Nightmare of a day - Live review Nightmare Rocks in Camden

Nightmare Rocks *****
120 bands. 20 venues. 1 day. 1 bastard of a hangover. 120 words.
Various venues, Camden, November 1st 2014

It doesn't seem that long ago that we were scuttling up and down Camden's rat run for the brilliant Camden Rocks in the summer. Well, we're all back. And so's the sun. In November. Weird.

In the spirit of today's relentlessly punishing festivities with 120 bands peppered all over NW1, I'm going to pointlessly and breathlessly keep 120 words for each of the acts. Right, I'm going in.

Agent *****
The Underworld

First on. Devil's own slot. Sadly pretty empty room. But huge proggy, trippy, spacey, djenty, tecchy sounds. Not at all bad actually. Moments of Tool and Karnivool. Odours of grunge as well. At times reminiscent of Queens Of The Stone Age if they actually grew some proper gonads. A bit light on hooks or refrains. But, as I say, proggy stuff, so labyrinthine meandering melodies more the order of the day. There's  a screen showing the direct feed from the inside of a meth head's bonce to add to the bong-infused headiness. Strange choice as a first up act. Not really a party starter. Too classy. Too complex. In short, too good.  But a really brave and laudable start. Man.

Leviathan ***1/2**
The Jazz Café

Never heard of them. And with the moniker they've got, was expecting a Mastodon/Krokodil/Bovine kind of vibe. How wrong. What we've got is a dirty bastard scuzzy trio banging out a grit in the foreskin, dirty, bluesy, funky concoction that really is captivating. A grungy throwback lead guitarist and gruff but explosive vocalist rips into all manner of filth including a mesmerising and funked and fucked up version of Sabbath's The Wizard accompanied by some solid tub thumping and an über dude on a Rickenbacker providing great counterpoint, grinding bass and surprisingly tight as an amoeba's arse harmonies. It's an unholy mix of Nirvana, Rory Gallagher, Budgie and even hints of The Jam. A bit bonkers. But a bit good.

Du Bellows ***1/2**
The Proud

Regrettably, a pretty empty room. Mysteriously no drummer. More booze. Dog-on-a-string guitarist. Dreads. Bare feet. Sassy Welsh front woman. Huge, gorgeous, powerful voice. Reminiscent of Chicken Shack or Early Fleetwood Mac with spacey Fairport Convention wisps and strands woven into a bluesy, folky, stoner loveliness. Packed like a Camberwell carrot full of soul, sass and mind-altering trippyness. Although (maybe due to today's lack of a tub thumper) a little ramshackle and loose at times. A real comfortable cardy or care-worn, rock-burnt afghan coat of a band showing their forefathers' and mothers' influences by dipping into ma and pa's old vinyl collection, mixing it all up, packing into a bong and firing the beauty up for a brain calming feel-good session. 

Death And The Penguin ****1/2*
The Proud

Art school. Math school. New school. Smart school. Blimey, what a grin-inducing, pleasant surprise. A brilliant set full of angular, polyrhythmic, über-tight, clever, beautifully played and energetically performed mathy splendour. Fresh, challenging, original and spellbinding trickery and fuckery. There's a real endearing intelligence to this quartet's work. Complete with ironic bow ties and 6th form common room geek chic. There's more than a trace of Everything Everything or even Franz Ferdinand (if they were actually any good!) mixed with Delta Sleep or Tellison and even a bit of OK Go. There's more chop than a Karate competition in an abattoir  all deliciously served up with mesmerising harmony and counterpoint with poppy hundreds and thousands sprinkled on top. Absolutely bloody 
delicious.

Calling All Cars *****
Dingwalls

Thankfully, more than quite a few have slipped down the gullet into the subterranean gloom of Camden's bowels for this brotherly love-led Bristolian-based Oz trio. Quite simply why this band aren't huge is just mystifying. Hayden Ing is a born front man and backed by his brother James on 4 strings and the Bonhomesque skin smasher (he even sees off a snare this afternoon) Adam Montgomery they reek of stadium or huge halls. The music itself is massive. Joyous. Fresh. Unfettered rock and roll, crammed with hooks, riffs, melody, harmony and napalm-enriched face-melting power. Ing's vocals are flawless even though he throws himself around like a cattle-prodded mudskipper, performing from the crowd or even up a ladder (you 'eard). Fanbloodytastic.

