Arcaning It. Live review of Arcane Roots at XOYO

Arcane Roots *****
Verses **1/2***
Empire ***1/2**

XOYO, Shoreditch, 26th November 2012

In the land of fixed gear bikes, sockless brogues, George Bernard Shoreditch beards and all manner of street food, it seems wholly reasonable to compare tonight's offerings to the outputs of chicken shops, kebab houses and pho emporia. 

Empire ***1/2**
First up are Empire. A mixed kebab with lip smacking but indeterminable meat from a variety of sources. There's a heavy but lively and upbeat meatiness topped with searing and blistering vocals from a hyperactive dreadlocked ghost chilli in the shape of frontman Joe Green. 

The songs are tidily prepared and served with fire, soul and enough citric acidity to lift them away from total middle of the road pop rock vanilla. There's more than a sprinkle of complex Mars Volta sauce mixed up with a Freeze The Atlantic alt rock strength. And a definite whiff of chopped up originality.

Notwithstanding the amazing range, delivery and strength of Green's vocals, the only slight grumble would be that many of the songs lack a discernable or killer hook. As a relatively new outfit, I'm sure this will come with time as their song craft develops, but choruses, refrains and sing-a-long chunks were not too evident this evening.

The Empire Doner: Spicy, meaty, with a fresh zingy complex topping laden with face-melting vocal chilli sauce. Probably needs a bit longer to mature into the full monty. Powerful and tasty stuff though.

Verses **1/2***

After a decent and spicy kebab it's time for one of those spring roll type of affairs. You know the sort, tasty enough, but you're really not sure what you're eating. And Verses are more of the Iceland frozen family spring roll than anything more challenging.

Yes it's palatable and quite flavoursome; but it's never really fulfilling and substantial. Having seen Verses develop over the last couple of years, there's no denying that they've upped their game considerably. The ingredients and preparation have been streamlined and refined, but you can't help but feel the need for some extra clout, spice and bite.

There are and have been so many bands in this Morrisson's middle ground, many of whom have been sadly and forlornly confined to the wheely bin at the back of the caff - from Natives and Futures to Francesqa and Coastline - it's bloody hard work and being different is as much of a battle and a challenge as being good.

And good is what Verses are. But that's about it at the moment. While Canterbury, Don Broco, Deaf Havana and LTA stride on in their rampage for chart domination and seducing the nose-ringed, dip dyed sorority, bands like Verses have got their work cut out to keep up.

The Verses savoury spring roll: Tasty enough but all a bit safe. Too many bland but pleasant vegetables with not quite enough meat or gristle. Fills a hole. But leaves you wanting more quite quickly. Nice with a lager though.

Arcane Roots *****
As Shoreditch wipes the last crumbs and grease spots from the amuse-bouches out of its collective strong beard, it's time for the main course. And an absolutely rammed XOYO with it's weird topography and useless bars is salivating and drooling at what's next.

Tonight one of the hottest names in the broader rock genre in the UK are here to stuff our faces with rich riffs, fuck off scotch bonnet bangers and spicy sophistication. And man, do they deliver.

Despite some early stodgy and slightly gloopy sound problems, this is cuisine from the highest of high tables. Adventurous, fulfilling, challenging, spicy, heavenly and sumptuous. This is not fast food, but 3 Michelin-starred deliciousness, suffused with skilfully prepared, curated and cleverly mixed ingredients.

After Energy is Never Lost, Just Redirected, and the magnificent Slow, a hugely clever medley of some of the heavier and hearty bits of the excellent Left Fire (mini) album including Million Dollar Que$tion and In This Town of Such Weather serve as a warm and delicious reminder of where this chef's collective cut its Sabatier-sharp sabre teeth. 

There's power aplenty in every dish served up. The sound sorts itself out and songs from the album of the year Blood & Chemistry including the sublime Hell And High Water are sung back with joy, vigour an emotion by just about every mouth on every hipster's head. Spine tingling interraction that gives a true glimpse of an inevitable stadium-filling future.

