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.
Showing posts with label Newcastle O2 Academy 2. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Newcastle O2 Academy 2. Show all posts
Sunday, 17 April 2011
Friday, 11 March 2011
Review: Surfer Blood w/No Joy (Newcastle O2 Academy 2, 06/03/11)
There's a veritable genre war taking place across Newcastle's wind-and-rain battered city centre this evening; at one end of town, just off the tracksuit-and-trampcoat laden Northumberland Street, Scottish post-hardcore noiseniks Flood of Red are trying desperately to stomp a mudhole in the refurbished Trillian's rock bar and prove to all and sundry that their particular brand of scuzzy, punky emo rock is the most exciting thing you could hope to immerse yourself in on a Sunday night. Meanwhile, a few hundred metres away, past the garish fracas of the world-renowned Bigg Market and through the meandering, well-hidden Victorian side streets, grungy lo-fi Floridians Surfer Blood have organised the counter battle, flying the flag for sun-kissed indie, attempting to convince 300 or so scene kids in Sonic Youth T-shirts to throw their floppy fringes to the wind and just, you know, dance.
Problem is, on this most dreary of ends to the week, Newcastle struggles to do much of anything at all, and Surfer Blood have a pretty gosh darn hard time trying to convince anyone to move a muscle. Montreal and Los Angeles-based shoegaze outfit No Joy bear the brunt of the indifference, with applause decidedly muted, despite the female singers' dangerously skimpy wardrobe choices and valiant attempts to break My Bloody Valentine's volume record. And when the main act grace us with their presence, they do so to as little fanfare as possible, with only the occasional impromptu whoop or hand-clap signaling that anything more than a soundcheck is taking place. Granted, the guys don't exactly make much of a fuss over their onstage debut, slouching out sans intro music and barely saying anything at all, but one would expect a crowd of supposed fans to at least work themselves into some semblance of excitement at the arrival of their hosts.
Of course, it's questionable whether many of the faces intensely studying Surfer Blood tonight have even bothered listening to their output. Despite a relatively brief, straightforward set consisting almost entirely of tracks from the superb 2010 debut 'Astro Coast', audience participation is minimal and most mouths are wired shut, even during the funky-as-fuck Summer-anthem-that-never-was 'Take It Easy' (JP does his usual party trick and heads into the 'pit', wielding his microphone like a weapon) and, even more unforgivably, during 'Swim', the band's biggest, most well-hyped, single and most ludicrously fun slice of scuzz pop in a pretty top notch arsenal. A few fairly quiet devotees in the front row mumble the words sheepishly to themselves, conscious of the fact that no one else seems bothered, but for the most part, there is very little activity. Somewhat unfortunately, it's patently obvious to the Floridians themselves and their set loses a little of its lustre as a result, as if the boys gave up bothering after a few tracks, all too aware that a reaction was unlikely to be forthcoming.
That's not to say, however, that SB don't put in a mighty commendable performance; this is as note-perfect a representation of their hazy East coast sound as you're likely to get, with 'Fast Jabroni ' and a punchy 'Floating Vibes' sounding positively monumental. The problem, however, is that it lacks that little something more, the extra ingredient to make the show seem more like an event than another night on the job. The crowd has a lot to answer for, sure, but there is a noticeable gap stage right too, as the maracas-wielding keyboard/percussionist/all-round nutcase appears to have disappeared into the void. Without him, Surfer Blood seem to be a rather more professional outfit, losing some of the lunatic charm they exuded during their recent Interpol support slots.
Blame the Sunday night; blame the frustratingly benign folk of Newcastle; blame the band dynamic; blame whatever; tonight, Surfer Blood aren't anywhere near as glorious as they can be, and despite putting in a solid performance, they lack the spark so desperately needed to set our hearts ablaze. As a stand for all that is good, pure and reckless about contemporary lo-fi indie, it can only be judged partially successful, and as competitors in this evening's Battle of the Genres, Surfer Blood come out on the receiving end of a punk-shaped suckerpunch. Sorry guys, but the Scots win again. Probably.
