Takedown with this sort of thing - Takedown Festival 2012 live review

Takedown Festival

Southampton University

18^th March 2012

Well, that just about killed me. A long day in the company of some of the brightest young talent from these shores.

The vogue for these quick ‘in and out’ festivals at Unis and multi venues is something to be applauded. No portaloos liberally weeping their contents all over your trainers, no foul, stygian mud, no tents or filthy, Campylobacter-infested lips and arsehole burgers. Just loads of subsidised cheap booze, stupidly cheaply priced tickets, hordes of sweaty scene kids and hipsters and lots of loud, testosterone-imbued rock and roll. Tasty.

The only problem was that there were so many stages with so many acts, some bands would inevitably have to remain un-seen.

So, bill in hand, first up as a post brunch livener were Mallory Knox.

Mallory Knox***1/2**

A fair sized crowd had gathered inside the ‘main’ venue (actually looked like a massive church hall rather than a grown up venue, but hey) as the proto-fenland refugees strolled onto the stage. Led by swaggertastic Mikey Chapman, the boys launched into a tidy, energetic and melody-infused set full of bounce, booming bass and guitar-infused bosh. All rather splendid. If not a little predictable in places. But, all-in-all a fine appetiser.

James Cleaver Quintet.*****

Oh yes. A crammed subterranean hall (much more like a proper chest-assaulting rock and roll haunt than Mallory Knox’s jamboree at St Benedicts community hall) was treated to forty minutes of brilliance from this outré bunch of quacking, honking and cock-kicking lunatic trouser wearers.

There were moments of sheer violence, nihilism and bludgeon. But genuinely soulful and harmonic interludes peppered the buffet like iced fancies on Clarice Cliff dishes sneakily juxtaposed with rusty tins full  of fuck your face off naga chilli. 

There was even a sax. 

Having never seen these miscreants before and only having had limited exposure to their work (Loz Guest, Alex Baker and that bloomin’ Lucozade ad) I didn’t expect the mathi-ness. At all. Ok, the noodlicious Jacky Udon isn’t as easy on the eye as Eva Spence, but there are definitely moments of Rolo Tomassi. Chuck in a soupçon of Faith No More and even the mighty Dillinger Escape Plan and you get the picture. I totally loved it. As did the sweaty, cutie-ridden masses. Original. Fresh. Nut sack gnawing excellence.

Don Broco*****

I’ve never been anything approaching pissed off whenever the Bedford-based bawbags are anywhere close. I love ‘em to death and have waxed merrily many times about this loveable laddish, mirth-making energy shot. But they clashed with Polar. Of all the other bands I wanted to see! FFs. Anyway,  Guildford’s punker bastard destruction meisters were going to have to bite the dust. Sigh.

So, with a slight miff, I headed back to St Benedict’s Church hall to get my dose of Bobby Damage and the lads. Of course they weren’t going to disappoint. They never do. But they were going to have to work extra fucking hard to make up for going sans Polar.

They did. Oh yes. The moves. The riffs. The walk. The smiles. They truly are one of a kind and this afternoon, they totally killed it. The crowd were a throng of worshipful acolytes, putty in Monsieur Damiani’s hands. Pits, walls of death (just the two this arvo!) massive sing-a-longs. Even Thug Workout - sadly omitted from the recent 4YS support set. And, of course the obligatory smiles. Loads and loads of bloody smiles. 


I’ve said before that there’s far more to Don Broco than a good time party band, and that remains as true as it ever was; but it really makes a pleasant change, in a landscape full of earnest (and obviously often excellent) emotionally, socially and even politically-imbued rock, for a band to celebrate the positive and to generate such a joyous vibe. They really look as though they enjoy every semi-quaver. 


And it's good to see Mr Doyle settling in so well behind his big old bass.

I can’t wait for their new long player. And, given the recent news about the lads’ signing to Raw Power and Sony’s S&D records, a big fat future, pregnant with smiles awaits. Awesome, as always.

Burn The Fleet*****

Been waiting to see these bad boys for ages. And the wait was well worth it. In what was effectively a hometown show, Andy Convey sporting a fine and strong beard led proceedings in what was to become one of the festival’s major highlights. Even though they were playing squeezed in at the end of the SU bar with bright sunlight melting everyone’s heads, they concocted a heady atmosphere. 

