The Year Of The Library Book. Live review of Yearbook and Brawlers in Dalston

Yearbook *****
Brawlers**1/2***
Birthdays. (Shitty) Dalston. London. 7th March.

So it's Dalston. A shitty pretend place. A shitty dirty place. A Turkish restaurant-imbued shitty place. Just  a shitty place. But tonight, one of the UK's most original and exciting talents are in shittown to, well kick some shit.

And in honour of the self-styled shitty centre of our beloved Capital, I've decided to go all Guinness World of Records and see how many times I can use the word shit or shitty in this shitty review. The review being shit; not the band. Obviously. 

Brawlers**1/2***

Before I kick off, I've got to apologise for being shit to the first two bands, The New Tusk and the excellent and definitely not at all shit Gunning For Tamar. Due to Dalston being so far away from anywhere non-shit, it's taken me hours to get to the shit bunker and because of shitty traffic I missed out on the starters.

Anyway, enough of shitty excuses. Onto the real shit.

A fairly packed subterranean corridor of beards, beanies and industry types awaits in insouciant anticipation of losing its shit (well, it had been a while since I got a shit in), to the Leeds lads, Alcopop signing and semi-super group who seem to be on everyone's lips at the moment.

And we're off. From the first blap-blap-bam, lead screamer, singer, shit-kicker, red beanie-wearing party starter Harry George Johns races into the pit and shakes shit up. Well, kind of.

Problem is, it's all shit we've kind of heard before. Not bad shit, don't get me wrong. Just not my sort of shit. Whereas Gnarwolves really are the shit in dirty, shitty pop punk with enormous riffs and grubby sing-a-longs, Brawlers, well, just seem to be a wee bit meh. I'm sure they're as honest as the day is long and piss and shit integrity, but on tonight's performance, they just fail to ignite.

Saying that, the rhythm section (glued together by stoner bong water drinking shit storm noise rockers Castrovalva's four string maestro Anthony Wright) is tighter than Captain Nemo's sphincter and the big riffs and chugs get the old ticker ticking and the shithouse doors shaking.

Overall, I'm just not too sure where Brawlers are going to fit in. Of course, there's always a snap-back wearing apetite  for pop punk and bands like Neck Deep are leading the charge in its resurgence (if indeed, it ever went away). There's certainly energy, vigour and edge to their shit and their new single I Am A worthless Piece of Shit is anything but worthless or a piece of shit, but the shit doesn't really stick tonight.

Not shit. But not the shit.

Yearbook *****

So onto the main event. After being doused in all manner of punky, noisy shit, it's time for some, well, odd shit. To celebrate the launch of their terrific EP Old Bones, the library lads play the whole of the record in order for the first time. And it's absolutely anything but shit.

Kicking off with the jangly shit and into big drop of the title track, it's clear from the off that they're not messing. So tight and delivering every demi-semi-quaver with passion, power and precision, the outré and quirky four piece are loving this shit. 

The harmonies and counterpoint throughout are mesmerising and enchanting in a weird nerdy, preppy and gauche kind of way but with a Lenman-like mischief. A bit like a hyper active puppy licking your face while holding a cut throat razor to your frenum. Told you it's odd shit.

There's a genuine and stunning originality to this lot. And while Andy Halloway's brilliantly and searingly delivered lyrics display an obsession with beds, there's a dynamic freshness and oblique wit and charm that sets them so far apart from most of the predictable down tuned clean/dirty alt, scene and lad rock shit  that's cluttering up the magazines, web and airwaves.

But it's not all liveliness and loveliness, there's definitely an edge to their oeuvre. This razor toting puppy dog's not all lick and playfulness, there's anger, bile and bite throughout. Genuine angst. Discontent. Even bitterness. And the crowd are lapping it up.

After the magnum opus is finished and the circular and hypnotic refrain of Sinker fades into the sweat-heavy shitty Dalston air, the bookish bastards turn it up even further by taking us on a re-vitalised and reworked journey through three or four older than old bones favourites including the irresistible 3s And 6s (blade-weilding puppy dogs 'n' all.)

A truly brilliant night at the altar of a truly brilliant young band who aren't afraid to be different and do things their own bonkers way. I still can't understand why this lot aren't well and truly on the bigger path to greatness. File alongside Hundred Reasons, Meet Me in St Louis, Hell Is for Heroes, Hold Your Horse Is, The Xcerts and the mighty Reuben as genuine British quirky, challenging genius. No shit.

