The night of the Brits. That hollow, onanistic, self-congratulatory jamboree attended by every parasitic, hanger-on, ligger and rictus-grinning plastic poseur in ‘the biz’.
But bollocks to all that. The Sauvignon Blanc, the coked-up kiddies, forced bonhomie and even falser schisms and rivalries are so far removed from chilly Brixton; where, tonight real rock and roll is marshaling its militant and revolutionary army at a convention of true believers in the company of Mr Moreno and his able generals and colonels.
Three Trapped Tigers *****
First to take to the conference platform are the bonkers and brilliant Brits Three Trapped Tigers. Theirs is a complicated and startling manifesto. Largely instrumental (with the occasional harmonic and almost operatic choral intervention), this is a technical, complex, tight as a coelacanth’s back passage, mesmerising and sensorially assaulting address which gets through to the very core of the assembled electorate.
Triggered drops and sub booms evacuate bowels and crush chests. The rally is led by astonishing tub thumper Adam Betts. His drumming is so passionate, powerful, jaw-dropping and heavier than weapons grade uranium. No one could hit the drums any harder. Or more accurately.
Every hemi-demi-semi quaver and ghost beat are humanly quantised to within previously scientifically undiscovered tolerances. But never clinical or anodyne. Precision yes, but married with passion and playfulness. Think Animal from the Muppets with Popeye’s arms, John Bonham’s power, Gil Sharone’s outré groove and Jimmy Cobb’s touch.
A rarity to have the drummer as the front man (although that’s unfair on his fellow troika members Tom Rogerson and Matt Calvert to push Betts too far up the party hierarchy, this is definitely a true collective and not just a drum cult of personality), everything they do is rhythmically driven. Massive techy, mathy, compound and complex beats and phrases drive this campaign bus. Ably aided and abetted by sub bass wobs and drones, sweeping synthscapes and gutsy an filigree-laden guitar cadenzas. With heaviness aplenty to satiate and canvas the assembled rock-hungry community.
Throughout, Betts is in the F zone. Focussed. Frenzied. Full-on and fucking fantastic. Driving the whole performance from behind his skinned and tinned control centre. The voters seem to lap it up too. Although, with the exception of Betts’s over animated drum work-out (Christmas Fitness DVD opportunity Klaxon), the keyboard-based performance is inevitably reminiscent of Kraftwerk or Fripp and Eno; not quite shoe-gazing, but concentrated and restrained. Difficult to stage dive or hardcore dance while cracking out complex suspended chord progressions and wandering triads on a keyboard or noodling, tapping, sweeping and seducing a Telecaster fretboard.
The crowd were pretty much reduced to nodding heads, stroking beards and grinning appreciatively rather than bringing home the mosh. No matter, a truly captivating, spellbinding and brilliant start to tonight’s anti-Brits celebration. Can’t wait to see them again at the amazing ArcTanGent Festival in August.
Letlive ***** Next preaching and screaming from the hustings are LA post hardcore darlings Letlive. Fronted by the irrepressible firecracker Jason Aalon Butler, they storm straight into a wall of noise to try and animate the now pretty much full Academy.
Butler is like some sugar-rushed, amphetamined-up or superhyperactive dervish with a bag of really angry wasps stuffed in his pants relentlessly stinging at his nutsack. He runs, jumps, hardcore whirls, forward rolls, hops, somersaults and pulls triple salchows as he yells and screams into the cavernous Brixton space.
And that’s about it. Sadly. There’s definite energy and brio in the whole performance, but, whether or not it’s down to the legendarily shite sound sarf London’s most notable aircraft hangar, the band produce a wall of mud to back Butler’s tortured yelps and death screams.
There’s no subtlety. No killer tightness. No sharpness. Just a blunt and sludgy barrage of down-tuned, well, mush. Only briefly relenting for the slightly more sophisticated and nuanced Muther with its insouciant, disaffected nods to melody and harmony and the brilliant, catchy-as-herpes pop punky anthem Renegade 86. Which is a shame.