The highlight of the evening though, for me, is the remarkable 'song prepared three ways', Triptych. It's the first time I've ever seen it live and it is without a doubt the dazzling centrepiece of what is rapidly turning into the best show of the year. Quite how frontman and beardy guitar wizard Andrew Groves effortlessly flambés such a complex riff while not missing a note with his searing and sizzling voice is beyond the ken of most mere mortals - truly astonishing.

And it keeps coming like a bacchanalian feast or 23 course renaissance banquet: old favourite You Are brings the house down and the testes torturing and bowel bullying riff of Resolve savagely cajoles the boisterous crowd into writhing, half-time infused ecstasy.

By the time You Keep Me here melts into the haunting and choral soufflé for which assorted members of the undercard join messrs Burton, Atkins and Groves on stage, the crowd is stuffed to the gills. Replete. Emotional. Sated. Dribbling. Spent. 

There is no more wafer thin mint of an encore, but no one minds. What we've witnessed here is surely Britain's greatest new rock band playing live rock music of truly world class quality. 

They're just about to be reunited with Biffy Clyro in mainland Europe for more stadium work. It truly won't be that long before this lot of Blumenthalesque magicians are serving up their own delicious and challenging cuisine to stadiums full of their own hungry, adoring customers. A brilliant band. A brilliant night. A brilliant performance. Yum.

The Arcane Roots fusion melange: Delicious. Meaty. Powerful. Sophisticated. Joyous. Gorgeous. Oh, fuck it, just fucking amazing.

Now for a kebab...

Karnage in Camden - Live review of Karnivool and TesseracT at KOKO

Karnivool *****
TesseracT *****

Koko, Camden, Thursday 21st November

It's time to dive into the winter wardrobe as the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness meanders into the chilly heart of winter. So, what's in the cupboard to keep us warmed?

TesseracT *****

First up are a curious outfit with, on the face of it, well-worn leather and denim but underneath, a challenging and tight PVC thong spiked with shards of steel and doused in deep heat or bleach. Then, like some retro sci-fi B-Movie costume, topped with some sort of cod futuristic shiny space helmet. All a bit weird.

TesseracT are a definitely strange mix. Progressive metal (if that's what it is) is a genre that's kind of got away from me. Add in the obligatory djent bombast and downtuned, hi-gain chugs and punches and the obfuscation only gets more bewildering.



A pretty much full Koko doesn't seem to mind the mismatched eccentricity however and a boisterous and eager early crowd rubberneck and gawp at the explosive couture like the alikadoos and liggers at the catwalk in fashion week. Without the Bolly dahlink. Obviously.


The playing is tighter than a deep sea squid's ringpiece with all manner of polyrhythmic reveries glued together with thunderous bass and precision skin thumping. And there's lots of hair. But now that Ashe O'Hara has imbued the whole output with high quality, clean and melodic crooning, the whole costume has become super-slick; maybe, arguably a little too slick.

It's undeniably brilliantly played and performed throughout - these guys are technically top drawer, it just seems to lack a little edge. The shards of glass and rusty steel need to be rubbed in to the genitals a bit more. It comes over more Jermyn Street silk boxers than tight PVC with a fuck off codpiece.

Still, a great kick off to this evening's parade. If not a little bewildering.

Karnivool *****

It's been a while since we've seen the Aussie proggers on our shores. And marking the launch of their recent tour de force Asymmetry, 'the Vool' finally bring their antipodean dress code out for a catwalk unveiling.

The new album gets a decent airing this evening with 7 or 8 of its tunes welded into the set alongside many old favourites (but no bloody Roquefort, sadly!). And from the off, it's easy to see that they've worked bloody hard on the tailoring and finish.

It's all exquisitely presented, but with enough added 'liveness' to avoid it being a soulless or slavishly flawless run-through of the factory-made prototypes. 

The sound is perfect but not clinical; there's enough of a ragged edge to proceedings to get the heart pounding and not just the head nodding and beard stroking. Saying that, because of the dominance of the new material which obviously hasn't had much time to seep into even the most ardent fan's soft tissue, it takes a while to get going and it's not really until we're treated to the magnificent Themata that things kick off.

