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.

FIELD DAY FESTIVAL (Victoria Park, 11/08/07)


Ah, Field Day! On paper it seemed a nigh-on utopian concept; some of the most cutting-edge bands around playing in a picturesque (for East London) location, coupled with traditional country fete sideshows and perfect weather to boot. Which thus begs the unfortunate question: how could it have gone so wrong?

Their main fault was that they’d simply booked way too many bands. Yes, it meant that you were spoilt for choice, but it also meant that set durations were severely restricted- very few bands were given more than half an hour. Add in the knock-on effect of overrunning performances, and some of the later bands found themselves with barely 20 minutes to play. Then you had the stages - with four of them shoehorned into such a limited space, volume levels were kept so low to avoid cross-over that the sound simply didn’t carry enough to accommodate the sheer amount of the people watching. Even relatively close to the stage, you found yourself overwhelmed by the mobile-phone chatter of less considerate patrons; further back you just didn’t stand a chance. Combine that with overpriced programmes and the frankly shocking paucity of bars and toilet facilities (the world hasn’t seen such queues of hipsters since Broken Social Scene last toured) and you’ve got a recipe for disaster.

Nonetheless, with bands that good on the bill there was no chance Field Day was going to be a complete washout. The gravel-sodden rasp of Absentee provided one of the day’s early highlights, and charismatic Beta Band offshoots The Aliens went down well with an unpretentious and thoroughly enjoyable set. Caribou, an intriguing proposition on record fared less well; they undoubtedly had their moments but despite an impressive display from their two drummers, they were too slight to make much of an impression on me. Foals’ hyperactive, oh-so-current synths-and-drums sound initially caught my attention but their lack of variety saw me drifting off by the middle of their set, and Late Of The Pier furrowed far too similar a vein to them for me to give a damn about.

The Earlies on the other hand were a breath of fresh air. Although it’d have been nice to hear some material from the debut, the ten-strong psychedalic-orchestral-prog collective put on a stellar performance, complete with mesmerising grooves, dense instrumentals and a sense of fun that was sorely missing from so many of the acts I saw that day - which includes the underwhelming performance by the festival’s biggest draw, avant-garde New York four-piece Battles. Curtailed to 25 minutes thanks to the over-crowded line-up, they were obviously pissed off, the audience were even more so and although they were as technically astonishing as always, you could tell their heart wasn’t in it. Even the mightly Atlas was emasculated by the volume restrictions, and all you could hear afterwards were the grumbles of punters decrying spending £22 on such a pathetically brief set. Thank God then for Justice, who managed to end proceedings on a high; although the volume issues still reared their head, those who hadn’t opted to leave early were treated to their superlative dance anthems, culminating with a superb singalong rendition of “We Are Your Friends.”

There’s no doubt that Field Day fell far short of it’s incredible promise, but still, full marks for ambition and certainly the seeds are there for a truly great annual event. Scale it down, get fewer bands playing longer sets and for the love of God, cut down the hour-long queues for the bogs and in future years they could have a classic on their hands. But on the evidence of Saturday, they’ve still got quite some way to go.

LATITUDE FESTIVAL (Henham Park, Suffolk, 12/07/07-15/07/07)



A world away from the sprawling mass of mud, drugs and general insanity of Glastonbury, the Latitude Festival in Suffolk had the delightfully quaint air of a slightly oversized village fair. Middle-class and genteel, it initially struck me as V Festival minus the corporate branding, but in the end proved to be much, much more than that. It was interesting to read that Mean Fiddler were actually making a loss on Latitude; their intention being to make a festival they would want to go to themselves, rather than being concerned about how much profit it would make. It’s an ambition I think they successfully realised: relaxed, spacious and family-friendly, with a fantastic array of bands and perhaps even more significantly, just as strong a line-up of non-musical events. And the weather was great too, although I don’t think the organisers can really take credit for that.

Our motley crew gradually assembled over the course of Thursday afternoon; Alex (Jennywren), Andy (Phang), Dave (EvadBlack), David (Neon78), David’s mate Mikey, Fiona, Fiona’s mate Helen, John (John Gleeson), Mark (Wintertime) and myself. Cian (Rebel(Liar)) arrived on the Saturday, and the roster significantly expanded on Sunday with the arrival of Spidey, Don, Jules, PABBY, Dust and Carl (although they didn’t camp with us). Two flags had been brought to announce Camp UKK to the world; one a black-and-white England flag, the other being of my own design (which promptly got obliterated by the fickle gods of rain five minutes after it got erected.) A flag-pole was improvised from leftover tent stuff, and to be fair it held fast quite impressively, although it had to be tethered with so many ropes (attached to other people’s tents) than anyone walking through the camp after dark risked literally destroying half the camp, as well as decapitating themselves. But hey, we’re Arcade Fire fans- Health and Safety be damned!

