As Belfast’s annual Belsonic brace of gigs draws to a close (previous nights having seen the likes of Florence And The Machine, Paul Weller, 2manyDJs and Paolo Nutini face the great unwashed on the great outdoors of Custom House Square) it falls to the Lostprophets and Biffy Clyro to entertain the sold-out crowd on a typically grey, drizzly Norn Iron summer’s evening.

Welsh emo-tinged skate rockers Lostprophets – a band who once seemed perfectly poised to beat the Americans at their own game of big-trousered metal with their first album ‘thefakesoundofprogress’ – take to the stage with the naggingly Maximo Park-ish sing-along of ‘Can’t Catch Tomorrow’. Maybe it’s the weather, or maybe every other conversation going on in the area really is just that interesting, but straight out of the gates the band fail to ignite the crowd – at least judging by the direction the bulk of them are facing.

‘Burn Burn’ is more successful, inciting some spontaneous pogoing and a timid singalong from those assembled who can recall the chorus. An ill-advised and pointless cover of Faith No More’s ‘The Real Thing’ (which serves only to highlight the disparity in skill and charisma between Ian Watkins and Mike Patton) morphs into ‘Last Summer’, which is of course hilarious, given that it’s currently raining and all that. ‘Last Train Home’ – a highlight from the ‘Start Something’ album – provides an opportunity for an extended breakdown / en masse singalong which fails to get the ‘en masse’ part right. When the same muted reaction occurs during ‘Where We Belong’ and ‘Rooftops’, it becomes mildly embarrassing to watch Watkins’ continual attempts to elicit a sing-along from a crowd which appears to be pretty much unaware of the material, or uninterested. It’s telling that the crowd is finally galvanised into movement by a cover of The Prodigy’s ‘Omen’, and some of this energy translates into a mighty ‘Shinobi vs Dragonninja’ (which admittedly sounds as fresh as ever) but it’s too little too late. On this showing, the Welsh lads appear to have taken their eye off the ball, incorrectly assumed all their songs are anthems and gone too stadium too fast – forgetting their strengths in the process.

No such problems face Biffy Clyro, who continue their unassuming upward spiral into the enormodomes off the back of increasingly accessible albums such as ‘Puzzle’ and the current, chart-straddling ‘Only Revolutions’. ‘That Golden Rule’ arrives at a breakneck pace, so much that so that it seems as if it’s finished before an appreciative crowd knows what has hit it. The staccato, string-led intro of ‘Living Is A Problem Because Everything Dies’ provides a precious moment to catch the breath, then its straight back into effortless, polished alternative rock which should have had the support band scribbling notes at the side of the stage. The disco riffage of ‘Glitter And Trauma’ throbs through the crowd, showcasing the band’s knack of welding huge, radio-friendly pop songs to slightly off-kilter rhythms betraying their more experimental roots. The dual vocals of ’57′ proves that Biffy Clyro had the huge singles taken care of long before they joined the Radio 1 A-list playlist, whilst simultaneously displaying that the band have lost none of their legendary live passion in the translation to the big leagues. ‘Born On A Horse’ provides an uncharacteristically funky, yet typically left-of-centre approach which keeps the crowd moving despite the intermittent presence of that fine rain that soaks you right through.

It’s a seamless set, delivered with flair and technical precision: always renowned for their tight live performances, Biffy Clyro now give the impression of a band who could easily play all night without dropping a note, and who have been quietly generating a back catalogue of quality tunes that would enable them to do just that. The anthemic ‘Many Of Horror’ brings the set to a crescendo, each soaring chorus suggesting that the band are ready to take the next step and join the likes of Foo Fighters as an arena act able to reconcile the demands of the casual listener whilst still retaining an authentic edge.

An encore of ‘The Captain’ sends the crowd jubilantly into the night, rain-soaked but happy: perhaps to get more drunk, perhaps to keep dancing, perhaps to fall in love, or perhaps to ruminate on why the queues at the bar and the toilets were much bigger during the Lostprophets’ set.

Tags: 100 Club, Sigh's, The Revellions

Presumably The Revellions chose the 100 Club for the launch of their new single ‘Sigh’s’ because of its legendary status as a space for live music.  But while the famous Oxford Street venue has a rich history that spans jazz and punk, and a lengthy list of illustrious names who have plugged their gear into its sound system, it wasn’t really rocking at this show.

