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gig reviews - may 08
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A joint tour in support of a split single sees both
bands descend on Cambridge for a hotly anticipated gig.
Tubelord’s short, punky, harmony soaked tunes are just
what the doctor ordered with such depressing weather forecast for the
forthcoming weekend. At times I find myself reminded of Silver Sun due to
the infectious nature of their songs. Easily living up to their already
excellent live reputation, future success surely beckons.
Taking to the stage with their entrance music, ‘Simon
Says’, booming around the Portland Arms, Tellison are straight into their
stride. Never once letting their enthusiasm levels drop below ‘bloody loving
it.’ Before long it appears the lead singer has his own personal power
shower constantly above him such is his degree of sweatiness. It isn’t long
before sweat becomes mixed with a steady flow of blood due to a guitar
injury – however to their credit this is never mentioned as a band this
passionate and competent don’t need to play any sympathy cards. A packed
Portland lap up the catchy songs aired, which often remind me of Talking
Heads. An enjoyable night is had by all and the main bar is soon decorated
with smiles as the crowd slowly disperses from the back room.
Mark Whiffin |
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Her Name is Calla
7.7.2008 - The Head of Steam, Newcastle
On a gloomy Monday evening four of my friends and me
bundled into Lady Moomin, my aging white VW Polo, and trooped on down to
Newcastle to see Her Name Is Calla. Having been lucky enough to witness
their spine tingling set at **** Church in Leeds I was eagerly anticipating
another mesmeric performance and HNIC did not disappoint. From the ominous
foreboding of the introduction of A Moment of Clarity to the heart-rending
climax of Condor and River, they played with an intensity and passion that
captured the audience from the very first note.
After the aforementioned “A Moment of Clarity” we were
treated to a few tracks from their new EP “The Heritage”. Stand out tracks
were Nylon and New England that culminated in a brilliantly chaotic melange
of drumming which saw a wayward drumstick fly into the air to be picked up
by an over enthusiastic member of the audience who tried to join in with all
the drumming prowess you could expect from Mr. Bean.
Highlight of the set is still Condor and River, with
its almost eternal introduction finally giving way to the simple melody
allowing Tom Morris’ vocals to take centre stage as he begins this poignant
tale of loss. As with almost all of Calla’s tracks the ending is simply
breathtaking and almost uncomfortable.
Tom may well be the perfect front man with soaring and
affecting vocals and a belief in their music that is infectious, he also has
just enough wit and charm to provide some light relief between songs with a
bit of audience banter, however HNIC are not just about one person. Calla’s
greatness lies in creating an atmosphere that you just wont experience with
many other bands, one that is almost sacred, and for this you need a band
that is not only completely in tune with each other but who also excel at
what they do.
Although exceptional it was not perfect, the brass
section was, at times, a little over stated and failed to fully capture the
subtle and haunting depth of their recordings and, for me at least, I think
they’re missing the presence of a live cellist from the first time I saw
them who added that that extra touch of class, but this really is nit
picking.
If you’re bored of all the Indie bands dominating the
music scene at the moment with their uniform skinny jeans and dodgy hair
(lets face it can you really tell half of them apart anymore?) and want more
than a formulated 3 minute pop song then you really should give this band a
try, Calla will entwine their music with your soul and you’ll thank them for
it.
Laura Swainson |
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Being the first date of a short tour to promote new
releases by Gizeh records co-headliners, Glissando and Her Name is Calla,
this was an intimate evening, with all three acts playing to an audience of
no more than 25, in an upstairs pub venue not much more than twice the size
of my living room.
The support act, Kevin Paul Ingham, playing as Pupilar,
had the unenviable task of opening the event and creating a suitable mood.
“This piece is supposed to have visuals, but the projectors not working”,
said Pupilar, asking for the stage lights to be turned off and suggesting we
might want to close our eyes as he preceded to produce, what seemed to me to
be, a single, long, dark, atonal, ambient soundscape of samples and drones,
intently manipulating a laptop and accompanying himself on additional ‘noise
guitar’. I stared at the three ceiling fans going round and round,
pretending I was in some lost Sergio Leone western and reminiscing about
listening to late Coil, Current 93, Godflesh, Skullflower and Non. “Scary!”
someone said, as the applause died away. Indeed.
