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.
Friday, 17 June 2011
Sunday, 17 April 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, 10 April 2011
Review: Roddy Woomble (Cluny 2, Newcastle, 02/04/11)
Thirteen years ago, if anyone had intimated that floppy-fringed Scottish art school student Roddy Woomble, frontman of blissfully chaotic indie-punk outfit Idlewild - once described, brilliantly, by a certain music weekly as sounding like 'a flight of stairs falling down a flight of stairs' - would one day set up home on an island just off the west coast of Scotland, blog about the joys of hill walking and write songs about 19th century crofters, they probably would've been written off as stark raving bonkers and carted off to the nearest loony bin. In 1998, no one really expected this ragtag ball of relentless energy to mellow out and produce wistful folk music, but looking back now, the signs were always there: the melancholic subtext in the lyrical material, the frequent exploration of themes of identity and nationality and especially, a strong preoccupation with a particularly Scottish aesthetic, reflected prominently in the band's visuals and artwork. Woomble has taken a perfectly logical journey to the place we now find him, his experiences having shaped him into a brilliantly reflective, endearingly delicate and wonderfully wise artist, capable of commanding and captivating his audience.
And so it is that on this refreshingly quiet Spring evening, deep in the heart of Newcastle's picturesque Ouseburn, Roddy has the undivided, rapturous attention of 400 or so over-eager, yet unfailingly polite, Geordie hearts and minds; a veritable full house for Cluny 2, the more refined elder brother of the infamous drinking hole. This mismatched bunch, of all shapes, creeds, genders, persuasions and musical affiliations, hang on Woomble's every word, mesmerised by the tales of self-realisation on the steps at Edinburgh Waverely or the odes to the M87, the road that snakes up towards the well-populated metropolis that is the Isle of Skye. Perhaps it's this verisimilitude that makes his work so accessible; in peppering his lyrics with snippets of day-to-day life, Woomble grounds his lyrics in an endearingly honest and open form of realism.
Thus, we mouth the carefully-crafted words (there's no singing in this most polite of environments, you understand) and immerse ourselves in the deeply personal experiences that Woomble deigns to share with us. Often, the climate is a decidedly uplifting one, particularly with the tracks from new record 'The Impossible Song and Other Songs' which, despite having been released into the wild a meagre twelve days ago, receive as warm a reception as the more familiar material. On current single 'Roll Along', Roddy provides us with a much-needed reality check, marrying a tale of perseverance to a lilting, countryfied boogie, while elsewhere, there's a celebratory calm and content to the elegiac 'Gather the Day' and 'Make Something Out of What It's Worth', guaranteed to force even the staunchest of frowns into an appreciative smile.
There are highs in the older material too: Idlewild track 'Take Me Back to the Islands' is a most welcome surprise and an unquestionably perfect fit; 'I Came Down From The Mountain' is spectacular, riding along on the crest of the eminently talented Sorren Maclean's lullaby-like picking. 'The Weight of Years', tonight's closer, is stunning too, with a world-weary Woomble perfectly conveying the tired, yet reflective, melancholia at the heart of the song. It's a decidedly sombre note to finish on, particularly following a note-perfect rendition of Idlewild's biggest chart success, 'You Held the World in Your Arms' which, after nine long years, still has the power to send shivers tingling down the spine (aided admirably tonight by Seonaid Aitken, who provides live violin parts for probably the first time in the song's long history), but ultimately, it feels logical; the set is essentially a journey through the inner workings of our host's psyche, moving from jovial celebration to contemplative reflection and finally, to contented resignation at life's inherent transience.
For all Roddy Woomble may not be the angst-ridden, bile-spewing art school punk he once was, that certainly doesn't denigrate any of his achievements. Having matured into one of the finest poets - and yes, folks, that what he is - of our generation, the Idlewild frontman is only just scratching the surface of his unquestionably wealthy pool of talent and tonight's Cluny 2 show is proof positive of that fact. With an audience so rapturously attentive and a set this superbly crafted, this could never be anything other than a resounding success. Truly beautiful stuff.
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.
Saturday, 2 April 2011
Review: Sucioperro (Live Lounge, Durham, 01/04/11)
Alert the Audience isn't having much luck with local gigs by Scottish bands of late. First Glasvegas face the unfounded ire of a bunch of po-faced, (probably) crack-addled hecklers at their intimate Sunderland show, and now, less than a week later, JP Reid's fantastic post-rock outfit Sucioperro suffer an unwarranted technical horrorshow at Durham's new-born Live Lounge, of the kind that forces them to abandon the performance altogether after four all-too-short songs, on the grounds that it really, truly, is impossible for them to play.
Now, let's get one thing straight before we go any further: this is no Axl Rose prima-donna hissy fit. Firstly, Sucio aren't the type to disappoint their fans, irrespective of just how many they number. Sure, there are only a handful of punters here tonight (probably around 20 in total) but that's never stopped them before. One need only look to their other fairly recent North Eastern gigs for proof: one man and his dog turned up to the Trillian's show in Newcastle but that didn't stop them tearing a hole in the joint. The vast majority of folk at the York Stereo gig were there to support the preceding local acts but the 'perro gave it their all regardless. No, these guys are the very definition of consummate professionals and don't take such decisions lightly.
Second, and perhaps most importantly, from the moment JP strums the first discordant note and the howl of ear-piercing feedback muffles all semblance of melody and tune, it is painfully obvious to all and sundry that something is fundamentally wrong. Immediately following a relatively painful newbie from recent release 'The Heartstring and How To Pull It' (it's difficult to make out exactly what it is due to the sound problems), JP requests that the sound guy 'do the job he's fucking paid to do' and sort the damn thing out. Sadly, his pleas fall on deaf, or possibly dumb, ears and the calamity continues, Sucio trying desperately to disguise the fact that they sound like they're being forced to play in a wind tunnel. Things improve moderately during a passable 'Threads' but sadly, the dreaded squeals return and before long, JP is literally begging the guy to provide his band with conditions in which they can actually play to their fans without forcing everyone to wear earplugs. Sadly, we're not privy to his response, but given that Reid resorts to such drastic measures as asking the punters themselves whether they can do anything about the problem, we suspect he didn't take it too well. Cue one heartfelt apology to the attendees and a swift exit, never to return.
