I’ve fallen
so far behind preparing my dribbly word gobs on the world of live rock and
roll. But I thought I ought to get some burblings down on some of the recent
shows I’ve dragged my aching carcass to.
I’ll try and
be brief as there’s quite a lot to get through.
Hold Your Horse Is *****
Axis Of ***1/2**
More Than Conquerors *****
28th February
Right, first
up a cracking show at The Old Blue Last. The fabulous Hold Your Horse Is, (another
one of BSM’s genius menagerie) are the headline act. Aided and abetted by Axis
Of and supposedly the raw, arse-kicking pop hunk scoundrels Real Adventures.
But Dom their chief banjo plucker had an attack of the vapours, had mislaid his
prescribed dose of Man Up and decided to stay at home with a box set of Downton
Abbey and a box of mint Matchmakers. So first up, were late additions to the
bill, Belfast’s More Than Conquerors (a circumstance of happy coincidence, abandoned,
scuppered vans, midnight dashes to Scotland for ferries and all sorts of woe).
The young
fellas took to the stage and took the roof off. Crackling stuff, at times
reminiscent of early Weezer and Biffy spiced up with quasi-mathy interjections
worthy of Rosa Valle or Marmozets (at their least bamboozling). Short, punchy,
catchy and ultimately tasty hors d’ouevres greedily grabbed off the waitress’s
tray enthusiastically by the already thronging Shoreditch denizens.
Oh, and they
ended with a drummy face-off duetty thing. Which was rather splendid.
Sorry,
completely failing on the keeping it brief. I’ll try and stop being such a
waffling dick. Next up are Axis Of. A weird blend of Celtic Ceilidh infusions
and balls-out alt hardcore-ish rocky energy. I’m being a bit harsh, but the
vocalist wasn’t the very best. But no matter really, the overall effect was a
bouncy, riffy assault on the senses. I think they even threw in a great fun Pantera
cover served with jaunty Gallic jus somewhere among the mathy mélange.
There are
definite similarities with the incredible ASIWYFA (which after chatting with Niall
the singer afterwards and finding out his brother’s in ASIWYFA is not as
surprising or as coincidental as it might have been– although Niall did cheekily
contend ASIWYFA were the plagiarists rather than the plagiarised.)
A
great band with a great energy and presence. Surely a really strong festival
act.
Hold Your Horse Is *****
So, after a
wee while away from gigs and generally being out and about, it was time for the
main act to kick us all in the danglers. Oh, and they did.
By now, the
packed house was quivering like a fat man getting towards the front of the
queue for a donut stand. And they were going to be given a massive dose of deep
fried brilliance oozing with class, substance and joy.
The trio kick
off with a new one (I believe called Mumbler) which sets the scene for the
evening’s delicious fare. Fabulous throughout. Edgy. Discomforting. Precise.
Dynamic. There are even classical nods, spine-tingling Mahleresque chord descensions married
with brutal, scalpel sharp anti-aircraft fire percussive attacks. It’s all so
bloody tight. But not clinical. Complex but not contrived. This is grown up music.
But delivered with a youthful exuberance. My only minor criticism would be
tonight’s sets apparent lack of pace change. Most the set is full tilt pelvic
fuckarsing without any dark, slow penetrative thrusting. That said, it
definitely interfered with my G spot (have blokes got a G spot?) and I absolutely
loved it.
HYHI are
impossible to categorise but (lame Biffy comparisons aside) they conjour up
Sabbath-like progressions, Refused-tinged aggression married to snappy Hives or
even a Jam vibe. There’s a polyrhythmic thread which is reminiscent of the
amazing Arcane Roots, an indie swagger and, at times, a proggy undercurrent.
Equally as impossible to pigeonhole as to dislike.
The show
ended with drummer Chris Rouse dismantling and rebuilding his kit on the floor
of the room while guitarist Robin Pearson writhed around on the deck while not
missing a hemi-demi-semi quaver. All as James Perry, the bassist was left on
his tod on stage surveying the orgiastic hubbub below. Brilliant stuff.
Enter Shikari *****
Young Guns *****
HMV Apollo, Hammersmith23rd March
Ok, I admit
it, I succumbed to the pleasures of a fine Argentinian Malbec while overlooking a shimmering Father
Thames rather than get involved
with the always thrilling Tek One. I did however managed to get my quaffing
complete in time to catch Young Guns.
Young Guns *****
I must admit,
I don’t really get the extra ‘noise’ this lot appear to be making in a fairly
competitive area of the industry at the mo. Bands like KIGH, YMA6, Deaf Havana
and The Blackout are all churning out great, bouncy, radio-friendly (well,
mostly) material as the latest successors to the likes of Lost Prophets and
Funeral For A Friend, but I constantly hear that this lot are supposed to be
doing something more magical.
By the size
of the assembled scene army and the empty WKD and Cider bottles outside the
venerable old Odeon, there were at least 3,500 who concurred with the general
word on the street. But I still don’t get it.
Don’t get me
wrong, they’re good. Very good. Good stage craft. Catchy and well constructed
tunes. But am I missing something? There’s nothing dazzlingly original here. Is
there? Bones is the best number on show tonight. Catchy, classy, ballsy and
big. But the whole experience left me feeling a little let down after all the
industry hype. The fact that one of their Big light-bulb festooned YG logos
flickered and faltered during the set pretty much summed it up for me. All good, but not quite as dazzling as I’d hoped.
Enter Shikari *****
Right, those
of you unfortunate enough to have regularly read any of my rambling word
wrongs, must be aware of my love for the St Alban’s miscreants and rascals
Enter Shikari. I’ve followed them since they were barely more than a zygote
floating around in sweaty amniotic fluid of scout huts and front rooms. It is
therefore with immense pride and, of course, the attendant prejudice that I’m
lucky enough to be crammed in among tonight’s sell out crowd at the venerable
old Hammersmith Odeon (Insert current sponsor name and Apollo).
Having been
forced to miss the recent Bull And Gate intimate fisting session I needed
compensation. Was tonight going to offer me adequate restitution?
Just a bit. Seldom
lost for words, tonight’s show rendered me as near to dumbstruck as I’ve ever
been. So, I’m going to try and sum up the complete tour de force in 50 words:
Spectacular.
Visceral. Explosive. Energetic. Sweaty. Violating. Unsettling. Crazy.
Incendiary. Joyous. Sonne. Lumiere. Assault. Wobbery. Smiles. Anger. Adoration.
Adulation. Insane. Thought-provoking. Agit. Fisted. Tumultuous. Dynamic.
Incomparable. Original. Sexy. Vulnerable. Magnificent. Loud. Blistering.
Coruscating. Fresh. Relevant. Heavy. Venomous. Optimistic. Emotional.
Seductive. Brutal. Mesmerising. Faultless. Gauche. Awkward. Confident.
Superheated. Radioactive. Amazing. Fucking. Amazing.
Put simply
the most vibrant, original, exciting and brilliant live band on earth.
Astonishing.
Skindred *****
Therapy? *1/2***
The O2 Academy, Brixton
13the April
A sold out
Brixton Academy show is always a heart-warming prospect. Throw in Britain’s
best front man and his joyous feel-good party starters and it’s about as good
as it gets.
But, before
we get onto the main course, what about the appetizers?
Black
Spiders? Meh. Couldn’t be arsed. Missed The Defiled. Sorry.
Therapy? *1/2***
Therapy?
Don’t get me started. Quite why they’re on the bill is beyond me. I’m all for
diversity, range and contrast, but sadly, Andy Cairns and the boys were out of
their depth this evening. Anachronistic, uncomfortable and pretty much
unlistenable. And I can’t even blame the legendary murky shite-sound that
Brixtaaan normally churns out. I’d stop short in saying embarrassing, but,
regrettably not far short.
Therapy? Have
always been an interesting proposition. Punky in attitude and pub rock in DNA
with heavier and technical chromosomes coding a complex, oft original and even
groundbreaking mischief. My collection proudly boasts a good collection of
their oeuvre. But, unlike Killing Joke and Per Ubu, they’ve always mysteriously
fallen short of the art house nostalgic cool that propagates forgiveness and
fondness from dewy-eyed left-leaning old hacks and beardies. Nope, tonight
Matthew, they were no good.
Lights down.
Crowd now fully ensconced. AC/DC booming out through the towers. A mass of
expectant bodies baying for the main fix. Then the Darth Vader tune thing from
Star Wars cranks things up a level. And on walk Benji and the boys. An over 18s
mainly male crowd has seldom sounded so much like a pre-pubescent YMA6, fizzy-knickered throng. Must be
the Jager. But fever pitch moves up a notch and we’re off.
Mr Webbe
orchestrates proceedings consummately. The band look as though they’re loving
it. And it’s infectious. As always.
The
raggabastardreggaetoastingmetalhardcoredancedubcore boys are back in town. The
back catalogue is ransacked, so Trouble, Destroy the Dancefloor, Pressure,
Nobody and Rat Race are all served up accompanied by more recent concoctions
from the last brilliant long player Union Black including Cut Dem and the
sultry Doom Riff.
