Bleeurgh'd vision - Live Review of Architects at Koko

Architects *****
Stray From The Path ***1/2**
Koko Camden, Friday 14th March 2014

Firstly, apologies to both Landscapes and Northlane. Due to the ever-frustrating club-night enforced early shows at the delicious faux Rococo Koko, I couldn't get to deepest Mornington Crescent early enough to run the rule over either of them.

No matter, there's already a packed pit salivating and drooling waiting for New Yoik's hardcore dahlinks Stray From The Path.

Stray From The Path ***1/2**

Kicking off with Badge And A Bullet, there's no foreplay here. Frenzied fingers plunge straight for the love button. All bounce, brio and heaving heavy hardcore. Drew York leads the assault with guts and gusto, teasing and juicing up the supplicant and breathless crowd.

They pile through seven or eight high octane bounce fests including Negative And Violent, Death Beds and, of course, Damien; which raises the fever pitch in the throbbing and circling pit to dog whistle proportions.

That all said, and despite the obvious energy, vigour and relentless fondling and thrashing, it kind of feels like a solid teenage snog and a bit of a fumble rather than a full on grown up filthy bollock-deep servicing. The delicious Eva Spence's cameo appearance notwithstanding, the whole thing stops a wee bit short of a shuddering climax and merely serves to tighten the testes and get the sap rising further in anticipation for the main rogering that we all hope is coming.

Architects *****

So, the scene is set. The lustful and lubed-up, expectant and heightened crowd assume the position, grit the teeth and spread the legs. This is going to hurt.

Launching into the full-on frenzied Gravedigger -  then, without a breath, dropping into the fearsome C.A.N.C.E.R. from the brilliant new album Lost Forever//Lost together, it's clear Sam and the boys are here to fuck and not to fuck about. The sound is immense, the reaction from the dripping and delirious packed room equally so. Something special is happening here. Something very special.

The assault is relentless. Alpha Omega brings the house down with every syllable sung back with heart and passion by the assembled love-struck sweaty orgy pile. A good smattering of material from the new album including the behemoth Naysayer, is wheeled out alongside work spanning the quintet's decade or so in the game, lending the set a perfect balance between downright brutality with blast beats and colon loosening sub drops and more melodic and harmonic reveries and seductions.

The band themselves admit they've had problems refining or even defining their sound, but whether you file it under metalcore or any other sort of core, on tonight's jaw dropping display, they've landed right on top of whatever game they're in.

Throughout the astonishing performance, engaging frontman Sam Carter comes over as genuinely and charmingly humbled. He thanks the supplicant sweaty bastards in front of him at every opportunity and oozes honestly, humility and integrity.

But despite Carter's warmth and sincerity, he and his four mates continue, unabated, with the violation and destruction of our soft organs. Drew York joins the good time gang bang during Early Grave before the set ends with the triumphant and deeply penetrating Broken Cross.

The crowd is left twitching. Replete. Slightly confused. But ultimately satiated; indeed, the stench of love in the room clings to every fibre and sweaty limb. After a brief metaphorical apres-coital fag, they're back, briefly seducing the febrile throng with the post-rock infused instrumental Red Hypergiant before whipping out the ultimate priapic, throbbing kidney wiper These Colours Don't Run to finally fuck the brains out of what's left functioning among the giddy orgy. 

To hear 1400 or so excited miscreants bellowing in unison ' you fucking pigs' is a genuine bucket list moment and the most pithy and acute encapsulation of just how something so brutal and uncompromising can engender such genuine warmth, love and unity. Breathtaking. Spine tingling. Astonishing.

The Year Of The Library Book. Live review of Yearbook and Brawlers in Dalston

Yearbook *****
Brawlers**1/2***
Birthdays. (Shitty) Dalston. London. 7th March.

So it's Dalston. A shitty pretend place. A shitty dirty place. A Turkish restaurant-imbued shitty place. Just  a shitty place. But tonight, one of the UK's most original and exciting talents are in shittown to, well kick some shit.

