Sunday, May 24, 2009
Sunday, May 03, 2009
THE DAN DEACON ENSEMBLE (San Francisco Great American Music Hall, 23/04/09)
DAN! MOTHERFUCKING! DEACON!
Right, let’s get the bad stuff out of the way first. Dan had dislocated his shoulder earlier that day, meaning he couldn’t get up as close as normal, although it didn’t stop him energetically directing the action from a safe vantage point. And yes, they ballsed up Snookered. The drums were slightly off, it didn’t quite sync together and although by no means a disaster, it did add a small tinge of disappointment to what otherwise could have been one of my Top 5 shows ever. But that apart, it was every bit as utterly, gloriously, dementedly sublime as I’d prayed it be. Dan Deacon doesn’t play gigs- he puts on a fucking party, and from the first song onwards he had the entire audience eating out of the palm of his hand. When they weren’t moshing like mentalists, he had them engaging in various silly games- perennial favourites like The Dance-Off mingled with new additions such as The Race, but it was The Gauntlet where the Master Of The Trippy Green Skull truly hit his peak. Two audience members were picked out at random, and asked to form an arch with their hands- the rest of the venue was then requested to dance through this arch, and upon reaching the other side, to continue it so it would eventually wind round the ground floor, head up the stairs, circumnavigate the balcony before returning downstairs- all to the musical accompaniment of Baltihorse. It could have all fallen completely flat, but the audience were totally up for it and it resulted in the most goddamn brilliant moment of audience participation I’ve ever seen at a gig. The videos and photos cannot even start to capture the atmosphere in that room- it made an I’m From Barcelona show look like a morgue in comparison.
Naturally, musical considerations may have played second fiddle to all the antics, but let’s give the 14-piece ensemble their dues- apart from the aforementioned fuck-up of That Song, they were superb (when you could hear them) and added vibrancy and texture to the songs a mere laptop could never hope to replicate. Special kudos to the drummers, who maintained the madcap tempo Deacon’s compositions required without breaking a sweat, especially during Paddling Ghost, one of the set‘s highlights. The venue was brilliant too (imagine the Koko if shrunk to half the size and actually good)- small enough to be intimate, but spacious enough so one could escape the crush once in a while, it was perfect for a show of this sort. Shame they didn’t play the mighty Wham City, but I can live with that- as it stands, this show so overshadows every else I’ve seen this year (except maybe David Byrne and MBV) I’m slightly concerned nothing will live up to it. Well, except for Dan Deacon’s European dates, of course.
(Photo: Kata Rokkar (Flickr))
DAN! MOTHERFUCKING! DEACON!
Right, let’s get the bad stuff out of the way first. Dan had dislocated his shoulder earlier that day, meaning he couldn’t get up as close as normal, although it didn’t stop him energetically directing the action from a safe vantage point. And yes, they ballsed up Snookered. The drums were slightly off, it didn’t quite sync together and although by no means a disaster, it did add a small tinge of disappointment to what otherwise could have been one of my Top 5 shows ever. But that apart, it was every bit as utterly, gloriously, dementedly sublime as I’d prayed it be. Dan Deacon doesn’t play gigs- he puts on a fucking party, and from the first song onwards he had the entire audience eating out of the palm of his hand. When they weren’t moshing like mentalists, he had them engaging in various silly games- perennial favourites like The Dance-Off mingled with new additions such as The Race, but it was The Gauntlet where the Master Of The Trippy Green Skull truly hit his peak. Two audience members were picked out at random, and asked to form an arch with their hands- the rest of the venue was then requested to dance through this arch, and upon reaching the other side, to continue it so it would eventually wind round the ground floor, head up the stairs, circumnavigate the balcony before returning downstairs- all to the musical accompaniment of Baltihorse. It could have all fallen completely flat, but the audience were totally up for it and it resulted in the most goddamn brilliant moment of audience participation I’ve ever seen at a gig. The videos and photos cannot even start to capture the atmosphere in that room- it made an I’m From Barcelona show look like a morgue in comparison.
