A Month of Fundays - Get Cape, AWOLNation, Burn The Fleet, Banquet's Big Day Out, Arcane Roots, Hundred Reasons and more reviewed

Right, a bit of a departure this post. Due to being stupidly busy recently, I've bundled together a whole month's worth of words and warbles about some of the gigs I've hauled my arse to during that time. There's loads here, so enjoy. Or don't. You all know the drill. Deep breaths, and away we go... 

Get Cape Wear Cape Fly ****1/2*

Ramspocket Radio*****

The Garage

May 16th 2012

How you’ve grown up. Oh my. Just look at you. Not Sam necessarily; but the crowd. Yup, the assembled throng for Mr Duckworth and co’s headline show has certainly shifted its demographic over the years.

Erstwhile hordes of baying teenies squeaking along to War of The Worlds or firing back retorts about being a face in the crowd during I-Spy have been replaced by an assortment of middle aged hipsters, couples, people in what can only be described as slacks and bald accountants and data developers. They were all out tonight. Even someone in a Metallica shirt.

Ramspocket Radio*****

First up was The Ben Fold’s One. A bloke. An Irish bloke. Called Pete. Who used to be in Mojo Fury. Sitting at a keyboard. Alongside a drum kit.

After a cheery hello, he launched into a bouncy, tuneful set of pleasant enough tuneage. Alternating between the keys and the skins. All accompanied by electronic backing padding and stringy stuff. Not at all bad. There were moments of pure Billy Joel, traces of Paul Brady, top notes of Walter Schreifels with even a sugary, proggy hint of a young Phil Collins detectable to the more warped palate. In truth it lost a bit of edge for me as the Foldsy-like delivery and strident rhythms sadly merged into one on more than one occasion. Will definitely give a record a listen though.

Get Cape Wear Cape Fly ****1/2*

So, Mr D. What you got for us? By now a full house of slack wearers had filled up Phil Mitchell’s deluxe Highbury Arches workshop and needed entertaining. And entertainment we certainly got. Lynyrd Skynyrd took to the stage. Guitarists. Hundreds of them. Well, three. Including Sam. But it was a far cry from him and a laptop. And the horns of yore have gone.

All together now...Lord Knows I won't change

So, did the new expanded GCWCF work? Did it ever. The show was pacey, lively, rocky and thoroughly enjoyable throughout. Oldies were aired. And expanded. Even some real oldies. Whitewash is Brainwash even got an airing. New ones like the über-infectious Real McCoy and salutary Call Of Duty fitted in seamlessly (but definitely not anonymously) into the buffet. The crowd lapped it up and demanded seconds.

As an inter-course palate cleanser, the band disappeared to allow our wee hero to seduce our ear spaces with a couple of acoustic favourites complete with sing-a-longs (just not as pre-pubescent as they used to be). Once the band returned, the fare was fleshed out again and full rock and roll service was resumed.

Sam looked as though he was thoroughly enjoying himself. And judging by the boisterous and fervent response from the slack-wearers, so was everyone in the room.

This must be about the twentieth time I’ve been lucky enough to see GCWC. From solo shows at Air Studios, laptop powered evenings in grotty Southend former bordellos, a midnight assignation in a Soho strip bar, headline stints at the sadly defunct Astoria, festivals, low-key surprise shows for BSM, recent commuter entertainment at St Pancras (complete with bing bongs and announcements) and even mosh-pit heavy sell-out at Shepherds Bush. And I’ve loved just about every single one of them.

He is a truly original, thought-provoking, caring and wonderfully self-effacing, socially conscious troubadour. But tonight’s performance, while undoubtedly brilliant has raised a slight worry. Only a slight one; but a worry all the same.

Sam’s often gauche, vulnerable (but always original) delivery whether on his tod or with various experimental line ups has been his trademark. His very definition. By expanding the band into a more standard line up, with, consequently a much more standard sound, the question has to be asked; has he thrown one of the vital ingredients to his enduring originality out of the kitchen window?

I really hope not. I can only pray and assume that this is a latest artistic reinvention. Transient. Fleeting. Inquisitive. Like all great artists who go through different periods and phases trying to push things, fiddle, experiment, fine-tune. But keep the core safe. Sacred. Genetically unmodified.

Not that it’s bad. In any way at all. Tonight’s show is a wonder to behold. It’s just there are so many bands of a more standard line up treading the Jager-soaked sticky floors of darkened rooms up and down the land. Do we need another one?

Obviously Sam can’t stick with the acoustic and the laptop forever. And thankfully, we haven’t been through a Page and Plant North African period yet. Or a Beatles Maharishi muddled mind fuck. (give him time). But I just worry.

Anyway, as the final chords and la-da-da-da-das of Chronicles of a Bohemian teenager swirled ethereally into the vaults of the sweat-heavy Garage, my worries evaporated and there was so much love in the room. And long may it continue. A brilliant show from a truly blessed, talented and culturally important young man. Here’s to the future. To more experiments. More soul-searching. And more importantly than anything else more bloody brilliant music. Just no Maharishi stuff. Please.

Burn The Fleet*****

Apollo’s Arrows***1/2**

The Dead Wretched

Bad Sign

The Black Heart Camden

25^th May 2012

Apollo’s Arrows***1/2**

Arrived at the ugly twin sister venue to The Barfly just too late for the first two bands, so a bit miffed, needed Apollo’s Arrows to knock my soft organs out of whack.

And they didn’t disappoint. Never seen or heard of these boys before, but on the evidence of tonight’s emotional and consummately performed noise fest, I really have missed out.

Not dissimilar to the majestic This Town Needs Guns, with flavours of ATDI, Rush and Zeppelin. Strong and piercing melodic vocals cut through intricate rhythms, syncopation, taps, sweeps, drags and all manner of guitar wizardry. Heavy drops and breakdowns punctuated dreamy sequences and percussive interludes. Overall, really refreshing to see young guys delivering such sophistication but without too much shoe-gazing or over-earnest prog wank.

The only negative is that, apparently, they’re splitting up. Which is a real shame based on tonight’s efforts.

Burn The Fleet*****

So, to the main event. To celebrate the launch of their brilliant album The Modern Shape, Southampton’s crow-adopting bad boys Burn The Fleet are here to kick some metropolitan arse flesh.

And my word they do. Like Johnny Wilkinson. Skilful, accurate, relentless and brutal.  Landing every kick on the sphincter. But with added humour and bucket loads of personality.

Burn The Fleet - Jacomofos

Pretty much the whole album is given an airing and the assembled sweaty throng gleefully gulp the sea dogs’ rum rock and roll, joining in dutifully with the shanty-like refrains. Burn The Fleet are nigh on impossible to pigeon hole. They are undoubtedly heavy in parts. Technically top notch. Melodic. Choral even. But with a genuine folksy (in a good way) genome. The sea and maritime themes abound as recurring motifs but they’re not a bizarre pirate metal band (thank the lordy!) and there’s an overwhelming homeliness and Britishness. A real and emotional honesty. Front man Andrew Convey’s garrulous and big-boned, beardy bear-like presence makes them immediately likeable. Approachable. Loveable.