I’m prepared to hold the venue itself, or rather the myth that surrounds the club, at least partly responsible for this.  It’s a pretty basic space consisting of a broad stage, a wide, shallow dancefloor area and a bunch of orange plastic chairs that look like they’ve been lifted from a greasy spoon.  In short, it doesn’t look like the best prospect for a great time, and that means that if a great time is to be had then a fair deal of effort has to be put in.

This is not intended as a panning of The Revellions, who certainly seem to know how to put on a good show.  The brass section that was supposed to be playing with them had failed to make it to the gig, but ‘Sigh’s’, which relies on the brass parts on record, nonetheless sounded full and confident.  Each of the musicians seems to bring something different onto the stage, from the psychedelic freakouts of the organist to the garage rock grooves of the guitarist, and these moods gel terrifically well.  But if there was a weak link at this show then it was the vocalist: his vibe is clearly punk and he plays this role very well, but he was a bit too detached and laconic for this environment.

Which brings me back to the club.  In any other venue this punk aloofness would have been fine.  At the 100 Club, though, the audience seemed to expect something that grabbed them by the throat and wouldn’t let go, and they weren’t prepared to unbutton their collars.  Half of them didn’t even get out of their orange plastic chairs.  The Revellions deserve a better reception than that, but perhaps they’re not yet ready to play a venue of this stature.

Tags: Buffalo Bar, George Washington's Penis, Jesus And The Mary Chain, Kip Berman, The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart, This Love Is Fuckin' Right

What would you expect of a band that goes by the name of George Washington’s Penis?  Ironic Americana?  Comedy pop-punk?  Avant garde synth noodlings?  According to their PR: ‘Asked to describe their sound lead singer Chip said “USA! USA! USA! Touch my dong!” before falling over sideways.’  Not much help there, then.

But any guesses related to the activities of George Washington’s Penis would most likely be incorrect, as it is in fact a pseudonym used by New York’s lately lauded The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart for their secret gig at the tiny Buffalo Bar.  The false name was not the only reference to early American history; frontman Kip Berman announced that he intended to play thirteen songs, one for each of the original colonies.

This tally presumably excluded the introductory sonic preamble, a protracted smear of feedback apparently intended to shatter the inner ear bones of the audience.  Before beginning the repertoire of actual songs, Berman explained that he wanted to watch everyone cover their ears.  The Pains made the brave decision to play this show without a setlist, but winged it well enough; the pauses they took to choose songs only added to the intimate vibe.

They began with a few of their more easy-going numbers, jangly indie-pop seasoned with a strong dose of fuzziness.  Then, as they moved onto their more energetic material, the likes of ‘103’ and ‘This Love Is Fuckin’ Right’, they really came into their element and, from there, they didn’t let up.  The audience, a mixture of kids with asymmetric haircuts, and middle aged men presumably nostalgic for the glory days of The Jesus And Mary Chain, reacted with all the enthusiasm the small space would permit.  A speaker mounted on a stand to one side of the crowd’s bustle began to wobble precariously, threatening injury to whoever jostled it at the wrong time.

It wasn’t a perfect set: Berman failed to hit all his notes at times, and the new material offered up here was pretty hit and miss.  But there was a lot to enjoy in this show.  In particular, there was something rather heartening about hearing the repeated refrain ‘We will never die’ of The Pains’ eponymous set-closer.  In the cosily crowded atmosphere, this line, which could easily have sounded trite, made for an endearing moment.

Tags: Bjorn & John, Eleanore Evendell, Hundred In The Hands, Jason Friedman, New Young Pony Club, Peter, Savoir Adore

Preceding the headliner tonight at Shoreditch’s Old Blue Last were the rather promising Savoir Adore from Brooklyn, with their first ever show in the UK. They come across as a sort of a hybrid Peter, Bjorn & John and New Young Pony Club. Getting by with just guitar, keyboard, drums and pre-recorded backing, having left two of the band members in the States, I imagine their sound would be quite stronger with the full five members, but pretty good nonetheless.