The first thing that struck me when we ventured into the main arena was how close everything was to each other. No half-hour treks across countless fields at this festival; the two main stages were literally three minutes apart and even the outcast Sunrise Arena was a mere ten minute jaunt across the bridge. The much-vaunted multicoloured sheep turned out to have limited entertainment value, mainly because someone vetoed the plan to kidnap some and train them as mounts for our raids on other, lesser camps, but the insane milkshake stall, which blasely eschewed the typical British selection of vanilla and chocolate (plus strawberry if you’re in a particularly high-class establishment) more than made up for it. For the record, the strawberry cheesecake and Jaffa Cake varieties were excellent, although the Milky Way one was a less than stellar chocolate-bar-blended-with-ice-cream-and-milk experience. Thursday’s most enduring discovery however was the fantastic Robin Ince’s Book Club, a welcome and oft-employed source of entertainment throughout the weekend when good music wasn’t forthcoming. Stewart Lee’s remark that it’s just “people reading books in a sarcastic way” is technically entirely correct, but with the right material ("Crabs on The Rampage" being my personal favourite) and the right performers (Asher Treleaven and Ince himself) it could be consistently hilarious. These literary shenanigans were interspersed with comedy sketches of varying quality; anything with Asher was generally gold, but there was a lot of truly wince-worthy stuff in amongst the good. But any show that ends up with two grown men screaming, “WORMS!!!” “CRABS!!!” “WORMS!!!” “CRABS!!!” is quite frankly alright by me.

The festival proper kicked off on Friday, and first on were The Kissaway Trail who, as the first band on a weekend full of top-class music, I can’t remember all that much about, apart from they played their little Danish hearts out, and that I liked ‘em. Two Gallants followed, and I’m glad to report they didn’t disappoint- on such a large stage they couldn’t hope to be as visceral as their small-scale shows (which have the intensity of an extremely localised nuclear explosion) but they certainly gave it a shot. Singing along merrily to Steady Rollin’ (“we come from the old town babyyyyy, where all-llll the kids are crazy”) with my characteristic lack of dignity or respect for the sanity of my fellow man was one of the more satisfying moments of the weekend. Then off to see Emmy The Great at the wonderfully secluded Sunrise stage; a low-key set mainly showcasing new songs, her endearingly quirky lyrics compensated for her occasional moments of shrillness. Shame she didn’t play Secret Circus, but Absentee was beautiful as ever thanks to the strings provided by fellow anti-folk stalwarts Noah and the Whale.

Young Bride and Roscoe were predictably the standouts of an accomplished, if brief set by earnest folk-rockers Midlake, whose mellow Seventies sound couldn’t have been more at odds with the heavy Arabic grooves and repetitive chants of Tuareg nomads Tiniwaren, who we saw afterwards. Their exotic attire didn’t disguise the fact that there was little variety to their oeuvre, but what they did have had a peculiarly mesmerising quality. Back on more familiar ground, Wilco were excellent; far better than I was anticipating, although I think I was less enamoured with them than some of my companions. Part of that was due to the terrible sound problems that wrecked the first couple of songs, including my personal favourite from Sky Blue Sky (“You Are My Face”) but also because their inability to rein in their overlong solos. There’s no denying they’re talented, fantastically tight musicians, but one suspects a bit of editing on their five-minute long outros would leave a far more favourable impression on an audience who were, in the event, getting a bit restless.

Nonetheless, they were still easily the second-best act of the Friday, pipped only by a glorious performance by the glittertastic Patrick Wolf. Most theories of logic state it should be impossible that this most unashamedly camp of artistes could inspire the formation of a moshpit, but it did actually kinda make sense at the time. Patrick was the happiest I’ve ever seen him, obviously relishing playing in such a great atmosphere, and from start to finish he had the audience wrapped round his (doubtlessly exquisitely manicured) little finger. Sunny Sixties stompathon The Magic Position was my personal highlight, but the whole set was of a consistently brilliant quality and was doubtlessly one of the top moments of the whole festival. We concluded the evening’s festivities with a truly eye-opening “Late Night” edition of Book Club, where our hosts attempted to unveil the worst examples of ‘erotic’ fiction ever to be granted an ISBN number. I hadn’t hitherto even conceived that there were people out there who actually spent their lives, and were possibly even paid, to write erotic Highlander fiction, but I was evidently quite wrong. And that was tame compared to some of the stuff they came up with; I’d love to reiterate some of the filthy, obscene and at times, probably illegal gems that scarred my consciousness that night, but alas, it wouldn’t be suitable for the younger, more impressionable readers of this blog. Or, for that matter, anyone.

Onwards to Saturday, where six-piece indie types Annuals put on another commendably enthusiastic performance; they still need to work on their rather-too-samey songs but there’s definitely a touch of class that hint towards better things in the future. More impressive were Swedish band Loney Dear, living up to their countrymen’s reputation for glorious bittersweet pop. Emil Svanängen may overdo the vocal gymnastics a little, but his lilting Scandanavian harmonies and masterful songcraft are a joy to behold. Then for that rarest of beasts- a band I hadn’t seen before. Perhaps subconsciously assuming Bat For Lashes were some sort of tweenage emo band, I’d until then avoided them but I was pleasantly surprised to discover they were in fact a lot more intriguing than expected. Natasha Khan is a beguiling frontwoman, she’s definitely got something of Bjork about her although unfortunately, at this stage, her songs ain’t much cop. But as a band they’ve certainly got a lot of promise, and I’d be very interested to see where they go from here.

