JoeMacAllister spent his childhood earning a crust as a Rod Stewart impersonator, but that life is behind him now. At present, Joe is a budding rockstar, incredibly fond of snazzy footwear, ginger biscuits, and dancing to Aerosmith - though take heed, one should never dance on a full stomach. 
Taking influence from Baroque music, The Seventeenth Century subtly incorporate rhythmic and melodic ideas from the age into their music, without making it sound like an A level music lesson. The results can be heard in ‘Notes’, a surging lament, with poetic lyrics and a clipped, olde feel. Acoustic orchestral bombast. Even better is ‘Roses In The Park’. Lead singer, Mark Farmer’s powerful voice is soaked in echo as though he were delivering his lyrics from a cold stone altar, rather than a cosy studio booth. A rousing string-fuelled attack leads into a vocal breakdown, the prolonged hymnal refrain evoking a spiritual atmosphere that folk-kings Fleet Foxes would be proud of, and swells into a joyous chorus full of handclaps and fan-faring trumpets. ‘Young Francis’ is full of spooky, repetitive vocals, soaring strings and urgent drum rolls, building to a frenzy of sounds. Though the record does a fair job of transmitting all that energy down your headphone wire, it’s an excellent calling card for their live shows. Scotland is right to be proud of The Seventeenth Century who, despite the name, are definitely providing something fresh in the music scene of today. Now where’s my harpsichord?
With song names such as ‘Naked’, ‘My Pussy’, and the wonderful ‘R.O.M.P’ (‘Revenge Of My Pussy’ if you were wondering), Comanechi’s `Crime Of Love` is probably not an album you bought your mum for Christmas, nor is it one that would make for a romantic gesture this Valentine’s Day. It is, however, a ferocious journey into noise-punk agit-rock; a vicious attack of the nervous system and your precious eardrums. Comanechi are a cool-as-fuck gang of two from East London, relentlessly pursuing their next musical high like a pack of hungry wolves. From the opening radio squalls of ‘Prologue’ to the dying drums of `Lunatic` this album will leave you shaken. The message that Comanechi try to convey here is one of defiance and independence. Which is brilliant…except it’s not much fun to listen to unless you survive on a diet of white noise and obscure punk bands. Much of Comanechi’s undoubtedly blistering energy is lost in the sludgy garage-rock production and tuneless singing. Comanechi are part of the trendy Merok Records roster (the label who discovered Klaxons and Crystal Castles) and whilst they get top marks for effort, they don’t yet have the chops to match their predecessors.
Since he landed on this planet in 2003 with the eclectic ‘Lycanthropy’, Patrick Wolf has divided opinion between music fans as strongly as if Kraft were to introduce a Marmite bar to the shelves of our nation’s sweet shops. Intent on breaking down boundaries quicker than you can say “Ziggy played guitar,” Mr Wolf has consistently experimented with fashion, sexuality and musical genre, usually all at the same time. Whether you think he is a pretentious art student or the lost love child of Bowie and Adam Ant, it’s undeniable that the man is clearly very talented. Following on his determined quest to become a unique and post-modern popstar, `Damaris` sees Wolf hit the ground running. It’s a luscious track resplendent with sparse synths, throbbing drums, and that wonderful staple of overblown pop records – a full choir. It’s all very romantic and the video has to be seen to be believed (plenty of stunning English countryside, many costume changes, and a lady who likes being kissed on forest floors)It’s interesting that one moron has commented on Wolf’s fiddly, extravagant attire at a recent gig. This, my friend, is why you are merely a plain human, whilst Patrick Wolf is a cybernetic, funkadelic, mysterybot from outterspace.
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The Rifle Volunteer are an enigmatic five piece hailing from the rainy streets of North London. This single was recorded at the Islington branch of Britannia Row (where Joy Division recorded ‘Closer’) and as such it seems to have absorbed some of the claustrophobic atmosphere that must still linger in the air. `End Season` sounds like a stripped-back Radiohead B-Side, melancholy and thought-provoking, though singer Adam Symonds’ soulful moan is more akin to that used by Stephen McBean on the excellent Black Mountain side-project, Pink Mountaintops. Tim Roddis’ gentle, wavery guitar playing gives the track its ebb and flow, whilst Neal Sidney’s piano and Iggy Murray’s drumming calmly augment the stark lyrics. ‘No Home Behind The Trees` continues to build on a dark theme with Symonds ghostly, drawn out vocals painting a bleak but timeless picture. The Rifle Volunteer are already adept at crafting immersive and poetic songs – a good omen for the release of their debut album in the near future.
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This song is already blazing a surprising trail through the mainstream, getting repeated plays in that most hallowed of places – Radio One’s daytime playlist. Shining like a diamond nestled amidst N-Dubz and Lady Gaga, ‘Winter Winds’ has perhaps reached this stage of ubiquity because of its obvious Christmassy undertones. Maybe the public desire a stronger folky influence in their daily soundtrack. Or maybe it’s just a bloody good love song, Mumford & Sons regaling us with their personal battle between head and heart with a consistently majestic turn of phrase. Young lovers will swoon to this song. ‘Winter Winds’ weaves a rich tapestry, effortlessly conjuring up images of London streets bedecked with virgin snow (as far as I know this only ever happens in romantic comedies but it’s still a nice image), rosy cheeked carol singers, and roaring log fires. ‘Winter Winds’ falls on the right side of the schmaltz-line though, decorated with a soaring chorus that is both grand without being pretentious and infectious without being repetitive. This song should warm the cockles of all but the stoniest heart.
