2000 Maniacs. Live review of 2000 Trees Festival

2000 Trees*****
The middle of buggering nowhere.
Near Cheltenham. Apparently.
9th-11th July 2015

Because HTML and CSS are, effectively crap (especially on Blogger). I've started putting reviews and stuff into a much neater, nicer Ezine kind of format thru Issuu.

It's a bit skeumorphic, but looks heaps better than a shitty linear blog.

It works nicely on a destop or laptop and will work on smartphones and tablets, but if that's where you want to look at stuff, then I recommend the Issuu app. It's much neater and you can access all manner of functions, and, of course other mags too. Oh, and it's FREE.

I'm going to keep this blog open as a kind of portal to the new stuff, but won't really be writing directly on here any more. It's kind of the end of an era and over 400,000 of you saps have ogled my word farts and dribblage over the last 4 or 5 years. So cheers.

Anyway, here's the link to the 2000 Trees Ezine:

Here are some of the pics. For old time's (skool's) sake. 

Cheers, Bwoooar.

Havana ball - Live review of Deaf Havana at Sub 89 Reading

Deaf Havana ****1/2*
Attention Thieves ***1/2**
Sub 89 Reading, 3rd October 2014

Firstly, apologies to Hearts Under Fire; due to having to struggle out to the wilds of Berkshire for tonight's show, I didn't hit the dizzying bosom of Reading in time for the early set. But the buzz in the attic after their opening slot seems to suggest they'd set things up nicely.

Attention Thieves ***1/2**

The first thing you notice about local lads Attention Thieves, well apart from bass player Ryan Davies, is that they're all bloody huge. They're like a performing New York sky line or an NBA team on a lads' night out (who've brought a wee friend out with them)

But it's not only physical hugeness that this quintet possess. There are chunky tunes, big drops, fat guitars, massive growls and impressive energy throughout their heavy alt rock infused set.

Ok, maybe a little harshly, there may be not a lot too new or staggeringly original about their offering (and tonight, they're fighting a sound man who buries most of the vocal deep down in the bombastic mix), but they're tight, bang on point, slick - without being anodyne or soulless - vibrant and, at times as heavy as a frustrated rhino's blue balls. And judging by the enthusiastic and warm reaction from the packed room, it works. 

There are many glimpses of influential underwear on show; from the sassy alt rock vibes of Hundred Reasons or even Reuben, the nu-UK rock sounds of Young Guns, tantalising hints of post pop punky ADTR chop and even a whiff of Alexis On Fire veering towards the lighter end of metal core a la Bury Tomorrow. Quite a heavy choice as an opener for the now far-from-heavy headline act, but, all-in-all, a bloody good big show from a bloody good big band. And little Ryan.

Deaf Havana ****1/2*
You know, it's a weird one that we're all here at all tonight. Not that downtown Reading is especially weird, it just feels like something must be going on in camp Havana. A couple of apparently random dates in a couple of smallish rooms in, well, provincial towns. A cancelled European tour. A new mini English tour coming up with no date in the Capital. 

After the last couple of years of apparent exponential growth, an evolutionary streamlining and defining of their blue collar 'people's rock' sound, a couple of brilliant and critically acclaimed long players, huge sell out shows at the likes of The Roundhouse, Clapham Grand and Shepherds Bush, even bigger main stage festival slots, support slots to some of the business's behemoths...now this. Back to basics. Rum indeed. 

Not that it matters a jot tonight, as by now the room is bulging and as packed as Ron Jeremy's budgie smugglers and there's a genuine crackle of excitement and anticipation hanging in the pheromone and sweat-saturated air.

From the opening banging bounce and beauty of Boston Square, any thoughts, fears or musing about why we're all here tonight are completely sublimated and eradicated. This is how to do a rock show. Oh yes. The small size and low ceiling simply serve to amplify and exaggerate the connection, the love, the energy and the consumate songcraft that these East Anglian buggers have dripping from every honest and integrity-filled pore.

James Veck-Gilodi's always special voice has seldom been better. I could swear he even smiles at least a couple of times during the riotous and perfectly executed set (although he hints at troubles, disgruntlement and has a pop at other bands' recent outputs - hmmmm, can't possibly imagine who he's referring to; maybe the spiky and wonderfully snidey paean to the toilet tour The Past Six Years is laden with extra bile and resonance this evening. Just sayin'.)