But in no way does it water down the ferocity, the bombast, the wholeheartedness of their stunning rock and roll. You can’t help but smile while willingly being sodomised senseless by big bass lines, heavy artillery-like drums and intricate, ballsy guitar work. They finish tonight’s joyful voyage with the wonderful and stirring sing-a-long Handfuls of Sand and I don’t think I’m alone in failing to hold back a bit of a moist eye. Emotional and brilliant stuff. Made even more creditable given that the right hand channel of the PA was half blown.

AWOLNation*****

Arcane Roots*****

Invaders*****

The Garage, Highbury and Islington

28^th May 2012

Bit weird this one. Tonight is the rescheduled HMV Next Big Thing Showcase after AWOLNation had to drop out of the last one at the last minute, allowing a storming Arcane Roots brilliant impromptu headline set tear everyone’s faces off. So there was a genuine déjà-vu as Invaders kicked things off. I was probably a little harsh on them last time, but tonight they didn’t force me to reappraise things too much.

Invaders*****

To be honest, it was all a bit middling. Mid range sound dynamic. Middlingly okayish songs. Without much construction. Not bad, by any means. Just a bit meh. Karnivool-infused moments were crossed with A Teardrop Explodes pop sensibilities, but, to be honest, their lack of variation and structure within their songs let them down. There were genuinely good bits, but they were joined together by the synth equivalent of burger helper or quorn. Neither satisfying nor exciting. Kind of brown. They ended with their ‘big one’ about satellites and one of my mateys commented wistfully,  ‘why don’t they do more songs like this one?’ Not an earth shattering observation, but true enough.

Arcane Roots*****

So, after Arcane Roots manfully stepped up to the plate last time, would they be able to get themselves up for it all again, albeit in the support slot?

Oh yes.

Unapologetically, I’ve warbled on endlessly about these lads, and if there’s any justice in the world, they’ll scale mighty heights and eventually take over this little blue world. And tonight, they once again did little to disabuse me of my optimism and almost fanboyish enthusiasm. In short, they were brilliant. Precise. Exhilarating. Dynamic. Fierce. And captivating throughout. There was a technical issue when Adam Burton’s bass packed up between tunes, but Andrew Groves and  Daryl Atkins jammed manfully on through an improvised Every Time I Die cover until the bass came back in to kick off an incendiary version of the latest single Habibty which tore every rectum in the house.

A classy performance by a ridiculously classy and presently peerless band. Can’t wait for the new album.

AWOLNation*****

So, onto tonight’s headliners. I’ve never seen AWOLNation before and was intrigued to how they’d bring their recorded quirky, often camp electronica-imbued crossover ramblings to life in a meaningful and convincing way. Well, judging by the line up, guitars were going to be their weapon of choice. They were here to rock. Well, kind of.

A full house of begs, wanabees, acolytes and inquisitive folk here to see if they had any other songs apart from Sail enthusiastically welcomed Aaron Bruno and his synthy-oompah band onto the stage. Encouraging signs.

But, after that it all felt a bit, well, plastic. Yes they rocked their whole sound up considerably from the midi noodlings and samples on their records. But it just felt pretend. Like a sound library collection of’ ‘rock style’ beds. Or the sort of background music that accompanies Neighbours when things are getting raunchy, rebellious or heated. Hair metal. Without the hair. Or the metal. Yes there was energy, a bit of moshing and crowd surfing. Bruno got involved. And the crowd lapped it up. But it all felt a bit lame. Calculated. Forced. A bit like pressing the demo button on a Casio synth.

They ended with the mighty Sail, which, predictably  enough, brought the house down. But I left feeling as though I’d just watched Glee, the musical or a Styx reunion. Neither of which I’d really want to do ever again.

Hundred Reasons*****

Marmozets*****

The Fighting Cocks, Kingston

3^rd June 2012

I get excited. I get excited a lot. I love music. I love gigs. But once in a while, something so ridiculously exciting shows up, the excitement just goes off the measurable scale. Well, that’s how I felt when I heard that Hundred Reasons were going to be playing Banquet’s Big Day Out Festival. So imagine how fucking excited I was when, at the last minute, they announced a secret warm up show at Kingston’s legendary Fighting Cocks the night before.  So, almost shaking with teenage-like expectation I descended the well-trodden, sticky stairs into the stygian gloom of Kingston’s most notable basement.

Marmozets*****

Having seen the Marmozets support Four Year Strong a few months back, I was immediately captivated. So, when I found out the mathy Yorkshire terriers were tonight’s support, the perfect evening got a further dusting of magic.

To an already packed sweat box, The Macintyres and Bottomleys (3 of the former, two, the latter) took to the tiny stage with their maths book to school the assembled bums and ne’erdowells.

And educate they certainly did. The underground math movement is certainly gathering momentum and along with bands like Middlesborough’s fine Rosa Valle and Sheffield’s comparative veterans Rollo Tomassi, Marmozets are leading the revolution. 

Heavily influenced by the mighty math masters The Dillinger Escape Plan, they deconstruct stuff for fun. And with great skill. The polyrythms are infectious, the Uzi-like guitar patterns and jaw-droppingly complex percussion provide a head-spinning and trance-inducing backdrop you fiery young Becca MacIntyre’s screams, yelps, quacks, chants and vocal gymnastics. The older Hundred Reasons crowd were duly impressed, acceptant and joyously enthusiastic. A potentially tough room for such challenging evolutionary music was majestically won over. A stars all round.

Hundred Reasons*****

So, could they be still as good as we all remember? We were going to be treated to the complete and seminal album Ideas Above Our Station.: would it still be as brilliant, as relevant, as bone-shatteringly fantastic as it had been ten years ago?

In short, yes. But yes is too short a word. After Colin and the boys shambled on stage, what followed was nothing short of miraculous. The album (supplemented with three or four later numbers including the playful Harmony and  the brilliant Kill Your Own) was performed with such energy. Such love. Such skill. And such passion. God only knows how hard it must be to keep performing the same songs with the same enthusiasm and verve for so long (even though it’s quite a while since the guys have gigged), but tonight, these magicians took it to ridiculous levels. It was performed as though it was for the very first time. As if their lives and careers depended upon it. Such seminal songs. Such influence. Such import. Classics all. Falter. Silver. If I could.  I’ll Find You. All as fresh as the first time they changed UK music a decade ago.

I always use too many words. A lifelong failing. I blather and bleat, whinge and opine about anything and everything. See? But tonight I am as close to being lost for words as I’ve ever been. Simply unbelievable.

