Moja, Molice, Elohymn and Royalinserts at Bull and Gate - 29 December 2009

Moja

They had me at ‘Hello’.

Specifically, they had me at “Hello. Hello. Hello. Molice. Moo-leece, Moooo-leeeeece!”

Singer/guitarist Rinko stands legs akimbo and then proceeds with a set of rattling garage rock and pop accompanied by the most lascivious display of pelvic thrusting and gyration since Elvis Presley on the Ed Sullivan Show. Molice should only be filmed from the waist up, because there’s too much Devil down below.

Molice are one of a trio of Japanese bands doing a whistle stop tour of the UK between Christmas and New Year. The tour is promoted by The Big Jugs Experience, who have been putting on bands in Osaka since 2006 and now bring us their vision of rocktastic experimental goodness.

The first act of the night were Royalinserts, who are part UK and part Osakan, and feature some of the promoters. They play a ferocious and stripped down no-nonsense straight ahead brand of guitar punk. This three piece stand firm in the centre of the stage and blast it out. It is loud, it is uncomplicated, it is good.

Royalinserts are followed by Elohymn who hail from no further east than Chorley. They are as intricate and complex as the previous act was simplistic. They take ages to set up, the stage strewn with all manner of wires, effects pedals and laptops, all arranged around a substantial drum kit which is arranged so that the drummer is sat with his back to the audience, giving us a chance to marvel at his prowess. There is so much equipment that the rest of the band have very limited space to move. It’s like playing a gig in the middle of a NASA control room.

Elohymn are instrumental, but favour upbeat percussive rhythms and swathes of rock guitar rather than ambient noodling. By their very nature they cannot help but be a bit static, but they do their best to lay on an entertaining show. When they start I am sceptical, but they have won me over by the end.

Once Elohymn have been cleared away, the aforementioned Molice come on and tear the place apart. Rinko flares her nostrils, Ikuhiro slaps his bass and we all bounce about to the almost Latin-tinged track ‘Headphone’. This is pop heaven.

Molice - Headphone
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The headliners tonight are the extraordinary Moja. They are a two piece comprising a little guy (Haruhiku) with an enormous bass guitar and a female drummer (Masumi) who has the nickname ‘Drum Destroyer’ because of her prowess.

And they are wonderful. Haruhiku sings and dances around with his instrument, doing his best to keep out of the way of the flailing Masumi, who is a blurring, whirling, crashing, bashing maelstrom of a performer, a jaw dropping virtuoso. At the climax of each song she leaps up, hovers above her kit and crashes down upon it with a triumphant “Yi!” We’re some distance from Meg White, it’s fair to say.




By the end of their tumultuous set, both musicians are stood atop the drum kit, bashing away at the metal beneath them. A storming end to the evening, and to 2009.

Call Of The Wyld: Live Review Of The Year - 2009

The Farrs - Band Of The Year

As ever it has been a busy year. Many gigs attended, many strange sights seen. Most of it has been documented on this site, but incredibly, some of it hasn’t, such as a breathtaking show by The Decemberists at the Forum.

The band played their ‘Hazards of Love’ album in full, with guest vocalists, a version of ‘The Rakes’ Song battered out on five drumkits, and even the door men guarding the entrance turning round and clapping. The band also managed a trick often employed by Nathaniel Fregoso of The Blood Arm, where they get the whole audience to sit down – some mean feat in a venue this size and with pools of Christ Knows What on the floor.

Other goodies this year have been the Applicants playing a blinding set at the late-lamented Metro off Tottenham Court Road. This was one of my favourite venues – small, noisy, sometimes packed to the gunnels but often almost entirely empty apart from a no-nonsense sound lady and a resigned and weary looking barman.

The year started with epic shows from related Manchester bands. Buzzcocks played both their debut albums and made me all happy and silly, then Magazine reformed and were slow and majestic and proud and magnificent.

I had a lovely night in the wilds of West London with a brace of UK-based Japanese bands. It was my first exposure to the awesome Bo Ningen, whose name I didn't even catch at the time. Their set involved full frontal nudity and guitars being passed amongst the crowd. This was just a taste of what was to come later in the year. That night also saw me introduced to the wonderful No Cars, as delightful and funny an act as you are going to see anywhere.

One of the strangest nights of the year was an attempt to see Death Cigarettes at the Haverstock Arms, only to find the band fuming outside because the venue’s idea of a suitable performance area was a small shelf just inside the door, underneath an enormous telly showing a football match. Band and fans then tramped around Camden trying to find a location that would let them play. This ultimately proved futile so I diverted to an excellent show by the Kabeedies at Proud.

