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

The School of Hard Knox. Mallory Knox and Spycatcher Live review. The Garage.

Mallory Knox *****
Spycatcher *****
Coastline ***1/2**

Upstairs at The Garage Tuesday 15th Jan 2013

Been a while since I've been wedged into the 2nd Highbury Scout hut that is Upstairs at the <insert Sponsor's name> Garage. And every time I come back, I've always forgotten how small it is. I'm not sure even the 2nd Highbury scouts would find enough room to tie a decent reef knot let alone for an uplifiting game of British Bulldog. 

No matter, tonight, it's sold out and is one of London's hottest tickets thanks to the tipped-for-the top band de jour; fenland's finest young tyros Mallory Knox. Which has had the most remarkable effect on the make up of the crowd. 

There's almost a line across the middle of the scout hut with all the kids crammed in at the front but from halfway back, blokes with beards, man bags and feature spectacles. An unholy mix of industry types, press and musos. It really feels like the school play with all the mums and dads at the back watching adoringly and watchfully over the wee ones under the stage lights. Weird.

Coastline ***1/2**

Anyway, opening tonights scout hut jamboree are Kent's tidy tunesters Coastline. They produce a smooth, rich and silky set full of hooks, jangles, spangles, harmonies, refrains and melodies that get the already decent sized crowd tapping toes and nodding bonces rather than dervishly pitting and getting involved. 

Having seen these boys on two or three occasions, I've always worried about them finding a truly defining edge. Undeniably talented, thoroughly enjoyable and impressive, the vexed question still raises its head. 

There are just so many very good bands in this space (Canterbury, Natives, Hey Vanity, the remodelled WATO, Jumping Ships etc etc) Which, by the way, is brilliant and a true indication that rock music is as strong as it ever was and reaching a wider, more 'mainstream' audience. Not that Coastline are me toos or any less good than most of the others; far from it, on tonight's slick and uplifting performance, they're clearly right up there. It's just that final 10% of difference that's needed. Not a gimmick or a forced signature sound, but a sustainable and definable difference that sets them apart.

Saying that, they're still so young and soaking up influences, ideas, inspiration and experiences as they tread the boards up and down the country. And, in short, they do a bloody good job tonight.

 Check out some of their excellent tuneage here>

Spycatcher *****

After the smooth, cultured and slick Kentish Korma of Coastline, it's time to plunge for the hotter, more mental parts of the menu. As a complete contrast punky, poppy, grizzly and spiky noisy bastards Spycatcher are next on the scout hut stage.

The first thing to notice however, is that they appear to be a five piece no longer. Shorn of on guitarist/key tickler, the home counties quartet launch into the ridiculously infectious Remember Where You Were When Michael Jackson Died. And the sound seems to show no ill effect from the loss of a limb. In fact, arguably, it's more raw, tighter and cleaner. But still fiery and full of burning hot piss.

Steve Sears' bluff punk vocals are so far removed from the Coastline boys almost choirboy-like tight harmonising that the feeling of shock is almost tangible down in the kiddy pit. But, the taste buds are re-tuned and dropped jaws hoisted back up as the assault continues.

Spycatcher are one of those bands who genuinely have found a niche. Very difficult to put a finger on where they fit or what, (if it's needed by OCD suffering tiresome musos) genre they should be filed under. There is definitely a true punky edge but one with roots both sides of the pond. 

One moment you could be in a punky hardcore NY basement back in the 80s, the next at an early Slipknot jam session. Without the masks. There are influences and references swirling round the head like a trippy psychedelic dream sequence. Dark shadows of Glassjaw, Minor Threat, Million Dead,The Clash and Black Flag, lighter motes of The Damned and Eddy And The Hotrods, King Blues and even UK hardcore nods to TRC and Gallows (unsurprising I suppose, given Sears' involvement). 

The overall effect is stunning. Pop heart, punk testicles and a rock anus. The set  is a brilliant mix of light and shade, heavier bombs and melodic interludes. Drew Elliot takes on the responsibility of two guitars into one with aplomb. Mixing up jangles, chugs, slides and graces perfectly. Vitriolic, wry, witty and personal pathos-drenched lyrics sit side by side. Real life by a real band. Making a really good noise. Amen.

