The 15 #3: 17/12/10

Slightly delayed, unfortunately, but yesterday's iPod shuffle treated my ears to...

1. Motion City Soundtrack: Everything Is Alright
2. R.E.M.: What's the Frequency, Kenneth?
3. Gogol Bordello: Rebellious Love
4. Random Hand: Danger Makes Enemies
5. Daft Punk: Robot Rock
6. Silversun Pickups: Sort Of
7. Lucky Boys Confusion: South Union
8. Tegan and Sara: Frozen
9. The Killers: Uncle Jonny
10. Motion City Soundtrack: Shiver
11. Anti-Flag: Red, White and Brainwashed
12. Biffy Clyro: Now I'm Everyone
13. Wire: Mr. Suit
14. Modest Mouse: I've Got It All (Most)
15. H2O: Mitts

The 15 #2: 16/12/10

No links today, just a lovely list.

1. The Academy Is: Season
2. Eels: Saturday Morning
3. Wire: Surgeon's Girl
4. Zebrahead: Check
5. Black Flag: Gimme Gimme Gimme
6. Lucky Boys Confusion: Mr. Wilmington
7. Idlewild: Mince Showercap Pt. 2
8. The Futureheads: This Is The Life
9. Rival Schools: High Acetate
10. The Temper Trap: Sweet Disposition
11. Rancid: It's Quite Alright
12. Scissor Sisters: Fire With Fire
13. Bad Religion: Henchman
14. Roger Miret and the Disasters: Janie Hawk
15. Mr. T Experience: God Bless America

The 15 #1: 15/12/10

Starting a new thing. iPod set to shuffle all songs, first fifteen will be posted here for your enjoyment. Daily. Betcha can't wait.

1. Frenzal Rhomb: Disappointed
2. Cobra Skulls: Problems With Preconceptions

3. Bis: Monstarr

4. Dillinger Four: Like Eye Contact In An Elevator

5. Imperial Leisure: Man on the Street

6. Sleater Kinney: Wilderness

7. Rilo Kiley: August

8. Bad Religion: The Streets of America

9. Millencolin: Who's Laughing Now?

10. Future of the Left: My Gymnastic Past

11. Alexisonfire: We Are The End

12. Foo Fighters: Resolve

13. New Found Glory: I Don't Wanna Know

14. The Menzingers: A Lesson In The Abuse of Information Technology

15. Social Distortion: Untitled

Review: Idlewild: '100 Broken Windows' 10th Anniversary show (Manchester Academy 2, 13/12/10)

Ten years ago, the vest-topped, baseball-capped boys (and girls, in some cases) who roam the halls of Manchester's colossal Student's Union were probably still in nappies, cradling milk from their mother's bosoms, more than content that the only music in their lives was the lullaby sung lovingly to them every night by their doting parents to send them to sleep. It's understandable, then, that these acne-ridden, dour-faced individuals, here tonight to punch, cartwheel and stage-dive their way through 70 minutes of patently unlistenable 'metalcore' garbage courtesy of the abysmal Asking Alexandria, have never even heard of the band playing in the upstairs room, never mind the album they're here to recreate. When Idlewild released '100 Broken Windows' on 9 May 2000, these whippersnappers barely had control of their bowel movements, let alone the ability to appreciate art, so their ignorance is somewhat forgivable.

What is not forgivable, however, is that this collective of consummate professionals who, between them, seem to be physically incapable of producing a bad record, can only attract the attention of 600 of Manchester's finest patrons. It isn't a bad number, sure, and many would kill for such ticket sales, but when you've produced the greatest British record of the last decade, and you're playing it in its entirety, you deserve a little more attention. And that's no meaningless hyperbole either. In ten years, no other record produced in these hallowed Isles has had the same immediacy, or provided such a well-rounded listen, marrying intense, visceral rock thrills with thought-provoking and, at times, intriguingly cryptic lyricism. '100 Broken Windows' is a fascinating album, a work of contemporary art that grabs you by the scruff of the neck and refuses to let go, a behemoth that demands your undivided attention and gets it, every single time.

Live, it is every bit as captivating, effortless in its ability to induce uncontrollable mayhem. The opening bars of a spiky, restless 'Little Discourage' send this fandom-orientated crowd hurtling into one another, with all thoughts of personal safety (and hygiene) tossed to the wayside... and it just doesn't stop. One by one, every delectable classic is met with the same delirium, every precious moment is savored. 'I Don't Have the Map' raises the roof, 'Listen To What You've Got' sends bodies flying every which way and there's so much excitement surrounding a hugely energetic 'Roseability' that Manchester Academy 2 threatens to break the world record for biggest simultaneous orgasm. That Idlewild confess to not having had the time to practice speaks volumes about both the unparalleled genius of this record and the depth of skill within the band; tracks like the exuberant 'These Wooden Ideas' and the quietly beautiful 'The Bronze Medal' feel like long lost friends, sweeping us into their loving arms in an instant and reminding us why we fell head over heels for them in the first place.

Not that the 'wild rest on their laurels either. The indestructible Rod Jones, fresh from nursing a broken collarbone, stalks the stage, carelessly attacking his many, many guitars and looking every bit like the coolest fucker in the world. Allan Stewart makes a fine second-in-command, following Rod's lead, sweat dripping from every pore, and Roddy Woomble, while a little more refined than ten years ago, still screams with the best of 'em, making the climax to 'Rusty' one of the most visceral things you'll see all year. And the fun doesn't end at '100', oh no. Unlike many of their peers, Idlewild know their entire back catalogue and they aren't afraid to show it: check out eons-old B-side 'Meet Me at the Harbour', dusted down and polished up, sandwiched in-between a smattering of more familiar material - 'A Modern Way of Letting Go', 'American English' - and sounding colossal. It's just one delicious part of a six song encore to die for, culminating in a four-to-the-floor punk blast through 'Everyone Says You're So Fragile', 'I'm A Message' and the monstrous 'Captain', which, after thirteen years, is still the perfect incomprehensible whirlwind of noise and aggression on which to close any set.

