Conventional indie wisdom has it that Athlete are something of a one trick pony; a band for whom one slightly saccharine, but ultimately rather sweet, lighters-aloft ballad will always be the high watermark of their career, a brief moment of passable success which they will never repeat. Way back in the Winter of 04/05, when Coldplay were still melting hearts with their Rush of Blood and (almost) X&Y ballads, Wires, that moving tale about the desperation and euphoria of childbirth, proved to be a very timely slice of mawkishness, and the great British public swallowed it whole, choking back the tears at the same time. For a short while, it looked like Athlete could be pretenders to Chris Martin's throne, the album from whence said smash hit came proceeding to fly off the shelves, and the band's crowds continuing to grow and grow with every performance. Sadly, subsequent releases failed to recapture the winning formula and a series of rather trad, MOR singles consigned the band to the same indie scrapheap that Travis have been keeping warm for the last five years. Nowadays, if you ask your average alt aficionado, they'll tell you that Athlete's days are numbered, that they'll never repeat past glories and, quite probably, that those glories weren't exactly 'all that' in the first place.
There's a grain or two of truth in this; Athlete certainly aren't the most thrilling band in the world, and for all they may try their damndest, they'll probably never write another Wires. As demonstrated by tonight's set, they're a decidedly monochrome outfit, peddling more or less the same formula with each and every song and rarely venturing outside of their comfort zone. This is perhaps why they've invited My First Tooth along on their mini sojourn around the UK; while the Northampton-based four piece certainly aren't purveyors of all things death metal, they do have a slightly more varied pallet than their successors, largely thanks to their charming penchant for instrumentation. Vocalist Sophie Galpin bangs her drum, shakes her maracas, abuses her violin and occasionally plays the mandolin, adding a luscious extra layer to their joyous indie-folk (oh and Ross Witt, her partner in crime, gets a go at the mouth organ). They're a lively bunch, talkative and endearing, and their songs have an impressively sophisticated knack for making the sugar sweet seem palpable. They are also far too cute for their own good; so much so, in fact, that when they politely ask us to stomp along to a few of their tracks, we simply cannot help but oblige.
To be fair to Athlete, their status as the nicest boys in rock certainly helps their cause too; tonight, for all the set may occasionally lull, it isn't long before Joel grabs our attention again, his engaging patter scoring major points with this most jovial and polite of crowds. He jokes about the absence of their drummer - who could not make it to Newcastle for reasons unknown - and his unflattering laptop replacement which, in light of the fact that this is a 'stripped back' tour, actually seems rather fitting. He's forceful, yet restrained, about encouraging the crowd to sing along, particularly during the opening Half Light, and playfully boisterous about their choice of support act, cheekily chastisting the crowd when they don't respond with sufficient enthusiasm to his request for a round of applause in their honour, begging everyone to "just give them a tenner for God's sake, they are very poor."
However, for all it is Joel's charm that ultimately sees the band through, as well as the occasional realisation that actually, yes, you do know this one (Rockscene, anyone? El Salvador?), the success of tonight's show is largely the result of one stupendously drunken woman and her doting husband, whose very vocal presence has the effect of breaking the ice and transforming the performance into something more communal. Stumbling inelegantly around the front row, Julie, as we later discover she's called, is clearly having the time of her life (although whether she'll remember that fact in the morning is another matter), dancing to songs without a beat, making up the words to the tracks that she doesn't know and occasionally screaming lyrics at the top of her voice at the most inopportune moments (usually when, you know, there are no lyrics).
It is these barbed utterances that first elicit a response from the band, Joel choosing to cut short the Beautiful middle eight because he's in a fit of hysterics. Perhaps inevitably, she becomes the focal point of the whole show, prompting a round of applause in her honour, chants of her name and even a section of the set of her own when Joel actively encourages her to sing out of tune, at the top of her voice, as he strums the opening chords of The Getaway, which he plays unplugged in the middle of the crowd. For all she's rather worse for wear by the end, looking like she's about to vomit all over the monitors during a triumphant Wires, she essentially manages, single-handedly, to give the show the extra edge it needed to become something memorable. Kudos to Athlete for responding in kind, and kudos to her husband for keeping her on her own two feet.
Without Julie, there's a good chance that this evening's reimagining of Athlete's hits may have seemed like just another gig; passable, sure, endearing perhaps, and inoffensive certainly. With her, the barriers between band and audience are dismantled and the show feels more participatory, something that we're all in together. That it takes a sloshed fiftysomething to elicit such a feeling is perhaps a little telling but, at the end of the day, it's the overall experience that matters and this, ladies and gentlemen, is one that the good folk of Newcastle won't forget in a hurry. If Athlete can play more shows like this - charming, pleasant and occasionally unpredictable - then perhaps they can recapture the spirit of 2005. Quick, someone call Julie, we've got a job for her...
Sunday, 31 July 2011
Friday, 29 July 2011
Live review: T in the Park Festival 2011, Day 3 (10/07/11)
Day 3 at T finally sees the Main Stage casting aside all bubblegum pop pretenses (that honour is shifted to the unsuspecting NME Stage, where Tinie Tempah, Bruno Mars, Professor Green and euck, Youmeatsix bump manufactured uglies) and taking up its well-earned mantle as bastion of the finest quality indie rock known to the good people of these United Kingdoms, delivering a line-up fit to burst with the legendary, the stupendously talented and Cast. Frankly, the less said about John Power the better, and his successors All Time Low for that matter, although a surprise guest appearance from Rivers Cuomo at the very least raises an eyebrow or two.
No, it’s the return of everyone’s favourite punk-pop pioneers Blondie that’s the catalyst for the stage’s redemption, Debbie Harry still looking like the coolest fucker in the world, resplendent all in white (yes, even her hair) and effortlessly crooning her way through every last one of her band’s timeless, instant, life-affirming hits. With an Atomic here, a Heart of Glass there and the occasional Maria thrown in for good measure, this is the kind of set that most bands would sell their grannies to be able to play, jam-packed with tantalising singalongs and ridiculously addictive melodies. And so what if Debbie forgets a few words here and there… having paid her dues a million and one times over, she’s allowed the odd slip-up. Or three. Bless her, it’s all in good fun, right?
Rivers Cuomo certainly seems to think so. As the heavens open and the rain proceeds to lash down on everyone’s heads, the Weezer frontman takes it upon himself to lighten the mood and bring smiles back to our faces by continuing the midlife crisis he began at last year’s Reading and Leeds Festivals and being, quite simply, daft as a brush for 45 minutes. In a hit packed set that takes in covers of Teenage Dirtbag and Paranoid Android, the bespectacled one clambers down into the quagmire, getting up close and personal with both his audience and the mud, spending five minutes trying to figure out how to don a T in the Park poncho during the Undone intro before ultimately giving up and and wearing it as a cape. He high fives everyone, wears our hats, takes photos of himself with our cameras and occasionally, when he feels like it, plays a little bit of guitar. It’s a deft move, accurately judging the mood of the crowd and giving them exactly what they need to take their minds off the fact that they’re drenched from head to foot; by the time an extra-bouncy Buddy Holly rolls around, no one really gives a shit anymore. A triumph all round, then.
And while the precipitation withers and the sun breaks through the clouds for My Chemical Romance’s return to these hallowed shores, this doesn’t make their job any easier. Faced with a withering crowd and an air of palpable disinterest, MCR have everything to prove and by gosh, do they know it. Striding onstage with guns blazing, looking every bit the cartoon characters depicted on their most recent LP, Gerard, Mikey, Frank and Ray storm through a visceral speed-punk set, mixing the finest cuts from their colorful 2010 release Danger Days with the usual Three Cheers and Black Parade classics. This is no nonsense, four-to-the-floor stuff, an attempt to showcase the talent at the heart of the often image-conscious band and it works. The effort is commendable: Ray works more spidery wonders than usual, delivering guitar riff after guitar riff after guitar riff, Gerard finds whole new rock star poses to pull and shapes to throw and Frank nearly breaks his neck in the process of losing himself in the music. By the closing Famous Last Words, the crowds have doubled, the moshing has multiplied and the victory is assured. A job very well done.
There’s just enough time between the smoke settling on MCR’s blistering set and Jarvis Cocker strutting suggestively onstage to hot-tail it over to the BBC Introducing stage to catch Beth Jeans Houghton dazzling twenty or so mud-splattered individuals - one dressed in a crocodile onesie - with her quite remarkable voice and unique blend of traditional folk and softly-spoken indie. If there’s any justice in the world, she’ll be a household name in a year or two; Pulp, on the other hand, have been a household name for nearly twenty years, but one that was barely spoken for over ten, until Cocker and co did the admirable thing and found each other again. Sensibly, they trot out a greatest hits set, opening with a beautiful Do You Remember The First Time? and finishing on a glorious, celebratory, rip-roaring Common People. Unfortunately for Pulp, the section in-between, with the exception of a cathartic Sorted and a bootylicious Disco 2000, falls a little flat… although through no fault of Pulp’s. This certainly isn’t for lack of trying - Cocker is an instantly likable, extremely engaging frontman, telling stories, cracking jokes, handing out sweets and wiping his arse with the last ever edition of the News of the World, but sadly, this simply isn’t Pulp’s crowd. These rabid, rock-starved individuals are here for the Foo Fighters and this hour of terribly twee indie seems out of place on a day characterised by the heavier end of the guitar based spectrum.
Alas, no matter. Pulp are delightful anyway, and Dave Grohl and his band of merry men certainly surpass everyone’s expectations, delivering an appropriately apocalyptic two hour set to accompany the torrential downpour that resumes in full force. The show is essentially a downscale version of their Milton Keynes Bowl extravaganza, but the Scots love every whirlwind, rip-roaring moment… probably as much as the hundred or so devotees who make up the T-Break Stage audience for Kilmarnock’s finest Fatherson, singing every last word back at the three-piece, a shockingly young bunch to be peddling such obvious talent. Thankfully, the band respond in kind, blowing the roof off with their Manchester Orchestra-esque alt rock stylings and proceeding to experience, in their own words (or thereabouts) “the best thirty minutes they’ve ever played”.
There’s a similar situation taking place over at the Red Bull Stage, where the tent is packed to the rafters for Noah and the Whale, indie kids, pop freaks and alt-leaning chin-strokers alike uniting under a common, heartfelt love of the band’s really quite lovely new record. These are the kind of singalongs that beget headline slots; indeed, it’s arguable that these guys should’ve occupied that hallowed position on the bill this evening based purely on numbers alone. However, although less people seem interested, that honour deservedly belongs to Eels who tonight, play a 16 track, 50s-inspired rock-soul-and-roll bonanza, each band member dressed up to the nines in waistcoat, tie and suit pants, the brass section swinging into overdrive and E on uncharacteristically jovial form, barking bizarre adjectives at his audience and telling us all that he’s glad to be “fighting Foo”. Every track is shot through with an extra layer of urgency and a healthy dose of fun, Flyswatter developing a whole new lease of life with extra guitars, I Like Birds sounding like it’s on crack and Fresh Blood quite literally scaring the bejeesus out of everyone. For all the Foos got the numbers, Eels gave us the surprises, delivering one of those sets that you just WISH you’d been at. It’s a fitting end to a rich three days, demonstrating that more often than not, you just have to look a little harder to find the real magic. More T next year, vicar? Don’t mind if we do.