While I think that there is something vaguely
solipsistic about one man and his laptop performing in a live context, I was
sufficiently intrigued to check out, and bookmark the Pupilar MySpace page a
few days afterwards. Kevin has a list of influences that seemed,
gratifyingly, to encompass at least a third of my own music collection.
With six people on stage things looked a little
cramped, but Her Name is Calla still managed to play like demons, performing
tracks from their recently released mini-album, ‘The Heritage’. Having
bought the record a few weeks ago on the recommendation of a friend who’d
done the artwork, I was already familiar with their music; although this was
the first time I’d seen the band play. If anything the songs sounded even
better live, even more spectral, monumental and intense.
Special mention goes to Adam Weikert, surely the
world’s scrawniest drummer, who put in an amazing performance and, along
with Michael Love on bass, generated a solid foundation upon which the other
band members; Thom Corah, on trombone, samples and additional percussion and
Tom Morris, lead vocals, guitar and keyboards, aided by Dave Dhonau on cello
and Sophie Barnes on trumpet, could reconstruct the epic, melancholy
landscapes from ‘The Heritage’ mini-album. Their set ended, fittingly, with
‘New England’, in a huge firestorm of feedback and percussion.
Glissando closed the evening with a set of songs
exclusively from their debut album, ‘With Our Eyes Wide Open We March
Towards the Burning Sea’. Elly May Irving, lead vocal and keyboards, and
Richard Knox, guitar and everything else, between them manage to recreate,
and, if anything, transcend the fragile beauty of the studio versions of the
tracks, with Rich occasionally switching to bowed guitar, for those songs
that in the studio are augmented by a string section. The audience was
treated to absolutely mesmerising versions of ‘Grekken’ and ‘Floods’.
Glissando make music to take your breath way.
Sitting on the windowsill as the set finished, I
remember feeling privileged to have had the opportunity to see both Her Name
is Calla and Glissando in such an intimate setting and at such crucial
stages in their creative careers. From tonight’s spellbinding performances,
both bands deserve adoration and adulation, and I have a premonition that it
won’t be too long before they have followings that shower them with both.
Seek them out.
Bill Howe |
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I am hard to please when it comes to pop-punk sounding
bands and seeing the hoards of fans dislocating each other in the crowd
lifted my expectations – but they fell slightly when the band actually
started their set. It’s like “lets sing about my girlfriends ex” happy-clappy,
fairly unoffending screamo-pop punk, but lacks any sense of individuality.
There is something, however, that made the set fairly likeable, but
something else that made me wish the glass of water in my hand was vodka. In
terms of appearance, they look like bunch of misfit “emo” kids and rockers,
staring meaningfully into the crowd as they contemplate who to dedicate
their next song to. Overall, the set wasn’t bad, the melodic riffs were
catchy and well accepted by the crowds of skinny-jeans and polka-dots, but
the rhythm section were a little basic for my liking and needed to be played
up a little to make the band more interesting. Not bad for the set, with a
good venue and a solid sound.
Lid |
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Feeder
28.5.08 - The Point, Cardiff
It’s taken an 18 month hiatus for Feeder to
return to Cardiff. Hailing from nearby Newport I was unsure how Feeder, as
the stadium fillers they are, would come off under the arches of the
converted Church, known locally as The Point. Feeder would do nothing to
help the venues plight which has been threatened with recent closure due to
complaints of noise. However what Feeder did deliver was a high octane set
of classic and new songs which spread across from their first album to their
next. Off on tour in October this was an extremely rare glimpse at Feeder
who can’t have played a similar intimate 500 capacity gig for a long time.
As a home coming gig I still wasn’t sure Feeder’s epic sound would come
across at the venue. However the sound really came across. They played loud
and proud and still maintained every element of the music and vocals,
nothing was lost in a fantastically well delivered set which was clear and
crisp. Their classic songs for me rose above their new material which often
blended into one, as at times a lot of the gig did. Their variation was not
great but you get what you expect with Feeder. Powerful, well performed rip
roaring songs. They really caught my minds eye, causing me to recall those
days when I was first introduced to the band way back when I was about 11 or
12. But for me and it seems a lot of other people around my age group
(students) the band have passed us by in recent times, the crowd where in
awe of the band but for me as their latest album did the band passed me by
apart from the songs of yore which I could identify with. The band seems to
have continued on their path of stadium rock and it has all becomes a bit
dreary. An enjoyable gig certainly. Well delivered songs from a talented
band well worth their status, but never the less, I left before the encore.
