LTA with PMA. Live review of Lower Than Atlantis at Shepherd's Bush Empire.

Lower Than Atlantis ****1/2*
The Xcerts *****
Blitz Kids *****

Shepherd's Bush Empire Thursday 25th April 2013

Before I launch into a Freudian breakdown of tonight's patients, got to get a grumble out of the way. After catching a rather squiffy but remarkably entertaining Mike Foster at last year's excellent Burnout Festival, I was so looking forward to diving into the tortured corners of his whacked-out brain bin and grinning like a window-licking loon at his quirky, outré and oft acidic spoutings. But because of the stupidly slow service in Nando's, I missed the bastard. Grrrr. 

So, slightly miffed but reading for compensation, I stumble into the already sizeable pit to cast an analytic and diagnostic eye over Blitz Kids.

Blitz Kids *****
There's a  decent and enthusiastic welcome for these clean-cut North Westerners and they respond with a polished and competent set. The patient certainly shows signs of peacock-like outward projection with no signs of any self-confidence issues. Joe James leading the overt genital exhibitionism and conspicuous male courting dance with preening pomp and punch. 

However, the sound engineer displays clear basic competence issues and maybe the lack of any fucking ears. The sound throughout is muddy, sludgy, low-volume and, to be honest takes most of the lustre off the performance. James is no Ronnie James Dio, but his decent tenor-tinged vox are reduced to what comes over as a distant, indistinct bus drunk mumbling into his Tennant's-soused lousy beard.

To be fair, the songs are all reasonable enough, perhaps lacking huge hooks or refrains, there's beefy dropped tunings, slick harmonies (those you could actually discern!) tight musicianship; but the terrible sound emasculates the energy and enthusiasm and turns the whole thing into a bit of a flaccid let down. The crowd don't seem to mind too much though. After all, they're here to party. Just a bit of a shame.

Prognosis:  Highly proficient and well presented. Flamboyant. Extreme self-confidence. Positive, optimistic self-projection. Sexually active and attractive. 

Prescription: Continued programme of development of core songsmithery. Maybe try a dose of rougher aggression occasionally. Or organic scotch bonnet chilli administered to the penis end. A decent sound man. Or strong, corrosive ear drops. 

The Xcerts *****
Next into the surgery are the two thirds Caledonian, one third Devonian now Brightonian grungy, poppy, rocky, edgy beaty combo, The ever-excellent and always challenging Xcerts.

And thankfully they've brought with them a sound engineer with perfectly working inner ears. Hallelujiah! 

These guys are seriously one of the hardest working bands ever (the late JLS notwithstanding!). They appear to be on the road pretty much all year. Supporting big boys (Biffy among them), bad boys and playing bogs, fests, clubs, pubs, bars, halls and balls; they are the apotheosis of the true working band and the complete antithesis of the manufactured, cosmetically, lab-produced bland thin gruel that most of the world are force fed through industry-regulated drips and media-owned self satisfying, controlling canulas.

In short, and with due deference to tonight's headliners, they fuck it to the man. And some.

Tonight, they crunch through a brilliant and varied set as though it was their first show ever. There's not a whiff of road weariness nor hint of performing by rote. These boys continually play it like they mean it. 

Between classics like Do You Feel Safe, Slackerpop and Carnival Time there's even room for one or two brilliant newer tunes with one freshly out of their clever pop rock incubator.
Always difficult to classify (and to be honest pointless), there's always infusions, shots and blood bags of energy in every performance. 

There's a grungy core running through brilliantly constructed pop sensibilities with huge sounding guitar thrown into the centrifuge. The rhythms and heartbeat are strong and mesmeric and Murray McLeod's heavily Caledonian appeals, pleas and even laments are honest, heart felt and heart warming. 

The very young crowd tonight isn't as enraptured as it could be. More respectful. Watchful even. But they'll get it soon. As, hopefully, the rest of the world will too. This is grown up, sophisticated, proper pop rock at it's very finest. 


Prognosis:  Workaholic, obsessive, multiple character traits. Irrepressible energy. Seemingly quite straightforward, but further examination reveals multi-layered complexity and astounding intelligence. Latent intellectualism. Lots of hair. Even Jordan who's beginning to look like Don King in negative.

