Love the Borderline.
Great pubs nearby. Heart of Soho. Low ceiling. Good bar. Good vibe.
Oh, and there’s a Nando's
nearby.
Enough already, let’s
kick things off.
Mojo Fury***** This was a gig needed
to revive the spirits after The X Factor ‘rock’ debacle. The world is a sorry
place. So thank whatever superior being there is for live rock and roll. First
up were Mojo Fury. Third or fourth time I’ve seen these fellas. And been
pleasantly impressed each time. Tonight was no exception.
They happily straddle
genres. There’s an indie artery running through them. Some shouty moments. Good
hooks. Interesting soundscapes. No shortage of classy musicianship. Maybe a bit
aloof at times but worthy and energetic all the same. There are hints of the
late lamented Oceansize, NIN and even Talk Talk. Interesting stuff. Not
sensational or terribly groundbreaking, but all-in-all enjoyable and obviously
talented. Sadly though, one feels they’re destined to be perennial support
material rather than ball-squeezing and heart-captivating headliners. Nevertheless,
the crowd seemed to like them all the same. As did I.
Maybeshewill****7/8 Right, next up were
the reason I hauled my arse out on a Monday night. Leicester’s magnificent, melodic and
moody post, post rock' (simply post rock doesn't cut it for these legends) darlings, Maybeshewill in a rare night out in London co-headlining with Japanese bad boys Lite.
For the record, they’re
now a five piece with the addition of Matthew Daly, a real keyboardist: rather than the virtual veil of electronic secrecy that accompanied previous multi-layered and textured
performances.
Maybeshewill...instruments of sheer pleasure.
The new expanded line
up totally filled the wee stage. And from the very first note of the tight and
beautifully conceived and delivered set, their massive, emotional sound filled
the sweaty, entranced, head-filled venue.
Yup, the heads were
out in force. Which is wonderfully comforting for an old head like myself. It
was like a 70s recording of The Old Grey Whistle Test. Without whispering Bob
Harris or a quarter of Red Leb. Splendid. Well, apart from the absence of the
red.
Tracks from their
latest astonishing long player (I Was Here For a
Moment, Then I Was Gone) like the haunting Critical Distance and entrancingly
hypnotic Red Paper Lanterns are embroidered effortlessly into the vibrant
sampler which showcases older favourites like The Paris Hilton Sex Tape and the
mesmerizing To The Skies From A Hillside.
They are wonderfully tight. Seem to
have ridiculous verve and energy (even more impressive, given their punishing
tour itinerary – including a massive schlep form Ireland last night). And interact almost telepathically throughout their often complex and always soulful set.
It's all beautifully put together
and is a deliciously blended smoothie of light, shade, beauty, solemnity,
pathos, emotion and sexy naughtiness. It’s wonderful that such emotion can be delivered
in an instrumental métier. Gorgeousness. Smiles. Shivers. And no small dollop
of vibe and funkiness. Love it.
Lite*****
Lite. Heavy. Lite. Dark. New Lite of my life.
By the end of Maybeshewill’s set I
was concerned that Lite, tonight’s joint headliners, were going to suffer by
comparison. Difficult to track down, I really didn’t know too much about or had
heard too much of Lite's stuff. So was almost ready to head off for an after
show cocktail or two having given them a courteous if not cursory listening.
But Holy fuck, was I in for a treat
or what?
Four geeky looking Japanese lads who
looked liked they’d wandered out of an Oxford Street Language School or crammer
fake university sidled onto the stage. And fucked my life up.
This was something special. Something
very special. Amazing playing, a tightness that I’ve seldom experienced (without
being at all clinical or soulless). Such vibrancy. So many grooves. Such
amazing technicality – without being indulgent or effete. Such obvious
enjoyment and passion.
This evening's proceedings were controlled by an energetic wee bassist who milked the most incredible lines out of his proportionally enormous plank and a vaguely embarrassed looking fella sporting a Hank Marvin Strat perched behind a Mac Book Pro. Spellbinding.