Max Raptor *****
The Underworld

120 words. Go:

Hot. Packed. Frenzied. Energetic. Clever. Dry. Witty. Powerful. Fun. Chinese. Gervais. Sorry. Cider. Mosh. King. Dead. Tight. Fresh. Heavy. Showmen. Sardonic. Wry. Dance. Shout. Cajoled. Seduced. Thoughtful. Evangeline. Heart. Passion. Bombast. Punk. Rock. Original. Savvy. Riffs. Bombs. Guts. Evacuation. Skidmarks. Oops. Fervour. Belief. Boner. Wide-on. Phwoooar. Honesty. Integrity. Performance. Grit. Political. Anger. Ire. Intelligence. Beguiling. Frenzy. Gyrating. Response. Sing-a-long. Whooooa. Oooh. Anthemic. Powder. Wine. Sweat. Foist. Crowd. Surf. Yell. Drop. Bombs. Respect. Heart. Power. Meat. Raw. Fisting. Ouch. Vim. Vigour. Tune. Hook. Chorus. Melody. Anger. Principled. Smart. Savvy. Party. Dance. Clap. Scream. Dive. Pit. Delicious. Strong. Dark. Punch. Gonads. Kiss. Neck. Contrast. Handshake. Bird. Hug. Strangle. Seduce. Defile. Smile. Grimace. Love. Hate. Barrel. Wave. Two. Fingers. Proud. Brilliant. Fuck. Yeah. 

Brawlers *****
Electric Ballroom

Yup, red beanie-toting frontman Harry George Johns is one of those ludicrously passionate, born-to-be-a-star types who bleeds music, but the sad fact is, his band is, well, a bit meh. Derivative and regressed-to-the-mean pop punk adding so little of anything new. Ok, there's melody and the occasional hook in here. But it's all so bloody me-too. Johns has the energy. He's got the neck. The star quality. but that's about it. The crowd (even the ones who are questionably manhandled to the floor by Johns) seem to share my opinion. A glazed, cider-induced smile or two and the brave attempts by a couple of fancy-dressed moshing chickens aside, no fires are lit in the cavernous hall this afternoon. Real shame.  

InMe ***1/2**
Electric Ballroom

Feels like the whole InMe army are packed in. And they're treated to a brief but blinding set of alt metally, dazzlingly played artillery lobbed into their adoring midst. However, although I've long been a fan, I can't help but feel that tonight is all a little 'knowing'. Introducing rarely played backnumbers is a treat for die-hards; this is a festival. Maybe (no matter how much Dave and the lads must hate trotting them out) a couple more 'big ones' like Single of The Weak and  the one that kicked it all off, Underdose could get an airing, given that despite the fan-dominated room, there are a shitload of newbies here tonight. Minor gripe, but it feels like a convention rather than a celebration. Bloody good though. As always.

The Hell *****
The Underworld.

120 words you say? Ok:


CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS.CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. 
SPASTICS.

Allusondrugs ****1/2*
The Underworld.

The last 120 words. In twos.

Last minute. Rhino replacement. Top blokes. Leeds lads. Bong water. Grunge infused. Empty room. Huge hearts. Tight as. Big tunes. Hilariously dry. Energetic bounce. Rock Roll. Likeable engagement. Great musicianship. Cousin It. Fun frenzy. Loud proud. True heart. Good songs. Party hearts. Catchy chlamydia. Roller coaster. White knuckles. Punk soul. Fucking fun. Dance inducing. Smiles grins. Big bollocks. Genuine talent. Original new. Fast furious. Hummable memorable. Light shade. Dark bright. Genuine passion. Feeling pissed. Shot arm. Pick up. Guitars loud. Loving it. Show men. Hundred percent. Respect due. Sweat brow. Giving all. Last act. Huge day. Broken liver. Fantastic fun. Brilliant acts. Live music. The Best. Totally fucked. More cider. Another Jager. After show. Hang over. Love it. Need sleep.


Bit of a gallery:

School of Mock - Blitz Kids Live Review Camden Barfly

Blitz Kids *****
The People The Poet *****
Villains *****

Camden Barfly  Monday 20th January 2014

Before the blitz, there's the kids. Loads of them. Tonight, London's very best small venue has been turned into a fifth form disco. Bloody everywhere. Smelling of Lynx and bizarre coloured alcopops, Camden's cosiest back room feels more like Stuart Hall's trailer than a rock venue.

Never mind though, there are still enough grizzled old industry types, other bands and general moochers to ensure it doesn't feel too awkward being of more mature years.

