Work Those Guns - This Town Needs Guns Live Review

This Town Needs Guns *****

The Bronze Medal ***1/2**

Polio *****

The Borderline,  2^nd November 2012

Polio *****

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

The Bronze Medal ***1/2**

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

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

Plaid? Check.

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

This Town Needs Guns *****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deaf Havana’s sold out Shepherds Bush show next.

More tunes soon. Bwoooar!

Dry Roots. Dry The River and Arcane Roots live review

Dry The River *1/2****

Arcane Roots ****1/2*

O2 Academy Shepherds Bush

 1^st November 2012

Bizarre one this. The screwball pairing of two hugely disparate bands. Both undeniably at the top, or at least well on the way to the top, of their respective games. One blitzkrieg, fireball busting with energy, vigour, thrust, polythrythms, riff bombs, complexity, nuance, vitality and originality. And the other a kind of crusty new country orchestra.

Arcane Roots ****1/2*

A half decent crowd had gathered by the time Arcane Roots took to the stage in what must be one of their biggest shows to date in terms of hall size at least. And they looked so at home it can only be a matter of time before they are regularly owning spaces this size and beyond.

However, once primed, the banging opening number leaves most of the crowd looking a tad bewildered. The jumpers, beards, sandals, sensible outdoor wear and hurredly hidden accountant’s garbed commune didn’t really know what to make of Mssrs Groves, Burton and Atkins. There were no mandolins, pianos, softly whispered, whistful prairie oratorios. Oh no. Just a fully erect, brutal, vein-bulging priapic throbber here; with the sole intent to violate.

The PA was, predictably choked back in the traditional pantomime ‘let’s not give the noisy support band too much help’ way and Burton’s atmospheric and supportive vocal screams, drones and harmonies were too high in the mix...

BUT

...it didn’t matter one iota. These boys ooze class. Their stagecraft is as lively, boisterous and energetic as their barrages of riffs, explosions and phenomenal musicianship. We are in the presence of superstars of the future. Doubtlessly.

Groves’s amazing voice cuts wonderfully over the dizzying patchwork of rhythms, beats, classically complex and gloriously complex yet spellbinding concoctions and compositions. There are samples of tasty new tuneage including the massive and brilliant Resolve and the instantly epic and anthemic Hell Or Highwater to accompany the mesmerising platter served from the astonishing debut mini long player ep thing, Left Fire. And, by the sound of it, a shift towards a slightly more melodic and dare I say commercially accessible flavour. Which seems to warm up the amassed MOR congregtion.

If you listen closely, you can hear the syncopated tightening of Dry The River’s collective quaking ringpieces back stage as they ponder, ‘What have we done? How the hell are we going to follow this?”. Well, they start by three or four of their number joining the Roots boys on stage for the always rousing and sublime Long And Low. Which brings the house down. Even the North Face wearing foldy bicycle-owning sensible crowd actually raised eyebrows, voices and spirits by joining in with the addictive refrain.

A stunning performance from a truly original and stunning band. Over to the quakers....

Dry The River *1/2****

I’ll be brief.  Meh.

I’m struggling so hard with this. I’ve banged around the acoustic, folky scene for decades. Fallen asleep in Fairport Convention gigs (without even THC to blame). Been mesmerized by Richard Thomson. Seen John Martyn cast schmoove celestial spells close to 50 times. Sat in fields in Cherry Hinton watching jug bands and be assaulted by more mandolins than at a Lord Of The Rings pageant. What I’m trying to say, is that the whole ‘folky’ melodic, er, ‘nice’ thing is in my blood and happily cohabits in my being alongside rock and roll, jazz, experimental (though there are limits – Holger Czukay, you know who you are!) classical and punky metally noisy stuff.

But I’ve never been so bored in a gig. Never. Ok, Hawkwind at Chelmsford City Hall back in 1981 came close, but tonight Matthew, I’m bored, bored, bored.

Having happily consumed Dry The River’s solid if not dazzling album Shallow Bed, I was expecting some sort of alchemic pep-up for their live renditions. But it’s more painful than even Steely Dan live. What the assembled jumpers are treated to is a dot-for-dot, note perfect anodyne and sterile run through of the recorded work. Yes there’s obviously the odd diversion, including a brave ‘un-plugged’ version of Shaker Hymns, but overall, it lacks any oomph. A just of flaccid 40% lazy lob. No use to anyone but looks better than when at rest or coming out of a chilly shower.

They are a kind of boiled down prissy UK version of Arcade Fire with grains of the (inevitable comparison alert) ditty meisters Mumford and Sons thrown in for pastoral prog contemporaneity and hipster relevance. They are clearly wonderful, passionate musicians and Pete Liddle’s almost whispy alto is at times undeniably beautiful. But I really don’t get it.

The gathered faithful full house do though. With almost a religious fervour. At times, it’s like being at Greenbelt Festival or a Cliff Richard spectacular. Lots of Go Tell It On The Mountain happy clappy whoopy hollery love.

Not for me though. Sadly. Bored.

The amazing This Town Needs Guns next.

More tunes soon. Bwoooar. 

Math the way to do it. Rolo Tomassi live review London XOYO

Rolo Tomassi ****1/2*

Oathbreaker *****

Good Time Boys *****

XOYO Shoreditch 31^st October

So many trendies. Movers, groovers, ketamine users and people called Simon with interesting facial hair who work as some kind of social media consultant or back end developer; whatever the fuck one of those is.

Anyway, on this All Hallows Eve, the geeks, freaks and chics are out in force for tonight’s fête-de-noise. It’s traditionally an evening of surprises, but the preponderance of London’s über hipsters in the packed out Shoreditch dungeon is a genuine shock. Rolo Tomassi maybe many things, but at the bleeding edge of cool accessibility is a new one on me.

So, what can the assembled coolsters expect to be served on the zinc bar of aching remove tonight?

Good Time Boys *****

Here’s a weird one. Remember that song about monsters coming over the hill? Well, tonight’s opening act boast among their number (actually the front man) a metamorphosed member of the pedlars of said tune. Yup, ex-Automatic noodler Alex Pennie has undergone a trans hardcore realignment procedure, had his floppy fringy hair removed (naturally or otherwise) and had about a gallon of ink applied to become a mean looking bundle of vim, gall, lava and spit.

And has the realignment been successful? Well, in parts, yes. His energy, honesty and swagger are as evident as his constant, fitting, flailing hardcore moves. He’s got the growls, the anger, the rawness; but here’s the twist. Or maybe catch. He’s backed by Snow Patrol. Or, at best, Canterbury.

The incongruity is amazing. Purposely or otherwise. A truly competent, musical, almost melodic band of nice blokes providing a very pleasant heavy indie-fused backdrop: with a dervish nutter bastard throwing himself around like an A.D.D. kid who’s been told he can’t have a new BeyBlade for Chrimbo. Or who’s arse has been dipped in burning toluene. Told you it was weird.

Not to say it’s all bad. At all. But, for me, the music lacks a searingly sharp edge. It’s a nice electro-plated-nickel-silver fish knife and not a nasty, rusty, blood-stained stiletto. It lacks any real visceral punch. No breakdowns. Beat downs or machine gun bite.

But the honesty, endeavour, energy and spirit seem to kick the cool crowd’s designer insouciance into next week and get a good number of botties bouncing around.

Oathbreaker *****

A girl. Ok, cousin It from the Addams Family. In a sparkly jacket. With a mish mash of a band including a bass player straight out of Lamb Of God or Job For A Cowboy. Could be interesting…..

…No could be about it. The detonator primed, pin pulled and from the off the moshing crowd are laid waste by a full on assault. This is a genuine melting pot of unstable and dangerous explosives. There are semtex blobs of Down, tied to the heavier dynamite sticks of White Stripes. There’s buckets of Black Flag gunpowder, mixed with Converge nail bombs. It’s not just bombast, it’s bloody open warfare. A demure Belgian wench armed to the teeth with a heavy gun. Firing fucking dum dums.

