Express Roots – Arcane Roots Live at The Barfly

Arcane Roots*****

22*****

Trails***1/2**

The Barfly Camden 17^th November 2011

So, an early start at my favourite venue and the atmosphere was already building (as was the crowd) for the impressive Surrey scene boys Trails.

Trails ***1/2**

They’re a groaning dim sum trolley full of differing flavours and vibes. Ranging from full-bodied spicy rwaaar moments to lighter, but always tasty poppy hooks sprinkled with astringent arpeggios and wholesome thumping bass. And I tucked in greedily.

I’d never seen them live before, but  they were really on it tonight and the already packed house seemed to agree. Not totally original and there were moments of generic scene rock out of the recipe book of Deaf Havana, Francesqa and early YM@6, but they certainly served up high quality tunes and a thoroughly energetic and tight performance. I’ll definitely and happily dig in again next time the trolley comes around. Yum.

22*****

Beyond catergorisation, Norway’s electromathpopprognewrtomantic darlings 22 were next up. Starting with a tecchy and frazzled duel between bass and guitar, 2 UV face painted dervishes whirled onto the tiny stage and gave the assembled throng an almighty polyrhythmic kick in the cock. Then a similarly UV facepainted albino high-camp monk complete with cowl wandered out of the stygian gloom to front up proceedings.

The crowd seemed largely bewildered but hypnotically acceptant. There was a fair smattering of Norwegian fan boys hurling themselves about in frenzied delirium; but the rest were left nodding, stroking their hipster statement beards and generally lapping up this weirdest of intoxicating luminous cocktails.

22...Jazz Monk

The set was fast and furious overlaid with euro poppy gymnastics. For sure there were heavy moments and the musicianship throughout was as tight as a nun’s lady bits, but until the last number Plastik, it failed to totally and consistently hit the spot.

Arcane Roots’ frontman Andrew Groves joined the by now melty UV face painted Scando ghouls for Plastik and it was by far the best and most stirring number of the set. Don’t get me wrong, they were original, bewildering and, at times mesmerizing and generally bloody great, but if they could match the intensity of Plastik throughout, they’d be on another level.

Arcane Roots*****

I remember the first time I heard Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring. It was undeniably brilliant. Moving. Emotional. But it had a simmering dark side. Almost a malevolent shadow.  And I fell in love with it. Its nuance. Its ability to captivate. Its originality. And its middle finger in the air to the status quo and  to the tried and tested. Well, without being too wanky, I get the same feeling when I am privileged enough to be in the presence of Kingston’s brilliant Arcane Roots.

I’m running out of superlatives to describe this jaw-dropping trio and have given up trying to sound clever by cross-referencing influences, sonic signifiers and reference points. Suffice to say they are right at the front, and I mean right at the front of the burgeoning and exciting UK rock scene. So far at the front that they are at least 92 league places ahead of even the best of the others.

From the first melodic and trancy noodlings of their opening number (the first of three dazzling new tunes on show tonight which’ll hopefully appear on the new album that they’re recording next month), they ooze class, control and genuine star quality. The new tune segues neatly into the always stunning In This Town of Such Weather (from their recent tour de force, Left Fire); the place melts down. The assembled industry types, musos and hipsters are forced to discard any hint of insouciance or contrived coolness and dissolve, morphing into baying acolytes joyfully singing along like the front row of a One Direction show.

Andrew Groves exudes a charisma and a trail of stars seems to follow him around the stage like a meteor tail. But it’s not all about this ball of fiery energy, This is truly a joint effort. Adam Burton and Daryl Atkins provide one of the tightest and most explosive rhythm sections on the planet while adding multi-layered spellbinding vocal textures, growls, counterpoint and an almost orchestral support.

We are truly in the presence of greatness. The whole set is delivered with micro-surgeon’s precision, skillfully eviscerating the love-struck crowd while joyously and mercilessly caressing them at the same time without vulgarly or cheaply groping or lunging for the soft and squishy bits.