Interestingly, Durham doesn't take umbrage at such a decision. Where other crowds may have turned on their heroes, the handful of devotees and curious locals present tonight actually applaud in solidarity, recognising that yeah, what they were being forced to endure was decidedly sub-par. There is very little, if any, ill-feeling here, which says a lot about the integrity inherent in the band and a whole hell of a lot more about the poor Live Lounge, whose reputation of late isn't exactly glistening. If the owners aren't careful, the venue will make a name for itself as a place to avoid like the plague, and that's precisely the last thing that a sleepy city like Durham needs. There's no doubt that its opening was welcomed with justifiably open arms by a scene crying out for attention. Let's just hope it doesn't jeopardise its chances of a brighter future.
So, what to make of tonight, then? Well, the performance was a colossal disappointment by anyone's standards but then, Sucioperro know this. In the event, we bore witness to three people doing the only thing they could do when faced with such extenuating circumstances. JP's protest could be the wake up call that the Live Lounge needs and for that, perhaps we shouldn't write the night off as a complete disaster. Only time will tell, of course, and in the meantime, we have the promise on Twitter that the band will 'make it up' to us and there's one pretty gosh darn ace new record to tide everyone over. So just whip 'Heartstring' out, crank the volume up to 'ear bleed' and imagine what could've been.
Now, let's get one thing straight before we go any further: this is no Axl Rose prima-donna hissy fit. Firstly, Sucio aren't the type to disappoint their fans, irrespective of just how many they number. Sure, there are only a handful of punters here tonight (probably around 20 in total) but that's never stopped them before. One need only look to their other fairly recent North Eastern gigs for proof: one man and his dog turned up to the Trillian's show in Newcastle but that didn't stop them tearing a hole in the joint. The vast majority of folk at the York Stereo gig were there to support the preceding local acts but the 'perro gave it their all regardless. No, these guys are the very definition of consummate professionals and don't take such decisions lightly.
Second, and perhaps most importantly, from the moment JP strums the first discordant note and the howl of ear-piercing feedback muffles all semblance of melody and tune, it is painfully obvious to all and sundry that something is fundamentally wrong. Immediately following a relatively painful newbie from recent release 'The Heartstring and How To Pull It' (it's difficult to make out exactly what it is due to the sound problems), JP requests that the sound guy 'do the job he's fucking paid to do' and sort the damn thing out. Sadly, his pleas fall on deaf, or possibly dumb, ears and the calamity continues, Sucio trying desperately to disguise the fact that they sound like they're being forced to play in a wind tunnel. Things improve moderately during a passable 'Threads' but sadly, the dreaded squeals return and before long, JP is literally begging the guy to provide his band with conditions in which they can actually play to their fans without forcing everyone to wear earplugs. Sadly, we're not privy to his response, but given that Reid resorts to such drastic measures as asking the punters themselves whether they can do anything about the problem, we suspect he didn't take it too well. Cue one heartfelt apology to the attendees and a swift exit, never to return.
Interestingly, Durham doesn't take umbrage at such a decision. Where other crowds may have turned on their heroes, the handful of devotees and curious locals present tonight actually applaud in solidarity, recognising that yeah, what they were being forced to endure was decidedly sub-par. There is very little, if any, ill-feeling here, which says a lot about the integrity inherent in the band and a whole hell of a lot more about the poor Live Lounge, whose reputation of late isn't exactly glistening. If the owners aren't careful, the venue will make a name for itself as a place to avoid like the plague, and that's precisely the last thing that a sleepy city like Durham needs. There's no doubt that its opening was welcomed with justifiably open arms by a scene crying out for attention. Let's just hope it doesn't jeopardise its chances of a brighter future.
So, what to make of tonight, then? Well, the performance was a colossal disappointment by anyone's standards but then, Sucioperro know this. In the event, we bore witness to three people doing the only thing they could do when faced with such extenuating circumstances. JP's protest could be the wake up call that the Live Lounge needs and for that, perhaps we shouldn't write the night off as a complete disaster. Only time will tell, of course, and in the meantime, we have the promise on Twitter that the band will 'make it up' to us and there's one pretty gosh darn ace new record to tide everyone over. So just whip 'Heartstring' out, crank the volume up to 'ear bleed' and imagine what could've been.
Review: Glasvegas (Independent, Sunderland, 27/03/11)
And it was all going so, so well. The phenomenally unpredictable, rags-to-riches success story that was Glasvegas's last eighteen months in the depressingly boisterous and highly fickle music industry produced some of the most unquestionably uplifting highs this side of 'It's A Wonderful Life'; after years of trawling the spit-and-sawdust, glass-in-the-face pub circuit of inner - and outer - Glasgow, enduring gang warfare and emotional hardship, a desperately uncertain Zeitgeist took a good, hard look at one beautifully simplistic song about daddy issues and fell hopelessly in love. And so the 'Glasmania' began. Their heartbreakingly honest lyrics struck the loudest of chords with the everyman and lo, a legend was born. Gigs became emotionally cathartic experiences; grown men would cry openly in the front rows while mouthing 'Cheating Heart', thousands of ordinarily placid observers would turn theatres into football terraces, bellowing the anthemic 'Go Square Go' and bequiffed, leather-jacketed lead singer James Allan would have every face eating out of the palm of his hand, hanging onto his every word.
