There they go. Live review of Lower Than Atlantis at Dingwalls 31/07/14

Lower Than Atlantis *****
Decade*****
Yearbook****1/2*

Dingwalls, Camden, 31st July 2014

There are some shows you look forward to for ages. You wait patiently as the tour swings along and suffer mildly jealous pangs as mates, journos, the bands themselves post pics, vids, tweets and head farts about the awesome show in Stoke or the high jinx in downtown Cardiff.

Well, tonight is one of those nights. The expectation has been building since what feels like when the last king was alive. Yup. Last night of the tour. In the capital. In the venerable old sweat bunker nestled in the tummy fat of Camden market that is Dingwalls.

And, it must be said, a disparate and interesting bill of fare is laid out in front of us. Librarycore, Pop Punk and, well, who knows what LTA are at the moment (or, more pressingly what they're about to become).

Yearbook****1/2*
So, first up are the librarycore lads of the always splendid Yearbook.

A decent sized gathering has already hauled its bits and bobs into the gloomy guts of NW1 as the quirky quartet chuck a blistering and sassy set into their gawping faces culled from their brilliant EP Old Bones and sprinkled with two or three old favourites from a bit further back.

And, as always, they sound on the bloody money. Choppy time signatures, big hooks, tight harmonies, counterpoint, syncopation, colon cleansing bass drops, stunning stickwork, searing vocals underlined by waspish and slit-eyed roars, screams and pain-fuelled yells. A crackling and cracking mix of outré and off-beam mischief with the rock spine of a brontosaurus.

All brilliant, BUT and it is a concerning BUT. This band aren't at all right for the mainly pre-pubescent, dip-dyed, nose ring-touting, emo teeny school assembly who've monopolised the barrier and the first dozen or so rows of tonight's prom.

Not right. Not right at all. They play intelligent, challenging, thought-provoking and angular music that feels like it should be being lapped up by a far more discerning and, dare I say older, audience. File alongside Brand New, La Dispute, Manchester Orchestra, Reuben - you get the picture.

Young as these tyros are, their music is sophisticated way beyond their callow years and seems somehow their youth is, well, wasted on the youth.

Fabulous stuff though. Even though, stoically, Brooker played most of the tour with a busted finger. Ooh ya kipper.

Decade*****

I have to admit, I have a love hate relationship with what is lamentably labelled pop punk. While bands like Gnarwolves, Shockmaster and the sadly defunct Real Adventures lead (and led) the way in unashamedly challenging and mutating the DNA of the genre but leaving traces of obvious traits and common chromosomes, bands like Decade, along with de jour acts like Neck Deep and Brawlers seem to be happy trying to simply propagate the genre through selective, reductive breeding. The old defy/define argument I suppose.

Don't get me wrong, there's a lot right about all of the aforementioned, but it's all getting a bit, well, meh.

Decade do, however possess something fairly original in their oeuvre; amazingly tight harmonies and some bloody fabulous melodies - it's just the palm muted Offspringesque chugs followed by amphetamine laced spider fingered ascending and descending arpeggio-soused riffs doesn't go anywhere new. 

Ok, that may not be a problem to both the band, led cheerily and energetically by frontman Alex Sears (whose looking uncannily more and more like the bastard son of Dan Lancaster and Eddy Vedder), and the jumping grinning school assembly here tonight, but it just leaves you feeling a bit like you've opened a nice bottle of wine and found it's full of lager. It'll get you there, but lacks any true originality or challenge to the palate.

Drinkable and giddying stuff, but all a bit Fosters. Apart from the harmonies, which were definitely off north facing slopes from a damn fine year. 

Lower Than Atlantis *****

So, to the main course. Tantalised and lubed by the contrasting starters of the nascent sophistication of Yearbook and the grungy Tennant's Super Brew imbued Decade, the absolutely rammed Dingwalls goes off its collective mammaries as the drop C kick-in-the cock thudding riffage of the latest radio friendly and, simply brilliant Here We Go opens Proceed-ings (ahem).

And this sets up a vexed question straight from the off. Where are they going? Ok, as the sweat inducing partyfied set seduces and caresses the nether regions of everyone attending, it's apparent that this is a crucial time for this band.

From their first rough 'n' ready, energetic and punk/hardcore/indie offerings (FarQ, Bretton etc), it's obvious that they're a super talented band. 

Mike Duce's lyrics on the whole ( lest not mention the, er, less than Tom Waits ish 'come and have a go' bridge in Here We Go - oops, too late) are among the very best of his generation. Always open-heartedly and self-punishingly honest. The band's playing is deceptively technically superb and Duce's voice possesses a quality and an originality most warblers would die for. BUT, where next?

As I say, the set is mesmerising and energised by the choice of sticking to smaller cap venues. The oldies, the really oldies and the more recent offerings from Changing Tune all have a satisfyingly familiar and comfortable vibe and every word is yelled back by the infatuated and enthralled throng. But then another new one, English Kids in America is dropped like the second h-bomb on this evening's Nagasaki.

So hooky, so poppy, so smart, sexy, instantly memorable and hummable. Is this the portent of where they're really going?

It's clear that a certain Mr Daniel Lancaster has had more than a finger or two of influence in the recent output (co producer/mixer on the eagerly awaited self-titled new long player). But, is it a gamble to take an edgy, grumpy, grungy, but ultimately hugely well-loved  bunch of miscreants and move them so far towards sassy pop rock sophistication in one lurch?

Pop rock (if that's actually a thing) is clearly far more appealing to a wider audience therefore potentially much more rewarding fiscally, but it's becoming a crowded market place. Ironically thanks in no small way to the genius of Lancaster himself: Mallory Knox, Don Broco, those annoying bastard Aussie kids off the cover of Rocksound and soon, Mr Luke Friend

Great melody has always been near the surface of LTA's word, but so has sarcasm, malevolence, self-doubt, nihilism and attitude. Let's hope the future manages to mix those potentially explosive and reactive elements and make something truly mind blowing.

On the face of it and hearing the evidence so far (Here We Go, English Kids in America and the recently slipped out but catchier than the clap, faux-live Ain't No Friend), it looks like they could well pull it off.

Tonight's show cements LTA as one of the best live bands around and they've seldom sounded better, and after a spine tingling version of Another Sad Song, where everyone from the venue's cranium to its rectum sings back every single word (check out the vid below!) and the apt paean to touring Motorway Of Life, tonight's show ends with a bog roll festooned love in at the hands of the guys from the tour supports.

And as the final chords of Beech Like The Tree crackle and decay into the soggy and loved up room, it's clear no one really cares too much about where they're going. They've come such a bloody long way already.

Be interesting to find out though.

Great show. Great band. Let's hope for an even greater future.

The Real Brits - Don Broco, Mallory Knox & Hey Vanity Live At Camden Underworld Review

Don Broco*****

Mallory Knox *****
Hey Vanity ****1/2*

Camden Underworld, Thursday 21st February 2013

I want JLS to be here. And One Direction. Maybe Jake Bugg. Or Emile Sandé. While we’re at it, get those fucking Gallagher brothers down here. And The little dwarf twat with the fingerless mittens and the shades - Will I.Am a dick or whatever his name is. 

Then I want to wrench open their jaded, cosmetically weighed-down eyelids. Bore new, fresh holes into the sides of their heads to replace their soiled, fouled-up lugholes. Drill a fucking huge vent in the fronts of their over-important, puffed up fat craniums, then stand them in the middle of the pit in a sweaty, dingy, lager-soaked firetrap surrounded by real, passionate people.

Brits? Pah! Reality TV red-button, text-in-con, Cowell-based soylent green eating, mainstream, populist mind-bending ego fests; double pah! Tonight ladies and gents, is about real British music. With emphasis on the word real.

An absolutely rammed Underworld is testament to the fact that genuine music is alive, well, breathing and thriving. And a country mile away from the plastic, ersatz and manipulated idols and icons spoon-fed to the hapless and obedient diet-controlled masses.

Hey Vanity ****1/2*
Opening tonight’s revolutionary council meeting are Hey Vanity. Formed from the ashes of the splendid Fei Comodo, this fresh-faced foursome storm into a wonderfully crafted and perfectly delivered set to whet appetites, get heads a-bobbing, legs a-jumping, fists a-pumping and hearts a-racing.

Their sound is more grown up than Fei Comodo. More sophisticated. But simpler. Rawer. But cleaner. Lighter. But still heavy when needed. There’s a poppy, indie vibe not too far under the surface. While Fei Comodo were thunderously dark and heavy in places, Hey Vanity eschew the big drops, beatdowns and dropped tuned kicks in the crotch in favour of guile, layers, melodic diversions, counterpoint and syncopation.

The guitar work is lighter. Airier. More textured and sweeter. Rhythms bouncier and dancier. Melodies, well, more melodic. Don’t get me wrong, this is still loud rock music with heavy chugs and bombs, but they’re cleaner. Less violating; more deeply satisfying. Fingering, not fisting. 

Saying all that, only two of the lads were actually from Fei, so to bang on about them too much would be unfair and unhelpful. This is a new band with new schtick and deserves to be treated as such. No matter how inevitable backwards comparisons are.

Anyway, the crowd are lively from the start and lap up the new boys’ delicious fare. Not having been around for long is no hinderance for these boys as their collected oeuvre so far fills out a perfect support slot. 

The performance is steel shard sharp. It’s tight but not sterile. Marc Halls’ soaring vocals are spot-on and majestic cutting through the thunder, texture and complexity of the music. They even throw in a blistering cover of Outkast’s Hey Ya before ending with the brilliant single Breathe, Bleed, Grow. Expect to see a lot more of these boys. They mean it. Fantastic stuff.

