Week at the knees. Incubus. Enter Shikari. The Xcerts.

Three big gigs in one big week. Phew. First up:


Incubus*****
HMV Forum, Kentish Town
Tuesday 13th June.

All together now....

Jam-packed venue. Assembled masses of screaming fans. Real fans. This was one of those 'special' gigs laid on for the devoted hardcore as a 'warm up' for some European festi dates. And it felt special.


No support, just anticipation. And perspiration. On a hot and sultry evening, shortly before 9:00, a hot and sultry Brandon and the boys took to the stage.


The welcome was ridiculously fervent and almost religious. They burst into Megalomaniac to a football crowd-like noise. Then the weird stuff started. They weren't particularly loud, which normally wouldn't bother me, but tonight, Matthew, the crowd were going to be...Incubus. Every word. Every syllable. Sung with gusto and passion. In fact, with so much gusto and passion, it was difficult to actually hear the band. This was the world's largest ever group Karaoke. And it was remarkable.

Mikey; you sing. I'll, er...play along.

The set swung straight into Wish You Were Here. More than just a crowd-pleaser but a crowd marital aid. With extra batteries. And vintage champagne flavoured lube.The girls all got fizzy-knickered over Mr Boyd and the boys were sweating and singing like back yard cats. All 2,500 of them.


What then followed was a dream playlist which could've been culled from everyone here's iPods. Pardon Me, Have You Ever, 11am, Anna Molly, Circles, Love Hurts and a host of other faves including the brilliant Just a Phase and, of course, Drive all received the karaoke treatment. All played and sung note-perfectly. Which, to be honest and hyper-critical was a little wearing. They were almost too perfect. Only once really wandering from the script throwing a few lines from Riders on The Storm into Are You In?

'DJ' Kilmore...make some noiiiize!!!. But nicely.And not too loud.

It was even more like karaoke than it first appeared. Mikey didn't miss a slide, a tap or a trill. All box-fresh and surgically delivered. The bloke at the decks (must've been a really outré and cutting edge thing to have in a rock band 10 or 11 years ago, but now sadly reduced to a nostalgic fairground attraction - albeit a good one) did all his squeaky, scratchy bits perfectly and the rhythm section was the tightest it could be without actually cutting off the circulation. Don't get me wrong, it was at times spine tinglingly goose-bump inducing. But it was clean. Very clean. And at times, the weeniest bit anodyne. 


Two new tunes got an airing. Adolescents and the very sugary and soft Promises, Promises. I wasn't too sure to be honest, but the assembled congregation already knew the hymn's words and joined in like the good folk on Songs of Praise.


Nice to Know you was the final encore and was the ideal and apposite end to a terribly pleasant and enjoyable service. Amen.


Enter Shikari*****
Some Dubstep Bums*****
Dingwalls, Camden
15th June. 2011

Rory...Squashed tomatoes and stew...

If the Incubus gig was 'special', then tonight's partyyyyy at the sweatbox in Camden Market was the jewel-encrusted limited edition collector's edition with a royal warrant and a bunch of flowers.


It's Rory's birthday, a warm-up gig for Amsterdamage and a bloody great party for 300-400 very lucky souls all rolled into one.

Shall we pretend to be a support band?

I don't know who the support were (I thought Pdex was going to play, but must've missed him, sadly) but two asbo kids strolled and bopped on stage to a big, brown dubstep wall of noize. Their chat (lyrics I'm reliably informed - sorry) was stilted, out of balance and derivative. They begged the crowd at every opportunity to 'make some noiiiiiiize Camden'. Which some did. They tried to cajole the already baying and packed house to open up a pit. They couldn't really be arsed. And despite the constant rebel rousing cry of ' Is y'all looking forward to fukkin Enter Shikaaaaarieeeeeeeeeeee?' there was a polite and attentive response with just a few of the young chaps and chapesses down at the front deigning to get involved. Yawn. Bleep. Booom. Drop. Dance. Zzzzzz.


Good, they were gone. The young crowd started hollering for the St Albans Boys. Normality was restored. Well, as much as a Josef Fritzl-like dungeon packed with sweaty cider-swilling young'uns can be described as normality.


As the lads took to the tiny stage, the crowd,in unison belted out happy birthday. Which mutated into Robbie Williams's 'Angels' led by a sprightly-looking mr Reynolds. Yup, this was going to be a party all right. And some.

Pass the jump leads. return to energiser indeed.

