Bleeurgh'd vision - Live Review of Architects at Koko

Architects *****
Stray From The Path ***1/2**
Koko Camden, Friday 14th March 2014

Firstly, apologies to both Landscapes and Northlane. Due to the ever-frustrating club-night enforced early shows at the delicious faux Rococo Koko, I couldn't get to deepest Mornington Crescent early enough to run the rule over either of them.

No matter, there's already a packed pit salivating and drooling waiting for New Yoik's hardcore dahlinks Stray From The Path.

Stray From The Path ***1/2**

Kicking off with Badge And A Bullet, there's no foreplay here. Frenzied fingers plunge straight for the love button. All bounce, brio and heaving heavy hardcore. Drew York leads the assault with guts and gusto, teasing and juicing up the supplicant and breathless crowd.

They pile through seven or eight high octane bounce fests including Negative And Violent, Death Beds and, of course, Damien; which raises the fever pitch in the throbbing and circling pit to dog whistle proportions.

That all said, and despite the obvious energy, vigour and relentless fondling and thrashing, it kind of feels like a solid teenage snog and a bit of a fumble rather than a full on grown up filthy bollock-deep servicing. The delicious Eva Spence's cameo appearance notwithstanding, the whole thing stops a wee bit short of a shuddering climax and merely serves to tighten the testes and get the sap rising further in anticipation for the main rogering that we all hope is coming.

Architects *****

So, the scene is set. The lustful and lubed-up, expectant and heightened crowd assume the position, grit the teeth and spread the legs. This is going to hurt.

Launching into the full-on frenzied Gravedigger -  then, without a breath, dropping into the fearsome C.A.N.C.E.R. from the brilliant new album Lost Forever//Lost together, it's clear Sam and the boys are here to fuck and not to fuck about. The sound is immense, the reaction from the dripping and delirious packed room equally so. Something special is happening here. Something very special.

The assault is relentless. Alpha Omega brings the house down with every syllable sung back with heart and passion by the assembled love-struck sweaty orgy pile. A good smattering of material from the new album including the behemoth Naysayer, is wheeled out alongside work spanning the quintet's decade or so in the game, lending the set a perfect balance between downright brutality with blast beats and colon loosening sub drops and more melodic and harmonic reveries and seductions.

The band themselves admit they've had problems refining or even defining their sound, but whether you file it under metalcore or any other sort of core, on tonight's jaw dropping display, they've landed right on top of whatever game they're in.

Throughout the astonishing performance, engaging frontman Sam Carter comes over as genuinely and charmingly humbled. He thanks the supplicant sweaty bastards in front of him at every opportunity and oozes honestly, humility and integrity.

But despite Carter's warmth and sincerity, he and his four mates continue, unabated, with the violation and destruction of our soft organs. Drew York joins the good time gang bang during Early Grave before the set ends with the triumphant and deeply penetrating Broken Cross.

The crowd is left twitching. Replete. Slightly confused. But ultimately satiated; indeed, the stench of love in the room clings to every fibre and sweaty limb. After a brief metaphorical apres-coital fag, they're back, briefly seducing the febrile throng with the post-rock infused instrumental Red Hypergiant before whipping out the ultimate priapic, throbbing kidney wiper These Colours Don't Run to finally fuck the brains out of what's left functioning among the giddy orgy. 

To hear 1400 or so excited miscreants bellowing in unison ' you fucking pigs' is a genuine bucket list moment and the most pithy and acute encapsulation of just how something so brutal and uncompromising can engender such genuine warmth, love and unity. Breathtaking. Spine tingling. Astonishing.

The Year Of The Library Book. Live review of Yearbook and Brawlers in Dalston

Yearbook *****
Brawlers**1/2***
Birthdays. (Shitty) Dalston. London. 7th March.

So it's Dalston. A shitty pretend place. A shitty dirty place. A Turkish restaurant-imbued shitty place. Just  a shitty place. But tonight, one of the UK's most original and exciting talents are in shittown to, well kick some shit.

And in honour of the self-styled shitty centre of our beloved Capital, I've decided to go all Guinness World of Records and see how many times I can use the word shit or shitty in this shitty review. The review being shit; not the band. Obviously. 