However, Butler himself doesn’t come out scot free. His screams and banshee wails become wearing when not punctuated by melody or hooks in too many of the songs on show. I’m fond of a damn good scream or yell; in the hands of the monumental Greg Puciato or Eva Spence, a bark, a shriek or a full-on diaphragm-ripping roar is a powerful surgical implement that can destroy and bewilder but simultaneously wring out emotion and awe.
But tonight, Butler (again, maybe down to the sound) lacks that killer cut-through. And by the time his noise is stuck over the top of the muddy tsunami wave of the band, it’s all a bit disappointing. Think I need to see them again in a small, sweaty club with a killer sound system to get the full effect. The crowd remain largely ambivalent too, which further adds to the overall lack of excitement. As I say; a real shame.
Deftones *****
Right, let’s get the cult of personality bit out of the way up front. Chino is the coolest dude in the world. Fact. He’s the leader of the party. The face. The spokesman. Hell, the president.
But let’s not forget the rest of his party. This is the coolest band in the world. Fact.
Everything about them oozes cool. Even the uncool bits - like Stephen Carpenter’s combat shorts - are cool.
So, armed with some new messages from the latest stunning album Koi No Yokan, Moreno and his battlebus arrive in the capital to further spread the word.
One of the remarkable things about Deftones is their constant musical reinvention which doesn’t recode or mutate their DNA. From the early days of Adrenaline and Around The Fur, they’ve kept true to themselves (bar a little record company-forced slide into the morass of nu-metal) and despite well-documented spats, benders, differences of opinion, depression, booze , drugs and, er, tennis, there’s a consistent truth and an honesty in all of their work.
They’ve never relied upon bombast, pyro, Muse-esque animated backdrops, spaceships or gimmicks. They play hard. They play heavily. They play soulfully. They play beautifully. They just play.
And tonight’s no different. For all 20 songs, from the crushing opening of Diamond Eyes through to the bile-ridden and savage 7 Words, they just play.
The set showcases five tracks off Koi No Yokan among old favourites culled from all of their albums including Change, Engine No.9, My Own Summer and even Bloody Cape off Deftones and Riviere from the polarising Saturday Night Wrist. And the menu works splendidly.
The crowd are in a lively and loving mood, fanned by Moreno’s surprisingly garrulous, chirpy and chatty mood. Having seen Deftones on many occasions, I have never seen Chino so vocal. And he’s loving it. Swapping hats with the crowd. Yakking about apple juice and Top Man. In his own words, he just wants to talk about it.
But it’s not the stuff between the songs that matters. Tonight’s show is a majestic collection of strong and subtle. Beauty and beast. Light and shade. Anger and ecstasy.
Every emotion is summoned up. Eyes are closed in reflective contemplation one moment. Arms are open and legs bouncing in febrile excitement the next. This is a masterclass. The perfect exhibition. An object lesson.
To have survived all these years; survived each other; survived the business, survived the ups and downs shows a resilience and a strength second to none. And on tonight’s astonishing performance, that’s all you can describe this oh so cool band as: second to none.
I want JLS to be here. And One Direction. Maybe Jake Bugg. Or Emile Sandé. While we’re at it, get those fucking Gallagher brothers down here. And The little dwarf twat with the fingerless mittens and the shades - Will I.Am a dick or whatever his name is.
Then I want to wrench open their jaded, cosmetically weighed-down eyelids. Bore new, fresh holes into the sides of their heads to replace their soiled, fouled-up lugholes. Drill a fucking huge vent in the fronts of their over-important, puffed up fat craniums, then stand them in the middle of the pit in a sweaty, dingy, lager-soaked firetrap surrounded by real, passionate people.
Brits? Pah! Reality TV red-button, text-in-con, Cowell-based soylent green eating, mainstream, populist mind-bending ego fests; double pah! Tonight ladies and gents, is about real British music. With emphasis on the word real.