The kids who shuffle out of the Asking Alexandria show may have more bruises and less clothing to show for their efforts but in ten years time, will they be revisiting the same venue for the anniversary tour? Will they hell. These guys have a shelf life of about two minutes; Idlewild's music endures. The numbers may not be what they deserve, but tonight, Woomble and co prove, one more time with feeling, that they are the most unforgivably underrated and all-round bloody brilliant band that we have. You owe it to yourself to see this show; quit your day job, eBay your granny... it's the best ninety minutes you'll ever have.

Review: Manic Street Preachers, Manchester Apollo, 14/10/10

It seems almost cliched to say it, but Manchester just gets the Manics. The band's iconic mythology, the tumultuous, inspirational story of a gang of terminal young things driven to kick against popular culture by the perpetual boredom of their small town roots, and catapulted to stardom following years of industry indifference, seems to resonate with the working class determinism that coarses through the veins of this most passionate of cities. The people here feel a kinship with Bradders, Wire and the Moore, and it's a love affair that's reciprocated twentyfold: it's why the boys from Blackwood keep coming back, time and again. It's why, thirteen glorious years ago, they chose to host the largest gig of their career at the Nynex. And it's why James begins tonight's performance with an audible, reflective sigh, before telling the 2,000 strong, packed-to-the-rafters Apollo that "it's great to be back in your beautiful metropolis." And then launching head-first into 'You Love Us' and inciting about fifty different kinds of mayhem.

Yes, these Mancunians get a tad excitable. They punch the air during a rabble-rousingly militaristic 'Faster', bellow every last incomprehensible word of the majestic 'Motorcycle Emptiness' and slam recklessly into one another for all three and a half minutes of the wall of energetic punk fury that is 'Motown Junk', clearly relishing every euphoric, absurd moment. It helps that this is a set designed to please, with twenty two classics (and 'Ocean Spray') drawn from the annals of the band's rich back catalogue. Anthem after anthem launches itself crowdwards: 'Your Love Alone is Not Enough' quickly morphs into a delightfully funky 'Roses in the Hospital'; a monumentally beautiful 'This Is Yesterday' soon transforms into the rock behemoth of 'Sleepflower', with barely a moment to catch your breath before the next riotous call to arms.

There are new tracks - five, to be precise - from the recently released 'Postcards From A Young Man', but even these seem to grow an anthemic quality of their own when given the freedom of a live setting, with the eponymous track in particular sounding gargantuan in this former theatre. And then there's the biggest and best surprise - a once-in-a-blue-moon airing of 'Yes', quite probably the greatest slice of prosaic vitriol ever to spill from the pen of the mighty Richard James Edwards, which stands out like the sorest of thumbs against the backdrop of elation that characterises the remainder of the set. Its dissonance is what makes it so bloody fantastic, however, and this is highlighted by the wave of hysteria that accompanies the opening bars.

And while the general atmosphere may be far less in keeping with the judgmental overtones of the album from which this beauty comes, the Preachers lose none of their power as a result. You may no longer find the swimming pool blue eyes and towering 9ft 5 frame of The Wire bent double over the Apollo monitors, screaming expletives into his microphone (as was the scene at this very venue way back in 2001), but he's still the single coolest bastard in rock and roll, resplendent this evening in matching leopard print jacket and miniskirt and looking effortlessly fantastic. He pouts, preens, shimmies and scissor kicks his way around the stage, seemingly unable to keep still, swept up in the euphoria of it all.

After twenty two years, the Manics are still the most monumental band on the planet. With a work ethic the size of Snowdonia and a back catalogue as grandiose, it's hard to go wrong, really. Add to that a dash and a half of glam, an unashamed refusal to bow to the demands of age and an audience after their own glitter-and-spraypaint hearts and you've got one of the finest rock shows this side of the Pennines. Same time and place next year lads, yeah?

Classic album review: Weezer: 'Pinkerton'

That ear-shattering squeal of feedback. Those disturbingly discordant guitars. Rivers's uncharacteristically gutteral yelps. Less than a minute into 'Pinkerton' and it's quite apparent that this is a very different Weezer than we're used to. Gone are the endearingly nerdy paens to Buddy Holly and Mary Tyler Moore; the dumb fun college rock of tracks like 'Surf Wax America' and 'My Name Is Jonas' has fallen by the wayside, replaced instead by something far darker, far more abrasive and far, far less inviting. It's hardly surprising, then, that this sophomore record was met with howls of objection from fans and critics alike upon its original release, way back in the Britpop and pop punk-tinged summer of 1996. The world just wasn't quite ready for the emo boys to grow up. Which is a pity, really, because with the right musical climate and enough support, this veritable masterpiece could have been Weezer's stepping stone to superstardom.

