Got Cape. Wore cape. Flew. Review of last ever GCWCF show at The Forum.

Get Cape Wear Cape Fly *****
Some Shit Rap shambles *****
The Xcerts *****
Shane McGowan 

The Forum, Kentish Town, Friday 12th September 2014

So, it's finally here. The public pyre-lighting to see off a decade long 'project'? The Up helly aa of a nom-de-plume or stage name sobriquet? The gallows rites of an act? A band. A bloke? Tonight we are gathered to bury Get Cape Wear Cape Fly. And to praise him. (It. Them.)

Around 10 years ago, Mr Sam Duckworth from sunny Sarfend produced an album of such staggering influence, prescience and quality that he was going to make life very difficult for himself. Difficult to beat. Difficult to live up to. Difficult to follow up. Difficult to shake off.

And by his own admission, the intervening years have oft been marinaded in that difficulty. But throughout the 'career' or tenure of GCWCF, he has cemented himself in the position of all round brilliant bloke. Caring bloke. Supportive bloke. Revolutionary bloke. Talented bloke. Honest, dignified and integrity-soused bloke.

Chronicles of a Bohemian Teenager is without a doubt, a modern masterpiece and should be on every self-respecting music loving being's shelf, cloud or iPod. And tonight we are seeing some of its hallowed contents along with some equally sparkling further works from Mr Duckworth's later oeuvre being laid to rest for the very last time.

So, while there's a party vibe in the air, there's definitely a lump or two welling in the collective throats. A frisson of sadness not far under the surface. Damn it, it feels like a wake, rather than a farewell party.

But before we turn to the main man and his death cape, Sam has curated, well, a curate's egg of an evening. Due to the early start I miss most of Sean McGowan's spiky, sassy and sardonic jamboree, but he seems to have pulled a decent smattering of the floating mourners away from the Red Stripe pumps and onto the floor to slap them with his socially sarf coast estuarine rants, raves and roams. 

The Xcerts *****
The mourners however are a little more insouciant and stand-offish for the always excellent Xcerts. Regardless of the relatively sparse floor dwellers, the trio's sound is huge tonight and a mix of older favourites and stunning tasters milk every dB out of the ballsy PA. 

Pop Song and Shaking in The Water are genuine instant classics. Radio friendly enough but with a majesty, complexity and even a noir underbelly. If this is anywhere near what else is to come on  their long-awaited new long player, then they won't be playing half empty support slots for much longer.

Like a diminutive and slightly gauche bastard offspring of Tom Petty, Sam Carter, Kurt Cobain and My auntie Lyn, frontman Murray Macleod shows genuine and heartfelt respect, friendship, comradeship and love for Duckworth and regales the crowd with anecdotes of how he was totally fucked up by Sam's 'appetite for life' early in their career back in the BSM era when Sam personally championed the band (I fondly remember one evening in a converted strip bar in Soho at a very late show....nuff said - well, it is a night for reminiscing as well as revelry).

The short but oh-so-sweet set ends with the anthemic and energetic Slackerpop during which an impish Macleod manfully manages to get the crowd to enter pantomime world and get involved. 

A fitting and special performance, just can't work out why they're not on directly before the man himself.


Some Shit Rap shambles 1/2****

I won't rant. Or be too disrespectful. Rap is not really my thing. 

So I am more than a bit bewildered at Sam's choice of guests; even more so at their position on the bill. I don't even know who they are. Which is, I admit, a little disrespectful. Forgive me.

But it's kind of like two blokes having a syncopated shouty road rage argument in Peckham High Street bawling into each others' faces with some dude on a record player spinning bits and bobs of tunes that seem to have no rhythmic, melodic, structural or percussive link to what or how the shouty blokes are doing.

An absolute shambles. Made worse by the conveyor belt arrival of other road ragey special guest blokes in anoraks who ramble on about weed and get the crowd (well, the scant few who show any interest whatsoever) to shout back 'SHIIIIT!' Exactly.

Now, I know Sam is very much a man of the people and is a no respecter of boundaries, borders, discrimination, demarcation or crippling taxonomy and genres. In short, he oozes diversity, respect and integrity and his diverse and inclusive influences are legendary and eye-opening. Know what he was trying to do. But, in all honesty, for once, he's dropped a bit of a bollock here tonight. Let me hear you say SHIIIIIT!

Get Cape Wear Cape Fly
*****
So, onto the main event. Hankies ready.

The venerable old Forum is now as full as a fat man's pants and there's a genuine feeling of love and magic in the air. Mr Duckworth bounces onto the stage to join a full horn section, drums and, of course, his laptop. 

Leaving no Bohemian stone unturned from the incredible Chronicles, and giving most of them a completely new coat of varnish or gold leaf and tinkering with rhythms, arrangements, time signatures and ileum-loosening sub bass, the drooling and fine-voiced throng lap up every syllable and semi-quaver. Without being too glib, it feels like a massive, real time loved up Karaoke.