Prescription: There is no reason to prescribe anything new. This patient is in rude mental health. It's just the rest of the world who need acceptance therapy and eyes and ears opened forcibly. They'll learn; the fools.

Lower Than Atlantis ****1/2*
So, the moment arrives. The loveable rogues take to the stage behind a great billowy white curtain type thing. And, then, like the ceremonial removal of a veil of personal protection, it drops away like a concubine's silk undies and all is revealed. 

The adulation in the room is breathtaking. LTA have garnered an ardent and passionate following as they've developed from angry, often confused but always passionate and confrontational post-hardcore proto-punks into to a genuine world-class rock band.

Playing their largest ever headline show, Mssrs Duce, Hart, Sansom and Thrower are loving it. Opening with the poptacular Love Someone Else to pre-orgasmic howls and shrieks from the predominantly barely consent aged crowd, there are (to borrow a line from buddies Deaf Havana) Smiles all round. And so it continues.

Duce isn't perhaps at his most garrulous this evening, but clearly looks as happy as a sand boy in a sand pit on a beach in the desert on planet sand. Maybe the import and scale has got his normally unstoppable and lascerating tongue.

Unperturbed, the set continues a pace. Each track whipping the crowd closer and closer to climax. But it's not all radio-friendly toned-down poppiness for the scenies to dive and mosh into. There's real thought here. Nods to influences and the 'dirtier period' abound in coded and not-so-coded form. The anthemic and ball kicking Motorway of Life receives a lick of Smashing Pumpkins paint as an intro, there's a Queen at Live Aid/Jive Bunny mash up of older material cleverly woven into a bite-sized, arriviste-friendly serving including Taping Songs off The Radio, Face Full of Scars and The Juggernaut and even a blistering boiled down cover of Electric Six's Gay Bar. Clever, clever boys.

To add to the bizarre carnival atmosphere, there are loads of those big sponge hand things - but with the middle finger raised in defiance -  being sported in support of the Fuck It To The Man mantra. There's just such a wonderful, skew whiff and tilted irony watching two or three thousand young worshipping disciples continually giving their beloved band the bird.

Apart from all the pageantry and the overbearing musk of arousal, there's a great performance going on up on the altar. The musicianship is outstanding. Tight, on point but never sterile or aseptic. There's still a roughness. A readiness. A punkiness. Thank the lord.
And from his massively elevated Mayan Temple of a drum riser, Eddie Thrower produces a masterclass in control and is the brilliant and exquisite sutures keeping proceedings tightly together.

Amid all the fire, bile, boisterousness and brimstone, there are a couple of obligatory chill out, sensitive sections where Duce is more or less abandoned by his buddies to indulge in a genuine opening up of his personal insecurities and innate darknesses. Scared of the Dark is a beautiful and moving journey into his psyche. As are his eponymous Symphony no 11 in D Minor and the fabulous Another Sad Song, which is totally stripped bare and performed purely acoustically. The sing backs are louder than ever yet you can almost hear the rustle of hairs on necks and arms as they stand to attention. Moving and brilliant stuff.

Things finally end with the bouncy and buoyant Beech Like A Tree just to eke out any latent energy left in the satiated and spent crowd. Tonight marks another important stage in the development of LTA. A real potential turning point. Surely, on the strength of tonight's joyous and jubilant hoe-down the next step to world domination has moved an awful lot closer.


Prognosis:  Honest. Self-deprecating. Mildly aggressive and resentful revolutionary. Deep sorrow, insecurity and self doubt never far from the surface. Clear passion and projection. PMA. Perhaps. Not afraid to have fun but probably with a loaded gun or primed switchblade in the pocket. Waspish. Don't annoy these bastards. 

Prescription: More of the same. Just keep taking the stronger, darker medication alongside the happy pills . Don't water down at all. Ever.

Not that I'm going to do it for every gig, but here are a couple of vids shot on my iPhone from the pit while a little inebriated and than sketchily edited while massively and savagely hungover. They ain't Hugh Hudson or Ridley Scott, but hopefully transmit at least a modicum  of the frenzy, fun and energy from down the front.

Loco at Koko - Live review of Don Broco at Koko

Don Broco *****
Pure Love *****

Koko, Camden, 18th April 2013

Due to the ridiculously massive queue, I sadly missed Decade, tonight's first support, in favour of a rather nice Camden curry. So, with apologies to the lads (who apparently did a fine job) full of prawn puri and Pinotage and sticking with the spicy food theme, it's time to tuck into tonight's entree.

Pure Love *****
A fiery, non-pretentious bowl of spice. Big-bollocked straightforward rock-infused flavours served on a bed of griddled and grizzled punky bile. With the in-your-face and ferocious Frank Carter as the scotch bonnet or black naga chilli plonked on top ready to tear your fucking neck out.

Theirs is an odd Bombay mix. Carter cajoles, insults and takes the piss out of the boisterous crowd in equal measure like a latter day Lydon; all snarl and acidity. Add in Jim Carroll's cock waving plank spanking melange of Brian May, Slash and Richie Blackmore with a contemporary rawer flavouring and hey presto - something that looks searingly hot, huge, filling, spicy but, on the face of it a bit unappealing and probably 'orribly inedible.

However, like some ridiculous molecular chefs, they only get it to bloody well work. 

Carter is loving it. Singing (you 'eard, not screaming or yelling) from the midst of the pit for most of the set, he's all swagger, piss and energy. At one point Carroll manages to get into one of Koko's balcony boxes and does his best Angus Young posturing. Carter, not one to be left out is pushed up by the crowd and scrambles up to join his hairy axeman. All pure theatre, anarchy and fun. 

This is unpretentious, honest old school rock and roll. They don't give a shit about being different for the sake of being different. While there maybe nowt too much new or experimental here, there's bags of boogie, guts, groove and even solos. Yup. Solos. And, despite moments of straying dangerously close to The Darkness (thankfully minus the coked-up falsetto) the overall effect is mouthwatering and fucking hot. And the young crowd lick the plate clean.

Pure genius.

Don Broco *****

So, after such a bloody brilliant, skin-melting exhausting and emotionally draining fire fest, could the Bedfordshire balti boys deliver even more sizzle than Carter's unstoppable spice machine?

Yeah. No bother.

From the Phal-like volcanic eruption of the anthemic set opener Priorities, it's game on. 

On the face of it, Broco are your favourite chicken tikka masala. Wholesome, tasty, not too hot or edgy. You know what to expect. But there's far more to this dish than meets the eye. There's ridiculous searing heat, sophisticated flavours and real depth beyond the initial yummy creamy sauce. There's genuine musicality. Real skill. And tonight, a remarkable sell-out crowd is in the mood for stuffing their faces. 

The meteoric and well-deserved rise of these likable Superdry superheroes has been well documented, but it's worth reminding ourselves that it wasn't long ago these lads were perennial warm up acts playing to half empty rooms of disinterested early arrivals. Ok, their amazing support of Lower Than Atlantis was a game changer and gave us an amuse-bouche or taster of what was to come, but it's remarkable that it's happened so fast.

This evening, the atmosphere is as spicy as the fare on offer. Bouncing, writhing, boiling seas of the sweaty young singing along with every word. Pyramids of push up boys, walls of love (not death), claps, panto sing-a-longs and shoulder riding all goes on relentlessly like some sort anything-goes orgy.

The set is pretty much the same as the first leg of the Priorities tour (Underworld review here>) and showcases most of the brilliant Priorities album. The Whole Truth, Actors, Hold on and Fancy Dress forming the spine. Old faves like Dreamboy with it's brilliant riff, the catchier than Chlamydia Beautiful Morning and All Good are all, well, all good. But the young crowd reaches vinegar stroke at the arrival of Thug Workout turning from a face-melting Jalfrezi into a searing double Naga tindaloo with added napalm, semtex, jiz and wasp piss.

But it'd be unfair to single out one tune as better than any other. Everything on offer tonight is served up deliciously. And the boys seem to be enjoying every second of it as they strut through their wonderfully ironic cheesy dance moves garnished with cheeky chappy grins and smoulders.

Don Broco are a breath of fresh air. Straddling genres from the meatier heavier end of things through sarcastic cheesy boy-band likeability to more complex alt and proggy flavours, they are waving the banner for the UK underground; but tunneling ever closer to the surface. 

And on tonight's evidence, it's not going to be long before this epic hugeness will pale in comparison to future even bigger epicer hugerness. Let's just all hope they don't put too much cream in to emasculate the raw heat, spice and excitement of their truly original and delicious offering.

Tasty, tasty stuff.

Here's a cobbled together iPhone vid i shot from the pit with extra angles borrowed from Alex51993. Cheers dude.

Folk Me. Live review of Deaf Havana unplugged at the Union Chapel, London

Deaf Havana ****1/2*

Big Sixes *****

Union Chapel, Islington 3rd April 2013

Gulp. Church. Me? Really? Every time I wander into the Union Chapel, I’m surprised I don’t blister, turn to a pillar of salt or get burnt to a blob of tar. Saying that, it’s a wonderful venue with a vibe like no other space, and thankfully I appear to haver dodged another God bullet or thunderbolt as I uneasily lower myself onto my pew for tonight’s service.

Talking of biblical bollocks, old Herod seems to have called all the youngest and first born from the country to worship tonight. Unlike anything seen since Jesus was bigger than Aaron Lennon, a massive queue of dip-dyed, plugged up and tattooed acolytes has snaked its way through chilly norf London for pretty much the whole afternoon answering the tolling call to prayer.

Dearly beloved we are gathered here today....

Big Sixes *****
Thankfully there’s no incense or other smells and bells as we’re read the first lesson this evening. And what a beautifully fresh and inspiring homily we’re treated to at the hands of uncategoriseable upstarts Big Sixes.

Tight harmonies, uplifting tunes, reflective and clever lyrical chicanery fill the packed god room. Delivered to rapt and reverential silence, these Bucks boys preach a wonderful, original and mesmerising set. There’s real skill here. Uncategoriseable as they maybe, there are moments of Turin Brakes, Arcade Fire, Midlake, Lambchop, Tim Hardin, The holy Buckley father and son and even a brush with Dylan on show. And it’s all good.

When young’uns go all unplugged it often exposes shortcomings in technique, ability and songcraft. When the pedal boards, triggers, pads and general noise are pared away, there’s more often than not, well, not a lot left. Big Sixes prove otherwise. Judging from their relatively small and nascent, but hugely impressive oeuvre, acoustic guitar, harmony and a natural folky/nu-county dna runs right to their core. And it shows. Original, charming, beguiling and beautiful stuff. 

Deaf Havana ****1/2*

Bands do stuff. You know the sorts of thing: Zeppelin went all Arabic for a while with bongos, bongs and funny shaped stringed things. Deep Purple did a Concerto For Group and Orchestra. Even Metallica dabbled with violas, oboes, bassoons and bass clarinets. And more famously than most, Mr Cobain et al did ‘that’ unplugged malarkey.

Sometimes it works. And sometimes it engenders limited appeal or success. So when Deaf Havana reworked their brilliant Fools And Worthless Liars album so soon after its massively successful release, breath was held. But what resulted was pretty much unanimously vaunted as a modern day masterpiece.

What it proved (as if it needed to be) was that their songs were strong enough and good enough to survive the paring down test. And, to that end James Veck-Gilodi and his band of troubadours decided to give the ‘alternative’ versions a tour of their own.

So, a much expanded line up (JV-G’s ikkul bruv Matthew on guitar and vox and Max Britton tickling the keys) take to the stage like some sort of post hardcore ragamuffin jug band complete with living room standard lamps, comfy chairs, rugs flowers ‘n’ all and kick off with the folked-up version of the album opener The Past Six Years.

And all is immediately well in the world. JV-G appears to be in fine fettle and enjoying every minute of it. Swapping between guitars, mandolins, Banjos, nose flutes, penis accordions, Hawaiian slide/steel guitar thingies and even the drums during Smiles All Round, he demonstrates his versatility and all round musicianship. Most of the album is given an airing with a new song and even a completely re-worked version of Friends Like These dovetailing neatly into the set.

 

Throughout, there appears to be a genuine joy on stage. Tinged with gauche nerves and almost a hint of uncomfortable apology. There's no superstar ego here. You definitely get the feeling this is not some post-modern self-indulgence, nor some transient experiment the band need to get off their chests. This is genuine. Heartfelt. Real. Lyrics are forgotten, mute buttons accidentally pressed, impromptu solo paeans to guitar techs performed seemingly off-the cuff (and wonderfully). As I say, real.

Veck-Gilodi regularly maintains that his favourite sort of music isn’t at the rockier end of the corridor, but prefers the more soulful, atmospheric and melodically carpeted  gallery. He wears his influences on his heavily tattooed sleeve, Neil Young (a hint of Old Man makes it into the end of Leeches I’m sure - but it may just have been the Chianti), Nick Drake, Jeff Buckley, Death Cab, Beck and even Counting Crows - represented tonight with a sparkling cover of Round Here from the timelessly brilliant August And Everything After - all are evident flavourings and ingredients in this healthy, hearty broth.

But it’s misleading to list these heavyweights as mere influences. Veck-Gilodi and Deaf Havana are beginning to fit comfortably alongside such luminaries. There, I said it. Their brilliant, clever, personal and oft moving songwriting, both lyrically and musically are the reason a hard-working, rag-bag rock band from 'East of Ipswich' (wrong county I know, but you know what I mean) can put on a show like tonight. The very quality of the songs transcends genres or musical style and, fittingly in a church, shines through like some sort of shimmering, other-worldly holy light.

The mass ends with a suitably rousing hymn, the wonderfully moving Hunstanton Pier.  From the The congregation respectfully and adoringly join in and lumps in throats swell, eyes grow a tad moist and hairs stand to attention.

Brilliant and important stuff has happened here to night. Amen.

Here's a fan vid of the opening number. Courtesy of Andy Pegel.

 And here's a brilliant tune from Big Sixes. 
 

Shhhhhhmith - Live review of John Smith at The Purcell Room

John Smith *****

Stevie Jackson *****

The Purcell Room, London Southbank, 25th March 2013

I’m always wary of ‘gigs’ in classical venues. The august surroundings often imprint an unwanted over-reverence or high art elevation onto the show.

Saying that, tonight’s sell out crowd bizarrely look pretty much like regular well heeled recital goers. Not too many folky beardy weirdies, sandals, pewter tankards or the whiff of patchouli oil, pulses or exotic and intoxicating herbs. Sadly. More gin and tonic than Roccy Black (ask yer dad kids). I’ll get over it.

Stevie Jackson *****

So, first up is lone man and guitar Stevie Jackson; he of Belle And Sebastian fame. A decent sized gentrified throng has gathered in the hushed gloomy cavern to catch the fragile motes and notes of Jackson’s frail (and sadly flimsy) acoustic reveries.

The silence is crushing and it can’t really be aiding Jackson as he nervously and timorously meanders his way through his oft sensitive and gossamer-thin narrative.

His songs, while dripping with personal pain, points, poignancy and the occasional Celtic or political barb, regrettably, are not strong enough to neither grab nor hold onto the G&T guzzlers attention. And there’s soon a very polite drift back to the foyer bar gathering apace.

When indie or alternative acts unplug and cross the genre beams, it often exposes the lack of substance and reliance on ‘anti-performance’ or willful eschewal of genuine musical skill. While Jackson can obviously play the guitar a bit, his reedy, featherlight voice, lack of song structure and general meandering pulls us all back into bedsit land. I’m sure, cross legged on a bedroom floor surrounded by mates, bongs, copies of The Morning Star, and cheap wine, he sounds mightily more relevant. But tonight, he’s out of his class. Out of his depth. And out of his comfort zone. A shame.
 

John Smith *****

By now the dark, moist comfort of the Purcell Womb is almost ready to pop. But still eerily silent. Gone are the days of banter. Laughs. Giggles. Interaction. Gigglefests with Renbourn, Jansch or Martyn sucking on a big one or knocking back Tennessee-based tinctures seem to be distant, blurry memories. The reverence and respect is almost overbearing.

No matter, Smith takes to the stage with trusted sidesman Jon Thorne and in a very demure, beautiful and seductive way, blows the bloody doors off. 

Reservations and discomfort about the almost ecclesiastical atmosphere are swept aside immediately. Smith’s wonderful whispers, growls, and beguiling vocals, his ridiculously mesmeric and technically amazing playing instantly causes jaws to drop, tears to swell, lumps to form in throats, hairs stand on end and hearts a pounding. All perfectly silently of course.

A wonderful array of songs from the the amazing new album Great Lakes are given the live treatment. Some with beautifully played strings as a delicious accompaniment and embellishment. Old favourites like the always mesmeric Winter and the haunting Invisible Boy are rolled out. Even a spot of feedback (how dare it! - although the crowd proves it's still out there with polite giggles in reaction) fails to disrupt the beauty of the goosebump-inducing Lungs. Throughout, bottleneck, frightening dexterity, dobros, technical trickery of the highest order and limpid vocal perfection are all glued together with Thorne’s spellbinding and sensitive Danny Thomsonesque double bass work.

This my friends is as good as live acoustic music gets. As near perfection as there is.

Smith’s songcraft has developed since his stunning debut The Fox And The Monk and he’s rapidly cementing himself in the position of Britain’s greatest young folk performer. Absolutely masterful. If not a little light on the crowd involvement. Man, he’d have loved Bunjies back in the day. Or night. As much as they’d have loved him. Astonishing.

Now where’s that Roccy?

Here's Mr Smith's delightful most recent single. Dive in.
 

Take your pic

Slightly different post this one. No gig reviews or waffles. I've gathered together just some of my stumbling iPhone attempts to try and capture at least an iota of the energy, verve and excitement from some of the very best alternative and underground bands. Some pics are really terrible. Some surprisingly ok. But all genuine, real and shot while enjoying the show. Usually 'lubricated' by pre-show cocktails.'ave a look. And feel free to steal, borrow or re-use.

Couple of reviews coming up so normal service will be resumed. Deaf Havana and John smith among them.

Me too. Live review of Me and Yearbook at The Barfly

Me **1/2***

Yearbook *****

Red House Glory ***1/2**

The Barfly, Camden, Tuesday 5th March 2013

In the Barfly kitchen tonight, we’ve got some grunge, a librarian, some camp Aussies, deep sub drops, screams, woo-hoos and plenty of guitars. So let’s see how the chefs do:

Red House Glory ***1/2**

Not an encouraging kick off, as first to get their aprons on in tonight’s bake off are late into the scullery. Tut tut. However, once all prepped and plugged in things get off to a relatively tasty start.

Ingredients: First, take a goodly dash of Pearl Jam. Add in a healthy slug of early Green Day (when they were half decent) heavy guitars, decent melody and a sprinkle or two of vintage rock and roll and, if you can find it a dash or two of balls-out boogie.

Method: Bake in a small, hot, Camden box at medium temperature and wait for about 20 minutes. 

Results: A decent, honest, wholesome melange of big, grungy, rocky vibrancy. Nothing too new or exciting, but with a couple of new tunes on show, there’s potential here. One new song (as yet nameless) is the pick of the generally very tasty platter. Be nice to see how things mature.

Yearbook *****

Ingredients: Just about everything in the fucking cupboard. Take searingly hot chilli-infused math rock, sugary melodies, amusing spicy lyricism, red raw passionate and powerful meaty poprock, complex jazzy molecular unctions and glazes that Heston Blumenthal would drool over, punky sauces, massive dark chocolatey sub bombs, delightfully flavoured harmonies, rusty nail screams, high ranged and searing vocal razors, guitar venom fused with subtle tasting smooth oils, big, bold-tasting bass and glue it all together with precisely measured and spikey, spicy, perfect drumming.

Method: Empty all the contents into a hawaiian shirt. Resist the temptation to mix it all up. Experiment with micro quantities of all the ingredients. Scientifically, but intuitively blend them. Then shake vigorously. Boom.

Results: Mouthwatering, triple, fuck it, quadruple Michelin-starred genius. Nigh on weird and wonderful perfection. Willy Wonka and Blumenthal’s bastard offspring can’t even come close. The originality is outstanding, veering from nerdy punky sneers to the choppiest, polyrhythmic kicks to the tastebuds. 

There’s heaviness aplenty, but with such sweet melodic counterpoint. Such delicate contrast. It’s just so clever. But never indulgent or knowing. Jaunt, joy, bombast and trickery. Including two (three counting the outstanding recent release Art Student) ones straight out of the oven. Truly magical. Yum. And indeed, yum.

Me **1/2***

Ingredients: Sugar. Spice. Pomp. A litre or two of fizzy Aussie froth. A couple of dollops of Queen. Throw in a handful of Muse. A liberal sprinkling of AWOLNation. A tiny hint of The Mars Volta’s tuneful bits and finally finish with large scoops of Mika. Yup, Mika.