An absolutely rammed Underworld is testament to the fact that genuine music is alive, well, breathing and thriving. And a country mile away from the plastic, ersatz and manipulated idols and icons spoon-fed to the hapless and obedient diet-controlled masses.
Hey Vanity ****1/2* Opening tonight’s revolutionary council meeting are Hey Vanity. Formed from the ashes of the splendid Fei Comodo, this fresh-faced foursome storm into a wonderfully crafted and perfectly delivered set to whet appetites, get heads a-bobbing, legs a-jumping, fists a-pumping and hearts a-racing.
Their sound is more grown up than Fei Comodo. More sophisticated. But simpler. Rawer. But cleaner. Lighter. But still heavy when needed. There’s a poppy, indie vibe not too far under the surface. While Fei Comodo were thunderously dark and heavy in places, Hey Vanity eschew the big drops, beatdowns and dropped tuned kicks in the crotch in favour of guile, layers, melodic diversions, counterpoint and syncopation.
The guitar work is lighter. Airier. More textured and sweeter. Rhythms bouncier and dancier. Melodies, well, more melodic. Don’t get me wrong, this is still loud rock music with heavy chugs and bombs, but they’re cleaner. Less violating; more deeply satisfying. Fingering, not fisting. Saying all that, only two of the lads were actually from Fei, so to bang on about them too much would be unfair and unhelpful. This is a new band with new schtick and deserves to be treated as such. No matter how inevitable backwards comparisons are.
Anyway, the crowd are lively from the start and lap up the new boys’ delicious fare. Not having been around for long is no hinderance for these boys as their collected oeuvre so far fills out a perfect support slot.
The performance is steel shard sharp. It’s tight but not sterile. Marc Halls’ soaring vocals are spot-on and majestic cutting through the thunder, texture and complexity of the music. They even throw in a blistering cover of Outkast’s Hey Ya before ending with the brilliant single Breathe, Bleed, Grow. Expect to see a lot more of these boys. They mean it. Fantastic stuff.
Mallory Knox *****Next up for the prosecution are present tips-for-the-top and radio-raiding Mallory Knox. After their recent headline tour (have a read of the Garage show review here if you fancy it), it must seem a bit weird for these guys to pop back down the bill, but, undaunted, Mikey Chapman (complete with his trademark asymmetric strawberry blond mullet mash up mop) cheerily leads the fab fenland five into a high octane and searing set.
Every tune is an absolute banger. The brilliant album Signals is unsurprisingly raided for most of its massive numbers: Death Rattle, Signals, Hello and Wake Up are all belted out and sung back. There’s room for some older, but no less brilliant tunage with Oceans and Resuscitate stirring the pits up into a frenzy before the massive sing-a-long Lighthouse brings the dripping roof down.
This lot are genuine stars in the making and have a fantastic knack of putting a heavy edge onto a solid pop foundation and clever song construction. The only tiny concern would be that two or three of the songs contain big woo-ooh-ooh-woo sing-a-long refrains which, while highly effective at cajoling and engendering crowd participation need to be used sparingly and in a controlled way to avoid homogenisation and even worse, veering towards being all Adam And The Ants.
Don Broco*****
Don Broco must have balls the size of cat’s heads to open their show with two such brilliant bands and will need to produce a seriously off-the-scale performance to top the offerings so far.
So, what you got lads?
As the lights dim, every square inch of the subterranean sweat bunker is occupied. Oxygen’s at a premium. Knickers are fizzing. There’s a real, palpable crackle of anticipation. It’s special already.
The intro tape teaser/taster of Priorities adds to the gulp factor.
Then we’re off. The four über-lads launch into the title track form last year’s tour de force. The place goes off its tits. This is the moment I want JLS, One Direction and the fucking Gallagher bellends to see.
The moment that makes all the truly hard work, the midnight motorway service stations, borrowed floors, under-filled all day breakfast sarnies and stinking vans seem worth it.
No public vote. No Manc mafia PR-driven fast-track elevation (you know who you are). No specious and laughable awards for being the hardest working band in the land for playing a comparative handful of shows. FFS!!!! No, this is what it’s about. This is the proof. The delivery. The honesty.