But, in keeping with the yoof-heavy attendance, it seems only right and proper to prepare tonight's review in the form of a school report:

Villans *****

Appearance and attendance: On the face of it a well presented, if not slightly scruffy pupil. Perfectly pleasant enough with rough edges. B+

Overall quality of work: Nothing too edgy, startling or original; but very competent, catchy, smart, hook-infused alt rock with poppy and even Brit-poppy influence. Terrific harmonies and clever vocal arrangements give them an ownable big sound. Energetic and comfortable in front of crowds. Engaging, cheeky chappy front man. B+

Teacher's Notes: Overall a tidy, well polished set with just about enough rawness and potential originality to set themselves apart from a very crowded pack. Not destined for Oxbridge, but certainly have all the potential of full employment on the UK scene up ahead. A-

The People The Poet *****

Appearance and attendance: Straight out of the college library and a signed up member of the debating society and young farmers. A likeable and raggedy pupil. Somewhat unassuming but definitely harbouring hidden literary depths and a simmering intelligence. One to look out for. A-

Overall quality of work: Clever, engaging, challenging stuff. But with a real comfy jumper feel to a lot of this pupil's work. Melodically and harmonically smooth with Joe Cocker barbs and Adam Duritz soul thrown in to inject a grizzly rawness. There's a nu-country vibe among the alt rock power, elements of Springsteen and Crosby Stills & Nash but backed by bits of Coldplay (the good bits, honest), Crash Test Dummies, Foals and even Bad Company (ask the history master kids). 

A genuine shock. And a very pleasant one. Their work is of the highest quality throughout. The new, truncated and impossibly tight line up draws on works from their stunning debut long player The Narrator, the songs are true slices of life derived from fans' own stories. From MDMA abuse to moving love paeans. And it works brilliantly. Big gutsy Ooo Ohh Whooaa Whoaa singalongs, beautifully tight harmonies delivered by the petite and timid, but wonderful Greta Isaac and a big, clever sound from the on-the-money trio behind gruff geography teacherly chief crooner Leon Stanford. A*


Teacher's Notes: Clever, witty, intelligent, approachable, entertaining, heartfelt, honest and beguiling. Brilliant stuff. Keep up the good work and the sky's the limit. A**

Blitz Kids *****

Appearance and attendance: Pretty much as you'd expect. Self-assured, swagger-soused bit-of-rough, inked, pierced, controlled and styled scruff aimed at unsettling the genitals of their younger female classmates. C-

Special note: Firstly, the sound man was either having a bit of a laugh with the house music before this pupil took to the school stage, or the arrogance of association is frightening: big tunes from polished, proven and successful acts like Mallory Knox, Don Broco, Fall Out Boy et all are all consumed greedily like a free Blue WKD by the assembled 5th formers. A statement? We're as good as them? A menu faux-pas where the amuses-bouche are far better than the meal itself? Or a joke? Ill-advised whatever.

Overall quality of work: Oh dear. Despite the build up and the hyped room, this pupil fails to deliver on just about every count. While their performance is undoubtedly slick, it's strangely totally devoid of soul, passion or truth. This is über-plastic, contrived, vacuous and banal. Even down to front man Joe James's affected west coat American accent (all the way from deepest Cheshire!)when he yo's and whoa's at his mini harem of hoes between songs. Embarrassing. It feels like The X-Factor does rock. There's no edge, no teeth, no punch.

While this pupil demonstrates obvious musical competence and skill, they're just lazy. Not to take anything away from their obvious work ethic: constantly touring, living in foetid vans and surviving on congealed Ginsters cheese slices from service stations - just lazy musically. Going through the motions. And, despite having an anonymous baldy, inked grimy hipster back up guitarist staring at the venue wall trying to hide on the miniscule Barfly stage, they fail to significantly beef up the morass of toothless prock (pop rock kids, doncha just love it?). Sigh.
 

Whereas bands like LTA, Deaf Havana (who are here in force tonight), Don Broco, Mallory Knox, Canterbury, hell, even We Are The Ocean and You Me At Six occupy the same heartland, they (mostly) all do it with lashings of integrity, reality, under the fingernail grime; honesty: Blitz Kids seem to have been mass produced. 

