Generic Poor Review #1

This article originally appeared on the peerless (yet now sadly defunct) Gobshout.com. It's owners are now Suburban Tarts, who should be visited post-haste...


On Friday night I was assaulted in Covent Garden. Head-butted in the face, I was. Blood all over the place. And it was almost the low point of the weekend. But then I went to the pub this evening and saw a band so poor that I am not going to name them, or the pub. Instead, I’m going to generically rant about them for your reading pleasure.


It started poorly. As the band maneuvered their instruments onto the small stage, the signs of doom were all about. The trousers were genital-crushingly tight, the t-shirts achingly fashionable, the hair floppy on one side and long on the other. It seemed like a Spotters’ Guide to modern indie cliché. But something was wrong with this perfect picture: tans. This sort of band should look as though they are slightly unhealthy; as though they have been living off beans and deathly kebabs for the previous three months. They should not look as though they have recently returned from The Seychelles. These are almost definitely the Common People to whom Jarvis was referring. Nor should their drummer be wearing a designer shirt and looking a touch too much like Michael Hutchence for comfort.


So, before the first note had been struck, I had decided I hated this lot. I knew they would be rubbish, and they did not disappoint.


The ukelele is an instrument that can, in professional terms, “go either way”. It should not, for example, constitute the entire melody line of your Shoreditch-friendly indie band. Nor should it be played with accompanying head banging. Just close your eyes and imagine how stupid that looks. See?


Beyond this, there’s a singer for whom the concept of a consonant is clearly a foreign and slightly suspicious one. Having heard more than one Cure record (I don’t know this, but I’d put my next wage packet on it), he bleats away with a voice that leaves myself and my housemate struggling to maintain straight faces and continence. In the entire set, I heard one discernible lyric, no kidding. There is occasional falsetto because, you know, that’s in right now.


Then comes the best bit: a song featuring the triangle. It is, let’s face it, the instrument you give the utterly rubbish kid in primary school music class. The reason for this is that it takes a very special kind of talent to fuck it up. Needless to say, these guys manage it. The “instrument” is frequently mishit and sometimes even missed. It’s hilarious to watch and we finally give up trying not to laugh when he throws aside the beater (as Wikipedia tells me it’s called) in fury. He resorts instead to saying “Shup” into the microphone instead.


Eventually the set draws to a close, to decidedly scant applause. I feel that here, in this small upstairs room, we have crossed an event horizon. The point where indie music gained it’s own Spinal Tap. It’s all been headed that way for a little while, let’s face it. In this modern world where social media has effectively removed several billion layers of quality control, we may have brought this on ourselves. These guys are so laughably generic that it matters not one jot that I have not given you their name. One day soon they will undoubtedly feature in the new bands section of the music tabloids. Take a look, they could be there already...

Folkadot @ Green Note, Camden - 2nd February 2011

This article originally appeared on the peerless (yet now sadly defunct) Gobshout.com. It's owners are now Suburban Tarts, who should be visited post-haste...


I am coming before you to extol the virtues of London’s best folk venue. If you have not yet had the pleasure of Green Note, I have only one word for you: go. The restaurant out front leads you through to a little venue at the back, littered with candle-lit tables and flanked by bare brick walls. It’s what my mind thinks the cafés in 1960s Greenwich Village were like. A tiny stage at one end is lit just enough to create atmosphere, and a bar at the other end serves a good selection of just about everything. The food is out of this world and everyone is friendly beyond description.


Tonight is a monthly night put on by Unstable Promotions and features three acts from in and around London. Before we start though, credit and massive props to Jonny Berliner, who comperes and warms the crowd up with a couple of folk songs about science. His calypso tribute to the marvels of DNA has to be heard to be believed.


First up tonight is Oka Vanga , last heard of on this site in 2009. Before the set, I talk to Angie about why they seem to have an aversion to eating before they go on stage. “Well,” she deadpans “If you were being chased by a bear, you wouldn’t stop to have a pitta, would you?”