Whatever the reasons for being here, Deaf Havana sound as good or even better than they've ever sounded: every tune is an absolute banger with the salivating and cider-fuelled assembled bouncing, clapping and baying mob loving every second of the hour long rollercoaster ride.

There are genuine tear jerking moments in the thought-provoking and pain-soaked Anemophobia and majestic set-closer Caro Padre mixed with unbridled joy of toe tappers like Everybody's Dancing And I Want To Die and the woo hooo hoo hoos of I Will Try.


Whatever travails The Veck-Gilodi brothers and their merry band may or may not be going through, tonight they have cemented themselves as national treasures. Again. Let's hope they manage to keep this electrifying theme park ride on its rails and keep providing thrills, spills, gut-moving and heart-stopping moments.

London Live - a month's shows in one huge word burp

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.

The best lives of our year. Top 2013 gigs

The shows that shaped 2013.

Like sitting down with the box of mixed goodies (and shite) that you collect over Chrimbo, 
it's time to review all the contents. From tit mugs toGentleman's Relish and dodgy shirts.  So, here's a mercifully brief (and truth be told, mildly gin-soaked) rootle through some of the live highlights of what's been a bloody great year for live shows. 

10. Enter Shikari The Hatfield Forum 26th April 2013

A brilliant night for a brilliant cause (Action Aids's laudable Bollocks To Poverty). A jam packed, writhing hall in virtually a hometown show was treated to an orgy of throbbing, wobbing glory. 
Review here> 

9. Delta Sleep Catch Bar, Shoreditch, 23rd October 2013

A joyous evening of math mayhem and mastery. Four of the UK's best experimental and outré bands beguiled a sweating and exuberant trendy Shoreditch hipster attic full of beards and flat caps. Review here>

8. Deaf Havana Roundhouse, 26th October 2013

A truly moving and emotional culmination of years of bogs and dungeons. The erstwhile flatlanders blew the bloody impressive roof off an adoring locomotive shed in Chalk Farm. Special night. Special band. Extra special songwriting.  Review here>

7. Deftones Brixton Academy, 20th February

The coolest band on the planet sizzled on a freezing February night. World class show. And Chino talked. A lot. You 'eard. Review here>

6. Don Broco Roundhouse, 7th December

The loveable likely ladcore scallies savagely tore Chalk Farm a new gaping sphincter on their biggest, sweatiest, sexiest party night yet.  Expect even bigger things from these Bedfordshire bad(ish)asses. Review here>

5. The Dillinger Escape Plan KOKO, 8th November 2013

An astonishing and mesmerising beating up at the hands of the arch math murderers ably abetted by the magnificent Maybeshewill and the always-stunning Three Trapped Tigers.  Review here>

4. Liam Frost Old St Pancras Church, 2nd October 2013

Together with John Smith at The Union Chapel (mercifully attended, but sadly not reviewed), these had to be two of the most moving and extraordinary shows of the year. In a real church, the plaintive and heart-melting Mr Frost delivered beauty, pathos, emotion, warm smiles and genuine tears.  Review here>

3. Deaf Havana Unplugged Union Chapel, 15th April 2013

An incredible, life-affirming soireé in the company of the largely unplugged but bang on form East Anglian miscreants. A seminal and important evening in not only their development,  but the future of British rock music.  Review here>

2. Arcane Roots XOYO, 26th November 2013

A searing and jaw-dropping tour de force from one of the UK's very best bands. A sold out XOYO is the merest taster of the inevitable stadium future of this scintillating, challenging and magnificent trio.  Review here>

1. Jamie Lenman The Garage, 10th December 2013

Seldom lost for words, this amazing evening all but rendered me pretty much dumstruck. A totally spellbinding, challenging, fierce, comforting, hair-erecting celebration of originality, wit, emotion and charm . (Dodgy rhyming) Review here>

And that's it for 2013. So many amazing shows. So many brilliant bands. So much Jaeger, cider, Sailor Jerry's and Nando's extra hot chicken. So many hangovers. Further confirmation (if needed) that live music is in the rudest of health on our sceptred Isle. 

The top 10 are just that. There were so many other fantastic, moving, spine-tingling and arse-ripping moments, performances and evenings. It would be an absolute cad who wouldn't mention the ever-fabulous Max Raptor, the always superb LTA, Ozzy proggers Karnivool, FFAF, Hold Your Horse Is, the irrepressible and 'orrible Hacktivist tand those dicks The Hell to name but a few.

