May always seems to be a stupidly good month for shows. In 2006 we had the likes of Okkervil River, Little Man Tate, Fiery Furnaces, The Earlies, Metric, Final Fantasy, The New Pornographers, Jim Noir and Tilly and the Wall gracing the wilds of Yorkshire, and with me now living in London, the number of bands at my disposal have grown to frankly unwieldy proportions. But eleven shows in eleven days?! ‘Tis madness! But as a man with more disposable income than common sense, I thought, “hey, why the hell not?” Of course, the correct answer is “because it’s fucking knackering and you’ll be broke for the next three months” but I didn’t work that out until it was far too late. But anyhoo…
As a prelude to this insane and rather sad venture, I went to see muchly-hyped New Yorkers Battles at the London Scala. Although not strictly part of “the eleven days“, I mention them as they are doubtlessly the best non-AF live act I’ve seen all year and conclusively proved that “avant-garde” doesn’t have to mean “shit.” Technically, they’re a marvel- no matter how complex or obscure the rhythmic patterns they weave, they never fumble or skip a beat. Their sense of timing is truly impeccable; when need be, they can play with robotic micro-second precision, but when it suits them to be more organic, they slacken the beat for a more chaotic approach that nonetheless fits together in the grand scheme of things. One of their main draws is the versatile and immensely talented Tyondai Braxton, who not only plays guitar and keyboards at the same time but also beatboxes like a pro, but for me, it was all about the legendary John Stanier, who reduced his drumsticks to sawdust with his brutally relentless percussive skills (God, I wish I was half as manly as him). The thing that impressed me most though was that despite their genre-bending creativity and willingness to experiment, they never collapse under the weight of their own self-importance; vitally, unlike so many bands that strive to be ‘original’, Battles remember to be fun.
Continuing the ‘math-rock’ theme, 65daysofstatic have been described as a band that “make Explosions In The Sky look like Cliff Richard,” and on the strength of their Koko show I can’t really argue. Despite a series of support bands so bad I wanted to impale myself on a microphone stand, the headliners turned in an earth-sundering performance that at its best was mindblowing (and eardrum-blowing too- standing next to the speaker stacks is a REALLY BAD IDEA.) Tweaking the traditional post-rock dynamic from “soft->loud” to “loud->louder,” 65dos unleashed an aural assault combining grinding guitars, Aphex-Twin style techno and some astonishingly accomplished drumming with mesmerising results. “Radio Protector” was a definite highlight, with its twinkly pianos adding a bit of character to the bleeps-and-beats backing of most their tracks, but it was the mighty “Retreat! Retreat” that provided the night’s most outstanding moment, delivering the kind of apocalyptic wall-of-noise that compares only to Sigur Ros’ Untitled 8 for sheer sensory overload. Yet sadly, this band isn’t completely unstoppable- they’ve always rated viscerality over variety, and it’s becoming increasingly apparent that they’re running out of ideas. Most of the new tracks seemed to be mere retreads or variations of their previous work, and one senses they don’t really know how to progress their sound any further. Nevertheless, you can’t knock their ability to make one hell of a glorious racket, and that alone makes them a band worth checking out.
By Monday, I felt that going to just one show a day was a bit passé, so I decided that a doubling of my musical intake was essential if were to maintain my sexy-cool image. First off was a free set by “band de jour” The National at Tottenham Court Road FOPP, where we were treated to not only pretty much the whole of ‘Boxer’, but also electrifying renditions of Mr. November and Abel. Matt Berringer may not have been the whisky-sodden, haunted presence that his deep, subtly sardonic baritone would suggest, but his tense body language and moments of anguished passion reflected the pained emotion that drives his music as well as I could‘ve possibly hoped. Perhaps they weren’t entirely at home with all the new material (“Fake Empire” loses some subtlety in both texture and tempo), but the vast majority was fantastically performed- an anthemic rendition “Apartment Story” was particularly blinding. It was a real pleasure to see a group of this quality in such an intimate setting, and with their rapidly rising profile I doubt I'll ever get a chance like this again. One of the top 10 shows of the year, and I didn’t have to pay a penny - BRILLIANT!
Grizzly Bear unfortunately had the bad luck of following three of the best shows I’ve seen all year; despite some excellent moments they didn’t leave all that much of an impression. Their greatest asset is their gorgeous harmonies, on par with anything Brian Wilson ever came up with and this is reflected in their most successful moments, unfortunately the rest of the show never quite sustained the heady heights set by the likes of “Knife” and “He Hit Me.” There was also tendency to let songs go on too long which diminished their impact; a bit of streamlining would have gone a long way. Still- good band, glad I saw them.
The centrepiece show of this week of decadence was (once more) The National, where I was accompanied by ten of the fine people/utter freaks from the Us Kids Know forums. Our mob of AF-lovin’ weirdos seized most of the Astoria’s front barrier, and I managed to acquire a spot just in front of Matt’s microphone stand- needless to say, the view was impeccable. Looking completely taken back by the rapturous reception they got, they overcame their obvious shyness to put on another A-grade show; some of their more reserved moments got lost in the cavernous Astoria and they seemed less assured than the FOPP set but overall it was yet another commanding performance. The definite highlight was the phenomenal Mr. November, where I employed my mighty singing talents (ha ha) by screeching into the mic with my arm round Matt as he leaned over the barrier; once of the all-time great gig moments for me. It’s only a matter of time until the National get the audience they deserve, and even though I was blessed to see them twice in two days, I honestly can’t wait to see them again at Latitude, and their Shepherd’s Bush Empire show in November.