Rouen, as always is a beautiful, haunting and beguiling highlight, but the best is kept for the end. A true classic set closer. Tonight with added Norwegians. In neckties. Long and Low first pummels the spleens out of the sweaty throng then transforms onto a beautiful, haunting and plaintive refrain leaving a sated and seduced crowd humming and wailing their way through their own versions long after the stage has been emptied of our fabulous threesome and attendant Norwegians.

A truly unforgettable evening in the company of Britain’s very, very best. Can’t wait for the new album.

Every Time I Die, Spycatcher et al next.


In the meantime, here's a wonderful live session thingy that Arcane Roots did recently. Astonishing.

More tunes soon, Bwoooar!

Arcane Roots - You Are Live Session from Deethree on Vimeo.

It’s been a long time since cock and roll – Rival Sons Live Islington

Rival sons*****

Heaven’s Basement*****

O2 Academy Islington - London - Thu 10 Nov 2011

Smashing venue the academy. Like a big school hall surrounded by neon-lit bars. Shiny polished wood floor and a proper stage and fat rig. And tonight it was rammed to the rafters.

The crowd...Rock and ham rolls

The assembled throng was, how should I put this, er, in the main, well, er, old. Yup, I felt like a comparative teenager. Lots of old heads and rockers mingling with a pretty standard rock and roll crowd. Not  a whiff of too many hipsters or digital designers. It felt comfortable.

Heaven’s Basement*****

First up are Heaven’s Basement. Standard rock fare. And not a lot more to be honest. Having spent most of my youth kicking around the tail end of 70’s heavy rock and the arrivistes of the NWOBHM vibe, I felt a tremendous surge of déjà-vu. But not necessarily in a good way.

Heaven's Basement. Woof.

I could have been transported back 20 years. Muddy sound, poodly hair, guitars tuned to E (actually a quite refreshing antidote to the de rigeur dropped D of most of the scene rock), screamy, testosterone-fuelled vocals, wailing guitars and lots of blues scale. Well, at least that’s what I thought it was. The sound was so poor, the vocals were so low in the mix they sounded like they were coming through the wall of the flat three doors away.

A real shame, but, to be honest, I’m not sure if even pristine sound would have rescued the spectacle. It was like a mélange of early Def Leppard (without the harmonies), Saxon, Budgie, The Scorpions and the legion of dear departed support bands who would optimistically traipse onto the Hammersmith Odeon stage with names like Quartz, Fist, White Spirit, Angel Witch and other raggedy baggedy cod piece wearing hairy bastards.

In short, it was dull, derivative muddy and backward facing. But a lot of the balding crowd seemed to like it.

Rival Sons*****

By now, I was a little nervous about the dreadful sound. I’d stumbled across Rival Sons at Knebworth earlier this year and loved them to bits. They were only playing the Jagermeister stage, but their sound and energy had been brilliant, so I was worried they may have been subjected to the grey sludge that Heaven’s Basement blundered through.

I needn’t have worried. They opened with the barnstorming anthem Torture and the place went bloody nuts. The sound was as clear as a bell, Jay Buchanan’s amazing vocals soaring majestically above the gutsiest ballsiest rock and roll you could hope for.

Call it retro, call it classic rock, call it old school, call it cock rock, call it whatever you want, but it’s just rock and roll. And rock and roll out of the very toppest of top drawers.

The set continues with Burn Down Los Angeles, which gets the sweating, baying pack gloriously singing along while pointing, gyrating, moshing and even old-school head banging. However, the overwhelming atmosphere was that of joy. Almost everyone was smiling like loons. This is feel-good rock and roll without a whiff of nihilism, self pity, cod satanic or Lord of The Rings pomp.

The set moved through moods and tempo. There were moments of big testicled boogie, slow blues, funky vibes and soul. All underpinned with brilliant playing.

The rhythm section rivaled Paul-Jones and Bonham, Butler and Ward or Moon and Entwhistle for tightness and gut-churning power. Scott Holiday’s guitar work, thrilling, smooth, edgy and powerful throughout. They are a real band. While Buchanan’s vox are clearly the icing on the sweetest of cakes, this is a genuine team effort. Yes, he’s a front man out of the classic mould and his presence and craft is so well oiled and seductive, it’s like a 19^th Century French roué: all silks, satins, laudanum and posturing erectile tissue, but this feels like a single unit who love playing with each other and interact almost telepathically.