And in honour of the self-styled shitty centre of our beloved Capital, I've decided to go all Guinness World of Records and see how many times I can use the word shit or shitty in this shitty review. The review being shit; not the band. Obviously. 

Brawlers**1/2***

Before I kick off, I've got to apologise for being shit to the first two bands, The New Tusk and the excellent and definitely not at all shit Gunning For Tamar. Due to Dalston being so far away from anywhere non-shit, it's taken me hours to get to the shit bunker and because of shitty traffic I missed out on the starters.

Anyway, enough of shitty excuses. Onto the real shit.

A fairly packed subterranean corridor of beards, beanies and industry types awaits in insouciant anticipation of losing its shit (well, it had been a while since I got a shit in), to the Leeds lads, Alcopop signing and semi-super group who seem to be on everyone's lips at the moment.

And we're off. From the first blap-blap-bam, lead screamer, singer, shit-kicker, red beanie-wearing party starter Harry George Johns races into the pit and shakes shit up. Well, kind of.

Problem is, it's all shit we've kind of heard before. Not bad shit, don't get me wrong. Just not my sort of shit. Whereas Gnarwolves really are the shit in dirty, shitty pop punk with enormous riffs and grubby sing-a-longs, Brawlers, well, just seem to be a wee bit meh. I'm sure they're as honest as the day is long and piss and shit integrity, but on tonight's performance, they just fail to ignite.

Saying that, the rhythm section (glued together by stoner bong water drinking shit storm noise rockers Castrovalva's four string maestro Anthony Wright) is tighter than Captain Nemo's sphincter and the big riffs and chugs get the old ticker ticking and the shithouse doors shaking.

Overall, I'm just not too sure where Brawlers are going to fit in. Of course, there's always a snap-back wearing apetite  for pop punk and bands like Neck Deep are leading the charge in its resurgence (if indeed, it ever went away). There's certainly energy, vigour and edge to their shit and their new single I Am A worthless Piece of Shit is anything but worthless or a piece of shit, but the shit doesn't really stick tonight.

Not shit. But not the shit.

Yearbook *****

So onto the main event. After being doused in all manner of punky, noisy shit, it's time for some, well, odd shit. To celebrate the launch of their terrific EP Old Bones, the library lads play the whole of the record in order for the first time. And it's absolutely anything but shit.

Kicking off with the jangly shit and into big drop of the title track, it's clear from the off that they're not messing. So tight and delivering every demi-semi-quaver with passion, power and precision, the outré and quirky four piece are loving this shit. 

The harmonies and counterpoint throughout are mesmerising and enchanting in a weird nerdy, preppy and gauche kind of way but with a Lenman-like mischief. A bit like a hyper active puppy licking your face while holding a cut throat razor to your frenum. Told you it's odd shit.

There's a genuine and stunning originality to this lot. And while Andy Halloway's brilliantly and searingly delivered lyrics display an obsession with beds, there's a dynamic freshness and oblique wit and charm that sets them so far apart from most of the predictable down tuned clean/dirty alt, scene and lad rock shit  that's cluttering up the magazines, web and airwaves.

But it's not all liveliness and loveliness, there's definitely an edge to their oeuvre. This razor toting puppy dog's not all lick and playfulness, there's anger, bile and bite throughout. Genuine angst. Discontent. Even bitterness. And the crowd are lapping it up.

After the magnum opus is finished and the circular and hypnotic refrain of Sinker fades into the sweat-heavy shitty Dalston air, the bookish bastards turn it up even further by taking us on a re-vitalised and reworked journey through three or four older than old bones favourites including the irresistible 3s And 6s (blade-weilding puppy dogs 'n' all.)

A truly brilliant night at the altar of a truly brilliant young band who aren't afraid to be different and do things their own bonkers way. I still can't understand why this lot aren't well and truly on the bigger path to greatness. File alongside Hundred Reasons, Meet Me in St Louis, Hell Is for Heroes, Hold Your Horse Is, The Xcerts and the mighty Reuben as genuine British quirky, challenging genius. No shit.