The energy
never wanes. Benji is brilliant. The band are brilliant. Mikey’s riff
magicianship and effortless bombast is brilliant. There’s even snippets of
Slayer and AC/DC thrown in as a paean to the heavier side along with a cracking
remix of Duality while we’re waiting for Benji to change his togs. The crowd
are brilliant. The pits are brilliant. The sound, well, not so brilliant, but
it is Brixtaan and who really gives a shit. It’s just brilliant. Skindred
should definitely be on every single person’s bucket list. They are like nobody
else.
 |
Yup, it's a crutch.
|
Finally,
Benji (after a costume change now in white fur and regal red– get him, Mr Ga
Ga!) gets the whole floor to turn their t-shirts, bras, vests, tweed breeches
and windcheaters into whirling helicopter rotors for the crackling closer
Warning (In which Mikey D admirably takes on the Jacoby Shaddix singing
duties). What a show. What a showman Brilliant.
The Union Chapel
25th April
Can’t be many
places where there’s a review of
raggabastardreggaetoastingmetalhardcoredancedubcore juxtaposed with shimmering,
beautiful, heartfelt and naked gorgeousness. Well, here goes.
I first caught
Charlene Soraia supporting Fink last year and was instantly captivated and lovestruck.
With the music. And her ability. Obviously. (Even though Ms Soraia clearly
missed out when they were administering beatings with the ugly branch – and to
suggest that she might make a middle-aged man’s ventricles work more than a
little harder would be inappropriate. And a bit pervy. Clearly). Anyway, that night, she cut a gauche,
vulnerable and open-hearted lone figure perched in a church. Tonight, the same.
But with two blokes called Dan. Adding bass and drums to support Charlene’s
mesmerizing playing and gymnastically fluid and flexible vocal nectar.
Another
reason for being in love with Ms S (apart from her guitar prowess and lovely
voice box, just to clarify, just in case any significant other or lawyer may be
reading) is her wonderful manner. Kooky, but clearly savagely funny and
delightfully engaging banter between her wonderful songs makes the whole
experience even more heart-melting.
The Dans
certainly add backbone and a more than a bit of oomph to her offering and
provide a rich counterpoint to her whimsical and engaging delivery without
stamping all over it or turning things a bit Radio 2.
She is a
fabulous guitarist and ridiculously versatile too. Tapping, hammering,
sweeping, riffs, jazzy progressions and tantalizing pops and harmonics with
delicious arpeggios all add beautiful depth to an already sumptuous and snuggly
quilt. She plays mandolin and milks true originality out of her baritone guitar
(although on Animal, the Dan’s were probably ‘one’ too loud
and mildly obfuscated her entrancing playing).
Throughout,
her voice is just to die for. So pure. So spine-dissolving. So beautiful. The
super upper register Riperton-esque feline meows would melt even the flintiest,
most curmudgeonly of hearts.
There were new songs on offer tonight including the gorgeous Broken. Established faves Rowing, Postcards from IO, When We were Five and Bike all made appearances, but sadly no Lemonade. Still, can't have it all. It was probably made up for by the wonderfully naughty Does She Fake Her Cumface?
Ok, we’ve got
this far without mentioning the Tea thing, but she does give it a magnificent
airing backed with a John Martyn-esque, quarter of Lebanese red-fuelled
soundscape of wombs (nice noise, not baby waiting room) and whahhs. All
controlled on a waist-high pedal board with which she twiddles and tweaks
throughout the song without missing a precious and perfect note. The spirit of
Small Hours invoked as a magical backdrop to her equally magical mellifluousness.
By the time
she reluctantly, wonderfully endearingly and awkwardly wanders back on to stage
for her encore, I have fallen even deeper in love. Ahem, <shuffles nervously
looking down at shoes> Her playing and singing you understand. Swoon. Can’t
wait for the next date. Er, gig.
From the
sublime…
The Dillinger Escape Plan*****
Three Trapped Tigers*****
The Relentless Garage
26th April
A bit like my
unexplained and somewhat irrational love for Enter Shikari, I have a similar
tryst with the unfathomably bewildering, nihilistic and murky mind rapists The
Dillinger Escape Plan.
The night
after having my heart stolen again by Charlene Soraia, I prepared to have it
cut out, trampled on, covered in grit and razor blades and shoved back up my
arse by an aggressive, ripped prison warder. And that’s exactly what happened.
Well, not exactly. Clearly.
Three Trapped Tigers *****
First up were Three Trapped Tigers. Keyboards. A guitar. Drummer. What could possibly go right?
Well, after 40 minutes or so of mind-melting electronica-infused post noise
math rock, tecchy, instrumental wizardy, everything.
A complete
surprise. And a welcomed one at that. Shamefully, I know little about these
lads apart from they’re a trio from London made up of Tom, Adam and Matt. And
they’re bloody amazing.
The drummer
(Adam) seems to be the main organiser. He perches centre stage and like Zeus,
issues percussive lighting bolts in every direction. Supported by power riffs,
farts, burps, bangs, booms and explosive walls of noise provided by guitar and
keys or two lots of keys and electronic boxes of buttons. There are elements of
other post/noise rock evident, Maybeshewill, You Slut! and Brontide could all
sit happily on the same wine region shelf. But there’s a sparkling originality
here too. Great stuff. Definitely need to see them again and would urge folk to
do the same.
Right. Brace
position adopted. Read the safety card. Heart racing. Scared shitless.
Let’s do
this.
The Dillinger Escape Plan *****
The Garage is
rammed to its arched ceiling. Beards, plaid, ‘character’ specs (are they mad? A
Dillinger gig. In specs?), hardcore johnnies in their snap backs, metal heads,
heads, stoners, hipsters, ink-covered ne’erdowells, muscles; in fact the back
streets and underground are pretty much fully represented and all salivating
wildly like a pack of feral, rabid dogs.
Then it goes
off. No one in the world does it like DEP. No one. In fact, no one comes close.
Yes, there are hardcore pretenders and contenders, but compared to this lot
even Converge look like Girls Aloud. The aggression. The energy. The apparent
malevolence. Just looking into the deranged eyes of Greg Puciato with his
gym-honed, nuclear ripped, bulging veins spells out the intention. They are
here to melt faces. To rip balls off. To kill. And with such sweet and
irresistible weapons.
The precision
with which these boys administer their punishment is micro surgeon-like.
Intricate, impossible riffs and runs. In scales that haven’t even been invented
yet. Syncopated bomb bursts. Time signatures that interfere with the
biochemistry of the human condition.
 |
| Wilson. Laser eyes set to kill |
Billy Rymer’s
mathematically unfeasible and improbable percussive algoryhytms eviscerate and
violate. And, as always Ben Weinman and Jeff Tuttle’s impolitely murderous
guitar work drops jaws, evacuates bowels and sets fire to visages. But Tonight, Mr Liam Beardy Bastard
Wilson is revealed as the true evil genius. His bass playing is other worldly.
Ridiculous. Ok, he’s not Mark King or the ludicrous Henrik Linder of Dirty
Loops (check this out ), but he is a wizard. An evil
fucking wizard with murder on his mind. He fuses the whole thing together down
to the tiniest sub-atomic particle of every perfectly timed note. Like some
nightmarish version of Gandalf armed with his jauntily worn bass bazooka – he’s
here to take names. And souls.
 |
| Danté? Pah! |
The crowd is
reduced to a ridiculous, sinful writhing mass of humanity. A constant conveyor
belt of contorted, wretched souls. Stage diving? Nah, for pussies, this is
stage suicide. Stage kamikaze. Leaping, running, bombing and torpedoing. Greg
dive bombs into the pit from atop the massive chain-suspended, swinging rig.
Ben runs into the crowd still playing his alien scales without missing an
impossible fret position. During Sunshine and The Werewolf, Puciato invites the
assembled perishing souls onto the stage. The drum kit gets a makeover,
temporarily disrupting Rymer’s artillery fire. There’s a general feeling of
fuck the world. It’s amazing. This, my friends it what the inside of a fucked
up madman’s head looks like. And it’s joyous. Nihilistic escapism. An antidote
for every manufactured and anodyne, autotuned abortion that we’re up to our
sorry knees in on a daily basis. Or maybe it’s what the inside of God’s head
looks like.
But, hadean
comparisons aside for a moment. There’s genuine import here. Serious musical
statements. Stockhausen, Stravinsky and Schoenberg have all been represented
here tonight. Dissembling the notions of harmony, structure, rhythm and form is
not new. But it’s important it keeps getting tested. Pushed. Reinvented.
Rewired. Reframed.
It’s
tantalising to imagine what it must have been like at the premier of
Stravinksky’s The Rite Of Spring. How uncomfortable. Bewildering. And how
fucking important. That’s how I like to think about this horrible lot.
Bernstein
said of the Stravinky’s masterpiece,
“it's got the best dissonances anyone ever
thought up, and the best asymmetries and polytonalities and polyrhythms and whatever
else you care to name."
He could have been talking about
tonight.
I’m exhausted. Spent. Defiled. Sated. Amazed.
Stunned. Uplifted. Fucked.
Here’s the setlist.
Panasonic Youth
Milk Lizard
Room Full of
Eyes
43% Burnt
Black Bubblegum
Hollywood
Squares
Weekend Sex
Change
Sugar Coated
Sour
Fix Your Face
Good Neighbor
Setting Fire to
Sleeping Giants
Sunshine the
Werewolf
Farewell, Mona
Lisa
Russian Circles next.
More tunes soon. Bwoooar!
