Brand New UK tour review (Manchester, Southampton, London, Newcastle)

BRAND NEW (with THE XCERTS, I AM THE AVALANCHE), Manchester Academy 09/02/12, Southampton Guildhall 10/02/12, London Roundhouse 11/02 and 12/02/12, Newcastle O2 Academy 16/02/12

Following a band’s tour can be something of a sobering experience; watching as the same four or five musicians toil away night after night on a series of identikit stages, pouring out their hearts and souls to thousands of overeager fans in a variety of different cities, can have the undesired effect of depleting the show of its magic. What may appear to be a once-in-a-lifetime performance, aided and abetted by a lively, energetic crowd, quickly snaps into focus when it’s followed by an identical experience the night after; we’re all guilty of hoping that the show we’re getting, in our home town, is better than what has gone before, that we’re getting that little something extra so we can trot out the “I was there”s in a few years time when the gig has passed into the annals of rock history. And of course, this hope, this belief, is inevitably quashed when, after two or three more shows, you realise that it’s all just part of the act. That these are guys and girls like you and I, doing their jobs night after night, with the added bonus of loving every minute.

Thankfully, following Brand New as they trudge the length and breadth of Great Britain is nothing like that at all. Somehow, some way, the Long Island five (sometimes six) piece make every successive show feel like their last, like this is the most important gig they’ve played in the fifteen years since their formation. And they do it with such monumental gusto, sweating energy and aggression from every pore, that every city is magical, every 100 minutes makes you feel like there is nowhere else on this Earth you’d rather be, that there are no other words you’d rather be screaming at the top of your voice and that there is no other band you’d rather watch annihilate the fuck out of their own music.

This determination and intensity creeps into the marrow of the support bands’ bones too: Aberdeen three piece The Xcerts are on fire every night, delivering a deliciously intense thirty minutes of highlights from Scatterbrain, their most recent release (plus, let’s not forget, In the Cold Wind We Smile favourite Do You Feel Safe? as an opener), with a brilliantly visceral, yet impressively catchy, new tune thrown in for good measure. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Brand New’s fanbase take to them instantly and copies of their frankly bloody excellent albums are seen clutched tight in hands as the venues empty. It’s the same set each night – at the band’s own admission during the two successive London shows – and it’s arguable that it could do with a few more from Smile, but this is a minor quibble. New Yorkers I Am The Avalanche, meanwhile, do get round to changing one or two tracks in their eight-song set, although they rely rather heavily on pre-established set pieces, such as Vinnie relating the same tale about metaphorically burying his girlfriend each night. Their show speaks for itself, however, with a superbly crafted amalgam of songs from recent release Avalanche United and their eponymous debut working together in perfect harmony to produce a blistering half hour of purest punk rock thrills, with the closing trio of New York Dodgers, Gratitude and I Took A Beating a particular highlight.

And then, of course, there is the main event. Sauntering onstage every night at 9.20pm sharp with absolutely no fanfare whatsoever, casting bombast to the wayside, Brand New warm themselves up for their two hour odyssey with a vicious Welcome to Bangkok, – or, in the case of their second night at the Roundhouse, Tautou – the eerie minor chords emanating from Vinnie’s acoustic guitar slowly giving way to ear-splitting feedback and two sets of almightily crashing drums. It’s the perfect opener, setting the tone for the evening, and before long, we’re careering through a further series of highlights from 2007’s The Devil and God are Raging Inside Me, Jesse risking destroying his vocal chords every night during a brutal, unforgiving Sowing Season and giving his adoring crowds the opportunity during an anthemic, soaring Millstone. In a shrewd move, the band bookend the show with tracks from this record, throwing the crowd-pleasers and golden oldies together in the middle of the set, suggesting a quietly assured confidence in their own material. Frankly, it’s a confidence that’s well deserved; you only need to listen to the first few seconds of Jesus Christ, with that gorgeous, lilting riff, or the aggressive middle eight of a heartwrenchingly melancholic Limousine, to realise their inherent genius. The Devil and God is undoubtedly Brand New’s greatest work and it only grows in stature when the songs are given more space to breathe in a live setting.

And of course, having now had more than a decade of experience, the band breathe whole new life into their older material too, with perennial fan favourites from 2001’s Your Favourite Weapon benefitting from a more studied, yet heavier, sound. Pleasingly, for all it is apparent that Jesse and co. have outgrown songs about teenage jealousy and heartache, they still give emo big-hitters Jude Law and a Semester Abroad and Seventy Times Seven an airing during every night of the tour, and, perhaps more importantly than that, invest 110% in them, guitarists leaping around the stage, Jesse goading on the riotous masses. Predictably, audiences respond in kind, moshpits swirling in unison, bodies flying overhead, particularly at Manchester’s Academy 1 and the Roundhouse in London. There’s a superb solo rendition of Soco Amaretto Lime too, a significant proportion of which Jesse barely has to sing as his fans do it for him. He adjusts the final line to a poignant “I’m just jealous cos you’re young and in love”, eliciting a standing ovation in every city. It’s a humble move, underlining the feeling that the band are playing for rather than at us; in Manchester, Jesse states that they’re over here because they love playing, not because they have a record to promote, and in Newcastle, he personally thanks everyone who has given up an evening of the life to see them on tour, stating that they’ve had the fortune to “play to some of the best audiences we’ve ever had”. It’s a sweet gesture – one far removed from what the media might have you expect from the band – and it’s one that leads to a few pleasant, spur-of-the-moment surprises, such as Jesse throwing a once-in-a-blue-moon solo run through of Moshi Moshi into the set at Newcastle, or, indeed, the changing of more than half of the set at the second Roundhouse date, with Guernica, The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot, Mix Tape and Flying at Tree Level (of all things) replacing some of the more standard tracks.

