EFTERKLANG (London Bush Hall, 23/11/07)

If Amiina covered the works of Joe Hisashi and underpinned it with the rhythmic precision of Battles, the result might sound a bit like Efterklang. Mostly ditching the swelling loud-soft dynamics so common of their post-rock ilk, the Danish band’s sound is a strikingly organic one; low key, acoustic, with subtle, unshowy timbres and a vocal style straight out of an early Soviet workers choir. Adding to this idiosyncratic mix is a unexpected math-rock element; there’s irregular time-signatures and clockwork-precise drumming a-plenty, although the notoriously impersonal, mechanical soullessness of that genre is mostly absent here.

As pretentious as this all may sound, it’s offset by the sheer enthusiasm of the group itself; far from the beard-stroking musos you’d expect, they’re bedecked in silly costumes, awful facial hair and a winningly easy-going nature. Full of gleeful enthusiasm, their obvious pleasure at playing to such an attentive audience made their music all the more enchanting; with a greater focus on vocal elements than on record, most notably on Towards The Bare Hill, it’s also instilled with far more warmth than you’d expect. And getting the whole of Bush Hall to join in the vocal harmonies of Cutting Ice Into Snow was a wonderfully communal moment, a real rarity in the “too-cool-to-care” hipster-dominated London scene. Having not expected overmuch from Efterklang, it was satisfying to see such complex, esoteric music performed with a lack of ego or self-indulgence and in the end, it proved to be one of the more understated highlights of the year.



Their violinist Peter Broderick was also good in support; although too many of his tracks came across as sketches rather than fully-formed compositions, his multi-looped vocal harmonies and interesting use of instruments (saws and plastic tubing) are definitely worth investigating further.

(Photos: Ragsmaloy (Flickr))

ARCADE FIRE (London Alexandra Palace, 17/11/07-19/11/07)

After a year of relentless touring, it’s all over. I’ve seen Arcade Fire 14 times this year, from the intimacy of the BBC’s Maida Vale Studios to the vast fields of Glastonbury. Some shows have been better than others, a couple have even disappointed but it still remains that at their best, there isn’t a single other band on the planet that can come close to their brilliance.

Saying that, Saturday wasn’t their best hour. The cavernous Ally Pally was never going to be an easy job for the sound people, and the acoustics did seem echo-ey and slightly thin throughout. More irritating were the violent, cerebrally-challenged contingent of drunken yobs and displaced Twang fans that crushed, punched, elbowed and generally inflicted discomfort upon anyone within 20 metres of the barrier. The band’s performance too seemed to lack something, despite a blinding start- the madcap Tom and Jerry chaos of Laika, which had Richard wildly chucking drumsticks across the stage at Will was the best rendition of that song I’d seen since the Funeral tour. But an ill-judged cover of the Smith’s Still Ill dissipated the momentum that’d been so carefully built up at the beginning of the show, and they never really recovered. Even Power Out and Rebellion were shorn of their usual energy, many fans unable to enjoy themselves due to the actions of the twattish minority. A breathtaking, frantic rendition of Wake Up (MOSHPIT!) did make up for some of the deficiencies and don’t get me wrong- it was still, in comparison to most bands, an excellent show but overall it fell short of their exceedingly high standards.



Luckily, the following night turned out to be one of the most wonderful displays of live music I have ever witnessed. The soundboard going kaput during My Body Is A Cage (and rendering Win’s vocals inaudible) prevented it from being the Best Gig Ever, but fuck me, it was definitely up there. It started off amazingly, with Black Mirror, Laika, No Cars Go and Haiti, before a mild dip with the middling My Body Is A Cage and the aforementioned MBIAC (although the unintended ‘instrumental’ version wasn’t actually that much of a disaster.) After sound was restored, they moved into the more chilled middle-section of their setlist; a delicate, subtle Neon Bible, a fantastic impromptu cover of Bruce Springsteen’s State Trooper (which could have come straight from their second album) and a rousing Intervention, much more impressive than Saturday’s lacklustre acoustic version. But, as much as I’d been enjoying myself thus far, I hadn’t seen nothing yet.



Seeing Headlights live had become something of an obsession for me since I first heard the divine Electric Picnic recording back in September 2005, but they’d cruelly avoided playing it any of the previous shows I'd been to. It would only appear at nights immediately before or after the ones I was at, and I'd convinced myself fate would forever deny me the chance to "ooooooooo-ooooo-oo-oo-oo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo" along with Regine and co. So, when Win announced those magic words, “this song’s called Headlights Look Like Diamonds,” I naturally started squealing like a Take That fangirl. And apart from the backing vocals being too low in the mix, it was perfect; the UKKer’s standing in front of me pulled me forward towards the barrier, I forgot the lyrics in my state of shock but God, I was so deliriously happy. I remember Will running back and forth across the stage like a madman, and violist Marika grinning at our little phalanx of obsessees going absolutely mental, but most of all, I remember the sheer sense of wonder at how, even after fifteen times seeing them, they could still completely take my breath away.



But that wasn’t enough for Arcade Fire, oh no. They then followed up with- in succession- The Well And The Lighthouse, Tunnels, (Antichrist Television Blues), Power Out, Rebellion, Keep The Car Running and finally, Wake Up; no less than 45 minutes of non-stop, heart-pounding, voicebox-destroying, pogo-tastic AWESOMENESS. The very definition of what a live show should be, I had tears of joy in my eyes by the end and underlined the reason why I’d fallen so completely in love with this band, and gigs as a whole, in the first place.



Understandably, Monday couldn’t live up to the utterly sublime show the night before, but it was still a wonderful send-off. The main niggle was the rather par-for-the-course setlist, apart from a gorgeous cover of New Order’s “Age of Consent” and a welcome appearance of recent B-side “Surf City Eastern Block,” but any failures on the surprises front was easily made up for with a sublime, no-holds-barred performance. If Laika on Saturday had been fantastic, Monday’s was GODLY- by far the best rendition of that song I have ever seen. Richard and Will picked each other up, wrestled on the ground, used each other as ad hoc drumkits and at one point even fell off the stage, bleeding and bruised. The wilfully anarchic spirit so notably absent at their earlier shows this year was out in full force, and this energy carried to every other part of their set. (Antichrist Television Blues) was as good as I’ve ever heard it, having become as intrinsic an element of the live show as anything else off Neon Bible- I particularly liked how Richard, Will, Win and Regine crowded round a single mic during the final verses, as if they were some Depression-era blues act. And the final Wake Up of the tour was both poignant and euphoric, with support band Wild Light randomly commandeering instruments whilst band and audience to a man put their all into making it the most perfect ending possible to Arcade Fire’s last UK show for two years.



Finally, as amazing as this band are, it wouldn’t have been half the experience without the folks I’ve met on the way. I’ve made some great friends this year, and it’s been an pleasure getting to chat to so many people from such a variety of different places. Roll on 2009!

(Photos: Alan Bee (Flickr); John Gleeson))

TWO GALLANTS (London Koko, 14/11/07)

What can I say- Two Gallants are one of the most consistently awesome live bands around. Their distinctive Americana-meets-Delta Blues sound isn’t normally my sort of thing at all, but this unshaven, slightly disreputable duo perform it with such rough-hewn vibrancy that they put all but a handful of other bands to shame.

Adam Stephens' croaked, passionate howl and nimble fretwork are extraordinary enough, but the real star’s Tyson Vogel; a scrawny, wild-haired figure who ranks as the most amazing drummer (Battles’ John Stanier excepted) in the business. His unreal sense of rhythm (not to mention kit-obliterating forcefulness) is genuinely jaw-dropping, his arms flailing about in blur of drum-rupturing chaos. If the new songs seem too derivative of their older works to live up to expectations, then there’s enough classics scattered about the set to make for it- Steady Rollin’ prompted an audience-wide sing-along, and Las Cruces Jail instigated a minor riot near the front. It’s fantastic to see a band I first watched in front of 30 people command a crowd of over a thousand only two years later, and if there’s any justice in the world they’ll be playing to even more in years to come.