Problem is, on this most dreary of ends to the week, Newcastle struggles to do much of anything at all, and Surfer Blood have a pretty gosh darn hard time trying to convince anyone to move a muscle. Montreal and Los Angeles-based shoegaze outfit No Joy bear the brunt of the indifference, with applause decidedly muted, despite the female singers' dangerously skimpy wardrobe choices and valiant attempts to break My Bloody Valentine's volume record. And when the main act grace us with their presence, they do so to as little fanfare as possible, with only the occasional impromptu whoop or hand-clap signaling that anything more than a soundcheck is taking place. Granted, the guys don't exactly make much of a fuss over their onstage debut, slouching out sans intro music and barely saying anything at all, but one would expect a crowd of supposed fans to at least work themselves into some semblance of excitement at the arrival of their hosts.
Of course, it's questionable whether many of the faces intensely studying Surfer Blood tonight have even bothered listening to their output. Despite a relatively brief, straightforward set consisting almost entirely of tracks from the superb 2010 debut 'Astro Coast', audience participation is minimal and most mouths are wired shut, even during the funky-as-fuck Summer-anthem-that-never-was 'Take It Easy' (JP does his usual party trick and heads into the 'pit', wielding his microphone like a weapon) and, even more unforgivably, during 'Swim', the band's biggest, most well-hyped, single and most ludicrously fun slice of scuzz pop in a pretty top notch arsenal. A few fairly quiet devotees in the front row mumble the words sheepishly to themselves, conscious of the fact that no one else seems bothered, but for the most part, there is very little activity. Somewhat unfortunately, it's patently obvious to the Floridians themselves and their set loses a little of its lustre as a result, as if the boys gave up bothering after a few tracks, all too aware that a reaction was unlikely to be forthcoming.
That's not to say, however, that SB don't put in a mighty commendable performance; this is as note-perfect a representation of their hazy East coast sound as you're likely to get, with 'Fast Jabroni ' and a punchy 'Floating Vibes' sounding positively monumental. The problem, however, is that it lacks that little something more, the extra ingredient to make the show seem more like an event than another night on the job. The crowd has a lot to answer for, sure, but there is a noticeable gap stage right too, as the maracas-wielding keyboard/percussionist/all-round nutcase appears to have disappeared into the void. Without him, Surfer Blood seem to be a rather more professional outfit, losing some of the lunatic charm they exuded during their recent Interpol support slots.
Blame the Sunday night; blame the frustratingly benign folk of Newcastle; blame the band dynamic; blame whatever; tonight, Surfer Blood aren't anywhere near as glorious as they can be, and despite putting in a solid performance, they lack the spark so desperately needed to set our hearts ablaze. As a stand for all that is good, pure and reckless about contemporary lo-fi indie, it can only be judged partially successful, and as competitors in this evening's Battle of the Genres, Surfer Blood come out on the receiving end of a punk-shaped suckerpunch. Sorry guys, but the Scots win again. Probably.
Wednesday, 2 March 2011
Review: Rock Sound Exposure Tour (Dinosaur Pile-Up/The Xcerts, Newcastle O2 Academy 2, 28/02/11)
Hot on the heels of a victorious King Tut's show, Newcastle's sparsely populated, depressingly muted Academy 2 must seem like a colossal leap backwards for the guys and girls - um, are there any? - of the 2011 Rock Sound Exposure Tour. Granted, tonight's headliners, the unnervingly intense Japanese Voyeurs, have had to withdraw from the tour due to vocal chord problems (lead singer Romily probably belched that one belch too far), leaving the two local supports to prop up the bill and Dinosaur Pile-Up with an unexpected main slot, but it's hard to believe that any of the 100 or so punters in attendance this evening even knew who they were anyway. This is a crowd of casual observers, curious locals and self-conscious scenesters, none of whom seem able to muster up any semblance of enthusiasm for the cream of contemporary British talent that's attempting to put on a rip-roaring rock 'n' roll show in front of them.