Angels faded. Solidarity kicked off. Literally. The crowd went, expectedly nuts. As did the band. This lot still have to be regarded as one of the finest live bands in the nation. Well aired and repetitive arguments about whether their older stuff is better or not were rendered redundant this evening. This evening was extra special. For the crowd, for the band, for live Brit music. They galloped through all manner of tunage. From classics like No Ssssweat, Return to Energiser and Anything can Happen...thru Destabilise and the new crowd pleaser Quelle Surprise, they totally killed it. There was a fun undercurrent to the evening (probably more where they should sit as opposed to the slightly more polemic and political angry tones) and it was infectious. They threw themselves, into the adoring throng, they fooled about, played funky interludes, gagged and quipped. And, unlike the bloody support band (apart from when Rou suggested the 'normal human pyramid stuff while insouciantly raising a mischievous finger upwards) didn't need to egg the crowd on into mass hysteria. They'd found, and pushed that button themselves.

It was a genuine privilege being there tonight. The sweat, giggles, power, energy, passion and effort that this foursome put in could end the world's energy crisis at the drop of a backwards baseball cap. Pass the jump leads.

They were back to their imperious best this evening. Milking the crowd. Enjoying themselves and leaving no mitochondria underworked. Ok, Time for Plan B was given an airing and that just abut wrapped up the perfect evening. Welcome back boys. Welcome back.

The Xcerts*****

Get Cape Wear Cape Fly *****

Hold Your Horse Is*****

Rosa Velle*****

The Old Blue Last, Shoreditch

17th June 2011



Tiny room. Lots of people. Lots of rain. Many beards. Quite a lot of plaid. Definitely Shoreditch. Yup.


Rosa Velle*****

On saunter the hooligans from The Simpsons. Hoodies, beanies and guitars. They screech into what could have been awful. A post punky jangly guitar hook. Then it just went nuts, And I bloody loved it. Like a mini Dillinger, this bunch of smoggies totally killed it. Technical, mathcore, complex but thrilling and contagious constructions hooked me straight away. Such technical ability at such a tender age. The compound timings and crazy tapped and swept riffage kept it fresh throughout. Screams mixed with crisp, Mars Volta-esque vox enraptured and entranced in equal measure. The very thought of this lot rehearsing the massively complex and technically challenging tunage in an egg-box adorned sweaty garage somewhere in Smog land filled me full of admiration and set a permanent grin on my old face. A massive thumbs up. Would love to see them again. And soon.


Get Cape Wear Cape Fly *****
Suddenly Mr Duckworth was on stage. Dressed as a Geography teacher. Cord jacket 'n' all. With his acoustic guitar and a laptop. Delicious memories of The GCWCF of yesteryear filled by still-mathmoshed bonce. And Mikey Glennister was there with his trumpet too. This could be brilliant.

Sam's new look. Peachy.

Sam looked and felt slightly uncomfortable though. Don't know why (apart from the possible intimidation from the assembled apparently disinterested Hoxtonite hipsters and their molls). I'm not sure if most of the crowd knew who the surprise guest actually was. The reception was a little tepid. And Sam's performance was affected by this. He manfully zipped through an Oak Tree and a couple from the last album. But I was waiting for I spy or War of The Worlds - not that I needed to hear them again, I've seen Sam dozens of times and love him to bits - it's just the assembled distracted cool dudes and dudesses may suddenly have twigged who they were privileged enough to be in the company of.

But he didn't get them out of his medicine bag. His set was energetic, bouncy and great fun. As always. But, apart from the few down at the front, the crowd appeared lazy, complacent and couldn't really give a toss. Which was a real same. He finished with Chronicles as Mikey returned to the stage and momentarily you could feel the recognition flickering amongst the too cool for school ccolites. But it was too little too late. Even the joiny in bits (the do doo doo doo doos) failed to convert the achingly icy trendies. Wankers. I liked it though.

Next up were  Hold Your Horse Is*****

Three blokes. Small room. Big noise.


Definitely a good recipe. And it was indeed a tasty dish served up to, by now, a much fuller room.


A shortish but powerful set. All precision, riffage and great vocals. A bit like Arcane Roots or early Biffy, this lot make a bloody huge din for a trio. Really loved it too. The pit got going. The bass played came down to have a look still banging away at his Fender while participating in an enthusiastic mosh and they went down like a bagel at 4:00am in Brick Lane after a clubtastic evening out. Brilliant stuff. Not as mentally tech as Rosa Velle, but catchy, impressive, soulful and kick-ass. More please.


The Xcerts*****
Finally, after a quick rejig of the backline, the main attraction (Sam notwithstanding!), took their positions. And, as always, totally ruled. I've run out of great things to say about this lot, so I'll keep it as brief as possible.

Come on Murray! Nice backhand.

If you haven't seen this lot live, you're missing a limb. No fuck it, you're missing a vital organ. Yes their records are grand. Their lyrics, sharp, clever and tidy. But live, they're on another level. I've said of them before that they're destined for greatness. On tonight's evidence, greatness isn't great enough. Murray and the boys are right up there. Such a shame they're not playing Sonisphere again this year, as they would be a worthy addition to such a splendid occasion.


Can't wait to see them again. And again. Brilliant. Just brilliant.


Right, from the sublime to the ridiculous. After a week of wonder, it's pantomime ie again...Ozzy next week for the Kerrang! 30th birthday party.


More tunes soon. Bwoooar!

Heads: you win.

And So I Watch You From Afar *****
Mojo Fury *****
The Computers*****


Scala, London. May 03 2011

You know those quaint old films of Cream and Led Zeppelin performing in front of mahoosively-sideburned guys in cords with big glasses and mops of Fat Freddy hair? You know, nodding guys in afghans, trenchcoats or Army surplus jackets. Probably got a Greenslade, Caravan or Yes Double album dutifully tucked under the arm.

Heads are back. Hallelujliah!

Well, they’re back. Loads of them. Beards, waistcoats, semi flared jeans. The only thing missing was the whiff of Mary Jane or patchouli oil.Yup. Heads are back. And cool by all accounts. And they took over The Scala tonight.

So, what would the assembled mob of heads make of tonight's show?

The Scala for all its grandeur is still a bizarre set-up. Twice as wide as it is deep with viewing balconies redolent of 30's outdoor Lidos or, more prosaically, Strictly Come Dancing. Anyway, a smattering of heads had sparsely populated the floor with most reticently hanging back in the gods as the first band wandered on stage.

The Computers *****

The house lights dimmed and on wandered 4 fielders from Salisbury Boys' Grammar School first XI cricket team. At least that's what it looked like. Young blokes in whites. Weird.

The front man sporting the de rigeur inked arms bellowed in a Vincent Price-esque hammy but entertaining way about what we were about to receive and did his best to get the early admissions involved. Sadly, this was about as good as it got.

I know The Computers are being vaunted and talked about in glowing terms; but they just didn't cut it for me. The first song set off at encouragingly breakneck speed with jauntily loud guitars and big, screaming/shouting from our certainly alluring front man. But as the backing 'vocals' added just more of the same muddy yelling, my heart sank.

Screaming and yelling can be totally mesmerising and captivating. Take the magnificent Dillinger Escape Plan. The nihilistic Gallows. Cancer Bats. Or even 'pop' arriviste screamers like Architects. The difference is that they all do it with style. They balance it with melody. Or light and shade contrast with clean vox. Or back it up with dazzling rhythms and time signatures. None of this was present this evening. One muddy-fuzzy-mid-range-turgid-scream fest followed another. With little or no differentiation between them. Muddy awful. Just awful.

Another dynamic, original song from the sensational Computers..

The only saving grace was the frontman. He was eloquent, amusing, energetic, enigmatic and tried manfully to put on a show. Even taking his mic stand down onto the floor with him. But his band is no good. There. I said it. I don't care if they're on Radio 1 rotation. I thought they were rubbish . Uninspired, unoriginal, unlistenable shite.
They're probably going to be massive.

Mojo Fury*****

Next up were a bunch of lads (thankfully not in cricket whites or contrived coordinated kit) who thankfully moved things up a notch. They weren't brilliant by any means, but contrasted with the ugly muddy piunkabilly din from The Computers, they were always going to raise the bar. 

Mojo Fury; Lakesize rather than Oceansize. 

Keyboard noodlings added a much needed dynamic and despite the vocalists initial shouty delivery, they were far more interesting. There was certainly more than a nod to the fabulous (and now sadly defunct)  Oceansize and there was, thank heavens a nod to melody, harmony and, well music. The singers voice got progressively less growly and shouty throughout the set and there was some genuinely great stuff in there and proper smile-inducing moments. Not bad at all and I'd certainly like to see them again.

So, the Lido was now bulging ike an American's checked trousers and testing the seams. The atmosphere had built and the collective of heads were now in the mood for the main event.

ASIWYFA *****

Bloody hell. What a start. The diminutive Tony Wright kicks off into the riff from Beautifuluniversemasterchampion the opener to the stunning new album Gangs and the place melts down. The intensity doesn't drop an iota throughout the show. They are ridiculously tight, almost telepathic in their synchronisation and play their complex and majestic tunes without even a molecular trace of ego. This is a band in the truest sense. Reacting and inter-reacting. Visibly loving it. And each other. 

They combine thumpingly heavy riffs with delicate and intricate reels, arpeggios and noodlings. The Oirish/Celtic genealogy is apparent throughout their oeuvre with nods to jigs and diddle-ee-dit -de-dee excursions layered over brutal bass lines and stomach curdling bass drops.

The show continues apace hurtling through the next two tracks of the album in order. The breathtaking polyrhythmic Gang (Starting Never Stopping) followed by the hypnotically relentless Search:Party:Animal complete with menacing thunderous dark drops that have the crowd throwing themselves around and partying like a whiskey-soaked Belfast Bar on a raucous Saturday night.

Stage, anyone?

Older tunes like Think:Breathe:Destroy and D is for Django The Bastard keep the set bouncing and billowing splendidly all strung together with the diminutive Wright's great banter and likeable cheeky chappy show. The main set ends with Lifeproof, again from Gangs, to a genuinely fervent and adoring roar. Which kept going throughout the 'uncomfortable' period that bands face these days (now it's no longer fashionable to shout 'more' or 'encore' - although more than a few of the attendant heads did raise the old battle cry) before they triumphally returned to launch into the magnificent Set Guitars To Kill.

This was one of the most truly fabulous and engaging gigs I've been to in years and it just kept delivering. The Voiceless was next up as a second encore and the entertainment kept kicking, cuddling, seducing and butt-raping the dripping, baying hordes of heads.

Then that was it. The crowd had screamed its massive appreciation. The house lights flickered. It was time to go home.

I preferred them as a 4-piece.

Like fuck it was. The boys bounced back onto the stage, halting some of the heads from their exit-bound meander and kicked us in the neck with Clench Fists, Grit Teeth...Go! Things then got weird. And wonderful. Tony hauled a willing young Frizzy Head onto the stage, prompting the most wonderfully well-observed stage invasion ever. It felt like virtually half the crowd had made their way onto the stage. Hell, they had. It was amazing to watch. The Stage was completely full of heads. Loads of them. All gyrating and bouncing, while, incredibly, the band, undaunted continued playing the tune. Without missing a note.

A truly brilliant, original, spellbinding and astonishing end to a truly brilliant, original, spellbinding and astonishing gig. This lot are going to kill festivals. 

Wonderful. Simply wonderful.

More instrumental head music next. The brilliant Maybeshewill in a week or so.

More tunes soon, Bwoooar!

We are the future.

We Are The Ocean *****
Veara*****
Lower Than Atlantis ***1/2**
Don Broco****7/8*
Electric Ballroom Camden 28.04.2011


Springlike evening. Massive queue outside the Ballroom. Hipsters abound. More plugs than B&Q electrical aisle. Beiber haircuts. Ink. WKDs. Kids. Lots of kids. Plaid. Boatshoe loafers. You can picture the scene. Another night in the furtherance of young British rock and roll. And it felt good.

Don Broco****7/8*

With 4 bands on, there's always the pain of a really early start and so it was tonight. No sooner had I plonked my bum down on a bar stool I had to haul my carcass into the main hall for Bobby D and the fun-filled noise machine that is Don Broco.


Considering it was such an early kick off, a really sizeable and voraciously baying pack filled the room.

They were raptuously received and kicked off straight into the splendid nut-grinding Thug Workout. Mr Damiani was in fine form. Sporting a rather natty Oli Sykes vest and de rigeur shorts he bounced, leapt, hurled him self around and looked like he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

However, he was somewhat eclipsed by the sight of Dan and Fez from the brilliant Proceed, dancing like a couple of tipsy teenage sixth form girls or a pair of self-conscious mincing go-go dancers (thankfully not in speedos or arseless leather chaps) at the back.

The crowd was lapping it up (the band, not Dan and Fez's floor show), and Rob set up the obligatory wall of death which kicked off splendidly - and during which he knackered his mic.