Regularly adding and subtracting to the line up, often leaving his slight frame but massive presence alone on the stage peeking out from behind his well-love acoustic, the show tugs at heartstrings, provokes and allures, gets heads a bobbing and feet a shuffling like some massive dance like your dad at a wedding flash mob. And the wee man looks like he's loving every fucking minute of it.

The full band add weight when called upon, faithful sidekick Mikey Glenister and his horny friends add honks, badaps and sheen, noodly keyboards complement the beeps, farts, wobs and real bass upon sub bass and real drums upon quantized clicks and booms all create a perfect storm. Add in Duckworth's flawless, raw, honest and eastbound A127 glottal-stop infused vocal cajoling, polemicising, philosophising and thought provoking vocals and, lest not forget, pretty fine plank spanking and the perfect storm becomes an irresistible tornado. And sounds as relevant and as original today as it ever has done.

There are genuine tears all around me for Lighthouse Keeper which is a personal highlight in an evening actually impossible to pick out highlights and voices finally gave out during the wonderfully apt and show stopping bas da ba da ba joy fest that closes this particular chronicle.

Not an unsullied larynx or a dry eye left in the house.

I kind of shot my emotional bolt when it comes to putting into words Sam's last show, as I was under the impression that a show he did at the New Slang event in good old Kingston earlier this year which left me as an empty quivering, tearful wreck. So I couldn't' fully put into words how delighted I was when I heard he was going to go out in the right manner here tonight. And what a way to go. What a night. A truly legendary performance.

He has his reasons. And I'm sure they're as good as the bloke he is. And tonight is a fitting and celebratory end of an era. A monumentally important era. 

It's a total joy and a privilege to have been here to be part of it tonight. And to have been there witnessing the growth, and regrowth over the past decade. And I wish him all the best in the next stage of the journey. Or the next stanza, verse, chapter or volume of his chronicles.

Hats of Get Cape Wear Cape Fly, whatever or whoever you were. You flew. Oh yes. 

And thank you. 

Shit from the pit

Here's the third shoddy collection of even shoddier pics taken with an alcohol-fuelled shoddy iPhone. 

If the above widgetty thing isn't working, then click here

Clearly, it’s not some kind of high art or pro quality photo journalistic tour de force. more like a pissed haze captured on the hoof while jigging, jostling, jagering and joyously sweating on the cider-sticky floors of gloomy stygian rooms filled with passionate noise and passion. 

The image quality is questionable, but the moments themselves often magical and moving.

All the images are copyright free so feel free to steal, borrow, circulate, or to get tattooed on your buttocks, genitals or face. 

I still can’t quite put into words how i stilll get off on the dirty, nosiy, honest and 
heart-warming bands, acts, characters and assholes who ply their trades with integrity and dedication in shit bunkers up and down the country, night after night. hopefully this latest battered and bruised collection of images goes at least half way to capturing the mereset whiff of the soul, sentiment and smell of just some of the acts i’ve been lucky enough to haul my old arse in front of over the last few months. 

Enjoy.

There they go. Live review of Lower Than Atlantis at Dingwalls 31/07/14

Lower Than Atlantis *****
Decade*****
Yearbook****1/2*

Dingwalls, Camden, 31st July 2014

There are some shows you look forward to for ages. You wait patiently as the tour swings along and suffer mildly jealous pangs as mates, journos, the bands themselves post pics, vids, tweets and head farts about the awesome show in Stoke or the high jinx in downtown Cardiff.

Well, tonight is one of those nights. The expectation has been building since what feels like when the last king was alive. Yup. Last night of the tour. In the capital. In the venerable old sweat bunker nestled in the tummy fat of Camden market that is Dingwalls.

And, it must be said, a disparate and interesting bill of fare is laid out in front of us. Librarycore, Pop Punk and, well, who knows what LTA are at the moment (or, more pressingly what they're about to become).

Yearbook****1/2*
So, first up are the librarycore lads of the always splendid Yearbook.

A decent sized gathering has already hauled its bits and bobs into the gloomy guts of NW1 as the quirky quartet chuck a blistering and sassy set into their gawping faces culled from their brilliant EP Old Bones and sprinkled with two or three old favourites from a bit further back.

And, as always, they sound on the bloody money. Choppy time signatures, big hooks, tight harmonies, counterpoint, syncopation, colon cleansing bass drops, stunning stickwork, searing vocals underlined by waspish and slit-eyed roars, screams and pain-fuelled yells. A crackling and cracking mix of outré and off-beam mischief with the rock spine of a brontosaurus.

All brilliant, BUT and it is a concerning BUT. This band aren't at all right for the mainly pre-pubescent, dip-dyed, nose ring-touting, emo teeny school assembly who've monopolised the barrier and the first dozen or so rows of tonight's prom.

