed, slightly uncomfortable in the nakedness of their surroundings. Sure, we get the obligatory foliage - thrown crowdwards by night's end - but you can't help feeling that tonight, it isn't quite enough and that, given the chance, British Sea Power would rather have hidden behind their gimmicks.

And perhaps that's a little unfair. BSP are unquestionably good: their set is a strong mix, the performance is largely note perfect, they play 'The Great Skua', and Newcastle is most appreciative of the fact. It's just... well, from the guys responsible for their own brand of clotted cream fudge, we kinda expected a little bit more. And they could at least have played 'No Lucifer', jeez...

Review: NME Awards Tour (Crystal Castles/Magnetic Man/Everything Everything/The Vaccines), Newcastle O2 Academy, 07/02/11

2011-02-10T15:40:00.000-08:00

Another year, another NME Awards Tour and another round of much-heralded wannabes from the indie Zeitgeist, clawing to translate the magazine's excessive cock sucking into actual record sales. To be fair to the commendably diverse bunch on tonight's bill, they're all on the cusp of greater things, having wormed their way into the alternative consciousness by virtue of either a few undeniably catchy indie/electronica-pop ditties or the helping hand of the well-oiled hype machine. The question, of course, is whether they can earn their stripes and convince the rabid masses that they're worthy of their time, effort and download limits.

Unfortunately, things don't go too well for The Vaccines. Crippled by an atrocious sound guy, who seems determined to project internal organs out of mouths by turning the bass up to life-threatening, their four-to-the-floor indie scuzz gets lost in a sea of overbearing distortion, leaving the first half of the set pallid and lacking in character. The band seem acutely aware of the problem, going through the motions for the majority of the performance, and only really coming alive when 'Post Break Up Sex' wakes everyone up. Unfortunately, the three minute exercise in relentless drone-making sounds even worse live than on record, but nevertheless, the boys, girls, mums and dads in the audience get themselves all excited and, you know, jump up and down a bit. 'Wrecking Bar (Ra Ra Ra)' very nearly saves the day, sounding positively invigorating for its wonderfully brief one minute and twenty-four seconds, but sadly, the set doesn't end here and the Vaccines continue for a further ten minutes of incomprehensible caterwauling.

Local heroes Everything Everything suffer too. Lead singer Jonathan Higgs' vocals are too low down in the mix and their uniquely intricate, delicately flavoured sound becomes lost in translation in such an imposing venue. All is not entirelyn lost, however: 'Schoolin' and 'MY KZ YR BF' sound thrilling and 'Photoshop Handsome' is one of the evening's undeniable highlights, giving the crowd the first excuse to shake their asses in fantastically embarrassing fashion. And the Devo-esque full body uniforms are pretty nifty too.

Magnetic Man is essentially an exercise in pantomime, with hired hand Sgt Pokes proving a most effective showman, adept at working this bounciest of crowds (incite a repetitive action, praise the crowd, crack a terrible joke/pun and repeat ad nauseum). However, he does seem a bit of a waste: there's no actual skill involved here, no rapping and barely any MCing. The DJs don't really do much either, essentially playing a bunch of records for half an hour, while Newcastle goes ape shit. This might as well be a Friday night at Digital, for which we'd all pay a hell of a lot less. It doesn't help that every song sounds the bleedin' same: take one grime/dubstep-influenced 'dirty' beat, add a few vocoder effects, sprinkle with some keyboard wizardry and hey presto, you've got yourselves a hit.

Crystal Castles suffer from no such problem; their undeniably varied palette is every possible shade of shite imaginable. The aural equivalent of a prolonged enema, these guys are an excruciating migraine of a band, whose primary remit appears to be to spew as much pretentious wank as possible on an unsuspecting public before imploding in a haze of their own bullshit. Unfortunately guys, a load of incomprehensible screaming and a Spectrum ZX81 do not a good record make.

And yet, strangely, there's something undeniably captivating about their live show. Like all good car wrecks, it's just impossible to look away; Alice Glass cuts a mean, imposing figure stood atop the monitors, perched on her broken ankle (now there's a commendable feat... performing with such a painful injury and jumping up and down on it), beckoning to the crowd, goading the masses, looking like the coolest fucker in the world. And then there's Ethan Kath, silent as a mouse, face hidden by his hoodie, quietly ushering those otherworldly noises out of his CASIO keyboard (or whatever the hell it is). They're shrouded in darkness of course, punctuated only by the myriad strobe lights that threaten to blind the pill-happy audience. It's an arresting visual and one that ensures you won't take your eyes off the stage. Now if only we could press the 'mute' button.

So, the verdict? The jury is well and truly out. There are no legendary moments, no game-changing, once-in-a-lifetime performances, but there are no unmitigated disasters either. The Vaccines come closest to disappointing us, losing their oomph thanks to some very poor sound decisions, but even these guys have their ace in the hole. Everything Everything have moments that impress, Magnetic Man steal the audience's hearts despite sounding somewhat monochrome and Crystal Castles achieve the unenviable feat of convincing even the most vehement of haters that they're at least worth watching. Not quite the well-rounded success story these bright young things would've wanted but hell, it's a start, eh?

Review: Funeral Party (w/Flashguns and Barcode, The Cluny, 03/02/11)

2011-02-04T12:45:00.000-08:00

Bit of a miserable night for a Funeral Party. As the gale force winds batter the fortified Victorian ramparts of the Ouseburn's finest drinking hole and the heavens promptly take a gigantic whiz all over the good folk of Newcastle, a few hundred dour-faced punters huddle together for protection, waiting for the Zeitgeist's flavour of the week - Zane Lowe narrates their ads, they *must* be hotly tipped - to carry us away on a wave of distorted guitars, errant cowbells and visceral rock 'n' roll thrills... but before we get round to the business of throwing shapes, there's Barcode to contend with. Perennially besotted with Gang of Four, just like EVERY OTHER BAND TO HAVE COME OUT OF SUNDERLAND EVER, these guys have hooks aplenty, sure, but they're just not sure how to use them. Their brief six song set reads like a Who's Who of contemporary indie-rock, taking in Two Door Cinema Club, Bloc Party, The Hives, Biffy Clyro's 'Folding Stars' and even, at one low point, Jet. The songs aren't bad per se, but the band lack focus and would benefit from concentrating on a sound of their own. And someone needs to get that bassist to shed a few garments for the next show. Talk about untapped sex appeal.