Of course there are inevitable parallels and comparisons to Led Zeppelin and Bad Company, but there’s a heap of other delicious influences on show. Dashes of The Small Faces, The Doors, Deep Purple, John Mayall and early Fleetwood Mac or Chickenshack (they even segue the iconic Mac classic Oh Well within their last jammed-out bluesy final number I want More), but despite all the retro references, they sound totally alive, fresh, relevant and, well, just bloody brilliant.

Ok, they’re not pushing the boundaries or re-inventing a genre; they’re no NIN, Dillinger, Rolo Tomassi or Enter Shikari, but fuck, they rock. And judging by the mass delerium of the 800 or so assembled rock worshippers tonight, they’re here to stay. 


The fantastic Arcane Roots next.


More tunes soon, Bwoooar.

Definitely Maybe. Maybeshewill and Lite. Live

Lite*****

Maybeshewill****1/2

Mojo Fury*****

The Borderline. Monday 24^th October 2011

Love the Borderline. Great pubs nearby. Heart of Soho. Low ceiling. Good bar. Good vibe.

Oh, and there’s a Nando's nearby.

Enough already, let’s kick things off.

Mojo Fury*****
This was a gig needed to revive the spirits after The X Factor ‘rock’ debacle. The world is a sorry place. So thank whatever superior being there is for live rock and roll. First up were Mojo Fury. Third or fourth time I’ve seen these fellas. And been pleasantly impressed each time. Tonight was no exception.

They happily straddle genres. There’s an indie artery running through them. Some shouty moments. Good hooks. Interesting soundscapes. No shortage of classy musicianship. Maybe a bit aloof at times but worthy and energetic all the same. There are hints of the late lamented Oceansize, NIN and even Talk Talk. Interesting stuff. Not sensational or terribly groundbreaking, but all-in-all enjoyable and obviously talented. Sadly though, one feels they’re destined to be perennial support material rather than ball-squeezing and heart-captivating headliners. Nevertheless, the crowd seemed to like them all the same. As did I.

Maybeshewill****7/8
Right, next up were the reason I hauled my arse out on a Monday night. Leicester’s magnificent, melodic and moody post, post rock' (simply post rock doesn't cut it for these legends) darlings, Maybeshewill in a rare night out in London co-headlining with Japanese bad boys Lite.

For the record, they’re now a five piece with the addition of Matthew Daly, a real  keyboardist: rather than the virtual veil of electronic secrecy that accompanied previous multi-layered and textured performances.

Maybeshewill...instruments of sheer pleasure.

The new expanded line up totally filled the wee stage. And from the very first note of the tight and beautifully conceived and delivered set, their massive, emotional sound filled the sweaty, entranced, head-filled venue.

Yup, the heads were out in force. Which is wonderfully comforting for an old head like myself. It was like a 70s recording of The Old Grey Whistle Test. Without whispering Bob Harris or a quarter of Red Leb. Splendid. Well, apart from the absence of the red.

Tracks from their latest astonishing long player (I Was Here For a Moment, Then I Was Gone) like the haunting Critical Distance and entrancingly hypnotic Red Paper Lanterns are embroidered effortlessly into the vibrant sampler which showcases older favourites like The Paris Hilton Sex Tape and the mesmerizing To The Skies From A Hillside.

They are wonderfully tight. Seem to have ridiculous verve and energy (even more impressive, given their punishing tour itinerary – including a massive schlep form Ireland last night). And interact almost telepathically throughout their often complex and always soulful set.

It's all beautifully put together and is a deliciously blended smoothie of light, shade, beauty, solemnity, pathos, emotion and sexy naughtiness. It’s wonderful that such emotion can be delivered in an instrumental métier. Gorgeousness. Smiles. Shivers. And no small dollop of vibe and funkiness. Love it.

Lite*****

Lite. Heavy. Lite. Dark. New Lite of my life.