Bearing the hallmarks of an 'In Utero', this initially difficult and uninviting record slowly reveals its true genius upon closer scrutiny. For all Rivers's laments on opener 'Tired of Sex' may at first seem to be the self-serving moans of a man far too immersed in the spoils of fame, the brutal honesty of the intimate lyrics position the listener as an uncomfortable voyeur. It's an arresting formula and one that makes the album such a starkly fascinating listen. The fuzzy guitar chops and crashing drums that topple their way through 'Getchoo', 'No Other One' and 'Falling For You' are a far cry from the melodic riffs and see-saw harmonies of 'Holiday' and 'In The Garage'. The beauty, however, is that, even here, the album retains the irresistible sparkle of 'Blue'; in fact, at times, its masterful grasp of the mechanics of pop even manages to surpass the band's debut.

'Pinkerton's lightest moment, 'Pink Triangle' - an ode to the perils of discovering that the object of your affection swings the other way - has a hook to die for, as well as a backing medley that manages to be unashamedly good fun and unusually melancholic at the same time. And then there's 'The Good Life', the greatest single Weezer have ever written. Its bittersweet retelling of a mid-life crisis is set to the most masterfully simplistic chord progression in the Cuomo arsenal, producing a track that is effortless in its brilliance. 'El Scorcho' is almost as good, a romantic paen that morphs from creeping dirge to all out punk monster at the two minute mark... and then promptly switches back again, refusing to play ball.

If you prefer your Weezer with a generous portion of pop and a second or third helping of glitzy three chord power rock, you may wish to stay well clear of the abrasive, unfriendly stylings of 'Pinkerton'. You'd be a fool, of course, since this is the most rewarding listen the band have ever produced. Hidden beneath the brusque, angst-ridden surface is a record of great beauty, marrying melancholy and pain with some of the most sumptuous melodies you are likely to hear. 'Blue' may have the immediacy, but 'Pinkerton' has all the longevity. (9.5)

Album review: Fake Problems: 'Real Ghosts Caught On Tape'

Okay Fake Problems, you've got a lot to answer for. Having scheduled a fairly extensive UK tour for the Spring of 2010, hundreds of, um, hundreds of desperate fans were left sorely disappointed - heartbroken, even - when the entire soiree was abruptly cancelled earlier in the year. The reason? They needed time to finish recording their third album. Band and management were sure we'd understand. FP would return to our shores soon. Everything would be okay in the end, right? Well, seven months later and there's still no sign of the band making inroads anywhere even remotely close to these hallowed Isles, but we do have the fruits of their labour: the uber-kitschly titled 'Real Ghosts Caught on Tape'. Well boys, given all you've put us through, this better be bloody good.

Thankfully, the record surpasses all expectations. Where 'It's Great To Be Alive' honed the alt-folk-punk formula established on debut 'How Far Our Bodies Go', 'Real Ghosts' propells the band's sound into the stratosphere, creating eleven deliciously infectious pop anthems designed to worm their way into your subconscious and never, ever leave. From start to finish, this is an album of hooks, grooves and falsettos, cut straight from the Brian Wilson school of pop. Indeed, tracks as toe-tappingly catchy as '5678' could just as easily be long-lost Beach Boys recordings, shot through with an extra layer of guitar.

The lyrics are certainly scattershot enough, marrying some distinctly bleak themes with a series of rather more banal invocations: tremendous opener 'ADT' tells the bittersweet tale of a socially awkward youngster, coupling dejected epithets like 'if confidence is key, I must be locked out of the house' with the rather lighter chorus line of 'tap, tap your feet to your heartbeat'. Such ambiguity adds depth, while simultaneously ensuring that you just can't stop shaking your ass to the music. The rest of the album is equally as irresistible: 'Soulless' is a three minute slice of power pop brilliance, 'Complaint Dept' is funkier than a James Brown Greatest Hits and 'Grand Finale' does exactly what it says on the tin, providing an epic crescendo before the more sorrowful reflection of 'Ghost to Coast' kicks in.

Luckily for band and management alike, Fake Problems have managed to create the album of their career with 'Real Ghosts Caught On Tape'. This is thirty five minutes of alt-folk-funk-punk brilliance, morphing seamlessly from one pop gem to the next and guaranteeing its place on your music player of choice for the next six or seven months. You are forgiven, boys, for abandoning us all earlier this year; now just make sure you set about bringing this little slice of genius to the UK, yeah? (9)

Review: Minus the Bear, Newcastle O2 Academy 2, 16/11/10

It probably seemed like a good idea at the time. While tour mates Jimmy Eat World take a well-earned rest, Minus the Bear would high tail it to Newcastle for a show of their own in the shoebox that is Academy 2. On this frost-bitten evening however, icicles hanging from the rafters, you could forgive the boys from warmer climes for being downtrodden; for wanting nothing more than to pack away their fancy keyboards and FX pedals (of which there are many) and get the hell out of this joint.

To MTB's credit, though, there's no sign of the Winter blues, and the same is true of tonight's support: local noiseniks My Tiny Robots woo an initially reserved and polite crowd with a deliciously funky set. The eponymous closing track is particularly sexy, morphing into a gigantic rock beast with a thoroughly evil bass line. Leeds boys Sketches are even better, marrying the angular indie theatrics of Bloc Party and Editors with a more delicate touch, courtesy of the band's spidery, gangly lead singer, who remains perched on his tip toes for the duration of the set, looking like he's about to topple over. It creates an interesting contrast with the restless energy of guitarist Matt Hutt who, when he isn't driving each track with his wiry, high-pitched riffs, is ruthlessly assaulting the overblown lump of wood he holds in his hands. It makes for enchanting viewing and there are a fair few converts created as a result.

