Nightmare of a day - Live review Nightmare Rocks in Camden

Nightmare Rocks *****
120 bands. 20 venues. 1 day. 1 bastard of a hangover. 120 words.
Various venues, Camden, November 1st 2014

It doesn't seem that long ago that we were scuttling up and down Camden's rat run for the brilliant Camden Rocks in the summer. Well, we're all back. And so's the sun. In November. Weird.

In the spirit of today's relentlessly punishing festivities with 120 bands peppered all over NW1, I'm going to pointlessly and breathlessly keep 120 words for each of the acts. Right, I'm going in.

Agent *****
The Underworld

First on. Devil's own slot. Sadly pretty empty room. But huge proggy, trippy, spacey, djenty, tecchy sounds. Not at all bad actually. Moments of Tool and Karnivool. Odours of grunge as well. At times reminiscent of Queens Of The Stone Age if they actually grew some proper gonads. A bit light on hooks or refrains. But, as I say, proggy stuff, so labyrinthine meandering melodies more the order of the day. There's  a screen showing the direct feed from the inside of a meth head's bonce to add to the bong-infused headiness. Strange choice as a first up act. Not really a party starter. Too classy. Too complex. In short, too good.  But a really brave and laudable start. Man.

Leviathan ***1/2**
The Jazz Café

Never heard of them. And with the moniker they've got, was expecting a Mastodon/Krokodil/Bovine kind of vibe. How wrong. What we've got is a dirty bastard scuzzy trio banging out a grit in the foreskin, dirty, bluesy, funky concoction that really is captivating. A grungy throwback lead guitarist and gruff but explosive vocalist rips into all manner of filth including a mesmerising and funked and fucked up version of Sabbath's The Wizard accompanied by some solid tub thumping and an über dude on a Rickenbacker providing great counterpoint, grinding bass and surprisingly tight as an amoeba's arse harmonies. It's an unholy mix of Nirvana, Rory Gallagher, Budgie and even hints of The Jam. A bit bonkers. But a bit good.

Du Bellows ***1/2**
The Proud

Regrettably, a pretty empty room. Mysteriously no drummer. More booze. Dog-on-a-string guitarist. Dreads. Bare feet. Sassy Welsh front woman. Huge, gorgeous, powerful voice. Reminiscent of Chicken Shack or Early Fleetwood Mac with spacey Fairport Convention wisps and strands woven into a bluesy, folky, stoner loveliness. Packed like a Camberwell carrot full of soul, sass and mind-altering trippyness. Although (maybe due to today's lack of a tub thumper) a little ramshackle and loose at times. A real comfortable cardy or care-worn, rock-burnt afghan coat of a band showing their forefathers' and mothers' influences by dipping into ma and pa's old vinyl collection, mixing it all up, packing into a bong and firing the beauty up for a brain calming feel-good session. 

Death And The Penguin ****1/2*
The Proud

Art school. Math school. New school. Smart school. Blimey, what a grin-inducing, pleasant surprise. A brilliant set full of angular, polyrhythmic, über-tight, clever, beautifully played and energetically performed mathy splendour. Fresh, challenging, original and spellbinding trickery and fuckery. There's a real endearing intelligence to this quartet's work. Complete with ironic bow ties and 6th form common room geek chic. There's more than a trace of Everything Everything or even Franz Ferdinand (if they were actually any good!) mixed with Delta Sleep or Tellison and even a bit of OK Go. There's more chop than a Karate competition in an abattoir  all deliciously served up with mesmerising harmony and counterpoint with poppy hundreds and thousands sprinkled on top. Absolutely bloody 
delicious.

Calling All Cars *****
Dingwalls

Thankfully, more than quite a few have slipped down the gullet into the subterranean gloom of Camden's bowels for this brotherly love-led Bristolian-based Oz trio. Quite simply why this band aren't huge is just mystifying. Hayden Ing is a born front man and backed by his brother James on 4 strings and the Bonhomesque skin smasher (he even sees off a snare this afternoon) Adam Montgomery they reek of stadium or huge halls. The music itself is massive. Joyous. Fresh. Unfettered rock and roll, crammed with hooks, riffs, melody, harmony and napalm-enriched face-melting power. Ing's vocals are flawless even though he throws himself around like a cattle-prodded mudskipper, performing from the crowd or even up a ladder (you 'eard). Fanbloodytastic.