Fortunately, second support Flashguns have no such problems. Youthful of countenance and perfect of cheekbone, the Southern noise merchants have both the boys and girls coming over all giddy for the majority of their deliciously ethereal set. These boys are gifted with the most beautiful voices this side of a Wild Beasts record and they make the most of it, gently caressing each slice of fuzzy Americana with otherworldly vocal duets, the most notable of which is 'Passion of a Different Kind', which leaves the sold out crowd dumbstruck. It's a truly mesmerising performance, threatening to upstage the main attraction.

And to Flashguns's credit, they very nearly do. For a short while, the hype machine is almost too much for Funeral Party; the opening run of soundalike album tracks lacks pizzazz, despite a concerted effort to liven up proceedings by inflating a bunch of balloons in honour of the bassist's birthday. While this brings the arms-folded brigade to life, sending slogans like 'SORRY YOU'RE LEAVING' soaring around the venue and bouncing off people's heads, it doesn't disguise the lack of a detectable hook in many of these songs; if anything, it further exposes their weaknesses and the boys from the Party seem to know it, appearing initially tempered rather than animated, shying away from engagement with the masses.

Fortunately, it doesn't last long. As soon as the monumental 'Just Because' rears its filthy head, band and crowd come alive and lead singer Chad Elliott lets the music swallow him up, leaping off the drumkit, wrapping the microphone lead around himself, his band and quite probably a few audience members, goading us into action. Before long, he's screaming every other word, loading 'Youth & Poverty' with purest, guttural rage, and James Torres responds in kind, thrashing seven shades of shit out of his manhandled guitar. This is the untempered, primal noise that the good people of Los Angeles spunked all over in the early months of 2010. This is the justification for the front covers, the billboards and the action figures (well, maybe some day).

Inevitably, the loudest screams and the most energetic jumps are reserved for the cyclone of indie-punk noise that is 'New York Moves To The Sound of L.A.', which sounds especially huge this evening, all unfathomable guitar chops and acrylic percussion. It's a perfectly maniacal end to the Party, descending into a haze of sweat and distortion... and then it's one-upped by the presentation of the bassist's birthday cake, which he promptly showers the crowd with, covering us all in chocolaty goodness. It's an appropriately messy, impromptu climax (hur hur) and one that adds an additional touch of character to an already vibrant performance. A bit of a miserable night, sure, but one hell of a Party.

Review: Band of Horses (Newcastle O2 Academy, 26/01/11)

2011-01-29T14:54:00.000-08:00

Well hello, Band of Horses. It's been a while. Too long for some, if the deafening round of applause that greets the arrival of the Seattle six piece is anything to judge by. Newcastle's prestigious O2 Academy may not be sold out this evening but it certainly feels like it and there's little doubt that our favourite alt-rock-cum-Americana-folksters (okay, so perhaps that's a bit over the top) are rather stoked about this fact. Cheesy grins and awestruck exclamations are the order of the day for the snazzily-dressed noisemakers and consequently, the ninety minutes we share in their company are characterised by one thing only: the determination to have some fun.

Yes, Band of Horses are here to have a gosh-darned-it good time and they want you to share the experience. Sure, their music may lapse more often than not into melancholia and it's not as if any of the songs they deign to unleash on us this evening would go down particularly well at parties, but what the hey, let's stamp our feet, shake our heads and bellow the words like this is Muse at Wembley Stadium. Or something equally as spine-tingling. How hard can it be? Too hard for Newcastle, apparently. For all this is a resolutely attentive and considerably devoted crowd, there's barely a hint of movement for the majority of the set. Instead, the good folk of this most acclaimed of 'party cities' prefer to keep their feet firmly on the ground, their eyes focused squarely on the stage and their minds free of anything that might allow the music to animate them. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, of course; there's no question that everyone here is having a wail of a time, but it does leave the whole experience feeling a little staid. The general ignorance doesn't help matters: if it isn't from 'Cease To Begin', the Geordies haven't a clue, which leads Ben to request that 'if anyone knows the words to any of these, just let us know' around six songs in.

This disappointment is only momentary, however. Band of Horses's skillful command of the stage quickly allows all thoughts of the audience's failings to fitter away to nothing and attention turns to the powerful depth of emotion inherent in their performance. The 'Infinite Arms' numbers nail introspection, Ben joining Tyler for an achingly tender run through 'Evening Kitchen' (pity some 'dildo', as Ben describes him, almost ruins it by shouting throughout the song). 'Cigarettes, Wedding Bands' and 'The Funeral' rock like absolute bastards, building and building to their inevitable crescendos and exploding in a shower of deliciously fuzzy guitar haze, the likes of which were last seen when The Arcade Fire shot their load all over the main stage at Glastonbury.

And then, of course, there's 'Is There A Ghost?' - met with the loudest singalong of the evening and matching all our expectations, glistening with intensity - and 'No One's Gonna Love You', cracked, broken, imperfect and just plain brilliant. Eyes are shut, fists are clenched, arms are flung around lovers and tears fall down the faces of the broken hearted as Newcastle finally allows itself a moment of untempered enjoyment. If Band of Horses have a legacy, it will surely be the remarkable honesty and resonance of this song, their 'It's My Own Cheating Heart...', their 'Don't Look Back In Anger', their 'Hallelujah'. The gig is much more than these three minutes but they encapsulate the band's genius more effectively than any two bit cliche we could hope to muster up.

There's little doubt that tonight's 23 song soiree is a resounding success (and yes, that even takes into account the static shots of trees, animals and suburban vistas that make up the visuals) but then, when you're presented with a group of individuals with the depth of talent on display here, it would be churlish to expect anything less. The jury's still out on the audience - attentiveness is great sure, but a little animation wouldn't go amiss - but then, that's Newcastle's problem. Band of Horses gave this city every last weapon in their impressive arsenal and that, my friends, is all we really need.

Review: This Familiar Smile (Head of Steam, Newcastle, 24/01/11)

2011-01-29T14:13:00.000-08:00

The Head of Steam isn't exactly the most forgiving of venues. Crammed into the back of an all-too-minute shoebox of a room, bands tend to find themselves faced with one of two less than desirable situations: overbearing indifference, wherein a handful of punters stand so far away from the makeshift stage area that they're invisible to the naked eye, or, as is the case on this most bitter of January evenings, the considerable crowd shoves its way to the front enthusiastically, and you're forced to play in their faces, making direct contact, looking into the whites of their eyes and realising that, yup, your fuck-ups are sodding unmissable. It's a terrifying thought and one that would perturb even the most consummate of professionals. It's testament to the steadfast brilliance of This Familiar Smile's blistering live show that it doesn't faze them one bit.