The Xcerts suffer particularly badly, forced to contend with arms-folded disinterest and an audience too frightened of their social standing to make a beeline for the barrier. The gulf between band and crowd is achingly, embarrassingly palpable; forget the Academy, this might as well be your local drinking hole, playing host to some no-name local act while everyone tries to have a nice pint and a chat. Sure, pockets are attentive, and everyone is at least polite enough to applaud at the appropriate moments, but the lack of atmosphere is utterly, utterly depressing, sucking the life and soul out of the party. Such a reaction, frankly, is criminal. Granted, Murray and co. aren't exactly the 'hands in the air, now scream!' type, and perhaps they are guilty of not trying to engage with these armchair onlookers, but the sheer power and intensity of their all-too-brief performance should speak for itself.
In forty inexorably loud minutes, the Scottish three-piece summon the spirit of 'In Utero'-era Kurt Cobain and unleash a torrent of unrelentingly abrasive noise rock on these poor, floppy fringed souls, making the spit and sawdust viscera of current release 'Scatterbrain' seem like Lady GaGa by comparison. Spurred on, perhaps, by his audience's indifference, Murray manages to find all new levels of guttural anger, bellowing the words to 'A Distant Memory', 'Young (Belane)' and a brilliantly blistering 'Slackerpop' with an extra level of unabashed insanity. There is no let up: even the two debut album tracks on air tonight - a mournful 'Crisis In The Slow Lane', an emboldened 'Do You Feel Safe?' - are shot through with a brusque rawness that obliterates any semblance of pop sensibility that they may previously have contained.
And perhaps that's why Newcastle just doesn't seem all that arsed. Without an obvious hook to cling on to, the crowd actually have to work at fathoming The Xcerts out, and the arms-folded brigade just aren't in the mood for being challenged. Instead, they'd rather hum and nod along to really-very-bloody-obvious headliners Dinosaur Pile-Up, whose verse-verse-chorus power chord formula is an instant no-brainer and hence, an instant winner. Of course, there's nothing wrong with such a simple set-up, provided you have the melodies to back it up and unfortunately, at this, DPU are only partially successful. They have 'Mona Lisa', a galloping rock 'n' roll stallion, and the splendidly stupid 'My Rock n Roll', the bastard love child of contemporary Weezer and 'The Colour and the Shape' era Foo Fighters, but all too often, the hooks get lost amongst the monochrome chugging and the tracks lose any edge they may have had over one another, coming across instead like one long, drawn out exercise in A, D and G. They do perform well; their energy is commendable and the bassist's leap crowdwards during the encore is the most exciting thing to happen all evening, but you get the impression that they're only just scratching the surface of what could be, quite potentially, a bloody fucking ace rock outfit. And for all the audience are brave enough to line themselves along the barrier, there is still barely any movement; no energy to speak of; no atmosphere.
As a showcase for fresh talent, the Rock Sound Exposure Tour is a pretty riveting, darn good value night that'll open your eyes and ears to some talented musicians and maybe even persuade you to part with your hard-earned cash on that latest Xcerts album (or Dinosaur Pile-Up, if you ain't picky). As anything even remotely resembling a gig, however, if Newcastle is anything to go by, it's as exciting as the end credits to The Lord of the Rings, failing to excite the kids into any sort of reaction. Of course, tonight isn't anything to go by; it's a frustrating statistical anomaly in a sea of downright wild shows and is a blight on the city's recent track record as a worthwhile place to play. Let's hope our future rock stars don't write us all off at once, eh?
The Xcerts suffer particularly badly, forced to contend with arms-folded disinterest and an audience too frightened of their social standing to make a beeline for the barrier. The gulf between band and crowd is achingly, embarrassingly palpable; forget the Academy, this might as well be your local drinking hole, playing host to some no-name local act while everyone tries to have a nice pint and a chat. Sure, pockets are attentive, and everyone is at least polite enough to applaud at the appropriate moments, but the lack of atmosphere is utterly, utterly depressing, sucking the life and soul out of the party. Such a reaction, frankly, is criminal. Granted, Murray and co. aren't exactly the 'hands in the air, now scream!' type, and perhaps they are guilty of not trying to engage with these armchair onlookers, but the sheer power and intensity of their all-too-brief performance should speak for itself.
