Deaf Havana***** The Maine*1/2**** The People The Poet ***** Yearbook****1/2* Jamie Lenman ***** Nordic Giants*****
Sam Duckworth ***1/2** Shane McGowan ***1/2**
Get Cape Wear Cape Fly *****
The Lafontaines ***** Bad Rabbits****1/2*
Live in London during April and May 2014
Here goes then, a high speed, break neck word burp about a whole heap of great shows over the last month or so with no full stops, breaths, distractions or interruptions, so let's start at The Clapham Grand; last gig in this alcopop, J-Lo perfume and ketamine soused dance hall was Oasis apparently so tonight's show hasn't got too much to live up to following a few years after the middle of the road whinging, whining Manc Beatles wannabees anyway first up are the melodic and sweetly soulful South Walian blue collar, blue veined, blue bollocked The People The Poet***** who, despite being given no ambience, lightshow or audio visual help produce a banging short set full from its head to its rectum with huge melodies, sing-a-longs, woo oohs and chest thumping grandeur, a truly great band in the making and with world beating tunes like the anthemic Heart of A Lion, it's not going to be long before total world domination, talking of the world, from the land of countless donuts, merciless drive by killings, styleless checked trousers and mindless gun laws, come
The Maine*1/2****, the less said the better really, depthless, heartless, witless, passionless, pointless wetness, no matter, next up are the always far from pointless Deaf Havana***** fully supported and surrounded by singers, string strokers and Hollywood flashing light bulbs burning the fenland fuckers' moniker into the adoring eyes of the assembled masses in the sold out sarf London dance hall who are treated to a fantastic,
slick and sublime sashay through old ones, new ones, fast ones, slow ones, poignant ones, moving ones, catchy ones and even really old ones about fags and booze - brilliant stuff from one of the UKs genuinely top talents...talking of talent, and a young talent who should really have been on show with James Veck-Gilodi and the team tonight in a mad rush and sacrificing seeing the always amazing HawkEyes supporting Jamie Lenman, a quick catch up with the fabulous mucksters
Yearbook****1/2* in the sticky Soho love dungeon that is The Borderline - Ok, it's a support slot to Acoda and some old American EMO band that no one seems to give a shit about, but a decent crowd has assembled early doors to witness one of the country's most original and fresh talents and they take the place apart, tearing into a selection of wry, awry and wonky wizardry culling tunes from their fantastic EP Old Bones and slotting them into a beautifully curated short, sharp flavour fest suffused with chilli-hot fire of older bangers which certainly get the enthusiastic crowd wet of knicker and dizzy of head; splendid, quirky brilliance that merits a wider audience and soon, right into a cab and a mad dash to the grandeur and vaguely Politbureauesque surroundings of the Islington Assembly Rooms packed full of a million beards for the fabulous
Mr Jamie Lenman***** who has some real work to do to even get close to the brilliance of his last tour which was one of the absolute jewels in the live crown of last year, but I tell you what, the genius only bally well goes and tops the fabulous excellence by being even more, well, fabulous and excellent, he rustles up a wonderful heady fucked-up but mind-altering brew of complexity, aggression, Reuben-infused nostalgia, fire, passion, quirk, cool, hard bop, jazz, face-melting metal, joy, vitriol, humour and passion that pretty much puts him so far ahead of the competition, that there is no competition just an empty horizon to look back on as he gallops into the distance so far away from the non-existent tired and straw-clutching, head-scratching chasing pack: genius, sheer bloomin, genius; right, no time to dwell on Mr Lenman, onto mysterious, anonymous off beat, befeathered and bizarre Brighton-based noodlers Nordic Giants ***** playing to a packed and sweaty Shoreditch hipster hideaway backed by the most astonishing visual experiences imaginable - and non imaginable- the towering, soaring soundscapes often topped by wonderful guest vocal performances (and pre-recorded, pre-filmed performances)
fill the Blade Runner set of a room and bewitch the achingly beard-stroking internet of things understanding, organic Peruvian commune collective beer supping quaalude necking, well, mainly assholes to be honest; seldom has such challenging and beautiful music soared above the heads of such a collection of oh-so-cool fuckwits - challenging music obviously needs to challenge, but the crowd needs to be capable of being challenged, there's a hideous air of emperor's new clothes in London's coolest borough tonight, not that the music or visuals are at fault, no, far from it, it's the blind and tacit acceptance of the assembled goons that this is 'just so cool': so, at one point, challenged by a marvellous and thought-provoking film depicting dark and sinister child abuse, instead of marking the gauntlet being laid down at their sockless brogue clad feet with acceptable contemplation or reflective, appreciative quiet, an almost One Direction crowd fervour breaks out with whooping and whistling - was any one actually watching? one sensible if slightly misunderstood plaintive voice hits the fatigued old nail on its bent head by screaming out 'why are you clapping?' - at least one of the crowd is not a goon then; that all said, the performance is bewildering and brilliant with the multi instrumentalists secreting themselves to the sides of the stage playing second string (and guitar and flugelhorn and god knows what else) to the eye popping and mind altering filmic splendour; a true marriage of sound and vision, such a shame it was mainly wasted on the wankers - roll on Arc Tan Gent in the summer far from the madding hipsters and sans the Shoreditch pseudo-cool cretins;