The crowd's adulation is reserved for the main attraction, however. Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, the mostly-bearded, high-spirited Minus the Bear are mesmerising; lead singer Jake Snider commands his 250 strong army with every silky smooth vocal, while Dave Knudson's sweat-drenched guitar tricks and FX jiggery-pokery captivate from the aggressive opening chops of a pulsating 'Secret Country' to the four-to-the-floor progpunk hybrid that is much-lauded closer 'Absinthe Party at the Fly Honey Warehouse'. And then there's the treasure trove of unfathomable noises emanating from Alex Rose's mini production corner, coating the overwhelmingly funky bass lines of the band's newer material with a deliciously obtuse sheen. 'Hold Me Down' glistens, 'Into the Mirror' sparkles and current single 'My Time', one of the highlights of the evening, has an irresistibly infectious charm, sheepishly worming its way through the enthralled crowd, goading the masses into a toe-tapping frenzy.

There are plenty of pleasant surprises too: a riotous tumble through the eons-old 'Spritz!!! Spritz!!!' nuzzles up comfortably to the blissful technicolor dreamscapes of the epic 'White Mystery'; an unusual juxtaposition on paper, perhaps, but one that translates perfectly live. The only drawback, sadly, is that it's all over far too soon: fourteen songs in and the band are ready to depart, despite the howls of objection from the insatiable crowd. Still, treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen, as they say; and as if in an attempt to placate our frustration, MTB make a point of personally thanking everyone in the first few rows, acknowledging the depth of love on show. It's a heartwarming gesture, and on this most bitter of evenings, it's all we really need. A veritable triumph.

Review: Jimmy Eat World, Brixton Academy, 23/11/10

"Wow, there sure are a lot of you out there", exclaims a somewhat awestruck Jim Adkins as he waltzes onto the hallowed Brixton Academy stage on this bitter Tuesday evening, "Goddamn!" The sentiment may have become something of a cliche - these days, it seems like every Tom, Dick and Travis that plays at this converted theatre trolls out the crowd-pleasing sentence - but in Jimmy Eat World's case, it just feels genuine. It is decidedly heartwarming to witness such humble declarations, particularly from a band whose popularity has barely waned over the years. They're still the pioneering stalwarts of their genre of choice, the masters of introspective punk-pop with an ear for the very catchiest of melodies. It's little surprise to your average emo kid (and by emo, we mean Weezer and Saves the Day, not All Time Low and Paramore) that JEW continue to be a huge draw, but it's endearing to think they don't realise it themselves.

There are Cheshire cat grins chiseled onto all five (yes, five - they've drafted in Courtney, the female vocalist from the 'Invented' sessions, for backing and keyboards) faces this evening, from the opening chord to the closing squeal of feedback. As the last date of a fairly extensive European tour, this is effectively one massive, cockle-warming celebration of everything that makes the band so Goddamn loveable. So we get the hits: wave after wave after wave, in fact, as an aggressive 'Bleed American' opens proceedings and morphs effortlessly into a similarly raucous 'A Praise Chorus', transporting us all back to the hallowed days of 01 and the promise and vibrancy of that oh-so-tremendous third record. Sensibly, JEW draw heavily from its veritable treasure trove of treats, slipping an epic 'Get It Faster' and a gorgeous 'Hear You Me' into the set, prompting a surprisingly in tune (who'da thunk it?) singalong at the halfway mark.

There are plenty other obvious choices too: an energetic 'Pain', a sombre 'Work', the wonderfully ridiculous 'Big Casino', and a closing duo that elicits mass hysteria in 'The Middle' and 'Sweetness', but it's the less well known moments that provide the biggest highlights. The raw rock stylings of 'Your New Aesthetic' sound colossal when amplified through the Academy's impressive sound system, while the addition of a ten minute, effects-and-sample-heavy 'Goodbye Sky Harbor', far from seeming self-indulgent, provides the perfect dreamy kiss-off to the first part of the set, Jim flailing around the stage, looping his vocal parts over and over, ad infinitum. Impressively, the new material also shines: uber-poppy single 'My Best Theory' sounds beefed up and sassy, 'Evidence' rocks like a bastard and the Tom-led 'Action Needs An Audience' has all the thrills, spills, fire and brimstone of a 'Static Prevails' outtake.

Shamefully, Brixton doesn't really know how to react to these tracks: for all there are a smattering of singalongs and a few energetic enthusiasts, the vast majority seem content to quietly observe rather than participate, reserving their strength, perhaps, for the big hits. It's a little disappointing, particularly when it results in irreverent chatter during the beautiful '23', but hey, it it don't phase the band, it don't phase us. This is still one consummately professional and bloody awesome rock show; a near perfect demonstration of just how to do that punk-pop-emo thing. Paramore and All Time Low wish they could write songs as good as these. They never will.

Review: FTHC, Preston 53 Degrees, 03/12/10

Stuck in the snow on a Friday night? Freezing your bollocks off as the Siberian winds blow you every which way but loose? Well, you could do a lot worse than to haul your tush down to the appropriately named 53 Degrees for ninety minutes of fun, frolics and folk with Frank Turner and friends; traditionally, the ex-Million Dead front man's shows feel more like celebrations than performances, a singalong-fuelled jamboree with just the right level of camaraderie to leave you feeling all warm and fuzzy inside. This is a guy devoid of pretension, whose down-to-earth outlook and surprising level of sincerity is wonderfully refreshing. Frank is still humble enough to be amazed that he can attract this much attention, that his songs can say so much to so many.

