It's certainly no secret that Iron & Wine shows aren't exactly the most raucous of affairs. For the most part, when the beautifully bearded Samuel Beam casually saunters onstage, flanked by his bevy of very-blooded-talented musical maestros, and starts weaving his melancholic tales of love and loss, the standard response is one of mesmerisation; the performance is so striking that you remain rooted firmly to the spot, unable to avert your eyes from the stage, content to allow the beauty to swallow you whole. Where other artists command the body, making drunken imbeciles throw themselves into one another with reckless abandon, Iron & Wine penetrates the soul, tugging at the heartstrings and piercing the gut, crafting the kind of emotional connection that most struggling wannabes in this business we call 'the arts' can only have wet dreams about. Indeed, so powerful is tonight's foray into the depths of regret-tinged Americana that Newcastle is practically stunned into silence; a pin dropping in the general vicinity of The Sage's glorious Hall 1 would probably send reverberations as far as the nearby Millennium Bridge. Samuel is quite taken with this attentiveness, remarking that we're all 'so well behaved', which would be reason to 'bring [his] kids here', but really, in our hearts, we're as battered and bruised as the most vociferous of headbangers.
It certainly helps that Sam has brought good friend and fellow musical entrepreneur Daniel Martin Moore along for the ride. His careful blend of sun-drenched folk and wayward country strikes an immediate chord with those who've managed to position bums on seats early enough, aided rather admirably by both the venue's inherent brilliance - it may be an irritating muso cliche, but the acoustics really ARE amazing - and the production crew's sound grasp of atmospherics. It's the subtle touches that prove the most evocative: just check the quiet lighting oscillations during the touching 'In the Cool of the Day', shrouding Daniel in darkness when his vocals pause momentarily, and carefully illuminating the inexorably talented pianist instead, drawing our attention to the poetry of the musicianship. Things are a little more strained when Daniel heavies his hand, teaching us all about the perils of mountain top removal - the boulders that shoot through the air are 'the size of Wales', lazily - as the lesson in humanitarian environmentalism jars with the 'softly, softly' approach of the rest of his performance (perhaps he would've been better letting the track speak for itself?), but on the whole, this is an admirable introduction and a most appropriate preface to the magic that follows.
Of course, Moore is no competition for the 105 career-spanning minutes that Iron & Wine bestow upon their adoring followers; all thoughts of wiry, besuited Kentucky boys are obliterated within the first few seconds of a progressively colossal 'Rabbit Will Run', Samuel taking each and every one of our hands and leading us on a bewitching journey through the spit-and-sawdust nooks and crannies of southernmost America, across the empty plains on a painfully gentle 'Carousel', over the rivers and seas through the cascading ebbs and flows of 'Cinder and Smoke' and 'Tree By The River' and into the blinding lights and cadaverous hustle and bustle of the big city on the astutely observational 'Walking Far From Home', the opening track from tremendous new record 'Kiss Each Other Clean' and quite probably the highlight of the show. It's quite remarkable how immediately evocative a great many of these tracks are; a few carefully chosen words are all Samuel needs to immerse the listener in his world, to make each and every one of us feel like the songs were written for us and us alone. That several hundred hard-working punters from Northern England can share in this most personal and unique of experiences is further testament to the sheer genius of the performance.
The show isn't perfect; cracks do show on occasion, as a few minor technical hitches lead Sam to ask whether we're 'cool with [them] fucking up the songs [we] love' and the set does meander a little at the midpoint, transgressing for a little too long down a slightly proggier path, but for the most part, this is a beguiling ride, near flawless in both conception and execution. Iron & Wine's unenviable grasp of music's most powerful of abilities - to move you - makes every last one of the captivated faithful want to be up on that stage, sharing their own stories with an attentive audience, making equally as unfathomable, yet astonishing, sounds with the most straightforward, yet comprehensive, arsenal of instruments. They may not provoke the most feverish of reactions, but Iron & Wine create the most enduring of experiences, assuring you of a night you'll never forget. Music doesn't get much more wonderful than this.
Saturday, 19 March 2011
Friday, 11 March 2011
Review: Surfer Blood w/No Joy (Newcastle O2 Academy 2, 06/03/11)
There's a veritable genre war taking place across Newcastle's wind-and-rain battered city centre this evening; at one end of town, just off the tracksuit-and-trampcoat laden Northumberland Street, Scottish post-hardcore noiseniks Flood of Red are trying desperately to stomp a mudhole in the refurbished Trillian's rock bar and prove to all and sundry that their particular brand of scuzzy, punky emo rock is the most exciting thing you could hope to immerse yourself in on a Sunday night. Meanwhile, a few hundred metres away, past the garish fracas of the world-renowned Bigg Market and through the meandering, well-hidden Victorian side streets, grungy lo-fi Floridians Surfer Blood have organised the counter battle, flying the flag for sun-kissed indie, attempting to convince 300 or so scene kids in Sonic Youth T-shirts to throw their floppy fringes to the wind and just, you know, dance.
Problem is, on this most dreary of ends to the week, Newcastle struggles to do much of anything at all, and Surfer Blood have a pretty gosh darn hard time trying to convince anyone to move a muscle. Montreal and Los Angeles-based shoegaze outfit No Joy bear the brunt of the indifference, with applause decidedly muted, despite the female singers' dangerously skimpy wardrobe choices and valiant attempts to break My Bloody Valentine's volume record. And when the main act grace us with their presence, they do so to as little fanfare as possible, with only the occasional impromptu whoop or hand-clap signaling that anything more than a soundcheck is taking place. Granted, the guys don't exactly make much of a fuss over their onstage debut, slouching out sans intro music and barely saying anything at all, but one would expect a crowd of supposed fans to at least work themselves into some semblance of excitement at the arrival of their hosts.
Of course, it's questionable whether many of the faces intensely studying Surfer Blood tonight have even bothered listening to their output. Despite a relatively brief, straightforward set consisting almost entirely of tracks from the superb 2010 debut 'Astro Coast', audience participation is minimal and most mouths are wired shut, even during the funky-as-fuck Summer-anthem-that-never-was 'Take It Easy' (JP does his usual party trick and heads into the 'pit', wielding his microphone like a weapon) and, even more unforgivably, during 'Swim', the band's biggest, most well-hyped, single and most ludicrously fun slice of scuzz pop in a pretty top notch arsenal. A few fairly quiet devotees in the front row mumble the words sheepishly to themselves, conscious of the fact that no one else seems bothered, but for the most part, there is very little activity. Somewhat unfortunately, it's patently obvious to the Floridians themselves and their set loses a little of its lustre as a result, as if the boys gave up bothering after a few tracks, all too aware that a reaction was unlikely to be forthcoming.
That's not to say, however, that SB don't put in a mighty commendable performance; this is as note-perfect a representation of their hazy East coast sound as you're likely to get, with 'Fast Jabroni ' and a punchy 'Floating Vibes' sounding positively monumental. The problem, however, is that it lacks that little something more, the extra ingredient to make the show seem more like an event than another night on the job. The crowd has a lot to answer for, sure, but there is a noticeable gap stage right too, as the maracas-wielding keyboard/percussionist/all-round nutcase appears to have disappeared into the void. Without him, Surfer Blood seem to be a rather more professional outfit, losing some of the lunatic charm they exuded during their recent Interpol support slots.
Blame the Sunday night; blame the frustratingly benign folk of Newcastle; blame the band dynamic; blame whatever; tonight, Surfer Blood aren't anywhere near as glorious as they can be, and despite putting in a solid performance, they lack the spark so desperately needed to set our hearts ablaze. As a stand for all that is good, pure and reckless about contemporary lo-fi indie, it can only be judged partially successful, and as competitors in this evening's Battle of the Genres, Surfer Blood come out on the receiving end of a punk-shaped suckerpunch. Sorry guys, but the Scots win again. Probably.
Problem is, on this most dreary of ends to the week, Newcastle struggles to do much of anything at all, and Surfer Blood have a pretty gosh darn hard time trying to convince anyone to move a muscle. Montreal and Los Angeles-based shoegaze outfit No Joy bear the brunt of the indifference, with applause decidedly muted, despite the female singers' dangerously skimpy wardrobe choices and valiant attempts to break My Bloody Valentine's volume record. And when the main act grace us with their presence, they do so to as little fanfare as possible, with only the occasional impromptu whoop or hand-clap signaling that anything more than a soundcheck is taking place. Granted, the guys don't exactly make much of a fuss over their onstage debut, slouching out sans intro music and barely saying anything at all, but one would expect a crowd of supposed fans to at least work themselves into some semblance of excitement at the arrival of their hosts.
Of course, it's questionable whether many of the faces intensely studying Surfer Blood tonight have even bothered listening to their output. Despite a relatively brief, straightforward set consisting almost entirely of tracks from the superb 2010 debut 'Astro Coast', audience participation is minimal and most mouths are wired shut, even during the funky-as-fuck Summer-anthem-that-never-was 'Take It Easy' (JP does his usual party trick and heads into the 'pit', wielding his microphone like a weapon) and, even more unforgivably, during 'Swim', the band's biggest, most well-hyped, single and most ludicrously fun slice of scuzz pop in a pretty top notch arsenal. A few fairly quiet devotees in the front row mumble the words sheepishly to themselves, conscious of the fact that no one else seems bothered, but for the most part, there is very little activity. Somewhat unfortunately, it's patently obvious to the Floridians themselves and their set loses a little of its lustre as a result, as if the boys gave up bothering after a few tracks, all too aware that a reaction was unlikely to be forthcoming.
That's not to say, however, that SB don't put in a mighty commendable performance; this is as note-perfect a representation of their hazy East coast sound as you're likely to get, with 'Fast Jabroni ' and a punchy 'Floating Vibes' sounding positively monumental. The problem, however, is that it lacks that little something more, the extra ingredient to make the show seem more like an event than another night on the job. The crowd has a lot to answer for, sure, but there is a noticeable gap stage right too, as the maracas-wielding keyboard/percussionist/all-round nutcase appears to have disappeared into the void. Without him, Surfer Blood seem to be a rather more professional outfit, losing some of the lunatic charm they exuded during their recent Interpol support slots.
Blame the Sunday night; blame the frustratingly benign folk of Newcastle; blame the band dynamic; blame whatever; tonight, Surfer Blood aren't anywhere near as glorious as they can be, and despite putting in a solid performance, they lack the spark so desperately needed to set our hearts ablaze. As a stand for all that is good, pure and reckless about contemporary lo-fi indie, it can only be judged partially successful, and as competitors in this evening's Battle of the Genres, Surfer Blood come out on the receiving end of a punk-shaped suckerpunch. Sorry guys, but the Scots win again. Probably.