as a complete contrast, next up over in a sticky carpeted student vomitarium is the redoubtable and loveable troubadour Mr Sam Duckworth playing, unbelievably his last ever show under the epithet Get Cape Wear Cape Fly (fittingly at a much loved New Slang event) , but before eyes get teary and throats get lumpy, our pocket sized mop haired hero treats the sparse student crowd to a wonderful collection of new tunes as Sam Duckworth ***1/2** cranked out on a lone SG with no laptop, loops or horns, this is as pared down and raw as it gets and it's great stuff and apparently a lot of it is about wrestling, well, who'd a thunk it,
anyhow, Sam careers through the set before ceding the stage to Southampton's own yoof beat poet Shane McGowan ***1/2** who stirs the crowd up with a clever, thought provoking and original collection of essentially street poetry set to jangly acoustic reveries, not the voice of an angel, but the words of a genuine artist and the heart the size of a watermelon, engaging, interesting stuff, which sets the appetite on edge for Get Cape Wear Cape Fly *****; it's been a strange old time for Sam and GCWCF, from a decade or so ago being the new darling of the all new-nu-nu folk scene with a huge debut record on a major label without a slack track on the album then through some more indifferent but never less than interesting long players,
the recent schizophrenic diving between identities of Sam Duckworth as an artist and Get Cape, pledge records, serious life-threatening illness, an apparent falling out of love with the industry and making music, disillusionment and disappearance of identity playing with rent-a-bands and hangers on, but given all the shit and sadness, the boy's still got it and tonight is a genuine moving and, I'll be honest bloody sad, reminder of just how much talent this small package has stuffed inside its's callow frame, it has a feeling of back to the beginning as much as of an end, long time sidesman Mikey Glenister and his haunting and spine-tingling cornet, a laptop, an always superbly played acoustic guitar and Sam's sharp and at times painfully personal lyrics delivered in his best Westcliff 'awight you slag? Essex glottal stop infused lad speak adds up to a set of nigh on perfection, with slightly tweaked and re-jigged versions of all the big sing-a-longs (why don't you sing along?) that beguiled and thrilled stages at Glastonbury, The Astoria and Shepherd's Bush as well as every toilet and broom cupboard throughout the land, it's perhaps understandable that Sam is regrettably retiring the GCWCF sobriquet for reasons he tries to pint out this evening - relevance of lyrics written when still in his teens - but after having seen this pocket genius well over 30 times over the last decade, tonight feels a bit like a faithful dog wandering off to quietly die in a down-at-heel beer-sticky corner without his owner, in this case his wider and hopefully still faithful accolytes knowing that he'll never be seen again; so sad, but a hell of a last show and a genuine privilege to have been there to scream along to every bloody word, relevant or not- need to shake the sadness, so, it's back to Soho for some funk - you 'eard; Bad Rabbits at The Borderline should do the trick - ok, I'll keep it brief as I'm running out of breath, I also don't have any pictures from tonight's show as I accidentally got too drunk and couldn't get my shit together to get the camera out in the pit, anyway, opening are The Lafontaines ***** a fucked up Glaswegian indie/lad rock/alt-spiced/white rap melodic bucket of weirdness, but quite a good fucked up Glaswegian indie/lad rock/alt-spiced/white rap melodic bucket of weirdness - big tunes, interesting harmonies, a charisma imbued front man and a tight joyous and lively band, but (cue grumpy old bastard rant) why oh why does a really nice and genuinely engaging Scot want to sound like Eminem when he raps? I dont get it, at all, Biffy, The Xcerts, the recently anodised Twin Atlantic and even the fucking Proclaimers prove that you can sing convincingly in a Scottish accent without having to sound like an affected twat - u get me blood? Minor rant really as they're really half reasonable, but it still pisses me off, unlike the mighty Bad Rabbits ****1/2* who deliver a set of which I have never seen or partaken - a funk fest with a hardcore edge? no, seriously, moshing to schmoove and sexy riffs and stage diving to mesmerising mellowness - it really defies belief, but the house is brought down - Brother Dua, all Isaac Hayes and Gil Scott Heron with the most incredible and controlled vocal range leads his fabulous fucking funksters to squeeze every nut sack in the room and seduce Soho's grizzled coolites with soul, integrity, sass and balls; the crossover between rock and dance, metal and mellow magic and hardcore with harmony is only on show in attitude alone as the music never veers towards the loud, the scream, the deconstructed (although there is an hilarious Dillinger cover - all three seconds of it), this lot are true magicians, nope, hypnotists and while there's a breath in your body, you NEED to see them live; talking of breath, that's me done, the longest sentence ever written about live music? I doubt it, and who actually cares, what I do care about though is the amazing variety, depth and strength of live music in this vibrant city and count myself eternally grateful to be able to haul my hoary old arse out to be so royally entertained - apart from The Maine, obviously, they were shit, done.