Tonight, the Ayrshire four piece are positively gargantuan; in the face of unprecedented, demanding devotion (check out the hecklers, howlers and the downright insane boys and girls who make up the first few rows), they harness as much energy as their youthful bodies can muster, launching themselves and their instruments head-first into a thrillingly chaotic haze of distortion, aggression and mind-boggingly sporadic tempo changes. Passion seems to ooze from every pore in lead singer David Samson's diminutive body; he screams, snarls and throws shapes throughout the blink-and-you'll-miss-it thirty minute set, taking out all his frustration on the venue's poor microphone and his own battered and bruised guitar. More often than not, he's bent double over the well-worn instrument, thrashing relentlessly at a speed previously unbeknownst to man, letting the music swallow him whole.

And what music. This evening's performance is cut primarily from debut release 'Ribbons, Regards and the More Machine', one of 2010's independent highlights, and consequently, there is a distinctly edgy undercurrent to events. Opener 'How The Conversation Started' sets the tone perfectly, amalgamating shards of scattershot post-punk, prototypical Scottish rock 'n' roll (think Twin Atlantic), early noughties/late nineties emo - you know, the kind that's actually listenable, a la 'Your Favorite Weapon' - and, most importantly, both the ethos and the sound of math rock. Yes, you read that right folks: the genre most commonly associated with such indie luminaries as Foals and Battles is right here, mixed suitably well into This Familiar Smile's delicious melting pot, giving them the extra ingredient needed to set them apart from their peers. Songs change rhythm without warning; tempo adjusts so often, you lose the ability to keep any sort of time; and the conventional 'quiet-loud-quiet-loud' formula is reshaped into something far, far more invigorating.

And while this is undoubtedly the band's greatest strength, it is their ability to juxtapose such frantic unpredictability with moments of the most tender beauty that ensures they'll go far. 'More Machine's wonderful bonus track, the untitled end to '...And Other Short Stories', is two minutes and thirty seconds of paradoxically delectable heartbreak, a song positively drippimg with melancholy. David is left alone to pour his heart out, wrenching each line from the deep, dark denizens of his gut, loading the lyrics with meaning. There's a rapturous round of applause once he's finished - almost a standing ovation - and it's undeniably well deserved.

Don't let the moniker fool you: there's very little familiar about This Familiar Smile. Their music draws from myriad influences, sure, and you might be able to catch a snippet of Brand New here and a glimpse of Biffy Clyro there but for the most part, these guys make their curious blend of punk, thrash, emo and math rock their own, and do so with style, panache and a healthy dose of impassioned aggression. The Head of Steam may be unforgiving but TFS are unrelenting and at the end of the day, that makes them pretty darn unforgettable.

Review: Twin Atlantic (w/Stagecoach, Live Lounge, Durham, 21/01/11)

2011-01-23T06:14:00.000-08:00

Compare and contrast: roughly one year ago - give or take a few weeks - Twin Atlantic were sweating their internal organs out in The Other Rooms, just up the road in neighbouring (well, sorta) Newcastle, watching 200-or-so rabid punters hurling themselves at the world's smallest stage, not giving a rat's ass about the well being of themselves or anyone else around them. The resultant melee was thrilling, a cyclone of untethered, erratic energy that you just couldn't help but get swept up in.

Tonight, however, there's an altogether different story being told. Rather than some intimate pressure cooker, we have a cavernous, imposing former theatre; in place of the piss-stained, flaking walls, there are overpowering video screens and instead of 200 sweaty lunatics looking for a good time, we have 150 casual observers (wrapped comfortably in their coats and scarves to fight off the unfathomable draft that sweeps through the venue), content to let the music wash over them rather than drum up any sort of response to it. There are pockets of resistance to this indifference: a handful of devotees, determined to attack the discordant guitars and sporadic rhythms with every muscle in their scrawny bodies, but they number few and in this former Walkabout (yes, you read that right), their power is seriously diminished.

It's a shame really, as both Twin Atlantic and refreshingly bizarre support Stagecoach (terrible name mind, guys) are on fire this evening, making every conceivable effort to whip their audience into some semblance of activity. Stagecoach's preference is to leap from the elevated stage into the pit, forcing Durham to sit up and pay attention. They're a decidedly curious bunch, decked out in Diana Vickers T-shirts and all-too-short short shorts, playing a peculiar brand of off-kilter power pop, and while there are some questionable lyrical moments - the song that rhymes 'freezer' with 'pizza' is of particular note - their arresting eccentricity carries them through. Unfortunately, they're a little kooky for the cool kids in the crowd, and Durham remains steadfastly perplexed when they hand their mandolin to one check-shirted punter at the end of the set, who promptly does absolutely nothing with it. Give that thing to the lunatics in Newcastle and it would've been smashed into a hundred pieces in five minutes.

Perhaps agitated by this indifference, Twin Atlantic try their damnedest to provoke a reaction, coming out with all guns blazing, tearing current single 'Edit Me' a new one, turning up the volume and obliterating everyone's eardrums in the process. To be fair, a few are won over, prompting the occasional flurry of activity, but for the most part, folded arms and politely nodding heads are the order of the day; yes, even when Sam McTrusty implores Durham to do better than this on a Friday night, insulting us all in a semi-sorta-round-about-kinda way. Still, there comes a point at which even the most ardent and wizened of showmen must admit defeat and just let the music speak for itself which, thankfully, even in this all-too-gargantuan venue, it does expertly.

Sensibly, this is a 'Vivarium'-heavy set, punctuated with the occasional newbie - all deliciously loud and frighteningly aggressive - and the requisite ancient tracks for the dedicated (you probably know the drill by now: the intense 'A Guidance From Colour', the beautiful 'Crashland'). The singles are all here in earnest: 'Lightspeed' stands tall, its cascade of mighty guitars towering over our heads; 'You're Turning Into John Wayne' is full of bile, hissing and spitting at a nameless target; 'Audience and Audio' is a behemoth of punk aggression and 'Human After All' and 'What Is Light? Where Is Laughter?' rock like a couple of drunken bastards at a Slayer after-show. 'Caribbean War Syndrome' is the unquestionable highlight, however, managing to sound even more epic than on record, taking Durham on a roller coaster ride of thrills, spills and juxtapositions, careering along at a breakneck pace, ready to fall apart one minute and offering moments of tenderest beauty the next. It's a work of unquestionable genius, a song so ridiculously amazing that you want to crawl inside it and set up home, and tonight, Twin Atlantic do every last millisecond justice.

There's little doubt, therefore, that these guys are now absolute masters of their craft, having transformed into a well-oiled, highly accomplished live act. It's just a shame that Durham couldn't get itself a little more excited by that fact. Throw 'em in the Fishtank next time and let the devotees show 'em how it's done.