However, all that could be about to change. Judging by the hostile atmosphere generated by pockets of dissatisfied punters at tonight's Independent show, the tide may be on the turn. The rot began to set in several months back when long-standing member and cult icon Caroline, the band's diminutive, yet unfathomably brutal, drummer, quit the group, citing 'personal issues'. Then James fessed up to the drugs binge that resulted in the infamous Coachella cancellation. Add to that a scene that has moved elsewhere in the three years since that infamous self-titled debut and recent rumours that the previously messianic Allen is faking it live and you have a recipe for potential disaster. Naturally, things aren't quite that bad this evening - in fact, they're positively glorious in the circumstances - but nevertheless, the tense undercurrent is palpable, transforming an otherwise triumphant performance into something far more uneasy, far less sure of itself and considerably less pleasant to be involved in.
It all starts with a well-timed heckle: three or four rows back from the front, a lonesome punter accuses the band of being shit and suggests that they 'do [their] fucking jobs'. Curiously, the general consensus appears to be that they're doing just that, the affably boisterous lads and lasses in the pit swigging their pints of piss in unison, admiring the effortless thrills and spills that make up opening newbie 'The World Is Yours' and gushing at James's particularly eye-catching choice of attire. Decked in sharp white from head to toe - besuited, naturally - he cuts a piercing figure, bellowing his innermost into the Sinatra-style 50s mic that he brandishes like a weapon, replacing the beloved guitar that he once carried with him to every show. Or at least, he *appears* to be bellowing his innermost. Some aren't so sure. Following a seemingly euphoric 'Cheating Heart', a handful of similarly dissenting voices pipe up, demanding that James 'stop miming' and essentially calling for his head on a platter. The name-calling ensues, the litany of expletives incenses the few grandmas present, and suddenly, a proportionally insignificant minority turns the gig into a battlefield, pitting themselves against both the band and the fans who take umbrage at their behaviour.
The nadir is reached a few songs later, when James cottons on to the problem. He calls out the last male shouting an objection, turns the house lights on and things threaten to turn very ugly. Thankfully, Allan maintains his calm throughout, reminding some very vocal fans that the gentleman is entitled to his opinion, but making sure he knows just how offended he is by the accusation. "I work bloody hard every night and that's insulting man", he offers, before cutting the dissenters down in one fell swoop. "Why would we mime out of tune?" It's a brilliantly self-effacing remark and one that elicits a round of applause from the remainder of the audience, but Allan doesn't stop there. To prove a point, he changes the lyrics to a hauntingly evocative 'Polmont on my Mind', imploring, "what do I have to do to prove I'm not miming?" Sadly, while the number and volume of protests decreases from herein, a few irritable voices remain, and the spectre of the accusation haunts the rest of the set, leading an otherwise mesmerised crowd to question whether there's any truth to the accusations, rather than focus their energies on getting lost in the whirlwind of sorrow and melancholy that is brilliant new single 'Euphoria: State of Mind' or appreciate the five minutes of unwavering beauty that is 'Ice Cream Van'.
Certainly, from a cursory glance at those responsible for the heckling, it would appear that the vast majority were looking to cause trouble; with nary a lyric mouthed and arms folded tight shut, these time-wasters seem to have spent their £12.50 to be as c**tish as possible (that these people even exist is enough to boggle the mind for eternity). However, post-gig, AtA does catch a snippet of explanation; seemingly, the criticism is based on the fact that James's vocals do not decrease in volume proportionally to the distance of the microphone from his face. Tellingly, such observations are made from the back of the venue; up close and personal, the guttural projection, the passionate intensity and often, the spit and phlegm are all too evident. One swift gander at 'Flowers and Football Tops', sung entirely by Allan with only a minor keyboard underscore, should be sufficient to silence any doubts; the quavering fragility in his voice is positively majestic, belted out with every fibre in his being.
It's a pity that such - probably - unfounded accusations besmirch an otherwise damn fine evening. While Alert the Audience cannot categorically confirm whether there's any truth in the notion that James was miming at any point in the performance, we can confirm that he did his utmost to discredit the naysayers and that 90% of Sunderland's finest indie kids loved every minute. As is par for the course, there were euphoric highs, heartbreaking lows and a whole heck of a lot of embarrassingly drunken arms-around-mates moments in-between. It would be a shame for a few setbacks and a bunch of Internet rumours put pay to all that.
However, all that could be about to change. Judging by the hostile atmosphere generated by pockets of dissatisfied punters at tonight's Independent show, the tide may be on the turn. The rot began to set in several months back when long-standing member and cult icon Caroline, the band's diminutive, yet unfathomably brutal, drummer, quit the group, citing 'personal issues'. Then James fessed up to the drugs binge that resulted in the infamous Coachella cancellation. Add to that a scene that has moved elsewhere in the three years since that infamous self-titled debut and recent rumours that the previously messianic Allen is faking it live and you have a recipe for potential disaster. Naturally, things aren't quite that bad this evening - in fact, they're positively glorious in the circumstances - but nevertheless, the tense undercurrent is palpable, transforming an otherwise triumphant performance into something far more uneasy, far less sure of itself and considerably less pleasant to be involved in.
It all starts with a well-timed heckle: three or four rows back from the front, a lonesome punter accuses the band of being shit and suggests that they 'do [their] fucking jobs'. Curiously, the general consensus appears to be that they're doing just that, the affably boisterous lads and lasses in the pit swigging their pints of piss in unison, admiring the effortless thrills and spills that make up opening newbie 'The World Is Yours' and gushing at James's particularly eye-catching choice of attire. Decked in sharp white from head to toe - besuited, naturally - he cuts a piercing figure, bellowing his innermost into the Sinatra-style 50s mic that he brandishes like a weapon, replacing the beloved guitar that he once carried with him to every show. Or at least, he *appears* to be bellowing his innermost. Some aren't so sure. Following a seemingly euphoric 'Cheating Heart', a handful of similarly dissenting voices pipe up, demanding that James 'stop miming' and essentially calling for his head on a platter. The name-calling ensues, the litany of expletives incenses the few grandmas present, and suddenly, a proportionally insignificant minority turns the gig into a battlefield, pitting themselves against both the band and the fans who take umbrage at their behaviour.
