Camden Cocks - live review and pics of Camden Rocks Festival

Camden Rocks*****
Bad Sign, Attention Thieves, Press to Meco, Samoans, Polar, Max Raptor, Axis Of, Skindred, Beer, Cider, Jagermeister. Oh dear.

Another book type thing with pics from the hip and a few words about some of the great bands at this year's Camden Rocks Festival. Just click and read...

Nightmare of a day - Live review Nightmare Rocks in Camden

Nightmare Rocks *****
120 bands. 20 venues. 1 day. 1 bastard of a hangover. 120 words.
Various venues, Camden, November 1st 2014

It doesn't seem that long ago that we were scuttling up and down Camden's rat run for the brilliant Camden Rocks in the summer. Well, we're all back. And so's the sun. In November. Weird.

In the spirit of today's relentlessly punishing festivities with 120 bands peppered all over NW1, I'm going to pointlessly and breathlessly keep 120 words for each of the acts. Right, I'm going in.

Agent *****
The Underworld

First on. Devil's own slot. Sadly pretty empty room. But huge proggy, trippy, spacey, djenty, tecchy sounds. Not at all bad actually. Moments of Tool and Karnivool. Odours of grunge as well. At times reminiscent of Queens Of The Stone Age if they actually grew some proper gonads. A bit light on hooks or refrains. But, as I say, proggy stuff, so labyrinthine meandering melodies more the order of the day. There's  a screen showing the direct feed from the inside of a meth head's bonce to add to the bong-infused headiness. Strange choice as a first up act. Not really a party starter. Too classy. Too complex. In short, too good.  But a really brave and laudable start. Man.

Leviathan ***1/2**
The Jazz Café

Never heard of them. And with the moniker they've got, was expecting a Mastodon/Krokodil/Bovine kind of vibe. How wrong. What we've got is a dirty bastard scuzzy trio banging out a grit in the foreskin, dirty, bluesy, funky concoction that really is captivating. A grungy throwback lead guitarist and gruff but explosive vocalist rips into all manner of filth including a mesmerising and funked and fucked up version of Sabbath's The Wizard accompanied by some solid tub thumping and an über dude on a Rickenbacker providing great counterpoint, grinding bass and surprisingly tight as an amoeba's arse harmonies. It's an unholy mix of Nirvana, Rory Gallagher, Budgie and even hints of The Jam. A bit bonkers. But a bit good.

Du Bellows ***1/2**
The Proud

Regrettably, a pretty empty room. Mysteriously no drummer. More booze. Dog-on-a-string guitarist. Dreads. Bare feet. Sassy Welsh front woman. Huge, gorgeous, powerful voice. Reminiscent of Chicken Shack or Early Fleetwood Mac with spacey Fairport Convention wisps and strands woven into a bluesy, folky, stoner loveliness. Packed like a Camberwell carrot full of soul, sass and mind-altering trippyness. Although (maybe due to today's lack of a tub thumper) a little ramshackle and loose at times. A real comfortable cardy or care-worn, rock-burnt afghan coat of a band showing their forefathers' and mothers' influences by dipping into ma and pa's old vinyl collection, mixing it all up, packing into a bong and firing the beauty up for a brain calming feel-good session. 

Death And The Penguin ****1/2*
The Proud

Art school. Math school. New school. Smart school. Blimey, what a grin-inducing, pleasant surprise. A brilliant set full of angular, polyrhythmic, über-tight, clever, beautifully played and energetically performed mathy splendour. Fresh, challenging, original and spellbinding trickery and fuckery. There's a real endearing intelligence to this quartet's work. Complete with ironic bow ties and 6th form common room geek chic. There's more than a trace of Everything Everything or even Franz Ferdinand (if they were actually any good!) mixed with Delta Sleep or Tellison and even a bit of OK Go. There's more chop than a Karate competition in an abattoir  all deliciously served up with mesmerising harmony and counterpoint with poppy hundreds and thousands sprinkled on top. Absolutely bloody 
delicious.

Calling All Cars *****
Dingwalls

Thankfully, more than quite a few have slipped down the gullet into the subterranean gloom of Camden's bowels for this brotherly love-led Bristolian-based Oz trio. Quite simply why this band aren't huge is just mystifying. Hayden Ing is a born front man and backed by his brother James on 4 strings and the Bonhomesque skin smasher (he even sees off a snare this afternoon) Adam Montgomery they reek of stadium or huge halls. The music itself is massive. Joyous. Fresh. Unfettered rock and roll, crammed with hooks, riffs, melody, harmony and napalm-enriched face-melting power. Ing's vocals are flawless even though he throws himself around like a cattle-prodded mudskipper, performing from the crowd or even up a ladder (you 'eard). Fanbloodytastic.