Brawlers**1/2***

Before I kick off, I've got to apologise for being shit to the first two bands, The New Tusk and the excellent and definitely not at all shit Gunning For Tamar. Due to Dalston being so far away from anywhere non-shit, it's taken me hours to get to the shit bunker and because of shitty traffic I missed out on the starters.

Anyway, enough of shitty excuses. Onto the real shit.

A fairly packed subterranean corridor of beards, beanies and industry types awaits in insouciant anticipation of losing its shit (well, it had been a while since I got a shit in), to the Leeds lads, Alcopop signing and semi-super group who seem to be on everyone's lips at the moment.

And we're off. From the first blap-blap-bam, lead screamer, singer, shit-kicker, red beanie-wearing party starter Harry George Johns races into the pit and shakes shit up. Well, kind of.

Problem is, it's all shit we've kind of heard before. Not bad shit, don't get me wrong. Just not my sort of shit. Whereas Gnarwolves really are the shit in dirty, shitty pop punk with enormous riffs and grubby sing-a-longs, Brawlers, well, just seem to be a wee bit meh. I'm sure they're as honest as the day is long and piss and shit integrity, but on tonight's performance, they just fail to ignite.

Saying that, the rhythm section (glued together by stoner bong water drinking shit storm noise rockers Castrovalva's four string maestro Anthony Wright) is tighter than Captain Nemo's sphincter and the big riffs and chugs get the old ticker ticking and the shithouse doors shaking.

Overall, I'm just not too sure where Brawlers are going to fit in. Of course, there's always a snap-back wearing apetite  for pop punk and bands like Neck Deep are leading the charge in its resurgence (if indeed, it ever went away). There's certainly energy, vigour and edge to their shit and their new single I Am A worthless Piece of Shit is anything but worthless or a piece of shit, but the shit doesn't really stick tonight.

Not shit. But not the shit.

Yearbook *****

So onto the main event. After being doused in all manner of punky, noisy shit, it's time for some, well, odd shit. To celebrate the launch of their terrific EP Old Bones, the library lads play the whole of the record in order for the first time. And it's absolutely anything but shit.

Kicking off with the jangly shit and into big drop of the title track, it's clear from the off that they're not messing. So tight and delivering every demi-semi-quaver with passion, power and precision, the outré and quirky four piece are loving this shit. 

The harmonies and counterpoint throughout are mesmerising and enchanting in a weird nerdy, preppy and gauche kind of way but with a Lenman-like mischief. A bit like a hyper active puppy licking your face while holding a cut throat razor to your frenum. Told you it's odd shit.

There's a genuine and stunning originality to this lot. And while Andy Halloway's brilliantly and searingly delivered lyrics display an obsession with beds, there's a dynamic freshness and oblique wit and charm that sets them so far apart from most of the predictable down tuned clean/dirty alt, scene and lad rock shit  that's cluttering up the magazines, web and airwaves.

But it's not all liveliness and loveliness, there's definitely an edge to their oeuvre. This razor toting puppy dog's not all lick and playfulness, there's anger, bile and bite throughout. Genuine angst. Discontent. Even bitterness. And the crowd are lapping it up.

After the magnum opus is finished and the circular and hypnotic refrain of Sinker fades into the sweat-heavy shitty Dalston air, the bookish bastards turn it up even further by taking us on a re-vitalised and reworked journey through three or four older than old bones favourites including the irresistible 3s And 6s (blade-weilding puppy dogs 'n' all.)

A truly brilliant night at the altar of a truly brilliant young band who aren't afraid to be different and do things their own bonkers way. I still can't understand why this lot aren't well and truly on the bigger path to greatness. File alongside Hundred Reasons, Meet Me in St Louis, Hell Is for Heroes, Hold Your Horse Is, The Xcerts and the mighty Reuben as genuine British quirky, challenging genius. No shit.

Ok I didn't get the record. I only managed to clock up 45 shits and shitties. A bit shit.