The Hold Steady were up next, and put on what was easily one of the sets of the festival- they’d never be accused of innovation, but they’ve got damn fine tunes, great singalong choruses and more than their fair share of classic lyrics. Their keyboardist, a renegade ‘Allo, Allo’ extra, twirled wine bottles, hammered keys and sat on the edge of the stage with his harmonica and leadman Craig Finn beamed from the stage like a kid in the biggest candy shop in the world, often forgetting to sing into the microphone in his elation at being able to perform to so many people. They’re basically a bunch of thirty-something dads living out their childhood dreams of being Springsteen, and their infectious enthusiasm and obvious love of what they do carries over to an suitably appreciative audience. It’s the kind of charm that was noticeably lacking from the otherwise impressive Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!, a band I haven’t listened to since their sub-par performance at the Leeds Faversham in 2005. Alec Ounsworth is still an awkward, uncomfortable performer, but I must admit he’s obtained a modicum of personality over the last couple of years (first time round, he had less charisma than the microphone he sung into.) Alas, his screechy, strangulated whine is still there in all its ear-grating glory; it somehow works on record, but live it often sounds like he’s in the throes of a particularly vicious bowel movement. Thank God then for their excellent songs; having not listened to them for ages, it was even more clear that the hype that surrounded CYHSY!’s debut was more than justified. Unlike the impenetrably murky mix at the Faversham show, the melodies were given a chance to shine, and I unexpectedly found myself with the desire to dig out their albums again.

And then for something completely different, in the form of I’m From Barcelona, a 20-strong army of disconcertingly happy Swedes led by impressively mustachioed joy-pimp Emmanuel Lundgren. Simple, relentlessly cheerful pop with Sesame Street lyrics performed by the low-budget love-child of the Polyphonic Spree and the Flaming Lips, huge balloons (“your mission tonight is to get that balloon off the roof- it was very expensive!") confetti and a hell of a lot of jumping around was the order of the day. Yet despite enjoying the show immensely, I couldn’t help feel a little disappointed. The length of the show was a let down for a start (35 minutes!), but I think what got to me was the lack of the anarchy that typified their club shows, which weren’t so much gigs as big crazy parties of PURE AWESOME. Add in an unforgivable lack of kazoo action (I wanted to get on stage, dammit!), and an absence of their more restrained numbers and you get a show that failed to live to my obscenely high expectations. But I complain too much; it was still fantastic, just not as deliriously sublime as their ULU show. And if you didn’t leave the tent humming at least one of their songs, you’re dead inside. DEAD.

We subsequently retreated camp-wards to rest before jaunting off to see Rodrigo y Gabriela, but it soon became apparent that we were far too tired/lazy/useless to move. Instead, arch-arsonist Fiona decided to get a campfire going, and we soon discovered the truth in Mark’s maxim “fire is Nature’s television.” Providing almost limitless fascination throughout the night, we made a number of valuable discoveries, including: Cadbury’s Twirls are essentially invincible to flame, Jaffa Cakes are most certainly not, and Dime Bars are a desperately rare resource in the wilds of Suffolk, much to Cian’s regret. Alex’s slavery to the nicotine resulted in some classic quotes, mainly courtesy of Andy who, singularly unimpressed by Alex’s offer of a touch of her ‘baps’ in exchange for a ciggie, declared that it was "like asking someone to come over and look at your bread." And A-Ha’s “Take On Me” took hold as the unofficial camp anthem, mainly because no-one could get it out of their head.

After watching Louis de Bernieres faff about with a mandolin in the Literary Tent, we inaugurated Sunday’s musical proceedings with the musically ace, if somewhat pompous The Strange Death Of Liberal England. Big fuck-off percussion and lots of passion, and although they occasionally slipped into outright ludicrousness, they reminded me a lot of Hope of the States which made me happy. Plus they filled the tent with black balloons emblazoned with “REPENT! REPENT”, with which I was intending to brutalise people who planned to skip AF for the Gotan Project (but I got bored by the time the next band came on so I chucked them away.) Must admit Smashing Pumpkins-alikes Silversun Pickups weren’t really my cup of tea, but I’ll give them their dues- they’re evidently going places. They’ve got talent, a genuine, easy-going charm and a knack for solid songwriting; as long as they resist the temptation to go all po-faced on us, they’re a group with a bright future ahead of them. We then moved onwards to the main stage for Au Revoir Simone, who were (in the words of PABBY) “Electrelane without the depression.” Pleasant enough electro-pop, with the added bonus of all their members being REALLY ATTRACTIVE. Ahem.

Providing less eye-candy but far better songs was the multitalented musical ubermensch Andrew Bird, employing a multitude of instrumental skills to impressive effect. His songs could do definitely do with a couple of minutes lopped off the end (see also: Wilco, this review), but the man’s bonafide genius made up for his moments of self-indulgence. Plus, he single-handedly redressed Latitude’s shameful lack of whistling solos, an act for which I’m eternally grateful. But even he couldn’t hold a candle to the mighty The National, who delivered yet another blinding performance. Start A War was a bit of a dubious choice to start a festival set on, but from then on it was a non-stop blast through their strongest songs. Mistaken For Strangers, Apartment Story, Secret Meeting, Abel, Mr. November all made welcome appearances but for me the standout was Fake Empire, to which they finally did justice. The only criticism really was the subdued audience, but to be honest that’s not really a surprise given their relative seriousness compared to the other bands that day. What was a shame was the better reception given to Cold War Kids, the one crushing disappointment of the weekend. A plodding, half-arsed set, marred by bad acoustics, Nathan Willett sounded whiny rather than bluesy and I found myself drifting off on more than one occasion. Which, given how genuinely superb they were at Glastonbury, is a real shame.

Camera Obscura also underwhelmed; not only were they were stiff and uninspiring (unlike the charming Koko show), but they they still lack a violinist, which is a bit of a bugger when wistful folk provides the basis for at least half their bloody set. Perhaps they could have borrowed the absurdly talented Owen Pallett A.K.A Final Fantasy, whose short, but incredibly sweet set was well worth risking my place for Arcade Fire for. Classics like CN Tower and This Lamb Sells Condos continue to be amazing, the new material sounds as good as anything he’s ever done before and even though he made a couple of mistakes, he didn’t let them detract from what otherwise was a virtuoso performance. If only he’d played for longer, then I could have avoided the end of Jarvis’ pedestrian set, the only moment of note being when he tantalised the audience with hints of ‘a song he’ll never, ever play again’ before launching into Eye Of The Fucking Tiger. What a bastard. Then again, my anticipation for what was next meant I soon forgot about Cocker cruelly raising my hopes- until I realised I was stranded alone in the midst of people who, crazy as this sounds, didn’t really care about Arcade Fire. I can’t even start to describe how depressing that was. It became even more depressing once the show had started; apart from a bit of half-hearted movement during No Cars Go, no-one around me seemed to be getting into it at all. The last straw was having to put up with chatting idiots talking through In The Backseat; at this point, I just thought to myself "bugger this for a lark, I’m going in!" So, through a combination of polite persuasion, mild jostling and straight-out pogoing I managed to fight my way forward, slowly moving towards the mass of enthusiastic jumping folks near the front who I surmised, correctly as it turns out, were my fellow UKKers. Took me a while, and I missed all the action on stage, but it was well worth it just so I could go crazy to Tunnels, Power Out and Rebellion without being glared at by apathetic Damien Rice fans. Best of all though was Wake Up; not only did it live up to its reputation as one of the best festival anthems ever, but we also got fireworks! Cheap, shitty Poundstretcher fireworks to be sure, but hey, it looked good anyway!

Then back to the camp once more to indulge in the only thing that comes close to the buzz of an Arcade Fire show: low-level pyromania. Even more things succumbed to the Fiona-spawned flame this time round; a spree of box-burning led one of the Festival wardens to give us a ticking off as the flames were actually higher than our tents. The ceremonial torching of a magazine with Keane on the cover was particularly satisfying; Tom Chaplin’s curiously babylike face melting away like the stability of a man forced to listen to “Hopes And Fears” on perpetual repeat. Less successful was the Mail On Sunday, which, infused with the dark and twisted souls of a thousand angry middle-class Little Englanders, refused to burn with quiet dignity, instead spreading its flaming ashes alarmingly in the direction of my face. But most memorably, an experiment to ascertain the truth of the thesis “glow-sticks aren't flammable!" resulted in said Nu-Rave accessory exploding its fluorescent purple innards over Mark, leading to the creation of ass-kicking Geordie super-hero "Rave Man." Or a bloke whose brand new Neon Bible hoodie was now covered with neon violet goo. Whatever. Oh, and how could I forget the Win Butler Memorial Barbershop Quartet and their glorious performance of their smash hit “Box, Box, Box, Box (Box, Box, Box Box)”? Kicked Arcade Fire into a cocked hat, that’s for sure.

And that, as they say, was that. Monday morning came round, and this fantastic weekend, with its fantastic music and fantastic company finally came to an close. I reckon the last words should belong to Fiona’s friend and non-UKKer Helen, who came up with a quote which I think summed us up quite nicely:

"It was only when they started talking about making effigies of Win that I got worried."

Same time next year, I guess. :)

THE HOLD STEADY (Shepherd's Bush Empire, 02/07/07)
BRIGHT EYES(Shepherd's Bush Empire, 03/07/07)
MENOMENA (Old Blue Last, 09/07/07)




The Hold Steady put on an absolutely blinding show last Monday, one of the best I’ve seen this year. Certainly not the trendy young bucks you’ll find on the cover on NME, these bar-rockers look like a bunch of middle-aged dads living out their dreams of being rock stars. But as cringeworthy as that sounds, the Hold Steady’s mix of power chords, 80’s keyboards, wonderfully erudite lyrics and an accordian playing Frenchman with a twirly moustache and a tendency to juggle wine-bottles really is fantastic. But what I really loved about them is how much they obviously enjoyed performing, so different from the po-faced poseuring you get from so many bands I see. If you get a chance, check out their latest album ‘Boys And Girls In America’- it’s superb.

The next day I checked out Bright Eyes. Backed by an 11-piece band bedecked in white, the notoriously awkward Conor Oberst put on a top-notch performance in a great, albeit rather short set. The lush 60’s folk-pop of Cassadaga was recreated wonderfully by his backing band, and although older material wasn’t in abundance, those songs he did play also gained from the added orchestration.The backing projections were worthy of note too; some guy was creating them live using arts and crafts stuff, to fantastic effect. Nonetheless, despite all the flair it seemed a bit mechanical at times; apart from the utterly sublime “I Wouldn’t Riot For Less” (those strings were perfect) it generally lacked the soulfulness that defines the best singer-songwriters. But hey, lots of attractive young emos to ogle, and when it comes down to it, isn’t that all that matters?

Then on Monday I saw Menomena again. Think Sunset Rubdown meets the Earlies, add a bit of Bloc Party and 65dos topped with a hint of Tripping Daisy and you’re almost there. Fiona bought me tickets for them a couple of weeks ago, and I enjoyed the show even though the sound was a bit thin for my liking. This time, they were fucking ace. Part of my increased enjoyment was due to the fact I’d listened to their new album religiously since the Camden Barfly show, but most of it was due to the better acoustics of the Old Blue Last. Oh, and the fact they were so loud the vibrations almost caused the speakers to fall over! Yeah, they occasionally relied on backing tracks, but unlike the disappointing Blonde Redhead it added to their sound, rather than reducing the set to a jumped-up karaoke session. And the fact is, baritone sax is the mostly mainly instrument ever. For reals.