The nadir is reached a few songs later, when James cottons on to the problem. He calls out the last male shouting an objection, turns the house lights on and things threaten to turn very ugly. Thankfully, Allan maintains his calm throughout, reminding some very vocal fans that the gentleman is entitled to his opinion, but making sure he knows just how offended he is by the accusation. "I work bloody hard every night and that's insulting man", he offers, before cutting the dissenters down in one fell swoop. "Why would we mime out of tune?" It's a brilliantly self-effacing remark and one that elicits a round of applause from the remainder of the audience, but Allan doesn't stop there. To prove a point, he changes the lyrics to a hauntingly evocative 'Polmont on my Mind', imploring, "what do I have to do to prove I'm not miming?" Sadly, while the number and volume of protests decreases from herein, a few irritable voices remain, and the spectre of the accusation haunts the rest of the set, leading an otherwise mesmerised crowd to question whether there's any truth to the accusations, rather than focus their energies on getting lost in the whirlwind of sorrow and melancholy that is brilliant new single 'Euphoria: State of Mind' or appreciate the five minutes of unwavering beauty that is 'Ice Cream Van'.
Certainly, from a cursory glance at those responsible for the heckling, it would appear that the vast majority were looking to cause trouble; with nary a lyric mouthed and arms folded tight shut, these time-wasters seem to have spent their £12.50 to be as c**tish as possible (that these people even exist is enough to boggle the mind for eternity). However, post-gig, AtA does catch a snippet of explanation; seemingly, the criticism is based on the fact that James's vocals do not decrease in volume proportionally to the distance of the microphone from his face. Tellingly, such observations are made from the back of the venue; up close and personal, the guttural projection, the passionate intensity and often, the spit and phlegm are all too evident. One swift gander at 'Flowers and Football Tops', sung entirely by Allan with only a minor keyboard underscore, should be sufficient to silence any doubts; the quavering fragility in his voice is positively majestic, belted out with every fibre in his being.
It's a pity that such - probably - unfounded accusations besmirch an otherwise damn fine evening. While Alert the Audience cannot categorically confirm whether there's any truth in the notion that James was miming at any point in the performance, we can confirm that he did his utmost to discredit the naysayers and that 90% of Sunderland's finest indie kids loved every minute. As is par for the course, there were euphoric highs, heartbreaking lows and a whole heck of a lot of embarrassingly drunken arms-around-mates moments in-between. It would be a shame for a few setbacks and a bunch of Internet rumours put pay to all that.
Album review: Max Raptor: 'Portraits'
Okay people, it's time we faced facts: that temperamental old sod we call society has pretty much given up the ghost and we're all heading to hell in a handcart. Fast. And with barely a moment's warning. Nature is flexing its biceps on entire nations; dictators are threatening to eradicate their 'coffee-addled' civilians; world leaders are chomping at the bit to bomb the shit out of still more countries, having apparently learned nothing from that whole Iraq thing; and here in the mighty British Isles, an unelected leader and his teet-suckling cronies are doing their God damndest to obliterate just about every institution that we hold dear, sucking the life blood out of the NHS, swinging the axe on public sector jobs and withdrawing the much-valued benefits that those without any gainful employment would look to to, you know, enable them to live. And that.
So we're fucked, basically... but it's okay. Someone will take a stand. Counterculture will throw us a bevvy of boisterous protest singers who'll write the anthems that unite a nation and send the walls of parliament tumbling to the ground. Right? Wrong. Take one glance at the alternative Zeitgeist and you'd think we'd never had it better. Apart from a smattering of King Blues singles - and they're always moaning on about something - our bands appear content to keep schtum on the subject, allowing the protest movements (UK Uncut etc.) to go it alone, as it were. Well, not so Max Raptor. With 'Portraits', their debut 8 track mini-album, these Derby-based punks mix the political with the personal in an effort to actually say something about the pretty desperate state of affairs we find ourselves in. And in so doing, they've created one of the most vital and intense records of the year.
There's no time for dicking around here, no room for chin-stroking pontification. Lead singer Will comes hurtling out of the gate spitting and snarling on the brilliantly venomous 'The King is Dead', shooting every line through with anger and resentment. It's a brutally bold statement, a stake to the heart of the bunting-and-boihaha that our precious leaders are currently trying to smother us in in an effort to throw a blanket over their own failings. In three deliciously aggressive minutes, Max Raptor decimate all of that, piercing the thinly-draped royal veil thrown up by middle England, drenching the penchant for all things monarchial in purest, visceral working class punk rock. And what's even more remarkable is that they achieve this without ever being *too* literal; the songs have a much-welcome ambiguity about them, drawing immediate inspiration from the intimately personal - subject matter includes domestic abuse and alcoholism - but transcending these boundaries and appealing to something far greater. In such a desperate socio-political climate, it's almost impossible not to read tracks such as 'Obey The Whips' as bile-soaked slices of anti-government rhetoric. It's a seething monster of a track, careering along on the crest of a steam-punk wave, all scuzzy, abrasive guitars and dirty bass lines that complement it's agreeably accusatory, discordant tone.
'Portraits' isn't all finger-pointing, however; on brilliantly punchy single 'The Great and the Good', Max Raptor make their affirmation, pledging allegiance to their cause, declaring that they'll 'wear this badge upon [their] chests', weaving their own twisted, euphoric anthem. It feels cathartic, particularly when coupled with the tellingly pointed 'conscience exists now even in the wicked', playing upon the 'us and them' mentality fostered by Cameron and co. and using it to their own advantage. And perhaps even more impressively, the band don't even need to mine the depths of socio-political hegemony to provide thrills. 'Portraits' works exceptionally well as a straightforward rock record, laden with irresistible riffs and addictive melodies. Second single 'Ghost' is a particular highlight, with a chorus that could topple mountains, while 'Carolina' and 'Beasts' demonstrate their musical diversity, venturing outside the conventions of four-to-the-floor punk 'n' roll and veering more towards groove-tinged rock, lending the record a much more rounded, and even sophisticated, feel.