Ok I didn't get the record. I only managed to clock up 45 shits and shitties. A bit shit.

Muscles and fond memories. Live review of Jamie Lenman at The Garage

Jamie Lenman *****

Castrovalva ***1/2**

Kill Chaos *****

The Garage, Islington, Tuesday 10th December 2013

Must be the sherry, but so moved by Mr Jamie Lenman’s performance at The Garage, I’ve suicidally decided to write up tonight’s astonishing show in rhyme. Obviously bad rhyme. But rhyme. Must be a bigger idiot than I thought.

Kill Chaos *****

A raw and growly trio

Soaked in bile and brio.

Thee lads who play with passion

And in a chuggy, noisy fashion.

In truth they’re nothing new

But they know a thing or two

About progressions, beats and tunes;

And they dance around like loons.

All-in-all a damned fine set

Of energy and vigour

And when Chris Coulter joins them

Their sound gets much, much bigger.

So they’re not going to change the world,

But they raise a fair old grin.

Get toes a tapping, hands  a clapping

And that’s a bloody good place to begin.

Castrovalva ***1/2**

Noise rock with a spacey edge.

The singer’s hair looks like a hedge.

They must smoke bongs and take a drink

This trippy noise it makes one think.

All fierce and Methed it comes across

Like some weird hadean cross

Somewhere between Coheed and Tomassi

With a big hairy bloke but no sexy lassie.

With a scream and a voice like the Doctor’s K9

The thunderous noise far from benign

This tortured din comes right from the gut

But truth be told, it’s off its fucking nut.

Discomfort oozes from every pore

As the level never drops leaving ears (and cocks) raw

The Cher Vocoder raises an eyebrow

But you know what?

….It works.

Somehow.

Jamie Lenman *****

Holy fuck

And holy crap

What a night has been conjoured

By this renaissance chap.

A banjo strum one minute, molten metal the next

The mix so heady, bizarre and complex.

This chap all foppish, rocks everyone’s boat

And raises the roof, in his magician’s waistcoat.

There are songs fierce and fizzy

Most new, but some old

The pit drools and gets busy

As sideways stories are told.

A Shotgun House here and a broken heart there

Emotions are febrile and psyches laid bare.

There’s an unholy balance of hard rock, so raw

With choirs singin’ shanties and folk sounds of yore.

The effect is astonishing; agog jaws hitting floors

With old favourites sung back - every word as a roar.

This magic is truly unique and so smart

Cleverly ripping out guts while massaging the heart.

As near to perfection as live music can be

Mr Lenman: a true genius and tonight all agree

Quite tearful and mangled with nerve endings exposed

Replete, we all head onto Holloway Road.

A night that forever will live fond in the mind

A genius. A scholar. A true one of a kind.

Mr Lenman has set the bar so unreasonably high.

There won’t be many a show better ‘til the day that I die.

Alt command - Freeze The Atlantic and Hold Your Horse Is - live review Bull and Gate

Freeze The Atlantic ****1/2*

Hold Your Horse Is *****

Radio Alcatraz ***1/2**

The Bull And Gate, Kentish Town 8th January 2013

Finally escaped the sofa, the man versus fudge sized bucket of Quality Street and the inevitable shit TV and headed out for the first gig of what promises to be a great year for the heavier side of music. Well, if all the so-called pundits, hacks and futurologists are to be believed.

Radio Alcatraz ***1/2**

So, to Kentish town for a jumbo selection box of Hampshire/Surrey home grown goodies.


But first, let's get the slight negative out of the way, all tonight's acts suffer from a not particularly vox-friendly Front of House rig. The music sounds great, but all the singers sound vaguely muffled and lack total cut through. A shame, but, to be honest a minor whinge.

Anyway, ignoring the flavour guide card thing, let's get stuck in to tonight's glutton box.  First on the tongue tonight are a nuggety, chewy interesting ball of flavour Radio Alcatraz. A satisfying blend of mescaline-fuelled ATDi/Mars Volta proggy complexity covered in rich, heavy, spiky riffs. 

Diminutive front man Simon Griffiths belts out a high tempo collection of polemic, politicising and at times ranty lyrics aided and abetted by swirling post-hardcore atmosphere and extra chewy riff bombs and a stiffly whisked rhythm section. It's tasty stuff. With the occasional shard of glass or hint of astringent acid cutting through the huge body.

