Deaf Havana Live At Shepherds 16/11/12 Review

Deaf Havana *****

Canterbury *****

There For Tomorrow *****

O2 Shepherds Bush November 16^th 2012

There are special moments in the world of rock and roll. And hell, probably in Crunk or garage-core-electro-dub-pop-punk too. But, without getting too carried away tonight is right up there.

Being quite an old sod, I’ve been to thousands of shows over the years. From festivals and dingy toilets to stadia and scout huts. But there’s an undeniable special thing in the air tonight. Really special.

Even half an hour before stateside openers There For Tomorrow ***** are due on, the proud old Empire is as rammed as a fat man’s pants. And probably just as sweaty.

When they eventually do take to the boards, the ridiculously enthusiastic throng gives them a welcome far in excess of they could have imagined. Or hoped for. Saying that, there’s such a vibe in the venerable old place that Jimmy Savile or Nick Griffin would probably have raised the roof and fizzed-up the knickers.

I haven’t come across There For Tomorrow so didn’t really have a clue what to expect, but they deliver an energetic blend of pop rock in a similar vein as mid era Lost Prophets but with more of an American twang than even old Taffy Watkins affects. And needless to say, it goes down like limitless free Blue WKD among the assembled excitable yoof. Oh, and the tune about deathbeds or something like that isn’t half bad.

I’ve probably been less than charitable about Canterbury***** in the past. Not necessarily directly, but by grouping them together with other melodic middle ground bands on the UK scene. Think Natives, (the late) Futures, Coastlines etc. So, I was hoping that they’ll be beefier and have a soupcon more edge tonight.

And they don’t disappoint. The crowd, rapidly reaching premature vinegar stroke help set the fire. And it burns fiercely and beautifully. Helped by a really good sound, the affable chaps bounce effortlessly through a compelling and thoroughly engrossing set. There’s a sophistication and an intelligence to their fare which truly puts clear water between them and the surrounding pack. And on tonight’s mesmerising and big-boned performance, it surely won’t be too long before they’re packing out rooms like this on their tod.

Deaf Havana *****

So, the starters are all consumed. Every seat, square foot and nook is rammed with expectant acolytes. That ‘special’ feeling is almost palpable.

I have to admit, the emotion is inescapable, and having watched these boys on many occasions in tiny bogs and shitty basements, from Ryan’s screaming days through to festival triumphs and countless support slots, I’m consumed by genuine pride. And there’s definite moistness in the old eyeholes.

A sold out headline show at a famous venue. This is what working for it really means. It brings into sharp contrast the celebrity machine and superficial manufactured anodyne bollocks our youngsters are led to believe is a genuine route to ‘stardom’.

Sweaty vans smelling of cocks and socks. Sleeping on floors; if you’re lucky. MSG, additive and salmonella-ridden petrol station cuisine. Playing to half empty rooms in the middle of towns you’ve never been to. Or probably ever want to again. That’s working for it. That’s a ‘journey’. That’s the downpayment. The rollercoaster ride. The investment. The sacrifice. No judges houses. Camp freak show choreography. Faux tears as fake as the judges tits. No, this is real. Really real.

And every single, ticket-paying merch-consuming loved up fan here tonight knows and appreciates that. This is the most perfect collective, co-created raised middle finger to the soulless self-consuming auto-tuned contrived manufactured poison. And I love it.

The boys arrive on stage to what can only be compared to the noise of a 777 in full thrust. In your bathroom. Unbelievable. Just as unbelievable as the opener – that alternative mandolin-fused jaunty version of The Last Six Years off the re-released masterpiece Fools And Worthless Liars. The place melts down. The band must feel like they’ve just had crystal meth mainlined into their bellends. Such adulation. Such energy. Such love.

Then, seamlessly, the massive group vocal opening to the catchier than chlamydia I Will Try further incites and excites the Dantean hordes. ‘Special’ doesn’t cut it. This is off the scale. And it’s not lost on the band. The always affable, honest and eloquent James Veck-Gilodi humbly and genuinely announces that it’s already the best gig of their lives. After two songs. And he’s not wrong.

I have fess up that I’m so caught up in the raw emotion, the power, the love and affection that being truly objective is now futile. All the big tunes are wheeled out. With every word sung back with an almost religious fervour. J V-G probably doesn’t need to sing at all.  But when he does, his voice has never sounded better.