Sure, these Bedfordshire bawbags have had their share of hard-earned column inches. Sure they’re easy on the eye, media-friendly, articulate, clean cut, wholesome, talented fuckers. But they put the hard miles in. Played toilets. Played support. Played festivals. Played places no one’s ever fucking heard of.
Tonight, the set never relents. Delivering banger after banger. Just when you think the crowd has reached vinegar stroke, the frenzy and froth goes up another impossible level. The massive melodic poppy joy of The Whole Truth, the feel good-filled I’m Good, the joyful Beautiful Morning melting seamlessly into the savage and hilarious mosh making Thug Workout; it’s all here. All wonderfully crafted and considered.
The sickeningly buff and bubbly Rob Damiani leads from the front. Seducing the crowd to simperingly do whatever he wants them to. Sing backs, sing-a-longs, pantomime boys and girls sing-offs. Every single one of the gathered gawpers is putty in his hench fist. Don’t you just hate him? One can only hope he’s got a cock like a boiled shrimp and stinks like skunk’s vag.
During all the fun, pop and pomp, it would be easy to forget just how brilliantly played their stuff is. There’s not even a whiff of synthetic plastic here. The playing throughout is wholesome and sensational. So tight. So precise. So on it.
The sound is big, bright and far more sophisticated than meets the ear. Simon Delaney’s guitar work is technical, spot-on and flawless. Tom Doyle’s bass funky, heavy, subtle and magical without being showy-offy. And Matt Donnelly’s drumming glues the whole experience together vibrantly and precisely. A feat made even more impressive by the fact he delivers the vocal highs to counterpoint Bobby’s baritone all through the set.
By the time Fancy Dress has been delivered to a spent and satiated crowd, there isn’t a face that doesn’t ache from grinning. A gland that’s not swollen. A pair of knickers that’s not moist or a heart that hasn’t been won over.
A truly magnificent evening all round and one that truly underlines how brilliant, buzzing and exciting the British rock scene is. And long may it continue. Here's a cheeky fan vid of the set opener. Top stuff. Maaaaaate..... As a side note, the linking factor between two of tonight's brilliant Brit bands is a gent called Dan Lancaster. The driving force behind the astonishing band Proceed, he is also a brilliant producer and, indeed, twiddled the knobs on both Priorities and Signals. But you probably knew that. Anyway, Mr Lancaster is kind of reinventing himself at the mo and is launching a parallel career as Dan James. The same absolutely astounding voice, but with a much different vibe. More souly, dare I say R&Bish and all round hi-gloss pop. Not rocky, but just brilliant. Check some of his stuff HERE
A lot of buzz about tonight’s main act. And deservedly so.
Only just having had my gonads glued back on after they’d been savagely ripped off by Hacktivist on their recent Basick Records support slot for The Algorithm, I’m looking forward to some more brutalisation.
But, before the genital removal could start in earnest, the pre-med and preparation needs to be administered. And, tonight pre-surgery is in the hands of a couple of lively young bunches of scamps and scallies, Neck deep and, first up, Eager Teeth.
Eager Teeth ***1/2**
On with the surgical gloves for a buoyant and vibrant scrub down at the hands of Brighton’s latest young noiseniks Eager Teeth. Despite some tech gremlins (blamed on lizards that plague the crust of the earth - couple of sherberts before the set lads?) they produce an energetic melange of post hardcore, punky, alt jaunt, flame, farts and fun. There’s a Billy Talent vibe just beneath the surface but fused with a punkier, more shambling edge stuck together by some strong harmonic superglue.
There’s humour, wit, harmony, energy and a beguiling front man who even mentions Herpetologists in his banter plus a hearty, noisy paean to Hall And Oates. Don’t ask. But all good.
All-in-all a fine attempt to get the early arrivals fully prepared for the impending onslaught.
