InMe live at The Relentless Garage

InMe *****
Hilda May *****
Midgar *****

Relentless Garage 10th December 2012

As it’s a time of food, booze, goodwill and general overindulgence, I thought I’d attempt to sum tonight’s show up in the style of a restaurant critic. No fucking idea why. Probably a really shit idea. But after a few festive Jagers and with Messrs McPherson and friends still ringing in my lugholes, it seemed like a perfectly sensible concept. 

So, what’s on the menu tonight?

Midgar *****
Well, for starters a rich, meaty and wonderfully sophisticated offering from those epic proggy proto-classical wizards in Midgar. Airing predominantly a full array of new tunes, the über-stylish polymath Andy Wilson-Taylor and the rest of his steam-punked Bullingdon boys resplendent in foppish waistcoats deliver a complex yet melodic and accessible combination of ball crushing breakdowns fused effortlessly with all manner of multi-layered tunefulness. 

The new stuff is deliciously big. No, ridiculously huge. Keys and all manner of triggered backing trickery alongside startling musicianship lift them away from the bland burger-helper guitar-based alt lad bands that seem to be breeding like kitchen cockroaches. There’s definitely an originality, but at the same time a genuine comfort. The overall effect is delicious.



Only one older tune, the pompy and grandiose Karmic Retribution is given the treatment tonight, and fits comfortably onto the plate alongside the new stuff including the new instant classic, All I've Ever Done. (Free download here)

The impressive early crowd seem to be lapping it up and getting involved and hopefully, in the not too distant future, these boys will be headlining shows of this size.

To sum up: a really rich and powerful boeuf bourguignon with the semi-automatic dum-dum bullets used to slaughter the cow still wedged in the flesh accompanied with a huge Claret and washed down with pure illicit grain spirit drunk from a gothic skull. Bloody tasty.

Hilda May *****
For the next course a rustic bugger’s muddle of influences chucked onto the table with no plate. Hilda May are impossible to categorise. There are definite tastes of pop punk and hardcore but with a grungy gravy and a grebo rock sauce.

The crowd look a bit bewildered. After the beautifully presented and massive flavours of Midgar, it’s all a bit spikey and scruffy. Tim Lawrence’s vocals are definitely from the hardcore cupboard. His barks and bravado are reminiscent of Real Adventures’ front man Lewis Reynolds. And he’s ably backed by a complex yet simple sauce with traces of Glassjaw, Minor Threat, Gorilla Biscuits and even old-time home growners Million Dead.

A really provocative and interesting choice for the overall bill tonight and certainly an act that’d be better suited to a more punky and dirty bill of fare alongside bands like TRC, Polar and Palm Reader, or the aforementioned Real Adventures. That said, they’re full of chilli bite and energy and act as a kind of perverse or inverse palate cleanser before tonight’s main course.

To sum up: a hearty but scruffy bean and festering lizard sausage casserole served on an upturned rusty bin lid and eaten with an evil bastard corroded flick knife. Washed down with blinding home-made scrumpy drunk out of a rusty soup can. Wholesome, exciting and interesting but not for the faint-hearted.

InMe *****

The last night of another tour and the end of an exhausting year during which beguiling front man Dave McPherson has chalked up over 200 gigs both with the band and as a brilliant acoustic solo turn. There’s definitely an end of term vibe in the thronged Relentless Garage as the hungry diners take their places.

InMe are true originals. Survivors from the nu-metal age and contemporaries of fellow Brits A, Vex Red, Hundred Reasons, FFAF and, at a push, Lostprophets. And they’ve stuck to their guns and continued to produce mesmerising, complex, huge and memorable music ever since. Culminating in this year’s tour de force - The Pride (made even more notable by the innovative and brilliantly altruistic and heart-warming pledge mechanic),

It really is party time tonight and they pile through a burgeoning menu stuffed with old favourites, older specialist offerings like So You Know for the die-hards all spiced up with big dollops of the more contemporary material like epic set opener Moonlit Seabed. Myths and Photographs is a majestic chateaubriand with all the trimmings, Safe in A Room is a complex and moving triumph, as is Firefly. The crowd are salivating throughout, stuffing their faces, ripping the bones apart and gorging like rabid, slavering dogs. And they’re loving it. 

It does, however feel a bit like a big family meal. For close rellies and friends. Which is no bad thing. But could be a little alienating for any newcomers or distant relations. No matter, totally stuffed, deaf and having had my bowels purged by the most powerful, loud and deep bass brown notes, I wandered off fully satiated and with a smile as wide as Lisa Riley’s waistband. A gastronomic triumph. Even though they didn’t play my favourite All Terrain Vehicle and eschewed their traditional staple Underdose.

To sum up: a groaning buffet stuffed with massive dishes of every imaginable flavour. sharp shards of metal salad with sulphuric dressing, whole massive musk oxen served on the bone with searing scotch bonnet chillies stuffed up its arse, lighter, thought-provoking citric accompaniments served with rich and powerful dark sauce with the heaviest bass notes all washed down with bastard overproof rum drunk out of  a titanium space helmet. Bizarre, beautiful, heavy and intoxicating. But ultimately wonderful comfort food. Yum.

Enter Shikari next.

More tunes soon, Bwooooar!

A Hefty Root up the bum. Arcane Roots Live Review Old Blue Last

Arcane Roots *****
My First Tooth *****
Gunning For Tamar *****

The Old Blue Last, Shoreditch 4th December 2012

An absolutely rammed Old Blue from the moment the doors sprung open. Which bellend suggested that rock was dead? Ok, it’s a free show. And one of the country’s very finest bands are headlining. But it warms the cockles of the old blood pump to see so many out on a chilly December evening for real, live music.

Gunning For Tamar *****
Kicking off proceedings are Oxford quartet Gunning For Tamar. There’s been quite a bit of noise about these lads, so I was keen to see what the fuss was all about.

They pile into a feisty and spiky set full of interesting tempo twists and chops. Hewn from the same alt, mathy, jaunty, quirky, proggy,  indie seam as acts like Tellison, Coastline, Jumping Ships, More Than Conquerors and maybe even the brilliant Yearbook; they conjour up a radio-friendly sound with a rockier edge. Probably not going to change the world just yet as it’s a burgeoning and cluttered scene and there’s so much talent around operating within similar parameters.

Be interested to see how they develop and find a defining difference. But on tonight’s performance and by the crowd reaction, there’s real hope. Good stuff.

My First Tooth *****
I first saw this new-agey artschool collective a couple of years ago supporting the mighty Xcerts and was impressed. And tonight, things don’t seemed to have changed that much. But in a good way. Definitely still impressed. 

Their blend of nu-country (think Arcade Fire without the pretension or a cut down, polished version of Cats, Cats and Cats  with Prefab Sprout or Captain as guests) is a cheery pick-me up full of swagger, chirpiness and optimism enriched with multi-instrumental musicianship, a rocky backbone backed with sweet harmonies. 

They are far less shambolic than I recall and seem to have minimised or at least lubricated the instrument changes. And it helps that the crowd are in party mood and help up the mood of swing and sassiness. Uplifting and entertaining stuff.

Arcane Roots *****
Anyone who’s been subjected to my warblings and rantings will know just how highly I regard mssrs Groves, Burton and Atkins. They truly are one of the very finest bands in the land. So, it is with a ‘slight’ bias that I prop myself up at the bar to be entertained.

But, no matter how good I thought they were going to be, nothing prepared me for what a heaving, sweating, delirious full house was about to receive.

Tonight is a showcase of stuff from the (hopefully soon) forthcoming new album mixed with tunage and riffage culled from their brilliant Left Fire mini album. And from the swirling ambient atmospheric noodlings which herald the blitzkreig opener (Energy?) to the last fading glory of the audience-fuelled Long and Low, this was one of the highlights of the year.

Having been to over 70 individual gigs this year and having seen over 300 bands of every shape, size, flavour, taste, colour and genre, tonight’s show is pretty much at the top of the tree.

The band have never sounded better, crisper, heavier, more face-meltingly, and testicle-grippingly hard. This is music from another level. The complexity. The half-time bludgeons. The wit. The frailty. The melodies. The purity of Groves’s Burgundy balloon shattering vocals. The heart-stopping rhythmic playfulness and sophistication. The tightness. The musicianship. Just everything.

There’s even a gorgeous diversion in the midst of all the fire, brimstone and brutalisation when Emily Denton joins Andrew on stage for a goosebump-inducing stripped back rendition of the ever-beautiful Rouen. 

Old faves get a heavy brush-up. With Million Dollar Que$tion and the jaw-dropping extended Habibty nailing gonads to the floor while administering facial beatings with a 30lb Halibut. The newbies though, are the revelation. Hell Or High Water is an instant classic and the monster riffage in Resolve should have it’s own concrete handprint in the rock hall of fame already.

The packed house also plays its part. The sing-backs hale and hearty, the moshing and lunacy relentless and the love in the room palpable.

The true sign of greatness is when a band defines a category and defies it at the same time. With Arcane Roots, this is philosophically awkward. They are not in a category. So defining or defying is as specious as it is impossible. They are truly out there on there own. A class; no fuck it, a whole species apart. 

Can’t wait for the new album. And the praise, adulation and success it surely will merit. Big things to come from these boys. If there’s any justice in the world.

InMe and Midgar next.

More tunes soon, Bwoooar!

Rave again the machine - The Algorithm Live Review - London 28/11/12

The Algorithm *****(*****)

Hacktivist *****

Collisions *****

The Black Heart, Camden, 28^th November 2012-12-02

It’s party night. Woo. And indeed hoo. Yup, the good folk at Basick Records are hosting the coolest do in town. So, cherryade in hand, let’s do this.

Collisions *****

To kick things off are tonight’s sausages on sticks Collisions. Not overly familiar with their work I don’t know what to fully expect. But as they launch into a type of Prodigy-infused metal, d&b mash up with sprinklings of Skindredy geetar sounds, they certainly hit the spot.

They mix a full-on rocky groove with a bucket load of influences with Arabic progressions, beat downs wobs and stoner loops thrown in.

They even use autotune in a post modern ironic way which draws more than a smirk from the enlightened muso crowd. Saying that, towards the end of the set, they probably overdo the autotune thang….hide your kids, hide your wife….

All round a decent amuse bouche served with energy and a doom coulis.

Hacktivist *****

Sausages on sticks downed, time for something altogether more substantial. Bring on the ostrich, stuffed with a penguin, stuffed with a turkey, then a chicken, then an evil crow, then a firecrest and finally an angry fucking wasp. Yum.

A beardy bloke with a hi-gain 8-string guitar and probably a heap of Line 6. Check. Fashionable low-rise drum kit. Check. Bass plugged in to what looks like NASA control room. Check. We got djent. But wait a minute. Two urban in da hood looking evil shitbags seem to have put their Camberwell carrots down and wandered erroneously onto the stage. Rappers? Djent? It couldn’t possibly…

Well, fuck me. It only works. And how.

An unholy and unlikely marriage of street, studio, shoe-gaze, tech, d&b, grime and metal shouldn’t ever have left the genetic modification lab. But well done to the evil geniuses who proved the world wrong. There’s real devil and thunder to their work. Full of energy, wit, aggression, musicality and a malevolent cheekiness. They even throw in a brilliant cover of  Kanye West’s Niggas In Paris which makes the original sound lame and lifeless.  The crowd go off their tits and the evil shitbags respond accordingly rebel-rousing and carousing the sweaty mass towards fever pitch. Brilliant, bad-ass and bewildering. Need a bucket and two dozen Alka Seltzer.

The Algorithm *****/*****

After the surreal grimey-djenty buffet, what next?

A diminutive floppy-fringed French nerd with a box of buttons and a kit drummer. Obviously.

The Algorithm’s new album is a modern masterpiece. Fusing 8-bit bleeps, chipped-up wizardry, dancy and ravy sequencer-driven burps and squawks, whirrs, arpeggios and farts with polyrhythmic mathy breakcore explosions, wobs and huge djent-sounding guitar muscles all with moments of Jean Michel Jarre and Tangerine Dream thrown in for good measure.