It's always a difficult balance; do you open wearing a big old favourite jumper or try something with the label still in the back that you're obviously fiercely proud of and want to show it off? Tonight, the new pair of knickers are the opening choice and, I'm not overly sure it was quite the right choice. 

While the songs on the magnificent album are all of the highest quality you'd come to expect from these WA wizards, they're generally more in the 'grower not a shower' camp -  and until openers The Last Few and AM War have become established favourites and generate the sing backs that Goliath and Simple Boy do, then maybe they should be tantalisingly revealed after the comfy jumper is provocatively peeled off.

That said, tonight's show is fervently and enthusiastically devoured by a lively and loved-up crowd. The best and most accessible new shoes are already becoming new favourites and We Are and The Refusal fit seamlessly among the tried and tested.

The main set does finish rather anticlimatically though with Aeons and it's only when the crowd notice the band aren't actually on stage any more that they realise they ought to politely ask for more. Which is delivered with an amuse bouche in the atmospheric but hardly toe-tapping Alpha Omega followed by the song of the night, the mighty set closer New Day which finally sets fire to this particular Camden hive and turns the packed faux-rococo room into a massive dopamine-drenched karaoke box.

All-in-all a beautifully produced and performed show which dutifully aired the latest creations but was maybe a tad light on the staples and trusted favourites. Or maybe just needed the order tweaking. Gorgeous stuff though. And I didn't mention Tool once. Er...

Escape to Victory. Live review of The Dillinger Escape Plan at Koko

The Dillinger Escape Plan *****
Three Trapped Tigers *****
Maybeshewill *****

Koko, Camden, 8th November 2013

On the face of it, tonight's bill is a little like a menu from one of those utterly pretentious 1980s wanky restaurants. You know the kind of thing; a foetal marmoset on a bed of pan fried Albanian grandmother's pubes in a bile and kumquat coulis. It just shouldn't work. Or even be there.

But that's being far too simplistic. And narrow-minded. All three acts are all bound together by a host of DNA similarities. Passion. Energy. Musicianship. The desire to bloody mindedly challenge  the status quo and fart in the face of the average or bland. All mixed up with  a unified and innate 'don't give a fuck' attitude, we're going to do it our way cojones. 

And tonight, even though it's a ridiculously early start for a metropolitan Friday night rock show, London's inquisitive, converted, obsessed and musical libertarian masses are out in force to tuck into this most startling buffet.

Maybeshewill *****

First on the tasting plate are Leicester's post rock maestros Maybeshewill. To a surprisingly big early crowd, they weave a magical delirium and hypnotic mist that old Merlin himself would have been proud of. 

The sound is crystal cear, the lightshow captivating (big up to DEP for letting/insisting that their supports get the full bag of toys to play with - most headliners give the undercard the equivalent of two or three 60w domestic bulbs, a glow stick and hang thick army blankets in front of the front of house) and mesmerising as the quintet take the bearded and plaid-draped throng on an emotional and organ-adjusting half an hour journey that seduces, tantalises and engages from the first perfectly played hemi-demi-semi quaver to the last.

This is far from indulgent muso wank though. It's huge, cinematic, spine tingling and satisfying splendour. Yes, it's clever, but never knowing or self-regarding. The fact that post rock (if it is indeed a genre at all) largely remains vocal-free exposes the music itself, but like a blind man develops better hearing, the absence of a crooner only serves to heighten the musicality and makes it work harder to captivate and beguile.

Thundering  rhythms, stunning stick work, lyrical and melodic reveries and modular arpeggios come together to provide a delicious and truly unique (and surprisingly emotionally-drenched ) taste sensation. Delicious. Bloody delicious.

Three Trapped Tigers *****

After the soundscapes and seduction of Maybeshewill, it's time to turn things up a little on the sensation-ometer. As the next course on this most challenging, exciting and outré meal, Three Trapped Tigers saunter onto the stage and deliver a meaty, jagged, brutal and massive portion of kick-arse. 

This is beautiful, multi layered cuisine, but infused with face melting chili that, at times is off the scoville scale. It's wholly unfair to lay most of the blame for the blistering mind-blowing intensity on the plate of Mr Adam Betts, the drummer. But I'm going to. 