Ok I didn't get the record. I only managed to clock up 45 shits and shitties. A bit shit.

Straight, no chaser. Straight Lines Live Review at The Black Heart

Straight Lines *****
Hey Vanity *****
The People The Poet *****

The Black Heart, Camden, Monday 3rd March 2014

Because it's moist and a bit miserable and we've had a damp, squelchy and dour winter, it seems kind of appropriate to run over tonight's acts using a kind of meteorological theme. Just 'cos I can. Count them puns kids.

The People The Poet *****
After an absolutely storming set supporting the wet and disappointing plastic popsters Blitz Kids a couple of weeks ago, I've been looking forward to the next warm front of balmy blue-collar, honest loveliness to bathe my aching bones.

An early slot has pulled a reasonable throng in off Camden's soggy streets as the garrulous and engaging Leon Sanford leads his Welsh wonders onto the pokey stage. Opening with People, the curtain raiser from the stunning album The Narrator, they are instantly into their stride. 

Bright and breezy, multi-layered musicianship belies the fact there are only three folk hitting, plucking, picking and strumming these days and fills the room to provide the perfect blue sky for Sanford's growling, seductive and often raw but always soulful crooning. As always, he's aided and abetted by the gorgeous and ridiculously symbiotically tight harmonies of the diminutive will-o-the-wisp Greta Isaac.

Ok, so there's a bunch of technical bad weather and Sanford's Mic packs up mid song early on, but that's a minor shower in what is a deliciously heart-warmingly sunny set crammed fiull of woo-oohs, integrity and soul climaxing in the brilliant Heart Of A Lion which must surely end up on a sporting montage BBC film at some point. Sunny days ahead indeed.

Hey Vanity *****
Next on the weather chart, blowing in from the east are Essex quartet Hey Vanity. All fizz, slickness, power and muscle with Marc Halls' phenomenal vocal range forming the eye of this perfect techporock tornado.

I've been lucky enough to have been caught in this lot's storm on many occasions, but they've seldom sounded better than they do tonight. Always tight, but never clinical or soulless, they mix up breezy, tuneful choruses and refrains with darker, heavier chugs and downtuned blasts.

This is clever but not indulgent; smart but not shoegazing, catchy but not derivative. The lastest single Some May Say is the perfect example of how their sound is developing and, tonight is a tour de force within the twister of a superb set. The outlook is certainly bright.

Straight Lines *****

After the sweet cyclone of Hey Vanity, the clouds darken and the forecast is looking murkier and forboding. Then the clouds burst and a Welsh whirlwind uproots all before it.

With a re-jigged line up (including The People The Poet's guitarist - who apparently is the brother of one of Straight lines, who apparently all went to school together, and chapel, and nursery and Mrs Jones from the corner shop once made them all tea and they all were in the Welsh Bob sleigh team together. Probably. - on bass), it's clear from the outset that Straight Lines have been at the rock and roll steroids.

There sound is heavier and rockier than ever. And much more mature. All Sabbath and Bad Company with Budgie and a smattering of NWOBHM (ask yer gran little 'uns) thrown in for good measure. And it bloody works. Oh yes.

A fierce storm but flecked with accessible melodies and hooks and glued together by Tom  Jenkins' incredible and original piercing alto. Older favourites like the catchy pop rock favourite  Half Gone are given the leaden skies treatment and sound heavier and more grown up than ever. The Anthemic Ring The Bells is heavier and sounds even more like they really mean it. Accompanying the older tunage are the offerings from the latest excellent self-released Reflect EP which is a heady brew of retro rock and tuneful thunder with the Sabbathy A Hole In The Sky being a particularly blinding blizzard (see what I did there?).

A lively crowd is whipped up into a tidy maelstrom throughout and  on tonight's evidence, Wales have another proper rock band to be proud of with enough clear air between them and the radio banal (lazy comparison klaxon ) Sterophonics, the post hardcore vibes of FFAF, greasy metal of BFMV and the onanistic indulgence of the Manics. (Whatever happened to Dopamine?).

Lovely see.