Mallory Knox *****Next up for the prosecution are present tips-for-the-top and radio-raiding Mallory Knox. After their recent headline tour (have a read of the Garage show review here if you fancy it), it must seem a bit weird for these guys to pop back down the bill, but, undaunted, Mikey Chapman (complete with his trademark asymmetric strawberry blond mullet mash up mop) cheerily leads the fab fenland five into a high octane and searing set.

Every tune is an absolute banger. The brilliant album Signals is unsurprisingly raided for most of its massive numbers: Death Rattle, Signals, Hello and Wake Up are all belted out and sung back. There’s room for some older, but no less brilliant tunage with Oceans and Resuscitate stirring the pits up into a frenzy before the massive sing-a-long Lighthouse brings the dripping roof down.

This lot are genuine stars in the making and have a fantastic knack of putting a heavy edge onto a solid pop foundation and clever song construction. The only tiny concern would be that two or three of the songs contain big woo-ooh-ooh-woo sing-a-long refrains which, while highly effective at cajoling and engendering crowd participation need to be used sparingly and in a controlled way to avoid homogenisation and even worse, veering towards being all Adam And The Ants.

Don Broco*****

Don Broco must have balls the size of cat’s heads to open their show with two such brilliant bands and will need to produce a seriously off-the-scale performance to top the offerings so far. 

So, what you got lads?

As the lights dim, every square inch of the subterranean sweat bunker is occupied. Oxygen’s at a premium. Knickers are fizzing. There’s a real, palpable crackle of anticipation. It’s special already.

The intro tape teaser/taster of Priorities adds to the gulp factor. 

Then we’re off. The four über-lads launch into the title track form last year’s tour de force. The place goes off its tits. This is the moment I want JLS, One Direction and the fucking Gallagher bellends to see. 

The moment that makes all the truly hard work, the midnight motorway service stations, borrowed floors, under-filled all day breakfast sarnies and stinking vans seem worth it. 

No public vote. No Manc mafia PR-driven fast-track elevation (you know who you are). No specious and laughable awards for being the hardest working band in the land for playing a comparative handful of shows. FFS!!!! No, this is what it’s about. This is the proof. The delivery. The honesty.

Sure, these Bedfordshire bawbags have had their share of hard-earned column inches. Sure they’re easy on the eye, media-friendly, articulate, clean cut, wholesome, talented fuckers. But they put the hard miles in. Played toilets. Played support. Played festivals. Played places no one’s ever fucking heard of.

Tonight, the set never relents. Delivering banger after banger. Just when you think the crowd has reached vinegar stroke, the frenzy and froth goes up another impossible level. The massive melodic poppy joy of The Whole Truth, the feel good-filled I’m Good, the joyful Beautiful Morning melting seamlessly into the savage and hilarious mosh making Thug Workout; it’s all here. All wonderfully crafted and considered. 

The sickeningly buff and bubbly Rob Damiani leads from the front. Seducing the crowd to simperingly do whatever he wants them to. Sing backs, sing-a-longs, pantomime boys and girls sing-offs. Every single one of the gathered gawpers is putty in his hench fist. Don’t you just hate him? One can only hope he’s got a cock like a boiled shrimp and stinks like skunk’s vag.

During all the fun, pop and pomp, it would be easy to forget just how brilliantly played their stuff is. There’s not even a whiff of synthetic plastic here. The playing throughout is wholesome and sensational. So tight. So precise. So on it. 

The sound is big, bright and far more sophisticated than meets the ear. Simon Delaney’s guitar work is technical, spot-on and flawless. Tom Doyle’s bass funky, heavy, subtle and magical without being showy-offy. And Matt Donnelly’s drumming glues the whole experience together vibrantly and precisely. A feat made even more impressive by the fact he delivers the vocal highs to counterpoint Bobby’s baritone all through the set.

By the time Fancy Dress has been delivered to a spent and satiated crowd, there isn’t a face that doesn’t ache from grinning. A gland that’s not swollen. A pair of knickers that’s not moist or a heart that hasn’t been won over. 

A truly magnificent evening all round and one that truly underlines how brilliant, buzzing and exciting the British rock scene is. And long may it continue. 

Here's a cheeky fan vid of the set opener. Top stuff. Maaaaaate.....




As a side note, the linking factor between two of tonight's brilliant Brit bands is a gent called Dan Lancaster. The driving force behind the astonishing band Proceed, he is also a brilliant producer and, indeed, twiddled the knobs on both Priorities and Signals. But you probably knew that. Anyway, Mr Lancaster is kind of reinventing himself at the mo and is launching a parallel career as Dan James.