Review: Pulled Apart By Horses (w/These Monsters and Young Legionnaire), The Cluny, 11/01/11

2011-01-15T17:40:00.001-08:00

This isn't a gig, it's a bloc party in a lunatic asylum. Burly, balding blokes in skin-tight H&M T-shirts slam recklessly into scarf-wearing scene kids, sending their skinny asses flying into the Cluny's quaint Victorian brick walls or over the dangerously unprotected monitors at the foot of the stage, bruising a fair few ribcages and doubtless causing the put-upon sound guy to have a heart attack. And this, ladies and gents, is just during the support acts. Fellow Leeds noiseniks These Monsters set the tone for the evening, firing wave after wave of barbed, incomprehensible speed rock at an already agitated audience. Lead singer Samuel Pryor spits and snarls his way through a brusque set, making absolutely no sense whatsoever and flitting around the stage like a caged animal, full of nervous energy.

It's a thrilling ride, and is one that continues apace during semi-sorta-super-group (Gordon from Bloc Party's in 'em!) Young Legionnaire, whose weirdly sporadic sound - think Future of the Left fucking Minus the Bear's brains out - is intriguingly obtuse. Drums, guitar and bass rarely seem to work in tandem, instead playing off one another, keeping separate time, working to a different beat. The human anatomy doesn't really know how to respond to such schizophrenia; consequently, everyone just jumps around recklessly, keeping no discernable time, which in turn spurs the Legionnaires to up the ante and give Newcastle their all.

And so to Pulled Apart By Horses. Having been forced to cancel their November show at the last minute due to illness, the Leeds four piece are in high spirits this evening, making screwball wisecracks about 79p condoms made of sheepskin and remarking on the philosophical delights to be found in the Cluny toilets. None of this detracts from the music, however, as tonight Matthew, the Horses make just about the most invigorating angry white boy noise that it is possible to create with two guitars, one bass, a hefty drumkit and a few larynxes. The onslaught is unforgiving: 'Hey Buddy', 'Back to the Fuck Yeah', 'I Punched A Lion In The Throat'... one by one, they slay the hungry masses, belted out with unrelenting fury and unparalleled passion.

Newcastle responds in kind: bodies fly across the room, over-enthusiastic teens climb from floor to balcony and leap off, T-shirts, sweaters and hats are torn to pieces in a whirlwind of aggression, and around a third of the crowd manage to share the stage with the band, making it a clusterfuck of blood, sweat and adrenalin. To the latter, the Horses respond by pushing unsuspecting audience members floorwards, to make room for lead singer Tom Hudson's own foray into the crowd. It isn't long before he makes his escape, however, and soon enough, he's clambering over the balcony, falling onto tables while hammering his guitar, subjecting our ears to howls of violent feedback.

And if this isn't sufficiently thrilling, try out a prolonged 'High Five, Swan Dive, Nose Dive' in which guitarist James Brown abandons his instrument and swings from the ceiling immediately above the stage onto the lighting rig that hangs over the pit, hovering there for minutes, threatening to bring the whole structure crashing down onto his audience. The sound guy has his head in his hands (probably) and doubtless health and safety would have a field day with this naughty scamp but fact is, if the 300 or so punters found their young lives cut short this evening, they'd probably think it was an appropriate way to go. Newcastle and Pulled Apart by Horses get along like a house on fire; kicking the shit out of each other and loving every bloody minute.

Comment is free

2011-01-10T13:21:00.000-08:00

Fellow blogger Dan.Eliot was clearly moved by my Week in Bullshit Music News post yesterday. So moved, in fact, that after intricately reading every single word, he felt moved to provide the following, considered comment:

Blogger Dan.Eliot said...

Divorce is the end of a happy life. Divorce is certainly an end, but it can also be a beginning to a new and fulfilling life being a singledad or mom. It is possible to build a better life post-divorce than the one you had before. Figure out what it is that you want out of life, and what you need to do to get there. For advice and help Visit:

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Well thanks Dan for that insightful and enlightening comment. I see you really took your time to absorb everything that was said and provide a measured and thought-provoking response. Mr. Eliot, it's considerate people like you that restore my faith in both the Internet and humanity. Please, call again.

I wouldn't recommend clicking the link to 'Single Dad Financial Help dot com' mind you. Probably for the best.

The week in bullshit music news. And music.

2011-01-09T09:14:00.000-08:00

In the most odious item of music news to come spewing from the bowels of the industry this week, it was revealed that Peter Andre has been named the 'hardest working artist of 2010' in the PRS For Music poll, whose criteria have to be the most ludicrous ever invented. It's based on the number of arena gigs that bands and artists play in a single year. So you know, someone like Frank Turner, who's on the road VIRTUALLY EVERY SINGLE DAY OF THE YEAR, while recording new material, dueting with other artists, appearing in Dive Dive videos, blogging and reinventing the wheel, wouldn't even get a look in. Play 120 arena gigs though and wham, you're worthy of an accolade. Bull and shit.

Let's have a look at few videos/songs that caught our attention this week, shall we?

JESSIE J

She's the BBC's 'Choice for 2011' and the latest 'sensation set to rock the music world' (thanks, Vevo). Here she is getting her autotuned-lesbo on in the garishly awful 'Do It Like A Dude'. The feminist in me really wants to like this too... but I just can't. Sorry.

BROTHER

It's not Britpop, apparently. It's Gritpop. It's fucking shite, is what it is. Plodding dad-rock/indie bollocks with the obligatory Union Jack backdrops for added cuntishness. They want to be 'the biggest band in the world'. They'll be fish and chip shop staff by September.

BEADY EYE

'You didn't know what to saaaaaay/It all came at you todaaaay/Can't get out your own waaaaaaay.' More inspired lyricism from the man behind 'Little James' on Beady Eye's 'first single proper' (what does that even mean? Why are we being force-fed false starts, lads? Were 'Bring The Light' and that other one not deemed good enough? Actually yeah, that's probably about right...) Sounding not too unlike around 46 Oasis songs you could name off the top of your head ('Lyla' certainly springs to mind), 'The Roller' is, well... a big ol' steaming pile of meh. Bland doesn't even begin to describe this plodder. Come on Noel, get crackin' with that solo record...

In other hugely exciting news, John Lydon has confirmed that he may potentially sorta kinda possibly be gonna think about recording new material with the Sex Pistols. Let's hope the new record is as anti-establishment and revolutionary as those butter adverts. However good the geriatric reunion record might be, it will obviously pale into insignificance, however, when placed next to THE RELEASE OF THE YEAR, coming to a record store near you on January 31st. That's right folks, I'm talking about the long-awaited release of Good Charlotte's Greatest Hits, a record so bereft of redeeming features that not even brokENCYDE would admit to owning a copy. Probably.