Sunday, 6 March 2011
Review: Les Savy Fav (The Cluny, Newcastle, 02/03/11)
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Wednesday, 2 March 2011
Review: Rock Sound Exposure Tour (Dinosaur Pile-Up/The Xcerts, Newcastle O2 Academy 2, 28/02/11)
Hot on the heels of a victorious King Tut's show, Newcastle's sparsely populated, depressingly muted Academy 2 must seem like a colossal leap backwards for the guys and girls - um, are there any? - of the 2011 Rock Sound Exposure Tour. Granted, tonight's headliners, the unnervingly intense Japanese Voyeurs, have had to withdraw from the tour due to vocal chord problems (lead singer Romily probably belched that one belch too far), leaving the two local supports to prop up the bill and Dinosaur Pile-Up with an unexpected main slot, but it's hard to believe that any of the 100 or so punters in attendance this evening even knew who they were anyway. This is a crowd of casual observers, curious locals and self-conscious scenesters, none of whom seem able to muster up any semblance of enthusiasm for the cream of contemporary British talent that's attempting to put on a rip-roaring rock 'n' roll show in front of them.
The Xcerts suffer particularly badly, forced to contend with arms-folded disinterest and an audience too frightened of their social standing to make a beeline for the barrier. The gulf between band and crowd is achingly, embarrassingly palpable; forget the Academy, this might as well be your local drinking hole, playing host to some no-name local act while everyone tries to have a nice pint and a chat. Sure, pockets are attentive, and everyone is at least polite enough to applaud at the appropriate moments, but the lack of atmosphere is utterly, utterly depressing, sucking the life and soul out of the party. Such a reaction, frankly, is criminal. Granted, Murray and co. aren't exactly the 'hands in the air, now scream!' type, and perhaps they are guilty of not trying to engage with these armchair onlookers, but the sheer power and intensity of their all-too-brief performance should speak for itself.
In forty inexorably loud minutes, the Scottish three-piece summon the spirit of 'In Utero'-era Kurt Cobain and unleash a torrent of unrelentingly abrasive noise rock on these poor, floppy fringed souls, making the spit and sawdust viscera of current release 'Scatterbrain' seem like Lady GaGa by comparison. Spurred on, perhaps, by his audience's indifference, Murray manages to find all new levels of guttural anger, bellowing the words to 'A Distant Memory', 'Young (Belane)' and a brilliantly blistering 'Slackerpop' with an extra level of unabashed insanity. There is no let up: even the two debut album tracks on air tonight - a mournful 'Crisis In The Slow Lane', an emboldened 'Do You Feel Safe?' - are shot through with a brusque rawness that obliterates any semblance of pop sensibility that they may previously have contained.
And perhaps that's why Newcastle just doesn't seem all that arsed. Without an obvious hook to cling on to, the crowd actually have to work at fathoming The Xcerts out, and the arms-folded brigade just aren't in the mood for being challenged. Instead, they'd rather hum and nod along to really-very-bloody-obvious headliners Dinosaur Pile-Up, whose verse-verse-chorus power chord formula is an instant no-brainer and hence, an instant winner. Of course, there's nothing wrong with such a simple set-up, provided you have the melodies to back it up and unfortunately, at this, DPU are only partially successful. They have 'Mona Lisa', a galloping rock 'n' roll stallion, and the splendidly stupid 'My Rock n Roll', the bastard love child of contemporary Weezer and 'The Colour and the Shape' era Foo Fighters, but all too often, the hooks get lost amongst the monochrome chugging and the tracks lose any edge they may have had over one another, coming across instead like one long, drawn out exercise in A, D and G. They do perform well; their energy is commendable and the bassist's leap crowdwards during the encore is the most exciting thing to happen all evening, but you get the impression that they're only just scratching the surface of what could be, quite potentially, a bloody fucking ace rock outfit. And for all the audience are brave enough to line themselves along the barrier, there is still barely any movement; no energy to speak of; no atmosphere.
As a showcase for fresh talent, the Rock Sound Exposure Tour is a pretty riveting, darn good value night that'll open your eyes and ears to some talented musicians and maybe even persuade you to part with your hard-earned cash on that latest Xcerts album (or Dinosaur Pile-Up, if you ain't picky). As anything even remotely resembling a gig, however, if Newcastle is anything to go by, it's as exciting as the end credits to The Lord of the Rings, failing to excite the kids into any sort of reaction. Of course, tonight isn't anything to go by; it's a frustrating statistical anomaly in a sea of downright wild shows and is a blight on the city's recent track record as a worthwhile place to play. Let's hope our future rock stars don't write us all off at once, eh?
The Xcerts suffer particularly badly, forced to contend with arms-folded disinterest and an audience too frightened of their social standing to make a beeline for the barrier. The gulf between band and crowd is achingly, embarrassingly palpable; forget the Academy, this might as well be your local drinking hole, playing host to some no-name local act while everyone tries to have a nice pint and a chat. Sure, pockets are attentive, and everyone is at least polite enough to applaud at the appropriate moments, but the lack of atmosphere is utterly, utterly depressing, sucking the life and soul out of the party. Such a reaction, frankly, is criminal. Granted, Murray and co. aren't exactly the 'hands in the air, now scream!' type, and perhaps they are guilty of not trying to engage with these armchair onlookers, but the sheer power and intensity of their all-too-brief performance should speak for itself.
In forty inexorably loud minutes, the Scottish three-piece summon the spirit of 'In Utero'-era Kurt Cobain and unleash a torrent of unrelentingly abrasive noise rock on these poor, floppy fringed souls, making the spit and sawdust viscera of current release 'Scatterbrain' seem like Lady GaGa by comparison. Spurred on, perhaps, by his audience's indifference, Murray manages to find all new levels of guttural anger, bellowing the words to 'A Distant Memory', 'Young (Belane)' and a brilliantly blistering 'Slackerpop' with an extra level of unabashed insanity. There is no let up: even the two debut album tracks on air tonight - a mournful 'Crisis In The Slow Lane', an emboldened 'Do You Feel Safe?' - are shot through with a brusque rawness that obliterates any semblance of pop sensibility that they may previously have contained.
And perhaps that's why Newcastle just doesn't seem all that arsed. Without an obvious hook to cling on to, the crowd actually have to work at fathoming The Xcerts out, and the arms-folded brigade just aren't in the mood for being challenged. Instead, they'd rather hum and nod along to really-very-bloody-obvious headliners Dinosaur Pile-Up, whose verse-verse-chorus power chord formula is an instant no-brainer and hence, an instant winner. Of course, there's nothing wrong with such a simple set-up, provided you have the melodies to back it up and unfortunately, at this, DPU are only partially successful. They have 'Mona Lisa', a galloping rock 'n' roll stallion, and the splendidly stupid 'My Rock n Roll', the bastard love child of contemporary Weezer and 'The Colour and the Shape' era Foo Fighters, but all too often, the hooks get lost amongst the monochrome chugging and the tracks lose any edge they may have had over one another, coming across instead like one long, drawn out exercise in A, D and G. They do perform well; their energy is commendable and the bassist's leap crowdwards during the encore is the most exciting thing to happen all evening, but you get the impression that they're only just scratching the surface of what could be, quite potentially, a bloody fucking ace rock outfit. And for all the audience are brave enough to line themselves along the barrier, there is still barely any movement; no energy to speak of; no atmosphere.
As a showcase for fresh talent, the Rock Sound Exposure Tour is a pretty riveting, darn good value night that'll open your eyes and ears to some talented musicians and maybe even persuade you to part with your hard-earned cash on that latest Xcerts album (or Dinosaur Pile-Up, if you ain't picky). As anything even remotely resembling a gig, however, if Newcastle is anything to go by, it's as exciting as the end credits to The Lord of the Rings, failing to excite the kids into any sort of reaction. Of course, tonight isn't anything to go by; it's a frustrating statistical anomaly in a sea of downright wild shows and is a blight on the city's recent track record as a worthwhile place to play. Let's hope our future rock stars don't write us all off at once, eh?
Tuesday, 1 March 2011
Review: Little Comets, Northumbria University, 26/02/11
From the casual disinterest of a sparsely populated Bridge Hotel to this evening’s rapturously attentive, and impressively cramped, Northumbria University, Jarrow/Heaton/Sunderland-born indie upstarts Little Comets have come a long way in the last twelve months. Aided admirably by a series of deliciously spiky indie-pop singles, one impressively instant debut LP and a penchant for whippin’ out the old acoustic guitars on the Metro Airport line, the quirky, bejumpered four-piece have now reached that oh-so-coveted of turning points: the cusp of mainstream crossover. There’s an undeniable buzz around these guys; the kind of feverish excitement that enveloped Maximo Park just before ‘Apply Some Pressure’, that almost swallowed up The Futureheads before they’d had a chance to put out a record and that currently follows POP SEX stalwarts Frankie & The Heartstrings wherever they go. Having achieved a sort of ‘oddball’ local hero status, Robert, Michael, Mark and Matthew are on the fast track to indie superstardom and this is their celebratory homecoming.
It would be churlish to suggest that the ensuing triumph was inevitable, but even the most hard-nosed of cynics would have to concede that the odds were firmly in the Comets’ favour. Northumbria’s revamped, scaled-down Student’s Union bristles with excitement tonight as 500 beer-swilling alt kids (half of whom are too young to know what a double vodka and coke even is) lift their arms aloft, faces beaming with pride, and bellow the devilishly obtuse words to effortlessly catchy opener ‘One Night In October’ right back at their fellow Geordies. In typically eccentric fashion, the band eschew the track’s standard instrumentation and choose to treat Newcastle to a stripped-down acoustic reimagining, with all four members attempting to play the same strung-up guitar – tied to clotheslines for that added touch of bizarre – in unison. It’s a surreal sight, and it’s questionable whether it actually works, but the end result is categorically endearing. In celebration of the fact that this is their largest headline show to date, the Comets clearly felt obliged to do something special, to ‘mix it up a little’ (for want of better terminology), and hell, they do the honorable thing and whizz through the beefed-up version of the track towards the end of the set anyhow. Yes, you read that right folks, tonight, Little Comets play the same song twice and it’s a testament to the quality of their performance that the cheeky rascals get away with it.
Not that their set requires any padding, of course. Within the space of 15 songs - pretty much the entirety of their recent debut - Little Comets sparkle, shine and make highly inventive use of saucepans (one dangles from the ceiling alongside a tambourine for added percussion), all the while maintaining their unenviable knack for getting bodies moving. Their one new track is symptomatic of this, eliciting an enthusiastic jump-along after a meagre thirty seconds. It's quite probably their sexiest effort to date, driving its kitchen sink lyricism along on the crest of a groove-shaped wave that would put Jessie J to shame. Maybe. So lascivious is this beast that it almost pips the wonderfully playful 'Joanna', and that has the advantage of a brilliant slice of semantic ambiguity that sees the 500-strong faithful (almost) asking, 'do you wanna take me home?' It's precisely this kind of loveable quirkiness that separates Little Comets from their peers: who else could make a song about 'Adultery' sound so damn appealing, or get away with spelling out their country's name to form a chorus? ('Isles', you are a bloody cheeky blighter, but you sound glorious - and especially fast this evening - so we'll forgive you). No one, that's who. By gig's end, and the irresistible sporadic convulsiveness of the dumb-as-fuck 'Dancing Song', the Comets have the masses body-popping in their Converse, having successfully charmed each and every one.