Max Raptor *****
The Underworld

120 words. Go:

Hot. Packed. Frenzied. Energetic. Clever. Dry. Witty. Powerful. Fun. Chinese. Gervais. Sorry. Cider. Mosh. King. Dead. Tight. Fresh. Heavy. Showmen. Sardonic. Wry. Dance. Shout. Cajoled. Seduced. Thoughtful. Evangeline. Heart. Passion. Bombast. Punk. Rock. Original. Savvy. Riffs. Bombs. Guts. Evacuation. Skidmarks. Oops. Fervour. Belief. Boner. Wide-on. Phwoooar. Honesty. Integrity. Performance. Grit. Political. Anger. Ire. Intelligence. Beguiling. Frenzy. Gyrating. Response. Sing-a-long. Whooooa. Oooh. Anthemic. Powder. Wine. Sweat. Foist. Crowd. Surf. Yell. Drop. Bombs. Respect. Heart. Power. Meat. Raw. Fisting. Ouch. Vim. Vigour. Tune. Hook. Chorus. Melody. Anger. Principled. Smart. Savvy. Party. Dance. Clap. Scream. Dive. Pit. Delicious. Strong. Dark. Punch. Gonads. Kiss. Neck. Contrast. Handshake. Bird. Hug. Strangle. Seduce. Defile. Smile. Grimace. Love. Hate. Barrel. Wave. Two. Fingers. Proud. Brilliant. Fuck. Yeah. 

Brawlers *****
Electric Ballroom

Yup, red beanie-toting frontman Harry George Johns is one of those ludicrously passionate, born-to-be-a-star types who bleeds music, but the sad fact is, his band is, well, a bit meh. Derivative and regressed-to-the-mean pop punk adding so little of anything new. Ok, there's melody and the occasional hook in here. But it's all so bloody me-too. Johns has the energy. He's got the neck. The star quality. but that's about it. The crowd (even the ones who are questionably manhandled to the floor by Johns) seem to share my opinion. A glazed, cider-induced smile or two and the brave attempts by a couple of fancy-dressed moshing chickens aside, no fires are lit in the cavernous hall this afternoon. Real shame.  

InMe ***1/2**
Electric Ballroom

Feels like the whole InMe army are packed in. And they're treated to a brief but blinding set of alt metally, dazzlingly played artillery lobbed into their adoring midst. However, although I've long been a fan, I can't help but feel that tonight is all a little 'knowing'. Introducing rarely played backnumbers is a treat for die-hards; this is a festival. Maybe (no matter how much Dave and the lads must hate trotting them out) a couple more 'big ones' like Single of The Weak and  the one that kicked it all off, Underdose could get an airing, given that despite the fan-dominated room, there are a shitload of newbies here tonight. Minor gripe, but it feels like a convention rather than a celebration. Bloody good though. As always.

The Hell *****
The Underworld.

120 words you say? Ok:


CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS.CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. CUNTS. 
SPASTICS.

Allusondrugs ****1/2*
The Underworld.

The last 120 words. In twos.

Last minute. Rhino replacement. Top blokes. Leeds lads. Bong water. Grunge infused. Empty room. Huge hearts. Tight as. Big tunes. Hilariously dry. Energetic bounce. Rock Roll. Likeable engagement. Great musicianship. Cousin It. Fun frenzy. Loud proud. True heart. Good songs. Party hearts. Catchy chlamydia. Roller coaster. White knuckles. Punk soul. Fucking fun. Dance inducing. Smiles grins. Big bollocks. Genuine talent. Original new. Fast furious. Hummable memorable. Light shade. Dark bright. Genuine passion. Feeling pissed. Shot arm. Pick up. Guitars loud. Loving it. Show men. Hundred percent. Respect due. Sweat brow. Giving all. Last act. Huge day. Broken liver. Fantastic fun. Brilliant acts. Live music. The Best. Totally fucked. More cider. Another Jager. After show. Hang over. Love it. Need sleep.


Bit of a gallery:

Definitely. Not maybe. Live review of Maybeshewill at The Garage

Maybeshewill *****
&U&I *****
Flood of Red *****
Waking Aida ***1/2**

The Garage, Islington, 17th October 2014

Dear brethren, on a pleasantly balmy autumn evening, we are gathered here today to give thanks to the music gods for the rich harvest laid before us. 

Who'd have thunk it, but we have a sell out for an evening of post and alt rock. You 'eard. A sell out. A full house. A brimming, drooling congregation of zealots, acolytes and good people (mostly with beards) gathered to celebrate the off beam. The challenging. The underdog. And, brothers and sisters, it feels bloody liberating.

Waking Aida ***1/2**
First to the pulpit are genteel post rockers Waking Aida. Pretty much from the same clan and gene pool as Maybeshewill, they kick things off with a seductive set of soundscapes, noodles, time signature tomfoolery and lush pads. 

Nothing too novel or startling, but a solid and thoroughly enjoyable first reading to kick off evensong.

Flood of Red *****
With the second reading from the book of Caledonians are Airdrionian alt rock tunesmiths Flood of Red. And we're treated to a spellbinding and intoxicating performance full of spiralling textures and meaty melody with big swollen balls. And all topped off by the almost angelic and seductive vocals of sideways-facing Jordan Spiers.

It's a heady and evocative mix. Great swathes of superb musicianship, huge, anthemic tunes and deep, almost menacing heavy thunder painting an almost menacing biblical scene with Spiers' shaft of heavenly light cutting through and delivering salvation. A Flood of Old Testament proportions indeed.

&U&I *****

Next to preach to the agog congregation are the delightfully mixed up and agnostic &U&I. Tonight, they feel like a guest reverend from a hardcore fanatical or fundamentalist church among the other generally lilting and charming homilies. They deliver spit and fire. Brimstone and ball crushing, acerbic fervour. And it's brilliant.

Tighter than a 70's male TV presenter or DJ's ringpiece every time the doorbell rings, the trio produce a surging maelstrom of mathy mayhem with every stop, beat, fill and ghost note nailed to within hyper a quantized microsecond. There's so much skill on offer, yet it never sounds mannered or sanitised. 

There's roughness aplenty. But mainly vocally through screams and hellfire yells as a counterpoint to the mesmerising playing and head-spinning precision. And it works a treat. Oh yes.

Maybeshewill *****

So, the readings have been delivered. The offering received. The heady incense burned. It's time for the main sermon.

As the first tantalising notes of the opening to the phenomenal album Fair Youth ring out and then mutate into the majesty and splendour of In Amber, it's clear that this is no ordinary priest; it's pretty much as close as we can get to The Big Man himself making an appearance. Holy fuck.

Everything here is as close to perfection as humble mankind can get. The raw nerve-shredding might and spine-tingling beauty of the Leicestershire quintet's work is definitely as near as dammit a religious experience. 

How on God's earth can instrumental music generate so much powerful emotion? When Mozart sat hunched at his candle-lit dais banging out his melodic masterpieces, he can only have dreamt that those same twelve notes he banged on about would still be being arranged a couple of hundred years later with the same fervour and heart-shifting splendour but with relevance, modernity and originality. Shivers.

And to make things even more unfairly goosebump inducing and heavenly, tonight the lads are occasionally joined on stage by a perfect horn section just to wring more joyous tears from the bewitched and converted apostles. Everywhere around there are lumps in throats and pants, moist eyes and erect neck and arm hairs. 

The band themselves appear far from oblivious to the collective joy and fanaticism; they seem genuinely touched and even taken aback at the fervour and dedicated appreciation pouring forth from the converts at their feet.

They're all big tunes tonight, but the really 'big' ones like Red Paper Lanterns, To The Skies From a Hillside, Critical Distance and Not For Want of Trying bring the chapel walls down. In fact the whole town's walls. There are crowd surfers (yup, at a post rock show!), gyrating pits and general joyous and unbridled mayhem as each delicious chord progression, arpeggio and module milks us all dry.

The lads  return to the stage after the thunderous and passionate collective entreaties of the baying crowd before finishing the service by delivering the coup de grace;  He Films The Clouds Part 2 with its sampled voicy bit which turns the awestruck mob into a massive community choir belting out every word with football fan gusto.


As the final arpeggio fades into the ether and the crowd erupts for one last time, it's apparent that we've been in the presence of something almost spiritual this evening. A mesmerising, rousing, hugely emotional and moving miracle. At the risk of sounding like some sort of fucking Jehovah's Witness or cod Missionary: You need Maybeshewill in your life. See the light. Let them in. A-bloody-men.

By the way, in no way am I religious. I concur with Mr Steven Fry: "Religion? Shit it!" Just thought I'd better clear that up.
But if there was a God, he probably is 5 guys from Leicester.

Marmolized. Live review of Marmozets at The Scala.

Marmozets*****
Lonely The Brave *****

Scala, Kings Cross, London, Friday 10th October 2014

As the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness stumbles towards that ceremony where we burn effigies of Catholic conspirators and spend fortunes filling the sky with cordite and burning holes in wooly gloves, it seems only apposite to draw an autumnal parallel between tonight's pyrotechnics and the impending night of the roman candle.

So, let's get the taper lit, the pets behind the sofa, the biscuit tin of air bombs and bangers out from under the stairs and get things lit.

Lonely The Brave *****

First to be thrust into the bucket of soil to be sparked up on this alternating headline tour are Cambridge's movers and shakers Lonely The Brave.

It doesn't take long for the fuse to crackle into life and deliver its charge into the beefy payload as a huge sound cascades all over the packed confines of this grand old, whimsical venue.

As fireworks go, Lonely The Brave are a slick, impressive well organised display bursting with oohs and aahs, filling every corner of the space with impressive and gut-vibrating booms and a glittering smattering of pomp.

However, if there's one minor gripe, this son et lumiere, while full of grandeur and spectacular fizz, gets, well, a little repetitive. The songs, while pretty much all stadium-friendly anthems and chest-beating canon fire lack a little nuance or definition. A bit like a really impressive long series of dazzling bright white Chrysanthemum-like fusillades; although captivating and hypnotic, it feels like there's a need for the occasional change of pace. Of colour. Of, dare I say it, key.

That all said, like any band with an original or specific sound, the line between trademark oeuvre and repetition is a difficult and precarious one to tread. Muse, U2, Biffy et al all emanate a clearly recognisable scent and it doesn't seem to have harmed them all too much. Anyway, it's horribly unfair to unduly criticise a band so early on their journey and without a whopping sac bulging full of backed up goop to draw upon.

It's such an engrossing and explosive show, that the always slightly rum positioning of singer David Jakes behind the guitars isn't particularly noticeable here, camouflaged by the cascading joy, emotion and explosions, he delivers a pretty much flawless vocal performance which is helped out in the big sing-a-long bits by the gawping display watchers.

A crackling and cracking set which clearly puts this lot in the big cabinet of fuck off serious fireworks behind the counter and certainly hints of even bigger and brighter things to come. I just hope they do dip into the weird and wonderful, slightly more challenging and dangerous part of the chemistry set to change things up just now and again. 

Fiery and impressive stuff though.

Marmozets*****

As the lingering cordite and last wisps of Lonely The Brave smoke swirl into the Kings Cross sky, it's time for tonight's main display. Once again, the powder keg of a room is as full as a fat chav's grey sweatpants. And just about as hot. And stickily sweaty.

The lights dim and we're off. Right from the off, there's a different air. A different energy. Whereas Lonely The Brave were more pomp and circumstance, Becca MacIntyre and her  ragbag collection of MacIntyre and Bottomley brotherly miscreants are more downtown Helmand. Full on, gloves off, pin out relentless bombast.

Kicking off with the Ebola grade infectious Born Young And Free, the place melts down in the face of the incendiary assault. MacIntyre's voice has never sounded better. Swinging effortlessly between pitch perfect cleans and testicle rearranging growls and screams, the diminutive Tyke-ess leads her likely lads unquestioningly and loyally over the top into artillery saturated action.

The set unabatingly keeps delivering spectacular explosion after spectacular explosion. The variety box that is the brilliant new album (The Weird And Wonderful - definitely cemented as one of the albums of the year) is virtually emptied of one fizzing banger after another.