Of course, he shouldn't be so surprised: his lyrics have a purity and honesty that make them universal. Turner is the king of the arms-around-mates singalong and tonight, he has Preston eating out of the palm of his hand. The crowd take a little time to wake up, proving quietly appreciate for the first few tracks, but by the time the brilliantly succinct call-to-creative-arms that is 'Try This At Home' rears its head, they're pogoing and dancing along, bellowing the words at the tops of their voices. This is a hit-heavy set, taking in the daft, yet undeniably infectious, 'The Road', a sprightly 'Reasons Not To Be An Idiot', a particularly emotional 'Long Live the Queen' and, naturally, 'Photosynthesis', which is given the conventional special guest treatment as support acts Ed Harcourt, the sharpest dressed man in the room, and Jamie Stuart, singer with Dive Dive, the most attractive man in the room, join in the fun, contributing mandocaster and acoustic guitar parts accordingly.

It's a great end to proceedings, bringing the restless vibrancy that Frank exhibits throughout the rest of the set - he's racing guitarist Ben Lloyd across the stage, he's climbing Nigel's drumkit while playing the 'Sons of Liberty' solo - to a head as he drops his acoustic, picks up his mic and heads straight into the crowd, letting his audience take over. And yet, for all this energy makes for fantastic viewing, it's the quieter moments that are the most memorable. It almost goes without saying, but the solo 'The Ballad of Me and My Friends' is just gorgeous, while 'Worse Things Happen At Sea' is brilliantly invective, full of anger and resentment, and a pleasantly surprising version of The Postal Service's 'The District Sleeps Alone Tonight', played because an audience member requested it, is probably the highlight of the evening: delicate, charming and beautiful.

There are new songs, five to be exact, of which current single 'I Still Believe' is the most immediate, featuring a massive chorus and the kind of heartwarming sentiment that just endears us to Frank even more, while 'If Ever I Stray' probably has the biggest staying power, marrying an epic sound - crashing drums, extra loud guitars - with a brilliant, brilliant lyric. The only criticism to be made is that the set is perhaps a little predictable in places. For the wizened Turner veterans, choices such as 'Imperfect Tense', 'Father's Day' and 'Substitute' seem a little disappointing when the back catalogue is packed with long-last classics (hell, we've seen these choices a hundred times before) but then, it works. At the end of the day, Frank's performance is still flawless and 1,000 or so patrons still walk away having had the time of their lives.

On the slow walk back to the train station, a group of lads are bellowing the words to 'Love, Ire and Song' to all and sundry, without a care in the world... and that, my friends, is proof positive that this was a job well done.

Review: Interpol/Surfer Blood, Liverpool University 04/12/10

Ask your average indie aficionado to describe Interpol and they'll probably offer you one word: miserablists. The New York four piece have carved themselves a sizeable space in the bottomless musical pit of doom and despair occupied by such carefree spirits as Nirvana's Kurt Cobain and, dare we say it, Joy Division's Ian Curits, and that's largely thanks to the marriage of Daniel Kessler's lilting, cold guitar tricks with Paul Banks's deep vocals, which creates a distinctive sound so dark, yet vast, that it threatens to swallow you whole. Certainly, this isn't the sort of stuff you can play at parties and when faced with the prospect of a full ninety minutes entrenched in such melancholy, your Saturday night suddenly becomes a lot bleaker.

But then, that's somewhat unfair to Interpol. For starters, they've brought Floridian indie-alt rapscallions Surfer Blood along for the ride and their sumptuous blend of scuzzy, distorted guitars with funky bass lines and Beach Boys-esque melodies immediately brings a smile to the face. These guys have tunes by the dozen, including candidate for Single of the Year 'Swim', and enough witty repartaie to keep the masses interested. Lead singer John Paul Pitts is on fine, exuberant form, claiming that a trip to Liverpool has prevented the band from falling apart, and that the deliciously catchy 'Take It Easy' is about how attractive he is. Before long, he's crowdsurfing his way to the back of the venue, and then he's in the crowd, offering up the mic, shimmying with da laydeez, trying to get himself laid (yes, he openly admits this).

Clearly, this is markedly different from anything we could expect from our headline act - you won't catch Paul dancing around the stage with maracas, that's for sure - but then, that just adds to the diversity of the experience. And anyhow, Interpol's bleak reputation isn't entirely justified: while between-song banter is sparse, confined mainly to polite "thank you"s, there are gigantic smiles on faces throughout, a telling acknowledgement of the crowd's somewhat insatiable lust for more. Liverpool's indie contingent are at their loudest and most lively this evening, screaming every word, battering into one another with reckless abandon. It probably helps that this is a 'Turn on the Bright Lights'-heavy set, featuring no less than six tracks from one of the decade's greatest albums.

The singles are here - an early 'Obstacle 1' gets things going, 'PDA' induces delirium and an astoundingly epic 'NYC' makes grown men cry - but it's the others that provide the biggest highlights. 'Say Hello to the Angels' sounds even wilder than on record, threatening to fall apart at the seams at the breakneck pace at which Kessler delivers those unforgiving guitar chops. 'Hands Away', meanwhile, gives Banks a chance to relax his voice a little and demonstrate the full spectrum of his vocal range, delivering a beautifully cracked rendition. And then, folks, we have 'The New', six minutes of angular indie heaven, unaired for years but finally taken off the shelf, dusted down and given the good ol' fashioned seeing to that it deserves.

There are plenty other moments to savour, of course. The new material translates well, with current single 'Barricade' and the cascading riffs in 'Memory Serves' sticking firmly in the mind, while classic singles 'Slow Hands' and 'Evil' are met with the kind of devotional hysteria usually reserved round these parts for a sighting in McCartney's Bar. It's left to an extended 'Not Even Jail' to close proceedings, and it's a brilliant decision. The track is probably Interpol's finest hour and its dark, moribund proto-gothrock stylings are given extra gravitas tonight by essentially turning everything up to eleven.