Naturally, musical considerations may have played second fiddle to all the antics, but let’s give the 14-piece ensemble their dues- apart from the aforementioned fuck-up of That Song, they were superb (when you could hear them) and added vibrancy and texture to the songs a mere laptop could never hope to replicate. Special kudos to the drummers, who maintained the madcap tempo Deacon’s compositions required without breaking a sweat, especially during Paddling Ghost, one of the set‘s highlights. The venue was brilliant too (imagine the Koko if shrunk to half the size and actually good)- small enough to be intimate, but spacious enough so one could escape the crush once in a while, it was perfect for a show of this sort. Shame they didn’t play the mighty Wham City, but I can live with that- as it stands, this show so overshadows every else I’ve seen this year (except maybe David Byrne and MBV) I’m slightly concerned nothing will live up to it. Well, except for Dan Deacon’s European dates, of course.
(Photo: Kata Rokkar (Flickr))
COACHELLA FESTIVAL (Empire Polo Fields, Coachella, 17/04/09-19/04/09)
Toto, I've a feeling we're not in England anymore… True, if not for the blistering sunshine, the palm trees, the multitude of attractive, scantily-clad Californians and the mountains that seemed to encircle the Empire Polo fields, Coachella could have easily passed itself as an British festival (there were enough UK accents about the campsite, for a start), but it was certainly a novelty to attend an event where Factor 50 sunscreen was a far more essential amenity than wellies.
Musically, this year lacked the killer line-ups of years past, but there was still more than enough to keep even the most bitter cynic entertained, and I rather enjoyed the opportunity to check acts outside my normal indie-schmindie comfort zone. Admittedly, it didn’t start off too well- I only caught one and a half songs from the intriguing Dear and the Headlights, Alberta Cross came across as deathly dull, and Gui Boratto bored the pants off me (disclaimer: not literally). Thankfully, The Hold Steady were around to save the day, with an wonderfully lively performance that was only slightly diminished by Craig Finn’s voice being shot to pieces. Things only got better when I obliviously wandered into the tent containing the Portuguese-Angolan electronica/grime artists Buraka Som Sistema, who easily became the most talked-about bands of the whole festival. One of the most danceable, fun acts I’ve ever seen, I’ve honestly never witnessed a crowd go so completely batshit insane at 4:30 in the afternoon. Franz Ferdinand were dependably solid but unspectacular, mainly focusing on material from the debut, and not even sickly, sentimental arrangements could rob the legendary Leonard Cohen’s subterranean croon of its near-mystical power, especially on the likes of ‘First We Take Manhattan’ and ‘Hallelujah‘. I then wandered over to the Sahara tent for mash-up master Girl Talk- good fun, although a rather pungent experience for all concerned- before heading to the Main Stage for Paul McCartney. 90 minutes of the insufferably smug Liverpudlian’s tiresome solo material sprinkled with the occasional classic was a bit of a trial it must be said, but then he played ‘Hey Jude’ and all was well with the world. Once I was “LAAAAA-LAAAA-LAAAAA-LA-LA-LA-LAAAAAA-d” out, I retreated back to the campsite thinking the show was over, not realising Macca would continue to play nothing but Beatles hits for a further 40 minutes. Bah.
Being one of my most anticipated acts of the weekend, I had high hopes for Cloud Cult- and they certainly didn’t disappoint. Their ambitious orchestral indie-pop transferred surprisingly well into a live setting, and it’s not often you get to watch a painting get composed live on stage. American-Australian post-punks Liars also put on an admirable performance- miles better than their underwhelming Koko performance last year. Dr. Dog’s jam-band sensibilities didn’t set the world alight, but Amanda Palmer almost did, with a gloriously OTT performance which encompassed both her solo material and her Dresden Dolls work (Coin-Operated Boy FTW!), not to mention a Muse cover. But it was her finale that made her set the single most memorable moment of this year’s Coachella- crowdsurfing to the far edge of the Gobi Tent to the strains of ‘Ride of The Valkyries,’ she then proceeded to play ‘Creep’ on a ukulele atop a random audience member’s shoulders whilst the whole audience sang along. Now, *that’s* showmanship!
TV On The Radio were great- the trumpet section really added a lot to the Dear Science material- but once again they were stopped from achieving true brilliance by a dodgy sound-mix; the same fate befell the below-par Fleet Foxes, whose vocal harmonising seemed to fall a little flat in an open-air environment. MIA wasn’t really my thing, but give the girl some credit- her wondrously in-your-face introduction (including a troupe of fluorescent dancers) was one of the visual highlights of the weekend, and encouraging a full-on stage invasion, despite being expressly told by the organisers not to required some cajones. After this, the roster became a little threadbare, so I wandered aimlessly about until Gang Gang Dance, whose otherwise excellent show was marred by the ridiculously high volume levels they needed to drown out Mastodon in the adjacent tent. Then back to the tent to mock the awfulness of the Killers, whose craptacular set insisted in wafting across to the camping site- oh woe indeed.
Sunday was definitely the most musically productive day of the three. It was also by far the hottest. The Vivian Girls’ aloof manner and Pipettes-gone-punk schtick got old very quickly so I ditched them in favour of charismatic hip-hop duo Themselves- although I didn’t twig this at the time, the offbeat frontman was none other than Doseone from Anticon stalwarts cLOUDDeAD. The Night Marchers’ straight-down, no-nonsense rock ‘n roll was a real treat, and Okkervil River were excellent as always, although once again they took frustratingly long to get into their stride. By the time Lykke Li sauntered onto stage, the 38C heat started getting the better of me- I only caught around ten minutes of her jaunty Scandinavian pop before making a tactical retreat into the shade. En route, I saw resident fat Goth Robert Smith (sans make-up) being accosted by similarly plump teenagers- he looked a little bemused. Once I’d recovered from being slowly roasted alive, I ventured out to see
Peter, Bjorn and John, who tried to make up for their paucity of quality material with a succession of cameos, including a charismatic guest spot from Robyn, and Lykke Li on vocal duties for ‘Young Folks.‘ They were only partially successful; once their big hit was played, I (and much of the audience) swiftly departed for Anthony and The Johnsons pleasant if slightly inconsequential set over at the Outdoor Theatre. The Yeah Yeah Yeahs' performance was competent, although it never really sparked to life- it seems sobriety has sadly curtailed Karen O’s craziness, and they passed without leaving any real impression- a charge that certainly cannot be levelled at MY BLOODY VALENTINE. Although I swore I’d stay much further back from the speakers than I did at the Roundhouse, I actually ended up even closer- and I don’t regret it one bit. Yes, they were just as earth-sunderingly loud as last time, but this time round they were blessed an absolutely perfect mix- not only could you perceive the vocals (!), you could actually hear the end of You Made Me Realise after the 20-minute interlude of ceaseless, eardrum-obliterating noise. The light show was also much more immersive than in June, and the video screens meant you could fully witness quite how disconcertingly mumsy Bilinda Butcher looks. Absolutely fucking brilliant- I can’t wait to see them again at Primavera.
Of course, everything after that was a bit of an anti-climax. I dabbled with The Cure and Public Enemy, but neither really grabbed me. I caught the tail end of an energetic set by the Kills before checking out the delightfully named Throbbing Gristle who were…interesting…to say the least- it seemed strangely fitting that ultra-poncey film director Vincent Gallo was standing in front of me, trying to score some drugs. And finally, I mosied over to check out much-hyped Parisien Etienne De Crecy- his music was run-of-the-mill sub-Justice dance bollocks but he had a giant HYPNOCUBE which was full of win, so that was OK.
All things considered, a pretty excellent festival, albeit slightly too hot for my sensitive tastes. MBV aside, there weren’t any epoch-defining sets and the quality perhaps wavered at times but the site’s nicely compact, the sound was great and there was a giant mechanical hand one could control and smash cars with, which automatically makes it 50000000x better than the likes of V.
Toto, I've a feeling we're not in England anymore… True, if not for the blistering sunshine, the palm trees, the multitude of attractive, scantily-clad Californians and the mountains that seemed to encircle the Empire Polo fields, Coachella could have easily passed itself as an British festival (there were enough UK accents about the campsite, for a start), but it was certainly a novelty to attend an event where Factor 50 sunscreen was a far more essential amenity than wellies.