It wouldn't surprise me if Faustus himself,  Mr Cowell isn't lurking in the wings, evilly and gleefully rubbing his hands together in a cloud of foul stinking sulphur. F-

Teachers Notes: While fundamentally not doing anything wrong or offensive (apart from Jono's oft very amusing and profane tweets), this pupil is sadly a genuine disappointment. I expected so much more. As for the future? Who knows: unless they find an edge, a maturity, self-effacement, humility or some testicles, they're heading for Saturday night mainstream TV or touring with One Direction or McBusted. But, they might want that. Who knows. 
F--- (fail)

Me too. Live review of Me and Yearbook at The Barfly

Me **1/2***

Yearbook *****

Red House Glory ***1/2**

The Barfly, Camden, Tuesday 5th March 2013

In the Barfly kitchen tonight, we’ve got some grunge, a librarian, some camp Aussies, deep sub drops, screams, woo-hoos and plenty of guitars. So let’s see how the chefs do:

Red House Glory ***1/2**

Not an encouraging kick off, as first to get their aprons on in tonight’s bake off are late into the scullery. Tut tut. However, once all prepped and plugged in things get off to a relatively tasty start.

Ingredients: First, take a goodly dash of Pearl Jam. Add in a healthy slug of early Green Day (when they were half decent) heavy guitars, decent melody and a sprinkle or two of vintage rock and roll and, if you can find it a dash or two of balls-out boogie.

Method: Bake in a small, hot, Camden box at medium temperature and wait for about 20 minutes. 

Results: A decent, honest, wholesome melange of big, grungy, rocky vibrancy. Nothing too new or exciting, but with a couple of new tunes on show, there’s potential here. One new song (as yet nameless) is the pick of the generally very tasty platter. Be nice to see how things mature.

Yearbook *****

Ingredients: Just about everything in the fucking cupboard. Take searingly hot chilli-infused math rock, sugary melodies, amusing spicy lyricism, red raw passionate and powerful meaty poprock, complex jazzy molecular unctions and glazes that Heston Blumenthal would drool over, punky sauces, massive dark chocolatey sub bombs, delightfully flavoured harmonies, rusty nail screams, high ranged and searing vocal razors, guitar venom fused with subtle tasting smooth oils, big, bold-tasting bass and glue it all together with precisely measured and spikey, spicy, perfect drumming.

Method: Empty all the contents into a hawaiian shirt. Resist the temptation to mix it all up. Experiment with micro quantities of all the ingredients. Scientifically, but intuitively blend them. Then shake vigorously. Boom.

Results: Mouthwatering, triple, fuck it, quadruple Michelin-starred genius. Nigh on weird and wonderful perfection. Willy Wonka and Blumenthal’s bastard offspring can’t even come close. The originality is outstanding, veering from nerdy punky sneers to the choppiest, polyrhythmic kicks to the tastebuds. 

There’s heaviness aplenty, but with such sweet melodic counterpoint. Such delicate contrast. It’s just so clever. But never indulgent or knowing. Jaunt, joy, bombast and trickery. Including two (three counting the outstanding recent release Art Student) ones straight out of the oven. Truly magical. Yum. And indeed, yum.

Me **1/2***

Ingredients: Sugar. Spice. Pomp. A litre or two of fizzy Aussie froth. A couple of dollops of Queen. Throw in a handful of Muse. A liberal sprinkling of AWOLNation. A tiny hint of The Mars Volta’s tuneful bits and finally finish with large scoops of Mika. Yup, Mika.

Method: Pack into a small space with lots of Aussies, girls and luvvies from the industry, strut, shake, groove and shake again using the hips.

Result: Processed poppy, pompy grandiosity. Think The Rocky Horror Show played by Jet. All camp and meringue-like. Beautifully played (especially given the apparent late change of guitarist) but mildly bland. 

There’s the odd sophisticated top note, but on the whole it’s a bit sickly sweet. The often Mika-like operatically high register vocals wear a little thin after a while. Don’t get me wrong, it’s exquisitely crafted and performed but, as I say (and particularly after Yearbook’s ridiculous exploration and exploitation of every taste bud) feels a little soulless. The Queen-infused  layered pastry is somewhat overdone and there’s even an unpalatable hint of a wedding band that annoyingly cloys and keeps niggling the buds. Not horrid by any means. Just a bit overcooked with too much saccharine.

Here are some goodies from Yearbook. Tuck in. Greedily.

Long Live Flock & Roll - Straight Lines + Yearbook +Evarose Live at Camden Barfly

Straight Lines *****

Evarose *****

Yearbook ****1/2*

Barfly, Monday 15^th October

I sit alone in the restaurant window. The rain chases down the glass. The spitting chimney red tail lights and jaundiced sodium yellow street lamps spray colourful, kaleidoscopic shards through the descending droplets. A Jaques Brel song drones in the background, the Gitanes smoke clings acridly to my damp woolen trenchcoat. 

No it doesn’t. 

This is Nando’s. 

In Chalk farm. 

I’m eating extra hot chicken and it’s pissing down. On a Monday. I need cheering up.

