At a canter: live review of Canterbury at Dingwalls

Canterbury *****
Blitz Kids *****
Big Sixes ***1/2**

Dingwalls, Camden, Wednesday 9th April 2014

The scene: 
In the foetid belly of Camden Lock's most Stygian recesses, gather an unholy horde of dip-dyed fringes, grisly bearded bastards, plugged lobes, pierced and inked flesh and, well lots of terribly nice, respectable A level students called Josh and Katrina.

The Cast: 
The young, friendly, cheeky and slightly bohemian art student upstart played by Big Sixes
The cock-sure, smoking, drinking edgy bigger brother who gets all the girls played by Blitz Kids
The Big brother. Buttoned-down, suave and smooth intelligent trainee lawyer played by Canterbury

The plot: 
The three young British brothers aim to seduce the assembled outsiders, beasts and ne'erdowells using merely the power of rock and roll. 


Act 1: Big Sixes ***1/2**

First up are the tuneful tyros Big Sixes who deliver a melodic, quirky but uplifting and rousing short set of jaunty alty folky rocky indie goodness which gets the already heaving sweat bunker on its feet. There's a definite Turin Brakes influence with maybe even a hint of Twin Atlantic thrown in. Fresh, perky, tidy stuff.



INTERLUDE:
Before the second act begins, we're all informed that all Blitz Kids' gear has been stolen. The stealing of bands' gear appears sadly to be a relatively regular occurrence and it defies belief. Theft as a whole is obviously a moral and legal no-no, but if thieving low-lives are going to steal stuff, then they should pick their fucking targets more discerningly. 

Stealing a band's gear is like breaking a painter's fingers and scooping his eyeballs out, lopping the cock off a porn actor or cutting the throat out of a mezzosoprano. It goes far beyond just theft. It is denying someone their livelihood. 

Insurance aside, instruments, effects, laptops and other essential kit are often irreplaceable. Without sounding wanky, a musician forms a bond with their stuff. A favourite beaten up old Strat copy maybe the only guitar for a particular song. That rubbish old tube screamer pedal may have been the one that nailed the perfect sound on the seminal album. The initial rough ProTools demo of a future banger No 1 among the dodgy porn Mpegs on that old iBook. And now? Some miserable, low life arse wipe gets a few quid for it all at a pawn shop.

Social reasons for theft thrown to one side in this case as a specious distraction, it's just fucking outrageous and, though revenge and retribution don't help, I hope the miserable shits that jacked the stuff overdose from the cheap shit they'll buy with their ill-gotten gains or die fucking horribly of bowel cancer. Cunts.



Act 2: Blitz Kids *****

So, shorn of their gear, everyone could forgive the self styled naughty boys of the pop rock scene (if there is such a thing) for cancelling their slot this evening. But, as frontman Joey James informs us, playing, undaunted is a fuck you to the thieving fuckers. 

The ever garrulous Jono Yates, squatting behing a borrowed acoustic gets in on the act too, proclaiming stoically that they won't be beaten. And what follows is testament to integrity, strength and huge, swollen testes.

I'll be honest, this particular jury of one is still out over the general Blitz Kids thang. I've seen them several times over the last couple of years, in toilets, dingy cellars, supporting bands further upstream at large venues, at festivals and, more recently headlining supporting their debut long player. And although there are many good bits, I haven't been wholly convinced about their true chop. Until now.

A pared down three song ( On My Own, Sometimes and Never Die), mildly shambolic but passionate, genuinely moving and heartfelt set says more about this band than any PR, hype, bloody funny twitter banter from the taciturn and foul mouthed Jono ever could. This is a bunch of young, honest guys baring their hearts. No filler. No samples, triggers, rent-a-guitar extras or slick production, just three real songs, sung back by the adoring throng, showing the real lads behind the slick media persona.

You can almost suffer every hard mile in a stinking van, taste every greasy service station cheese and ham savoury slice, feel every bump and creak on strangers' floors. They tear their chests open and show the real band behind the schtick. And it's honestly moving.

Act 3: Canterbury *****

Following their younger upstart brother; the pop rock band de jour, was always going to be a potentially tricky task for Canterbury, but after Blitz Kids' raw, exposed, emotional acoustic baring of souls and fizzing of the front row's knickers, that potential difficulty looked like more of a hard threat of an upstaging.

They needn't have worried though. The band stride effortlessly into full swing, opening with the raucous and anthemic Expensive Imitation from their splendid third album Dark Days. The sweaty, foisty gloomy bunker is brought to sparkling and vibrant life with passionate and loud sing backs to every song.

The first three albums are all represented with a varied main set takes in the triumphant Wrapped in Rainbows before ending with a joyous and deliciously irony-soused crowdaoke version Going Nowhere.