The same absolutely astounding voice, but with a much different vibe. More souly, dare I say R&Bish and all round hi-gloss pop. Not rocky, but just brilliant. Check some of his stuff HERE

Poetry and pose. The People The Poet live at The Lexington

The People The Poet***1/2**

Rob Lynch*1/2****

Tom Jenkins*****

Greta Isaac**1/2***

The Lexington, London, 24^th February 2012

All a bit mysterious tonight. Didn’t really know what to expect. Having seen Tiger Please a couple of times before and, on the strength of their excellent EP Seasons, I was looking forward to some boisterous, intelligent and melodic pop rock.

But the new name/side project obfuscation was bewildering me. Who or what were The People The Poet going to be? A side project? New members? Some people? A poet? Anyway, before whatever or whoever they were/are/going to be, there were three acts on the bill to slurp at and sample first.

Greta Isaac**1/2***

A tiny, pretty unbelievably young looking wee blonde lassie dwarfed by her guitar meandered onto the stage. No intro, no messing, she started to pick at the behemoth of an instrument and popped open a delicious, beautiful and delightful voice to cascade over the assembled onlookers.

Young Gun

She continued with a wonderful coyness and little girl charm and reeled of half a dozen or so very palatable and tasty songs. But, sadly there is nothing new here. Having hung around with and been involved with the folky/acoustic scene for many years, I must’ve seen and heard a million Greta Isaacs. Don’t get me wrong, her voice is totally beautiful. Her songs, if not light on refrains or memorable choruses, are perfectly quaffable. But she’s not from the special cellar or the locked cabinet. Nor, to be fair, is she a commoditised and bland screw-top from the special offer chiller. Somewhere in between.

There are hints of Carole King, Carly Simon, Eva Cassidy and obvious James Taylor influences, but nothing jaw-dropping or revolutionary. She's no Charlene Soraia. Saying that, for someone so apparently young, it’s marvellous to hear such beautiful tones and neatly crafted songs without pretention or indie contrivances.

Tom Jenkins*****

Next up was the front man of Welsh tyros, Straight Lines. There are good things being said about Straight Lines, and having sampled their hooky, vibrant and buoyant poprock on a couple of previous occasions, I was looking forward to seeing what Jenkins would serve up without his noisy buddies.

He plonked his bum onto an upturned monitor cab and launched into a strum fest all topped off with a powerful, engaging and original fabulous voice.

The tunes were characteristically catchy, well-constructed and bouncy. The crowd joined in from time-to-time and the vibe was good. Yeah verily.

But true acoustic music this was not. Jenkins’ guitar playing is clearly more suited to a plugged in, turbocharged dropped D Telecaster rather than a wooden, holey cousin. I’m not up to speed on Straight Lines’ whole canon, but I assume that at least some of tonight’s tunes being aired are the band’s property (I definitely recognised the anthemic and top tune Half Gone among the set). So the whole thing had more of an unplugged feeling rather than anything specifically acoustically re-worked. There was no finger-picking, no contrasting twiddly bits or even a hint of an arpeggio. Just power chords and strumming.

But that didn’t matter. I’m being a purist nob. It was all good.

The young lad from the Principality did a fine job. Even alluding more than a couple of times to his limited style – ‘I would have played a John Mayer cover set’, he said chirpily, ‘but he doesn’t use enough power chords’. True dat. His characteristic Straight Lines vocal phrasing and oft contorted pronunciation aside, he delivered a truly enjoyable, crowd pleasing set, ending with a big sing a long cover of Dan Mangan’s Robots. Expect big things of Straight Lines. But don’t expect to see Mr Jenkins at The Cambridge folk festival or rubbing shoulders with John Smith, John Renbourn or Wizz Jones. Great stuff though.

Rob Lynch*1/2****

Blond. Tall. Holds his guitar up high. Shouts. Blimey. Let’s get the lame comparison out the way first, Rob Lynch sounds like Frank Turner. There, I said it. Well, he does. And that’s undeniable. His phrasing, melody and strummy style are all undoubtedly from the same gene pool as Mr Turner. And he’s just sold out Wembley. Lynch won’t be though.

Seems like a nice bloke. But after being ranted and shouted at by his high-octane, excitable delivery, I felt I’d been set upon by a pub drunk who wouldn’t let it lie arguing about the merits of his team’s 4-4-2 system or how shit the health service is and, no matter how much you agree or smile knowingly, he just carries on ranting and poking you in the chest. Aaaaarghh!

Without doubt, he’s got charisma and some decent tunes. Especially the set-closer and Alex Baker favoured My Friends and I. His lyrics are personal, engaging and contemporary(if not a bit clunky at times). But the delivery doesn’t hit the spot form me. It’s relentless. And wearing. No light and shade. Just full-on. Not necessarily angry. Just in your face. With spit. Not edgy. But on the edge.

Lynch...The Proclaimer

I couldn’t help thinking throughout, that all that was missing was another Lynch next to him, thick glasses. Scottish accent. Then we’d have something. No, wait a minute…

So, the time was upon us. The mystery about to be revealed. People The Poet , whatever and whoever they are, are in da house.