(Photo: Jacob Saunders (Flickr))

FROG EYES (London Luminaire, 11/11/07)

After a four year hiatus, Canada’s premier borderline-psychotic four-piece make a mostly triumphant return to London- despite an potentially set-destroying lack of keyboard action. Yes, that’s right- the swirling psychedelic arpeggios and clashing chords that lie at the heart of the Frog Eyes experience are completely absent from the live show, vaguely approximated using guitars or omitted entirely. It’s a shock to the system, but to their credit they somehow carry it off…well, for the most part.

Carey Mercer’s mystical, esoteric lyrics (or fevered ramblings of a madman, depends on your point of view) are delivered with his characteristic frenzied yelp, like a castrated David Byrne rolling through a field of nettles. It’s definitely an acquired taste, but if anything his voice sounds better live, his vocal control quite magnificent to behold. His wife Melanie impresses on the drums, taking the plentiful tempo changes in her stride, whilst the other two members manfully, if not entirely successfully, try to fill the void left by Spencer Krug’s absence (who’s too busy swanning about North America with the sublime Sunset Rubdown.) The problems manifest themselves most seriously on material from their latest album Tears Of The Valedictorian; Idle Songs, Stockades, and even stone-cold masterpiece Bushels were all inevitably diminished without Spencer’s keys.

Luckily, the old songs fared much better, with Masticated Outnoard Motors and One In Six Children Flee In Boats particularly enjoyable, although the night’s unquestioned highlight was brand new track Paul’s Tomb, obviously constructed with keyboard-lessness in mind. Rivalling Bushels as the epitome of Frog Eyes’ distinctive sound, it showcased Carey at his very best, with some mind-blowing vocal gymnastics towards the end of its epic 8 minute duration. But despite the many musical marvels on offer, one still couldn’t help thinking how much better it could have been if Spencer had been there.

(Photo: Realname (Flickr))

BEIRUT (London Roundhouse, 10/11/07)

Only one year on from their support set at the Camden Roundhouse, 21-year-old Balkan aficionado Zach Condon and his rag-tag group of musicians find themselves returning to the iconic London venue- this time as headiner. This meteoric rise to prominence is well-deserved; the baby-faced prodigy’s mix of stirring indie balladry infused with strong Gypsy influences is perfect fodder for a live show, and with his ever-expanding entourage by his side it simply gets better and better.

Touring new album “The Flying Cup Club,” their semaphore LP finds them taking inspiration from the smoke-filled cafes of Paris, the city where Condon now resides. Although not yet as accomplished as their earlier work, the Sufjan-in-Arabia bounce of In The Mausoleum and the accordion-infused Nantes hold up impressively well against old favourites Postcards From Italy and Elephant Gun, although songs like The Penalty still lack much-needed oomph. Zach himself has progressed leaps and bounds in the last year, his crippling stage-fright replaced with a quiet confidence and his rich, characterful croon, evocative of Morrissey (sans sneer) sounds better than ever. The acoustics and mix (at least at the front) were as perfect as I’ve ever heard at a gig; the trumpets were warm and clear, the violin (so often submerged under guitars, brass and other such frippery) was always audible and the volume was pitched impeccably, allowing the full force of their ramshackle orchestral sound to encompass the Roundhouse.

If the setlist was slightly imbalanced at times, the quality of the music generally covered for it, and the Soviet brass march of Gulag Orkestar and brilliant Romanian standard Siki Siki Baba formed one of the most enjoyable encores I’ve seen in a long time. I’ve seen Beirut six times now, and this was easily their finest performance so far- if they can make their newer stuff as compelling as the rest of their oeuvre, one can only imagine how amazing they’d be.

(Photo: Littlejonesie (Flickr))

ANDREW BIRD (London Koko, 09/11/07)

Andrew Bird’s a frustrating guy. He’s obviously a ridiculously talented individual; a virtuoso on violin, a dab hand on piano and a peerless whistler to boot. His albums, too, are superb- his latest disc Armchair Apocrypha is one of my favourite albums of 2007. But despite this manifestly winning combination, he’s never as good live as the evidence suggests he should be.

His choice of setlists is an issue; although heavily weighted towards the new material, his tendency to plump for obscurities for crowd-pleasers can overwhelm all but the most hardcore Bird fan. A more notable weakness however derives from his inability to decide quite what he wants to be. Variety’s a fine thing, but his wild veering between straight-laced indie balladeer and experimental sonic manipulator (often in the same song) leads otherwise perfectly decent songs to succumb under the weight of unnecessary self-indulgence. It’s a shame, as when they do work, his multi-instrumental looping exercises deliver outstanding results (see-Palindromes, Plasticities, Dark Matter) but his unfortunate habit of stretching and overlaying a song to excess too often proves his downfall.

His best moments come when he ditches the pretentiousness and dons his “mad music professor” guise on songs like Why? and Dr. Strings. Relying on charisma rather than the loop pedal, they communicate his remarkable musical skills far better than faffing about with fancy-pants technology ever will. It just goes to show: sometimes, less is definitely more.

(Photo: Guillaime Michelet (Flickr))

THE NATIONAL (Shepherd’s Bush Empire, 08/11/07)

To think a year ago I didn’t care for the National. Their cult hit Alligator, although loved by many of my peers, left me cold and it’s only since the release of the superb Boxer that I’ve learnt the tragic error of my ways. But it’s their quality as a live act that’s fully converted me from nay-sayer to fully paid-up fanboy.

Central to that is their vocalist Matt Berninger; his whisky-soaked baritone (tempered with a subtly sardonic tinge) the centrepiece of their beautifully melancholic odes to love and loss. His obvious awkwardness at playing the frontman manifests itself in a total absorption in his performance, providing an emotionally charged, almost uncomfortably intense experience. Balancing out the seriousness of Berninger is Padme Newsome, adding a dash of flamboyance to proceedings with his frantic violin contributions; the rest of the band are no less impressive, with Bryan Devendorf’s unshowy but technically stunning efforts on the drums particularly worthy of praise. The show itself was a marvel, a display of an act at the height of their powers- an unexpectedly generous setlist, Berninger on fine form (even cracking jokes!) and some simple but very effective light effects contributing to the enchanting atmosphere.

As my appreciation for Alligator grows, I found many of my highlights derived from that album, most notably Secret Meeting and a touching Daughters Of The Soho Riots. A subdued (if thoroughly respectful) audience meant that their out-and-out anthems Abel and Mr. November lacked the sheer euphoria of May’s Astoria show, but a number of more subtle treats (oldie Wasp’s Nest, Squalor Victoria, and personal favourite Apartment Story) compensated for the lack of vigour. But for me, the zenith of a night full of high-points was the glorious Fake Empire, unrecognisable from the underwhelming renditions of the shows earlier this year. Culminating in a swelling storm of intricate guitar and chaotic strings, they’ve stopped trying to recreate the interlocking syncopated rhythms of the original, and given it a simpler, but infinitely more satisfying conclusion. In a way, it’s symbolic of the band as a whole; a year of solid touring has honed their performance to perfection, with thoroughly sublime results. One of the most talented bands around, The National prove that in this world obsessed with image and glamour, there’s still a place for good, old-fashioned musicianship.