Tanghe...she got It.

This is not math. It’s arithmetic. Adding hardcore to black metal, sludge and punk. Songs aren’t polyrhythmic per se, just collections of added together killer riffs, slow grinds, fast kicks, bad-assed breakdowns. And all tuned in doom. It’s filthy in parts. Putting even the filthiest dubstep in the stygian shade. And probably made at least nine Shoreditch back-end developers shit themselves.

Caro Tanghe (cousin It) has a huge fierce scream, which while not totally imaginative or versatile, cuts through the doom-laden, brown note infused wall of death. And after only two or three songs, the floor is straight out of Ypres. Blood, mud, bile, tracer fire and fucking ‘orrible big moaning tanks laced with barbed wire. It’s powerful, mean, relentless and, well, for a near-death experience rather splendid actually.

Rolo Tomassi ****1/2*

As I’ve said, judging by the achingly cool crowd, the steel city quintet are making as big a noise in the broader music business as they do on stage. Which, while truly deserved is a tad surprising. They can be accused of many things, but accessibility doesn’t swim to the surface of the rap sheet.

So, would the trendies really like it? Or would they nod and shuffle appreciatively because they’re supposed to? Difficult to call because, although they’re out in force, this is essentially a party for the real fans. Many sporting fancy dress (one as a wonderful tin of Spam – no, really). 

spooky

Anyway, sod the crowd, what Hallloween treats and tricks are we going to be served up? Well, a suitably Halloweened up band including the diminutive Eva Spence in a full Brian May/Anita Dobson goth wig and natty black lace number take to the stage and smash everyone’s collective pumpkins.

Impossible to truly categorise, there are passages of pure brain-melting math, jazz explosions, 8 bit console themed diversions, ambient, atmospheric reveries and heavier than uranium Dillinger-imbued brutality.

This is clever music. Very clever music. Spence’s lead vocal ranges between blood curdling screams and yelps to soothing, choral smoothness. Tornado jet powered might to little girl lost sweetness. Bruv Jamie adds a billy goat gruff percussive bark from time to time and it’s all backed with spiralling, geometric, precise and brilliant playing.

New bassist and guitarist Nathan Fairweather (from Brontide) and Chris Cayford (No Coast) have fitted into the quintet seamlessly and along with Ed Dutton’s algorithmic, jazzfuck mesmerising stickwork provide a sophisticated, thrilling and oft brutal soundscape to assault and charm the assembly in equal dose.

The new material from forthcoming album Astraea while at first listen (albeit at 110dB) doesn’t signal anything too wildly different, sounds wonderfully spiky, symphonic and sophisticated and should garner airplay and unit sales alike.

The evening ends with a mass fancy dress stage dive set to the stirring, severe singalong Party Wounds. And the trendies seemed to dig as much as the die-hards.

Rolo Tomassi are truly original, exciting and talented purveyors of intelligent, intense and incomparable noise. But the bottom line is fuck do they rock. And tonight, they left no forehead left without perspiration. No brain without ache from trying to calculate the impossible. And no face without a genuine, satiated smile. Even the back-end developers. Well, maybe.

Arcane Roots and This Town Need Guns up next.

In the meantime, here's Rolo Tomassi's latest vid, Ex Luna Scientia

More tunes soon. Bwoooar!

Long Live Flock & Roll - Straight Lines + Yearbook +Evarose Live at Camden Barfly

Straight Lines *****

Evarose *****

Yearbook ****1/2*

Barfly, Monday 15^th October

I sit alone in the restaurant window. The rain chases down the glass. The spitting chimney red tail lights and jaundiced sodium yellow street lamps spray colourful, kaleidoscopic shards through the descending droplets. A Jaques Brel song drones in the background, the Gitanes smoke clings acridly to my damp woolen trenchcoat. 

No it doesn’t. 

This is Nando’s. 

In Chalk farm. 

I’m eating extra hot chicken and it’s pissing down. On a Monday. I need cheering up.

So, to The Barfly. For my favourite librarians and most alt of alt rockers Yearbook.

Yearbook ****1/2*

Being first on is always a bastard. I’m still, after thousands of gigs, so annoyed by the über-cool insouciance of hipster gig goers. Arrive late. Don’t bother with the support. Act cool. Oh, fuck off.

What’s wrong with openly loving music? Supporting music? Opening our eyes, ears and any other supplicant orifice to new stuff? Exciting stuff. Tomorrow’s headliners. We really shouldn’t mind about showing it.

As I say; a bastard being on first.

Thankfully there’s a good few handfuls (handsfull?) of folk who’ve been arsed enough to get their rear ends into London’s most bijou of venues early doors. And what a treat they get.

Kicking off with the heart stopping and emotive All Squares and Circles (how is it humanly possible to get so much emotion into a refrain of Yeah, Yeah Whoah? Genius), the Hampshire quartet set about business as if they’re playing to a packed hall six or seven times the size. Which, if there’s any justice in the world, I’m sure they will in due time.

I’m not sure if front man Andy Holloway plays up the slightly gauche librarian geek-chic thing or if he’s genuinely like that, but his quirky charm and embarrassed sardonic murmurings between tunes are beguiling and unaffected which in a business full of arrogance, cock waving, faux-bravado and peacocks is a refreshing change.

The short set is polished and skillfully delivered but charmingly and purposefully frayed and shambolic at times. There’s not a duff track in there. This is original music. Interesting music. Technical but not shoe-gazing. Mesmerising. And the perfect antidote to my Jacques Brel-infused melancholy. Love ‘em to death and am thoroughly enjoying seeing them in the humbler smaller venues before the inevitable escalation and progression they’ll surely achieve. But at least I’ll be able to say, ‘of course, I saw them back in….’

Here’s a vid of the wonderful Visionary.

Evarose *****

Still on a grinning high after Yearbook, I settled down with a restorative pint for Evarose. Open minded to a fault, I have to admit, the whole Paramore pap punk thing leaves me a bit cold and what I’d previously heard of the all girl Oxfordshire steroidal Girls Aloud didn’t really tickle my frenum.

I’d seen a reduced acoustic version of the band at Burnout festival and was hugely impressed by Dannika Webber’s incredibly powerful and pure voice and hoped it would expand with the full band.

This is where it all gets a bit awkward. They don’t do anything wrong. Webber’s voice is incredible, pitch perfect and powerful. But I’m left with the lingering, possibly unfair and definitely controversial thought that the all girl novelty thing has probably rose-tinted the earholes a little.

The playing is competent and tight. But that’s about it. It lacks variety. Space. Light. Shade. Everything’s delivered within a very narrow dynamic. Mostly in the same key. And pretty much all in the same kick botty tempo. And even the wünder vocals become a little wearing and predictable. There are no rhythmic diversions, breaks, drops or shifts. After a while, it’s a bit like being in a dense pine forest. Initially enchanting and exciting, but becoming stifling and even a little toxic. Need air. Please….gulp…

That all said, I’m not in their fan target market and I’m sure they’ll continue to seduce younger and more pop punk sympathetic crowds as they honestly go about their business.

A good effort tonight, but sandwiched between two bands of such high caliber was always going to be a tall order.

Straight Lines *****

So, on to the top piece of bread in tonight’s sarnie. Like Andy Holloway of Yearbook, in Thom Jenkins, Straight Lines have got a killer weapon in their front man. Although stylistically far from similar, both crooners are blessed with dog-whistle high natural voices (as Thom's a sheep farmer, I'm sure it comes in handy). And they both use their range adroitly and spectacularly successfully.

Farmer Thom is a likeable and alluring leader and is backed by a beautifully talented and tight band. They’re heavy when they need to be. Harmonically rich. Melodically sublime at times and, well, just a pleasure to be in front of.

There’s an innate celtic theme running wittingly or otherwise through much of their work. And it even veers towards early Thin Lizzy in parts which cracks faces and warms hearts from the front to the back of Camden’s favourite sweatbunker.

Although the music is often complex, it’s never inaccessible and leaving obvious (and lame) comparisons with Stereophonics aside bestrides rock and pop with aplomb.

There’s luckily so much talent in the UK at the moment and on tonight’s remarkable performance, Straight Lines and Yearbook can add themselves to the bunch of top bananas.

As I walked out into the north London Drizzle, I hurt from smiling. What a wonderful evening. There really is hope.

Now where are those Gitanes?


More tunes soon. Bwoooar!

Higher And Higher. LTA and Don Broco Live Review Electric Ballroom

 

Lower Than Atlantis ****1/2*

Don Broco *****

The Dangerous Summer *****

Gnarwolves *****

October 11^th Electric Ballroom Camden

Rain. Loads of it. Scene kids. Hundreds of them. Anticipation. Palpable. Cider. Downed.

A sultry, soaked Camden was cut in two by a huge queue of buzzing yoof clutching all manner of luminous, toxic alcopops for one of the most eagerly awaited gigs since the last king died.

The house full sign had been posted weeks ago and the general energy and excitement rivals Jimmy Savile’s if he’d stumbled into a wendy house or a One Direction gig.

Gnarwolves *****

Anyway, first up were pop hunk gruff bastards Gnarwolves. There’s already a decent sized crowd waiting to be entertained and when the trio kicked off into the fabulous shout-alongy (if not ludicrously short) History is Bunk, but most faces look a tad non-plussed as the testicles out TNT-charged pop punky bombs were launched into the room.

A strange choice as support perhaps, but thankfully the crowd seemed to warm to the guys after the initial dissonant shock. The set continued apace and drew more bouncing heads with every grizzled, fierce fusillade.

There’s a vibrant hardcore-esque revival (did it ever go away?) bubbling under the surface at the moment and bands like Gnarwolves along with Polar, TRC, Real Adventures and Palm Reader are leaving a trail of caved in faces and brutally kicked genitalia wherever they ply their fine trade. And on tonight’s evidence, it seems to be set to gain a wider audience. Which can only be a good thing in the eternal fight against the anodyne, predictable and manufactured.

The Dangerous Summer *****

Talking of which, next on the Royal Variety Performance are The Dangerous Summer. Not familiar with their work, I was curious and willing to be impressed.

Bugger.

A sugary, tight, limp MOR melange was all they could drum up. A watery mix of Death Cab For Cutie, Nickelback and Creed with no guts, balls or edge. A muscle cock replacement powerful sportscar with a remote controlled car motor. A bottle of overproof Bourbon with tea in it. An oiled up, super flexible porn actress with saggy tits and a disappointingly huge hairy minge (Think Omar from ATDI up to his neck in quicksand). Disappointing. Lame. Meh. Shame, cos they drew a much bigger crowd than the excellent Gnarboys.

Don Broco *****

By now the cavernous Ballroom was packed from its head to its anus. It’s hard to imagine that it’s this rammed for a support act. But what a support act. 

Monsieur Duce and co must have thought they were on relatively safe ground asking the Bedford Babe Magnets to open for them when the tour was conceived 6 months or so ago. Don Broco have been treading the boards as a regular support act with everyone from Futures to Four Year Strong and have been staples on the festival tour. So they’d do a great hors d’oeuvre job. Get the juices flowing. Set the appetite nicely. You know, a prawn cocktail. Or Whitebait.

But my how they’ve grown. Since they were invited on the bill, the sublime Priorities Album has dropped, they’ve signed to Search And Destroy, had more positive press coverage than Mother Teresa and Princess Di put together. So there must have been a wince or two in camp LTA as Heston Blumenthal showed up with the starter at their own dinner party.

Seldom have I witnessed such fervour for a support act. In short, the place goes off its tits as Bobby D and his boys rip into set opener Priorities. Pretty much from front to back, the whole room bounces in unison. Pints are spilled, phones dropped, toes trampled girls probably accidentallly impregnated. Total joy. Total mayhem. Totally brilliant.

The set is pretty much all culled from the new album (with the exception of a brief tease of Beautiful Morning before the surprise drop into the always chaotic and fabulous Thug Workout – press up boys ‘n’ all). There is just so much swagger. So much fun. And so much talent. Theses guys have developed such wonderful stagecraft to complement their ridiculously good songcraft but, even allowing for hilarious synchronised moves, lunges and leers they never come over as arrogant or contrived. Just bloody nice blokes having a bloody good time. And producing bloody good music.

Massive sing-backs, mass shoulder-riding, walls of death, friendly but full-on pits and loads of bloody bouncing left the crowd spent. And by the time the anthemic and masterful set closer Actors was launched into the adoring hordes, the good time vibe rivalled the Olympic Stadium’s on super Saturday. A real game changer for the lads tonight. Of course they’re going to be huge, let’s just hope they stay as grounded and as genuine as they appear.

Lower Than Atlantis ****1/2*

Despite the baying of LTA from the dripping full house for a good 10 minutes before the band’s arrival, you couldn’t help but be a little nervous for Mike and his gang. It’s irrelevant at moments like this, that they’re clearly one of the very best young rock bands in the land; after seeing what Don Broco had just done, it’s got to play on your mind and effect your manhood.

Thankfully there was no need to worry. No performance anxiety here. Despite a tiny initial sound problem, Mr Duce is monumentally and throbbingly erect as the four piece tear into the wonderful Love Someone Else. And the crowd play the supplicant and ridiculously moist bedfellow, cumming loudly and spectacularly with every distorted thrust.

The sexual gymnastics continue throughout drawing climax upon climax from the insatiable nymphomaniac throng. There is so much love in the room. So much lust. So much passion. Brilliant tracks from the masterpiece new album Changing Tune dovetail beautifully with old favourites like Far Q and (Motor)way of life. The gorgeous Dear Prudence joins the boys for the beautiful and haunting Scared of the Dark before the main set ends with like the deep droning and brown noise peppered surefire classic Normally Strange. 

 

By now the crowd has almost had too much. Is too full. Too raw. And there’s a strange, almost apologetic post coital silent fag break before the lads saunter back on and the seduction starts again with the gorgeous and pathos-ridden Another Sad Song. Duce looks and sounds genuinely humbled throughout the steamy session. The adoration for his band is, however, fully earned. And as the place ignites one more time to the comically fishy pun-heavy apparent paean to STIs Deadliest Catch, it’s genuinely difficult to quell the lumpy throat and the watery eyes. Genius stuff.

It’s rare to see such a brilliant performance from such a brilliant, original band. But tonight I’m proud and privileged to have been in the presence of two. And judging by the Beatlemania-like reception for LTA and Don Broco this evening, I don’t think I’m alone in feeling like that. Spine tingling.

Wish I smoked. Need a fag now.

The always fabulous Yearbook and Straight Lines up next.

More tunes soon. Bwooooar!

Secret Midgarden Party - Midgar, Empress and Fel Fiasco live review

Midgar ****1/2*

Empress **1/2***

Fel Fiasco ***1/2**

The Peel, Kingston Monday 8^th October 2012

A lick of Viennese Moonlight White, a thundering new rig and a run-around with the broom and The Peel has never looked better. All that’s missing is some jaunty Scandanavian scatter cushions and a couple of bowls of applewood potpourri.

Fel Fiasco ***1/2**

So, the first fresh-faced act on the freshly face-lifted stage are Devonians Fel Fiasco. A diminutive waif-like female with a ferocious and frighteningly fierce…oh fuck it, enough already with the f-based alliteration. Sorry. Anyway, as I was saying, a tiny girl with a mahoosive voice. And thankfully not hewn out of the hackneyed pap punky drawl of the many Hayley-pretendamour-a-likes. This girl’s definitely got some originality, a whopping pair of lungs and a truly impressive range all delivered with delicious clarity.

However, it’s not totally all about little Lianna Carnell; the band strut out a heady mix of fare ranging from proggy passages to theatrical spaciousness. Heavy when needed, but not overly reliant on arse-throbbing dropped tunings and hi-gain, they really display a genuine potential. The only minor criticism would be the songcraft isn’t yet fully baked. A few more refrains, choruses, memorable or sing-a-longy bits would make the whole thing even more palatable. I look forward to seeing them develop. Yummy stuff though.

Empress **1/2***

The toilet tour can be a desperate and unforgiving right of passage. Empty rooms, Ginsters on the hoof, sleeping in shitty foul-stinking vans. Which’ll always break their timing belts on motorways in the middle of buggering nowhere.

And those who embark on the odyssey need big respect and all the encouragement they can get. It’s easy to sit piously clutching a refreshing glass demanding to be impressed and firing off criticism like some louche, buttery-lipped restaurant critic. So I won’t.

Tonight, Empress, while not being the next Lower Than Atlantis or Deaf Havana, try manfully to plough through an energetic, if not totally original set to a depressingly near-empty room. Some ill-judged gruff screaming aside, they pile through a polyrhythmic, interesting and challenging buffet; which is most appetising in the more melodic, harmonic proggy stretches, (which, for anyone old enough could be compared to a harder Caravan).

So they tried.  And they probably drove for miles to be here. In the shitty, foul-stinking van with the dodgy timing belt. And let’s hope they keep trying. Guys (and gals) like Empress are essential to the future of live music. Proper music. Real music. Honest music.

Midgar ****1/2*

I get very angry about Midgar.

Not because they’re named after a world in a polypropelene-trouser-wearing, nerdy-trekkie-billy-no-mates computer game. But because there’s absolutely NO reason why they shouldn’t be huge (Ok, well, as huge as ‘alt’ or underground can be).

So, the anger turtle popped its head out again tonight because the music loving, decent-minded fraternity weren’t out in their hundreds. Idiots. Even though it’s a Tuesday. In the lower, shadier reaches of Kingston’s colon. There’s no excuse for not having your soft organs beautifully yet brutally rearranged by this classically-influenced, original, classy and fabulous foursome. Even if their name is from dubious parentage.

Saying all that, by the time the lads took to the newly Duluxed Deluxe stage, the crowd had swelled to a half decent smattering of worshippers and it had no effect on the brilliant bombast that followed.

A collection of ‘old’ favourites served alongside some glorious new fare stuffed the faces of the gathered faithful. Wonderful rhythms, bowel-lossening beatdowns, orchestral and ornamental cadenzas and anti-aircraft gun guitar and drum assaults were all delivered with precision, panache and penetration a priapic Ron Jeremy would be proud of (arsehole alliteration attack again, apologies!). And all supporting and augmented by Andy Wilson-Taylor’s ethereal, pitch-perfect and bewitching vox.

There was even a pit. Well, a kind of pit.

So, how are we going to get this lot the respect, exposure and crowds they deserve? If the new material on show tonight is anything to go by, the (hopefully) forthcoming album should do a lot of the heavy lifting, (airplay and interweb circulation permitting) but anyone who’s reading this, please check them out and spread the word (start here). They’re genuinely unique, genuinely über-talented, and (even though the Jager had addled my bonce a bit by the end of tonight’s tour de force), I seem to fuzzily recall they were genuinely nice blokes as well. 

Really can’t urge folk enough to seek these guys out. They need to be out there more. Can’t wait for the album. And Can’t wait to see them again. Brilliant stuff tonight. But we need MORE!!!!!

LTA, Don Broco et al next.

More tunes soon, Bwoooar.

Our Time Has Come - An evening of pop punk reviewed

Our Time Down Here *****

Real Adventures *****

British Teeth *****

The Fighting Cocks Kingston 4^th October 2012

Anyone who’s regularly digests my word farts or anyone who’s stumbled on them before will know that generally I don’t do the whole ‘genre’ thing. Ok, it can be useful when trying to describe bands, but the spuddy obsession with taxonomy and post this, melodic that and protopseudohardcoresoftbollocks crapola ultimately descends into Top Trumps, Pokemon-collecting geeky nerdiness at best but indulgent, unnecessary, ridiculous and walled garden Trekkie wank at worst.

Tonight, the broadest of churches that is ‘Pop Punk’ is proof positive that we need to get over the whole classification thing. The three bands I caught all supposedly purport to dwell in the pop punk back streets but offer such a wide range of noise, techniques and delivery, it clearly renders the ‘genrification’ pointless.

Before we kick off, got to say that I missed a couple of bands on Melody Pop’s well crafted bill, so apologies to Royal Fisticuffs and Home Advantage, the lure of faux Nando’s and booze proved just a little too much.

British Teeth *****

Clegg..let's open this shit up...

So, on walks an angry looking shaven dude. Covered in some fine ink. Head, neck, all sporting a fine array of craftsmanship. Looks aggressively punkily promising. 

We’re off…well, sort of. Don’t get me wrong the playing, the melodies were all there or there abouts; but despite Chris Graham’s serial murderer lifer looks, it all was a bit, well, nice.

I have to declare my hand at this point, I’m not a punk. And not really a ‘punk’ fan. I like loads of it. But have always struggled with the paradoxical anti-music, nihilism thing. That’s not to say that there hasn’t been some absolutely astonishing punk to light up our world. But in a genre built on attitude, you’ve either got it; or you ain’t. And while British Teeth go through the motions, they’re about as far from punk as could be.

The poor sods also experienced a tech nightmare when a bass string broke and had to gauchely ‘pad’ for two or three minutes while it was remedied. But the chat was all terribly polite. It was like having five Nick Cleggs on stage reminiscing about terribly amusing dorm underpant disasters.

Even a brave attempt to use a harmonica as a firelighter failed to get the heart racing and the flames burning. Hopefully, they’ll develop. Get an edge. Find more attitude and confidence. But at the moment, it feels like they’re an underdeveloped young wine. A nice wine. But in no way a punky bottle of fiery, lip-blistering unholy moonshine.

Real Adventures *****

Talking of developing; Guildford’s newest noisy bastards (file, if you must, alongside Polar and Palm Reader) are gathering a real momentum. They get sharper, tighter, sparkier and just better every time I see them. 

Tonight may slightly lack the overall boom of their tour-de-force at Burnout Festival back in July (largely due to a smaller, if not more dedicated crowd this evening), but they set controls to kill and, as an actual performance, it’s probably even better.

Despite struggling with man flu, Lewis Reynolds, the heavily inked Heroin-chic Big Issue salesman livewire frontman, leads by example, characteristically delivering his fierce growls and dervish hardcore moves from the room’s floor among the snap-back wearing acolytes.

This lot bristle with energy, talent and excitement. There is truly no way on God’s earth they should be described as pop punk. But if they feel comfortable with it, then so be it; suffice to say they truly bring a fresh and original twist to a rapidly tiring and fading derivative genre. Brilliant, original and spellbinding stuff.

Our Time Down Here *****

Now this lot really are pop punk. Standard. Good. But standard. All the boxes are ticked. Chuggy Green Day bits. Tick. Double time, chaotic drumming. Tick. Catchy melodies. Tick. Jangly bits. Tick. Riffs. Tick. Whiny downtown Brooklyn vox (albeit with Will Gould’s southern British twist which, at times, is strangely reminiscent of Carl Barat). Tick.

There’s nothing wrong with OTDH. But nothing startlingly right either. Juxtaposed with the originality and clever schtick of Real Adventures, they suffer by comparison. There’s nothing that new here. Nothing that truly marks them out or makes them genuinely memorable.

In fairness, not really my sort of thing, but they produce an energetic set that’s enthusiastically lapped up by the rucksack-sporting throng.  But I suppose my lingering feeling of mild disappointment stems from the tightness of the genre. So many bands strangely stick to the tried and tested. The expected. For a genre surely meant to be based on restlessness, change, challenge and sticking it to the man, there seems to be too much sticking to the plan.  Real Adventures don’t do it. Others need to learn. Don’t just break rules. Ignore them. Or even deny their existence.

Amen.

Lower Than Atlantis, Gnarwolves and Don Broco next. Can’t wait.

More tunes soon, Bwoooar!