But this is no spluttering, crackling family selection. Oh no. This is weapons grade stuff. Massive thunderfucks. Laced with the heaviest of metals, jizz, shards of tortured Sheffield steel, bile, phlegm, napalm and face-melting lava. Like some sort of fierce, snarling pyroclastic flow, engulfing all in its path while sardonically and mischievously flicking the middle finger up as it passes.

Not some dad-lit 3 inch fizzling back garden Mount Vesuvius, but the raging hard on of the real thing; right in the hellish pit of the ejaculating crater. And it keeps coming. The malevolent album title track, the angsty Why Do You Hate Me and the drop tuned majesty of Hit The Wave keep the bombs raining in on the shell shocked, sweating, writhing hordes.

But like all pyrotechnic displays, it has to come to an end and seems too short. And, as a first album band and with only a couple of handfulls of previous math fuckery at their disposal, 10 songs is about as much as we can hope for. But with two last songs like the brilliant blitzkrieg of Move Shake Hide and the astonishing neutron bomb set closer Vibetech there's no feeling of being short changed. 

The B52 delivered Vibetech leaves a huge circular crater on the floor as a spastically frenzied circle pit opens up to accompany the mathy, Dillingeresque explosion that wrings the last drops of sweat from the adoring and by now mutilated crowd.

Tonight, Marmozets have moved up a notch and rightly can take their place among the very best of British live bands, in fact, fuck it, among the very best live bands full stop. Their energy, tightness, melody, technical ability, maturing songcraft and integrity sets them apart from the pack by a country mile. Brilliant, bewildering, explosive stuff.

Boom indeed.

Havana ball - Live review of Deaf Havana at Sub 89 Reading

Deaf Havana ****1/2*
Attention Thieves ***1/2**
Sub 89 Reading, 3rd October 2014

Firstly, apologies to Hearts Under Fire; due to having to struggle out to the wilds of Berkshire for tonight's show, I didn't hit the dizzying bosom of Reading in time for the early set. But the buzz in the attic after their opening slot seems to suggest they'd set things up nicely.

Attention Thieves ***1/2**

The first thing you notice about local lads Attention Thieves, well apart from bass player Ryan Davies, is that they're all bloody huge. They're like a performing New York sky line or an NBA team on a lads' night out (who've brought a wee friend out with them)

But it's not only physical hugeness that this quintet possess. There are chunky tunes, big drops, fat guitars, massive growls and impressive energy throughout their heavy alt rock infused set.

Ok, maybe a little harshly, there may be not a lot too new or staggeringly original about their offering (and tonight, they're fighting a sound man who buries most of the vocal deep down in the bombastic mix), but they're tight, bang on point, slick - without being anodyne or soulless - vibrant and, at times as heavy as a frustrated rhino's blue balls. And judging by the enthusiastic and warm reaction from the packed room, it works. 

There are many glimpses of influential underwear on show; from the sassy alt rock vibes of Hundred Reasons or even Reuben, the nu-UK rock sounds of Young Guns, tantalising hints of post pop punky ADTR chop and even a whiff of Alexis On Fire veering towards the lighter end of metal core a la Bury Tomorrow. Quite a heavy choice as an opener for the now far-from-heavy headline act, but, all-in-all, a bloody good big show from a bloody good big band. And little Ryan.

Deaf Havana ****1/2*
You know, it's a weird one that we're all here at all tonight. Not that downtown Reading is especially weird, it just feels like something must be going on in camp Havana. A couple of apparently random dates in a couple of smallish rooms in, well, provincial towns. A cancelled European tour. A new mini English tour coming up with no date in the Capital. 

After the last couple of years of apparent exponential growth, an evolutionary streamlining and defining of their blue collar 'people's rock' sound, a couple of brilliant and critically acclaimed long players, huge sell out shows at the likes of The Roundhouse, Clapham Grand and Shepherds Bush, even bigger main stage festival slots, support slots to some of the business's behemoths...now this. Back to basics. Rum indeed. 

Not that it matters a jot tonight, as by now the room is bulging and as packed as Ron Jeremy's budgie smugglers and there's a genuine crackle of excitement and anticipation hanging in the pheromone and sweat-saturated air.