Arrrr indeed.

Their intelligent and literary infused subject matter and lyrics  deftly painted onto a wonderfully textured and multi-layered musical canvas got the place shaking from the WKD soused carpet right the way through its asbestos-laden sixties roof. 


The crowd sang along dutifully and the spine tingling Handfuls of Sand got captured everyone’s hearts as a mesmerising and captivating set closer.

They’ve got a new album coming out that apparently is going to be given away with the excellent Rock Sound mag. If it’s only an iota as good as they were today, then we’re all in for a rare and brilliant treat. Stunning stuff me hearties.  Arrrr.

Fei Comodo*****

Only recently stumbled across these fellas. And I have to say, I like what I’ve heard, so I was looking forward to their turn at the altar. They were playing on the same sun-drenched greenhouse stage as Burn The Fleet, but this time, the lighting rig had given up, so the boys at the back of the stage space were hidden, Golem-like in the gloom. 


No matter, they produced a fabulous and fizzing set. Heavy riffage and technical bombs provided the perfect backdrop to Marc Halls’ astonishing vocal range. His voice reminds me loads of InMe’s Dave McPherson’s (must be something in the water in Essex) and he certainly put his lustrous talents to good use as he cajoled and provoked the matinee crowd to get involved. Which they did. With aplomb. 


There are definite similarities to InMe with a liberal smattering of Midgar; all big balls but hummable and memorable melody. And it worked beautifully. The anthemic Rival Tides being the stand out track of the short but wonderful set. Can’t wait to see these guys in a proper Jager-infused rock and roll sweat box. At night time. With lights that work. And not in a student speakeasy-cum-greenhouse.

So you're a wobber are you? Jolly good.

Subsource*****

Heavily persuaded by Real Adventures’ chief plank spanker Dom Roe, I remained stuck to the alcopop mire waiting for Subsource. Didn’t really know what to expect, but having dipped into some of their oeuvre I knew there was going to  be some serious wob. But nowt had prepared me for what was to occur. A cool-as-fuck front man with a Heath Robinson/Mad Max/steam punk stand up bass determinedly and struttingly kicks off things and all hell breaks loose. Think Shikari, Skrillex, Prodigy, Pendulum, Rush, Reuben, The Clash, Charlie Mingus (as your grandparents kids), Maybeshewill, Plan B, The Cure, Matt Bellamy, fucking Sting and Sir Robert Plant all jizzing in a bucket then impregnating Grace Slick with the miasma of goopy man soup. Ladies and gentlefolk, the resulting offspring is in the building. 


And they kick balls. With a solid run up. And wearing Billy’s Boots. Oh yes. Grooves, drops, riffs, soaring vocals and, of course wobs and 808s set the place on fire, evacuate bowels and get heads a bobbing. The crowd appears to be slightly more industry and grown up than general scenies for this lot. Some serious nodding, dipping and stepping breaks out and I’ve found a new band to add to my favourites list. A triumph. Think I shat myself. But a triumph nonetheless.

Lower Than Atlantis****1/2*

Another one of my favourites (and rapidly gaining favourite status with the radio-consuming nation) LTA were next up on the ridiculously stuffed and tasty menu.. After their amazing Garage show a few weeks back, this was never going to compare. Was it? Well, a totally rammed St Benedict’s Hall and Social club didn’t seem to think it suffered by comparison. Not one bit. The house full signs were up and Mr Duce and his Tyros set about disembowelling the snap-back sporting throng. All the biggies were played (including the obligatory Foo’s medley/mash up) and there was much rejoicing, bouncing, boozing and general moshery. The Deadliest Catch ended proceedings and the crowd left as stuffed as Chris Moyle’s after a donut eating contest. Sweet.

Deaf Havana*****

Having watched this lot mature, soften, shift and blossom from a kind of spotty, post hardcore, poppy punky agressfest into a fully rounded, complex and multi-layered band has been a genuine pleasure. 


The demise of the harder edge (and the loss of Ryan) has polarised many earhole owners and is a regular waste of mouth gas among the great and good of the UK scene. But it’s undeniable that they’ve controlled the shift themselves, appear comfortable in their skins and are producing some fantastic, original and commercial tuneage. 


On the eve of their biggest headline tour, this evening was a chance to air the still, self-discovering live side of the band to the adoring masses. And there were some surprises in store. First up was the extra member. The genial and eloquent James Veck-Gilodi (worth a respectable 35 in Scrabble) introduces the mop-haired banjoist as his ikkul bruv, Matt. Apparently a permanent member of the live line up from now on. Twelve strings good; 18 strings better, clearly. Anyway, seems like a nice chap, sings well and seems to add to the overall wall of sound favourably. 

All together now...Sweet Home Alabama

The next surprise was the emasculation and castration of Friends Like These, a go-to tub thumper and signature tune of Deaf Havana’s over the last few years (even makes a self-deprecating referential appearance in the excellent album opener The Past Six Years). Tonight, not only had it had its genitals wrenched off, but the only thing missing appeared to be a choir, 4 tasty female cellists and a key change. To be honest I didn’t mind a bit. The refrain was always the best bit, but the aggressive contrast and foreplay of the rest of the song had been cruelly tossed aside. So it felt like having just the meat at Sunday lunch; tasty but not complete. 


Anyway, enough already. The show was great. And great fun. The whole room joined in the chants and choruses, shouted in the right places and stayed reverentially quiet for the emotionally taught and sensitive bits. And got gooey when the time was right. This lot are truly a class act. They're lazily cast into the same hopper as YM@6, KIGH, Young Guns et al, but are far more complex and, I believe worthy. Veck-Gilodi’s lyrics are thought-provoking, clever, painfully honest and self-revealing. The music is polished, catchy, performed beautifully and full of light and shade. Big, big things beckon. Saying all that, old stalwart Nicotine and Alcohol Saved My Life was the stand out track of the set. Even without the shouty bits – but let’s not go there again. Genuine class though.

Skindred*****

This was by far the smallest venue I’ve ever seen the mighty Welsh Raggabaggabastards in and I was a wee bit scared. Mind you I have seen Dillinger at The Barfly, so there really shouldn’t be anything to worry about.

After some apparent back stage wranglings, histrionics and rock and roll diva guff, Benji and his boys finally take to the stage, now ‘resplendent’ with a natty backdrop – complete with the sponsor’s Monster logos shining through it. And all hell lets very loose.


There’s really not too much you can say about Skindred that hasn’t been said. Mr Webbe is the best front man in the business. Fact. He could get a group of devastated mourners to bounce and form a wall of death at the crematorium to Fauré’s Requiem. His energy and infectious charm are legendary. But that’s always mean to the rest of the band. Let’s face it, they’re bloody good too. Their syncopation married with killer riffs and consummate playing show they're much more than a house band to this, the most garrulous of chat show hosts. 

And so they kick off. Rat Race, Doom Riff, Trouble, Nobody, Destroy The Dancefloor are all belted out from the pulpit in tonight’s service. The congregation bounce more than Jessica Clement’s hooters when she’s sitting on the dryer on super spin cycle. The temperature goes up to insane levels. There’s literally sweat (well, sweat condensation according to the nerdy science student standing near us) dripping off the ceiling. The atmosphere is highly charged but all done with such a collective massive smile it hurts the face. It all comes to a frenzied head with the wonderful Warning as an encore. A truly memorable, brilliant and enjoyable end to what’s been a truly memorable, brilliant and enjoyable day. Apart from missing Polar. Obviously.

Other lowlights: missing Heights, Feed The Rhino, While She Sleeps. Blue K2 - the pikiest drink ever. Bleeuurgh.

Highlights? Don Broco. Subsource. Burn The Fleet. Sailor Jerry, Cider at a couple of quid a pint. And Benji’s bouncing.

Need a lie down.

The ever-brilliant Polenta Shitake next.

More  tunes soon, Bwoooar.

Xcellence. The Xcerts live at New Slang + Arcane Roots at The Garage.