Hundred In The Hands, were frankly rather poor. With just two members (Jason Friedman on guitar and Eleanore Evendell on keyboard and mixer) there seemed a serious lack of cohesion in their set. Though the two seemed to overlap at times, the effect was individual competing musicians (and egos) with an abrasive sound that didn’t quite match up – with a ‘more is less’ approach. With a single, relentless automated disco beat hammering through the entire set, it became difficult to pick out Evendells vocals, and much of a melody of sorts. Friedman sped through a complex and intense number of changes on lead guitar, and was outstanding on bass, but for the majority of tracks, the feedback on guitar was up some much, you good only really hear a wall of distortion.

Tags: Bjorn And John, Into The Clouds, Oskar Gullstrand, Pet Shop Boys, Peter, Sound Of Arrows, Stefan Storm

Plus One finds lively, emerald green caterpillar in her salad; Plus One complains of a migraine; Plus One heads home early, trailing clouds of thunder. Not the best build-up to a gig and one that left this reviewer somewhat crumpled at the edges. Fortunately, Stockholm duo Stefan Storm and Oskar Gullstrand were on hand to revive the corpse with an invigorating dose of ‘80s revivalist synth-heavy dance. Bolstered for the occasion by a drummer, a keyboard player and some rather nifty back projection, Sound Of Arrows filled Hoxton Hall with a warm electropop sound that nestles comfortably between indie and commercial – like fellow Swedes Peter, Bjorn and John, the group has already been pounced upon by the ad men – and has garnered inevitable comparisons with the Pet Shop Boys.

Storm navigated the snug, multi-tiered stage like a particularly fey gazelle while Gullstrand studiously pushed buttons and adjusted slider, permitting himself the occasional grin at the enthusiasm of his more extrovert comrade. Most of their material was new – new enough that I only have the names of a couple of tracks, such as the excellent ‘Disappear’ – although they did play their single ‘Into The Clouds’, a shimmering electro fantasy that builds up into a solid gold floorfiller.

The set was on the short side (when did you last see a band that said ‘no encore’ and meant it?) but all the sweeter for it: Sound of Arrows’ brand of retro camp might feel like being trampled by a herd of unicorns after prolonged exposure, but as a sugar rush it’s hard to beat.

Tags: Download 2010, Freedom, Killing In The Name, Rage Against The Machine, Simon Cowell, Testify, Wake Up, Zack de la Rocha

On reflection, it’s one of the stranger reunions of recent years. When Rage Against The Machine released their eponymous debut album in 1992, they were immediately adopted as the flag-bearers for politicised rap-rock. Over the years, they demonstrated as much ability to burn flags as to bear them, so when their eventual split was announced, it was almost fitting: that sense of a fire burning out. Their influence, however, reverberated through a million subsequent ‘nu-metal’ bands, and since their sound arguably never lost its relevance, their reunion in 2006 was no surprise. What was surprising, however, was the new face of  ‘The Machine’ they found themselves raging against. No strangers to rattling the cages of the likes of the U.S. Government, Fox TV or the New York Stock Exchange, the band found themselves at the heart of a hugely popular Facebook campaign to ensure Simon Cowell’s latest ‘X-Factor’ winner would not secure their customary Christmas Number One slot. The campaign’s success saw the expletive-laden ‘Killing In The Name’ anthem secure the coveted top spot, catapulting the L.A band alongside such luminaries as Slade and Cliff Richard. It was a strangely appropriate face-off for a band with its roots in underground hardcore punk and hip-hop, but an unpredictable one nonetheless. It was also really rather funny.

Which leads us to Dublin. The atmosphere in the o2 Arena is one of heavy expectancy – reports are in from the free ‘victory’ gig in Finsbury Park, and reports are good. A stark Zapatista backdrop pushes the political agenda front and centre. Air-raid sirens wail by way of an introduction, and as the band emerge to a thunderous ‘Testify’ a hail of (mostly full) plastic cups soars upwards. We’re thirty seconds in and an arena full of people – Irish people at that -  have decided they have better things to do than try to hold on to their beer. It’s at this stage you realise the sheer scale of the energy that’s about to be released here, and it’s mightily impressive. It’s a set that’s drawn heavily from the debut album, and judging by the enthusiastic rap-rock karaoke that permeates the set, few in attendance have a problem with this.

The band throw themselves into the material with obvious zeal, and there’s a sense of everything being in its right place after the somewhat incongruous Audioslave outing which followed the dissolution of the group. Zack de La Rocha’s raps are a perfect complement to the breakdowns and beatdowns, and Tom Morello’s guitar work straddles the line between experimentation and straight-ahead metal as expertly as ever. There’s not much in the way of let-up either – stand-out tracks such as ‘Bullet In The Head’ receive an early airing, and there’s precious little offered to slow the pace. ‘Renegades Of Funk’ and ‘Sleep Now In The Fire’ inject liquid groove into the crowd, ensuring that we dance (suckas) as much as we as jump (suckas). It’s at this point you realise that this is stadium rock, just not as we know it. There’s no acoustic ballad or lighter-in-the-air moment, but there’s a palpable sense of cohesion among the assembled. It might not be big and it might not be clever, but there’s a definite catharsis involved in adding your voice to any of the band’s catchy soundbites and mass swear-alongs.

Note-perfect renditions of ‘Wake Up’ and ‘Freedom’ herald the obvious set-closer, and as the crowd explodes for ‘Killing In The Name’ – de La Rocha’s nod to the financial trouble facing Ireland and Greece in the EU at the hands of home-grown shady corporate and government dealings still ringing in our ears – there’s a very real feeling that being bruised and sore is tomorrow’s problem, and that for now, we too have something to Rage Against. Whether or not this is true grass-roots mobilisation of the masses is, of course, as much a matter for debate now as it was in 1992, but for those gladly risking injury (note to crowd surfers: you need people in front of you for it to work, otherwise you fall face-first on the floor) to express their appreciation for the visit, I doubt that matters much. There’s been little development in sound – critics will find as much to deconstruct as ever, but it’s difficult to feel short-changed by the continued live force delivered by the band.

Tags: Artificial, Martha Tilston, My Chair, The Woods, Union Chapel

For a folk singer like Martha Tilston, Islington’s Union Chapel might seem like the ideal venue.  It’s a beautiful building in which you can forget you’re in London and imagine the more scenic settings that Tilston evokes in her songs.  And it’s full of pews, so you get to sit down: at a serene show like this no one wants to stand around getting sore feet.  But it’s also a functioning chapel, so when Tilston sings in ‘Artificial’ the line ‘fuck your company policy’, she inadvertently raises the slightly murky question of whether or not it’s OK to swear in church.

‘Sorry, God’, she says afterwards.  But if God takes any interest at all in music, then no apology should be necessary; ‘Artificial’ is one of the highlights of this set.  Tilston is at her best when she is singing songs that draw on everyday experiences, like this plaint about the wretchedness of a repetitive office job.  Many of her lyrics are very pastoral, so when that mood is augmented with references to cash machines and coffee makers, there is a distinctive duality that works well.  In other songs, the channelling of rural wilderness is overly dominant.  I quickly lost count of how many times the moon, the sea and birds were mentioned during the set.  Sometimes these motifs combined; there were several references to seabirds.  In the context of a gig, in which the artist’s work can be seen in panoramic view, such a similarity of themes can become a bit tiresome.

However, the quality of the performance made up for the occasionally grating lyrics.  Tilston was recovering from something fluey, and as her set progressed, the songs began to be punctuated with occasional coughs.  She remarked that the penicillin she was taking may have made her a bit silly, but her voice didn’t seem to be impaired.  Even when she was singing unaccompanied, it remained clear and smooth.

Her backing band, The Woods, also gave a fine performance.  Most of them seem to be multi-instrumentalists and they swapped instruments at intervals, switching from violin to mandolin, cello to flute or piano to percussion.  They create a charmingly cosy atmosphere too.  Tilston played a song called ‘My Chair’, about jamming sessions at her flat, and this sums up the vibe.  All the performers were accomplished but relaxed, as if they were playing in a living room for their own entertainment.  It turns out that this kind of show is also a great night for those of us who aren’t in the band.

Tags: Arcade Fire, Bella Union, Bon Iver, Darby Cicci, Epilogue, Hospice, MIchael Lerner, Peter Silberman, The Antlers

Moments before The Antlers made their way onto the Scala’s stage, a space in the crowd suddenly opened up around one person standing close to the front.  The reason why this man was given so much elbow room was that he had just dropped to his knees and proceeded to vomit copiously across the floor.  As a result, the moody first few notes of the Antlers’ set was accompanied by the awkward theatre of two members of the Scala’s staff clearing up a pool of puke using only a roll of paper towels and a bin liner.

Not an auspicious start, one might think.  But The Antlers created a powerful enough atmosphere that the damp patch on the floor was quickly forgotten.  They were playing in support of their latest record, ‘Hospice’, a devastating concept album about a cancer patient that’s won them comparisons to the Arcade Fire and Bon Iver, so a punk-style dispersion of bodily fluids was never on the cards.

The Antlers have two distinct styles of performance which they switch between:  when Peter Silberman is singing the whole band is more static.  Silberman directs his falsetto lines into his microphone with an almost numbed expression, while keyboardist Darby Cicci stands with his face hidden behind his fringe.  But during instrumental passages there is a greater sense of motion.  Silberman turns towards drummer Michael Lerner at these points, his head bowed, as if making his way towards a percussive altar.

The drumming certainly stood out at this show; against the wall of sound provided by the other instruments each individual sound that emanated from the drum kit made its own distinct impact.  But it’s a shame that some of the rich instrumentation of ‘Hospice’ didn’t find its way into the live set.  The album includes contributions from accordion, trumpet and bowed banjo, but on stage the sound was monopolised by distorted guitars and eerie keyboards.

There was a slight change in tone for the final song of the set, ‘Epilogue’, when Silberman clamped a capo onto the twelfth fret of his guitar and Lerner abandoned his furious drumming for a tambourine. With the sonic weight lifted, the underlying moods of fragility and anxiety really shone through here, and Silberman’s often instinct vocals were at their strongest.  Other stand-out moments included the singles ‘Bear’ and ‘Two’ and an intriguing cover of The xx’s ‘VCR’.  With the combination and ambience and unease that they create, The Antlers might provoke feelings of introspection and thoughts of existential doubt – but I can’t see what it is about them that would induce vomiting.

Tags: Chad Elliott, Funeral Party, Kiss, Motley Crue, Surfer Blood

In one of our Lord’s less well known parables, he reminded his followers that cold Sunday nights in Glasgow maketh verily for empty venues. Apart-eth from the SECC where Kiss are on. This doesn’t deter Funeral Party, who have come all the way from Los Angeles, and are determined that they’re going to give the 50 or so punters in at the start of their set a good show. They play a short, high energy post-punk set; think a scuzzier Gossip with insistent driving bass and and fuzz guitar, and Chad Elliott is an engaging frontman; all monitor-hovering and flailing limbs. If they don’t have a killer track – and ‘Finale’ isn’t far off – then they win over the expanding crowd with their energy, the applause getting louder each time.

Surfer Blood come onstage to Motley Crue’s ‘Girls Girls Girls’, perhaps quite appropriately, as hair metal seems to be the one genre of American guitar music not evident in their sound, and I guess that’s now all bases covered. Hailing from Florida (on second thoughts, there’s not much death metal on display either) they run a gamut of influences, flitting from surf lines to a grungy take on late 50’s pop, particularly on ‘Floating Spiritual Vibes’ which is the Jesus & Mary Chain having been raised in a climate which doesn’t automatically turn the lyrical brain towards thoughts of pestilence and death.

‘Harmonix’ sunny power chords threaten to take off, but the tempo never gets above a chug. ‘Catholic Pagans’ swoons; ‘I’m Not Ready’ nods towards afrobeat, ‘Twin Peaks’ could be Preston School Of Industry…Preppy in appearance, their vibe is one of a prom band gone skee-wiff; this is middle-class white American rock music. Too commercial sounding to become indie darlings, and not fun or memorable enough to be overly commercial, they don’t manage to inject enough life into their songs, and ultimately their comparisons end as a US take on the billion or so indie bands full of doctor’s sons called Josh and Tim from Oxford.