Banquet’s Big Day Out*****

Imber Court, Surrey

4^th June 2012

Right, rather than painstakingly review all the bands I managed to get in front of, I’d rather give a review of the day as a whole. Obviously running the rule over the acts, but going a bit broader.

Firstly, finding the festival was not as easy as I’d hoped - struggling with monster hangover and still buzzing after the Hundred Reasons’ intimate glory fest the night before.  No matter, once I’d actually found where the entrance was, nestled between Margot and Gerry suburban semis in leafy Surrey, a good sized queue had already formed a good hour before things were meant to be kicking off.

A good smattering of scene kids, older heads and every form of life in between were in cheery spirits, helped by the lack of the torrential rain that’d saturated the previous couple of days. Slight gripe was that it took an eternity to clear the entrance procedure. Needs sorting for next year. How hard can it be, exchanging a ticket for a wristband? Anyway, thankfully, that was the last mini-whinge about what was to become a legendary day.

Finally in, I had a good wander around the really neatly appointed arena. Great food outlets. Excellent bars. Two decent sized stages in tents. A tiny acoustic stage. A mini fairground. And the main stage, complete with mini bleachers. It all felt really chilled and there was a definite warm and smiley vibe hanging over the place like a layer of NO2.

So, first pint of scrumpy in hand to compensate for missing Tall Ships (thanks to the laborious entry that I’m obviously not allowed to whinge about.) I slunk over to the main stage where Scholars***** were doing their alt thang in front of a small but enthusiastic 6^th form crowd.

And pretty good they were too. Fairly generic, but big tunes, snappy guitar work and an energetic bounce gave them enough difference to put some room between themselves and the myriad of guitar-based young bands around. One weird thing though – they seemed to have a proper fight during their last number. Now, I might be being a bit of a nob, but it looked real enough. The others with me swore it was all part of the act – I wasn’t sure. Whatever, it was all a tad rum. But they finished the song and hadn’t killed each other.

Next up were Johnny Foreigner***** in a fairly packed Etnies New Slang tent.  Didn’t hit the spot for me. Indie noise pop blandness spiked with Cure-like guitar slides and wahs. Interesting but nowt too new or challenging. Far from joyless, but even bassist Kelly Southern’s vox failed to deliver enough of a point of difference. Crowd seemed to like them though. Well, they weren’t booing.

The boys and girls at Banquet have genuinely curated a brilliant and disparate collection to suit many tastes. And like everything else they do, have done it with aplomb. Not everyone was going to like every band. Or even want to see them. But that makes for a far more interesting festival than a strict genre-specific parade.

So, choosing what and where next is a bit like being at the pick and mix in Woolies. I plumped for a quarter of MC Lars***** on the main stage next. But I’d chosen a rhubarb and custard sherbet. Never keen. Clever? Yup. Entertaining? Definitely. But, apart from his paean to Poe’s The Raven, Rappin’ at My Chamber door, the crowd failed to ignite and it all felt a bit awkward.

Ok, so one definition of insanity is attempting the same thing and expecting a different outcome. Well, the sanity must be waning. I thought I’d go and see The Computers ***** again back in The New Slang big top. Quite why was beyond me. After seeing them with the magnificent ASIWYFA not long ago, I was far from complementary about their muddy scream punk and really didn’t care for them. Since then, they appear to have gained a lot of praise within the biz and garnered interest; so I thought I must be missing something.

I wasn’t. I lasted just two songs. The emperor’s new aaaaaarrrgggghhhh! Yes, their singer/guitarist is a genuinely charismatic natural, entertaining front man. Yes they still dress like greaser cricketers. And yes, they’re still an anachronistic garagey hark back to when it was important not to be able to play instruments properly to be punks. Punk has moved on. This lot haven’t. The pick and mix equivalent to soggy flying saucers. Dipped in gravy. Not my cup of Darjeeling.

Next up are one of the UK’s very, very best. Arcane Roots***** The local(ish) trio take to the main stage in front of a drizzled-upon and vaguely disappointing crowd; but rip into a compact, tight as a tick, high energy and brilliant performance. But, to be honest, their sophistication and musical chicanery is far too high brow and demanding for a mildly pissed and pop-hungry crowd. The sound system is also slightly out of its depth as Andrew Groves’ searing vocals don’t get the clarity they deserve from a long-throw bass bin dominated PA. No matter, the boys are playing a headline show at The Barfly tomorrow, so any slight wrongs will definitely be put right. And I loved it anyway.

The festival is now in full swing. Speciality ciders being quaffed, sweaty mid-afternoon dubstep sessions in tents getting all and sundry into a right tizz, all manner of meaty goodness being consumed and the good time vibe growing accordingly.

So, what better time than to haul out Wheatus *****? The sun broke out. Smiles broke out. Fun broke out. Front man Brendan Brown really enters into the spirit of the day with wonderful, self-effacing, entertaining and funny banter gluing a mish mash set together. Obviously no one really knows any of their schtick apart from Teenage Dirtbag (ok, and maybe the Erasure cover thing), but no matter, the large crowd is in fine form gyrating merrily to the good time vibes. Yup, we got Dirtbag (with MC Lars mooching around on stage as support for Brown) And, yup, everyone joined in dutifully and went suitably nuts. All great fun.

I don’t really get Futures***** Neither fish nor fowl. They manfully attempt to straddle the gaps between rock and pop. Between jangly indie and a slicker, heavier side. I suppose they sit somewhere between Spycatcher and You Me At Six via Canterbury. Nevertheless, they are in fine form this afternoon. Strutting their stuff to an enthusiastic crowd and ending their accomplished if not overly ball-breaking set with their famous one about wolves. Definitely enjoyable all round.

So, after the previous night’s intimate orgasmic sweat fest at The Fighting Cocks, could Hundred Reasons***** get jiggy with it to the same level and seduce a far bigger crowd with the same passion, energy and performance? They certainly drew the largest crowd of the day to the main stage, so the scene was well set for some serious intercourse. One hour later: cut to post coital trembles. Smiles. Dizziness. Total satisfaction. It was magnificent.. Raw, relevant, joyous, uplifting, beautiful and brilliant. 

After teasing us all with the foreplay of three or four of their later works, Larry informs us all that 10 years ago, they recorded this…..goose bumps, lumps in throats and away we went. The whole of Ideas Above Our Station.  The crowd went nuts singing along with just about every word. Even joining in with the riff in Silver. The main event to what was rapidly becoming one of the very best festivals. I was left ragged. Spent. Sated. In a mess. Amazing.

To be honest the rest of the afternoon becomes a bit of a blur from now on in. Not just due to cider and Jagermeister, but my frenzied attempts to catch as many of the acts as possible,

To reflect the breathlessness, here goes a rapid fire appraisal: The Skints***** a packed tent merrily skank away to the indie ska noiseniks. Not really my bag, but I can appreciate what all the recent hype’s been about. Original and infectious.

