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:

Shit from the pit

Here's the third shoddy collection of even shoddier pics taken with an alcohol-fuelled shoddy iPhone. 

If the above widgetty thing isn't working, then click here

Clearly, it’s not some kind of high art or pro quality photo journalistic tour de force. more like a pissed haze captured on the hoof while jigging, jostling, jagering and joyously sweating on the cider-sticky floors of gloomy stygian rooms filled with passionate noise and passion. 

The image quality is questionable, but the moments themselves often magical and moving.

All the images are copyright free so feel free to steal, borrow, circulate, or to get tattooed on your buttocks, genitals or face. 

I still can’t quite put into words how i stilll get off on the dirty, nosiy, honest and 
heart-warming bands, acts, characters and assholes who ply their trades with integrity and dedication in shit bunkers up and down the country, night after night. hopefully this latest battered and bruised collection of images goes at least half way to capturing the mereset whiff of the soul, sentiment and smell of just some of the acts i’ve been lucky enough to haul my old arse in front of over the last few months. 

Enjoy.

The Year Of The Library Book. Live review of Yearbook and Brawlers in Dalston

Yearbook *****
Brawlers**1/2***
Birthdays. (Shitty) Dalston. London. 7th March.

So it's Dalston. A shitty pretend place. A shitty dirty place. A Turkish restaurant-imbued shitty place. Just  a shitty place. But tonight, one of the UK's most original and exciting talents are in shittown to, well kick some shit.

And in honour of the self-styled shitty centre of our beloved Capital, I've decided to go all Guinness World of Records and see how many times I can use the word shit or shitty in this shitty review. The review being shit; not the band. Obviously. 

Brawlers**1/2***

Before I kick off, I've got to apologise for being shit to the first two bands, The New Tusk and the excellent and definitely not at all shit Gunning For Tamar. Due to Dalston being so far away from anywhere non-shit, it's taken me hours to get to the shit bunker and because of shitty traffic I missed out on the starters.

Anyway, enough of shitty excuses. Onto the real shit.

A fairly packed subterranean corridor of beards, beanies and industry types awaits in insouciant anticipation of losing its shit (well, it had been a while since I got a shit in), to the Leeds lads, Alcopop signing and semi-super group who seem to be on everyone's lips at the moment.

And we're off. From the first blap-blap-bam, lead screamer, singer, shit-kicker, red beanie-wearing party starter Harry George Johns races into the pit and shakes shit up. Well, kind of.

Problem is, it's all shit we've kind of heard before. Not bad shit, don't get me wrong. Just not my sort of shit. Whereas Gnarwolves really are the shit in dirty, shitty pop punk with enormous riffs and grubby sing-a-longs, Brawlers, well, just seem to be a wee bit meh. I'm sure they're as honest as the day is long and piss and shit integrity, but on tonight's performance, they just fail to ignite.

Saying that, the rhythm section (glued together by stoner bong water drinking shit storm noise rockers Castrovalva's four string maestro Anthony Wright) is tighter than Captain Nemo's sphincter and the big riffs and chugs get the old ticker ticking and the shithouse doors shaking.

Overall, I'm just not too sure where Brawlers are going to fit in. Of course, there's always a snap-back wearing apetite  for pop punk and bands like Neck Deep are leading the charge in its resurgence (if indeed, it ever went away). There's certainly energy, vigour and edge to their shit and their new single I Am A worthless Piece of Shit is anything but worthless or a piece of shit, but the shit doesn't really stick tonight.

Not shit. But not the shit.

Yearbook *****

So onto the main event. After being doused in all manner of punky, noisy shit, it's time for some, well, odd shit. To celebrate the launch of their terrific EP Old Bones, the library lads play the whole of the record in order for the first time. And it's absolutely anything but shit.

Kicking off with the jangly shit and into big drop of the title track, it's clear from the off that they're not messing. So tight and delivering every demi-semi-quaver with passion, power and precision, the outré and quirky four piece are loving this shit. 

The harmonies and counterpoint throughout are mesmerising and enchanting in a weird nerdy, preppy and gauche kind of way but with a Lenman-like mischief. A bit like a hyper active puppy licking your face while holding a cut throat razor to your frenum. Told you it's odd shit.

There's a genuine and stunning originality to this lot. And while Andy Halloway's brilliantly and searingly delivered lyrics display an obsession with beds, there's a dynamic freshness and oblique wit and charm that sets them so far apart from most of the predictable down tuned clean/dirty alt, scene and lad rock shit  that's cluttering up the magazines, web and airwaves.

But it's not all liveliness and loveliness, there's definitely an edge to their oeuvre. This razor toting puppy dog's not all lick and playfulness, there's anger, bile and bite throughout. Genuine angst. Discontent. Even bitterness. And the crowd are lapping it up.

After the magnum opus is finished and the circular and hypnotic refrain of Sinker fades into the sweat-heavy shitty Dalston air, the bookish bastards turn it up even further by taking us on a re-vitalised and reworked journey through three or four older than old bones favourites including the irresistible 3s And 6s (blade-weilding puppy dogs 'n' all.)

A truly brilliant night at the altar of a truly brilliant young band who aren't afraid to be different and do things their own bonkers way. I still can't understand why this lot aren't well and truly on the bigger path to greatness. File alongside Hundred Reasons, Meet Me in St Louis, Hell Is for Heroes, Hold Your Horse Is, The Xcerts and the mighty Reuben as genuine British quirky, challenging genius. No shit.

Ok I didn't get the record. I only managed to clock up 45 shits and shitties. A bit shit.