I have not one clue what any of the
tunes were called. There were wonderfully understated and humble mumblings
between tracks delivered in quaint broken English, which further warmed the
heart and generated a genuine relationship with the fervent and delirious
grooving hordes of heads - but it didn’t matter a jot what the masterpieces were called.
And that’s what they were. Masterpieces.
There were genuine classical moments,
jazzy interludes, dancy breakdowns. Syncopated deconstructions. Funky
backbeats. Amazing drumming. Oh bollocks, I really can’t ably describe how
absolutely bloody amazing this lot were. I was rendered genuinely speechless.
If any of you ever get the chance to
see Lite, sell the family jewels, divorce the missus, cancel audiences with
Popes, Gods and gurus, miss world cup finals and turn down ‘no strings’ blow
jobs from the fit one from The Saturdays. It doesn’t get much better than this
lot. They are truly astounding.
Going to have to give up the guitar
though. They’ve changed my tiny world. Fuckers.
Obviously, Maybeshewill would have got 5 stars, but because I can't give Lite a 6, 5 7/8 will have to do.
Here's their vid for the wonderful Critical Distance:
The Electric Ballroom Camden, Thursday 20th October
I’ve not looked forward to a gig this much in ages. Anyone who’s seen any of my ramblings will know that I’ve been a fan of the St Alban’s chappies since they first fingered a Kaoss pad, cranked up an SG and twiddled the knobs on a microKorg. So, in my bleary eyes, tonight was the latest chapter in their evolution.
Pint in hand, having braved the massive scene queue I plonked myself in the middle of the congregation and readied myself for the sermon according to the gospel of noise.
Letlive*****
Talking of noise, LetLive are making all sorts of sonic waves across the music world at the moment and they were first up tonight. I’ve not seen them before, particularly love the track Muther on their latest album; so was genuinely buzzing with anticipation. So, what did we get?
LetLive. Fuzzy wuzzy was a bear.
Energy? Tick. Big noise? Tick. Crowd interaction? Tick. Big tunes? Tick. Fun? Tick. Good sound? Nah. A hard on? Sadly not.
Ok, they ticked most of the boxes and I did really enjoy their brisk and brief offering. But the terrible sound killed it for me. And a lack of something indefinable. Sorry to be so vague; all the elements were there, but they failed to deliver the full 120,000 rating on the Scoville heat scale I’d so wanted to scald my balls. Which was mildly disappointing. Don’t get me wrong, they definitely have something and I’d like to see them again, maybe headlining with a decent sound in a smaller venue. But tonight, it was like having sex wearing a thick, rough, itchy woolen condom.
Your Demise*****
Your Demise. Dull, dull, dull.
Oh dear. I hate to slag bands off. Especially bands with apparently good reps. But, tonight, Your Demise were bloody awful. There, I said it. The majority of the crowd in front of me would probably take issue with me. But, then again, they would probably have loved Bronski beat or a fat bird from Essex singing Chris De Burgh covers tonight, such was the infectious enthusiasm, consumption of Pear Cider and excitement dripping from the Ballroom’s ceiling.
Nope, Your Demise were predictable, sludgy, derivative, tired and, like LetLive, destroyed by the worst sound since Death Cab for Cutie at the notorious sonic graveyard in Brixton. Ed McRae’s vocals sounded like they were being sung through the thick, rough, itchy woolen condom. Unsexy. Unispiring.
Don’t want to say too much more. But I was so underwhelmed, it started to take the gloss of the evening. Well, a bit. Shame.
The Future Sound of St Albans
Enter Shikari*****
Noel Gallagher. Miles Kane. Nicky Wire. Ian Brown. Tom Meighan. Jared Leto. Gerard Way. Billie Joe Armstrong. Pete Doherty. Caleb Followill. And too many others to mention. Give up. Just go. Leave quietly. Don’t bother closing the door. Just fuck off. Right off.