No, it’s the return of everyone’s favourite punk-pop pioneers Blondie that’s the catalyst for the stage’s redemption, Debbie Harry still looking like the coolest fucker in the world, resplendent all in white (yes, even her hair) and effortlessly crooning her way through every last one of her band’s timeless, instant, life-affirming hits. With an Atomic here, a Heart of Glass there and the occasional Maria thrown in for good measure, this is the kind of set that most bands would sell their grannies to be able to play, jam-packed with tantalising singalongs and ridiculously addictive melodies. And so what if Debbie forgets a few words here and there… having paid her dues a million and one times over, she’s allowed the odd slip-up. Or three. Bless her, it’s all in good fun, right?
Rivers Cuomo certainly seems to think so. As the heavens open and the rain proceeds to lash down on everyone’s heads, the Weezer frontman takes it upon himself to lighten the mood and bring smiles back to our faces by continuing the midlife crisis he began at last year’s Reading and Leeds Festivals and being, quite simply, daft as a brush for 45 minutes. In a hit packed set that takes in covers of Teenage Dirtbag and Paranoid Android, the bespectacled one clambers down into the quagmire, getting up close and personal with both his audience and the mud, spending five minutes trying to figure out how to don a T in the Park poncho during the Undone intro before ultimately giving up and and wearing it as a cape. He high fives everyone, wears our hats, takes photos of himself with our cameras and occasionally, when he feels like it, plays a little bit of guitar. It’s a deft move, accurately judging the mood of the crowd and giving them exactly what they need to take their minds off the fact that they’re drenched from head to foot; by the time an extra-bouncy Buddy Holly rolls around, no one really gives a shit anymore. A triumph all round, then.
And while the precipitation withers and the sun breaks through the clouds for My Chemical Romance’s return to these hallowed shores, this doesn’t make their job any easier. Faced with a withering crowd and an air of palpable disinterest, MCR have everything to prove and by gosh, do they know it. Striding onstage with guns blazing, looking every bit the cartoon characters depicted on their most recent LP, Gerard, Mikey, Frank and Ray storm through a visceral speed-punk set, mixing the finest cuts from their colorful 2010 release Danger Days with the usual Three Cheers and Black Parade classics. This is no nonsense, four-to-the-floor stuff, an attempt to showcase the talent at the heart of the often image-conscious band and it works. The effort is commendable: Ray works more spidery wonders than usual, delivering guitar riff after guitar riff after guitar riff, Gerard finds whole new rock star poses to pull and shapes to throw and Frank nearly breaks his neck in the process of losing himself in the music. By the closing Famous Last Words, the crowds have doubled, the moshing has multiplied and the victory is assured. A job very well done.
There’s just enough time between the smoke settling on MCR’s blistering set and Jarvis Cocker strutting suggestively onstage to hot-tail it over to the BBC Introducing stage to catch Beth Jeans Houghton dazzling twenty or so mud-splattered individuals - one dressed in a crocodile onesie - with her quite remarkable voice and unique blend of traditional folk and softly-spoken indie. If there’s any justice in the world, she’ll be a household name in a year or two; Pulp, on the other hand, have been a household name for nearly twenty years, but one that was barely spoken for over ten, until Cocker and co did the admirable thing and found each other again. Sensibly, they trot out a greatest hits set, opening with a beautiful Do You Remember The First Time? and finishing on a glorious, celebratory, rip-roaring Common People. Unfortunately for Pulp, the section in-between, with the exception of a cathartic Sorted and a bootylicious Disco 2000, falls a little flat… although through no fault of Pulp’s. This certainly isn’t for lack of trying - Cocker is an instantly likable, extremely engaging frontman, telling stories, cracking jokes, handing out sweets and wiping his arse with the last ever edition of the News of the World, but sadly, this simply isn’t Pulp’s crowd. These rabid, rock-starved individuals are here for the Foo Fighters and this hour of terribly twee indie seems out of place on a day characterised by the heavier end of the guitar based spectrum.
Alas, no matter. Pulp are delightful anyway, and Dave Grohl and his band of merry men certainly surpass everyone’s expectations, delivering an appropriately apocalyptic two hour set to accompany the torrential downpour that resumes in full force. The show is essentially a downscale version of their Milton Keynes Bowl extravaganza, but the Scots love every whirlwind, rip-roaring moment… probably as much as the hundred or so devotees who make up the T-Break Stage audience for Kilmarnock’s finest Fatherson, singing every last word back at the three-piece, a shockingly young bunch to be peddling such obvious talent. Thankfully, the band respond in kind, blowing the roof off with their Manchester Orchestra-esque alt rock stylings and proceeding to experience, in their own words (or thereabouts) “the best thirty minutes they’ve ever played”.
There’s a similar situation taking place over at the Red Bull Stage, where the tent is packed to the rafters for Noah and the Whale, indie kids, pop freaks and alt-leaning chin-strokers alike uniting under a common, heartfelt love of the band’s really quite lovely new record. These are the kind of singalongs that beget headline slots; indeed, it’s arguable that these guys should’ve occupied that hallowed position on the bill this evening based purely on numbers alone. However, although less people seem interested, that honour deservedly belongs to Eels who tonight, play a 16 track, 50s-inspired rock-soul-and-roll bonanza, each band member dressed up to the nines in waistcoat, tie and suit pants, the brass section swinging into overdrive and E on uncharacteristically jovial form, barking bizarre adjectives at his audience and telling us all that he’s glad to be “fighting Foo”. Every track is shot through with an extra layer of urgency and a healthy dose of fun, Flyswatter developing a whole new lease of life with extra guitars, I Like Birds sounding like it’s on crack and Fresh Blood quite literally scaring the bejeesus out of everyone. For all the Foos got the numbers, Eels gave us the surprises, delivering one of those sets that you just WISH you’d been at. It’s a fitting end to a rich three days, demonstrating that more often than not, you just have to look a little harder to find the real magic. More T next year, vicar? Don’t mind if we do.
Live review: T in the Park Festival 2011, Day 2 (09/07/11)
And so to Day 2 at T, where an abundance of suitably banal pop outfits litter the bill, the Main Stage line-up looking more akin to the soulless Party in the Park than Scotland’s Glastonbury. N-Dubz, Ke$ha, Beyonce, The fucking Script… they’re all here to satiate the masses before Chris Martin’s gigantic, two hour egofest, the event organizers perhaps hoping that a dose of populist chart razzmatazz might fare better with the Mondeo drivers and familial types that typically make up 97% of Coldplay’s audience.
They’re probably right, to be fair, but we don’t care enough to find out, preferring instead to sample some of the less well advertised delights on offer, stopping only to catch Slash play the opening 30 seconds of Sweet Child ‘o’ Mine, dampened somewhat by the onset of a torrential downpour, and the Manic Street Preachers go through the motions in a fairly unremarkable 40 minutes, Nicky Wire less animated than usual, reserved behind unnecessary sunglasses and James Dean Bradfield struggling with a rather hoarse voice. The set’s passable, sure, and all the relevant hits are present, but given that this is the group who were banned from this festival twelve years ago for going batshit crazy during an invigoratingly aggressive headline show, smashing everything to pieces and calling Billy Bragg and Kelly Jones every name under the sun, it feels a little disappointing.
Still, there’s plenty of merit if you look hard enough; case in point, Glasgow’s bloody excellent indie folksters Three Blind Wolves, who draw an impressive crowd to their lunchtime BBC Introducing set, wooing everyone with their luscious vocals and huge choruses. Over in the cavernous King Tut’s Wah Wah Tent - later the site of Ocean Colour Scene’s largest crowd since Britpop collapsed on its arse, all thanks to the rain - Everything Everything finally make their wonderfully intricate, blissfully unique sound translate within an environment larger than the back room of your local, Photoshop Handsome and MY KZ YR BF becoming the indie pop anthems they were always destined to be. And then there’s local heroes Woodenbox whose gritty folk punk stylings are reminiscent of early Against Me!, and the bustling T-Break audience love it.
For ultra victorious, potentially career-changing moments, however, look no further than The Xcerts’ BBC Introducing slot, which sees a visibly stunned Murray, Jordan and Tom drawing quite probably the stage’s largest, most vocal and downright bonkers crowd of the entire weekend. In twenty-five all too short minutes, the Aberdeenians unleash a thrillingly loud, cataclysmically erratic ball of unrelenting, white-hot energy on a dazed, confused and downright delirious crowd, Murray’s primal, gutteral vocals making filthy, aggressive, DANGEROUS love to Jordan and Tom’s distorted guitars and crashing drums. Crowdsurfers fly this way and that, Murray gets in amongst it, Crisis In The Slow Lane elicits a heartfelt singalong… and then the plug’s pulled, the misers backstage complaining that the band have overran, cutting an astonishing set in its prime and eliciting a chorus of embittered boos from a disgruntled, yet probably spent, audience. It’s terrible judgment, although there’s still no doubt in anyone’s minds that they’ve just borne witness to the performance of the weekend.
Thankfully, no such fate befalls New Yorkers The Head and the Heart during their T in the Park debut. They are permitted to deliver their deliciously textured alt-folk-country-indie-whatever amalgam in its entirety and it sounds epic, even within the limited confines of the T-Break Stage. Closer Rivers and Roads is particularly magical and elicits a rapturous response from a crowd notably unfamiliar with their material. Jimmy Eat World, on the other hand, find themselves faced with several thousand devotees during their hour long NME Stage showcase, boisterous singalongs accompanying the hit-heavy set as it careers along at breakneck speed, powering through Bleed American and A Praise Chorus, pummeling seven shades of shit out of Pain, Futures and Big Casino and prompting body-slamming and human pyramids during the gigantic closing salvo of The Middle and Sweetness. Expertly crafted and perfectly pitched, this is the work of a band at the very top of their game, absolute masters of their craft. And 23 sounds bloody heartbreaking in the early evening sun.
Heartbreaking is very much the name of the game over on the Red Bull Stage, meanwhile, as Villagers set about making the hundred or so ardent fans and drunken stragglers cry into each other’s drinks with a set heavy on the crushing introspection of Becoming a Jackal. Sadly, they’re pitted against The Strokes and Beyonce and as a result, don’t attract anywhere near the numbers that they deserve but the few who are in attendance are well aware that their choice is undoubtedly the right one, even if the ridiculous decision to pitch the tent next to the Dance Stage results in a thumping beat constantly intruding on the delicacy of the band’s sound. Fortunately, an amping up of the instrumentation by the rest of the band sees them through, and by the end, those present are buzzing with excitement, reminded of exactly why Villagers were the band on everyone’s lips around this time last year.
And so, finally, it’s down to Bright Eyes to round off the day for us, the execrable Swedish House Mafia, dull-as-dishwater Coldplay and frankly past it Primal Scream paling in comparison. From the moment Conor Oberst strolls nonchalantly onto the stage, dressed in wellies and rain-mack, swigging from a bottle of wine and sporting delightfully painted nails (“they’re the same colour as Beyonce’s!”, he notes), it’s apparent that we’re in for something of a treat. Oberst is in fine spirits, lively and talkative, witty and invective. He throws shapes, gets down in the front row, ‘enacts’ his lyrics and fires barbs at his rivals, adding an out-of-tune, sarcastic snippet of Sex on Fire to a sprawling, electrifying Road to Joy because Beyonce did it earlier and dedicating a tremendous Lover I Don’t Have to Love to “the time Chris Martin tried to suck my dick”, all the while remarking that he’s scoring “double points” for this evening’s performance… and he’s not wrong. As headline shows go, this is an absolute blinder, sounding massive and intimate in equal measure and far surpassing anything any of the other stage closers could even dream of. And yes, that definitely does include Coldplay covering Travis. Obviously.