I loved Death Cigarettes and saw them more than any other act this year. They have of course now changed their name to the more media-friendly Cold In Berlin. So fingers crossed for that. Best Cigs moments included a couple of riotous shows at Mother in Shoreditch and a well received performance at the Offset Festival.

Death Cigarettes also indirectly introduced me to two new favourite bands – Breakneck Static, who virtually obliterated Tommy Flynn’s in Camden and The Farrs, who I have now seen twice and award the accolade of Call of The Wyld Band Of The Year for their blend of top tunes and aggravated audience and venue molestation. When The Farrs play, no-one is immune from an invitation to dance, be it members of other acts or bar staff goggling at their antics. And lovely people too.

This year saw excellent sets from more established artists. David Byrne used his collaboration with Brian Eno as a basis for a triumphant celebration of the best of Talking Heads, complete with dancers and a very bashful Eno himself.

Also back and barking (literally) was P J Harvey, whose new album with John Parish gets better with each play.

I’m not one for music festivals, but I always make exceptions for the Camden Crawl and Offset.

Perhaps not a vintage Crawl, not least because the event has become so commercial that it is little more than an adjunct to a single big show at the Roundhouse for well-established acts. However, it did introduce me to The Constitution, a Camden pub that I now frequent regularly.

The Crawl was also where I first got to see The XX, a band whose stratospheric success I find somewhat baffling. I’ve got the album, I’ve seen them twice – I’ve TRIED. And I still can’t deal with them for more than five minutes without checking my watch and wanting to be somewhere more interesting.

Offset was back for a second year and was wonderful. Ignoring the performances on the main stage, the real action was in the smaller tents. There were great performances by local bands, but the real finds were those from abroad, particularly Berlin Brides from Greece and Panico from Chile. If money and time and airlines allowed, I’d go and see those two again in a shot.

However, the best performance of Offset and one of the most extraordinary that I have ever seen was that of Bo Ningen, the four Japanese overlords of guitar based psychedelic mayhem. They were heavy like Black Sabbath and as full of violent slapstick as a Mack Sennett comedy. The packed crowd were awestruck, fearful and convulsed with laughter all at the same time. The band were treated like gods for the rest of the weekend, and rightly so.

Bo Ningen Destroy Offset





The Japanese march to a different drum to most acts and props this year also go to Baguette Bardot, the dancing dolly-bird with bread sticks for arms who supported a delightful Shonen Knife at a heaving and humid Bloomsbury Bowling Lanes. Shonen Knife also provided my favourite T shirt of the year- all I’ve got to do now is lose more weight so that I can properly get into it. Afrirampo also rule, as I’m sure you know.

The most unusual gig of the year was seeing LA weirdos We Are The World provide the accompaniment to a fashion show held in the Victoria Miro art gallery. After a trip around an exhibition of strange knitted sculptures, we were lavishly fed and watered and then bombarded by the twin percussion attack of WATW, who paraded around in a succession of impossibly bizarre and shape-altering costumes. Followed by more hospitality by the side of the canal.

Kudos this year also to Kap Bambino for their high energy set at Cargo and Dengue Fever for their surprisingly loud and upbeat show at the Scala. Also great fun were Bang Bang Eche and the seriously strange Duchess Says at Madame Jo Jos.

It’s also been a fine year for what I would term ‘proper’ pop music. Music Go Music’s appropriation of Seventies disco made for a memorable evening at the ICA and The Asteroids Galaxy Tour’s recent brass-injected extravaganza at Bush Hall will also live long in the mind.

Random moments of greatness:
– Amanda Palmer swinging from the balcony of the Union Chapel, strumming a ukulele;
-lying on plush red beds in a boudoir beneath the Café De Paris with Rakell Sa;
- Bearsuit dressed as chickens at Offset;
-Innerpartysystem at the Constitution, spraying beer everywhere so that it dripped from the ceiling throughout their set.
- Mark E Smith skittering around the stage in his wheelchair like a Dalek;
-hiding from the rain and thunder with a pile of bedraggled Goths, their hair and make-up in disarray after a show by The Birthday Massacre;
-Doing a pas de deux with The Farrs at Camden Rock;
-The Horrors fizzling out like a spent firework at Offset as I sit down with a coffee.

Things I could do without:

- Soko at Dingwalls. A performance that was indistinguishable from a mental breakdown. Not good to watch, it was less a question of whether to clap as whether to call the emergency services.
- Pens at Cargo. If you’re going to play, then play. If you are not, then not. Don’t just stand there and simper.
- Telepathe at ULU. Maybe try turning your equipment on?

Finally, this year also saw me finally catching up with a band who I have admired for years and who played their first UK and European dates. Phantogram were everything I could have hoped for and more. Let’s hope for more from them and all other Call Of The Wyld favourites in 2010.

Afrirampo, Pens, Fair Ohs at Cargo - December 10th 2009

Afrirampo

It’s the week before ATP and all manner of bands are in town for warm up gigs. This has led to tonight’s venue being less full than I expected, apparently due to Lightning Bolt playing elsewhere. I’m sure the ‘Bolt were great, but the real fun is right here.

We start off with the elephantine dance funk of Fair Ohs (it was Egyptian Hip Hop on Monday – is this a trend?). These three guys jig up and down and are as subtle as a sledgehammer, but are having such a good time that the party is well and truly started. Repeatedly self-referencing Paul Simon’s ‘Graceland’, most of their choruses involve yelling and whooping. It’s too early to whoop back, but a good vibe is engendered…

…Until Pens show up. This band completely divides the audience (and my own party) and for once I find myself on the side of the nay-sayers. As seasoned readers will know, I don’t give a damn about technical ability, but I do expect to be entertained.

Pens have got the audience/band relationship ass-backwards. Their entire schtick is “Hey, we’re just girls who haven’t rehearsed, isn’t it crazy and amusing how crap we are?” All that they do is beg for the indulgence of the crowd. It’s cynical and infantile. Watching other people’s kids being irritating is never amusing; no matter how much their loving parents may dote upon them.

I last saw Pens about a year ago and assumed that they were just starting out and cut them some slack. No slack for them now.

In addition to the existing four horsemen of the Apocalypse – Death, Famine, Pestilence, War – we can now add a fifth. Afrirampo. The last are two fearsomely manic Japanese girls, clothed in red and smeared in war paint. They are louder and scarier (and more fun!) than the first four put together.

They start by being carried shoulder high through the crowd, their faces covered by masks, throwing CDs, sweets and other goodies among the throng. They then scramble on stage, Pikachu behind her drum kit and Oni to her guitar. The noise that they then make would get a medium–sized airport shut down.

Oni puts her foot on the monitor and thrashes her instrument. Pikachu bashes and squeals. They shriek back and forth, call and response. The really impressive thing is that this is clearly not random, it’s practiced and structured, even if improvised.

After about ten minutes Oni grabs a member of the audience and drags him onstage by the hood of his parka. He is given a guitar and he immediately begins to play, while the two girls climb atop their drum kit and chatter. This seems suspiciously pre-planned, but it works.

Later on, the two bring another fellow onstage, perch him precariously on a chair and encourage him to make bird sounds while they blow flutes at him. He seems suitably nonplussed.

And so it goes on. Pikachu and Oni alternate between deafening riffage and barmy percussion. Occasionally something approaching a tune breaks out. They chatter away in Japanese, although their English seems to improve remarkably if they need the sound or lighting altered. It is wonderful, silly fun.

As the audience file out, they charge back onstage for a mostly unexpected encore. Oni runs straight off the stage wielding her guitar and crashes into the crowd. It’s insane. As the mayhem subsides, the girls declare themselves to be off to Lightning Bolt’s hotel.

It’s probably no longer standing...

The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart, Ellie Goulding, Egyptian Hip Hop - Upstairs At The Garage, 07 December 2009

The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart

We are gathered in the relatively confined space that is Upstairs at The Garage to see three acts that have been flagged up as having the potential to break out of such small arenas and dominate much bigger venues.

First up we get Egyptian Hip-Hop, a very young bunch of Mancunian lads who touch on any number of musical trends, without really seeming particularly at home in any of them. Many of their songs display a love of the punk funk that Vampire Weekend employ, but also contain a series of protracted instrumental wig outs which must be fun to play, even if the trick is repeated too often.

The problem that I have with them is that it is in their moments when they are being most earnest and prog-rockish that they seem the most amateur and ham-fisted. Otherwise they lay down a series of good, danceable grooves and that singer Alexander’s voice is mostly inaudible doesn’t particularly matter.

This lot could go in either direction- they could become humourless musos or they could become a highly infectious dance/rock act. Fingers crossed.

Ellie Goulding is pretty much at the top of every list that predicts who is going to be huge in 2010. On tonight’s performance, such confidence is cynical in the extreme.