Don Broco *****
Bad Rabbits *****
The Roundhouse, Chalk Farm, 7th December 2013
Sadly, due to the ridiculously enormous queue of pre-pubescent Smirnoff Ice swilling yoofs halfway down Camden High Road, a fully booked Nando's and the draw of some delicious Cantonese scoff, I didn't arrive in time for the first support tonight, so apologies to Lonely The Brave.
Anyway, into the cavernous magnificent space that is the Roundhouse. The early turn out is astonishing with the massive floorspace pretty much filled to capacity for the supports. It's great for music when people can actually be arsed to show up for the other bands on the bill and certainly adds to the carnival atmosphere that's already dripping from the cast-iron architecture.
Bad Rabbits *****
A funk/fusion/R&B groove with John Mayeresque guitar work strikes up and the packed crowd shuffle soulfully in anticipation. Then the wizard arrives. Frontman Fredua Boakye resplendent in 70s Hot Chocolate goggles, a fuck off goldie looking chain that looks like it came of the drive shaft of a pimped up gilt Escalade and a black sack cloth smock launches into a note perfect, spine tingling incantation and we're off.
There's sass, soul, funk and jazzy beauty in da Roundhouse and the youthful pop rocking, Hype-wearing masses are spellbound. The warm and unquestioning acceptance is as heart warming as it is odd: 2013, old school soul-infused jazz funk at a so-called 'relevant' alt pop rock show? Why? How?
But it works a treat. The musicianship is so spot on, and mixed up, there are moments of Return To Forever, Gil Scott Heron, Al Green and even Guru (mercifully without resorting to tiresome and hackneyed rap). A true fusion and experimental leap of faith that pays off in toe tapping, goose-necking, mirth-making style.
Boakye is loving it throughout, leaping about, crowd surfing, shimmying and leading the rest of the band in syrupy smooth synchronised moves that ooze more cool than an industrial meat fridge. In an ice hotel. In Siberia. On the coldest day since records began. And that's cool.
The singles are given airings with the ridiculously catchy We Can Roll and the sarcastic saccarine-soused schmaltzy Fall In Love forming huge sing-a-long highlights. And Boakye is the perfect ringmaster throughout; cajoling, enthusing and seducing the Lynx-scented scene kid crowd to join in, sway, clap, jump and even shout 'butt cheeks'.
A wonderful, razor sharp and über cool fluffer before the main Broco sex fest.
Don Broco *****
By now, the scent of Lynx and WKD Blue has been replaced by a cloying stench of teenage anticipation as the house lights dim and on march their Home Counties heros to a bleepy, wobby, synthy fingering before the huge single You Wanna Know fully penetrates and plunges deeply into the supplicant and moistened hormone-soaked soft squishy bits. Every word is sung and shrieked back by the pre-orgasmic writhing throng. And they love it. They fucking love it.
And the rogering continues apace. Banger after banger culled from the remarkable 2012 tour de force Priorities and the excellent Big Fat Smile ep/mini album are woven into a cleverly constructed and seductive set smoothly moving between soft and slow thrusts to hanging-from-the-chandelier-reverse-cowgirl battery; with a run up.
The energy level in this most enormous boudoir is unrelenting and powerful. Like a Viagra-powered gang bang or endless Bukkake party, no orifice is left unpenetrated, no flesh unmolested or left unglazed by love juice and luke warm liquid lad fat. The overall collective climaxing is contagious and the quartet seem to be loving the priapic power they're waving in the joyous faces as much as the adoring and willingly defiled masses themselves.
Of course, there's the obligatory push ups in the middle of the pre-Big Fat Smile metallic minge-tinged mosh Thug Workout (in which Bad Rabbits' frontman Dua gets involved wearing an Arsenal shirt), pantomime-esque sing-a-longs in the infectious as the pox anthem Yeah Man and the walk in the last of the triple encore, the mighty Priorities, but the lads have kept things spicy and fresh.
There's no predictable missionary Sunday morning shag here, cracking oldies like I'm Good and Top Of The World are mixed up with the brooding magnificence of You Got It Girl and power rock pop party starter Fancy Dress to keep things fresh and to inject a variety of positions, pace and techniques.
The lads from McBusted are in the crowd tonight and hopefully are cribbing notes from the Broco Sutra. This is high-end sexual gymnastics and perfected, sustained, showy-offy performance and by the time Priorities finishes in a great big gooey, sweaty, gushy orgasmic love puddle there are 4,000 or so very tender, raw, satiated and right royally fucked happy punters all in need of cigarettes and a damn good snooze. Just not in the wet bit.
Don Broco have experienced a heady and almost meteoric rise over the last 18 months or so; and hugely deservedly so. Their loveable blend of poppy hooks, rocky backbone and balls and no small amount of enormously clever phrasing, relevant and sardonic lyricism (when they're not yelling about poonani) sets them apart from, well, just about everyone else. They may come over as clean-cut, cheeky chappies, but they're a clever, brutal, hung like an industrial vacuum pump rogering machine. And tonight I'm privileged to have been one of the massively satisfied fuckees.
Brilliant stuff. Need a lie down. Just for a bit. Ow.
Oh, if you're interested (but let's be honest, why would you really be?), here's my take on th etop albums and Eps of 2013. And those Broco boys are certainly in the EP mix! Have a look here>