For a debut album, 'Portraits' is one hell of an achievement, shooting acutely observational, politically-tinged punk songs through with the kind of roller-coaster riffs and guttural vocals that other acts spend years perfecting. In an industry dominated by crushing silence, spewing out bands with absolutely nothing to say, Max Raptor are a much-needed breath of fresh air, sounding urgent, important and above all, utterly relevant. You NEED this band in your life. Now. So get up off your ass and do something about it. You won't regret it.
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.
Saturday, 19 March 2011
Review: Iron and Wine (w/Daniel Martin Moore, The Sage, Gateshead, 16/03/11)
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.
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.
Friday, 11 March 2011
Review: Surfer Blood w/No Joy (Newcastle O2 Academy 2, 06/03/11)
There's a veritable genre war taking place across Newcastle's wind-and-rain battered city centre this evening; at one end of town, just off the tracksuit-and-trampcoat laden Northumberland Street, Scottish post-hardcore noiseniks Flood of Red are trying desperately to stomp a mudhole in the refurbished Trillian's rock bar and prove to all and sundry that their particular brand of scuzzy, punky emo rock is the most exciting thing you could hope to immerse yourself in on a Sunday night. Meanwhile, a few hundred metres away, past the garish fracas of the world-renowned Bigg Market and through the meandering, well-hidden Victorian side streets, grungy lo-fi Floridians Surfer Blood have organised the counter battle, flying the flag for sun-kissed indie, attempting to convince 300 or so scene kids in Sonic Youth T-shirts to throw their floppy fringes to the wind and just, you know, dance.
Problem is, on this most dreary of ends to the week, Newcastle struggles to do much of anything at all, and Surfer Blood have a pretty gosh darn hard time trying to convince anyone to move a muscle. Montreal and Los Angeles-based shoegaze outfit No Joy bear the brunt of the indifference, with applause decidedly muted, despite the female singers' dangerously skimpy wardrobe choices and valiant attempts to break My Bloody Valentine's volume record. And when the main act grace us with their presence, they do so to as little fanfare as possible, with only the occasional impromptu whoop or hand-clap signaling that anything more than a soundcheck is taking place. Granted, the guys don't exactly make much of a fuss over their onstage debut, slouching out sans intro music and barely saying anything at all, but one would expect a crowd of supposed fans to at least work themselves into some semblance of excitement at the arrival of their hosts.
Of course, it's questionable whether many of the faces intensely studying Surfer Blood tonight have even bothered listening to their output. Despite a relatively brief, straightforward set consisting almost entirely of tracks from the superb 2010 debut 'Astro Coast', audience participation is minimal and most mouths are wired shut, even during the funky-as-fuck Summer-anthem-that-never-was 'Take It Easy' (JP does his usual party trick and heads into the 'pit', wielding his microphone like a weapon) and, even more unforgivably, during 'Swim', the band's biggest, most well-hyped, single and most ludicrously fun slice of scuzz pop in a pretty top notch arsenal. A few fairly quiet devotees in the front row mumble the words sheepishly to themselves, conscious of the fact that no one else seems bothered, but for the most part, there is very little activity. Somewhat unfortunately, it's patently obvious to the Floridians themselves and their set loses a little of its lustre as a result, as if the boys gave up bothering after a few tracks, all too aware that a reaction was unlikely to be forthcoming.
That's not to say, however, that SB don't put in a mighty commendable performance; this is as note-perfect a representation of their hazy East coast sound as you're likely to get, with 'Fast Jabroni ' and a punchy 'Floating Vibes' sounding positively monumental. The problem, however, is that it lacks that little something more, the extra ingredient to make the show seem more like an event than another night on the job. The crowd has a lot to answer for, sure, but there is a noticeable gap stage right too, as the maracas-wielding keyboard/percussionist/all-round nutcase appears to have disappeared into the void. Without him, Surfer Blood seem to be a rather more professional outfit, losing some of the lunatic charm they exuded during their recent Interpol support slots.
Blame the Sunday night; blame the frustratingly benign folk of Newcastle; blame the band dynamic; blame whatever; tonight, Surfer Blood aren't anywhere near as glorious as they can be, and despite putting in a solid performance, they lack the spark so desperately needed to set our hearts ablaze. As a stand for all that is good, pure and reckless about contemporary lo-fi indie, it can only be judged partially successful, and as competitors in this evening's Battle of the Genres, Surfer Blood come out on the receiving end of a punk-shaped suckerpunch. Sorry guys, but the Scots win again. Probably.
Problem is, on this most dreary of ends to the week, Newcastle struggles to do much of anything at all, and Surfer Blood have a pretty gosh darn hard time trying to convince anyone to move a muscle. Montreal and Los Angeles-based shoegaze outfit No Joy bear the brunt of the indifference, with applause decidedly muted, despite the female singers' dangerously skimpy wardrobe choices and valiant attempts to break My Bloody Valentine's volume record. And when the main act grace us with their presence, they do so to as little fanfare as possible, with only the occasional impromptu whoop or hand-clap signaling that anything more than a soundcheck is taking place. Granted, the guys don't exactly make much of a fuss over their onstage debut, slouching out sans intro music and barely saying anything at all, but one would expect a crowd of supposed fans to at least work themselves into some semblance of excitement at the arrival of their hosts.