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Giving Slade a bad review would be like punching my uncle whilst he’s drunkenly gorging on sausage rolls and doing his embarrassing dances on the afternoon of the 25th December – it would be like attacking a part of Christmas itself. Ever since Noddy Holder and his glam gang unleashed `Merry Xmas Everybody` in December 1973, the band have been immortalised into popular culture as a festive novelty – 3 and a half minutes of brilliantly cheesy Christmas pop to be endured/rejoiced for two months of every year. But it’s easy to forget that Slade were far from a one-trick pony. With eleven top 5 singles and six No 1’s Slade were arguably the biggest British group of the early ‘70s, and this `Best Of` reminds us why. Sure, 20 tracks is probably a bit too much Slade for anyone, but the magic formula of Holder’s powerful yell and chugging bluesy rhythms is still refreshing in small doses. Check out Dave Hill’s Stonesy guitars on `Gudbuy T’ Jane`, the sinister vibes of `Coz I Luv You`, or the raucous jive of `I’m A Rocker`. Slade may not have entered the same cannon of glam cool as their trendier adversaries Bolan or Bowie, but don’t let appearances deceive you, as there’s plenty of fun to be had with Slade any time of the year.
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US group The Drums are one of the most hotly tipped indie acts for 2010, and this single is but a small slice of their potential. You may already know them from the whistle-tastic single, `Let’s Go Surfing`, but if not `I Felt Stupid` is a fitting introduction. The song is resplendent in simple-but-strong melodies, and boasts retro synths and a singalong chorus that would rival our own cheeky Mystery Jets’ pastel sensibilities. Apart from the baffling choice to include recordings of random children giggling and a team of men seemingly playing tug of war at the end of the record, `I Felt Stupid` is an infectious retro-tinged gem of a song. `Down By The Water` is a slow-paced heart-wrencher on which singer, Jonathon Pierce, plays the pining romantic to perfection. It’s a bit like listening to The Modern Lovers’ `The Morning Of Our Lives` in slow motion, drenched in the famous Phil Spector wall of sound that was so popular in the `60s. It will be interesting to see if The Drums can live up to the hype that surrounds them on their upcoming NME tour and debut album release in 2010.
Like a tentatively worded remark on a school report, perhaps the nicest thing I can say about this release from The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart (TPOBPAH) is that it shows some potential. Lead track `Higher Than The Stars` will stick in your head, and is a genuinely catchy, if slightly twee, indie tune. Things go quickly downhill after that, as Kip Berman’s occasionally interesting lyrics are lost under bland blankets of sound. Limp acoustic guitars play host to the lovelorn couplets of `Falling Over`, a song which follows the winning formula that Black Kids laid out in 2008, only not so convincingly. `103` sounds like the pre-programmed `Euro-Disco` beat off of an old Yamaha keyboard. Intermittent synth flourishes liven things up throughout the EP, recalling early Grandaddy or Lemon Jelly, but it’s not enough to stop me dozing off by the halfway point of each track. What was maybe intended as exploratory has ended up being boring for the listener. It could be down to the flat production but I’m left wondering how Brooklyn, the scintillating home of Santogold, the Beastie Boys and Jay Z, spurned a band so humdrum. Sorry TPOBPAH, but I’m yet to be charmed.
In `Knees, Toes, Teeth` The Ghost Of A Thousand deliver a no-frills exercise in beat-‘em-up rock and roll, and it’s incredibly good fun. Distorted guitars bludgeon you to the ground whilst pitbull drums aim straight for the head. The tight riffage sounds like a tape of Jimmy Page on fast forward, and the whole glorious racket is underpinned by singer, Tom Lacey’s nightmarish howl. Not that there isn’t refinement to the band’s primal sound. Much like Canadian hardcore luminaries, Fucked Up, The Ghost Of A Thousand are expert at condensing their riotous energy into joyous, three minute bursts. This is pop music for people who hate the X Factor, and only watch it in the vain hope that Simon Cowell will spontaneously explode (it could still happen people). “Fucking New Romantics, it’s only Rock-N-Roll”, “I’ll die without a care, but that’s cool”, “We all kneel down to the beat of the sound.” These are just a few of the über cool mission statements you’ll find in `Knees, Toes, Teeth`. The Ghost Of A Thousand are clearly believers in the mighty, transcendental power of rock, and if you are too, I would strongly advise you to join them.
Anyone who has seen Sam Isaac’s video for the song, `Sideways`, should already be a fan. If you weren’t bowled over by the whimsical charm of the lyrics, then surely the fact that they were painstakingly illustrated on iced cakes won you round – if not, then there must be something cold in your soul (or maybe you just don’t have a sweet tooth.) Songs as confectionary scores highly for me though (in my book of eccentric music videos, in which A-Ha take first place with that one where they turn into shaky pencil drawings).