And tonight Rémi Gallego brought his long player, a bottle of Lambrini, half an ounce of leb, some dry roast peanuts and is in the mood to party. Well, er….to put his long player on and press play.

Yup, that’s pretty much it. Of course, the drummer does stuff. And mesmerizingly so. Just to watch him keep abreast of the wild tempo and rhythm changes while Gallego is twiddling knobs and eating his peanuts is worth the admission money. But I’m on the horns of a foul dilemma.

I don’t get DJs (not that Gallego is just a DJ – but might as well be tonight). And, yes I know, he doesn’t use traditional decks, but a bewildering computer thingies with buttons, pads, accelerometers and screens. But just for the record, decks are for playing music. Other people’s music. They are NOT A FUCKING MUSICAL INSTRUMENT. AND DJs ARE NOT FUCKING MUSICIANS! Even if your’e one of those smug cunts that sits behind anachronistic deities like Limp fucking Biskit or Linkin fucking Pork with big headphones on scratching looking urban and cool. Just f-f-f-f-f-fuck off. Off. Off.

Hence the reason for the two ratings for tonight. There is immeasurable skill, talent and flair in Gallego’s work as a composer, musician and producer – hell, the album’s near enough been on repeat since its release (big up to the brilliant Basick Records for jumping on that one!), but, I’m a simple soul and a rock and roll show, should be exactly that. Not just pressing play and twiddling some knobs.

Don’t get me wrong, the ‘performance’ was amazing. Especially the drumming of the incredible Mike Malyan. The crowd looked like they’d been on poppers and had car batteries constantly wired to their nads. Pits, jumps, frenzied skanking, stepping, spasticking and sweating throughout the whole set.

But, it was a diminutive floppy-fringed French nerd with a box of buttons and a kit drummer. The guitars were digital phantoms. The tightness of the virtual band all programmed, quantized and sequenced. Soulless, surgical, perfect.

Oh, I don’t know. The music is undeniably brilliant. The crowd don’t give a flying fuck whether anyone plays; or just presses play. I’d love to see him expand the live performance. I dunno, get Chimp Spanner man Oritz on the banjo or the bloke from Dirty Loops on the bass. Take it up a level. One of the whole points of technical music is being dumstruck by the technical prowess. Imagine if Animals As Leaders came with a ghetto blaster and no guitars. Pressed play. Stood nodding, tweaked the odd button. Well, that.

Confused.

Arcane Roots next.

More tunes soon, Bwoooar!

Deaf Havana Live At Shepherds 16/11/12 Review

Deaf Havana *****

Canterbury *****

There For Tomorrow *****

O2 Shepherds Bush November 16^th 2012

There are special moments in the world of rock and roll. And hell, probably in Crunk or garage-core-electro-dub-pop-punk too. But, without getting too carried away tonight is right up there.

Being quite an old sod, I’ve been to thousands of shows over the years. From festivals and dingy toilets to stadia and scout huts. But there’s an undeniable special thing in the air tonight. Really special.

Even half an hour before stateside openers There For Tomorrow ***** are due on, the proud old Empire is as rammed as a fat man’s pants. And probably just as sweaty.

When they eventually do take to the boards, the ridiculously enthusiastic throng gives them a welcome far in excess of they could have imagined. Or hoped for. Saying that, there’s such a vibe in the venerable old place that Jimmy Savile or Nick Griffin would probably have raised the roof and fizzed-up the knickers.

I haven’t come across There For Tomorrow so didn’t really have a clue what to expect, but they deliver an energetic blend of pop rock in a similar vein as mid era Lost Prophets but with more of an American twang than even old Taffy Watkins affects. And needless to say, it goes down like limitless free Blue WKD among the assembled excitable yoof. Oh, and the tune about deathbeds or something like that isn’t half bad.