Don Broco are far from a novelty band despite the cheeky demeanour and pop sensibilities. They really are maturing into an original, rocking good-time bunch of loveable miscreants. They are as tight as a tick, effortlessly messing around with compound timings and crunchy guitar drops, as catchy as a super strain STi while cleverly mashing up their genres. Seamlessly throwing in allusions to reggae, ska, pop, punk (but thankfully not anodyne pop punk!), glam rock and metal. They come over as a really nice bunch of guys who are wringing all the fun they can out of the scene at the moment. And long may it continue.

Sure, they don't take themselves too seriously: they're neither shoe-gazing musos, nihilistic mournful black metal miseries nor emo coated screamers and whingers. Nope, they kick arse, then come round the front for a cheeky kick in the cock. With heavy boots on and with a run up. And all done with infectious smiles, energy and verve. Songs like Top Of The World, Do What We Do, the summer-saturated Beautiful Morning are genuinely excellent songs in their own right, but chuck in 300 hormonally dosed-up hipsters and something special happens.

The only reason they didn't get 5 stars is that they regrettably ran out of time for Dreamboy. Which I assume would've been the set closer. A shame, but certainly didn't sour the pudding too much. They were excellent and while the future of young British rock and roll is in the hands of these guys, we're in for a marvellous time ahead. Top Of The World indeed.

Lower Than Atlantis ***1/2**

I'll admit, Lower Than Atlantis are not on my playlist an awful lot. I own both albums and Mr Duce's voice is a cracking, worthy, necessary original and raw addition to everyone's collection. But my jury is still out on the songs. Don't get me wrong, they're not terrible. By a long way. In fact there are genius moments cosseted among the hearty and raw almost punky noise that marks out their territory. But apart from the obvious ones, I struggle to find anything too memorable about most of their oeuvre.

Nonetheless, they take to the stage, again greedily lapped up by the salivating mob and do, without doubt kill it. Loud, passionate, ramshackle, energetic and aggressive, they get the hordes baying and bleating while throwing themselves around without too much forced provocation. From the butch opener, (Motor)way of Life to the crowd pleasing Deadliest catch, packed with fishy, maritime and Pirate puns, similies and metaphors, they delivered a strong, engaging and sweat-inducing set marred only by a bit of a mid-range heavy sound mix. A bit too much estuarine mud. But bollocks to that really, everyone seemed to thoroughly enjoy it. As did I.

Veara *****

I'll have to be brief. I wish they had been. Derivative pop (skate) punk offering absolutely nothing new. They were terrible. Not musically, but just what they are. And what they stand for. The world really doesn't need this any more. Or any more of this.

Even the young crowd struggled with Veara.

And, to make matters worse, they had a secret weapon. Which failed miserably: and 808 bass drop that relentlessly was applied to all of their totally out-moded and puerile set list. It was like Jimmy Caulty's german sonic riot canon which causes spontaneous bowel evacuation. At one point I thought I'd shat myself, but on closer examination, the bad smell was coming from the stage. 

We Are The Ocean *****

I'll keep this brief for the opposite reasons. They came, they right royally kicked arse. They conquered. From the mesmerising opening salvo with three drummers and the sampled mixed up strains of their anthemic What it Feels Like through classics like Look Alive thru new crowd pleasers Overtime and the sumptuous Runaway, this lot have announced their arrival onto the world's rock stage. And some. Even allowing for an injury break in the middle of the set when an able and willing substitute stepped in for the temporarily crocked Dan Brown.

I'm not going to pick at the scab off the Alexis on Fire discussion - that's been well debated and documented. I will, however descend into the other debate of de jour about the new darlings of British Crossover; they are two bands. Not quite as simply as dividing them by albums and the obvious shift in Brown's dirty scream to a gruff, sexy vocal. But that they are capable of being heavily dark and frothily light in the twinkling of an eye.

But I believe that this schizophrenia is actually a good thing. Yes, the new album is lighter, more melodic and at times ridiculously catchily poptastic but it does sit comfortably alongside the harder more brooding and macarbre material from earlier in the band's meteoric career. Liam's clean vox are at times heart-melting, and although the lyrics won't ever trouble the scorers' notepads at the Novello awards, they are a true force in Brit rock at the moment.

I love the fact that younger kids are getting off on WATO. It makes a pleasant change from MCR, Paramore and 30STM and opens hearts, eyes and mouths to a more worthy and complex musical diet. Which has to be a good thing. Long live pop and roll.

Eddie Harvey Septet. *****

Here's a weird one. Last night, I was lucky enough to attend a great friend of mine's wonderful jazz performance at WAYOUTWEST in Richmond.

The ridiculously youthful (for an 85 year old) Eddie Harvey had assembled a brilliant Septet for a fantastic evening of sensational tunes and arrangements. From Ellington to many of Eddie's own, it was a true privilege to be in the company of such a grand band of jazz legends. For anyone interested the septet's line-up was: Dave Brown on Bass, Tony Kinsey on Drums, Tony Woods on Saxes, Chris Biscoe- Saxes and Clarinets, Jimmy Hastings-saxes and flutes, Pete Hurt - Tenor and Eddie himself on piano.

These guys (well apart from Dave and Tony as they're comparative whippersnappers) have played and written for and with some of the true greats of the jazz world and way back when occupied a similar place in the underground/alternative culture that many of today's rock bands park their arses. Alright, they may not be churning out variations on  a Thug Work Out theme, but the lineage is clearly evident. Well it was after a few pints anyway. Stunning stuff.

ASIWYFA next week. More tunes soon. Bwoooar!

X hits the spot.

The Xcerts *****
You Animals*****
My First Tooth *****
The Barfly Camden April 18th 2011

I really don't want to write about the supports. At all. Not that they were no good, in fact, far from it. It's just that I'm still buzzing from the main event, and the memories of the tantalising and earnest fluffers has subsided; eclipsed by the crazy-arsed fucktacular orgasmic fireworks of Murray and the boys. But, in the spirit of fairness, I will. And have.

So, we find ourselves back at the tiny Fritzl-esque sweaty box of love that is The Barfly. Stuffed with spicy chicken and Pinotage, we install ourselves at the bar ready to be entertained.

For a cheeky starter, we are served up My First Tooth*****

A raggedy baggedy band of art school folky/country looking folk. With a nurse on bass. Interesting.

My First Tooth - The later years

Despite the incongruous appearance clashing somewhat with the assembled hipsters and musos, they were bloomin' good. Hearty stuff. Lively stuff. Amusing and light stuff.Tuneful stuff. Folky-country-artschool stuff. And all very accomplished. There were definite hints of Arcade Fire, Captain (without Trevor Horne's noodlings and button tweaking), Fairport Convention and even Prefab Sprout but was an original(ish) melange and the crowd seemed jollied and indeed jolly, It was a rollicking variety performance with regular swapping of instruments. Strong male lead vox on most of the songs, sumptuously backed with tight and interesting harmonies. And a cheery girl singer looking like a new-age traveller version of Kate Rusby (but not quite as hot!). Odd looking mandolin/lute things (but thankfully no banjo!)and stringed things. All manner of this and that. I was half expecting a crumhorn or a sackbut to be wheeled out.

A brave and outré choice for a support slot in a dingy rocky venue. And despite some seriously wayward tuning issues later in the set, they were jolly good but would have been even better in a summer Cambridgeshire field at Cherry Hinton in glorious sunshine, fuelled by homemade lemonade or gallons of scrumpy. Well, the scrumpy, definitely. Don't even know why I mentioned lemonade.

So, who next? You Animals *****. That's who.Well there were some table lamps, standard lamps and a big menacing Korg synth thing. Then on trotted a whole bunch of likeable looking yoofs fronted by a young Emo Phillips in a Dennis The Menace shirt and complete with a blonde Debenhams make-up counter assistant perched behind the big menacing Korg synth thing.

You Animals. So young and with the whole world in front of them.

They kicked off with a mildly enjoyable pop punky, jangly, guitar-based indie noise with good enough but not staggering vox, all backed by electronicy noises emanating from the big menacing Korg synth thing. But to be honest they were (as one of my colleagues cajoled me to write) Pointless. Sad, but true. Not enough variety, difference, sophistication or even, more worryingly, and decent tunes. Well, certainly no decent choruses. Too many Woo Woos in lieu of lyrics and just a mid-range, muddy guitar fest albeit with a gallant and very energetic, engaging Emo Phillips front man. Not my sort of thing, but all power to them for their obvious self-belief and enthusiasm. It's not easy being up there as we all know.

Emo. Definitely Emo.

The Xcerts *****
Something strange always happens to me at gigs; I get worried that the much anticipated headline act isn't going to be significantly better than the support. Or significantly different. After You Animals' brave but mildly moribund offering, I was drawing parallels between their schtick and The Xcerts material. There were, undeniable similarities. Obviously a fuller sound due to the number in the band. But single-coiled guitars, poppy, grungy and rock influences  Woo Woos and a likeable, energetic and charismatic leader/frontman. Surely Murray and the lads would be at least a little noticeably different.