(Photo: Rhyca54 (Flickr))

!!! (London Koko, 07/11/07)

Having missed out on semi-legendary disco-funk-punk act !!! (pronounced ‘Chk Chk Chk’) three times already this year, I finally was allowed the opportunity to rectify this unfortunate state of affairs. Support came from Holy F**k, the great discovery of this year’s Glastonbury Festival whose accomplished set was almost worth the price of admission alone. Like a more accessible step-brother to Battles, they lack the technical razzle-dazzle of the aforementioned math-rock heroes, but their ad-hoc approach and old-school Casio keyboard stylings strike a more endearingly light-hearted note. Their on-stage layout is more inspired than most; the two central members of the band facing each other like wargamers trying to outgeek each-other on the battlefield of glitchy, danceable electronica, their weapons two tables decked with pedals, knobs and sound-distorting devices of all shapes and sizes. Innovative but none-too-serious, they’re a band well worth checking out in their own right.

As for the headliners, they share the same musical palette as LCD Soundsystem with a slightly more lyrical bent, although under the thumping bass and the venue’s notoriously unreliable sound system it was difficult to distinguish anything so subtle as actual words. But hey, !!! are out to make you dance, not think, and in that they succeed with flying colours. Nic Offer’s irrepressible frontman in the vein of Les Savy Fav’s Tim Harrington, and shares that same enviable knack of effortlessly working a crowd; his awful if boundlessly enthusiastic dance moves and disdain for mere rules of health adding a metric ton of charisma to an otherwise no-frills performance. Shannon Funchness, a New York version of The Go! Team’s Ninja added her far stronger vocal skills to the mix on several tracks, and if the rest of the band looked lost on the vast stage of the Koko, it didn’t impact on their proficient musicianship.

If there’s one flaw in the equation, it’s their lack of truly memorable tunes, but to be honest you’ll be too busy jumping around the place to care. Not quite as good as LCDSS I must admit, but don’t let that put you off- they thoroughly deserve their reputation as the party animals of the indie circuit.

(Photo: Holly Erskine (Flickr))

THOSE DANCING DAYS (London Water Rats, 03/11/07)

Hailing from the Swedish school of superior pop that’s produced such fine alumni as The Concretes, I’m From Barcelona and Loney, Dear, Those Dancing Days are another worthy addition to the country’s burgeoning music scene. Their addictive bubblegum pop doesn’t exactly ooze originality, but their enviable knack for sweet synth melodies and lead lady Linnea’s glacial but soulful vocals makes them a guiltily satisfying pleasure. They stand up well as a live act too; despite looking about 12 they’re a confident, talented bunch. Current single Hitten leads to a communal singalong, and by the time they reached their final tune (their ubiquitous title track), the tiny Water Rats venue had descended into full-scale dance party chaos. A very promising start; may their dancing days long continue!

O’ DEATH (London Luminaire, 01/11/07)

I first encountered these high-falutin’ gothic-bluegrass maniacs opening for Menomena a few months back, and was so impressed that when they announced their show at the capital’s premier live venue, I didn’t hesitate giving my Animal Collective ticket away in order to see them. It proved to be a sensible decision; if their show in June was excellent, then Thursday's was phenomenal. If O’ Death lack the variety or emotional range to threaten the premier echelon of live bands I’ve seen (AF, Flaming Lips, Sigur Ros, Joanna Newsom, Bjork), in terms of pure energy they’re up there with the very best.



Musically, they adopt a sinister Appalachian country-blues sound, complimented by Greg Jamie’s evocative rasping screech but its how they deliver it that’s the real draw; the drummer brutally smashing his kit with metal chains, the often-sedate banjo player suddenly leaping out of his chair to unleash a frenzied string-based assault, the lanky, haunted violinist viciously attacking his instrument with such staccato intensity that you think he’s going to explode. The pace never flags throughout an hour long set (it was supposed to be 40 minutes, but the Luminaire’s owner was so impressed he let them go over curfew), reaching its zenith with an utterly unhinged, full-throttle Only Daughter that made me wistfully reminisce about the days of Funeral-era AF. The only downer was the corporate-heavy audience, which precluded the atmosphere being as mad as it should have been, but even so, there’s been few performances this year I’ve enjoyed so much. The very definition of what a live act should be, O’ Death are the kind of band worth killing for.

(Photos courtesy of: Chiara Meattelli)

RUFUS WAINWRIGHT (Hammersmith Apollo, 31/10/07)

For £40, I expected better. Rufus Wainwright is normally a showman par excellence; a witty extrovert with the charisma and panache to carry off his sometimes variable piano-led balladry, but although he cranked up the campness in time-honoured fashion, one couldn’t help but feel that tonight, his heart wasn’t really in it. His banter did sparkle on occasion (his description of himself as “a regular MacGayver” made me laugh) but given his flair for the dramatic, it’s a shame his only nod to Halloween was a few half-arsed costumes mid-set. This apparent lack of effort filtered into the rest of the show, which on the whole was all too similar to his Glastonbury set, minus the shine-shiveringly beautiful duet with his sister on “Hallelujah,” plus the unwelcome preponderance of middle-of-the road filler to bulk up the running time. His arch croon seemed to dissipate in the cavernous Apollo (far more so that on the fields of Worthy Farm), and even the Judy Garland climax seemed to lack the sparkle of that far superior performance. It wasn’t terrible by any means, but it was certainly a case of same-old, same-old; less a “Hallelujah!” than an indifferent “meh.”

(Photo courtesy of Rhyca54 (Flickr))

ARCADE FIRE (Manchester MEN Arena, 27/10/07; Cardiff International Arena, 30/10/07)

I’ve written so many words about the Arcade Fire over the last couple of years that it seems slightly redundant to wax lyrical about their brilliance again. But AF’s Manchester show deserves a mention, if only for its outstanding quality. I’d fretted about the venue beforehand; the aircraft hanger masquerading as a music arena known as the MEN. It’s the biggest indoor site the band have ever played, as far away from the intimacy of the St. John’s gigs as you could possibly get and I couldn’t help but fear that even their inimitable energy would falter in the sheer vastness of the place. But yet again, they defied expectations by putting on a performance that commanded the attention of the whole of that oversized shed; a performance that wasn’t short of a few treats for us longstanding obsessives either. If the swirling minor chord arpeggios of the exceedingly rarely-played I’m Sleeping In A Submarine wasn’t enough of a surprise, then to follow up with the sublime, achingly beautiful In The Backseat was actually mind-blowing.

An appearance from Windowsill with a beautifully nuanced new arrangement was another unexpected highlight, but Ocean Of Noise was a step too far, resulting in the set sagging under the weight of too many subdued songs. A blinding Tunnels thankfully readdressed the balanced before the band unveiled the final shock of the night- a never-played-before cover of the Smiths “Still Ill,” which went down rather well with the Mancunian crowd. From then on, it was par for the course for the band, although that’s certainly not to be scoffed at. The perpetually brilliant double-whammy of Power Out and Rebellion wrapped up the main body of the show, and a mind-blowingly euphoric Wake Up, complete with 14,000 backing singers, was a perfectly unforgettable end to one of the better AF show’s I’ve seen.



Then off to Cardiff to a venue less than half the size of MEN; alas, the increased intimacy you’d think would result from the smaller audience didn’t manifest itself as much as I’d hoped. Some of the songs also lacked the vibrancy of the Saturday show (Power Out->Rebellion especially), although the setlist was the most interesting I’ve seen in a long while, starting for the first time ever with Ocean of Noise segueing into Tunnels (an intriguing, if not entirely successful experiment.) Mightily impressed with the audience though; energetic without being violent, it meant that despite the inferior showing by the band, it was actually more fun than Manchester. Cover of the night was an inspired take on the Violent Femme’s Kiss Off, delivered with brooding pipe organ by Win.