The People The Poet***1/2**

There’s lots of kit on stage. Lots. More guitars than in Andy’s guitar shop's window. Lots of mics. A backline that looked like downtown Manhattan. And there were now lots of people in the room.

Then ‘they’ all started coming out. Blokes with guitars, girls with violins, jugglers, trapeze artists, fire eaters and Belgian midget contortionists. Ok, I lied about the jugglers. And the trapeze artists. Oh, and the Belgian midget contortionists. Sadly. But there were violins. It was like the beginning of a parents’ evening recital by the school orchestra.

So we had the people. What about the poet?

Well, the imposing and impressive figure of front man Leon Sanford, complete with one of those fey Middle eastern Arafat neck scarves and a protest camp crusty haircut bowled onto the stage. And we were off.

A delay-ridden U2esque intro soon kicks off into a full, rousing nu-country ho down. Sanford’s gruff and Cocker-like delivery cajoles, insights and delights the jigging pack down the front. Smiles all round.

all together now...yee haarrr

It’s difficult to know what the motivation or reasons are to shift from a standard 5 piece to a ramshackle, jug band collective, but it seems churlish to question. The result is an interesting and heady mix of Simple Minds, Elbow, Arcade Fire, Counting Crows and, well, a ramshackle, jug band collective. With a bit of Canterbury or the late, lamented Francesqa thrown in as a contemporary livener. It soon becomes clear that Tiger Please are no more, and from now on, the new expanded ensemble will be known as People The Poet. So that's cleared up.

Sanford is a born front man and his lyrics, confronting themes of addiction, suicide, death, the arse of modern life are considered, poetic and thought-provoking. But the overall feeling is a bit like chucking everything in the fridge into a sandwich and hoping it’ll taste ok.

The strings don’t add an awful lot. But maybe that’s because they are there on every song (and catastrophically out of tune on at least three or four of the numbers tonight). If they were used more sparingly and dramatically, then maybe the balance would be more defined, flavoursome and ultimately tastier.

Not that I don’t like what we’re being served. In fact, far from it. The flavours work beautifully at times. It just needs a dollop more control. It’s obviously early days and they need to harness the accidental combinations and replicate them; without being mannered or predictable. There are genuine spine-tingling moments. Joyous harmonies. And, with the addition half way through the set of the delightful ethereal Greta Isaac, real depth and refreshing counterpoint. And in the song People, a clever, engaging skiffly vocal syncopation that wouldn’t be out of place in a West End musical. But in a good way.

The performance throughout is clever, entertaining and emotional. The band have gathered stories from friends and fans and used them to paint a kind of sociological portrait of the state of the nation for their up coming album. And tonight, they exhibit some of the work. And it’s very special. There are true echoes of Coldplay in the song Stabilisers. Big hooks with subtle phrasing and cadence. For me, it’s the highlight of the set.

Sanford rambles a bit. He wears his heart on his ample sleeve. He does funny little dances and gestures, banging his heart and giving it the full Marcel Marceau schtick at times (he even apologises for it halfway through calling himself a bellend). His voice, while not in the Bruno Mars or Dan Lancaster category makes the most of what it is. Spiralling falsetto neatly contrasted with big, gruff, ursine roars and bellows. He reminds me of Adam Duritz. All emotion and improv, with the ability to get totally lost in the moment. Without being a wanker.

Overall, despite the tuning issues, the over-done delay-ridden guitar pads and the slight identity issues, we have witnessed a truly original and exciting work in progress. I understand they’re about to head out on tour with Charlie Simpson, so will reach a well-deserved wider audience.

On the evidence of tonight’s performance, we’re all going to see a lot more of The People the Poet. Thankfully without the Belgian midget contortionist.


The crackingly boisterous Real Adventures and Hold Your Horse Is next. 


More tunes soon, Bwoooar!


Oh, before I go, here's something genius: I was thrilled to bits to get hold of the latest ep from Mike and The Gambler's (ex of the unbelievable and incomparable Oceansize) new project, British Theatre. Have a listen to it. It's stunning. Can't wait for the full album.

Bedford Don. America Nil. Don Broco Live at The Koko with some pop punks

Four Year Strong*****

A Loss For Words*****

Don Broco*****

Marmozets***1/2**

The Koko, Camden, 1^st  February 2012

Right, I’ll declare my slight bias before I start crapping on: I’m not really a pop punk fan. Don’t get me wrong, there’s some brilliant stuff kicking around within the genre, but generally, I find it all a little samey and predictable. So it was with more than a little scepticism that I wandered into a heaving Koko to tuck into tonight’s buffet.

Marmozets***1/2**

As a livener, first up were Marmozets. Anything but pop punk. Thank the lord.