GLASTONBURY FESTIVAL 2007

If there is a God, he’s certainly got a sadistic streak. Arriving in the depths of Somerset last Thursday afternoon, we were greeted by weather conditions that, if not quite giving the Bahamas a run for their money, were perfectly cordial and conducive for lazing about on the grass, sipping on over-priced Carlsberg and taking in the sheer scale of it all. For a Glasto first-timer, it’s quite intimidating to behold; I’d heard it was big but it really is something else. But then, the heavens opened. And never closed. As a townie suddenly and frighteningly displaced to the wilds of the countryside, the sudden transformation of my surroundings from ‘solid’ to ‘liquid’ was disarming to say the least, but soon I came accustomed to it. I learned the three very different types of mud- the watery, splashy type; the thicker, slippery type and the viscous sludge of unrelenting evil. I learned that hay is the most valuable resource in the world ever. And I learned that buying £8 tents from Argos will not necessarily guarantee you a comfortable and (more notably) dry experience.

But despite the adverse weather conditions, I did occasionally venture outside of my tent to check out some of the great music on offer. Must admit it didn’t get off to the most inspiring start- Adjagas were a bit disappointing after their intriguing show at the Scala last October; their decision to dilute their traditional Sami folk with mawkish euro-rock served only to make them sound like mid-ranking Eurovision entrants. But they seemed like the Beatles in comparison to NME wank-fodder The View, who delivered a set so banal it made me want to gouge my eyes out with despair. Here’s a tip, lads- if you want to start mass crowd-pleasing clapalongs, please learn how to play in fucking time, thank you. Thank God then for my beloved Earlies providing salvation- admittedly they started off a bit flat but once they got into their groove their idiosyncratic orchestral-prog awesomeness seemed to win over an initially cynical crowd. It’s good to see an underrated band making such a good impression in such a mighty venue- hopefully it’s done something for their sluggish record sales. But even they were overshadowed by gypsy-punk mentalists Gogol Bordello who, as I’ve said so many times before, are one of the best fucking live bands on the planet. I’m happy to report they did nothing to dispel this opinion by getting the whole crowd to jump, pogo and at times slide about in the mudpit that was once the front of the Pyramid Stage; shame that Baro Faro and associated bass-drum-surfing behaviour failed to make an appearance but even so, they easily put on one of the most entertaining sets of the whole festival.

Yet this was all merely a prelude to the sheer awesomeness of the rest of Friday. Bright Eyes were a very nice surprise; didn’t really know what to expect but the ten piece orchestra and snazzy suits immediately grabbed my attention, and it was matched by a performance that was just as classy. As I’ve only really listened to Cassadaga (which I like a lot), the fact the set contained hardly any older stuff wasn’t an issue for me but it was clear a lot of the audience was disappointed. But hey, fuck ‘em- they’re probably bloody hippies anyway. Super Furry Animals, despite some clever gimmickry were a bit dull, so I took the opportunity to get a bite to eat and a sit down (which was harder to do than it sounds when everywhere in a two mile radius is a churned-up mud bath) before returning to see jaunty Scousers The Coral. I was totally into their debut back in the day, so I appreciated the fact that they played pretty much the whole of that album, and although the subsequent LP’s weren’t as strong they still passed the time most pleasantly. But it was what came next that defined the festival for me. Rufus Wainwright was superb; he’s a showman par excellence as well as having an amazing voice. His duet with his sister Martha on “Hallelujah” was a bit ramshackle but when it worked it was truly beautiful- a proper lighter-waving moment. But the inarguable highlight was when he came on stage dressed as Judy Garland and delivered a fully choreographed routine (with his backing musicians doubling up as back-up dancers) to “Get Happy”. Oh so camp, but oh so brilliant. ‘What could top this‘, I thought? ‘Oh wait, the Arcade Fire are next…’

It was a bit of a so-so start by AF standards, with the sound disappointingly thin during Black Mirror and No Cars Go and the crowd uncustomarily subdued. But once they got going, there was no stopping them- Laika was brilliant with Richard and Will on top form, leaping off the stage and throwing ladders and My Body Is A Cage was utterly magnificent, they’ve really managed to transform it into a worthy centerpiece of their set. And from Tunnels onwards, they were about as good as I’ve ever seen them. They nailed Ocean of Noise for the first time ever, Power Out seguing into Rebellion was nigh-on-perfect and Wake Up was one of the most breathtaking moments of my gig-going career; tens of thousands of people singing along at their top of lungs was truly one of those ‘moments’ people will be talking about for years to come. This brilliance was then followed by the equally glorious Bjork, whose delivered a truly mindblowing set. I’d never been a particularly big fan before, but she put on an astounding performance, complete with lasers, African musicians, full brass section, techno beats and her own formidable charm. I was knackered, but also completely mesmerised- never seen anything quite like it. And can I say, for someone who’s old enough to be my mother, she’s still bloody attractive (and blessed with the BEST ACCENT IN THE WORLD EVER.) All in all, as good a day of music as I’ll ever be lucky to see.

Saturday proved to be less impressive. The Hours put on a decent, if uninspiring set that frankly I can’t really remember much about. Guillemots were good, if still only a pale shadow of their glory days- Fyfe’s love of experimentalism has seemingly overcome his ability to write a good tune, which is a real shame for a band who used to get the balance so perfect. Still, as long as they still have songs like Trains To Brazil and Sao Paolo in the repertoire, they’ll always have a place in my affections. Holy Fuck were dead impressive with their crazy Casio keyboard lo-fi techno; performance-wise they reminded me favourably of the fantastic Battles, although they lacked the jaw-dropping creativity and technical skill of that band. On the way to see Duke Special at the Queen‘s Head, I passed CSS who despite my indifference to their Astoria show in April seemed to be putting on a damn good performance. Indeed, I probably should have stayed to watch them because the Queen’s Head was so crammed it was impossible to enjoy the performance, even though he was really rather great. Afterwards, we went to check out the Klaxons; maybe I was too far back, or perhaps I should have been waving a glowstick, but I didn’t get them at all. Still, the lead singer’s obvious emotion at playing the Other Stage was quite touching, even if I found their music a bit bland. I briefly retreated to my tent, where I listened to the dulcet tones of the Pigeon Detectives wafting from the John Peel Tent. To my surprise, they were pretty good- despite being one of those identikit British indie acts riding on the crest of the post-Arctics zeitgeist, they definitely knew how to work a crowd and although their songs won’t win any awards for originality, they were a lot better than those of their peers.

Rested up, I squelched my way to the Pyramid Stage for the evening’s entertainment. Paul Weller impressed me far more than I expected, no arguing he’s a bit middle of the road but the atmosphere was good, you could bop to his tunes and he wrapped up with Town Called Malice which made everyone happy. But subsequently, I was left with a dilemma- stay in my cushy spot near the front of the Pyramid Stage for the Killers or mosey off down to check out !!! and hope for the best on my return? Naturally, I plumped for the option that required less effort, which meant dealing with the hordes of irritating upper-middle class 16 year olds screeching excitedly for the charisma-free Kooks. In fairness, they did deliver a competent performance (and are thus several leagues about the fucking View) but I couldn‘t get at all enthused by their derivative guitar-pop. And the wait wasn’t even worth it in the end as the Killers, for the most part, were monumentally dull. Despite all the pyrotechnics and impressive stage sets, murky acoustics and a pedestrian performance sucked the atmosphere out of the place and the buzz that would normally surround such a high-profile show was conspicuously absent. Even big-hitters like Somebody Told Me were devoid of energy, meaning the lesser-known songs from Sam Town’s really didn’t stand a chance. You really could just see the collective look on the audiences face- “I missed Iggy Pop for THIS?” They slightly redeemed themselves at the tail-end of their set with great renditions of “Glamorous Indie Rock and Roll”, “Mr. Brightside” and “All The Things I Have Done,” but on the whole it was a terribly shrugworthy performance. Ah well, you can’t win them all.

By the final day, the paucity of interesting headliners and a desire to do something a bit different led me to check out some bands that I wouldn’t necessarily normally see. And it was a course of action that definitely paid dividends; Aqualung were a lovely Sunday morning treat with their piano-led balladry, Tiny Dancers’ cheerful pop was pretty decent and The Noisettes impressed me mightily with an electrifyingly charismatic performance. I made a brief detour to the Other Stage to see Cold War Kids, who were magnificent- Nathan’s bluesy howl and intense performance really made their songs come alive on this intimidating stage. The sun making an appearance during closer ‘Hang Me Up To Dry’ was a wonderful piece of serendipitous timing, but the whole set was delightful enough to ensure them a fair few new fans. I then returned John Peel-wards to see The Rumble Strips (who were a lot of fun and I’d love to see again) before making the long and traumatic trek to the turgid bog that constituted the Park Stage. Which, as luck would have it, proved to be an utter waste of time as Micah P. Hinson had broken his arm and cancelled (what a fucking wuss.) And what added insult to injury is that we had to survive twenty minutes of that overhyped drug addict Pete Doherty deluding himself he was a modern-day Bob Dylan rather than a pitiable, emaciated wretch who could barely strum a guitar. So we marched back over the fields of woe to the Jazz Stage to see Beirut; it has to be said the band had been a bit too liberal with the alcohol consumption prior to the show and thus found it difficult to keep it together but nonetheless they got the whole crowd tapping their feet with their Balkan-infused balladry. (Saw them on Monday at the Southbank Centre and Tuesday at the Koko too, where they put on far more accomplished performances.) Then Scott dragged me to see left-wing agitator Billy Bragg on the Leftfield stage, which to my utter shock and surprise I really enjoyed. I may strongly (at times vehemently) disagree with his politics, but he seems like a genuine chap as well as an impressive orator and a damn fine comical lyricist.

So we had reached the end of the last day of Glastonbury, and I had one more big choice to make- The Who or the Chemical Brothers? In the end, we plumped for neither- we all went along and had a fucking great singalong to the Bootleg Beatles instead (Hey Jude FTW!). It was a bit silly, but it seemed to sum up the whole Glasto ethos- it’s not just about the music, but having a lot of fun at the same time. And a lot of fun was certainly had- indeed, camping with a group that I didn’t really know worked out very well as I didn’t have my time spoilt by politics. Yeah, it was uncomfortable and wet and I got fuck-all sleep, but I honestly can’t wait for the opportunity to go again next year...as long as I don’t have to see the View again.