There are few lyricists in the business better than the self-styled grumpy drunken dwarf and tonight he uses all his verbal grenades to milk every last drop of love, pathos, sympathy, empathy and joy from his congregation. And they love it.

Anemophobia is the absolute highlight of the night. Starting with the stripped back, piano accompanied version and ending with the full band work out, every syllable is belted out with heartfelt meaning and that bloody moisture returns to these tired old eye bits.

I’ll even forgive the lads for hideously mutilating and heartlessly emasculating the old punkier fave, Friends Like These by turning into a mandolin-based camp fire Kum Ba yah sing-a-long. Saying that, it was still bloody good.

The passion never drops. On the stage, in the pit, right up beyond the clouds into the upper, upper circle. And when the lads bring on The London Gospel Choir, the heavenly metaphor is complete.

By the time the sublime and delicious Hunstanton Pier brings the love-fest to a jizz-puddle end, everyone is spent, empty, flushed, aching and satiated.

An amazing night in the company of a truly amazing young, honest and truly deserving bunch of blokes.

More tissues please.

No, not for that.

The Algorithm next.

More tunes soon. Bwoooar!

Work Those Guns - This Town Needs Guns Live Review

This Town Needs Guns *****

The Bronze Medal ***1/2**

Polio *****

The Borderline,  2^nd November 2012

Polio *****

First up tonight are the marvelously distastefully monikered Polio. A fiery, feisty bunch of noiseniks who serve up a snakebite of mathy indie alt jollity. There are moments of Brontide tied to the buttocks of Arcane Roots choppiness and riffage with a pop punky harcore aftertaste. All tetchy and tecchy riddled with aggressive shouty, sweary vox. And a cowbell. Maybe just need a more melodic reference point here and there as a shot of blackcurrant to ease the jagged taste. But mildly intoxicating nonetheless.

The Bronze Medal ***1/2**

No need for a backdrop in the now rammed Soho subterranean gloom as the next band of troubadours bring a living wall of plaid onto the stage. Oh, and beards. Looking like the bastard chimera offspring of the Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers, the front row of a Nirvana gig, Millets window and a Shoreditch speakeasy clientele, they saunter onto the stage almost apologetically as chief plaid bloke fires up a wooden harmonium looking thing in a box and we’re off.

And a more diametrically opposed offering to the lads of Polio you couldn’t dream of. Smooth, tasty post rock with swelling layers and gallons of creamy harmonies and plaintive mournfulness. A delicious mélange of Yndi Helda and Oceansize with dollops of Crosby Stills and Nash and Orb-like ambience. A thoroughly yummy and indulgent Radox bath. And, thankfully, in no way boring.

Plaid? Check.

Initially, when I saw the plaid, beards and the wooden harmonium looking thing in a box, I feared we were in for yet another nu-folkcore/nu-country shoe-gazing torture session (Dry The River, you know who you are!!!), but we’re mercifully spared the new mellowbandwagon and while never raising the crowd’s perspiration level or heartbeat too much, the West Country boys’ hypnotic and mellow dreaminess hits the spot perfectly. Gert lush.

This Town Needs Guns *****

After creating a stage set from Blake’s Seven (one for the kids there) with their stunning array of bespoke white cubes all arranged at doubtlessly scientifically determined precise jaunty angles, before TTNG even create a sound, tonight just feels other worldly.

Shorn down and reinvented as a trio, with the introduction of Henry Tremain as vocalist and all round musical show-off joining the brothers Collis, there’s a definite air of edgy anticipation in the sold out cellar. Will they be as good? Can three really replace more?

Tremain, armed with what looks like a 6 string baritone guitar stands cheerfully at the back of the stage next to his personal sci-fi set of speakers and kicks us off into the mesmerizing Chinchilla. All doubts, if indeed there truly were any, instantly evaporate like a rare gas. The new boy done good. Effortlessly filling Stu Smith’s vocal and Jamie Cooper’s fat stringed shoes in one fell swoop.

The sound is absolutely astonishing. Those white cubes have strong magic within. And, as always, Tim Collis’s unparalleled tapping, sliding, hammering, tickling, caressing and stimulating leaves jaws dropped and eyes popped from the venue’s writhing front to its backpipe.