Before I head off into 2014 with the hope it will be even better, it would be further remiss not to mention two or three festivals that took place this year.

My top three: 

3. The Ashes of Burnout - a last minute scramble to get together an intimate, but ultimately stunning two evenings in Bournemouth in lieu of the tragically cancelled original event and brainchild of the stout magician Mr Dom Patience. Review here>

2. Takedown - probably the lesser known of the alt rock pop up festival season, Nestled in the bossom of Southampton University, this one day magical ride was a masterclass of diverse curation, slick organisation and contagious smiles. Review here>

1. ArcTanGent - the new fest on the block. But what a revelation. Not just the festival of the year, but possibly one of the very best festivals of all time. An astonishing and challenging line up of the cream of the more underground and experimental bands from post rock to math rock and every genre in between. The only commonality os that they were all so, so special. Rollo n next year. Review here>


And that really is it for 2013. Thanks for reading all my word farts and dribbles. More next year. 

Pit pics. 2013's live music in pics.

So, it's almost the end of what's been a stunning year for live and (mostly) loud music. 

Here's a book-type thing I've scrambled together of some of my favourite pissed iPhone shots from just some of the shows I've been lucky enough to have been at.

They're shaky, sketchy and shambolic but from the hip and the heart. Have a look through and you may even regurgitate the taste of Jager, Sailor Jerry's or cider from a plastic glass.

Big love to all the bands. The pics are all free to steal, share make into chest piece tats or put on commemorative mugs.

Havana ball. Live review of Deaf Havana at The Roundhouse

Deaf Havana *****
Charlie Simpson **1/2***
Big Sixes ***1/2**

The Roundhouse, Chalk Farm, 25th October 2013

Now, I don't know the chaps (and now chapess) from Deaf Havana personally. I did have a passing conversation with a young and fluidly refreshed J V-G at the Strongbow tent at Sonisphere a few years back, have bumped into Mr Pennells on several occasions while he was doing his other job as a sound jedi at the marvellous Barfly, but having closely watched them grow up over the years, I can't help feeling deeply paternal about this East Anglian bunch of ne'erdowells. 

Having followed them (not in a stalkery or rapey way, honest) from their screamo emo days in rat holes and toilets, via festivals, untold support slots, unplugged recitals in churches and sell out spectaculars at Shepherds Bush, tonight represents a coming of age. A transition. Moving from primary school to big school. Or maybe even packing up the boot of a patched up old hatchback with toasted sandwich makers, food parcels, guitars and Ikea pots and pans and finally leaving the family home. And, it's fair to say, it's an occasion bathed in conflicting emotions.

But before the big event, there's some other friends joining in the graduation. 

First up are Big Sixes***1/2**. Since last time I saw this lot of pleasing, talented and beautifully harmonic young tyros, they seem to have multiplied. It may have been the Chianti and Jager the last time I saw them, but I don't seem to remember being that many of them; whereas tonight, the stage appears filled with bodies. No matter, the output is thankfully unaffected by the proliferation and a well-received smart set of tight and intelligent pop rock gets the evening off to a flyer.

The next friend ringing on the doorbell is Mr Charlie Simpson**1/2**, and he's brought a huge bunch of mates around too. Playing to, by now, a pretty packed cavernous and splendid old engine shed, Mr Simpson and his muckers pile into a lively set of, well, country-tinged, MOR, poppy, Eagles-ish, er stuff, kicking off with the boisterous and rousing sing-a-long Parachutes.

I'm confused though. While he's obviously hugely talented, this style and line up does little, if anything new. The songs are all splendidly crafted, but there's no edge. No lustre. The assembled session men are all clearly brilliant players, but all they really achieve is to pull Simpson's personal and honest songs into a Radio 2 mid morning, backward-looking middle of the road, Snow Patrol-infused greyness.

Simpson appears caught. Still young, it feels like he's been over-exposed to his dad's or an uncle's record classic rock or country record collection and slavishly recreated the anachronistic vibe, rather than mixing in anything new, challenging or different. 

Don't get me wrong, it's far from bad - and the prepubescent crowd don't seem to care where it's come from, they slurp at this saucer merrily - it just feels twixt and between. Neither fish nor fowl. Not far enough away from early Chris De Burgh or America and with that nu-folk, nu-country vibe soccer mom-friendly middleness that seems to be the vanilla de jour thrown in to further neuter any real thrust.

Simpson needs to have a good think. Be painfully and confidently naked. Or outrageous and wear uncomfortable bleeding edge haute couture. Not ham dresses necessarily; just don't be the off the shelf chinos in the middle. Great songs though.

Right, back to tonight's main matter at hand, the continuing rite of passage of young 
Deaf Havana*****

House lights down, Elvis up, then Boston Square in your face. We're off. And so are the baying and adoring crowd. 

And the emotional intensity doesn't abate. Older favourites Little White Lies and I Will Try get fists pumping, hands clapping, friendly pits opening and hearts exploding. A trumpet super-charged newbie Everybody's Dancing And I want To Die keeps the whole thing going set to hyper-power. There's no room for breath (the odd wee technical glitch aside) and James Veck-Gilodi's fabulous voice has seldom sounded better.

The rockier guitars and jagged edges maybe long gone to be replaced by broader, richer and more adult oriented arrangements, but the youthful intensity has thankfully remained intact. Throw in the complete honesty which is encoded on this lot's genome and even though they've matured so quickly, the painful innocence and alluring but stumbling and gauche impertinence of yoof are still etched, like old teenage acne scars, on a twenty something's stubbly chin. The glossy varnish has, mercifully, not smothered the innovative and original craftsmanship. 

Throughout, the older Veck-Gilodi appears genuinely overwhelmed and his normal eloquent and verbose inter-song banter is replaced by a repetitive mumbling mantra about how he (and the rest of the band) are blown away, undeserving, humbled and shocked by the event, the attendance and the fervour of reception. 

It's impossible not to be caught up in the import and emotion of the situation. The hatchback is moving further down the road and towards the motorway paved with fame and fortune. We genuinely are witnessing a seminal and important moment in this charming and engaging band's life.

And to kick dust into already moistening eyes, the bastards produce some sublime emotionally charged heart-bleeding moments; the gorgeous Saved and a slightly more upbeat alternative take on the self loathing and pitying masterpiece Anemophobia being the main emotional thumbscrews. The sing backs are cacophonous and fervent, the whoops, hugs and general love in the room wholeheartedly palpable. This is so very special.

There are lighter moments, the sparkling cover of The Cure's Friday I'm in Love leading the charge. JV-G's apparent Springsteen obsession even manifests itself in a brief cover of the boss's I'm On Fire, but the overwhelming emotional intensity is ever-present.

As the set ends with the magnificent paean to hometown history Hunstanton Pier, it's hard not to start blubbing like a baby who's run out of rusks. And by the time they're begged back onto stage for the last three emotion bombs, I'm A Bore, Mostly (which Veck-Gilodi doesn't truly need to sing as the crowd enthusiastically sing every word back at the tops of their thousands of assembled voices), new favourite Mildred and the plaintive Fifty Four, it's clear the band are no longer our little boy, but a full on hairy-balled, gruff voiced, independent and successful man. Taking of which, slightly mystified (if not a little relieved emotionally) that they didn't perform the stadium friendly anthemic throat-lump-making Caro Padre. But you can't have it all.

There's obviously so much more still to come from these wonderful misfits and miscreants and it'll be fascinating following their adult progress. But for the time being, I genuinely feel like they've left home for bigger and better things. So with a tear in the eye but an enormous throbbing vicarious pride and a firm, manly handshake it's time to let go. 

All the best boys (and girl). All the best.

Folk Me. Live review of Deaf Havana unplugged at the Union Chapel, London

Deaf Havana ****1/2*

Big Sixes *****

Union Chapel, Islington 3rd April 2013

Gulp. Church. Me? Really? Every time I wander into the Union Chapel, I’m surprised I don’t blister, turn to a pillar of salt or get burnt to a blob of tar. Saying that, it’s a wonderful venue with a vibe like no other space, and thankfully I appear to haver dodged another God bullet or thunderbolt as I uneasily lower myself onto my pew for tonight’s service.

Talking of biblical bollocks, old Herod seems to have called all the youngest and first born from the country to worship tonight. Unlike anything seen since Jesus was bigger than Aaron Lennon, a massive queue of dip-dyed, plugged up and tattooed acolytes has snaked its way through chilly norf London for pretty much the whole afternoon answering the tolling call to prayer.

Dearly beloved we are gathered here today....

Big Sixes *****
Thankfully there’s no incense or other smells and bells as we’re read the first lesson this evening. And what a beautifully fresh and inspiring homily we’re treated to at the hands of uncategoriseable upstarts Big Sixes.

Tight harmonies, uplifting tunes, reflective and clever lyrical chicanery fill the packed god room. Delivered to rapt and reverential silence, these Bucks boys preach a wonderful, original and mesmerising set. There’s real skill here. Uncategoriseable as they maybe, there are moments of Turin Brakes, Arcade Fire, Midlake, Lambchop, Tim Hardin, The holy Buckley father and son and even a brush with Dylan on show. And it’s all good.

When young’uns go all unplugged it often exposes shortcomings in technique, ability and songcraft. When the pedal boards, triggers, pads and general noise are pared away, there’s more often than not, well, not a lot left. Big Sixes prove otherwise. Judging from their relatively small and nascent, but hugely impressive oeuvre, acoustic guitar, harmony and a natural folky/nu-county dna runs right to their core. And it shows. Original, charming, beguiling and beautiful stuff. 

Deaf Havana ****1/2*

Bands do stuff. You know the sorts of thing: Zeppelin went all Arabic for a while with bongos, bongs and funny shaped stringed things. Deep Purple did a Concerto For Group and Orchestra. Even Metallica dabbled with violas, oboes, bassoons and bass clarinets. And more famously than most, Mr Cobain et al did ‘that’ unplugged malarkey.

Sometimes it works. And sometimes it engenders limited appeal or success. So when Deaf Havana reworked their brilliant Fools And Worthless Liars album so soon after its massively successful release, breath was held. But what resulted was pretty much unanimously vaunted as a modern day masterpiece.

What it proved (as if it needed to be) was that their songs were strong enough and good enough to survive the paring down test. And, to that end James Veck-Gilodi and his band of troubadours decided to give the ‘alternative’ versions a tour of their own.

So, a much expanded line up (JV-G’s ikkul bruv Matthew on guitar and vox and Max Britton tickling the keys) take to the stage like some sort of post hardcore ragamuffin jug band complete with living room standard lamps, comfy chairs, rugs flowers ‘n’ all and kick off with the folked-up version of the album opener The Past Six Years.

And all is immediately well in the world. JV-G appears to be in fine fettle and enjoying every minute of it. Swapping between guitars, mandolins, Banjos, nose flutes, penis accordions, Hawaiian slide/steel guitar thingies and even the drums during Smiles All Round, he demonstrates his versatility and all round musicianship. Most of the album is given an airing with a new song and even a completely re-worked version of Friends Like These dovetailing neatly into the set.

 

Throughout, there appears to be a genuine joy on stage. Tinged with gauche nerves and almost a hint of uncomfortable apology. There's no superstar ego here. You definitely get the feeling this is not some post-modern self-indulgence, nor some transient experiment the band need to get off their chests. This is genuine. Heartfelt. Real. Lyrics are forgotten, mute buttons accidentally pressed, impromptu solo paeans to guitar techs performed seemingly off-the cuff (and wonderfully). As I say, real.

Veck-Gilodi regularly maintains that his favourite sort of music isn’t at the rockier end of the corridor, but prefers the more soulful, atmospheric and melodically carpeted  gallery. He wears his influences on his heavily tattooed sleeve, Neil Young (a hint of Old Man makes it into the end of Leeches I’m sure - but it may just have been the Chianti), Nick Drake, Jeff Buckley, Death Cab, Beck and even Counting Crows - represented tonight with a sparkling cover of Round Here from the timelessly brilliant August And Everything After - all are evident flavourings and ingredients in this healthy, hearty broth.

But it’s misleading to list these heavyweights as mere influences. Veck-Gilodi and Deaf Havana are beginning to fit comfortably alongside such luminaries. There, I said it. Their brilliant, clever, personal and oft moving songwriting, both lyrically and musically are the reason a hard-working, rag-bag rock band from 'East of Ipswich' (wrong county I know, but you know what I mean) can put on a show like tonight. The very quality of the songs transcends genres or musical style and, fittingly in a church, shines through like some sort of shimmering, other-worldly holy light.

The mass ends with a suitably rousing hymn, the wonderfully moving Hunstanton Pier.  From the The congregation respectfully and adoringly join in and lumps in throats swell, eyes grow a tad moist and hairs stand to attention.

Brilliant and important stuff has happened here to night. Amen.

Here's a fan vid of the opening number. Courtesy of Andy Pegel.

 And here's a brilliant tune from Big Sixes.