They’re probably right, to be fair, but we don’t care enough to find out, preferring instead to sample some of the less well advertised delights on offer, stopping only to catch Slash play the opening 30 seconds of Sweet Child ‘o’ Mine, dampened somewhat by the onset of a torrential downpour, and the Manic Street Preachers go through the motions in a fairly unremarkable 40 minutes, Nicky Wire less animated than usual, reserved behind unnecessary sunglasses and James Dean Bradfield struggling with a rather hoarse voice. The set’s passable, sure, and all the relevant hits are present, but given that this is the group who were banned from this festival twelve years ago for going batshit crazy during an invigoratingly aggressive headline show, smashing everything to pieces and calling Billy Bragg and Kelly Jones every name under the sun, it feels a little disappointing.
Still, there’s plenty of merit if you look hard enough; case in point, Glasgow’s bloody excellent indie folksters Three Blind Wolves, who draw an impressive crowd to their lunchtime BBC Introducing set, wooing everyone with their luscious vocals and huge choruses. Over in the cavernous King Tut’s Wah Wah Tent - later the site of Ocean Colour Scene’s largest crowd since Britpop collapsed on its arse, all thanks to the rain - Everything Everything finally make their wonderfully intricate, blissfully unique sound translate within an environment larger than the back room of your local, Photoshop Handsome and MY KZ YR BF becoming the indie pop anthems they were always destined to be. And then there’s local heroes Woodenbox whose gritty folk punk stylings are reminiscent of early Against Me!, and the bustling T-Break audience love it.
For ultra victorious, potentially career-changing moments, however, look no further than The Xcerts’ BBC Introducing slot, which sees a visibly stunned Murray, Jordan and Tom drawing quite probably the stage’s largest, most vocal and downright bonkers crowd of the entire weekend. In twenty-five all too short minutes, the Aberdeenians unleash a thrillingly loud, cataclysmically erratic ball of unrelenting, white-hot energy on a dazed, confused and downright delirious crowd, Murray’s primal, gutteral vocals making filthy, aggressive, DANGEROUS love to Jordan and Tom’s distorted guitars and crashing drums. Crowdsurfers fly this way and that, Murray gets in amongst it, Crisis In The Slow Lane elicits a heartfelt singalong… and then the plug’s pulled, the misers backstage complaining that the band have overran, cutting an astonishing set in its prime and eliciting a chorus of embittered boos from a disgruntled, yet probably spent, audience. It’s terrible judgment, although there’s still no doubt in anyone’s minds that they’ve just borne witness to the performance of the weekend.
Thankfully, no such fate befalls New Yorkers The Head and the Heart during their T in the Park debut. They are permitted to deliver their deliciously textured alt-folk-country-indie-whatever amalgam in its entirety and it sounds epic, even within the limited confines of the T-Break Stage. Closer Rivers and Roads is particularly magical and elicits a rapturous response from a crowd notably unfamiliar with their material. Jimmy Eat World, on the other hand, find themselves faced with several thousand devotees during their hour long NME Stage showcase, boisterous singalongs accompanying the hit-heavy set as it careers along at breakneck speed, powering through Bleed American and A Praise Chorus, pummeling seven shades of shit out of Pain, Futures and Big Casino and prompting body-slamming and human pyramids during the gigantic closing salvo of The Middle and Sweetness. Expertly crafted and perfectly pitched, this is the work of a band at the very top of their game, absolute masters of their craft. And 23 sounds bloody heartbreaking in the early evening sun.
Heartbreaking is very much the name of the game over on the Red Bull Stage, meanwhile, as Villagers set about making the hundred or so ardent fans and drunken stragglers cry into each other’s drinks with a set heavy on the crushing introspection of Becoming a Jackal. Sadly, they’re pitted against The Strokes and Beyonce and as a result, don’t attract anywhere near the numbers that they deserve but the few who are in attendance are well aware that their choice is undoubtedly the right one, even if the ridiculous decision to pitch the tent next to the Dance Stage results in a thumping beat constantly intruding on the delicacy of the band’s sound. Fortunately, an amping up of the instrumentation by the rest of the band sees them through, and by the end, those present are buzzing with excitement, reminded of exactly why Villagers were the band on everyone’s lips around this time last year.
And so, finally, it’s down to Bright Eyes to round off the day for us, the execrable Swedish House Mafia, dull-as-dishwater Coldplay and frankly past it Primal Scream paling in comparison. From the moment Conor Oberst strolls nonchalantly onto the stage, dressed in wellies and rain-mack, swigging from a bottle of wine and sporting delightfully painted nails (“they’re the same colour as Beyonce’s!”, he notes), it’s apparent that we’re in for something of a treat. Oberst is in fine spirits, lively and talkative, witty and invective. He throws shapes, gets down in the front row, ‘enacts’ his lyrics and fires barbs at his rivals, adding an out-of-tune, sarcastic snippet of Sex on Fire to a sprawling, electrifying Road to Joy because Beyonce did it earlier and dedicating a tremendous Lover I Don’t Have to Love to “the time Chris Martin tried to suck my dick”, all the while remarking that he’s scoring “double points” for this evening’s performance… and he’s not wrong. As headline shows go, this is an absolute blinder, sounding massive and intimate in equal measure and far surpassing anything any of the other stage closers could even dream of. And yes, that definitely does include Coldplay covering Travis. Obviously.
Monday, 25 July 2011
Live review: T in the Park Festival 2011, Day 1 (08/07/11)
It is a truth universally acknowledged that nothing, and we mean absolutely nothing, will ever dampen a Scotsman’s spirit. Regardless of how heavily the rain falls, how thick the mud is that he has to trawl through, or how fascistic the security that dogs his every move (retaining your ticket for the entire weekend, and having it scanned three times a day, as well as having a wristband, seems a LITTLE excessive, T), the Scottish reveller will always, and we mean always, make the most of his circumstances and have a doggarn good time. This determination, this passion, fire and spirit is what gives T in the Park its edge; the people make the event, and these folk are stark raving mad.
You need evidence? Check the hastily formed moshpit that confronts post-hardcore wannabes Autumn in Disguise within thirty seconds of their opening Red Bull Stage set. Seemingly oblivious to the depressingly formulaic nature of the music - quiet, loud, scream, sing, repeat ad nauseum - and the irritatingly choreographed nature of the performance - a star jump here, a “COME ON YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!” there - Kinross goes characteristically mental, sending bodies flying everywhere and faces into the dirt. Sadly, the much more deserving Floods manage only a handful of nut-cases, their invigorating brand of post-apocalyptic, thrashy hardcore having not yet reached the lips and blogs of the cool kids. The Londoners try their damnedest, and the few interested parties certainly make the most of the space, but it’s hard to avoid the feeling that all the effort is ultimately rather pointless.
No such troubles for Los Angelenos The Airborne Toxic Event, however, whose ever-growing audience across the other side of the festival on the admittedly rather daunting NME (read: second) Stage is undoubtedly a mini-triumph. While Sometime Around Midnight inevitably receives the warmest reception, T also falls in love with the lesser known material from the band’s new LP, particularly the eight-minute, politically-charged behemoth that is The Kids Are Ready To Die/Welcome to Your Wedding Day, apparently too controversial for the more conservative American listener but going down a storm over here. And once the sharply-dressed Yanks have high-tailed it from the stage, it’s time for something more homegrown to enthrall the masses.
Initially, the mass exodus that accompanies the end of Airborne’s set threatens to turn Twin Atlantic’s most high-profile show to date into something of a damp squib. Thankfully, it transpires that their fans were just off to get themselves a few pints in preparation for the 40 minute headfuck to follow. When Sam McTrusty walks out on stage, clearly dumbfounded by the sea of faces before him, and strums the opening chords of a thunderous Edit Me, you just know this is going to be something special. And as the number of bodies increases with each successive blast of rock ‘n’ roll brilliance, and Scotland sings EVERY word back at him, it becomes apparent that this could be the band’s turning point, their crossover moment… the thrust they need to break the barriers of toilet circuit venues and achieve more mainstream recognition. A spine-tingling Crashland is particularly indicative of this, Sam actually taking cues from the Rock Cliche Handbook and letting the crowd sing the chorus.
Around an hour later, something similar, although slightly less high profile, greets Sucioperro as they prepare to tear the T-Break Stage a new one, although we put up with half an hour of White Lies’ occasionally brilliant, often lifeless, indie miserabilia first (that second album really doesn’t need any more airtime, guys…) Sounding positively gargantuan with the addition of an extra guitarist and a keyboardist/megalomaniac who takes the occasional break from bolstering the Perrio sound to stagedive and participate in the many and plentiful pits, their Heart String heavy set simply oozes energy, the band seemingly reenergised, smothering everything in a palpable sense of urgency. Good to see the iconic Pain Agency armbands back too… although, in terms of crowd-pleasing visual gimmicks, it’s no match for what British Sea Power concoct for all and sundry this evening. For all they dress rather stoically - besuited, no less - the unveiling of two life-size robots made out of tinfoil, paper plates and Tennants cans, who proceed to fight each other for the duration of the band’s final songs (and throw the remnants into the crowd), provides a grin-inducing talking point for the rest of the festival. Oh, and they play a blinder too.
And so to the headliners. Preferring not to endure 90 minutes of an elephant vomiting up its insides, we decide to eschew Pendulum and head over to the Main Stage where Arctic Monkeys are looking suave as fuck, Alex Turner sporting the coolest haircut and leather jacket in the country right now, and nonchalantly blasting through the really bloody massive rock monsters from new album Suck It and See. Problem is, this nonchalance quickly turns into indifference, the Monkeys lacking any semblance of stage presence; their attempt to fill the silence between songs with a ‘happy birthday’ singalong only makes the lack of rapport all too obvious. Without the ability to engage with the audience, you really need to pack your set as tightly as possible with classics and sadly, Turner and co play silly buggers, unleashing only two tracks within the first half of the set from Favourite Worst Nightmare and not a one from that multi-million selling, hugely popular debut. Fourteen songs in, we finally get Dancefloor and things pick up, but it’s quickly followed by some Humbug or Suck It bollocks and we, along with many others, give up trying and head out in search of something better instead.
Imelda May’s funky Tainted Love cover is initially a promising prospect, although it quickly becomes apparent that she has no other tunes, so we pay the T-Break Stage another visit, where Glaswegians Otherpeople are dazzling fifty or so rabid devotees with their angular indie punk theatrics. It’s a far better experience than The Alex Turner Pisstake and even provides the festival with its unofficial anthem, a delightfully catchy little ditty called Acoustic Guitars about the proliferation of MOR dadrock. It’d probably have more potency tomorrow, when Coldplay are covering Travis, but we get the picture. A fitting end, then, and a perfect reminder that more often than not, the real treats are the ones you have to work a little harder to find.