By the end of Maybeshewill’s set I was concerned that Lite, tonight’s joint headliners, were going to suffer by comparison. Difficult to track down, I really didn’t know too much about or had heard too much of Lite's stuff. So was almost ready to head off for an after show cocktail or two having given them a courteous if not cursory listening.

But Holy fuck, was I in for a treat or what?

Four geeky looking Japanese lads who looked liked they’d wandered out of an Oxford Street Language School or crammer fake university sidled onto the stage. And fucked my life up.

This was something special. Something very special. Amazing playing, a tightness that I’ve seldom experienced (without being at all clinical or soulless). Such vibrancy. So many grooves. Such amazing technicality – without being indulgent or effete. Such obvious enjoyment and passion.


This evening's proceedings were controlled by an energetic wee bassist who milked the most incredible lines out of his proportionally enormous plank and a vaguely embarrassed looking fella sporting a Hank Marvin Strat perched behind a Mac Book Pro. Spellbinding. 

I have not one clue what any of the tunes were called. There were wonderfully understated and humble mumblings between tracks delivered in quaint broken English, which further warmed the heart and generated a genuine relationship with the fervent and delirious grooving hordes of heads - but it didn’t matter a jot what the masterpieces were called. And that’s what they were. Masterpieces.

There were genuine classical moments, jazzy interludes, dancy breakdowns. Syncopated deconstructions. Funky backbeats. Amazing drumming. Oh bollocks, I really can’t ably describe how absolutely bloody amazing this lot were. I was rendered genuinely speechless.

If any of you ever get the chance to see Lite, sell the family jewels, divorce the missus, cancel audiences with Popes, Gods and gurus, miss world cup finals and turn down ‘no strings’ blow jobs from the fit one from The Saturdays. It doesn’t get much better than this lot. They are truly astounding.

Going to have to give up the guitar though. They’ve changed my tiny world. Fuckers.


Obviously, Maybeshewill would have got 5 stars, but because I can't give Lite a 6, 5 7/8 will have to do.


Here's their vid for the wonderful Critical Distance:

And while I'm at it, here's a Lite tour de force:

Retro cock rockers Rival Sons next.

More tunes soon. Bwoooar!

Enter under G for genius. Shikari Live in London.

Enter Shikari*****

Your Demise*****

Letlive*****

The Electric Ballroom Camden, Thursday  20^th October

I’ve not looked forward to a gig this much in ages. Anyone who’s seen any of my ramblings will know that I’ve been a fan of the St Alban’s chappies since they first fingered a Kaoss pad, cranked up an SG and twiddled the knobs on a microKorg. So, in my bleary eyes, tonight was the latest chapter in their evolution.

Pint in hand, having braved the massive scene queue I plonked myself in the middle of the congregation and readied myself for the sermon according to the gospel of noise.

Letlive*****

Talking of noise, LetLive are making all sorts of sonic waves across the music world at the moment and they were first up tonight. I’ve not seen them before, particularly love the track Muther on their latest album; so was genuinely buzzing with anticipation. So, what did we get? 

LetLive. Fuzzy wuzzy was a bear.

Energy? Tick. Big noise? Tick. Crowd interaction? Tick. Big tunes? Tick. Fun? Tick. Good sound? Nah. A hard on? Sadly not.

Ok, they ticked most of the boxes and I did really enjoy their brisk and brief offering. But the terrible sound killed it for me. And a lack of something indefinable. Sorry to be so vague; all the elements were there, but they failed to deliver the full 120,000 rating on the Scoville heat  scale I’d so wanted to scald my balls. Which was mildly disappointing. Don’t get me wrong, they definitely have something and I’d like to see them again, maybe headlining with a decent sound in a smaller venue. But tonight, it was like having sex wearing a thick, rough, itchy woolen condom.

Your Demise*****

Your Demise. Dull, dull, dull.

Oh dear. I hate to slag bands off. Especially bands with apparently good reps. But, tonight, Your Demise were bloody awful. There, I said it. The majority of the crowd in front of me would probably take issue with me. But, then again,  they would probably have loved Bronski beat or a fat bird from Essex singing Chris De Burgh covers tonight, such was the infectious enthusiasm, consumption of Pear Cider and excitement dripping from the Ballroom’s ceiling. 