Gareth Ludkin |
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Guillemots
27.05.08 - Newcastle
For my money they opened up with one of their best songs. Made up love
song, with its slow lead-in was perfect and showcased Fyfe's vocal talent
for those unfamiliar with Guillemot's music. The guy has a smile in his
voice that is infectious, which would also be a good word to describe their
new single, Falling out of reach. I'd not heard it before and so didn't
quite know what to make of it. Maybe it was the sound system but it had a
dubby feel to it quite unlike the rest of the set. I've heard it since and
like it more and more each time.
A couple of numbers in they launched into a kind of euro dance pop number
that had Arista lay down her double base and became a pop siren for 4
minutes. Great fun! Other songs saw Fyfe step from behind his keyboards,
strap on a guitar and alternate between troubadour and rock god, complete
with mirror shades. However, the rockier performances all seemed to adhere
to the same structure. Fyfe would let rip; be a bit shouty and indulge in
some feed-back, but come the final third of the song he would lighten the
tone with a change of key. This amounts to playing at rock, but Fyfe
radiates such charm that he manages to keep you on-side throughout the
weaker songs.
The highlight of the night, for myself and I suspect, many others was
'Trains from Brazil'. It's a fantastic song and they did it proud on the
night. The pounding rhythm and the highs & lows that make it such a dynamic
number were all present. Great Stuff!
Cay Green |
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A balmy evening outside kissed farewell and goodnight,
we entered the gloom of the Cockpit, the sounds of Florence and the Machine
pinging off the corrugated roof and reverberating back off the stone floor.
Their single Kiss With A Fist has been getting a good bit of attention and
airplay, and rightly so, but the rest of their engaging material is more
muted, with half an eye on Regina Spektor et al, especially in the delicate,
lilting, deceptively powerful vocal tones.
A pleasant and promising performance which seemed to
flash by as quickly as the recent ‘summer’ which we had been enjoying.
Then, onto the much vaunted, the
quite-possibly-over-hyped main event, MGMT. The Brooklyn band slinked
quietly onstage in front of a crowd that conceivably could have gathered at
your average bus stop. The odd hyper-on-trend teenager, flanked by middle
aged social workers, cheek-by-jowl with unremarkable twenty somethings and
the decaying relics of the real summer of love, MGMT had obviously
struck a chord with people far and wide. So, an interesting crowd and an
interesting outfit by the frontman. Obviously it was to be expected but the
knee length psychedelic dress jarred nastily against the black t-shirts and
jeans of the rest of the band. Still, it made a change from floppy hair and
skinny jeans.
And so the set began: Like a good fifty percent of all
the songs, with no introduction, just an ambient creep of keyboards, the
distinctive Bowie-like voice and then, finally, the drums, guitar and bass,
all at once. Cue slightly unsettling synchronised nodding, carefully
controlled feedback and the feeling that you’d seen it all before,
somewhere, maybe on TV, in black and white or grainy super-eight, definitely
not in the Cockpit.
The eclectic sounds, varied influences and diversions
from the album versions of some tracks ensured lots of moments of interest
and signs that their expansive song structure suited a live venue, but I got
the feeling that the band needed to channel more into their visual
performance. Too often the static band members left the audience in a
similar state. There was some annoying costume fiddling by the frontman too
which most people seemed to miss, but his mid-song switch around to fix his
bandana really got on my nerves. I mean come on, what’s more important, the
guitar in your hand or the material around your face?
I began to get the feeling that everyone was pretty
much waiting for ‘Time to Pretend’, and I was right. When the keyboard loop
finally dropped I had a slightly sinking feeling that the band had
accidentally stumbled upon one moment of revelation where everything had
worked in, a song to lift them out of their absolute mediocrity and into the
musical stratosphere, but that they were also destined, by design, and
because of that blinding moment, never to reach those heights again.