Accompanied only by a guy on acoustic guitar and occasional keyboards, Ellie starts off with her best known song to date, ‘Under The Sheets’. It is pretty good in an unremarkable way, i.e. nothing that would surprise you at a decent acoustic night.

Ellie is not an effortless singer. Her face contorts as she strains for the high notes, making a strange gnawing motion with her mouth which is rather unsettling and makes me feel like a tree must feel when a beaver comes towards it.

It is also the case that by three songs into her set, she has almost entirely lost the attention of this small audience, and the buzz of private conversations is so loud that she can barely be heard. As she finishes, her face is flushed with temper. Never mind, she won’t be exposed to an indifferent crowd again.

That Ellie Goulding will be a star has already been decreed by the music industry. However, on this evidence, she’s going to need a lot of polishing and carefully managed gigs to justify the money that is being put behind her.

In the six months or so since I last saw them, The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart have taken off big style. Tomorrow night they are headlining the Scala, so it is a bit of a coup to catch them in these small surroundings.

They have also evolved musically. In the early days they wore their influences as conspicuously as Ed Gein flapping around in the skins of his victims, but now they have a fierce confidence that makes this a real thrill ride of a performance.

They are led by the preppy charms of singer/guitarist Kip Berman, who is a young Paul McCartney, right down to the mop top hair and the cardigan. The band fairly fizzes along. If they used to be called twee, they now ally their simple catchy pop with a power that sees them take on Ash on their own territory and win.

The crowd go berserk. There are girls jumping up and down, crying and screaming and calling out. It’s genuine Bermania. I’ve not seen anything like it directed at a band like this for years. TPOBPAH are brilliant tonight, not just stars in the making but supernova right now. The future is theirs.

The Asteroids Galaxy Tour, Giana Factory at Bush Hall 26 November 2009

The Asteroids Galaxy Tour

I love the Bush Hall. I love its faded glamour and dinky chandeliers. Its ridiculously cramped bar/merchandise/toilet area. That a grand piano is tucked absently in a far corner. That no matter how sold out it purportedly is, it always seems only around half full. That the room with the stage in it looks like a barn designed by Liberace.

I’m here for an evening of top Danish fun. I’m not to be disappointed.

We start off with the slightly sinister pop of Giana Factory, three girls who perch at the front of the stage, one with bass, one with guitar and singer Louise Foo triggering all manner of percussive samples from a podule that she beats with what might possibly be a pair of unicorn horns.

Their songs are interesting, often starting out in breezy fashion before being overtaken by an almost Kraftwerk-like machine rigour. Best of all is ‘Heart Thief’, which goes on for a good five minutes and has me twitching from foot to foot. It can be found on their ‘Bloody Game’ EP, which I heartily recommend.

So I’m in a good mood before the main band come on. I’m delirious after.

The Asteroids Galaxy Tour are awkwardly named but absolute masters at the art of getting a crowd to have a great time. They play an infectious, brass-driven pop that soon has everyone lurching back and forth and grinning so much it hurts.

All eyes are on the extraordinary figure of Mette Lindberg, who is tightly constricted by a spangly black mini-dress that may have been sprayed on. She has long blonde hair falling all over her face and panda eyed makeup. Lady Gaga may have a lot to answer for.

Lindberg’s voice is very distinctive, a sexy Eartha Kitt style quack that is simultaneously petulant and pleasing. She jiggles around, banging a tambourine and flirting outrageously with the saxophone player Sven Meinilidz, who looks as though he would love to show her his horn afterwards.

Although they are plugging their debut album ‘Fruit’, the band find time for a wealth of new material, all of which sounds just as good as existing crowd favourites ‘Around The Bend’, Push The Envelope’ and ‘Satellite’. In fact it’s pretty much hits all the way. They even throw in a version of Marvin Gaye’s ‘Inner City Blues’ for good measure.

For a breathless encore they unleash a brand new, Motown-inflected stomper that if anything tops the songs before it. It comes in at about ten on the pop Richter scale.

All good things have to come to an end, and sated, I boogie off into the night. The Asteroids Galaxy Tour have already snagged themselves an Ipod commercial, and their future looks stellar.

Plastiscines, Eight Legs at Camden Barfly, 17 November 2009

Plastiscines

Tonight we’re off to cherchez les femmes. Dans Le Barfly in Camden.

However before we get to see the hotly-tipped Gallic gals who are headlining, we are invited to shake ourselves to Eight Legs.

This four piece have a great deal going for them. They have a succession of decent, catchy songs and a lively stage presence. They have a preening guitarist who tosses his hair and makes the girls squeal. They have a singer who cannot sing.

If front man Sam Jolly has the best set of pipes in the band, I’d surely hate to hear the others. Almost every song is robbed of about half its greatness by being barked out in a stone flat Billy Bragg honk. That this doesn’t stop Eight Legs being a damn fine band is testament to the talent that they possess, but sheesh, talk about fog horns.

And now here come the girls. Not as a drunken hen party accessorised with cheap cosmetics but as the proficient garage rock of the deliciously French Plastiscines.

The crowd go ape. In fact a small section of the audience are so rowdy and pain in the arse that it is hard to concentrate on the band, because of the possibility of having to wade in and settle their hash. However, eventually they calm down to within tolerable levels and equilibrium is reached.

The band rattles their way through a set that leans heavily on their new album ‘About Love’. Like many all-girl bands of a mock-combative nature they have a song about a ‘Bitch’. All their material is of a good standard, but none of it completely stands out. To be honest, if they weren’t drop dead gorgeous (singer Katty Besnard is going to be on the front cover of every magazine that writes about them), I doubt that they would garner more than minimal interest.

But they are fun and they make the right kind of noise and I’m not going to be churlish about them. Particularly after an encore in which they drag every girl in the place onstage for one final tumultuous pile-up of ‘Bitch’.

Vive le France. Vive le Difference!

Sunday Driver, J-Marie Cooper, Gabriella Ellis - Cafe De Paris 13 November 2009

Sunday Driver

Back to the Café De Paris for a Friday of random pop acts. As usual, things are weighted more towards the X-Factor/ night club range of the spectrum, and there are some excellent performances tonight.

First off we get the leather jacket and spandex leggings of J-Marie Cooper, pouting and vamping through a series of fast tempo rock songs of the type that Pink would give her hefty tattooed forearm for. Long of leg and with a snarl on her lips, J-Marie is a formidable front woman, possessed of a piercingly powerful voice. Much better on the faster material, she also indulges in a couple of weepy ballads that are technically very good, but a bit icky for my tastes. Her only misstep is to finish with a slowed down and sanitised version of Radiohead’s ‘Creep’ – when the audience recognise the song there is a momentarily visible cringe and recoil. This is just a minor misjudgement – she is a terrific performer.

Next up comes Gabriella Ellis. She is accompanied by the Dark Diamonds - a bad-girl troupe of four dancers and together they raunch their way through a short set of steamy electro pop that reminds me of Britney Spears better stuff (i.e. the barmy Britney of 'Blackout').

Gabriella and the Diamonds writhe and preen and ripple with power, moving off the stage and among the audience. I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of them.

Next up come Total Movement, who are the first band of the night. They are technically proficient in a non-threatening easy listening kind of way, but the vocals are autotuned to such a ridiculous extent that it is hard to get any feel for them. They are young and good looking, but they are either aiming at tweenagers or grandmothers. Which of course is the most lucrative market there is. It just doesn’t include me.

And then an act who are largely uncategorisable. Sunday Driver are dressed in Victorian garb (including some excellent stove pipe hats) and play a part Western, part Hindi type of rock on guitars, sitars and tablas. They are led by the very engaging Chandrika, who chats cheerfully and sings in a traditional Indian style. The combination of instruments is mesmerising and they go down hugely well. At times they almost sound like an Eastern Spiritualised. I purchase their album and although I experience a small degree of buyers’ remorse the following day, it is certainly a fine souvenir of a unique act.

The next act also flirts with the days of Empire. Lucid Jake and his band are dressed in cavalry jackets and blouson shirts. They start and finish their set with their front man centre stage, blindfolded and, to a military drum roll, feigning being executed by firing squad. As an attention grabber it’s…different.

Once the theatricals are out the way the band settle down to a series of keyboard heavy pop tunes, all of which are very easy on the ear, none of which entirely stick in the memory. LJ smiles and tosses his hair and looks as though he would eat himself if he were made out of chocolate. Still, you’ve got to admire his confidence.

Train difficulties mean that I have to cut short my appraisal of the final act, V Double E. From what I see, this is possibly for the best, as she appears to be an extremely basic rapper whom the likes of Goldielocks would eviscerate.

I always enjoy Friday nights down the Café De Paris. A great time is guaranteed and the whole evening is often as mad as a box of frogs. Recommended for anyone who wants to see the intersection of the music business and show business. For me, the stars tonight were J-Marie Cooper, who could give any TV variety contestant a good shellacking and Sunday Driver, who could entertain almost any type of crowd.