Kid in a sweet shop

I've been digging. Not that far, but digging around a bit to find some new stuff to excite the old earboxes. And I've come up with some goodies that really need sharing.


I'm off to see the mighty and wonderful Oceansize at the end of this week, so I thought I ought to check out the support band/s.

And what joys I've unearthed. 


First up is yndi halda 
(Enjoy Eternal Bliss in Norse doncha know!). Anyway, they are a splendid post rock/ classical/ambient crossover hybrid mash up of loveliness from Canterbury. Easy comparisons to some of their tunes would be Sigur Ros, but i won't cop out, I'll try and go a bit further. They seriously meld elements of modern classical and even jazz (heavy nods towards The Portico Quartet - without marimbas) with sweeping soundscapes of sumptuous melancholy and evocative ambience. Hell, even a violin. In fact, a lot of violin. Wonderful.


In this, the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, this lot are the perfect soundtrack.


Have a listen to these two beauties for starters. 

How does one follow that? 
Well, how about the fantastic
This Town Needs Guns?


Another slice of living proof that real music is out there. Real, beautiful, technically gorgeous and fabulous music. 


Impossible to pigeon-hole, this Oxford-based quartet meld a myriad of influences all tied together with stunning guitar-work which appears to be umbilically linked to the drums. Complex signatures and technical, but not over-bearing finger-style clean guitar with Spanish cadences, spiralling arpeggios and thoughtfully augmented runs and riffs all lay behind a fresh vocal delivering thoughtful but never over-pretentious lyrics. 


Man, this lot are good. Very good.

The album animals is their latest offering and is a definite must purchase from iTunes.


I truly hope the wider public picks up on these hidden gems. After watching dancing wannabee buffoons, cretins and exploited soylent green-eating turds on X Factor, bands like this offer us all hope. And provide us with wonderful diversions from commercially-driven  contrived autotune shite (and I'm not just talking about Linkin Park's new long player!)


Check out just some of their fabulous offerings on the musicy gadgety widgety thing on the right. And enjoy. Oh, and have a look at this:




Finally, and in no order of preference, here's a complete wildcard. Adebisi Shank.

Awesome awesomeness. Nutty, electronic, mind-bending, clever and totally bewildering tuneage from Oirland. Guitars, energy, beats craziness. Totally amazing. 


Their second album (wittily entitled This is The Second Album of A Band Called Adebisi Shank)  is just out and at the risk of being a bully, bloody well buy it. It's like nothing else you'll have heard and will get you smiling, foot-tapping, moshing, screaming and scratching your cranium.






That's enough for now. Plenty to listen to. Plenty to love.


I'll report back after the Oceansize gig. Am I looking forward to that? 


Bwoooar!

Mused to death

Matt'l be the day

Muse 

Wembley Stadium

Sat 11th September 2010

****

Okey dokey, a brief review of the monolithic but massively, well, massive Muse. By popular request (Wor Lad).

A sultry and balmy Saturday at the temple of chav ballet and faced with an enormous Fritz Lang styled metropolis stage set kicked off with I am Arrows, who apparently are a new project under the baton of the drummer from Razorlight. Anyway, they weren't bad. At all. A bit lost in the stadium but you could imagine them putting on a right old good show somewhere like The Water Rats or The Scala.

The set. Or something like that.

Onwards and er, downwards. To be honest, I can't really remember who or what the next band were or did. They were generic, smug, sounded a bit like the bloke from Editors, provided nothing new or, to be frank that exciting. Or any good. Shame really.

But the atmosphere started to build for 'mon the Biff and memories of the anodyne and eminently forgettable last lot soon evaporated like a rare gas.

The pit was now rammed. God had dimmed the autumn lights. Mumbles and a general hubbub of anticipation started to grow and grow.

The Biffy ones sauntered on, skinny troos, tattooed torsos and dyed blond face fuzz. And laid it on thick. A bombastic start with Golden Rule was greedily chugged by the thirsty throng. 

Neil. Arr harrr me old hearty

The rest of the set was a collection of big tunes, big reactions and big noise. All beefed up by some great guitar work from Oceansize's axeman Mike Vennart. Impressive and energetic stuff. Although, echoing what was to come, there was little, if any crowd interaction.
In fact, bugger all. 