Evanescence have revealed that they are going to change the shape of the music industry as we know it with their new album. Is there a human being alive that believes this shit?

A Cheeky Girl (what, they have names?) was cautioned for supposed shoplifting. I'm sure Sainsbury's were reeling over the potential loss of £8.99 on the 'moisteuriser, salad and large bottle of water' that Ms. Irimia almost walked out with.

Chris Martin has given an intricate, in-depth account of the major themes, concepts and ideas set to astound the world when Coldplay's seven millionth record is unleashed, sorry, released, on a, um, fairly disinterested world in 2011. Martin really gets down to the nitty gritty in this interview, revealing that "[the record]'s supposed to be about life, the good stuff and the bad stuff. Everything." Yeah, bet you didn't see that coming, huh? What a concept!

Travis Barker revealed he's releasing a solo record in February. A solo drumming record. Songs united solely by the fact that he DRUMS ON THEM. Um.

Dani Filth's delightful face has been removed from a poll that attempts to find the photograph that best represents the wonderful county of Suffolk, despite having received 13,000 votes. An official explained that, "While some of the images on the site may have gained a larger proportion of visitors' votes, the panel felt their list of finalists displays the required credentials to act as representative iconic images of Suffolk." Uh huh. So you've jury-rigged the poll so it fits your middle-England tinged view of what best represents Suffolk. Wouldn't want to offend those Mail readers with something like this, eh?

Oh yeah and HMV are closing 60 stores across the UK. Well, actually, 20 of those are Waterstones outlets but no one seems to give a damn about that little fact. Anyhow, Popjustice offer an interesting theory, with supplemental evidence, as to why this may be here.

And you call yourselves music journalists?

2011-01-09T08:57:00.001-08:00

So much music news to comment on this week but before I write something lengthier, I'd like to quickly draw your attention to a little article currently splashed across the front page of NME.com, which claims that Amy Winehouse covered Green Day's 'Boulevard of Broken Dreams' at her comeback show in Brazil last night.

One swift, ten second Youtube search reveals that actually, the reality is somewhat different:

Yes, that'll be the Al Dubin/Harry Warren 30s classic, NME. You know, this one.

And no, I care not that it is actually the good old Sun website that originally made the greivous error. They seem to have retracted all reference to the supposed cover . NME should know better than to source their material from two bit right wing arserags with the reading age of a nine year old.

And they call themselves music journalists.

Naming your band after a Ryan Adams song automatically makes you awesome

2011-01-06T15:02:00.000-08:00

Manchester's superbly-punned City Reign know the score. Check out their particular brand of Americana-tinged indie rock with the video for new single 'Out in the Cold', below.

Oh My Heart

2011-01-05T13:39:00.001-08:00

Another track from the new R.E.M. album, 'Collapse Into Now', can be heard here. Little more gentle, this one.

"I'm into points a lot... but they're not your average points"

2011-01-04T10:33:00.000-08:00

THIS IS HIP-HOP! from Airwave Ranger on Vimeo.

New Twin Atlantic track

2011-01-04T09:09:00.000-08:00

As well as a whole host of other interesting material (including the new ...And You Will Know Us By The Trail of Dead single), there's an ace new Twin Atlantic track - 'Edit Me' - to be found at around 1hr 42mins on the Radio 1 Rock Show, which you can have a wee listen to here.

11 for 2011 (part two)

2011-01-02T06:30:00.000-08:00

DIVE DIVE

If three quarters of this Oxford art rock outfit seem familiar, that's probably because you've seen them adding a touch of oomph to a Frank Turner live show near you. Yes, nowadays, bassist Tarrant, guitarist Ben and drummer Nigel make up the majority of the ex-Million Dead singer's backing band, but waaaay back in the halcyon days of 2001, they got together with vocalist Jamie Stuart to make music as Dive Dive. While their free time is currently very sparse thanks to Turner's relentless touring and recording schedule, they still found a few hours in 2010 to record brilliant third album 'Potential', which is available online now, with physical copies on sale in late January. Definitely ones to look out for.

MAX RAPTOR

There's something refreshingly visceral about Max Raptor's four-to-the-floor punk 'n' roll racket, characterised most potently by their riproaringly intense live shows. Thus far, they've managed to rack up support slots for Billy Talent, The Stranglers and, um, The Zutons, and if there's any justice, there'll be no end in sight during 2011. With a lead singer whose gravelly, gutteral voice is a match for Tom Gabel's and an uncanny knack for a catchy, yet aggressive, chorus - stand up and be counted 'Ghosts' and 'The Great and the Good' - these guys should most certainly go far. Public, make it happen.

RAMONA

Up-tempo, jangly guitars, lush, melodic choruses, sugar sweet female vocals... yes, ladies and gentlemen, Ramona are a Blondie for the twenty-teens (do you have a better name for the decade? Huh?) and they're not afraid to admit it. Well, if you could write delicious pop songs as effortlessly as these guys, you'd be happy to let the comparison stick too. Listen to 'How Long' now and irritate your co-workers with it for days.

THE WELLINGTONS

Criminally overlooked by the UK music scene for years, Melbourne-based power popsters The Wellingtons have an uncanny knack for putting a gigantic smile on your face with their shiny happy melodies and bright, sparkly choruses, sounding somewhat reminiscent of Motion City Soundtrack, Fountains of Wayne and post-'Green Album' Weezer. They're releasing their fourth - yes, fourth! - record this year and it's about time the good folk of these hallowed Isles cosied on up to their irresistible charms. Go on... you won't be able to resist, we promise.

SKETCHES

Leeds boys Sketches marry delicate, lilting vocals with the angular indie theatrics of Bloc Party and Editors, driving each sumptuous track with the kind of wiry, high-pitched riffs that Russell Lissack has wet dreams about. Having recently finished a mini-tour of the UK supporting US luminaries Minus the Bear, and also featured on the BBC Introducing stage at 2010's Reading and Leeds Festivals, these guys look set to be the new dah-lings on every industry jobber's lips in 2011. But don't let that put you off. They're ace. Believe.

11 for 2011 (part one)

2011-01-01T11:58:00.000-08:00

Wherein Screenaged Kicks introduces you to eleven bands/artists you really should investigate this year. You'll feel better for it, honestly. Part two coming tomorrow.

JAPANESE VOYEURS

Promising to 'bring you a bag of rot gathered from the festering cesspools of the human psyche', Japanese Voyeurs make the kind of breathtakingly ferocious, intensely schziophrenic grunge-punk noise that gave Sonic Youth their edge circa 'Death Valley '69'. Only louder. And a thousand times more sinister. Check them out on the Rock Sound Exposure Tour, coming to an Academy 2 near you in February.