(Photos courtesy of: Greenbrightly (Flickr) and Moon (UKK))

AMIINA (London Bush Hall, 25/10/07)

Sandwiched between the high-energy mayhem of LCD Soundsystem and Arcade Fire, Amiina are definitely the black sheep of this week’s gig schedule. As far removed from roof-raising anthemics and irresistible punk-funk grooves as you can possibly get, the all-female Icelandic quartet may not occupy quite the same league of brilliance as those two rabble-raisers, but what last night’s masterful performance lacked in epiphenal moments, it more than made up with sheer loveliness.

Doubling as Sigur Ros’ touring string section, Amiina occupy a similar musical space to that most magnificent act, the otherworldly beauty of Iceland reflected in both band’s melodies and arrangements. But whilst Sigur Ros specialise in stately, glacial beauty, all soft-loud dynamics and sweeping orchestral soundscapes, Amiina strike a more parochial note. Typified by an mellow, almost child-like charm, their organic timbres, heavy use of glockenspiel and rhythmic precision are more akin to Efterklang or the works of Joe Hisashi than the bombast of their parent band. Always ardent multi-instrumentalists, they’ve added even more to the mix this time round; harps, mandolins, bowed glockenspiels and accordions nestling with the requisite strings, wine glasses and most strikingly, the saw played to such great effect by the astonishingly lovely Hildur Ársælsdóttir. Sexfaldur, its strings replaced with lo-fi keyboard was wonderful, but Seoul with its gorgeous melodic bells and the aforementioned saw was the highpoint of the set, the addition of a live drummer accentuating the mood far better than an iMac could ever do.



A couple of songs went on too long, or were too aimless or understated for their own good, but they’ve become a lot better at reining things in over the last couple of years. Indeed, it’s notable how much they’ve improved as performers since I first saw them in March 2006; although they still come across like giggling teenagers performing at a school recital, they’re now more confident in their musicianship. And they’re as charming as ever, their wonderfully lilting Icelandic accents bringing a smile to everyone’s face and their utter bewilderment at someone randomly shouting “SIT DOWN YOU BASTARD!” reducing the audience into fits of giggles. Brilliant choice of venue too; the ornate, intimate environs of Bush Hall fitting their delightful pixie-music like a glove.



It’s almost a shame they’re so closely associated with Sigur Ros, as their lack of big-hitters like Glosoli or Olsen Olsen tend to cloud the fact that Amiina’s charm lies in their subtlety. They’re not into jaw-dropping epics or crafting anthems for the ages; indeed, they’re almost quaint in comparison to their better-known brethren. But on the strength of performances like this, it surely won’t be long before Amiina are recognised as a gem of an act in their own right.

(Photos: John Gleeson; SquashFish (Flickr))

LCD Soundsystem (Brixton Academy, 23/10/07)

James Murphy isn’t the type to faff about. The LCD Soundsystem live show isn’t an orgy of razzmatazz and special effects; indeed, apart from your standard coloured spotlights and the lightbulb strips adorning the back of the stage, there’s no real visual aspect at all. It’s not a show that centres inexorably around its frontman either; Murphy unostentatiously dances his way a round the stage and acts the conductor to his band, but otherwise cuts a surprisingly anonymous figure. LCD:SS is purely about the music, and on those terms it delivered perfectly.

A set geared heavily towards critically-acclaimed sophomore LP Sound of Silver, Murphy and his impressively tight musical unit provide 90 minutes of relentless, wonderfully vibrant indie-disco bursting from the seems with addictive basslines, Stax-esque funk-guitar, mesmerising drumming and endlessly repeated but eminently memorable lyrics. In line with their no-nonsense policy, they open with the monstrous, cowbell-intensive Us Vs. Them, getting the audience utterly on side from the get-go. By the time we got to a brilliant North American Scum, Brixton Academy was a sea of flailing bodies being moshed about the venue like oversized, sweat-drenched pinballs. All Our Friends was a jangly delight, and Yeah! lived up to its reputation as a live classic, veering from LCD’s standard pumped-up electronica to outright rock territory. If Someone Great was a conspicuous disappointment, oddly lacking spark, then closer New York I Love You more than made up for it, the new album’s sole ballad inspiring an unusual hybrid of lighter-waving and crowd-surfing amongst some of the more over-excitable fans (which admittedly, by that stage, was half the audience).



One could complain that the songs didn’t vary overmuch from their recorded incarnations, but with LCD’s oeuvre very geared towards a “get up and dance” mentality, they’re intrinsically arranged to work well in a live setting. What sometimes seems overlong and repetitive on record finds its natural home in a room full of 4000 dancing maniacs; as good as their albums are, LCD Soundsystem are truly a band meant to be experienced in the flesh. You won’t walk away gabbling about Murphy's peerless audience interaction, or the jaw-dropping pyrotechnics (mainly because you’ll be too knackered to move of your own volition) but you'll have had way too much fun to care.

Les Savy Fav (London Scala, 22/10/07)

Tim Harrington is, quite simply, a God amongst men. A huge bear of a man, bald of head but impressive of beard, a cross between an imperious Russian Tsar and a genial hobo, Les Savy Fav’s near-legendary frontman makes Gogol Bordello’s Eugene Hutz look like Menzies Campbell. In a show chock-full of memorable moments, including dozens of jaunts into the audience, the dry-humping of a stage-diver, constant on-stage costume changes (culminating in a ladies’ nightie for the encore) and a sit-down in the middle of the Scala whilst the crowd moshed around him, it was Tim’s climb up the speaker-stack onto the balcony, and subsequent dangling backwards off said balcony that stands out as the single most stupid/brilliant thing I’ve ever seen anyone do during a gig. This reckless abandon contrasts beautifully with his band’s unflappable professionalism- the music, inevitably, is almost a secondary concern to Harrington’s crazed antics but LSF’s punk-flavoured, incongruously erudite indie-rock would be more than enough to carry the show on its own. The Pixies-ish chugging basslines and melodic, angular guitar survived the disappointingly muffled sound mix; the vocals, alas, were somewhat swamped by the sheer volume of the rhythm section.



But no matter- this did fuck-all to quench the enthusiasm of the audience, which almost matched Tim’s own. From start to finish the Scala was a mass of seething bodies; it’s certainly the sweatiest, most intense show I’ve been to in ages and rounding it off with a full-scale stage invasion seemed perfectly fitting. My lack of prior knowledge about the band perhaps prevented me from appreciating the songs as much as I might have done but even so, Les Savy Fav stand as a textbook example of how to put on one hell of a live show.

(Photos: Thefracturedframe (Flickr))

THE OUTSIDE ROYALTY (London Dublin Castle, 13/10/07)

After months of every man and his dog recommending them to me, I finally got round to catching the much-tipped (and inexplicably unsigned) American six-piece The Outside Royalty. Sounding like the love-child of Arcade Fire and Pulp, they can’t claim to be in the same league as those two behemoths of musical splendour, but there’s a definite sense of occasion about their shows, a feeling that this is a band that’s going places. And for good reason too- armed with an impressive collection of synth-and-strings drenched indie pop, they’re a band that know how to craft a sterling tune. More striking still is their charisma; engaging without being cocky and instilling their performance with a real fervent energy, they keep the audience’s attention for the entirety of their short-but-sweet set. But their greatest asset is their musical proficiency- Adam Billing is a characterful vocalist, with more than a hint of Brandon Flowers about him, but it’s their eccentric drummer and luscious strings (impeccably mixed in this tiny Camden boozer) that bring the songs to life, most notably on their debut single ‘Palladium’.