ARCADE FIRE- BBC Maida Vale Studios (19/06/07)

So, last Tuesday I sauntered down the BBC Studio’s at Maida Vale to see a little-known Canadian outfit known as “The Arcade Fire” (some guy on UKK offered me a ticket, how could I refuse?) The studio itself was a tiny place, about the same size as the Water Rats (100-150 capacity); if you ignored all the camera equipment, it was essentially a jumped-up primary school assembly hall. Naturally, we were all as excitable as giddy schoolgirls so it was lucky we didn’t have to wait that long about before things got under way. Stuart Maconie and Mark Radcliffe came on stage to briefly introduce the show, before welcoming the band on stage. Some brief observations:

i) Regine has a new dress, a lot like the black one she wore during the last tour but reddish-pink; my friend Alex said it looked a bit A-level textiles but I thought it was rather cool.
ii) I never noticed how short Sarah was, she looks tiny next to Marika.
iii) I felt really sorry for the poor horn blokes, standing forlornly at the back. They really are the lepers of the band.

Anyway, like the Brixton shows, they opened up with Keep The Car Running- a fine way to kick off proceedings, although the mandolin was a bit too low in the mix for my liking. The thing that immediately struck me was the peculiar lack of atmosphere- perhaps it’s inevitable when the majority of the audience comprises of jaded industry types but sometimes it felt like the band’s electrifying energy was dissipating into a void. It certainly wasn’t completely dead (it wasn’t just us UKKers clapping along, and the applause after each song was enthusiastic) but it’s just not the same without a bunch of rabid fanboys and girls singing their hearts out whilst bouncing about like Zebedee on crack. On the plus side, it was nice to be able to actually appreciate the music for once without any distractions; you could devote your whole attention to the band without having to think, “why, I wish that tall fellow would stop punching me in the back.”
No Cars Go was as sublime as ever; even in the rather sterile environment of the Radio 2 studio it lost little of its awesome power. It wasn’t quite the same silently mouthing “Let’s Go!” than screaming it at the top of my lungs, but dammit, I still loved every moment. But it was Haiti that was the definite highlight of yesterday’s set; Arcade Fire at their exhilarating, untouchable best. The whole band put their all into their performance- Regine doing her cute little dance-thing, Sarah and Marika bouncing in time to the drums, Richard annihilating his cymbal, Will completely freaking out- utterly brilliant! Win then teased us by playing the opening bars of ‘Guns of Brixton’ on his keyboard, before launching into a monumental rendition of My Body Is A Cage. The more I hear this song live, the more I fall in love with it- it’s less bombastic than the recorded version, replacing the sheer viscerality of the pipe organ with a more complex, rewarding arrangement. Win’s voice sounds so much better after the surgery; it’s one of the strongest vocal performances I’ve seen him do and the rest of the band singing the organ countermelody towards the end remains one of my favourite AF live moments.
Next on the list- Black Mirror, which was a bit muggy sound-wise but they pulled things together by “un, deux, trois, dir miroir noir!” which I was thankful about. I tried to instigate a “Tim Chant” at this point, but was swiftly elbowed into submission by my friend who somehow felt that this would be embarrassing.:p We then got Neon Bible, the one song that really benefited from the subdued environment; its pleasant, low-key charm prevents it from ever being a stadium/festival anthem but in a venue like that it was perfect. Nice little coda too; perhaps they could have done more with it but I liked it. Intervention and (Antichrist Television Blues) were both great; the latter particularly welcome as it’s not a song I’ve heard them play very often.
After (ATB) the guys recording the show ran out of tape, so whilst they were hastily preparing a new one, Win gave us a mini-lecture describing the crazily old-fashioned technology known as “radios”- (complete with honky-tonk ragtime accompaniment courtesy of Regine) before launching into the glorious double whammy of Power Out and Rebellion. Yet again though, it was slightly disconcerting watching these songs in such a restrained, thoroughly polite manner- if they had invited 50 UKKer’s along instead of filling it with media folk it would have been quite probably the best thing EVER.
And that was that. Lights up, no encore- bit of a shame, but it really, REALLY would have been churlish to complain. Especially as we came across a group of competition winners who travelled all the way from Scotland, who had inexplicably been told the show started at 7.30 and therefore missed the whole thing.  But hey, it was an amazing experience to see one’s favourite band in such intimate settings and even though the atmosphere wasn’t as electric as I may have hoped it was still one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments that will remain a highlight of my gig-going career.

MUSE (Wembley Stadium, 16/06/07)

I know it's fashionable not to like Muse but their show at Wembley tonight was pretty fucking amazing. Not in the highest tier of gigs I've been to- they lacked the soul essential for a truly epoch-defining show- but they certainly were worthy of being the first band to sell out the new Wembley Stadium (72,000 people, I believe). Managed to get about 8 rows from the front; unsurprisingly, the most pit was LETHAL. Luckily, everyone had tired themselves out by the end of the third song, which accounts for the fact I'm still alive. Main set was of wavering quality; started off on a stunning high with a rollocking Knights of Cydonia, followed by Hysteria and Supermassive Black Hole, but then dipped for a bit before making a fantastic comeback with Butterflies and Hurriances and Citizen Erased. Then came a series of slightly underwhelming tracks- Feeling Good was disappointingly tepid but by the end they were in fine fettle with a run of Starlight, Time Is Running Out and New Born. And the extended encore was (with the exception of Wake Up out St. John's) the best conclusion to a show I've ever seen. The rose-petal-dispensing acrobats suspended by giant balloons during "Blackout" was certainly the most impressive gimmick I've seen at a gig, and needless to say, Plug In Baby in that kind of environment was a wee bit special. Single best moment for me though was "Soldiers Poem", where Matt Bellamy asked the crowd to hold their mobiles in the air. Now, by this time it was dark, and in a venue of such huge proportions it's hard to see those in seating in any case. So for anyone gazing from the pitch, the effect was of a galaxy of thousands upon thousands of stars twinkling in the shadows. It was so breathtaking that I unconsciously exclaimed "wow!", getting weird looks from the people next to me until they saw what I was looking at and said "wow!" too. 23 songs in all, certainly got our money's worth. Nice crowd as well; not only did I chat to loads of people, but when it started pissing down, everyone was sharing umbrellas with each other and fashioning impromptu shelters out of those waterproof ponchos so that most of us stayed semi-dry.