You are all guilty of either saying rock is dead or producing dead rock music. Your days are over. Your moments in the sun finished. Move over. Diogenes once told Alexander The Great to stand out of his light. You fuckers need to get the message.
Definitely. Not maybe.
Tonight, Messers Rou Reynolds, Rory Clewlow, Chris Batten and
Rob Rolfe are ordering you to stop casting your prosaic, tedious and stultifying shadows over our bright new world.
Tonight’s performance was truly one of rock’s defining moments. The Herts boys have grown up (thankfully not too much). And are at the very vanguard of all that is good and great about loud and live music.
It is rumoured that close to his death throes, Mr Tony Wilson opined that the future of British music was is rude health and, enigmatically, St Albans was where it was at. Tony, you were so right you dear, bluff old cove. The future is safe. Totally safe. Oh yes.
Everything about tonight’s show was just off the chain. From the triumphant opening of Destabilise, through the trancy, dancy wob wobs of Motherstep/ship via a smattering of tasty morsels from Common Dreads (even the polarising Gap in The Fence sounded amazing!) to tantalizing tasters of goodies to come like the addictively brilliant Ssssnakepit, the crazy-arsed Arguing With Thermometers to old buffed up favourites like No Sssweat, Return To Energiser and crowd pleasers Juggernauts, Sorry You’re not a Winner and OK, Time for Plan B.
I was lucky enough to be at the intimate Dingwalls gig for Rory’s birthday a couple of months back and really couldn’t believe they could get any better. But tonight, my God, they rewrote the book. This was magnificent. Truly magnificent.
I’m so happy that there are so many great British bands around at the moment; Burn The Fleet, Lower Than Atlantis, Don Broco, Proceed (although Dan needs to pull his sodding finger out and get us all some new delicacies to gorge upon), Arcane Roots, King Blues, Pulled Apart By Horses, Rosa Valle, Polar, Max Raptor, The Xcerts, Midgar, Deaf Havana, Maybeshewill and many more, but Mr Reynolds and the lads are leading the revolution at the moment. And tonight I was privileged to have been present at such a powerful rally and call to arms.
In a week when The shitty sad old Stone Roses have announced a weary, cynical potboiler reformation, it is even more resonant and important that Enter Shikari are around to save our corporately exploited and shit-fed contrived and controlled A-playlist doused souls. If Gallagher, Wire, Meighan and their sad-arsed cronies, acolytes and jaded, morose organ grinders could have been here tonight they would have spared us all a job and been down the pawnshop or on Ebay in the morning getting rid of their abused and redundant Epiphones and Rickenbackers. Shown up. Embarrassed. Taught a lesson. And fucking humiliated.
Amazing stuff. Can’t wait for the new album and more live havoc next year.
Some Godawful Scandinavian Ogress and a
pretend Djent band*****
Midgar
The Watershed, Wimbledon. 27th
September 2011
Absolutely sick. Not in a hipster or surf
dude stylee. But sick. Really sick. I missed Midgar. Got to the impressive
Watershed in Wimbledon just before 8:00 only to see the boys clearing the
stage. And doors were only at 7:00. Totally gutted. Had been looking forward to
catching Andy and the lads since their sensational show at The Barfly. And to
make matters worse, unannounced, an 8 foot blonde punk Valkyrie wandered on
stage with a rent-a-metal band of nothing special no-hopers: my sickness was
compounded.
Time please Djentlemen. Aaaarrrgghh!
They weren’t even supposed to be here. Were
they? I can’t even remember what they were called. It started with a Dje.
Anyway, not just because of my foul mood, they were awful. A screaming giant
bird with a tired sounding derivative drop D sludgeband. Shite. Just Shite.
Still shaking with disappointment and
misery I took refuge in some hard booze and waited to be revitalized, refreshed
and rogered by Mr McPherson and his band of very merry men.