Wednesday was the show I was most looking forward to beforehand, so it was a real shame that Modest Mouse at the Royal Albert Hall was pretty underwhelming. Despite a decent set-list, muddy sound and lack of charisma connived to ruin my enjoyment and their soulless, tepid rendition of “Float On” was frankly unforgivable. A crazy-eyed and slightly sinister Isaac Brock was trying his best, but his manic yelps were drowned out by the dodgy acoustics and inevitably, he found himself overshadowed by his touring partner, the one and only Johnny Marr. A natural showman to his very core, the legendary Smiths guitarist added both style and substance to the proceedings, and rescued from show from utter mediocrity. That said, Black Cadillacs was a lot of fun, and Dashboard (despite the fact you couldn’t hear the horns) is a fine song indeed. Certainly not worth the three years I’ve been waiting to see them, but not a complete loss. Support came courtesy of Billy Childish, a punk poet with a vendetta against Jack White and a history with Tracy Emin and despite anything my more rafter-bound acquaintances may have thought, I have to admit I very much enjoyed his set. Repetitive he may have been, but give me infectious, simplistic garage rock over banal acoustic meanderings or pretentiously dull noise-merchants any day. Plus the man had character, and you gotta respect that.
Built To Spill were one of the week’s most pleasant surprises; despite a host of technical problems and a slightly static on-stage persona, they put on a superb show. Combining your standard American indie-rock with lots of really long guitar solos may seem like the very definition of hell for some, but luckily they’ve got the talent and eye for melody to deftly evade the pitfalls of wanky pretentiousness. Being unaware of much of their back catalogue was no hindrance to my enjoyment of their set, and a sublime rendition of the marvellously jaunty “Conventional Wisdom” had me bouncing up and down like a fucking moron. Their current tour is their first jaunt across the Atlantic since the turn of the Millennium; one sincerely hopes they don’t take that long before coming back again.
By the time we got to The Besnard Lakes on Friday, I must admit I was beginning to flag. Still, their lush 70’s-tinged melodies (and costumes; it was like the last three decades completely passed them by) were most pleasant lullabies for one to doze off to, and album standout “Disaster” was a delight. Lots of entertaining banter with the audience, and an support set from Land Of Talk too, whose song ‘Seaform’ has since been a regular feature of my MP3 playlist. One of the more minor nights of my musical adventure, but a nice one all the same.
On the Saturday, my comrade-in-gigs Amadeep persuaded me to check out Sandro Perri at the Red Rose in Finchley, a venue that had that peculiar musty odour unique to scout huts and similar municipal halls. Unfortunately, due to the vagaries of the London Underground and an late starting time, I only managed to catch half of his set, but what I heard was good- charmingly askew folk with vocals with hints of Rufus Wainwright and Jeff Buckley.
After a well-needed day off my crazy gig schedule on Sunday, I headed once more to FOPP, this time to see Blonde Redhead. “23” is a monumental track, one of my favourites songs of the year but alas, they’re not much to write home about live. To be fair, they were alright- great tunes and all, but they really didn’t have that much personality. Their major fault is that their three member band couldn’t hope to fully replicate the dense, keyboard-heavy sound of the album without heavy reliance on backing tracks, and this essentially rendered them a high-class karaoke band. Which is a shame, because there were isolated moments when you could see there's a far better act buried underneath their uninspiring demeanour. Bit meh, but it was free so hey, can’t really complain.
Luckily, the next day’s gig totally made up for the relative lameness of Blonde Redhead. Imagine if Patrick Wolf teleported back to the 1960’s (nicking Mark Bolan’s wardrobe on the way) and got trapped inside the Beatles film “Yellow Submarine” and you’re halfway to describing the sheer levels of camp on display at Of Montreal’s show at the Cargo. The costumes were truly fantastic, nay, magnificent: quite apart from Kevin Barnes’ glam-rock god look, the guitarist was wearing a glittery gold robe with angel wings and the bassist a delightful mixture of Russian fur hat, velvet jacket and ruffled shirt straight out of Superfly. As the show progressed, Kevin’s clothing become skimpier and skimpier, eventually ending up as a mentally scarring hot-pants and fishnets combo- it was some consolation, however, that he kept these on. And let’s not even get into the extremely trippy projections…let’s just say, NEVER, EVER see this band whilst under the influence of mind-altering substances. They opened with a great rendition “Heimdalsgate Like A Promethean Curse”, but for whatever reason the next few songs lacked a certain je ne sais quoi. But as Kevin ditched the clothes, his performance got more vibrant and luckily, so did the music. The undoubted highpoint was a insanely funky rendition of “She’s A Rejector” which had the whole venue dancing about (and ended with the drummer annihilating his drumkit…), but it did however highlight a flaw that stopped this being one of very best shows of 2007- much of their drumming was pre-recorded. On the plus side, despite their main set overrunning by 15 minutes they still managed to fit in a 4-song encore including “The Party’s Crashing Us” and to my unabashed glee, the fabulous “Wraith Pinned To The Mist.” A glorious, guilty pleasure.
And to wrap things up, who better than utterly fantastic Gypsy Punk mentalists Gogol Bordello? Despite a mediocre venue (the barrier in the Electric Ballroom is a good metre away from the stage), they put on a typically high-energy show that had everyone pogoing from start to finish. Can’t say that it was particularly different to the first two times I saw them, but when you gaze upon a sea of hundreds of gleefully pogoing people, screaming “START WEARING PURPLE!!!” at the top of their voices as a crazy Ukrainian crowd-surfs on top of you, it suppose it doesn’t really matter. Absolutely marvellous fun, and I’m sure they’ll be just as amazing at Glastonbury next week.
And thus endeth my 11 days of giggery. Great times indeed, but don’t think I’ll be doing it again any time soon…:-P
(Photo credits: Battles- Sanjay Mistry; The National- David Emery; NME- Gogol Bordello)
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