I seriously needn't have worried.

A Scotsman called Murray who actually is a genuine winner. Now there's a thing.

But before I continue in regaling the world with the details of how this mesmerising trio completely killed it, I have a confession. I didn't have my notebook with me. So I had to scribble my ramblings onto receipt paper kindly donated to me by the narmaid. Which I subsequently threw away. So I have no set list. I can't even remember which song they kicked off with. But whichever it was, it was bloody brilliant.

The sound was gutsy, full, aggressive, clear and beautiful. The mix was perfect. They were as tight as a Caelocanth's rectum at 20,000ft under the sea. In short they were fucking magnificent.

Murray's little helper. Boom.

Due to the Jagermeister and Gaymers and the inadvertent shedding of my notes, the memory was shaky as to the general make up of the set. But they definitely played Do You Feel Safe, Young Belane, Cool Ethan, Home versus Home, Distant Memory and Crisis in The Slow Lane. I don't recall Just Go Home or Slackerpop, but they might have done. In fact probably did. Whatever it was all brilliant. Every joy-drenched minute of it. Sing-alongs, fist pumping, tearfully emotional spine-tingling moments. Fanbloodytastic,

Man, this lot have to be one of the greatest live young talents in the country. And they proved it tonight. And some.

Here's Crisis in The Slow lane as just a taster. Pure, melodic, colon-twisting magnificence.



So, any worries about too much melding in with the previous acts were well and truly allayed. Murray's guitar sound was like a Dragster in your front room at times. And like a Stradivarius at The Albert Hall at others. All nitro-powered by the wonderfully threatening and impressive banks of Jim Marshall's finest turbo boosting backline. This is the fifth time I've seen these boys. From the first time supporting Dear ol' Sam Duckworth at a converted strip bar in Soho to the passion-soaked Strongbow Tent at Sonisphere. This was a new level. Their music is maturing. Their sound ripening, their confidence and mastery (although never in doubt) blossoming.

Woo Hoo!

They are deservedly on the up. And up. I was privileged to be there tonight and can't urge anyone strongly enough to see them soon. Although they are easily brilliant enough to fill huger venues with alacrity, get 'em while they're hot in a small, emotionally-charged venue like the marvellous Barfly and you won't find a better evening out. Anywhere.

Genius. Sodding genius.




We Are The Ocean and Don Broco next week.

In the meantime, I've just heard some tracks of the forthcoming Maybeshewill album - totally brilliant. Oh, and the new Metronomy stuff is grand too.

More tunes soon, Bwoooar!

Garrrr!!!

Midgar *****
Arcane Roots*****
We The Machines*****
The Transmitters*****
Camden Barfly 22nd March 2011

The Barfly. Tidy.

I always forget just how small the Barfly is. It's small. No, really small. A bit like your nan's front room without a fake flame effect electric fire and the bowl of mint imperials. But it's a great, great venue.


This evening it seems to be home to a flock of photographers. In fact, as I was tucking in to my first pint as an early arrival, the snappers outnumbered the punters. It was like the pavement outside Nobu. Couldn't work out why.


Anyway, first up were (The?) Transmitters. Well, just about. The bass, guitar and drums were milling about on stage for ages waiting for their front man. Then a diminutive wee girlie in a tight green mini-dress sauntered on to the diminutive wee stage. I know nothing about The Transmitters, but I'm led to believe that their singer, Roxanne Gregory is, or has been, a model. Pennies started dropping as the Papparazzi pit sprung into life thrusting their impressive lenses towards the diminutive wee girlie. She lapped it up.

Diminutive wee...er, rubbish to be honest.

But enough of all that, what about the band? Well, the band looked like a bunch of eighties era Red Wedge/Kane Gang session men. Pork pie hats and Epihone Sheratons 'n' all. And the diminutive wee girlie danced like an eighties refugee. Claire Grogan meets that comedy bloke that 'did' Irene Cara in that comedy dance programme. Comically.




Ok, I'm rambling. Let's cut to the chase. They were rubbish. Really, really rubbish. Yeah, they could play. The diminutive wee girlie could hold a tune in a high-pitched indie bird kind of stylee. But they were rubbish. There was nothing original here. At all. Been there. Seen it. Heard it. Definitely didn't by the t-shirt. Really disappointing derivative indie bollocks. Shame. And very odd to shoe-horn them into what was essentially a rock evening.