From the opening banging bounce and beauty of Boston Square, any thoughts, fears or musing about why we're all here tonight are completely sublimated and eradicated. This is how to do a rock show. Oh yes. The small size and low ceiling simply serve to amplify and exaggerate the connection, the love, the energy and the consumate songcraft that these East Anglian buggers have dripping from every honest and integrity-filled pore.

James Veck-Gilodi's always special voice has seldom been better. I could swear he even smiles at least a couple of times during the riotous and perfectly executed set (although he hints at troubles, disgruntlement and has a pop at other bands' recent outputs - hmmmm, can't possibly imagine who he's referring to; maybe the spiky and wonderfully snidey paean to the toilet tour The Past Six Years is laden with extra bile and resonance this evening. Just sayin'.)

Whatever the reasons for being here, Deaf Havana sound as good or even better than they've ever sounded: every tune is an absolute banger with the salivating and cider-fuelled assembled bouncing, clapping and baying mob loving every second of the hour long rollercoaster ride.

There are genuine tear jerking moments in the thought-provoking and pain-soaked Anemophobia and majestic set-closer Caro Padre mixed with unbridled joy of toe tappers like Everybody's Dancing And I Want To Die and the woo hooo hoo hoos of I Will Try.


Whatever travails The Veck-Gilodi brothers and their merry band may or may not be going through, tonight they have cemented themselves as national treasures. Again. Let's hope they manage to keep this electrifying theme park ride on its rails and keep providing thrills, spills, gut-moving and heart-stopping moments.

Got Cape. Wore cape. Flew. Review of last ever GCWCF show at The Forum.

Get Cape Wear Cape Fly *****
Some Shit Rap shambles *****
The Xcerts *****
Shane McGowan 

The Forum, Kentish Town, Friday 12th September 2014

So, it's finally here. The public pyre-lighting to see off a decade long 'project'? The Up helly aa of a nom-de-plume or stage name sobriquet? The gallows rites of an act? A band. A bloke? Tonight we are gathered to bury Get Cape Wear Cape Fly. And to praise him. (It. Them.)

Around 10 years ago, Mr Sam Duckworth from sunny Sarfend produced an album of such staggering influence, prescience and quality that he was going to make life very difficult for himself. Difficult to beat. Difficult to live up to. Difficult to follow up. Difficult to shake off.

And by his own admission, the intervening years have oft been marinaded in that difficulty. But throughout the 'career' or tenure of GCWCF, he has cemented himself in the position of all round brilliant bloke. Caring bloke. Supportive bloke. Revolutionary bloke. Talented bloke. Honest, dignified and integrity-soused bloke.

Chronicles of a Bohemian Teenager is without a doubt, a modern masterpiece and should be on every self-respecting music loving being's shelf, cloud or iPod. And tonight we are seeing some of its hallowed contents along with some equally sparkling further works from Mr Duckworth's later oeuvre being laid to rest for the very last time.

So, while there's a party vibe in the air, there's definitely a lump or two welling in the collective throats. A frisson of sadness not far under the surface. Damn it, it feels like a wake, rather than a farewell party.

But before we turn to the main man and his death cape, Sam has curated, well, a curate's egg of an evening. Due to the early start I miss most of Sean McGowan's spiky, sassy and sardonic jamboree, but he seems to have pulled a decent smattering of the floating mourners away from the Red Stripe pumps and onto the floor to slap them with his socially sarf coast estuarine rants, raves and roams. 

The Xcerts *****
The mourners however are a little more insouciant and stand-offish for the always excellent Xcerts. Regardless of the relatively sparse floor dwellers, the trio's sound is huge tonight and a mix of older favourites and stunning tasters milk every dB out of the ballsy PA. 

Pop Song and Shaking in The Water are genuine instant classics. Radio friendly enough but with a majesty, complexity and even a noir underbelly. If this is anywhere near what else is to come on  their long-awaited new long player, then they won't be playing half empty support slots for much longer.

Like a diminutive and slightly gauche bastard offspring of Tom Petty, Sam Carter, Kurt Cobain and My auntie Lyn, frontman Murray Macleod shows genuine and heartfelt respect, friendship, comradeship and love for Duckworth and regales the crowd with anecdotes of how he was totally fucked up by Sam's 'appetite for life' early in their career back in the BSM era when Sam personally championed the band (I fondly remember one evening in a converted strip bar in Soho at a very late show....nuff said - well, it is a night for reminiscing as well as revelry).