THISFAMILIARSMILE

Glasgow's best kept secret for years, Thisfamiliarsmile sit somewhere between The Get Up Kids and Flood of Red, amalgamating a quintessentially Scottish brand of scattershot punk rock with a more introspective and, dare we say it, emo(tive) palatte. Once the kids tire of the sugar sweet pop punk that currently dominates the alternative scene - and they soon will, - this is where they'll turn to next.

FATHERSON

Where The Water Meets The Land EP Promo - Fatherson from Joshua Porter on Vimeo.

Another Scottish three piece, Kilmarnock's Fatherson are currently making some considerable waves as a result of a series of high profile support slots, opening for such luminaries as The Xcerts, Feeder and, most recently, the superlative Idlewild. The attention is well deserved: the band's sound is both intricate and epic, marrying the stop-start sporadicisms of Twin Atlantic and Biffy Clyro with the soaring sonic intensity of Manchester Orchestra's 'Mean Everything to Nothing' and 'Devil and God'-era Brand New. Spend your pocket money on their 'Where The Water Meets The Land' EP now and prepare for the inevitable debut masterpiece later in the year.

THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Scotland produces some of the most interesting, diverse and downright amazing bands that this crazy old beast called the music industry has to offer. This Glaswegian five piece sound quite unlike anything currently worming its way through the Zeitgeist, with the possible exception of British Sea Power, and therein lies their strength: the mournful trombones, melancholic violins, colossal vocals and unique harmonics create something captivatingly ethereal and breathtakingly cathartic. And they bloody rock live, too.

EVER SINCE THE LAKE CAUGHT FIRE

Circling the edges of Newcastle's alternative scene for some time now, Ever Since The Lake Caught Fire seem to have finally caught the attention of the all-important industry bigwigs - resulting in their single 'The Sea' being playlisted on BBC Introducing - and with the right promo and marketing, could skyrocket to superstardom in 2011. Or at the very least, get themselves a record deal. This is spiky, post-punk indie topped off with a healthy dose of eccentricity and it's bloody marvellous. Check out 'Warden Rock' on Spotify and subject your subconscious to one of the hooks of the year.

LANTERNS ON THE LAKE

Fellow BBC Introducing stalwarts Lanterns on the Lake are a somewhat more subdued listening experience than Ever Since The Lake Caught Fire but that does not make their music any less powerful. The North Eastern six piece are the masters of sonic crescendo, building from delicate beginnings to epic, soaring highs courtesy of guitars played with violin bows and, um, violins played with, er, violin bows. Yeah. If you like The Arcade Fire - and you should - then you won't be able to resist being swept along for the ride.

POKE NYE 2010 Room 1 setlist

2011-01-01T10:48:00.000-08:00

What we played to see in 2011...

Little Comets: Isles
The Kissaway Trail: New Lipstick
Stars: Fixed
The Pains of Being Pure at Heart: Heart in Your Heartbreak
The Divine Comedy: Gin Soaked Boy
We Are Scientists: Nice Guys
These New Puritans: Elvis
Sleigh Bells: Tell Em
Les Savy Fav: Disco Drive
Sonic Youth: My Friend Goo
Units: High Pressure Days (Rory Phillips Mix)
Underworld: Cups (Salt City Orchestra Mix)
Caribou: Odessa
Two Bears: Church
Throbbing Gristle: Hot on the Heels of Love
Free Association: Sugar Man
Ruth: Polaroid/Roman/Photo
Bow Wow Wow: I Want Candy
Richard Hell and the Voidoids: Blank Generation
The White Stripes: The Hardest Button to Button
Hole: Celebrity Skin
Boy George: Funtime
Nina Hagen: The News
Grace Jones: Warm Leatherette
Dandy Livingstone: Rudy (A Message To You)
Blondie: Dreaming
X-Ray Spex: The Day The World Turned Day-Glo
The Clash: Spanish Bombs
Beck: The New Pollution
Bjork: Army of Me
Bloc Party: Banquet
Radiohead: Bodysnatchers
Goldfrapp: Ride A White Horse
Friendly Fires: Paris
Robyn: Indestructable
Yeasayer: O.N.E.
Foals: Total Life Forever
Talking Heads: Wild Wild Life
Joy Division: Transmission
The Pixies: Monkey Gone To Heaven
Suede: Filmstar
Pulp: Mis-Shapes
The Arcade Fire: Rebellion (Lies)
Wild Beasts: All The King's Men
Interpol: Slow Hands
The Gossip: Heavy Cross (Yuksek Mix)
The Prodigy: Girls (Rex The Dog Mix)
Mark Ronson: Somebody To Love Me (Holy Ghost Mix)
Baby Oliver: Feelings 2
Lil Louis: French Kiss
New Order: Blue Monday
S-Express: Stupid Little Girls (J'bag Mix)
Does It Offend You, Yeah?: Let's Make Out
PJ Harvey: This Is Love

And... it's 2011!

Jesus Loves You: Generations of Love
The Slits: I Heard It Through The Grapevine
Salt n Pepa: Push It
Peaches: Boys Wanna Be Her
Yeah Yeah Yeahs: Date With The Night
Siouxsie and the Banshees: Cities In Dust
David Bowie: Jean Genie
Super Furry Animals: Golden Retriever
Ike and Tina Turner: Nutbush City Limits
Missy Elliot: Get Ur Freak On
Fun Lovin' Criminals: The Fun Lovin' Criminal
Justin Timberlake: Lovestoned
Moloko: Pure Pleasure Seeker
Neon Neon: Told Her on Alderaan
Ladytron: Destroy Everything You Touch
The Chemical Brothers: Do It Again
Depeche Mode: Personal Jesus
Scissor Sisters: Laura
The Smiths: Ask
The Cure: Friday I'm In Love
Blondie: Hangin' on the Telephone
Ramones: Sheena Is A Punk Rocker
Buzzcocks: Ever Fallen In Love (With Someone You Shouldn't've?)
The Undertones: Teenage Kicks
The Jam: Start!
Iggy Pop: The Passenger
The Knack: My Sharona
Prince: Cream
Soul II Soul: Back To Life
Peaches: Why Don't You Talk To Me?
Yeah Yeah Yeahs: Heads Will Roll
Primal Scream: Moving On Up
Pulp: Common People
Friendly Fires: Jump In The Pool (Thin White Duke Mix)
Justice: D.V.N.O. (Surkin Mix)
Orbital: Nothing Left (Les Rhythmes Digitales Mix)
Mystery Jets: Two Doors Down
The Fog: Been a Long Time
Mark Ronson: Bang Bang
Basement Jaxx: Red Alert
Nouvelle Vague: Too Drunk to Fuck
Eurythmics: Sweet Dreams
Frankmusik: Better Off As Two
Deee-Lite: Groove Is In The Heart
Blur: For Tomorrow
Girls Aloud: Biology
Passion Pit: The Reeling
Jonathan Richman: I Was Dancing In A Lesbian Bar