I’ve probably been less than charitable about Canterbury***** in the past. Not necessarily directly, but by grouping them together with other melodic middle ground bands on the UK scene. Think Natives, (the late) Futures, Coastlines etc. So, I was hoping that they’ll be beefier and have a soupcon more edge tonight.

And they don’t disappoint. The crowd, rapidly reaching premature vinegar stroke help set the fire. And it burns fiercely and beautifully. Helped by a really good sound, the affable chaps bounce effortlessly through a compelling and thoroughly engrossing set. There’s a sophistication and an intelligence to their fare which truly puts clear water between them and the surrounding pack. And on tonight’s mesmerising and big-boned performance, it surely won’t be too long before they’re packing out rooms like this on their tod.

Deaf Havana *****

So, the starters are all consumed. Every seat, square foot and nook is rammed with expectant acolytes. That ‘special’ feeling is almost palpable.

I have to admit, the emotion is inescapable, and having watched these boys on many occasions in tiny bogs and shitty basements, from Ryan’s screaming days through to festival triumphs and countless support slots, I’m consumed by genuine pride. And there’s definite moistness in the old eyeholes.

A sold out headline show at a famous venue. This is what working for it really means. It brings into sharp contrast the celebrity machine and superficial manufactured anodyne bollocks our youngsters are led to believe is a genuine route to ‘stardom’.

Sweaty vans smelling of cocks and socks. Sleeping on floors; if you’re lucky. MSG, additive and salmonella-ridden petrol station cuisine. Playing to half empty rooms in the middle of towns you’ve never been to. Or probably ever want to again. That’s working for it. That’s a ‘journey’. That’s the downpayment. The rollercoaster ride. The investment. The sacrifice. No judges houses. Camp freak show choreography. Faux tears as fake as the judges tits. No, this is real. Really real.

And every single, ticket-paying merch-consuming loved up fan here tonight knows and appreciates that. This is the most perfect collective, co-created raised middle finger to the soulless self-consuming auto-tuned contrived manufactured poison. And I love it.

The boys arrive on stage to what can only be compared to the noise of a 777 in full thrust. In your bathroom. Unbelievable. Just as unbelievable as the opener – that alternative mandolin-fused jaunty version of The Last Six Years off the re-released masterpiece Fools And Worthless Liars. The place melts down. The band must feel like they’ve just had crystal meth mainlined into their bellends. Such adulation. Such energy. Such love.

Then, seamlessly, the massive group vocal opening to the catchier than chlamydia I Will Try further incites and excites the Dantean hordes. ‘Special’ doesn’t cut it. This is off the scale. And it’s not lost on the band. The always affable, honest and eloquent James Veck-Gilodi humbly and genuinely announces that it’s already the best gig of their lives. After two songs. And he’s not wrong.

I have fess up that I’m so caught up in the raw emotion, the power, the love and affection that being truly objective is now futile. All the big tunes are wheeled out. With every word sung back with an almost religious fervour. J V-G probably doesn’t need to sing at all.  But when he does, his voice has never sounded better.

There are few lyricists in the business better than the self-styled grumpy drunken dwarf and tonight he uses all his verbal grenades to milk every last drop of love, pathos, sympathy, empathy and joy from his congregation. And they love it.

Anemophobia is the absolute highlight of the night. Starting with the stripped back, piano accompanied version and ending with the full band work out, every syllable is belted out with heartfelt meaning and that bloody moisture returns to these tired old eye bits.

I’ll even forgive the lads for hideously mutilating and heartlessly emasculating the old punkier fave, Friends Like These by turning into a mandolin-based camp fire Kum Ba yah sing-a-long. Saying that, it was still bloody good.

The passion never drops. On the stage, in the pit, right up beyond the clouds into the upper, upper circle. And when the lads bring on The London Gospel Choir, the heavenly metaphor is complete.

By the time the sublime and delicious Hunstanton Pier brings the love-fest to a jizz-puddle end, everyone is spent, empty, flushed, aching and satiated.

An amazing night in the company of a truly amazing young, honest and truly deserving bunch of blokes.

More tissues please.

No, not for that.

The Algorithm next.

More tunes soon. Bwoooar!

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!