Judging by the size of the queue at the signing tent, Deaf Havana***** are certainly one of the main attractions of the day. A packed main arena welcomes the East Anglian tyros with knickers fizzing and hearts a fluttering.

Watery late afternoon sunshine casts a golden glow on the golden boys of the teen scene. It’s been fascinating watch these lads mutate from shouty, angry, raw rockers into a much more middle of the road and likeable rocky boy band. The jagged edges have certainly been French polished, the sound softened but not neutered. And the addition of charming and charismatic front man James Veck Gilodi’s younger bro as a third guitarist has fleshed out the live sound.

They’re what the naughty side of One Direction yearn to be. While moving further and further from their heavier roots (interesting to see how they go down at Hevy Fest later this summer!), they still pack a punch and Veck Gilodi’s brilliant and heartfelt lyrics and powerful vocal delivery set them apart from so many of the post hardcore, pop punk and scene bands traipsing up and down the country in sweaty vans from toilet venue to toilet venue. The fangirls certainly agree and provide a mini RockChoir accompaniment to every song. Word for word. Great stuff. If not a little toothless. The set. Not the fangirls.

Next up, Neville Staple***1/2** and even more enthusiastic crowd of skankers, steppers and stoners rammed into the New Slang Tent to join in with a two-tone tinged party. I’m sure most of the assembled smiling loons were equally as ignorant of much of big Nev’s work outside The Specials, but A Message To You Rudy was unsurprisingly the number that blew the roof off.

The good time vibe of the whole day has been maintained throughout and the boys and girls at Banquet must be delighted. The rain has pretty much stayed away. The crowds (while not massive) seemed to be in the finest of spirits even managing to conjour up a mass game of pissed rugby. Which seemed like a good idea at the time. Ow.

To bring what has been a brilliant day to a close, I hobble back to the main stage for the baby Lost Prophets, sorry, Kids in Glass Houses***1/2** Benefiting from the fading light, the pyro and light show add to the closing spectacle and they steam through a lively, loud and catchy set. Which like a chocolate mousse at the end of a groaning 22 course meal is greedily shoveled down the gullets of the writhing, partying crowd. A bit sickly sweet and frothy for my tastes, but kind of tasty nonetheless.

I really hope this festival becomes a regular event. Everything about it oozed passion, class, care and commitment. Which is no more than you’d expect from the good folk at Banquet. The vibe throughout the day was amazing. The curation beautifully balanced with something for everybody. A genuine pleasure and a privilege to have been there. Can’t wait for next year.

Arcane Roots*****

Hawkeyes *****

A Plastic Rose *****

The Barfly, Camden

5^th June 2012

As part of the Kerrang! Awards celebrations, some of Britain’s very best talent is being showcased across London this week. The mighty Skindred and  amazing Architects among others. But the choice was made easy for me, any of you who’ve read any of my burblings will know how much I rate Arcane Roots. So much so, I’ve almost become some sort of simpering stalker. So I’ll try and keep a lid on my bias.

A Plastic Rose *****

The Barfly is definitely my favourite London venue and it’s pretty much packed to the brim this evening. First on the tasting menu, Ulster’s very own A Plastic Rose. A ramshackle band with far from a ramshackle sound. A tad cruelly maybe,  but I can’t stop thinking of them as a steroidal Snow Patrol.  Good tunes. Neat harmonies. A big sound. Like. Rather a lot.

Hawk Eyes*****

To follow…Hawk Eyes. I wasn’t expecting what came out of this lot. Jeez. A huge noise. Big arsed riffs. Hints of old school. Really old school.  A definite underlying hint of New Wave Of British Heavy Metal from the early eighties. Think Vardis, Angelwitch, Fist but with very much a contemporary lick of paint complete with dropped tunings, combinations of more screamy, growly and genuine raw vocal power served on a bed of blast beats. 

There were huge atonal rhythmic reveries stitched to delicious discordant sections and some truly interesting harmonic and melodic experimentation and even Adam And The Ants drummingI Poncey stuff aside, it was loud, gutsy, ballsy and, despite obvious nostalgic influences (there was even what looked like a Gibson Explorer being spanked), fresh and exciting. 
I loved it.

Arcane Roots*****

I said I’d keep my awkward fanboy bias to a minimum. But tonight, this lot truly tested my ability to be dispassionate. A blitzkrieg set of mind-frying, spine-tingling, heart-melting intensity served up with delicious light and shade completely blows the, what sports commentators would call a ‘knowledgeable’ crowd away. Three or four brilliant new songs dovetail seamlessly into the already astonishing collection of original, sophisticated, funky, technical, heavy, and brain-exploding bombast. Andrew Groves’ amazing vocal range, as always, cuts through the complexity and rhythmically mind-blowing assault. There are genuine moments of fragile beauty sandwiched in between the fierceness and ferocity. Beautiful contrasts. Brilliant constructions. All-in-all, tonight is yet another triumph on their inevitable passage to the very top.

Polar *****

Palmreader ***1/2**

Real Adventures *****

Deadlights ***1/2**

The Boiler Room Guildford

18^th June 2012

Popping my Boiler Room cherry tonight. A pleasure to be at such a legendary venue. Made even more pleasurable by the great bill. All locally grown, tonight’s show is a homecoming celebration of Polar’s jaw-dropping debut long player, Iron Lungs and they’ve brought a load of buddies with them to celebrate.

Deadlights ***1/2**

First on are relative newcomers Deadlights. The local four piece serve up a predominantly instrumental post-rock appetizer spiced up with occasional Mastodonesque growls and proggy flavourings. Very much in the vein of the magical Maybeshewill, they captivate a fairly hardcore crowd with genuinely hypnotic and head-nodding pleasantness. Tasty stuff.

Real Adventures *****

There’s an air of genuine panic around the rapidly filling Boiler Room as rascals of the Pop Hunk scene get close to kick off. The reason? Their bass player Mitch is breaking Donald Campbell’s land speed record in a Ford Ka on the A3 trying to get to the gig on time. No soundcheck, no pre-show relaxing cocktails here. But there are sighs of relief all round as he arrives with seconds to spare.

Visibly a bit shaken, the 5 piece take to the stage and light the blue touch paper. They go on to deliver a ritual savage buggering to Surrey’s great and good.

Real Adventures defy genres. They like pop punk. But are neither genuinely punky or, thankfully poppy. They deal in complex riffs, spiraling cadenzas and meaty chuggy bits all fused with a joyous energy and bounce. Louis Reynolds gruff and aggressive canine barks unsettle and cajole the audience in equal measure. As usual, he delivers most of his Rottweileresque sermon from among the crowd, throwing himself around like a possessed bantamweight with St Vitus dance.