You need evidence? Check the hastily formed moshpit that confronts post-hardcore wannabes Autumn in Disguise within thirty seconds of their opening Red Bull Stage set. Seemingly oblivious to the depressingly formulaic nature of the music - quiet, loud, scream, sing, repeat ad nauseum - and the irritatingly choreographed nature of the performance - a star jump here, a “COME ON YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!” there - Kinross goes characteristically mental, sending bodies flying everywhere and faces into the dirt. Sadly, the much more deserving Floods manage only a handful of nut-cases, their invigorating brand of post-apocalyptic, thrashy hardcore having not yet reached the lips and blogs of the cool kids. The Londoners try their damnedest, and the few interested parties certainly make the most of the space, but it’s hard to avoid the feeling that all the effort is ultimately rather pointless.
No such troubles for Los Angelenos The Airborne Toxic Event, however, whose ever-growing audience across the other side of the festival on the admittedly rather daunting NME (read: second) Stage is undoubtedly a mini-triumph. While Sometime Around Midnight inevitably receives the warmest reception, T also falls in love with the lesser known material from the band’s new LP, particularly the eight-minute, politically-charged behemoth that is The Kids Are Ready To Die/Welcome to Your Wedding Day, apparently too controversial for the more conservative American listener but going down a storm over here. And once the sharply-dressed Yanks have high-tailed it from the stage, it’s time for something more homegrown to enthrall the masses.
Initially, the mass exodus that accompanies the end of Airborne’s set threatens to turn Twin Atlantic’s most high-profile show to date into something of a damp squib. Thankfully, it transpires that their fans were just off to get themselves a few pints in preparation for the 40 minute headfuck to follow. When Sam McTrusty walks out on stage, clearly dumbfounded by the sea of faces before him, and strums the opening chords of a thunderous Edit Me, you just know this is going to be something special. And as the number of bodies increases with each successive blast of rock ‘n’ roll brilliance, and Scotland sings EVERY word back at him, it becomes apparent that this could be the band’s turning point, their crossover moment… the thrust they need to break the barriers of toilet circuit venues and achieve more mainstream recognition. A spine-tingling Crashland is particularly indicative of this, Sam actually taking cues from the Rock Cliche Handbook and letting the crowd sing the chorus.
Around an hour later, something similar, although slightly less high profile, greets Sucioperro as they prepare to tear the T-Break Stage a new one, although we put up with half an hour of White Lies’ occasionally brilliant, often lifeless, indie miserabilia first (that second album really doesn’t need any more airtime, guys…) Sounding positively gargantuan with the addition of an extra guitarist and a keyboardist/megalomaniac who takes the occasional break from bolstering the Perrio sound to stagedive and participate in the many and plentiful pits, their Heart String heavy set simply oozes energy, the band seemingly reenergised, smothering everything in a palpable sense of urgency. Good to see the iconic Pain Agency armbands back too… although, in terms of crowd-pleasing visual gimmicks, it’s no match for what British Sea Power concoct for all and sundry this evening. For all they dress rather stoically - besuited, no less - the unveiling of two life-size robots made out of tinfoil, paper plates and Tennants cans, who proceed to fight each other for the duration of the band’s final songs (and throw the remnants into the crowd), provides a grin-inducing talking point for the rest of the festival. Oh, and they play a blinder too.
And so to the headliners. Preferring not to endure 90 minutes of an elephant vomiting up its insides, we decide to eschew Pendulum and head over to the Main Stage where Arctic Monkeys are looking suave as fuck, Alex Turner sporting the coolest haircut and leather jacket in the country right now, and nonchalantly blasting through the really bloody massive rock monsters from new album Suck It and See. Problem is, this nonchalance quickly turns into indifference, the Monkeys lacking any semblance of stage presence; their attempt to fill the silence between songs with a ‘happy birthday’ singalong only makes the lack of rapport all too obvious. Without the ability to engage with the audience, you really need to pack your set as tightly as possible with classics and sadly, Turner and co play silly buggers, unleashing only two tracks within the first half of the set from Favourite Worst Nightmare and not a one from that multi-million selling, hugely popular debut. Fourteen songs in, we finally get Dancefloor and things pick up, but it’s quickly followed by some Humbug or Suck It bollocks and we, along with many others, give up trying and head out in search of something better instead.
Imelda May’s funky Tainted Love cover is initially a promising prospect, although it quickly becomes apparent that she has no other tunes, so we pay the T-Break Stage another visit, where Glaswegians Otherpeople are dazzling fifty or so rabid devotees with their angular indie punk theatrics. It’s a far better experience than The Alex Turner Pisstake and even provides the festival with its unofficial anthem, a delightfully catchy little ditty called Acoustic Guitars about the proliferation of MOR dadrock. It’d probably have more potency tomorrow, when Coldplay are covering Travis, but we get the picture. A fitting end, then, and a perfect reminder that more often than not, the real treats are the ones you have to work a little harder to find.
Saturday, 16 July 2011
Review: Social Distortion, London, O2 Shepherd's Bush Empire, 7/7/11
If there is a single moment that defines this evening's Social Distortion performance - the final date of their extensive, month-long European tour - it must surely be Mike Ness's heartwarming invitation, at show's end, for two beaming young fans, fresh of face and ecstatic of demeanor, to join him onstage for a sobering, albeit brief, glance at the raucous masses who spill from Shepherd's Bush Empire's beautiful balconies and fall over one another in the all-too-small pit for a chance to get so much as a fleeting brisk past this most suave and downright fucking cool of punk legends.
The boys, understandably, look petrified but Ness doesn't let them linger for long; this isn't a crowd-pleasing attempt at a cheap pop, an oft-repeated gimmick for the sake of a few extra plaudits. No, Ness has a point to make: as he salutes the 'old guard', the middle-aged, generally balding men (and women) in traditional safety-pins-and-belt-buckles gear who make up approximately 60% of the crowd, thanking them for their perseverance, he also dares to address the elephant in the room, the spectre of ageism that looms heavily over our enjoyment of the carnivalesque punk rock extravaganza before us.
"We respect the old guard", he begins, "But we need to embrace the new too. Without the long-term fans, we wouldn't be here but without these guys, there'd be one around to continue the legacy when we're gone." It's an all too potent point, very well made, and it's one that undoubtedly wrinkles with the crusties in the audience, whose sneers and jeers at those who may not yet be of legal drinking age are palpable and, quite frankly, embarrassing. Age does not automatically beget punk rock credentials; these fans, on the barrier no less, lose themselves for the full ninety minutes, singing along to every word. The idiots who shout for them to "fuck off and do (their) homework" are tellingly stood at the back of the venue, chin-stroking their way through the performance. Your call: who's having the most fun?
Still, for all there are small pockets of conflict, the principle theme of the evening is unity. Social Distortion'a forthright, humanitarian slabs of aggro-rock have an undefinable ability to bring people together, fostering a sense of community rather than a mood of antagonism. It helps that they don't take themselves too seriously. While the songs may deal with controversial, often very heated, topics, the band keep the preaching to a minimum. They leave that to the very vocally anti-EDL Crazy Arm, - tonight's support - whose blistering, brilliant set is loaded with political comment. Instead of this, Social D choose to let the music speak for itself, letting themselves go and having a blast. From the artifact strewn stage - we count a toy truck, stopped clock, NO PARKING sign, pair of Everlast boxing gloves, a cat Buddha and a working set of traffic lights, amongst other things - to the slightly self-indulgent Hank Williams cover (but why not?), by way of a guest appearances from two African-American girls on the gorgeous 'California', one of them bearing the legend 'I HEART LONDON' on her hip, written in black felt tip, there is a definite sense of joviality about proceedings, giving the impression of a band comfortable enough in their own skin that they can afford to let loose.
This is a decision that pays dividends. The ultimately quite maudlin 'Story of my Life' transforms into something altogether quite different in this celebratory environment, essentially becoming the party tune you'd long forgotten about, eliciting euphoric singalongs and prompting a flurry of splendidly manic activity. Naturally, there's the obligatory 'Ring of Fire' cover to close, and it's as preposterous as ever, but even straighter moments like 'Don't Drag Me Down' and yes, the bloody magnificent 'Ball and Chain' seem somehow freer, released from the shackles of the altogether more serious records from whence they came. There are several cuts from pretty top notch current release 'Hard Times and Nursery Rhymes' too, and they're generally well received, but then, when they're being crooned by a man with as much sass and pizazz as Ness, looking like a 50s speakeasy regular in his braces and cowboy hat, with keyboards courtesy of a man dressed in the world's most garish shirt, you just can't help but fall head over heels in love with them on the strength of their absurdity alone.
So, for all a handful of London's most close-minded punk elite would like to draw the battle lines at tonight's show, Social Distortion swiftly and abruptly put pay to their plans, delivering a blinder of a set that quashes any semblance of conflict in an instant and has young and old, veteran and newbie alike dancing, skanking and moshing in the aisles. With a career-spanning set, a handful of excellent covers and a lorryload of style, Mike Ness and his fellow Los Angelenos razzle and dazzle us all, making the rather extortionate £25 we paid for the privilege seem completely worth it. Now nearly 30 years strong, long
may Social D's impenetrable, unique and occasionally downright hilarious legacy continue.
The boys, understandably, look petrified but Ness doesn't let them linger for long; this isn't a crowd-pleasing attempt at a cheap pop, an oft-repeated gimmick for the sake of a few extra plaudits. No, Ness has a point to make: as he salutes the 'old guard', the middle-aged, generally balding men (and women) in traditional safety-pins-and-belt-buckles gear who make up approximately 60% of the crowd, thanking them for their perseverance, he also dares to address the elephant in the room, the spectre of ageism that looms heavily over our enjoyment of the carnivalesque punk rock extravaganza before us.
"We respect the old guard", he begins, "But we need to embrace the new too. Without the long-term fans, we wouldn't be here but without these guys, there'd be one around to continue the legacy when we're gone." It's an all too potent point, very well made, and it's one that undoubtedly wrinkles with the crusties in the audience, whose sneers and jeers at those who may not yet be of legal drinking age are palpable and, quite frankly, embarrassing. Age does not automatically beget punk rock credentials; these fans, on the barrier no less, lose themselves for the full ninety minutes, singing along to every word. The idiots who shout for them to "fuck off and do (their) homework" are tellingly stood at the back of the venue, chin-stroking their way through the performance. Your call: who's having the most fun?
Still, for all there are small pockets of conflict, the principle theme of the evening is unity. Social Distortion'a forthright, humanitarian slabs of aggro-rock have an undefinable ability to bring people together, fostering a sense of community rather than a mood of antagonism. It helps that they don't take themselves too seriously. While the songs may deal with controversial, often very heated, topics, the band keep the preaching to a minimum. They leave that to the very vocally anti-EDL Crazy Arm, - tonight's support - whose blistering, brilliant set is loaded with political comment. Instead of this, Social D choose to let the music speak for itself, letting themselves go and having a blast. From the artifact strewn stage - we count a toy truck, stopped clock, NO PARKING sign, pair of Everlast boxing gloves, a cat Buddha and a working set of traffic lights, amongst other things - to the slightly self-indulgent Hank Williams cover (but why not?), by way of a guest appearances from two African-American girls on the gorgeous 'California', one of them bearing the legend 'I HEART LONDON' on her hip, written in black felt tip, there is a definite sense of joviality about proceedings, giving the impression of a band comfortable enough in their own skin that they can afford to let loose.
