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))