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.

YANN TIERSEN (London Scala, 29/04/07)

The Yann Tiersen show yesterday was the most bizarre gig I think I've ever been to. I arrived at the Scala at 8.45, having been imbibing drinks at the Big Chill with some friends, assuming that even at that late hour we'd find a half-decent vantage point. We were wrong. Because you can't access the floor of the auditorium without descending from the cramped balcony, it's impossible to get through once people are already perched there so we were stuck right by the exit, unable to see a bloody thing So, we thought "bugger this for a lark", and retreated to the balcony bar where at least we could hear the music in relative comfort. Problem was, because it was so high up you could only see the band through the fellow patrons legs so Jennywren scouted out another bar, which although chock-a-block with loud Gallic people at least provided a decent view of the proceedings on stage. It may have not been ideal, but it was a laugh all the same. As for Yann himself, he was very, very good- far better than I was expecting. His balladry was too drippy for my liking, but the intense post-rock elements combined with some manic violin playing were fantastic. He even managed to fit in an accordion track at one stage, although the highlight for me was the novel rendition of 'La Valse d'Amelie," with its xylophone intro seguing into a heavy rock epic. Don't think anyone was expecting that! Next time, I'll have to mosey on down a bit earlier so I can see the damn thing...

PETER AND THE WOLF (HOXTON BAR AND KITCHEN, 25/04/07)

Welcome to the strange and unsettling land of Hoxton, where the girls are pretty, the jeans are skinny and the hair is absurdly coiffeured. Betwixt the chain-smoking fashionistas and crack-peddling rastas lies the oh-so-trendy Hoxton Square Bar and Grill, a grim concrete edifice adorned with leather sofas, paintings of alarmingly sinister clowns and a stifling atmosphere of hipster superiority. But in the midst of all this suffocating “coolness” lies a gem of a venue, where some of indie’s more exciting acts may be found before they hit the big time; Emmy The Great has graced it with her presence, I’m From Barcelona had their first UK show there (and how I regret not going to that!) and it’s where I checked out up-and-coming Liverpudlian three-piece Peter and the Wolf last night. Unashamed to deliver instantly loveable pop classics infused with a infectious Merseybeat vibe, the band’s unusual line-up of guitarist, double bassist and a vivacious barefoot percussionist gives them a quaintly bohemian edge that allows them to deftly avoid the pitfalls of MOR drudgery. In contrast to the wussy emasculated vocals so in vogue at the moment, frontman Mark Sunderland actually seems to have some passion in his voice, backed to great effect by the charming harmonies of quirky drummer Donna Dosanjh. This in itself would make them a band to recommend, but the real draw is the energy of their live shows- these bouncily joyous affairs make it clear they genuinely love performing and glancing at the faces (and crazed dancing actions) of my fellow patrons, it’s clear their enthusiasm is infectious. Like Camera Obscura, they don’t do anything desperately new, but their songwriting is so accomplished that it honestly doesn’t matter. One of the most talented new bands I’ve seen this year, Peter and the Wolf have the crossover appeal to enter the public consciousness; methinks they won’t be playing in venues as small as the Hoxton B&G for very much longer…

CSS (London Astoria, 22/04/07)

Despite their questionable musical credentials, Brazilian disco-punks CSS (Cansei de Ser Sexy) put on a fun, if unspectacular performance on Sunday. Their whole show hinges on the sheer charisma of unfeasibly attractive frontwoman Lovefoxx and most of the time she’s able to carry it off, covering the cracks in a band with perhaps more sass than actual talent. The crowd was certainly up for it though, with what seemed to be half the audience attempting to crowd-surf at least once and naturally things went completely mental during “Lets Make Love And Listen From Death From Above.” Tilly and the Wall were disappointing as supports, although not through lack of effort on their part- they just suffered from the appalling sound mix the Astoria seems to inflict on all its opening acts. Hipper-than-thou electro duo Ratatat were marvellous though, despite their heavy reliance on backing tracks- at their best they were like a fusion between Explosions in the Sky and 65daysofstatic, which I don’t need to tell you is a pretty sweet proposition. The next week or so is looking pretty good for gigs too- bohemian popsters Peter and the Wolf, “Amelie” composer Yann Tiersen and best of all, the one and only Cat Power. Life is sweet!