Collis is in a wonderful world of his own. Like some sort of an autistic über-genius. In a bubble. Deliriously happy. Smiling. Loving it. And the sounds that emanate from his array of Telecasters pimped and modified with all manner of capos and alien tunings defy comparison. 

Arpeggios, syncopation, insane time signatures and seemingly mathematically and physically impossible progressions provide the most wonderful swirling, intoxicating and bewildering soundscape for the whispy and light alto vocals and sumptuous melodies. All welded together by the most ridiculously tight and intricate drumming of his bro Chris, delivered almost laconically and apparently effortlessly.

Ok, it’s been said before, and it’s somewhat inevitable; but when a truly original sound or style of playing is alchemically created, there is obviously going to be a risk of everything sounding too samey. There are undeniably moments in TTNG’s offering that clearly play in the same areas and Collis’s unique and amazing style does inevitably dictate the sound. But it’s a cod and specious criticism. Mr The Edge while fucking around with many racks, boxes, pedals and set ups is instantly identifiable (sorry to mention U2, spit, cough, splutter – it’s only to make a clumsy point). Hell, Vivaldi’s pretty much immediately taggable. As are Sonny Rollins, Miles Davis, Stanley Jordan, Rory Gallagher and even Tony Iommi.

And TTNG are no different. They’re defining a sound. Owning it. Creating it. And tonight, it’s goosebump-inducingly brilliant. True virtuosity but with delicious songcraft and melodic beauty. The new tunes, including the fabulous Cat Fantastic sound huge and whet the appetite even more for the forthcoming new long player.

This lot are truly original. Beyond definition or even comparison. Certainly above simplistic categorisation. There are post-rock moments. Definite mathy bits. Proggy overtones. Jazzy and classical constructs. But on the whole, you just have to settle for delightful, delicious and definitely one of the gigs of the year.

Oh, and they even did a spine-tingly unplugged, un-amped sit down acoustic coda at the end with the whole venue sitting like dutiful kids at school assembly.

Deaf Havana’s sold out Shepherds Bush show next.

More tunes soon. Bwoooar!

Dry Roots. Dry The River and Arcane Roots live review

Dry The River *1/2****

Arcane Roots ****1/2*

O2 Academy Shepherds Bush

 1^st November 2012

Bizarre one this. The screwball pairing of two hugely disparate bands. Both undeniably at the top, or at least well on the way to the top, of their respective games. One blitzkrieg, fireball busting with energy, vigour, thrust, polythrythms, riff bombs, complexity, nuance, vitality and originality. And the other a kind of crusty new country orchestra.

Arcane Roots ****1/2*

A half decent crowd had gathered by the time Arcane Roots took to the stage in what must be one of their biggest shows to date in terms of hall size at least. And they looked so at home it can only be a matter of time before they are regularly owning spaces this size and beyond.

However, once primed, the banging opening number leaves most of the crowd looking a tad bewildered. The jumpers, beards, sandals, sensible outdoor wear and hurredly hidden accountant’s garbed commune didn’t really know what to make of Mssrs Groves, Burton and Atkins. There were no mandolins, pianos, softly whispered, whistful prairie oratorios. Oh no. Just a fully erect, brutal, vein-bulging priapic throbber here; with the sole intent to violate.

The PA was, predictably choked back in the traditional pantomime ‘let’s not give the noisy support band too much help’ way and Burton’s atmospheric and supportive vocal screams, drones and harmonies were too high in the mix...

BUT

...it didn’t matter one iota. These boys ooze class. Their stagecraft is as lively, boisterous and energetic as their barrages of riffs, explosions and phenomenal musicianship. We are in the presence of superstars of the future. Doubtlessly.

Groves’s amazing voice cuts wonderfully over the dizzying patchwork of rhythms, beats, classically complex and gloriously complex yet spellbinding concoctions and compositions. There are samples of tasty new tuneage including the massive and brilliant Resolve and the instantly epic and anthemic Hell Or Highwater to accompany the mesmerising platter served from the astonishing debut mini long player ep thing, Left Fire. And, by the sound of it, a shift towards a slightly more melodic and dare I say commercially accessible flavour. Which seems to warm up the amassed MOR congregtion.