The sound of silence

What is it with modern bands? Am I alone in feeling a little performed 'at' rather than to? Simon Neil didn't utter a word from inside his big old seadog yellow barbe. Not one word. I was even beginning to hope he'd descend into the clichéd old stuff; Hellooooo Wemberley....here's a song from the first album....But ho hum. Nothing was forthcoming. To be honest, it didn't really matter, as the show was a grand old grungy disco. Anyhoo, they came, they rocked, they shuffled off leaving a very happy, sweaty crowd hungry for the main event.

Super Massive 

And event it was. I really will be brief. Massive stage set. Massive presence. Massive performance. Massive tunes. Massive guitar. Massive crowd.

They really can't put a foot wrong. The old favourites have never sounded better. Hell, even the newer 'Queeny' stuff is far heavier live and sounds more than passable. 

They are massive. The are overblown. They aren't everybody's cup of tea; but at the risk of being über-clichéd, they are simply the very best at what they do. Ever.

So, quite why Mr Bellamy doesn't seem to be enjoying himself between tunes is beyond me. The world loves him. They love his band. Surely he loves them? But he does the cold fish thing. Time and time again. No flicker, no banter, no cajoling or carousing. He certainly is no Benjie Webbe from Skindred (who has to be the best frontman in the universe). Dom did do some talking. But not a lot. They are magnificent. But don't look comfortable in their own shoes. Especially in front of 90,000 adoring, moshing acolytes. Which is a shame. But only a minor shame.

Epic. Truly epic.

Don't know what the hell they can do next to top this. Maybe a pub tour?

Cheers.

Oh no it's not.

Pantomime Prince

Travelling in London yesterday was, in the words of A7X, a fucking nightmare. But, it was worth braving the very worst of the capital's dysfunctional weekend public transport to experience Mr Osbourne at the O2.

Arriving flustered, peeved (especially having missed the brilliant Skindred!) and late (very late), I just about caught the sounds of the end of Korn's set but managed to stock

up on necessary beverages before settling in to my eagle's eyrie of a seat in a disappointingly not packed O2.

After witnessing the pomp and downright braggadocio of Muse's conquering of Wembley

last week, the first thing that struck me was the 'standard' stage set up. No castles of yore, or big hands, or iron men, just a ridiculously huge and shiny drum kit on a portable riser, a neat backline of menacing blackstar amps, a circle of foldback around the front of the stage.

Ok, it's set up. The pit's full, folk have found their way back to their seats (complete with beer holders). Let the pantomime begin.

For that's what this is.

More Prince charming than the prince of darkness.

A very funny selection of spoof videos with neatly comped-in Ozzzies sets the tone. A disembodied brummy drawl bays at the crowd to make some fucking noise. We're off.

He may be old. He may sometimes appear that coherent speech is beyond him. He walks like an old woman at a bring and buy sale. He shakes. But man, he still rocks.

It all kicks off with a rebel rousing Bark at the moon. Then Let Me Hear You Scream followed by Mr Crowley. The crowd are loving it. Cajoled by our ringmaster at every opportunity, 'clap your hands', 'I can't hear you', and the slightly bizarre refrain that is going to feature in just about every tune, 'Oi'Oi'.

Not since Gary Bushell back in the mists of time coined 'Oi' as a genre (ask your

grandparents kids) has the word been aired so freely.

Meeeeeester Crowleeeeey, oi, oi, oi. You get the picture.

This is the defining pantomime clarion call. To be frank, probably overdone but the crowd don't seem to care, duly and diligently responding whenever Ozzy's widow twanky begs them to do so. Going off the raiiiils on a crazeeee train, oi, oi, oi!

The set list is spectacular with old favourites mixed up with even older favourites. He even played Fairies wear boots (complete with ois), for God's sake - brilliant. And an astonishing vesrion of Into The Void.

This is a man who completely comes alive like a weird shapeshifer as soon as he's behind a mike and sandwiched between a drum kit, bass and stunning guitar.

And stunning it is. I fondly remember seeing Ozzy on the Blizzard of Oz tour in the early 80s with the wonderful, late, great Randy Rhoads. Let it be whispered, but Gus G is, er, how does one say this...even better than mr Rhoads. There, I said it.

Technically he is brilliant, he has a wonderful clarity and precision melded beautifully with tough and feel. This guy has to be one of the very best plank spankers around. But, given Ozzy's track record with Sir Iommi and Lord Wylde, that's not really a surprise.