The Xcerts****1/2*

Jumping Ships*****

The Brilliantly Simple*****

New Slang at The Hippodrome Kingston 23^rd February 2012

Past the writhing snogging couples. Avoid the vomit. Breathe in the fumes of brightly coloured radioactive alcopops. Try and pull your feet off the bitumen-sticky carpet. It can only be a club night. In a student town. On a Thursday.

Worse still, it’s starting early.

So, virtually doubling the size of the audience who are actually bothered by the bands, I take my place ready to be entertained.

The Brilliantly Simple*****

First up are a cheeky chappy looking four piece who start proceedings with some tidy, multi-layered and textured musicianship. Sadly, the vocals aren’t up to the quality of the soundscapes that sit behind them. I don’t know whether the unfortunate crooner didn’t have adequate foldback, but his low registered voice strained to cut anything dynamic enough to incise the guitar wall. And the tuning was, to be charitable, a little awry.

A real shame, because the ample instrumental stretches showed genuine promise and got the assembled students’ noggins a bobbing. Well, a bit.

Jumping Ships*****

Not dissimilar to the first act at first glance, but as soon as this bunch drop into their first big tune, the differences become obvious. They are clearly a class apart. Michael Williams’ vocals are strident and energetic. The band are as tight as a nun’s you know what full of verve and real technical chop. The tunes are big. The hooks, well, hooky. And the polyrhythmic energy on stage infectious.

They remind me a little of Tellison with a (less techy) touch of This Town Needs Guns and even a dash of Oceansize thrown in for piquancy. Really look forward to seeing them again. But somewhere more intimate. This virtually empty hangar-sized teenage brothel and vomitarium really doesn’t do their vibrant fare any justice.

Terrific stuff.

Here’s a vid of one of their tunes: 

The Xcerts****1/2*

I’ve waxed lyrical for so long about this lot. From the first time I was exposed to their dynamic grungy poprock upstairs at a dingy former Soho strip club (thanks to dear old Sam Duckworth), via various support slots for the great and good, through to the triumphant headline show at The Borderline last month (review here), they’ve never disappointed and must be one of the very best bands in the UK. They’re certainly one of hardest working bands anywhere.

Anyway, tonight’s sparse and vaguely disinterested collection of pissed up, horny indie students were hardly a fitting audience for such contemporary rock royalty. But they were in for a treat. Whether they gave a shit or not.

A short but typically thrilling set did its best to wake up the post-pub crew. Do You Feel Safe kicked things off and among favourites like Slackerpop, Scatterbrain and Just Go Home, they squeezed in a couple of cracking new ones. The spine tingling Aberdeen 1987 was even given another wonderful airing.

The boys did, however looked unsurprisingly as tired as a bunch of Greek economists. Saying that, it didn’t dampen their effort one iota.

As bassist Jordan Smith so wryly put it while wearily sucking on a well earned roll up after the gig, ‘it was a club night, we’re just an interruption to the folk who are are here to get pissed and laid’. A sanguine and wistful attitude from one third of truly one of the very best in the land.

Still, a shit crowd though.

If you’ve never seen this lot, then sort it out. They truly are amazing.

Arcane and Able. 
Arcane Roots live at The Garage.

Before I wander off, thought I’d just drop a cheeky review of the astonishing Arcane Roots surprise headline show at The Garage a couple of weeks ago.

Arcane Roots*****

The Invaders**1/2***

The Relentless Garage, 10^th February 2012

Going to be a difficult one this. I’ve more or less run out of superlatives and praise for this Kingston-based trio. So when I found out that AWOLNation had scratched from the gig and AR were shunted up to headline status, I was like a 14 year old who’d just found a stash of top-shelf magazines.

Invaders..bleep, wob, whirrr. Meh.

The Invaders**1/2***

First things first though. First up are the London-based Aussie electro mash up oddities The Invaders. And they’re ok. I suppose. Original ish. Bleepy stuff, guitar backing, a blond geeky, twitchy front man who looks like he shares a choreographer (or dealer) with Ian Kenny, of stunning Aussie proggers Karnivool. The crowd seem to dig. Kind of. Seen a lot worse, but they’re not going to set fire to anything.