A resounding success, then? Well, obviously. With their largest crowd to date and a level of local respect and adulation the size of Paul Smith's ego, Robert, Michael, Mark and Matthew could probably have played an hour of Barry Manilow covers this evening and still have left the masses hungry for more. They don't, of course; they deliver a balls-to-the-floor indie rock show of the highest order and prove themselves worthy of the Geordies' devotion. Today's Little Comets, tomorrow's massive stars.
It would be churlish to suggest that the ensuing triumph was inevitable, but even the most hard-nosed of cynics would have to concede that the odds were firmly in the Comets’ favour. Northumbria’s revamped, scaled-down Student’s Union bristles with excitement tonight as 500 beer-swilling alt kids (half of whom are too young to know what a double vodka and coke even is) lift their arms aloft, faces beaming with pride, and bellow the devilishly obtuse words to effortlessly catchy opener ‘One Night In October’ right back at their fellow Geordies. In typically eccentric fashion, the band eschew the track’s standard instrumentation and choose to treat Newcastle to a stripped-down acoustic reimagining, with all four members attempting to play the same strung-up guitar – tied to clotheslines for that added touch of bizarre – in unison. It’s a surreal sight, and it’s questionable whether it actually works, but the end result is categorically endearing. In celebration of the fact that this is their largest headline show to date, the Comets clearly felt obliged to do something special, to ‘mix it up a little’ (for want of better terminology), and hell, they do the honorable thing and whizz through the beefed-up version of the track towards the end of the set anyhow. Yes, you read that right folks, tonight, Little Comets play the same song twice and it’s a testament to the quality of their performance that the cheeky rascals get away with it.
Not that their set requires any padding, of course. Within the space of 15 songs - pretty much the entirety of their recent debut - Little Comets sparkle, shine and make highly inventive use of saucepans (one dangles from the ceiling alongside a tambourine for added percussion), all the while maintaining their unenviable knack for getting bodies moving. Their one new track is symptomatic of this, eliciting an enthusiastic jump-along after a meagre thirty seconds. It's quite probably their sexiest effort to date, driving its kitchen sink lyricism along on the crest of a groove-shaped wave that would put Jessie J to shame. Maybe. So lascivious is this beast that it almost pips the wonderfully playful 'Joanna', and that has the advantage of a brilliant slice of semantic ambiguity that sees the 500-strong faithful (almost) asking, 'do you wanna take me home?' It's precisely this kind of loveable quirkiness that separates Little Comets from their peers: who else could make a song about 'Adultery' sound so damn appealing, or get away with spelling out their country's name to form a chorus? ('Isles', you are a bloody cheeky blighter, but you sound glorious - and especially fast this evening - so we'll forgive you). No one, that's who. By gig's end, and the irresistible sporadic convulsiveness of the dumb-as-fuck 'Dancing Song', the Comets have the masses body-popping in their Converse, having successfully charmed each and every one.
A resounding success, then? Well, obviously. With their largest crowd to date and a level of local respect and adulation the size of Paul Smith's ego, Robert, Michael, Mark and Matthew could probably have played an hour of Barry Manilow covers this evening and still have left the masses hungry for more. They don't, of course; they deliver a balls-to-the-floor indie rock show of the highest order and prove themselves worthy of the Geordies' devotion. Today's Little Comets, tomorrow's massive stars.
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
Review: My Chemical Romance (Newcastle Metro Radio Arena, 22/02/11)
Look alive, sunshine. My Chemical Romance are in town, transported back through the annals of time from the desolated wasteland of the Divided States of America circa 2019, and they're about to paint the streets red, yellow, blue, orange and just about every other colour that still exists within the futuristic Californian rainbow. So BE RESPONSIBLE, boys and girls, TAKE YOUR MEDICINE; KILLJOYS, do your duty and MAKE SOME NOISE and everyone else, ready yourself for the comic book punk rock extravaganza of a lifetime. MCR are here to BUILD A BETTER YOU and they're about to do it now and do it oh-so-very loud.
Taking to the stage bathed in shocking Technicolor, looking like characters from Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World or some such, this is My Chemical Romance at their most bleedin' obvious, stripped of the funeral obliquity of the Black Parade era and free, once more, to engage in pure, dumb rock 'n' roll fun. Tonight's notably lengthy set is heavy on the 'Danger Days', and while the 6,000 strong Metro Radio Arena may save the loudest singalongs and most rapturous applause for the earlier material, it is the steampunk synth 'n' scuzz of such gems as the filthy 'Vampire Money' and the ass-shakingly sexy 'Planetary (GO!)' that shine the brightest and leave the most indelible impression.
For all 'The Black Parade' was a fantastically brave reinvention, and a superlative record, you get the feeling that this is what MCR were born to do; that these larger-than-life, unashamedly over-the-top fantasy figures that stalk the stage, battering their instruments and throwing the kind of camp poses that put Paul Smith to shame (we're looking at you, Gerard Way), are at their most comfortable in this environment, playing science-fiction tinged punk rock and blistering their way through their back catalogue like their very lives depend upon it. Just check the unwieldy sense of urgency that ploughs its way through a breakneck 'Na Na Na', surely one of the finest rock 'n' roll pop songs of the last ten years. The energy is exhilarating, the speed spine tingling and the brevity breathtaking.
And while 'Danger Days' may see MCR at their most cohesive, when they do plumb the depths of their earlier material, the chosen tracks complement their contemporary counterparts exceptionally well. Once-in-a-blue-moon 'Our Lady of Sorrows' benefits from six years of increased technical skill, sounding far more bombastic than it was ever meant to be; 'Give 'Em Hell, Kid' and 'Hang 'Em High' thunder along faster than a speeding bullet; 'Mama' brings the carnival to town, coming on like a slice of hyperbolic pantomime and prompting a mass clicking-of-the-fingers; and of course, 'Welcome to the Black Parade', 'Famous Last Words', 'I'm Not Okay' and 'Helena' rock like absolute bastards, aided and abetted by Ray Toro and Frank Iero's deliciously savage guitar assaults.
Inevitably, the crash queens and motor babies lose their minds to all of these, screaming each word 'til their lungs give out and, on a particularly rowdy 'Teenagers', threatening to obliterate the Arena's overly expensive flooring (it doubles as an ice rink, you know). Interestingly, however, for all these visceral rock 'n' roll thrills are invigorating, it is the quieter moments that provide the biggest highlights. The piano-led reinterpretation of 'The Ghost of You' drips with bitterest melancholy, while 'Cancer', featuring merely James Dewees on keyboard and a barely visible Gerard (bathed in smoke and cutting an eerily imposing figure in silhouette), sends shivers down the spine, so delicate and cracked is the boy Way's voice. It's a soberingly serious moment amongst the dumb fun of the rest of the evening and it's all the more powerful for it.
As boys, girls, mums, dads, freaks and creeps alike stumble out of the Metro Radio Arena tonight, their T-shirts emblazoned with slogans like ART IS THE WEAPON, their hearts and minds battered and bruised from the Technicolor punk rock show they've just witnessed, there's a sense of victory in the air. Victory for My Chemical Romance, who, by their own admission, were teetering on the brink of collapse after 'The Black Parade'; victory for the killjoys, whose devotion continues to prove well justified, and victory for the genre as MCR prove, categorically, that punk rock can translate to the cavernous corporate opulence of the arena environment without losing any of its heart. Louder than God's revolver and twice as shiny, MCR pump out the slaughtomatic sounds to keep you alive and look fucking fantastic doing it. The future IS bulletproof; the aftermath IS secondary and tonight, my friends, My Chemical Romance ARE fucking outstanding.
Taking to the stage bathed in shocking Technicolor, looking like characters from Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World or some such, this is My Chemical Romance at their most bleedin' obvious, stripped of the funeral obliquity of the Black Parade era and free, once more, to engage in pure, dumb rock 'n' roll fun. Tonight's notably lengthy set is heavy on the 'Danger Days', and while the 6,000 strong Metro Radio Arena may save the loudest singalongs and most rapturous applause for the earlier material, it is the steampunk synth 'n' scuzz of such gems as the filthy 'Vampire Money' and the ass-shakingly sexy 'Planetary (GO!)' that shine the brightest and leave the most indelible impression.
For all 'The Black Parade' was a fantastically brave reinvention, and a superlative record, you get the feeling that this is what MCR were born to do; that these larger-than-life, unashamedly over-the-top fantasy figures that stalk the stage, battering their instruments and throwing the kind of camp poses that put Paul Smith to shame (we're looking at you, Gerard Way), are at their most comfortable in this environment, playing science-fiction tinged punk rock and blistering their way through their back catalogue like their very lives depend upon it. Just check the unwieldy sense of urgency that ploughs its way through a breakneck 'Na Na Na', surely one of the finest rock 'n' roll pop songs of the last ten years. The energy is exhilarating, the speed spine tingling and the brevity breathtaking.
And while 'Danger Days' may see MCR at their most cohesive, when they do plumb the depths of their earlier material, the chosen tracks complement their contemporary counterparts exceptionally well. Once-in-a-blue-moon 'Our Lady of Sorrows' benefits from six years of increased technical skill, sounding far more bombastic than it was ever meant to be; 'Give 'Em Hell, Kid' and 'Hang 'Em High' thunder along faster than a speeding bullet; 'Mama' brings the carnival to town, coming on like a slice of hyperbolic pantomime and prompting a mass clicking-of-the-fingers; and of course, 'Welcome to the Black Parade', 'Famous Last Words', 'I'm Not Okay' and 'Helena' rock like absolute bastards, aided and abetted by Ray Toro and Frank Iero's deliciously savage guitar assaults.
Inevitably, the crash queens and motor babies lose their minds to all of these, screaming each word 'til their lungs give out and, on a particularly rowdy 'Teenagers', threatening to obliterate the Arena's overly expensive flooring (it doubles as an ice rink, you know). Interestingly, however, for all these visceral rock 'n' roll thrills are invigorating, it is the quieter moments that provide the biggest highlights. The piano-led reinterpretation of 'The Ghost of You' drips with bitterest melancholy, while 'Cancer', featuring merely James Dewees on keyboard and a barely visible Gerard (bathed in smoke and cutting an eerily imposing figure in silhouette), sends shivers down the spine, so delicate and cracked is the boy Way's voice. It's a soberingly serious moment amongst the dumb fun of the rest of the evening and it's all the more powerful for it.
As boys, girls, mums, dads, freaks and creeps alike stumble out of the Metro Radio Arena tonight, their T-shirts emblazoned with slogans like ART IS THE WEAPON, their hearts and minds battered and bruised from the Technicolor punk rock show they've just witnessed, there's a sense of victory in the air. Victory for My Chemical Romance, who, by their own admission, were teetering on the brink of collapse after 'The Black Parade'; victory for the killjoys, whose devotion continues to prove well justified, and victory for the genre as MCR prove, categorically, that punk rock can translate to the cavernous corporate opulence of the arena environment without losing any of its heart. Louder than God's revolver and twice as shiny, MCR pump out the slaughtomatic sounds to keep you alive and look fucking fantastic doing it. The future IS bulletproof; the aftermath IS secondary and tonight, my friends, My Chemical Romance ARE fucking outstanding.