TWISTED FOLK FESTIVAL w/ THE EARLIES (London Arts Depot, 21/04/07)

So I sauntered down to the Twisted Folk Festival in Finchley yesterday, not because I'm particularly into folk or antyhing but because the Most Underrated Band In Britain (TM) were laying down their hypnotic, fully orchestrated grooves there. And unsurprisingly, the wonderful Earlies pulled out yet another blissfully top-notch show, enthused with all the mesmerising energy I've come to expect from them. I do worry that some of the jams at the end of their more proggy numbers go on too long for their own good, but Morning Wonder and a transcendent One Of Us Is Dead were worth the price of admission alone. Brilliant, brilliant band! Kudos to the crazy lanky dancey guy who made the show even more enjoyable, too!

The other acts at the fest were pretty great as well- nothing that encouraged me to throw out my indie CD's and become a dirty long-haired hippie but entertaining nonetheless. Baby-faced John Smith may have a dull name, but his voice is anything but ordinary-he's got the growl of proper grizzled bluesman truly nailed, and Alele Diane reminded me of Cat Power without the fragility with her countrified balladry. Lucy and the Caterpillar was also interesting, coming across as Emmy The Great's long lost not-quite-so-great cousin; thought she was a bit too self-consciously quirky until it dawned on me that she was actually mental! Pleasant enough though.

CAMERA OBSCURA (London Koko, 18/04/07)


Glorious purveyors of melodic folk/pop tinged with melancholy, Camera Obscura are a band who could never be accused of pushing the envelope, but whose masterful songcraft makes questions of ‘originality’ a rather moot point. And after last night show’s at the Koko, I can say (for the most part) they’re as, if not more, delightful live than on record. In a set that was at worse merely pleasant and at best sublime, ‘Let’s Get Out Of The Country’ and‘Books Written For Girls’ both stood out as highlights, rendered with a carefree energy miles away from the subdued production of the albums. But the night belonged, perhaps unsurprisingly, to the divine ‘Lloyd, I’m Ready To Be Heartbroken’ which was more wonderful than I could have hoped for- I honestly think it’s one of the loveliest pop tunes ever written. The band were also more lively than I was expecting; Tracy-Anne Campbell has far more charm than anyone who looks like a frumpy 50’s housewife has any right to be; just like her band, her understated demeanour belies an unexpected energy that’s very endearing. Shame about the encore then; a wistful cover of ABBA’s “Super Trouper” was cute, but ‘Eighties Fan’ was utterly deadened by the incomprehensible absence of live violin. That’s pretty much like performing ‘Wake Up’ with recorded “woooooah’s;” the strings are an integral part of the song and without them the band was basically reduced to jangling tambourines over a backing track- certainly not what a song of that calibre deserves. A disappointingly sour note to end an otherwise excellent show.

Nice supports though - Nic Dawson Kelly was a more interesting specimen of the acoustic troubadour breed that one is normally accustomed to, his histrionic, flamboyant vocals striking a intriguing middle ground between Rufus Wainwright and Carey Mercer. And given that I’ve been listening to their stuff a lot recently, Au Revoir Simone were a very welcome surprise; they played a pretty solid set, best during its more exuberant moments although the Earlies-ish prog track that rounded things off was really damn good. One of them did look a lot like an ex of mine though which was slightly perturbing…

FEIST (Shepherd's Bush Empire, 17/04/07)

Despite the humidity of the venue, the preponderance of atmosphere-sucking corporate knobheads in the audience and my hayfever-induced lack of sleep, Feist at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire was without a doubt one of the best gigs of the year so far. After a very entertaining opening set from Mayor McCa, a tap-dancing, kazoo-tooting one-band band, the Broken Social Scene songstress started her show with a beautifully ethereal track with a Bjorkish vibe, all vocoders and xylophones and piano. It was a fine, slightly left-field introduction to the world of Leslie Feist, and indicated that this wouldn’t be the two hours of meandering acoustic rambling that too often typifies the average “solo act”. As one would expect after three years of touring “Let It Die,” the set was very heavy on new material and it was great to see that it lived up to her considerable talent; a varied mix of piano-led balladry, gospel-infused rock and charming acoustic folk all showcasing her wonderfully versatile vocal skills. But it was the moments she went full pelt, her voice echoing from the rafters when she was at the top of her game, as completely enchanting as any singer I’ve ever seen. The set was rounded off with a great rendition of Mushaboom that was only slightly marred by the lack of reaction from a miserable crowd (kudos to the girls who actually got up to dance)- it’ll be interesting to see if Camera Obscura can top her tonight.