Fill your ear buckets with some of their splendid noise here>

Mallory Knox *****

By now, the scout jamboree is in full swing. And the 2nd Highbury Scout hut rammed to it's bulging walls. Cambridge's newest radio-friendly rock and roll darlings are set to do unspeakable things to our rear ends.

With so much expectation, hype, air-play, press coverage and intertweetsocial noise around these guys with the new album Signals dropping imminently, they've got a lot to live up to tonight.

But as soon as the first tune belts out, anxieties are eased, pants soiled, hearts lifted and wee, well, weed. The youthful acolytes sing back every word to huge new tunes Lighthouse, Death Rattle, Wake up and even Beggars which was only given its first official airing last week. These kids learn fast!

The sound is massive, Mikey Chapman's vocals pristine and spot on throughout. And they're loving it up on stage. Milking the crowd's fervour. Cajoling and interacting without arrogance, self-import or rock star wankiness. It feels genuine. Thankfully.

It's not hard see the fizzy atmosphere here transported to bigger spaces, halls and arenas in the not so distant future. The hype looks as though it's well worth the ink, airtime, pixels and hot air. The new album (recorded at the beginning of last year with the brilliant Dan Lancaster) is set to catapult these boys even further into the rockosphere with it's radio-friendly hooks, anthems and oo oohs. And tonight's consummate performance underlines this.

But there's thankfully also room for their sharper teeth to be bared with older material and favourites like Resuscitate and Oceans diving into their heavier side; complete with chugs, drops and breakdowns and getting the young 'uns pitting and moshing sweatily  

They shouldn't forget this edge if they're going to maintain the originality and interesting fusion. While it's welcomed news that rock is apparently going to be the next mainstream flavour, there are bands tilting at the genre from the other side, think Lawson, The Script et al. It's not going to be long before One Direction get Telecatsered and Blackstarred up. Perish the thought.  And, I'm sure the last thing the brilliant crop of acts like acts like Mallory Knox, LTA, Deaf Havana and Don Broco need is to be subsumed my the mire of mainstream blandness.

As long as Thug Workout still gets live airings by the Brocans, Nicotene And Alcohol Saved my Life by JV-G and his boys, Far Q by LTA  and the bigger, heavier heritage is not eschewed exclusively in favour of accessibility and 'niceness' then we are saved. And Mallory Knox will be leading the flag waving for vibrant British rock music for a good while yet, I'm sure.

Tonight is an encouraging portent of big things to come. Bring it on.

Don't believe me? Then feast your ears on these beauties. here>

Spycatcher duo Drew and Will's alt-folk alter egos Dirty Leaves and then This Town Needs Guns Next.

More tunes soon. Bwoooar!

Small wonder – Burnout Festival

Burnout Festival*****

The George Andover

July 27^th-29^th 2012

Right, let’s get the scale thing out of the way first. The George is no Hammersmith Odeon. Or Knebworth Park. It has no portaloos. No asian noodle stalls. No fairground. No mud. It does have a fireplace though. And is about the size of Katie Price’s walk in wardrobe.

This is no ‘normal’ festival. And thank the lord for that.

Nearly 30 bands over a weekend in the bucolic surroundings of sleepy market town of Andover. It’s in Hampshire apparently.

The George...Venue of leg ends

Small in scale though it might be, it makes up for it in the grand scale of ambition and vision. And pretty much down to the cojones of one extraordinary bloke. Dom Patience is the Michael Eavis of the underground and alt scene. And has curated one of the most staggeringly exciting casseroles of noiseniks, ne’erdowells and new talent imaginable.

Before I kick off, a brief confession: I didn’t get to see all the bands. There, I said it. What a pussy. But my advancing years, over-burdened liver and need for the odd afternoon nap meant that, sadly, some of the acts would go unseen.

So, many apologies to the acts I didn’t get to haul my arse in front of, it really is no sleight or snub, just a failing, aging body and a pitiful withering of stamina. I can’t even blame any clashes, as the military-like precision of the organisation meant that there were no overlaps between the main stage and the acoustic stage.

Friday.

Anyway, the scene is set. The cider poured. The earplugs inserted. Let’s do this.

First up are Treasures*****

A fairly generic sounding tuneful bunch. Nothing too challenging as a starter. Prawn cocktail rather than snail porridge. Not dissimilar to Futures or Natives and even imbued with traces of Canterbury. There are bucketloads of tidy, competent bands like this lot and, to be honest, they’ve got their work cut out to compete with some of the already more established bands cluttering up the genre. They weren’t helped by technical difficulties either, but an SG was rushed to the accident scene to save the day, and, ironically probably helped beef up the sound compared to the omnipresent Telecaster-tinged sounds. A good start though. And a bloody good drummer.