Max Raptor *****
The Underworld

120 words. Go:

Hot. Packed. Frenzied. Energetic. Clever. Dry. Witty. Powerful. Fun. Chinese. Gervais. Sorry. Cider. Mosh. King. Dead. Tight. Fresh. Heavy. Showmen. Sardonic. Wry. Dance. Shout. Cajoled. Seduced. Thoughtful. Evangeline. Heart. Passion. Bombast. Punk. Rock. Original. Savvy. Riffs. Bombs. Guts. Evacuation. Skidmarks. Oops. Fervour. Belief. Boner. Wide-on. Phwoooar. Honesty. Integrity. Performance. Grit. Political. Anger. Ire. Intelligence. Beguiling. Frenzy. Gyrating. Response. Sing-a-long. Whooooa. Oooh. Anthemic. Powder. Wine. Sweat. Foist. Crowd. Surf. Yell. Drop. Bombs. Respect. Heart. Power. Meat. Raw. Fisting. Ouch. Vim. Vigour. Tune. Hook. Chorus. Melody. Anger. Principled. Smart. Savvy. Party. Dance. Clap. Scream. Dive. Pit. Delicious. Strong. Dark. Punch. Gonads. Kiss. Neck. Contrast. Handshake. Bird. Hug. Strangle. Seduce. Defile. Smile. Grimace. Love. Hate. Barrel. Wave. Two. Fingers. Proud. Brilliant. Fuck. Yeah. 

Brawlers *****
Electric Ballroom

Yup, red beanie-toting frontman Harry George Johns is one of those ludicrously passionate, born-to-be-a-star types who bleeds music, but the sad fact is, his band is, well, a bit meh. Derivative and regressed-to-the-mean pop punk adding so little of anything new. Ok, there's melody and the occasional hook in here. But it's all so bloody me-too. Johns has the energy. He's got the neck. The star quality. but that's about it. The crowd (even the ones who are questionably manhandled to the floor by Johns) seem to share my opinion. A glazed, cider-induced smile or two and the brave attempts by a couple of fancy-dressed moshing chickens aside, no fires are lit in the cavernous hall this afternoon. Real shame.  

InMe ***1/2**
Electric Ballroom

Feels like the whole InMe army are packed in. And they're treated to a brief but blinding set of alt metally, dazzlingly played artillery lobbed into their adoring midst. However, although I've long been a fan, I can't help but feel that tonight is all a little 'knowing'. Introducing rarely played backnumbers is a treat for die-hards; this is a festival. Maybe (no matter how much Dave and the lads must hate trotting them out) a couple more 'big ones' like Single of The Weak and  the one that kicked it all off, Underdose could get an airing, given that despite the fan-dominated room, there are a shitload of newbies here tonight. Minor gripe, but it feels like a convention rather than a celebration. Bloody good though. As always.

The Hell *****
The Underworld.

120 words you say? Ok:


CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS.CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. 
SPASTICS.

Allusondrugs ****1/2*
The Underworld.

The last 120 words. In twos.

Last minute. Rhino replacement. Top blokes. Leeds lads. Bong water. Grunge infused. Empty room. Huge hearts. Tight as. Big tunes. Hilariously dry. Energetic bounce. Rock Roll. Likeable engagement. Great musicianship. Cousin It. Fun frenzy. Loud proud. True heart. Good songs. Party hearts. Catchy chlamydia. Roller coaster. White knuckles. Punk soul. Fucking fun. Dance inducing. Smiles grins. Big bollocks. Genuine talent. Original new. Fast furious. Hummable memorable. Light shade. Dark bright. Genuine passion. Feeling pissed. Shot arm. Pick up. Guitars loud. Loving it. Show men. Hundred percent. Respect due. Sweat brow. Giving all. Last act. Huge day. Broken liver. Fantastic fun. Brilliant acts. Live music. The Best. Totally fucked. More cider. Another Jager. After show. Hang over. Love it. Need sleep.


Bit of a gallery:

Shit from the pit

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enjoy.

Shaken and Stirred on The Rocks - review of Camden Rocks

Camden Rocks Festival
Straight Lines ***** 
Toseland **1/2** 
Gnarwolves ***1/2** 
Max Raptor ***** 
Dinosaur Pile Up ***1/2 * 
The Hell ***** 
Get Cape Wear Cape Fly ****1/2*

All over Camden, Saturday 31st May 2014

Like any cocktail list, today's bill of fare is an object lesson in option paralysis; you want to taste all the delicious and heady brews on the list, but there's simply too much to choose from and so many intoxicating variations, flavours and ingredients to realistically get yourself outside.

So, after a lengthy session studying the amazing list, a plan is hatched and the mayhem begins with a drop of Welsh moonshine.

Straight Lines *****

A heavy and straightforward looking cocktail. But deceptively complex.
Take a classical rock base. Infuse it with Sabbath salt, spice and riff bombs. 
Add in a good dash of contemporary sharpness and relevance. Then chuck it all into a hot and moist Barfly and shake the living shit out of it. 

Delicious, heady, heavy but with a fresh aftertaste (even with the Sabbath Bloody Sabbath riff still on the tongue as a strong finish). Cracking start to a long, well-soused day. 

Toseland **1/2**

Take the eighties. No, please take the eighties.

Where do I start? Take a bunch of very competent rent-a-rock band musos, throw in an impossibly hench ex world superbike racing dude, sprinkle with ridiculously clichéd, Jeremy Clarkson 20 driving rock classics collection CD from a petrol station lyrics and song titles like Renegade (seriously!), take a large slug of irony, but throw that away, chuck in some Foreigner, REO Speedwagon, Uriah Heep, Thunder, Bon Jovi and mix it up into a beige but annoyingly tasty frothy mixture. Liberally spice with epic guitar solos, piano intros and, to be fair, a pretty formidable voice and you've got the ultimate dad-friendly rocktail.

Anachronistic. Competent. Perfectly played. But Bourbon biscuits rather than rock and roll moonshine Bourbon snorted out of a rusty petrol can.

Gnarwolves ***1/2** 

Take a glass. Stick it up your arse. Break the glass. Fill it full of quaaludes, hydroponically grown hyper grass, neat overproof rum, amyl nitrate and give it a fucked up spastic shake. Then drop the glass. Lick the contents off the sticky floor. And that's a Gnarwolvestini. Chaotic, full-on, fun, dirty, fucked up and addictive. Despite tuning and technical cock ups, normal disorder is resumed with typical mayhem-infused aplomb. Big riffs, über-pop punk melodies and sing-alongs. The complete antidote to Toseland's low alcohol lager. The crowd a bit bemused rather than totally intoxicated but it is impossibly early for something normally so spicy, punchy and messed up. Burp.

Max Raptor *****

Time to move to a distinctly classic part of the mixology list.Take some pointy fingers, a sharp, acidic shot of sardonic and knowing wit, throw in a dash of satire, a nod, a wink, some crystal clear, triple filtered extra strong cane spirit, cerebral fluid, a hint of Burton Ale, sweat, lube, a full bodied red, some needle-sharp shards of glass, industrial swarf, empty a bumper bag of Whoa Whoas and throw it all into a bath. Dive in. Frenziedly slurp the mind-blowing alchemic goo off the whiffy bridge and wobbly bits of  a compliant bystander and lose your shit. A truly original, mind-melting, heart starting, knee bending, cock-grabbing, clever, proto-punk concoction that gets this NW1 party of all parties properly started. Brilliant. 



Dinosaur Pile Up ***1/2 **

Take some grunge, add a dollop more grunge, mix in some, well grunge, throw in some big tunes, the odd white t-shirt, some jeans, a refreshing slice of piercing but surprisingly agreeable essence of vocal, serve on a base of solid riffs, butt-loosening bass and pour into a heaving Electric Ballroom. Sassy, bold, fruity an, of course grungy. Cheers.

The Hell ***** 

Take four cunts. Two lots of two strings. Some alarmingly aubergine hair dye. A huge sprinkle of irony. Mix it with lager, piss, bile, Courtney Love's poisonous fanny batter, the grease from a thousand kebab shop owners' aprons, more lager and shake it all up in a tiny hot room full of semi naked hardcore dancing cunts. Yup, it's that fucking horrible. Dicks.

Get Cape Wear Cape Fly ****1/2*

Take a small man. Some huge sing-a-long tunes. A massive dollop of distilled nostalgia, unbridled joy and some D&B wobs, beats and tst tst tsts. Heat it up to nearly boiling point. Pour in some der dub dub dub dubs. Spray over a flagging room full of singing soulmates to bring spirits, arses, brows, smiles, faces and dancing feet back to life. Enjoy.A wonderful sundowner to cap a full-on day suffused with variety, bizarreness and brilliance.

And so to bed.Camden Rocks has been an absolute triumph. 200 bands, 20 venues, 8,000 like-minded rock fans of every shape, size, taste and smell. A fantastic vibe throughout the whole day. 

The only downside was missing such mesmerising and intoxicating acts like A Plastic Rose, Baby Godzilla and the return of The mighty Xcerts. Shame.

Brilliant organisation (even though the wristband exchange took up quite a lot of drinking, I mean rock and roll time. ) But all-in-all one of the very best one day festivals imaginable. Can't wait to get stuck in again next year.

Hic. 

Max Tractor - Live Review of Max Raptor's Barfly spudfight

Max Raptor *****

Fort Hope *****

Only Rivals ***1/2**

Camden Barfly, Tuesday 28th January 2014

I bloody love potatoes. The king of vegetables. Flexible. Versatile. Potatoey.

From rich, la-de-dah, creamy, garlicky dauphinoise to the humble fat-soused chip. Delicious. 

Well, tonight, thanks to an ill-thought through acceptance of a pissed-up challenge from a fellow potato worshipper (you know who you are!), I have taken up the starchy, gluten-imbued gauntlet and agreed to use the humble spud as the guiding motif or metaphor, if you will, for this evening's proceedings.

Alright, I have to take some of the blame: over a glass of something refreshing earlier tonight, I did, turdishly, compare rock music to potatoes. Bed. Make. Own. Lie.

Only Rivals ***1/2**

First are Dubliners Only Rivals (well second actually, unfortunately, due to the earlier great potato debate overrunning and getting quite heated, I managed to miss the marvellous Making Monsters).

Ok, beginning to feel a bit set up and mildly casually racist now, given the Irish thing. But bollocks to it, potatoes are not sovereign property of the Emerald Isle, so get over it you politically correct, over-sensitive, finger-pointing, pious fucknuts. 

Potatoes. Fucking potatoes. Irish or not. So, what we got? Well, this energetic four piece form the mash or fat chips on tonight's bill of fare. Filling, tasty, bold and substantial. Nothing too fancy to be honest, but hot and satisfying nonetheless. 

There's enough substance and bulk to lift them away from microwave ready meal gruelly mash that seems to be flooding the market and enough rough spud skin on the chunky chips to give a grungy bite, again, unseen in most mass produced bland fries. But they could probably do with a splash of something a bit more spicy or provocative to make them truly different. That, or leave all the dirty skin on and get a bit filthier or earthier.

But, you can't really go that wrong with chips. Or mash. Good stuff, if not a soupçon underdone and  maybe just a tad unadventurous.

Fort Hope *****

Mash and fat chips sitting warmingly in the belly, it's time to move up a notch or two in the wonderful world of the spud. Reconstituting themselves out of the bag of broken but spicy and always interesting Flaming Tasty Monster Munch that was My Passion, next up are home counties quartet Fort Hope.

And the lurch towards finer dining is obvious from the very first chord. There's a sophistication and class here; lightly buttered, perfectly seasoned organic Jersey Royals with hand picked garlic leaves and sophisticated vintage truffle oil. But then there's also a fiery and acidic edge that gives them enough of a current and challenging street food edge to keep things away from the over slick.

Perhaps the most striking and obvious thing about this lot though, apart from the consumate and cheesewire tight musicianship, is front man Jon Gaskin's incredible vocals.

Every note, run, trill, riff and searing high note is nailed perfectly. But it never sounds anodyne or too sickly smooth. This is a truly world class voice: file in the same very small and exclusive index as the incredible Dan Lancaster. And like Lancaster, Gaskin is no preening, self-aware egomaniac; he goes about his business with an almost indecent dollop of humility and with an apparent gauche but beguiling and charming lack of self confidence.

The fine dining continues through a perfectly balanced and energetic menu swinging between more brutal and earthy moments and almost RnB sassiness. The playing throughout is flawless, Gaskin's voice powerful, clean, sensational. 

For such a new band, their material is surprisingly mature. Maybe lacking the odd hook here and there, but wholesome and tasty all the same. There are moments of pure alt rock chicanery backed with serious heavier and maybe even proggy stretches (although not over imbued with time signature noodling) but the overall effect is rich, beautifully prepared, grown up, multi-layered contemporary rock. Bloody delicious.

Max Raptor *****

Ok, we've established that humble spuds - god's earth-covered testicles - are ridiculously versatile. From smokey porky pig flavoured pub snacks and greasy accompaniments to lips and arsehole-infested saveloys to finely prepared allumetes and organic layered poshery. All yummy and salivary amylase-arousing gorgeousness in their own right and own place.

But try throwing all of the myriad variations and convolutions into a wheely bin, chucking in a gallon of loony soup extra strong lager, over proof bourbon, face-melting scotch bonnet chillies, the brain electrolytes of AJP Taylor, the drool of a university librarian, the jizz of Jamie Lenman, the bile of Ukranian freedom fighter, diesel, industrial drain cleaner,  and Vimto: give it a shake or a stir with a rusty machete and ta da. 

Impossible to pigeon hole, Burton-on-Trent's Max Raptor taste somewhere between The Butthole Surfers, Biffy Clyro, Mastodon, The Kaiser Chiefs, Black Flag, The Krankees and The Stranglers. Obviously they don't actually sound or taste like any of the above, but stick all of those in the wheelie bin with all the above ingredients, throw in a couple of goofballs, a sweaty, ravenous and baying crowd and you get the picture.

As soon as the East Midlanders take to the stage there's an extra jump lead bulldog clipped to the collective gonads of the crowd. The energy level, heat and rabid fervour go up several notches and we're away.

Rolling between mean, punky rawness and thunderous down tuned chuggy riffs, every song is a catchier than cholera banger. Airing wares like the massive Breakers, Back of a Barrel Wave and the über-anthemic England Breathes from last year's stunning long player Mother's Milk, alongside older but equally as brilliant chest-beaters like The Patron Saint of Nothing and the ever-raucous The King is Dead, we're treated to  a groaning table jammed with sing-a-longs, wooaah ooh ohhs, aggressive fist-waving, proto-political sneering and clever acidity. And this satisfies, cajoles and fuels the joyous and adoring crowd - a pan of bobbing, bubbling potatoes in this Camden pressure cooker.

This main course has it all. The chef has left nothing out. Hell, along with the fiery chilies and spice he's chopped his finger tips and a bit of his bellend into the pan for good measure to make every mouthful as dangerous, thought-provoking and unsettling as it is tasty. 

On tonight's showing, we're going to taste loads more of this spicy, fucked-up but nourishing and warmingly satisfying melange in the foreseeable future. Already stalwarts of the festival scene, expect more spicy potato-based nourishment in a wheelie bin near you.

Burp.

Here's a tiny taster of the spuddy energy on show tonight. Chef's bellend not included. Enjoy: 

2013 - the yummy bits. The best albums and EPs of the year

The very best and truly most edifyingly scrumptious bits of 2013.

Top 10 Albums
So, it seems it's de rigeur for the world, his wife, significant other, lodger and gimp under the floorboards to thumb through the hamper of mouthwatering musical morsels and give everyone their opinion on what constitutes the very best. Not that anyone really gives a flying coffee bean-laden civet shit about what anyone really thinks. But here goes.

Now, I'm sure I've left some out. And forgotten some. But here's my tastebud tingling top ten. Rock tastic.

10. One Of Us Is The Killer - Dillinger Escape Plan

First in the hamper this year is DEP's latest firecracker pot of curious Gentleman's Relish. A whole heap of complex flavours, textures and piquant burning sensations. A terrific progression for New Jersey's mathmess magicians. There's familiar fare with feverish, febrile metallically-tinged mayhem but then a freshly tempered experimental lush jazz fusiony butteriness. 

Tasting notes: Not for the basic palate. Sophisticated but enormously spicy, challenging and fiery. Will cause indigestion on an unsuspecting and empty stomach. 

9. The Blackest Beautiful - Letlive
On opening the latest can of Letlive bisque, you kind of expect a rough and ready, heavy, huge but often indistinct flavoured melange. But this time there's a million different challenging and often bewildering reference points. Swinging wildly between high voltage metalcore/hardcore to hi-nrg dance-infused-auto-tuned, multi-layered-popcorny-pop-schlock. And even rappy/dubby bits. 

It really shouldn't work. But it does. There are huge swathes of Fall Out Boy-esque harmonic complexity, infused with Glassjaw and Minor Threat then put into the blender with Enter Shikari and Whitechapel. But the most lingering aftertaste is honesty. Bollocks-out, peeled back transparency. A truly wonderful if not wholly unexpected experience.

Tasting notes: Like one of those crazy and wanky restaurants serving ragoux and ballotines of animals that you'd normally find in a zoo, on the face of it, potentially unpalatable and downright weird. But the result is an enormously raw, powerful and, at times, strangely beautiful dish.

8. Mother's Ruin - Max Raptor

Right, poncey bisques and relishes to one side, time to pop open a can of foaming punky pilsner. And what a kick. Intelligently brewed with the initial wife-beater headiness and numbing punky strength hiding a brooding and cynical sharpness and sophistication, this is world class brain damage.

Politically and satirically as impossibly sharp as those bastard carpet grippers, any superficial froth or head is soon blown off a deep and curious but heart-warming brew. Heavy in parts but fused with wonderfully familiar anthemic and chest-beating abandon. This Midlands ale gets you all Glaswegian and stripping down to the waist and yelling out of windows pointing fingers like bag ladies and grimacing like you've got yer nob caught in your zip. 

Tasting notes: Powerful, lively, fun, surprisingly sophisticated with a real punch. The strongest, overproof rum-soused in yer face fuck off party punch. You looking at me pal?

7. Wild Light- 65DaysofStatic

After the heady brutal brew, it's time to mix grain with grape. Time to ease the cork out of the latest vintage offering from these most consumate of twiddlers, fiddlers, tweakers and soundscape seducers. 

This is new world zinginess and cleverness mixed with a mind-expanding depth and beauty. Real beauty. There are so many swirling flavours, top notes, base notes and every hemi-demi-semi quaver in between. At times beyond description, smoothness mixed with erratic and jaggedy acidity and full-bodied, hairy-testicled grunt. 

Tasting notes: Seriously heady and mind-altering potency underpinned with a delicious smooth, sophisticated but never clinical or synthetic sterility. Lose your head. Lose your inhibitions. But, whatever you do, don't lose your king sized rolling papers. Man.

6. Muscle Memory - Jamie Lenman
Where do you start? Where do you finish? Superficiality first; this is  the most sumptuous and beautifully crafted packaging in this year's hamper by a mile. But once the packaging is peeled open, what a thing. What a two things. 

The first layer of this delicious and dizzying cake is jam-packed with grenades, evil incendiary devices, trip wires, polonium, 7" stiletto blades, Bazooka shells, shit-tipped sharpened sticks and, well, tears. The emotionally saturated ingredients are blitzed with gravel, double-coil pick ups, drain cleaner and red fire ants and the results are outstanding. Challenging? Yes. Easy on the ear? Not always. Outré? You bet. But outstanding? Thoroughly.

Then we move onto the second layer of this Lewis Carol-like Hadean gateau. And it's buttery. Creamy. Delicious. Sumptuous. Clever. Heartfelt. Honest. Bizarre. But like the top layer, equally outstanding. Swing, bluegrass, George Formby, big band, Burlesque. All in the magimix with the accent on magi.

The former Reuben chef has outdone himself. Such brave and challenging cuisine deserves to be at the top table and Muscle Memory is without a doubt one of the bravest, cleverest and intriguing offerings of the year. 

Tasting notes: A seemingly vile and incompatible marriage of nob-melting chilli and tongue mollifying buttery Victoria sponge. A brave and challenging triumph. 

5. Letters Home - Defeater

Next in the hamper are an overseas delicacy from the Americas. And it's certainly not in an aerosol, a blister pack or smothered in syrup. A jagged rusty can filled to the brim with raw hardcore punk flavoured pork and beans with an haute cuisine twist.

Massachussetts may have given the world chocolate chip cookies and cranberries, but this is far more rarified and sophisticated fare. Ok, you can't dip it in your tea and it won't help with cystitis, but Letters Home should be in everyone's food and medicine cupboards. An unholy union of hardcore and concept album sounds like ship's biscuits smothered in finest caviar. But, it produces a wholly original and stunning sensation.

Moving stories from the Civil War are told through family letters and the effect is jaw-dropping. Whereas most lyrical ingredients in hardcore are sublimated to the effect of the overall visceral output, this masterpiece captivates from the first delicious mouthful to the last. And takes you on an historical, eye-opening journey on the way.

Tasting notes: savage and uncompromising delivery, mercifully short on foam and froth, a surprisingly deep and beautiful delicious heart wrapped in searing and acidic heat, meat and gristle. Bloody delicious. And thought-provoking.

4. You're Listening To The Hell - The Hell

Fried cunt. Cooked by cunts. For cunts. Shit. But addictive shit.

Tasting notes: Cunt.

3. Sempiternal - Bring Me The Horizon
After opening with care and, to be honest not much expectation, this assortment box of metal(core?) biscuits has to be the surprise taste sensation of the year. 

To be honest, BMTH are a bit like sprouts to me. I've never been that keen. They don't taste great, make the living room stink and give you unpleasant grumblings in the gut. But loads of people swear by them and have seen something in them that, like sprouts, fail to get my tastebuds dripping.

Until Sempiternal, that is. What a pleasant and unexpected taste sensation. Brutal in parts. Obnoxious in others. But so skilfully blended into an almost perfect example the dream selection tin with sweetness, spice, crunch, layers and surprises. Metal may not be my personal thang, but this is as good as the dark art gets. A true masterpiece of its genre.

Tasting notes: Salty as a sailor's dick, as sweet as Rachel Riley's peachy butt cheeks, as heavy as a lead box full of weapon's grade uranium or Chris Moyle's lunch box and as hot as Dave Lee Travis's brow every time the doorbell rings. 

2. 13.0.0.0.0 - TTNG
As we get to the very best stuff in this year's groaning hamper, it's time to get all truly sophisticated and reach for a seriously vintage, premier cru glass.

So, they changed their name as a sensitive fuck you to gun nuts, weirdos, NRA ignoramuses and AK47 toting survivalist rednecks, but what else did this most revered and classy producer bring the world this year? 

From the first delicious drop to pass the lips from this wonderful magnum to  the very last fading bubble, 13.0.0.0.0 delivers a sublime and almost orgasmic complexity and beauty. With new vocalist Henry 'Hank' Tremain joining the family, there was a slight nervousness that previous vintages couldn't be matched. We needn't have worried.

The technical wizardry and complexity that underpins this sublime deliciousness never gets in the way of its immediacy and breathtaking gorgeousness. There's light, shade, energy, seduction, pathos, spit and beautiful balance throughout. A truly world class and de luxe bottle of sparkling originality and genius.

Tasting notes: not for lager drinkers, Lambert and Butler smokers or ready meal eaters. This is sophisticated, frail, wonderful and sparkling nectar and should be drunk with absolute reverence and care. Cheers indeed.

1. Blood & Chemistry - Arcane Roots

So, here we are. The biggie. The last box in the hamper. And what a box. Of all the delicious goodies in this year's hamper, Blood & Chemistry is the one for me that stands out for so many reasons.

Not the least, because it has been purposely and meticulously prepares as an entire feast. Not a selection of nibbles, tapas or two or three big numbers surrounded by burger helper or lips and arseholes. This is premium mouth-watering fare throughout. And with all the trimmings.

The very way the album has recurring motifs (lyrically and musically with back references, arcs, repeating chord progressions and themes) sets it apart from so much of the vanilla and pot boilers rammed with prescribed numbers of tracks that so much output laboriously conforms to.

Marry that with the fact that it's been constructed as a single flowing listen with the tracks cleverly and beautifully merged and segued into each other with drones, decaying notes and clever transitions seamlessly leading one from course to course and, hallelujiah, we actually have an album. A complete multi-course considered and lip-smacking banquet. 

In an age of playlist and mixtape dominated listening mores, it's such a beautiful and rare thing to find such a wonderfully conceived and concocted masterpiece. And that's what Blood & Chemistry truly is. 

Veering from sheer power and mind melting riffs to lighter cadenzas and melodic reveries, this, for me is so clearly not only the best album of 2013, but the only true album. Of course the songs all stand alone (and there's not a slack track on it) but the total effect outweighs the individual brilliance and diversity. 

Astonishing. Truly astonishing.

Tasting notes: An 11 (or 12 if you've got the deluxe version) course banquet of astonishing and unrelenting quality. Huge flavours, beautiful, more delicate moments and heady, mesmerising technical skill and flamboyance married with an earthy, raw power and strength that all comes together to produce a perfectly balanced and tantalising mix. Perfection. Bloody perfection.





Honourable mentions.
It's really tough putting together just 10. So, here are a few more world class albums that didn't quite make the hamper:

Siganals - Mallory Knox
A Dan Lancaster-produced slick pop rocky masterpiece with anthems and hooks aplenty. As near to a commercial version of Proceed as we'll ever get. God, I miss them.

Dreamoirs - Dave McPherson
A wonderful, heartfelt, dreamy (funny that) and personal anthology from rock and roll's hardest working and most likeable bloke, InMe front man Dave McPherson. All made possible by his dedication, ridiculous work ethic and dedication to the outstanding Pledge music scheme. 

Asymmetry - Karnivool
The latest chapter in the Tool-inspired Aussie proggers' masterworks collection. All slick, big-boned, grown up serious stuff with the obligatory sing-a-long bits taking more of a back seat in this sophisticated and complex volume.