Method: Pack into a small space with lots of Aussies, girls and luvvies from the industry, strut, shake, groove and shake again using the hips.

Result: Processed poppy, pompy grandiosity. Think The Rocky Horror Show played by Jet. All camp and meringue-like. Beautifully played (especially given the apparent late change of guitarist) but mildly bland. 

There’s the odd sophisticated top note, but on the whole it’s a bit sickly sweet. The often Mika-like operatically high register vocals wear a little thin after a while. Don’t get me wrong, it’s exquisitely crafted and performed but, as I say (and particularly after Yearbook’s ridiculous exploration and exploitation of every taste bud) feels a little soulless. The Queen-infused  layered pastry is somewhat overdone and there’s even an unpalatable hint of a wedding band that annoyingly cloys and keeps niggling the buds. Not horrid by any means. Just a bit overcooked with too much saccharine.

Here are some goodies from Yearbook. Tuck in. Greedily.

TOKOLOSH and Tosh - Live Review Wilmington Arms

TOKOLOSH *****HK119 1/2*****

The Wilmington Arms, Clerkenwell, 4th March 2013

Not been to the Wilmington arms before. But impressed by a decent sized room attached to a fantastic real ale pub. Even if it was full of achingly cool east London types.

So, what’s in store for the hipsters and dripsters tonight?

HK119 1/2*****

Having checked out tonight’s support on TwatterFace beforehand, it becomes apparent that HK119 is not a Heckler And Koch machine pistol, but the sobriquet of one Heidi Kilpeläinen - a London-based Finnish performance artist. And, she’s promising the audience the appearance of the ‘rarely seen’ human iceberg. Gulp.

This could be a joke...

Ok, a man walks into a pub...In a smock. With a viking beard. And settles behind a bank of synths and boxes of buttons. He’s joined by a statuesque woman sporting a shiny red accordian. They both stand surrounded by ivy and foliage (you ‘eard) while surreal and oh-so-arty dreamscape clips are projected onto the dingy walls.

Music, of sorts, starts as the ‘rarely seen’ human iceberg makes her way through the collection of beard-stroking coolites. I’m now very uncomfortable. Open minded. But definitely uncomfortable.

Wrapped in a what looked like a teenage boy’s week old bed sheet (you know, you have to break it over your knee to get it in the washing basket) and sporting a white prismic hat, Kilpeläinen takes to the stage.

To the background of retro 80s clunky and totally unsophisticated keyboard farts, bleeps, burps and pads she sets off into the first song. Coincidentally enough, about icebergs. And, to be honest; it’s awful. No, really awful.

The lyrics sound like a 12 year old girl’s first poetry attempt at simile and metaphor. So cringeworthy. So naiive. So, well, terrible.

And it really doesn’t get any better. Mild amusement ensues as she removes her rarely seen human iceberg hat to reveal another prismic pointy hat. This time in a William Morris-esque floral print to match her newly revealed slinky catsuit, having thrown off the boy protein-fortified bed sheet.

The polite chuckles continue apace, as for the next tune, Ms 119 removes the second pointy prismic hat to reveal: a bush. Yup, a full-on leafy bush thing. Growing out of her nordic blonde mane. 

She ‘plays’ a ukulele, blows into a tin whistle, hits one of those really annoying synth drums. Uses a voice distorter to sound like Darth Vader with bronchitis and ‘sing’ about worms eating her legs. I don’t remember mainlining meth or taking a fistful of goofballs this evening, but that’s what it feels like: curioser and curioser. But, sadly, no better. This is genuinely the soundtrack to a nightmare.

Saying that, the ‘rarely seen’ human iceberg can certainly sing. I just wish I wasn’t here to hear her. There are moments of Kate Bush, Bjork (inevitably and lazily), flashes of Nina Hagen and the meanderings and hollerings of Peter Hammill. But it just doesn’t work. The ‘songs’ are performances but not songs. But the performance is lame, lacklustre and undynamic. Music, but not musical. The ‘music’ being empty, derivative, unchallenging and flat. Worst of all, there’s a knowing, self-congratulatory, self-indulgent self-import imbuing the whole evening. If it is a joke it’s not in the least bit funny. If it’s serious, it’s seriously no good.