The gig just snowballs. A surprisingly circle-pit free (apart from one pussy effort at the end) crowd, dine greedily at what Oz serves up. Even with the, by now, slightly unpalatable Ois. He rolls of one stunner after another, dipping briefly for Road to Nowhere as an homage to Ronnie. But Iron Man is just spectacular. The whole throng joining in with the Woo, ooh, ooh-ooh-oh, ooo-ooo-ooo oo ooh ooh you. Impressive and spine-tingly memorable stuff.

And not a drop to drink

Throughout the evening Mr John Osbourne constantly dips his head into a blue bucket of water, consequently spending most of the set looking like a freshly washed black labrador or an extra from Waterworld. He also has an army surplus German water canon, with which he ritually and mischievously sprayed the crowd, camera crew, security, photographers and any other moving target. The pantomime was complete. Well, apart from the Tiswasesque chucking of buckets of water over the adoring hordes.

The set comes to a crescendo for Crazy train. And what a crescendo. Not a dry eye, arse, pair of panties, crotch or torso in the house.

A brief break then back to kick some more arse. Ending, unsurprisingly, but brilliantly with a party-ending arse-shaking, finger-pointing version of Paranoid. Splendid.

The clown prince of darkness still has it. Never have old Sabs songs sounded so meaty, so raw, so hard. Testament to the strength of the songs as well as the energetic, and technically perfect performance.

Oi Oi indeed.

Ocean's alive

NEMS were the days.

I remember back in the early 70's when I lovingly placed a 12" disc with The NEMS logo proudly gleaming from the label onto the turntable of my Dansette, complete with an old penny taped to the top of the adapted for stereo cartridge.

The crackle of the run-in. The slight hiss from the cloth covered single speaker.

My heart was in my mouth. The crackle continued and turned into what sounded like rain. Hell, it was rain. A church bell chimed. Then all hell was let loose. A riff. Not just a riff. The riff. Black Sabbath, Black Sabbath. My sphincter was almost rendered useless. The power. The menace. The darkness.

Oceansize

Self Preserved While The Bodies Float Up

released 08/09/2010 *****

Well, I've been transported back there. This time no Dansette, hiss or rumble. But my god, Part Cardiac, the magnificent and moody opener to Oceansize's latest epic Self Preserved While The Bodies Float Up did the same to my poor sphincter that Mr Iommi et all managed nearly 40 years ago.

What a start. Could the rest of the album stand up to it? Hell yes.

This is a magnificent work. Not predicatbly long (as most artists/record companies appear to do de rigeur to painstakingly fill the maximum 74 mins of CD format) this masterpiece weighs in at 51 minutes. And it's a 51 minute journey everyone should buy a ticket for.

It meanders from dark to light. Heavy and moody to plaintive and melancholy. Beauty and the beats. It boasts one of the greatest song titles ever; Build us a rocket then ...you rocket-building cunt (to give it its full spectacular title). It is, without a doubt, one of the very finest albums of this year. Indeed of many a year.

Vennart: Hungry.

For those without an appetite for the über-heavy, don't be daunted by the opening with its dark, maruading heavy riffola, the album, while as heavy as hell in parts offers a wonderful canvas deliciously painted with all manner of light and shade.

Complex time signatures, wonderful interventions by spine-tingling accidentals and diversions. The production is tight yet never over-lavish or indulgent. Fresh from his live stint with Biffy Clyro, Mike Vennart's guitar work is, as ever, complex, considered and spellbinding.

But it's not all twiddly, onanistic rambling; nope, tunes abound. By the pound. Some, even catchy; Oscar acceptance speech will have hats on the sides of heads and whistling like Roger Whitaker. Well, maybe. Beauty and grace swim to the surface on Silent/Transparent and Pine.

This is a truly marvellous collection. By far the band's best and most diverse yet. Buy it!

There is hope for music. Real music. And bands like this, while thankfully they'll never wear meat hats at MTV awards shows and never (non-ironically) use autotune or appear on T4, will always lend us this optimism.

There is a movement (diverse and non-related) huddled in underground bunkers and sweaty venues reclaiming live music that's neither poppy, obliquely and contrivedly antagonistic or antisocial. Genuine musicianship. Call it prog, call it Britass, call it post rock. Call it whatever. Just rejoice in it.