InMe***** And lift my mood it certainly did. InMe had
slipped off my radar for years after a really encouraging and potential-laden
first album. Intelligent, technical, melodic and original tuneage of the top
order surely signaled massive things ahead. But then they were gone. Or at
least hibernating.
I was privileged to catch Dave’s after
hours solo set at Knebworth in the summer and he blew me away. Like Willie
Thorne, his hair’s all gorn, but his mesmerising voice and great playing still
remains and, coupled with a jaunty, cheeky and witty persona, mark him out as
someone very special. The next day, in a massive blue tent, joined by his band,
they blew the bloody doors off. This reawoke my interest in the Essex-based
larrikins and so I stocked up on their whole back catalogue and now I was ready
for the next chapter of the good book of InMe.
McPherson, I haven't had a c*nt all day drinksatble.
And man they didn’t disappoint. A sold out
Watershed bayed and hollered as a Dubstep wobfest thumped and wobbled the congregation’s
nether regions. Then it was straight into Ferocity in Desire. The lads were
really enjoying themselves and the packed crowd shared the joy and smiles. A
bristling set followed. Heavy as hell in parts. Drenched in melody and melancholy
in others. Faster The Chase, and Myths and Photographs provided a solid backbone to the bone
shuddering set. Two new songs were given an airing (Pantheon and Legacy) and,
like a wonderful amuse-bouche, set appetites and drool running wild in anticipation
of the forthcoming new release (Pride). All Terrain Vehicle was an absolute
highlight offering light and shade in the Dantean sulphur pit of writhing
acolytes.
A rare and fantastic outing of Her Mask rounded the main set off,
before the pantomime routine of the encores.
Raindrops on Stones was followed,
unsurprisingly by the crowd-pleaser Single of The Weak and the whole feast was
topped off by the one that kicked it all off all those years ago, the anthemic Underdose.
Apart from the gaping hole left by missing
Midgar, this was truly on of the best gigs of the year. Delivered with skill,
joy, charm and balls the size of Tigers’ heads, InMe are back (if they ever
went away, that is). And everyone should make a date for their tour next year. Totally fucking splendid.
Fink*****
Charlene Soraia*****
The Union Chapel, Islington, 5th October
2011
Having discovered Fink by complete accident
in a Japanese toy shop about 7 years ago (the sublime cover of Alison Moyet’s
All Cried Out as it happens), he/they have regularly been one of my relaxation
aids, But until tonight, I’d never seen them live. So was greatly looking
forward to a relaxed, radox bath with my secret discovery. But, on arrival at a
sold out Union Chapel, I was horror struck. Juding by the crowd, they’ve/he’s,
dare I say it, become, er, cool. And trendy. And everything.
It was like walking down Curtain Road in
the small hours of a Saturday trying to find a vegan bagel or wheat grass
dietary supplement drink. Half mast trousers, novelty facial hair, comedy ‘hench’
glasses, retro footwear and lots of affected hand gestures and stupid fucking
hats. Loads of them. Fuck, Shoreditch and Dalston must’ve been empty of twats.
They were all here.
Anyway, after running the gauntlet of
London’s coolest c*nts, I found a perch pretty near the front of the beautiful
venue and plopped myself onto a pew.
Soraia. Beautiful. Just beautiful.
Charlene Soraia*****
First up was a pretty young gal and a nice
sunburst semi-acoustic. She opened up with a cutesy, gauche and beguiling chat.
I immediately fell in love with her.
I hoped she’d live up to her loveliness
once she’d started playing. Having hung around (and been a little involved in)
the acoustic/folk scene for many years, I’ve sat through so many horrible hours
of hopeful girls with guitars, so my expectations weren’t high.
I needn’t have worried. Her jazzy,
syncopated and thrilling guitar work was a genuine surprise. No aimless
strumming here, but neat finger picking and some great chop with harmonics,
sweeps, tapping and even two songs delivered to a brilliant baritone guitar
backdrop. Her voice was as near perfection as one could hope for. Not a note
missed in the whole set. Astonishing. Such clear timbre and a range Minnie
Ripperton would have been jealous of ( I would have said she’d die for, but
that would have been crass. Oops.)