In forty inexorably loud minutes, the Scottish three-piece summon the spirit of 'In Utero'-era Kurt Cobain and unleash a torrent of unrelentingly abrasive noise rock on these poor, floppy fringed souls, making the spit and sawdust viscera of current release 'Scatterbrain' seem like Lady GaGa by comparison. Spurred on, perhaps, by his audience's indifference, Murray manages to find all new levels of guttural anger, bellowing the words to 'A Distant Memory', 'Young (Belane)' and a brilliantly blistering 'Slackerpop' with an extra level of unabashed insanity. There is no let up: even the two debut album tracks on air tonight - a mournful 'Crisis In The Slow Lane', an emboldened 'Do You Feel Safe?' - are shot through with a brusque rawness that obliterates any semblance of pop sensibility that they may previously have contained.
And perhaps that's why Newcastle just doesn't seem all that arsed. Without an obvious hook to cling on to, the crowd actually have to work at fathoming The Xcerts out, and the arms-folded brigade just aren't in the mood for being challenged. Instead, they'd rather hum and nod along to really-very-bloody-obvious headliners Dinosaur Pile-Up, whose verse-verse-chorus power chord formula is an instant no-brainer and hence, an instant winner. Of course, there's nothing wrong with such a simple set-up, provided you have the melodies to back it up and unfortunately, at this, DPU are only partially successful. They have 'Mona Lisa', a galloping rock 'n' roll stallion, and the splendidly stupid 'My Rock n Roll', the bastard love child of contemporary Weezer and 'The Colour and the Shape' era Foo Fighters, but all too often, the hooks get lost amongst the monochrome chugging and the tracks lose any edge they may have had over one another, coming across instead like one long, drawn out exercise in A, D and G. They do perform well; their energy is commendable and the bassist's leap crowdwards during the encore is the most exciting thing to happen all evening, but you get the impression that they're only just scratching the surface of what could be, quite potentially, a bloody fucking ace rock outfit. And for all the audience are brave enough to line themselves along the barrier, there is still barely any movement; no energy to speak of; no atmosphere.
As a showcase for fresh talent, the Rock Sound Exposure Tour is a pretty riveting, darn good value night that'll open your eyes and ears to some talented musicians and maybe even persuade you to part with your hard-earned cash on that latest Xcerts album (or Dinosaur Pile-Up, if you ain't picky). As anything even remotely resembling a gig, however, if Newcastle is anything to go by, it's as exciting as the end credits to The Lord of the Rings, failing to excite the kids into any sort of reaction. Of course, tonight isn't anything to go by; it's a frustrating statistical anomaly in a sea of downright wild shows and is a blight on the city's recent track record as a worthwhile place to play. Let's hope our future rock stars don't write us all off at once, eh?
Tuesday, 14 December 2010
Review: Minus the Bear, Newcastle O2 Academy 2, 16/11/10
It probably seemed like a good idea at the time. While tour mates Jimmy Eat World take a well-earned rest, Minus the Bear would high tail it to Newcastle for a show of their own in the shoebox that is Academy 2. On this frost-bitten evening however, icicles hanging from the rafters, you could forgive the boys from warmer climes for being downtrodden; for wanting nothing more than to pack away their fancy keyboards and FX pedals (of which there are many) and get the hell out of this joint.
To MTB's credit, though, there's no sign of the Winter blues, and the same is true of tonight's support: local noiseniks My Tiny Robots woo an initially reserved and polite crowd with a deliciously funky set. The eponymous closing track is particularly sexy, morphing into a gigantic rock beast with a thoroughly evil bass line. Leeds boys Sketches are even better, marrying the angular indie theatrics of Bloc Party and Editors with a more delicate touch, courtesy of the band's spidery, gangly lead singer, who remains perched on his tip toes for the duration of the set, looking like he's about to topple over. It creates an interesting contrast with the restless energy of guitarist Matt Hutt who, when he isn't driving each track with his wiry, high-pitched riffs, is ruthlessly assaulting the overblown lump of wood he holds in his hands. It makes for enchanting viewing and there are a fair few converts created as a result.