That said, there’s no sign of any nerves at all in their performance tonight. The eighteen months since their last review have seen the duo record an album and play a number of folk festivals across the country. Their performance has grown and changed, and the synergy of their playing styles is as stunning as ever. It would be impossible to attribute them to any one genre (unless frantic-vocal-free-speed-metal-folk is a genre in the MySpace generation) but their performance is as intoxicating and breathtaking as ever. The introduction of some slide guitar adds a new dimension to what remains one of the most watchable and compelling live acts you’ll see this year.


Following them is a change down a gear for solo singer-songwriter (no, it’s not a dirty word, it used to mean something) Pepe Belmonte . Pepe is Irish by birth and has been on the scene in various guises for some time now. Tonight his collection of songs are touching and beautifully constructed, and his voice is breathy and perfect for the tracks. His songs are reflective and full of intriguing characters, and his charm and banter have the audience eating from the palm of his hand. I am convinced that we will not be the only ones charmed by his songs and persona in 2011, particularly not with the release of his debut album just around the corner.


Finally, there’s Matthew Neel , who is clearly an old hand at this. Well known to many of the crowd, he appears tonight with a band, who win their first accolade by somehow defying the laws of physics to all fit on the stage without falling over each other. Once there, they proceed to entertain the massed ranks with a clutch of songs penned by Neel and which can, on occasion, conjure up the softer moments of Ryan Adams or Jeff Tweedy. The band give extra oomph to the songs and when the electric guitar comes out (to the predictable yet hil-ari-ous cries of “Judas”), the set starts to swing as Clapton-style licks give the songs a kick. That being so, standout track We Will Be Dreaming is performed solo as the set closer after the happy crowd request an encore.


So in summary then, see these bands and attend this venue. You won’t regret either of these decisions.

A Bit on the Side

This article originally appeared on the peerless (yet now sadly defunct) Gobshout.com. It's owners are now Suburban Tarts, who should be visited post-haste...


Recently I was subjected to a horrible misfortune, with which I am only now coming to terms. It happened at a house party (these things always do) and left me with a deep feeling of unease and the undeniable urge to shower. For those of you who have not already guessed, the incident was this: I heard Brandon Flowers solo record in it's entirety.


The thing about this album that made my brain do cartwheels is the plain and simple fact that it is a Killers record. To all intents and purposes it sounds exactly the same as any of the records the guy has made with his band of glorified Las Vegas session musicians. The audacity of this forced the breath from my body and the rest of my whiskey down my throat. How dare he do this, I wondered. What is the point, I further mused, of having a side project if it's just going to sound almost exactly the same as the band to which it is an aside? The next day, when the hangover cleared and I had wiped the last vestiges of half-eaten kebab from my face and pillow, it was time to investigate further.


The "side project" or "solo record" is a term that often fills those who obsess about music with dread. It's usually a chance for a musician with an over-inflated view of themselves to apply their "creativity" without the confines of their already established band. This frequently ends badly, though often humorously. Nowhere is the self-regard of these people better presented than when members of laughable bands attempt something "credible" or more real. Fightstar are a case in point here. Pop Muppets Busted were never likely to contribute in any meaningful way to the canon of popular music, preferring instead to pogo aimlessly with guitars that (if you have a careful look at some of their live performances on TV) were not actually plugged in. Eventually becoming disillusioned with all this and realising belatedly that he had a valid contribution to make, Charlie Simpson walked out, gathered some cronies who knew a few more chords and signed himself up to indie label Search and Destroy (best known for launching The Darkness to a nation hitherto starved of irony). It was a brave and ultimately lucrative move. Charlie seemed oblivious to half the world giggling behind their hands as he cheerfully provided quotes seemingly devoid of the aforementioned irony: "It was the first time I'd recorded anything that I loved," he bleated.


I guess you could call Charlie's new band a "post-project", given that it didn't happen on the side any more than was necessary for contractual obligation. Other examples of this are pretty common: when 90s indie legends Suede finally tired of excreting all over their considerable legacy, they did the decent thing and split up. Brett Anderson and Bernard Butler wondered off in opposite directions. Then came The Tears, who were fronted by... Anderson and Butler. And they were rubbish. Even one album was too many. It just begs the question: why?


Elsewhere in the catalogue of joyously misguided side projects, one bumps into Corey Taylor. And apologises quickly, because he's a big guy. For those of you who to whom this name does not immediately ring a bell, Taylor is the lead singer of panto-metal combo Slipknot. Your author is deeply fascinated by this band (I studied Artaud as part of my Theatre Studies A Level and I know the Theatre of Cruelty when I see it), but the brilliant sense of wild terror afforded for them by their grotesque masks was somehow shattered when their lead singer decided to strike out with new band Stone Sour, ditch the mask and reveal himself to be a slightly chubby, middle-aged skater.


It doesn't always go wrong of course, sometimes it can go right. Consider the odd folk mix of genres found on Out of Season by Beth Gibbons and Rustin' Man. It's a beautiful record and, with exception of Gibbons's amazingly distinctive vocals, a departure from the gloomy trip-hop of Portishead. Erland Oye also deserves an honourable mention for simultaneously conducting an excellent solo career, contributing vocals to Royksopp records and working as part of Whitest Boy Alive, all whilst keeping his main band (the peerless Kings of Convenience) ticking over.


No, the good side projects are the ones where the artist does something completely different from their previous output, with different people and with a honed appreciation of the possible rubbishness of their actions. Ryan Adams is a master at this, although whether he gets the last point is probably up for debate. In 2006, he released no less than 18 albums via a live stream on his website. Almost every corner of music was probed (hip-hop, death metal, scratchy covers of folk standards) and a variety of pseudonyms (a hardcore punk band called The Shit, the death metal group Werewolph and the MC extraordinaire DJ Reggie) were used. It was the Spinal Tap of side projects: a musical career's worth of songs from a man who appeared so bored with his own prolificness that he'd decided to take his creative filters off for a while.


So, what have we learned from our quick whip through the world of side projects? We've learnt they've got to offer a change of pace or a tongue firmly lodged in a cheek. You can't take yourself too seriously, you can't involve your previous bandmates too extensively and you can't be too upset if it's roundly panned. It's just got to offer something slightly different, which is why it's a risky business. If Brandon Flowers had spent six months in his bedroom listening to Rick Wakeman and emerged wearing nothing but a cape and a codpiece and indulging in ten hour Moog sessions, then I would happily give him the time of day. Probably wouldn't listen, mind.

All We Grow - Sean Carey / Steeple - Wolf People

This article originally appeared on the peerless (yet now sadly defunct) Gobshout.com. It's owners are now Suburban Tarts, who should be visited post-haste...


All We Grow released 04/10/10, through Jagjaguwar

Steeple released 11/10/10, through Jagjaguwar


Having thought long and hard about whether to write two reviews for this here website, I eventually decided that one double-header would better do the job of singing the praises of not only two very different but equally wonderful albums, but also of the record company that had the decency to release them into the wild.


Jagjaguwar Records are probably not yet a household name, unless you live in one of those households in Hoxton with art on the walls made out of your friend’s blood. After the success of debut albums from Ladyhawk and Bon Iver, the label is probably best known in recent months for releasing Black Mountain’s Wilderness Heart, a very excellent record if you haven’t heard it yet. But a quick trawl of the website reveals that the future for this label is likely to be bright, and the two albums reviewed here look like a pretty good clutch to be getting along with.


