Mr October now sports a David Dickinson tan with a face that looks more lived in than an East End slum. Although the set was a trawl through the very early stuff, it was pretty turgid. Highlights were sparse; Urban Kids, Right to Work… actually that was it. Classics like Twelve Men and No Flowers were absent. Gene, decked out in zippered tartan troos (he left in tracky bottoms) took it all sooo seriously, and while a rendition of I Fought the Law was forgivable, a cover of White Riot was smite-him-with-thunderbolts sacrilege.

Penetration were not your average punksters, with a melodic, hard rock sound, fronted by safety-pin-up girl Pauline Murray. I loved them to bits; they were special. They burned briefly but brilliantly and created one of the great punk battle cries, Don’t Dictate. The flame was extinguished in ‘79 at a farewell gig that was joyously fun and heartbreakingly sad. Fast forward 22 years and the old core of Murray, lanky Robert Blamire (bass) and aptly-named Gary Smallman (drums) reform with new guitarists Paul Harvey and Steve Wallace. Last year’s London comeback (reviewed on this site) was a scorcher; aging punks dusted down their bondage strides, and those too young to have experienced the scene first hand turned out to see what they missed.

Tonight’s gig was, alas, under-attended, but those present witnessed a band on top form and loving it. Opening with a classic cover of a classic original, the Buzzcock’s Nostalgia, they blasted through old faves Danger Signs, Come Into The Open, Life’s A Gamble, Don’t Dictate and encored with Firing Squad. Two new songs slotted in nicely and showed their song-writing ability hasn’t dulled with time. The band was tighter than a very tight thing, Pauline as charismatic as ever, belting out the songs for all she was worth; which is her weight in platinum. They should give master classes to all those young whippersnappers who think they’re in punk bands. For God’s sake, someone give ‘em a recording contract.       

After the gig I had a pleasant chat with Pauline (interview coming next update), who is incredulous that the band is back and gigging again. ‘I didn’t know if I’d still have the voice’, she told me. Soon put her straight on that one; she put last year’s Siouxsie comeback to shame. By the time I left the tube had shut, it cost me 26 quid in taxi fares and I just made the last train home. Bloody well worth it!

Reviewed by Graham S
Top | Comment on this artist or review on the Forum

Behold the fightback from Albion’s capital city and its very own double yolker, The Barbs.   Musically they don’t sound like a British band with their cherry picked selection of some of the finest US rock n roll raw materials but until they speak between songs they do a pretty good job of convincing you that these are the latest hot Yankee doodlers.  There are thundering riffs and pounding drums aplenty and an intelligent sense of humour both with their lyrics and delivery – “Good conversation, good conversation… full of interesting observations” sings Amy to co-vocalist Tim in a classic putdown (Massive Crush).  This track and Straight Outa Comix, the two aired from their recent single, show a B-52s go garage side with splendid call/response sections but there are also a few virtual homages to the Pixies, particularly with the set openers Idle Hands and Really Dead Dolls, which kick off proceedings with the slickness of a pair of eels dipped in vaseline.  They then overcome the minor disaster of not one but two broken strings but still seem to be genuinely enjoying themselves, which is probably not very rock n roll but ya boo sucks to that and in Alien Abducted they deliver the finest girl punk blast since, well, the last Suffrajets gig.   Truly kicking against the pricks, that’s the Barbs.

Set: Idle Hands, Really Dead Dolls, Straight Outa Comix, Alien Abducted, Bury You,Massive Crush, Importance of Being Evil, Friends on Drugs, Nowaitaminit, G.O.

More photos from the gig: 1 2 3 4 5

Reviewed by Paul M
Top | Comment on this artist or review on the Forum

Now, it's often claimed that the film world isn't as glamourous as we might believe.  But I'd lay good odds that it beats the shit out of being second on a bill of four down the Dublin Castle on a Tuesday night.  Nevertheless, the two diminutive former actors that front the Californian four piece Rilo Kiley don't seem to care.  Jenny Lewis might have appeared opposite the likes of Angelina Jolie and Reese Witherspoon, but she seems genuinely glad to be playing a short set for a few dozen Londoners at the opening of the band's first European tour.  Blake Sennett takes more time to come out of his endearingly geeky shell, but after a few songs he dares to peek from under an extravagent fringe and even utter a few words.  Maybe the nervousness is understandable - their unashamedly intelligent and melodic guitar and synth indie pop wouldn't immediately seem to fit in with the rest of the rather metaltastic bill - but they needn't have worried.  As a general rule of course, "Actors shouldn't sing and singers shouldn't act" is one of the less violable rules of good taste, but there are always exceptions (Will Oldham among them).  Live, Rilo Kiley beef up their short selection from their rather magnificent second full album, Lewis giving a harder edge to her delicate voice to compliment the greater power of the guitars.  Kicking off with the album's title track and imminent new single - the Execution of all Things (including the sweetly sung couplet "we'll murder what matters to you most and move on to you neighbours and kids") they launch into a series of well crafted, both danceable and substantial pieces of bittersweet sunshine.  Closing up with the synth heavy and marching beat backed celebration of inadequacy and the breathless rush of Spectacular Views, complete with forgiveably self-indulgent ending, they leave us grinning, but wanting rather more than this heavenly half hour.  Fortunately they're back a the end of the month to light up another of Camden's dingy backrooms.   Hopefully the Barfly on the 26th will mark the end of a tour that will see Rilo Kiley capture more hearts across the continent on the way to bigger things. 

Setlist: Execution of all Things, Capturing Moods, My Slumbering Heart, The Good that Won't Come Out, Paint's Peeling, A Better Son/Daughter, Spectacular Views.

Reviewed by Matt H
Top | Comment on this artist or review on the Forum

Considering the core of this band has been around since the mid-90s, they have the charisma of week-old semolina, their one gimmick being a singer who looks like Baldrick. They stomp through Take It Or Leave It, Cold Hard Bitch, Rollover DJ, new single Are You Gonna Be My Girl and throw in an Oasis-like ballad with Beatlesy keyboards. Highlight was new song I Have a Cunning Plan, My Lord. This Jet is out of the hangar but still taxiing along the runway.

Reviewed by Graham S
Top | Comment on this artist or review on the Forum

The Cut-Outs prove the reality of time travel, having discovered the wormhole that sucks ‘86 into ‘03.   Close your eyes and it’s Dan Tracey pretending to be Steven Pastel making clothes out of Razorcuts flexidiscs, while the band plays that lovely fey romantic pop that thrilled us in the mid 80s, complete with fur-lined keyboards, false starts and band members playing different songs at the same time (by accident not design).  It’s so shambolic it’s (a) nostalgic and (b) charming.     

The A Lines play blitzkrieg garage rock with touches of 80s post-punk edginess (the Ramones meet The Raincoats) wearing their Sunday best frocks and flip flops (this last touch knocks a few points off their rock cred standing).  Singer Kyra is the centre of attention as she performs a St Vitus Dance and communicates equally with her hands and her face, channelling the showman spirits of Patti Smith and David Thomas.   Their cover of the Electric Eels’ Agitated shows excellent taste and their own songs are as lively as if they’d plugged their instruments directly into the national grid.  The best thing about tonight by a Margate mile. 

Reviewed by Ged M
Top | Comment on this artist or review on the Forum

There are certain things you might expect after being in a band together for ten years. Perhaps a small measure of success, even if it’s just a run of consistently decent reviews in the music press. Maybe being driven around on your latest tour in something other than a mate’s van with an extremely precarious-looking ‘upper berth’ slung a foot or so under the roof. But definitely being able to play your bloody songs right.

It’s business as usual then for Newcastle’s premier lo-fi pop-punkers, Milky Wimpshake. Celebrating an entire decade of getting together when work commitments allow them to get off their arses for long enough to entertain the indie-troops, they’re back with the latest in a medium-sized line of wonderfully shambolic live performances. If you thought that shambling went out after the passing of C86, then you’ve obviously never seen the Wimpshake. If the usual combination of a broken string and forgetting the words completely twice during a song isn’t enough, they even manage to start two entirely different songs simultaneously due to a set list-reading cock-up. Genius.

You might be thinking this suggests a crap gig. Then you definitely haven’t seen them. Problems aside, it’s as wonderful now as when they first started. The entire back catalogue is raided and refreshed for our dodgy dancing pleasure. Dialling Tone and Phone Bill Fear still bring back those giddy memories of ringing that girl you fancied at school whilst ’77 Punk Rock Boy and Noam Chomsky Versus The Ramones signpost exactly where this joyous angular rumbling noise is coming from.

Only once do they deviate far from the original game plan, on the gorgeously Mogwai-esque Jonathan Richman/Daniel Johnston cover of True Love Will Find You In The End/Don’t Let Our Youth Go To Waste. That the whole lot is rounded off with a traditionally zippy good-time run through Milk Maid is perfectly par for the course. So, raise a glass to celebrate ten long years of slogging their never-to-be-famous wares around this ungrateful isle, largely at their own expense. Just don’t expect them to practise before they next hit town.

Reviewed by James S
Top | Comment on this artist or review on the Forum

There’s a bloke stood in the middle of the stage holding a wooden box that we can only assume contains the laptop that is providing the pre-recorded backing. This, it appears, is his only job: box-holder/beat-provider. You have to say that he does it well though; even if it’s revealed later that it was just a discman in there.

It’s a fine line between being entertainingly odd and self-consciously wacky and, like their Canadian brethren The Hidden Cameras (with whom they share a member), The Barcelona Pavilion effortlessly plant a great big size 12 boot either side of it. With a single currently out on Ben and Tjinder from Cornershop’s Meccico label, they’re keen to display a puzzling array of big, dumb fun material for our head-scratching, toe-tapping delight. The opening number features the bassist seemingly playing an entirely different song to the rest of the band. Which is being sung in German anyway. Obviously. Rats provides some much underused pantomime-style audience participation whilst Tidy Up is the bastard offspring of the Beastie Boys Fight For Your Right To Party and the B52s. There are currently no laws against this but expect to see a motion in Parliament any day now.

Singer Maggie comes across like the new Peaches for a celibate generation; the most erotic thing she does is eat a banana mid-song, doubtlessly to help maintain her, erm, interestingly frenetic dancing style. Any doubts as to whether we should really be encouraging this kind of thing are allayed though when our friend with the CD player drops in the intro to Beat It and the band stand arms-aloft in tribute. They’re off their box, for sure.

Reviewed by James S
Top | Comment on this artist or review on the Forum

What is it that brings a sold out audience over to west London to see a delicate evening of old fashioned country and folk?  Is it the stage show? Well hardly.  These are two self effacing musicians, playing so quietly that they even ask the photographers to stop ‘cos they can hear the sound of shutters over their playing.  The serious business of the music is though shot through with plenty of humour and the odd anecdote – they seem genuinely pleased to be there.  Is it the totty?  Er no.   We’re a right rag bag, from the Willie Nelson look-alikes to the chinstroking studious type, from the cowboy boot and skirts to the neat Asian student.  Although David Rawlings – Gillian Welch’s partner – does have a bit of a David Ginola thing going on with his long grey locks and new Jermyn Street pink shirt. If only he didn’t also bear a striking resemblance to Sam the Bald Eagle from the Muppets while playing… So, is it the music?  Could be!  As you’ll have guessed from the fact that the cameras were causing a disturbance, this was fine stuff that had the audience rapt and silent – no mean feat in the bar ridden pit of the Empire.  

Gillian Welch’s voice is fascinating touching all the right, if odd, notes - neither country schmaltz nor alt.country whine.  And Rawling’s sometimes barely audible, but essential harmonies, set it off to perfection.  His guitar playing too is a thing of wonder – drawing regular bursts of applause from an audience you somehow doubt is given to bothering about technical skill.  And the songs!  There’s such a range and the quality never falls. There’s the old-time pickin’ of Rock of Ages, the pretty waltz of Dear Someone, the ebullient stroll of Miss Ohio’s “running around with a ragtime band”, the dour Manic Depression and the Appalachian strum of My First Lover, documenting the now hazy memories of something that seemed so vital at the time.  It seems barely possible that any could stand out from such a strong group, but some do.   Elvis Presley Blues has the King shaking it “like a Harlem queen” to a beautifully off-kilter blues.  Time (the Revelator) is atonal perfection reaching almost rocking out in its pose-free passion.  I’ll Fly Away, familiar from the O Brother Where Art Thou? soundtrack, almost literally does what the title suggests.  And when Welch returned alone to deliver I had a real good father and mother she nearly had this confirmed atheist dusting off the primary school prayer book.  The night is rounded off by the utterly spellbinding simplicity of I Dreamed a Highway, which ended with a silence in which you could hear a pin drop.  In the end the question was not “why were we there?”, but “why weren’t you?”.

Reviewed by Matt H
Top | Comment on this artist or review on the Forum

Ant, or Antony Harding as his mum knows him, has his own bright and breezy little website called Antpop. I don’t know if Antmusic was already taken, but I’d guess that he didn’t fancy being confused with being the kind of fella to paint a white stripe across his nose or go mental with a gun in a pub. Do us all a favour.

Formerly the drummer with unashamedly mucky romantics Hefner, Ant has swapped his stool for a cheap plastic chair here at the weekly Saturday freebie session. He’s also swapped his instrument to an acoustic guitar to perform the most unashamedly un-mucky romantic songs committed to plastic since the heyday of Sarah records. They’re so softly and sweetly sung that you suspect he’d have no chance in a fight with anything bigger than a kitten. And like a kitten, the desire to just curl up in a ball, longing to be stroked, is overwhelming.

As you’d expect then, there are no rock histrionics to be found here. Every song is a feather light tale of love lost and found that should make even grown SoundsXP editors cry or smile accordingly. Any Girl Can Make Me Smile, You’ve Lost Your Appeal and the next single, in his adopted homeland of Sweden anyway, Mountains sparkle like raindrops on a sunny day but it’s the final pairing of Cry Your Little Eyes Out followed by The Cure For Broken Hearts that caps a sublime show in front of two-thirds of his old band.

It would be easy to take the piss out of this stuff as too darn cutesy and twee for the modern music scene, not to mention the one-idea nature of the writing and playing. When it’s this gorgeous though, it just goes to prove that ridicule is nothing to be scared of.

Reviewed by James S
Top | Comment on this artist or review on the Forum

Reviewed by Martin H
Top | Comment on this artist or review on the Forum

A charity gig for young people with colitis: a good band for a good cause.  We’ve seen Kicker go from a 7 piece to a 6 piece to their current 5-some.  As they’ve lost keyboards and brass they’ve (not totally) replaced the more soulful, Dexys tones with a rockier edge.  The songs have the same quick poppy beat but for every song with a Saint Etienne-ish pop trim there are two with a more complex, almost Byrdsian pop-psychedelic feel, which augers well for the forthcoming album. There are a couple of songs with extended freakouts (Get Rid Of Him), where guitars vie with Jill’s frenzied violin in a squall of intoxicating sound.  The band is a real democracy, with vocals once again alternating between Jill and Phil and the centre of attention constantly shifting on stage; it’s shockingly conventional, I know, but that’s my only criticism: with no single focus, it makes it harder sometimes to get a beer-fuddled handle on the band when, musically, they’re better than ever. 

Set list: Don’t You Listen/ Leave A Light On/ The Long Way Down/ Quiet/ Boy Have You Got It/ Doris Dear/ New Day Fresh Start/ No More Tears/ Get Rid Of Him

Reviewed by Ged M
Top | Comment on this artist or review on the Forum

Whilst The Barbs may not being doing anything startlingly new, what they do is done with such riotous glee that the Home Secretary might want to slap an ASBO on them. Short punk fuelled bluesy rock’n’roll tunes, based around amphetamine guitar note riffs (think B52s meets Cramps plus special ingredient X), which display pop suss with hooks, melody and enough energy to keep the ADHD kidz off their medication for the duration.  It’s music with a naughty grin as wide as the Thames estuary.  Where The Barbs come up trumps though is [special ingredient X] in the eyewinking, feisty chemistry between Tim and Amy who share and switch vocals in the songs, as best displayed on Massive Crush, a juvenile bonnie and clyde car dash catching the heady hedonism of going hell for leather with he biting off more than he thought he could chew “(He) She killed her parents/I left mine a note/I crossed my fingers/We drove to the coast” then  “(He) I had a vision we’d never arrive / (She, sneering) The whole journey - in fear of his life!” .  As catchy as a STD, the verse fairly cruises by and if you ain’t shouting along to the chorus as it overtakes in the fast lane then you’re probably going in the wrong direction. 

On the evidence of this gig and the single (nice vid on it too) The Barbs are definitely ones to look out for.

Set List: Idle Hands/Really Dead Dolls/Straight Outa Comix/Alien Abducted/Bury You/Massive Crush/The Importance of being Evil/Nowaitaminit/G.O

Reviewed by Kev O
Top | Comment on this artist or review on the Forum

Sunderland’s The Futureheads proclaim on their web-site “thank the Strummer in the sky for The Futureheads”. I am hard pressed to see the Clash comparisons although front man Barry certainly has the Strummer stance and moves.

If you not heard them the band consist of a three pronged vocal assault, produce incredibly short and sweet power pop nuggets and sound like XTC, Gang Of Four and The Jam. And live? Well they are bloody entertaining and after a cracking set by The Barbs they had to move up a gear to demonstrate their headline status. They fail to disappoint.

They kick off their now familiar set; “Carnival Kids”, “First Day” et al. This included one new song being played for the first time – title unknown! The band members are very tight knit in their approach despite their jovial attitude on stage. The crowd were also the most responsive I have seen at one of their gigs which means the band are slowly making their mark via their excellent singles and extensive live performances. However the venues small size meant there is not a lot of room for some serious expressionism!

The front man mutters something towards the end about London gigs normally being awful – if these gigs have been awful I would love to see them on form.

They finish with “A Picture Of Dorian Gray” and “Piece Of Crap” which is far better live than on disc. If you have not seen or heard this lot then do so now. Go on, you know it makes sense.

Apparently you can download a whole concert from the excellent fan-site at  http://www.thefutureheads.tk/ - if anyone succeeds let me know!

Reviewed by Tom B
Top | Comment on this artist or review on the Forum

V may lack the longevity, kudos and sheer scale of Glasto or the Carling Weekend, and may be perceived (as Dave Grohl told us in his best toff voice) as ‘the posh festival’, but in 8 years it’s built a reputation for attracting big names and being well organized. And with the comforting knowledge that the heatwave was tailing away and that Kelly Osbourne had cancelled, I set off with 60,000 other revellers to Chelmsford’s country park.  

Firstly, a big thank you to the plod who directs us to the longest fucking queue into the site, ensuring my experience of the wonderful short, sharp punk of The Futureheads is reduced to a distant murmur in one ear, while newcomers Eisley and oldcomers Echo and the Bunnymen drift into the other. By the time I make it in Martin Grech is playing aggressive grungy industrial metal with Matt Bellamy operatics on the eNeMEy Stage. ‘Thank you NME for inviting a true emo band’, he declares, to the bewilderment of the crowd. Dylan obsessives The Basement follow with country/folk rock fronted by John Mullin’s rasping vocals; give that guy some Benylin! The Penthouse is a long way off but they at least make it to the Ground floor.

A big advantage of V is having the two main stages a 5 minute walk apart, separated by a takeaway alley of everything from Thai to tortillas, cod ‘n’ chips to crepes. Reel Big Fish are a band I wouldn’t normally give the time of day if I had an armful of Rolex’s, but over on the V Stage there’s a party going on with their infectious ska-punk tomfoolery, energetic brass, balloons and frisbees. Cut back to the NME Stage for the Isle of Wight’s The Bees (what genius lined up The Bees and The Hives for the same day?) who, with songs like Angry Man offer more ska and another brass section, but crossed with funk guitars and keyboards. Time to buzz back to the main stage for The Cardigans who have the stage decked out in chandeliers and flock wallpaper. ‘Cardigans’ conjures up images of cocoa and slippers, and with a set of dull, mild-mannered rock they dispel the mood inherited from RBF. Not ‘til Erase/Rewind does the crowd perk up, so I pop back to the second stage where Irish troubadour Damien Rice is mid-way through a dreary acoustic ballad; ‘this has to stop’ he sings. Couldn’t agree more, though things improve when joined by his band and the sweet-voiced drainpipe Lisa Hannigan. Songs like Volcano prove Damo can actually get sweaty and rocky (clunk, clunk – shit, my Soundsxp credometer is going backwards).  

First highlight is The Hives, hitting the main stage in a whirlwind of r&b garage punk. Howlin’ Pelle struts round the stage like Jagger’s bastard grandson, belting out the likes of Hate to say I told you so and aka I-D-I-O-T. ‘Has your government been doing anything strange?’ he asks before a stonking State Control. Apart from dragging the country into war and lying through its teeth you mean? ‘Whose that handsome guy on the screen?’ asks Pelle pointing, naturally, to himself. He’s a born showman but jeez, if he cut down his patter they could play twice as many songs. ‘We’re declaring war on bad music’, he yells as the strains of Athlete waft over from the other stage. Nipping off to visit the Deptford foursome and, more importantly, the big green plastic boxes that serve as outdoor urinals, I catch the end of a song that isn’t half bad, but New Project from new album is typical of their Gomez/Beta Band indie-lite. When I hear the killer riff from Main offender in the distance there’s only one place to be.

Next up is Ash with a trawl through a back catalogue other bands would kill for, hurtling through Girl from Mars, Kung Fu, Burn Baby Burn and the summery pop-rock of Walking Barefoot (which guitarist Charlotte Hatherly does). Newies include Evil Eye (introduced as ‘a sinister little love song’), and the crushingly heavy Orpheus. Against that Killing Joke are onto a loser as I reacquaint myself with a band I last met on their tourbus 18 years ago. The NME Stage has emptied somewhat which is a pity coz the Joke rock like a band half their age with fierce apocalyptic punk. Gravel-voiced prophet of doom Jaz Coleman, dressed in black with red and black face paint, is a distinctly scary fucker. ‘In 2004 there’s gonna be more war’, he yells (cheers for that) before launching into golden oldie War Dance. There was speculation that Dave Grohl, who drummed on their new album, may guest spot. He doesn’t.

Time for an eclectic mix of folk, West Coast pop, psychedelia and techno from genre-bending Welsh rockers Super Furry Animals. I stay for Rings Around the World, the fuzzy-guitared boogie rock of single Golden Retriever, and the mellow Hello Sunshine with its Beach Boys harmonies, dedicated by Gruff Rhys to ‘that yellow ball in the sky’. But why is he dressed as the red Power Ranger? I long to stay, but The Foo Fighters beckon on the main stage.

If t-shirts are a taste barometer, the Foos are the V band, and they start promisingly enough with a rip-roaring All My Life, a huge lit-up double F behind them. The heaving crowd laps it up (love the ‘Dave, have you farted?’ banner), but their set is like panning for gold; sure, there are pop-metal nuggets to be found (e.g. Learn to Fly - the ones you’ll know from MTV2) but also a fair amount of sludge. After a few undistinguished rockers I head back for more SFA, who, alas, have gone. And I sooo wanted to see the yetis. Roll on Brixton Academy. A return to the Foos finds a big improvement with terrific versions of Stacked Actors, Low (introduced as ‘the soundtrack to two rednecks having anal sex in a motel outside town’) and Monkey Wrench. The ever-affable Dave dedicates Tired of You to the new Mrs Grohl. Already? Ah, the lyrics are ‘but I won't go getting tired of you’. Ain’t love grand. A partial redemption then.

I don’t catch much of the polite, folk-inspired melodic rock of Turin Brakes, Olly Knights and Gale Paridjanian with full band (Future Boy stands out) as it’s time for Coldplay who, after a long intro of swirling synths arrive onstage to a hero’s welcome. I found ‘Parachutes’ didn’t bear repeated listenings and ‘A Rush of Blood to the Head’ has been gathering dust like Blair’s election promises. Album of the year? Don’t make me laugh! But something wondrous happens; live, the songs take on an ethereal beauty all their own, from the melancholy Trouble and the yearnings of God Put a Smile Upon Your Face and In My Place to the piano-driven The Scientist and the pounding Politik. The effect is magical and majestic; clunk, clunk, crash – Soundsxp credometer explodes, and who fucking cares; tonight Coldplay are the best band on Earth, tens of thousands entranced as lasers sweep over our heads.

An honourable mention must go to Feeder, newly elevated to arena status, with the unenviable job of competing against this on the second stage. A couple of visits show what a damn fine job they make of it too, with anthems like Come Back Around and the punky Insomnia interspersed with the mature rock balladry of Just the Way I’m Feeling and the classic High. Back on the main stage all is bathed in yellow for …… (insert guess here, and it better have 6 letters and start with Y). Chris Martin divides his evening between playing piano and capering round the stage like, well, like a guy who fronts one of the world’s biggest bands and is shagging a superstar actress. And when the show ends with him singing It’s a Wonderful World, you have no reason to doubt him. As we get caught in a dangerous bottleneck trying to leave, with thousands pushing in both directions, we can hear Feeder rounding off the night with Just A Day. But what a day it was! Altogether now: do-do-do-doo, do-do-do-doo…

Reviewed by Graham S
Top | Comment on this artist or review on the Forum

If you’ve heard it, the single Crystal Clear will now be burned into your internal jukebox.   The good news is that there are songs that good as that in the FF’s armoury; the bad news is they don’t seem to have a lot of songs there just yet.  Two nights, one as support to Sleater-Kinney (Thursday), one as headliners (Saturday), but both sets clocking in at just under half-an-hour.  If this is marketing then it’s working: we want more! 

The live sound of Fiery Furnaces is a dirty blues sound, the White Stripes with oily handprints down those daz-white trews, and a garage rock beat.  The band centres around siblings Eleanor and Matt, augmented to a foursome for this tour, which perhaps explains the short, fixed set list.  This is a disappointment as the band are one of the most intriguing, original, worthwhile bands to come out of New York for ages.  She’s thin and intense, bursting with locked-in energy and with incredible lyrics, her geographical awareness on some tracks producing a Lonely Planet guide in song.  Blueberry is a full on garage guitar attack while Tropical Iceland (which appropriately sounds like ‘Tropicool’ live) is a hypnotic carnival rhythm with the strangest time signature.  It works in the same way that Factory by the Vines shouldn’t work but does, and does brilliantly.  In fact the FF’s debut is the best I’ve seen since we saw the Libertines last year.  Know that feeling when you see a band and you won’t rest until you’ve heard everything they’ve recorded, or about to record, where you scan the gig pages for their next appearance in your town and they’re your new favourite band?  If not, why not?  Isn’t this what music is all about?     

Set list (Mean Fiddler): Bow Wow/ Crystal Clear/ I’m Gonna Run/ Leaky Tunnel, Blueberry/ Tropical Iceland/ Inca Rag/ Up In The North/Lost Dog

Set list (Water Rats): Up In The North/ Lost Dog/ Leaky Tunnel/ Bow Wow/ Crystal Clear/ I’m Gonna Run/ Blueberry/ Inca Rag/ Straight/Tropical Iceland

Reviewed by Ged M
Top | Comment on this artist or review on the Forum

Ohio’s The Sun would win no beauty contests outside Gurnville.  Indeed the frontman looks like a sweaty rather seedy version of Harry Potter, the guitarist resembles cousin It, the drummer Har Mar Superstar and the bassist a poor man’s David Beckham complete with droopy mohawk.  And we’re talking bin rummagingly poor.  Still, rock music’s not all about looks and The Sun have in Summer of 72 one of the GREAT tracks of 2003 – a blistering all too brief tinny psyche gem.  But, and it’s a big but, something’s missing.  Where’s the keys?  The recorded output including terrific second release Fell So Hard are heavily keyboard accompanied but unless I’ve slipped into a drunken audiohaze with keyboard notes detectable only by passing dogs, they’re missing.  What’s left is a punk thrash with tunes mushed into each other, only punctuated by banter from the toilet mouthed specky geek on vocals.  Which is a shame.

The disappointment wasn’t to end there though.  Maybe it’s the presence of a rather smelly and inconsiderate goth dweeb in front of me, who flails around knocking punters and beers and endangering everyone with his fag.  And then grabs me by the throat when I protest.  Or maybe it’s just stellastarr* don’t live up to my expectations.  Their set is very 80s influenced, predominently Cure-ish at the their most poppy but with elements of Talking Heads, and all accompanied by yelped vocals which can grate after a while.  Highlight was the Pixies style Jenny which also featured the welcome addition of female vocals.  Perhaps if more songs had featured her larynx I might have come away happier.  Maybe.

Reviewed by Paul M
Top | Comment on this artist or review on the Forum

The French (Shepherd's Bush Hall)

Chandeliers hang from the ornate ceiling above the candlelit round tables. The audience sit expectantly, as though waiting for some washed-up raconteur to begin his after-dinner speech reminiscing on the glory days. Actually, they’re waiting for the live return of Darren and John, formerly of undervalued indie gods Hefner. Raconteurs? Hmmm. Washed-up? Not a bit of it. And the glory days are back.

After the disappointment of ‘Dead Media’, which saw their previous band go electronic and most of the diehards go elsewhere, we’ve no right to expect The French to be this damned good. They aren’t Hefner, but many of the best characteristics remain; namely, Darren Hayman’s songwriting. Too lazy and in love on the last record, it’s back to its biting best now. Sure, the guitars are all but gone and the keyboard is king, but when the lyrics are so sharp, who cares?

Pornshoes, Canada Water and When She Leaves Me see trademark references to sex, girls’ ankles and the sprawling under-funded wonder of the Undergound whilst Vanessa’s Birthday marks a welcome return of Darren’s fixation with fat lasses. He swaps between keyboards and a miniature guitar and proves that, when he hasn’t got anything big enough to occupy him during a song, he can still dance like no other human being on earth. Apart from your dad maybe.

The slyly comic Gabriel In The Airport has an affectionate dig at the former Genesis man whilst The Wu Tang Clan leaves you longing to hear RZA and co’s reciprocal tribute to our twee indie-electro heroes. A glorious duo of The Animals and The Pines, either side of the encore-cheering charade, put the tin lid on a supreme return to form and the live arena. Welcome back lads - we’ve missed you.

Reviewed by James S
Top | Comment on this artist or review on the Forum

Any band that aspires to be the Foo Fighters, should indeed be treated with caution. Scottish noise-merchants Terra Diablo are no exception, with their sound clearly imbedded in and indebted to Mr. Grohl and his cohorts. Whilst there is nothing overwhelmingly wrong with this rather unexciting blueprint, it’s just that, well, bands such as Terra Diablo turn out to be more than rather unexciting because of it. Like fellow-countrymen Biffy Clyro, their sound is loud and fast but often unoriginal and forgettable. Admittedly, on the couple of occasions when they leave the post-grunge straitjacket behind and attempt anthems of real, intense majesty, one feels they could well sneak ahead of the rest of the chasing pack, gagging for that 5K review in next week’s ‘Kerrang!’. However, their apparent desire to sound a lot like Bush doesn’t do their competent musicianship, and the frontman’s menacing growl any real favours. Not Terra(ble)  Diab(olical) then, just distinctly un-notable.

Label moves and side-projects have made this tour Snow Patrol’s first in too long. Indeed, it appears that their signing to Polydor is what provides the catalyst for this energetic returning set, with Gary Lightbody gnarling his way through with a clear statement of intent that this time, they mean business. It is easy to see why they are of such a mindset. Their blend of radio-friendly and hard-edged indie has not enjoyed the kind of appreciation it deserves, with Ash, Idlewild and, unfortunately, Feeder reaping all the rewards with their like-minded commercial formula.

It’s a shame, because, tonight, Snow Patrol are very very good. Old and new material is merged seamlessly to create a cavalcade of delights for your typical skinny-t-shirted indie freak. The way this mob moves from the soft and Hefner-esque, to the trademark euphoric indie anthem, via the hard and punk-ish is a sheer delight. This is not least because, in Mr. Lightbody, they have possibly these shores most charming frontman, with his razor-sharp crowd banter spliced with the cheekiest rockstar poses no former Belle and Sebastian label-mate should possess. The new material has that harder edge, and the new-found energy rubs off on the old, turning the set into a loud, proud two-fingered salute to the mainstream that has ignored them so.

Despite tonight’s evidence though, Snow Patrol will most-probably remain underachievers. As the sparse Northampton crowd disperses, the feeling that a wider audience will never feast their ears on their catchy and often glorious material appears almost unquestioned. “If you don’t buy the new record… it doesn’t matter” Gary Lightbody shrugs as he disappears. However, given the all-too-apparent urgency with which this sublime set was delivered, you know he’s lying.

Reviewed by Adam W
Top | Comment on this artist or review on the Forum

Glasgow’s Franz Ferdinand seem to have ceased with their flirtation with fascist imagery.  Gone are the tight SA stormtrooper style brown shirts, armbands and dour slacks.  Strangely, shorn of these dubious accoutrements they also seem less interesting.  Sure, the influences are good enough; a hotchpotch of classic 80s new wave with individual songs recalling The Cure, Talking Heads, the Fall, Talk Talk, Teardrop Explodes and early New Order.  No, it wasn’t that nor was there an absence of effort as floppy fringes gathered their sweat.  I can only assume it was the lack of real quality in the songwriting.  It’s one thing to look to the great and good for influence, it’s another to move it on, without slavish mimicry. I still have hope for them though and in the single, they have at least one class moment. 

Reviewed by Paul M
Top | Comment on this artist or review on the Forum

Hot Hot Heat indeed on an August evening in the sweaty confines of The Garage. But this may well have been the last chance to catch the British Columbian popsters in a venue this small as their addictive, angular and, above all, fun ditties have struck a chord with those hankering after a replacement for the quirkiness of XTC, the breezy pop of Joe Jackson and early Elvis Costello.

Starting with the older Touch You Touch You this was mostly a breezy run through the highlights of debut album (I’m not counting the comp) ‘Make Up The Breakdown’; gems like Naked In The City with its skanking guitar section, infectious latest single No, Not Now (introduced as a dance number; and it is y’know) and the disco-punk of Talk To Me, Dance With Me. The one new song was, it has to be said, underwhelming. Set closer was ‘the one they play on television’, their finest hour (OK, 3 minutes 33 seconds if you’re being picky) and candidate for single of the year, Bandages. Encore was This Town, Costello playing white reggae, before it romps off at the end, Dante DeCaro crowd surfing with his guitar, not exactly easy in a venue where you can stand onstage and touch the ceiling. Top stuff.

Reviewed by Graham S
Top | Comment on this artist or review on the Forum

Research is the keystone of good journalism, and accordingly I knew nothing about the A-Lines before they took the Dirty Water stage. My introduction to them went something like this: "Oh, look at that pretty girl in her pretty flowery dress, maybe they’ll be a bit like the Sundays, or Peter, Paul and Mary. Ah, they’re starting now, let’s see if… Aargh! Huh? Argh!  What the hell is happening? She’s flipped! Can’t anyone else see she’s flipped? She’ll kill us all! Huh? What?" If I had done my research I would have known that the pretty little girl was Kyra La Rubia/ Rubella/ De Coninck of Thee Headcoatees fame responsible for the haunting, Flemish ‘this wondrous day’ on the ‘25 years of being childish’ comp… and that members of the A-Lines have been in The Stuck-Ups, Mambo Taxi, The Phantom Pregnancies, The Action Time, The Family Way, The Sinisters, Dutronc, and hundreds of other bands that people who aren’t friends with Billy Childish won’t have heard of. And I would have expected them to be more garagey than a band called BP and the Essos (I’m assuming that there isn’t a band out there called BP and the Essos doing disco hits or power ballads).

But they’re not. The growling bass may be straight off a Music Machine track, but the thin, clanking, muffled-as-if-trapped-in-a-cornflakes box guitar sound and Ramonesy tunes are late 70’s New York and the vocals are a bit like the hopelessly unfashionable Hazel O’Connor. Throw in some yelps from the bass player and car alarm style backing vocals from the guitarist, and the resulting sound is like nothing I’ve ever heard but the spirit is of the punk experi-mentalism of lo-fi psychedelic bands like The Chocolate Watch Band or The 13th Floor Elevators but fired with emotion instead of sedated by druggy bewilderment. The hairier among you will think they don’t rock enough but an ace cover of The Electric Eels’ ‘Agitated’ and a new song that might be called ‘You Can Touch’ see their disparate, disjointed sparks fuse together into a fizzing, buzzing, electric charge. Kind of like when the Ghostbusters cross their beams.

Reviewed by Mangusta
Top | Comment on this artist or review on the Forum

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Ed Harcourt is not your standard singer-songwriter. Even that simple phrase – those two dreaded words strung together in such a brazen fashion - ‘singer-songwriter’ - can strike fear, dread and repulsion into the hearts of the hardiest music fan. What’s more, the accompanying tag that Harcourt has acquired of being ‘The New Tom Waits’ is certainly not to be taken lightly. The thing is, y’see, he does it so, so well that he just about manages to get away with it. 

It’s in the dusky, slightly dingy, cramped, yet revered venue Whelan’s (it’s played host to such luminaries as Jeff Buckley, Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy and err…David Gray, in past years) that Harcourt is playing tonight, as a warm-up gig to the weekend’s Witnness festival. Accompanied by full band, he struts on to the tiny stage with much distinction, smartly dressed and looking for all the world, like a genuinely cool bastard. When he starts to sing, you can see where the Waits comparisons have come from. Unfair as it is to keep mentioning the ‘W’ word, it’s something that I simply cannot help but see in Harcourt – his smoky, sensual voice, his style, his presence; yet, at the same time, he’s a constant contradiction because he’s probably the most unique artist of his genre at the moment.

Throughout a thoroughly pleasing 90-minute set, we’re treated to material from all three releases (Maplewood EP, Here Be Monsters and From Every Sphere) – notable inclusions being the fantastic All Of Your Days Will Be Blessed, Here Be Monsters, Something In My Eye, Sister Renee and a dazzling Apple of My Eye. The band is tight, Harcourt is on flying form, proving himself to be an adept pianist as well as guitarist, so all of this begs the question: Why isn’t he bigger than he already is? The answer is obvious though – he’s the ‘New Ed Harcourt’; it’ll just take people a bit longer to see that.

Reviewed by Lauren M
Top | Comment on this artist or review on the Forum

The Essex Green are slick and I mean that in the best way. Years together in Guppyboy and The Essex Green, plus their work in the Ladybug Transistor and other ventures, has given them an easy air, a feel of fitting – and sounding – together.  Their set comprises most of ‘The Long Goodbye’, their latest and greatest album, plus crowd-pleasing chunks of ‘Everything Is Green’.  Mrs Bean, Tinker and Primrose are psych-pop-folk gems and wildly popular, while the new songs rapidly imprint themselves in our minds (and hearts).  Havana is a wonderful song-story while Lazy May takes on a roguish charm and Sorry River sounds plaintive and forlorn.  The sound of the Essex Green live is more muscular and direct than on record, anchored on Ben Crum’s bass and Tim Barnes’ drumming, while the harmonies are simply swelling and immense.  They play a long set, probably slightly too long, but they’re flying home the next day and they’re enjoying their time with us (their only UK date).  The audience don’t mind; the Swedes loved them during the week and this crowd love ‘em tonight.

Reviewed by Ged M
Top | Comment on this artist or review on the Forum

So, new songs Fallen Angel, Switching Off and Fugitive Hotel (‘about being a long way from home’ - You hear through the walls in this place/Cigarette holes for every lost soul) rub shoulders with Red (caring for a substance abuser - You burn too bright/You live too fast), nostalgia-fest Scattered Black and Whites and the epic Newborn (actually about growing old - I'll be the corpse in your bathtub/Useless/I'll be as deaf as a post). But the music majestically transcends the gritty, melancholic reality-bound lyrics with a hypnotic intensity that actually makes for an uplifting experience. Catch Elbow on tour soon.

Reviewed by Graham S
Top | Comment on this artist or review on the Forum

Before I begin, allow me to straighten out one thing. ‘Gillian Welch’ is not just Gillian Welch. No, I haven’t finally lost it, but those who don’t realise what the name encompasses should know that Gillian Welch is, in fact, the native Californian-turned-Nashville-country Goddess and her partner, David Rawlings. A minor detail perhaps, but an important one, nonetheless – especially in such an intimate, acoustic setting as Dublin’s Vicar Street (1000 capacity, or thereabouts), where the importance of Rawlings’ contribution to Welch’s performance is very much noted indeed.

Right.   Now that we’ve got the formalities out of the way, down to business. Opening with the first track from her latest opus, Soul Journey, Welch belted out the wonderful Look At Miss Ohio with much aplomb. Decked out suitably (funky dress and cowboy boots), the chemistry between Rawlings and herself is beautiful – never before have I seen two artists so completely comfortable with each other on stage. Walking home, I wondered how different their live shows would be if they weren’t romantically involved? Is it because they’re partners that they merge so well together? Their voices are completely suited to each other - Rawlings providing beautiful harmonies to songs such as Rock of Ages, One Little Song, Elvis Presley Blues - having consulted with the affable crowd about when exactly his anniversary was - Everyone Is Free and a brilliant version of I Want To Sing That Rock ‘N’ Roll. A nice touch was Rawlings doing his own number at Welch’s invitation, proving that he’s not just a pretty face and a guitar virtuoso (his solos were greeted with much applause) but also a more than accomplished singer. No I’m Not Afraid To Die, unfortunately, though the biggest laugh of the night was brought about when some random punter loudly requested it during a very quiet moment, to be met with a ‘Well…good for you!’ by Welch.

An incredibly enjoyable gig was brought to a close by a superb cover of Neil Young’s Alberquerque – Young himself sold out three nights in the same venue a few months ago – and a gloriously euphoric, sing-a-long-able I’ll Fly Away before the duo returned for two encores and the same number of standing ovations. Proving that she’s not just your average gal with a guitar and a pair of cowboy boots, Welch left the stage with the Dublin crowd in one palm of her hand…and that bloke, David something or other, in the other. Wonderful.

Reviewed by Lauren M
Top | Comment on this artist or review on the Forum