Apart from making me feel even older than I already feel by all looking about 7, I was immediately swept away with their fierce and energetic pop/mathcore mélange.

Technical playing, challenging time signatures, a ridiculous tightness for ones so young and a brutal, Eva Spence-like delivery of diminutive singer Becca Macintyre. No wonder there’s a buzz around these tyros. They certainly produce a complex, compelling and beefy noise.

Marmozets - and you thought policemen were getting younger.

The mathcore cornershop is not blessed with groaning shelves and certainly doesn’t attract too much of a queue at the moment. But along with the likes of the phenomenal Rolo Tomassi and the ridiculously talented and fresh Rosa Valle, there’s a fascinating genre gathering speed and hopefully going to burst out to a wider audience in the not so distant future.

Apart from some sketchy vocal tuning in the not so screamy bits, Marmozets certainly did a splendid job in giving the already impressive crowd an engaging and fun maths lesson.

Don Broco*****

I bloody love Don Broco. Having seen them on many stages of all manner of shapes and sizes, I was really looking forward to seeing the mirth making chappies in this revered and hallowed venue.

However, as an interesting selection for ostensibly a Pop Punk tour, I feared a little that the back-pack wielding, big bastard baseball cap wearing, skinny jean sporting punksters wouldn’t take to the Beds boys with open eyes and open pits.

I needn’t have worried. The venerable Koko was packed to the rafters by the time the Brocans were due on.  For what will surely be the last time for these lads this low on a bill, the turn out was insane.

So, nose gripped, legs up, breath held; time to bomb into the delicious Don Broco pool of love. The lads took to the stage to a frenzied and über enthusiastic tumult. Bobby D bayed at the crowd to get involved before the first chord of Top Of The World had left Simon Delaney’s cultured fretboard. Boom. We were off. Paaaaarty time.

Looking around the heaving, partying throng, everyone was smiling. Every single mouth turned up at the corners. Even the coolest punkster couldn’t resist a grin. Every pair of eyes bulging and wide open. Feel good doesn’t come into it. This was almost group orgasm. Thankfully without the mass ejaculation. Meanwhile, on stage Bobby and the boys were smashing it. The syncronised moves, the jumps the almost tangible electricity. The smiles. Fuck, the smiles.

Onwards and upwards, the anthemic Do What We Do was next to peel the layers of paint from the walls. The crowd had dissolved into a writhing mass of  love and monsieur Damiani did his circus ringleader act with aplomb, inciting, cajoling and urging the masses to get on each other’s shoulders transforming the floor into a freak show of grotesque tall people with beanies swaying and staggering.

The delirium was as catchy as the songs themselves. More and more people eagerly flooding towards the stage to get involved.

Walk this way

Within the sadly short support set, there was even time for two new numbers. The superb and already addictive Priorities and, later on, the sublime Fancy Dress. Complete with the walk. Yup, the walk. Let’s just leave it there. If you haven’t seen it, I won’t spoil it; suffice to say, the feel good, jizz-free group orgasm moved up a notch bordering on hysterics. The year of the Broco maybe upon us. But the the walk is going to be a major part of it.

The set closer, was predictably, the rifftastic Dreamboy and as the trademark wall of death descended into a hadean circle pit (furnished firmly with smiles naturally) everyone present realised they were in the presence of something truly wonderful. Original. Fun. And, well, bloody brilliant.

The world needs more Broco. And I can’t wait to see them gracing festival stages this summer and for the new album. And as Dan Lancaster has had his fingers all over it, it’s destined to be a work of genius.

Talking of Mr Lancaster the driving force behind peerless geniuses Proceed, as a footnote, his bass player Tom Doyle has fitted into the band seamlessly and even though the thought that there may be no more Proceed (or Brieseed) is almost too much to bear, his faultless and sophisticated playing and verve is a welcomed addition to team Broco. It was lovely to see Luke, the original bass player having a beer with the lads afterwards and is obviously still very much a much-loved member of the family. He is much missed, but has handed the keys over to a more than worthy successor.

Fabulous stuff. How the hell could they be followed?

A Loss For Words*****

Oh dear. A real case of after the Lord Mayor’s show. The crowd, having gathered it’s collective breath wedged in for the first installment of an American pop punk extravaganza. Given my ignorance and general intolerance of the genre, It wouldn’t be fair to lay into them too much, so I’ll be brief. Generic, relentless, predictable and monotonous. There, I said it. There was absolutely nothing new or challenging here. The singer Matty Arsenault looked and acted like Lee Evans. One of the guitarists looked like Mark Zuckerberg. They briefly lifted the monotony with a jaunty Michael Jackson cover. The crowd liked them. I didn’t. 