Next up were Natives***** a really tidy, slick set of big tunes, exuberance and energy. Not going to set the world on fire but continued the good work of the recent tour with Futures and Don Broco. It’ll be really interesting to see how they develop and create a sustainable difference in a crowded niche. A really decent bacon sandwich.

Starters and sarnies consumed. Time for some red meat. And Burn The Fleet ***** offer the perfect sizzling sirloin with all the trimmings. Andrew Convey, resplendent in hideous Hawaiian shirt leads from the front, gurning, grimacing and growling through a mesmerising and brilliant set. The guys really look as though they’re having fun and it’s infectious; the packed pit shaking their collective wobbly bits and joining in with hearty sing-a-longs. By the time the anthemic Handfuls of Sand brings the tragically short set to a close there’s not a brow without a bead of lager-infused sweat or a face without a giddy smile. Yummy stuff.

Mallory Knox***** are next on the menu and judging by the outstanding single Death Rattle, their sound has filled out, been polished and perfected (thanks in no small way to the Jesus-like genius of Mr Daniel Lancaster’s knob twiddling and guidance) and they are emerging as a fully developed masters of the pop rock alt vibe.

Mikey Chapman, their beguiling and affable front man looks and sounds the part and ably supported by great harmonies, cracking tunes and a big, ballsy sound. Definitely more towards haute cuisine. A really decent fillet steak.

The crowd are certainly enjoying the fare and are gorging themselves in the hot kitchen and there’s a definite buzz building before the mighty Bedfordshire Brocan army invades the room.

By now the bijou venue is rammed to the rafters and salivating in drooly anticipation for tonight’s main course. The present darlings of the britrock scene Don Broco***** stride on stage and own it. And I mean totally own it.

There’s a swagger and a confidence about these boys that lights up the place. It appears to be so far from arrogance though. Thankfully. Rob Damiani makes every bloke in the crowds’ dicks shrink and wither like a salted slug. He’s impossibly cool, hench, good looking and probably hung like a hoover. But the collective jealousy is fashioned into a joyous adulation. There can be no finer feel-good band in the land at the moment and their tight, catchy, joyful blend of heaviness, harmony and technical excellence puts them so far ahead of the chasing pack that they genuinely are in a class of their own.

The new tunes sound huge and if the rest of the highly anticipated Priorities album lives up to the title track, Actors and Fancy Dress, then it will surely become album of the year. Their set is perfectly balanced and it’s a genuine pleasure to witness a full headline set rather than the standard support slot half an hour.

There are walls of death, push ups in the pit and general mayhem as everyone gets involved raising the already sweltering temperature and oozing out more sweat than Gary Glitter in a wendy house.

These lads work their toned arses off (#nohomo) and all the toilet venues and dingy cellars will soon be a thing of the past. They are destined for hugeness and tonight that’s exactly what they were. Huge. Fucking huge.

I just hope Rob’s actually got a dick like a sardine.

Saturday.

I’ve got to admit, I do struggle with the ongoing obsession with catergorising or pigeonholing bands down to micro genres. The needless clamour for creating complex phylums, species and genuses for music is as pointless as it is fucking annoying. Whether something is hardcore, post rock hardcore, post hardcore, metalcore or rotten fucking applecore is just so irrelevant. If it’s good, it’s good.

So, with that in mind, if you’re one of those nerdy, anal, sad bellends who gets hung up on the tribal taxonomy, then I’m sorry for offending your compulsions when I try and describe the bands on what is ostensibly a heavy Saturday.

I’ve also got to say, despite loving the heavier side of things from time to time (DEP, Architects, KSE and Parkway Drive being particular faves), dirty metallic stuff is not really totally my thing. So today was potentially not going to be too comfortable.

Add in the mutha of all hangovers and it was potentially going to hurt. Undeterred, I finally haul my rear end out of bed and dive into Death of An Artist ***** As I said, I’m not one for genres, but I suppose it’s relatively safe to call this lot metalcore. A classic (if not surely passing its sell by date) combo of clean vox and growly, grizzly shouty stuff accompanied by big riffs, spectacular breakdowns and blast beats. That said, they are pretty good at what they do. And an energetic and surprisingly tasty looking pit broke out for the last song. There was even a very heavily inked diminutive guest screamer for one song who I’m sure I’m supposed to know which other band he’s from. But I didn’t. Sorry. A pretty good start to the day though.