Nonetheless, there’s still some room for improvement; their song structure is too straight-laced to truly take advantage of their arresting talent and the arrangements, superbly balanced as they are, show a similar lack of creativity. But if they manage to inject a little more excitement into their songwriting, I genuinely think The Outside Royalty could be unstoppable. Any band that can deliver a cover of Eleanor Rigby (AF-gone-punk stylee) that’s been spoken in the same breath as the original are obviously something special…

(Photos: Simonse15 (flickr), from their Islington Academy show)

BATTLES (London Koko, 11/10/07)

One of 2007’s most exciting and original bands, Battles have garnered a formidable (and well deserved) reputation for their stunning live shows. Huddled round the hulking figure of ubermensch drummer John Stanier, their idiosyncratic blend of jazz rhythms, tech-metal, electronica and straight-out rock are delivered with the energy of a small nuclear bomb. Crazy-haired Tyondai Williams provides vocals (and the occasional burst of beatboxing) whilst playing simultaneously taking on guitar and keys, Dave Konopka lays down the bass and plays havoc with the effects pedals, Ian Williams’ pips in with anarchic rubato synths but it’s Stanier’s relentless, unnaturally precise drumming that lies at the heart of their avant-garde chaos. Blessed with an nigh-on perfect sense of timing, the band shift tempo and time-signatures with effortless ease, delivering intricate rhythms via a complex interplay between all four band members. The sheer level of instrumental proficiency is quite astonishing to behold, especially when coupled to the extraordinary viscerality of their performance.

Unfortunately, it’s this faultless technical pizzazz that’s also the reason why this performance (the third time I’ve seen them) couldn’t quite reach the heady heights of their mind-blowing show at the Scala in May. They’re such a tight unit, with such meticulous attention to detail that there’s no room for spontaneity; things that left you open-mouthed with wonder first time round lack the same punch on repeated viewings. Although their intensity and skill are beyond question, it’s a shame there’s not more variety between their sets. Also, their deliberate avoidance of melody and occasional forays into the dark depths of self-indulgence makes some stretches unnecessarily hard-going.

Saying that, all criticism was rendered mute in the face of the mighty Atlas; its relentless glam drum-line, Animal Collective-esque vocodered chorus and madly infectious syncopated guitar driving incessantly into the audience’s consciousness. Propelled with enough energy to power half of Africa, the entire Koko found itself bouncing up and down to this most unlikely of anthems, its eardrum-bursting, ground-shuddering intensity lending to an utterly sublime nine minutes of live music. If the rest of the show had maintained that lofty standard, Battles would quite possibly be the best live band in the world. They didn’t, of course, but for a band that so easily could have been insufferably pretentious on stage, they put on a truly marvellous spectacle, and one that’s thoroughly recommended for all lovers of live music.

Oh, and lest I forget- almost as impressive were their opening act Parts and Labor. Combining the blindingly intense math-rock of 65daysofstatic with the melodic nous of Menomena and a touch of Ratatat-style guitar, what the Brooklyn 3-piece may have lacked in the variety stakes they made up with a performance that’d put half the bands I’ve paid to see to shame. A glorious racket if ever heard one, they’re a band that I’d love to see get the acclaim they deserve.

STARS (London Scala, 08/10/07)

With Feist’s soulful folk, K-OS’s inventive hip-hop and Metric’s frenzied disco-punk (not to mention hipster totem Broken Social Scene) on their formidable roster, Canada’s Arts and Crafts label has an enviable reputation for indie talent. Stars perhaps lack the creativity and consistency of their esteemed labelmates, but for sheer passion they’re up there with the best. Now on their fourth album, their warm, lush orchestration and earnestly emotional songwriting sometimes leans too close to outright cheesiness, but more often than not they succeed in crafting songs both beautiful and vital.



In many ways, their live show recalls the superb Hold Steady - you can’t help but think they’re getting a bit old for all that rock-star posturing, but they’re so charmingly enthusiastic it’s impossible not to get swept along. The vocals may have a wispy, delicate quality (a situation not helped by the Scala’s echoey sound) but their performance was anything but, with Amy Milian rocking out at every opportunity and Torquil Campbell bounding round the stage with child-like glee. Trumpet and flute were deployed with marvellous effect, and their killer rhythm section deserve much credit for driving the show along with such elan. The rollocking, proggy Set Yourself On Fire, the delectable power-pop of Ageless Beauty and a wonderful singalong One More Night couldn’t help but delight a reverential audience, but the highpoint was an outstanding rendition of Soft Revolution, performed with a brash, multi-layered sonic intensity that’d put BSS to shame. The set did noticably dip in the middle with a surfeit of slower tracks, but they soon regained a heady momentum that carried them through to the end.



Concluding with Calender Girl, with its simple, almost child-like refrain of the months of the year, they wound up their last show of the European tour with all the energy and passion they could muster- Torquil screaming his heart out on the edge of the stage, completely unamplified; Amy grinding away at her guitar, their drummer dispensing flowers and their setlists (scrawled on paper plates) to the ladies at the front, patting me on the back and thanking me for coming. Their genuine, unashamed love of performing, in an age where poseur cool is held in such high regard is oddly touching and to marry it to such musical proficiency resulted in a fantastic experience for all present. Their recorded work might split critical opinion, but there’s no doubting that as live performers, Stars truly sparkle.

(Photos by: me. I was pretty close to the stage...)

THE NEW PORNOGRAPHERS (London Koko, 04/10/07)

The New Pornographers are not, by any measure, an amazing live band. They won’t stun you with their remarkable musicianship or innovative live arrangements. They won’t leave you marvelling at their sharp, Wildean banter, nor sweep their audience away in a near-religious rapture. But, if you accept the fact that they won’t change your life, they’re still a dependably fun night out.

Taking the ‘simple-and-loud’ approach to their repertoire, their songs don’t differ in any appreciable way to their recorded versions except, perhaps, the volume, which is uniformly loud and cheerfully unsubtle. AC Newman, the band’s talented but static frontman initially sounds like he’s singing with a sock in his mouth, thanks to the Koko’s suspect acoustics but things quickly improve for what is a polished, if unadventurous reel through the hits. Their superior power-pop carried well in a setlist well-balanced between material from new album Challengers and classics like From Blown Speakers and A Testament To Youth In Verse, but what made the show better than the sum of its parts was the audience. With an admirable lack of hipster reserve, the crowd happily bopped and sang along to Newman’s famously unintelligible lyrics, and the fantastic Bleeding Hearts Show unexpectedly got the whole venue moving. Finishing on the brash and bouncy My Slow Descent Into Alcoholism ensured the show ended on a high and even though no single moment came close to genuine brilliance, it seemed everyone left with a smile on their face. Which is something you need from time to time.



Oh, and Newman’s niece/keyboardist is cute as a button. Probably should stop leching over members of Canadian indie bands, ahem...

THE HANDSOME FURS (London The Fly, 06/10/07)


They cancelled because of visa problems, so I went home and drowned my sorrows in cheesecake.

THE DECEMBERISTS (Royal Festival Hall, 02/10/07)


Sets heavy with B-sides and rarities are often a recipe for disaster, but Portland’s favourite sons The Decemberists carried off a performance peppered with the more obscure tracks from their back catalogue with commendable panache. It helps that their literate sea-shanties and Tim Burton-esque gothic ballads don’t lend themselves to crowd-pleasing singles in any case (although O Valencia! naturally made an appearance) but to begin a headline show like this with the 18-minute, EP-only epic “The Tain” nevertheless displayed a certain testicular fortitude. It was a ploy that worked- many of the best moments came from relative obscurities like After the Bombs and the Culling of the Fold, although it goes without saying that the Crane Wife Pt. 1 (with audible glockenspiel!) was the show’s lusciously beautiful highlight. Colin Meloy’s a genial, engaging frontman and a fine raconteur to boot, despite his geeky demeanour and his acute case of Wayne Coyne Syndrome (which renders him incapable of shutting up). His earnest, folsky croon is an acquired taste, but it fits his music like a glove and carried well in the stylish environs of the Royal Festival Hall. The rest of his compatriots are a fun, energetic and talented bunch, most notably Jenny Conlee, whose sumptuous wurlitzer and accordion stylings recalled Sunset Rubdown at their crazed carnival best.