Her songs were refreshingly original and
varied. Saying that, some lacked clear refrains or hooks and rambled a bit. But
never mind. She is genuinely a wonderful talent and as her banter continued I
fell deeper and deeper in lust/love with her. Swoon.
They Fink it's all over...
Fink*****
Ok, heart back to normal. She’d gone. Time
for Mr Cool.
A ‘spine’ of giant desk lamps adorned the
intimate stage as the three troubadours sauntered, apologetically onto the
platform.
Some noodling, and suddenly we’re into a
reworked version of Biscuits for Breakfast. The sparks of recognition flicker
among the ‘cats’ in the crowd. And we’re off.
Front man Fin Greenall (Fink himself) has a
mellifluous and hypnotic delivery and tonight he’s weaving his stress- busting
magic with aplomb. Tracks from the new album (Perfect Darkness) meld perfectly
with reshaped older material. There are hints of trip hop, trance and electro
folk. Whether he knows it or not, he’s virtually absorbed the spirit of the
late, great John Martyn. His echoplexy laden layers could have come straight
from the great man himself. There’s a whiff of Adem, Terry Callier, fellow
Cornishman Dan Arborise and harks back to Drake and Renbourn. A veritable mash
up of acoustic greats and gods.
The evening is far from one paced and total
chill-out overload though. Thankfully. They even threatened to trip the noise
limiter with trippy, rhythmic rocky sections. Despite a near coma in the
middle, so lost was I in the layers and swirling syncopation, I totally loved
it.
Alright, it did get a bit samey (the latest
album aimlessly and repetitively meanders a bit too much even for an old head
like me), but all-in-all and Shoreditch wankers notwithstanding, a truly
magical evening. And as the final suspended chord of a pared-down version of
Pretty Little Thing rang out around the grand old chapel, it did feel like we’d
been present at something quasi-religious. Amen.
You Me At Six*****
Deaf Havana*****
Lower Than Atlantis*****
Brixton Academy, 15th October
2011
Now that’s a queue. I have never, ever
encountered a queue as massive as the one snaking half way round south London
that met us as we neared the grand old Academy. Well, I say near, the queue
must have been close to a mile long. Seriously. And, about 80% female. Weird.
Anyway, after queuing for 40 minutes,
finally got in to an absolutely rammed Academy for the end of Motorway (of
Life). Ok, it didn’t rank as badly as missing Midgar at the InMe gig, but LTA
(ok, and Deaf Havana) are the main reason I’m here to be honest, so missing the
start was a tad galling. No
matter, what were Monsieur Duce and his gang going to lay on us on this
momentous evening?
Lower Than Atlantis*****
Energy, grunt, power, dirt, electricity and
great fun, that’s what.
Right, let’s get the negative out the way
first; the sound. Brixton is always shit. Fact. I’ve even walked out of gigs in
the past because it’s so poor (Death Cab for Cutie, Dave Matthews, Pendulum et
al), but as a support, it must be the shittiest end of the stick. The kick drum
sounded like a leather sofa being hit by a stick of rhubarb and the vox were
too low in the mix. But bollocks to that, LTA are one of the most exciting and
fabulous young bands in the land and they ploughed on regardless of the sonic
challenge. With aplomb.
LTA and the girls' wall of love.
Mike Duce is a mega talented, miserable
arsehole. And I love him for it. He’s right up there as one of the kinpin
songwriters in this country and his cynical, askant, eloquent (ok apart from
the amusing pun fest that is Deadliest Catch!) and often ascerbic lyrics genuinely
are a snapshot narrative to modern yoof.
There is great depth to LTA’s offering.