As the beer sweats and general queeziness ramped up, I have to admit, I retired to the acoustic stage for a wee while. I propped myself in the corner with restorative boozy tinctures and was treated to a mixed bag of strummers, singers and, well, non-singers.

The main non-singer culprit being Ben Mills from The Smoking Hearts who along with guitarist Paul Barrow formed Cynics Don't Build Pyramids *****manfully rambled their way through a chaotic set including a Bronx cover, forgotten lyrics and probably about 2 of the 2,000 notes actually hit by Mills. Painful at times but gameful stuff. (As an aside I saw a slice of the Smoking Hearts***** later when Mills, much more comfortable with hardcore screaming than louche melodic crooning actually took his mic into the alley outside the main room to scream his spleen out to the surprised smokers and suppers enjoying a sunny Saturday afternoon).

In contrast, Mark Betteridge *****(From Death Of An Artist) seemed much more comfortable acoustically, and although I didn’t manage to catch the whole set, his more melodic and plaintive sounds seemed to go down as well as the chilled mid-afternoon beverages. Nice.

A pillar. And Mike Foster.

Next up in the acoustic sanctuary is Mike Foster***** a larger than life, fun-filled cheeky chappy who, by his own admission, is too pissed to remember his set list and many songs. No matter, he cruises through half an hour of light-hearted crowd participatory fun and adds a sea of smiles to a good sized crowd’s collective fizogs. Especially his pointed and hilarious piss-take of the omnipresent Frank Turner. And he even did a Dopamine cover (whatever happened to them?)

It was becoming more and more apparent that I wasn’t going to get involved in a lot of the heavier goings on in the main room but I did regularly pop in to check on the noisy bastards and caught slices of who I think was Agitator, Heart in Hand and Hang The Bastard. All energetic, filthy noise and bloody loud chest-thumping stuff. But, to be fair it’d be disingenuous to dole out reviews as my stays in the bowels of the hadean pit were fleeting and a bit like ‘spotting’ through a vinyl longplayer (ask your dad kids).

And now comes the shocking bit. I’d been looking forward to seeing TRC as one of the potential highlights of the weekend. But I bloody missed them. Due to a cock up on my time planning and a desire to stuff my face with Lamb Hariali (prepared perfectly at the wonderful Shahi Raj***** and washed down with lashings of Mateus Rosé – all class!). A complete shambles. Missing TRC – not the curry, clearly.

So, crest fallen and full of lamb and fizzy 70s Portugese wine I plonked myself in front of a cut-down Evarose***1/2** in the acoustic room. And I have to say, the spacey, chilled vibe appealed to me much more than their normal Paramore-esque pap punk. Dannika Webber can really sing and the set was a every bit as much of a surprise as it was a triumph.

So, still pissed off at missing TRC I steeled myself for the last act of the day. Localish metalcore darlings Bury Tomorrow*****

And I was blown away. As I say, the whole metalcore formula does little for me, but this lot have got it nutted. At the core of their success is the thing that many bands forget – tunes. They’ve got IKEA shopping bags stuffed full of them. 

Yes, there’s a screamer, but Daniel Winter-Bates is an engaging, aggressive, and charisma-steeped screamer (who, since cutting his Bullet for My Valentine chip pan grease-soaked locks looks like Brad Bloody Pitt) and leads his fierce orchestra through a powerful set including the two massive crowd pleasers Royal Blood, and Lionheart dovetailed with older stuff and some new top tunes like An Honourable Reign from the excellent recent album The Union Of Crowns. Impressive stuff.

Let’s not talk about the after party….

Sunday

Shouldn’t have gone to the after party. Uuuurghhhh.

Anyway, restored by a fine Sunday lunch and a bottle of Chianti, time to get involved in the last day of what was rapidly becoming one of my favourite festivals ever.

Daylight Fireworks***1/2** were my first selection from the pick and mix and were pretty sweet. The trio produced a set built on an indie skeleton with impressively buff rock flesh on its bones. Decent tunes, performed with verve and punch and even swapping between bass and guitar. A darned fine start to the day.

Next were Coastlines**1/2*** and they served up a pleasant enough buffet of harmony-drenched pop rock hewn from the same base stone as Canterbury, Natives, Futures et al. Nothing startlingly original but genuinely well played and some great melodies. Too many Telecasters though (personal gripe, but there don’t seem to be enough double coiled planks being spanked these days, the Telecaster with it’s uglier than Simon Cowell’s arsehole headstock is taking over the world. Nyah ha ha.)

Complete change of pace and vibe next. Like a flaming rusty bucket of meths and absinthe spiked with Quaaludes being served at a Chateau Margaux wine tasting, hunk rockers Real Adventures***** are next. And the ragamuffins only go and blow the bloody doors off. Like pissing on a high voltage electric fence or using jump leads on your nob, this band of miscreants wake up the crowd on a sedate Hampshire Sunday afternoon with a full-on blitzkrieg assault of every orifice. 

I’ve had the pleasure of seeing this lot several times, but this afternoon, they reach a new level. The electrocuted, meths/absinthe/Quaalude intoxicated crowd throw themselves about with singer Lewis Reynolds in the rusty bucket alongside them even forming the weekend’s first human pyramid. On a sodding Sunday afternoon. Brilliant, raw, indigestion-giving splendidness.

Another act I’d really been looking forward to seeing were Yearbook***** After hearing a fair smattering of their oeuvre on Alex Baker’s magnificent unsigned show on Kerrang! Radio, I was desperate to hear more stuff and to see if they had the live chop I hoped they had.

And I wasn’t disappointed. A crackling, searing, surreal set seduced, assaulted, violated, intrigued and dumfounded the packed room. Thankfully impossible to categorise, they bestride chasms between Weezer, Manchester Orchestra, Tool, Frank Zappa and leak out traces of Mars Volta and Reuben with mathy passages Dillinger would be proud of. One of the absolute highlights of the weekend. Geeky, emotive genius.

In between all the pop 'n' roll, I headed back to the acoustic stage for a wee break to catch a young, inked girl and an acoustic guitar player*****. I'm fed up I didn't catch her/their name. But they were blinding The wee girl's voice was absolutely huge. They re-appeared later in the evening to play the same set again and with equal brilliance. I'd love to know who she/they were/was as I was blown away. (I've just found out they're called Checking Pulse. Wahey!)

On the home straight now. Welsh wunderkinds Straight Lines***1/2** are next to entertain. And they serve up a table groaning with tuneful meatiness. Tom Jenkins’s original and brilliant voice soars over a well-executed and big-boned backdrop. They remind me a little of an early Lost Prophets if they’d had a real singer instead of a vain, image obsessed twat. Good stuff all round.

I sadly missed Sharks. Italian food and a delicious Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc did for them. But I was back to catch the lion’s share of Canterbury***1/2**And, despite a worry that they were going to meld seamlessly into the pop rock flavours and essences of the others of similar vibe (Nativefuturetreasurecoastlines) I was pleasantly surprised at the gap between them and the others. Seriously slick, tuneful but meaty pop-flavoured rock delivered with an adroitness Coldplay would be proud of. Far more energetic than on record, I’ll definitely give them another go as soon as poss. Not world lighting, more of a substantial roaring campfire. With sausages.

To be honest, my age and Olympian booze consumption wads getting to me now and crisp sheets were beginning to beckon me in a whisper at the back of my music-filled bonce. But I couldn’t bow out until I’d seen one of my very favourite live bands on the planet. The Xcerts****1/2*

Murray (The bastard by product of a petri-dish experiment involving Sam from Architects, Tom Petty, Cobain, A Jacamo shirt and an Afghan hound) Macleod leads on his road warriors to a rapturous welcome and drops straight into Do You Feel Safe. And kills it. As always.

Ok, I’m biased, but quite why this trio aren’t more widely successful and huge is beyond me. Their sound is totally original, fusing indie, grunge, pop and proper stand up rock and roll. And live they produce such a massive, arse-wobbling din spiked with beautiful soft cadenzas and fragile, plaintive gorgeouseness. The set had a tooth removed tonight due to Macleod’s trademark Marshall cab having a minor breakdown (replaced by a stonking sounding Blackstar cab) but the overall bite was as classy and fulfilling as ever.

And it wasn’t going to be topped by Futures.