Arcane Roots*****

So, what would Messers Groves, Burton and Atkins have in their superhero armoury to melt our faces off this evening?

About an hour of the most brilliant, intense, uplifting and, at times savage riffery, melody and majesty. That’s what.

Stunning new stuff, (one would hope and assume from the imminent and much anticipated first full album) dovetails happily into a sublime collection of bombastic brilliance culled from last year’s outstanding Left Fire mini album.

Thankfully far more people than initially feared stayed after the AWOLNation scratching announcement and they were treated to a genuinely world class performance from a genuine world class and presently peerless band.

By the time the pit loses itself to the electric and three chilli-hot encore Million Dollar Que$tion, the boys have deservedly gathered a whole host of new converts who’ll hopefully go forth and spread the news about just how fucking amazing this godly trio are. A-bloody-men.

More tunes soon, Bwoooar!

Poetry and pose. The People The Poet live at The Lexington

The People The Poet***1/2**

Rob Lynch*1/2****

Tom Jenkins*****

Greta Isaac**1/2***

The Lexington, London, 24^th February 2012

All a bit mysterious tonight. Didn’t really know what to expect. Having seen Tiger Please a couple of times before and, on the strength of their excellent EP Seasons, I was looking forward to some boisterous, intelligent and melodic pop rock.

But the new name/side project obfuscation was bewildering me. Who or what were The People The Poet going to be? A side project? New members? Some people? A poet? Anyway, before whatever or whoever they were/are/going to be, there were three acts on the bill to slurp at and sample first.

Greta Isaac**1/2***

A tiny, pretty unbelievably young looking wee blonde lassie dwarfed by her guitar meandered onto the stage. No intro, no messing, she started to pick at the behemoth of an instrument and popped open a delicious, beautiful and delightful voice to cascade over the assembled onlookers.

Young Gun

She continued with a wonderful coyness and little girl charm and reeled of half a dozen or so very palatable and tasty songs. But, sadly there is nothing new here. Having hung around with and been involved with the folky/acoustic scene for many years, I must’ve seen and heard a million Greta Isaacs. Don’t get me wrong, her voice is totally beautiful. Her songs, if not light on refrains or memorable choruses, are perfectly quaffable. But she’s not from the special cellar or the locked cabinet. Nor, to be fair, is she a commoditised and bland screw-top from the special offer chiller. Somewhere in between.

There are hints of Carole King, Carly Simon, Eva Cassidy and obvious James Taylor influences, but nothing jaw-dropping or revolutionary. She's no Charlene Soraia. Saying that, for someone so apparently young, it’s marvellous to hear such beautiful tones and neatly crafted songs without pretention or indie contrivances.

Tom Jenkins*****

Next up was the front man of Welsh tyros, Straight Lines. There are good things being said about Straight Lines, and having sampled their hooky, vibrant and buoyant poprock on a couple of previous occasions, I was looking forward to seeing what Jenkins would serve up without his noisy buddies.

He plonked his bum onto an upturned monitor cab and launched into a strum fest all topped off with a powerful, engaging and original fabulous voice.

The tunes were characteristically catchy, well-constructed and bouncy. The crowd joined in from time-to-time and the vibe was good. Yeah verily.

But true acoustic music this was not. Jenkins’ guitar playing is clearly more suited to a plugged in, turbocharged dropped D Telecaster rather than a wooden, holey cousin. I’m not up to speed on Straight Lines’ whole canon, but I assume that at least some of tonight’s tunes being aired are the band’s property (I definitely recognised the anthemic and top tune Half Gone among the set). So the whole thing had more of an unplugged feeling rather than anything specifically acoustically re-worked. There was no finger-picking, no contrasting twiddly bits or even a hint of an arpeggio. Just power chords and strumming.

But that didn’t matter. I’m being a purist nob. It was all good.

The young lad from the Principality did a fine job. Even alluding more than a couple of times to his limited style – ‘I would have played a John Mayer cover set’, he said chirpily, ‘but he doesn’t use enough power chords’. True dat. His characteristic Straight Lines vocal phrasing and oft contorted pronunciation aside, he delivered a truly enjoyable, crowd pleasing set, ending with a big sing a long cover of Dan Mangan’s Robots. Expect big things of Straight Lines. But don’t expect to see Mr Jenkins at The Cambridge folk festival or rubbing shoulders with John Smith, John Renbourn or Wizz Jones. Great stuff though.