Of course, it's questionable whether many of the faces intensely studying Surfer Blood tonight have even bothered listening to their output. Despite a relatively brief, straightforward set consisting almost entirely of tracks from the superb 2010 debut 'Astro Coast', audience participation is minimal and most mouths are wired shut, even during the funky-as-fuck Summer-anthem-that-never-was 'Take It Easy' (JP does his usual party trick and heads into the 'pit', wielding his microphone like a weapon) and, even more unforgivably, during 'Swim', the band's biggest, most well-hyped, single and most ludicrously fun slice of scuzz pop in a pretty top notch arsenal. A few fairly quiet devotees in the front row mumble the words sheepishly to themselves, conscious of the fact that no one else seems bothered, but for the most part, there is very little activity. Somewhat unfortunately, it's patently obvious to the Floridians themselves and their set loses a little of its lustre as a result, as if the boys gave up bothering after a few tracks, all too aware that a reaction was unlikely to be forthcoming.
That's not to say, however, that SB don't put in a mighty commendable performance; this is as note-perfect a representation of their hazy East coast sound as you're likely to get, with 'Fast Jabroni ' and a punchy 'Floating Vibes' sounding positively monumental. The problem, however, is that it lacks that little something more, the extra ingredient to make the show seem more like an event than another night on the job. The crowd has a lot to answer for, sure, but there is a noticeable gap stage right too, as the maracas-wielding keyboard/percussionist/all-round nutcase appears to have disappeared into the void. Without him, Surfer Blood seem to be a rather more professional outfit, losing some of the lunatic charm they exuded during their recent Interpol support slots.
Blame the Sunday night; blame the frustratingly benign folk of Newcastle; blame the band dynamic; blame whatever; tonight, Surfer Blood aren't anywhere near as glorious as they can be, and despite putting in a solid performance, they lack the spark so desperately needed to set our hearts ablaze. As a stand for all that is good, pure and reckless about contemporary lo-fi indie, it can only be judged partially successful, and as competitors in this evening's Battle of the Genres, Surfer Blood come out on the receiving end of a punk-shaped suckerpunch. Sorry guys, but the Scots win again. Probably.
Sunday, 6 March 2011
Review: Les Savy Fav (The Cluny, Newcastle, 02/03/11)
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Wednesday, 2 March 2011
Review: Rock Sound Exposure Tour (Dinosaur Pile-Up/The Xcerts, Newcastle O2 Academy 2, 28/02/11)
Hot on the heels of a victorious King Tut's show, Newcastle's sparsely populated, depressingly muted Academy 2 must seem like a colossal leap backwards for the guys and girls - um, are there any? - of the 2011 Rock Sound Exposure Tour. Granted, tonight's headliners, the unnervingly intense Japanese Voyeurs, have had to withdraw from the tour due to vocal chord problems (lead singer Romily probably belched that one belch too far), leaving the two local supports to prop up the bill and Dinosaur Pile-Up with an unexpected main slot, but it's hard to believe that any of the 100 or so punters in attendance this evening even knew who they were anyway. This is a crowd of casual observers, curious locals and self-conscious scenesters, none of whom seem able to muster up any semblance of enthusiasm for the cream of contemporary British talent that's attempting to put on a rip-roaring rock 'n' roll show in front of them.
The Xcerts suffer particularly badly, forced to contend with arms-folded disinterest and an audience too frightened of their social standing to make a beeline for the barrier. The gulf between band and crowd is achingly, embarrassingly palpable; forget the Academy, this might as well be your local drinking hole, playing host to some no-name local act while everyone tries to have a nice pint and a chat. Sure, pockets are attentive, and everyone is at least polite enough to applaud at the appropriate moments, but the lack of atmosphere is utterly, utterly depressing, sucking the life and soul out of the party. Such a reaction, frankly, is criminal. Granted, Murray and co. aren't exactly the 'hands in the air, now scream!' type, and perhaps they are guilty of not trying to engage with these armchair onlookers, but the sheer power and intensity of their all-too-brief performance should speak for itself.
In forty inexorably loud minutes, the Scottish three-piece summon the spirit of 'In Utero'-era Kurt Cobain and unleash a torrent of unrelentingly abrasive noise rock on these poor, floppy fringed souls, making the spit and sawdust viscera of current release 'Scatterbrain' seem like Lady GaGa by comparison. Spurred on, perhaps, by his audience's indifference, Murray manages to find all new levels of guttural anger, bellowing the words to 'A Distant Memory', 'Young (Belane)' and a brilliantly blistering 'Slackerpop' with an extra level of unabashed insanity. There is no let up: even the two debut album tracks on air tonight - a mournful 'Crisis In The Slow Lane', an emboldened 'Do You Feel Safe?' - are shot through with a brusque rawness that obliterates any semblance of pop sensibility that they may previously have contained.
And perhaps that's why Newcastle just doesn't seem all that arsed. Without an obvious hook to cling on to, the crowd actually have to work at fathoming The Xcerts out, and the arms-folded brigade just aren't in the mood for being challenged. Instead, they'd rather hum and nod along to really-very-bloody-obvious headliners Dinosaur Pile-Up, whose verse-verse-chorus power chord formula is an instant no-brainer and hence, an instant winner. Of course, there's nothing wrong with such a simple set-up, provided you have the melodies to back it up and unfortunately, at this, DPU are only partially successful. They have 'Mona Lisa', a galloping rock 'n' roll stallion, and the splendidly stupid 'My Rock n Roll', the bastard love child of contemporary Weezer and 'The Colour and the Shape' era Foo Fighters, but all too often, the hooks get lost amongst the monochrome chugging and the tracks lose any edge they may have had over one another, coming across instead like one long, drawn out exercise in A, D and G. They do perform well; their energy is commendable and the bassist's leap crowdwards during the encore is the most exciting thing to happen all evening, but you get the impression that they're only just scratching the surface of what could be, quite potentially, a bloody fucking ace rock outfit. And for all the audience are brave enough to line themselves along the barrier, there is still barely any movement; no energy to speak of; no atmosphere.