But despite the show’s many qualities, I couldn’t help but think that the band tended to play it too safe, often to the point of staidness. The fully-seated venue and the fusty, impassive audience scuttled Meloy’s unashamed love of audience participation (except for superb set closer The Mariner’s Revenger, where he implored the audience to scream as if they were collectively being eaten by a giant shark) and though the acoustics were hard to fault, the band didn’t really add new musical elements to the mix. As a result, it was hard to fault as a rendition of their recorded work (and you can’t knock them for effort), but for an so act defined by their characteristic sense of lyrical drama, one would have hoped for something more. Great fun, but a missed opportunity nonetheless.

JOANNA NEWSOM (Royal Albert Hall, 28/09/07)


For the consummate gig-goer, there’s nothing as satisfying as going to a show you’ve been ambivalent about and being completely blown away. Some of the best shows I’ve ever been to have come entirely out of the blue - Feist, Martha Wainwright, Battles, Built To Spill - but Friday night’s performance by oddball harpist extraordinaire Joanna Newsom has to rank as the most delightful surprise of them all. Indeed, if it hadn’t been for the slightly underwhelming encore, it might very well have been my show of the year.

There are a couple of reasons I’d had doubts about the gig. Firstly was the venue. As venerable and impressive as the Royal Albert Hall undoubtedly is, Modest Mouse’s performance there was wrecked by muffled, atrociously mixed sound and I was concerned, given that this was a seated show, that the same issues would once again conspire to ruin my enjoyment. Secondly, was the curious Miss Newsom herself. Although evidently talented, eccentric and more than a little bit attractive, I tended to feel that I liked her more in theory than in practice. The obvious sticking point is that unique voice of hers, which, depending on your point of view is either delightfully idiosyncratic, or a unpalatably screechy abomination. I generally find that she tends to veer between the two; sometimes enchanting, sometimes unlistenable. And thirdly was the fact I hadn’t listened to the most recent album Ys very much, even though I knew it’d form the majority of the set.



Thankfully, my worries proved to be unfounded. The sound, even from my distant vantage point, was flawless. Her voice, shorn of its characteristic shrillness, filled the rafters with an almost otherworldly air. And the music proved to be so enrapturing that even without knowing the songs I found myself falling head-over-heels in love. Although the lush orchestrated arrangements of Ys (courtesy of Brian Wilson collaborator Van Dyke Parks) are replaced with a violin, mandolin and drums, this simpler approach is a masterstroke, enhancing but never overwhelming the centerpiece harp. It also gives the music a greater sense of honesty and subtlety, which only accentuates the beauty of the compositions; indeed, Emily and Bridges & Balloons moved me to the point of tears. And Joanna herself wasn’t the gratingly kooky hippie I imagined her to be; to the contrary, she’s down-to-earth, charming and effortlessly engaging (not to mention insanely cute), at one part asking her support band to grab her mobile phone from backstage so she could take some snaps of the audience. It’s incredibly rare that all the elements of a show fit together with such perfection, but it’s hard to deny this deny this was one of those nights.

But as is the unfortunate tendency of all the best gigs, the encore didn’t live up to the rest of the show. Her new song was lovely, but Only Skin struck me as overlong and too avant-garde to be a satisfying closer; This Side of The Blue would have grabbed the audience far more effectively. That said, it didn’t stop her getting the full-scale standing ovation she so richly deserved, nor did it do anything to dissuade me that Joanna Newsom is one of the most original and astonishing talents alive today. A five star show if there ever was one.

(Photos courtesy of Robocod and Schrollum, Flickr. Nice work!)

FEIST (Shepherd's Bush Empire, 24/09/07)


It’s a brave artist who dispatches her best-known tune only two songs into their set and what’s more, plays it solo. But Canadian songstress and Broken Social Scene collaborator Lesley Feist carried off her stripped-down rendition of Mushaboom with aplomb, making up for the instrumental deficiency with sheer charisma. Although somewhat dwarfed by the Shepherd’s Bush stage (she’s realllllly little), within that tiny frame lies enough charm to win over the most hardened of hearts; more importantly she has the songs to back it up, despite their propensity to appear in every ad campaign on God’s earth.

Her voice may not be as rich or unique as some of her peers, and her tendency to fumble shifts between registers robs it of true excellence, but there’s a husky, soulful quality there that recalls less manic-depressive Chan Marshall. What’s more striking is her vivaciousness in both vocals and manner- she’s a natural performer who gives her all on stage, but takes care to not take herself too seriously. Not afraid to indulge in banter, including the brilliant exchange:

FEIST: This is the part of the show where I get to know the audience.
AUDIENCE MEMBER (shouts): We’re all single!

she even finds room to fit an wonderfully elaborate marriage proposal into the set. (Story goes, Feist asks whether there were any “mean piano players” in the audience, making it out as if was something she did at every show; Chinese guy comes on stage, blows everyone away with a virtuoso piano display and promptly pops the question to his girlfriend. Everyone cheers, massive round of applause – the lady in question, of course, said yes.)



None of this would have mattered if the performance itself hadn’t been up to scratch, but true to form, she produced an fantastic set full of exuberance and vitality. Although her slower tracks occasionally lacked spark the general quality was superb, Feist infusing her songs with a genuine passion sometimes absent in her recorded stuff. This was only enhanced by her talented backing band who deftly provided her songs with the evocative arrangements they deserved but were professional enough to stay out of the limelight. If there was one point of criticism however, it would have been the questionable decision to wrap proceedings up with ‘Let It Die’. As fine a song as that is, it was a peculiarly subdued note to end on given how upbeat the rest of the set was; the stunning soulful exuberance of 'Sealion' or the sublime sing-a-long '1-2-3-4' would have been far more fitting. But that couldn’t spoil what was an otherwise marvellous night, showcasing one of the music scene’s most magnetic singers this side of the Wainwrights. Ubiquitous she might be but on the strength of this, who’s complaining?

ARCHITECTURE IN HELSINKI (London Koko, 10/09/07)



Sometimes less is just less. Having discarded their lorry-load of instruments and two members since their last album, hyperactive Australians Architecture in Helsinki have struggled to capture the madcap brilliance of their previous work. Whilst their Leeds show in 2005 was an absolute blinder, their effort at KCLSU in June was an upsettingly bland affair, shorn of the creativity and child-like joy of old. However, I was willing to give them another chance, and I have to say things have got better, if not as much as once could have hoped.

The first third of the set didn't bode well, relying too much on new material with lusterless results. Sure, they’re more proficient musicians nowadays, but compared to the idiosyncratic, wonderfully creative old-style shows with their constant instrument swapping and huge range of sounds they couldn’t help but seem a little dreary with their uninspired new set-up. Thankfully about the 25-minute mark they suddenly found their groove, loosened up a bit and started to channel the screwball spirit of old-school AiH, to the benefit of all concerned. Frontman Cameron Bird, prone to taking himself far too seriously actually engaged in banter with the audience, the band started to look like they were enjoying themselves and they unleashed the songs everyone wanted to hear- Frenchy I’m Faking, It 5, The Cemetery and a completely mental Nevereverdid, which happily erased memories of the lacklustre rendition a few months back. If only they hadn’t gutted their centrepiece single Do The Whirlwind, replacing its fantastic singalong outro (one of my all-time gig highlights when they played it in ’05) with an instrumental jam, completely killing the excellent atmosphere in the process. Coming so precariously close to snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, they managed to finish on a high with the marvellous Heart It Races, which got everyone singing along to its stupidly infectious chant of “BOOM-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA-DA, BOOM-DA-DA-DA-DA!” If only all their new songs were so gleeful, then AiH would still be unmissable. As it stands now, they’re merely enjoyable, nothing more.