Firstly, the album All We Grow by Sean Carey. Yes, him what hits the skins in Bon Iver. This is Sean’s debut solo recording outside the band, and it’s very much what you’d expect to hear from one quarter of America’s alt-folk saviours. It’s relentlessly melodic throughout, with a stripped bare sound that’s almost spooky in its sparsity. It’s clearly a well-rehearsed piece, which is refreshing for a genre that prides itself on naturalness, often to a fault. Not for Carey is the finger-in-the-ear-and-hope-for-the-best approach. Goodness no. Here, the melody lines are precisely trimmed and the occasional whiff of strings that drift in and out like clouds crossing a particularly tuneful sun, are beautifully timed and laid out. It’s an intimate, stripped back sound that demands close attention rather than casual listening.


My personal highlights include the stunningly beautiful and ethereal Rothko Fields, and the immaculate piano riffing on We Fell, where Carey demonstrates the full range of the talents of the musicians he has assembled as support. The sheer force of melody is occasionally preposterous, but this has never been a problem for yours truly, and nor should it be for you. This record does for melody what Fleet Foxes did so dramatically for harmony: reminding us that even slight over-use is no bad thing if you get it right.


Critics would have a point to say that this record sounds a lot like… well… something by Bon Iver.This would not be unfair to say, but would beg the age-old ultimatum: if it ain’t broke, why fix it?


Also on offer from the 11th is the debut-album-proper Steeple, from Wolf People. This is quite a different animal from the melodic lilting of the above. From the doom-laden opening chord, it is clear that this is not album that is going to let you ignore it. It is, in summary, not the sound that immediately springs to mind when one thinks of North Yorkshire, where the band originated. Nor is it particularly reminiscent of Wales, where the band followed in the footsteps of luminaries and clear influences Led Zeppelin and headed off into the middle of nowhere to cut this disc. This, my people, is a record to get excited about.


It is at points painfully cool – the sort of band that make you feel like you’re on drugs, even when you’re not. The first single, Tiny Circle (available to download for free here), is a stoner masterpiece that probably wouldn’t feel altogether out of place on a Cream LP or mixed in with the early work of The Yardbirds. Praise this high does not come easy to me, but this record is worth that praise. The best thing about this record is that it sounds like a band who are confident enough to, just occasionally, rock the fuck out. At one point I genuinely felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise as the lyrics “big black revolver tells me which way to turn” oozed out of my speakers.


The record oozes confidence and the musicians involved are not afraid to push the envelope. Jagjaguwar have, in this author’s opinion, signed themselves something of a gem in this band, and they’ve been good enough to share it with the rest of us. Take note people, ‘tis the season of the Wolf.

Libertine-age Kicks

This article originally appeared on the peerless (yet now sadly defunct) Gobshout.com. It's owners are now Suburban Tarts, who should be visited post-haste...


It is now only a few short days until what many are framing as the musical event of the year. The return of The Libertines, almost five years after they dissolved in a haze of boredom (Pete(r), as has been well documented, was fired in mid-2004), is being met with mounting hysteria in some corners of the music press. I wondered whether I ought to put fingers to keys in honour of this, as I once held the distinction of being seemingly the only person on campus not to think they were the saviours of modern British music. Five years on, I thought I’d go back and have another think about this.


When Up The Bracket and the small number of 7”s that went before were released, I had only one thought in my mind. “This,” went the thought, “is a fairly poor Clash tribute band. This will all be over soon. Put Is This It back on and ride it out”. I wasn’t entirely right about this, of course, as Pete(r), Carl and the other two went on to dominate British music for four years or so. They somehow managed to paint the most irresistible rock ‘n’ roll story of the past ten years without ever really producing the music that ought to be the basis for such a narrative. The crazy parties, the drugs, thespats, arrests, violence, celebrity affairs and general debauchery were all there, but they seldom hit the musical highs.


Up the Bracket produced a few good singles that could fill any indie dance floor, even today. Their second, self-titled attempt though, was far weaker (with the notable exception of Music When The Lights Go Out: by far their best recorded work). Ruined by poor production and a complete lack of ideas brought on, in part but not exclusively, by Doherty’s much-reported downward spiral, the album failed to scratch many people’s itches, and we were headed for Stone Roses territory. Eventually, the soap opera that surrounded them eclipsed, rightly or wrongly, their actual output. “Style over substance” would be unfairly harsh criticism but they became, to paraphrase Terry Pratchett, “a lifetime in their own legend”. This largely accounted for the drabness of Carl’s Dirty Pretty Things: they were musically not too different from The Libertines, but without the exciting backdrop, they were dull and unfulfilling. In the five years since the split, we’ve also suffered one of the worst albums ever created in the debut from the abysmal Babyshambles. It would be easy here to hold this situation up as proof that The Libertines were greater than the sum of their parts, or at least were perceived that way.


I never cared much for Doherty’s lyrics, for the man himself, or for the tortured poet image that he gave off, and there was one simple reason for this. In an interview at the height of his drug addiction, he made the throwaway remark that he wanted to rise again; to be, as he put it, like George Best in reverse. What he meant was that he wanted to do the dramatic fall from grace and then go on to have a sensational career that would cement his iconic status in the national consciousness. Unfortunately, I think he failed to realise that it just doesn’t work like that. Think of all the other rock stars whose lives have at one time or another been ravaged or ended by drugs, alcohol or the attentions of the tabloids. The key, unifying factor was that they were all producing work of incredible quality and ruined it all. It does not work backwards. This is all without even bothering to point out that Doherty hasn’t actually produced all that much work of incredible quality, even after his fall from grace had slowed slightly.


It would be churlish of me not to admit that when I saw them on the Evening Session Stage at Reading in 2002 they were electrifying, but I always found their recorded output completely failed to capture this. I would also acknowledge that Pete(r)’s track For Lovers is one of the most heart-rending things I’ve ever heard committed to record. But it seems to me that a band that’s been gone for a mere five years after producing only one decent record, and whose members have played together at a fair number of “emotional reunions” whenever their solo careers take a dip, doesn’t really merit the amount of attention they’re getting.


I think, in summary (and with maximum cynicism), they didn’t really change the face of British music. People always talk about a theoretical musical pendulum that swings from one side of the Atlantic to the other, and The Libertines never really pulled it back from The Strokes, Interpol et al. at any point. They always seemed to me to be no better than the many other “The” bands that characterised the music scene at the time.


So how will the musical community react to the comeback? I suspect that the hysteria will fade pretty quickly, unless they go on and produce more music. Led Zeppelin are the perfect example of this: one massive reunion, a bit of half-arsed speculation and now no one who wasn’t there can really remember it happening. If The Libertines make more music they might well be onto a loser anyway, since it is only ever likely to draw unfavourable comparison with their early work from fans and critics alike. Their place in the canon of popular music history and whether their legacy can be anything other than an extended buffet for the tabloids are still matters for debate, and this is therefore a reunion that might please fans, but might fail to convince those, like me, who are still wondering if it’s really worth all this hype.


Post Script
If anyone wants to write an article about why I really should be excited about this, I would be genuinely interested in reading it. Despite the overall cynical tone of this piece, I am relatively open-minded about the whole issue, and would happily read the counter-argument. Open goal here, ladies and gentlemen…

Ben Keith Obituary

This article originally appeared on the peerless (yet now sadly defunct) Gobshout.com. It's owners are now Suburban Tarts, who should be visited post-haste...

On Tuesday the music world mourned the loss of one of the greatest hired guns we ever knew. Ben Keith, long time collaborator with (amongst others, but most famously) Neil Young passed away at the age of 73. Neil paid a touching tribute to him at last night’s tour show, with a version of Old Man. You may not all know Ben, but you all should know his work. Anyone who’s ever heard Harvest (and there can’t be that many left that haven’t) will have been entranced by his beautiful pedal steel playing the odd drop of backing vocal. The pedal steel, in my humble opinion, had two great exponents: “Sneaky” Pete Kleinow and Ben Keith. In his honour, I have compiled for you the five best bits of Ben that exist on Neil Young records, where he will be longest remembered. I therefore invite you to crack open a can, kick back and just enjoy that magical sound that only the pedal steel can bring to a record. In no particular order then:


See The Sky About to Rain from On The Beach – The ethereal drift of the steel throughout this song is one of the finest examples of the craft you’ll ever find. Just have a listen to the way it soars behind Neil’s voice and then provides the beautiful focal point of the 90-second coda.

Heart of Gold from Harvest – Neil’s only number one that you’ve heard a million times. But listen again, and listen for the steel on the chorus.

Mellow My Mind from Tonight’s The Night – The recording of this album was a mad, crazy mess and most of the record sounds as though it’s about to fall in on itself. But the slide guitar on this track is guaranteed to make you feel as though you’ve inhaled in that way politicians never do.

Four Strong Winds from Comes a Time – The closer of this record (produced largely by Ben) became something of a hippy anthem for a while, with its nature-centric lyrics and powerful imagery, and the slide guitar lends the track an air that perfectly frames Neil’s words. Emmylou Harris on backing vocals makes this something of a supergroup session.

Cowgirl in the Sand from Road Rock Vol. 1 – A slight change of tack for the last one, this live track sees Ben on rhythm guitar as Neil takes this already epic song to a mammoth 18-minutes. Ben keeps the song together, letting Neil do his thing.


So there you have it. I’ve not put this list together on Spotify, because I can’t bear the idea that your reverie might be interrupted by adverts, but you can do this yourself if you like. If not, you can always pop round mine. Bring beer, and we’ll get the hi-fi fired up. Rest in peace Ben.

Arcade Fire @ Hackney Empire - 7th July 2010

This article originally appeared on the peerless (yet now sadly defunct) Gobshout.com. It's owners are now Suburban Tarts, who should be visited post-haste...


It is a generally accepted fact that Arcade Fire are the best band in the world. Last decade, Radiohead were the muso’s band of choice, but now Win Butler et al. are firmly in charge. The option to see them in this tiny venue (capacity 1,300) was one that should be seized. Tickets were available for the truly dedicated who pre-ordered the album and were lucky enough to be drawn out of the hat. And when I say lucky, I mean really fucking lucky.


Hackney Empire is an amazing venue, a turn of the century music hall with all the gilt edges and cherubs that go therewith. It seems to be the perfect venue for tonight’s comeback. Arcade Fire have been away for three years since their pair of gigs at Alexander Palace in 2007. Now, with a new album on the way, this is a warm-up gig for the round of festival appearances that lies ahead. The sense of anticipation is tangible.


When they take the stage, it is instantly as though they have never been away. This effect is enhanced by the fact that they launch in with two new songs, literally picking up where they left off. Ready to Start and Modern Man bode incredibly well for the new album. By the end of the second song, the previously presentable Butler is already drenched in sweat. This is a pattern that does not let up. How every member of the band don’t need medical re-hydration by the end of the gig remains a mystery to me.


From then on, the classic anthems and new songs blend seamlessly together, suggesting that the new album will be the equal of what came before. “This song is called Yes Boats Yes” says Win before launching into No Cars Go. A few songs later, during the end of Rococo, Win climbs into the audience and finishes the song lying on his back, carried aloft by the wave of adoration.


Although the public address system in the venue is not quite up to Arcade Fire’s complex yet loud sound, they manage to render all their anthems in their full glory. During Neighbourhood #3 (Power Out), the audience pogos as though lives are at stake, and when this segues into Rebellion (Lies) and on into the hefty new track Month of May, I begin to think that I might not make it out alive, so drained am I by the encore break. Before that though, we are treated to a rare outing for Crown of Love, one of Funeral’s greatest hidden gems.


The encore, comprising Neighbourhood #1 (Tunnels), Keep The Car Running and Wake Up leaves the audience gasping for breath, and the band leave the stage grinning like maniacs. They deserve to. When you’re the best band in the world, it must be amazing to be up there on that stage.