This is a decision that pays dividends. The ultimately quite maudlin 'Story of my Life' transforms into something altogether quite different in this celebratory environment, essentially becoming the party tune you'd long forgotten about, eliciting euphoric singalongs and prompting a flurry of splendidly manic activity. Naturally, there's the obligatory 'Ring of Fire' cover to close, and it's as preposterous as ever, but even straighter moments like 'Don't Drag Me Down' and yes, the bloody magnificent 'Ball and Chain' seem somehow freer, released from the shackles of the altogether more serious records from whence they came. There are several cuts from pretty top notch current release 'Hard Times and Nursery Rhymes' too, and they're generally well received, but then, when they're being crooned by a man with as much sass and pizazz as Ness, looking like a 50s speakeasy regular in his braces and cowboy hat, with keyboards courtesy of a man dressed in the world's most garish shirt, you just can't help but fall head over heels in love with them on the strength of their absurdity alone.
So, for all a handful of London's most close-minded punk elite would like to draw the battle lines at tonight's show, Social Distortion swiftly and abruptly put pay to their plans, delivering a blinder of a set that quashes any semblance of conflict in an instant and has young and old, veteran and newbie alike dancing, skanking and moshing in the aisles. With a career-spanning set, a handful of excellent covers and a lorryload of style, Mike Ness and his fellow Los Angelenos razzle and dazzle us all, making the rather extortionate £25 we paid for the privilege seem completely worth it. Now nearly 30 years strong, long
may Social D's impenetrable, unique and occasionally downright hilarious legacy continue.
Review: Death Cab for Cutie, Manchester Academy 1, 04/07/11
Sometimes, it seems like it must be a bit of a drag being in Death Cab for Cutie. Oh sure, they're a fairly well-respected act, having worked their way from seemingly never-ending spells in the world's very finest toilet circuits to selling out moderately sized venues in the space of ten slog-hard years, but no matter how sizable the venue, how populous the crowd, it always appears as if no one is particularly familiar with their material. Audiences applaud politely and observe, waiting for the or or two tracks they know from this episode of The OC or that installment of Six Feet Under. Conversely, it is achingly cool to include them on your bucketlist of obscure(ish) influences and consequently, every hipster within a five mile radius gravitates towards the venue of choice, minding their fringes throughout the set and chatting inanely to their oh-so-cool friends, paying more mind to being spotted at the show than to enjoying the music.
Death Cab must tire of this unfortunate affliction, especially when, as this evening, they desire nothing more than to be a four-to-the-floor, ballsy rock and roll band, complete with thrills, spills and appropriate rock star poses. A restless Ben Gibbard is just itching to make the masses move, swaying this, that and every other which way throughout, marching without actually marching, subsumed by the music, trying his very damnedest to get inside it. Thankfully, by some God-given miracle, the good folk of Manchester's Academy 1 - perhaps spurred on by the blistering heat - are less stoic than your average crowd, choosing to actually enjoy themselves rather than state at their feet. Sure, there are the chatterers - particularly annoying during the set's quieter moments - but fortunately, they're outnumbered by those who are sufficiently dedicated to give the show their all.
Indeed, there is a palpable sense of pride in the air this evening. While the band have played larger venues before, there is certainly a 'buzz' surrounding them at the moment, a buzz that sees them featuring prominently in the pages of broadsheet newspapers, on vampire movie soundtracks (although the song in question is notable by its very deliberate absence this evening) and at 65,000+ sell out concerts at ridiculous venues, a la their Foo Fighters support at Milton Keynes Bowl two days prior, a feat that Gibbard self-deprecatingly references mid-set, acknowledging the 'once in a lifetime' experience but confessing that they knew everyone was there to lose themselves to the Foos and that their particular brand of soft, introspective indie rock wasn't really going to cut the mustard. Still, the Death Cab of three or four years ago certainly wouldn't have found their way onto such a bill and now, as the world finally decides to pay a little more attention, it feels like the band may finally acquire the mainstream recognition they so obviously deserve.
Thankfully, they have a mighty fine new album to complement such a progression. The 'Codes and Keys' material wheeled out this evening sounds glorious; from the sashaying and swaying joyfulness of 'Stay Young, Go Dancing' to the majesty of sure-to-be second single 'Underneath the Sycamore', by way of the title track, the funky-as-hell 'You Are A Tourist' and the crescendoalicious 'Doors Unlocked and Open', played with such force it feels like it's about to fall apart, everything has an extra sheen to it, the tracks developing a whole new lease of life outside of the confines of the record. It's a thumping, aggressive, determined 'Some Boys' that's the highlight though, coming hot off the heels of a blissful, crowd-pleasing run through the much more accessible 'Soul Meets Body' and sounding, in spite of its fairly jaunty piano refrain, positively sinister.
The whole set is replete with such moments, Gibbard apparently determined to demonstrate the monstrous rock behemoth at the core of the band. Within the space of the first five songs, they've already assaulted 'The New Year', sending waves of guitar crashing down on our heads, torn through a once-in-a-blue-moon 'Why You'd Want to Live Here' and ran circles around a rip-roaring 'Company Calls', Gibbard roaming the stage, letting his music overtake him. 'Long Division' is similarly restless, shot through with an extra layer of rock theatrics, while 'Photobooth' and a hugely surprising outing for the brilliant 'Styrofoam Plates' feel like they've taken leaves out of the Foo Fighters' playbook, so intensely are they reimagined before our very eyes.
Of course, the quieter moments are equally as passionate: 'Grapevine Fires' is deliciously sensual, a delicate, sobering 'I Will Follow You Into the Dark', played solo by Gibbard mid-set, provides the singalong of the evening, while its seamless transition into the monumental 'I Will Possess Your Heart' actually sends shivers down the spine. Naturally, Death Cab whip out the full eight minute version, the track building and building until it simply cannot build any more, that gorgeous bass riff reverberating around all of our heads. For many, however, it's the one-two suckerpunch of the final songs of the encore that provide the biggest highlight, and justifiably so: 'Marching Bands of Manhattan' remains one of their finest tracks, its beautiful imagery losing none of its evocative power with the additional rock theatrics unleashed upon it, while closer 'Transatlanticism' is quite simply phenomenal, a seven minute poetic odyssey, dripping with beauty, the kind of song that becomes more than just a song. Tonight, it is an experience, Gibbard screaming "come on!" at us all well past the point at which the track is finished, and basking in the glory of the thousand-strong crowd bellowing it back at him, taking his words as their own.
With a set two hours in length, 25 tracks strong, and a crowd consisting largely of fans rather than partisan observers, tonight's Death Cab for Cutie gig is arguably one of a kind, a show characterised by warmth, appreciation and really bloody massive singalongs rather than casual chin-stroking and irritating between and through song chatter. It's an undeniable success and hopefully, a sign of much bigger and better things to come. On nights like this, being in Death Cab for Cutie must be the best damn job in the world.
Death Cab must tire of this unfortunate affliction, especially when, as this evening, they desire nothing more than to be a four-to-the-floor, ballsy rock and roll band, complete with thrills, spills and appropriate rock star poses. A restless Ben Gibbard is just itching to make the masses move, swaying this, that and every other which way throughout, marching without actually marching, subsumed by the music, trying his very damnedest to get inside it. Thankfully, by some God-given miracle, the good folk of Manchester's Academy 1 - perhaps spurred on by the blistering heat - are less stoic than your average crowd, choosing to actually enjoy themselves rather than state at their feet. Sure, there are the chatterers - particularly annoying during the set's quieter moments - but fortunately, they're outnumbered by those who are sufficiently dedicated to give the show their all.
Indeed, there is a palpable sense of pride in the air this evening. While the band have played larger venues before, there is certainly a 'buzz' surrounding them at the moment, a buzz that sees them featuring prominently in the pages of broadsheet newspapers, on vampire movie soundtracks (although the song in question is notable by its very deliberate absence this evening) and at 65,000+ sell out concerts at ridiculous venues, a la their Foo Fighters support at Milton Keynes Bowl two days prior, a feat that Gibbard self-deprecatingly references mid-set, acknowledging the 'once in a lifetime' experience but confessing that they knew everyone was there to lose themselves to the Foos and that their particular brand of soft, introspective indie rock wasn't really going to cut the mustard. Still, the Death Cab of three or four years ago certainly wouldn't have found their way onto such a bill and now, as the world finally decides to pay a little more attention, it feels like the band may finally acquire the mainstream recognition they so obviously deserve.
Thankfully, they have a mighty fine new album to complement such a progression. The 'Codes and Keys' material wheeled out this evening sounds glorious; from the sashaying and swaying joyfulness of 'Stay Young, Go Dancing' to the majesty of sure-to-be second single 'Underneath the Sycamore', by way of the title track, the funky-as-hell 'You Are A Tourist' and the crescendoalicious 'Doors Unlocked and Open', played with such force it feels like it's about to fall apart, everything has an extra sheen to it, the tracks developing a whole new lease of life outside of the confines of the record. It's a thumping, aggressive, determined 'Some Boys' that's the highlight though, coming hot off the heels of a blissful, crowd-pleasing run through the much more accessible 'Soul Meets Body' and sounding, in spite of its fairly jaunty piano refrain, positively sinister.
The whole set is replete with such moments, Gibbard apparently determined to demonstrate the monstrous rock behemoth at the core of the band. Within the space of the first five songs, they've already assaulted 'The New Year', sending waves of guitar crashing down on our heads, torn through a once-in-a-blue-moon 'Why You'd Want to Live Here' and ran circles around a rip-roaring 'Company Calls', Gibbard roaming the stage, letting his music overtake him. 'Long Division' is similarly restless, shot through with an extra layer of rock theatrics, while 'Photobooth' and a hugely surprising outing for the brilliant 'Styrofoam Plates' feel like they've taken leaves out of the Foo Fighters' playbook, so intensely are they reimagined before our very eyes.
Of course, the quieter moments are equally as passionate: 'Grapevine Fires' is deliciously sensual, a delicate, sobering 'I Will Follow You Into the Dark', played solo by Gibbard mid-set, provides the singalong of the evening, while its seamless transition into the monumental 'I Will Possess Your Heart' actually sends shivers down the spine. Naturally, Death Cab whip out the full eight minute version, the track building and building until it simply cannot build any more, that gorgeous bass riff reverberating around all of our heads. For many, however, it's the one-two suckerpunch of the final songs of the encore that provide the biggest highlight, and justifiably so: 'Marching Bands of Manhattan' remains one of their finest tracks, its beautiful imagery losing none of its evocative power with the additional rock theatrics unleashed upon it, while closer 'Transatlanticism' is quite simply phenomenal, a seven minute poetic odyssey, dripping with beauty, the kind of song that becomes more than just a song. Tonight, it is an experience, Gibbard screaming "come on!" at us all well past the point at which the track is finished, and basking in the glory of the thousand-strong crowd bellowing it back at him, taking his words as their own.