As for the supports, Rodrigo y Gabriela seemed to impress everyone- they seemed unfazed by the vastness of the stadium and played a great little set; also (shockingly) The Streets were about one hundred times better than Dirty Pretty Things. Although that's less a commendation of Mike Skinner than a seriously damning indiction of DPT's crushing dullness...

11daysofgiggery (or: Why I don’t have any money any more)

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)

BATTLES (London Scala, 16/05/07)

After a run of rather disappointing shows, I approached Wednesday’s Battles show with a degree of trepidation. Despite the fact that everyone I know who’s seen them have been unanimous in their praise for this New York quartet, I’ve found the majority of their recorded material rather underwhelming. Yet the almost reverential hype around their live shows piqued my interest, so I headed Scala-wards to see what all the fuss was about. The supports certainly didn’t inspire confidence; Clark bored me to tears with his insipid, dated electro piped straight out of a laptop, and Four Tet’s “DJ Set,” consisting of Kieran Hebden occasionally coming out of the dressing room to pick his nose and put on some mind-numbingly pedestrian beats, begged the question, “how much is he getting paid?”

Needless to say, the headliners had to be something special to redeem the evening. And special they were. In fact, they were one of the top five live acts I’ve seen in my life, and as someone who’s seen more than his fair share of top-tier musicians, that’s pretty fucking good! They’re hard to pin down musically; they employ wonky time-signatures and unusual rhythmic patterns a la 65daysofstatic intertwined with the mesmerising grooves of the Earlies, flavoured with avant-garde knob-twiddling and vocodor-ed vocals. In many ways they reminded me of a less skinny-jeaned version of Broken Social Scene- they make a huge fuck-off racket that slowly coalesces into something that unexpectedly makes perfect sense. What makes them special though is their top-notch musicianship- they seem almost to almost effortlessly play in perfect sync no matter how odd or complex the rhythmic demands of their music and it’s all executed with a relentless energy, enhanced by the fact they play so close to the front of the stage. The drummer, in particular, deserves an award for his frankly awe-inspiring performance- within ten minutes he was completely drenched in sweat, and by the mid-set mark he looked like he was going to die but he still hit those drums so hard you could see the sawdust flying off. The highlight naturally was the mindblowing “Atlas” but despite their experimental nature, the band only rarely ruined the flow of the set by descending into atonal BSS-style wankery. But that said, even the few moments of pretentiousness couldn’t ruin such a spectacular performance and when it all ended, you could just hear everyone turning to their friends and saying “that was AWESOME!” It’s a shame that their inaccessible albums will put a lot of people off, but hopefully word-of-mouth will give this incredibly exciting band the audience it totally deserves.

Oh, and the keyboardist started beat-boxing at one point. It was fucking awesome.

THE TWILIGHT SAD (London Borderline, 10/05/07)

First thing I noticed about the Twilight Sad is that they're more Scottish than Robert The Bruce, Alan Hansen and the Proclaimers combined. I'd not heard a note by them before I entered the Borderline, but the lead singer's Caledonian burr is doubtlessly their most distinctive feature; for my money, I thought it made a really nice change from ye typical indie whine. The frontman's also commendably confident and passionate when performing, although he did come across as too arrogant to be charismatic. Shame that their tunes were desperately average then- true, they were battling against a sub-par sound mix but apart from a couple of fantastic moments when the whole band hit a lot of things REALLY REALLY HARD to create a gloriously ear-melting cacophony, I thought they were rather dull. After all the hype and praise that's been lavished upon them, I was expecting a lot better- maybe I just caught them on a bad night, but the next big thing? I bloody well hope not.

CAT POWER (Kentish Town Forum, 1/5/07)

Bounding across the stage dressed alarmingly like Lady Sovereign, the inimitable Chan Marshall (AKA Cat Power) certainly cuts a more confident figure than her reputation would suggest. The erratic live act of days past, prone to fluffing songs and on-stage breakdowns has given way to a more assured, if still eccentric performer and it’s certainly good to see her in such good spirits. Sadly, this new found happiness has come at the expense of the vulnerability that made her voice so intensely moving; the rawness that infuses her most striking performances is all but gone. Inevitably, I found myself comparing her performance last night to the magnificent show put on by that other much-feted songstress Leslie Feist the other day and unfortunately Chan didn’t even compare. The major disappointment was the instrumentation- whilst Feist’s musicians subtly complemented her delightful vocals, Cat Power’s overwhelmed her. A voice like hers deserves arrangements that accentuate its fragile beauty; it certainly didn’t need swamping by a pub-blues backing band, which to be perfectly honest is what they were. All the understated reserve of the album was eschewed for a subtle-as-a-brick country-rock vibe that was rarely deviated from; even “The Greatest” was delivered in a depressingly workmanlike fashion. Only occasionally did the backing band decide to hold back and allow us all-too-fleeting glimpses of her outstanding talent. Maybe I’m being a bit harsh, even on an off-night she’s better than most singer-songwriters, but there’s no escaping the fact she simply didn’t live up to my expectations. Shame.