Needless to say the crowd loved it, but I couldn’t help thinking about “Race
for the Prize” by the Flaming Lips, drawing analogies and wondering if MGMT
are destined for a similar musical destiny?
The encore was rather odd. The singer and keyboard
player emerged from backstage to play Electric Feel, only without any
guitars or live drums, they then lurched into an onstage jam of sorts, to be
joined by the drummer, who sat at his kit but didn’t play it, the singer
picked up guitar out and played a few bars, then the band walked off again.
Confused? You’re not the only one.
Ian Anderson |
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As a relative newcomer to experimental/ avante-garde music, I’m most
definitely not the highest authority on what makes good noise and what makes
bad. So, I went into the gig with an open mind, promptly found a seat and a
gin and tonic and got stuck in. Atlas Sound (Deerhunter's Bradford Cox), and
his loopy electronic fancy stuff, was definitely an eye-opener. I didn’t
realise at the time, but since reading a couple of myspace pages and the
like, what I thought sounded like a loop pedal being eaten by a whale in
some kind of nightmarish womb was...probably the intended effect. The
project is supposed to represent ‘darker childhood experiences’. Perhaps
forewarned is forearmed; maybe I would have enjoyed the set more if I knew
what I was letting myself in for. I can safely say that the darkness was
very much there, but in live performance it seemed to be lost underneath a
bass drum beat that was so loud it shook poor Brud’s ceiling tiles, and so
exposed it couldn’t really get away with it. For the most part I was
intrigued by what the little guy curled up on stage was fiddling with, but
after a while the novelty wore off. Although the noise was all quite
pleasant, I found it a bit nondescript, and lacking in the emotion and soul
that seemed like it ought to be reflecting.
On to Animal Collective, though, whose flashy lights, bouncy melodies and
thumpy drums were an upbeat relief following the support. In a performance
that suited the venue well, I was really glad to watch the band play a
ridiculously long but entertaining set. If I’d started to doubt my
avante-garde credibility by just not getting Atlas Sound, it was thoroughly
refound during the following hour and a half. Animal Collective make music
that’s fun. Fun I can do. Apparently they have an ‘anti-song agenda’ or
something. That’s cool, as long as I’m allowed to really flipping like the
catchy little tunes that peek through a fair few of the numbers. I just wish
people had been dancing more. I’m not a big dancer, but boy, the audience
seemed at times to be resisting any kind of expression enjoyment to a
ridiculous extreme. At least they condescended to applaud, and plenty of
people evidently did think a lot of the gig - earwigging outside the venue,
I heard plenty of great review snippets, my favourite of which being “fuck!
What was that crazy shit?!”. I think that pretty much sums it up.
Lauren Smith |
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Sometimes you are reminded of the things you were sure
are truths. Sometimes those things are told to you in ways you cannot
refute. Sometimes you get whatever you need and you realise you got it when
you needed it most. Sometime someone reminds you of something you forgot but
would cling to, like you life depends on it. Sometimes… your life depends
upon it. Tonight I got what I was looking for. I give no disrespect to the 5
o’s. They were very good and deserved to be on tour. They played songs I
like. But tonight I saw Jonah Matranga and he said things to me. He started
the gig just playing his solo stuff, and finished playing with members of
his old band Gratitude (Who are now back being ATTN). He played a wide
selection of his “3,856 song back catalogue” including a couple of songs
from his, frankly amazing, Unique Records project which he played because
the people who commissioned them were in the audience. He played my
favourite songs (Bury White and Mother Mary) but he also played beautiful
songs and spoke like I hope I could speak. He reminded me that while there
is a time for spin kicks there is always. ALWAYS a time for honesty and
integrity and every single thing that made me think the way I do and want to
write songs. I spent a lot of that night on the verge of crying my heart out
- for joy and sadness. His rant against what Emo was originally compared
with what it is now was perfect. His ideas of why you should want to be in a
band reminded me of arguments I had and ideals I’ve abandoned, or at least
not paid much attention to, but will never do again. EVER.
I’m very glad I got to talk to him after. I’m very
happy with what we said to each other. I’m different now. Or rather, I’m
back!