So the allure of the crisp sheets won out and via a minor diversion to see the delicious and stunning Portia Conn***** deliver a delicious and stunning set in the acoustic room I headed back to my hotel. Emotionally and physically spent.

Before I piss off, I’ve got to say Dom Patience deserves the biggest of all big ups. Along with his brilliant team of helpers, aides, security guys and gals and staff at The George, he has served up three of the most incredible days I’ve ever had the pleasure of being involved with. His vision, drive and commitment to emerging British musical talent is as laudable as it is impressive. Despite missing too many bands and consuming more booze than is scientifically possible I struggling to think of a better weekend I’ve ever had.

So he’d better fucking do it again next year. Genius stuff. Genius bloke.

More tunes soon. Bwoooar!

Takedown with this sort of thing - Takedown Festival 2012 live review

Takedown Festival

Southampton University

18^th March 2012

Well, that just about killed me. A long day in the company of some of the brightest young talent from these shores.

The vogue for these quick ‘in and out’ festivals at Unis and multi venues is something to be applauded. No portaloos liberally weeping their contents all over your trainers, no foul, stygian mud, no tents or filthy, Campylobacter-infested lips and arsehole burgers. Just loads of subsidised cheap booze, stupidly cheaply priced tickets, hordes of sweaty scene kids and hipsters and lots of loud, testosterone-imbued rock and roll. Tasty.

The only problem was that there were so many stages with so many acts, some bands would inevitably have to remain un-seen.

So, bill in hand, first up as a post brunch livener were Mallory Knox.

Mallory Knox***1/2**

A fair sized crowd had gathered inside the ‘main’ venue (actually looked like a massive church hall rather than a grown up venue, but hey) as the proto-fenland refugees strolled onto the stage. Led by swaggertastic Mikey Chapman, the boys launched into a tidy, energetic and melody-infused set full of bounce, booming bass and guitar-infused bosh. All rather splendid. If not a little predictable in places. But, all-in-all a fine appetiser.

James Cleaver Quintet.*****

Oh yes. A crammed subterranean hall (much more like a proper chest-assaulting rock and roll haunt than Mallory Knox’s jamboree at St Benedicts community hall) was treated to forty minutes of brilliance from this outré bunch of quacking, honking and cock-kicking lunatic trouser wearers.

There were moments of sheer violence, nihilism and bludgeon. But genuinely soulful and harmonic interludes peppered the buffet like iced fancies on Clarice Cliff dishes sneakily juxtaposed with rusty tins full  of fuck your face off naga chilli. 

There was even a sax. 

Having never seen these miscreants before and only having had limited exposure to their work (Loz Guest, Alex Baker and that bloomin’ Lucozade ad) I didn’t expect the mathi-ness. At all. Ok, the noodlicious Jacky Udon isn’t as easy on the eye as Eva Spence, but there are definitely moments of Rolo Tomassi. Chuck in a soupçon of Faith No More and even the mighty Dillinger Escape Plan and you get the picture. I totally loved it. As did the sweaty, cutie-ridden masses. Original. Fresh. Nut sack gnawing excellence.

Don Broco*****

I’ve never been anything approaching pissed off whenever the Bedford-based bawbags are anywhere close. I love ‘em to death and have waxed merrily many times about this loveable laddish, mirth-making energy shot. But they clashed with Polar. Of all the other bands I wanted to see! FFs. Anyway,  Guildford’s punker bastard destruction meisters were going to have to bite the dust. Sigh.

So, with a slight miff, I headed back to St Benedict’s Church hall to get my dose of Bobby Damage and the lads. Of course they weren’t going to disappoint. They never do. But they were going to have to work extra fucking hard to make up for going sans Polar.

They did. Oh yes. The moves. The riffs. The walk. The smiles. They truly are one of a kind and this afternoon, they totally killed it. The crowd were a throng of worshipful acolytes, putty in Monsieur Damiani’s hands. Pits, walls of death (just the two this arvo!) massive sing-a-longs. Even Thug Workout - sadly omitted from the recent 4YS support set. And, of course the obligatory smiles. Loads and loads of bloody smiles. 


I’ve said before that there’s far more to Don Broco than a good time party band, and that remains as true as it ever was; but it really makes a pleasant change, in a landscape full of earnest (and obviously often excellent) emotionally, socially and even politically-imbued rock, for a band to celebrate the positive and to generate such a joyous vibe. They really look as though they enjoy every semi-quaver. 