Despite the ever-present awkwardness of nobody seeming to know how to ask for an encore (what the hell is wrong with simply shouting More!!!? - it seems to have served every generation up until now perfectly well), the band, clearly loving every second of the sold out love-fest and emerge for three final rousing sing-a-longs ending with Friends? We're More Like A Gang from their first album from what seems like aeons ago but sounds as fresh and relevant as ever.

Canterbury are at the top of their game tonight. As they are at the very top of the radio friendly alt pop rock scene game. Their music is intelligent, infectious, often catchier than HDN-1 but has a sophisticated and grown up underbelly. Bigger venues and stages surely await. 

On the strength of tonight's overall performances, British Rock (whichever tiresome classification, taxonomy or genre-driven pigeon-holing you use) is in the rudest of rude health. And long may it continue.

FIN.

School of Mock - Blitz Kids Live Review Camden Barfly

Blitz Kids *****
The People The Poet *****
Villains *****

Camden Barfly  Monday 20th January 2014

Before the blitz, there's the kids. Loads of them. Tonight, London's very best small venue has been turned into a fifth form disco. Bloody everywhere. Smelling of Lynx and bizarre coloured alcopops, Camden's cosiest back room feels more like Stuart Hall's trailer than a rock venue.

Never mind though, there are still enough grizzled old industry types, other bands and general moochers to ensure it doesn't feel too awkward being of more mature years.

But, in keeping with the yoof-heavy attendance, it seems only right and proper to prepare tonight's review in the form of a school report:

Villans *****

Appearance and attendance: On the face of it a well presented, if not slightly scruffy pupil. Perfectly pleasant enough with rough edges. B+

Overall quality of work: Nothing too edgy, startling or original; but very competent, catchy, smart, hook-infused alt rock with poppy and even Brit-poppy influence. Terrific harmonies and clever vocal arrangements give them an ownable big sound. Energetic and comfortable in front of crowds. Engaging, cheeky chappy front man. B+

Teacher's Notes: Overall a tidy, well polished set with just about enough rawness and potential originality to set themselves apart from a very crowded pack. Not destined for Oxbridge, but certainly have all the potential of full employment on the UK scene up ahead. A-

The People The Poet *****

Appearance and attendance: Straight out of the college library and a signed up member of the debating society and young farmers. A likeable and raggedy pupil. Somewhat unassuming but definitely harbouring hidden literary depths and a simmering intelligence. One to look out for. A-

Overall quality of work: Clever, engaging, challenging stuff. But with a real comfy jumper feel to a lot of this pupil's work. Melodically and harmonically smooth with Joe Cocker barbs and Adam Duritz soul thrown in to inject a grizzly rawness. There's a nu-country vibe among the alt rock power, elements of Springsteen and Crosby Stills & Nash but backed by bits of Coldplay (the good bits, honest), Crash Test Dummies, Foals and even Bad Company (ask the history master kids). 

A genuine shock. And a very pleasant one. Their work is of the highest quality throughout. The new, truncated and impossibly tight line up draws on works from their stunning debut long player The Narrator, the songs are true slices of life derived from fans' own stories. From MDMA abuse to moving love paeans. And it works brilliantly. Big gutsy Ooo Ohh Whooaa Whoaa singalongs, beautifully tight harmonies delivered by the petite and timid, but wonderful Greta Isaac and a big, clever sound from the on-the-money trio behind gruff geography teacherly chief crooner Leon Stanford. A*


Teacher's Notes: Clever, witty, intelligent, approachable, entertaining, heartfelt, honest and beguiling. Brilliant stuff. Keep up the good work and the sky's the limit. A**

Blitz Kids *****

Appearance and attendance: Pretty much as you'd expect. Self-assured, swagger-soused bit-of-rough, inked, pierced, controlled and styled scruff aimed at unsettling the genitals of their younger female classmates. C-

Special note: Firstly, the sound man was either having a bit of a laugh with the house music before this pupil took to the school stage, or the arrogance of association is frightening: big tunes from polished, proven and successful acts like Mallory Knox, Don Broco, Fall Out Boy et all are all consumed greedily like a free Blue WKD by the assembled 5th formers. A statement? We're as good as them? A menu faux-pas where the amuses-bouche are far better than the meal itself? Or a joke? Ill-advised whatever.

Overall quality of work: Oh dear. Despite the build up and the hyped room, this pupil fails to deliver on just about every count. While their performance is undoubtedly slick, it's strangely totally devoid of soul, passion or truth. This is über-plastic, contrived, vacuous and banal. Even down to front man Joe James's affected west coat American accent (all the way from deepest Cheshire!)when he yo's and whoa's at his mini harem of hoes between songs. Embarrassing. It feels like The X-Factor does rock. There's no edge, no teeth, no punch.