As a showcase for fresh talent, the Rock Sound Exposure Tour is a pretty riveting, darn good value night that'll open your eyes and ears to some talented musicians and maybe even persuade you to part with your hard-earned cash on that latest Xcerts album (or Dinosaur Pile-Up, if you ain't picky). As anything even remotely resembling a gig, however, if Newcastle is anything to go by, it's as exciting as the end credits to The Lord of the Rings, failing to excite the kids into any sort of reaction. Of course, tonight isn't anything to go by; it's a frustrating statistical anomaly in a sea of downright wild shows and is a blight on the city's recent track record as a worthwhile place to play. Let's hope our future rock stars don't write us all off at once, eh?
The Xcerts suffer particularly badly, forced to contend with arms-folded disinterest and an audience too frightened of their social standing to make a beeline for the barrier. The gulf between band and crowd is achingly, embarrassingly palpable; forget the Academy, this might as well be your local drinking hole, playing host to some no-name local act while everyone tries to have a nice pint and a chat. Sure, pockets are attentive, and everyone is at least polite enough to applaud at the appropriate moments, but the lack of atmosphere is utterly, utterly depressing, sucking the life and soul out of the party. Such a reaction, frankly, is criminal. Granted, Murray and co. aren't exactly the 'hands in the air, now scream!' type, and perhaps they are guilty of not trying to engage with these armchair onlookers, but the sheer power and intensity of their all-too-brief performance should speak for itself.
In forty inexorably loud minutes, the Scottish three-piece summon the spirit of 'In Utero'-era Kurt Cobain and unleash a torrent of unrelentingly abrasive noise rock on these poor, floppy fringed souls, making the spit and sawdust viscera of current release 'Scatterbrain' seem like Lady GaGa by comparison. Spurred on, perhaps, by his audience's indifference, Murray manages to find all new levels of guttural anger, bellowing the words to 'A Distant Memory', 'Young (Belane)' and a brilliantly blistering 'Slackerpop' with an extra level of unabashed insanity. There is no let up: even the two debut album tracks on air tonight - a mournful 'Crisis In The Slow Lane', an emboldened 'Do You Feel Safe?' - are shot through with a brusque rawness that obliterates any semblance of pop sensibility that they may previously have contained.
And perhaps that's why Newcastle just doesn't seem all that arsed. Without an obvious hook to cling on to, the crowd actually have to work at fathoming The Xcerts out, and the arms-folded brigade just aren't in the mood for being challenged. Instead, they'd rather hum and nod along to really-very-bloody-obvious headliners Dinosaur Pile-Up, whose verse-verse-chorus power chord formula is an instant no-brainer and hence, an instant winner. Of course, there's nothing wrong with such a simple set-up, provided you have the melodies to back it up and unfortunately, at this, DPU are only partially successful. They have 'Mona Lisa', a galloping rock 'n' roll stallion, and the splendidly stupid 'My Rock n Roll', the bastard love child of contemporary Weezer and 'The Colour and the Shape' era Foo Fighters, but all too often, the hooks get lost amongst the monochrome chugging and the tracks lose any edge they may have had over one another, coming across instead like one long, drawn out exercise in A, D and G. They do perform well; their energy is commendable and the bassist's leap crowdwards during the encore is the most exciting thing to happen all evening, but you get the impression that they're only just scratching the surface of what could be, quite potentially, a bloody fucking ace rock outfit. And for all the audience are brave enough to line themselves along the barrier, there is still barely any movement; no energy to speak of; no atmosphere.
As a showcase for fresh talent, the Rock Sound Exposure Tour is a pretty riveting, darn good value night that'll open your eyes and ears to some talented musicians and maybe even persuade you to part with your hard-earned cash on that latest Xcerts album (or Dinosaur Pile-Up, if you ain't picky). As anything even remotely resembling a gig, however, if Newcastle is anything to go by, it's as exciting as the end credits to The Lord of the Rings, failing to excite the kids into any sort of reaction. Of course, tonight isn't anything to go by; it's a frustrating statistical anomaly in a sea of downright wild shows and is a blight on the city's recent track record as a worthwhile place to play. Let's hope our future rock stars don't write us all off at once, eh?
Tuesday, 1 March 2011
Review: Little Comets, Northumbria University, 26/02/11
From the casual disinterest of a sparsely populated Bridge Hotel to this evening’s rapturously attentive, and impressively cramped, Northumbria University, Jarrow/Heaton/Sunderland-born indie upstarts Little Comets have come a long way in the last twelve months. Aided admirably by a series of deliciously spiky indie-pop singles, one impressively instant debut LP and a penchant for whippin’ out the old acoustic guitars on the Metro Airport line, the quirky, bejumpered four-piece have now reached that oh-so-coveted of turning points: the cusp of mainstream crossover. There’s an undeniable buzz around these guys; the kind of feverish excitement that enveloped Maximo Park just before ‘Apply Some Pressure’, that almost swallowed up The Futureheads before they’d had a chance to put out a record and that currently follows POP SEX stalwarts Frankie & The Heartstrings wherever they go. Having achieved a sort of ‘oddball’ local hero status, Robert, Michael, Mark and Matthew are on the fast track to indie superstardom and this is their celebratory homecoming.