REGINA SPEKTOR (Royal Festival Hall, 07/09/07)



Irreverently eschewing the down-and-dirty realism of trad folk for a more whimsical perspective on life, Regina Spektor is the foremost representative the burgeoning anti-folk movement. Her natural charm and literate, off-kilter style are enough to merit attention on their own, but it’s that astonishing voice, blessed with both enviable range and incredible flexibility that marks her out as one of the shining lights of contemporary singer-songwriting. Accentuating her New Yorker drawl for the rollicking numbers or playing up her roots for her more Russian-influenced work; hitting angelic high notes with cut-glass clarity or punctuating melodies with guttural vocal tics- it’s a voice that has more dimensions and character than almost any other songstress one could care to name.

It’s a versatility that’s finely complimented by the variety of her material. Skewed, but acutely personal, offbeat but not abstract, her lyrics are a world away from the over-earnest hogwash of Katie Melua or James Blunt. Poignant ballads like Samson intermingle with surreally comic romps like Baby Jesus; the charming Ghosts of Corporate Future manages to be both funny and oddly touching, whilst the Slavic drama of Apres Moi is as dark and forbidding as Siberian winter. The ultra-polished production of most recent album “Begin To Hope” is stripped away by the minimalist set-up of grand piano and singer; the multi-layered instrumentation giving way to inventive arrangements and creative vocalisations, and even her string-driven masterpiece Us loses little of its beauty in a bare bones rendition. There are times that she skirts dangerously close to the abyss of self-conscious kookiness, perhaps appending an incongruous scat-line or vocal eccentricity when simplicity would have worked better but one can forgive her these occasional indulgences when the vast majority is of such consistently high quality. There's no denying her quirkiness may not appeal to everyone, but for the rest of us, Regina’s the best thing to come out of Russia since Smirnoff.

BROKEN SOCIAL SCENE (London Scala, 05/09/07)


When I first saw Canadian indie collective Broken Social Scene in 2006, I described their set as '10% pretentious nonsense, 60% goodness, 30% pure brilliance'. Fast-forward to September 2007, when the much-reduced band returned to these fair isles to support Kevin Drew’s new disc “Spirit If…,” and one finds that the proportions have now shifted to ‘10% mild brilliance, 50% goodness, 40% Kevin chatting utter bollocks.’

Which is a shame, as it started off very well indeed. The first few songs were the same fuzzy, dense indie pop that old-school BSS made their own, but punchier and more focused than before. This shift in songwriting seems to reflect the slimmed down line-up (only 6 members, no Arts and Crafts ladies and no strings or brass), and in many ways it’s a good move; the self-indulgent tendencies that marred some of their older work has been excised. But they’re obviously not all that comfortable with the material yet and the set took a notable dive when Brendan Canning's mic failed during his turn in the spotlight. This knock seemed to affect their confidence and didn't really recover their form until near the end, when they finally wheeled out the hits (Lover's Spit, Superconnected, Major Label Debut (Fast Version)). Kevin’s nervousness was written all over the performance; he kept babbling about being under 'no pressure' and as the night progressed and increasing volumes of alcohol were imbibed, he became even less coherent, spouting rubbish when they could have been playing songs. And even though he kept on talking about the need to do different things, the band actually looked happiest and most animated when playing the classics- a feeling emphatically shared by the audience. One suspects that if they worked out a superior balance of old and new material, the quality of the set would improve dramatically- not to knock Spirit If…, but generally fans will respond more positively to new stuff if it’s interspersed with stuff they can sing along to.

So ultimately this comeback proved to be a bit of a damp squib; we all knew it was never going to compare with the legendary shows of old but nonetheless it could, and should’ve been better. Still, if they can get their performance to match the quality of their heckler responses (inviting the offender up on stage to waltz!) then there’s no reason that BSS-Lite has to remain in the shadow of its bigger, brasher parent. But make no mistake- there’s a lot of work to be done.

ST. VINCENT (London 229 Bar, 04/09/07)


Having donned multi-coloured robes with the Polyphonic Spree, toured as part of Sufjan Steven’s backing band and opened for Arcade Fire on their last American tour, Annie Clark is no stranger to top-quality music. Finally striking out on her own under the monicker ‘St. Vincent’, her recently released debut LP “Marry Me” has garnered critical acclaim with songwriting that combines the quirky charm of Regina Spektor with an ambitious degree of eclecticism. Her live performance shows another side to Miss Clark; although she has a wide range of instruments on record, at the 229 she had nothing but an electric guitar, one of those hi-tech drum panel things and a few effects pedals to support her. As a result, the show tended towards the experimental and to be honest, some of it didn’t quite work- there were more than a few occasions where one felt that, despite her ingenuity, her songs would be better served with backing musicians. But the majority was impressively well done- at one point she appended an unexpected post-rock outro to one of her songs with marvellous effect, her guitar work was inventive and her vocals were unimpeachable (although far too low in the mix at times). Disappointing that there was no room to fit the sublime 'Marry Me' into the short (45 minute) set, but her effortless charm made it easy to forgive the sad oversight. Hopefully she’ll find room for it when she supports the National in November; it’d be nice if she’d also pick up a band on the way.

THE POLYPHONIC SPREE (London Astoria, 03/09/07)



In the far off mists of 2004, a younger, slimmer, more financially responsible me first witnessed the wondrous Polyphonic Spree in concert; an event that instigated the gig obsession that’s been the bane of my bank account ever since. So, when I found out they were touring again after a two-year hiatus, I jumped at the chance to check them out. Fears that Tim DeLaughter’s technicolour mob (now shorn down to a mere 18 members) would have lost their euphoric edge immediately proved unfounded- even though the robes of old have given way to cod-military uniforms and their new material is tinged with hints of darkness.

Like the equally brilliant I’m From Barcelona, the Spree are essentially a one-note band; happy-clappy melodies, grandoise orchestration (including a string quartet, a full brass section, two drum kits and a harp) and a judicious use of confetti but they’re such unadulterated fun it’s not an issue. Introduced by a Brian Blessed lookalike bellowing bad poetry at the audience, The Fragile Army launched straight into fantastic new single “Running Away,” the first of many of the tracks played from the new album. The quality of the material was generally excellent (if a bit repetitive) but a couple of tracks were less than stellar- luckily, for every duff new song, there was a classic from the back catalogue to make up for it. The sublime It’s The Sun provided the evening’s most glorious movement, transforming from an acoustic campfire ballad into, well, a polyphonic spree but Soldier Girl, with a fittingly militaristic makeover, gave it a run for its money.

The encore saw the band march through the audience (both on the balcony and through the stalls) clad in the classic white robes of yore before treating us to the anthemic Light And Day. But it was their inspired cover of Nirvana’s Lithium that really got the audience going, the whole venue transforming into one big happy mosh-pit. Shame they almost ruined things by going off on a self-indulgent tangent with half-arsed attempts at audience participation and uncomfortable, rambling speeches by DeLaughter but they redeemed themselves by ending on an impromptu rendition of Tripping Daisy’s ‘Sonic Bloom’, a gesture much appreciated by the more zealous amongst the faithful. As delightfully choreographed as the rest of the show was, it was a spontaneous moment like that that, for me, underlined the Spree’s reputation as the happiest band on Earth.