Saturday, 19 February 2011
Review: British Sea Power (w/Teeth of the Sea, Journal Tyne Theatre, Newcastle, 14/02/11)
There really is no question about it: British Sea Power are a decidedly weird bunch. With a penchant for soundtracking documentaries about islands (2009's 'Man of Aran') and a fondness for all things nautical, the Brighton six piece might be just about the closest thing we have to a quintessentially English band of utter and complete nutters; stark raving lunatics in every possible capacity. They're also refreshingly genuine, refusing with endearing steadfastness to bow to the pressures of that unforgiving beast we call the industry, looking and sounding about as far from the conventions of the Zeitgeist as you can possibly get. Let's face it - those waist-high trousers, sailor suits and pirate boots (we kid you not) are resolutely uncool, the kind of gear your average Topshop employee might puke all over, and frankly, we love 'em for it... which makes tonight's rather reserved performance a tad disappointing.
The completely unfathomable Teeth of the Sea set the scene aptly enough, baffling the few hundred that bothered to show up early with half an hour of cascading cadences, thundering drums, relentless distortion (thank you, Flying V) and precisely no lyrics whatsoever. It's suitably arresting, if slightly flawed in execution: bathed in the brightest of white lights, these Godspeed! wannabes lose a great deal of their lustre. This kind of deranged musical morbidity would be better suited shrouded in darkness; in the cold light of day, the performance falls largely flat. Thankfully, BSP suffer no such technical faux pas, but there is no denying that something is amiss.
Perhaps it's the venue; while the underused Journal Tyne Theatre has some of the finest acoustics in the city and makes an appropriate setting for British Sea Power's particular brand of untempered eccentricity, it is hampered somewhat by its inherent politeness. Punters have little option other than to park bums on designated seats, quietly observing rather than participating, and even when half the crowd get up off their backsides and make a beeline for the stage - promptly creating a pit and hence, one of the finest sights this theatre has ever seen - during 'We Are Sound', there is still very little activity to speak of, very little actual movement. It's a shame really as BSP are certainly heavy enough, bestowing this Valentine's Day crowd with a brash, brusque set taking in a large proportion of their rather more intense numbers (with a strong emphasis on superlative debut 'The Decline of British Sea Power'), the most notable of which is a deliciously messy, sprawling 'Spirit of St. Louis', which closes proceedings in suitably sporadic fashion.
But then, perhaps that's a problem in itself. Maybe these loved-up couples and terribly bitter cynics weren't out for a good rock 'n' rollicking. Maybe they wanted the twisted, maudlin British Sea Power, or the quiet, contemplative British Sea Power, the kind that rears its timid head in the gorgeous 'Blackout'. Or maybe we just expected more from the mad hatters: bereft of headfuckingly bizarre costumes (well, save for the sound guy's Viking helmet), overbearing flags (yes, they do play 'Waving Flags' and of course, it's amazing) and general weirdness, BSP appear a little exposed, slightly uncomfortable in the nakedness of their surroundings. Sure, we get the obligatory foliage - thrown crowdwards by night's end - but you can't help feeling that tonight, it isn't quite enough and that, given the chance, British Sea Power would rather have hidden behind their gimmicks.
And perhaps that's a little unfair. BSP are unquestionably good: their set is a strong mix, the performance is largely note perfect, they play 'The Great Skua', and Newcastle is most appreciative of the fact. It's just... well, from the guys responsible for their own brand of clotted cream fudge, we kinda expected a little bit more. And they could at least have played 'No Lucifer', jeez...
The completely unfathomable Teeth of the Sea set the scene aptly enough, baffling the few hundred that bothered to show up early with half an hour of cascading cadences, thundering drums, relentless distortion (thank you, Flying V) and precisely no lyrics whatsoever. It's suitably arresting, if slightly flawed in execution: bathed in the brightest of white lights, these Godspeed! wannabes lose a great deal of their lustre. This kind of deranged musical morbidity would be better suited shrouded in darkness; in the cold light of day, the performance falls largely flat. Thankfully, BSP suffer no such technical faux pas, but there is no denying that something is amiss.
Perhaps it's the venue; while the underused Journal Tyne Theatre has some of the finest acoustics in the city and makes an appropriate setting for British Sea Power's particular brand of untempered eccentricity, it is hampered somewhat by its inherent politeness. Punters have little option other than to park bums on designated seats, quietly observing rather than participating, and even when half the crowd get up off their backsides and make a beeline for the stage - promptly creating a pit and hence, one of the finest sights this theatre has ever seen - during 'We Are Sound', there is still very little activity to speak of, very little actual movement. It's a shame really as BSP are certainly heavy enough, bestowing this Valentine's Day crowd with a brash, brusque set taking in a large proportion of their rather more intense numbers (with a strong emphasis on superlative debut 'The Decline of British Sea Power'), the most notable of which is a deliciously messy, sprawling 'Spirit of St. Louis', which closes proceedings in suitably sporadic fashion.
But then, perhaps that's a problem in itself. Maybe these loved-up couples and terribly bitter cynics weren't out for a good rock 'n' rollicking. Maybe they wanted the twisted, maudlin British Sea Power, or the quiet, contemplative British Sea Power, the kind that rears its timid head in the gorgeous 'Blackout'. Or maybe we just expected more from the mad hatters: bereft of headfuckingly bizarre costumes (well, save for the sound guy's Viking helmet), overbearing flags (yes, they do play 'Waving Flags' and of course, it's amazing) and general weirdness, BSP appear a little exposed, slightly uncomfortable in the nakedness of their surroundings. Sure, we get the obligatory foliage - thrown crowdwards by night's end - but you can't help feeling that tonight, it isn't quite enough and that, given the chance, British Sea Power would rather have hidden behind their gimmicks.
And perhaps that's a little unfair. BSP are unquestionably good: their set is a strong mix, the performance is largely note perfect, they play 'The Great Skua', and Newcastle is most appreciative of the fact. It's just... well, from the guys responsible for their own brand of clotted cream fudge, we kinda expected a little bit more. And they could at least have played 'No Lucifer', jeez...
Thursday, 10 February 2011
Review: NME Awards Tour (Crystal Castles/Magnetic Man/Everything Everything/The Vaccines), Newcastle O2 Academy, 07/02/11
Another year, another NME Awards Tour and another round of much-heralded wannabes from the indie Zeitgeist, clawing to translate the magazine's excessive cock sucking into actual record sales. To be fair to the commendably diverse bunch on tonight's bill, they're all on the cusp of greater things, having wormed their way into the alternative consciousness by virtue of either a few undeniably catchy indie/electronica-pop ditties or the helping hand of the well-oiled hype machine. The question, of course, is whether they can earn their stripes and convince the rabid masses that they're worthy of their time, effort and download limits.
Unfortunately, things don't go too well for The Vaccines. Crippled by an atrocious sound guy, who seems determined to project internal organs out of mouths by turning the bass up to life-threatening, their four-to-the-floor indie scuzz gets lost in a sea of overbearing distortion, leaving the first half of the set pallid and lacking in character. The band seem acutely aware of the problem, going through the motions for the majority of the performance, and only really coming alive when 'Post Break Up Sex' wakes everyone up. Unfortunately, the three minute exercise in relentless drone-making sounds even worse live than on record, but nevertheless, the boys, girls, mums and dads in the audience get themselves all excited and, you know, jump up and down a bit. 'Wrecking Bar (Ra Ra Ra)' very nearly saves the day, sounding positively invigorating for its wonderfully brief one minute and twenty-four seconds, but sadly, the set doesn't end here and the Vaccines continue for a further ten minutes of incomprehensible caterwauling.
Local heroes Everything Everything suffer too. Lead singer Jonathan Higgs' vocals are too low down in the mix and their uniquely intricate, delicately flavoured sound becomes lost in translation in such an imposing venue. All is not entirelyn lost, however: 'Schoolin' and 'MY KZ YR BF' sound thrilling and 'Photoshop Handsome' is one of the evening's undeniable highlights, giving the crowd the first excuse to shake their asses in fantastically embarrassing fashion. And the Devo-esque full body uniforms are pretty nifty too.
Magnetic Man is essentially an exercise in pantomime, with hired hand Sgt Pokes proving a most effective showman, adept at working this bounciest of crowds (incite a repetitive action, praise the crowd, crack a terrible joke/pun and repeat ad nauseum). However, he does seem a bit of a waste: there's no actual skill involved here, no rapping and barely any MCing. The DJs don't really do much either, essentially playing a bunch of records for half an hour, while Newcastle goes ape shit. This might as well be a Friday night at Digital, for which we'd all pay a hell of a lot less. It doesn't help that every song sounds the bleedin' same: take one grime/dubstep-influenced 'dirty' beat, add a few vocoder effects, sprinkle with some keyboard wizardry and hey presto, you've got yourselves a hit.
Crystal Castles suffer from no such problem; their undeniably varied palette is every possible shade of shite imaginable. The aural equivalent of a prolonged enema, these guys are an excruciating migraine of a band, whose primary remit appears to be to spew as much pretentious wank as possible on an unsuspecting public before imploding in a haze of their own bullshit. Unfortunately guys, a load of incomprehensible screaming and a Spectrum ZX81 do not a good record make.
And yet, strangely, there's something undeniably captivating about their live show. Like all good car wrecks, it's just impossible to look away; Alice Glass cuts a mean, imposing figure stood atop the monitors, perched on her broken ankle (now there's a commendable feat... performing with such a painful injury and jumping up and down on it), beckoning to the crowd, goading the masses, looking like the coolest fucker in the world. And then there's Ethan Kath, silent as a mouse, face hidden by his hoodie, quietly ushering those otherworldly noises out of his CASIO keyboard (or whatever the hell it is). They're shrouded in darkness of course, punctuated only by the myriad strobe lights that threaten to blind the pill-happy audience. It's an arresting visual and one that ensures you won't take your eyes off the stage. Now if only we could press the 'mute' button.
So, the verdict? The jury is well and truly out. There are no legendary moments, no game-changing, once-in-a-lifetime performances, but there are no unmitigated disasters either. The Vaccines come closest to disappointing us, losing their oomph thanks to some very poor sound decisions, but even these guys have their ace in the hole. Everything Everything have moments that impress, Magnetic Man steal the audience's hearts despite sounding somewhat monochrome and Crystal Castles achieve the unenviable feat of convincing even the most vehement of haters that they're at least worth watching. Not quite the well-rounded success story these bright young things would've wanted but hell, it's a start, eh?
Unfortunately, things don't go too well for The Vaccines. Crippled by an atrocious sound guy, who seems determined to project internal organs out of mouths by turning the bass up to life-threatening, their four-to-the-floor indie scuzz gets lost in a sea of overbearing distortion, leaving the first half of the set pallid and lacking in character. The band seem acutely aware of the problem, going through the motions for the majority of the performance, and only really coming alive when 'Post Break Up Sex' wakes everyone up. Unfortunately, the three minute exercise in relentless drone-making sounds even worse live than on record, but nevertheless, the boys, girls, mums and dads in the audience get themselves all excited and, you know, jump up and down a bit. 'Wrecking Bar (Ra Ra Ra)' very nearly saves the day, sounding positively invigorating for its wonderfully brief one minute and twenty-four seconds, but sadly, the set doesn't end here and the Vaccines continue for a further ten minutes of incomprehensible caterwauling.
Local heroes Everything Everything suffer too. Lead singer Jonathan Higgs' vocals are too low down in the mix and their uniquely intricate, delicately flavoured sound becomes lost in translation in such an imposing venue. All is not entirelyn lost, however: 'Schoolin' and 'MY KZ YR BF' sound thrilling and 'Photoshop Handsome' is one of the evening's undeniable highlights, giving the crowd the first excuse to shake their asses in fantastically embarrassing fashion. And the Devo-esque full body uniforms are pretty nifty too.
Magnetic Man is essentially an exercise in pantomime, with hired hand Sgt Pokes proving a most effective showman, adept at working this bounciest of crowds (incite a repetitive action, praise the crowd, crack a terrible joke/pun and repeat ad nauseum). However, he does seem a bit of a waste: there's no actual skill involved here, no rapping and barely any MCing. The DJs don't really do much either, essentially playing a bunch of records for half an hour, while Newcastle goes ape shit. This might as well be a Friday night at Digital, for which we'd all pay a hell of a lot less. It doesn't help that every song sounds the bleedin' same: take one grime/dubstep-influenced 'dirty' beat, add a few vocoder effects, sprinkle with some keyboard wizardry and hey presto, you've got yourselves a hit.
Crystal Castles suffer from no such problem; their undeniably varied palette is every possible shade of shite imaginable. The aural equivalent of a prolonged enema, these guys are an excruciating migraine of a band, whose primary remit appears to be to spew as much pretentious wank as possible on an unsuspecting public before imploding in a haze of their own bullshit. Unfortunately guys, a load of incomprehensible screaming and a Spectrum ZX81 do not a good record make.
And yet, strangely, there's something undeniably captivating about their live show. Like all good car wrecks, it's just impossible to look away; Alice Glass cuts a mean, imposing figure stood atop the monitors, perched on her broken ankle (now there's a commendable feat... performing with such a painful injury and jumping up and down on it), beckoning to the crowd, goading the masses, looking like the coolest fucker in the world. And then there's Ethan Kath, silent as a mouse, face hidden by his hoodie, quietly ushering those otherworldly noises out of his CASIO keyboard (or whatever the hell it is). They're shrouded in darkness of course, punctuated only by the myriad strobe lights that threaten to blind the pill-happy audience. It's an arresting visual and one that ensures you won't take your eyes off the stage. Now if only we could press the 'mute' button.
So, the verdict? The jury is well and truly out. There are no legendary moments, no game-changing, once-in-a-lifetime performances, but there are no unmitigated disasters either. The Vaccines come closest to disappointing us, losing their oomph thanks to some very poor sound decisions, but even these guys have their ace in the hole. Everything Everything have moments that impress, Magnetic Man steal the audience's hearts despite sounding somewhat monochrome and Crystal Castles achieve the unenviable feat of convincing even the most vehement of haters that they're at least worth watching. Not quite the well-rounded success story these bright young things would've wanted but hell, it's a start, eh?
Friday, 4 February 2011
Review: Funeral Party (w/Flashguns and Barcode, The Cluny, 03/02/11)
Bit of a miserable night for a Funeral Party. As the gale force winds batter the fortified Victorian ramparts of the Ouseburn's finest drinking hole and the heavens promptly take a gigantic whiz all over the good folk of Newcastle, a few hundred dour-faced punters huddle together for protection, waiting for the Zeitgeist's flavour of the week - Zane Lowe narrates their ads, they *must* be hotly tipped - to carry us away on a wave of distorted guitars, errant cowbells and visceral rock 'n' roll thrills... but before we get round to the business of throwing shapes, there's Barcode to contend with. Perennially besotted with Gang of Four, just like EVERY OTHER BAND TO HAVE COME OUT OF SUNDERLAND EVER, these guys have hooks aplenty, sure, but they're just not sure how to use them. Their brief six song set reads like a Who's Who of contemporary indie-rock, taking in Two Door Cinema Club, Bloc Party, The Hives, Biffy Clyro's 'Folding Stars' and even, at one low point, Jet. The songs aren't bad per se, but the band lack focus and would benefit from concentrating on a sound of their own. And someone needs to get that bassist to shed a few garments for the next show. Talk about untapped sex appeal.
Fortunately, second support Flashguns have no such problems. Youthful of countenance and perfect of cheekbone, the Southern noise merchants have both the boys and girls coming over all giddy for the majority of their deliciously ethereal set. These boys are gifted with the most beautiful voices this side of a Wild Beasts record and they make the most of it, gently caressing each slice of fuzzy Americana with otherworldly vocal duets, the most notable of which is 'Passion of a Different Kind', which leaves the sold out crowd dumbstruck. It's a truly mesmerising performance, threatening to upstage the main attraction.
And to Flashguns's credit, they very nearly do. For a short while, the hype machine is almost too much for Funeral Party; the opening run of soundalike album tracks lacks pizzazz, despite a concerted effort to liven up proceedings by inflating a bunch of balloons in honour of the bassist's birthday. While this brings the arms-folded brigade to life, sending slogans like 'SORRY YOU'RE LEAVING' soaring around the venue and bouncing off people's heads, it doesn't disguise the lack of a detectable hook in many of these songs; if anything, it further exposes their weaknesses and the boys from the Party seem to know it, appearing initially tempered rather than animated, shying away from engagement with the masses.
Fortunately, it doesn't last long. As soon as the monumental 'Just Because' rears its filthy head, band and crowd come alive and lead singer Chad Elliott lets the music swallow him up, leaping off the drumkit, wrapping the microphone lead around himself, his band and quite probably a few audience members, goading us into action. Before long, he's screaming every other word, loading 'Youth & Poverty' with purest, guttural rage, and James Torres responds in kind, thrashing seven shades of shit out of his manhandled guitar. This is the untempered, primal noise that the good people of Los Angeles spunked all over in the early months of 2010. This is the justification for the front covers, the billboards and the action figures (well, maybe some day).
Inevitably, the loudest screams and the most energetic jumps are reserved for the cyclone of indie-punk noise that is 'New York Moves To The Sound of L.A.', which sounds especially huge this evening, all unfathomable guitar chops and acrylic percussion. It's a perfectly maniacal end to the Party, descending into a haze of sweat and distortion... and then it's one-upped by the presentation of the bassist's birthday cake, which he promptly showers the crowd with, covering us all in chocolaty goodness. It's an appropriately messy, impromptu climax (hur hur) and one that adds an additional touch of character to an already vibrant performance. A bit of a miserable night, sure, but one hell of a Party.
Fortunately, second support Flashguns have no such problems. Youthful of countenance and perfect of cheekbone, the Southern noise merchants have both the boys and girls coming over all giddy for the majority of their deliciously ethereal set. These boys are gifted with the most beautiful voices this side of a Wild Beasts record and they make the most of it, gently caressing each slice of fuzzy Americana with otherworldly vocal duets, the most notable of which is 'Passion of a Different Kind', which leaves the sold out crowd dumbstruck. It's a truly mesmerising performance, threatening to upstage the main attraction.
And to Flashguns's credit, they very nearly do. For a short while, the hype machine is almost too much for Funeral Party; the opening run of soundalike album tracks lacks pizzazz, despite a concerted effort to liven up proceedings by inflating a bunch of balloons in honour of the bassist's birthday. While this brings the arms-folded brigade to life, sending slogans like 'SORRY YOU'RE LEAVING' soaring around the venue and bouncing off people's heads, it doesn't disguise the lack of a detectable hook in many of these songs; if anything, it further exposes their weaknesses and the boys from the Party seem to know it, appearing initially tempered rather than animated, shying away from engagement with the masses.
Fortunately, it doesn't last long. As soon as the monumental 'Just Because' rears its filthy head, band and crowd come alive and lead singer Chad Elliott lets the music swallow him up, leaping off the drumkit, wrapping the microphone lead around himself, his band and quite probably a few audience members, goading us into action. Before long, he's screaming every other word, loading 'Youth & Poverty' with purest, guttural rage, and James Torres responds in kind, thrashing seven shades of shit out of his manhandled guitar. This is the untempered, primal noise that the good people of Los Angeles spunked all over in the early months of 2010. This is the justification for the front covers, the billboards and the action figures (well, maybe some day).
Inevitably, the loudest screams and the most energetic jumps are reserved for the cyclone of indie-punk noise that is 'New York Moves To The Sound of L.A.', which sounds especially huge this evening, all unfathomable guitar chops and acrylic percussion. It's a perfectly maniacal end to the Party, descending into a haze of sweat and distortion... and then it's one-upped by the presentation of the bassist's birthday cake, which he promptly showers the crowd with, covering us all in chocolaty goodness. It's an appropriately messy, impromptu climax (hur hur) and one that adds an additional touch of character to an already vibrant performance. A bit of a miserable night, sure, but one hell of a Party.
Saturday, 29 January 2011
Review: Band of Horses (Newcastle O2 Academy, 26/01/11)
Well hello, Band of Horses. It's been a while. Too long for some, if the deafening round of applause that greets the arrival of the Seattle six piece is anything to judge by. Newcastle's prestigious O2 Academy may not be sold out this evening but it certainly feels like it and there's little doubt that our favourite alt-rock-cum-Americana-folksters (okay, so perhaps that's a bit over the top) are rather stoked about this fact. Cheesy grins and awestruck exclamations are the order of the day for the snazzily-dressed noisemakers and consequently, the ninety minutes we share in their company are characterised by one thing only: the determination to have some fun.
Yes, Band of Horses are here to have a gosh-darned-it good time and they want you to share the experience. Sure, their music may lapse more often than not into melancholia and it's not as if any of the songs they deign to unleash on us this evening would go down particularly well at parties, but what the hey, let's stamp our feet, shake our heads and bellow the words like this is Muse at Wembley Stadium. Or something equally as spine-tingling. How hard can it be? Too hard for Newcastle, apparently. For all this is a resolutely attentive and considerably devoted crowd, there's barely a hint of movement for the majority of the set. Instead, the good folk of this most acclaimed of 'party cities' prefer to keep their feet firmly on the ground, their eyes focused squarely on the stage and their minds free of anything that might allow the music to animate them. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, of course; there's no question that everyone here is having a wail of a time, but it does leave the whole experience feeling a little staid. The general ignorance doesn't help matters: if it isn't from 'Cease To Begin', the Geordies haven't a clue, which leads Ben to request that 'if anyone knows the words to any of these, just let us know' around six songs in.
This disappointment is only momentary, however. Band of Horses's skillful command of the stage quickly allows all thoughts of the audience's failings to fitter away to nothing and attention turns to the powerful depth of emotion inherent in their performance. The 'Infinite Arms' numbers nail introspection, Ben joining Tyler for an achingly tender run through 'Evening Kitchen' (pity some 'dildo', as Ben describes him, almost ruins it by shouting throughout the song). 'Cigarettes, Wedding Bands' and 'The Funeral' rock like absolute bastards, building and building to their inevitable crescendos and exploding in a shower of deliciously fuzzy guitar haze, the likes of which were last seen when The Arcade Fire shot their load all over the main stage at Glastonbury.
And then, of course, there's 'Is There A Ghost?' - met with the loudest singalong of the evening and matching all our expectations, glistening with intensity - and 'No One's Gonna Love You', cracked, broken, imperfect and just plain brilliant. Eyes are shut, fists are clenched, arms are flung around lovers and tears fall down the faces of the broken hearted as Newcastle finally allows itself a moment of untempered enjoyment. If Band of Horses have a legacy, it will surely be the remarkable honesty and resonance of this song, their 'It's My Own Cheating Heart...', their 'Don't Look Back In Anger', their 'Hallelujah'. The gig is much more than these three minutes but they encapsulate the band's genius more effectively than any two bit cliche we could hope to muster up.
There's little doubt that tonight's 23 song soiree is a resounding success (and yes, that even takes into account the static shots of trees, animals and suburban vistas that make up the visuals) but then, when you're presented with a group of individuals with the depth of talent on display here, it would be churlish to expect anything less. The jury's still out on the audience - attentiveness is great sure, but a little animation wouldn't go amiss - but then, that's Newcastle's problem. Band of Horses gave this city every last weapon in their impressive arsenal and that, my friends, is all we really need.
Yes, Band of Horses are here to have a gosh-darned-it good time and they want you to share the experience. Sure, their music may lapse more often than not into melancholia and it's not as if any of the songs they deign to unleash on us this evening would go down particularly well at parties, but what the hey, let's stamp our feet, shake our heads and bellow the words like this is Muse at Wembley Stadium. Or something equally as spine-tingling. How hard can it be? Too hard for Newcastle, apparently. For all this is a resolutely attentive and considerably devoted crowd, there's barely a hint of movement for the majority of the set. Instead, the good folk of this most acclaimed of 'party cities' prefer to keep their feet firmly on the ground, their eyes focused squarely on the stage and their minds free of anything that might allow the music to animate them. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, of course; there's no question that everyone here is having a wail of a time, but it does leave the whole experience feeling a little staid. The general ignorance doesn't help matters: if it isn't from 'Cease To Begin', the Geordies haven't a clue, which leads Ben to request that 'if anyone knows the words to any of these, just let us know' around six songs in.
This disappointment is only momentary, however. Band of Horses's skillful command of the stage quickly allows all thoughts of the audience's failings to fitter away to nothing and attention turns to the powerful depth of emotion inherent in their performance. The 'Infinite Arms' numbers nail introspection, Ben joining Tyler for an achingly tender run through 'Evening Kitchen' (pity some 'dildo', as Ben describes him, almost ruins it by shouting throughout the song). 'Cigarettes, Wedding Bands' and 'The Funeral' rock like absolute bastards, building and building to their inevitable crescendos and exploding in a shower of deliciously fuzzy guitar haze, the likes of which were last seen when The Arcade Fire shot their load all over the main stage at Glastonbury.
And then, of course, there's 'Is There A Ghost?' - met with the loudest singalong of the evening and matching all our expectations, glistening with intensity - and 'No One's Gonna Love You', cracked, broken, imperfect and just plain brilliant. Eyes are shut, fists are clenched, arms are flung around lovers and tears fall down the faces of the broken hearted as Newcastle finally allows itself a moment of untempered enjoyment. If Band of Horses have a legacy, it will surely be the remarkable honesty and resonance of this song, their 'It's My Own Cheating Heart...', their 'Don't Look Back In Anger', their 'Hallelujah'. The gig is much more than these three minutes but they encapsulate the band's genius more effectively than any two bit cliche we could hope to muster up.
There's little doubt that tonight's 23 song soiree is a resounding success (and yes, that even takes into account the static shots of trees, animals and suburban vistas that make up the visuals) but then, when you're presented with a group of individuals with the depth of talent on display here, it would be churlish to expect anything less. The jury's still out on the audience - attentiveness is great sure, but a little animation wouldn't go amiss - but then, that's Newcastle's problem. Band of Horses gave this city every last weapon in their impressive arsenal and that, my friends, is all we really need.
Review: This Familiar Smile (Head of Steam, Newcastle, 24/01/11)
The Head of Steam isn't exactly the most forgiving of venues. Crammed into the back of an all-too-minute shoebox of a room, bands tend to find themselves faced with one of two less than desirable situations: overbearing indifference, wherein a handful of punters stand so far away from the makeshift stage area that they're invisible to the naked eye, or, as is the case on this most bitter of January evenings, the considerable crowd shoves its way to the front enthusiastically, and you're forced to play in their faces, making direct contact, looking into the whites of their eyes and realising that, yup, your fuck-ups are sodding unmissable. It's a terrifying thought and one that would perturb even the most consummate of professionals. It's testament to the steadfast brilliance of This Familiar Smile's blistering live show that it doesn't faze them one bit.
Tonight, the Ayrshire four piece are positively gargantuan; in the face of unprecedented, demanding devotion (check out the hecklers, howlers and the downright insane boys and girls who make up the first few rows), they harness as much energy as their youthful bodies can muster, launching themselves and their instruments head-first into a thrillingly chaotic haze of distortion, aggression and mind-boggingly sporadic tempo changes. Passion seems to ooze from every pore in lead singer David Samson's diminutive body; he screams, snarls and throws shapes throughout the blink-and-you'll-miss-it thirty minute set, taking out all his frustration on the venue's poor microphone and his own battered and bruised guitar. More often than not, he's bent double over the well-worn instrument, thrashing relentlessly at a speed previously unbeknownst to man, letting the music swallow him whole.
And what music. This evening's performance is cut primarily from debut release 'Ribbons, Regards and the More Machine', one of 2010's independent highlights, and consequently, there is a distinctly edgy undercurrent to events. Opener 'How The Conversation Started' sets the tone perfectly, amalgamating shards of scattershot post-punk, prototypical Scottish rock 'n' roll (think Twin Atlantic), early noughties/late nineties emo - you know, the kind that's actually listenable, a la 'Your Favorite Weapon' - and, most importantly, both the ethos and the sound of math rock. Yes, you read that right folks: the genre most commonly associated with such indie luminaries as Foals and Battles is right here, mixed suitably well into This Familiar Smile's delicious melting pot, giving them the extra ingredient needed to set them apart from their peers. Songs change rhythm without warning; tempo adjusts so often, you lose the ability to keep any sort of time; and the conventional 'quiet-loud-quiet-loud' formula is reshaped into something far, far more invigorating.
And while this is undoubtedly the band's greatest strength, it is their ability to juxtapose such frantic unpredictability with moments of the most tender beauty that ensures they'll go far. 'More Machine's wonderful bonus track, the untitled end to '...And Other Short Stories', is two minutes and thirty seconds of paradoxically delectable heartbreak, a song positively drippimg with melancholy. David is left alone to pour his heart out, wrenching each line from the deep, dark denizens of his gut, loading the lyrics with meaning. There's a rapturous round of applause once he's finished - almost a standing ovation - and it's undeniably well deserved.
Don't let the moniker fool you: there's very little familiar about This Familiar Smile. Their music draws from myriad influences, sure, and you might be able to catch a snippet of Brand New here and a glimpse of Biffy Clyro there but for the most part, these guys make their curious blend of punk, thrash, emo and math rock their own, and do so with style, panache and a healthy dose of impassioned aggression. The Head of Steam may be unforgiving but TFS are unrelenting and at the end of the day, that makes them pretty darn unforgettable.
Tonight, the Ayrshire four piece are positively gargantuan; in the face of unprecedented, demanding devotion (check out the hecklers, howlers and the downright insane boys and girls who make up the first few rows), they harness as much energy as their youthful bodies can muster, launching themselves and their instruments head-first into a thrillingly chaotic haze of distortion, aggression and mind-boggingly sporadic tempo changes. Passion seems to ooze from every pore in lead singer David Samson's diminutive body; he screams, snarls and throws shapes throughout the blink-and-you'll-miss-it thirty minute set, taking out all his frustration on the venue's poor microphone and his own battered and bruised guitar. More often than not, he's bent double over the well-worn instrument, thrashing relentlessly at a speed previously unbeknownst to man, letting the music swallow him whole.
And what music. This evening's performance is cut primarily from debut release 'Ribbons, Regards and the More Machine', one of 2010's independent highlights, and consequently, there is a distinctly edgy undercurrent to events. Opener 'How The Conversation Started' sets the tone perfectly, amalgamating shards of scattershot post-punk, prototypical Scottish rock 'n' roll (think Twin Atlantic), early noughties/late nineties emo - you know, the kind that's actually listenable, a la 'Your Favorite Weapon' - and, most importantly, both the ethos and the sound of math rock. Yes, you read that right folks: the genre most commonly associated with such indie luminaries as Foals and Battles is right here, mixed suitably well into This Familiar Smile's delicious melting pot, giving them the extra ingredient needed to set them apart from their peers. Songs change rhythm without warning; tempo adjusts so often, you lose the ability to keep any sort of time; and the conventional 'quiet-loud-quiet-loud' formula is reshaped into something far, far more invigorating.
And while this is undoubtedly the band's greatest strength, it is their ability to juxtapose such frantic unpredictability with moments of the most tender beauty that ensures they'll go far. 'More Machine's wonderful bonus track, the untitled end to '...And Other Short Stories', is two minutes and thirty seconds of paradoxically delectable heartbreak, a song positively drippimg with melancholy. David is left alone to pour his heart out, wrenching each line from the deep, dark denizens of his gut, loading the lyrics with meaning. There's a rapturous round of applause once he's finished - almost a standing ovation - and it's undeniably well deserved.
Don't let the moniker fool you: there's very little familiar about This Familiar Smile. Their music draws from myriad influences, sure, and you might be able to catch a snippet of Brand New here and a glimpse of Biffy Clyro there but for the most part, these guys make their curious blend of punk, thrash, emo and math rock their own, and do so with style, panache and a healthy dose of impassioned aggression. The Head of Steam may be unforgiving but TFS are unrelenting and at the end of the day, that makes them pretty darn unforgettable.
Sunday, 23 January 2011
Review: Twin Atlantic (w/Stagecoach, Live Lounge, Durham, 21/01/11)
Compare and contrast: roughly one year ago - give or take a few weeks - Twin Atlantic were sweating their internal organs out in The Other Rooms, just up the road in neighbouring (well, sorta) Newcastle, watching 200-or-so rabid punters hurling themselves at the world's smallest stage, not giving a rat's ass about the well being of themselves or anyone else around them. The resultant melee was thrilling, a cyclone of untethered, erratic energy that you just couldn't help but get swept up in.
Tonight, however, there's an altogether different story being told. Rather than some intimate pressure cooker, we have a cavernous, imposing former theatre; in place of the piss-stained, flaking walls, there are overpowering video screens and instead of 200 sweaty lunatics looking for a good time, we have 150 casual observers (wrapped comfortably in their coats and scarves to fight off the unfathomable draft that sweeps through the venue), content to let the music wash over them rather than drum up any sort of response to it. There are pockets of resistance to this indifference: a handful of devotees, determined to attack the discordant guitars and sporadic rhythms with every muscle in their scrawny bodies, but they number few and in this former Walkabout (yes, you read that right), their power is seriously diminished.
It's a shame really, as both Twin Atlantic and refreshingly bizarre support Stagecoach (terrible name mind, guys) are on fire this evening, making every conceivable effort to whip their audience into some semblance of activity. Stagecoach's preference is to leap from the elevated stage into the pit, forcing Durham to sit up and pay attention. They're a decidedly curious bunch, decked out in Diana Vickers T-shirts and all-too-short short shorts, playing a peculiar brand of off-kilter power pop, and while there are some questionable lyrical moments - the song that rhymes 'freezer' with 'pizza' is of particular note - their arresting eccentricity carries them through. Unfortunately, they're a little kooky for the cool kids in the crowd, and Durham remains steadfastly perplexed when they hand their mandolin to one check-shirted punter at the end of the set, who promptly does absolutely nothing with it. Give that thing to the lunatics in Newcastle and it would've been smashed into a hundred pieces in five minutes.
Perhaps agitated by this indifference, Twin Atlantic try their damnedest to provoke a reaction, coming out with all guns blazing, tearing current single 'Edit Me' a new one, turning up the volume and obliterating everyone's eardrums in the process. To be fair, a few are won over, prompting the occasional flurry of activity, but for the most part, folded arms and politely nodding heads are the order of the day; yes, even when Sam McTrusty implores Durham to do better than this on a Friday night, insulting us all in a semi-sorta-round-about-kinda way. Still, there comes a point at which even the most ardent and wizened of showmen must admit defeat and just let the music speak for itself which, thankfully, even in this all-too-gargantuan venue, it does expertly.
Sensibly, this is a 'Vivarium'-heavy set, punctuated with the occasional newbie - all deliciously loud and frighteningly aggressive - and the requisite ancient tracks for the dedicated (you probably know the drill by now: the intense 'A Guidance From Colour', the beautiful 'Crashland'). The singles are all here in earnest: 'Lightspeed' stands tall, its cascade of mighty guitars towering over our heads; 'You're Turning Into John Wayne' is full of bile, hissing and spitting at a nameless target; 'Audience and Audio' is a behemoth of punk aggression and 'Human After All' and 'What Is Light? Where Is Laughter?' rock like a couple of drunken bastards at a Slayer after-show. 'Caribbean War Syndrome' is the unquestionable highlight, however, managing to sound even more epic than on record, taking Durham on a roller coaster ride of thrills, spills and juxtapositions, careering along at a breakneck pace, ready to fall apart one minute and offering moments of tenderest beauty the next. It's a work of unquestionable genius, a song so ridiculously amazing that you want to crawl inside it and set up home, and tonight, Twin Atlantic do every last millisecond justice.
There's little doubt, therefore, that these guys are now absolute masters of their craft, having transformed into a well-oiled, highly accomplished live act. It's just a shame that Durham couldn't get itself a little more excited by that fact. Throw 'em in the Fishtank next time and let the devotees show 'em how it's done.
Tonight, however, there's an altogether different story being told. Rather than some intimate pressure cooker, we have a cavernous, imposing former theatre; in place of the piss-stained, flaking walls, there are overpowering video screens and instead of 200 sweaty lunatics looking for a good time, we have 150 casual observers (wrapped comfortably in their coats and scarves to fight off the unfathomable draft that sweeps through the venue), content to let the music wash over them rather than drum up any sort of response to it. There are pockets of resistance to this indifference: a handful of devotees, determined to attack the discordant guitars and sporadic rhythms with every muscle in their scrawny bodies, but they number few and in this former Walkabout (yes, you read that right), their power is seriously diminished.
It's a shame really, as both Twin Atlantic and refreshingly bizarre support Stagecoach (terrible name mind, guys) are on fire this evening, making every conceivable effort to whip their audience into some semblance of activity. Stagecoach's preference is to leap from the elevated stage into the pit, forcing Durham to sit up and pay attention. They're a decidedly curious bunch, decked out in Diana Vickers T-shirts and all-too-short short shorts, playing a peculiar brand of off-kilter power pop, and while there are some questionable lyrical moments - the song that rhymes 'freezer' with 'pizza' is of particular note - their arresting eccentricity carries them through. Unfortunately, they're a little kooky for the cool kids in the crowd, and Durham remains steadfastly perplexed when they hand their mandolin to one check-shirted punter at the end of the set, who promptly does absolutely nothing with it. Give that thing to the lunatics in Newcastle and it would've been smashed into a hundred pieces in five minutes.
Perhaps agitated by this indifference, Twin Atlantic try their damnedest to provoke a reaction, coming out with all guns blazing, tearing current single 'Edit Me' a new one, turning up the volume and obliterating everyone's eardrums in the process. To be fair, a few are won over, prompting the occasional flurry of activity, but for the most part, folded arms and politely nodding heads are the order of the day; yes, even when Sam McTrusty implores Durham to do better than this on a Friday night, insulting us all in a semi-sorta-round-about-kinda way. Still, there comes a point at which even the most ardent and wizened of showmen must admit defeat and just let the music speak for itself which, thankfully, even in this all-too-gargantuan venue, it does expertly.
Sensibly, this is a 'Vivarium'-heavy set, punctuated with the occasional newbie - all deliciously loud and frighteningly aggressive - and the requisite ancient tracks for the dedicated (you probably know the drill by now: the intense 'A Guidance From Colour', the beautiful 'Crashland'). The singles are all here in earnest: 'Lightspeed' stands tall, its cascade of mighty guitars towering over our heads; 'You're Turning Into John Wayne' is full of bile, hissing and spitting at a nameless target; 'Audience and Audio' is a behemoth of punk aggression and 'Human After All' and 'What Is Light? Where Is Laughter?' rock like a couple of drunken bastards at a Slayer after-show. 'Caribbean War Syndrome' is the unquestionable highlight, however, managing to sound even more epic than on record, taking Durham on a roller coaster ride of thrills, spills and juxtapositions, careering along at a breakneck pace, ready to fall apart one minute and offering moments of tenderest beauty the next. It's a work of unquestionable genius, a song so ridiculously amazing that you want to crawl inside it and set up home, and tonight, Twin Atlantic do every last millisecond justice.
There's little doubt, therefore, that these guys are now absolute masters of their craft, having transformed into a well-oiled, highly accomplished live act. It's just a shame that Durham couldn't get itself a little more excited by that fact. Throw 'em in the Fishtank next time and let the devotees show 'em how it's done.
Saturday, 15 January 2011
Review: Pulled Apart By Horses (w/These Monsters and Young Legionnaire), The Cluny, 11/01/11
This isn't a gig, it's a bloc party in a lunatic asylum. Burly, balding blokes in skin-tight H&M T-shirts slam recklessly into scarf-wearing scene kids, sending their skinny asses flying into the Cluny's quaint Victorian brick walls or over the dangerously unprotected monitors at the foot of the stage, bruising a fair few ribcages and doubtless causing the put-upon sound guy to have a heart attack. And this, ladies and gents, is just during the support acts. Fellow Leeds noiseniks These Monsters set the tone for the evening, firing wave after wave of barbed, incomprehensible speed rock at an already agitated audience. Lead singer Samuel Pryor spits and snarls his way through a brusque set, making absolutely no sense whatsoever and flitting around the stage like a caged animal, full of nervous energy.
It's a thrilling ride, and is one that continues apace during semi-sorta-super-group (Gordon from Bloc Party's in 'em!) Young Legionnaire, whose weirdly sporadic sound - think Future of the Left fucking Minus the Bear's brains out - is intriguingly obtuse. Drums, guitar and bass rarely seem to work in tandem, instead playing off one another, keeping separate time, working to a different beat. The human anatomy doesn't really know how to respond to such schizophrenia; consequently, everyone just jumps around recklessly, keeping no discernable time, which in turn spurs the Legionnaires to up the ante and give Newcastle their all.
And so to Pulled Apart By Horses. Having been forced to cancel their November show at the last minute due to illness, the Leeds four piece are in high spirits this evening, making screwball wisecracks about 79p condoms made of sheepskin and remarking on the philosophical delights to be found in the Cluny toilets. None of this detracts from the music, however, as tonight Matthew, the Horses make just about the most invigorating angry white boy noise that it is possible to create with two guitars, one bass, a hefty drumkit and a few larynxes. The onslaught is unforgiving: 'Hey Buddy', 'Back to the Fuck Yeah', 'I Punched A Lion In The Throat'... one by one, they slay the hungry masses, belted out with unrelenting fury and unparalleled passion.
Newcastle responds in kind: bodies fly across the room, over-enthusiastic teens climb from floor to balcony and leap off, T-shirts, sweaters and hats are torn to pieces in a whirlwind of aggression, and around a third of the crowd manage to share the stage with the band, making it a clusterfuck of blood, sweat and adrenalin. To the latter, the Horses respond by pushing unsuspecting audience members floorwards, to make room for lead singer Tom Hudson's own foray into the crowd. It isn't long before he makes his escape, however, and soon enough, he's clambering over the balcony, falling onto tables while hammering his guitar, subjecting our ears to howls of violent feedback.
And if this isn't sufficiently thrilling, try out a prolonged 'High Five, Swan Dive, Nose Dive' in which guitarist James Brown abandons his instrument and swings from the ceiling immediately above the stage onto the lighting rig that hangs over the pit, hovering there for minutes, threatening to bring the whole structure crashing down onto his audience. The sound guy has his head in his hands (probably) and doubtless health and safety would have a field day with this naughty scamp but fact is, if the 300 or so punters found their young lives cut short this evening, they'd probably think it was an appropriate way to go. Newcastle and Pulled Apart by Horses get along like a house on fire; kicking the shit out of each other and loving every bloody minute.
It's a thrilling ride, and is one that continues apace during semi-sorta-super-group (Gordon from Bloc Party's in 'em!) Young Legionnaire, whose weirdly sporadic sound - think Future of the Left fucking Minus the Bear's brains out - is intriguingly obtuse. Drums, guitar and bass rarely seem to work in tandem, instead playing off one another, keeping separate time, working to a different beat. The human anatomy doesn't really know how to respond to such schizophrenia; consequently, everyone just jumps around recklessly, keeping no discernable time, which in turn spurs the Legionnaires to up the ante and give Newcastle their all.