Four Year Strong*****

Ok, they’re hewn from more or less the same pop punk seam as the likes of A Loss For Words, but they’re several rungs up. Thankfully. File under the likes of Such Gold and add in an infusion of Title fight. Saying that, they are pretty much walking anachronisms. The US seems to have stalled in terms of pop punk. The guts seem to have disappeared. The predictability and lack of light and shade is becoming tedious. Contrast that with the crop of exciting new bands broadly inhabiting the genre on this side of the pond including the fabulous Polar and upcoming starlets Real Adventures and the feelings of ennui and deja-vu are underscored. In red.

So FYS? What did they actually serve up? Gutsy guitars, monster riffs, beards, whiney de rigeur Hoppus/DeLong esque yanky-doodle vocals but, in fairness, tempered with tight harmonies, catchy hooks and melodic pop sensibilities. They played a lot of new stuff. They played most of their big ones. The crowd went wild. I didn’t. But, despite a muddy sound, I enjoyed it. Rather more than I thought I would. In short, they're bloody good at what they do.

However Don Broco were on another level.  But, in the words of Mandy Rice-Davis, I would say that, wouldn’t I.


Let's make sure this year does indeed become the year of the Broco. The world could do with some big fat smiles.

AWOL nation and the always amazing, best band in the whole world Arcane Roots next.

More tunes soon. Bwoooar!

Secret Midgarden party. Midgar Live. Oh, and Maybeshewill as a bonus.

Midgar*****

Atum**1/2**

Press To Meco

The Perfect Crime

93 Feet East Shoreditch 11^th January 2012

I’ve got to admit, it was my first time at this hipster venue tucked away at the solemn and shadowy end of London’s achingly fashionable Brick Lane. But, excitedly and full of meat products and new world wine (following a tortuous industry dinner) I skipped into the unknown ready to be wowed by Midgar et al. Well, due to my tardiness, just Midgar and Atum actually - I sadly missed The Perfect Crime and Press To Meco.

An encouraging start; the room was a good old size with a big raised stage, a retro Bakerlite front of house PA, a well-stocked bar and a smattering of what looked like industry types mingling with scene refugees and trendy web developers . But it was only a smattering. Disappointingly.

Atum**1/2**

First up were Atum (after an interminable sound check.) A five piece from North West London Town apparently. I had no idea what to expect but was ready to be impressed.

Michael Hupping, the singer looked like a mod on the run or a cross between a Gallagher brother and Joey Barton and he was clutching drumsticks. No idea why. Didn’t see him do anything with them, but clutching them he was.

The set started and slid into a pleasant enough melange of a proggy vibe with an indie backbone via Tool and Karnivool with dollops of whisked up Kasabian, subtle hints of Deftones on a bed of freshly picked Intronaut.

A heady mix. It kind of worked in places but was a little bland and flat in others. But the cavernous and empty venue did little to heighten the flavours. Add in a terrible sound and some fairly terminal tuning issues and the overall aftertaste was nowhere near as good as it could have been.

Saying all that, despite Hupping looking like a heroin mod chic extra on Casualty, he had some vocal chop. A pretty spectacular range; from a controlled low end Stuart Staplesesque baritone to a soaring Jeff Buckley higher register. And some of the tunes weren’t at all bad. Would like to give them another chance in a fuller, smaller venue with better sound and the use of a guitar tuner wouldn’t go amiss.

So, my second starter of the evening seen off, what would the main event serve up?

Midgar*****

I’d rather hope the disappointingly flaccid crowd would swell to the size of a Blue Whale’s woodie for Midgar. But, sadly and unbelievably it got to about a 20% lazy lob and that would just have to do.

Maybe it was the choice of venue. The time of year. The lack of listings or people being skint, but it staggers me that one of the UK’s greatest young musical talents didn’t pack the hipster hall to its rafters. They deserve to.

No matter, I was lucky enough to be here and was salivating at the prospect.

Vennart/Wilson-Taylor. The transformation continues.

At first I didn’t recognise Andy Wilson-Taylor. All short hair and school shirt. The metamorphosis into Mike Vennart from the brilliant but sadly defunct Oceansize (btw, check out his brilliant new project with The Gambler at britishtheatremusic.com) is almost complete. But as he sauntered onto the stage, the whale’s penis throbbed more than a little, the band struck up a hearty tune and we were off.

Midgar are a mash up of many influences, genres and styles. Sweeping arpeggios, intricate tapped and swept guitar work, heavy as hell drops and riffage, triggered 808s, harmonics, orchestral samples all Araldited together with a tight as a rusted Scammel wheel nut rhythm section and all topped with Wilson-Taylor’s masterful, mesmerising, powerful, hypnotic and other-worldly vocals

The Welcomed New Member of Midgar

There are traces of Muse, hints of Vex Red, Thrice, InMe and Incubus (before they turned into Richard Clayderman and Kenny G with a crap wedding DJ), and even Chopin and Debussy. Yup, this evening Mr Wilson-Taylor got all Vladimir Horowitz or André Previn on our arse and played live keys on a couple of tracks. Brilliantly by the way.