While this pupil demonstrates obvious musical competence and skill, they're just lazy. Not to take anything away from their obvious work ethic: constantly touring, living in foetid vans and surviving on congealed Ginsters cheese slices from service stations - just lazy musically. Going through the motions. And, despite having an anonymous baldy, inked grimy hipster back up guitarist staring at the venue wall trying to hide on the miniscule Barfly stage, they fail to significantly beef up the morass of toothless prock (pop rock kids, doncha just love it?). Sigh.
 

Whereas bands like LTA, Deaf Havana (who are here in force tonight), Don Broco, Mallory Knox, Canterbury, hell, even We Are The Ocean and You Me At Six occupy the same heartland, they (mostly) all do it with lashings of integrity, reality, under the fingernail grime; honesty: Blitz Kids seem to have been mass produced. 

It wouldn't surprise me if Faustus himself,  Mr Cowell isn't lurking in the wings, evilly and gleefully rubbing his hands together in a cloud of foul stinking sulphur. F-

Teachers Notes: While fundamentally not doing anything wrong or offensive (apart from Jono's oft very amusing and profane tweets), this pupil is sadly a genuine disappointment. I expected so much more. As for the future? Who knows: unless they find an edge, a maturity, self-effacement, humility or some testicles, they're heading for Saturday night mainstream TV or touring with One Direction or McBusted. But, they might want that. Who knows. 
F--- (fail)

LTA with PMA. Live review of Lower Than Atlantis at Shepherd's Bush Empire.

Lower Than Atlantis ****1/2*
The Xcerts *****
Blitz Kids *****

Shepherd's Bush Empire Thursday 25th April 2013

Before I launch into a Freudian breakdown of tonight's patients, got to get a grumble out of the way. After catching a rather squiffy but remarkably entertaining Mike Foster at last year's excellent Burnout Festival, I was so looking forward to diving into the tortured corners of his whacked-out brain bin and grinning like a window-licking loon at his quirky, outré and oft acidic spoutings. But because of the stupidly slow service in Nando's, I missed the bastard. Grrrr. 

So, slightly miffed but reading for compensation, I stumble into the already sizeable pit to cast an analytic and diagnostic eye over Blitz Kids.

Blitz Kids *****
There's a  decent and enthusiastic welcome for these clean-cut North Westerners and they respond with a polished and competent set. The patient certainly shows signs of peacock-like outward projection with no signs of any self-confidence issues. Joe James leading the overt genital exhibitionism and conspicuous male courting dance with preening pomp and punch. 

However, the sound engineer displays clear basic competence issues and maybe the lack of any fucking ears. The sound throughout is muddy, sludgy, low-volume and, to be honest takes most of the lustre off the performance. James is no Ronnie James Dio, but his decent tenor-tinged vox are reduced to what comes over as a distant, indistinct bus drunk mumbling into his Tennant's-soused lousy beard.

To be fair, the songs are all reasonable enough, perhaps lacking huge hooks or refrains, there's beefy dropped tunings, slick harmonies (those you could actually discern!) tight musicianship; but the terrible sound emasculates the energy and enthusiasm and turns the whole thing into a bit of a flaccid let down. The crowd don't seem to mind too much though. After all, they're here to party. Just a bit of a shame.

Prognosis:  Highly proficient and well presented. Flamboyant. Extreme self-confidence. Positive, optimistic self-projection. Sexually active and attractive. 

Prescription: Continued programme of development of core songsmithery. Maybe try a dose of rougher aggression occasionally. Or organic scotch bonnet chilli administered to the penis end. A decent sound man. Or strong, corrosive ear drops. 

The Xcerts *****
Next into the surgery are the two thirds Caledonian, one third Devonian now Brightonian grungy, poppy, rocky, edgy beaty combo, The ever-excellent and always challenging Xcerts.

And thankfully they've brought with them a sound engineer with perfectly working inner ears. Hallelujiah! 

These guys are seriously one of the hardest working bands ever (the late JLS notwithstanding!). They appear to be on the road pretty much all year. Supporting big boys (Biffy among them), bad boys and playing bogs, fests, clubs, pubs, bars, halls and balls; they are the apotheosis of the true working band and the complete antithesis of the manufactured, cosmetically, lab-produced bland thin gruel that most of the world are force fed through industry-regulated drips and media-owned self satisfying, controlling canulas.

In short, and with due deference to tonight's headliners, they fuck it to the man. And some.

Tonight, they crunch through a brilliant and varied set as though it was their first show ever. There's not a whiff of road weariness nor hint of performing by rote. These boys continually play it like they mean it. 

Between classics like Do You Feel Safe, Slackerpop and Carnival Time there's even room for one or two brilliant newer tunes with one freshly out of their clever pop rock incubator.
Always difficult to classify (and to be honest pointless), there's always infusions, shots and blood bags of energy in every performance. 

