Drugstore ( Dingwalls, London)

A quick word about Mower, who were lively, energetic, engaging and fun. Indie rock pop probably describes a song such as Na, with a simple ‘nanana’ chorus and spare sound but other songs can be in your face with Mat Mower screaming at you over loud guitars.  Still, who needs to define genres?  There seemed some interesting stuff going on here [I bought the album at the gig so expect a review shortly].

Drugstore have had their share of problems this year (almost every year it seems), and it’s good to see them again, playing live, on stage.  Isabel Monteiro is a natural performer who engages with the audience immediately and Drugstore always produce a good show: each gig has an individual feel.  And this is no exception. Perfect recital of recordings is not the order of the day: here, songs are allowed to take on their own lives –  eg Wayward Daughter sounds rhythmically stronger instead of languorous, and works well. The band are lively tonight (or drunk – probably both, it’s the last date of the tour), and there’s a good vibe everywhere – especially when we are ‘instructed’ to join in, with the reassembled Mower, on a new xmas ditty [Xmas in the Artic Pole: a demo of which is on the tour CD] about, er, xmas and having your friends around and having ‘a hangover by the time the Queen makes her speech’.   Don’t know about you but that sounds about right to me.  And yes, we’re all having a good time.  But all good things must come to an end [arrgh, cliché alert], and Isabel returns for a spare, solo rendition of the lonely longing If. So we go, out into the cold, a little happy-sad with the warm glow from a good gig, some spilled tequila, and the prospect of Drugstore album in the new year. And humming Xmas in the Artic Pole…

Reviewed by Kev

Freeheat / The Parkinsons / Halo (London Mean Fiddler)

Halo were bottom of the bill but far from making up the numbers.  The hall started empty and filled steadily as they played, which is a good sign.  They’ve got all the rockgod moves down pat already and whilst maybe they might be a little too beholden to their influences – Muse, Radiohead, a touch of Nirvana – at the moment to be premier league, they promise promotion soon.  Very soon. They gel as a band and there is at least 30 seconds per song when you think: this isn’t just good, this could be really good.  They play a necessarily short set of seven songs, three of which feature on their debut (and free!) EP (http://www.halomusic.com), including the excellent Sanctimonious and finish on a real rock n roll sizzler, Incinerator.  Ones to watch.   (Reviewed by Ged & Mawders)

The Parkinsons are four Portuguese livewires with a snotty punk attitude, going wild and spilling/spitting beer on stage.   Singer Afonso looks like a young Nick Cave doing his best Iggy moves with Deep Heat in his underpants (a fetching pair of ‘Parkinsons’ arsehuggers, as you ask).  He gets miffed when he’s upstaged, or rather offstaged, by guitarist Victor, who cavorts naked in the crowd, his guitar protecting his modesty (and it was very modest) after his boxer shorts are ripped off by a punter.   The music is energetic early Wire crossed with the New York Dolls but the band really remind me of the Albertos: musically literate, focusing on the sense of fun, irony and mischief in punk without ever descending into parody.  There was once a comic called Chris Langham whose party piece was holding a Roman Candle between his buttocks and lighting it on stage; the Parkinsons remind me of him – you wonder how long the joke can last but when you’ve seen it, you talk about nothing else.  The Parkinsons are why we go to see live music.

For JAMC addicts, Freeheat are their methadone; for everyone else, they’re just method actors.  When they’re good they’re ‘April Skies’ but when they’re dull – which is frequently – they become like any of the bad JAMC copyists that plagued the late 1980s and 1990s.   The band is older, rounder and has a better light show but the set list just says “make it up when you’re out there”.  So we get Jim’s trademark deadpan vocal over formless guitar washes.  Sometimes there’s feedback and no melody (the opening ‘New York City’), sometimes a Beach Boys riff with extra feedback.  The contrast between the dark, urban grittiness and the light West Coast adornments should have excited but we’ve heard it done better in Mary Chain days.   The crowd seemed unimpressed so to come back for an encore when few seemed to be bothered was either part of a rigid set plan or supreme and unwarranted arrogance.  On tonight’s evidence, Freeheat are a band of massive hype and minimal impact.   

Of course, a band like this attracts a decent guest list and Mani and Bobby Gillespie were in the crowd, sporting haircuts last seem on Open University Physics lecturers in 1975.  Boys, see your barbers! 

Reviewed by Ged

Soft Cell (Brixton Academy)

As we arrive on halloween night, filled with apple and pumpkin soup, and fed up with seeing small children in Scream masks, the atmosphere is already buzzing in the excellent venue - where even if you are only 5' 5" you don't need to be 2 feet from the stage to be able to see... Anyway when the lights do go down and Mr David Ball and Mr Marc Almond appear, everyone eagerly awaits the first song, Marc, like the star that he is, dazzles onto the stage in a black sparkly skull and crossbones t shirt, tight black jeans, a typically 80's studded belt slung around his minute bony hips, and newly perfectly-bleached blonde hair..

