Higher And Higher. LTA and Don Broco Live Review Electric Ballroom

 

Lower Than Atlantis ****1/2*

Don Broco *****

The Dangerous Summer *****

Gnarwolves *****

October 11^th Electric Ballroom Camden

Rain. Loads of it. Scene kids. Hundreds of them. Anticipation. Palpable. Cider. Downed.

A sultry, soaked Camden was cut in two by a huge queue of buzzing yoof clutching all manner of luminous, toxic alcopops for one of the most eagerly awaited gigs since the last king died.

The house full sign had been posted weeks ago and the general energy and excitement rivals Jimmy Savile’s if he’d stumbled into a wendy house or a One Direction gig.

Gnarwolves *****

Anyway, first up were pop hunk gruff bastards Gnarwolves. There’s already a decent sized crowd waiting to be entertained and when the trio kicked off into the fabulous shout-alongy (if not ludicrously short) History is Bunk, but most faces look a tad non-plussed as the testicles out TNT-charged pop punky bombs were launched into the room.

A strange choice as support perhaps, but thankfully the crowd seemed to warm to the guys after the initial dissonant shock. The set continued apace and drew more bouncing heads with every grizzled, fierce fusillade.

There’s a vibrant hardcore-esque revival (did it ever go away?) bubbling under the surface at the moment and bands like Gnarwolves along with Polar, TRC, Real Adventures and Palm Reader are leaving a trail of caved in faces and brutally kicked genitalia wherever they ply their fine trade. And on tonight’s evidence, it seems to be set to gain a wider audience. Which can only be a good thing in the eternal fight against the anodyne, predictable and manufactured.

The Dangerous Summer *****

Talking of which, next on the Royal Variety Performance are The Dangerous Summer. Not familiar with their work, I was curious and willing to be impressed.

Bugger.

A sugary, tight, limp MOR melange was all they could drum up. A watery mix of Death Cab For Cutie, Nickelback and Creed with no guts, balls or edge. A muscle cock replacement powerful sportscar with a remote controlled car motor. A bottle of overproof Bourbon with tea in it. An oiled up, super flexible porn actress with saggy tits and a disappointingly huge hairy minge (Think Omar from ATDI up to his neck in quicksand). Disappointing. Lame. Meh. Shame, cos they drew a much bigger crowd than the excellent Gnarboys.

Don Broco *****

By now the cavernous Ballroom was packed from its head to its anus. It’s hard to imagine that it’s this rammed for a support act. But what a support act. 

Monsieur Duce and co must have thought they were on relatively safe ground asking the Bedford Babe Magnets to open for them when the tour was conceived 6 months or so ago. Don Broco have been treading the boards as a regular support act with everyone from Futures to Four Year Strong and have been staples on the festival tour. So they’d do a great hors d’oeuvre job. Get the juices flowing. Set the appetite nicely. You know, a prawn cocktail. Or Whitebait.

But my how they’ve grown. Since they were invited on the bill, the sublime Priorities Album has dropped, they’ve signed to Search And Destroy, had more positive press coverage than Mother Teresa and Princess Di put together. So there must have been a wince or two in camp LTA as Heston Blumenthal showed up with the starter at their own dinner party.

Seldom have I witnessed such fervour for a support act. In short, the place goes off its tits as Bobby D and his boys rip into set opener Priorities. Pretty much from front to back, the whole room bounces in unison. Pints are spilled, phones dropped, toes trampled girls probably accidentallly impregnated. Total joy. Total mayhem. Totally brilliant.

The set is pretty much all culled from the new album (with the exception of a brief tease of Beautiful Morning before the surprise drop into the always chaotic and fabulous Thug Workout – press up boys ‘n’ all). There is just so much swagger. So much fun. And so much talent. Theses guys have developed such wonderful stagecraft to complement their ridiculously good songcraft but, even allowing for hilarious synchronised moves, lunges and leers they never come over as arrogant or contrived. Just bloody nice blokes having a bloody good time. And producing bloody good music.

Massive sing-backs, mass shoulder-riding, walls of death, friendly but full-on pits and loads of bloody bouncing left the crowd spent. And by the time the anthemic and masterful set closer Actors was launched into the adoring hordes, the good time vibe rivalled the Olympic Stadium’s on super Saturday. A real game changer for the lads tonight. Of course they’re going to be huge, let’s just hope they stay as grounded and as genuine as they appear.

Lower Than Atlantis ****1/2*

Despite the baying of LTA from the dripping full house for a good 10 minutes before the band’s arrival, you couldn’t help but be a little nervous for Mike and his gang. It’s irrelevant at moments like this, that they’re clearly one of the very best young rock bands in the land; after seeing what Don Broco had just done, it’s got to play on your mind and effect your manhood.