MIDLAKE (Shepherd's Bush Empire, 11/04/07)



...were good. Nothing earth-shattering, but very pleasant all the same. The material from their debut (which I'm unfamiliar with) actually came across better than a lot of the Van Occupanther stuff- they cocked up my favourite track "Young Bride" with an out-of-time intro and insufficient energy to make the song really come alive, which saddened me no end. Still, apart from the uninspiring encore, there was no doubt they're a very talented bunch and the very positive audience response definitely reflected this. In fact, the band seemed positively overwhelmed by the adulation- 'twas a great atmosphere, especially for a London show. Perhaps not as great a show as I expected, but by no means a disappointment either.

NEXT ON THE LIST: Feist, Camera Obscura, Twisted Folk (with the Earlies, Adem et al.), CSS, Peter and the Wolf and Cat Power. Damn good month for live music... :-)

TROUBLES (London Water Rats, 30/3/07)

Support bands are an inevitability of the gig circuit; a chance for up-and-coming bands to gain some performing experience and for the audience to have something to listen to whilst the main act snorts lines off hookers or violate horses or whatever rock stars do before shows. More often than not, they’re no more than average mediocrities, at best getting you to nod your head and vaguely note to check out their MySpace. Then you’ve got the godawful support bands, whose songs get lost in a fuzz of terrible acoustics and ineptitude and force all those with a semblance of sense to retreat to the sanctuary of the bar and a stiff drink.

But recently, I’ve seen quite a few bands that fall into a third category; the ones that are actually rather good. In fact, since the start of this year I’ve seen several opening acts that have equalled or even surpassed the headliner I’ve come to see; stand up Make Good Your Escape, Lonely Dear and Peter and the Wolf. Friday’s gig at the London Water Rats was another case in point. It’s not as though Hope of the States splinter band ‘Troubles’ weren’t good. Their understated post-rock was often beautiful, and the final track was as good an instrumental as HOTS ever came up with; the problem was the lack of variation. On the other hand, openers Revere had a similar post-rock formula (albeit more of the rock-out, EITS variety) but they mixed in enough unusual elements spice things up a bit. With some Beirut horns, Coral-style bounciness and Matt Bellamy vocals, they added enough to the increasingly staid genre to make them sound fresh and interesting. More importantly, they put on a fucking superb performance- for an last-billed support band playing at the back of a pub to 40 people, they certainly know how to impress. Passionate, intense and professional, I’ve seen bands play in venues twenty times the size who weren’t half as good as these guys. Shame their recorded stuff is a bit bland, but as a live proposition I have to say that these folks are unmissable. Kudos also due to the other support, the female-fronted rockers Cheap Motel who perhaps performed with more zest than actual innovation, but whose great line in rock showmanship (and the ability to play their feminine wiles to the hilt) provided for a very energetic and enjoyable set.

I also saw I’m From Barcelona again on Tuesday; just as utterly, wonderfully, euphorically joyous as ULU, but unfortunately without the big fuck-off stage invasion at the end. Dragged Ollie with me, even though he knew nothing of them prior to the show he was left absolutely speechless at how brilliant they were. Not much I can add to what I said last time, but if you like bands the Flaming Lips, I cannot impress on you enough how much you need to see IMB. Less than a show than a full-scale party!

THE SUPER-MEGA-UBER-EPIC FOUR DAY ARCADE FIRE REVIEW!!!!

THE LONG VERSION

A question I’ve been asked far too often these last few weeks is, “why the hell did you see the same band four days in a row, you sad badge-wearing freak?” And that’s a more difficult question to answer than you’d think- at least whilst trying to sound like a rational human being. I mean, I go to a lot of shows (perhaps too many) but I’ve never felt any particular urge to see a band more than once on the same tour. Yet this group of weird Canadians with their funny clothes and freaky instruments not only compelled me to dole out for four consecutive shows, but made me actually regret not doling out for more.

The thing is though, the Arcade Fire are more than just a band. They’re an experience. Yes, they’ve got two classic albums behind them; yes, they’re all multi-talented instrumentalists but just as importantly they know the value of real showmanship- not the leering, testosterone-fuelled posturing of sub-Libertines ripoffs that inundate the music world, but an actual, well-thought-out act that’s as exciting and expressive as the music they play. Just picture the scene- you’ve got Richard on his knees, banging the hell out of that now-legendary yellow drum; Sarah and Marika jerking about like clockwork marionettes, bows flailing as they attack their strings in a staccato frenzy; Jeremy denting cymbals and massacring drum-skins; old grumpy-face Tim laying down the bass with consummate professionalism and Will hitting that glockenspiel like it’d personally insulted his mother. There’s Regine, flitting between drums and keyboards and accordions and hurdy-gurdys with an impish grin on her face and an effervescent spring in her step, and in the middle of it all stands Win Butler, the ringmaster of this glorious mayhem. He’s a quiet bloke, not often given to overdoing the banter, but there’s a sense of powerful determination there- a defiant ‘fuck you’ to the rebelling sinuses that by rights should have knocked him off the road long before Oslo. And this chaotic, manic, wonderful energy is all transferred to the audience, making grown men weep and inspiring people who should know better to jump and sing their fucking hearts out. At their best, they’re as uplifting as any band on the planet, one that leaves you on a high long after the last note has faded- and it’s this sense of lasting euphoria that makes seeing them night after night such an utter pleasure.

But enough of my pseudo-Paul-Morley bollockry; time to review some shows! First, let’s get the worst out of the way- Wednesday was by far the weakest night of the four. Marred by a viciously elbow-happy crowd, sub-par sound and a uncharacteristically subdued atmosphere, it was still better than the vast majority of live shows I’ve seen but there was definitely something missing. The band were obviously trying their best, and they certainly had their moments- ‘Cold Wind’ was a delightfully soothing oasis of calm, ‘Tunnels’ never disappoints and the increasingly rare ‘Laika’ was a real treat- but the spark simply wasn’t there. As Richard told us outside later, “it was a rather boring show for us.” It’s the only time I’ve seen them where I haven’t left the venue buzzing with euphoria, and I must admit I was having doubts about whether I’d bother going to all four days after all. Luckily, Thursday night’s performance, by dint of being the best show I’ve seen in my life, kinda made up for it.

Frankly, the whole experience was such a haze of unadulterated joy that I’m finding it difficult to remember specific moments of brilliance, but Crown of Love was a contender for the best individual performance of a song I’ve ever seen. It’s always been one of my favourite AF songs, but the sheer emotion the band pours into it live transforms it into a nigh-on religious experience. With the congregation of thousands singing along with a passion that’d put the Vatican to shame, the atmosphere was just astounding; I don’t think I’ve witnessed anything quite like it. And just as it swells up to its emotional zenith and you think “this literally can’t get any better,” the song and crowd alike explode in an eruption of baroque disco awesomeness; needless to say, ‘amazing’ doesn’t do it justice. Then there were songs like Black Mirror, ruined by the muddy acoustics the night before that finally had the opportunity to shine, and although they never quite nailed the horns at the end of Ocean of Noise, the segue into the mighty Rebellion was perfect. By the time they played a triumphant Wake Up, the mingled feelings of exhaustion, dehydration and indescribable elation had me literally wiping tears of joy from my eyes; the only time I’ve ever done that at a gig before was when I saw them play “In The Backseat” back in 2005. On that night, I thought I’d never been blessed to see a show that good again- Thursday’s performance happily proved me wrong. The only disappointment was the conspicuous absence of ‘Power Out,’ but hey, you can’t have everything.

Memorably, this was also the night of the first fruit flinging incident, where roadies from the ‘magic window’ at the side of the Academy would throw a variety of fresh produce at the fanboys congregating in the road below. Despite their valiant efforts to deter the ravaging hordes by pelting apples and bananas at them, they couldn’t hold the bastards off. Indeed, the mob below mistook this as a gesture of affection, and grabbed the fruit like manna from heaven. I personally got a bottle of Evian, which isn’t, under most definitions, a fruit per se, but was very welcome nonetheless. Our small troupe of Moths (Fiona, Jaylily, Jennywren, Cicero, Moonfullofstarz and bf) then wound up at the Dogstar, where we were graced by bangin’ R&B choons and overpriced London beer- the perfect environs for a group of indie fans such ourselves. :p Interesting fact- whilst walking back to the station, I got offered drugs on nine separate occasions. You gotta love the Brixton entrepreneurial spirit…

By Friday the sleep-to-Arcade Fire ratio meant that fatigue really started to kick in; thankfully, I was standing next to Louis who made up for my shameful lethargy with flying (or should that be pogoing?) colours. The specialite du jour was a cover of the Serge Gainsbourg penned Eurovision hit ‘Poupee de Cire’, an upbeat Gallic slice of camp that once again highlighted Regine’s natural star quality and affirmed her status as the heart and soul of the band. The Well And The Lighthouse again proved itself to be the ‘Haiti’ of Neon Bible by absolutely trouncing the overproduced recorded version, and although not doing enough with its fabulous call-and-response ending, Windowsill provided one of the evening’s more subtle pleasures. But the highlight of this fantastic set was undoubtedly the surprise substitution of Neon Bible for Power Out. Hardcore devotees of said title track may have been disappointed by its absence, but such a high-energy show deserved a suitably high-energy finale and it doesn’t much get better than Neighborhood #3. I was admittedly far too shattered to mosh by this stage but judging by the bruises on my arm, my fellow UKKers certainly weren’t…

Most significantly though, this was the most Mothtastic night of them all; there were at least fifteen of us there and we certainly made our presence felt. The Tim chants led by the board’s ‘hooligan tendency’ managed to elicit an embarrassed smile out of the notoriously stony-faced bassist, our impeccable vocal skills were documented for the ages by PABBY and Jules’ dancing skills would certainly give John Travolta a run for his money… There was also a unforgettable moment when, in a reprise of Thursday’s fruit dispensing incident, a fan was graced with an apple thrown by the band themselves; with a reaction akin to Jerry Falwell if he’d been casually chucked the Holy Grail, he fell to his knees and exclaimed, “I’M HOLDING A FUCKING ARCADE FIRE APPLE!!!! IT’S A MIRACLE!” After freaking out Win during his brief apperance at the magic window, our veritable army of Mothdom marched off to the Albert, where photos were taken, drinks were drunk, band members accosted and the Antichrist was defeated by the power of sheer cowardice (as Diaji can testify…) 'Twas a lot of fun!

Saturday gave me a welcome opportunity to recharge my batteries (‘sleeping is giving in,’ my arse) and that meant that for me the final show pipped Friday as the second-best night of the residency (though truth be told both were equally good). I won’t deny the absence of Crown of Love saddened me, but the band made up for it by putting on their most intense performance yet. Will seemed to pull out all the stops with his crazy antics, Win was unusually free with the banter and Wake Up seemed even more overwhelmingly joyous than ever. Things were brought to a close with an acoustic cover of the Clash’s ‘Guns of Brixton,’ which wasn’t quite as effective as at Porchester (to be fair, the venue was about ten times bigger) but was a nice little touch nonetheless. They didn’t play Headlights though, despite all the effort I put into my banner- what a bunch of bastards! :p My personal favourite moment of the evening though was seeing the reaction of some fans who’d been waiting two years for the opportunity to see the band; I think their screams of “that was the most fucking amazing thing I’ve ever seen!!!” suggested they may have enjoyed it. Being specifically offered a setlist at the end by a security guard because he was so impressed with my enthusiasm was pretty cool too! Then it was off to the Albert for one last drink with the UKK crew before buggering off back to boring reality, completely broke, completely shattered- and completely over-the-moon. So much good music over such a short space of time…how will anything ever compare?

But those four days were not just about the brilliant music; it was about the brilliant people I met and instilled with a pathological fear of portly men with badges. It’s heartening to see that Arcade Fire can attract fans from all walks of life, and we motley crew of Moths were a shining testament to that fact. So Fiona, Jaylily, Spidey, Don, Jules, Cicero, Dustonmytambourines, Jennywren, Diaji, FitzKreuner, Louis, James111, John Gleeson, <3Joujoux d’Antan<3, Eliz, Marfamac, Pulkpull, PABBY, Wintertime, Anwar, Amadeep, Facundogore, Aethan Romm, Moonfullofstarz, Neon78, Ellroy, Moon, Erol, Pilgrim S and I Are Scientist- it was great meeting you all! Arcade Fire are the best band in the world, with the best fans in the world. Fo' sure.

THE SHORT VERSION

It was really fuckin’ good. Oh yeah.

(Awesome photo courtesy of British Storm Petrel from UKK)

EAGLES OF DEATH METAL (London Astoria, 11/03/07)

Despite having contracted what seems to be the Plague from some unknown agency, I rather enjoyed Eagles of Death Metal at the Astoria tonight. A far more light-hearted outfit than Josh Homme’s other band (stoner rockers Queens of The Stone Age), they provide simple, no-frills, straightforward rock ‘n roll. Their material could certainly never be called ‘varied’, but there’s no denying these guys are masters at what they do- the band played loud and tight, and that’s all you need for a show like this. Homme’s tongue-in-cheek strutting and good ol’ boy charm added immensely to proceedings; although he sometimes overdid the banter, it was clear that he was having the time of his life up there and that enjoyment was conveyed very much to the audience. Because I wasn’t feeling too good, I stood at the back of the venue for once which means I felt a bit detached from proceedings, but their 90 minute set clipped along at a swift pace and I must admit I did feel a lot better afterwards. Respect to the healing powers of ROCK!

Oh, and they played a cover of “Stuck In The Middle With You,” which made me exceedingly happy. No-one's ear got cut off, which made me less so.