Ok, it’s harsh to apply the ‘normal’ musical rules of thumb when looking at something that clearly purports to go beyond music. And I may be a lone voice among the head bobbing hat and beard crowd tonight. But this is the emperor’s new bed sheet. A hideous confused bastard hybrid offspring of art school and old school. For the first time ever, I’m going to have to give nul points. Ok, maybe a half, just for the bush.

Intermission:

And breathe. Declaration of interest coming up: I love Liam Frost. No, not in that way. But having seen the young lad on dozens of occasions, solo, with the various shapes and sizes of The Slowdown Family and even with a record company rent-a-band, I am a definite (old) fanboy. 

His lyricism, his frailty, his beautiful playing. His bluff northern accent. His songsmithing. He has the whole package. But, for whatever reason, despite his ‘tipped for the top’ early industry enthusiasm, he failed to capture a bigger room of hearts than the Manc (nu)folk scene. A crying shame. But maybe, just maybe, given a couple of recent demos and even a stunning cover of a Frank Ocean song, more solo Mr Frost is on the cards.

Anyway, that’s largely immaterial tonight as we’re gathered her to worship at the altar of a new vehicle for Mr Frost and his Manc ‘supergroup’ buddies, the splendidly monikered TOKOLOSH.

TOKOLOSH ***** (Sound guy *****)

Having thankfully cleared the stage of leaves, weirdness and pretense (note to self, great prog album name), 5 down-to-earth looking lads take to the boards. But, talking of prog, it’s a stage that Caravan, ELP, Yes or The Nice would be happy with. Organs, banks of synths, wooden stuff, boxes of dials and flashing lights surround Mr Frost clutching his red semi acoustic centre stage.

And we’re off. Mercifully, back to live music. Proper music.

From the off, there’s a delicious tightness and real energy. But with a homely, raggedy edge. This is a poppy, rocky, country, indie, folky chowder with huge meaty chunks with delicate seasoning. Strong substantial, hearty flavours, subtle spices and surprising  ingredients. The most surprising of which is the dominance of keys.

In a world having recently veered back to guys (and girls) with guitars, it’s refreshing to see the humble keyboard taking a prominent position. But it’s important to point out, this is real keyboard playing. Not midi-triggered pads, sequencers, sampled loops, banal retro electronica (rearing its ugly head with awful momentum with 'cool' bands like Nightworks. Cringe.) Not bowel-evacuating dubsteppy sub wobs and brown notes: nope, this is the real deal. Not wandering triads; real playing. Fingers moving. Left and right hands doing different things. 

I joke about the prog, but there’s real and direct lineage from Iron Butterfly, Argent, Deep Purple, Moody Blues, The Doors and, of course Emerson Lake And Palmer on show tonight. Not necessarily in the actual music (no rambling 11 minute classically-infused wankfests here, thank the lord), but in the sounds, the vibe, the technique.

Saying that, there is a big BUT tonight. And a sad one. Both sets of  keys are so high in the mix, that it almost renders the rest of the band inaudible. I honestly don’t know what the sound engineer is up to. Initially, thinking it was a monitor spillage, I moved back but the keys were still far too dominant. To the end, it almost ruined a brilliant performance. Frost’s stunning voice was drowned out at times. His guitar reduced to an air-guitar prop.

However, what isn’t in doubt is the quality of both the songs and the performance. Being a newly hatched band, there’s not a huge collection to cull from, so all their publicly aired tuneage is on show tonight. And dazzlingly so. Highlights include the catchy and vaguely threatening Shapeshifter and the marvellous The Hollow. All performed flawlessly but not slavishly. 

Levels aside, this is a real hint of great things to come. TOKOLOSH are universal enough in appeal and genre to slot into shows across the board. Sitting (ironically, given all the electronic kit on show) comfortably at the acoustic side of things, but equally at home perched at the table of indie or even rock shows. There’s even enough originality and musical sophistication to share chambers with the alt rock brotherhood. Who knows, 2000 Trees or ArcTanGent could do a lot worse than getting these lads to do a turn. Just with a different sound guy.

Exciting, delicious and tantalising stuff. Can’t wait to hear what they come up with next. 

Here are a couple of their brilliant tunes. Enjoy: