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| SECRET
MACHINES (London, Barfly) |
|
 For a three piece,
they make a lot of noise. The opening track is a fusillade of raucous sound, from
which I hide in the speakers’ umbra. They play only two songs from
‘September 000’: Marconi’s Radio and It’s A Bad Wind That
Don’t Blow Somebody Some Good. The languid and lovely pop-psychedelia of
the album is too gradual for tonight and it’s supplanted by a stunning harshness of
tone that forces your attention as if they hold your head in a vice. Meanwhile the
positioning of four spotlights hanging off the amps gives the show a performance arty air,
the chiaroscuro effect both intense and captivating. The set launches
off with the aural terrorism of 1 ~ I. It’s relentless and merciless, a
huge squall of dense sound, driven along by Josh Garza’s metronymic, battered
drums. The sound is the space of their native Texas squeezed into the narrow
confines of their adopted New York home and everything takes on a denser, more fearsome
tone. The closing number is a ram-raid on the Velvet Underground, Ben Curtis
thrashing his guitar while brother Brandon’s vocals and keyboards are similarly
frenzied and energetic. They look as cool as the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club without
rehearsing the latter’s tiresome rock clichés. And then, after 25 minutes
it’s all over. The crowd staggers away, some ears ringing, some ears
bleeding. Everyone knows that they’ve seen something special. If you
weren’t here you missed the beginning of a movement. Set list: 1~I /
Marconi’s Radio / Sad and Lonely/ It’s A Bad Wind That Don’t Blow Somebody
Some Good/ Now Here Is… / Into Explosion Reviewed by Ged M |
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| BRIGHT EYES (Shepherd’s Bush Empire, London |
|
And Bright Eyes’ Conor Oberst is. It seems fair to assume it’s a good match too, given the depression, despair and vitriol that he’s managed to squeeze onto those half dozen albums so early in his career. It’s a testament to his ethos of being able to match quality to the quantity though, that he should find himself and his band at such a grand location as the Empire for this, his only London show of the year. Tonight though, it’s also his downfall. From the moment that A Spindle. A Darkness. A Fever. And A Necklace is so fragile that the crowd spend most of its duration trying in vain to ‘shhh’ each other, it’s apparent that Bright Eyes suit a venue this size like London’s transport system suits a heatwave. Their intimacy has disappeared somewhere stage right and the night is doomed from the start. It doesn’t help that the soundman appears to be asleep throughout, judging by the failure to rectify this most basic of hitches. The other main problem seems to lie with Conor’s prodigious song-writing output. So many new songs litter the set that it never quite holds the attention of the more restless elements in the crowd; one group to my left don’t shut up for the entire gig, bar about two songs. That they reserve their biggest cheer of the night for the pointless emergence of Har Mar Supertwat onstage to hand Oberst a lighter, says more than I ever could. There are still a few moments of magic to savour though. Lover I Don’t Have To Love and Bowl Of Oranges are strong enough to finally drown out the audience and the encore of the Father Ted-inspired You Will. You? Will. You? Will. You? Will and a glorious newie, featuring the inspired line “we made love on the living room floor, to the sound of a televised war”, are almost enough to redeem a rotten night. In the end, Bright Eyes remain perhaps the ultimate bedroom band. Pull the curtains, feel the pain. You know the world is full of assholes. You just don’t expect to find so many at a gig like this. Reviewed by James S
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| THE PROJECTS / THE PICTURES (The Arts Café, London) | |
Reviewed by Ged M
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| TULLYCRAFT (The Arts Café, London) | |
You might expect a band playing their first ever UK show to be a bit nervous given such a turn of events, but these Seattle tunesmiths are well prepared. Three semi-improvised verses and a great big, cheesy “ba-ba-ba” chorus later and they’re ready to rock at full power again. And rock they do. Majestically so, in fact. Shorn of the keyboards that made last year’s ‘Beat Surf Fun’ so much, er, fun, they channel all their energy into a mass of punk pop tunes aimed squarely at yer dancing feet. And despite their background, it’s not the usual US influence you might expect but the lo-fi English alternative purveyed by the likes of Helen Love and Milky Wimpshake, particularly on Radio Theme. Twee forms its own supergroup of Peters as the Hooky-style bass from Everything’s Gone Green mingles with Solowka’s classic early Wedding Present ding-ding-dink guitar sound. Singer Sean Tollefson rolls his eyes skywards and grins like a young Benny Hill as the music chases girls around the room in a comedy fast forward fashion. He doffs his cap unashamedly at the altar of Jonathan Richman for the chorus of Rumble With The Gang Debs and rattles through Wild Bikini with a flourish. We can only speculate how much more amazing it would’ve been if his vocals were higher in the Arts Café’s muddy mix. It may have taken them six or so years and three albums into their careers to make it over here but let’s hope it’s not long before they’re back. Anyone who writes a song called Pop Songs Your New Boyfriend Is Too Stupid To Know About deserves a much wider audience. Reviewed by James S
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| RAZORLIGHT / THE THERMALS / MINK LUNGS (London Barfly) | |
 Live, everything
they say about the Mink Lungs makes sense. Where on record,
they’re at risk of sounding clever-clever and precious, their playing cuts through
all of that folderol to focus on music and action. Songs like Men In Belted
Sweaters (for which a sweat drenched Tim Galbraith comes out from behind the drums and
takes lead vocal and guitar duties for one song) and Dishes are loud and rocky,
emphasising the Pixies rhythms rather than the fey subject matter. Stripped down to
their punchy, punky core, X Ray Gun and Flying Saucer Home are like the best
shards of Guided By Voices reconfigured. But just when you think you’re
listening to an entertaining rock’n’roll band, Jennifer “Miss Frosty”
Hoopes steps up and delivers Sensual Pleasure, all the while keeping a hula-hoop
spinning around her midriff. It’s sex, it’s circus, it’s one of those
“wtf?” moments that cap an evening of slightly unhinged pleasure. Reviewed by Ged M
Reviewed by Kev O
The product is in the main, catchy new wave, with Television, the Buzzcocks and the Small Faces influences producing something in the whole somewhere between the Libertines and the Strokes. However every now and again they go off in another direction with a mid-period Supergrass style effort and one that sounded like 70s The Who. There’s still work to be done, they could do with a bit more stage presence, whether it’s arrogance or charm but like their name they’re sharp and bright and their debut single’s out soon on Vertigo. Reviewed by Paul M |
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| THE CORAL / THE HOKUM CLONES (Electric Ballroom,
Camden) |
|
In the last month the Hoylake
Skelly-Wags have played a big top (in-tents gig), a winning set at Glastonbury, and now
treat us to an intimate showcase for their second album, the spliffing ‘Magic And
Medicine’, a week before it hits the nation’s turntables. With a gift for plundering Merseybeat, folk and
psychedelia to produce gems as sparkling and flawless as any you’ll find in Hatton
Garden, combined with a masterful gift for melody, and one of the finest singers around in
the soulful James Skelly, The Coral are songwriters and performers with few peers. The lads oozed confidence and cool,
James wearing a titfer, as they took the stage and began with In The Forest with
its creepy end-of-the-pier-show organ. There
was a stonking Bill McCai, a ‘Death of a Salesman’-inspired look at a
dreary 9 to 5er, the Dylanesque, twanging guitared Talkin’ Gypsy Market Blues,
the Shadowsy Confessions, and the ska-like Secret Kiss, while a haunting All
Of Our Love, took things down a few notches.
Of course there were the singles, the bittersweet Don’t Think
You’re The First and Pass It On, one of the most perfect 2 minute slices
of pop you’re ever likely to hear; simplistic, understated and yet utterly brilliant. A smattering of songs from the
debut album included the madcap Skeleton Key, which got the crowd moshing and saw
Skelly helping out on drums. The set ended
with a 10 minute Goodbye with its improvisatory wall-of-sound middle section. Breathtaking.
And it was ‘goodbye’ too as the band left the stage never to
return. Even with the houselights coming on
the hopeful wouldn’t prise themselves away and a chorus of boos added a sour note to
an otherwise great gig. A certain Sarah has
asked me to register her dismay at not only the lack of encore but the surprising absence
of Dreaming Of You. Still, The Coral
do things their way, and with the lyrical and musical strides forward taken by ‘Magic
and Medicine’ they once again confirmed themselves as one of the best British
bands of the moment. Set
list: In The Forest/Bill McCai/Talkin’ Gypsy Market Blues/Milkwood Blues/Don't Think
You're The First/Follow The Sun/Simon Diamond/I Remember When/Pass It On/All Of Our
Love/Confessions/Secret Kiss/Skeleton Key/Goodbye Reviewed by Graham S
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| GORKYS ZYGOTIC MYNCI / THE KEYS (London,
ICA) |
|
Set list: Waking For Winter/ Faraway Eyes/ Mow The Lawn/ Freckles/
Eyes of Green/ Christina/ The Film That Changed My Life/ Patio Song/ Meirion Wyllt/ Sweet
Johnny/ Single to Fairwater/ Spanish Dance Troupe/ Happiness/ Iechyd Da/ (encores) Poodle
Rockin'/ The Heart of Kentucky Reviewed by Ged M
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| BAXENDALE / THE BRUNETTES (London, The Spitz) | |
According to their website, this is the fifth gig of The Brunettes’ UK tour. Strangely the sixth is going to be at the Barfly roughly two hours after they leave the stage here and all eight are in London. Well, I guess there’s probably only one city worth trying to break in their native New Zealand as well. It seems to have worked, too judging by the rapturous welcome they receive as they amble onstage. Following dates with The Postal Service and fellow Kiwis, The Datsuns, they’ve already established quite a following from fans and press alike and, when they start to play, it’s not hard to see why. Quite what the black-clad fans of Dolf and co made of a song called I Miss My Coochie Coo, which is all harmonies, harmonica and handclaps, is anyone’s guess though. Amicable exes Heather and Jonathan share vocal duties during a set of the sweetest Antipodean indie-pop since perennial soap faves Frenté. Jonathan resembles his namesake, Mr Richman, during Record Stores, which features three-way la-la-la-ing to boot. End Of The Runway and Mars Loves Venus are equally essential listening at the end of another sunny summer day in the city. Next time they hit these shores though, hopefully the whole country will get to enjoy them. Wider appreciation is something that seems destined to elude Baxendale, no matter how many brilliant songs they continue to write. Singer, Tim Benton, bounds onstage as energetically as ever, flanked by loyal lieutenants Alex and Senay, and is ready to unleash the latest batch upon us. He’s wearing a suit jacket bearing a solitary medal on the breast; quite possibly awarded for his services to eternally trying to spread intelligent Europop to the masses. The keyboard and DAT spring into action and, boing!, they’re off. A mix of new and old includes Your Body Needs My Sugar, which probably used to hang around the playground with the Pet Shop Boys’ Love Comes Quickly but ran off after girls whilst its friend sat shyly in the corner. Senay takes the lead for You Can Live With Me, somehow managing to slink seductively in her white stiletto heels before the Michael Fish weather forecast sample ushers in a typically vindictive reading of Summer Of Hate. As great as the set is, the climax surpasses it like the musical equivalent of autoerotic asphyxiation – a pleasure rush par excellence. Music For Girls remains the ultimate pre-going out tune for a twee Friday night and, just when you think it can’t be bettered, they launch into a glorious segue between I Love The Sound Of Dance Music and a floor-rocking rendition of Technotronic’s Pump Up The Jam. That’s where the party’s at, and no mistake. Reviewed by James S
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| THE STARLETS / THE A-LINES / DEAN MANNING (Upstairs at the Garage, London) | |
| The trouble with playing before a club night is that half the punters want to have a natter before the music gets turned up to levels where only the international sign language for ‘do you want another?’ is comprehensible. Dean Manning seems to be painfully aware of this. Armed only with a guitar and backed solely by his cohort Rachel, coyly balancing a keyboard on her knees whilst adding harmony, his gentle Low-esque loveliness is being systematically obliterated by the sound of the crowd. It’s a shame because what can be picked up of the likes of Tricks, If I Was A Spy and 5000 Camels promises much. He fought the floor and the floor won. No such danger of the same fate befalling The A-Lines. With equal parts late Seventies new wave, early Nineties riot grrl tunesmiths (and, no, that’s not a contradiction in terms) à la Mambo Taxi and current US cool, they whip up a heady but happy brew. Last One There, So Agitated, I Can’t Explain and more besides rattle along accompanied by singer Kyra giddily throwing shapes and grinning like a tartrazine-addled child watching a dance video made by Kate Bush, Ian Curtis and Karen O. With a singer going by the moniker Biff Smith, you might expect a bit of musical oomph about The Starlets as well. And you’d be hopelessly wrong, if opener Rocking In A Shy Way was anything to go by. It does exactly what it says on the tin though and, if you close your eyes, could easily be the work of glorious twee faves Belle and Sebastian, right down to the parping trumpet. Pink Love appears to have nicked its intro off the back of a lorry with Cyndi Lauper’s Time After Time on it, before rocking in a slightly less shy way for a mere ninety seconds and then Go Faster lives up to its name by genuinely getting a move on. It never really threatens to break into the territory of black leather kecks and a Flying V though, mainly due to the fact that Biff sings like a great big girl. Albeit, probably quite a cute one. He is also blessed with the seemingly uniquely Scottish ability to tell affable and amusing anecdotes about the likes of red setters and working in an all-night garage between songs. And the songs themselves just keep getting better. I’ll See You Sometime is mined from the purest Blondie rock face and Firestorm is so devastatingly pretty you could just curl up in a big ball in the middle of the floor. Which isn’t recommended either when there’s a club about to start. Reviewed by James S
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| JOHN CALE (Union Chapel, London) | |
| The last reference to John Cale on this site was an, I hoped, unfairly terse dismissal of his stint at Glastonbury. But there were a couple of times tonight I had some sympathy with Mr B when Cale indulged his avant garde leanings to the maximum, blending theatrical beat poetry to a jazz backing in a way that sounded, well, old. Unfortunately one of the songs to get this treatment was the otherwise magnificent Fear. Fortunately, the rest of the evening was a far better proposition. Backed up by a full band Cale turned in an excellently varied set of songs from over 35 years of messing around the edges of rock (do that and you're bound to fall off once or twice). There were tunes from his recent EP, gaining new angles from being played live - Waiting for Blonde in particular a good example of how to blend the unusual (an offbeat subway announcement) into a more coherent and interesting shape than through beat nonsense. The rest went back through back through 80s/90s experimenetal pop overlaid with noise, the warped 70s rock of Hotel Beirut Recital and the magnificent tale of New York cops Gun, with the thoughful Paris 1919 and Do not go Gentle reminding us of his literary bent. Thankfully the retrospective did not stop there and a crowd-pleasing Venus in Furs reminded us of the way in which Cale vitally complimented Lou Reed in the Velvet Underground - a song that had otherwise become almost banal through repitition and car ads gaining wonderful new life when actually played. As well as his own fund of influential off-kilter classics (well he did once come up with what could be a lost Joy Division track three years early, as a b-side) Cale's unorthodox classical background means he has a way with interpretation of others' tunes. Jonathan Richman's Pablo Picasso lined up alongside two standards of John Cale performances - a bitter and twisted mauling of Heartbreak Hotel and, during the solo second encore once the light had stopped slanting in through the chapel windows, Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah. The sheer beauty of this latter song was nothing short of spine-tingling - if there were one tune I'd take with me to a desert island, that would be it - no contest. The fact that Wilderness Approaching from his latest record stood up alongside it pointed up how much Cale, looking very healthy for an OAP with a serious drug taking past, still has to offer. Reviewed by Matthew H
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It’s
hard enough commanding the audience’s attention as a support act but it’s even
worse if you’ve got to find a way to fill in time when you break a string. Unless
you’re Tullycraft, that is. 
With a
question mark hanging over the future of the Libertines, London is crying out for a chirpy
rock n roll band to clutch to its pearly sequined bosom and call its own.
The ICA crowd loves the Myncis so
much that you expect them to wave lighters in the air as they gently sway to some of the
more pastoral, folky tunes - it's a blessing they don't because in this superheated
atmosphere, we'd all go up like holiday homes in Betws-y-coed. Euros is centre stage
and centre of attention as the band go through the range from slow meander (Waking For
Winter) to fantastic psychedelic folk (Spanish Dance Troupe) to punky
wig out (Sweet Johnny) to madcap spacerocking bluegrass (Heart of Kentucky).
If they'd played a greatest hits set, we'd have melted with joy. Instead we
get a mix of singles, album tracks and new songs, and at least one of the SXP crew is
distraught that they don't play Young Girls and Happy Endings. In the end,
it's largely gentle rock, occasionally brilliant, and it wraps you in sweet melodies
but the sweat we're dripping comes as much from the sauna-like room as from our
stimulation by the sounds.