It’s neither whiny, frothy pop punk nor nihilistic hand-wringing joyless hardcore,
but a refreshing blend of heavy, guitar-based riffage and catchy hooks as a
tapestry backdrop to Duce’s teasing and insightful wordsmithing and grizzly,
original vocal. I’m not altogether sure whether most of this evening’s
assembled scene gals totally ‘got it’, but it appeared to be gulped down
greedily in an enthusiastic frenzy by the writhing masses. The lads took to the
big crowd like second nature; cajoling, inciting, exciting and entertaining
from the first note til the last. Even throwing in a wee bit of Foo Fighters. Can’t
wait for their headline tour next year.
Deaf Havana*****
Poor old James and Chris were heavy with
cold. Which, for mr Veck-Gilodi is a right bugger, as he has a remarkable
voice, especially at the top end and so snot and swollen tonsils were always
going to dampen proceedings a wee bit.
However, the show must go on. And it did.
Oh yes.
Veck-Gilodi...Deaf to all but Metal
Opening with their mighty party
tour-de-force, Friends Like These, the place went into Karaoke meltdown. Ok, it
sounded like a Beatles audience, or a woman’s hockey international crowd, but
it must’ve served as a double strength Lem-Sip Xtreme to the band. They’re on
the verge of something massive with the new album a month away from release and
on tonight’s showing, they’re fully equipped to enjoy every single drop of
success that’s on its way.
Hands up if anyone's got any Beecham's...
The sound was ramped up a bit compared with
LTA and the set gathered pace culminating in the magnificent Nicotine And
Alcohol Saved My Life which was virtually delivered Veck-Gilodi-Free as the crowd assumed vocal duties. The
world is now ready for these boys and they will surely deliver. Watch this
space.
You Me At Six*****
Right, let’s get things straight: I’m not a
massive fan of YMA6. Not that they’re no good. Far from it. What they do,
they’re just about the best out there at it. As I’ve already said, I mainly
came to see LTA and Deaf Havana, but I’m drawn to watching Guildford’s finest
with a real sense of excitement.
So, what is all the fuss about? Why all the
fizzy knickers? The Queue? The palpable anticipation? The hysteria? The hype?
The screams?
Josh: He's not the Messiah. Or even a very naughty boy.
They’re pure class. That’s what. It’s a
truly remarkable feat that a bunch of genuine, nice boys from Surrey playing
honest, tuneful and ballsy rock and roll
are right up there. A no1 album. Yup, a fucking no1 album. A rock album.
With guitars. And soul. And heart. And tunes.
And it makes me fiercely proud. And, I have
to admit, more than a tad emotional. It is a genuine joy that rock music is
cultivating a new audience. In a
world of sugar, ‘product’, samples, autotune, meandering R&B, gangster
bollocks, endless, tedious rap and fucking boy bands, it makes the heart race
to know that real music is thriving. Moreover, it’s creating a real wave and
sucking youngsters in as it grows in strength.
YMA6 owned the stage tonight. Big tunes.
Big love. Big guitars. Big noise. Bigger appreciation and an entranced,
captivated crowd. And all without the wank of messianic arrogance displayed by
30STM or the pantomime sickness and slickness of MCR. Of course, the crowd
tonight probably love stuff like that too (worryingly, there was a mass join-in
to sodding soulless Kings of Leon in the break!), but tonight, they only had
eyes -and ears- for Josh and his merry band.
So, he’s a babe magnet and the sort of boy
every mum would want as a son-in-law, but he has real soul and charm. And a not
half bad voice. Although, at times tonight, it was a little shaky. But let’s hope he can continue to be the good bloke from down
the pub and avoids the cloak of bollocks that messers Way and Leto have donned
on their way to apparent frontman nirvana.
While bands like YMA6, Deaf Havana, LTA,
Enter Shikari, The Xcerts, Don Broco, WATO and the rest of the UK scene continue to grow and entertain
with the integrity, groundedness and honesty, the rock and roll world is in
safe hands. And long may it continue. Hallebloodylulliah!
Enter Shikari next week. Then the magnificent Maybeshewill.
