Takedown, deeper and down. Review of Takedown Festival 2013

Takedown 2013 *****

IDivide, Hey Vanity, Marmozets, Subsource, Max Raptor, Affiance, Closure In Moscow, The Algorithm, Sonic Boom Six, Burn The Fleet, Arcane Roots, Don Broco and more

Southampton University 11th May 2013

After last year's tour de force, Takedown 2013 has a lot to live up to. But today's line up looks, if anything, even stronger than last year, so the signs are good.

Anyway, wristband on, cider in hand, let's do this.

I Divide ***1/2**

First up Exeter boys I Divide on the Big Deal stage. Well, in the SU bar really. And, bizarrely with the footie on the telly throughout the set. A scary and daunting slot to be first up on such a huge day, but the lads produce a crackling set of tuneful alt rock to kick things off with aplomb.

Front man Tom Kavanagh is a lively ringmaster with a big voice and he leads his circusmen from the front with real energy throughout. It's easy to stick them in the same box file as Mallory Knox, WATO and even Hey Vanity, and similarly (and mercifully) there's a decent amount of difference between them and the many other me-too post-hardcore, alt pop/rock bands up and down the land. And on today's performance and in front of a decent sized and enthusiastic crowd, they look destined for bigger things. 

Hey Vanity ***1/2**

A wander over to the Smalltown Records stage next, stuck uncomfortably in a foyer/corridor area wedged between another bar and a garden area. And well worth the wander. Essex lads Hey Vanity are making some real traction in the biz at the moment with their intelligent, Thrice-like, downtuned melodic and sophisticated blend of melody and meat.

There's a good sized gathering considering the earliness of their slot and they're rewarded with a slick, strong and stylish set. Having recently come off tour with Don Broco and Mallory Knox, Hey Vanity have garnered a decent amount of recognition and airplay, and with songs like Wading Through Dreams and the extremely classy Bleed, Breathe, Grow it won't be too long before they step up and take the bigger headline slots themselves. 

Slightly surprised they didn't do their brilliant cover of Outkast's Hey Ya (Seems like perfect festival fare), but all-in-all a top performance from a seriously top young band.

Affiance *****

Into the gloom of the 'second main stage' Cube next for some Metalcore from Ohio. Metalcore doesn't always tickle my bits, saying that, when it's done well at the hands of KSE et al, it can be magnificent, challenging and even moving. This afternoon however, Affiance are only some of the above. Plagued by technical problems before they even start, you can't help but feel deep sympathy for Dennis Tvrdik and his Ohian noiseniks as they have their set cut short having schlepped all the across the pond. What they do produce though is strong enough to get the crowd involved and Tvrdik's voice is right up there at the top table of metalcore crooners. 

Max Raptor *****

Time for the first trip of the day to the main Rocksound Stage for outré, fucked-up punk bombers Max Raptor. Led by chief rebel rouser Wil Ray, the midlanders tear the walls down and instigate the day's first serious crowd movement. 

Their intelligent, original and cock-eyed sardonic punky vibe mixes up heavy chugs, massive sing-a-longs, witty and clever lyricism, bile, aggression, humour, smiles and semtex. This is heady, brilliant stuff and the crowd glug it down greedily. Favourites like The King is Dead and the ever-wonderful Patron Saint (of Nothing) are slotted into a mesmerising set spiced up with new material kicking off pits, mass gang vocals and probably the odd leaky bladder.

Absolutely loved it. 

Marmozets *****

Staying on the main stage, next up are the remarkable Marmozets. All math, mayhem and massive noise. While it's often easy (and lazy) to file Marmozets alongside Rolo Tomassi, (mainly due to the fact that a hugely noisy and often scary but diminutive female fronts both), there is no one truly like these northern noise machines. 

Their crazy time signatures, huge riffs, technical arpeggios and noodlings all provide a delicious sauce with all the trimmings for the staggering power and charisma of Becca Mackintyre (whose voice has never sounded better) to be plonked on top like some 3 Michelin Starred molecular gastronomic mouth fuck.

There are pure hints of the mighty DEP, but the overall dish is an original melange of quirk, dissonance, heat, power and contrast. Delicious and challenging.

Oh, and there was even a dude in a wheelchair in the middle of the circle pit. All round mouthwatering madness.

The Algorithm 

Can't give any stars. Not because they were shite. Far from it. It's an old rant, but I just don't get this lot live. It's a French dude on Ebay or checking his Facebook on a laptop and a brilliant drummer. The music is a dot-for-dot-quantised-programmed-spliced & diced-insanely clever spiky, technical, heavy, wobby jiz bomb. BUT it's not live. While Remy would contest that he's doing something valuable on stage; he's not. He tweaks a few buttons, smiles like a kid on a Sunshine coach on the way to Southend and that's it. He might as well just press play and have a fag and a cuppa. 

The crowd are strangely subdued this afternoon too, which doesn't help matters. The only real sanity is the incredible stickmanship of Mike Maylan (Monuments) who impeccably and hypnotically keeps up with the MacBook Pro's digital, dubby, djenty, mathy bleepy ridiculously complex midi burps.

Nah. Not live. Brilliant, brilliant record though.

Subsource *****

Back over in the SU bar, this is happening. You know those films that were made back in the eighties (Things like the terrible Streets of Fire) portraying the future as a dark, post apocalyptic, unruly, choatic place? That.

Picture an unholy modded industrial Magimix or fucked-up steampunk cement mixer full of barbed wire, shrapnel and boiling fluorescent robotic rats piss. Throw in chunks of metal, wobs, subs, brown notes, riffs, soaring vocals, Slipknot's ball sack sweat, a crazy futuristic stand up bass that looks as though it's been fashioned out of timbers from the Mary Rose, your nan's kitchen chair and Mad Max's hatchback and you're getting close to whats occurring.

This is the most ludicrous but delicious post nuclear cocktail. Thrilling musicianship, sphincter-prolapsing beats and Shikariesque subsonic whale farts, venom, energy, grit and raw power. Speechless. Breathless. Peerless.
  

Arcane  Roots *****

Main stage. Pretty full room. Lights down. Loads of the other bands and industry bods looking on. 'That' hum. Anticipation. 

Gulp. From the very moment Mssrs Groves, Burton and Atkins take to the stage, the game has changed. What is happening here is something very, very special. 

World class is obviously an over-used football pundit and chav on the bus cliché. But on a Saturday afternoon, in a sweaty super-sized school hall three normal looking blokes from Kingston are quite simply that. World bloody class.

Opening with the stunning Energy Is Never Lost Just Redirected from their recently released masterpiece Blood & Chemistry this is music (and a performance) from another world. The predominantly young crowd are clearly stunned as the set gathers pace and bombast. 

Groves' incredible and almost soprano voice is on top form as they rip faces off with a ferocious and fiery set taking in the joyous You Are and ferocious Million Dollar Que$tion from the stunning mini album Left Fire interspersed with a cleverly curated heavier festival selection from the new album including the sublime Sacred Shapes, The Rifftacular Resolve and the gut-punching, arse-kicking firepower of Second Breath.

Groves cajoles the crowd which gradually gets more and more involved and a decent sized and transfixed pit loses its shit and inhibitions as the glorious set develops.

There's genuine sophistication in Arcane Roots' music. But it's never self important or indulgent. While there are complex, choppy time signature mash ups and spectacular, bewildering riffs, runs and cadenzas, there's fantastic song craft on display. Perfectly balanced melody juxtaposed with exquisitely placed aggressive barks and stresses. Huge hooks. Delicious harmony and counterpoint. It is pretty close to genius. No, fuck it, it is genius. And even the very best of today's other bands are given a lesson by these magnificent maestros.

As I say world bloody class.

BurnThe Fleet *****

One of rock's unlikeliest but most likeable frontmen is the next ringmaster on the long and thin Southampton Music Stage. 

Andrew Convey leads out local boys Burn The Fleet for the very last time in its present incarnation. A genuinely sad moment for British Rock, but spiced and tempered with the anticipation of what the next chapter is going to hold for this talented bunch. 

A vast throng has crammed itself into the 50's vintage-styled bar area to give these salty old bollocks a fitting send off. And as send offs go, this one goes off.

The music is almost incidental. There's so much love in the room. Every word is sung back like shanties in the Saloon bar in The Old Sailor's Dong. Huge choruses, rousing refrains, pile ups, pits, mosh and mayhem. Even Bobby D from Don Broco gets seriously involved in the melee, throwing himself around like a hyperactive toddler after mainlining Gatorade spiked with meth and dutifully singing along.

By the time the majestic and anthemic Handfuls Of Sand comes to an end, there isn't a dry eye or a moist throat in the room. It's a genuine privilege to have been lucky enough to have had my heart stolen by Barnacle Bill and his band on the many occasions I've seen them live. And this evening's emotional adieu will go down as something extra special.

If the new venture/incarnation is only a fraction as good as BTF have been, then the world's in for more delicious treats.

INTERMISSION AND CONFESSION


Before I wind down with the last two acts, I just wanted to give a hearty thumbs up to the whole team behind Takedown. A truly brilliant day, with precision organisation, vision and ambition. Judging by the acres of smiling faces and general love vibe around the place, I don't think I'm alone in saying this is one of the very best 'pop up' festivals out there. Along with Burnout, it really is a joyful class apart. Ok, there were some 'orrible mean spirited bastards who apparently jacked some phones, but that apart, Takedown has been a total triumph.

On such a busy day, it's inevitable that you're going to miss some acts because of clashes, so today's casualties for me included WBTBWB, Palm Reader, Natives, Dance Gavin Dance, JCQ, Hacktivist and TesseracT. Which was a real shame, but there'll be other days.

Ok, this is where I fess up. I didn't get to see full sets from Mallory Knox, WATO, WSS or The Blackout. Not because I didn't fancy it. Or I think they stink. Nothing could be further from the truth. And the bits I did catch were,as expected of the highest order. Nope, the truth is, I peaked too early and by the time all of the above were on, I needed a bit of a chill. And a G&T. And a lie down. Ok, I admit it, I'd overdone it. Shocking confession. But being of a certain age, a whole day of drinking and moshing (well as much as bumbling around energetically(ish) clutching a cider, Jager or Sailor Jerrys counts as moshing) has well and truly taken its toll. So I slid back to the SU bar for Sonic Boom Six.

Sonic Boom Six *****

All froth and fun. Even the 'aggressive' bits. There's a poppiness and a radio-friendliness to Laila, Barney et al that seems to go down smoothly with the enthusiastic mob who are hiding from the main stages late into the evening. 

Laila K is in sprightly form as she flits around, all sex, sass and shimmy leading the ska/rock/dub/whatever mash up. I'm never sure whether we're meant to take SB6 seriously. Far from a novelty act, they mix up genres and styles for fun. Sometimes to brilliant effect. Other times a bit, well, meh. But I don't know where they truly sit. Perfect for festivals or support fluffers, I'm not sure they've got quite enough armoury for bigger, headline sets. 

However, there's nothing meh about tonight's performance. Dancing. Grinning. Skanking. Moshing. More drinking. Enjoying.

Don Broco *****

Right we're getting towards the top of the bill. In fact, arguably the Beds boys should have been at the very top, but a packed out sweat bunker of a main stage doesn't really give a toss about what order things are served up in. 

Anyway, the present dahlinks of the British Rock scene fresh off the back of their triumphant two part Priorities headline tour (Underworld review here> KOKO review here>) are here to entertain. And that, my friends, is exactly what they do. And some.

From the familiar opener Priorities to the frantic set closer Fancy Dress, it doesn't stop. The jam-packed crowd are taken on a thrilling and grin-packed adventure ride, expertly guided by Rob Damiani, the ridiculously hench and knicker-fizzing master of ceremonies.

The set is rammed full of sing-a-longability with the adoring crowd beating Bobby to just about every note and word. The Whole Truth, Hold On, Yeah Man, Dreamboy and Beautiful Morning (complete with now standard but never anything less than thrilling segue/drop into Thug Workout) and Actors are all set to stun. Theres no fucking about. Just party time. It's all slick and polished but still full of charm, personality and honesty. Shoulder riding, push ups, pyramids and good old fashioned dancing. You 'eard.

Ok, they're not on the same sophisticated or grown-up level that Arcane Roots are on, but I challenge anyone in the world whether they're a doom metaller, stepper, nihilistic death core addict, prog shoe gazer or a joyless self-loathing indie twat not to tap a foot, nod a head or bust out a ridiculous grin as these boys ply their trade.

It's glorious, celebratory, intelligent, inclusive good time rock and roll. And tonight Matthew,  I fucking love it. 

IN SUMMARY
Festivals can't and don't get much better than this. The odd thieving bastard notwithstanding, Takedown 2013 has been an absolute triumph. 

A brilliantly arranged, curated and organised grin fest from the moment the doors opened til the end of the punishing UPRAWR after party with Alex Baker and Tek-One delivering the happy finish everyone deserved (although the first DJ was just a self-indulgent dance-mixed-up joyless bellend who didn't play a single tune just wobs, bleeps, Protools generated midi farts and mash ups that none of the assembled rock crowd gave a shit about. Ok, over it now. Still a bellend though.)

The breadth and depth of talent from across a wide range of alt/underground/punk/metalcore and just about any other core you could mention, on show today is simply breathtaking and a wonderful indicator of just how healthy real live music is in the UK.

Amazing day. Amazing people. Amazing bands. Amazing hangover. Can't wait for next year.

Special thanks to Dwoooarf for helping out with the photos. Cheers mate.

The joy of Shiks - Enter Shikari at Hatfield Forum Live Review

Enter Shikari *****
Hacktivist ****1/2*
JBM *****

Hatfield Forum 26th April 2013

Sexual positions. Contortions. Perversions and aversions. Hatfield is flush with pheromones and dripping with dopamine. There's sex happening here. Some filthy. Some brutal. Some embarrassed; uncomfortable. But all heightened and horny.

JBM *****
Going ugly early. Anti-feminist, face-ironing ironic hardcore misogynist fingering. And tonguing. But in cheek. A blunt and awkward geeky fumble with the lights and black socks still on. Sex with the dregs of Jeremy Kyle guests. Deliverance style. Billy-Bob tombstone teeth n all. A confused 'comedy' vehicle with Mr Reynolds alter ego Tony G as an SG wielding riff machine. All a bit bewildering. Almost like a necrophilia or paedo joke; is it funny? Is it any good? Well, there's plenty of grunting, thrusting, phwooooars and roars. Masturbation? Nah. But it's a two bagger. Enjoyable enough at the time, but you don't want anyone else to know about it.

It kind of reminds me of watching porn in a group. Self-gratification is a dish best served for one. Not for awkwardly sharing with your mates. Even if there are about a thousand of them in your front room. The lads seem to have fun though. And Rou's not a bad guitarist.

Hacktivist ****1/2*
So, after JBM give the old chap a bit of a whack to get the blood going, it's time for some filthy undjentlemanly grimey dogging. The boudoir is packed with supplicant and willing organs and orifices. And they lap up the huge, brutal advances of Milton Keynes' molesters. If JBM were a foul fingering, then this lot are full-on fisting. With no lube. Wearing a rusty spiked gauntlet. Covered in napalm. And evil briars.

The unholiest melange of big djenty guitars and chugs with grime mesmerises and mobilises the seething room. And the brutal bullies on the stage are loving every fucking second of it. Cajoling, teasing, fondling and snarling. The brilliant new tune Elevate takes things to new, heady, horny and eye-rolling ecstasy. Then it's followed by their jizz-lake inducing cover of Nigga's in Paris which gets the Hertfordshire hordes fizzing and stiffening. Add in huge, girthy favourites like Cold Shoulders and Blades there's nothing but total, exhausted satisfaction in the ravaged room. 

Hacktivist are rapidly becoming one of the UK's must see live bands. There's big noise about them. Big expectations. And on tonight's evidence they're going to take some stopping. The filthy bastards.

Enter Shikari *****

Sex with the same partner can lose its lustre. Trust me. And having seen the St Albans sexpots well over 20 times, I'm a little concerned, that, while always brilliant, adventurous, kinky and even just downright fucked-up, it could be the same old same old tonight. Not that that's a bad thing. 

But nothing could be further from the truth. The decision to do a kind of alternative tour, taking in smaller, stranger and more connected venues is keeping things swinging. The boys have invented new positions. Discovered hitherto unknown techniques. Brought with them a fierce looking bag of unspeakable toys and titillating tinctures. And the mean business. Dirty business. Oh my.

The undies are loosened with the System/Meltdown wooing and seducing thing but there's something really special in the air tonight and the mercury is rising quicker than ever from the off. Then it just goes off its tits. Balls. Cock and front bottom. All at the same time. Swinging from the chandeliers covered in goose grease with a steel dildo shoved up the jacksie doesn't come close. 

It's hadean. And makes Dante's vision look like the telly tubbies eating egg sandwiches while listening to Schubert. It's the biggest mongolian cluster fuck in history. The almost home town crowd becomes the spike heeled dom. Whipping and teasing the band into previously undiscovered levels of performance. And the lads can do nothing but respond in kind.

They are clearly taken aback too. Rou even mentioning the brilliance of the crowd. Not in that hollow platitudinous way that most bands seem to trot out, but with genuine generosity and maybe even a tad of tumescence. 

The pit isn't just a pit. Its everyone. The whole crowd is a freaking, writhing, squirming mire of humanity. From the splendid venue's head to it's leaking anus. The set is constructed so cleverly to take us all on a heightened mind-altering sexual journey. Moments of sheer dirt with massive drops, subs, sphincter-fingering riffs and chest-pummelling re-mixed dancy beats to glorious exultation and almost religious fervour with Return To Energiser providing one of the very best of tonight's multiple orgamsms. There's none of the slow stuff on show tonight. It's all at top speed. Thrusting, controlling, masterful. All Eyes On The Saint is even pulled out of the anal toy cupboard and swallowed greedily by the climactic throng. Breathless. Speechless.

I'm truly struggling to find the words. There's no one in the UK  to come close to this loveable, louche lot live. No one. And tonight, Enter Shikari have taken things to a whole new level. It's not just the best I've ever seen them; it's one of the very best I've ever been lucky enough to have seen - by anyone.

Spent. Aching. Dripping. Sore. Spellbound. 

Here are some shady, sketchy attempts to try and capture the sheer power and downright violation of tonight. Enjoy.

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

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

Shepherd's Bush Empire Thursday 25th April 2013

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Loco at Koko - Live review of Don Broco at Koko

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

Koko, Camden, 18th April 2013

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pure genius.

Don Broco *****

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

Yeah. No bother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tasty, tasty stuff.

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

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

Deaf Havana ****1/2*

Big Sixes *****

Union Chapel, Islington 3rd April 2013

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

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

Dearly beloved we are gathered here today....

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

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

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

Deaf Havana ****1/2*

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 And here's a brilliant tune from Big Sixes.