If you listen closely, you can hear the syncopated tightening of Dry The River’s collective quaking ringpieces back stage as they ponder, ‘What have we done? How the hell are we going to follow this?”. Well, they start by three or four of their number joining the Roots boys on stage for the always rousing and sublime Long And Low. Which brings the house down. Even the North Face wearing foldy bicycle-owning sensible crowd actually raised eyebrows, voices and spirits by joining in with the addictive refrain.

A stunning performance from a truly original and stunning band. Over to the quakers....

Dry The River *1/2****

I’ll be brief.  Meh.

I’m struggling so hard with this. I’ve banged around the acoustic, folky scene for decades. Fallen asleep in Fairport Convention gigs (without even THC to blame). Been mesmerized by Richard Thomson. Seen John Martyn cast schmoove celestial spells close to 50 times. Sat in fields in Cherry Hinton watching jug bands and be assaulted by more mandolins than at a Lord Of The Rings pageant. What I’m trying to say, is that the whole ‘folky’ melodic, er, ‘nice’ thing is in my blood and happily cohabits in my being alongside rock and roll, jazz, experimental (though there are limits – Holger Czukay, you know who you are!) classical and punky metally noisy stuff.

But I’ve never been so bored in a gig. Never. Ok, Hawkwind at Chelmsford City Hall back in 1981 came close, but tonight Matthew, I’m bored, bored, bored.

Having happily consumed Dry The River’s solid if not dazzling album Shallow Bed, I was expecting some sort of alchemic pep-up for their live renditions. But it’s more painful than even Steely Dan live. What the assembled jumpers are treated to is a dot-for-dot, note perfect anodyne and sterile run through of the recorded work. Yes there’s obviously the odd diversion, including a brave ‘un-plugged’ version of Shaker Hymns, but overall, it lacks any oomph. A just of flaccid 40% lazy lob. No use to anyone but looks better than when at rest or coming out of a chilly shower.

They are a kind of boiled down prissy UK version of Arcade Fire with grains of the (inevitable comparison alert) ditty meisters Mumford and Sons thrown in for pastoral prog contemporaneity and hipster relevance. They are clearly wonderful, passionate musicians and Pete Liddle’s almost whispy alto is at times undeniably beautiful. But I really don’t get it.

The gathered faithful full house do though. With almost a religious fervour. At times, it’s like being at Greenbelt Festival or a Cliff Richard spectacular. Lots of Go Tell It On The Mountain happy clappy whoopy hollery love.

Not for me though. Sadly. Bored.

The amazing This Town Needs Guns next.

More tunes soon. Bwoooar. 

Math the way to do it. Rolo Tomassi live review London XOYO

Rolo Tomassi ****1/2*

Oathbreaker *****

Good Time Boys *****

XOYO Shoreditch 31^st October

So many trendies. Movers, groovers, ketamine users and people called Simon with interesting facial hair who work as some kind of social media consultant or back end developer; whatever the fuck one of those is.

Anyway, on this All Hallows Eve, the geeks, freaks and chics are out in force for tonight’s fête-de-noise. It’s traditionally an evening of surprises, but the preponderance of London’s über hipsters in the packed out Shoreditch dungeon is a genuine shock. Rolo Tomassi maybe many things, but at the bleeding edge of cool accessibility is a new one on me.

So, what can the assembled coolsters expect to be served on the zinc bar of aching remove tonight?

Good Time Boys *****

Here’s a weird one. Remember that song about monsters coming over the hill? Well, tonight’s opening act boast among their number (actually the front man) a metamorphosed member of the pedlars of said tune. Yup, ex-Automatic noodler Alex Pennie has undergone a trans hardcore realignment procedure, had his floppy fringy hair removed (naturally or otherwise) and had about a gallon of ink applied to become a mean looking bundle of vim, gall, lava and spit.

And has the realignment been successful? Well, in parts, yes. His energy, honesty and swagger are as evident as his constant, fitting, flailing hardcore moves. He’s got the growls, the anger, the rawness; but here’s the twist. Or maybe catch. He’s backed by Snow Patrol. Or, at best, Canterbury.

The incongruity is amazing. Purposely or otherwise. A truly competent, musical, almost melodic band of nice blokes providing a very pleasant heavy indie-fused backdrop: with a dervish nutter bastard throwing himself around like an A.D.D. kid who’s been told he can’t have a new BeyBlade for Chrimbo. Or who’s arse has been dipped in burning toluene. Told you it was weird.