The short but oh-so-sweet set ends with the anthemic and energetic Slackerpop during which an impish Macleod manfully manages to get the crowd to enter pantomime world and get involved. 

A fitting and special performance, just can't work out why they're not on directly before the man himself.


Some Shit Rap shambles 1/2****

I won't rant. Or be too disrespectful. Rap is not really my thing. 

So I am more than a bit bewildered at Sam's choice of guests; even more so at their position on the bill. I don't even know who they are. Which is, I admit, a little disrespectful. Forgive me.

But it's kind of like two blokes having a syncopated shouty road rage argument in Peckham High Street bawling into each others' faces with some dude on a record player spinning bits and bobs of tunes that seem to have no rhythmic, melodic, structural or percussive link to what or how the shouty blokes are doing.

An absolute shambles. Made worse by the conveyor belt arrival of other road ragey special guest blokes in anoraks who ramble on about weed and get the crowd (well, the scant few who show any interest whatsoever) to shout back 'SHIIIIT!' Exactly.

Now, I know Sam is very much a man of the people and is a no respecter of boundaries, borders, discrimination, demarcation or crippling taxonomy and genres. In short, he oozes diversity, respect and integrity and his diverse and inclusive influences are legendary and eye-opening. Know what he was trying to do. But, in all honesty, for once, he's dropped a bit of a bollock here tonight. Let me hear you say SHIIIIIT!

Get Cape Wear Cape Fly
*****
So, onto the main event. Hankies ready.

The venerable old Forum is now as full as a fat man's pants and there's a genuine feeling of love and magic in the air. Mr Duckworth bounces onto the stage to join a full horn section, drums and, of course, his laptop. 

Leaving no Bohemian stone unturned from the incredible Chronicles, and giving most of them a completely new coat of varnish or gold leaf and tinkering with rhythms, arrangements, time signatures and ileum-loosening sub bass, the drooling and fine-voiced throng lap up every syllable and semi-quaver. Without being too glib, it feels like a massive, real time loved up Karaoke.

Regularly adding and subtracting to the line up, often leaving his slight frame but massive presence alone on the stage peeking out from behind his well-love acoustic, the show tugs at heartstrings, provokes and allures, gets heads a bobbing and feet a shuffling like some massive dance like your dad at a wedding flash mob. And the wee man looks like he's loving every fucking minute of it.

The full band add weight when called upon, faithful sidekick Mikey Glenister and his horny friends add honks, badaps and sheen, noodly keyboards complement the beeps, farts, wobs and real bass upon sub bass and real drums upon quantized clicks and booms all create a perfect storm. Add in Duckworth's flawless, raw, honest and eastbound A127 glottal-stop infused vocal cajoling, polemicising, philosophising and thought provoking vocals and, lest not forget, pretty fine plank spanking and the perfect storm becomes an irresistible tornado. And sounds as relevant and as original today as it ever has done.

There are genuine tears all around me for Lighthouse Keeper which is a personal highlight in an evening actually impossible to pick out highlights and voices finally gave out during the wonderfully apt and show stopping bas da ba da ba joy fest that closes this particular chronicle.

Not an unsullied larynx or a dry eye left in the house.

I kind of shot my emotional bolt when it comes to putting into words Sam's last show, as I was under the impression that a show he did at the New Slang event in good old Kingston earlier this year which left me as an empty quivering, tearful wreck. So I couldn't' fully put into words how delighted I was when I heard he was going to go out in the right manner here tonight. And what a way to go. What a night. A truly legendary performance.

He has his reasons. And I'm sure they're as good as the bloke he is. And tonight is a fitting and celebratory end of an era. A monumentally important era. 

It's a total joy and a privilege to have been here to be part of it tonight. And to have been there witnessing the growth, and regrowth over the past decade. And I wish him all the best in the next stage of the journey. Or the next stanza, verse, chapter or volume of his chronicles.

Hats of Get Cape Wear Cape Fly, whatever or whoever you were. You flew. Oh yes. 

And thank you.