Bedford Don. America Nil. Don Broco Live at The Koko with some pop punks

Four Year Strong*****

A Loss For Words*****

Don Broco*****

Marmozets***1/2**

The Koko, Camden, 1^st  February 2012

Right, I’ll declare my slight bias before I start crapping on: I’m not really a pop punk fan. Don’t get me wrong, there’s some brilliant stuff kicking around within the genre, but generally, I find it all a little samey and predictable. So it was with more than a little scepticism that I wandered into a heaving Koko to tuck into tonight’s buffet.

Marmozets***1/2**

As a livener, first up were Marmozets. Anything but pop punk. Thank the lord.

Apart from making me feel even older than I already feel by all looking about 7, I was immediately swept away with their fierce and energetic pop/mathcore mélange.

Technical playing, challenging time signatures, a ridiculous tightness for ones so young and a brutal, Eva Spence-like delivery of diminutive singer Becca Macintyre. No wonder there’s a buzz around these tyros. They certainly produce a complex, compelling and beefy noise.

Marmozets - and you thought policemen were getting younger.

The mathcore cornershop is not blessed with groaning shelves and certainly doesn’t attract too much of a queue at the moment. But along with the likes of the phenomenal Rolo Tomassi and the ridiculously talented and fresh Rosa Valle, there’s a fascinating genre gathering speed and hopefully going to burst out to a wider audience in the not so distant future.

Apart from some sketchy vocal tuning in the not so screamy bits, Marmozets certainly did a splendid job in giving the already impressive crowd an engaging and fun maths lesson.

Don Broco*****

I bloody love Don Broco. Having seen them on many stages of all manner of shapes and sizes, I was really looking forward to seeing the mirth making chappies in this revered and hallowed venue.

However, as an interesting selection for ostensibly a Pop Punk tour, I feared a little that the back-pack wielding, big bastard baseball cap wearing, skinny jean sporting punksters wouldn’t take to the Beds boys with open eyes and open pits.

I needn’t have worried. The venerable Koko was packed to the rafters by the time the Brocans were due on.  For what will surely be the last time for these lads this low on a bill, the turn out was insane.

So, nose gripped, legs up, breath held; time to bomb into the delicious Don Broco pool of love. The lads took to the stage to a frenzied and über enthusiastic tumult. Bobby D bayed at the crowd to get involved before the first chord of Top Of The World had left Simon Delaney’s cultured fretboard. Boom. We were off. Paaaaarty time.

Looking around the heaving, partying throng, everyone was smiling. Every single mouth turned up at the corners. Even the coolest punkster couldn’t resist a grin. Every pair of eyes bulging and wide open. Feel good doesn’t come into it. This was almost group orgasm. Thankfully without the mass ejaculation. Meanwhile, on stage Bobby and the boys were smashing it. The syncronised moves, the jumps the almost tangible electricity. The smiles. Fuck, the smiles.

Onwards and upwards, the anthemic Do What We Do was next to peel the layers of paint from the walls. The crowd had dissolved into a writhing mass of  love and monsieur Damiani did his circus ringleader act with aplomb, inciting, cajoling and urging the masses to get on each other’s shoulders transforming the floor into a freak show of grotesque tall people with beanies swaying and staggering.

The delirium was as catchy as the songs themselves. More and more people eagerly flooding towards the stage to get involved.

Walk this way

Within the sadly short support set, there was even time for two new numbers. The superb and already addictive Priorities and, later on, the sublime Fancy Dress. Complete with the walk. Yup, the walk. Let’s just leave it there. If you haven’t seen it, I won’t spoil it; suffice to say, the feel good, jizz-free group orgasm moved up a notch bordering on hysterics. The year of the Broco maybe upon us. But the the walk is going to be a major part of it.

The set closer, was predictably, the rifftastic Dreamboy and as the trademark wall of death descended into a hadean circle pit (furnished firmly with smiles naturally) everyone present realised they were in the presence of something truly wonderful. Original. Fun. And, well, bloody brilliant.

The world needs more Broco. And I can’t wait to see them gracing festival stages this summer and for the new album. And as Dan Lancaster has had his fingers all over it, it’s destined to be a work of genius.

Talking of Mr Lancaster the driving force behind peerless geniuses Proceed, as a footnote, his bass player Tom Doyle has fitted into the band seamlessly and even though the thought that there may be no more Proceed (or Brieseed) is almost too much to bear, his faultless and sophisticated playing and verve is a welcomed addition to team Broco. It was lovely to see Luke, the original bass player having a beer with the lads afterwards and is obviously still very much a much-loved member of the family. He is much missed, but has handed the keys over to a more than worthy successor.

Fabulous stuff. How the hell could they be followed?

A Loss For Words*****

Oh dear. A real case of after the Lord Mayor’s show. The crowd, having gathered it’s collective breath wedged in for the first installment of an American pop punk extravaganza. Given my ignorance and general intolerance of the genre, It wouldn’t be fair to lay into them too much, so I’ll be brief. Generic, relentless, predictable and monotonous. There, I said it. There was absolutely nothing new or challenging here. The singer Matty Arsenault looked and acted like Lee Evans. One of the guitarists looked like Mark Zuckerberg. They briefly lifted the monotony with a jaunty Michael Jackson cover. The crowd liked them. I didn’t. 

Four Year Strong*****

Ok, they’re hewn from more or less the same pop punk seam as the likes of A Loss For Words, but they’re several rungs up. Thankfully. File under the likes of Such Gold and add in an infusion of Title fight. Saying that, they are pretty much walking anachronisms. The US seems to have stalled in terms of pop punk. The guts seem to have disappeared. The predictability and lack of light and shade is becoming tedious. Contrast that with the crop of exciting new bands broadly inhabiting the genre on this side of the pond including the fabulous Polar and upcoming starlets Real Adventures and the feelings of ennui and deja-vu are underscored. In red.

So FYS? What did they actually serve up? Gutsy guitars, monster riffs, beards, whiney de rigeur Hoppus/DeLong esque yanky-doodle vocals but, in fairness, tempered with tight harmonies, catchy hooks and melodic pop sensibilities. They played a lot of new stuff. They played most of their big ones. The crowd went wild. I didn’t. But, despite a muddy sound, I enjoyed it. Rather more than I thought I would. In short, they're bloody good at what they do.

However Don Broco were on another level.  But, in the words of Mandy Rice-Davis, I would say that, wouldn’t I.


Let's make sure this year does indeed become the year of the Broco. The world could do with some big fat smiles.

AWOL nation and the always amazing, best band in the whole world Arcane Roots next.

More tunes soon. Bwoooar!

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.

Oh God

30 Seconds To Mars *****
Enter Shikari *****
Funeral Party *****
The O2 arena

Leto. God? Nah, wanker.

All a bit embarrassing to admit I was there. But I was. It felt odd. Actually, it was odd. But I'll keep it brief. A full house on a chilly night at the big round tent full of shops and restaurants. The vast majority of whom appeared not to have grown their first pubic hair. 

Unsettling. And odd. Very odd.

Unlike Shikari, Funeral Party weren't even allowed to stand up on the skinny stage of humiliation...

First up were Funeral Party. A kind of post hardcore, pop punk, indie noise machine with some tunes. Not bad. Not my kind of thing. But not bad.


Then some drummers came and, well, drummed.


A hush descended and a few shouts of Shikari filled the vast upturned Dutch Cap.The beloved St Albans din makers were up next. The crowd had swelled to pretty much three quarters full. I was actually quite looking forward to this incongruous billing. I've been watching Shikari since they were as young as most of the crowd in venues like The Astoria, The fantastic Astoria 2, Their first headline show at Brixton Academy, festival tents, venues that resembled scout huts (on reflection, they probably were) and tiny sweaty rooms. But the O2? Supporting a blue haired evangelist adonis? Told you it was odd.

 St Albans' finest freshly squeezed

The first thing that struck me was the fact that the boys were teetering on about 18" of stage in front of a billowing enormous sail-like curtain. I was sitting way from the madding crowd to one side (yes, sitting!) and from my vantage point could see the area behind the billowing enormous sail-like curtain was absolutely huge. In Newsround stylee, about half the size of a football pitch with a couple of double decker buses thrown in.

This really was a master/servant relationship. I remember when bands would be happy giving their support shitty sound and a slightly chaotic backline plonked in front of their menacing looking rig. 


Not here. If they could, they'd have put them in a separate room.

White billowing sail-like curtain. Oh and Rou.

So, the lights went down, lots of tweets, burbles, dub-steppy brown noise and other sonic wallpaper kicked off. 


The lads tiptoed onto their sliver of stage and, well, kicked arse.


A short set but packed with energy, bounce, bass drops, buttock-clenching, heart-stopping dub step interludes and big guitar work from Rory did the job. And then some.

Oh my, how pits have changed. Sigh.

Solidarity kicked the whole thing off, Mothership became Motherstep having been given a brush up on Rou's Korg box of buttons and Kaos, Sorry You're Not A Winner got the house really going, Havoc and the new one Destabilize worked, but why oh why did they feel the need to do the drippy load of old tut that is Gap in The Fence? Unnecessary and unwanted. Thankfully they ended with a raucous working of the mighty Juggernauts which got the pit going, albeit a terribly polite kiddy pit - a far cry from The Astoria 2's Hadean tour de force a couple of years ago. All-in-all,  they filled this big old shed with a big old noise and did it with aplomb. 


Now they're independent again, I look forward to a shift back towards the dirty and exciting buckets of racket they made on their magnificent first album. On this showing, they've still got that something special.


I said I'd be brief. I lied. But I will be now. 30STM? Don't really know what to say. So I'll do it in 50 words:

Leto...Wanker.

Blue hair. Messianic. Entertaining. Wank. Mass girlie hysteria. Nuremburg Rally. Self-indulgent. Impressive light show. Wank. Tunes. Singalongs. Jesus. Pointing. Waving. Jumping. Lots of jumping. Energy. Wank. Showman. Screams. Fizzy knickers. Tame. Wank. Evangelistic. Worrying. Fascist. Wank. More jumping. Love-in. Masturbation. Onanism. Wank. Wank. Wank.


But you know what? It was quite enjoyable. And I'd rather have our future generations watching this big, fairly anodyne, but undoubtedly clever and well put together loud rock and roll rather than Take That. 

Leto...Wanker

It was a big wank though.


Songs? Oh yeah, they did the ones we all know. Ones about Kills, ones about maps of the world, ones about being closer to the edge. Ending with the Gary Glitter party on stage for the one about Kings and Queens.


Odd indeed.

Leto...Wanker.

Sorry, couldn't resist, latest vid from the genius that is Proceed. 

Oh, and a fantastic new acoustic version of A Pointless Voyage. Class.


Curious Acoustic by PROCEED

The Vool next. 


More tunes soon, Bwoooar!

A new order

BRITASS

As a taster, just wanted to have a wee celebratory woo-hoo about the state of some of the best Brit music that's out there pulling at our nutsacks and sneakily, but satisfyingly grabbing our soft, vulnerable bits.

In the UK at the mo, we have fabulous new acts uniting and garnering support

wherever they plug their leads into a JCM head.

I'd like to dub this movement Britass.

Three bands to kick off. In no order of preference.

Deaf Havana

Ok, they're no Dillinger Escape Plan or Pantera, but crowds are doing their pieces

over Deaf Havana. Since their screamo fella has headed off to the Strepsil testing lab, this lot have started to edge themselves into a goodly niche. Tuneful, thought-provoking, energetic and kick ass. Eloquent and entertaining walking tattoo exhibiton James Veck-Gilodi not only has the greatest name in contemporary Britass, but has an angelic, gut-grabbing voice to die for. They rock, the audience rolls. Catch them.

Stand out track (with screamo); Nicotine and Alcohol saved my life.

Francesqa

Tunes. Tunes. Tunes. And more tunes. This Berkshire collective are destined for great things. They balance beauty and beasts. Dark and light. A firm favourite of the Reverend Alex Baker of Kerrang! Radio fame, insider traders wouldn't even be offered anywhere near a fair return on betting this lot will cut it. It's a cert. Galloping guitars melded with sweet and harmonious lyrical helixes and explorations. Simply, simple but spellbinding stuff.

Stand out track: Ghosts

Proceed

Words fail me. This Hertford-based bunch are something beyond special. Dan Lancaster's towering and sensational voice leads the way. But it doesn't stop there. By any means. The complex time signatures and stunning musicianship are bound together by the astonishingly captivating and technically bewildering drumming of Brad Jackson (who makes The Mars Volta's schtick sound like Dagenham Girl's Marching band). They truly must be the UK's most exciting young band.Like Francesqa, Sir Alex Baker of Kerrang! Radio fame has championed these boys til he's blue in the nads, and they appear to be gaining some wider recognition at at last. They've just completed a small headline tour, but are hauling there hugely talented arses out on the road in October supporting the Essex-based stalwarts of Britass, We Are The Ocean.

Stand out tracks, really too many to mention, but Visual Field is as good a place as any to get your sac drained. Remarkable.

Right, that'll do for now. More Britass anon.

Lovings; Bwoooar.

Here's a vid: