Xtra Yummy. The Xcerts & Yearbook live at The Borderline review

-->

The Xcerts*****

Yearbook*****

Saul Goodman****1/2*

More Than Conquerors***1/2**

The Borderline, London Thursday 13^th September

There are some things you keep going back for. Even though you’ve got a pretty good idea what to expect.

You know what a piece of hot buttered toast is going to taste like. But the toaster gets fired up regularly. You know the Bill Hicks DVD will cause a thoughtful laughter-induced aneurism. But, the curtains and ring pulls get pulled and the BlueRay pressed into action. And you know that slightly sad but soothingly woozy feeling you get when you get to the last mouthful of a bottle of ’79 Aloxe-Corton. But the cork gets lovingly drawn and the glugging commences.

So, the tantalising thought of one of the UK’s finest young rock bands performing their fabulous album Scatterbrain is exactly the same. And one that a packed Borderline obviously agrees with. So, corks popped and Dualits turned on….

More Than Conquerors***1/2**

Tonight’s revelry starts with Ulstermen More Than Conquerors. Their gilt-edged, proggy alt Biffy-esque, at times mathy jaunt draws a decent early throng and they fire a volley of catchy energy bullets stage left right and centre. A crackling start to proceedings culminating with a drum-off and the cheeky chappy guitarist and front man taking to the venue floor.  Great stuff.

Saul Goodman****1/2*

So, what next? Who is Saul Goodman? A hitherto undiscovered Canadian acoustic balladeer? A blind deep jungle-trance electro moshcore visionary from Tel Aviv? A cross-over Country and Western pedal steel player ? Nah. It’s those damned tinkers The Xcerts them very selves. So what are the trio doing supporting themselves? As it were.

Saul Goodman...tinkerman

Well, they only treat the packed room to a taster of some future goodies. Four  unreleased bombs are primed and tossed into the baying  collection of hipsters, musos, acolytes and by the look of it, a Who’s Who of the Brit scene at the moment with, among others, team LTA and Deaf Havana keeping the beer pumps, well, pumping.

The new stuff is huger than ever. A heavier and bigger bombast underpins chest-beating hooks and STI-like infectious refrains. A tantalising amuse-bouche and thrilling portent of even greater things to come from the lads. Brilliant and bed-wettingly exciting stuff.

Yearbook*****

I was lucky enough to catch Yearbook at Dom Patience’s triumphant Burnout Festival in July and was duly knocked out and more than a little love struck. Having heard a smattering of their oeuvre thanks to the unsigned-pushing-heroic hairy bastard  Alex Baker on Kerrang! Radio I’d already warmed to this quirky and passionate bunch of weirdnik library geek troubadours. But wasn’t fully prepared for their live animation of their work.

And tonight was even finer. The totally original sound, constructs, tunesmanship and general freshness genuinely set these lads apart from the trailing pack of competent Canterbury-esque schmoove rockers or clichéd dropped D clean/scream emometalaltpostrockcore.

Mesmerising throughout, thought-provoking and musically masterful; they marry massive choruses with plaintive fragility switching effortlessly into goose-bump inducing heavy-boned emotional rawness.

Chief librarian and singer Andy Holloway leads from the front and possesses such an original and elastic voice. Ranging between Bombay Bicycle Club, ATDI, Weezer and pitched in the same raw ultra high balcony as Andrew Groves from Arcane Roots

Like a fabulous and engaging Iain Banks novel, their set (albeit a shorter support set) takes you on a journey drenched in pathos, humour, raw power, anger and just general weirdness. Brilliant and mesmerising. Can’t wait to see them again. As a headline act.

The Xcerts*****

So, the main toast next. And not much needs to be said. It’s comforting. Gorgeous. Familiar. And as tasty as ever. But tonight they’ve dug out that once-in-a-lifetime brilliant country loaf and used the very finest posh Normandy butter. There is not one crumb that’s not the most delicious imaginable.

The album has never sounded better. Ranging and veering wildly between light and shade. Explosive fusillades and pure, pared-down emotion. Light tuneful singalongy OO OO OO OOs in Slackerpop and the darker, morose timbre of the beautiful and heartfelt Lament provide perfect illustrations of the massive breadth of offering.

The crowd munch on every yummy slice. Dutifully and respectfully lending vocal back up where needed. And by the time the rapturous applause and wild adulation fades into a sultry autumn Soho evening, there isn’t a mouth smiling and whetted by the glisten of buttery deliciousness.

An over-used word; but an awesome performance, served lovingly by a truly awesome band.  Yum.

Small wonder – Burnout Festival

Burnout Festival*****

The George Andover

July 27^th-29^th 2012

Right, let’s get the scale thing out of the way first. The George is no Hammersmith Odeon. Or Knebworth Park. It has no portaloos. No asian noodle stalls. No fairground. No mud. It does have a fireplace though. And is about the size of Katie Price’s walk in wardrobe.

This is no ‘normal’ festival. And thank the lord for that.

Nearly 30 bands over a weekend in the bucolic surroundings of sleepy market town of Andover. It’s in Hampshire apparently.

The George...Venue of leg ends

Small in scale though it might be, it makes up for it in the grand scale of ambition and vision. And pretty much down to the cojones of one extraordinary bloke. Dom Patience is the Michael Eavis of the underground and alt scene. And has curated one of the most staggeringly exciting casseroles of noiseniks, ne’erdowells and new talent imaginable.

Before I kick off, a brief confession: I didn’t get to see all the bands. There, I said it. What a pussy. But my advancing years, over-burdened liver and need for the odd afternoon nap meant that, sadly, some of the acts would go unseen.

So, many apologies to the acts I didn’t get to haul my arse in front of, it really is no sleight or snub, just a failing, aging body and a pitiful withering of stamina. I can’t even blame any clashes, as the military-like precision of the organisation meant that there were no overlaps between the main stage and the acoustic stage.

Friday.

Anyway, the scene is set. The cider poured. The earplugs inserted. Let’s do this.

First up are Treasures*****

A fairly generic sounding tuneful bunch. Nothing too challenging as a starter. Prawn cocktail rather than snail porridge. Not dissimilar to Futures or Natives and even imbued with traces of Canterbury. There are bucketloads of tidy, competent bands like this lot and, to be honest, they’ve got their work cut out to compete with some of the already more established bands cluttering up the genre. They weren’t helped by technical difficulties either, but an SG was rushed to the accident scene to save the day, and, ironically probably helped beef up the sound compared to the omnipresent Telecaster-tinged sounds. A good start though. And a bloody good drummer.

Next up were Natives***** a really tidy, slick set of big tunes, exuberance and energy. Not going to set the world on fire but continued the good work of the recent tour with Futures and Don Broco. It’ll be really interesting to see how they develop and create a sustainable difference in a crowded niche. A really decent bacon sandwich.

Starters and sarnies consumed. Time for some red meat. And Burn The Fleet ***** offer the perfect sizzling sirloin with all the trimmings. Andrew Convey, resplendent in hideous Hawaiian shirt leads from the front, gurning, grimacing and growling through a mesmerising and brilliant set. The guys really look as though they’re having fun and it’s infectious; the packed pit shaking their collective wobbly bits and joining in with hearty sing-a-longs. By the time the anthemic Handfuls of Sand brings the tragically short set to a close there’s not a brow without a bead of lager-infused sweat or a face without a giddy smile. Yummy stuff.

Mallory Knox***** are next on the menu and judging by the outstanding single Death Rattle, their sound has filled out, been polished and perfected (thanks in no small way to the Jesus-like genius of Mr Daniel Lancaster’s knob twiddling and guidance) and they are emerging as a fully developed masters of the pop rock alt vibe.

Mikey Chapman, their beguiling and affable front man looks and sounds the part and ably supported by great harmonies, cracking tunes and a big, ballsy sound. Definitely more towards haute cuisine. A really decent fillet steak.

The crowd are certainly enjoying the fare and are gorging themselves in the hot kitchen and there’s a definite buzz building before the mighty Bedfordshire Brocan army invades the room.

By now the bijou venue is rammed to the rafters and salivating in drooly anticipation for tonight’s main course. The present darlings of the britrock scene Don Broco***** stride on stage and own it. And I mean totally own it.

There’s a swagger and a confidence about these boys that lights up the place. It appears to be so far from arrogance though. Thankfully. Rob Damiani makes every bloke in the crowds’ dicks shrink and wither like a salted slug. He’s impossibly cool, hench, good looking and probably hung like a hoover. But the collective jealousy is fashioned into a joyous adulation. There can be no finer feel-good band in the land at the moment and their tight, catchy, joyful blend of heaviness, harmony and technical excellence puts them so far ahead of the chasing pack that they genuinely are in a class of their own.

The new tunes sound huge and if the rest of the highly anticipated Priorities album lives up to the title track, Actors and Fancy Dress, then it will surely become album of the year. Their set is perfectly balanced and it’s a genuine pleasure to witness a full headline set rather than the standard support slot half an hour.

There are walls of death, push ups in the pit and general mayhem as everyone gets involved raising the already sweltering temperature and oozing out more sweat than Gary Glitter in a wendy house.

These lads work their toned arses off (#nohomo) and all the toilet venues and dingy cellars will soon be a thing of the past. They are destined for hugeness and tonight that’s exactly what they were. Huge. Fucking huge.

I just hope Rob’s actually got a dick like a sardine.

Saturday.

I’ve got to admit, I do struggle with the ongoing obsession with catergorising or pigeonholing bands down to micro genres. The needless clamour for creating complex phylums, species and genuses for music is as pointless as it is fucking annoying. Whether something is hardcore, post rock hardcore, post hardcore, metalcore or rotten fucking applecore is just so irrelevant. If it’s good, it’s good.

So, with that in mind, if you’re one of those nerdy, anal, sad bellends who gets hung up on the tribal taxonomy, then I’m sorry for offending your compulsions when I try and describe the bands on what is ostensibly a heavy Saturday.

I’ve also got to say, despite loving the heavier side of things from time to time (DEP, Architects, KSE and Parkway Drive being particular faves), dirty metallic stuff is not really totally my thing. So today was potentially not going to be too comfortable.

Add in the mutha of all hangovers and it was potentially going to hurt. Undeterred, I finally haul my rear end out of bed and dive into Death of An Artist ***** As I said, I’m not one for genres, but I suppose it’s relatively safe to call this lot metalcore. A classic (if not surely passing its sell by date) combo of clean vox and growly, grizzly shouty stuff accompanied by big riffs, spectacular breakdowns and blast beats. That said, they are pretty good at what they do. And an energetic and surprisingly tasty looking pit broke out for the last song. There was even a very heavily inked diminutive guest screamer for one song who I’m sure I’m supposed to know which other band he’s from. But I didn’t. Sorry. A pretty good start to the day though.

As the beer sweats and general queeziness ramped up, I have to admit, I retired to the acoustic stage for a wee while. I propped myself in the corner with restorative boozy tinctures and was treated to a mixed bag of strummers, singers and, well, non-singers.

The main non-singer culprit being Ben Mills from The Smoking Hearts who along with guitarist Paul Barrow formed Cynics Don't Build Pyramids *****manfully rambled their way through a chaotic set including a Bronx cover, forgotten lyrics and probably about 2 of the 2,000 notes actually hit by Mills. Painful at times but gameful stuff. (As an aside I saw a slice of the Smoking Hearts***** later when Mills, much more comfortable with hardcore screaming than louche melodic crooning actually took his mic into the alley outside the main room to scream his spleen out to the surprised smokers and suppers enjoying a sunny Saturday afternoon).

In contrast, Mark Betteridge *****(From Death Of An Artist) seemed much more comfortable acoustically, and although I didn’t manage to catch the whole set, his more melodic and plaintive sounds seemed to go down as well as the chilled mid-afternoon beverages. Nice.

A pillar. And Mike Foster.

Next up in the acoustic sanctuary is Mike Foster***** a larger than life, fun-filled cheeky chappy who, by his own admission, is too pissed to remember his set list and many songs. No matter, he cruises through half an hour of light-hearted crowd participatory fun and adds a sea of smiles to a good sized crowd’s collective fizogs. Especially his pointed and hilarious piss-take of the omnipresent Frank Turner. And he even did a Dopamine cover (whatever happened to them?)

It was becoming more and more apparent that I wasn’t going to get involved in a lot of the heavier goings on in the main room but I did regularly pop in to check on the noisy bastards and caught slices of who I think was Agitator, Heart in Hand and Hang The Bastard. All energetic, filthy noise and bloody loud chest-thumping stuff. But, to be fair it’d be disingenuous to dole out reviews as my stays in the bowels of the hadean pit were fleeting and a bit like ‘spotting’ through a vinyl longplayer (ask your dad kids).

And now comes the shocking bit. I’d been looking forward to seeing TRC as one of the potential highlights of the weekend. But I bloody missed them. Due to a cock up on my time planning and a desire to stuff my face with Lamb Hariali (prepared perfectly at the wonderful Shahi Raj***** and washed down with lashings of Mateus Rosé – all class!). A complete shambles. Missing TRC – not the curry, clearly.

So, crest fallen and full of lamb and fizzy 70s Portugese wine I plonked myself in front of a cut-down Evarose***1/2** in the acoustic room. And I have to say, the spacey, chilled vibe appealed to me much more than their normal Paramore-esque pap punk. Dannika Webber can really sing and the set was a every bit as much of a surprise as it was a triumph.

So, still pissed off at missing TRC I steeled myself for the last act of the day. Localish metalcore darlings Bury Tomorrow*****

And I was blown away. As I say, the whole metalcore formula does little for me, but this lot have got it nutted. At the core of their success is the thing that many bands forget – tunes. They’ve got IKEA shopping bags stuffed full of them. 