Rob Lynch*1/2****

Blond. Tall. Holds his guitar up high. Shouts. Blimey. Let’s get the lame comparison out the way first, Rob Lynch sounds like Frank Turner. There, I said it. Well, he does. And that’s undeniable. His phrasing, melody and strummy style are all undoubtedly from the same gene pool as Mr Turner. And he’s just sold out Wembley. Lynch won’t be though.

Seems like a nice bloke. But after being ranted and shouted at by his high-octane, excitable delivery, I felt I’d been set upon by a pub drunk who wouldn’t let it lie arguing about the merits of his team’s 4-4-2 system or how shit the health service is and, no matter how much you agree or smile knowingly, he just carries on ranting and poking you in the chest. Aaaaarghh!

Without doubt, he’s got charisma and some decent tunes. Especially the set-closer and Alex Baker favoured My Friends and I. His lyrics are personal, engaging and contemporary(if not a bit clunky at times). But the delivery doesn’t hit the spot form me. It’s relentless. And wearing. No light and shade. Just full-on. Not necessarily angry. Just in your face. With spit. Not edgy. But on the edge.

Lynch...The Proclaimer

I couldn’t help thinking throughout, that all that was missing was another Lynch next to him, thick glasses. Scottish accent. Then we’d have something. No, wait a minute…

So, the time was upon us. The mystery about to be revealed. People The Poet , whatever and whoever they are, are in da house.

The People The Poet***1/2**

There’s lots of kit on stage. Lots. More guitars than in Andy’s guitar shop's window. Lots of mics. A backline that looked like downtown Manhattan. And there were now lots of people in the room.

Then ‘they’ all started coming out. Blokes with guitars, girls with violins, jugglers, trapeze artists, fire eaters and Belgian midget contortionists. Ok, I lied about the jugglers. And the trapeze artists. Oh, and the Belgian midget contortionists. Sadly. But there were violins. It was like the beginning of a parents’ evening recital by the school orchestra.

So we had the people. What about the poet?

Well, the imposing and impressive figure of front man Leon Sanford, complete with one of those fey Middle eastern Arafat neck scarves and a protest camp crusty haircut bowled onto the stage. And we were off.

A delay-ridden U2esque intro soon kicks off into a full, rousing nu-country ho down. Sanford’s gruff and Cocker-like delivery cajoles, insights and delights the jigging pack down the front. Smiles all round.

all together now...yee haarrr

It’s difficult to know what the motivation or reasons are to shift from a standard 5 piece to a ramshackle, jug band collective, but it seems churlish to question. The result is an interesting and heady mix of Simple Minds, Elbow, Arcade Fire, Counting Crows and, well, a ramshackle, jug band collective. With a bit of Canterbury or the late, lamented Francesqa thrown in as a contemporary livener. It soon becomes clear that Tiger Please are no more, and from now on, the new expanded ensemble will be known as People The Poet. So that's cleared up.

Sanford is a born front man and his lyrics, confronting themes of addiction, suicide, death, the arse of modern life are considered, poetic and thought-provoking. But the overall feeling is a bit like chucking everything in the fridge into a sandwich and hoping it’ll taste ok.

The strings don’t add an awful lot. But maybe that’s because they are there on every song (and catastrophically out of tune on at least three or four of the numbers tonight). If they were used more sparingly and dramatically, then maybe the balance would be more defined, flavoursome and ultimately tastier.

Not that I don’t like what we’re being served. In fact, far from it. The flavours work beautifully at times. It just needs a dollop more control. It’s obviously early days and they need to harness the accidental combinations and replicate them; without being mannered or predictable. There are genuine spine-tingling moments. Joyous harmonies. And, with the addition half way through the set of the delightful ethereal Greta Isaac, real depth and refreshing counterpoint. And in the song People, a clever, engaging skiffly vocal syncopation that wouldn’t be out of place in a West End musical. But in a good way.

The performance throughout is clever, entertaining and emotional. The band have gathered stories from friends and fans and used them to paint a kind of sociological portrait of the state of the nation for their up coming album. And tonight, they exhibit some of the work. And it’s very special. There are true echoes of Coldplay in the song Stabilisers. Big hooks with subtle phrasing and cadence. For me, it’s the highlight of the set.

Sanford rambles a bit. He wears his heart on his ample sleeve. He does funny little dances and gestures, banging his heart and giving it the full Marcel Marceau schtick at times (he even apologises for it halfway through calling himself a bellend). His voice, while not in the Bruno Mars or Dan Lancaster category makes the most of what it is. Spiralling falsetto neatly contrasted with big, gruff, ursine roars and bellows. He reminds me of Adam Duritz. All emotion and improv, with the ability to get totally lost in the moment. Without being a wanker.

Overall, despite the tuning issues, the over-done delay-ridden guitar pads and the slight identity issues, we have witnessed a truly original and exciting work in progress. I understand they’re about to head out on tour with Charlie Simpson, so will reach a well-deserved wider audience.

On the evidence of tonight’s performance, we’re all going to see a lot more of The People the Poet. Thankfully without the Belgian midget contortionist.


The crackingly boisterous Real Adventures and Hold Your Horse Is next. 


More tunes soon, Bwoooar!


Oh, before I go, here's something genius: I was thrilled to bits to get hold of the latest ep from Mike and The Gambler's (ex of the unbelievable and incomparable Oceansize) new project, British Theatre. Have a listen to it. It's stunning. Can't wait for the full album.

Bedford Don. America Nil. Don Broco Live at The Koko with some pop punks

Four Year Strong*****

A Loss For Words*****

Don Broco*****

Marmozets***1/2**

The Koko, Camden, 1^st  February 2012

Right, I’ll declare my slight bias before I start crapping on: I’m not really a pop punk fan. Don’t get me wrong, there’s some brilliant stuff kicking around within the genre, but generally, I find it all a little samey and predictable. So it was with more than a little scepticism that I wandered into a heaving Koko to tuck into tonight’s buffet.

Marmozets***1/2**

As a livener, first up were Marmozets. Anything but pop punk. Thank the lord.

Apart from making me feel even older than I already feel by all looking about 7, I was immediately swept away with their fierce and energetic pop/mathcore mélange.

Technical playing, challenging time signatures, a ridiculous tightness for ones so young and a brutal, Eva Spence-like delivery of diminutive singer Becca Macintyre. No wonder there’s a buzz around these tyros. They certainly produce a complex, compelling and beefy noise.

Marmozets - and you thought policemen were getting younger.

The mathcore cornershop is not blessed with groaning shelves and certainly doesn’t attract too much of a queue at the moment. But along with the likes of the phenomenal Rolo Tomassi and the ridiculously talented and fresh Rosa Valle, there’s a fascinating genre gathering speed and hopefully going to burst out to a wider audience in the not so distant future.

Apart from some sketchy vocal tuning in the not so screamy bits, Marmozets certainly did a splendid job in giving the already impressive crowd an engaging and fun maths lesson.

Don Broco*****

I bloody love Don Broco. Having seen them on many stages of all manner of shapes and sizes, I was really looking forward to seeing the mirth making chappies in this revered and hallowed venue.

However, as an interesting selection for ostensibly a Pop Punk tour, I feared a little that the back-pack wielding, big bastard baseball cap wearing, skinny jean sporting punksters wouldn’t take to the Beds boys with open eyes and open pits.

I needn’t have worried. The venerable Koko was packed to the rafters by the time the Brocans were due on.  For what will surely be the last time for these lads this low on a bill, the turn out was insane.

So, nose gripped, legs up, breath held; time to bomb into the delicious Don Broco pool of love. The lads took to the stage to a frenzied and über enthusiastic tumult. Bobby D bayed at the crowd to get involved before the first chord of Top Of The World had left Simon Delaney’s cultured fretboard. Boom. We were off. Paaaaarty time.

Looking around the heaving, partying throng, everyone was smiling. Every single mouth turned up at the corners. Even the coolest punkster couldn’t resist a grin. Every pair of eyes bulging and wide open. Feel good doesn’t come into it. This was almost group orgasm. Thankfully without the mass ejaculation. Meanwhile, on stage Bobby and the boys were smashing it. The syncronised moves, the jumps the almost tangible electricity. The smiles. Fuck, the smiles.

Onwards and upwards, the anthemic Do What We Do was next to peel the layers of paint from the walls. The crowd had dissolved into a writhing mass of  love and monsieur Damiani did his circus ringleader act with aplomb, inciting, cajoling and urging the masses to get on each other’s shoulders transforming the floor into a freak show of grotesque tall people with beanies swaying and staggering.

The delirium was as catchy as the songs themselves. More and more people eagerly flooding towards the stage to get involved.

Walk this way

Within the sadly short support set, there was even time for two new numbers. The superb and already addictive Priorities and, later on, the sublime Fancy Dress. Complete with the walk. Yup, the walk. Let’s just leave it there. If you haven’t seen it, I won’t spoil it; suffice to say, the feel good, jizz-free group orgasm moved up a notch bordering on hysterics. The year of the Broco maybe upon us. But the the walk is going to be a major part of it.

The set closer, was predictably, the rifftastic Dreamboy and as the trademark wall of death descended into a hadean circle pit (furnished firmly with smiles naturally) everyone present realised they were in the presence of something truly wonderful. Original. Fun. And, well, bloody brilliant.

The world needs more Broco. And I can’t wait to see them gracing festival stages this summer and for the new album. And as Dan Lancaster has had his fingers all over it, it’s destined to be a work of genius.

Talking of Mr Lancaster the driving force behind peerless geniuses Proceed, as a footnote, his bass player Tom Doyle has fitted into the band seamlessly and even though the thought that there may be no more Proceed (or Brieseed) is almost too much to bear, his faultless and sophisticated playing and verve is a welcomed addition to team Broco. It was lovely to see Luke, the original bass player having a beer with the lads afterwards and is obviously still very much a much-loved member of the family. He is much missed, but has handed the keys over to a more than worthy successor.

Fabulous stuff. How the hell could they be followed?

A Loss For Words*****

Oh dear. A real case of after the Lord Mayor’s show. The crowd, having gathered it’s collective breath wedged in for the first installment of an American pop punk extravaganza. Given my ignorance and general intolerance of the genre, It wouldn’t be fair to lay into them too much, so I’ll be brief. Generic, relentless, predictable and monotonous. There, I said it. There was absolutely nothing new or challenging here. The singer Matty Arsenault looked and acted like Lee Evans. One of the guitarists looked like Mark Zuckerberg. They briefly lifted the monotony with a jaunty Michael Jackson cover. The crowd liked them. I didn’t. 

Four Year Strong*****

Ok, they’re hewn from more or less the same pop punk seam as the likes of A Loss For Words, but they’re several rungs up. Thankfully. File under the likes of Such Gold and add in an infusion of Title fight. Saying that, they are pretty much walking anachronisms. The US seems to have stalled in terms of pop punk. The guts seem to have disappeared. The predictability and lack of light and shade is becoming tedious. Contrast that with the crop of exciting new bands broadly inhabiting the genre on this side of the pond including the fabulous Polar and upcoming starlets Real Adventures and the feelings of ennui and deja-vu are underscored. In red.

So FYS? What did they actually serve up? Gutsy guitars, monster riffs, beards, whiney de rigeur Hoppus/DeLong esque yanky-doodle vocals but, in fairness, tempered with tight harmonies, catchy hooks and melodic pop sensibilities. They played a lot of new stuff. They played most of their big ones. The crowd went wild. I didn’t. But, despite a muddy sound, I enjoyed it. Rather more than I thought I would. In short, they're bloody good at what they do.

However Don Broco were on another level.  But, in the words of Mandy Rice-Davis, I would say that, wouldn’t I.


Let's make sure this year does indeed become the year of the Broco. The world could do with some big fat smiles.

AWOL nation and the always amazing, best band in the whole world Arcane Roots next.

More tunes soon. Bwoooar!