Nope, Your Demise were predictable, sludgy, derivative, tired and, like LetLive, destroyed by the worst sound since Death Cab for Cutie at the notorious sonic graveyard in Brixton. Ed McRae’s vocals sounded like they were being sung through the thick, rough, itchy woolen condom. Unsexy. Unispiring. 

Don’t want to say too much more. But I was so underwhelmed, it started to take the gloss of the evening. Well, a bit. Shame.

The Future Sound of St Albans

Enter Shikari*****

Noel Gallagher. Miles Kane. Nicky Wire. Ian Brown. Tom Meighan. Jared Leto. Gerard Way. Billie Joe Armstrong. Pete Doherty. Caleb Followill. And too many others to mention. Give up. Just go. Leave quietly. Don’t bother closing the door. Just fuck off. Right off.

You are all guilty of either saying rock is dead or producing dead rock music. Your days are over. Your moments in the sun finished. Move over. Diogenes once told Alexander The Great to stand out of his light. You fuckers need to get the message.

Definitely. Not maybe.

Tonight, Messers Rou Reynolds, Rory Clewlow, Chris Batten and

Rob Rolfe  are ordering you to stop casting your prosaic, tedious and stultifying shadows over our bright new world.

Tonight’s performance was truly one of rock’s defining moments. The Herts boys have grown up (thankfully not too much). And are at the very vanguard of all that is good and great about loud and live music.

It is rumoured that close to his death throes, Mr Tony Wilson opined that the future of British music was is rude health and, enigmatically, St Albans was where it was at. Tony, you were so right you dear, bluff old cove. The future is safe. Totally safe. Oh yes.

Everything about tonight’s show was just off the chain. From the triumphant opening of Destabilise, through the trancy, dancy wob wobs of Motherstep/ship via a smattering of tasty morsels from Common Dreads (even the polarising Gap in The Fence sounded amazing!) to tantalizing tasters of goodies to come like the addictively brilliant Ssssnakepit, the crazy-arsed Arguing With Thermometers to old buffed up favourites like No Sssweat, Return To Energiser and crowd pleasers Juggernauts, Sorry You’re not a Winner and OK, Time for Plan B.

I was lucky enough to be at the intimate Dingwalls gig for Rory’s birthday a couple of months back and really couldn’t believe they could get any better. But tonight, my God, they rewrote the book. This was magnificent. Truly magnificent.

I’m so happy that there are so many great British bands around at the moment; Burn The Fleet, Lower Than Atlantis, Don Broco, Proceed (although Dan needs to pull his sodding finger out and get us all some new delicacies to gorge upon), Arcane Roots, King Blues, Pulled Apart By Horses, Rosa Valle, Polar, Max Raptor, The Xcerts, Midgar, Deaf Havana, Maybeshewill and many more, but Mr Reynolds and the lads are leading the revolution at the moment. And tonight I was privileged to have been present at such a powerful rally and call to arms.

In a week when The shitty sad old Stone Roses have announced a weary, cynical potboiler reformation, it is even more resonant and important that Enter Shikari are around to save our corporately exploited and shit-fed contrived and controlled A-playlist doused souls. If Gallagher, Wire, Meighan and their sad-arsed cronies, acolytes and jaded, morose organ grinders could have been here tonight they would have spared us all a job and been down the pawnshop or on Ebay in the morning getting rid of their abused and redundant Epiphones and Rickenbackers. Shown up. Embarrassed. Taught a lesson. And fucking humiliated. 

Amazing stuff. Can’t wait for the new album and more live havoc next year.

The mesmerising Maybeshewill next.

More tunes soon. Bwoooar!

From InMe to You Me, via Finky Folk. Loads of reviews.

InMe*****

Some Godawful Scandinavian Ogress and a pretend Djent band*****

Midgar

The Watershed, Wimbledon. 27^th September 2011

Absolutely sick. Not in a hipster or surf dude stylee. But sick. Really sick. I missed Midgar. Got to the impressive Watershed in Wimbledon just before 8:00 only to see the boys clearing the stage. And doors were only at 7:00. Totally gutted. Had been looking forward to catching Andy and the lads since their sensational show at The Barfly. And to make matters worse, unannounced, an 8 foot blonde punk Valkyrie wandered on stage with a rent-a-metal band of nothing special no-hopers: my sickness was compounded.

Time please Djentlemen. Aaaarrrgghh!

They weren’t even supposed to be here. Were they? I can’t even remember what they were called. It started with a Dje. Anyway, not just because of my foul mood, they were awful. A screaming giant bird with a tired sounding derivative drop D sludgeband. Shite. Just Shite.

Still shaking with disappointment and misery I took refuge in some hard booze and waited to be revitalized, refreshed and rogered by Mr McPherson and his band of very merry men.

InMe*****
And lift my mood it certainly did. InMe had slipped off my radar for years after a really encouraging and potential-laden first album. Intelligent, technical, melodic and original tuneage of the top order surely signaled massive things ahead. But then they were gone. 
Or at least hibernating.

I was privileged to catch Dave’s after hours solo set at Knebworth in the summer and he blew me away. Like Willie Thorne, his hair’s all gorn, but his mesmerising voice and great playing still remains and, coupled with a jaunty, cheeky and witty persona, mark him out as someone very special. The next day, in a massive blue tent, joined by his band, they blew the bloody doors off. This reawoke my interest in the Essex-based larrikins and so I stocked up on their whole back catalogue and now I was ready for the next chapter of the good book of InMe.

McPherson, I haven't had a c*nt all day drinksatble.

And man they didn’t disappoint. A sold out Watershed bayed and hollered as a Dubstep wobfest thumped and wobbled the congregation’s nether regions. Then it was straight into Ferocity in Desire. The lads were really enjoying themselves and the packed crowd shared the joy and smiles. A bristling set followed. Heavy as hell in parts. Drenched in melody and melancholy in others.  Faster The Chase, and  Myths and Photographs  provided a solid backbone to the bone shuddering set. Two new songs were given an airing (Pantheon and Legacy) and, like a wonderful amuse-bouche, set appetites and drool running wild in anticipation of the forthcoming new release (Pride). All Terrain Vehicle was an absolute highlight offering light and shade in the Dantean sulphur pit of writhing acolytes.

A rare and fantastic outing of  Her Mask rounded the main set off, before the pantomime routine of the encores.

Raindrops on Stones was followed, unsurprisingly by the crowd-pleaser Single of The Weak and the whole feast was topped off by the one that kicked it all off all those years ago, the anthemic Underdose.

Apart from the gaping hole left by missing Midgar, this was truly on of the best gigs of the year. Delivered with skill, joy, charm and balls the size of Tigers’ heads, InMe are back (if they ever went away, that is). And everyone should make a date for their tour next year.  Totally fucking splendid.

Fink*****

Charlene  Soraia*****

The Union Chapel, Islington, 5th October 2011

Having discovered Fink by complete accident in a Japanese toy shop about 7 years ago (the sublime cover of Alison Moyet’s All Cried Out as it happens), he/they have regularly been one of my relaxation aids, But until tonight, I’d never seen them live. So was greatly looking forward to a relaxed, radox bath with my secret discovery. But, on arrival at a sold out Union Chapel, I was horror struck. Juding by the crowd, they’ve/he’s, dare I say it, become, er, cool. And trendy. And everything.

It was like walking down Curtain Road in the small hours of a Saturday trying to find a vegan bagel or wheat grass dietary supplement drink. Half mast trousers, novelty facial hair, comedy ‘hench’ glasses, retro footwear and lots of affected hand gestures and stupid fucking hats. Loads of them. Fuck, Shoreditch and Dalston must’ve been empty of twats. They were all here.

Anyway, after running the gauntlet of London’s coolest c*nts, I found a perch pretty near the front of the beautiful venue and plopped myself onto a pew.

Soraia. Beautiful. Just beautiful.

Charlene  Soraia*****

First up was a pretty young gal and a nice sunburst semi-acoustic. She opened up with a cutesy, gauche and beguiling chat. I immediately fell in love with her.

I hoped she’d live up to her loveliness once she’d started playing. Having hung around (and been a little involved in) the acoustic/folk scene for many years, I’ve sat through so many horrible hours of hopeful girls with guitars, so my expectations weren’t high.

I needn’t have worried. Her jazzy, syncopated and thrilling guitar work was a genuine surprise. No aimless strumming here, but neat finger picking and some great chop with harmonics, sweeps, tapping and even two songs delivered to a brilliant baritone guitar backdrop. Her voice was as near perfection as one could hope for. Not a note missed in the whole set. Astonishing. Such clear timbre and a range Minnie Ripperton would have been jealous of ( I would have said she’d die for, but that would have been crass. Oops.)

Her songs were refreshingly original and varied. Saying that, some lacked clear refrains or hooks and rambled a bit. But never mind. She is genuinely a wonderful talent and as her banter continued I fell deeper and deeper in lust/love with her. Swoon.

They Fink it's all over...

Fink*****

Ok, heart back to normal. She’d gone. Time for Mr Cool.

A ‘spine’ of giant desk lamps adorned the intimate stage as the three troubadours sauntered, apologetically onto the platform.

Some noodling, and suddenly we’re into a reworked version of Biscuits for Breakfast. The sparks of recognition flicker among the ‘cats’ in the crowd. 
And we’re off.

Front man Fin Greenall (Fink himself) has a mellifluous and hypnotic delivery and tonight he’s weaving his stress- busting magic with aplomb. Tracks from the new album (Perfect Darkness) meld perfectly with reshaped older material. There are hints of trip hop, trance and electro folk. Whether he knows it or not, he’s virtually absorbed the spirit of the late, great John Martyn. His echoplexy laden layers could have come straight from the great man himself. There’s a whiff of Adem, Terry Callier, fellow Cornishman Dan Arborise and harks back to Drake and Renbourn. A veritable mash up of acoustic greats and gods.

The evening is far from one paced and total chill-out overload though. Thankfully. They even threatened to trip the noise limiter with trippy, rhythmic rocky sections. Despite a near coma in the middle, so lost was I in the layers and swirling syncopation, I totally loved it.

Alright, it did get a bit samey (the latest album aimlessly and repetitively meanders a bit too much even for an old head like me), but all-in-all and Shoreditch wankers notwithstanding, a truly magical evening. And as the final suspended chord of a pared-down version of Pretty Little Thing rang out around the grand old chapel, it did feel like we’d been present at something quasi-religious. Amen.

You Me At Six*****

Deaf Havana*****

Lower Than Atlantis*****

Brixton Academy, 15^th October 2011

Now that’s a queue. I have never, ever encountered a queue as massive as the one snaking half way round south London that met us as we neared the grand old Academy. Well, I say near, the queue must have been close to a mile long. Seriously. And, about 80% female. Weird.

Anyway, after queuing for 40 minutes, finally got in to an absolutely rammed Academy for the end of Motorway (of Life). Ok, it didn’t rank as badly as missing Midgar at the InMe gig, but LTA (ok, and Deaf Havana) are the main reason I’m here to be honest, so missing the start was a tad galling.  No matter, what were Monsieur Duce and his gang going to lay on us on this momentous evening?

Lower Than Atlantis*****

Energy, grunt, power, dirt, electricity and great fun, that’s what.

Right, let’s get the negative out the way first; the sound. Brixton is always shit. Fact. I’ve even walked out of gigs in the past because it’s so poor (Death Cab for Cutie, Dave Matthews, Pendulum et al), but as a support, it must be the shittiest end of the stick. The kick drum sounded like a leather sofa being hit by a stick of rhubarb and the vox were too low in the mix. But bollocks to that, LTA are one of the most exciting and fabulous young bands in the land and they ploughed on regardless of the sonic challenge. With aplomb.

LTA and the girls' wall of love.

Mike Duce is a mega talented, miserable arsehole. And I love him for it. He’s right up there as one of the kinpin songwriters in this country and his cynical, askant, eloquent (ok apart from the amusing pun fest that is Deadliest Catch!) and often ascerbic lyrics genuinely are a snapshot narrative to modern yoof.