It would be a mistake to write Interpol off as a bunch of gloom-wallowers, mired in the sound of unrelenting misery. They've carved their own niche, sure, and yes, it's hardly Alphabeat territory, but this stuff rocks like a bastard and if you get it, like the 2,000 here tonight, you'll leave safe in the knowledge that you've just witnessed something spectacular.

FTHC, Preston 53 Degrees, 03/12/10

Review: Weezer Memories Tour (Gibson Amphitheater, Universal City, CA: 26-27/11/10)

Flying into Los Angeles at 6.30 in the evening, coasting lightly over neon lights, skyscrapers, palm trees and baseball stadiums, you could be forgiven for thinking this is the most beautiful place in the world. The self-professed city of angels offers its three million residents cloudless skies, glorious weather and spectacular views even his deep into November, making the Christmas jingles and Black Friday Yuletide sales that dominate the local media seem colossally absurd. On the star-studded, sun-kissed streets of West Hollywood, Winter is an alien concept; the Walk of Fame is baking, and the creative types that linger around the bustling coffee houses and independent venues that line the Sunset Strip adjust their shades and reapply their lotion accordingly. There's no end of opulence here; no expense too grandiose, no venture too OTT. Celebrity is just another fact of life, as commonplace as the likelihood of being knocked on your ass by oncoming traffic, whose disregard for your right of way is legendary. Fancy meeting Will.I.Am? Just pop into your local Burger King. Want a few words with Jessica Albert? Hop on the Metro Rapid service and alight at Santa Monica and Elm. The affluence that courses through the city gives it its lifeblood, and perhaps that what makes it so appealing. It's also what makes the place such an unnerving experience, as the many and varied boulevards are littered with the homeless and the destitute. Hollywood's wealth and materialism contrasts starkly with the sheer number of men and women lying sprawled on street corners and offering locals and tourists alike the opportunity to taser them or 'kick [them] in the ass' for five dollars. It's a sobering juxtaposition and one that exposes the real unpleasant underbelly of this otherwise mighty fine city. It's likely that Rivers Cuomo would rather you didn't dwell on such unpleasant facts. It's no coincidence that the first two dates of Weezer's Memories tour, the dream concerts that fans of the band have been praying for since 2001, are taking place in the relative seclusion of the Hollywood Hills, amongst the self-indulgence of the rich and famous. For the man who once wrote a paean to Beverly Hills (played on the 'Blue' date in all its self-referential glory), this is probably second nature; hell, why would you want to hike your gear to the ramshackle pseudo-squat stylings of The Viper Room or even the House of Blues when you can set up shop in the middle of Universal Studios, just north of Mullholland Drive and the infamous Hollywood sign? It certainly makes for a spectacular journey to and from the venue, as fans and celebs alike are forced to navigate the deer crossings and absurd, mind-of-their-own sprinkler systems that flank the gargantuan entrances to the various million dollar hotels of Universal City. Essentially, attending a show at the Gibson is like showing up at a C-list star's garden party, complete with the extortionate drinks prices, impressive memorabilia (Billie Joe Armstrong's electric? Paul McCartney's acoustic? Anyone?) and exploitative gimmicks: not satisfied with the prospect of watching Weezer perform two of the greatest records ever written? Why not have your photo taken 'on the cover of Blue or Green'? Or, even better, 'make a wish' that might just possibly, you-never-know, be granted and get yourself a free pair of imitation Rivers specs? It's all fairly pointless fluff, feeling a little like garnish added just for the hell of it, much like a great deal else in this bizarre city. But then, for all cynicism is tempting in this ludicrous environment, there is another way of looking at all this. When you're charging upwards of £50 per ticket, and offering the hardcore the opportunity to stand in the very limited pit, attend an acoustic set and meet the band for a heart-stopping $300, it would seem rude not to go that extra mile and offer your now bankrupt punters an additional incentive. For all the venue is teeming with celebs on both nights - the drummer from No Doubt, the aforementioned Jessica Albert, Nicole Richie, erm... Good Charlotte - there are just as many, if not more, hardcore fans for whom this is quite probably the highlight of their lives. And indeed, that isn't to say that the celebs aren't any less devoted: members of Australian power pop funksters The Wellingtons have forked out over a grand each for the opportunity to stand on the barrier and bellow the words to 'The World Has Turned And Left Me Here' so really, Weezer, we kinda expect you to do something a bit special. Suffice to say, they don't disappoint. The garnish brings a smile to the face, sure, but it's the meat of the performance that really shines and there's very little distinction in quality over the two nights. Contrary to pre-gig advertisements, the 'Greatest Hits' portion takes place before the main attraction and perhaps unsurprisingly, it isn't 'completely different' on the Friday and Saturday. There's enough of a variety in the ten song soiree, however, and an overwhelming sense of fun to proceedings. The 'Blue' date features more of a standard set, running backwards in time from the straightforward pop-rock absurdity of current single 'Memories' to a sneak preview of Saturday's delights with a quick run-through 'Pinkerton' classic 'Falling For You'. Along the way, we're treated to a cameo from Jorge Garcia - for the uninitiated, Hurley himself - who fumbles his way through an infectious 'If You're Wondering' and subsequently reappears