Straight, no chaser. Straight Lines Live Review at The Black Heart

Straight Lines *****
Hey Vanity *****
The People The Poet *****

The Black Heart, Camden, Monday 3rd March 2014

Because it's moist and a bit miserable and we've had a damp, squelchy and dour winter, it seems kind of appropriate to run over tonight's acts using a kind of meteorological theme. Just 'cos I can. Count them puns kids.

The People The Poet *****
After an absolutely storming set supporting the wet and disappointing plastic popsters Blitz Kids a couple of weeks ago, I've been looking forward to the next warm front of balmy blue-collar, honest loveliness to bathe my aching bones.

An early slot has pulled a reasonable throng in off Camden's soggy streets as the garrulous and engaging Leon Sanford leads his Welsh wonders onto the pokey stage. Opening with People, the curtain raiser from the stunning album The Narrator, they are instantly into their stride. 

Bright and breezy, multi-layered musicianship belies the fact there are only three folk hitting, plucking, picking and strumming these days and fills the room to provide the perfect blue sky for Sanford's growling, seductive and often raw but always soulful crooning. As always, he's aided and abetted by the gorgeous and ridiculously symbiotically tight harmonies of the diminutive will-o-the-wisp Greta Isaac.

Ok, so there's a bunch of technical bad weather and Sanford's Mic packs up mid song early on, but that's a minor shower in what is a deliciously heart-warmingly sunny set crammed fiull of woo-oohs, integrity and soul climaxing in the brilliant Heart Of A Lion which must surely end up on a sporting montage BBC film at some point. Sunny days ahead indeed.

Hey Vanity *****
Next on the weather chart, blowing in from the east are Essex quartet Hey Vanity. All fizz, slickness, power and muscle with Marc Halls' phenomenal vocal range forming the eye of this perfect techporock tornado.

I've been lucky enough to have been caught in this lot's storm on many occasions, but they've seldom sounded better than they do tonight. Always tight, but never clinical or soulless, they mix up breezy, tuneful choruses and refrains with darker, heavier chugs and downtuned blasts.

This is clever but not indulgent; smart but not shoegazing, catchy but not derivative. The lastest single Some May Say is the perfect example of how their sound is developing and, tonight is a tour de force within the twister of a superb set. The outlook is certainly bright.

Straight Lines *****

After the sweet cyclone of Hey Vanity, the clouds darken and the forecast is looking murkier and forboding. Then the clouds burst and a Welsh whirlwind uproots all before it.

With a re-jigged line up (including The People The Poet's guitarist - who apparently is the brother of one of Straight lines, who apparently all went to school together, and chapel, and nursery and Mrs Jones from the corner shop once made them all tea and they all were in the Welsh Bob sleigh team together. Probably. - on bass), it's clear from the outset that Straight Lines have been at the rock and roll steroids.

There sound is heavier and rockier than ever. And much more mature. All Sabbath and Bad Company with Budgie and a smattering of NWOBHM (ask yer gran little 'uns) thrown in for good measure. And it bloody works. Oh yes.

A fierce storm but flecked with accessible melodies and hooks and glued together by Tom  Jenkins' incredible and original piercing alto. Older favourites like the catchy pop rock favourite  Half Gone are given the leaden skies treatment and sound heavier and more grown up than ever. The Anthemic Ring The Bells is heavier and sounds even more like they really mean it. Accompanying the older tunage are the offerings from the latest excellent self-released Reflect EP which is a heady brew of retro rock and tuneful thunder with the Sabbathy A Hole In The Sky being a particularly blinding blizzard (see what I did there?).

A lively crowd is whipped up into a tidy maelstrom throughout and  on tonight's evidence, Wales have another proper rock band to be proud of with enough clear air between them and the radio banal (lazy comparison klaxon ) Sterophonics, the post hardcore vibes of FFAF, greasy metal of BFMV and the onanistic indulgence of the Manics. (Whatever happened to Dopamine?).

Lovely see.

Max Tractor - Live Review of Max Raptor's Barfly spudfight

Max Raptor *****

Fort Hope *****

Only Rivals ***1/2**

Camden Barfly, Tuesday 28th January 2014

I bloody love potatoes. The king of vegetables. Flexible. Versatile. Potatoey.

From rich, la-de-dah, creamy, garlicky dauphinoise to the humble fat-soused chip. Delicious. 

Well, tonight, thanks to an ill-thought through acceptance of a pissed-up challenge from a fellow potato worshipper (you know who you are!), I have taken up the starchy, gluten-imbued gauntlet and agreed to use the humble spud as the guiding motif or metaphor, if you will, for this evening's proceedings.

Alright, I have to take some of the blame: over a glass of something refreshing earlier tonight, I did, turdishly, compare rock music to potatoes. Bed. Make. Own. Lie.

Only Rivals ***1/2**

First are Dubliners Only Rivals (well second actually, unfortunately, due to the earlier great potato debate overrunning and getting quite heated, I managed to miss the marvellous Making Monsters).

Ok, beginning to feel a bit set up and mildly casually racist now, given the Irish thing. But bollocks to it, potatoes are not sovereign property of the Emerald Isle, so get over it you politically correct, over-sensitive, finger-pointing, pious fucknuts. 

Potatoes. Fucking potatoes. Irish or not. So, what we got? Well, this energetic four piece form the mash or fat chips on tonight's bill of fare. Filling, tasty, bold and substantial. Nothing too fancy to be honest, but hot and satisfying nonetheless. 

There's enough substance and bulk to lift them away from microwave ready meal gruelly mash that seems to be flooding the market and enough rough spud skin on the chunky chips to give a grungy bite, again, unseen in most mass produced bland fries. But they could probably do with a splash of something a bit more spicy or provocative to make them truly different. That, or leave all the dirty skin on and get a bit filthier or earthier.

But, you can't really go that wrong with chips. Or mash. Good stuff, if not a soupçon underdone and  maybe just a tad unadventurous.

Fort Hope *****

Mash and fat chips sitting warmingly in the belly, it's time to move up a notch or two in the wonderful world of the spud. Reconstituting themselves out of the bag of broken but spicy and always interesting Flaming Tasty Monster Munch that was My Passion, next up are home counties quartet Fort Hope.

And the lurch towards finer dining is obvious from the very first chord. There's a sophistication and class here; lightly buttered, perfectly seasoned organic Jersey Royals with hand picked garlic leaves and sophisticated vintage truffle oil. But then there's also a fiery and acidic edge that gives them enough of a current and challenging street food edge to keep things away from the over slick.

Perhaps the most striking and obvious thing about this lot though, apart from the consumate and cheesewire tight musicianship, is front man Jon Gaskin's incredible vocals.

Every note, run, trill, riff and searing high note is nailed perfectly. But it never sounds anodyne or too sickly smooth. This is a truly world class voice: file in the same very small and exclusive index as the incredible Dan Lancaster. And like Lancaster, Gaskin is no preening, self-aware egomaniac; he goes about his business with an almost indecent dollop of humility and with an apparent gauche but beguiling and charming lack of self confidence.

The fine dining continues through a perfectly balanced and energetic menu swinging between more brutal and earthy moments and almost RnB sassiness. The playing throughout is flawless, Gaskin's voice powerful, clean, sensational. 

For such a new band, their material is surprisingly mature. Maybe lacking the odd hook here and there, but wholesome and tasty all the same. There are moments of pure alt rock chicanery backed with serious heavier and maybe even proggy stretches (although not over imbued with time signature noodling) but the overall effect is rich, beautifully prepared, grown up, multi-layered contemporary rock. Bloody delicious.

Max Raptor *****

Ok, we've established that humble spuds - god's earth-covered testicles - are ridiculously versatile. From smokey porky pig flavoured pub snacks and greasy accompaniments to lips and arsehole-infested saveloys to finely prepared allumetes and organic layered poshery. All yummy and salivary amylase-arousing gorgeousness in their own right and own place.

But try throwing all of the myriad variations and convolutions into a wheely bin, chucking in a gallon of loony soup extra strong lager, over proof bourbon, face-melting scotch bonnet chillies, the brain electrolytes of AJP Taylor, the drool of a university librarian, the jizz of Jamie Lenman, the bile of Ukranian freedom fighter, diesel, industrial drain cleaner,  and Vimto: give it a shake or a stir with a rusty machete and ta da. 

Impossible to pigeon hole, Burton-on-Trent's Max Raptor taste somewhere between The Butthole Surfers, Biffy Clyro, Mastodon, The Kaiser Chiefs, Black Flag, The Krankees and The Stranglers. Obviously they don't actually sound or taste like any of the above, but stick all of those in the wheelie bin with all the above ingredients, throw in a couple of goofballs, a sweaty, ravenous and baying crowd and you get the picture.

As soon as the East Midlanders take to the stage there's an extra jump lead bulldog clipped to the collective gonads of the crowd. The energy level, heat and rabid fervour go up several notches and we're away.

Rolling between mean, punky rawness and thunderous down tuned chuggy riffs, every song is a catchier than cholera banger. Airing wares like the massive Breakers, Back of a Barrel Wave and the über-anthemic England Breathes from last year's stunning long player Mother's Milk, alongside older but equally as brilliant chest-beaters like The Patron Saint of Nothing and the ever-raucous The King is Dead, we're treated to  a groaning table jammed with sing-a-longs, wooaah ooh ohhs, aggressive fist-waving, proto-political sneering and clever acidity. And this satisfies, cajoles and fuels the joyous and adoring crowd - a pan of bobbing, bubbling potatoes in this Camden pressure cooker.

This main course has it all. The chef has left nothing out. Hell, along with the fiery chilies and spice he's chopped his finger tips and a bit of his bellend into the pan for good measure to make every mouthful as dangerous, thought-provoking and unsettling as it is tasty. 

On tonight's showing, we're going to taste loads more of this spicy, fucked-up but nourishing and warmingly satisfying melange in the foreseeable future. Already stalwarts of the festival scene, expect more spicy potato-based nourishment in a wheelie bin near you.

Burp.

Here's a tiny taster of the spuddy energy on show tonight. Chef's bellend not included. Enjoy: 

School of Mock - Blitz Kids Live Review Camden Barfly

Blitz Kids *****
The People The Poet *****
Villains *****

Camden Barfly  Monday 20th January 2014

Before the blitz, there's the kids. Loads of them. Tonight, London's very best small venue has been turned into a fifth form disco. Bloody everywhere. Smelling of Lynx and bizarre coloured alcopops, Camden's cosiest back room feels more like Stuart Hall's trailer than a rock venue.

Never mind though, there are still enough grizzled old industry types, other bands and general moochers to ensure it doesn't feel too awkward being of more mature years.

But, in keeping with the yoof-heavy attendance, it seems only right and proper to prepare tonight's review in the form of a school report:

Villans *****

Appearance and attendance: On the face of it a well presented, if not slightly scruffy pupil. Perfectly pleasant enough with rough edges. B+

Overall quality of work: Nothing too edgy, startling or original; but very competent, catchy, smart, hook-infused alt rock with poppy and even Brit-poppy influence. Terrific harmonies and clever vocal arrangements give them an ownable big sound. Energetic and comfortable in front of crowds. Engaging, cheeky chappy front man. B+

Teacher's Notes: Overall a tidy, well polished set with just about enough rawness and potential originality to set themselves apart from a very crowded pack. Not destined for Oxbridge, but certainly have all the potential of full employment on the UK scene up ahead. A-

The People The Poet *****

Appearance and attendance: Straight out of the college library and a signed up member of the debating society and young farmers. A likeable and raggedy pupil. Somewhat unassuming but definitely harbouring hidden literary depths and a simmering intelligence. One to look out for. A-

Overall quality of work: Clever, engaging, challenging stuff. But with a real comfy jumper feel to a lot of this pupil's work. Melodically and harmonically smooth with Joe Cocker barbs and Adam Duritz soul thrown in to inject a grizzly rawness. There's a nu-country vibe among the alt rock power, elements of Springsteen and Crosby Stills & Nash but backed by bits of Coldplay (the good bits, honest), Crash Test Dummies, Foals and even Bad Company (ask the history master kids). 

A genuine shock. And a very pleasant one. Their work is of the highest quality throughout. The new, truncated and impossibly tight line up draws on works from their stunning debut long player The Narrator, the songs are true slices of life derived from fans' own stories. From MDMA abuse to moving love paeans. And it works brilliantly. Big gutsy Ooo Ohh Whooaa Whoaa singalongs, beautifully tight harmonies delivered by the petite and timid, but wonderful Greta Isaac and a big, clever sound from the on-the-money trio behind gruff geography teacherly chief crooner Leon Stanford. A*


Teacher's Notes: Clever, witty, intelligent, approachable, entertaining, heartfelt, honest and beguiling. Brilliant stuff. Keep up the good work and the sky's the limit. A**

Blitz Kids *****

Appearance and attendance: Pretty much as you'd expect. Self-assured, swagger-soused bit-of-rough, inked, pierced, controlled and styled scruff aimed at unsettling the genitals of their younger female classmates. C-

Special note: Firstly, the sound man was either having a bit of a laugh with the house music before this pupil took to the school stage, or the arrogance of association is frightening: big tunes from polished, proven and successful acts like Mallory Knox, Don Broco, Fall Out Boy et all are all consumed greedily like a free Blue WKD by the assembled 5th formers. A statement? We're as good as them? A menu faux-pas where the amuses-bouche are far better than the meal itself? Or a joke? Ill-advised whatever.

Overall quality of work: Oh dear. Despite the build up and the hyped room, this pupil fails to deliver on just about every count. While their performance is undoubtedly slick, it's strangely totally devoid of soul, passion or truth. This is über-plastic, contrived, vacuous and banal. Even down to front man Joe James's affected west coat American accent (all the way from deepest Cheshire!)when he yo's and whoa's at his mini harem of hoes between songs. Embarrassing. It feels like The X-Factor does rock. There's no edge, no teeth, no punch.

While this pupil demonstrates obvious musical competence and skill, they're just lazy. Not to take anything away from their obvious work ethic: constantly touring, living in foetid vans and surviving on congealed Ginsters cheese slices from service stations - just lazy musically. Going through the motions. And, despite having an anonymous baldy, inked grimy hipster back up guitarist staring at the venue wall trying to hide on the miniscule Barfly stage, they fail to significantly beef up the morass of toothless prock (pop rock kids, doncha just love it?). Sigh.
 

Whereas bands like LTA, Deaf Havana (who are here in force tonight), Don Broco, Mallory Knox, Canterbury, hell, even We Are The Ocean and You Me At Six occupy the same heartland, they (mostly) all do it with lashings of integrity, reality, under the fingernail grime; honesty: Blitz Kids seem to have been mass produced. 

It wouldn't surprise me if Faustus himself,  Mr Cowell isn't lurking in the wings, evilly and gleefully rubbing his hands together in a cloud of foul stinking sulphur. F-

Teachers Notes: While fundamentally not doing anything wrong or offensive (apart from Jono's oft very amusing and profane tweets), this pupil is sadly a genuine disappointment. I expected so much more. As for the future? Who knows: unless they find an edge, a maturity, self-effacement, humility or some testicles, they're heading for Saturday night mainstream TV or touring with One Direction or McBusted. But, they might want that. Who knows. 
F--- (fail)

The best lives of our year. Top 2013 gigs

The shows that shaped 2013.

Like sitting down with the box of mixed goodies (and shite) that you collect over Chrimbo, 
it's time to review all the contents. From tit mugs toGentleman's Relish and dodgy shirts.  So, here's a mercifully brief (and truth be told, mildly gin-soaked) rootle through some of the live highlights of what's been a bloody great year for live shows. 

10. Enter Shikari The Hatfield Forum 26th April 2013

A brilliant night for a brilliant cause (Action Aids's laudable Bollocks To Poverty). A jam packed, writhing hall in virtually a hometown show was treated to an orgy of throbbing, wobbing glory. 
Review here> 

9. Delta Sleep Catch Bar, Shoreditch, 23rd October 2013

A joyous evening of math mayhem and mastery. Four of the UK's best experimental and outré bands beguiled a sweating and exuberant trendy Shoreditch hipster attic full of beards and flat caps. Review here>

8. Deaf Havana Roundhouse, 26th October 2013

A truly moving and emotional culmination of years of bogs and dungeons. The erstwhile flatlanders blew the bloody impressive roof off an adoring locomotive shed in Chalk Farm. Special night. Special band. Extra special songwriting.  Review here>

7. Deftones Brixton Academy, 20th February

The coolest band on the planet sizzled on a freezing February night. World class show. And Chino talked. A lot. You 'eard. Review here>

6. Don Broco Roundhouse, 7th December

The loveable likely ladcore scallies savagely tore Chalk Farm a new gaping sphincter on their biggest, sweatiest, sexiest party night yet.  Expect even bigger things from these Bedfordshire bad(ish)asses. Review here>

5. The Dillinger Escape Plan KOKO, 8th November 2013

An astonishing and mesmerising beating up at the hands of the arch math murderers ably abetted by the magnificent Maybeshewill and the always-stunning Three Trapped Tigers.  Review here>

4. Liam Frost Old St Pancras Church, 2nd October 2013

Together with John Smith at The Union Chapel (mercifully attended, but sadly not reviewed), these had to be two of the most moving and extraordinary shows of the year. In a real church, the plaintive and heart-melting Mr Frost delivered beauty, pathos, emotion, warm smiles and genuine tears.  Review here>

3. Deaf Havana Unplugged Union Chapel, 15th April 2013

An incredible, life-affirming soireé in the company of the largely unplugged but bang on form East Anglian miscreants. A seminal and important evening in not only their development,  but the future of British rock music.  Review here>

2. Arcane Roots XOYO, 26th November 2013

A searing and jaw-dropping tour de force from one of the UK's very best bands. A sold out XOYO is the merest taster of the inevitable stadium future of this scintillating, challenging and magnificent trio.  Review here>

1. Jamie Lenman The Garage, 10th December 2013

Seldom lost for words, this amazing evening all but rendered me pretty much dumstruck. A totally spellbinding, challenging, fierce, comforting, hair-erecting celebration of originality, wit, emotion and charm . (Dodgy rhyming) Review here>

And that's it for 2013. So many amazing shows. So many brilliant bands. So much Jaeger, cider, Sailor Jerry's and Nando's extra hot chicken. So many hangovers. Further confirmation (if needed) that live music is in the rudest of health on our sceptred Isle. 

The top 10 are just that. There were so many other fantastic, moving, spine-tingling and arse-ripping moments, performances and evenings. It would be an absolute cad who wouldn't mention the ever-fabulous Max Raptor, the always superb LTA, Ozzy proggers Karnivool, FFAF, Hold Your Horse Is, the irrepressible and 'orrible Hacktivist tand those dicks The Hell to name but a few.

Before I head off into 2014 with the hope it will be even better, it would be further remiss not to mention two or three festivals that took place this year.

My top three: 

3. The Ashes of Burnout - a last minute scramble to get together an intimate, but ultimately stunning two evenings in Bournemouth in lieu of the tragically cancelled original event and brainchild of the stout magician Mr Dom Patience. Review here>

2. Takedown - probably the lesser known of the alt rock pop up festival season, Nestled in the bossom of Southampton University, this one day magical ride was a masterclass of diverse curation, slick organisation and contagious smiles. Review here>

1. ArcTanGent - the new fest on the block. But what a revelation. Not just the festival of the year, but possibly one of the very best festivals of all time. An astonishing and challenging line up of the cream of the more underground and experimental bands from post rock to math rock and every genre in between. The only commonality os that they were all so, so special. Rollo n next year. Review here>


And that really is it for 2013. Thanks for reading all my word farts and dribbles. More next year. 

Pit pics. 2013's live music in pics.

So, it's almost the end of what's been a stunning year for live and (mostly) loud music. 

Here's a book-type thing I've scrambled together of some of my favourite pissed iPhone shots from just some of the shows I've been lucky enough to have been at.

They're shaky, sketchy and shambolic but from the hip and the heart. Have a look through and you may even regurgitate the taste of Jager, Sailor Jerry's or cider from a plastic glass.

Big love to all the bands. The pics are all free to steal, share make into chest piece tats or put on commemorative mugs.