More than just aided by Matt Calvert and Tom Rogerson on banks of keys and guitar, Betts drives this Hadean-bound, fucked up pantechnicon like some meta amphetamine powered demented dervish. No one on the earth surely hits the skins with greater power or precision. It's almost impossible to take your eyes off Betts, despite Rogerson and Calvert's best efforts, he's like Kaa the snake from Jungle book; beguiling, entrancing, mesmeric, stunning.

The barrage continues apace. But it's far from relentless; apart from going through just about every time signature on the planet (and some previously undiscovered) there's genuine contrast, nuance and dynamic to their offering.

Betts' driving is flawless and breathtaking throughout. Even the great Billy Rymer must have the odd twinge of nerves backstage as he waits in the wings. Like Maybeshewill before them, they benefit from the full-on eye-melting lightshow and, again, like their Leicestershire commrades have never sounded better.

This is top drawer music. Combining funk, classical, jazz, metal, fusion - what the fuck ever. Genuinely dazzling. You can call them math rock, noise rock, post modern up your arse on a hook rock. In the end, it's just brilliant. Truly brilliant.



The Dillinger Escape Plan *****

Always a bit difficult contemplating a main course after such perfect starters, hors d'oeuvres and canapés, but the inter-course wait means the by now totally rammed Koko is salivating, drooling and ravenous.

The house lights finally dim and a stygian landscape of screens carrying fucked-up, acid suffused weirdness, words, images and footage that would have happily graced Un Chien Andalou flicker and tantalise.

Then it kicks off. The razor sharp jump lead bulldog clamps are viciously attached to every fold of genitalia in the room and the wattage, ampage and voltage are all ramped to the max. Bodies squirm, dive, surf, ride, fit, spasm, gyrate, ejaculate and circulate. 

Dillinger are like no other band on the planet. They're as raw as a freshly peeled penis rubbed with drain cleaner, as aggressive as a starved tasmanian devil with hornets up its arse, but as calculated and clever as a sack of Harvard-educated weasels. There's no accident here.

The playing, as always is unbelievable technical and skilful maintained incredibly while jumping, diving, crowd walking, climbing, leaping and running. Billy Rymer's drumming, is crisp, polyrhythmic, mind-melting and super-human, the demonic Rasputin Liam Wilson is the heartbeat of the whole cardiac arrest fisting the baying crowd with his deep penetrating bass dildo, while Ben Weinman's and James Love's über-tight pyrotechnic fret work is relentlessly flawless but never predictable or tiring.

And the whole shit circus is lead with vim, vitriol and vigour by the impossibly hench Monsieur Greg Puciato. His eyes bulging almost as much as his ridiculous, thigh sized guns as he preens, snarls, screams and spellbinds the sweating, writhing hordes. The sing backs have never sounded louder or more passionate. The more memorable and melodic refrains in Black Bubblegum, Milk Lizard, the amazing One of Us Is The Killer and Gold Teeth On A Bum almost drown out the huge barrage of noise coming from the stage. 

There's genuine love in the room. But man love. Punching hard on the shoulder and bear hug love. No kissing, fondling or fingering here. And it's impossible not to be caught up in the testosterone-soused love-in.

Dillinger always eschew the norm. Fly in the face of convention. They're never afraid to appal as well as enthral. They are the very spirit of rock and roll. The flag wavers of the middle finger-in-the air generation. Never contrived or ever just going though the motions, they are a fluid, fearless and frightening force of nature and knock just about every other so called heavy, punk, metal, math or rap band into the most cocked of cocked hats.

I can honestly say, I'm not sure whether I actually love their music, hate it, am inexorably and chemically addicted to it or am just intrigued, bewildered and stunned by it. But tonight I fell in love again. In a manly way of course.

Tonight's weird and wonderful bill has been one of the cleverest, most uplifting and refreshing menus I've ever had the pleasure of dining from. For the first time ever, I felt it necessary to give all the acts on the bill of fare five stars. I have been left drained, breathless, hypnotised, sodomised and seduced. And that, my friends is what powerful, engaging, don't give a fuck music should all be about. A bloody men.