Thankfully there was no need to worry. No performance anxiety here. Despite a tiny initial sound problem, Mr Duce is monumentally and throbbingly erect as the four piece tear into the wonderful Love Someone Else. And the crowd play the supplicant and ridiculously moist bedfellow, cumming loudly and spectacularly with every distorted thrust.

The sexual gymnastics continue throughout drawing climax upon climax from the insatiable nymphomaniac throng. There is so much love in the room. So much lust. So much passion. Brilliant tracks from the masterpiece new album Changing Tune dovetail beautifully with old favourites like Far Q and (Motor)way of life. The gorgeous Dear Prudence joins the boys for the beautiful and haunting Scared of the Dark before the main set ends with like the deep droning and brown noise peppered surefire classic Normally Strange. 

 

By now the crowd has almost had too much. Is too full. Too raw. And there’s a strange, almost apologetic post coital silent fag break before the lads saunter back on and the seduction starts again with the gorgeous and pathos-ridden Another Sad Song. Duce looks and sounds genuinely humbled throughout the steamy session. The adoration for his band is, however, fully earned. And as the place ignites one more time to the comically fishy pun-heavy apparent paean to STIs Deadliest Catch, it’s genuinely difficult to quell the lumpy throat and the watery eyes. Genius stuff.

It’s rare to see such a brilliant performance from such a brilliant, original band. But tonight I’m proud and privileged to have been in the presence of two. And judging by the Beatlemania-like reception for LTA and Don Broco this evening, I don’t think I’m alone in feeling like that. Spine tingling.

Wish I smoked. Need a fag now.

The always fabulous Yearbook and Straight Lines up next.

More tunes soon. Bwooooar!

Takedown with this sort of thing - Takedown Festival 2012 live review

Takedown Festival

Southampton University

18^th March 2012

Well, that just about killed me. A long day in the company of some of the brightest young talent from these shores.

The vogue for these quick ‘in and out’ festivals at Unis and multi venues is something to be applauded. No portaloos liberally weeping their contents all over your trainers, no foul, stygian mud, no tents or filthy, Campylobacter-infested lips and arsehole burgers. Just loads of subsidised cheap booze, stupidly cheaply priced tickets, hordes of sweaty scene kids and hipsters and lots of loud, testosterone-imbued rock and roll. Tasty.

The only problem was that there were so many stages with so many acts, some bands would inevitably have to remain un-seen.

So, bill in hand, first up as a post brunch livener were Mallory Knox.

Mallory Knox***1/2**

A fair sized crowd had gathered inside the ‘main’ venue (actually looked like a massive church hall rather than a grown up venue, but hey) as the proto-fenland refugees strolled onto the stage. Led by swaggertastic Mikey Chapman, the boys launched into a tidy, energetic and melody-infused set full of bounce, booming bass and guitar-infused bosh. All rather splendid. If not a little predictable in places. But, all-in-all a fine appetiser.

James Cleaver Quintet.*****

Oh yes. A crammed subterranean hall (much more like a proper chest-assaulting rock and roll haunt than Mallory Knox’s jamboree at St Benedicts community hall) was treated to forty minutes of brilliance from this outré bunch of quacking, honking and cock-kicking lunatic trouser wearers.

There were moments of sheer violence, nihilism and bludgeon. But genuinely soulful and harmonic interludes peppered the buffet like iced fancies on Clarice Cliff dishes sneakily juxtaposed with rusty tins full  of fuck your face off naga chilli. 

There was even a sax. 

Having never seen these miscreants before and only having had limited exposure to their work (Loz Guest, Alex Baker and that bloomin’ Lucozade ad) I didn’t expect the mathi-ness. At all. Ok, the noodlicious Jacky Udon isn’t as easy on the eye as Eva Spence, but there are definitely moments of Rolo Tomassi. Chuck in a soupçon of Faith No More and even the mighty Dillinger Escape Plan and you get the picture. I totally loved it. As did the sweaty, cutie-ridden masses. Original. Fresh. Nut sack gnawing excellence.

Don Broco*****

I’ve never been anything approaching pissed off whenever the Bedford-based bawbags are anywhere close. I love ‘em to death and have waxed merrily many times about this loveable laddish, mirth-making energy shot. But they clashed with Polar. Of all the other bands I wanted to see! FFs. Anyway,  Guildford’s punker bastard destruction meisters were going to have to bite the dust. Sigh.

So, with a slight miff, I headed back to St Benedict’s Church hall to get my dose of Bobby Damage and the lads. Of course they weren’t going to disappoint. They never do. But they were going to have to work extra fucking hard to make up for going sans Polar.

They did. Oh yes. The moves. The riffs. The walk. The smiles. They truly are one of a kind and this afternoon, they totally killed it. The crowd were a throng of worshipful acolytes, putty in Monsieur Damiani’s hands. Pits, walls of death (just the two this arvo!) massive sing-a-longs. Even Thug Workout - sadly omitted from the recent 4YS support set. And, of course the obligatory smiles. Loads and loads of bloody smiles. 


I’ve said before that there’s far more to Don Broco than a good time party band, and that remains as true as it ever was; but it really makes a pleasant change, in a landscape full of earnest (and obviously often excellent) emotionally, socially and even politically-imbued rock, for a band to celebrate the positive and to generate such a joyous vibe. They really look as though they enjoy every semi-quaver. 


And it's good to see Mr Doyle settling in so well behind his big old bass.

I can’t wait for their new long player. And, given the recent news about the lads’ signing to Raw Power and Sony’s S&D records, a big fat future, pregnant with smiles awaits. Awesome, as always.

Burn The Fleet*****

Been waiting to see these bad boys for ages. And the wait was well worth it. In what was effectively a hometown show, Andy Convey sporting a fine and strong beard led proceedings in what was to become one of the festival’s major highlights. Even though they were playing squeezed in at the end of the SU bar with bright sunlight melting everyone’s heads, they concocted a heady atmosphere. 

Arrrr indeed.

Their intelligent and literary infused subject matter and lyrics  deftly painted onto a wonderfully textured and multi-layered musical canvas got the place shaking from the WKD soused carpet right the way through its asbestos-laden sixties roof. 


The crowd sang along dutifully and the spine tingling Handfuls of Sand got captured everyone’s hearts as a mesmerising and captivating set closer.

They’ve got a new album coming out that apparently is going to be given away with the excellent Rock Sound mag. If it’s only an iota as good as they were today, then we’re all in for a rare and brilliant treat. Stunning stuff me hearties.  Arrrr.

Fei Comodo*****

Only recently stumbled across these fellas. And I have to say, I like what I’ve heard, so I was looking forward to their turn at the altar. They were playing on the same sun-drenched greenhouse stage as Burn The Fleet, but this time, the lighting rig had given up, so the boys at the back of the stage space were hidden, Golem-like in the gloom. 


No matter, they produced a fabulous and fizzing set. Heavy riffage and technical bombs provided the perfect backdrop to Marc Halls’ astonishing vocal range. His voice reminds me loads of InMe’s Dave McPherson’s (must be something in the water in Essex) and he certainly put his lustrous talents to good use as he cajoled and provoked the matinee crowd to get involved. Which they did. With aplomb. 


There are definite similarities to InMe with a liberal smattering of Midgar; all big balls but hummable and memorable melody. And it worked beautifully. The anthemic Rival Tides being the stand out track of the short but wonderful set. Can’t wait to see these guys in a proper Jager-infused rock and roll sweat box. At night time. With lights that work. And not in a student speakeasy-cum-greenhouse.

So you're a wobber are you? Jolly good.

Subsource*****

Heavily persuaded by Real Adventures’ chief plank spanker Dom Roe, I remained stuck to the alcopop mire waiting for Subsource. Didn’t really know what to expect, but having dipped into some of their oeuvre I knew there was going to  be some serious wob. But nowt had prepared me for what was to occur. A cool-as-fuck front man with a Heath Robinson/Mad Max/steam punk stand up bass determinedly and struttingly kicks off things and all hell breaks loose. Think Shikari, Skrillex, Prodigy, Pendulum, Rush, Reuben, The Clash, Charlie Mingus (as your grandparents kids), Maybeshewill, Plan B, The Cure, Matt Bellamy, fucking Sting and Sir Robert Plant all jizzing in a bucket then impregnating Grace Slick with the miasma of goopy man soup. Ladies and gentlefolk, the resulting offspring is in the building. 


And they kick balls. With a solid run up. And wearing Billy’s Boots. Oh yes. Grooves, drops, riffs, soaring vocals and, of course wobs and 808s set the place on fire, evacuate bowels and get heads a bobbing. The crowd appears to be slightly more industry and grown up than general scenies for this lot. Some serious nodding, dipping and stepping breaks out and I’ve found a new band to add to my favourites list. A triumph. Think I shat myself. But a triumph nonetheless.