The crowd's adulation is reserved for the main attraction, however. Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, the mostly-bearded, high-spirited Minus the Bear are mesmerising; lead singer Jake Snider commands his 250 strong army with every silky smooth vocal, while Dave Knudson's sweat-drenched guitar tricks and FX jiggery-pokery captivate from the aggressive opening chops of a pulsating 'Secret Country' to the four-to-the-floor progpunk hybrid that is much-lauded closer 'Absinthe Party at the Fly Honey Warehouse'. And then there's the treasure trove of unfathomable noises emanating from Alex Rose's mini production corner, coating the overwhelmingly funky bass lines of the band's newer material with a deliciously obtuse sheen. 'Hold Me Down' glistens, 'Into the Mirror' sparkles and current single 'My Time', one of the highlights of the evening, has an irresistibly infectious charm, sheepishly worming its way through the enthralled crowd, goading the masses into a toe-tapping frenzy.
There are plenty of pleasant surprises too: a riotous tumble through the eons-old 'Spritz!!! Spritz!!!' nuzzles up comfortably to the blissful technicolor dreamscapes of the epic 'White Mystery'; an unusual juxtaposition on paper, perhaps, but one that translates perfectly live. The only drawback, sadly, is that it's all over far too soon: fourteen songs in and the band are ready to depart, despite the howls of objection from the insatiable crowd. Still, treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen, as they say; and as if in an attempt to placate our frustration, MTB make a point of personally thanking everyone in the first few rows, acknowledging the depth of love on show. It's a heartwarming gesture, and on this most bitter of evenings, it's all we really need. A veritable triumph.
To MTB's credit, though, there's no sign of the Winter blues, and the same is true of tonight's support: local noiseniks My Tiny Robots woo an initially reserved and polite crowd with a deliciously funky set. The eponymous closing track is particularly sexy, morphing into a gigantic rock beast with a thoroughly evil bass line. Leeds boys Sketches are even better, marrying the angular indie theatrics of Bloc Party and Editors with a more delicate touch, courtesy of the band's spidery, gangly lead singer, who remains perched on his tip toes for the duration of the set, looking like he's about to topple over. It creates an interesting contrast with the restless energy of guitarist Matt Hutt who, when he isn't driving each track with his wiry, high-pitched riffs, is ruthlessly assaulting the overblown lump of wood he holds in his hands. It makes for enchanting viewing and there are a fair few converts created as a result.
The crowd's adulation is reserved for the main attraction, however. Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, the mostly-bearded, high-spirited Minus the Bear are mesmerising; lead singer Jake Snider commands his 250 strong army with every silky smooth vocal, while Dave Knudson's sweat-drenched guitar tricks and FX jiggery-pokery captivate from the aggressive opening chops of a pulsating 'Secret Country' to the four-to-the-floor progpunk hybrid that is much-lauded closer 'Absinthe Party at the Fly Honey Warehouse'. And then there's the treasure trove of unfathomable noises emanating from Alex Rose's mini production corner, coating the overwhelmingly funky bass lines of the band's newer material with a deliciously obtuse sheen. 'Hold Me Down' glistens, 'Into the Mirror' sparkles and current single 'My Time', one of the highlights of the evening, has an irresistibly infectious charm, sheepishly worming its way through the enthralled crowd, goading the masses into a toe-tapping frenzy.
There are plenty of pleasant surprises too: a riotous tumble through the eons-old 'Spritz!!! Spritz!!!' nuzzles up comfortably to the blissful technicolor dreamscapes of the epic 'White Mystery'; an unusual juxtaposition on paper, perhaps, but one that translates perfectly live. The only drawback, sadly, is that it's all over far too soon: fourteen songs in and the band are ready to depart, despite the howls of objection from the insatiable crowd. Still, treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen, as they say; and as if in an attempt to placate our frustration, MTB make a point of personally thanking everyone in the first few rows, acknowledging the depth of love on show. It's a heartwarming gesture, and on this most bitter of evenings, it's all we really need. A veritable triumph.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)