Neck Deep *****
Next in the ante-room to further shave the patients down are North Walian pop punk peddlars Neck Deep. Not straying too far from the well-worn pop punk formulae path, they fizz through a brusque and breathless set with de rigeur double time, gang vox, gruff, nihilism and rebounding, frantic guitar spanking.
Nothing really new to see here, a tad predictable, but in a crowded scene, they seem to have got enough to put a green king sized Rizzla between themselves and the rest of the busy gnarly UK pack. File alongside Our Time Down Here, Real Adventures and maybe clinging onto the coat tails of the mighty Gnarwolves. Feisty, furious and with a firm fanbase who get the pyramids, hardcore moves and moshing going to warm things up in the theatre nicely.
Hacktivist *****
Finally, time for the back street abortionists, sawbones and murky sewer surgeons to come and play, torture, rip and eviscerate. This most unholy of mash up of heavy as Uranium Djent and full-on grime just shouldn’t work. Tech and lyrics. Bombs and spit. Maths and poetry. Arse-widening ten string tune-downs and ridiculously tight proggy rhythmic uppercuts melded with street preaching, anti-social, socially aware dissenting right hooks. Mad. But brilliant.
To be fair to the boys, they haven’t garnered enough schtick yet for a full headline set, but tonight they put together a short but brilliant, bewildering and surgically spot-on display which at times is so filthy you can almost smell the festering infection.
This is brave music. And supremely calculated. There’s no accidental fusion here. The constituent elements and ingredients are carefully measured and scientifically centrifugued to create a mind-altering, organ-rearranging compound of dizzying strength.
Tonight, they flaunt all of their publicly-facing oeuvre from the clever sing-along infectiousness of the eponymous Hacktivist, thru the brutal majesty of New Age, the amazing cover of Niggas In Paris and culminating with the mighty Cold Shoulders. All met with pits of frenzy and fingers in the air from a totally assaulted and defiled pit.
Hacktivist’s vision, braveness, bile and brilliance truly sets them apart from, well, just about everyone and anyone else at the moment. And with a support tour coming for the ever-brilliant and original Enter Shikari (whose very own deck fumbler Rob finishes off the twitching bodies with a brutal DJ set tonight), they’ll be able to show off their savage sorcery and surgery to more and more willing patients leaving guts spilled, heads split and ball sacks torn off all over our green and pleasant land. What treats. Here's a brief clip of some of that filthy sewer surgery in action. Lignocaine at the ready:
Deftones, Don Broco, Mallory Knox and Hey Vanity next.
The Jorneta Stream ****1/2*Part Dinosaur *****Luke Godwin *****
The Old Blue Last, Shoreditch Wednesday 6th February
Underwear. We all wear it (well, most of us). And, while its functions largely remain the same, we all have wildly different undies. Some functional to stop wobbling, sagging or chaffing. Some titillating or for others’ eyes. Some purely for comfort. Others for speed. But all, as I say, different.
And (with an almighty shoehorn) I feel its the same with music. We buy or buy into some music because we feel comfortable. Some to be intentionally uncomfortable. Some for show (admit it, we’ve all bought an album because we think we should or to be conspicuous in front of others when, actually, we think it smells of five day old fish). Some because we genuinely love it.
So, tonight’s collection of undies has brought out a predictable crowd of musos, freaks, geeks, hipsters and achingly cool Hoxton luvvies to have a good rummage.
Luke Godwin *****
First on the rack is a stripped-down solo acoustic pair of y-fronts. With piping. Ok, the room is barely habited for the devil’s own first support slot, but undaunted, young Mr Godwin steams into a fiery and full-on set full of spit and steam.
But that’s the problem. Underneath it all is a solid, comfy pair of kecks, but he insists in covering them with aggressive fluorescent leopard print. Everything is strummed to buggery and the only respite is the occasional palm mute. A bit like Rob Lynch and the more assaulty side of Frank Turner, subtlety and light and shade are not invited to this party. There are slightly bluesier, Zeppelin-infused soft bits towards the end, but the earlier assault has already bruised the flesh which can’t be covered by late lace. Clearly a good guitarist with a decent enough voice, but these pants are far too scratchy, uncomfortable and ultimately unwearable. Shame.