Top 75 Albums of 2010: The Top Ten

2010-12-28T07:46:00.000-08:00

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

Top 75 Albums of 2010: 40-11

2010-12-27T09:34:00.000-08:00

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

Top 75 Albums of 2010: 75-41

2010-12-26T09:07:00.000-08:00

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

Shackled to the road

2010-12-26T06:48:00.000-08:00

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

Boxing Day 15 (#12: 26/12/10)

2010-12-26T04:37:00.000-08:00

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

Review: Futurefest 2 (The Futureheads/Frankie and the Heartstrings/Little Comets et al, Newcastle O2 Academies 1 and 2, 23/12/10)

2010-12-25T14:23:00.000-08:00

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.

Christmas 15 (#11: 25/12/10)

2010-12-25T05:41:00.001-08:00

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...

Review: We Were Promised Jetpacks (w/The Seventeenth Century), Glasgow QMU, 18/12/10

2010-12-24T12:38:00.001-08:00

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.

The 15 #10: Christmas Eve 2010

2010-12-24T12:35:00.000-08:00

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

The 15 #8 and #9 (22 and 23/12/10)

2010-12-23T15:51:00.000-08:00

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

The 15 #7: 21/12/10

2010-12-21T15:48:00.000-08:00

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...

The 15 #6: 20/12/10

2010-12-19T11:41:00.000-08:00

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.

Worst 20 singles of 2010

2010-12-19T10:50:00.000-08:00

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?

The 15 #5: 19/12/10

2010-12-19T10:26:00.000-08:00

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

The 15 #4: 18/12/10

2010-12-18T02:17:00.000-08:00

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

The 15 #3: 17/12/10

2010-12-18T02:10:00.001-08:00

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

The 15 #2: 16/12/10

2010-12-16T14:29:00.001-08:00

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

The 15 #1: 15/12/10

2010-12-15T14:22:00.001-08:00

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

Review: Idlewild: '100 Broken Windows' 10th Anniversary show (Manchester Academy 2, 13/12/10)

2010-12-15T12:34:00.000-08:00

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.

Review: Manic Street Preachers, Manchester Apollo, 14/10/10

2010-12-14T13:10:00.000-08:00

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?

Classic album review: Weezer: 'Pinkerton'

2010-12-14T13:08:00.000-08:00

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)

Album review: Fake Problems: 'Real Ghosts Caught On Tape'

2010-12-14T13:06:00.001-08:00

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)

Review: Minus the Bear, Newcastle O2 Academy 2, 16/11/10

2010-12-14T13:06:00.000-08:00

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.

Review: Jimmy Eat World, Brixton Academy, 23/11/10

2010-12-14T13:03:00.000-08:00

"Wow, there sure are a lot of you out there", exclaims a somewhat awestruck Jim Adkins as he waltzes onto the hallowed Brixton Academy stage on this bitter Tuesday evening, "Goddamn!" The sentiment may have become something of a cliche - these days, it seems like every Tom, Dick and Travis that plays at this converted theatre trolls out the crowd-pleasing sentence - but in Jimmy Eat World's case, it just feels genuine. It is decidedly heartwarming to witness such humble declarations, particularly from a band whose popularity has barely waned over the years. They're still the pioneering stalwarts of their genre of choice, the masters of introspective punk-pop with an ear for the very catchiest of melodies. It's little surprise to your average emo kid (and by emo, we mean Weezer and Saves the Day, not All Time Low and Paramore) that JEW continue to be a huge draw, but it's endearing to think they don't realise it themselves.

There are Cheshire cat grins chiseled onto all five (yes, five - they've drafted in Courtney, the female vocalist from the 'Invented' sessions, for backing and keyboards) faces this evening, from the opening chord to the closing squeal of feedback. As the last date of a fairly extensive European tour, this is effectively one massive, cockle-warming celebration of everything that makes the band so Goddamn loveable. So we get the hits: wave after wave after wave, in fact, as an aggressive 'Bleed American' opens proceedings and morphs effortlessly into a similarly raucous 'A Praise Chorus', transporting us all back to the hallowed days of 01 and the promise and vibrancy of that oh-so-tremendous third record. Sensibly, JEW draw heavily from its veritable treasure trove of treats, slipping an epic 'Get It Faster' and a gorgeous 'Hear You Me' into the set, prompting a surprisingly in tune (who'da thunk it?) singalong at the halfway mark.

There are plenty other obvious choices too: an energetic 'Pain', a sombre 'Work', the wonderfully ridiculous 'Big Casino', and a closing duo that elicits mass hysteria in 'The Middle' and 'Sweetness', but it's the less well known moments that provide the biggest highlights. The raw rock stylings of 'Your New Aesthetic' sound colossal when amplified through the Academy's impressive sound system, while the addition of a ten minute, effects-and-sample-heavy 'Goodbye Sky Harbor', far from seeming self-indulgent, provides the perfect dreamy kiss-off to the first part of the set, Jim flailing around the stage, looping his vocal parts over and over, ad infinitum. Impressively, the new material also shines: uber-poppy single 'My Best Theory' sounds beefed up and sassy, 'Evidence' rocks like a bastard and the Tom-led 'Action Needs An Audience' has all the thrills, spills, fire and brimstone of a 'Static Prevails' outtake.

Shamefully, Brixton doesn't really know how to react to these tracks: for all there are a smattering of singalongs and a few energetic enthusiasts, the vast majority seem content to quietly observe rather than participate, reserving their strength, perhaps, for the big hits. It's a little disappointing, particularly when it results in irreverent chatter during the beautiful '23', but hey, it it don't phase the band, it don't phase us. This is still one consummately professional and bloody awesome rock show; a near perfect demonstration of just how to do that punk-pop-emo thing. Paramore and All Time Low wish they could write songs as good as these. They never will.

Review: FTHC, Preston 53 Degrees, 03/12/10

2010-12-14T13:01:00.000-08:00

Stuck in the snow on a Friday night? Freezing your bollocks off as the Siberian winds blow you every which way but loose? Well, you could do a lot worse than to haul your tush down to the appropriately named 53 Degrees for ninety minutes of fun, frolics and folk with Frank Turner and friends; traditionally, the ex-Million Dead front man's shows feel more like celebrations than performances, a singalong-fuelled jamboree with just the right level of camaraderie to leave you feeling all warm and fuzzy inside. This is a guy devoid of pretension, whose down-to-earth outlook and surprising level of sincerity is wonderfully refreshing. Frank is still humble enough to be amazed that he can attract this much attention, that his songs can say so much to so many.

Of course, he shouldn't be so surprised: his lyrics have a purity and honesty that make them universal. Turner is the king of the arms-around-mates singalong and tonight, he has Preston eating out of the palm of his hand. The crowd take a little time to wake up, proving quietly appreciate for the first few tracks, but by the time the brilliantly succinct call-to-creative-arms that is 'Try This At Home' rears its head, they're pogoing and dancing along, bellowing the words at the tops of their voices. This is a hit-heavy set, taking in the daft, yet undeniably infectious, 'The Road', a sprightly 'Reasons Not To Be An Idiot', a particularly emotional 'Long Live the Queen' and, naturally, 'Photosynthesis', which is given the conventional special guest treatment as support acts Ed Harcourt, the sharpest dressed man in the room, and Jamie Stuart, singer with Dive Dive, the most attractive man in the room, join in the fun, contributing mandocaster and acoustic guitar parts accordingly.

It's a great end to proceedings, bringing the restless vibrancy that Frank exhibits throughout the rest of the set - he's racing guitarist Ben Lloyd across the stage, he's climbing Nigel's drumkit while playing the 'Sons of Liberty' solo - to a head as he drops his acoustic, picks up his mic and heads straight into the crowd, letting his audience take over. And yet, for all this energy makes for fantastic viewing, it's the quieter moments that are the most memorable. It almost goes without saying, but the solo 'The Ballad of Me and My Friends' is just gorgeous, while 'Worse Things Happen At Sea' is brilliantly invective, full of anger and resentment, and a pleasantly surprising version of The Postal Service's 'The District Sleeps Alone Tonight', played because an audience member requested it, is probably the highlight of the evening: delicate, charming and beautiful.

There are new songs, five to be exact, of which current single 'I Still Believe' is the most immediate, featuring a massive chorus and the kind of heartwarming sentiment that just endears us to Frank even more, while 'If Ever I Stray' probably has the biggest staying power, marrying an epic sound - crashing drums, extra loud guitars - with a brilliant, brilliant lyric. The only criticism to be made is that the set is perhaps a little predictable in places. For the wizened Turner veterans, choices such as 'Imperfect Tense', 'Father's Day' and 'Substitute' seem a little disappointing when the back catalogue is packed with long-last classics (hell, we've seen these choices a hundred times before) but then, it works. At the end of the day, Frank's performance is still flawless and 1,000 or so patrons still walk away having had the time of their lives.

On the slow walk back to the train station, a group of lads are bellowing the words to 'Love, Ire and Song' to all and sundry, without a care in the world... and that, my friends, is proof positive that this was a job well done.

Review: Interpol/Surfer Blood, Liverpool University 04/12/10

2010-12-14T13:00:00.000-08:00

Ask your average indie aficionado to describe Interpol and they'll probably offer you one word: miserablists. The New York four piece have carved themselves a sizeable space in the bottomless musical pit of doom and despair occupied by such carefree spirits as Nirvana's Kurt Cobain and, dare we say it, Joy Division's Ian Curits, and that's largely thanks to the marriage of Daniel Kessler's lilting, cold guitar tricks with Paul Banks's deep vocals, which creates a distinctive sound so dark, yet vast, that it threatens to swallow you whole. Certainly, this isn't the sort of stuff you can play at parties and when faced with the prospect of a full ninety minutes entrenched in such melancholy, your Saturday night suddenly becomes a lot bleaker.

But then, that's somewhat unfair to Interpol. For starters, they've brought Floridian indie-alt rapscallions Surfer Blood along for the ride and their sumptuous blend of scuzzy, distorted guitars with funky bass lines and Beach Boys-esque melodies immediately brings a smile to the face. These guys have tunes by the dozen, including candidate for Single of the Year 'Swim', and enough witty repartaie to keep the masses interested. Lead singer John Paul Pitts is on fine, exuberant form, claiming that a trip to Liverpool has prevented the band from falling apart, and that the deliciously catchy 'Take It Easy' is about how attractive he is. Before long, he's crowdsurfing his way to the back of the venue, and then he's in the crowd, offering up the mic, shimmying with da laydeez, trying to get himself laid (yes, he openly admits this).

Clearly, this is markedly different from anything we could expect from our headline act - you won't catch Paul dancing around the stage with maracas, that's for sure - but then, that just adds to the diversity of the experience. And anyhow, Interpol's bleak reputation isn't entirely justified: while between-song banter is sparse, confined mainly to polite "thank you"s, there are gigantic smiles on faces throughout, a telling acknowledgement of the crowd's somewhat insatiable lust for more. Liverpool's indie contingent are at their loudest and most lively this evening, screaming every word, battering into one another with reckless abandon. It probably helps that this is a 'Turn on the Bright Lights'-heavy set, featuring no less than six tracks from one of the decade's greatest albums.

The singles are here - an early 'Obstacle 1' gets things going, 'PDA' induces delirium and an astoundingly epic 'NYC' makes grown men cry - but it's the others that provide the biggest highlights. 'Say Hello to the Angels' sounds even wilder than on record, threatening to fall apart at the seams at the breakneck pace at which Kessler delivers those unforgiving guitar chops. 'Hands Away', meanwhile, gives Banks a chance to relax his voice a little and demonstrate the full spectrum of his vocal range, delivering a beautifully cracked rendition. And then, folks, we have 'The New', six minutes of angular indie heaven, unaired for years but finally taken off the shelf, dusted down and given the good ol' fashioned seeing to that it deserves.

There are plenty other moments to savour, of course. The new material translates well, with current single 'Barricade' and the cascading riffs in 'Memory Serves' sticking firmly in the mind, while classic singles 'Slow Hands' and 'Evil' are met with the kind of devotional hysteria usually reserved round these parts for a sighting in McCartney's Bar. It's left to an extended 'Not Even Jail' to close proceedings, and it's a brilliant decision. The track is probably Interpol's finest hour and its dark, moribund proto-gothrock stylings are given extra gravitas tonight by essentially turning everything up to eleven.

It would be a mistake to write Interpol off as a bunch of gloom-wallowers, mired in the sound of unrelenting misery. They've carved their own niche, sure, and yes, it's hardly Alphabeat territory, but this stuff rocks like a bastard and if you get it, like the 2,000 here tonight, you'll leave safe in the knowledge that you've just witnessed something spectacular.

FTHC, Preston 53 Degrees, 03/12/10

2010-12-06T12:38:00.000-08:00