Musically, this year lacked the killer line-ups of years past, but there was still more than enough to keep even the most bitter cynic entertained, and I rather enjoyed the opportunity to check acts outside my normal indie-schmindie comfort zone. Admittedly, it didn’t start off too well- I only caught one and a half songs from the intriguing Dear and the Headlights, Alberta Cross came across as deathly dull, and Gui Boratto bored the pants off me (disclaimer: not literally). Thankfully, The Hold Steady were around to save the day, with an wonderfully lively performance that was only slightly diminished by Craig Finn’s voice being shot to pieces. Things only got better when I obliviously wandered into the tent containing the Portuguese-Angolan electronica/grime artists Buraka Som Sistema, who easily became the most talked-about bands of the whole festival. One of the most danceable, fun acts I’ve ever seen, I’ve honestly never witnessed a crowd go so completely batshit insane at 4:30 in the afternoon. Franz Ferdinand were dependably solid but unspectacular, mainly focusing on material from the debut, and not even sickly, sentimental arrangements could rob the legendary Leonard Cohen’s subterranean croon of its near-mystical power, especially on the likes of ‘First We Take Manhattan’ and ‘Hallelujah‘. I then wandered over to the Sahara tent for mash-up master Girl Talk- good fun, although a rather pungent experience for all concerned- before heading to the Main Stage for Paul McCartney. 90 minutes of the insufferably smug Liverpudlian’s tiresome solo material sprinkled with the occasional classic was a bit of a trial it must be said, but then he played ‘Hey Jude’ and all was well with the world. Once I was “LAAAAA-LAAAA-LAAAAA-LA-LA-LA-LAAAAAA-d” out, I retreated back to the campsite thinking the show was over, not realising Macca would continue to play nothing but Beatles hits for a further 40 minutes. Bah.
Being one of my most anticipated acts of the weekend, I had high hopes for Cloud Cult- and they certainly didn’t disappoint. Their ambitious orchestral indie-pop transferred surprisingly well into a live setting, and it’s not often you get to watch a painting get composed live on stage. American-Australian post-punks Liars also put on an admirable performance- miles better than their underwhelming Koko performance last year. Dr. Dog’s jam-band sensibilities didn’t set the world alight, but Amanda Palmer almost did, with a gloriously OTT performance which encompassed both her solo material and her Dresden Dolls work (Coin-Operated Boy FTW!), not to mention a Muse cover. But it was her finale that made her set the single most memorable moment of this year’s Coachella- crowdsurfing to the far edge of the Gobi Tent to the strains of ‘Ride of The Valkyries,’ she then proceeded to play ‘Creep’ on a ukulele atop a random audience member’s shoulders whilst the whole audience sang along. Now, *that’s* showmanship!
TV On The Radio were great- the trumpet section really added a lot to the Dear Science material- but once again they were stopped from achieving true brilliance by a dodgy sound-mix; the same fate befell the below-par Fleet Foxes, whose vocal harmonising seemed to fall a little flat in an open-air environment. MIA wasn’t really my thing, but give the girl some credit- her wondrously in-your-face introduction (including a troupe of fluorescent dancers) was one of the visual highlights of the weekend, and encouraging a full-on stage invasion, despite being expressly told by the organisers not to required some cajones. After this, the roster became a little threadbare, so I wandered aimlessly about until Gang Gang Dance, whose otherwise excellent show was marred by the ridiculously high volume levels they needed to drown out Mastodon in the adjacent tent. Then back to the tent to mock the awfulness of the Killers, whose craptacular set insisted in wafting across to the camping site- oh woe indeed.
Sunday was definitely the most musically productive day of the three. It was also by far the hottest. The Vivian Girls’ aloof manner and Pipettes-gone-punk schtick got old very quickly so I ditched them in favour of charismatic hip-hop duo Themselves- although I didn’t twig this at the time, the offbeat frontman was none other than Doseone from Anticon stalwarts cLOUDDeAD. The Night Marchers’ straight-down, no-nonsense rock ‘n roll was a real treat, and Okkervil River were excellent as always, although once again they took frustratingly long to get into their stride. By the time Lykke Li sauntered onto stage, the 38C heat started getting the better of me- I only caught around ten minutes of her jaunty Scandinavian pop before making a tactical retreat into the shade. En route, I saw resident fat Goth Robert Smith (sans make-up) being accosted by similarly plump teenagers- he looked a little bemused. Once I’d recovered from being slowly roasted alive, I ventured out to see
Peter, Bjorn and John, who tried to make up for their paucity of quality material with a succession of cameos, including a charismatic guest spot from Robyn, and Lykke Li on vocal duties for ‘Young Folks.‘ They were only partially successful; once their big hit was played, I (and much of the audience) swiftly departed for Anthony and The Johnsons pleasant if slightly inconsequential set over at the Outdoor Theatre. The Yeah Yeah Yeahs' performance was competent, although it never really sparked to life- it seems sobriety has sadly curtailed Karen O’s craziness, and they passed without leaving any real impression- a charge that certainly cannot be levelled at MY BLOODY VALENTINE. Although I swore I’d stay much further back from the speakers than I did at the Roundhouse, I actually ended up even closer- and I don’t regret it one bit. Yes, they were just as earth-sunderingly loud as last time, but this time round they were blessed an absolutely perfect mix- not only could you perceive the vocals (!), you could actually hear the end of You Made Me Realise after the 20-minute interlude of ceaseless, eardrum-obliterating noise. The light show was also much more immersive than in June, and the video screens meant you could fully witness quite how disconcertingly mumsy Bilinda Butcher looks. Absolutely fucking brilliant- I can’t wait to see them again at Primavera.