Their set tonight was primarily made up of new stuff. And bloody great new stuff at that.

There were a couple of older faves thrown in – Set closer, Karmic Retribution and the always wonderful Vincent’s Masquerade (no Colour Us or Lead Your Children To The Sky – with or without Steve ‘The Dude’ Sitkowski – though) but tonight was a celebration of the future. And what a future it threatens to be.

The PA didn't help

Sadly I didn’t catch the names of most of the new songs (I think one was called Neptune) but without exception, they were of the very highest quality. They happily contrast lighter, harmonic and melodic themes with ball-crushing, percussive riffage and marry haunting beauty with brutal uppercuts to the unsuspecting underbelly. A truly intoxicating and breathtaking set performed exquisitely (despite the slightly less than Hi-fidelity Bakerlite powered sound). It would have been a 5* otherwise.

It will be a heinous crime if these boys have to play in many more half-empty toilets. They deserve a bigger stage. A bigger blue whale’s penis and I can’t wait to see them again and for the new album.  I know Alex Baker on Kerrang! Radio is a fan and does his bit, but more people need to hear this lot. They deserve a wider audience. Here’s hoping they manage to hop onto the festival carousel this summer and charm the nation's earholes.

In the meantime, brilliant stuff tonight. Here’s to much, much more to come.

As a footnote, Wilson-Taylor mentioned they were in the process of trying to find the right producer for the new record - how about this for an idea? Dan Lancaster of Proceed and studio Glass Eye. Just imagine….oh god, the whale’s awakening at the prospect.

Been rubbish and away, so completely forgot to post the review of the absolutely stunning Maybeshewill Christmas Spectacular at The Lexington. So here it is. A review of the absolutely stunning Maybeshewill Christmas Spectacular at The Lexington.

Maybeshewill*****

Cats And Cats And Cats*****

A Genuine Freakshow*****

The Lexington Islington 15^th December 2011

Packed house. Bursting at the seams. Lots of Christmas cheer. Many elaborately knitted sweaters and more than a few novelty santa hats.

A Genuine Freakshow*****

A Genuine Cat Show. No, wait a minute...

First up are  A genuine Freakshow. I’ll be honest, I only caught the last couple of tunes. But I liked what I heard. And saw. A lot. A rag bag jug band come school orchestra packed the stage and the complex, rousing ‘new country’ sounds packed the room. A cross between Death Cab For Cutie, Sigur Ros, The Whitest Boy Alive and Oceansize with horns, strings, melotron and spiralling harmonies. Enchanting. Simply enchanting.

Cats And Cats And Cats*****

Next Up were an equally vast array of folky jumpers, instruments and hair. Possessing one of the finest names in rock music, at first listen and glance , Cats And Cats And Cats could be from the same double yolked egg as A Genuine Freakshow. But on closer inspection, they’re more ramshackle. More discordant, rougher round the edges and slightly darker than the previous jug band. 

There's a cat in me kitchen what am I going to do?

There are definite DNA similarities with Gong and the Bonzos. A sense of the bizarre and dishevelled art school disquiet. A kind of very British Arcade Fire with pop and folk overtones. And I loved it. I’m not totally sure if these two bands are genre defining, or indeed, if they fit comfortably into a genre at all, but file in the same cider crate as My First Tooth, Liam Frost’s now sadly defunt Slowdown Family and even Copenhagen’s wonderful Alcoholic Faith Mission and we’re not far off an ‘ism’.

Maybeshewill*****

I’m a gobby, verbose shite and never knowingly shut up. But tonight I am rendered virtually speechless. The Leicester 5 piece (plus strings) completely took my breath, heart and words away. They effortlessly but passionately and gorgeously treat the adoring throng to a run through of their masterpiece I Was Here For A Moment, Then I was Gone. The whole album. Back to back. In all its glory. All its light and shade. All its beauty. All its brutality. All its brilliance.

Wow. Just wow. The place turned into a worshipful writhing mass of appreciation and love. The band were obviously feeding of this unbelievable energy. They smiled. They preened. They pranced. They fucking loved it. And so did we all.

Instrumental music can, to some, appear unfinished or incomplete. These people are nicompoops, ninnies and ne’erdowells. Maybeshewill, along with bands like ASIWYFA and Yndi Helda prove (as if it were needed) that  lyrics and vocals are not always needed to convey the most amazing emotion. To transport the mind. To entrance, amaze and stun. Well, it didn’t stop Sibelius, Elgar or Mozart, did it?

After the album recital, the boys gleefully clambered back onto the stage and further massaged the love-struck Yuletide revellers with three encores including the heart-stopping Paris Hilton Sex Tape. A true privilege to have been there. A magical, emotional, beautiful and stunning evening that will go down as one of the very best. 


The ever remarkable Xcerts next.


More tunes soon. Bwoooar.