There are vague but definite similarities to Zack de la Rocha in Griffiths's delivery as he jumps, spins and darts around like a hamster whacked out on goofballs stopping in his tracks occasionally to earnestly deliver his heart-felt sermons. Not that it's in anyway overdone or self-important. There's a fun and fizz in the mouth throughout. As I say, tasty stuff indeed.

Will definitely choose one of these again. 

The Radio Alcatraz Delight: A fiery centre with molten lava, Jack Daniels, kerosene and rusty, blood-covered razor blades deliciously covered in dark and complex riffery. Yum.

Hold Your Horse Is *****

Next to be unwrapped and popped in the gob are Mssrs Pearson, Penny and Rouse. 

With their totally brilliant album Frimley to plunder, the home counties trio serve up a wonderful mix of tantalising tastes. Ranging from indie-imbued choppiness to full-on throbbing erect priapic rock and roll. 

There's a wonderful paradox in HYHI's oeuvre: simple complexity. The songs often sound straightforward, but the constructs and cleverness lend an originality and satisfying substance. Cute time signature diversions and beat drops, chugs that counterpoint, polyrhythms and compound timings that add a dissonant edge that eschews the predictable.

A good few of the tracks from Frimley are given the glorious raw live treatment. That's raw in a good way. There's a controlled shambolic feel to some of their work, but that's all for the cameras. It's complex, challenging, grown up but not self indulgent or shoe-gazing. 

Poppy refrains peek in between the oft frenzied and splendid guitar work of Robin Pearson and his dual output flux capacitor guitar and throughout, the vibrant, explosive melange is controlled by the beautiful and sensitive bass playing of James Penny. Who looks like he's just got off the school bus tonight. Resplendent in 6 former's jumper and accompanied by his rucksack just plonked down in front of his cab.

Not satisfied with bombing us with their previous work, the lads even serve up a new sweetie. Douche Beige continues where Frimley left off. Knowing, witty, huge, but catchy and fun. Pretty much sums up tonight's stonking performance. 

The Hold Your Horse Is Barrel: Lively and zingy centre crafted from the finest razor wire, battery acid and blinding bath tub gin surrounded by a jaunty, amusing explosive crackling that melts faces. Definitely contains nuts.

Freeze The Atlantic ****1/2*

Given the fact that I love Reuben and, of course, Hundred Reasons, it beggars belief that this lot have missed my radar. As a kind of latter day Alt supergroup (I'm sure they'll thank me for that - sorry chaps), formed by waifs and strays from both the aforementioned legendary bands, they can only really be bloody good.

And on tonight's performance that's proven. In spades. No, fuck it, in Royal flush Hearts.

Vocal sound notwithstanding, the set is electrifying. Huge tunes. Massive riffs and hooks, melody, harmony, light, shade, energy and beauty. All delivered perfectly but not clinically. These boys are seriously on it. Every aspect welded seamlessly together. But not without a real jagged serrated edge when needed.

There are tons of guitar-based post-hardcore, Alt pop rock bands schlepping up and down the country at the moment, and finding an edge to differentiate is becoming harder and harder. Genres transmute, mash ups of all manner of styles and influences are being experimented upon and launched daily. But the thing that really puts bands like this ahead of the pack is, quite simply, talent. 

Not just the ability to blisterningly and perfectly shred the pentatonic, diatonic, dorian and any other sodding scale or to master every chord, progression, lick and cadenza. (The last thing we need is sterile, indulgent technically brilliant musicians wanking in front of us.) No, genuine talent for song-crafting, balance, originality and making genuine connections.

Freeze The Atlantic may not have mastered or launched a totally original blend of music upon the world, but they truly are bloody good at what they do. And what they do is bloody good. 

A 'knowing' crowd has definitely been treated to something pretty special tonight.

The Freeze The Atlantic Frappé: Deliciously and delightfully created from whispy clouds, angels tears and puppy dogs. Then thrown into a fucking rusty sceptic tank, with gallons of home made moonshine, nitroglycerine, napalm, speed, crack, machine gun cartridges and Stravinsky's jizz. Covered in concrete encrusted with rare gems. Hmmmm, delicious.

More tunes soon, Bwooooar!

Mallory Knox and Spycatcher next...