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:

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.

At a canter: live review of Canterbury at Dingwalls

Canterbury *****
Blitz Kids *****
Big Sixes ***1/2**

Dingwalls, Camden, Wednesday 9th April 2014

The scene: 
In the foetid belly of Camden Lock's most Stygian recesses, gather an unholy horde of dip-dyed fringes, grisly bearded bastards, plugged lobes, pierced and inked flesh and, well lots of terribly nice, respectable A level students called Josh and Katrina.

The Cast: 
The young, friendly, cheeky and slightly bohemian art student upstart played by Big Sixes
The cock-sure, smoking, drinking edgy bigger brother who gets all the girls played by Blitz Kids
The Big brother. Buttoned-down, suave and smooth intelligent trainee lawyer played by Canterbury

The plot: 
The three young British brothers aim to seduce the assembled outsiders, beasts and ne'erdowells using merely the power of rock and roll. 


Act 1: Big Sixes ***1/2**

First up are the tuneful tyros Big Sixes who deliver a melodic, quirky but uplifting and rousing short set of jaunty alty folky rocky indie goodness which gets the already heaving sweat bunker on its feet. There's a definite Turin Brakes influence with maybe even a hint of Twin Atlantic thrown in. Fresh, perky, tidy stuff.



INTERLUDE:
Before the second act begins, we're all informed that all Blitz Kids' gear has been stolen. The stealing of bands' gear appears sadly to be a relatively regular occurrence and it defies belief. Theft as a whole is obviously a moral and legal no-no, but if thieving low-lives are going to steal stuff, then they should pick their fucking targets more discerningly. 

Stealing a band's gear is like breaking a painter's fingers and scooping his eyeballs out, lopping the cock off a porn actor or cutting the throat out of a mezzosoprano. It goes far beyond just theft. It is denying someone their livelihood. 

Insurance aside, instruments, effects, laptops and other essential kit are often irreplaceable. Without sounding wanky, a musician forms a bond with their stuff. A favourite beaten up old Strat copy maybe the only guitar for a particular song. That rubbish old tube screamer pedal may have been the one that nailed the perfect sound on the seminal album. The initial rough ProTools demo of a future banger No 1 among the dodgy porn Mpegs on that old iBook. And now? Some miserable, low life arse wipe gets a few quid for it all at a pawn shop.

Social reasons for theft thrown to one side in this case as a specious distraction, it's just fucking outrageous and, though revenge and retribution don't help, I hope the miserable shits that jacked the stuff overdose from the cheap shit they'll buy with their ill-gotten gains or die fucking horribly of bowel cancer. Cunts.



Act 2: Blitz Kids *****

So, shorn of their gear, everyone could forgive the self styled naughty boys of the pop rock scene (if there is such a thing) for cancelling their slot this evening. But, as frontman Joey James informs us, playing, undaunted is a fuck you to the thieving fuckers. 

The ever garrulous Jono Yates, squatting behing a borrowed acoustic gets in on the act too, proclaiming stoically that they won't be beaten. And what follows is testament to integrity, strength and huge, swollen testes.

I'll be honest, this particular jury of one is still out over the general Blitz Kids thang. I've seen them several times over the last couple of years, in toilets, dingy cellars, supporting bands further upstream at large venues, at festivals and, more recently headlining supporting their debut long player. And although there are many good bits, I haven't been wholly convinced about their true chop. Until now.

A pared down three song ( On My Own, Sometimes and Never Die), mildly shambolic but passionate, genuinely moving and heartfelt set says more about this band than any PR, hype, bloody funny twitter banter from the taciturn and foul mouthed Jono ever could. This is a bunch of young, honest guys baring their hearts. No filler. No samples, triggers, rent-a-guitar extras or slick production, just three real songs, sung back by the adoring throng, showing the real lads behind the slick media persona.

You can almost suffer every hard mile in a stinking van, taste every greasy service station cheese and ham savoury slice, feel every bump and creak on strangers' floors. They tear their chests open and show the real band behind the schtick. And it's honestly moving.

Act 3: Canterbury *****

Following their younger upstart brother; the pop rock band de jour, was always going to be a potentially tricky task for Canterbury, but after Blitz Kids' raw, exposed, emotional acoustic baring of souls and fizzing of the front row's knickers, that potential difficulty looked like more of a hard threat of an upstaging.

They needn't have worried though. The band stride effortlessly into full swing, opening with the raucous and anthemic Expensive Imitation from their splendid third album Dark Days. The sweaty, foisty gloomy bunker is brought to sparkling and vibrant life with passionate and loud sing backs to every song.

The first three albums are all represented with a varied main set takes in the triumphant Wrapped in Rainbows before ending with a joyous and deliciously irony-soused crowdaoke version Going Nowhere.

Despite the ever-present awkwardness of nobody seeming to know how to ask for an encore (what the hell is wrong with simply shouting More!!!? - it seems to have served every generation up until now perfectly well), the band, clearly loving every second of the sold out love-fest and emerge for three final rousing sing-a-longs ending with Friends? We're More Like A Gang from their first album from what seems like aeons ago but sounds as fresh and relevant as ever.

Canterbury are at the top of their game tonight. As they are at the very top of the radio friendly alt pop rock scene game. Their music is intelligent, infectious, often catchier than HDN-1 but has a sophisticated and grown up underbelly. Bigger venues and stages surely await. 

On the strength of tonight's overall performances, British Rock (whichever tiresome classification, taxonomy or genre-driven pigeon-holing you use) is in the rudest of rude health. And long may it continue.

FIN.