With a set two hours in length, 25 tracks strong, and a crowd consisting largely of fans rather than partisan observers, tonight's Death Cab for Cutie gig is arguably one of a kind, a show characterised by warmth, appreciation and really bloody massive singalongs rather than casual chin-stroking and irritating between and through song chatter. It's an undeniable success and hopefully, a sign of much bigger and better things to come. On nights like this, being in Death Cab for Cutie must be the best damn job in the world.
Thursday, 7 July 2011
Review: Arcade Fire (w/Mumford & Sons, The Vaccines, Beirut, Owen Pallett), Hyde Park, 30/06/11
It's a frustrating fallacy that the best gigs to take place in the great outdoors are those in which the Heavens smile down on the collective masses, blessing them with clear skies, beating sunshine and nary a drop of precipitation in sight. While weather conditions can certainly play a part in one's enjoyment of the performance, more often than not, they accentuate rather than define it, adding to rather than setting the tone. Take the pathetic fallacy of Muse's triumphant Leeds Festival show in 06; 'Knights of Cydonia' would have been an appropriately apocalyptic opener without the on cue torrential downpour, but its presence became the delicious icing on an already scrumptious cake. And as it was for Matt Bellamy, so it is for Win Butler, Marcus Mumford and every other young pup lucky enough to grace the big ol' carnivalesque stage plonked in the middle of Hyde Park on this oh-so-fine June Thursday, the graciously scorching sun beating down on 60,000 extremely vocal Londoners, adding an extra dose of magic to an already extra special event.
But it almost didn't happen; 90 minutes after the doors swung open to reveal a cinematically-theme arena, complete with tent showing Arcade Fire's Suburbs movie and a stage with a cinema front and drape with bunting, the clouds took the sun from us and promptly took an extra vicious piss on our heads. To add insult to injury, the wind took it upon itself to blow said rain stagewards, prompting a flurry of activity as roadies and band members desperately tried to cover the precious equipment that had been left out in the apparent safety of the afternoon heat. More fool opener Owen Pallett's management but then, thankfully, it doesn't last long. It possibly cuts his all-too-brief set short by one or two songs but it's no matter; the few Pallett does play are received well, despite a few dodgy sound problems to begin, and London is sufficiently wooed by his decidedly sophisticated, and at times disturbingly sexual, violin playing to ignore any unfortunate blips anyhow.
It certainly helps that Owen has the fortune to be introduced by long-time friend and musical partner Win Butler, an honor sadly not bestowed upon The Vaccines, this afternoon's unquestionable black sheep, their proudly uncomplicated two chord indie rock palette standing out like a sore thumb in this multi-instrumental, muso rock jamboree. No matter, the boys don't let it phase them. Justin pulls shapes, strikes poses and shoves his band members around like a consummate rock professional, climbing atop the monitors, goading the audience into movement, whizzing around the stage on speed during an extra energetic 'Wrecking Bar' and getting the otherwise nonplussed in the audience to lose their inhibitions and dance along like loons to the very bloody daft 'If You Wanna', providing the first true 'moment' of the day. It's officially a success, even if they still really, really need to turn that bloody bass down in the mix. And play the uncensored version of 'Post Break-Up Sex', not the timid radio edit. Hell, if Mumford & Sons can whip out 'Little Lion Man', expletives and all, you can insert the appropriate 'fucking' into your most popular song, guys.
There are no such gripes with Beirut's very bloody lovely set, however; their brand of sun-tinged folk goes down an absolute storm this afternoon, desperate several thousand in attendance having absolutely no clue who they are. It's a shame really, especially as Marcus Mumford tells us all that they've been a huge influence on him since well before he even thought about forming a band. If there were any justice in the world, masterpieces like 'Santa Fe' and 'Vagabond' would be as ingrained in the public consciousness as the entirety of 'Sigh No More' but regardless, today's quite considerable exposure and triumphant performance should be enough to get them a few thousand extra record sales at the very least. And extra props for inspiring one punter to play - and bash - a green ukelele of his own throughout the show. When you bring out that kind of mad, you know you're onto a winner.
There's an entirely different atmosphere reserved for hometown heroes Mumford & Sons, however. In place of polite appreciation, we have a determination to tear seven shades of shite out of all of our vocal chords, London apparently hellbent on ruining its collective larynx, bellowing every last word like there's no tomorrow. For a fairly significant proportion of the crowd, this is the highlight of their evening, the performance they've paid their £48 to see. This is, of course, a terrible shame, since Butler and chums are about seventy times the band Mumford will ever be, but nonetheless, there's no denying the quite astonishing power of many of these humble, carefully crafted songs.
Love 'em or hate 'em, you cannot escape the spine-tingling beauty that is 60,000 voices singing the 'Roll Away Your Stone' and 'Little Lion Man' refrains in unison, a spectacle that brings embarrassingly cheesy grins to the faces of the band members, prompting each and every one to bring their A game, Marcus screaming words rather than singing them, Ben hammering away at his keyboard, stomping a mudhole in the stage. There are new songs - several, actually - and they are all received like long lost friends, London even learning the choruses during the songs and singing them back at the band. Mumford have Hyde Park eating out of the palms of their grubby hands and by the time gargantuan closer 'The Cave' rolls around, even the most stern of critics is forced to admit that this cannot be considered anything other than a glorious, well-deserved success.
And for a moment, this almost threatens to overshadow Arcade Fire's performance. Despite a suitably mood-setting introduction, in which a movie screen shows clips from The Suburbs film, when the opening bars of 'Ready to Start' begin, they don't quite have the rabble-rousing power that they should; sound problems blight the track. Its dark, angular stabs fall a little flat, failing to ignite that much-needed spark. Fortunately, this is a very temporary blip. By the next song, things are back on track as the band unleash a gigantic curveball in the form of 'Wake Up', their usual set closer, brought forward this evening so the band 'can see everyone's faces while it's still light'. It's a risky move but one that pays dividends. In the wake of 'Ready to Start's disappointments, it's a much-needed breath of familiar fresh air, invigorating the masses and producing the first of many bone-chilling, butterflies-in-stomach moments as the power of 60,000 voices bellowing the song's brilliantly simplistic, euphoric chorus is truly, truly astonishing. This wave of heartfelt emotion kicks the band into gear too, Richard Reed Parry sending drumbeats crashing around our ears with extra vigor, Will rolling around the stage like he's committed and Win so overcome with adrenalin that he throws his much-loved tambourine into the audience at song's end, with some lucky punter either having something to cherish for the rest of their days or one gigantic, percussion-shaped bruise to remember the evening by.
And the moments just keep coming: there's Regene looking and sounding like a Goddess, shimmying and shaking her way through an utterly gorgeous 'Haiti', a vision in a multi-colored dress and later, with similarly shaded streamers, dancing seductively to funky-as-hell closer 'Sprawl II'. There's the Chinese lantern propelled through the sky and over the stage as the band kick into the first bars of 'Keep the Car Running', Win directing all eyes skywards to gaze at the beautiful sight. There's the stunned, humbled, ecstatic faces of every member of the band as Hyde Park sings all the words to 'The Suburbs' in perfect harmony, the sight of the pom poms handed out before the show held aloft and glistening in the night sky; Win provoking the crowd into making as much noise as possible to annoy the rich neighbours, whose apparent objections have led to a turning down of the volume and a fairly early curfew. And of course, there's the undeniable beauty of the crowd singing the instrumental parts of 'Power Out' and 'Tunnels', overpowering the music.
The highlight, however, is undoubtedly the mid-set chaos caused by the trifecta of reckless abandon that is the messy, uncontrollable 'Month of May', the anthemic 'Rebellion (Lies)' and the jagged, abrasive 'Laika'. Pits open up, bodies are shoved in all directions and crowdsurfers make their way stagewards, all caught up in the unrelenting energy emanating from the stage. 'Month of May' in particular is a monumental piece of primeval, sprawling musicianship, threatening to fall apart at the seams with every passing moment and eventually doing so under the weight of Win's uncontrollable guitar chops, Parry's sporadic ad-libs and those bloodcurdling screams. And as it descends into a mess of glorious noise, the band having pummeled their audience, Win perched on the barrier, goading the sweat-drenched masses, the song morons into the opening drumbeat of 'Rebellion' before anyone's noticed, catching us all unawares and sending further shivers coursing down the spine.
By show's end, and the heartwarming, seemingly never-ending applause and chants that make their way from field to stage, causing the band to linger longer than expected, it's apparent that this really is Arcade Fire's night, their moment, their triumph. Those that come before do an admirable job and, in some cases, almost manage to match their masters, but in the end, the genius of the Fire's set, the power of their performance and the devotion of the crowd win out. With a little help from some spectacular weather and 60,000 beautiful voices, Arcade Fire pull off the biggest gig of their career with suitable aplomb. "We will never forget this night", says Win, beaming smile etched into his face. Nor will we Win, nor will we.
But it almost didn't happen; 90 minutes after the doors swung open to reveal a cinematically-theme arena, complete with tent showing Arcade Fire's Suburbs movie and a stage with a cinema front and drape with bunting, the clouds took the sun from us and promptly took an extra vicious piss on our heads. To add insult to injury, the wind took it upon itself to blow said rain stagewards, prompting a flurry of activity as roadies and band members desperately tried to cover the precious equipment that had been left out in the apparent safety of the afternoon heat. More fool opener Owen Pallett's management but then, thankfully, it doesn't last long. It possibly cuts his all-too-brief set short by one or two songs but it's no matter; the few Pallett does play are received well, despite a few dodgy sound problems to begin, and London is sufficiently wooed by his decidedly sophisticated, and at times disturbingly sexual, violin playing to ignore any unfortunate blips anyhow.
It certainly helps that Owen has the fortune to be introduced by long-time friend and musical partner Win Butler, an honor sadly not bestowed upon The Vaccines, this afternoon's unquestionable black sheep, their proudly uncomplicated two chord indie rock palette standing out like a sore thumb in this multi-instrumental, muso rock jamboree. No matter, the boys don't let it phase them. Justin pulls shapes, strikes poses and shoves his band members around like a consummate rock professional, climbing atop the monitors, goading the audience into movement, whizzing around the stage on speed during an extra energetic 'Wrecking Bar' and getting the otherwise nonplussed in the audience to lose their inhibitions and dance along like loons to the very bloody daft 'If You Wanna', providing the first true 'moment' of the day. It's officially a success, even if they still really, really need to turn that bloody bass down in the mix. And play the uncensored version of 'Post Break-Up Sex', not the timid radio edit. Hell, if Mumford & Sons can whip out 'Little Lion Man', expletives and all, you can insert the appropriate 'fucking' into your most popular song, guys.
There are no such gripes with Beirut's very bloody lovely set, however; their brand of sun-tinged folk goes down an absolute storm this afternoon, desperate several thousand in attendance having absolutely no clue who they are. It's a shame really, especially as Marcus Mumford tells us all that they've been a huge influence on him since well before he even thought about forming a band. If there were any justice in the world, masterpieces like 'Santa Fe' and 'Vagabond' would be as ingrained in the public consciousness as the entirety of 'Sigh No More' but regardless, today's quite considerable exposure and triumphant performance should be enough to get them a few thousand extra record sales at the very least. And extra props for inspiring one punter to play - and bash - a green ukelele of his own throughout the show. When you bring out that kind of mad, you know you're onto a winner.