Of course, everything after that was a bit of an anti-climax. I dabbled with The Cure and Public Enemy, but neither really grabbed me. I caught the tail end of an energetic set by the Kills before checking out the delightfully named Throbbing Gristle who were…interesting…to say the least- it seemed strangely fitting that ultra-poncey film director Vincent Gallo was standing in front of me, trying to score some drugs. And finally, I mosied over to check out much-hyped Parisien Etienne De Crecy- his music was run-of-the-mill sub-Justice dance bollocks but he had a giant HYPNOCUBE which was full of win, so that was OK.
All things considered, a pretty excellent festival, albeit slightly too hot for my sensitive tastes. MBV aside, there weren’t any epoch-defining sets and the quality perhaps wavered at times but the site’s nicely compact, the sound was great and there was a giant mechanical hand one could control and smash cars with, which automatically makes it 50000000x better than the likes of V.
Saturday, May 02, 2009
DAVID BYRNE (London Royal Festival Hall, 12/04/09)
David Byrne is one cool mo’ fo. Clad head to toe in white, our witty host immediately sets the light-hearted tone for the evening by gently making fun of the hordes of press photographers blocking the view of the front couple of rows. Showcasing his 2008 collaboration with Roxy Music’s Brian Eno, proceedings start of well, with some pacey and lively tracks underpinned by the funky basslines and innovative percussion that’s always been Byrne’s trademark. True, a few tiresome ballads slipped through the net but they were quickly forgotten in the midst of the toe-tapping tuneage and some kick-ass choreography. It’s not often you get dancers at an indie gig, but they were an inspired addition to an otherwise pretty minimalist set-up- it was particularly fun to see Byrne getting fully involved in the routines. But things only truly hit their stride when they unleashed the immense “Crosseyed and Painless”- before this point, a few brave souls/weirdos had jettisoned their seats to throw some crazy shapes in the aisles, but by the end of the song the whole venue was on their feet, movin’ and groovin’ in a very un-London manner. As the set came towards its close, we were treated to a salvo of Talking Heads classics and after four encores (including Burning Down The House, with Byrne prancing about into a rather fetching tutu) one almost felt honoured in having paid only £40 for such an all-round brilliant performance. Definitely a contender for best show of 2009.
(Photo: John Gleeson)
David Byrne is one cool mo’ fo. Clad head to toe in white, our witty host immediately sets the light-hearted tone for the evening by gently making fun of the hordes of press photographers blocking the view of the front couple of rows. Showcasing his 2008 collaboration with Roxy Music’s Brian Eno, proceedings start of well, with some pacey and lively tracks underpinned by the funky basslines and innovative percussion that’s always been Byrne’s trademark. True, a few tiresome ballads slipped through the net but they were quickly forgotten in the midst of the toe-tapping tuneage and some kick-ass choreography. It’s not often you get dancers at an indie gig, but they were an inspired addition to an otherwise pretty minimalist set-up- it was particularly fun to see Byrne getting fully involved in the routines. But things only truly hit their stride when they unleashed the immense “Crosseyed and Painless”- before this point, a few brave souls/weirdos had jettisoned their seats to throw some crazy shapes in the aisles, but by the end of the song the whole venue was on their feet, movin’ and groovin’ in a very un-London manner. As the set came towards its close, we were treated to a salvo of Talking Heads classics and after four encores (including Burning Down The House, with Byrne prancing about into a rather fetching tutu) one almost felt honoured in having paid only £40 for such an all-round brilliant performance. Definitely a contender for best show of 2009.