Not right. Not right at all. They play intelligent, challenging, thought-provoking and angular music that feels like it should be being lapped up by a far more discerning and, dare I say older, audience. File alongside Brand New, La Dispute, Manchester Orchestra, Reuben - you get the picture.

Young as these tyros are, their music is sophisticated way beyond their callow years and seems somehow their youth is, well, wasted on the youth.

Fabulous stuff though. Even though, stoically, Brooker played most of the tour with a busted finger. Ooh ya kipper.

Decade*****

I have to admit, I have a love hate relationship with what is lamentably labelled pop punk. While bands like Gnarwolves, Shockmaster and the sadly defunct Real Adventures lead (and led) the way in unashamedly challenging and mutating the DNA of the genre but leaving traces of obvious traits and common chromosomes, bands like Decade, along with de jour acts like Neck Deep and Brawlers seem to be happy trying to simply propagate the genre through selective, reductive breeding. The old defy/define argument I suppose.

Don't get me wrong, there's a lot right about all of the aforementioned, but it's all getting a bit, well, meh.

Decade do, however possess something fairly original in their oeuvre; amazingly tight harmonies and some bloody fabulous melodies - it's just the palm muted Offspringesque chugs followed by amphetamine laced spider fingered ascending and descending arpeggio-soused riffs doesn't go anywhere new. 

Ok, that may not be a problem to both the band, led cheerily and energetically by frontman Alex Sears (whose looking uncannily more and more like the bastard son of Dan Lancaster and Eddy Vedder), and the jumping grinning school assembly here tonight, but it just leaves you feeling a bit like you've opened a nice bottle of wine and found it's full of lager. It'll get you there, but lacks any true originality or challenge to the palate.

Drinkable and giddying stuff, but all a bit Fosters. Apart from the harmonies, which were definitely off north facing slopes from a damn fine year. 

Lower Than Atlantis *****

So, to the main course. Tantalised and lubed by the contrasting starters of the nascent sophistication of Yearbook and the grungy Tennant's Super Brew imbued Decade, the absolutely rammed Dingwalls goes off its collective mammaries as the drop C kick-in-the cock thudding riffage of the latest radio friendly and, simply brilliant Here We Go opens Proceed-ings (ahem).

And this sets up a vexed question straight from the off. Where are they going? Ok, as the sweat inducing partyfied set seduces and caresses the nether regions of everyone attending, it's apparent that this is a crucial time for this band.

From their first rough 'n' ready, energetic and punk/hardcore/indie offerings (FarQ, Bretton etc), it's obvious that they're a super talented band. 

Mike Duce's lyrics on the whole ( lest not mention the, er, less than Tom Waits ish 'come and have a go' bridge in Here We Go - oops, too late) are among the very best of his generation. Always open-heartedly and self-punishingly honest. The band's playing is deceptively technically superb and Duce's voice possesses a quality and an originality most warblers would die for. BUT, where next?

As I say, the set is mesmerising and energised by the choice of sticking to smaller cap venues. The oldies, the really oldies and the more recent offerings from Changing Tune all have a satisfyingly familiar and comfortable vibe and every word is yelled back by the infatuated and enthralled throng. But then another new one, English Kids in America is dropped like the second h-bomb on this evening's Nagasaki.

So hooky, so poppy, so smart, sexy, instantly memorable and hummable. Is this the portent of where they're really going?

It's clear that a certain Mr Daniel Lancaster has had more than a finger or two of influence in the recent output (co producer/mixer on the eagerly awaited self-titled new long player). But, is it a gamble to take an edgy, grumpy, grungy, but ultimately hugely well-loved  bunch of miscreants and move them so far towards sassy pop rock sophistication in one lurch?

Pop rock (if that's actually a thing) is clearly far more appealing to a wider audience therefore potentially much more rewarding fiscally, but it's becoming a crowded market place. Ironically thanks in no small way to the genius of Lancaster himself: Mallory Knox, Don Broco, those annoying bastard Aussie kids off the cover of Rocksound and soon, Mr Luke Friend

Great melody has always been near the surface of LTA's word, but so has sarcasm, malevolence, self-doubt, nihilism and attitude. Let's hope the future manages to mix those potentially explosive and reactive elements and make something truly mind blowing.

On the face of it and hearing the evidence so far (Here We Go, English Kids in America and the recently slipped out but catchier than the clap, faux-live Ain't No Friend), it looks like they could well pull it off.

Tonight's show cements LTA as one of the best live bands around and they've seldom sounded better, and after a spine tingling version of Another Sad Song, where everyone from the venue's cranium to its rectum sings back every single word (check out the vid below!) and the apt paean to touring Motorway Of Life, tonight's show ends with a bog roll festooned love in at the hands of the guys from the tour supports.

And as the final chords of Beech Like The Tree crackle and decay into the soggy and loved up room, it's clear no one really cares too much about where they're going. They've come such a bloody long way already.

Be interesting to find out though.

Great show. Great band. Let's hope for an even greater future.

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.