There's an entirely different atmosphere reserved for hometown heroes Mumford & Sons, however. In place of polite appreciation, we have a determination to tear seven shades of shite out of all of our vocal chords, London apparently hellbent on ruining its collective larynx, bellowing every last word like there's no tomorrow. For a fairly significant proportion of the crowd, this is the highlight of their evening, the performance they've paid their £48 to see. This is, of course, a terrible shame, since Butler and chums are about seventy times the band Mumford will ever be, but nonetheless, there's no denying the quite astonishing power of many of these humble, carefully crafted songs.
Love 'em or hate 'em, you cannot escape the spine-tingling beauty that is 60,000 voices singing the 'Roll Away Your Stone' and 'Little Lion Man' refrains in unison, a spectacle that brings embarrassingly cheesy grins to the faces of the band members, prompting each and every one to bring their A game, Marcus screaming words rather than singing them, Ben hammering away at his keyboard, stomping a mudhole in the stage. There are new songs - several, actually - and they are all received like long lost friends, London even learning the choruses during the songs and singing them back at the band. Mumford have Hyde Park eating out of the palms of their grubby hands and by the time gargantuan closer 'The Cave' rolls around, even the most stern of critics is forced to admit that this cannot be considered anything other than a glorious, well-deserved success.
And for a moment, this almost threatens to overshadow Arcade Fire's performance. Despite a suitably mood-setting introduction, in which a movie screen shows clips from The Suburbs film, when the opening bars of 'Ready to Start' begin, they don't quite have the rabble-rousing power that they should; sound problems blight the track. Its dark, angular stabs fall a little flat, failing to ignite that much-needed spark. Fortunately, this is a very temporary blip. By the next song, things are back on track as the band unleash a gigantic curveball in the form of 'Wake Up', their usual set closer, brought forward this evening so the band 'can see everyone's faces while it's still light'. It's a risky move but one that pays dividends. In the wake of 'Ready to Start's disappointments, it's a much-needed breath of familiar fresh air, invigorating the masses and producing the first of many bone-chilling, butterflies-in-stomach moments as the power of 60,000 voices bellowing the song's brilliantly simplistic, euphoric chorus is truly, truly astonishing. This wave of heartfelt emotion kicks the band into gear too, Richard Reed Parry sending drumbeats crashing around our ears with extra vigor, Will rolling around the stage like he's committed and Win so overcome with adrenalin that he throws his much-loved tambourine into the audience at song's end, with some lucky punter either having something to cherish for the rest of their days or one gigantic, percussion-shaped bruise to remember the evening by.
And the moments just keep coming: there's Regene looking and sounding like a Goddess, shimmying and shaking her way through an utterly gorgeous 'Haiti', a vision in a multi-colored dress and later, with similarly shaded streamers, dancing seductively to funky-as-hell closer 'Sprawl II'. There's the Chinese lantern propelled through the sky and over the stage as the band kick into the first bars of 'Keep the Car Running', Win directing all eyes skywards to gaze at the beautiful sight. There's the stunned, humbled, ecstatic faces of every member of the band as Hyde Park sings all the words to 'The Suburbs' in perfect harmony, the sight of the pom poms handed out before the show held aloft and glistening in the night sky; Win provoking the crowd into making as much noise as possible to annoy the rich neighbours, whose apparent objections have led to a turning down of the volume and a fairly early curfew. And of course, there's the undeniable beauty of the crowd singing the instrumental parts of 'Power Out' and 'Tunnels', overpowering the music.
The highlight, however, is undoubtedly the mid-set chaos caused by the trifecta of reckless abandon that is the messy, uncontrollable 'Month of May', the anthemic 'Rebellion (Lies)' and the jagged, abrasive 'Laika'. Pits open up, bodies are shoved in all directions and crowdsurfers make their way stagewards, all caught up in the unrelenting energy emanating from the stage. 'Month of May' in particular is a monumental piece of primeval, sprawling musicianship, threatening to fall apart at the seams with every passing moment and eventually doing so under the weight of Win's uncontrollable guitar chops, Parry's sporadic ad-libs and those bloodcurdling screams. And as it descends into a mess of glorious noise, the band having pummeled their audience, Win perched on the barrier, goading the sweat-drenched masses, the song morons into the opening drumbeat of 'Rebellion' before anyone's noticed, catching us all unawares and sending further shivers coursing down the spine.
By show's end, and the heartwarming, seemingly never-ending applause and chants that make their way from field to stage, causing the band to linger longer than expected, it's apparent that this really is Arcade Fire's night, their moment, their triumph. Those that come before do an admirable job and, in some cases, almost manage to match their masters, but in the end, the genius of the Fire's set, the power of their performance and the devotion of the crowd win out. With a little help from some spectacular weather and 60,000 beautiful voices, Arcade Fire pull off the biggest gig of their career with suitable aplomb. "We will never forget this night", says Win, beaming smile etched into his face. Nor will we Win, nor will we.
Friday, 1 July 2011
Review: Ryan Adams, Glasgow O2 Academy, 25/06/11
Ryan Adams isn't exactly known for his gracious, crowd-pleasing hospitality. Famous among casual music lovers for refusing to continue playing until the heckler at one of his shows who hilariously shouted for 'Summer of 69' was removed from the premises, and more recently prone, in his gigs with the Cardinals, to eschewing his more famous material in favour of bouts of self-indulgence, Adams has a tendency to be a bit of a difficult bugger, cantankerously refusing to play the game and irritating a significant proportion of his audience as a result.
It's perhaps something of a surprise, then, that tonight, at one of the final shows of his once-in-a-bloody-blue-moon acoustic tour, he seems hellbent on pleasing every last soul in the jam-packed building, slowly, cautiously unravelling a set peppered with cuts from his most successful LP, 2001's glorious 'Gold', alongside the very best moments from his other records. He is unquestionably nervous, appearing restless as he shuffles onto the intimately arranged stage, swathed in flattering blue, uncomfortably fumbling with his well-tuned guitar and cursing the less responsive monitors, which, as he jokingly remarks, 'were out late last night and aren't feeling so good.' He is quite clearly perturbed by this for the first few tracks, but he needn't be.
'Oh My Sweet Carolina' is the perfect opener, easing us all into the heady mix of melancholia, heartbreak and, occasionally, celebration (yes, it does happen, despite the singer's self-effacing claim that he 'wishes [he'd] written some happier songs') that is to follow, Adams's voice fluctuating between gorgeously cracked and soaringly powerful throughout. The track may not be as polished as he'd like it to be, but therein lies its genius. The cracks give the song its weight, its emotional gravitas, and the two minute applause at its end speaks volumes.
Adams is more satisfied, however, when the monitors begin behaving themselves and things go according to plan. He cracks jokes, self-deprecatingly apologizing for his apparent lack of fashion sense, telling us all that he had intended having a style war with support act Jesse Malin but that he quickly realized he couldn't compete as his wardrobe consists of seven of the same shirt. He's also keen to point out that the moshpit is about to break out any second, a playful way of commenting on the O2 Academy's all-seated set-up this evening, but serving instead to remind us of the muted nature of his material which, let's face it, just isn't suited to moshpits and punching people in the face. This is music to quietly appreciate, to chinstoke to, and therein lies its beauty.
Indeed, the audience barely even sings the material, not because they don't know it (judging by the whoops and wolf-whistles that greet each track, they most definitely do) but because to do so would detract from our appreciation of 'the moment'. It's deference that prompts the virtual silence during 'My Winding Wheel' and, indeed, the piano version of 'New York, New York' (now that really IS once in a blue moon), the crowd soaking it all up rather than losing themselves in the moment. When things get a little louder, such as on a majestic 'Firecracker' (oh, those harmonica parts shoot straight through you) and a rollicking 'Let It Ride', their voices are raised in unison, but for the most part, Glasgow takes a step back and lets Adams shine, allowing him to have his two and a half hours in the spotlight.
And yes, folks, you read that right. Tonight, Adams just doesn't stop, boldly defying the Academy's strict curfew and playing on until an ungodly 11.45pm, despite the house lights turning on after a particularly brutal 'Come Pick Me Up' - preceded by an incredible 'Sylvia Plath', giving everyone goosepimples on their arms and a gigantic lump in their throats - and half the audience nearly disappearing into the night. Seemingly having the time of his life, Adams saunters back onto the stage, thanking everyone for their patience and for sticking around (as if we wouldn't!) and proceeds to launch into what can only be described as a phenomenal encore, tearing through 'English Girls Approximately', 'Jacksonville', 'September' and, yes, a bloody brilliant 'Dear Chicago', despite his protestations to the contrary. However, it's tonight's closer that really gives the evening its edge, that extra special something to mark it out as one for the ages.
Having misheard a heckler's request as the nonsensical 'Goodnight Bob', Adams proceeds to
write a song around the refrain, starting out as a jokey thirty seconds centered around a Metallica-esque riff but soon turning into something far more tangible. The joke turns into a fully-fledged song, Adams bottling lightning before our very eyes, improvising every step of the way and comfortably, effortlessly proving his genius. Astutely, Adams declares himself satisfied at song's end and quite clearly, the awestruck crowd agrees with him, unleashing round after round after round of appreciative applause, bums rising out of seats and delivering one of the most deserving standing ovations this writer has ever seen.
It's the kind of magical moment gigs were made for and, brilliantly, something no one else is ever likely to experience.
If you were to walk into tonight's show without any prior knowledge of the floppy-maned troubadour onstage, you'd probably think he was one of the most crowd-pleasing SOBs in the 'alt country' (whatever the hell that is) genre. With razor-sharp wit, a penchant for self-deprecation and a set that showcases every last one of his finest moments, and qualities, Adams has his audience eating out of the palm of his hand. It's almost unfathomable to think that this is the same guy whose sets with his band could be deliberately difficult, or who used to be prone to deliberately omitting his more well loved material. Thank the Lord, then, that tonight, Ryan gives as good as he ever has, harnessing all of his talents to deliver something utterly amazing. If you were lucky enough to be at this show, you'll never forget it and if you weren't, you'll be kicking yourself until the end of your days. A truly magical evening.
It's perhaps something of a surprise, then, that tonight, at one of the final shows of his once-in-a-bloody-blue-moon acoustic tour, he seems hellbent on pleasing every last soul in the jam-packed building, slowly, cautiously unravelling a set peppered with cuts from his most successful LP, 2001's glorious 'Gold', alongside the very best moments from his other records. He is unquestionably nervous, appearing restless as he shuffles onto the intimately arranged stage, swathed in flattering blue, uncomfortably fumbling with his well-tuned guitar and cursing the less responsive monitors, which, as he jokingly remarks, 'were out late last night and aren't feeling so good.' He is quite clearly perturbed by this for the first few tracks, but he needn't be.
'Oh My Sweet Carolina' is the perfect opener, easing us all into the heady mix of melancholia, heartbreak and, occasionally, celebration (yes, it does happen, despite the singer's self-effacing claim that he 'wishes [he'd] written some happier songs') that is to follow, Adams's voice fluctuating between gorgeously cracked and soaringly powerful throughout. The track may not be as polished as he'd like it to be, but therein lies its genius. The cracks give the song its weight, its emotional gravitas, and the two minute applause at its end speaks volumes.