Not to say it’s all bad. At all. But, for me, the music lacks a searingly sharp edge. It’s a nice electro-plated-nickel-silver fish knife and not a nasty, rusty, blood-stained stiletto. It lacks any real visceral punch. No breakdowns. Beat downs or machine gun bite.

But the honesty, endeavour, energy and spirit seem to kick the cool crowd’s designer insouciance into next week and get a good number of botties bouncing around.

Oathbreaker *****

A girl. Ok, cousin It from the Addams Family. In a sparkly jacket. With a mish mash of a band including a bass player straight out of Lamb Of God or Job For A Cowboy. Could be interesting…..

…No could be about it. The detonator primed, pin pulled and from the off the moshing crowd are laid waste by a full on assault. This is a genuine melting pot of unstable and dangerous explosives. There are semtex blobs of Down, tied to the heavier dynamite sticks of White Stripes. There’s buckets of Black Flag gunpowder, mixed with Converge nail bombs. It’s not just bombast, it’s bloody open warfare. A demure Belgian wench armed to the teeth with a heavy gun. Firing fucking dum dums.

Tanghe...she got It.

This is not math. It’s arithmetic. Adding hardcore to black metal, sludge and punk. Songs aren’t polyrhythmic per se, just collections of added together killer riffs, slow grinds, fast kicks, bad-assed breakdowns. And all tuned in doom. It’s filthy in parts. Putting even the filthiest dubstep in the stygian shade. And probably made at least nine Shoreditch back-end developers shit themselves.

Caro Tanghe (cousin It) has a huge fierce scream, which while not totally imaginative or versatile, cuts through the doom-laden, brown note infused wall of death. And after only two or three songs, the floor is straight out of Ypres. Blood, mud, bile, tracer fire and fucking ‘orrible big moaning tanks laced with barbed wire. It’s powerful, mean, relentless and, well, for a near-death experience rather splendid actually.

Rolo Tomassi ****1/2*

As I’ve said, judging by the achingly cool crowd, the steel city quintet are making as big a noise in the broader music business as they do on stage. Which, while truly deserved is a tad surprising. They can be accused of many things, but accessibility doesn’t swim to the surface of the rap sheet.

So, would the trendies really like it? Or would they nod and shuffle appreciatively because they’re supposed to? Difficult to call because, although they’re out in force, this is essentially a party for the real fans. Many sporting fancy dress (one as a wonderful tin of Spam – no, really). 

spooky

Anyway, sod the crowd, what Hallloween treats and tricks are we going to be served up? Well, a suitably Halloweened up band including the diminutive Eva Spence in a full Brian May/Anita Dobson goth wig and natty black lace number take to the stage and smash everyone’s collective pumpkins.

Impossible to truly categorise, there are passages of pure brain-melting math, jazz explosions, 8 bit console themed diversions, ambient, atmospheric reveries and heavier than uranium Dillinger-imbued brutality.

This is clever music. Very clever music. Spence’s lead vocal ranges between blood curdling screams and yelps to soothing, choral smoothness. Tornado jet powered might to little girl lost sweetness. Bruv Jamie adds a billy goat gruff percussive bark from time to time and it’s all backed with spiralling, geometric, precise and brilliant playing.

New bassist and guitarist Nathan Fairweather (from Brontide) and Chris Cayford (No Coast) have fitted into the quintet seamlessly and along with Ed Dutton’s algorithmic, jazzfuck mesmerising stickwork provide a sophisticated, thrilling and oft brutal soundscape to assault and charm the assembly in equal dose.

The new material from forthcoming album Astraea while at first listen (albeit at 110dB) doesn’t signal anything too wildly different, sounds wonderfully spiky, symphonic and sophisticated and should garner airplay and unit sales alike.

The evening ends with a mass fancy dress stage dive set to the stirring, severe singalong Party Wounds. And the trendies seemed to dig as much as the die-hards.

Rolo Tomassi are truly original, exciting and talented purveyors of intelligent, intense and incomparable noise. But the bottom line is fuck do they rock. And tonight, they left no forehead left without perspiration. No brain without ache from trying to calculate the impossible. And no face without a genuine, satiated smile. Even the back-end developers. Well, maybe.

Arcane Roots and This Town Need Guns up next.

In the meantime, here's Rolo Tomassi's latest vid, Ex Luna Scientia

More tunes soon. Bwoooar!