So, to The Barfly. For my favourite librarians and most alt of alt rockers Yearbook.

Yearbook ****1/2*

Being first on is always a bastard. I’m still, after thousands of gigs, so annoyed by the über-cool insouciance of hipster gig goers. Arrive late. Don’t bother with the support. Act cool. Oh, fuck off.

What’s wrong with openly loving music? Supporting music? Opening our eyes, ears and any other supplicant orifice to new stuff? Exciting stuff. Tomorrow’s headliners. We really shouldn’t mind about showing it.

As I say; a bastard being on first.

Thankfully there’s a good few handfuls (handsfull?) of folk who’ve been arsed enough to get their rear ends into London’s most bijou of venues early doors. And what a treat they get.

Kicking off with the heart stopping and emotive All Squares and Circles (how is it humanly possible to get so much emotion into a refrain of Yeah, Yeah Whoah? Genius), the Hampshire quartet set about business as if they’re playing to a packed hall six or seven times the size. Which, if there’s any justice in the world, I’m sure they will in due time.

I’m not sure if front man Andy Holloway plays up the slightly gauche librarian geek-chic thing or if he’s genuinely like that, but his quirky charm and embarrassed sardonic murmurings between tunes are beguiling and unaffected which in a business full of arrogance, cock waving, faux-bravado and peacocks is a refreshing change.

The short set is polished and skillfully delivered but charmingly and purposefully frayed and shambolic at times. There’s not a duff track in there. This is original music. Interesting music. Technical but not shoe-gazing. Mesmerising. And the perfect antidote to my Jacques Brel-infused melancholy. Love ‘em to death and am thoroughly enjoying seeing them in the humbler smaller venues before the inevitable escalation and progression they’ll surely achieve. But at least I’ll be able to say, ‘of course, I saw them back in….’

Here’s a vid of the wonderful Visionary.

Evarose *****

Still on a grinning high after Yearbook, I settled down with a restorative pint for Evarose. Open minded to a fault, I have to admit, the whole Paramore pap punk thing leaves me a bit cold and what I’d previously heard of the all girl Oxfordshire steroidal Girls Aloud didn’t really tickle my frenum.

I’d seen a reduced acoustic version of the band at Burnout festival and was hugely impressed by Dannika Webber’s incredibly powerful and pure voice and hoped it would expand with the full band.

This is where it all gets a bit awkward. They don’t do anything wrong. Webber’s voice is incredible, pitch perfect and powerful. But I’m left with the lingering, possibly unfair and definitely controversial thought that the all girl novelty thing has probably rose-tinted the earholes a little.

The playing is competent and tight. But that’s about it. It lacks variety. Space. Light. Shade. Everything’s delivered within a very narrow dynamic. Mostly in the same key. And pretty much all in the same kick botty tempo. And even the wünder vocals become a little wearing and predictable. There are no rhythmic diversions, breaks, drops or shifts. After a while, it’s a bit like being in a dense pine forest. Initially enchanting and exciting, but becoming stifling and even a little toxic. Need air. Please….gulp…

That all said, I’m not in their fan target market and I’m sure they’ll continue to seduce younger and more pop punk sympathetic crowds as they honestly go about their business.

A good effort tonight, but sandwiched between two bands of such high caliber was always going to be a tall order.

Straight Lines *****

So, on to the top piece of bread in tonight’s sarnie. Like Andy Holloway of Yearbook, in Thom Jenkins, Straight Lines have got a killer weapon in their front man. Although stylistically far from similar, both crooners are blessed with dog-whistle high natural voices (as Thom's a sheep farmer, I'm sure it comes in handy). And they both use their range adroitly and spectacularly successfully.

Farmer Thom is a likeable and alluring leader and is backed by a beautifully talented and tight band. They’re heavy when they need to be. Harmonically rich. Melodically sublime at times and, well, just a pleasure to be in front of.

There’s an innate celtic theme running wittingly or otherwise through much of their work. And it even veers towards early Thin Lizzy in parts which cracks faces and warms hearts from the front to the back of Camden’s favourite sweatbunker.

Although the music is often complex, it’s never inaccessible and leaving obvious (and lame) comparisons with Stereophonics aside bestrides rock and pop with aplomb.

There’s luckily so much talent in the UK at the moment and on tonight’s remarkable performance, Straight Lines and Yearbook can add themselves to the bunch of top bananas.

As I walked out into the north London Drizzle, I hurt from smiling. What a wonderful evening. There really is hope.

Now where are those Gitanes?


More tunes soon. Bwoooar!

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.