Adams is more satisfied, however, when the monitors begin behaving themselves and things go according to plan. He cracks jokes, self-deprecatingly apologizing for his apparent lack of fashion sense, telling us all that he had intended having a style war with support act Jesse Malin but that he quickly realized he couldn't compete as his wardrobe consists of seven of the same shirt. He's also keen to point out that the moshpit is about to break out any second, a playful way of commenting on the O2 Academy's all-seated set-up this evening, but serving instead to remind us of the muted nature of his material which, let's face it, just isn't suited to moshpits and punching people in the face. This is music to quietly appreciate, to chinstoke to, and therein lies its beauty.
Indeed, the audience barely even sings the material, not because they don't know it (judging by the whoops and wolf-whistles that greet each track, they most definitely do) but because to do so would detract from our appreciation of 'the moment'. It's deference that prompts the virtual silence during 'My Winding Wheel' and, indeed, the piano version of 'New York, New York' (now that really IS once in a blue moon), the crowd soaking it all up rather than losing themselves in the moment. When things get a little louder, such as on a majestic 'Firecracker' (oh, those harmonica parts shoot straight through you) and a rollicking 'Let It Ride', their voices are raised in unison, but for the most part, Glasgow takes a step back and lets Adams shine, allowing him to have his two and a half hours in the spotlight.
And yes, folks, you read that right. Tonight, Adams just doesn't stop, boldly defying the Academy's strict curfew and playing on until an ungodly 11.45pm, despite the house lights turning on after a particularly brutal 'Come Pick Me Up' - preceded by an incredible 'Sylvia Plath', giving everyone goosepimples on their arms and a gigantic lump in their throats - and half the audience nearly disappearing into the night. Seemingly having the time of his life, Adams saunters back onto the stage, thanking everyone for their patience and for sticking around (as if we wouldn't!) and proceeds to launch into what can only be described as a phenomenal encore, tearing through 'English Girls Approximately', 'Jacksonville', 'September' and, yes, a bloody brilliant 'Dear Chicago', despite his protestations to the contrary. However, it's tonight's closer that really gives the evening its edge, that extra special something to mark it out as one for the ages.
Having misheard a heckler's request as the nonsensical 'Goodnight Bob', Adams proceeds to
write a song around the refrain, starting out as a jokey thirty seconds centered around a Metallica-esque riff but soon turning into something far more tangible. The joke turns into a fully-fledged song, Adams bottling lightning before our very eyes, improvising every step of the way and comfortably, effortlessly proving his genius. Astutely, Adams declares himself satisfied at song's end and quite clearly, the awestruck crowd agrees with him, unleashing round after round after round of appreciative applause, bums rising out of seats and delivering one of the most deserving standing ovations this writer has ever seen.
It's the kind of magical moment gigs were made for and, brilliantly, something no one else is ever likely to experience.
If you were to walk into tonight's show without any prior knowledge of the floppy-maned troubadour onstage, you'd probably think he was one of the most crowd-pleasing SOBs in the 'alt country' (whatever the hell that is) genre. With razor-sharp wit, a penchant for self-deprecation and a set that showcases every last one of his finest moments, and qualities, Adams has his audience eating out of the palm of his hand. It's almost unfathomable to think that this is the same guy whose sets with his band could be deliberately difficult, or who used to be prone to deliberately omitting his more well loved material. Thank the Lord, then, that tonight, Ryan gives as good as he ever has, harnessing all of his talents to deliver something utterly amazing. If you were lucky enough to be at this show, you'll never forget it and if you weren't, you'll be kicking yourself until the end of your days. A truly magical evening.
Friday, 17 June 2011
Review: We Are Scientists (w/Tall Ships, Middlesbrough Empire, 13/06/11)
"It's Monday night Middlesbrough, it's time to party!" On first glance at the eerily deserted streets of Teeside's finest drinking pit, you'd probably be forgiven for thinking We Are Scientists' quick-witted, astutely observational lead singer had missed the mark slightly with this evening's opening salvo. A cursory perusal of the city centre reveals a smattering of empty pubs, all offering karaoke nights and strict drug policies, shuttered shops and a punter-less Burger King, its beleaguered workers doubtless desperate for tonight's rock and roll show to kick out so the inebriated hoards will stagger into the joint, desperate for something, anything, to stave off tomorrow's inevitable hangover. For all intents and purposes, Middlesbrough's Monday night appears to have all the social vibrancy of a graveyard.
Woefully lifeless support Tall Ships are well aware of this fact; so much so, it appears, that their performance attempts to replicate the crushing mediocrity... and succeeds unequivocally. The lead singer mumbles his way through a disjointed, entirely incohesive set, never quite sure whether he wants to be in Biffy Clyro or Battles, but managing to be nowhere near as interesting as either. There is a depressing reliance on loops and effects, robbing the set of its authenticity, and all three band members fail to engage with anyone or anything, hiding behind their instruments instead of letting themselves go, looking categorically bored throughout their all-too-lengthy thirty minutes onstage. It's as if they were expecting disinterest, and in so doing, manage to create it, sucking the life and soul out of the party and provoking endless chatter amongst their audience (pockets even begin football chants while they're playing). To call this boring would be an insult to boredom; there's more action in the five person karaoke across the road in The Hairy Lemon than in this joyless, soul-destroying performance.
So is Keith royally mistaken in his assessment of a Middlesbroughian Monday? Well, of course not. His words are a self-fulfilling prophecy: all it takes is for one super-talented, uber-charismatic, devilishly handsome guitarist with silky smooth vocal chords to say it's party time and the masses make it so. As soon as he declares his undying love for the city, the punters are whipped into a frenzy and the lunacy begins; pits form left, right and centre, bodies slamming into one another during an electrifying 'Nobody Move, Nobody Get Hurt', limbs flying stagewards and being sent promptly back again, the Empire's theatrical facilities not really having the provisions for accommodating reckless crowdsurfers.
There is clearly much love for WAS in the building tonight; the earlier football chants become terrace-aping cries of 'We Are! We Are! Say We Are Scientists!', so vociferous that Keith and Chris actually seem visibly taken aback (no small feat for two guys so ordinarily cool, calm and collected). Every successive 'With Love and Squalor' classic is met with the same blind devotion, the same reckless abandon, so much so, in fact, that 'The Great Escape' threatens to deafen everyone within a two mile radius, so powerful is the crowd's attempt at vocalising the song's really bloody brilliant power chords.
The 'Brain Thrust Mastery' tracks prompt a flurry of activity too: 'Chick Lit' has boys and girls alike dancing in the aisles, 'After Hours' produces an almighty closing singalong and a particularly brutal 'Lethal Enforcer' prompts one over-excited punter to ask Chris to 'get [his] tits out', to which he replies, with razor sharp timing, that they had a lovely pair for us all but unfortunately, they got held up at customs. There's a great deal of this throughout the show, the back and forth between Keith and Chris proving almost as entertaining as the music itself. For the good folk of the Boro, this may even be preferable to certain portions of the set: the cuts from 'Barbara' don't exactly set the room on fire, despite being equally as ace as their counterparts. Even blistering opener - and recent single - 'Nice Guys' meets with a much more muted response, an unfortunate side effect, perhaps, of the band's temporary fall from indie grace.
Alas, no matter: WAS don't let such trivial matters stand in their way. With an arsenal of angular indie rock gems this delicious, even the smoggiest of townies can't stop himself dancing, and with the kind of charismatic stage presence that Freddie Mercury could only dream of, Keith, Chris and Andy cannot do anything other than succeed. Spectacularly. Flamboyantly. With style, panache and a bucketload of grace. And while we may have set the hyperbole generator into overdrive, they do prove that no matter how small the town, no matter how quiet the city, We Are Scientists will always, always bring the party. Middlesbrough, consider yourselves well and truly conquered.
Woefully lifeless support Tall Ships are well aware of this fact; so much so, it appears, that their performance attempts to replicate the crushing mediocrity... and succeeds unequivocally. The lead singer mumbles his way through a disjointed, entirely incohesive set, never quite sure whether he wants to be in Biffy Clyro or Battles, but managing to be nowhere near as interesting as either. There is a depressing reliance on loops and effects, robbing the set of its authenticity, and all three band members fail to engage with anyone or anything, hiding behind their instruments instead of letting themselves go, looking categorically bored throughout their all-too-lengthy thirty minutes onstage. It's as if they were expecting disinterest, and in so doing, manage to create it, sucking the life and soul out of the party and provoking endless chatter amongst their audience (pockets even begin football chants while they're playing). To call this boring would be an insult to boredom; there's more action in the five person karaoke across the road in The Hairy Lemon than in this joyless, soul-destroying performance.
So is Keith royally mistaken in his assessment of a Middlesbroughian Monday? Well, of course not. His words are a self-fulfilling prophecy: all it takes is for one super-talented, uber-charismatic, devilishly handsome guitarist with silky smooth vocal chords to say it's party time and the masses make it so. As soon as he declares his undying love for the city, the punters are whipped into a frenzy and the lunacy begins; pits form left, right and centre, bodies slamming into one another during an electrifying 'Nobody Move, Nobody Get Hurt', limbs flying stagewards and being sent promptly back again, the Empire's theatrical facilities not really having the provisions for accommodating reckless crowdsurfers.
There is clearly much love for WAS in the building tonight; the earlier football chants become terrace-aping cries of 'We Are! We Are! Say We Are Scientists!', so vociferous that Keith and Chris actually seem visibly taken aback (no small feat for two guys so ordinarily cool, calm and collected). Every successive 'With Love and Squalor' classic is met with the same blind devotion, the same reckless abandon, so much so, in fact, that 'The Great Escape' threatens to deafen everyone within a two mile radius, so powerful is the crowd's attempt at vocalising the song's really bloody brilliant power chords.
The 'Brain Thrust Mastery' tracks prompt a flurry of activity too: 'Chick Lit' has boys and girls alike dancing in the aisles, 'After Hours' produces an almighty closing singalong and a particularly brutal 'Lethal Enforcer' prompts one over-excited punter to ask Chris to 'get [his] tits out', to which he replies, with razor sharp timing, that they had a lovely pair for us all but unfortunately, they got held up at customs. There's a great deal of this throughout the show, the back and forth between Keith and Chris proving almost as entertaining as the music itself. For the good folk of the Boro, this may even be preferable to certain portions of the set: the cuts from 'Barbara' don't exactly set the room on fire, despite being equally as ace as their counterparts. Even blistering opener - and recent single - 'Nice Guys' meets with a much more muted response, an unfortunate side effect, perhaps, of the band's temporary fall from indie grace.
Alas, no matter: WAS don't let such trivial matters stand in their way. With an arsenal of angular indie rock gems this delicious, even the smoggiest of townies can't stop himself dancing, and with the kind of charismatic stage presence that Freddie Mercury could only dream of, Keith, Chris and Andy cannot do anything other than succeed. Spectacularly. Flamboyantly. With style, panache and a bucketload of grace. And while we may have set the hyperbole generator into overdrive, they do prove that no matter how small the town, no matter how quiet the city, We Are Scientists will always, always bring the party. Middlesbrough, consider yourselves well and truly conquered.
Review: The Pains of Being Pure At Heart, The Cluny, 05/06/11
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.
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.
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.
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