Lower Than Atlantis****1/2*

Another one of my favourites (and rapidly gaining favourite status with the radio-consuming nation) LTA were next up on the ridiculously stuffed and tasty menu.. After their amazing Garage show a few weeks back, this was never going to compare. Was it? Well, a totally rammed St Benedict’s Hall and Social club didn’t seem to think it suffered by comparison. Not one bit. The house full signs were up and Mr Duce and his Tyros set about disembowelling the snap-back sporting throng. All the biggies were played (including the obligatory Foo’s medley/mash up) and there was much rejoicing, bouncing, boozing and general moshery. The Deadliest Catch ended proceedings and the crowd left as stuffed as Chris Moyle’s after a donut eating contest. Sweet.

Deaf Havana*****

Having watched this lot mature, soften, shift and blossom from a kind of spotty, post hardcore, poppy punky agressfest into a fully rounded, complex and multi-layered band has been a genuine pleasure. 


The demise of the harder edge (and the loss of Ryan) has polarised many earhole owners and is a regular waste of mouth gas among the great and good of the UK scene. But it’s undeniable that they’ve controlled the shift themselves, appear comfortable in their skins and are producing some fantastic, original and commercial tuneage. 


On the eve of their biggest headline tour, this evening was a chance to air the still, self-discovering live side of the band to the adoring masses. And there were some surprises in store. First up was the extra member. The genial and eloquent James Veck-Gilodi (worth a respectable 35 in Scrabble) introduces the mop-haired banjoist as his ikkul bruv, Matt. Apparently a permanent member of the live line up from now on. Twelve strings good; 18 strings better, clearly. Anyway, seems like a nice chap, sings well and seems to add to the overall wall of sound favourably. 

All together now...Sweet Home Alabama

The next surprise was the emasculation and castration of Friends Like These, a go-to tub thumper and signature tune of Deaf Havana’s over the last few years (even makes a self-deprecating referential appearance in the excellent album opener The Past Six Years). Tonight, not only had it had its genitals wrenched off, but the only thing missing appeared to be a choir, 4 tasty female cellists and a key change. To be honest I didn’t mind a bit. The refrain was always the best bit, but the aggressive contrast and foreplay of the rest of the song had been cruelly tossed aside. So it felt like having just the meat at Sunday lunch; tasty but not complete. 


Anyway, enough already. The show was great. And great fun. The whole room joined in the chants and choruses, shouted in the right places and stayed reverentially quiet for the emotionally taught and sensitive bits. And got gooey when the time was right. This lot are truly a class act. They're lazily cast into the same hopper as YM@6, KIGH, Young Guns et al, but are far more complex and, I believe worthy. Veck-Gilodi’s lyrics are thought-provoking, clever, painfully honest and self-revealing. The music is polished, catchy, performed beautifully and full of light and shade. Big, big things beckon. Saying all that, old stalwart Nicotine and Alcohol Saved My Life was the stand out track of the set. Even without the shouty bits – but let’s not go there again. Genuine class though.

Skindred*****

This was by far the smallest venue I’ve ever seen the mighty Welsh Raggabaggabastards in and I was a wee bit scared. Mind you I have seen Dillinger at The Barfly, so there really shouldn’t be anything to worry about.

After some apparent back stage wranglings, histrionics and rock and roll diva guff, Benji and his boys finally take to the stage, now ‘resplendent’ with a natty backdrop – complete with the sponsor’s Monster logos shining through it. And all hell lets very loose.


There’s really not too much you can say about Skindred that hasn’t been said. Mr Webbe is the best front man in the business. Fact. He could get a group of devastated mourners to bounce and form a wall of death at the crematorium to Fauré’s Requiem. His energy and infectious charm are legendary. But that’s always mean to the rest of the band. Let’s face it, they’re bloody good too. Their syncopation married with killer riffs and consummate playing show they're much more than a house band to this, the most garrulous of chat show hosts. 

And so they kick off. Rat Race, Doom Riff, Trouble, Nobody, Destroy The Dancefloor are all belted out from the pulpit in tonight’s service. The congregation bounce more than Jessica Clement’s hooters when she’s sitting on the dryer on super spin cycle. The temperature goes up to insane levels. There’s literally sweat (well, sweat condensation according to the nerdy science student standing near us) dripping off the ceiling. The atmosphere is highly charged but all done with such a collective massive smile it hurts the face. It all comes to a frenzied head with the wonderful Warning as an encore. A truly memorable, brilliant and enjoyable end to what’s been a truly memorable, brilliant and enjoyable day. Apart from missing Polar. Obviously.

Other lowlights: missing Heights, Feed The Rhino, While She Sleeps. Blue K2 - the pikiest drink ever. Bleeuurgh.