Part Dinosaur *****
Next up a technical under-wired, ergonomically bio-moulded space age onesie. But with a bloody great tear in the front. Things kick off encouragingly, with techy, proggy, mathy smoothness but when the singing starts....now, let’s be fair, it could be a catastrophic foldback problem or a dose of man flu, but whatever is to blame, the banshee-like, tuneless and flat as the contents of James Cordon’s back pocket vocals are just terrible.
The pleasant enough post-rock noodlings and cascading, lacy, interesting fabric is just ripped asunder and any allure or appeal completely destroyed. The worst thing is that when the vocalist realises he’s over-stretched the waistband going for the note and fails, he reverts to dreadful gruff screams to try and cover up the unsightly skidmarks. Painful.
Terribly unfair to be over-critical on one display. Let’s just hope it’s an off night. But sadly, this ripped, skidmarked onesie is on the ‘use for rags’ pile. Once the skiddies have been steamed off, of course.
The Jorneta Stream ****1/2*
A decent sized throng has gathered by the time the next tantalisingly ribboned lingerie box is due to be opened. And what a delicious surprise lies within.
A wonderful mash up of proggy, jaunty, polyrhythmic, tappy, slidy, chuggy and buoyant splendour fused with wit, sarcasm, fire and a dollop of brimstone. This is top shelf, top drawer underwear. Sexy, fun, sophisticated, beautifully crafted, original, dangerous and gorgeous.
Despite the still-watered librarian look (think Weezer or Andy Holloway from Yearbook), there is pure, cock throbbing filth beneath the surface. The songs are a wonderful mix of short, sharp wit-bombs and longer, multi-layered journeys replete with grandeur, pomp and incision. There are moments of Reuben, TTNG, Deadlights, Brontide and even the insane, outré and brilliance of Lite but with melody, lyrical chicanery and hooks. Yup, you ‘eard, even chorussy type moments. But this is far from indulgent shoe-gazing aimed at a closed school of mumbling musos. It’s intelligent, inclusive, accessible and innately clever stuff.
Underwear to wear, show off, parade around in and to have a filthy, up to the hilt full-on fuck fest with. But always worn with a smile. Brilliant.
Hold Your Horse Is *****
Like a favourite pair of M&S apple catchers, there’s an ironic comfort in HYHI’s uncomfortableness. On the surface, there’s a straightforward appeal. An attractive poppiness. Fused with an art-house alty vibe. But on closer examination, there’s a darker, broodier thread cross-pollinated with a rockier, more malevolent edge. And it works.
Hampered slightly by a broken finger, lanky and spiky front man Robin Pearson leads from the front armed with his dual-output trusty riff machine he strums and thunders his way through a very short set showcasing works from the wonderful Frimley album (well, the ones where he doesn’t need to indulge in any intricate finger work).
A disappointingly reduced crowd thanks to the late start time (all the trendies, boozers, losers and MDMA users have probably taken their beards and feature spectacles and monocles down to Brick Lane for bagels or organic root juice) laps it up and while there’s not much movement down the front, there’s an appreciative love in the room.
And deservedly so. Buchanan,Everything’s So Mundane and new boy Douche Beige are among the highlights of the night and proof that there’s a real sassiness and sexiness in uncomfortable comfort. Tonight's proceedings end in typical nihilistic HYHI style with Pearson lying down, Chris Rouse using his kit as sticks and hitting the floor with his crash and the schmoove-moving schoolboy bass machine James Penny throwing shapes and molesting his bass like Hannibal Lecter being let loose on agent Starling. Stirring and bonkers stuff. These pants will remain firm favourites; functional, funky, sexy, all underpinned with that slight discomfort to keep buttocks and wobbly bits shifting and resisting settling and safety. Everyone should own a pair.
Next up, Hacktivist and Death Of An Artist.
In the meantime, here are a couple of vids of the underwear on show:
