XXXtra hot - live review of The Xcerts Camden 21/July/2014

The Xcerts ****1/2*

Our Black Heart, Camden, 21st July 2014

It's hot. Bloody hot. Hotter than a bus driver's polyester-clad arse. With extra napalm dolloped in his cleft for good measure. So, it's rather apposite we're all gathered in front of one of the UK's hottest bands who also happen to be one of the most enduring, hard working, honest, talented and integrity-soused bands in the land too.

So it's great to see the dingy atelier that is Our Black Heart jammed to the dripping rafters with glowing folk desperate to share the hot love.

Kicking off with the monumental and narratively thought-provoking Cool Ethan and catapulting straight into a breakneck version of Scatterbrain, messrs Macleod, Smith and Heron have the sweating, writhing masses eating out of their bath-wrinkled dripping hands. The crowd reaction is as hot as the stultifying air temperature and the shaggy, shiny Macleod looks genuinely taken aback in the full face of the fireball of love and support.

The set continues apace taking in back catalogue bangers Do You Feel Safe? which stretches the larynxes of just about every member of the joyous congregation and the rowdy poptastic syncopated splendour of I See Things Differently which gets feet tapping, heads bobbing and faces cracking.

But it's the introduction of a newbie that gets moist hairs standing to attention. Pop Song is simply bloody fantastic. The true marriage of grunge, noise, rock and, of course, pop. If this, coupled with the astonishing new release Shaking In The Water, is anything to go by, the long-awaited new album will be rocketed straight into the rack marked classic.

The perfectly balanced (if a little short for a headline stint) set grabs the genitals, massages the cerebellum and pours kerosene onto flaming emotions with hyper-infectious and raucous renditions of the anthemic Crisis In The Slow Lane and The Ric Ocasek-influenced Carnival Time both with their huge, throbbing refrains and sing-a-longs. 

Gum gives us all a bit of breathing space before the absolutely splendid, heart-melting and final triptych of the tear-jerking pared down genius, Aberdeen 1987 (with everyone in the room belting back every work, much to the oft taciturn Macleod's obvious delight), the aforementioned stonking new single Shaking In The Water and the oo-oo imbued genius of Slackerpop wrings every last drop of sweat, love, and emotion out of the drenched and thoroughly sated love puddle of acolytes. 

This trio are everything that's good about British music. In fact, fuck it, just music in general. They weld together energy, melody, pathos, joy, challenge and sublime songcraft into truly superb, original and honest works of art. 

They eschew the bullshit attitude and clichés that so many pusillanimous, plastic and scene bands embrace and regurgitate with alarming regularity. They do it with heart. With passion. With every fucking fibre of their tour wearied beings.

Their dedication, application and passionate pursuit of giving pop a proper pair needs wider recognition and exposure. Which, if there's any justice in the world won't be too far away.

What a ball soupy, scorching, searing and unforgettable night. What a band. What a joy.

Phew.

Shaken and Stirred on The Rocks - review of Camden Rocks

Camden Rocks Festival
Straight Lines ***** 
Toseland **1/2** 
Gnarwolves ***1/2** 
Max Raptor ***** 
Dinosaur Pile Up ***1/2 * 
The Hell ***** 
Get Cape Wear Cape Fly ****1/2*

All over Camden, Saturday 31st May 2014

Like any cocktail list, today's bill of fare is an object lesson in option paralysis; you want to taste all the delicious and heady brews on the list, but there's simply too much to choose from and so many intoxicating variations, flavours and ingredients to realistically get yourself outside.

So, after a lengthy session studying the amazing list, a plan is hatched and the mayhem begins with a drop of Welsh moonshine.

Straight Lines *****

A heavy and straightforward looking cocktail. But deceptively complex.
Take a classical rock base. Infuse it with Sabbath salt, spice and riff bombs. 
Add in a good dash of contemporary sharpness and relevance. Then chuck it all into a hot and moist Barfly and shake the living shit out of it. 

Delicious, heady, heavy but with a fresh aftertaste (even with the Sabbath Bloody Sabbath riff still on the tongue as a strong finish). Cracking start to a long, well-soused day. 

Toseland **1/2**

Take the eighties. No, please take the eighties.

Where do I start? Take a bunch of very competent rent-a-rock band musos, throw in an impossibly hench ex world superbike racing dude, sprinkle with ridiculously clichéd, Jeremy Clarkson 20 driving rock classics collection CD from a petrol station lyrics and song titles like Renegade (seriously!), take a large slug of irony, but throw that away, chuck in some Foreigner, REO Speedwagon, Uriah Heep, Thunder, Bon Jovi and mix it up into a beige but annoyingly tasty frothy mixture. Liberally spice with epic guitar solos, piano intros and, to be fair, a pretty formidable voice and you've got the ultimate dad-friendly rocktail.

Anachronistic. Competent. Perfectly played. But Bourbon biscuits rather than rock and roll moonshine Bourbon snorted out of a rusty petrol can.

Gnarwolves ***1/2** 

Take a glass. Stick it up your arse. Break the glass. Fill it full of quaaludes, hydroponically grown hyper grass, neat overproof rum, amyl nitrate and give it a fucked up spastic shake. Then drop the glass. Lick the contents off the sticky floor. And that's a Gnarwolvestini. Chaotic, full-on, fun, dirty, fucked up and addictive. Despite tuning and technical cock ups, normal disorder is resumed with typical mayhem-infused aplomb. Big riffs, über-pop punk melodies and sing-alongs. The complete antidote to Toseland's low alcohol lager. The crowd a bit bemused rather than totally intoxicated but it is impossibly early for something normally so spicy, punchy and messed up. Burp.

Max Raptor *****

Time to move to a distinctly classic part of the mixology list.Take some pointy fingers, a sharp, acidic shot of sardonic and knowing wit, throw in a dash of satire, a nod, a wink, some crystal clear, triple filtered extra strong cane spirit, cerebral fluid, a hint of Burton Ale, sweat, lube, a full bodied red, some needle-sharp shards of glass, industrial swarf, empty a bumper bag of Whoa Whoas and throw it all into a bath. Dive in. Frenziedly slurp the mind-blowing alchemic goo off the whiffy bridge and wobbly bits of  a compliant bystander and lose your shit. A truly original, mind-melting, heart starting, knee bending, cock-grabbing, clever, proto-punk concoction that gets this NW1 party of all parties properly started. Brilliant. 



Dinosaur Pile Up ***1/2 **

Take some grunge, add a dollop more grunge, mix in some, well grunge, throw in some big tunes, the odd white t-shirt, some jeans, a refreshing slice of piercing but surprisingly agreeable essence of vocal, serve on a base of solid riffs, butt-loosening bass and pour into a heaving Electric Ballroom. Sassy, bold, fruity an, of course grungy. Cheers.

The Hell ***** 

Take four cunts. Two lots of two strings. Some alarmingly aubergine hair dye. A huge sprinkle of irony. Mix it with lager, piss, bile, Courtney Love's poisonous fanny batter, the grease from a thousand kebab shop owners' aprons, more lager and shake it all up in a tiny hot room full of semi naked hardcore dancing cunts. Yup, it's that fucking horrible. Dicks.

Get Cape Wear Cape Fly ****1/2*

Take a small man. Some huge sing-a-long tunes. A massive dollop of distilled nostalgia, unbridled joy and some D&B wobs, beats and tst tst tsts. Heat it up to nearly boiling point. Pour in some der dub dub dub dubs. Spray over a flagging room full of singing soulmates to bring spirits, arses, brows, smiles, faces and dancing feet back to life. Enjoy.A wonderful sundowner to cap a full-on day suffused with variety, bizarreness and brilliance.

And so to bed.Camden Rocks has been an absolute triumph. 200 bands, 20 venues, 8,000 like-minded rock fans of every shape, size, taste and smell. A fantastic vibe throughout the whole day. 

The only downside was missing such mesmerising and intoxicating acts like A Plastic Rose, Baby Godzilla and the return of The mighty Xcerts. Shame.

Brilliant organisation (even though the wristband exchange took up quite a lot of drinking, I mean rock and roll time. ) But all-in-all one of the very best one day festivals imaginable. Can't wait to get stuck in again next year.

Hic. 

Short. Live. Review. Of. The. People. The. Poet. At. The. Social. In. Just. Fifteen. Words.

The Heartbreaks *****
The People The Poet *****
Gallery Circus *****

The Social, London 13th May 2014


Tiny. Thin. Subterranean. Packed. Industry folk. Beards. Hush Puppies. Huw Stephens. Blitz Kids. Deaf Havana.

Gallery Circus *****

Royal Blood/White Stripes. Sorry. Guitar. Drums. Identical. Twins. The Darkness. Tim Buckley. Energy. Interesting.

The People The Poet *****

Harmonies. Banter. Tunes. Woos. Oohs. Integrity. Soul. Growls. Smiles.  Anthems. Future. Stars. Grounded. Bloody. Brilliant.

The Heartbreaks *****

Joyless. Derivative. Backward-looking. Pusillanimous. Indie. Dire. Po-faced. Tired. Nothing new. Waste of time.

London Live - a month's shows in one huge word burp

Deaf Havana***** The Maine*1/2**** The People The Poet ***** Yearbook****1/2* Jamie Lenman ***** Nordic Giants*****
Sam Duckworth ***1/2** Shane McGowan ***1/2** 
Get Cape Wear Cape Fly *****
The Lafontaines ***** Bad Rabbits****1/2*

Live in London during April and May 2014

Here goes then, a high speed, break neck word burp about a whole heap of great shows over the last month or so with no full stops, breaths, distractions or interruptions, so let's start at The Clapham Grand; last gig in this alcopop, J-Lo perfume and ketamine soused dance hall was Oasis apparently so tonight's show hasn't got too much to live up to following a few years after the middle of the road whinging, whining  Manc Beatles wannabees anyway first up are the melodic and sweetly soulful South Walian blue collar, blue veined, blue bollocked The People The Poet***** who, despite being given no ambience, lightshow or audio visual help produce a banging short set full from its head to its rectum with huge melodies, sing-a-longs, woo oohs and chest thumping grandeur, a truly great band in the making and with world beating tunes like the anthemic Heart of A Lion, it's not going to be long before total world domination, talking of the world, from the land of countless donuts, merciless drive by killings, styleless checked trousers and mindless gun laws, come

The Maine*1/2****, the less said the better really, depthless, heartless, witless, passionless, pointless wetness, no matter, next up are the always far from pointless Deaf Havana***** fully supported and surrounded by singers, string strokers and Hollywood flashing light bulbs burning the fenland fuckers' moniker into the adoring eyes of the assembled masses in the sold out sarf London dance hall who are treated to a fantastic,

slick and sublime sashay through old ones, new ones, fast ones, slow ones, poignant ones, moving ones, catchy ones and even really old ones about fags and booze - brilliant stuff from one of the UKs genuinely top talents...talking of talent, and a young talent who should really have been on show with James Veck-Gilodi and the team tonight in a mad rush and sacrificing seeing the always amazing HawkEyes supporting Jamie Lenman, a quick catch up with the fabulous mucksters

Yearbook****1/2* in the sticky Soho love dungeon that is The Borderline - Ok, it's a support slot to Acoda and some old American EMO band that no one seems to give a shit about, but a decent crowd has assembled early doors to witness one of the country's most original and fresh talents and they take the place apart, tearing  into a selection of wry, awry and wonky wizardry culling tunes from their fantastic EP Old Bones and slotting them into a beautifully curated short, sharp flavour fest suffused with chilli-hot fire of older bangers which certainly get the enthusiastic crowd wet of knicker and dizzy of head; splendid, quirky brilliance that merits a wider audience and soon, right into a cab and a mad dash to the grandeur and vaguely Politbureauesque surroundings of the Islington Assembly Rooms packed full of a million beards for the fabulous

Mr Jamie Lenman***** who has some real work to do to even get close to the brilliance of his last tour which was one of the absolute jewels in the live crown of last year, but I tell you what, the genius only bally well goes and tops the fabulous excellence by being even more, well,  fabulous and excellent, he rustles up a wonderful heady fucked-up but mind-altering brew of complexity, aggression, Reuben-infused nostalgia, fire, passion, quirk, cool, hard bop, jazz, face-melting metal, joy, vitriol, humour and passion that pretty much puts him so far ahead of the competition, that there is no competition just an empty horizon to look back on as he gallops into the distance so far away from the non-existent tired and straw-clutching, head-scratching chasing pack: genius, sheer bloomin, genius; right, no time to dwell on Mr Lenman, onto mysterious, anonymous off beat, befeathered and bizarre Brighton-based noodlers Nordic Giants ***** playing to a packed and sweaty Shoreditch hipster hideaway backed by the most astonishing visual experiences imaginable - and non imaginable- the towering, soaring soundscapes often topped by wonderful guest vocal performances (and pre-recorded, pre-filmed performances)

fill the Blade Runner set of a room and bewitch the achingly beard-stroking internet of things understanding, organic Peruvian commune collective beer supping quaalude necking, well, mainly assholes to be honest; seldom has such challenging and beautiful music soared above the heads of such a collection of oh-so-cool fuckwits -  challenging music obviously needs to challenge, but the crowd needs to be capable of being challenged, there's a hideous air of emperor's new clothes in London's coolest borough tonight, not that the music or visuals are at fault, no, far from it, it's the blind and tacit acceptance of the assembled goons that this is 'just so cool': so, at one point, challenged by a marvellous and thought-provoking film depicting dark and sinister child abuse, instead of marking the gauntlet being laid down at their sockless brogue clad feet with acceptable contemplation or reflective, appreciative quiet, an almost One Direction crowd  fervour breaks out with whooping and whistling - was any one actually watching? one sensible if slightly misunderstood plaintive voice hits the fatigued old nail on its bent head by screaming out 'why are you clapping?' - at least one of the crowd is not a goon then; that all said, the performance is bewildering and brilliant  with the multi instrumentalists secreting themselves to the sides of the stage playing second string (and guitar and flugelhorn and god knows what else) to the eye popping and mind altering filmic splendour; a true marriage of sound and vision, such a shame it was mainly wasted on the wankers - roll on Arc Tan Gent in the summer far from the madding hipsters and sans the Shoreditch pseudo-cool cretins;

as a complete contrast, next up over in a sticky carpeted student vomitarium is the redoubtable and loveable troubadour Mr Sam Duckworth playing, unbelievably his last ever show under the epithet Get Cape Wear Cape Fly (fittingly at a much loved New Slang event) , but before eyes get teary and throats get lumpy, our pocket sized mop haired hero treats the sparse student crowd to a wonderful collection of new tunes as Sam Duckworth ***1/2** cranked out on a lone SG with no laptop, loops or horns, this is as pared down and raw as it gets and it's great stuff and apparently a lot of it is about wrestling, well, who'd a thunk it,

anyhow, Sam careers through the set before ceding the stage to Southampton's own yoof beat poet Shane McGowan ***1/2** who stirs the crowd up with a clever, thought provoking and original collection of essentially street poetry set to jangly acoustic reveries, not the voice of an angel, but the words of a genuine artist and the heart the size of a watermelon, engaging, interesting stuff, which sets the appetite on edge for Get Cape Wear Cape Fly *****; it's been a strange old time for Sam and GCWCF, from a decade or so ago being the new darling of the all new-nu-nu folk scene with a huge debut record on a major label without a slack track on the album then through some more indifferent but never less than interesting long players,

the recent schizophrenic diving between identities of Sam Duckworth as an artist and Get Cape, pledge records, serious life-threatening illness, an apparent falling out of love with the industry and making music, disillusionment and disappearance of identity playing with rent-a-bands and hangers on, but given all the shit and sadness, the boy's still got it and tonight is a genuine moving and, I'll be honest bloody sad, reminder of just how much talent this small package has stuffed inside its's callow frame, it has a feeling of back to the beginning as much as of an end, long time sidesman Mikey Glenister and his haunting and spine-tingling cornet, a laptop, an always superbly played acoustic guitar and Sam's sharp and at times painfully personal lyrics delivered in his best Westcliff 'awight you slag? Essex glottal stop infused lad speak adds up to a set of nigh on perfection, with slightly tweaked and re-jigged versions of all the big sing-a-longs (why don't you sing along?) that beguiled and thrilled stages at Glastonbury, The Astoria and Shepherd's Bush as well as every toilet and broom cupboard throughout the land, it's perhaps understandable that Sam is regrettably retiring the GCWCF sobriquet for reasons he tries to pint out this evening - relevance of lyrics written when still in his teens - but after having seen this pocket genius well over 30 times over the last decade, tonight feels a bit like a faithful dog wandering off to quietly die in a down-at-heel beer-sticky corner without his owner, in this case his wider and hopefully still faithful accolytes knowing that he'll never be seen again; so sad, but a hell of a last show and a genuine privilege to have been there to scream along to every bloody word, relevant or not- need to shake the sadness, so, it's back to Soho for some funk - you 'eard; Bad Rabbits at The Borderline should do the trick - ok, I'll keep it brief as I'm running out of breath, I also don't have any pictures from tonight's show as I accidentally got too drunk and couldn't get my shit together to get the camera out in the pit, anyway, opening are The Lafontaines ***** a fucked up Glaswegian indie/lad rock/alt-spiced/white rap melodic bucket of weirdness, but quite a good fucked up Glaswegian indie/lad rock/alt-spiced/white rap melodic bucket of weirdness - big tunes, interesting harmonies, a charisma imbued front man and a tight joyous and lively band, but (cue grumpy old bastard rant) why oh why does a really nice and genuinely engaging Scot want to sound like Eminem when he raps? I dont get it, at all, Biffy, The Xcerts,  the recently anodised Twin Atlantic and even the fucking Proclaimers prove that you can sing convincingly in a Scottish accent without having to sound like an affected twat - u get me blood? Minor rant really as they're really half reasonable, but it still pisses me off, unlike the mighty Bad Rabbits ****1/2* who deliver a set of which I have never seen or partaken - a funk fest with a hardcore edge? no, seriously, moshing to schmoove and sexy riffs and stage diving to mesmerising mellowness - it really defies belief, but the house is brought down - Brother Dua, all Isaac Hayes and Gil Scott Heron with the most incredible and controlled vocal range leads his fabulous fucking funksters to squeeze every nut sack in the room and seduce Soho's grizzled coolites with soul, integrity, sass and balls; the crossover between rock and dance, metal and mellow magic and hardcore with harmony is only on show in attitude alone as the music never veers towards the loud, the scream, the deconstructed (although there is an hilarious Dillinger cover - all three seconds of it), this lot are true magicians, nope, hypnotists and while there's a breath in your body, you NEED to see them live; talking of breath, that's me done, the longest sentence ever written about live music? I doubt it, and who actually cares, what I do care about though is the amazing variety, depth and strength of live music in this vibrant city and count myself eternally grateful to be able to haul my hoary old arse out to be so royally entertained - apart from The Maine, obviously, they were shit, done.

Citizen Arcane. Live Review of Classic Arcane Roots show at The Garage

Arcane Roots ****1/2*
Empress ***1/2**

The Garage, Highbury and Islington, Thursday 10th April 2014

Once upon a time a podgy man walked into a tiny mysterious dark and smelly room above a dirty tavern full of bearded trolls drinking intoxicating tinctures and drafts. 

The podgy man had gone to the tiny mysterious dark and smelly room above the dirty tavern to witness performances by several groups of miscreants and outsiders. Among them, a trio of ne’erdowells, one sporting a strong and almost magical beard.

They made noise. Intoxicating noise. Original noise. Fascinating and wonderful noise. There weren’t many other human folk in the tiny mysterious dark and smelly room above the tavern but those who were fortunate enough to be there smiled. Nodded. Indeed, many of their number headbanged. Oh there was mirth, love and joy.

After spending the next few years relentlessly following the shadowy trio in and out of mysterious dark and smelly rooms of many shapes and sizes, open smelly fields, magnificent smelly tents and even quiant, smelly farms in far away kingdoms, the podgy man had grown to love the trio of ne’erdowells.

A few harvests later, the podgy man finds himself in a massive mysterious dark and smelly room full to the brim with bearded, tattooed men, exotic women and digital marketing Hipsters from Spitalfields. Despite the digital marketing Hipsters from Spitalfields, the podgy man is happy. Very happy. In fact, the podgy man has a small tear or two in his podgy eyes as he considers the journey that the trio of ne’erdowells have made. 

Arcane Roots are only  bloody headlining at The Garage. 

Sadly, the podgy bloke was too busy getting podgier on meat products and intoxicating tinctures and drafts to get to the massive mysterious dark and smelly room in time for Boy Jumps Ship, but with fresh podge juice in hand, does manage to position himself in the middle of the massive mysterious dark and smelly room in time for Empress.

Empress ***1/2**
Mysterious, dark, sludgy, monstrous and intoxicating riff potions, gases and grenades infused with essence of prog, Intronaut-like intricacy and Mastodonesque magic spill and spit forth from the stage. And the bearded hordes seem to readily fall under it’s heady influence. Eyes shut, heads bobbing, devilish symbols raised. 

There is a joyous anachronistic tinge too this heady rite. The ghosts of 70s power pre-grunge prog are invoked, you can almost smell patchouli oil and Moroccan Black. But far from being a backward looking homage to desert boot staring and velvet loons, there’s a relevance and modernity to Empress’s booming, meandering, riff-heavy work that underpins all the sludge and mist with edge.

The only slight criticism is that many of the tunes appear to be constructed around similar keys and meters so you get the feeling you’re caught in the middle of a wandering 4 and a half hour song or, perish the thought, a concept portmanteau piece. Whatever, this podgy man, fortified with podge potion finds it all splendidly intoxicating.

Arcane Roots ****1/2*
It really does bring a lump to the podgy old throat to see one of London’s most venerable and important venues sold out and filled to it’s bursting teats for Surrey’s fab three. 

And as the drone that traditionally kicks off all recent Arcane Roots shows booms out over the gawping, expectant beards and weirds, the excitement reaches incendiary levels.

Then the intrepid trio burst on to the stage and let loose all hell. Well, the brilliant and stadium-friendly, soon to be released single Over And Over at least. A bold and clever move but one that pays off immediately. Despite the song only having been available to the great unwashed for less than 24 hours (thanks to the good people at Q magazine), the sing backs are incredible. 

Even though this is certainly no teeny audience and appears to be made up of predominantly slightly older and wiser musos, heads, industry types and more discerning cognoscente, the lyrics seemed to have been learnt in lightning time and delivered back with the fervour normally reserved for You Me At Six and the like. Spellbinding.

However, before I get too carried away, it is noticeable that the sound in the massive mysterious dark and smelly room is far from perfect at the beginning of tonight’s proceedings (would have been one of the most definite and clearest of 5 star reviews otherwise). 

For a band that pride themselves on producing such hi-fi sophistication, either the venue, the sound man, the front of house rig or a combination of the three have let them down. Which is unforgivable. If the bloke twiddling the knobs really is bouncing off the limiter as he seems to be protesting, then he really should adjust accordingly. 

OK, Empress had a much bigger backline, but their sound was clearer, louder and more defined. If the FOH is not up to the job, then sound blokey is somewhat forgiven, but Andrew Groves’ brilliant guitar playing and soaring vocals deserve to be heard.

Anyway, slight moans and whinges aside,the jubilant crowd don’t seem to be affected at all by any apparent sonic shortcomings and the amazing set continues apace. Cruising through a delicious collection of massive tunes culled from 2013’s phenomenal Blood & Chemistry album mixed in with sizzling blasts from Left Fire era including the coruscating Million Dollar Que$tion, Long And Low seamlessly segueing into the full blooded full version of Habibty, the trade mark house bringer down, You Are and even a stunning unknown song. New one? Cover? Who knows, as the normally garrulous Mr Groves hardly utters a peep between songs tonight - maybe he’s as overawed as most of us in the the massive mysterious dark and smelly room are.

To be fair to the man in the booth, the sound does appear to get better (could be the intoxicating brews and drafts though - weed bombs? Really? Three quid. Whatever the hell they are) and the crowd, while getting hotter and hotter and more and more animated are voraciously sucking up every atom. A couple of tecchy issues aside, the band have never played a better set and (despite the mildly sub optimal initial sound) tonight’s amazing performance truly plonks themselves at the very top of the British Rock tree.

They really are now getting some serious momentum and building up a broader and wider fan base of converted acolytes. It feels like their time. Their sound is wonderfully stadium friendly without pomposity, indulgence or needless woo oos and vacuous radio friendly smarm. It is seriously sophisticated and dazzling music, flawlessly played but never sterile or studio dot-for-dot perfect. There's real soul. Fantastic chemistry between the three of them, stunning musicianship and a genuine air of impending superstardom. The Zeppelin of the next generation? Why the hell not. 

Resolve brings the main set to a fevered end with it’s intestine-wrenching riff and the wonderful sing along to You Keep Me Here sends the throng out onto the streets of the ancient kingdom of Norf London feeling dazed, sated and safe in the knowledge that the shadowy trio led by its magical strong bearded angelic-voiced wizard will surely be playing larger and larger mysterious dark and smelly rooms and even huge fuck off smelly stadia in the very near future. Where we’ll all live happily ever after. 

Yeah verily.

At a canter: live review of Canterbury at Dingwalls

Canterbury *****
Blitz Kids *****
Big Sixes ***1/2**

Dingwalls, Camden, Wednesday 9th April 2014

The scene: 
In the foetid belly of Camden Lock's most Stygian recesses, gather an unholy horde of dip-dyed fringes, grisly bearded bastards, plugged lobes, pierced and inked flesh and, well lots of terribly nice, respectable A level students called Josh and Katrina.

The Cast: 
The young, friendly, cheeky and slightly bohemian art student upstart played by Big Sixes
The cock-sure, smoking, drinking edgy bigger brother who gets all the girls played by Blitz Kids
The Big brother. Buttoned-down, suave and smooth intelligent trainee lawyer played by Canterbury

The plot: 
The three young British brothers aim to seduce the assembled outsiders, beasts and ne'erdowells using merely the power of rock and roll. 


Act 1: Big Sixes ***1/2**

First up are the tuneful tyros Big Sixes who deliver a melodic, quirky but uplifting and rousing short set of jaunty alty folky rocky indie goodness which gets the already heaving sweat bunker on its feet. There's a definite Turin Brakes influence with maybe even a hint of Twin Atlantic thrown in. Fresh, perky, tidy stuff.



INTERLUDE:
Before the second act begins, we're all informed that all Blitz Kids' gear has been stolen. The stealing of bands' gear appears sadly to be a relatively regular occurrence and it defies belief. Theft as a whole is obviously a moral and legal no-no, but if thieving low-lives are going to steal stuff, then they should pick their fucking targets more discerningly. 

Stealing a band's gear is like breaking a painter's fingers and scooping his eyeballs out, lopping the cock off a porn actor or cutting the throat out of a mezzosoprano. It goes far beyond just theft. It is denying someone their livelihood. 

Insurance aside, instruments, effects, laptops and other essential kit are often irreplaceable. Without sounding wanky, a musician forms a bond with their stuff. A favourite beaten up old Strat copy maybe the only guitar for a particular song. That rubbish old tube screamer pedal may have been the one that nailed the perfect sound on the seminal album. The initial rough ProTools demo of a future banger No 1 among the dodgy porn Mpegs on that old iBook. And now? Some miserable, low life arse wipe gets a few quid for it all at a pawn shop.

Social reasons for theft thrown to one side in this case as a specious distraction, it's just fucking outrageous and, though revenge and retribution don't help, I hope the miserable shits that jacked the stuff overdose from the cheap shit they'll buy with their ill-gotten gains or die fucking horribly of bowel cancer. Cunts.



Act 2: Blitz Kids *****

So, shorn of their gear, everyone could forgive the self styled naughty boys of the pop rock scene (if there is such a thing) for cancelling their slot this evening. But, as frontman Joey James informs us, playing, undaunted is a fuck you to the thieving fuckers. 

The ever garrulous Jono Yates, squatting behing a borrowed acoustic gets in on the act too, proclaiming stoically that they won't be beaten. And what follows is testament to integrity, strength and huge, swollen testes.

I'll be honest, this particular jury of one is still out over the general Blitz Kids thang. I've seen them several times over the last couple of years, in toilets, dingy cellars, supporting bands further upstream at large venues, at festivals and, more recently headlining supporting their debut long player. And although there are many good bits, I haven't been wholly convinced about their true chop. Until now.

A pared down three song ( On My Own, Sometimes and Never Die), mildly shambolic but passionate, genuinely moving and heartfelt set says more about this band than any PR, hype, bloody funny twitter banter from the taciturn and foul mouthed Jono ever could. This is a bunch of young, honest guys baring their hearts. No filler. No samples, triggers, rent-a-guitar extras or slick production, just three real songs, sung back by the adoring throng, showing the real lads behind the slick media persona.

You can almost suffer every hard mile in a stinking van, taste every greasy service station cheese and ham savoury slice, feel every bump and creak on strangers' floors. They tear their chests open and show the real band behind the schtick. And it's honestly moving.

Act 3: Canterbury *****

Following their younger upstart brother; the pop rock band de jour, was always going to be a potentially tricky task for Canterbury, but after Blitz Kids' raw, exposed, emotional acoustic baring of souls and fizzing of the front row's knickers, that potential difficulty looked like more of a hard threat of an upstaging.

They needn't have worried though. The band stride effortlessly into full swing, opening with the raucous and anthemic Expensive Imitation from their splendid third album Dark Days. The sweaty, foisty gloomy bunker is brought to sparkling and vibrant life with passionate and loud sing backs to every song.

The first three albums are all represented with a varied main set takes in the triumphant Wrapped in Rainbows before ending with a joyous and deliciously irony-soused crowdaoke version Going Nowhere.

Despite the ever-present awkwardness of nobody seeming to know how to ask for an encore (what the hell is wrong with simply shouting More!!!? - it seems to have served every generation up until now perfectly well), the band, clearly loving every second of the sold out love-fest and emerge for three final rousing sing-a-longs ending with Friends? We're More Like A Gang from their first album from what seems like aeons ago but sounds as fresh and relevant as ever.

Canterbury are at the top of their game tonight. As they are at the very top of the radio friendly alt pop rock scene game. Their music is intelligent, infectious, often catchier than HDN-1 but has a sophisticated and grown up underbelly. Bigger venues and stages surely await. 

On the strength of tonight's overall performances, British Rock (whichever tiresome classification, taxonomy or genre-driven pigeon-holing you use) is in the rudest of rude health. And long may it continue.

FIN.

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.