I think He summed it up best in the story ‘Noah met some men who promised to entertain him on the long nights on the Ark, should they be taken aboard. Noah agreed-eth, however deduced that their claims of greatness could be boiled-eth down to Weezer covering Vampire Weekend. And while this was not an abomination in the eyes of the Lord, and Noah could not see fit to throwing them overboard, he wasn’t much arsed-eth when the lions ate them. Amen.’

Tags: Crooked Rain, Newark Wilder, Pavement, Pavement @ Brixton Academy, Silence Kit, Steven Malkmus

May 13th 2010 marked the third and final night of Pavement’s sell out shows at Brixton (O2) Academy, the same location as their famed 1992 live tour of the classic ‘Slanted and Enchanted’ album. Now let me lay this down from the start; Pavement are my favourite band and they have been my favourite band since aged 16, I picked up the album ‘Crooked Rain’, on cassette, at WHS Smith in Southampton with a £10 gift voucher my aunt Janet bought me for Christmas (1994). Pavement will probably always be favourite band and over the years I have bought and listened to pretty much everything they have ever released. As a music reviewer, I guess they also act as my benchmark for the kind of music I like. I apologise for this indulgent wank down memory lane (not a typo), but the story continues…In 1998 I came within a whisker of seeing Pavement live. I had a ‘Sunday’ ticket for the V Festival, which I unwisely switched with a tout for £40 and a weekend ticket. A fake weekend ticket. As I trudged crestfallen from the festival site, I remember hearing strains of Pavement playing live, mocking me through catches of summer breeze. So here it was, after all these years, Pavement live.

 Launching off with the masterful ‘Grounded’, Pavement went  into a wonderfully rich set of key songs from their six studio albums. and ripped through a sterling repertoire, lasting almost two hours. From ‘Crooked Rain’ (my album, the album I grew up with!) came excellent renditions of ‘Gold Soundz’, ‘Silence Kit’, and ‘Newark Wilder’. The break down and guitar playoff between Steven Malkmus and Spiral Stairs on ‘Stop Breathin” was another highlight, a gorgeous, melodious riff which really shone out.

Other highlights from a rich back catalogue included true renditions of ‘Slanted And Enchanted’ and ‘Westing By Sextant’ and ‘Musket’ numbers; ‘Debris Slide’, ‘Two States’ and ‘Loretta’s Scars’.  For my generation Pavement are as important as, say, The Velvet Underground. Faithful and inventive interpretations of classic songs were a delight live. Remember, this is a band that didn’t actually sell that well in their early-90′s heyday. Ten years since releasing any new material, how can Pavement sell out Brixton academy three nights running? Stephen Malkmus seemed to sulk and swoon, caressing, repositioning and cradling his guitar at various angles, with a nonchalant swagger. At first he looked like he’d rather be elsewhere, but then something clicked and he seemed to start enjoying himself. The intriguingly entertaining Bob Nastonovich; on percussion, backing vocals, screams and a range of different wibbles and warbles, also doubled up on drums on a number of tracks, and is a hugely underrated part of Pavement’s sound. Spiral Stairs on guitar is one of the key indie guitarists. That grungy sound that typified the Pavement is very much his baby, as important in his own right as Steve Jones to the Sex Pistols, with Scott “Spiral Stairs” Kannberg’s ability to switch from rhythm to lead, working as an engine room with the excellent Mark Ibold on bass and Steve West on drums. ‘Spit on a Stranger’ and ‘The Hexx’ from Terror Twilight went down well, plus an outstanding, stripped down and emotional version of ‘Here’, highlighting Malkmus’ song writing strengths. 

After a short break, the band emerged and released a bunch of enormous balloons into the crowd. A couple of rockier numbers, ‘Stereo’ from Brighten the Corners and ‘Fight this Generation’ from Wowee Zowee folowed.  Malkmus adds that bit of magic as and when he feels like it, and his loose and unpredictable role belies a truly accomplished lead guitarist. There was a slight sense of tension between band members at times, but there also seemed to be a healthy level of piss taking. Eventually, and they made us wait, came ‘Range Life’, a wonderful anthem for the slacker generation, and perhaps the track I have listened too the most in my life. A delighted crowd swayed and sung along, to a rarely talented, once in a generation band. It was a tight and coherent  set which treated cherished songs with flair and respect for the original material. After a fifteen year wait to see my favourite band, it was a night I will always remember.