(Photo: John Gleeson)
Friday, May 01, 2009
HANDSOME FURS (London 93 Feet East, 08/04/09)
Well, this was certainly a show of two halves. One the one hand you had a band that encompassed pretty much everything live music should be; on the other, the exact opposite. Truly, it was an evening of emotional highs and lows.
Providing the “lows” was Dan Smith, the kind of “alternative“ music act you’d imagine being endorsed by Simon Cowell. Forty-five minutes seemed to stretch to eternity as he blandly delivered a never-ending set that consisted entirely of anodyne pastiches of much better bands. In fairness, the guy’s musicianship was solid and he wasn’t bereft of a couple of potentially interesting ideas, but they wilted like flowers in the path of a blowtorch thanks to dreary songwriting, a poorly utilised backing band and the charisma of wallpaper paste. Talentless bands are ten-a-penny, but in a sense this was even worse- a band that had the elements of something I’d normally really enjoy (strings, loop pedals e.t.c.) but nonetheless was so torturously dull I wanted to claw my eyes out. Plus, his voice sounded like the muppet from Scouting For Girls, which made me want to punch God. Frankly, such passionless, airbrushed dross deserves be consigned to the ninth circle of Hell, or failing that, Radio 2.
Thankfully, Handsome Furs were on hand to remind us how live performances should be done. Until now, the husband-and-wife duo have been one of the minor offshoots of that incestuous web of Montreal bands that includes the likes of Wolf Parade, Sunset Rubdown and Frog Eyes. They then released the superb “Face Control,” whose heady mix of distorted guitar, dark-tinged synths and killer hooks play perfectly to the strengths of Dan Boeckner and perhaps stands as the most consistent album he’s released under any monicker. It also works wonderfully live, as this short-but-incredibly-sweet set was testament to. Dan’s voice is as perfectly suited to the rock genre as any I’ve heard; howling like a man possessed, it’s so full of genuine passion you’re scared he’s going to annihilate his vocal chords, and his guitar playing shares the same manic fervour. His wife Alexis is no less intense- bouncing up and down adding synths and effects to the mix, she recalls the boundless energy of Bjork. Only one song from debut ‘Plague Park’ makes it into the set, but the strength of the new material ensures this is no great loss- Radio Kaliningrad and Evangeline are particularly savage, despite the slightly bassy sound mix taking the edge off the guitars. Most importantly though, it’s clear the both of them are having a whale of a time and gazing around me, it‘s clear the audience are too. Handsome Furs love this city, and the feeling’s more than mutual.
(Photo: John Gleeson)
Well, this was certainly a show of two halves. One the one hand you had a band that encompassed pretty much everything live music should be; on the other, the exact opposite. Truly, it was an evening of emotional highs and lows.
Providing the “lows” was Dan Smith, the kind of “alternative“ music act you’d imagine being endorsed by Simon Cowell. Forty-five minutes seemed to stretch to eternity as he blandly delivered a never-ending set that consisted entirely of anodyne pastiches of much better bands. In fairness, the guy’s musicianship was solid and he wasn’t bereft of a couple of potentially interesting ideas, but they wilted like flowers in the path of a blowtorch thanks to dreary songwriting, a poorly utilised backing band and the charisma of wallpaper paste. Talentless bands are ten-a-penny, but in a sense this was even worse- a band that had the elements of something I’d normally really enjoy (strings, loop pedals e.t.c.) but nonetheless was so torturously dull I wanted to claw my eyes out. Plus, his voice sounded like the muppet from Scouting For Girls, which made me want to punch God. Frankly, such passionless, airbrushed dross deserves be consigned to the ninth circle of Hell, or failing that, Radio 2.
Thankfully, Handsome Furs were on hand to remind us how live performances should be done. Until now, the husband-and-wife duo have been one of the minor offshoots of that incestuous web of Montreal bands that includes the likes of Wolf Parade, Sunset Rubdown and Frog Eyes. They then released the superb “Face Control,” whose heady mix of distorted guitar, dark-tinged synths and killer hooks play perfectly to the strengths of Dan Boeckner and perhaps stands as the most consistent album he’s released under any monicker. It also works wonderfully live, as this short-but-incredibly-sweet set was testament to. Dan’s voice is as perfectly suited to the rock genre as any I’ve heard; howling like a man possessed, it’s so full of genuine passion you’re scared he’s going to annihilate his vocal chords, and his guitar playing shares the same manic fervour. His wife Alexis is no less intense- bouncing up and down adding synths and effects to the mix, she recalls the boundless energy of Bjork. Only one song from debut ‘Plague Park’ makes it into the set, but the strength of the new material ensures this is no great loss- Radio Kaliningrad and Evangeline are particularly savage, despite the slightly bassy sound mix taking the edge off the guitars. Most importantly though, it’s clear the both of them are having a whale of a time and gazing around me, it‘s clear the audience are too. Handsome Furs love this city, and the feeling’s more than mutual.
(Photo: John Gleeson)
WILDBIRDS AND PEACEDRUMS (London Luminaire, 07/04/09)
Ah, Wildbirds and Peacedrums, how I love thee. Since I first saw them last June on a friend’s recommendation without hearing a note of their music, I’ve been evangelical about spreading the word. A Swedish husband-and-wife duo much blessed with that innate musical talent all Scandanavians seem to have, their percussive-led balladry may not always quite work on record, but it never fails to bewitch live. Much of this can be attributed to the hypnotic presence of Mariam Wallentin- whirling about the stage with abandon, attacking drums, ceilings, walls like a woman possessed, she’s fascinating to watch. And then you’ve got her voice, lying somewhere between Bjork and Nina Simone- an earthy, husky but versatile wail imbued with such soul that there’s moments where you forget you’re watching a willowy Swedish lass rather than some veteran New Orleans blues singer. Admittedly, it wasn’t quite on top form tonight- a long tour has robbed it of some of its strength- but there’s no denying its power on the likes of the electrifying “There Is No Light”.
No less impressive is the unassuming Andreas Werliin. Whilst he’s happy to allow Mariam to hog the limelight for the most part, his fantastically assured drumming is the lifeblood of their music, and at times he almost matches his wife in the wildness of his performance. They’ve rectified an oft-issued critique of their Heartcore tour that their minimalist set-up wore thin over a full show by bringing steel drums and xylophones to the mix, which adds an extra splash of colour to songs like “My Heart,” although it’s still the brilliantly simple two-drum assault of Today/Tomorrow that showcases Wildbirds and Peacedrums at their astonishing best. They’re still a bit difficult at times, and the use of a laptop on a couple of tracks seems a little incongruous, but despite this not being a vintage performance (their Social show last month was better), they’re still one of the best live bands touring today.
They were most ably supported by Chicago-based experimental rockers Volcano!, whose peculiar and scattergun set remained engaging even in its more arty moments. Trying to define them is difficult, as they’re a band impossible to pigeonhole into any specific genre- think the soaring yelp of Frog Eyes’ Carey Mercer attached to the difficult-but-admirable ambition of Dirty Projectors, with a touch of the offbeat joyousness of Ponytail or Deerhoof and some scuzzy guitars and math-rock rhythms for good measure. It’s all very bizarre, and occasionally comes across as too aimless even for a lover of such off-kilter fare as myself but for the most part their weirdness works in their favour, and their lack of aloofness and willingness to banter means we’re willing to forgive their more pretentious tangents. In any event, much rather an innovative, challenging band that occasionally infuriates than a middle-of-the-road one that merely bores.
(Photo: Anika)
Ah, Wildbirds and Peacedrums, how I love thee. Since I first saw them last June on a friend’s recommendation without hearing a note of their music, I’ve been evangelical about spreading the word. A Swedish husband-and-wife duo much blessed with that innate musical talent all Scandanavians seem to have, their percussive-led balladry may not always quite work on record, but it never fails to bewitch live. Much of this can be attributed to the hypnotic presence of Mariam Wallentin- whirling about the stage with abandon, attacking drums, ceilings, walls like a woman possessed, she’s fascinating to watch. And then you’ve got her voice, lying somewhere between Bjork and Nina Simone- an earthy, husky but versatile wail imbued with such soul that there’s moments where you forget you’re watching a willowy Swedish lass rather than some veteran New Orleans blues singer. Admittedly, it wasn’t quite on top form tonight- a long tour has robbed it of some of its strength- but there’s no denying its power on the likes of the electrifying “There Is No Light”.