on Saturday for the infinitely superior 'Perfect Situation', storming renditions of 'Red' album singles 'Troublemaker' and 'Pork and Beans', during which Rivers roams around the venue, running up and down the stairwell between blocks, having the time of his life, and a triple threat 'Green' album bonanza as Rivers humps, groans and mid-life-crisis' his way through the superlative 'Photograph', 'Island in the Sun' (featuring Bethany from lacklustre support Best Coast on guest vocals) and a beefed-up 'Hash Pipe', ending proceedings by accidentally smashing his acoustic guitar in a moment of impromptu excitement. Saturday is even better: Rivers leaves Scott to slay a riotous 'Dope Nose', which he does with suitable aplomb, while 'The Greatest Man That Ever Lived' provides a much welcome surprise early in the set, Cuomo singing the bulk of the track while perched precariously on Josh Freese/Pat's drumkit. It's a mere taster of treats to come, however, as Weezer whip out a once-in-a-blue-moon 'Suzanne' and, even better, 'You Gave Your Love To Me Softly', two 'Blue Album' B-sides that have the hardcore salivating at the mouth. Of course, the real reason we're all paying the bulk of a month's wages to be here is the second half of the set and quite frankly, it's worth every last cent. As a precursor to the main attraction, long-serving guitar tech Carl runs us all through a series of album-orientated slides, showcasing his memories of the 'Blue' and 'Pinkerton' eras, and while that may sound a little dry on paper, the never-before-seen shots of the band in the studio recording 'Blue', flyers from early performances at the appropriately named Club Dump, bastardised setlists from 'Pinkerton' shows and photographs from long-lost superfans Mykel and Carli's fanclub Christmas party set the tone for the nostalgia fest that is to come, helping to further whet the already insatiable appetites of the 7,000 devotees in the audience. And when the band walk out on stage, decked in the gear from the respective eras each night and flanked by a huge version of the respective album cover, excitement reaches fever pitch. The opening bars of 'My Name Is Jonas' elicit a roar of appreciation that threatens to blow the roof off the Amphitheater, while the ear-piercing squeal of feedback that precedes an absolutely note perfect and deliciously aggressive 'Tired of Sex' quite literally sends shivers down the spine. It's impossible to determine which night is the superior: these songs are every bit as outstanding as each other, and the performances are flawless. There's no time for between-song banter, Rivers choosing to leave the crowd-baiting to the opening part of the set, and it's a wise decision. The music essentially speaks for itself, and anything less than full band renditions, with Cuomo concentrating on both vocal and guitar, would somehow seem like a cheat. This is how 'Buddy Holly' is meant to be played, not halfway up the lighting rig with Pat forced to play Rivers' parts (as fun as that may be). Perhaps predictably, it's the less-aired tracks that provide the biggest thrills. For all 'Say It Ain't So' sounds massive, the 'Blue' closing trio of 'In the Garage', 'Holiday' and 'Only In Dreams' is the equivalent of a wet dream, feeling like we've all been transported back to Club Dump in 1994 and seeming every bit as intimate. 'Dreams' in particular is phenomenal, marrying Cuomo's delicate vocals with a closing four minute rifffest to die for. 'Pinkerton' is no less spectacular. 'The Good Life' and 'El Scorcho', two of the greatest singles ever written, have lost none of their immediacy in the years since they've received a live airing, and the standing ovations that greet them speak volumes. It was always going to seem like a dream come true, but 'Getchoo', 'No Other One' and 'Across the Sea' are just fantastic, as faithful to the recordings as we could possibly hope for, and infused with an intensity that has the Amphitheater's seated contingent dancing, moshing and emoting in the aisles, while the hardcore faithful down the front stare on in awe, barely able to believe they've been lucky enough to witness this in their lifetime. Inevitably, it's all over far too soon: before long, the band leave Rivers alone with his acoustic and as he strums the opening chords of an eye-wateringly beautiful 'Butterfly', the stage's back wall retracts, opening up the venue to the outside world. It's a brilliantly tender moment and an utterly gorgeous rendition... and Cuomo knows it. He remains on stage for minutes after the final notes, soaking up every last ounce of adulation fired his way by the delirious crowd. As he shuffles quietly off stage and the lights come up, the mood is decidedly ambivalent, the audience wrestling with dejection at the fact that it's all over and the sheer joy (and perhaps relief) that them boys did good. Are these the best gigs of every Weezer fan's life? Well, frankly, yeah. At Universal City, at least, there were no disappointments, no major fuck ups, no half-assed renditions of any of the tracks we've all paid an arm and a leg to see. 'Pinkerton' and 'Blue' in all their note-perfect, raw, untarnished glory piss all over just about anything else you could ever have a hope of hearing, and the bonus of a couple of fairly different greatest hits sets just adds to the feeling that yup, this is about as good as it gets. The choice of venue may be a concession to the more affluent of the state's population and the opulence of the surrounding area may make an uneasy contrast to, say, the more independent areas of the Sunset Strip, but there's simply no denying that these are two truly amazing shows. For the Los Angelenos lucky enough to get a ticket and the fans who've travelled the world for the privilege, the memories alone make every cent worth it. Now let's see if they can do the same with 'Green' and 'Maladroit', yeah? Um....

Leeds Festival 2010: The plan

So, to the obligatory Leeds Festival plan.