Mercifully, however, the set was cut dramatically short. The sound man piped up over the talkback after the first song informing a clearly flustered diminutive wee girlie that they only had one more. They appeared to have been half an hour late coming on stage so, thankfully, even after an amusing but heated altercation between the sound guy and a member of the band's crew/management, we only had to suffer for three painfully ennui-ridden dire dirges. Thank goodness for diminutive wee mercies.

Next up were a group of wholesome-looking young lads form Exeter, We The Machines.

Nice outfits boys.

Ok, we'll get the weirdness out of the way first. They were all wearing coordinated outfits. Black shirts, T-shirts and turtlenecks with white trousers. Not quite a sassy Hives thing. More cruise ship, six form band, Butlins or a barbershop quartet. But at least they made an effort.

The ceiling at The Barfly is notoriously low

Saying that, it didn't matter a sod what they were wearing. They started strong and got stronger. Intricate rhythms, time sigs and great playing throughout (broken strings, and some minor tuning issues notwithstanding), they were really rather good. Catchy refrains, chuggy de-tuned djenty guitars over ethereal arpeggios and lashings of energy. And some great vox. Both lead and back up harmonies. Thoroughly enjoyable. Even accounting for the Moseley Black shirt fashion faux-pas. 


It's great to see young guys making complex, accomplished and generally, well, such good music. 


So the ante had been well and truly upped. The crowd had swelled and nan's front room was now pretty much full. Next up was Biffy Clyro. No wait a minute...


A cheap, obvious and purely specious comparison based solely on the fact that 
Arcane Roots's front man has a beard, wears a vest, has a couple of tattoos and looks a bit like Simon from the Biff. Oh, and he holds his guitar up high.

'Mon the roots.

Enough of all that. What were we in for? They looked like they meant business. After the cheeky, mum-friendly Exeter 6 formers, this trio looked like the bad lads from behind the school. A bit scowly and definitely hard.


But they were bloody brilliant. Fantastic guitar work, crisp and technically tight-as-a-tick drumming all glued together with oxy-acetylene strength bass and topped with searing and soaring soprano Mars Volta-esque vocals with a generous smattering of rarrrrrr!

A wee smattering of Rarrrr.

I was genuinely taken aback. Startling ability married with originality and genuine raw-arsed rock energy. There were elements of Ruben, The Xcerts, Frank Zappa, At The Drive In and eve The White Stripes (if they'd been any good!). 


And it worked a treat.


A great mash up and melting pot of all sorts. And I loved it. Bought the album as soon as I got home from Bandcamp. Have a listen below. It's bloody brilliant.







They were going to be a hard act to follow. The house lights dimmed, dramatic wheezes, pops, hums and drones filled the room. The crowd all breathed in...boom.

Flock of Seagulls?

Oh yes, Midgar are destined for major stardom if there's any justice. They kicked off in fine style and rocked nan's front room to pieces. This lot are slick, tight, sickeningly talented, easy on the eye and damn, they rock and roll. And Andy Wilson-Taylor's voice is melodic, powerful, sensitive and distinctive. The laydees are going to love him.

Andy really loved being compared to fucking 30STM!

The set continued apace. A very stylish and short-haired Steve Sitkowski (of Outcry Collective fame) hopped up on stage to provide the raucous screaming for the ever impressive Lead your Children To The Sky (vid below). They aired a couple of new songs they banged out a couple of flawless versions of tunes they'd never played live before including the haunting Avalon.


Colour Me had the crowd joining in, The epic Vincent's Requiem hit the spot perfectly and The latest Single Karmic Retribution was a highlight with its Chopin-inspired piano backdrop and gut-grabbing guitar drops perfectly summing up the contrast and light and shade that has already become Midgar's signature.


The musicianship throughout was spellbinding, complex yet accessible and the tight, heavy, high gain, deep, dirty guitars seriously kicked buttocks. Hard. With a run up. And wearing heavy boots. 


They looked as though they enjoyed it. The crowd certainly loved it. And I'm sure more and more folk will be joining the love-in before too long.

Go on, Smile.

In short, they were totally fucking fabulous. Definitely a more youth-friendly band than the more muso-appealing Arcane Roots, and given a wider exposure will end up inevitably in the same breath as 30STM (sadly, as they're miles better). 


But I was seriously privileged to see them in such intimate surroundings. Shame I couldn't say the same about The Transmitters. Sigh.


The fantastic Xcerts coming up in a week or so.


More tunes soon. Bwoooar!




In the meantime, enjoy...Lead Your Children to The Sky...