Support came from Ox.Eagle.Lion.Man, whose dreadful monicker belied a band that actually had some decent melodies under its belt. However, their musical prowess was somewhat overshadowed by the fact they had one of the most ludicrous frontmen I’ve ever seen; the bastard lovechild of Jarvis Cocker and Alan Partridge. One of the more interesting supports I’ve seen in a while…

SONGS I'M LIKING AT THE MOMENT



Animal Collective – Peacebone
Typically a beret-wearing, chin-stroking band of the highest order, critically-divisive noisemakers Animal Collective have finally made an song that, whilst still very pretentious, is nonetheless rather excellent. A kaleidoscope of electronic loops, Speak-And-Spell vocals and squelchy synths, Peacebone might be best described as the Go! Team as imagined by David Lynch. The initial lack of rhyme, reason or any modicum of sanity can be off-putting, but the disparate elements eventually coalesce into something with a certain off-kilter logic to it. And importantly, it recognises it’s own ludicrousness; it’s basically a novelty track (albeit a very cleverly constructed one) and it doesn’t pretend to be any more than that. Decidedly odd, but strangely addictive.

Arcade Fire – Maps
My favourite band covers Yeah Yeah Yeah’s modern classic. Less abrasive and rocky than Karen O, Regine Chassigne’s French lilt is the perfect match for the subtle, reserved folky-orchestral arrangement, and the instrumentation is just as awesome as you’d expect from the Arcade Fire. Easily on par with their Talking Heads cover they did back in ’05.

Beirut – In The Mausoleum
Pasty-faced wunderkind Zach Condon’s new LP “The Flying Cup Club” may have sidelined the Balkan sound of his critically-acclaimed debut for a more Parisien vibe, but his glorious folk is no less infectious for it. His arch vocals may be an acquired taste but the ukuleles, horns and fiddles that adorn his melodies are as irresistible as ever. The brilliant ‘Nantes’ is getting all the plaudits at the moment, but I personally have a soft spot for the Yann Tiersen-meets-Sufjan Stevens sound of ‘In The Mausoleum’, a song that mixes evocative Gallic influences with wonderful Arabic-tinged strings courtesy of Owen “Final Fantasy” Pallett.

Efterklang – Towards The Bare Hill
Obscure Danish post-rock may not sound like the most enticing prospect in the world, but Efterklang are one of the more intriguing bands I’ve discovered this year. If Sigur Ros swapped glacial majesty for deep wooded valleys, they might come up with something like Towards The Bare Hill, a song whose pizzicato violins, earthy percussion and xylophones strike out exquisitely complex, perfectly timed rhythms like an organic piece of clockwork. Married to traditional Scandanavian choral vocals and ultra-lo-fi production, it’s a unusual and atmospheric work that one could imagine scoring a ‘forest spirit’ scene in a Miyazaki film.

The Polyphonic Spree – Running Away
The multi-coloured robes may have given way to military garb, but Tim DeLaughter’s musical army still know how to craft an effervescent pop gem.
If you’ve heard any of their stuff before you’ll know what to expect; happy-clappy melodies, trippy lyrics and a hell of a lot of instruments, but unlike the overly indulgent sophomore album, they’ve realised this stuff is best in small doses and have accordingly compressed sixteen metric tonnes of joy into four glorious minutes. Not as essential as Soldier Girl perhaps, but a welcome return to form nevertheless.

Sunset Rubdown – Up On Your Leopard
The pinnacle of that incestuous Canadian music collective consisting of such indie luminaries as Wolf Parade, Frog Eyes, Swan Lake and the Handsome Furs, Spencer Krug follows his sublime masterpiece “Shut Up I Am Dreaming” with “Random Spirit Lover,” an album that owes as much to Frog Eyes’ wild-eyed mania as the dense, keyboard-heavy sound of his previous work. The highlight is the fantastically named ‘Up On Your Leopard’, chock-full of demented sea-shanty accordians, mystical fairy-tale lyrics and a dramatic baroque sensibility that makes Arcade Fire look like Arctic Monkeys. The waltz that forms the latter half of the song is classic Krug; wilfully uncool, slightly unhinged but singularly catchy at the same time. Outstanding.

RILO KILEY (Islington Academy, 20/08/07)



I first saw alt-country outfit Rilo Kiley back in 2005, when they were touring More Adventurous. They were good fun, I enjoyed the show but it wasn't exactly amazing. I've not heard their new disc, “Under The Backlight” yet, but their move towards straightforward indie-pop hasn’t exactly been received well by their long-established fan base (although it has been getting decent reviews in the mainstream press). As a result, it came as a bit of a shock to me that Monday's show at the Islington Academy was one of the best I've seen all year.

I can definitely see how the new material may sound cheesy on record; the lyrical excellence of their earlier work has given way to a focus on catchy melodies and basslines, but combined with Jenny Lewis' natural redheaded awesomeness and a tight-as-fuck band it worked fantastically live. Adding two new members was a great call; the extra keyboards, flourishes of brass and backing vocals added so much and let's face it, they were pretty damn attractive too. The funk-inspired basslines and preponderance of wah-wah peddles assuaged my concerns about the sub-par lyrics of the new songs, and the sound quality was near-flawless; bloody loud but almost perfectly mixed (Jenny's guitar was occasionally too low in the mix, but it's the most minor of quibbles). And they played all my favourite tracks from More Adventurous; Portions For Foxes was naturally brilliant, Does He Love You was as intense as ever but my personal highpoint came when Blake Sennett and the bassist treated us to a delightful rendition of Ripchord on ukulele and mandolin. Insofar that this was a performance by a band that I like but don't love, it's hard to find fault in it and it proved to me that a superb show by a good band is just so much more satisfying than a merely good show by a superb band.

MARTHA WAINWRIGHT (Shepherd’s Bush Empire, 17/08/07)



Has there ever been so much musical talent concentrated in a single genepool as the Wainwright clan? Loudon the Third was once spoken of in the same breath as Bob Dylan, his ex-wife Kate McGarrigle is an Order Of Canada-winning folk singer. Their son Rufus has received the more recent plaudits with his camp Liberace stylings and a superlative taste for showmanship but at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire last Friday, it was finally big sister Martha’s turn in the spotlight. As someone who’d never heard her debut I was concerned that, despite her fine musical pedigree, she would fall into that most accursed of genres: MOR acoustic balladry. There are few things more likely to strike terror into the hearts of man than the prospect of another set full of trite sentiment and strummed melodies as original as your average Quo song, and I’ve suffered quite enough of them in my lifetime. In the event, it turned out that I had nothing to worry about because she was, quite simply, bloody marvellous.

Less extravagant than her sibling, but full of a warm, easy-going charm, Martha’s a naturally engaging character, full of a subtle energy and vivacity that enthuses all she does. In contrast, her lyrics are dark, moody and personal (she dedicates one song to a friend who’d committed suicide) and this clash between her personality and her material creates an emotional intensity that’s even more satisfying than Rufus’ pizzazz. Although her voice may not be as characterful as, say, Regina Spektor’s, what it lacks in idiosyncracity it makes up with a down-to-earth sincerity that’s strong enough to effortlessly carry the 90-minute set. Her backing band skilfully kept the groove going without trying to overshadow the main attraction (as Cat Power’s sessioners so notably failed to do), and the quality of music on offer was only matched by the calibre of the special guests: Pete Townsend and his ivory-tinkling partner Rachel Fuller. As well as backing her for the final songs, they performed a delightful cover of the poignant “It’s A Motherf****r” by Eels, Fuller joking about trying to match Martha’s penchant for profanity before the lady herself delivered a stunning low-key rendition of Bloody Motherf***ing Asshole. Finally, the band and her illustrious friends left the stage to leave her with her soon-to-be-husband Brad, who accompanied her on piano for the last song of the night, the enchanting Dis, Quand-Reviendras-tu. How fitting, I thought, that her show should end as a family affair.