The first song is Memorabilia. Dave Ball stands moodily behind two stacks of synth's, and they carry on playing songs that I was dancing around my bedroom to in the very early 80's.  The set includes songs from The art of falling apart , Non stop erotic cabaret and a couple of new songs from the new soft cell cd. The latter also have a euro-disco style which the 80's encapsulated. The gig continues with bedsitter, torch, chips on my shoulder,   everyone's fave tainted love and where did our love go, bringing back even fonder memories of when I bought that 12" single. It is a classic and love it or hate it every school disco at the time and indie night anywhere now will play it.

All too soon the night is over and Mr Almond and Mr Ball bid us good night.  Or is it?  The lights stay dimmed and now the first encore is of course say hello and wave good bye, Almond's slightly off key, but powerful and nasal vocals haunting the venue. After numerous bunches of flowers are thrown onto the stage, a large pair of greying Y-fronts are carefully placed on the speaker by Ball's legs. They go off again and the crowd are going mad for more!  They return finally, with Sex Dwarf (one of my faves), Almond encouraging audience participation with screaming from the left, middle and side of the crowd, at appropriate moments. They go off the stage to shouts and screams from the very mixed-aged crowd. The lights come up and everyone leaves, most singing the synth part of sex dwarf "isn't it nice -sugar and spice".  Yes, Mr Almond and Mr Ball, it was.

Reviewed by Vanilla

Muse (London Arena)

Main support were 100 Reasons, recently tipped by NME as one of their 10 up and coming guitar bands. And that’s just what they were: a competent, energetic, eager-to- impress, 5 piece guitar band. Promising, but offering nothing that hasn’t been around for 20 years. Now Muse, that’s another story.

One thing that struck me was the audience: nu metallers, old metallers, grungers, older folk, parents with kids, suits straight from the office. The appeal of Muse is wide-ranging and it’s easy to see why. In these days of acoustic rock a la Starsailor and Travis, the (c)rap-metal of Soggy Custard Cream or whatever they’re called, and the back-to-basics rock’n’roll of the over-hyped Strokes and White Stripes, Muse offer summat a bit different. One kid called called them a cross between Queen and Vivaldi. A bit wide of the mark, but I can see where he was coming from.

Ever ones for melodrama the band appear as silhouettes behind white screens before launching into a set of complex, virtuosic, epic songs covering most of Showbiz and my album of the year Origin of Symmetry. A multitude of cameras give us a screenshow looking up the necks of guitars and the nostrils of Matthew Bellamy, who strikes most of the poses in the Rock Guitarist’s Handbook, with plenty of histrionics, Hendrix effects, Halenesque twiddly bits and all. Chris Wolstenholme on bass and Dominic Howard (who did most of the patter) on drums provide solid support throughout but this is Bellamy’s show. Alternating between guitar and keyboards, equally at ease wielding the axe and playing Rachmaninov intros, Bach-like organ riffs, and the blues on Feeling Good, Bellamy exercises his octave-jumping vocal range throughout, hitting the same notes live as on record. And as sole songsmith does a 23 year old have the right to be this talented? 

Hard to pick highlights but singles Plug In Baby and New Born, which closed the set, got the crowd rocking. We got one encore including a slowing down of pace for Falling Down before a blistering Bliss, complete with giant confetti-filled balloons, ended an awesome show.

Reviewed by Sleezy

FOUR STAR MARY (London Garage)

First up were Whitehouse, an average band but the vocals were way too loud and we spent the set holding onto our ears hoping our heads didn't explode Scanners-style. When the music was clear we could tap our feet in time with our vibrating bones. Finally after 30 mins they finished and silence descended upon the room for all of about 5 mins until to our horror came Snowdog, an American  thrash/trash metal trio with an aging singer and a drummer who looked like John Coghlan's long-lost older brother. They made Whitehouse seem like a choir of angels. Snowdog my arse, more like Dogshit.

Four Star Mary have been heard by millions worldwide yet most people haven't got a clue who they are. Ever seen Buffy the Vampire Slayer with Oz the werewolf's band Dingoes Ate My Baby? Well it's FSM's music. They're hard-working crowd-pleasers playing good, melodic, anthemic hard rock. They covered most of their only full album Thrown to the Wolves plus some songs from their new Stripped EP. They have a good singer in Tad, a great rapport with the fans, and they rock their socks off. But they're never likely to hit the big time and their epitaph will probably be 'They were the band from Buffy'.

Reviewed by Nice n Sleezy