Yes, there’s a screamer, but Daniel Winter-Bates is an engaging, aggressive, and charisma-steeped screamer (who, since cutting his Bullet for My Valentine chip pan grease-soaked locks looks like Brad Bloody Pitt) and leads his fierce orchestra through a powerful set including the two massive crowd pleasers Royal Blood, and Lionheart dovetailed with older stuff and some new top tunes like An Honourable Reign from the excellent recent album The Union Of Crowns. Impressive stuff.

Let’s not talk about the after party….

Sunday

Shouldn’t have gone to the after party. Uuuurghhhh.

Anyway, restored by a fine Sunday lunch and a bottle of Chianti, time to get involved in the last day of what was rapidly becoming one of my favourite festivals ever.

Daylight Fireworks***1/2** were my first selection from the pick and mix and were pretty sweet. The trio produced a set built on an indie skeleton with impressively buff rock flesh on its bones. Decent tunes, performed with verve and punch and even swapping between bass and guitar. A darned fine start to the day.

Next were Coastlines**1/2*** and they served up a pleasant enough buffet of harmony-drenched pop rock hewn from the same base stone as Canterbury, Natives, Futures et al. Nothing startlingly original but genuinely well played and some great melodies. Too many Telecasters though (personal gripe, but there don’t seem to be enough double coiled planks being spanked these days, the Telecaster with it’s uglier than Simon Cowell’s arsehole headstock is taking over the world. Nyah ha ha.)

Complete change of pace and vibe next. Like a flaming rusty bucket of meths and absinthe spiked with Quaaludes being served at a Chateau Margaux wine tasting, hunk rockers Real Adventures***** are next. And the ragamuffins only go and blow the bloody doors off. Like pissing on a high voltage electric fence or using jump leads on your nob, this band of miscreants wake up the crowd on a sedate Hampshire Sunday afternoon with a full-on blitzkrieg assault of every orifice. 

I’ve had the pleasure of seeing this lot several times, but this afternoon, they reach a new level. The electrocuted, meths/absinthe/Quaalude intoxicated crowd throw themselves about with singer Lewis Reynolds in the rusty bucket alongside them even forming the weekend’s first human pyramid. On a sodding Sunday afternoon. Brilliant, raw, indigestion-giving splendidness.

Another act I’d really been looking forward to seeing were Yearbook***** After hearing a fair smattering of their oeuvre on Alex Baker’s magnificent unsigned show on Kerrang! Radio, I was desperate to hear more stuff and to see if they had the live chop I hoped they had.

And I wasn’t disappointed. A crackling, searing, surreal set seduced, assaulted, violated, intrigued and dumfounded the packed room. Thankfully impossible to categorise, they bestride chasms between Weezer, Manchester Orchestra, Tool, Frank Zappa and leak out traces of Mars Volta and Reuben with mathy passages Dillinger would be proud of. One of the absolute highlights of the weekend. Geeky, emotive genius.

In between all the pop 'n' roll, I headed back to the acoustic stage for a wee break to catch a young, inked girl and an acoustic guitar player*****. I'm fed up I didn't catch her/their name. But they were blinding The wee girl's voice was absolutely huge. They re-appeared later in the evening to play the same set again and with equal brilliance. I'd love to know who she/they were/was as I was blown away. (I've just found out they're called Checking Pulse. Wahey!)

On the home straight now. Welsh wunderkinds Straight Lines***1/2** are next to entertain. And they serve up a table groaning with tuneful meatiness. Tom Jenkins’s original and brilliant voice soars over a well-executed and big-boned backdrop. They remind me a little of an early Lost Prophets if they’d had a real singer instead of a vain, image obsessed twat. Good stuff all round.

I sadly missed Sharks. Italian food and a delicious Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc did for them. But I was back to catch the lion’s share of Canterbury***1/2**And, despite a worry that they were going to meld seamlessly into the pop rock flavours and essences of the others of similar vibe (Nativefuturetreasurecoastlines) I was pleasantly surprised at the gap between them and the others. Seriously slick, tuneful but meaty pop-flavoured rock delivered with an adroitness Coldplay would be proud of. Far more energetic than on record, I’ll definitely give them another go as soon as poss. Not world lighting, more of a substantial roaring campfire. With sausages.

To be honest, my age and Olympian booze consumption wads getting to me now and crisp sheets were beginning to beckon me in a whisper at the back of my music-filled bonce. But I couldn’t bow out until I’d seen one of my very favourite live bands on the planet. The Xcerts****1/2*

Murray (The bastard by product of a petri-dish experiment involving Sam from Architects, Tom Petty, Cobain, A Jacamo shirt and an Afghan hound) Macleod leads on his road warriors to a rapturous welcome and drops straight into Do You Feel Safe. And kills it. As always.

Ok, I’m biased, but quite why this trio aren’t more widely successful and huge is beyond me. Their sound is totally original, fusing indie, grunge, pop and proper stand up rock and roll. And live they produce such a massive, arse-wobbling din spiked with beautiful soft cadenzas and fragile, plaintive gorgeouseness. The set had a tooth removed tonight due to Macleod’s trademark Marshall cab having a minor breakdown (replaced by a stonking sounding Blackstar cab) but the overall bite was as classy and fulfilling as ever.

And it wasn’t going to be topped by Futures.

So the allure of the crisp sheets won out and via a minor diversion to see the delicious and stunning Portia Conn***** deliver a delicious and stunning set in the acoustic room I headed back to my hotel. Emotionally and physically spent.

Before I piss off, I’ve got to say Dom Patience deserves the biggest of all big ups. Along with his brilliant team of helpers, aides, security guys and gals and staff at The George, he has served up three of the most incredible days I’ve ever had the pleasure of being involved with. His vision, drive and commitment to emerging British musical talent is as laudable as it is impressive. Despite missing too many bands and consuming more booze than is scientifically possible I struggling to think of a better weekend I’ve ever had.

So he’d better fucking do it again next year. Genius stuff. Genius bloke.

More tunes soon. Bwoooar!

Living Bromance - Futures and Don Broco live XOYO review

Futures***1/2**

Don Broco*****

Natives*****

XOYO Shoreditch July 10^th

Fixed gear bikes, stupidly mannered short drainpipe trousers, dad’s old shoes, feature facial hair, boot sale ‘vintage’ specs and tote bags. Can only be Shoreditch. 

And tonight the sodden streets of London’s über cool diocese are broken up by a massive queue of scene kids, industry types, hipsters, boozers, losers and Jacuzzi users as door opening time approaches at the achingly cool XOYO.

Judging by the number of folk who’ve braved the rain to get here early, it’s going to be a popular night in the company of three of the UK’s finest exponents of smart and dangerously catchy poppy rocky noisy nonsense.

Always been suspicious of The New Forest

First up are the present darlings of the New Forest, Natives***** Now I’m not sure whether it’s Shoreditch camouflage, trying to get a headstart for Movember or that the new forest is caught in an Isle of Wight/mid Wales timewarp, but I’m fairly sure their lead singer is sporting what’s pretending to be a moustache. Along with Damon Tang of noisy bastards Acoda’s early Sam Allardyce growth I feel two are probably well enough on the scene. No more chaps. Please. 

Anyway, I digress (plus ça change!). Are they any good? (facial hair notwithstanding). Well, yes. Loud poppy but not frothy tunes with great vox, fist waving melodies and big-arsed choruses are served up on a bed of technically shifting riffage. All good.

The only mild concern is the recent boom in bands of this ilk are making it so hard to generate any original space or sustain any measurable distance or difference. So bands like Tellison, Jumping Ships, Drawings, Mallory Knox and Canterbury are all fighting for share of what’s becoming a crowded marketplace. Don’t get me wrong all of the aforementioned have enough signature originality to be sufficiently different from each other and the music they’re producing is generally of the top order. There’s just a lot of it about.

No matter, the already packed crowd guzzle down the fare like thirsty students on a free WKD promo night. Smiles, sweat and sing-a-longs. Marvellous.

Don Broco*****

There’s just so much noise around the bouncing Bedford badasses at the moment (all totally well earned I might add!) that the general feeling is a huge proportion of the assembled throng are here for Bobby and the boys as much as (and in truth if not more) than for Futures themselves.

And not surprisingly. After kicking off with the mighty Priorities (complete with the walk), there’s not a sweaty pierced neck left without tingles or a tattooed arm without goosebumps in the house. And that’s just the first tune!

Monsieur Damiani is such a showman and commands the stage from the off. Cajoling the fizzy-knickered masses to get involved. Either physically or dutifully bleating back refrains.

Puppies, sunsets, and pretty rainbows..oh, and Gwaaarrrr

Older Broco favourites like the more infectious than a Thai masseur’s front bottom Beautiful Morning and the set ending rifftacular Dreamboy are merged perfectly with newer offerings to produce a set and a performance as near to perfection as any I’ve seen for many a year (albeit a regrettably short support slot). And to cap it all, the genius of Thug Workout was even given a riotous airing accompanied by walls of death and the now compulsory push up boys.

If Natives were as smooth and punchy as a peach daiquiri, we were now moving towards the finest and most potent of delicious cocktails. This is brilliantly constructed, melodic, complex, witty and multi-layered stuff. Impossible to truly catergorise lurching wildly from moments of pure pop bliss to spleen splitting riffs and drops. Totally original lyrical phrasing. Sardonic swipes at showbiz types. Modern urban hymns about bros before hos. And, while not taking themselves too seriously or shoegazingly, this martini is shaken up and served with incredible musicianship and skill. So bloody clever. So bloody catchy. So bloody good.

I know the boys are out on the road supporting the magical LTA in the autumn, but surely that will be among their last support performances. If the utterly brilliant and blitzy Actors and equally magnificent Fancy Dress are portents of what’s to come on the forthcoming Priorities album, this mesmerising, tight-as-a-Great-White’s-bumhole at 20,000ft bunch of likeable and captivating rogues will steal so many more hearts on their inevitable rise to masivedom. Girls want to shag ‘em. Blokes want to be them. A perfect, intoxicating and heady mix. Hic.

Futures***1/2**

Now this is going to be difficult. Futures are a great band. Fact. They produce shiny indie-fused pop rock out of the top drawer. Great melodies. Spine tingling harmonies. And all buffed and shiny. But how on God’s earth can I be objective after the Don Broco tour de force? Well, in short, I can’t be. So I’m not going to be mean. I’ve seen this lot on several occasions and they never disappoint. 

But, if Don Broco are a pimped up, convertible, supercharged, snarling sexy sportscar rammed to the roll bar with babes in bikinis, sub machine guns and sacks of drugs careering along the Corniche or Sunset Strip, then Futures are a Bentley Mulsanne. On a country lane. With a hamper in the back. There’s certainly power under the bonnet and moments of aggression. But, they fail to fully excite. Well, in fairness, the majority of the delirious crowd wouldn’t necessarily agree as they sing along with just about every word. But I found them, well, er too nice. Jolly good. But just a bit too jolly nice.

Righty ho, The amazing Burnout Festival coming soon.

So many brilliant bands in one sweaty venue. Going to be awesome.

In the meantime, here's an assortment of video delights loosely connected with the ramblings above.

More tunes soon. Bwoooar!

A Month of Fundays - Get Cape, AWOLNation, Burn The Fleet, Banquet's Big Day Out, Arcane Roots, Hundred Reasons and more reviewed

Right, a bit of a departure this post. Due to being stupidly busy recently, I've bundled together a whole month's worth of words and warbles about some of the gigs I've hauled my arse to during that time. There's loads here, so enjoy. Or don't. You all know the drill. Deep breaths, and away we go... 

Get Cape Wear Cape Fly ****1/2*

Ramspocket Radio*****

The Garage

May 16th 2012

How you’ve grown up. Oh my. Just look at you. Not Sam necessarily; but the crowd. Yup, the assembled throng for Mr Duckworth and co’s headline show has certainly shifted its demographic over the years.

Erstwhile hordes of baying teenies squeaking along to War of The Worlds or firing back retorts about being a face in the crowd during I-Spy have been replaced by an assortment of middle aged hipsters, couples, people in what can only be described as slacks and bald accountants and data developers. They were all out tonight. Even someone in a Metallica shirt.

Ramspocket Radio*****

First up was The Ben Fold’s One. A bloke. An Irish bloke. Called Pete. Who used to be in Mojo Fury. Sitting at a keyboard. Alongside a drum kit.

After a cheery hello, he launched into a bouncy, tuneful set of pleasant enough tuneage. Alternating between the keys and the skins. All accompanied by electronic backing padding and stringy stuff. Not at all bad. There were moments of pure Billy Joel, traces of Paul Brady, top notes of Walter Schreifels with even a sugary, proggy hint of a young Phil Collins detectable to the more warped palate. In truth it lost a bit of edge for me as the Foldsy-like delivery and strident rhythms sadly merged into one on more than one occasion. Will definitely give a record a listen though.

Get Cape Wear Cape Fly ****1/2*

So, Mr D. What you got for us? By now a full house of slack wearers had filled up Phil Mitchell’s deluxe Highbury Arches workshop and needed entertaining. And entertainment we certainly got. Lynyrd Skynyrd took to the stage. Guitarists. Hundreds of them. Well, three. Including Sam. But it was a far cry from him and a laptop. And the horns of yore have gone.

All together now...Lord Knows I won't change

So, did the new expanded GCWCF work? Did it ever. The show was pacey, lively, rocky and thoroughly enjoyable throughout. Oldies were aired. And expanded. Even some real oldies. Whitewash is Brainwash even got an airing. New ones like the über-infectious Real McCoy and salutary Call Of Duty fitted in seamlessly (but definitely not anonymously) into the buffet. The crowd lapped it up and demanded seconds.

As an inter-course palate cleanser, the band disappeared to allow our wee hero to seduce our ear spaces with a couple of acoustic favourites complete with sing-a-longs (just not as pre-pubescent as they used to be). Once the band returned, the fare was fleshed out again and full rock and roll service was resumed.

Sam looked as though he was thoroughly enjoying himself. And judging by the boisterous and fervent response from the slack-wearers, so was everyone in the room.

This must be about the twentieth time I’ve been lucky enough to see GCWC. From solo shows at Air Studios, laptop powered evenings in grotty Southend former bordellos, a midnight assignation in a Soho strip bar, headline stints at the sadly defunct Astoria, festivals, low-key surprise shows for BSM, recent commuter entertainment at St Pancras (complete with bing bongs and announcements) and even mosh-pit heavy sell-out at Shepherds Bush. And I’ve loved just about every single one of them.

He is a truly original, thought-provoking, caring and wonderfully self-effacing, socially conscious troubadour. But tonight’s performance, while undoubtedly brilliant has raised a slight worry. Only a slight one; but a worry all the same.

Sam’s often gauche, vulnerable (but always original) delivery whether on his tod or with various experimental line ups has been his trademark. His very definition. By expanding the band into a more standard line up, with, consequently a much more standard sound, the question has to be asked; has he thrown one of the vital ingredients to his enduring originality out of the kitchen window?

I really hope not. I can only pray and assume that this is a latest artistic reinvention. Transient. Fleeting. Inquisitive. Like all great artists who go through different periods and phases trying to push things, fiddle, experiment, fine-tune. But keep the core safe. Sacred. Genetically unmodified.

Not that it’s bad. In any way at all. Tonight’s show is a wonder to behold. It’s just there are so many bands of a more standard line up treading the Jager-soaked sticky floors of darkened rooms up and down the land. Do we need another one?

Obviously Sam can’t stick with the acoustic and the laptop forever. And thankfully, we haven’t been through a Page and Plant North African period yet. Or a Beatles Maharishi muddled mind fuck. (give him time). But I just worry.

Anyway, as the final chords and la-da-da-da-das of Chronicles of a Bohemian teenager swirled ethereally into the vaults of the sweat-heavy Garage, my worries evaporated and there was so much love in the room. And long may it continue. A brilliant show from a truly blessed, talented and culturally important young man. Here’s to the future. To more experiments. More soul-searching. And more importantly than anything else more bloody brilliant music. Just no Maharishi stuff. Please.

Burn The Fleet*****

Apollo’s Arrows***1/2**

The Dead Wretched

Bad Sign

The Black Heart Camden

25^th May 2012

Apollo’s Arrows***1/2**

Arrived at the ugly twin sister venue to The Barfly just too late for the first two bands, so a bit miffed, needed Apollo’s Arrows to knock my soft organs out of whack.

And they didn’t disappoint. Never seen or heard of these boys before, but on the evidence of tonight’s emotional and consummately performed noise fest, I really have missed out.

Not dissimilar to the majestic This Town Needs Guns, with flavours of ATDI, Rush and Zeppelin. Strong and piercing melodic vocals cut through intricate rhythms, syncopation, taps, sweeps, drags and all manner of guitar wizardry. Heavy drops and breakdowns punctuated dreamy sequences and percussive interludes. Overall, really refreshing to see young guys delivering such sophistication but without too much shoe-gazing or over-earnest prog wank.

The only negative is that, apparently, they’re splitting up. Which is a real shame based on tonight’s efforts.

Burn The Fleet*****

So, to the main event. To celebrate the launch of their brilliant album The Modern Shape, Southampton’s crow-adopting bad boys Burn The Fleet are here to kick some metropolitan arse flesh.

And my word they do. Like Johnny Wilkinson. Skilful, accurate, relentless and brutal.  Landing every kick on the sphincter. But with added humour and bucket loads of personality.

Burn The Fleet - Jacomofos

Pretty much the whole album is given an airing and the assembled sweaty throng gleefully gulp the sea dogs’ rum rock and roll, joining in dutifully with the shanty-like refrains. Burn The Fleet are nigh on impossible to pigeon hole. They are undoubtedly heavy in parts. Technically top notch. Melodic. Choral even. But with a genuine folksy (in a good way) genome. The sea and maritime themes abound as recurring motifs but they’re not a bizarre pirate metal band (thank the lordy!) and there’s an overwhelming homeliness and Britishness. A real and emotional honesty. Front man Andrew Convey’s garrulous and big-boned, beardy bear-like presence makes them immediately likeable. Approachable. Loveable.

But in no way does it water down the ferocity, the bombast, the wholeheartedness of their stunning rock and roll. You can’t help but smile while willingly being sodomised senseless by big bass lines, heavy artillery-like drums and intricate, ballsy guitar work. They finish tonight’s joyful voyage with the wonderful and stirring sing-a-long Handfuls of Sand and I don’t think I’m alone in failing to hold back a bit of a moist eye. Emotional and brilliant stuff. Made even more creditable given that the right hand channel of the PA was half blown.

AWOLNation*****

Arcane Roots*****

Invaders*****

The Garage, Highbury and Islington

28^th May 2012

Bit weird this one. Tonight is the rescheduled HMV Next Big Thing Showcase after AWOLNation had to drop out of the last one at the last minute, allowing a storming Arcane Roots brilliant impromptu headline set tear everyone’s faces off. So there was a genuine déjà-vu as Invaders kicked things off. I was probably a little harsh on them last time, but tonight they didn’t force me to reappraise things too much.

Invaders*****

To be honest, it was all a bit middling. Mid range sound dynamic. Middlingly okayish songs. Without much construction. Not bad, by any means. Just a bit meh. Karnivool-infused moments were crossed with A Teardrop Explodes pop sensibilities, but, to be honest, their lack of variation and structure within their songs let them down. There were genuinely good bits, but they were joined together by the synth equivalent of burger helper or quorn. Neither satisfying nor exciting. Kind of brown. They ended with their ‘big one’ about satellites and one of my mateys commented wistfully,  ‘why don’t they do more songs like this one?’ Not an earth shattering observation, but true enough.

Arcane Roots*****

So, after Arcane Roots manfully stepped up to the plate last time, would they be able to get themselves up for it all again, albeit in the support slot?

Oh yes.

Unapologetically, I’ve warbled on endlessly about these lads, and if there’s any justice in the world, they’ll scale mighty heights and eventually take over this little blue world. And tonight, they once again did little to disabuse me of my optimism and almost fanboyish enthusiasm. In short, they were brilliant. Precise. Exhilarating. Dynamic. Fierce. And captivating throughout. There was a technical issue when Adam Burton’s bass packed up between tunes, but Andrew Groves and  Daryl Atkins jammed manfully on through an improvised Every Time I Die cover until the bass came back in to kick off an incendiary version of the latest single Habibty which tore every rectum in the house.

A classy performance by a ridiculously classy and presently peerless band. Can’t wait for the new album.

AWOLNation*****

So, onto tonight’s headliners. I’ve never seen AWOLNation before and was intrigued to how they’d bring their recorded quirky, often camp electronica-imbued crossover ramblings to life in a meaningful and convincing way. Well, judging by the line up, guitars were going to be their weapon of choice. They were here to rock. Well, kind of.

A full house of begs, wanabees, acolytes and inquisitive folk here to see if they had any other songs apart from Sail enthusiastically welcomed Aaron Bruno and his synthy-oompah band onto the stage. Encouraging signs.

But, after that it all felt a bit, well, plastic. Yes they rocked their whole sound up considerably from the midi noodlings and samples on their records. But it just felt pretend. Like a sound library collection of’ ‘rock style’ beds. Or the sort of background music that accompanies Neighbours when things are getting raunchy, rebellious or heated. Hair metal. Without the hair. Or the metal. Yes there was energy, a bit of moshing and crowd surfing. Bruno got involved. And the crowd lapped it up. But it all felt a bit lame. Calculated. Forced. A bit like pressing the demo button on a Casio synth.

They ended with the mighty Sail, which, predictably  enough, brought the house down. But I left feeling as though I’d just watched Glee, the musical or a Styx reunion. Neither of which I’d really want to do ever again.

Hundred Reasons*****

Marmozets*****

The Fighting Cocks, Kingston

3^rd June 2012

I get excited. I get excited a lot. I love music. I love gigs. But once in a while, something so ridiculously exciting shows up, the excitement just goes off the measurable scale. Well, that’s how I felt when I heard that Hundred Reasons were going to be playing Banquet’s Big Day Out Festival. So imagine how fucking excited I was when, at the last minute, they announced a secret warm up show at Kingston’s legendary Fighting Cocks the night before.  So, almost shaking with teenage-like expectation I descended the well-trodden, sticky stairs into the stygian gloom of Kingston’s most notable basement.

Marmozets*****

Having seen the Marmozets support Four Year Strong a few months back, I was immediately captivated. So, when I found out the mathy Yorkshire terriers were tonight’s support, the perfect evening got a further dusting of magic.

To an already packed sweat box, The Macintyres and Bottomleys (3 of the former, two, the latter) took to the tiny stage with their maths book to school the assembled bums and ne’erdowells.

And educate they certainly did. The underground math movement is certainly gathering momentum and along with bands like Middlesborough’s fine Rosa Valle and Sheffield’s comparative veterans Rollo Tomassi, Marmozets are leading the revolution. 

Heavily influenced by the mighty math masters The Dillinger Escape Plan, they deconstruct stuff for fun. And with great skill. The polyrythms are infectious, the Uzi-like guitar patterns and jaw-droppingly complex percussion provide a head-spinning and trance-inducing backdrop you fiery young Becca MacIntyre’s screams, yelps, quacks, chants and vocal gymnastics. The older Hundred Reasons crowd were duly impressed, acceptant and joyously enthusiastic. A potentially tough room for such challenging evolutionary music was majestically won over. A stars all round.

Hundred Reasons*****

So, could they be still as good as we all remember? We were going to be treated to the complete and seminal album Ideas Above Our Station.: would it still be as brilliant, as relevant, as bone-shatteringly fantastic as it had been ten years ago?

In short, yes. But yes is too short a word. After Colin and the boys shambled on stage, what followed was nothing short of miraculous. The album (supplemented with three or four later numbers including the playful Harmony and  the brilliant Kill Your Own) was performed with such energy. Such love. Such skill. And such passion. God only knows how hard it must be to keep performing the same songs with the same enthusiasm and verve for so long (even though it’s quite a while since the guys have gigged), but tonight, these magicians took it to ridiculous levels. It was performed as though it was for the very first time. As if their lives and careers depended upon it. Such seminal songs. Such influence. Such import. Classics all. Falter. Silver. If I could.  I’ll Find You. All as fresh as the first time they changed UK music a decade ago.

I always use too many words. A lifelong failing. I blather and bleat, whinge and opine about anything and everything. See? But tonight I am as close to being lost for words as I’ve ever been. Simply unbelievable.

Banquet’s Big Day Out*****

Imber Court, Surrey

4^th June 2012

Right, rather than painstakingly review all the bands I managed to get in front of, I’d rather give a review of the day as a whole. Obviously running the rule over the acts, but going a bit broader.

Firstly, finding the festival was not as easy as I’d hoped - struggling with monster hangover and still buzzing after the Hundred Reasons’ intimate glory fest the night before.  No matter, once I’d actually found where the entrance was, nestled between Margot and Gerry suburban semis in leafy Surrey, a good sized queue had already formed a good hour before things were meant to be kicking off.

A good smattering of scene kids, older heads and every form of life in between were in cheery spirits, helped by the lack of the torrential rain that’d saturated the previous couple of days. Slight gripe was that it took an eternity to clear the entrance procedure. Needs sorting for next year. How hard can it be, exchanging a ticket for a wristband? Anyway, thankfully, that was the last mini-whinge about what was to become a legendary day.

Finally in, I had a good wander around the really neatly appointed arena. Great food outlets. Excellent bars. Two decent sized stages in tents. A tiny acoustic stage. A mini fairground. And the main stage, complete with mini bleachers. It all felt really chilled and there was a definite warm and smiley vibe hanging over the place like a layer of NO2.

So, first pint of scrumpy in hand to compensate for missing Tall Ships (thanks to the laborious entry that I’m obviously not allowed to whinge about.) I slunk over to the main stage where Scholars***** were doing their alt thang in front of a small but enthusiastic 6^th form crowd.

And pretty good they were too. Fairly generic, but big tunes, snappy guitar work and an energetic bounce gave them enough difference to put some room between themselves and the myriad of guitar-based young bands around. One weird thing though – they seemed to have a proper fight during their last number. Now, I might be being a bit of a nob, but it looked real enough. The others with me swore it was all part of the act – I wasn’t sure. Whatever, it was all a tad rum. But they finished the song and hadn’t killed each other.

Next up were Johnny Foreigner***** in a fairly packed Etnies New Slang tent.  Didn’t hit the spot for me. Indie noise pop blandness spiked with Cure-like guitar slides and wahs. Interesting but nowt too new or challenging. Far from joyless, but even bassist Kelly Southern’s vox failed to deliver enough of a point of difference. Crowd seemed to like them though. Well, they weren’t booing.

The boys and girls at Banquet have genuinely curated a brilliant and disparate collection to suit many tastes. And like everything else they do, have done it with aplomb. Not everyone was going to like every band. Or even want to see them. But that makes for a far more interesting festival than a strict genre-specific parade.

So, choosing what and where next is a bit like being at the pick and mix in Woolies. I plumped for a quarter of MC Lars***** on the main stage next. But I’d chosen a rhubarb and custard sherbet. Never keen. Clever? Yup. Entertaining? Definitely. But, apart from his paean to Poe’s The Raven, Rappin’ at My Chamber door, the crowd failed to ignite and it all felt a bit awkward.

Ok, so one definition of insanity is attempting the same thing and expecting a different outcome. Well, the sanity must be waning. I thought I’d go and see The Computers ***** again back in The New Slang big top. Quite why was beyond me. After seeing them with the magnificent ASIWYFA not long ago, I was far from complementary about their muddy scream punk and really didn’t care for them. Since then, they appear to have gained a lot of praise within the biz and garnered interest; so I thought I must be missing something.

I wasn’t. I lasted just two songs. The emperor’s new aaaaaarrrgggghhhh! Yes, their singer/guitarist is a genuinely charismatic natural, entertaining front man. Yes they still dress like greaser cricketers. And yes, they’re still an anachronistic garagey hark back to when it was important not to be able to play instruments properly to be punks. Punk has moved on. This lot haven’t. The pick and mix equivalent to soggy flying saucers. Dipped in gravy. Not my cup of Darjeeling.

Next up are one of the UK’s very, very best. Arcane Roots***** The local(ish) trio take to the main stage in front of a drizzled-upon and vaguely disappointing crowd; but rip into a compact, tight as a tick, high energy and brilliant performance. But, to be honest, their sophistication and musical chicanery is far too high brow and demanding for a mildly pissed and pop-hungry crowd. The sound system is also slightly out of its depth as Andrew Groves’ searing vocals don’t get the clarity they deserve from a long-throw bass bin dominated PA. No matter, the boys are playing a headline show at The Barfly tomorrow, so any slight wrongs will definitely be put right. And I loved it anyway.

The festival is now in full swing. Speciality ciders being quaffed, sweaty mid-afternoon dubstep sessions in tents getting all and sundry into a right tizz, all manner of meaty goodness being consumed and the good time vibe growing accordingly.

So, what better time than to haul out Wheatus *****? The sun broke out. Smiles broke out. Fun broke out. Front man Brendan Brown really enters into the spirit of the day with wonderful, self-effacing, entertaining and funny banter gluing a mish mash set together. Obviously no one really knows any of their schtick apart from Teenage Dirtbag (ok, and maybe the Erasure cover thing), but no matter, the large crowd is in fine form gyrating merrily to the good time vibes. Yup, we got Dirtbag (with MC Lars mooching around on stage as support for Brown) And, yup, everyone joined in dutifully and went suitably nuts. All great fun.

I don’t really get Futures***** Neither fish nor fowl. They manfully attempt to straddle the gaps between rock and pop. Between jangly indie and a slicker, heavier side. I suppose they sit somewhere between Spycatcher and You Me At Six via Canterbury. Nevertheless, they are in fine form this afternoon. Strutting their stuff to an enthusiastic crowd and ending their accomplished if not overly ball-breaking set with their famous one about wolves. Definitely enjoyable all round.

So, after the previous night’s intimate orgasmic sweat fest at The Fighting Cocks, could Hundred Reasons***** get jiggy with it to the same level and seduce a far bigger crowd with the same passion, energy and performance? They certainly drew the largest crowd of the day to the main stage, so the scene was well set for some serious intercourse. One hour later: cut to post coital trembles. Smiles. Dizziness. Total satisfaction. It was magnificent.. Raw, relevant, joyous, uplifting, beautiful and brilliant. 

After teasing us all with the foreplay of three or four of their later works, Larry informs us all that 10 years ago, they recorded this…..goose bumps, lumps in throats and away we went. The whole of Ideas Above Our Station.  The crowd went nuts singing along with just about every word. Even joining in with the riff in Silver. The main event to what was rapidly becoming one of the very best festivals. I was left ragged. Spent. Sated. In a mess. Amazing.

To be honest the rest of the afternoon becomes a bit of a blur from now on in. Not just due to cider and Jagermeister, but my frenzied attempts to catch as many of the acts as possible,

To reflect the breathlessness, here goes a rapid fire appraisal: The Skints***** a packed tent merrily skank away to the indie ska noiseniks. Not really my bag, but I can appreciate what all the recent hype’s been about. Original and infectious.

Judging by the size of the queue at the signing tent, Deaf Havana***** are certainly one of the main attractions of the day. A packed main arena welcomes the East Anglian tyros with knickers fizzing and hearts a fluttering.

Watery late afternoon sunshine casts a golden glow on the golden boys of the teen scene. It’s been fascinating watch these lads mutate from shouty, angry, raw rockers into a much more middle of the road and likeable rocky boy band. The jagged edges have certainly been French polished, the sound softened but not neutered. And the addition of charming and charismatic front man James Veck Gilodi’s younger bro as a third guitarist has fleshed out the live sound.

They’re what the naughty side of One Direction yearn to be. While moving further and further from their heavier roots (interesting to see how they go down at Hevy Fest later this summer!), they still pack a punch and Veck Gilodi’s brilliant and heartfelt lyrics and powerful vocal delivery set them apart from so many of the post hardcore, pop punk and scene bands traipsing up and down the country in sweaty vans from toilet venue to toilet venue. The fangirls certainly agree and provide a mini RockChoir accompaniment to every song. Word for word. Great stuff. If not a little toothless. The set. Not the fangirls.

Next up, Neville Staple***1/2** and even more enthusiastic crowd of skankers, steppers and stoners rammed into the New Slang Tent to join in with a two-tone tinged party. I’m sure most of the assembled smiling loons were equally as ignorant of much of big Nev’s work outside The Specials, but A Message To You Rudy was unsurprisingly the number that blew the roof off.

The good time vibe of the whole day has been maintained throughout and the boys and girls at Banquet must be delighted. The rain has pretty much stayed away. The crowds (while not massive) seemed to be in the finest of spirits even managing to conjour up a mass game of pissed rugby. Which seemed like a good idea at the time. Ow.

To bring what has been a brilliant day to a close, I hobble back to the main stage for the baby Lost Prophets, sorry, Kids in Glass Houses***1/2** Benefiting from the fading light, the pyro and light show add to the closing spectacle and they steam through a lively, loud and catchy set. Which like a chocolate mousse at the end of a groaning 22 course meal is greedily shoveled down the gullets of the writhing, partying crowd. A bit sickly sweet and frothy for my tastes, but kind of tasty nonetheless.

I really hope this festival becomes a regular event. Everything about it oozed passion, class, care and commitment. Which is no more than you’d expect from the good folk at Banquet. The vibe throughout the day was amazing. The curation beautifully balanced with something for everybody. A genuine pleasure and a privilege to have been there. Can’t wait for next year.

Arcane Roots*****

Hawkeyes *****

A Plastic Rose *****

The Barfly, Camden

5^th June 2012

As part of the Kerrang! Awards celebrations, some of Britain’s very best talent is being showcased across London this week. The mighty Skindred and  amazing Architects among others. But the choice was made easy for me, any of you who’ve read any of my burblings will know how much I rate Arcane Roots. So much so, I’ve almost become some sort of simpering stalker. So I’ll try and keep a lid on my bias.

A Plastic Rose *****

The Barfly is definitely my favourite London venue and it’s pretty much packed to the brim this evening. First on the tasting menu, Ulster’s very own A Plastic Rose. A ramshackle band with far from a ramshackle sound. A tad cruelly maybe,  but I can’t stop thinking of them as a steroidal Snow Patrol.  Good tunes. Neat harmonies. A big sound. Like. Rather a lot.

Hawk Eyes*****

To follow…Hawk Eyes. I wasn’t expecting what came out of this lot. Jeez. A huge noise. Big arsed riffs. Hints of old school. Really old school.  A definite underlying hint of New Wave Of British Heavy Metal from the early eighties. Think Vardis, Angelwitch, Fist but with very much a contemporary lick of paint complete with dropped tunings, combinations of more screamy, growly and genuine raw vocal power served on a bed of blast beats. 

There were huge atonal rhythmic reveries stitched to delicious discordant sections and some truly interesting harmonic and melodic experimentation and even Adam And The Ants drummingI Poncey stuff aside, it was loud, gutsy, ballsy and, despite obvious nostalgic influences (there was even what looked like a Gibson Explorer being spanked), fresh and exciting. 
I loved it.

Arcane Roots*****

I said I’d keep my awkward fanboy bias to a minimum. But tonight, this lot truly tested my ability to be dispassionate. A blitzkrieg set of mind-frying, spine-tingling, heart-melting intensity served up with delicious light and shade completely blows the, what sports commentators would call a ‘knowledgeable’ crowd away. Three or four brilliant new songs dovetail seamlessly into the already astonishing collection of original, sophisticated, funky, technical, heavy, and brain-exploding bombast. Andrew Groves’ amazing vocal range, as always, cuts through the complexity and rhythmically mind-blowing assault. There are genuine moments of fragile beauty sandwiched in between the fierceness and ferocity. Beautiful contrasts. Brilliant constructions. All-in-all, tonight is yet another triumph on their inevitable passage to the very top.

Polar *****

Palmreader ***1/2**

Real Adventures *****

Deadlights ***1/2**

The Boiler Room Guildford

18^th June 2012

Popping my Boiler Room cherry tonight. A pleasure to be at such a legendary venue. Made even more pleasurable by the great bill. All locally grown, tonight’s show is a homecoming celebration of Polar’s jaw-dropping debut long player, Iron Lungs and they’ve brought a load of buddies with them to celebrate.

Deadlights ***1/2**

First on are relative newcomers Deadlights. The local four piece serve up a predominantly instrumental post-rock appetizer spiced up with occasional Mastodonesque growls and proggy flavourings. Very much in the vein of the magical Maybeshewill, they captivate a fairly hardcore crowd with genuinely hypnotic and head-nodding pleasantness. Tasty stuff.

Real Adventures *****

There’s an air of genuine panic around the rapidly filling Boiler Room as rascals of the Pop Hunk scene get close to kick off. The reason? Their bass player Mitch is breaking Donald Campbell’s land speed record in a Ford Ka on the A3 trying to get to the gig on time. No soundcheck, no pre-show relaxing cocktails here. But there are sighs of relief all round as he arrives with seconds to spare.

Visibly a bit shaken, the 5 piece take to the stage and light the blue touch paper. They go on to deliver a ritual savage buggering to Surrey’s great and good.

Real Adventures defy genres. They like pop punk. But are neither genuinely punky or, thankfully poppy. They deal in complex riffs, spiraling cadenzas and meaty chuggy bits all fused with a joyous energy and bounce. Louis Reynolds gruff and aggressive canine barks unsettle and cajole the audience in equal measure. As usual, he delivers most of his Rottweileresque sermon from among the crowd, throwing himself around like a possessed bantamweight with St Vitus dance.

There’s cleary the odd sound problem on stage and the tightness is a quantizable 1/100 of a beat off in places, but it doesn’t matter a damn. They’re original, feisty, fun and engaging. They air one or two new tunes tonight and from first listening, they’re worthy bed fellows to the infectious Do You Ever Wish You Could Breathe Under Water and the hymn to pop punk hardcore crowds If This Is Living, You’re  Better Off Dead.

My only slight craving is for the odd tempo change now and again. Not in an indulgent prog or showy-offy math way, but a breakdown or beatdown here and there would add a little more variety and dynamic. Just a thought. But all round great stuff. Even when most of them took their shirts off and it bordered on becoming a Chippendales show. #nohomo

Palm Reader*****

Alex Baker over at K! Radio has been banging on about this lot for a wee while now, so I was intrigued to see if they lived up to his normally impeccable recommendations. And I wasn’t disappointed.

The theatrical performance elements certainly moved things up a notch from Real Adventures more traditional heads down, see you at the end approach. They were running intricate patterns all over the tiny stage. Reminiscent of the incomparable Dillinger Escape Plan – a comparison made easier by guitarist Sam Rondeau-Smith’s cut-off sleeve tshirt in the stylee of DEP’s Mr Tuttle.

The set was rowdy, sweaty, full-on and relentless.  The crowd became more animated with crowd surfers and hardcore dancers turning the place into what looked like one of those computer generated animations of the inside of a Philips Whirlpool washing machine. I must confess, I don’t know their stuff intimately, so most of their set was falling on my fat old ears for the first time. But I generally liked what I heard. Not dissimilar to Polar in many ways but with certainly enough difference to create their own space alongside tonight’s headliners. All good.

Polar ****1/2*

So, to the main event. The Boiler Room is by now rammed with 2-300 expectant and well warmed up souls. And, similarly to the change up between Real Adventures and Palm Reader, more notches were turned up as the local noisy bastards strode into their explosive set. The lightshow is turned up. The volume nudged round to 11. The crowd abandoned the garden and squeezed in to every available spot. This is some homecoming.

Adam Woodford’s trademark bulging eyes and manic, focused delivery show how much this show means. From the kick off, he’s on his A game. Surfing the crowd. Walking on the ceiling. Throwing his sweaty torso around with complete abandon. His bandmates ably support and get wholeheartedly involved. There is a controlled mayhem. And there’s the kicker. The control. They produce a right old din alright, but it’s delivered precisely and scientifically. Not clinically or contrived, just tight and surgically accurate.

The album is given a working over with old favourites sprinkled on top.

The energy is infectious. The enjoyment contagious. A noisy, precise, brutal and passionate display which leaves the crowd drained and satiated. Magnificent stuff. Expect bigger and better things from these, the nicest of anti-social noisy bastards.

Don Broco ****1/2*

St Pancras Station 
June 14th 2012

Before I disappear, here's a little snack. Went to see the rising ladcore stars Don Broco doing their acoustic thang among the commuters. Great fun. Great music. Great vibe. All new songs off the much anticipated new album Priorities. Fancy Dress, Yeah Man and Actors all sound as they're going to be major tunes to sit alongside the enormous title track. 

There were even bras chucked at Bobby Damage and he then led the crowd into an impromptu conga around the station. Proof, as if it were needed, that this lot are going to get bigger, bouncier and become guaranteed crowd pleasers whether they're playing acoustically or cranking it up and melting faces. Watch this space. The year of The Broco indeed.

More tunes soon, Bwooooar!

To finish, here are some vids of the above. Mixed quality, but all good.