And it's good to see Mr Doyle settling in so well behind his big old bass.

I can’t wait for their new long player. And, given the recent news about the lads’ signing to Raw Power and Sony’s S&D records, a big fat future, pregnant with smiles awaits. Awesome, as always.

Burn The Fleet*****

Been waiting to see these bad boys for ages. And the wait was well worth it. In what was effectively a hometown show, Andy Convey sporting a fine and strong beard led proceedings in what was to become one of the festival’s major highlights. Even though they were playing squeezed in at the end of the SU bar with bright sunlight melting everyone’s heads, they concocted a heady atmosphere. 

Arrrr indeed.

Their intelligent and literary infused subject matter and lyrics  deftly painted onto a wonderfully textured and multi-layered musical canvas got the place shaking from the WKD soused carpet right the way through its asbestos-laden sixties roof. 


The crowd sang along dutifully and the spine tingling Handfuls of Sand got captured everyone’s hearts as a mesmerising and captivating set closer.

They’ve got a new album coming out that apparently is going to be given away with the excellent Rock Sound mag. If it’s only an iota as good as they were today, then we’re all in for a rare and brilliant treat. Stunning stuff me hearties.  Arrrr.

Fei Comodo*****

Only recently stumbled across these fellas. And I have to say, I like what I’ve heard, so I was looking forward to their turn at the altar. They were playing on the same sun-drenched greenhouse stage as Burn The Fleet, but this time, the lighting rig had given up, so the boys at the back of the stage space were hidden, Golem-like in the gloom. 


No matter, they produced a fabulous and fizzing set. Heavy riffage and technical bombs provided the perfect backdrop to Marc Halls’ astonishing vocal range. His voice reminds me loads of InMe’s Dave McPherson’s (must be something in the water in Essex) and he certainly put his lustrous talents to good use as he cajoled and provoked the matinee crowd to get involved. Which they did. With aplomb. 


There are definite similarities to InMe with a liberal smattering of Midgar; all big balls but hummable and memorable melody. And it worked beautifully. The anthemic Rival Tides being the stand out track of the short but wonderful set. Can’t wait to see these guys in a proper Jager-infused rock and roll sweat box. At night time. With lights that work. And not in a student speakeasy-cum-greenhouse.

So you're a wobber are you? Jolly good.

Subsource*****

Heavily persuaded by Real Adventures’ chief plank spanker Dom Roe, I remained stuck to the alcopop mire waiting for Subsource. Didn’t really know what to expect, but having dipped into some of their oeuvre I knew there was going to  be some serious wob. But nowt had prepared me for what was to occur. A cool-as-fuck front man with a Heath Robinson/Mad Max/steam punk stand up bass determinedly and struttingly kicks off things and all hell breaks loose. Think Shikari, Skrillex, Prodigy, Pendulum, Rush, Reuben, The Clash, Charlie Mingus (as your grandparents kids), Maybeshewill, Plan B, The Cure, Matt Bellamy, fucking Sting and Sir Robert Plant all jizzing in a bucket then impregnating Grace Slick with the miasma of goopy man soup. Ladies and gentlefolk, the resulting offspring is in the building. 


And they kick balls. With a solid run up. And wearing Billy’s Boots. Oh yes. Grooves, drops, riffs, soaring vocals and, of course wobs and 808s set the place on fire, evacuate bowels and get heads a bobbing. The crowd appears to be slightly more industry and grown up than general scenies for this lot. Some serious nodding, dipping and stepping breaks out and I’ve found a new band to add to my favourites list. A triumph. Think I shat myself. But a triumph nonetheless.

Lower Than Atlantis****1/2*

Another one of my favourites (and rapidly gaining favourite status with the radio-consuming nation) LTA were next up on the ridiculously stuffed and tasty menu.. After their amazing Garage show a few weeks back, this was never going to compare. Was it? Well, a totally rammed St Benedict’s Hall and Social club didn’t seem to think it suffered by comparison. Not one bit. The house full signs were up and Mr Duce and his Tyros set about disembowelling the snap-back sporting throng. All the biggies were played (including the obligatory Foo’s medley/mash up) and there was much rejoicing, bouncing, boozing and general moshery. The Deadliest Catch ended proceedings and the crowd left as stuffed as Chris Moyle’s after a donut eating contest. Sweet.