It’s a few of the staples that provide the finest moments, however. The brain-meltingly intense Vices/Sink combo nearly blows the roof off during Roundhouse night one; Southampton goes batshit crazy during Sic Transit Gloria... Glory Fades; Manchester sings the entire first verse of Okay I Believe You But My Tommy Gun Don’t on its own (that’s a whole minute, folks) and Jesse just smiles on, arms folded; and the brilliantly visceral closing duo of Degausser and You Won’t Know descends into an orgy of unparalleled insanity and destruction in Newcastle, with Jesse throwing one guitar around like a crash test dummy and then strapping on a second and playing/abusing both simultaneously, Vinnie trashing his bass and then setting about the second drumkit and Brian collapsing headfirst into his kit after Jesse launches one of the two guitars at him, sending cymbals, hi hats and snares tumbling down onto the stage. And there really is no discerning between the performances. It would be unfair to rate one city against another as each show is filled with the same level of intensity, each night brings its own litany of highlights. Suffice to say, these 100 minutes are some of the finest that the good people of Manchester, Southampton, London and Newcastle will ever experience; these shows may well be some of the best the band ever play; and right now, at the top of their game, Brand New are quite probably the best live performers on the planet. If you missed out this round, buy yourself tickets for all of the dates on the next tour. You will not be disappointed. We promise.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

Review: 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?

Album review: The Xcerts: 'In the Cold Wind We Smile'

THE XCERTS: 'In the Cold Wind We Smile' (Xtra Mile)

What is it about Scotland, huh? How is it that a country with such high unemployment, such significant levels of crime and such a growing need for regeneration (wander past the revitalised city centres of Edinburgh and Glasgow and you'll quickly find yourself bombarded with boarded-up windows and destitute souls) continues to produce some of the greatest music your ears are ever likely to hear? Its barren, bitter landscapes have given us the criminally underrated Idlewild, the enigmatic Biffy Clyro, the gargantuan Sucioperro and the cathartic Glasvegas, as well as some of the year's most promising upstarts in We Were Promised Jetpacks, Twin Atlantic and now these whipper-snappers, Aberdeen's quite unbelievably teenage Xcerts. Surely there must be something in the water? (Let's just forget that Texas ever happened, shall we?)

Of course, all of this isn't too surprising when you actually stop to think about it. Such regrettably dire socio-economic conditions are often the spark that's needed for angry young things to pick up guitars, and they subsequently become the subject matter from which their often lyrically invective, musically chaotic output is formed. 'In the Cold Wind We Smile' is no exception; in fact, in every respect, the album is quintessentially Scottish. The Xcerts observe the trials and tribulations of interpersonal relationships, describing eleven kitchen sink melodramas through music, while continually evoking the disenfranchisement of working class life within the country. The themes are bleak - death, unrequited love, loss - and the sound schizophrenically aggressive with it (think Biffy, '100 Broken Windows'-era Idlewild); however, crucially, the record is driven by an undercurrent of hope. The title itself denotes resilience in the wake of the bleak, and this sets the mood for the remainder of the album. On the wonderful 'Home Versus Home', Murray Macleod sings 'I lost love/You lost your father/I know it doesn't compare/But it's all part of home versus home.' There is a sense of acceptance in the words, an acknowledgement that, to put it crassly, the rough should be embraced alongside the smooth. This gives the album its edge, transforming a standard listening experience into a purgative one. Just check out the truly astounding 'Crisis in the Slow Lane', in which Murray bellows perhaps the most crucial chorus in the entire work: 'we all say we are tired of feeling low/Tired of being alone/But if we make it to see morning coffee/I swear you'll find an answer.' It's a joyous moment and one that sticks in the mind long after the CD's ground to an inglorious halt.

This lyrical catharsis is expressed sonically too, as the band's penchant for layering their sound, building from something straightforward to tremendous crescendo, imitates the psychological experience. There is a sense of release in almost every song, an epiphianic moment that sends shivers down the spine. 'Nightschool', for example, begins life as a fairly standard Get Up Kids/Motion City Soundtrack affair, full of piano parts and fiddly xylophone blips, before morphing into something of a rock monster, exploding in a haze of wiry guitars that offset the resolutely dour refrain 'we'll all burn out 'til there's nothing left at all,' making it somehow celebratory. Grief, pain, strife: all are welcomed with open arms, validated as crucial elements of the human experience, and it's wonderfully refreshing. And when the subject turns to love, things are just as ambiguous: 'Cool Ethan' and 'Lost but Not Alone' reminisce about what once was and could have been, but do so with eloquent restraint, never veering into mawkishness. Crucially, the lyrics are non-gender-specific, which gives them layers of intrigue and possibility, enhancing their power. Musically, they have the raw charm of 'Clarity'-era Jimmy Eat World, sitting somewhere between classics like 'Just Watch the Fireworks' and 'For Me This Is Heaven.'

'In the Cold Wind We Smile' is a surprisingly assured release from such young minds. Its lyrics are thankfully bereft of the usual hyperbole that typify teenage writing, and the musical accompaniment is a glorious mix of the best elements of the original emo bands (Get Up Kids, Sunny Day Real Estate, Saves the Day) and output from various contemporary Scottish acts (Biffy, Jetpacks et al.) It's an expressive, cathartic piece with a massive heart and a tonne of ambition. Domestic strife never sounded so thrilling. (9/10)