Best thing ever. Not because it hit me in the
crotch…and I love that visceral feeling that rock can give. But because I
very nearly fell to my knees…and then realised that I mostly wanted to feel
alive and be there. Right there and then ahead. Ahead. Ahead until I cannot
progress any more but I cannot forget. I am thankful!!!!
Great gig.
Christopher Carney |
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It’s my birthday and I’m still
recovering from the previous night’s carousing at Tasty Fanzine’s first
London gig. Possibly the last thing I need to hear is the shrill voice of
Jennifer Gentle’s singer Marco Fasolo. No, this is not going to be (as the
name misleads me to believe) a girl in a flowery dress with pigtails
serenading us on her flute but a full band of young men, from Italy no less,
whose vocalist sounds like a cartoon witch and gurns like a pirate. It takes
a little getting used to, as you can imagine, but the songs, which sound as
though they’ve been time-warped directly from 1960’s San Francisco,
dismantled, stuffed full of weird drugs nobody’s ever heard of and then put
back together using rubber tools, slowly win me round. Each one meanders,
slowly winding its way around the room until it’s twice the length it should
be, yet manages to sound completely structured at the same time. How the
group manages to remember what goes where and when is a mystery…all I can
say is that I’ve been revisiting their Myspace every chance I get for
another dose of “Take My Hand” and “Locoweed”. A wonderful discovery and one
that proves to be an ideal warm-up act for Sebadoh.
Tonight, Lou Barlow and his pals are
playing the entirety of their album “Bubble & Scrape”, recently reissued in
bumper deluxe format, as part of this year’s rather disappointing Don’t Look
Back season (Public Enemy are the only other participants). Of all their
albums it’s the one I’m least familiar with and, let’s be honest, producing
a stone-cold classic was never the point of this band anyway (see also:
Guided by Voices). To be frank, I’d have been much happier if they’d
performed “III” or “Bakesale”, although the former is probably too sprawling
to recreate live and the latter doesn’t feature Eric Gaffney.
Yep, Eric’s back and the original
line-up stand before us, so “Bubble & Scrape” it is. “Soul and Fire” kicks
off proceedings and sounds, well, pretty classic as it happens…no-one
communicates heartbreak quite like Lou. Later he will reduce the room to a
reverential hush with a magical solo turn on “Think (Let Tomorrow Bee)”.
However, there are fourteen songs to get through before that, not to mention
two other singers due to take turns at the microphone. Despite his wayward
reputation, Gaffney proves to be less of a character than you might expect
and possibly the weakest link here tonight, his songs robbed of their
weirdness in this stripped-down format. Hell of a drummer, mind. Third
musketeer Jason Lowenstein also does a good job pounding the skins, and
reminds us with “Sister” and “Flood” that some of the finest cuts from the
album belong to him.
It’s a long journey and constant
instrument-swapping and tuning between songs doesn’t help, but there’s
always the demented fan screaming “SEB-BAD-DOH I LUV YOOOO” at every
opportunity to keep us all entertained, and the encore brings “Too Pure”
(from “Harmacy”…who’d of thought it?) and a rapturously received “Gimme
Indie Rock” to send us on our way. Patches of empty space in the crowd are a
reminder that Sebadoh were and always will be a cult favourite at best but,
for a side-project that started life on a four-track in Barlow’s bedroom,
the level of devotion they inspire in their fans is as life-affirming as the
songs themselves.
Will Columbine |
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If you like deep grimy basslines reminiscent of
underground dank cellars then this is for you… the support acts of Blah Blah
Blah were not much to shout about, as an indie band with a slight hint of
retro 1950’s happy-go-lucky theme, yet the other weirdly short set from the
second support act was fairly welcome. With hip hop/grime style covers of
Nirvana’s “smells like teen spirit” and occasional drops of the newer
basslines from Benga; this support act was not bad and lifted the spirits of
a somewhat bored crowd by “Blah Blah Blah”. The entrance of Lethal lived up
to my expectations, as grimed up hip hop and heavy basslines pound through
the beats. The set was good, the only let down was the size of the audience
and the grimey atmosphere that seemed to be lacking – without these two
factors the gig will never be as good, despite the music. The crowd was
encouraged further forward, but the majority of the people stayed sat down…
not so good and probably off-putting for any artist.
Lid |
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