Deaf Havana*****

Having watched this lot mature, soften, shift and blossom from a kind of spotty, post hardcore, poppy punky agressfest into a fully rounded, complex and multi-layered band has been a genuine pleasure. 


The demise of the harder edge (and the loss of Ryan) has polarised many earhole owners and is a regular waste of mouth gas among the great and good of the UK scene. But it’s undeniable that they’ve controlled the shift themselves, appear comfortable in their skins and are producing some fantastic, original and commercial tuneage. 


On the eve of their biggest headline tour, this evening was a chance to air the still, self-discovering live side of the band to the adoring masses. And there were some surprises in store. First up was the extra member. The genial and eloquent James Veck-Gilodi (worth a respectable 35 in Scrabble) introduces the mop-haired banjoist as his ikkul bruv, Matt. Apparently a permanent member of the live line up from now on. Twelve strings good; 18 strings better, clearly. Anyway, seems like a nice chap, sings well and seems to add to the overall wall of sound favourably. 

All together now...Sweet Home Alabama

The next surprise was the emasculation and castration of Friends Like These, a go-to tub thumper and signature tune of Deaf Havana’s over the last few years (even makes a self-deprecating referential appearance in the excellent album opener The Past Six Years). Tonight, not only had it had its genitals wrenched off, but the only thing missing appeared to be a choir, 4 tasty female cellists and a key change. To be honest I didn’t mind a bit. The refrain was always the best bit, but the aggressive contrast and foreplay of the rest of the song had been cruelly tossed aside. So it felt like having just the meat at Sunday lunch; tasty but not complete. 


Anyway, enough already. The show was great. And great fun. The whole room joined in the chants and choruses, shouted in the right places and stayed reverentially quiet for the emotionally taught and sensitive bits. And got gooey when the time was right. This lot are truly a class act. They're lazily cast into the same hopper as YM@6, KIGH, Young Guns et al, but are far more complex and, I believe worthy. Veck-Gilodi’s lyrics are thought-provoking, clever, painfully honest and self-revealing. The music is polished, catchy, performed beautifully and full of light and shade. Big, big things beckon. Saying all that, old stalwart Nicotine and Alcohol Saved My Life was the stand out track of the set. Even without the shouty bits – but let’s not go there again. Genuine class though.

Skindred*****

This was by far the smallest venue I’ve ever seen the mighty Welsh Raggabaggabastards in and I was a wee bit scared. Mind you I have seen Dillinger at The Barfly, so there really shouldn’t be anything to worry about.

After some apparent back stage wranglings, histrionics and rock and roll diva guff, Benji and his boys finally take to the stage, now ‘resplendent’ with a natty backdrop – complete with the sponsor’s Monster logos shining through it. And all hell lets very loose.


There’s really not too much you can say about Skindred that hasn’t been said. Mr Webbe is the best front man in the business. Fact. He could get a group of devastated mourners to bounce and form a wall of death at the crematorium to Fauré’s Requiem. His energy and infectious charm are legendary. But that’s always mean to the rest of the band. Let’s face it, they’re bloody good too. Their syncopation married with killer riffs and consummate playing show they're much more than a house band to this, the most garrulous of chat show hosts. 

And so they kick off. Rat Race, Doom Riff, Trouble, Nobody, Destroy The Dancefloor are all belted out from the pulpit in tonight’s service. The congregation bounce more than Jessica Clement’s hooters when she’s sitting on the dryer on super spin cycle. The temperature goes up to insane levels. There’s literally sweat (well, sweat condensation according to the nerdy science student standing near us) dripping off the ceiling. The atmosphere is highly charged but all done with such a collective massive smile it hurts the face. It all comes to a frenzied head with the wonderful Warning as an encore. A truly memorable, brilliant and enjoyable end to what’s been a truly memorable, brilliant and enjoyable day. Apart from missing Polar. Obviously.

Other lowlights: missing Heights, Feed The Rhino, While She Sleeps. Blue K2 - the pikiest drink ever. Bleeuurgh.

Highlights? Don Broco. Subsource. Burn The Fleet. Sailor Jerry, Cider at a couple of quid a pint. And Benji’s bouncing.

Need a lie down.

The ever-brilliant Polenta Shitake next.

More  tunes soon, Bwoooar.