And so to Pulled Apart By Horses. Having been forced to cancel their November show at the last minute due to illness, the Leeds four piece are in high spirits this evening, making screwball wisecracks about 79p condoms made of sheepskin and remarking on the philosophical delights to be found in the Cluny toilets. None of this detracts from the music, however, as tonight Matthew, the Horses make just about the most invigorating angry white boy noise that it is possible to create with two guitars, one bass, a hefty drumkit and a few larynxes. The onslaught is unforgiving: 'Hey Buddy', 'Back to the Fuck Yeah', 'I Punched A Lion In The Throat'... one by one, they slay the hungry masses, belted out with unrelenting fury and unparalleled passion.
Newcastle responds in kind: bodies fly across the room, over-enthusiastic teens climb from floor to balcony and leap off, T-shirts, sweaters and hats are torn to pieces in a whirlwind of aggression, and around a third of the crowd manage to share the stage with the band, making it a clusterfuck of blood, sweat and adrenalin. To the latter, the Horses respond by pushing unsuspecting audience members floorwards, to make room for lead singer Tom Hudson's own foray into the crowd. It isn't long before he makes his escape, however, and soon enough, he's clambering over the balcony, falling onto tables while hammering his guitar, subjecting our ears to howls of violent feedback.
And if this isn't sufficiently thrilling, try out a prolonged 'High Five, Swan Dive, Nose Dive' in which guitarist James Brown abandons his instrument and swings from the ceiling immediately above the stage onto the lighting rig that hangs over the pit, hovering there for minutes, threatening to bring the whole structure crashing down onto his audience. The sound guy has his head in his hands (probably) and doubtless health and safety would have a field day with this naughty scamp but fact is, if the 300 or so punters found their young lives cut short this evening, they'd probably think it was an appropriate way to go. Newcastle and Pulled Apart by Horses get along like a house on fire; kicking the shit out of each other and loving every bloody minute.
Monday, 10 January 2011
Comment is free
Fellow blogger Dan.Eliot was clearly moved by my Week in Bullshit Music News post yesterday. So moved, in fact, that after intricately reading every single word, he felt moved to provide the following, considered comment:
Blogger Dan.Eliot said...
Divorce is the end of a happy life. Divorce is certainly an end, but it can also be a beginning to a new and fulfilling life being a singledad or mom. It is possible to build a better life post-divorce than the one you had before. Figure out what it is that you want out of life, and what you need to do to get there. For advice and help Visit:
single Dads
Well thanks Dan for that insightful and enlightening comment. I see you really took your time to absorb everything that was said and provide a measured and thought-provoking response. Mr. Eliot, it's considerate people like you that restore my faith in both the Internet and humanity. Please, call again.
I wouldn't recommend clicking the link to 'Single Dad Financial Help dot com' mind you. Probably for the best.
Blogger Dan.Eliot said...
Divorce is the end of a happy life. Divorce is certainly an end, but it can also be a beginning to a new and fulfilling life being a singledad or mom. It is possible to build a better life post-divorce than the one you had before. Figure out what it is that you want out of life, and what you need to do to get there. For advice and help Visit:
single Dads
Well thanks Dan for that insightful and enlightening comment. I see you really took your time to absorb everything that was said and provide a measured and thought-provoking response. Mr. Eliot, it's considerate people like you that restore my faith in both the Internet and humanity. Please, call again.
I wouldn't recommend clicking the link to 'Single Dad Financial Help dot com' mind you. Probably for the best.
Sunday, 9 January 2011
The week in bullshit music news. And music.
In the most odious item of music news to come spewing from the bowels of the industry this week, it was revealed that Peter Andre has been named the 'hardest working artist of 2010' in the PRS For Music poll, whose criteria have to be the most ludicrous ever invented. It's based on the number of arena gigs that bands and artists play in a single year. So you know, someone like Frank Turner, who's on the road VIRTUALLY EVERY SINGLE DAY OF THE YEAR, while recording new material, dueting with other artists, appearing in Dive Dive videos, blogging and reinventing the wheel, wouldn't even get a look in. Play 120 arena gigs though and wham, you're worthy of an accolade. Bull and shit.
Let's have a look at few videos/songs that caught our attention this week, shall we?
JESSIE J
She's the BBC's 'Choice for 2011' and the latest 'sensation set to rock the music world' (thanks, Vevo). Here she is getting her autotuned-lesbo on in the garishly awful 'Do It Like A Dude'. The feminist in me really wants to like this too... but I just can't. Sorry.
BROTHER
It's not Britpop, apparently. It's Gritpop. It's fucking shite, is what it is. Plodding dad-rock/indie bollocks with the obligatory Union Jack backdrops for added cuntishness. They want to be 'the biggest band in the world'. They'll be fish and chip shop staff by September.
BEADY EYE
'You didn't know what to saaaaaay/It all came at you todaaaay/Can't get out your own waaaaaaay.' More inspired lyricism from the man behind 'Little James' on Beady Eye's 'first single proper' (what does that even mean? Why are we being force-fed false starts, lads? Were 'Bring The Light' and that other one not deemed good enough? Actually yeah, that's probably about right...) Sounding not too unlike around 46 Oasis songs you could name off the top of your head ('Lyla' certainly springs to mind), 'The Roller' is, well... a big ol' steaming pile of meh. Bland doesn't even begin to describe this plodder. Come on Noel, get crackin' with that solo record...
In other hugely exciting news, John Lydon has confirmed that he may potentially sorta kinda possibly be gonna think about recording new material with the Sex Pistols. Let's hope the new record is as anti-establishment and revolutionary as those butter adverts. However good the geriatric reunion record might be, it will obviously pale into insignificance, however, when placed next to THE RELEASE OF THE YEAR, coming to a record store near you on January 31st. That's right folks, I'm talking about the long-awaited release of Good Charlotte's Greatest Hits, a record so bereft of redeeming features that not even brokENCYDE would admit to owning a copy. Probably.
Evanescence have revealed that they are going to change the shape of the music industry as we know it with their new album. Is there a human being alive that believes this shit?
A Cheeky Girl (what, they have names?) was cautioned for supposed shoplifting. I'm sure Sainsbury's were reeling over the potential loss of £8.99 on the 'moisteuriser, salad and large bottle of water' that Ms. Irimia almost walked out with.
Chris Martin has given an intricate, in-depth account of the major themes, concepts and ideas set to astound the world when Coldplay's seven millionth record is unleashed, sorry, released, on a, um, fairly disinterested world in 2011. Martin really gets down to the nitty gritty in this interview, revealing that "[the record]'s supposed to be about life, the good stuff and the bad stuff. Everything." Yeah, bet you didn't see that coming, huh? What a concept!
Travis Barker revealed he's releasing a solo record in February. A solo drumming record. Songs united solely by the fact that he DRUMS ON THEM. Um.
Dani Filth's delightful face has been removed from a poll that attempts to find the photograph that best represents the wonderful county of Suffolk, despite having received 13,000 votes. An official explained that, "While some of the images on the site may have gained a larger proportion of visitors' votes, the panel felt their list of finalists displays the required credentials to act as representative iconic images of Suffolk." Uh huh. So you've jury-rigged the poll so it fits your middle-England tinged view of what best represents Suffolk. Wouldn't want to offend those Mail readers with something like this, eh?
Oh yeah and HMV are closing 60 stores across the UK. Well, actually, 20 of those are Waterstones outlets but no one seems to give a damn about that little fact. Anyhow, Popjustice offer an interesting theory, with supplemental evidence, as to why this may be here.
Let's have a look at few videos/songs that caught our attention this week, shall we?
JESSIE J
She's the BBC's 'Choice for 2011' and the latest 'sensation set to rock the music world' (thanks, Vevo). Here she is getting her autotuned-lesbo on in the garishly awful 'Do It Like A Dude'. The feminist in me really wants to like this too... but I just can't. Sorry.
BROTHER
It's not Britpop, apparently. It's Gritpop. It's fucking shite, is what it is. Plodding dad-rock/indie bollocks with the obligatory Union Jack backdrops for added cuntishness. They want to be 'the biggest band in the world'. They'll be fish and chip shop staff by September.
BEADY EYE
'You didn't know what to saaaaaay/It all came at you todaaaay/Can't get out your own waaaaaaay.' More inspired lyricism from the man behind 'Little James' on Beady Eye's 'first single proper' (what does that even mean? Why are we being force-fed false starts, lads? Were 'Bring The Light' and that other one not deemed good enough? Actually yeah, that's probably about right...) Sounding not too unlike around 46 Oasis songs you could name off the top of your head ('Lyla' certainly springs to mind), 'The Roller' is, well... a big ol' steaming pile of meh. Bland doesn't even begin to describe this plodder. Come on Noel, get crackin' with that solo record...
In other hugely exciting news, John Lydon has confirmed that he may potentially sorta kinda possibly be gonna think about recording new material with the Sex Pistols. Let's hope the new record is as anti-establishment and revolutionary as those butter adverts. However good the geriatric reunion record might be, it will obviously pale into insignificance, however, when placed next to THE RELEASE OF THE YEAR, coming to a record store near you on January 31st. That's right folks, I'm talking about the long-awaited release of Good Charlotte's Greatest Hits, a record so bereft of redeeming features that not even brokENCYDE would admit to owning a copy. Probably.
Evanescence have revealed that they are going to change the shape of the music industry as we know it with their new album. Is there a human being alive that believes this shit?
A Cheeky Girl (what, they have names?) was cautioned for supposed shoplifting. I'm sure Sainsbury's were reeling over the potential loss of £8.99 on the 'moisteuriser, salad and large bottle of water' that Ms. Irimia almost walked out with.
Chris Martin has given an intricate, in-depth account of the major themes, concepts and ideas set to astound the world when Coldplay's seven millionth record is unleashed, sorry, released, on a, um, fairly disinterested world in 2011. Martin really gets down to the nitty gritty in this interview, revealing that "[the record]'s supposed to be about life, the good stuff and the bad stuff. Everything." Yeah, bet you didn't see that coming, huh? What a concept!
Travis Barker revealed he's releasing a solo record in February. A solo drumming record. Songs united solely by the fact that he DRUMS ON THEM. Um.
Dani Filth's delightful face has been removed from a poll that attempts to find the photograph that best represents the wonderful county of Suffolk, despite having received 13,000 votes. An official explained that, "While some of the images on the site may have gained a larger proportion of visitors' votes, the panel felt their list of finalists displays the required credentials to act as representative iconic images of Suffolk." Uh huh. So you've jury-rigged the poll so it fits your middle-England tinged view of what best represents Suffolk. Wouldn't want to offend those Mail readers with something like this, eh?
Oh yeah and HMV are closing 60 stores across the UK. Well, actually, 20 of those are Waterstones outlets but no one seems to give a damn about that little fact. Anyhow, Popjustice offer an interesting theory, with supplemental evidence, as to why this may be here.
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