Friday 27th

12.00 - 12.30 THE WALKMEN (Main)
12.45 - 1.15 THE FUTUREHEADS (Main)
1.30 - 2.00 BAND OF SKULLS (NME)
2.20 - 3.00 THE GASLIGHT ANTHEM (Main)
3.20 - 4.05 MODEST MOUSE (Main)
4.25 - 5.10 THE MACCABEES (Main)
5.15 - 6.00 FRANK TURNER (NME) vs. 5.30 - 6.15 THE CRIBS (Main)
6.20 - 6.50 SERJ TANKIAN (NME) (it'll be a laugh for twenty minutes, before a brisk walk to the FR tent for...)
7.00 - 7.40 VILLAGERS (Festival Republic)
7.50 - 8.20 CANCER BATS (Lock Up)
8.40 - 9.30 GET UP KIDS (Lock Up)
9.30 - 11.00 ARCADE FIRE (Main) vs. 10.00 - 11.00 BAD RELIGION (Lock Up)

A fairly jam packed day, then. Two frustrating clashes: FTHC vs. The Cribs and The Arcade Fire vs. Bad Religion. Really undecided about the latter; while I do love BR, I'm going to see them at their own show in Manchester on Tuesday, and I have a sneaking suspicion that the Fire are gonna be pretty darn ace. So perhaps I've just made my mind up there. I may just leave the Frank Turner/Cribs clash to a coin toss on the day. Although I do feel a sense of loyalty to Mr. Turner, given that I've been at every other Leeds Fest performance he's done.

Saturday 28th

12.00 - 12.30 MOTION CITY SOUNDTRACK (Main)
12.45 - 1.20 KING BLUES (Main) vs. GOLDHAWKS (Festival Republic)
1.35 - 2.10 THRICE (Main) vs. LOCAL NATIVES (NME)
2.15 - 2.50 LOS CAMPESINOS! (NME)
3.05 - 3.50 WILD BEASTS (NME)
4.10 - 4.55 THE DRUMS (NME)
5.00 - 5.15 laugh at Limp Bizkit on the Main Stage
5.20 - 5.55 THE LIKE (Festival Republic)
6.10 - 6.30 TAME IMPALA (Festival Republic) leave fifteen minutes early and hot tail it to...
6.45 - 7.40 WEEZER (Main) vs. 7.00 - 7.40 MINUS THE BEAR (Festival Republic)
7.50 - 8.20 FOALS (NME) (having missed about ten minutes)
8.40 - 9.30 WE ARE SCIENTISTS (NME)
9.30 - 10.00 endure 20-30 minutes of BLINK 182 (Main)
10.10 - 11.00 BRITISH SEA POWER (Festival Republic)

7pm. One of the worst clashes of the weekend, right there. It has to be Weezer really, but the Minus the Bear scheduling is a real teeth-gnasher. Still, they're supporting Jimmy Eat World on their November tour so at least I'll be able to catch them then. Band of Horses are playing at 6.20 on the NME stage but to be honest, given my general location at around that time and the need to see Weezer, I'll think I'll give them a miss. Goldhawks are a fairly recent discovery but 'Running Away' is a pretty darn good indie-pop song and The King Blues are on something of a downward spiral so it's likely I may be in a tent with eight people rather than in the cold outdoors with a few hundred. The highlight of the day, however, will undoubtedly be the fifteen or so minutes of Limp Bizkit that I'll endure, purely for the opportunity to laugh very loudly at a podgy old man in a silly cap. And as for Blink 182, well, I give them, oh, two minutes before the crowd starts to disperse...

Sunday 29th

12.00 - 12.30 FRANKIE AND THE HEARTSTRINGS (NME)
12.45 - 1.15 SURFER BLOOD (NME) vs. CRAZY ARM (Lock Up)
1.30 - 2.00 FUNERAL PARTY (Festival Republic)
2.15 - 2.50 GIRLS (NME)
3.05 - 3.50 TWO DOOR CINEMA CLUB (NME)
3.45 - 4.30 NOFX (Main) vs. 3.45 - 4.15 PULLED APART BY HORSES (Festival Republic)
4.40 - 5.20 STRIKE ANYWHERE (Lock Up)
5.20 - 5.55 AVI BUFFALO (Festival Republic)
6.00 - 6.50 BIFFY CLYRO (Main)
7.30 - 8.20 MUMFORD & SONS (NME) vs. 7.20 - 8.20 QUEENS OF THE STONE AGE (Main) vs. 7.45 - 8.30 AGAINST ME! (Lock Up) vs. 8.00 - 8.45 BLOOD RED SHOES (Festival Republic)
8.50 - 9.40 SICK OF IT ALL (Lock Up)
10.05 - 11.00 ALKALINE TRIO (Lock Up)

Another day packed to the brim with goodness but also containing a clash for the ages. I mean, how in the hell am I going to choose between Surfer Blood and Crazy Arm?! Somebody, anybody, give me a sign! In all seriousness though, the Fatal Fourway (if you will) between QOTSA, the Mumsies, BRS and Against Me! is probably the biggest quandry I've ever found myself in at this festival. It is theoretically possible to catch something of all four (10 minutes of Queens, 10 minutes of Mumford, all of AM!, ten minutes of Steven and Laura-Mary) but chances are, one will have to fall by the wayside. And sadly, the likeliest contender is Mumford & Sons, who are the only band I haven't actually seen live. Which tempts me to abandon chosen faves Against Me! altogether. But then... their show at Manchester Academy 3 was the best thing I've seen all year. Gah!

Me and my friends are Jiz whores...

Screenaged Kicks is alive, kicking and scouring Youtube for hilarity.

Regardless of whether or not you're familiar with grossly underwhelming 80s 'grrl power' cartoon Jem and the Holograms, the following overdubbed reworking, in which Jem becomes Jiz, an abortion-loving transsexual, remains quite probably the most uplifting viewing experience this side of It's A Wonderful Life. Well, it had me in tears anyway. It's all in the voice, trust me.



...and a slightly more controversial instalment...