There is great depth to LTA’s offering. It’s neither whiny, frothy pop punk nor nihilistic hand-wringing joyless hardcore, but a refreshing blend of heavy, guitar-based riffage and catchy hooks as a tapestry backdrop to Duce’s teasing and insightful wordsmithing and grizzly, original vocal. I’m not altogether sure whether most of this evening’s assembled scene gals totally ‘got it’, but it appeared to be gulped down greedily in an enthusiastic frenzy by the writhing masses. The lads took to the big crowd like second nature; cajoling, inciting, exciting and entertaining from the first note til the last. Even throwing in a wee bit of Foo Fighters. Can’t wait for their headline tour next year.

Deaf Havana*****

Poor old James and Chris were heavy with cold. Which, for mr Veck-Gilodi is a right bugger, as he has a remarkable voice, especially at the top end and so snot and swollen tonsils were always going to dampen proceedings a wee bit.

However, the show must go on. And it did. Oh yes.

Veck-Gilodi...Deaf to all but Metal

Opening with their mighty party tour-de-force, Friends Like These, the place went into Karaoke meltdown. Ok, it sounded like a Beatles audience, or a woman’s hockey international crowd, but it must’ve served as a double strength Lem-Sip Xtreme to the band. They’re on the verge of something massive with the new album a month away from release and on tonight’s showing, they’re fully equipped to enjoy every single drop of success that’s on its way.

Hands up if anyone's got any Beecham's...

The sound was ramped up a bit compared with LTA and the set gathered pace culminating in the magnificent Nicotine And Alcohol Saved My Life which was virtually delivered Veck-Gilodi-Free  as the crowd assumed vocal duties. The world is now ready for these boys and they will surely deliver. Watch this space.

You Me At Six*****

Right, let’s get things straight: I’m not a massive fan of YMA6. Not that they’re no good. Far from it. What they do, they’re just about the best out there at it. As I’ve already said, I mainly came to see LTA and Deaf Havana, but I’m drawn to watching Guildford’s finest with a real sense of excitement.

So, what is all the fuss about? Why all the fizzy knickers? The Queue? The palpable anticipation? The hysteria? The hype? The screams?

Josh: He's not the Messiah. Or even a very naughty boy.

They’re pure class. That’s what. It’s a truly remarkable feat that a bunch of genuine, nice boys from Surrey playing honest, tuneful and ballsy rock and roll  are right up there. A no1 album. Yup, a fucking no1 album. A rock album. With guitars. And soul. And heart. And tunes.

And it makes me fiercely proud. And, I have to admit, more than a tad emotional. It is a genuine joy that rock music is cultivating a new audience.  In a world of sugar, ‘product’, samples, autotune, meandering R&B, gangster bollocks, endless, tedious rap and fucking boy bands, it makes the heart race to know that real music is thriving. Moreover, it’s creating a real wave and sucking youngsters in as it grows in strength.

YMA6 owned the stage tonight. Big tunes. Big love. Big guitars. Big noise. Bigger appreciation and an entranced, captivated crowd. And all without the wank of messianic arrogance displayed by 30STM or the pantomime sickness and slickness of MCR. Of course, the crowd tonight probably love stuff like that too (worryingly, there was a mass join-in to sodding soulless Kings of Leon in the break!), but tonight, they only had eyes -and ears- for Josh and his merry band.

So, he’s a babe magnet and the sort of boy every mum would want as a son-in-law, but he has real soul and charm. And a not half bad voice. Although, at times tonight, it was a little shaky. But let’s hope he can continue to be the good bloke from down the pub and avoids the cloak of bollocks that messers Way and Leto have donned on their way to apparent frontman nirvana.

While bands like YMA6, Deaf Havana, LTA, Enter Shikari, The Xcerts, Don Broco, WATO and the rest of the UK scene continue to grow and entertain with the integrity, groundedness and honesty, the rock and roll world is in safe hands. And long may it continue. Hallebloodylulliah!


Enter Shikari next week. Then the magnificent Maybeshewill.


More tunes soon. Bwoooar!