No less impressive is the unassuming Andreas Werliin. Whilst he’s happy to allow Mariam to hog the limelight for the most part, his fantastically assured drumming is the lifeblood of their music, and at times he almost matches his wife in the wildness of his performance. They’ve rectified an oft-issued critique of their Heartcore tour that their minimalist set-up wore thin over a full show by bringing steel drums and xylophones to the mix, which adds an extra splash of colour to songs like “My Heart,” although it’s still the brilliantly simple two-drum assault of Today/Tomorrow that showcases Wildbirds and Peacedrums at their astonishing best. They’re still a bit difficult at times, and the use of a laptop on a couple of tracks seems a little incongruous, but despite this not being a vintage performance (their Social show last month was better), they’re still one of the best live bands touring today.
They were most ably supported by Chicago-based experimental rockers Volcano!, whose peculiar and scattergun set remained engaging even in its more arty moments. Trying to define them is difficult, as they’re a band impossible to pigeonhole into any specific genre- think the soaring yelp of Frog Eyes’ Carey Mercer attached to the difficult-but-admirable ambition of Dirty Projectors, with a touch of the offbeat joyousness of Ponytail or Deerhoof and some scuzzy guitars and math-rock rhythms for good measure. It’s all very bizarre, and occasionally comes across as too aimless even for a lover of such off-kilter fare as myself but for the most part their weirdness works in their favour, and their lack of aloofness and willingness to banter means we’re willing to forgive their more pretentious tangents. In any event, much rather an innovative, challenging band that occasionally infuriates than a middle-of-the-road one that merely bores.
(Photo: Anika)
DENT MAY AND HIS MARVELLOUS UKULELE (London Betsey Trotwood, 03/04/09)
Gawky nerds strumming jaunty songs on a ukulele aren’t most people’s idea of a quality Friday night out, but Dent May does his damndest to persuade us otherwise. His Morrissey-esque croon is a bit of an acquired taste, but his upbeat melodies and clever lyrics are a winning combination. And although the show’s a bit steep at £8 for a 40 minute set without support, he does succeed in instigating an (admittedly, small-scale) dance party in the crammed Betsey Trotwood- a feat certainly worth celebrating. Not *quite* magnificent, but very enjoyable in its own quirky way.
(Photo: Anika)
Gawky nerds strumming jaunty songs on a ukulele aren’t most people’s idea of a quality Friday night out, but Dent May does his damndest to persuade us otherwise. His Morrissey-esque croon is a bit of an acquired taste, but his upbeat melodies and clever lyrics are a winning combination. And although the show’s a bit steep at £8 for a 40 minute set without support, he does succeed in instigating an (admittedly, small-scale) dance party in the crammed Betsey Trotwood- a feat certainly worth celebrating. Not *quite* magnificent, but very enjoyable in its own quirky way.
(Photo: Anika)
BROKEN RECORDS (London Water Rats, 31/03/09)
Another typically impressive performance from this Edinburgh-based seven-piece, one of the very few British bands who can genuinely stand up to their peers across the Atlantic. Still a bit too much in hock to their influences (Arcade Fire, Sigur Ros, Beirut) at times, but their new material maintains the high quality of their EP work, and it’s pleasing to see that over the last year they’ve garnered a sizeable and fervent fan-base. With their debut LP out in the near future, it’s make-or-break time for Broken Records; let’s hope, for the sake of this country’s music scene, they live up to their promise.
(Photo: John Gleeson)
Another typically impressive performance from this Edinburgh-based seven-piece, one of the very few British bands who can genuinely stand up to their peers across the Atlantic. Still a bit too much in hock to their influences (Arcade Fire, Sigur Ros, Beirut) at times, but their new material maintains the high quality of their EP work, and it’s pleasing to see that over the last year they’ve garnered a sizeable and fervent fan-base. With their debut LP out in the near future, it’s make-or-break time for Broken Records; let’s hope, for the sake of this country’s music scene, they live up to their promise.
(Photo: John Gleeson)
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