There's a grungy core running through brilliantly constructed pop sensibilities with huge sounding guitar thrown into the centrifuge. The rhythms and heartbeat are strong and mesmeric and Murray McLeod's heavily Caledonian appeals, pleas and even laments are honest, heart felt and heart warming. 

The very young crowd tonight isn't as enraptured as it could be. More respectful. Watchful even. But they'll get it soon. As, hopefully, the rest of the world will too. This is grown up, sophisticated, proper pop rock at it's very finest. 


Prognosis:  Workaholic, obsessive, multiple character traits. Irrepressible energy. Seemingly quite straightforward, but further examination reveals multi-layered complexity and astounding intelligence. Latent intellectualism. Lots of hair. Even Jordan who's beginning to look like Don King in negative.

Prescription: There is no reason to prescribe anything new. This patient is in rude mental health. It's just the rest of the world who need acceptance therapy and eyes and ears opened forcibly. They'll learn; the fools.

Lower Than Atlantis ****1/2*
So, the moment arrives. The loveable rogues take to the stage behind a great billowy white curtain type thing. And, then, like the ceremonial removal of a veil of personal protection, it drops away like a concubine's silk undies and all is revealed. 

The adulation in the room is breathtaking. LTA have garnered an ardent and passionate following as they've developed from angry, often confused but always passionate and confrontational post-hardcore proto-punks into to a genuine world-class rock band.

Playing their largest ever headline show, Mssrs Duce, Hart, Sansom and Thrower are loving it. Opening with the poptacular Love Someone Else to pre-orgasmic howls and shrieks from the predominantly barely consent aged crowd, there are (to borrow a line from buddies Deaf Havana) Smiles all round. And so it continues.

Duce isn't perhaps at his most garrulous this evening, but clearly looks as happy as a sand boy in a sand pit on a beach in the desert on planet sand. Maybe the import and scale has got his normally unstoppable and lascerating tongue.

Unperturbed, the set continues a pace. Each track whipping the crowd closer and closer to climax. But it's not all radio-friendly toned-down poppiness for the scenies to dive and mosh into. There's real thought here. Nods to influences and the 'dirtier period' abound in coded and not-so-coded form. The anthemic and ball kicking Motorway of Life receives a lick of Smashing Pumpkins paint as an intro, there's a Queen at Live Aid/Jive Bunny mash up of older material cleverly woven into a bite-sized, arriviste-friendly serving including Taping Songs off The Radio, Face Full of Scars and The Juggernaut and even a blistering boiled down cover of Electric Six's Gay Bar. Clever, clever boys.

To add to the bizarre carnival atmosphere, there are loads of those big sponge hand things - but with the middle finger raised in defiance -  being sported in support of the Fuck It To The Man mantra. There's just such a wonderful, skew whiff and tilted irony watching two or three thousand young worshipping disciples continually giving their beloved band the bird.

Apart from all the pageantry and the overbearing musk of arousal, there's a great performance going on up on the altar. The musicianship is outstanding. Tight, on point but never sterile or aseptic. There's still a roughness. A readiness. A punkiness. Thank the lord.
And from his massively elevated Mayan Temple of a drum riser, Eddie Thrower produces a masterclass in control and is the brilliant and exquisite sutures keeping proceedings tightly together.

Amid all the fire, bile, boisterousness and brimstone, there are a couple of obligatory chill out, sensitive sections where Duce is more or less abandoned by his buddies to indulge in a genuine opening up of his personal insecurities and innate darknesses. Scared of the Dark is a beautiful and moving journey into his psyche. As are his eponymous Symphony no 11 in D Minor and the fabulous Another Sad Song, which is totally stripped bare and performed purely acoustically. The sing backs are louder than ever yet you can almost hear the rustle of hairs on necks and arms as they stand to attention. Moving and brilliant stuff.

Things finally end with the bouncy and buoyant Beech Like A Tree just to eke out any latent energy left in the satiated and spent crowd. Tonight marks another important stage in the development of LTA. A real potential turning point. Surely, on the strength of tonight's joyous and jubilant hoe-down the next step to world domination has moved an awful lot closer.


Prognosis:  Honest. Self-deprecating. Mildly aggressive and resentful revolutionary. Deep sorrow, insecurity and self doubt never far from the surface. Clear passion and projection. PMA. Perhaps. Not afraid to have fun but probably with a loaded gun or primed switchblade in the pocket. Waspish. Don't annoy these bastards. 

Prescription: More of the same. Just keep taking the stronger, darker medication alongside the happy pills . Don't water down at all. Ever.

Not that I'm going to do it for every gig, but here are a couple of vids shot on my iPhone from the pit while a little inebriated and than sketchily edited while massively and savagely hungover. They ain't Hugh Hudson or Ridley Scott, but hopefully transmit at least a modicum  of the frenzy, fun and energy from down the front.