Highlights? Don Broco. Subsource. Burn The Fleet. Sailor Jerry, Cider at a couple of quid a pint. And Benji’s bouncing.

Need a lie down.

The ever-brilliant Polenta Shitake next.

More  tunes soon, Bwoooar.

Island of dreams – Lower Than Atlantis Live – The Garage

Lower Than Atlantis*****

Sights and Sounds*****

Marines*****

The Relentless Garage  27^th January 2012

There are defining moments in rock and roll that you kind of know are going to happen before they sneak up and grab you by the salty, sensitive bits. Tonight was one of those moments.

From the moment LTA announced their tour and, in particular, tonight’s culminating date, you just knew it was going to be something special.

The atmosphere was more arousingly electric than Lady Gaga’s latest 9” purchase from Anne Summers. A sweaty Garage was rammed full of hipsters, scene kids, plaid, beards (thankfully no tote bags) adoring young ladies, tattoos, fanboy shirts, industry dudes and footy fan-looking chavs with no tops on all excitedly and tensely waiting for something momentous.

But first, we all had to 'suffer' Marines and Sights And Sounds.

Marines*****

A worthy, gritty, acoustic guitar-led indie, alt geek rock weak shandy with no head. Three guitars wasted as the sound was frothy and derivative without a kick, albeit, at times, pleasantly harmonically infused. Not going to knock any walls down though. As a starter, a bit like a weedy and over-chilled prawn cocktail with watery marie-rose sauce and those tiny shrimpy prawns you get in service station sandwiches.

Sights And Sounds*****

A bit more edgy and fulsome than Marines, but ultimately, well, er, average.  Ok, a bit better than average. But not much more. A bit more groove and  bite and a much better sound from a benevolent desk; however, there was more than a hint of triggered or recorded backing vox which left my purist side struggling to be totally impressed.  Alright. I suppose. A large, crusty bap to go with the insubstantial prawn cocktail.

Lower Than Atlantis*****

So, the time had come. All the energy and anticipation had built up palpably. We were definitely on the verge of something special. But would LTA deliver?

House lights down, sweaty scenies in hoodies swarmed into taught, excited sub-colonies. Then on schlenked Monsieur Duce and the bad boys. And blew the living gonads off the place. And some.

Opening with a beefed-up triple espresso version of their splendid new offering If The World Was To End, the place went into castrated meltdown. Unbelievable.

It was slick, sexy, loud, dynamic, upbeat and totally captivating. And the Morrisey-esque latter-day Jaques Brel, Duce was smiling like a loon. How could it get any better? Well, a completely cock-ripping version of the tour-inspired laddery tale (Motor)Way of life ( from the top three album of last year World Record) revved up the pace to fever pitch. That’s how. 

The set never abated, serving up the über-energetic and butt-fisting brutality of Far Q and B.O.R.E.D with catchier than chlamydia beauties like Beech Like The Tree (including and audience participation chug-a-lug on stage) and the salutary warning narrative of Taping Songs Off The Radio.

This lot really are at the very vanguard of great British music and tonight’s stunning performance has done nothing but further cement themselves firmly into the very highest echelons.

A Foo fighter melody frothed the fan frenzy into a tumultuos and adoring pit before the main set finished with the raucous and ravishing R.O.I. Guinness. Pure Guinness.

For the encore, Duce returned to the stage on his tod and tiptoed into the spine-tinglingly brilliant and melancholic anthem Another Sad Song. There must have been a lot of dust in the place and some toxic airborne irritant that caused goosebumps and lumpy throats; because, as the rest of the band and a trumpet player joined Duce on stage to ram home the throbbing and tumescent climax to this modern masterpiece, there seriously wasn’t a dry eyeball in the place. Genius. Pure genius.

It then got a bit surreal and even headier, as Duce announced to the now putty-like acolytes that they had just signed to Island Records. Cue delerium, Champagne chug-a-lugs and more emotionally fuelled tears. To quote old Percy Plant, my face had cracked from smiling.

I can not think of any band that deserves it more. Duce is a modern day poet and spokesperson for a generation - whether the often apparently grumpy git likes the mantle or not. His lyrics are resonant, relevant, often askant and coruscating, but always enchanting and challenging. The music is original, intelligent, exquisitely executed, energetic and fatter than a bull’s bum.

My heart, by now swollen to the size of a cabbage with pride has been totally captivated  by this bunch of ne’erdowells and as the last ramshackle chords of the fishy pun-fest Deadliest Catch ring out over the adoring hordes I find myself vicariously, momentarily the happiest bloke on earth. Astonishing and brilliant stuff. 

Don Broco and Four Year Strong next.

More tunes soon. Bwooooar!