2000 Maniacs. Live review of 2000 Trees Festival

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers, Bwoooar.

Work Those Guns - This Town Needs Guns Live Review

This Town Needs Guns *****

The Bronze Medal ***1/2**

Polio *****

The Borderline,  2^nd November 2012

Polio *****

First up tonight are the marvelously distastefully monikered Polio. A fiery, feisty bunch of noiseniks who serve up a snakebite of mathy indie alt jollity. There are moments of Brontide tied to the buttocks of Arcane Roots choppiness and riffage with a pop punky harcore aftertaste. All tetchy and tecchy riddled with aggressive shouty, sweary vox. And a cowbell. Maybe just need a more melodic reference point here and there as a shot of blackcurrant to ease the jagged taste. But mildly intoxicating nonetheless.

The Bronze Medal ***1/2**

No need for a backdrop in the now rammed Soho subterranean gloom as the next band of troubadours bring a living wall of plaid onto the stage. Oh, and beards. Looking like the bastard chimera offspring of the Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers, the front row of a Nirvana gig, Millets window and a Shoreditch speakeasy clientele, they saunter onto the stage almost apologetically as chief plaid bloke fires up a wooden harmonium looking thing in a box and we’re off.

And a more diametrically opposed offering to the lads of Polio you couldn’t dream of. Smooth, tasty post rock with swelling layers and gallons of creamy harmonies and plaintive mournfulness. A delicious mélange of Yndi Helda and Oceansize with dollops of Crosby Stills and Nash and Orb-like ambience. A thoroughly yummy and indulgent Radox bath. And, thankfully, in no way boring.

Plaid? Check.

Initially, when I saw the plaid, beards and the wooden harmonium looking thing in a box, I feared we were in for yet another nu-folkcore/nu-country shoe-gazing torture session (Dry The River, you know who you are!!!), but we’re mercifully spared the new mellowbandwagon and while never raising the crowd’s perspiration level or heartbeat too much, the West Country boys’ hypnotic and mellow dreaminess hits the spot perfectly. Gert lush.

This Town Needs Guns *****

After creating a stage set from Blake’s Seven (one for the kids there) with their stunning array of bespoke white cubes all arranged at doubtlessly scientifically determined precise jaunty angles, before TTNG even create a sound, tonight just feels other worldly.

Shorn down and reinvented as a trio, with the introduction of Henry Tremain as vocalist and all round musical show-off joining the brothers Collis, there’s a definite air of edgy anticipation in the sold out cellar. Will they be as good? Can three really replace more?

Tremain, armed with what looks like a 6 string baritone guitar stands cheerfully at the back of the stage next to his personal sci-fi set of speakers and kicks us off into the mesmerizing Chinchilla. All doubts, if indeed there truly were any, instantly evaporate like a rare gas. The new boy done good. Effortlessly filling Stu Smith’s vocal and Jamie Cooper’s fat stringed shoes in one fell swoop.

The sound is absolutely astonishing. Those white cubes have strong magic within. And, as always, Tim Collis’s unparalleled tapping, sliding, hammering, tickling, caressing and stimulating leaves jaws dropped and eyes popped from the venue’s writhing front to its backpipe.

Collis is in a wonderful world of his own. Like some sort of an autistic über-genius. In a bubble. Deliriously happy. Smiling. Loving it. And the sounds that emanate from his array of Telecasters pimped and modified with all manner of capos and alien tunings defy comparison. 

Arpeggios, syncopation, insane time signatures and seemingly mathematically and physically impossible progressions provide the most wonderful swirling, intoxicating and bewildering soundscape for the whispy and light alto vocals and sumptuous melodies. All welded together by the most ridiculously tight and intricate drumming of his bro Chris, delivered almost laconically and apparently effortlessly.

Ok, it’s been said before, and it’s somewhat inevitable; but when a truly original sound or style of playing is alchemically created, there is obviously going to be a risk of everything sounding too samey. There are undeniably moments in TTNG’s offering that clearly play in the same areas and Collis’s unique and amazing style does inevitably dictate the sound. But it’s a cod and specious criticism. Mr The Edge while fucking around with many racks, boxes, pedals and set ups is instantly identifiable (sorry to mention U2, spit, cough, splutter – it’s only to make a clumsy point). Hell, Vivaldi’s pretty much immediately taggable. As are Sonny Rollins, Miles Davis, Stanley Jordan, Rory Gallagher and even Tony Iommi.

And TTNG are no different. They’re defining a sound. Owning it. Creating it. And tonight, it’s goosebump-inducingly brilliant. True virtuosity but with delicious songcraft and melodic beauty. The new tunes, including the fabulous Cat Fantastic sound huge and whet the appetite even more for the forthcoming new long player.

This lot are truly original. Beyond definition or even comparison. Certainly above simplistic categorisation. There are post-rock moments. Definite mathy bits. Proggy overtones. Jazzy and classical constructs. But on the whole, you just have to settle for delightful, delicious and definitely one of the gigs of the year.

Oh, and they even did a spine-tingly unplugged, un-amped sit down acoustic coda at the end with the whole venue sitting like dutiful kids at school assembly.

Deaf Havana’s sold out Shepherds Bush show next.

More tunes soon. Bwoooar!

Xcellence. The Xcerts live at New Slang + Arcane Roots at The Garage.

The Xcerts****1/2*

Jumping Ships*****

The Brilliantly Simple*****

New Slang at The Hippodrome Kingston 23^rd February 2012

Past the writhing snogging couples. Avoid the vomit. Breathe in the fumes of brightly coloured radioactive alcopops. Try and pull your feet off the bitumen-sticky carpet. It can only be a club night. In a student town. On a Thursday.

Worse still, it’s starting early.

So, virtually doubling the size of the audience who are actually bothered by the bands, I take my place ready to be entertained.

The Brilliantly Simple*****

First up are a cheeky chappy looking four piece who start proceedings with some tidy, multi-layered and textured musicianship. Sadly, the vocals aren’t up to the quality of the soundscapes that sit behind them. I don’t know whether the unfortunate crooner didn’t have adequate foldback, but his low registered voice strained to cut anything dynamic enough to incise the guitar wall. And the tuning was, to be charitable, a little awry.

A real shame, because the ample instrumental stretches showed genuine promise and got the assembled students’ noggins a bobbing. Well, a bit.

Jumping Ships*****

Not dissimilar to the first act at first glance, but as soon as this bunch drop into their first big tune, the differences become obvious. They are clearly a class apart. Michael Williams’ vocals are strident and energetic. The band are as tight as a nun’s you know what full of verve and real technical chop. The tunes are big. The hooks, well, hooky. And the polyrhythmic energy on stage infectious.

They remind me a little of Tellison with a (less techy) touch of This Town Needs Guns and even a dash of Oceansize thrown in for piquancy. Really look forward to seeing them again. But somewhere more intimate. This virtually empty hangar-sized teenage brothel and vomitarium really doesn’t do their vibrant fare any justice.

Terrific stuff.

Here’s a vid of one of their tunes: 

The Xcerts****1/2*

I’ve waxed lyrical for so long about this lot. From the first time I was exposed to their dynamic grungy poprock upstairs at a dingy former Soho strip club (thanks to dear old Sam Duckworth), via various support slots for the great and good, through to the triumphant headline show at The Borderline last month (review here), they’ve never disappointed and must be one of the very best bands in the UK. They’re certainly one of hardest working bands anywhere.

Anyway, tonight’s sparse and vaguely disinterested collection of pissed up, horny indie students were hardly a fitting audience for such contemporary rock royalty. But they were in for a treat. Whether they gave a shit or not.

A short but typically thrilling set did its best to wake up the post-pub crew. Do You Feel Safe kicked things off and among favourites like Slackerpop, Scatterbrain and Just Go Home, they squeezed in a couple of cracking new ones. The spine tingling Aberdeen 1987 was even given another wonderful airing.

The boys did, however looked unsurprisingly as tired as a bunch of Greek economists. Saying that, it didn’t dampen their effort one iota.

As bassist Jordan Smith so wryly put it while wearily sucking on a well earned roll up after the gig, ‘it was a club night, we’re just an interruption to the folk who are are here to get pissed and laid’. A sanguine and wistful attitude from one third of truly one of the very best in the land.

Still, a shit crowd though.

If you’ve never seen this lot, then sort it out. They truly are amazing.

Arcane and Able. 
Arcane Roots live at The Garage.

Before I wander off, thought I’d just drop a cheeky review of the astonishing Arcane Roots surprise headline show at The Garage a couple of weeks ago.

Arcane Roots*****

The Invaders**1/2***

The Relentless Garage, 10^th February 2012

Going to be a difficult one this. I’ve more or less run out of superlatives and praise for this Kingston-based trio. So when I found out that AWOLNation had scratched from the gig and AR were shunted up to headline status, I was like a 14 year old who’d just found a stash of top-shelf magazines.

Invaders..bleep, wob, whirrr. Meh.

The Invaders**1/2***

First things first though. First up are the London-based Aussie electro mash up oddities The Invaders. And they’re ok. I suppose. Original ish. Bleepy stuff, guitar backing, a blond geeky, twitchy front man who looks like he shares a choreographer (or dealer) with Ian Kenny, of stunning Aussie proggers Karnivool. The crowd seem to dig. Kind of. Seen a lot worse, but they’re not going to set fire to anything.

Arcane Roots*****

So, what would Messers Groves, Burton and Atkins have in their superhero armoury to melt our faces off this evening?

About an hour of the most brilliant, intense, uplifting and, at times savage riffery, melody and majesty. That’s what.

Stunning new stuff, (one would hope and assume from the imminent and much anticipated first full album) dovetails happily into a sublime collection of bombastic brilliance culled from last year’s outstanding Left Fire mini album.

Thankfully far more people than initially feared stayed after the AWOLNation scratching announcement and they were treated to a genuinely world class performance from a genuine world class and presently peerless band.

By the time the pit loses itself to the electric and three chilli-hot encore Million Dollar Que$tion, the boys have deservedly gathered a whole host of new converts who’ll hopefully go forth and spread the news about just how fucking amazing this godly trio are. A-bloody-men.

More tunes soon, Bwoooar!

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

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

Rob Lynch*1/2****

Tom Jenkins*****

Greta Isaac**1/2***

The Lexington, London, 24^th February 2012

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

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

Greta Isaac**1/2***

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

Young Gun

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

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

Tom Jenkins*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rob Lynch*1/2****

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

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

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

Lynch...The Proclaimer

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

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

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

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

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

So we had the people. What about the poet?

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

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

all together now...yee haarrr

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


More tunes soon, Bwoooar!


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

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

Midgar*****

Atum**1/2**

Press To Meco

The Perfect Crime

93 Feet East Shoreditch 11^th January 2012

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

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

Atum**1/2**

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

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

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

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

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

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

Midgar*****

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

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

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

Vennart/Wilson-Taylor. The transformation continues.

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

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

The Welcomed New Member of Midgar

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

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

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

The PA didn't help

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

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

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

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

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

Maybeshewill*****

Cats And Cats And Cats*****

A Genuine Freakshow*****

The Lexington Islington 15^th December 2011

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

A Genuine Freakshow*****

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

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

Cats And Cats And Cats*****

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

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

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

Maybeshewill*****

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

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

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

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


The ever remarkable Xcerts next.


More tunes soon. Bwoooar.