There’s cleary the odd sound problem on stage and the tightness is a quantizable 1/100 of a beat off in places, but it doesn’t matter a damn. They’re original, feisty, fun and engaging. They air one or two new tunes tonight and from first listening, they’re worthy bed fellows to the infectious Do You Ever Wish You Could Breathe Under Water and the hymn to pop punk hardcore crowds If This Is Living, You’re  Better Off Dead.

My only slight craving is for the odd tempo change now and again. Not in an indulgent prog or showy-offy math way, but a breakdown or beatdown here and there would add a little more variety and dynamic. Just a thought. But all round great stuff. Even when most of them took their shirts off and it bordered on becoming a Chippendales show. #nohomo

Palm Reader*****

Alex Baker over at K! Radio has been banging on about this lot for a wee while now, so I was intrigued to see if they lived up to his normally impeccable recommendations. And I wasn’t disappointed.

The theatrical performance elements certainly moved things up a notch from Real Adventures more traditional heads down, see you at the end approach. They were running intricate patterns all over the tiny stage. Reminiscent of the incomparable Dillinger Escape Plan – a comparison made easier by guitarist Sam Rondeau-Smith’s cut-off sleeve tshirt in the stylee of DEP’s Mr Tuttle.

The set was rowdy, sweaty, full-on and relentless.  The crowd became more animated with crowd surfers and hardcore dancers turning the place into what looked like one of those computer generated animations of the inside of a Philips Whirlpool washing machine. I must confess, I don’t know their stuff intimately, so most of their set was falling on my fat old ears for the first time. But I generally liked what I heard. Not dissimilar to Polar in many ways but with certainly enough difference to create their own space alongside tonight’s headliners. All good.

Polar ****1/2*

So, to the main event. The Boiler Room is by now rammed with 2-300 expectant and well warmed up souls. And, similarly to the change up between Real Adventures and Palm Reader, more notches were turned up as the local noisy bastards strode into their explosive set. The lightshow is turned up. The volume nudged round to 11. The crowd abandoned the garden and squeezed in to every available spot. This is some homecoming.

Adam Woodford’s trademark bulging eyes and manic, focused delivery show how much this show means. From the kick off, he’s on his A game. Surfing the crowd. Walking on the ceiling. Throwing his sweaty torso around with complete abandon. His bandmates ably support and get wholeheartedly involved. There is a controlled mayhem. And there’s the kicker. The control. They produce a right old din alright, but it’s delivered precisely and scientifically. Not clinically or contrived, just tight and surgically accurate.

The album is given a working over with old favourites sprinkled on top.

The energy is infectious. The enjoyment contagious. A noisy, precise, brutal and passionate display which leaves the crowd drained and satiated. Magnificent stuff. Expect bigger and better things from these, the nicest of anti-social noisy bastards.

Don Broco ****1/2*

St Pancras Station 
June 14th 2012

Before I disappear, here's a little snack. Went to see the rising ladcore stars Don Broco doing their acoustic thang among the commuters. Great fun. Great music. Great vibe. All new songs off the much anticipated new album Priorities. Fancy Dress, Yeah Man and Actors all sound as they're going to be major tunes to sit alongside the enormous title track. 

There were even bras chucked at Bobby Damage and he then led the crowd into an impromptu conga around the station. Proof, as if it were needed, that this lot are going to get bigger, bouncier and become guaranteed crowd pleasers whether they're playing acoustically or cranking it up and melting faces. Watch this space. The year of The Broco indeed.

More tunes soon, Bwooooar!

To finish, here are some vids of the above. Mixed quality, but all good.

Circles of influence - Russian Circles and Deaf Heaven Live at The Scala review

Russian Circles*****

Deaf Heaven *****

Astrohenge *****

The Scala

30^th April 2012

Beards. Loads of beards. Plaid. More plaid. Another beard. With plaid. The hippest looking crowd I’ve seen in a while are out in force tonight. There’s definitely more than a Sailor Jerry soaked whiff of industry in the house. And a packed house. Even for the first band.

Astrohenge *****

Don’t know where to start. But I’m not sure if I should have started at all. A kind of uncomfortable mélange of Ozric Tentacles, The Damned, Chas And Dave, Les Dawson, Vadis and Bullet for My Valentine boiled up and served on a bed of wilting King Kurt with a Messhugah coulis. At least that’s what I think it sounded like. 

Zucchini ice cream anyone? 

Instrumental meanderings with chunky, chuggy (apologies to Johnny Doom) guitars. No bass. A keyboard player in a pork pie hat with the gloriously silly name of Dr Oliver Weekes noodling, banging, modulating and hammering away like a four year old with a sugar rush on a Bontempi. And a crazy-arsed possessed drummer. 

Really couldn’t get to grips with it. They looked as though they were having fun though. And a lot of the strong beards in the throng did too. Nodding approval and whooping where required. 

Didn’t hate them. Certainly didn’t love them. The variety and bizarre ingredients just didn’t seem to work. A bit like a bucket of mint choc ice cream mixed with courgettes and pickled onion Monster Munch. 

Rum. Very rum.

Deaf Heaven*****

Even more beards have crammed into the sweaty shoebox and a full, beautiful, complex soundscape seduces the hipsters and hangers-on. Layers, textures, polyrhythms and a cataract of cascading guitars weave a magical air of expectancy.

There’s even Brandon Flowers-a-like lead singer sporting a jaunty Shoreditch fringe and a strong beard swaying and getting into the vibe. Man. Then as the drummer cues, he wanders up to the mic and Gaaaaarrrrrrr.. More gaaarrrrrrrrr. Then some more gaaaarrrrrrrr. Gotta say, wasn’t expecting it. And, to be brutally honest, wasn’t digging it. I love a good bit of screaming. As an underline. To make a point. A neon highlight. Dramatic exaggeration. Anger. Bile. Vitriol. Raw emotion. But this was, well, meh.

Greg Puciato. Eva Spence. Andrew Groves. Steve Sitkowski. Sam Carter and their ilk are masters of it. Even Corey Taylor gets it right occasionally. But tonight, the dapper, achingly cool and Charismatic George Clark just turned into a fucking annoying wasp interrupting a lovely pint of delicious summer cider. Just as you keep delighting in the complex and satisfying beauty of your drink, the bloody thing starts buzzing in your face and ruining the whole experience. His screaming is so one dimensional and lacking any nuance or range, it becomes tedious. And wearing. Like a distant wailing teenager repeating the same monotonic whinge. With all the passion, edge, violence and bombast of a hedge trimmer. Having seen monsieur Puciato put on a near perfect demonstration of the art with the mighty DEP last week, Clark’s attempts are laughable and futile by comparison. Shame. And a let-down to the rest of the very creditable band. Awkward conversation needed.

Russian Circles*****

So, after wasp-interrupted beverage, what would Russian Circles serve up?

An intoxicating, heady mix of post-metal, shoegazing complexity, full flavoured brilliance, subtlety, beauty, brutality. Mesmerising, hypnotising heaviness, luscious layers and loops, full bodied, big arsed riffs, runs and delicious drops. And drums that describe riffs. Seriously. Riffs played on the drums.That’s fucking what.

I’ve not watched a gig with my eyes closed since an Afghan-black hampered Hawkwind gig in Chelmsford over 20 years ago, but tonight, I couldn’t do anything else. Aided by no lightshow whatsoever (initially a major disappointment, as shows are meant to be just that, shows – but soon forgiven as I slowly ‘got it’) I got totally and utterly lost in the moment. Gloriously long and complex passages lulled and caressed my genitals, then thunderous climaxes and drops kicked me squarely on the bellend. This was a non-chemical aided dreamy journey with drama, danger, ecstasy and explosions on the way. The so sadly late, lamented Oceansize are the only band that have come as close to engendering such a hazy reverie. But tonight, I reached a new level of escape. I came out of the Scala feeling like I’d just been swimming in bong water for two hours. Totally numbed. Totally seduced. Totally lost. Totally torn a new one. Wow.

This is what I smoked:

 Carpe 


 Harper Lewis 


309 


Geneva 


Batu 


Youngblood 


Mladek 


Death Rides A Horse


Here's a vid of Harper Lewis from the night:

Boom.


Before I go, as a very sad post script, I must just mention that Fei Comodo have announced they're calling it a day. A truly fresh, original and talented young British band. They will be sadly missed. I just want to wish Marc and the boys all the best with future endeavours. And thanks for some great tunes lads. I'll be there at their final London gig in July with a lump in my old throat I'm sure.

More tunes soon. Bwoooar!

Loads of Live. From Enter Shikari to Skindred, Charlene Soraia, Dillinger and Hold Your Horse Is

Hold Your Horse Is Axis Of More Than Conquerors Young Guns Enter Shikari Therapy? Skindred Charlene Soraia Three Trapped Tigers The Dillinger Escape Plan

I’ve fallen so far behind preparing my dribbly word gobs on the world of live rock and roll. But I thought I ought to get some burblings down on some of the recent shows I’ve dragged my aching carcass to.

I’ll try and be brief as there’s quite a lot to get through.

Hold Your Horse Is *****
Axis Of ***1/2**
More Than Conquerors *****

The Old Blue Last, Shoreditch

28th February

Right, first up a cracking show at The Old Blue Last. The fabulous Hold Your Horse Is, (another one of BSM’s genius menagerie) are the headline act. Aided and abetted by Axis Of and supposedly the raw, arse-kicking pop hunk scoundrels Real Adventures. But Dom their chief banjo plucker had an attack of the vapours, had mislaid his prescribed dose of Man Up and decided to stay at home with a box set of Downton Abbey and a box of mint Matchmakers. So first up, were late additions to the bill, Belfast’s More Than Conquerors (a circumstance of happy coincidence, abandoned, scuppered vans, midnight dashes to Scotland for ferries and all sorts of woe).

More Than Conquerors *****

The young fellas took to the stage and took the roof off. Crackling stuff, at times reminiscent of early Weezer and Biffy spiced up with quasi-mathy interjections worthy of Rosa Valle or Marmozets (at their least bamboozling). Short, punchy, catchy and ultimately tasty hors d’ouevres greedily grabbed off the waitress’s tray enthusiastically by the already thronging Shoreditch denizens.

Oh, and they ended with a drummy face-off duetty thing. Which was rather splendid.

Axis Of ***1/2**

Sorry, completely failing on the keeping it brief. I’ll try and stop being such a waffling dick. Next up are Axis Of. A weird blend of Celtic Ceilidh infusions and balls-out alt hardcore-ish rocky energy. I’m being a bit harsh, but the vocalist wasn’t the very best. But no matter really, the overall effect was a bouncy, riffy assault on the senses. I think they even threw in a great fun Pantera cover served with jaunty Gallic jus somewhere among the mathy mélange.

There are definite similarities with the incredible ASIWYFA (which after chatting with Niall the singer afterwards and finding out his brother’s in ASIWYFA is not as surprising or as coincidental as it might have been– although Niall did cheekily contend ASIWYFA were the plagiarists rather than the plagiarised.)

A great band with a great energy and presence. Surely a really strong festival act.

Hold Your Horse Is *****

So, after a wee while away from gigs and generally being out and about, it was time for the main act to kick us all in the danglers. Oh, and they did.

By now, the packed house was quivering like a fat man getting towards the front of the queue for a donut stand. And they were going to be given a massive dose of deep fried brilliance oozing with class, substance and joy.

The trio kick off with a new one (I believe called Mumbler) which sets the scene for the evening’s delicious fare. Fabulous throughout. Edgy. Discomforting. Precise. Dynamic. There are even classical nods, spine-tingling  Mahleresque chord descensions married with brutal, scalpel sharp anti-aircraft fire percussive attacks. It’s all so bloody tight. But not clinical. Complex but not contrived. This is grown up music. But delivered with a youthful exuberance. My only minor criticism would be tonight’s sets apparent lack of pace change. Most the set is full tilt pelvic fuckarsing without any dark, slow penetrative thrusting. That said, it definitely interfered with my G spot (have blokes got a G spot?) and I absolutely loved it.

HYHI are impossible to categorise but (lame Biffy comparisons aside) they conjour up Sabbath-like progressions, Refused-tinged aggression married to snappy Hives or even a Jam vibe. There’s a polyrhythmic thread which is reminiscent of the amazing Arcane Roots, an indie swagger and, at times, a proggy undercurrent. Equally as impossible to pigeonhole as to dislike.

The show ended with drummer Chris Rouse dismantling and rebuilding his kit on the floor of the room while guitarist Robin Pearson writhed around on the deck while not missing a hemi-demi-semi quaver. All as James Perry, the bassist was left on his tod on stage surveying the orgiastic hubbub below. Brilliant stuff.

Enter Shikari *****
Young Guns *****
HMV Apollo, Hammersmith23rd March

Ok, I admit it, I succumbed to the pleasures of a fine Argentinian Malbec  while overlooking a shimmering Father Thames  rather than get involved with the always thrilling Tek One. I did however managed to get my quaffing complete in time to catch Young Guns.

Young Guns *****

I must admit, I don’t really get the extra ‘noise’ this lot appear to be making in a fairly competitive area of the industry at the mo. Bands like KIGH, YMA6, Deaf Havana and The Blackout are all churning out great, bouncy, radio-friendly (well, mostly) material as the latest successors to the likes of Lost Prophets and Funeral For A Friend, but I constantly hear that this lot are supposed to be doing something more magical.

By the size of the assembled scene army and the empty WKD and Cider bottles outside the venerable old Odeon, there were at least 3,500 who concurred with the general word on the street. But I still don’t get it.

Don’t get me wrong, they’re good. Very good. Good stage craft. Catchy and well constructed tunes. But am I missing something? There’s nothing dazzlingly original here. Is there? Bones is the best number on show tonight. Catchy, classy, ballsy and big. But the whole experience left me feeling a little let down after all the industry hype. The fact that one of their Big light-bulb festooned YG logos flickered and faltered during the set pretty much summed it up for me. All good, but not quite as dazzling as I’d hoped.

Enter Shikari *****

Right, those of you unfortunate enough to have regularly read any of my rambling word wrongs, must be aware of my love for the St Alban’s miscreants and rascals Enter Shikari. I’ve followed them since they were barely more than a zygote floating around in sweaty amniotic fluid of scout huts and front rooms. It is therefore with immense pride and, of course, the attendant prejudice that I’m lucky enough to be crammed in among tonight’s sell out crowd at the venerable old Hammersmith Odeon (Insert current sponsor name and Apollo).

Having been forced to miss the recent Bull And Gate intimate fisting session I needed compensation. Was tonight going to offer me adequate restitution?

Just a bit. Seldom lost for words, tonight’s show rendered me as near to dumbstruck as I’ve ever been. So, I’m going to try and sum up the complete tour de force in 50 words:

Spectacular. Visceral. Explosive. Energetic. Sweaty. Violating. Unsettling. Crazy. Incendiary. Joyous. Sonne. Lumiere. Assault. Wobbery. Smiles. Anger. Adoration. Adulation. Insane. Thought-provoking. Agit. Fisted. Tumultuous. Dynamic. Incomparable. Original. Sexy. Vulnerable. Magnificent. Loud. Blistering. Coruscating. Fresh. Relevant. Heavy. Venomous. Optimistic. Emotional. Seductive. Brutal. Mesmerising. Faultless. Gauche. Awkward. Confident. Superheated. Radioactive. Amazing. Fucking. Amazing.

Put simply the most vibrant, original, exciting and brilliant live band on earth. Astonishing.

Skindred *****
Therapy? *1/2***

The O2 Academy, Brixton

13the April

A sold out Brixton Academy show is always a heart-warming prospect. Throw in Britain’s best front man and his joyous feel-good party starters and it’s about as good as it gets.

But, before we get onto the main course, what about the appetizers?

Black Spiders? Meh. Couldn’t be arsed. Missed The Defiled. Sorry.

Therapy? *1/2***

Therapy? Don’t get me started. Quite why they’re on the bill is beyond me. I’m all for diversity, range and contrast, but sadly, Andy Cairns and the boys were out of their depth this evening. Anachronistic, uncomfortable and pretty much unlistenable. And I can’t even blame the legendary murky shite-sound that Brixtaaan normally churns out. I’d stop short in saying embarrassing, but, regrettably not far short.

Therapy? Have always been an interesting proposition. Punky in attitude and pub rock in DNA with heavier and technical chromosomes coding a complex, oft original and even groundbreaking mischief. My collection proudly boasts a good collection of their oeuvre. But, unlike Killing Joke and Per Ubu, they’ve always mysteriously fallen short of the art house nostalgic cool that propagates forgiveness and fondness from dewy-eyed left-leaning old hacks and beardies. Nope, tonight Matthew, they were no good.

Skindred *****

Lights down. Crowd now fully ensconced. AC/DC booming out through the towers. A mass of expectant bodies baying for the main fix. Then the Darth Vader tune thing from Star Wars cranks things up a level. And on walk Benji and the boys. An over 18s mainly male crowd has seldom sounded so much  like a pre-pubescent YMA6, fizzy-knickered throng. Must be the Jager. But fever pitch moves up a notch and we’re off.

Mr Webbe orchestrates proceedings consummately. The band look as though they’re loving it. And it’s infectious. As always. 

The raggabastardreggaetoastingmetalhardcoredancedubcore boys are back in town. The back catalogue is ransacked, so Trouble, Destroy the Dancefloor, Pressure, Nobody and Rat Race are all served up accompanied by more recent concoctions from the last brilliant long player Union Black including Cut Dem and the sultry Doom Riff.

The energy never wanes. Benji is brilliant. The band are brilliant. Mikey’s riff magicianship and effortless bombast is brilliant. There’s even snippets of Slayer and AC/DC thrown in as a paean to the heavier side along with a cracking remix of Duality while we’re waiting for Benji to change his togs. The crowd are brilliant. The pits are brilliant. The sound, well, not so brilliant, but it is Brixtaan and who really gives a shit. It’s just brilliant. Skindred should definitely be on every single person’s bucket list. They are like nobody else.

Yup, it's a crutch.

Finally, Benji (after a costume change now in white fur and regal red– get him, Mr Ga Ga!) gets the whole floor to turn their t-shirts, bras, vests, tweed breeches and windcheaters into whirling helicopter rotors for the crackling closer Warning (In which Mikey D admirably takes on the Jacoby Shaddix singing duties). What a show. What a showman Brilliant.

Charlene Soraia *****

The Union Chapel

25th April

Can’t be many places where there’s a review of raggabastardreggaetoastingmetalhardcoredancedubcore juxtaposed with shimmering, beautiful, heartfelt and naked gorgeousness. Well, here goes.

I first caught Charlene Soraia supporting Fink last year and was instantly captivated and lovestruck. With the music. And her ability. Obviously. (Even though Ms Soraia clearly missed out when they were administering beatings with the ugly branch – and to suggest that she might make a middle-aged man’s ventricles work more than a little harder would be inappropriate. And a bit pervy. Clearly). Anyway, that night, she cut a gauche, vulnerable and open-hearted lone figure perched in a church. Tonight, the same. But with two blokes called Dan. Adding bass and drums to support Charlene’s mesmerizing playing and gymnastically fluid and flexible vocal nectar.

Another reason for being in love with Ms S (apart from her guitar prowess and lovely voice box, just to clarify, just in case any significant other or lawyer may be reading) is her wonderful manner. Kooky, but clearly savagely funny and delightfully engaging banter between her wonderful songs makes the whole experience even more heart-melting.

The Dans certainly add backbone and a more than a bit of oomph to her offering and provide a rich counterpoint to her whimsical and engaging delivery without stamping all over it or turning things a bit Radio 2.

She is a fabulous guitarist and ridiculously versatile too. Tapping, hammering, sweeping, riffs, jazzy progressions and tantalizing pops and harmonics with delicious arpeggios all add beautiful depth to an already sumptuous and snuggly quilt. She plays mandolin and milks true originality out of her baritone guitar (although on Animal, the Dan’s were probably ‘one’ too loud and mildly obfuscated her entrancing playing).

Throughout, her voice is just to die for. So pure. So spine-dissolving. So beautiful. The super upper register Riperton-esque feline meows would melt even the flintiest, most curmudgeonly of hearts.

There were new songs on offer tonight including the gorgeous Broken. Established faves  Rowing, Postcards from IO, When We were Five and Bike all made appearances, but sadly no Lemonade. Still, can't have it all. It was probably made up for by the wonderfully naughty Does She Fake Her Cumface?

Ok, we’ve got this far without mentioning the Tea thing, but she does give it a magnificent airing backed with a John Martyn-esque, quarter of Lebanese red-fuelled soundscape of wombs (nice noise, not baby waiting room) and whahhs. All controlled on a waist-high pedal board with which she twiddles and tweaks throughout the song without missing a precious and perfect note. The spirit of Small Hours invoked as a magical backdrop to her equally magical mellifluousness.

By the time she reluctantly, wonderfully endearingly and awkwardly wanders back on to stage for her encore, I have fallen even deeper in love. Ahem, <shuffles nervously looking down at shoes> Her playing and singing you understand. Swoon. Can’t wait for the next date. Er, gig.

From the sublime…

The Dillinger Escape Plan*****
Three Trapped Tigers*****

The Relentless Garage

26th April

A bit like my unexplained and somewhat irrational love for Enter Shikari, I have a similar tryst with the unfathomably bewildering, nihilistic and murky mind rapists The Dillinger Escape Plan.

The night after having my heart stolen again by Charlene Soraia, I prepared to have it cut out, trampled on, covered in grit and razor blades and shoved back up my arse by an aggressive, ripped prison warder. And that’s exactly what happened. Well, not exactly. Clearly.

Three Trapped Tigers *****

First up were Three Trapped Tigers. Keyboards. A guitar. Drummer. What could possibly go right? Well, after 40 minutes or so of mind-melting electronica-infused post noise math rock, tecchy, instrumental wizardy, everything.

A complete surprise. And a welcomed one at that. Shamefully, I know little about these lads apart from they’re a trio from London made up of Tom, Adam and Matt. And they’re bloody amazing. 

The drummer (Adam) seems to be the main organiser. He perches centre stage and like Zeus, issues percussive lighting bolts in every direction. Supported by power riffs, farts, burps, bangs, booms and explosive walls of noise provided by guitar and keys or two lots of keys and electronic boxes of buttons. There are elements of other post/noise rock evident, Maybeshewill, You Slut! and Brontide could all sit happily on the same wine region shelf. But there’s a sparkling originality here too. Great stuff. Definitely need to see them again and would urge folk to do the same.

Right. Brace position adopted. Read the safety card. Heart racing. Scared shitless. 


Let’s do this.

The Dillinger Escape Plan *****

The Garage is rammed to its arched ceiling. Beards, plaid, ‘character’ specs (are they mad? A Dillinger gig. In specs?), hardcore johnnies in their snap backs, metal heads, heads, stoners, hipsters, ink-covered ne’erdowells, muscles; in fact the back streets and underground are pretty much fully represented and all salivating wildly like a pack of feral, rabid dogs.

Then it goes off. No one in the world does it like DEP. No one. In fact, no one comes close. Yes, there are hardcore pretenders and contenders, but compared to this lot even Converge look like Girls Aloud. The aggression. The energy. The apparent malevolence. Just looking into the deranged eyes of Greg Puciato with his gym-honed, nuclear ripped, bulging veins spells out the intention. They are here to melt faces. To rip balls off. To kill. And with such sweet and irresistible weapons.

The precision with which these boys administer their punishment is micro surgeon-like. Intricate, impossible riffs and runs. In scales that haven’t even been invented yet. Syncopated bomb bursts. Time signatures that interfere with the biochemistry of the human condition.

Wilson. Laser eyes set to kill

Billy Rymer’s mathematically unfeasible and improbable percussive algoryhytms eviscerate and violate. And, as always Ben Weinman and Jeff Tuttle’s impolitely murderous guitar work drops jaws, evacuates bowels and sets fire to visages.  But Tonight, Mr Liam Beardy Bastard Wilson is revealed as the true evil genius. His bass playing is other worldly. Ridiculous. Ok, he’s not Mark King or the ludicrous Henrik Linder of Dirty Loops (check this out ), but he is a wizard. An evil fucking wizard with murder on his mind. He fuses the whole thing together down to the tiniest sub-atomic particle of every perfectly timed note. Like some nightmarish version of Gandalf armed with his jauntily worn bass bazooka – he’s here to take names. And souls.

Danté? Pah!

The crowd is reduced to a ridiculous, sinful writhing mass of humanity. A constant conveyor belt of contorted, wretched souls. Stage diving? Nah, for pussies, this is stage suicide. Stage kamikaze. Leaping, running, bombing and torpedoing. Greg dive bombs into the pit from atop the massive chain-suspended, swinging rig. Ben runs into the crowd still playing his alien scales without missing an impossible fret position. During Sunshine and The Werewolf, Puciato invites the assembled perishing souls onto the stage. The drum kit gets a makeover, temporarily disrupting Rymer’s artillery fire. There’s a general feeling of fuck the world. It’s amazing. This, my friends it what the inside of a fucked up madman’s head looks like. And it’s joyous. Nihilistic escapism. An antidote for every manufactured and anodyne, autotuned abortion that we’re up to our sorry knees in on a daily basis. Or maybe it’s what the inside of God’s head looks like.

But, hadean comparisons aside for a moment. There’s genuine import here. Serious musical statements. Stockhausen, Stravinsky and Schoenberg have all been represented here tonight. Dissembling the notions of harmony, structure, rhythm and form is not new. But it’s important it keeps getting tested. Pushed. Reinvented. Rewired. Reframed.

It’s tantalising to imagine what it must have been like at the premier of Stravinksky’s The Rite Of Spring. How uncomfortable. Bewildering. And how fucking important. That’s how I like to think about this horrible lot.

Bernstein said of the Stravinky’s masterpiece,  “it's got the best dissonances anyone ever thought up, and the best asymmetries and polytonalities and polyrhythms and whatever else you care to name."

He could have been talking about tonight.

I’m exhausted. Spent. Defiled. Sated. Amazed. Stunned. Uplifted. Fucked.

Here’s the setlist.

Panasonic Youth 


Milk Lizard 


Room Full of Eyes 


43% Burnt 


Gold Teeth on a Bum 


Black Bubblegum 


Hollywood Squares 


Weekend Sex Change 


Sugar Coated Sour 


Fix Your Face 


Good Neighbor 


Setting Fire to Sleeping Giants 


Sunshine the Werewolf 


Farewell, Mona Lisa

Russian Circles next.

More tunes soon. Bwoooar!