Great Lakes - John Smith
As good as folk gets. Just wonderful throughout. Plaintive, fragile, beautiful, joyous and uplifting stuff from the bastard living son of Jansch, Martyn and Drake. Spellbinding stuff.

Opposites - Biffy Clyro
A true epic from the Caledonian epic mongers. A lifetime of couch sessions with Mr Neil couldn't get anywhere as near as this window-opening, soul searching, organ and emotion-revealing journey into his oft tortured and unsettled psyche. Brilliant stuff.

Old Souls - Deaf Havana
My, haven't they grown up? A Ferrari-like acceleration into adulthood and all its travails both musically and personally see the erstwhile East Anglians produce a truly grown up and thoroughly well-crafted blue collar collection of angst-ridden emotionally charged splendour. And I didn't mention Springsteen once. Oops.

Nation - TRC
Nasty but brilliant and raw British hardcore (none of that whiney trans Atlantic shit to see here people!) at its very best. Much more sophisticated than initially meets the ear. A truly original and challenging album. One of the year's very best. 

The Top 5 EPs and singles:

Right, time for the smaller stuff that's too tasty not to mention. You know, the widows and orphans of the hamper. The weird little sauces and tins of weirdness that don't fit in with the larger family packs - in short, the wonderful tunes and mini anthology EPs that didn't appear on full length albums.

5. #Spomb (Love Me) - Shockmaster
Skate punk, surf punk, pop punk, #spomb punk. Whatever it is, its lively, fun, aggressive and doesn't take itself too seriously. Well, with Mike Foster driving this bin wagon, what else is it going to be? 

4. Glass Cutter - Polar
Guildford's scene has never been healthier and while bands like Palm Reader and Polar continue to mature and develop without losing even a whiff of their appealing ragged edge, things can only get even better. And if this brilliant and fierce track is a taster of what's to come of the much talked about new album, then we're in for a brilliant 2014.

Adam Woodford's growls and screams have been imbued with melody (you 'eard) and the effect is somewhere between While She Sleeps and TRC but retaining Polar's signature originality and appeal. 

3. Funemployed - Gnarwolves
Brighton's bright young things of the skate punk/pop punk brotherhood produced a box bursting with bangers full of rawness, edge, fun and phlegm (and probably a bit of THC eh lads?). Real street music kept real. Wonderful.

3= Management - Delta Sleep
Three letters: BSM. Big Scary Monsters have helped to unearth yet another slice of complete genius. This was so close to being my no1because of its consistency. Every track on Management is a different colour, a different texture. Yes, its mathy. Yes it's complex and brilliantly, technically played. But it's also catchy, a bit dirty, even a bit punky. Whatever the fuck it is, it's original, brilliant and captivating. If you've not caught these chaps (and chapess) live yet, you have a donut hole in your middle. Fill it immediately. 

2= I Could Be Anyone - Yearbook

Too little output from such an original, classy and wonderful young band. But we've had to make do with this single offering during 2013 (assuming the equally wonderful Art Student was 2012 - brain's a bit rubbish - if it was 2013, then make it joint 2nd with this absolute banger). A heavy chugger, all frenzy, puke and muck but glued together by the ever-tight and impressive rhythm section of Mssrs Dickinson and Martin while Brooker and Halloway do what they always do best: stretch, cajole and caress our organs, senses and squishy bits. Can't wait for the impending long player from these loveable tyros.

2= The Move. Shake. Hide. - Marmozets
Sheer brilliance from the mathy tykes. Guitars, huge choruses, melody, counterpoint, menace, grit, smiles and bowel-massaging power. As good as pop rock math mash ups will ever get. Bloody wonderful.

1. You Wanna Know - Don Broco
Slick, sexy, power pop rock imbued with a simmering sophistication that often goes unnoticed. Loveable ladcore loveliness from the clean-cut quartet who can do no wrong. Unashamedly catchier than Chlamydia and guaranteed to put a smile on even the grizzliest bearded hipster face. With the almost deified Mr Lancaster driving the desk again. Go on, I best you you can listen to it without smiling or joining in with the oo oos.


2013.
Well, that's it. Purely personal choice. And a year in which we've been pretty spoilt by the recorded output. UK rock in particular is certainly alive and kicking and with new music in the pipeline for next year from bands like Spycatcher, Polar, Yearbook, LTA, Don Broco, Trails, Maybeshewill and Hey Vanity among many, many others, then the future's looking seriously bright.