Jeffrey Lewis

May 1, 2009

It’s Day Two of Hinterland, the Whole Foods Market to the Camden Crawl’s Sam Smith ethos, and we’ve fallen in love with Glasgow entirely by this point. But no time for rose-tinted glasses, just a simple fact that we fail to see any acts short of at least noteworthy tonight. At all.

The first is Miss The Occupier, an unsigned trio purporting to love riot grrl and Sonic Youth but actually sounding a little more like Gang Of Four. Fronted by the sublime Roz Davies, it’s a fair enough observation that they wear their influences on their metaphorical bearskins, but they do it with panache. Maybe a tad unmemorable in the long run, but snappy and enjoyable for the moment all the same.

Two Door Cinema Club combine the one syllable, one note mentality of Vampire Weekend with the propensity for stadium-fill of Editors into something more interesting than most of the post-Foals club. Lacking the time to decide whether they fall on the wrong side of the Wombats/Envy and Other Sins divide (killable/laudible, in that order), they do the trick nicely for a cheery early Friday evening.

Something a little more challenging is occurring down the road at the beautiful Classic Grand, by the name of Juno !. Easily dismissed on first glance as duff, unfilleted post-nu-rave cod, it turns out that the seven-piece (I think) are to my ears what Art Brut are to my heart. With glowsticks wrapped around their glasses, they’re all simply adorable. The two frontmen jump around in a joyous frenzy, and the rest of the band play plinky, disco-led funpop including ‘Party Music’ and successfully bring the fun back in. And it’s a bonus that Bis’ Manda Rin appears for a song, a bit of a “wow, my gosh I’m in Glasgow and it’s buzzing and I bloody love it” moment to be quite honest. What a sap.

To continue on that affably foppish note, Sheffield duo Slow Club are back at The Arches ahead of the release of their debut album Yeah, So? They manage to pull in a decent-sized crowd with their cutesy tête-a-têtes, but any more self-depreciation and they’ll get a bit too cute. ‘Me and You’ et al are performed straight-up with panache, wry glee and a hint of disbelief. At one point, they come out into the crowd and play unplugged, which causes us to temporarily believe we’re in the middle of a Dickensian scene. Nice, but could do with being a smidgeon less ambrosial.

Good Shoes are one of our favoured incarnations of ‘London indie’, the jangliness of ‘All In My Head’ and ‘Morden’ making us go all woozy, but after seeing so many bands already over the course of the two days, the past tense just isn’t enough. Their set takes on new one/old one form, but we only last four tracks after realising that whilst Think Before You Speak IS a great album, Good Shoes aren’t necessarily going to hold up in the long term.

Instead, we head over to a bit of Ming Ming and The Ching Ching’s set – and their music is quite the racket. With one of the worst band names we’ve ever heard, we figure it worthwhile if purely for the spectacle. But as it turns out, they’ve got the straight-upness of mclusky, the stomp of The Sonics and the jauntiness of Au Pairs. Surprise of the night.

Leeds’ iliKETRAiNS are a small flight of stairs away, with baritone-led, epic pomp threatening to disintegrate the walls at more than one point. Dressed in a uniform suggesting they’ve just ushered a whole town’s population onto a steam engine, their material is dramatic beyond comprehension, performed as if a soundtrack. It’s shaping up to be a fantastic night and we’re struggling to keep up with our wishlist.

And so onto Jeffrey Lewis and The Junkyard’s lightning-fast brain at a packed, buzzing King Tut’s. Coming across part-devastating lothario, part-professor of the world, ‘The History of Punk On The Lower East Side’ is something else live. It’s a lecture interspersed with short samples of genres; it’s pin-sharp, incomparable. The nasal anarchism is transcendental, speeding through the concept of communism and the meaning of love just for fun. It’s strange that this guy hasn’t completely taken over the world.

And taking the intellectualism down to the disco is former Metronomy man Gabriel Stebbing’s new project, Your Twenties. ‘Caught Wheel’ proves Stebbing’s roots, the keyboard lines similarly GHB-laden, but the rest is altogether more California-birthed dream-poppy. Very fun and dance-encouraging, we’re wanting to see these pretty boys some time again very soon.

We Were Promised Jetpacks close proceedings to an excitable audience; wordlessly, their gratitude is jumping off their sleeves. While great right now, it’s perfectly rational to predict that a couple more albums down the line, ‘Jetpacks will have mastered the art of variation. For now, however, they are simply incredible live – far more extrovert than when we saw them play The Borderline in London a few months ago. ‘Quiet Little Voices’, their most straight up (and well-known) moment, is thrown away confidently early on, with later gems such as ‘It’s Thunder And It’s Lightning’ and ‘This Is My House, This Is My Home’ so full of crescendos that the band-members’ string-bothering hands must be threatening separation. And what a great name.

Thank you Hinterland – you’ve given us such joy. Here’s hoping that more people catch on next year…

Mark E. Smith

April 30, 2009

You’re used to my reviews by now, you’ve accepted the way I like to splice them with abstract observations. And here’s some inspired from Hinterland:

(1) Never mind stupid-on-purpose becoming the new smart, why doesn’t precocious-in-hindsight eventually find the musically retarded?
(2) Do I have ADHD or is everyone else not moving for a reason (this isn’t a new abstraction, merely the recollection/grandiose coming together of an old one)?

Glasgow is a strikingly independent city. Those I encountered were interesting, interested and constantly striving. Maybe it’s a magnetism thing, but it’s pretty unusual (self-obsession: check). So it’s only fitting that it has its own festival, Hinterland’s mostly locally-formed line-up aptly tailored to the brief. The most salient observation from the two-day festival are the amount of venues on around one-fifth capacity; only The Fall at The Arches 1 and Jeffrey Lewis at King Tut’s are full (albeit bursting), even Metronomy at the fairly small Arches 2 could do with around another 50 audience members. It’s completely unjustified – there’s around 100 noteworthy acts on the bill, but maybe it’s only novel for me because I’m not a local? Just a sidenote, really.

The Thursday bill is kicked off for me by Trailer Trash Tracys [sic] who offer an entirely indistinguishable set. Led by Suzanne Aztoria, the trio writhe around affably but fail to get past their amass of white noise. Glittery-sounding and a tad too stark, it’s difficult to distinguish where one track ends and the next starts. The next catch is 85 Bears, a London-based trio who are almost brilliant. The sound sounds far greater than that of a three-piece, crashing and peaking and slumbering over and over; there’s truly intricate interplay at the heart of their sound, and their post-rock is truly one to latch onto.

Wolverhampton’s The Lines are our next choice, sadly straddling unengagedly between jangle pop, stadium landfill and the worst of britpop (Cast – yes, really). But it’s all compensated for by new-form Metronomy; Gabriel Stebbing has sadly departed the line-up, but Joseph Mount and Oscar Cash have gained a new bassist and a drummer. The sound is less clinky and far heavier as a result, with even ‘Heartbreaker’ sounding a tad industrial. Mount is self-assured as ever, and Cash’s dancing suggests he’s on a ‘dance or die‘ brief. The new additions change the sound of Nights Out entirely, bringing it altogether closer to that of the first album, sounding strangely more like The Qemists than Devo all of a sudden. Which is great, in case you’re wondering. It’s puzzling that the crowd have the ability to be so stagnant while we follow Mr. Cash on his implicit mission to rid the world of apathy, but so much for harping on that…

Hinterland’s biggest name, The Fall, play to a full 1,500 people in a labyrinthine sub-railway station venue, Mark E. Smith out of his wheelchair and throwing as many strops as ever. Throwing his mic into the kit, hiding behind the amp, stumbling off stage for a song and ranting “I’m 50, what are you?” to the crowd at one point, he’s as entertaining as ever, at one point even turning attempted murderer by turning the sound up to eardrum-splattering levels. Among the temporary constructs/band-members is Smith’s wife, Elena Poulou, giving a fantastic take on screaming, stabbing keyboarding. If every other Fall show’s a bad ‘un, this one’s, well, an intermediatory?

End. Of. Thursday.

In a city that never sleeps, for a 12.30am stage time you need an outfit that can create intrigue and give off energy in the same quantity and there is probably not a new band around today, as well qualified in those stakes as Brooklyn, New York duo Shy Child.

Incongruous, but energetic and captivating, skirting towards the funk disco rock of The Rapture and swinging back into a range of Whirlwind Heat musical spasticity and rawness, keeping the crowd on their toes. ‘Drop The Phone’ stands out for the lurking vocals of Pete Cafarella that have more than a hint of Eamonn Hamilton (Brakes) to them. The catchy Friday night flavour is conjured up with ease, ‘The Noise Won’t Stop’ and it is this number that will win over trendy folk, like many of those in attendance tonight.

Those who thought that The Horrors had energy and a slightly off-kilter slant, but wanted them to go further and then further again, stand by looking impressed and shed inhibitions like a hermit crab sheds its shell. Cafarella’s keytar coaxing has broadness, range and more than enough volume to match the shattering beats belted out by percussionist, Nate Smith.

Also, sampling has been turned into an art-form to make this duo bold to the point of garish. The seeds they scattered in support of Klaxons recently are growing like weeds, uncompromising and taking the direction you would least suspect. Given the fact that the plush decor, adding to the quaintness of Koko attracts visitors just to experience the place alone, the crowd are focused and largely into it all the way through.

This duo is set to be one of the surprises of the year, possessing determination and an eye for the unorthodox. People are becoming ever-ready to shed the straight-jacket of organization that is increasingly controlling our lives and Shy Child is definitely all for that.

Getting the citizens of Warrington to close down their Arctic Monkeys MySpace page for one night and, to venture out in support of the growing opportunity to see a vibrant local band, is a thankless task on a Saturday night. Therefore, to ask this of them on a Thursday evening is as worthwhile as asking Amy Winehouse if she’d like a glass of orange juice.

However, when you’re an outfit like the evergreen local lads of Z-List Tears, who have had more injuries than Michael Owen, a challenge like this is something that you simply thrive upon. The customary gap at the front of the viewing and dancing area is filled with an intrigued but slightly lethargic collection of adventurous young gatherers. The interest picks up immediately when the well chosen, epic opener ‘Seed’ scatters atmospheric, drilling percussion, testing the sound system immediately.

The gregarious Bungle’s vocals that often speak of a deeper wisdom than your average run-of-the-mill rock band, subside into the cacophonous drive of the instrumentals and a winding vibe seeps in. This nods towards Thin Lizzy, The Jesus and Mary Chain and Jane’s Addiction. Immediately taking note of waning attention spans with the midnight hour approaching, ‘Warning Signs’ is the indie rock grind that allows Bungle’s lighter vocals to illuminate the despondency of the lyrics. The set is largely an experimental one, as new offerings like the Red Hot Chili Peppers spirited ‘Fuel For The Fire’, show that this ranging quartet are still growing musically.

This is something that the vibrantly rhythmic bass-lines of the colourful Al Blackmore, demonstrates through the dynamic, bluesy loser ‘DAGADUGADA’. The relentless drive continues for Z-List Tears and you sense that they won’t have to go much further forward before label bigwigs start trying to pick them up.

There is something strangely comforting about hearing your native accent when you live away from the place you grew up. Luckily for me, I can experience this feeling whenever I go to see Maximo Park. Paul Smith’s Teesside twang, to be mistaken for a Geordie accent at one’s peril, is music to my ears.

Manchester Apollo sold out months before this much-anticipated gig, and the treat of two hotly-tipped support acts, Blood Red Shoes and Good Shoes, was a none-too-shoddy (ha!) move by the Park. The North East’s most important band kicked off with the rabble-rousing ‘The Coast Is Always Changing’, highlighting an unshakable tightness that certain NE teams’ defences could take note of.

Maximo Park really are Smith’s band; he commands the stage like a more angular Charlie Chaplin – strutting, leaping and throwing shapes with abundant energy. Overt enthusiasm was what stood out most the last time I saw the band, who had pipped Arctic Monkeys to the headline spot on the tour. Almost half of the crowd deserted the Apollo after watching the (dare I say it) slightly over-hyped Monkeys, and missed the most energising display since Ryan Jarman swallowed a bucketload of Duracells.

This time around, in a bigger venue, everyone is here for the Park. The crowd react well to a healthy mix of old stuff and new songs from the band’s second and latest album, Our Earthly Pleasures. My only disappointment was not hearing their cover of Justin Timberlake’s ‘Like I Love You’, which is a proposed B-side for their forthcoming single ‘Russian Literature’.

However, this is a novel aside when compared to the increased epic sounds heard on their new long player. ‘By The Monument’ is enthralling, Smith’s emotional outpouring receiving rapturous applause from the audience who feel his every ache. ‘Girls Who Play Guitars’, when heard in the same session as the indie classic ‘Apply Some Pressure’ shows just how far the band have come in a relatively short time.

‘Our Velocity’, plausibly the band’s biggest hit single to date, is what ends the main set. Numbers flash across the impressive backdrop as Smith and his partner in crime, keyboard player Tom English, go wild. On their return for an encore, the post-punk fuzz of ‘Acrobat’ silences the gig-goers for a standalone minute, before, with the rip-roaring anthem that is ‘Graffiti’, Smith calls it a night – a bloody good one at that. “And that’s enough…”

When I think back to my favourite gigs of all time, it is not necessarily seeing my favourite band Blur for the first time at Leeds festival, nor watching the Arctic Monkeys in a dingy club before they got big. David Ford’s show in a small pub in Huddersfield at the back end of 2005 had that special something that you just can’t put your finger on.

Maybe it was to do with the realisation that I was one of a handful of people who were blessed enough to have watched him perform that night, and to fall in love, on the first live listen, with his debut album I Sincerely Apologise For All The Trouble I Caused.

Brudenell Social Club is a fantastic venue hidden away in a student area of Leeds. One half of the building is the working mens’ club whilst the other is reserved for the best national and international ‘up-and-comers’. Its relaxed atmosphere, plus plenty of cushioned seating, is perfect for a Monday night with the ex-Easyworld frontman.

Ford is his usual affable self; he looks a bit like an older and wiser Justin Timberlake if you squint. He has the pork pie hat, at least. His current single ‘Decimate’ – like most Ford songs – has a skyscraper chorus, with Ford’s voice mingling tantalisingly with the sole violin. Political fury has always been a focal point for him, much like Tom Waits. ‘Requiem’, another track from his second longplayer Songs For The Road, is anything but funereal, with Ford descending from likeable troubadour into a crazy, troubled madman. Trombone is added into the mix for this tune – a curious choice, but the warm overtones give at a softened feel.

‘State Of The Union’ is what will have drawn many to the show tonight, as Ford’s one man performance builds into epic proportions. He loops his guitar strums, piano noodling, percussion and layer upon layer of political ramblings until we are facing what can only be described as cacophony. Utterly amazing. It must be said that Ford is not totally preoccupied with politics however, as a sprinkling of love songs are scattered through the set. ‘Song For The Road’ has been brewing awhile, as it got one its formative outings when Ford played in Huddersfield. A beautiful paean to his wife, the line “Whilst poets engineer definitions of love/You know all I can think of is you” is enough to set anyone off dreaming of hearts and flowers.

Last time I saw Ford, he dedicated his very own ‘Hey Jude’, the more risqué ‘Cheer Up You Miserable F*ck’, to fans of Morrissey, almost in a degrading way. In a cheeky about turn, he finished off the night with a gentle cover of The Smiths’ ‘There Is A Light That Never Goes Out’.

His down-to-earth attitude to his music and the modest production might mean that Ford never gets the recognition as a solo artist that he so readily deserves. But if Damien Rice is big, then David Ford should be massive.

Despite their Sheffield roots and a strutting “write about what happens to you” approach, the debauchery-espousing Jon Windle quintet of Little Man Tate has managed to carve their own model of modern life gazing.

Undoubtedly, their bouncing pop slant and Windle’s calming, yet punchy, vocals has helped them steer enough away from the Arctic Monkeys base, to establish their own identity. A pop-friendly and underpinning mod streak takes a more pronounced display through the fatter, newer numbers.

It shows that their edge and infectious enthusiasm, on top of a broader and worldlier subject matter to the songs, will continue through second album territory and beyond. Leery, boozy anthems of ‘Sexy In Latin’ and ‘House Party At Boothy’s’, adds urgency to the plight of those embedded in the five deep queues at the two bars.

Buoyant and rugged Britpop flag-bearing ‘She’s Electric’ booms out during the interim to be greeted by a buoyant and feisty chorus, as the old skool and adventurous youngsters begin to feel that they haven’t been in an environment as “up fer it” as this before… for all the retro tagging that follows this five strong Brummie troupe The Twang around.

They open out with a cocky and flighty, beefed up Jamie T-veined pang helped by the urban tale of growing old: ‘The Neighbourhood’. Phil Etheridge and Martin Saunders provide the hard-hitting and fast paced vocal hits. Seeming to possess the interplay and understanding that Dalglish and Souness once shared – knowing exactly where the other one is without having to look over at them once.

The beer flies through the air with such regularity, you’d think that someone had smuggled their own pump in, much to the chagrin of the more amorously clad female attendees. Drummer Dave Lowe starts to take a more prominent tempo-lifting role and the catchy dance-off of ‘Ice Cream Sundae’, is like a shot of tequila to the existing beer-fuelled mayhem and a monster of a mosh-pit emerges, sending arms flailing and bodies falling. A rugged early The Charlatans pitch starts to take over and rhythm seeps onto the dance floor.

‘Two Lovers’, is that baggy revival kick up the arse that British music needed; judging by the buoyancy with which it is greeted tonight and it seems to have a murky guitar pushed veil, giving it even more mystique. A seventy minute set of mood switching bravado shows that The Twang and their fans alike seem set for a lengthy connection.

This is not just idle time passing, whilst waiting for that over-talked about Stone Roses re-union.

The Answering Machine have veered towards a psychedelic early-The Pixies vibe, coated by a flowery brit-pop backdrop that Cast used to catchy or irritating effect, depending on your perspective. Bassist Gemma provides the steely foundation from which guitarist Patrick and singer/guitarist, Martin, expand colourfully and boldly, taking them close to the strides made by The Dead 60s. Twisted power pop and lyrically bemused tune ‘The Hold Up’ highlights this approach.

The crowd take time to figure out where The Answering Machine lie, as they flit from raw and rocky to sturdy indie and then to heart filled pop. The adventurous ‘Your Father’s Books’ neatly encapsulates all three musical styles and an eccentric megaphone haunt has the impact of Martin effectively heckling their own song. A winding blues filter gives forthcoming single ‘Lightbulbs’ a languid touch and Martin does a The Pigeon Detectives vocal impersonation to end proceedings on a yearningly catchy note. This has the effect of driving indie connoisseurs to scribble this Manchester troupe into their notebooks.

Having the ability to startle crowds at a showcase event or a festival earns you a badge of respect, but doing so at your own gig as well – that must put you on the New Year’s Honours list.

This is the impact of Tavistock quintet The Rumble Strips, and the opening stages of their first tour since they released the adventurously bold ska and rockabilly merging debut, ‘Girls and Weather’. Eerie, soulful cooing precedes the Dexy’s Midnight Runners-backed delinquent flash of ‘Cowboy’. Country bumpkin-clad singer Charles Waller produces a bemused yet defiant vocal push, as the horns rampage and the guitars rock with rhythm, but the crowd remain a little dazed.

This colourful outfit – inclusive of handle bar moustachioed keyboard and horn player – continue their beleaguered lyrical push, through the ska-reviving ‘Hate Me You Do’. True lyrical depth peers out of the veil of brazen horn led instrumental exuberance, waking up the thinkers in attendance, with ‘Building A Boat’. It is through this thoughtful interlude that the subtle, stroking percussive touch of Mathew Wheeler (formerly with Action For Heroes) is noticeably crafted and adds an air of calmness. This low key touch then trickles into the falsetto reaching crowd favourite, ‘I Ain’t Got No Soul’ plus the blues bolstered ‘Oh, Creole’, as the full range of these Devon delinquents is explored.

When the brass element is discarded for a poetic Wordsworth-admiring moment, ‘Clouds’, a completely different band emerges as does a radio friendly pop touch to rival Van Morrison. This slightly wistful break gives the band and crowd a like the chance to preserve energy for the horn hounded big hitters, ‘Alarm Clock’ and the day-dream extolling ‘Motorcycle’. Before a striding indie inclusive encore, ‘Don’t Dumb Down’ takes the evening to its conclusion.

A smaller than expected crowd makes their way out, slightly invigorated. It makes you wonder whether headlining the NME New Bands Tour, an honour that was bestowed on Da Strips earlier this year, is indeed a good thing. Wandering attention spans of modern audiences these days probably rendered their efforts a little redundant. Not tonight though – attentions remained fixed.

For the most part these cheery Danes, who make Romeo Stoddart seem manic depressive, swerve between flighty thrust of The Concretes and the quirkiness of Scissor Sisters. Sprinkling in some feel-good frivolity a la Mika, who they supported across Europe and it seems like that was a match made in heaven.

This comes off through the front pairing of Anders SG and Stine Bransen. Troll Hansen and Anders Rheinholdt step to the fore provide the thrust and push for a drum and bass thrusting snap, ‘Fascination’.

This turns into a rawer, light, yelping vocal release to match the potency of fellow Scandinavians The Sounds. Taking matters to a more new wave plain. Recent single and gush of pure inhibition airing pop, ‘Fantastic Six’ demonstrates oomph and cheery abandon that starts to rub off on the initially wary local gathering, who don’t quite know how to fully respond at times.

It’s only upon hitting the rain soaked street outside when a sighting of an obligatory Sex Pistols t-shirt catches the eye. Then the realisation sets in as to what Alphabeat might actually be achieving. They are producing a sound independently that is usually so manufactured, it should be sold in tins. This is done, especially in a live setting, with such joy and enthusiasm oblivious to what anyone would dare to write, say or criticise them for.

Their approach almost says “sod you” to any prospective backlash before it is written or even fully thought out. Isn’t this spirit what true punk was all about, ironically?

Rarely has a band’s album release been so significant in the current cultural climate, and yet so overlooked because of this climate.

The Good The Bad & The Queen, Damon Albarn’s latest innovative project, brings together men from all walks of life to create music that defines today’s Britain. Albarn is now considered as an ethnomusicologist for his work with musicians in Mali and his world music mash-ups with Gorillaz. This is highlighted by his choice of bandmates: Paul Simonon, bassist for The Clash, steeped in reggae-rock rhythms; Tony Allen, an experienced Afrobeat drummer; Simon Tong, guitarist from indie stalwarts The Verve – but long time collaborator of Albarn with Blur. He considers The Good The Bad & The Queen to be the natural follow-up to Blur’s seminal Parklife album, both timely descriptors of London, its inhabitants and its hang-ups.

And so to the live shows, in which the band play the concept album in full and in its running order. In true Albarn fashion, the project has been sculpted to perfection – the support acts at tonight’s gig are a combination of circus acts, compered comedy and a Victorianesque bluesgrass group. The venue, Leeds Irish Centre, rarely holds events such as this, and the odd choice of venue is another clever Albarn choice – everything about The Good The Bad & The Queen commands attention.

As expected, TGTB&TQ sounds live exactly as it does on record – muffled bass, distant vocals and an eerie atmosphere mixed with beautiful melodies, African rhythms and lonely lyrics, on a greying landscape backdrop. It would almost have felt like being at a classical concert, if it weren’t for the applause in between songs. Albarn is the same as ever if you discount his wonky top hat, whilst Simonon is constantly active, throwing shapes and strutting just like he did in The Clash.

You get the feeling that the audience know that this project is highly intelligent and all-encompassing music – but it is music that welcomes everyone, and is probably relevant to us all, too.

In a country whose media is currently obsessed with race rows, Albarn pops up at just the right time with an album full of musical nuances that can be traced back through countless races, cultures and traditions and thousands of years of music. Clever, very clever.

http://www.thegoodthebadandthequeen.com/