It would be churlish to suggest that the ensuing triumph was inevitable, but even the most hard-nosed of cynics would have to concede that the odds were firmly in the Comets’ favour. Northumbria’s revamped, scaled-down Student’s Union bristles with excitement tonight as 500 beer-swilling alt kids (half of whom are too young to know what a double vodka and coke even is) lift their arms aloft, faces beaming with pride, and bellow the devilishly obtuse words to effortlessly catchy opener ‘One Night In October’ right back at their fellow Geordies. In typically eccentric fashion, the band eschew the track’s standard instrumentation and choose to treat Newcastle to a stripped-down acoustic reimagining, with all four members attempting to play the same strung-up guitar – tied to clotheslines for that added touch of bizarre – in unison. It’s a surreal sight, and it’s questionable whether it actually works, but the end result is categorically endearing. In celebration of the fact that this is their largest headline show to date, the Comets clearly felt obliged to do something special, to ‘mix it up a little’ (for want of better terminology), and hell, they do the honorable thing and whizz through the beefed-up version of the track towards the end of the set anyhow. Yes, you read that right folks, tonight, Little Comets play the same song twice and it’s a testament to the quality of their performance that the cheeky rascals get away with it.
Not that their set requires any padding, of course. Within the space of 15 songs - pretty much the entirety of their recent debut - Little Comets sparkle, shine and make highly inventive use of saucepans (one dangles from the ceiling alongside a tambourine for added percussion), all the while maintaining their unenviable knack for getting bodies moving. Their one new track is symptomatic of this, eliciting an enthusiastic jump-along after a meagre thirty seconds. It's quite probably their sexiest effort to date, driving its kitchen sink lyricism along on the crest of a groove-shaped wave that would put Jessie J to shame. Maybe. So lascivious is this beast that it almost pips the wonderfully playful 'Joanna', and that has the advantage of a brilliant slice of semantic ambiguity that sees the 500-strong faithful (almost) asking, 'do you wanna take me home?' It's precisely this kind of loveable quirkiness that separates Little Comets from their peers: who else could make a song about 'Adultery' sound so damn appealing, or get away with spelling out their country's name to form a chorus? ('Isles', you are a bloody cheeky blighter, but you sound glorious - and especially fast this evening - so we'll forgive you). No one, that's who. By gig's end, and the irresistible sporadic convulsiveness of the dumb-as-fuck 'Dancing Song', the Comets have the masses body-popping in their Converse, having successfully charmed each and every one.
A resounding success, then? Well, obviously. With their largest crowd to date and a level of local respect and adulation the size of Paul Smith's ego, Robert, Michael, Mark and Matthew could probably have played an hour of Barry Manilow covers this evening and still have left the masses hungry for more. They don't, of course; they deliver a balls-to-the-floor indie rock show of the highest order and prove themselves worthy of the Geordies' devotion. Today's Little Comets, tomorrow's massive stars.
It would be churlish to suggest that the ensuing triumph was inevitable, but even the most hard-nosed of cynics would have to concede that the odds were firmly in the Comets’ favour. Northumbria’s revamped, scaled-down Student’s Union bristles with excitement tonight as 500 beer-swilling alt kids (half of whom are too young to know what a double vodka and coke even is) lift their arms aloft, faces beaming with pride, and bellow the devilishly obtuse words to effortlessly catchy opener ‘One Night In October’ right back at their fellow Geordies. In typically eccentric fashion, the band eschew the track’s standard instrumentation and choose to treat Newcastle to a stripped-down acoustic reimagining, with all four members attempting to play the same strung-up guitar – tied to clotheslines for that added touch of bizarre – in unison. It’s a surreal sight, and it’s questionable whether it actually works, but the end result is categorically endearing. In celebration of the fact that this is their largest headline show to date, the Comets clearly felt obliged to do something special, to ‘mix it up a little’ (for want of better terminology), and hell, they do the honorable thing and whizz through the beefed-up version of the track towards the end of the set anyhow. Yes, you read that right folks, tonight, Little Comets play the same song twice and it’s a testament to the quality of their performance that the cheeky rascals get away with it.
Not that their set requires any padding, of course. Within the space of 15 songs - pretty much the entirety of their recent debut - Little Comets sparkle, shine and make highly inventive use of saucepans (one dangles from the ceiling alongside a tambourine for added percussion), all the while maintaining their unenviable knack for getting bodies moving. Their one new track is symptomatic of this, eliciting an enthusiastic jump-along after a meagre thirty seconds. It's quite probably their sexiest effort to date, driving its kitchen sink lyricism along on the crest of a groove-shaped wave that would put Jessie J to shame. Maybe. So lascivious is this beast that it almost pips the wonderfully playful 'Joanna', and that has the advantage of a brilliant slice of semantic ambiguity that sees the 500-strong faithful (almost) asking, 'do you wanna take me home?' It's precisely this kind of loveable quirkiness that separates Little Comets from their peers: who else could make a song about 'Adultery' sound so damn appealing, or get away with spelling out their country's name to form a chorus? ('Isles', you are a bloody cheeky blighter, but you sound glorious - and especially fast this evening - so we'll forgive you). No one, that's who. By gig's end, and the irresistible sporadic convulsiveness of the dumb-as-fuck 'Dancing Song', the Comets have the masses body-popping in their Converse, having successfully charmed each and every one.
A resounding success, then? Well, obviously. With their largest crowd to date and a level of local respect and adulation the size of Paul Smith's ego, Robert, Michael, Mark and Matthew could probably have played an hour of Barry Manilow covers this evening and still have left the masses hungry for more. They don't, of course; they deliver a balls-to-the-floor indie rock show of the highest order and prove themselves worthy of the Geordies' devotion. Today's Little Comets, tomorrow's massive stars.
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
Review: My Chemical Romance (Newcastle Metro Radio Arena, 22/02/11)
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.
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.
Saturday, 19 February 2011
Review: British Sea Power (w/Teeth of the Sea, Journal Tyne Theatre, Newcastle, 14/02/11)
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...
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...
Thursday, 10 February 2011
Review: NME Awards Tour (Crystal Castles/Magnetic Man/Everything Everything/The Vaccines), Newcastle O2 Academy, 07/02/11
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?
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?
Friday, 4 February 2011
Review: Funeral Party (w/Flashguns and Barcode, The Cluny, 03/02/11)
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.
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.
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