Big up bands like Karnivool, Proceed, Periphery. File in the same section as Vetiver, The Mars Volta, Tool, A Perfect Circle, Puscifer. Total Genius.

Man, I'm happy.

interesting remixology

Shika Shik Arr

Mr Rou Reynolds the St Albans reprobate and famed lemonade drinker has dipped one of Sam Duckworth's new tunes into the shikariwash and come up with this.

Wait a minute....that's not lemonade.

The Uprising (Rout Remix - Rou Reynolds of Enter Shikari) by Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly

Sam's back. And some.

So it got me thinking I should run my fat thumb over Get Cape's eponymous new long player. And you know what, it's a fab effort. Here's a bit I scribbled on Scuzz:

Playing an E Minor 7th is going to be difficult with no left arm...

Get Cape, Wear Cape, Fly.
Get Cape, Wear Cape, Fly.

Released 13/09/2010 ****

You know that white, plain, but ultimately fabulous M&S underwear? Yes you do. Not unexpected. Not challenging. But once the kit's off, phwooooar. Well, young Sam has eschewed his recent dalliances with outré reds, silks, nipple holes, painful basques and the rest of the unneeded and, frankly unwanted fripperies to produce a straightforward, sexy and ultimately juice-draining long player. It's comforting, with huge, obvious nods to Nick Drake, John Martyn and their modern pretenders. Clean, unfussy, but fulfilling guitar work, tidy, tight production, thought-provoking and often sublime lyrics delivered in (thankfully) a choked-back mode compared to the mockney/Bragg/West Coast torture of the last effort ( albeit still a grand album). He delivers us tunes by the bargain bucketload. Catchy, sassy, memorable, harmonic. Without being too challenging or frightening. In short, there's nothing too new here, but who cares? Like the M&S plain white, reasonably high-cut knickers on a fabulous derriere. Who would, or could, say no?

Until next time, Bwoooar indeed.

A new order

BRITASS

As a taster, just wanted to have a wee celebratory woo-hoo about the state of some of the best Brit music that's out there pulling at our nutsacks and sneakily, but satisfyingly grabbing our soft, vulnerable bits.

In the UK at the mo, we have fabulous new acts uniting and garnering support

wherever they plug their leads into a JCM head.

I'd like to dub this movement Britass.

Three bands to kick off. In no order of preference.

Deaf Havana

Ok, they're no Dillinger Escape Plan or Pantera, but crowds are doing their pieces

over Deaf Havana. Since their screamo fella has headed off to the Strepsil testing lab, this lot have started to edge themselves into a goodly niche. Tuneful, thought-provoking, energetic and kick ass. Eloquent and entertaining walking tattoo exhibiton James Veck-Gilodi not only has the greatest name in contemporary Britass, but has an angelic, gut-grabbing voice to die for. They rock, the audience rolls. Catch them.

Stand out track (with screamo); Nicotine and Alcohol saved my life.

Francesqa

Tunes. Tunes. Tunes. And more tunes. This Berkshire collective are destined for great things. They balance beauty and beasts. Dark and light. A firm favourite of the Reverend Alex Baker of Kerrang! Radio fame, insider traders wouldn't even be offered anywhere near a fair return on betting this lot will cut it. It's a cert. Galloping guitars melded with sweet and harmonious lyrical helixes and explorations. Simply, simple but spellbinding stuff.

Stand out track: Ghosts

Proceed

Words fail me. This Hertford-based bunch are something beyond special. Dan Lancaster's towering and sensational voice leads the way. But it doesn't stop there. By any means. The complex time signatures and stunning musicianship are bound together by the astonishingly captivating and technically bewildering drumming of Brad Jackson (who makes The Mars Volta's schtick sound like Dagenham Girl's Marching band). They truly must be the UK's most exciting young band.Like Francesqa, Sir Alex Baker of Kerrang! Radio fame has championed these boys til he's blue in the nads, and they appear to be gaining some wider recognition at at last. They've just completed a small headline tour, but are hauling there hugely talented arses out on the road in October supporting the Essex-based stalwarts of Britass, We Are The Ocean.

Stand out tracks, really too many to mention, but Visual Field is as good a place as any to get your sac drained. Remarkable.

Right, that'll do for now. More Britass anon.

Lovings; Bwoooar.

Here's a vid: