The Decemberists at Brixton Academy - 21 February 2015

The Decemberists (pic Louder Than War)

There are some venues that I try to avoid. One of these is the [This week’s Sponsor’s Name] Brixton Academy. I’ve had problems in the past with muddy sound quality and I certainly have problems in the present with the infamous sloping floor which just murders my poor old back and legs. What a drag it is getting old.

And yet… here I am again.

The stage is always impressive, set amongst faux classical columns and mysterious sculpted figures. It’s like being at an outside amphitheatre but without being exposed to the elements.

My misgivings about the sound are initially borne out by the sad fate of support act Serafina Steer, who can be seen onstage making some kind of noise, the specifics of which are lost in the cavernous space. Which is a pity.

However, from this point on it’s good news all the way.

The Decemberists have been away for a while. This is partly due to health scares (fortunately now passed) and partly because band leader Colin Meloy doesn’t feel the pressure to record and tour in constant rotation anymore.

The band are here to promote their excellent new album ‘What a Terrible World, What a Beautiful World’ and their set is artfully split between these new songs and big set piece numbers from their extensive back catalogue.

They are dressed as befits their age and experience, in dapper suits and evening wear. The audience too seems to have mellowed. A Decemberists’ gig of yore would be accompanied by legions of fans dressed as 1850’s New England fishermen, complete with inflatable whales. There is none of that tonight.

The band starts with ‘The Singer Addresses His Audience’, a song about how bands change over time. The sound is loud and crystal clear and remains so all evening.

Initially it appears as if we are going to get the new album more or less in its entirety, as new songs ‘Cavalry Captain’ and ‘Philomena’ (“Not about Judi Dench”) follow.

There are five full time Decemberists, but they are joined tonight by two female backing singer/musicians who play a prominent role in all the songs tonight, doing a lot of the heavy lifting for Meloy.

They come to the fore in the quieter moments like ‘Carolina Low’, picked out by a white spotlight.

There is older material too, which gives Colin Meloy the chance to revel in his showmanship. ‘Sixteen Military Wives’ features a segment in which he conducts the differing segments of the auditorium in synchronised clapping. ‘The Rake’s Song’ has the whole crowd in the palm of his hand, shouting and whispering (and thinking) the chorus.

The Decemberists are a class act, still very much at the top of their game.

And even though the next day I am as stiff as an ironing board, it’s been totally worth it.

Girlpool, Fake Laugh, FVC at The Lexington - 16 February 2015

Girlpool

Everybody has to start somewhere.

Tonight is the first solo show by Florence Van Camerjik akaFVC. To me she seems familiar, and I eventually realise that she had been the reluctant girl singer who helped out the band Oscar on a support slot the lasttime I saw tonight’s headliners.

She starts her set abruptly, rather at the mercy of her backing music, that provides beats, melody and a vocal track over which she can sing.

She wanders the stage, psyching herself up, her microphone clutched close to her face. The effect has echoes of a girl trapped in her bedroom, grabbing a hairbrush and singing along with hits on the radio.

Florence is a bit stiff and awkward at first, but gradually loosens up, rearranges her clothing and presses on. She has an air of knowing gaucheness that suits the material very well.

What really stands out even at this early stage is the quality of the songs. In a short set of barely half a dozen tunes FVC establishes herself as one to watch out for in the future.

Florence is followed on stage by Kamran Khan, who is doing a solo set as Fake Laugh.

Kamran is young, handsome and painfully earnest, possessed of a beautiful clear voice that gives every song he sings the eerie intensity of a religious work.

Unfortunately, the singer is attempting to make a silk purse from sow’s ears. The songs, though lovely to listen to, are very humdrum, with lyrics that are very much of the moon-June-spoon variety.

By coincidence, both Fake Laugh and FVC have songs called ‘Little Things’. FVC’s was a pop-savvy vignette of young woman anxiety, while this one goes ‘The little things you say / Make me want to run away’. It’s delivered delightfully, but terribly trite.

This is the second time in a couple of months that I have seen tonight’s headliners Girlpool.  The pairing of Cleo Tucker and Harmony Tividad is evolving all the time.

It’s interesting watching the dynamic between the pair. Before Christmas, it seemed as though the flame-haired Cleo was the dominant partner. Not so now. The spotlight is very much shared, and Harmony is much more forceful.

It’s very much a joint enterprise, as all songs are sung in tandem, a folky keening that makes their work seem traditional in nature, even though the songs themselves are brand new.

Girlpool are only just coming to the world’s attention, and at present it is not entirely clear what they will eventually be. They are writing and discarding songs at a prodigious rate, with new material appearing on the internet almost weekly. Half of the songs tonight are introduced as ‘new’ and by that the pair seem to mean ‘written in the last couple of days’.

This is clearly evidence of a duo on a hot streak of creativity, but it does also mean that their set is so much in flux that at times it feels like a jam session between the two. They are still figuring out what works, what doesn’t, what they like, what they don’t. The audience gets a bit shut out during this process.

An interesting evening then, with a variety of acts finding their way and attempting to forge an identity. Good luck to them.

(Another song not played!)

Kælan Mikla and City Boys Band at Power Lunches - 03 February 2015

Kælan Mikla (rotten photo by Wyldman)

It’s a bitterly cold February night and everyone is standing around shivering. I’m squished somewhere between the bar and the toilet in Power Lunches, a tiny venue near Dalston Junction that was once a café.

The door to the room is wide open to accommodate a steady stream of smokers, bands, friends and acquaintances. I break the ice forming on the surface of my beer and struggle my way down the stairs to the room below.

The space is tight and dark and even the mirrored walls do not disguise the claustrophobic feel of the place. It’s like entering a pharaoh’s tomb.

We start off with a selection of short films. Without exception these are shot in black and white and depict something indeterminately unpleasant occurring. Indistinct images jump and flicker. The deafening atonal soundtrack amplifies the unease and horror. Probably the best film depicts what might be some ancient hunting ritual enacted by strangely attired girls hurling wooden spears and chasing after some unseen quarry.

In order to avoid their heads getting in the way, half the audience is enticed to duck down or sit on the floor. We hunch in the dark and it all feels very daring and arty.

The first act of the night eventually emerge from behind the tacked-up movie screen.

This is CityBoys Band, two musicians who fuse distorted vocals and heavy percussion to create an unsettling, industrial rhythm that echoes Mark Stewart’s solo work or even Cabaret Voltaire. As such, the duo’s hypnotic sound is right up my street.

The singer mutters intensely, his head bowed as he hunches over an electronic console or clatters away on a drum. The performance space at Power Lunches is so small, and the stage area so low, that if you stand more than two rows back you are pretty much stuffed in terms of actually seeing what is going on.

The room is pitch dark by now and I’m standing on a sea of discarded bottles. The room is packed and there is a real sense of danger about the place. One moment of panic and people could die down here. 

Cool.

I like City Boys Band a lot, but I make sure that I’m in a better position for the next act. 

I’m here this evening to see Kælan Mikla, a three piece noise outfit from Reykjavik. Such is the speed of the internet, I only discovered they existed on Sunday afternoon, and yet, here we all are two days later.

The band are young, cheery and sing emotionally in Icelandic.

They have a very simple set up. A drummer (Sólveig Matthildur Kristjánsdóttir) who also sings; a thumping bassist with orange hair (Margrét Rósa Dóru- Harrysdóttir) who occasionally screams terrifyingly off-mike; and the psyched-up singer Laufey Soffía Þórsdóttir, who is necking a respectable quantity of beer and whisky and who crawls around on the floor of the stage.

It’s my idea of heaven.

I love acts such as this. They are following their own idiosyncratic path to create something that is important to themselves and if an audience likes it, so much the better.

As my conversational Icelandic is sadly not up to scratch, I’m not entirely sure what Laufey and co are singing about. I do know that it involves a fair amount of screaming and alcohol. And that is a universal language.

It’s been a genuinely different and really enjoyable evening. There is an easy atmosphere of genial chaos – things sort of start when then there is sufficient momentum for them to do so, rather than to a set timetable.  At times, this has been less of a gig than a Sixties style Happening. It fits in with the tea bar origins of the venue.

Far out.

Desperate Journalist, Terminal Gods, Dressmaker at Lexington 22 January 2015

Desperate Journalist

The first thing that strikes me as I enter the upstairs room that is the performance space at the Lexington is that I haven’t been here for far too long. I had forgotten how small it is, how the bands are almost teetering on top of you.

My second thought is “Bloody Hell!”

Dressmaker are onstage and doing a fair impression of Bauhaus thrashing wildly in the wreckage of a small plane crash. The room is full of dry ice and strobes and singer and guitarists flailing and wailing and making a fine old racket.

Vocalist Charles Potashner is dolled up in a fetching fur bolero jacket and is snarling in his best Lydon drawl. He’s clambering about all over the place, sometimes down in the crowd, sometimes up on the drum kit. He’s having a blast, as are all the band.

All is noise and spectacle. You couldn’t sing along to a Dressmaker song, but they’re a lot of entertainment in a room this size. They finish with an even bigger wig –out than before and various members of the band come barging out of the maelstrom past me.

So thumbs up for that one.

I’m a big fan of the BBC’s flagship nature programme ‘Winterwatch’. This time around there has been a lot of talk about how an introduced species can fill the gap in the food chain left by other animals and thrive as a result. Winterwatch were concerned with Little Owls. Let me make a case for Terminal Gods.

Singer Robert Cowlin and his cohorts are clearly enthralled by the Eighties none-more-dark machine rock of acts like The Sisters of Mercy, Bauhaus (them again) and The Mission. It was full-on, histrionic music that jack-hammered along behind leather jackets, sunglasses after dark and the certain knowledge that audiences were to be cowed by the power and swagger of the performers. This music was often labelled ‘goth’, but it was a world away from floaty fixations on graveyards and vampires.

Terminal Gods have seen that the bands that they love have largely disappeared, lost to old age and changing fads – young men in eyeliner went ‘emo’ and left the true path pioneered by Pete Murphy, Andrew Eldritch, Wayne Hussey and co.

So tonight, what could be wrongly dismissed as an exercise in revivalism instead sounds fresh, exciting and just terrific.

Cowlin is stick thin, his eyes obscured behind dark glasses. His deep voice rumbles like a tube train. The rest of the band don’t merely play, but pose and flourish. They know they are good. They know WE know they are good.

It’s one hell of a rollercoaster. There are huge choruses, which the fans in the audience shout along to. There’s a really joyous atmosphere. This is a celebration of a show. The Lexington is tiny but with these Gods on stage, it feels like Wembley.

So thumbs up for that one too.

I’m actually here this evening to see Desperate Journalist again. Tonight is the official launch of their well-reviewed and highly recommended debut album. After the bombast of the first two acts, I worry that they might seem anticlimactic.

But not a bit of it. Jo Bevan, Simon Drowner, Rob Hardy and Caz Hellbent take the energy buzzing around the room and amplify it with a storming performance of their own.

Jo’s voice soars like an eagle and roars like a lion. The sheer power that she generates is beyond that of any other singer out there at the moment. Meanwhile, Rob is bent double wringing solos from his guitar and Simon hulks behind a whomping bass.

A huge mosh pit forms, including personnel from the other bands. Jo firmly declares that what Desperate Journalist is ‘Indie’ rather than rock. But they sure indie the Casbah this evening.

A marvellous show, a marvellous band. I’ve run out of thumbs to put up.

Furs and Psychic Markers at The Waiting Room - 14 January 2015

Furs

If I arbitrarily designate my base of operations in Luton as the cradle of civilisation, then the Waiting Room in Stoke Newington on a wild and blustery Wednesday night in January seems a long way removed from that cosy centre.

The venue itself is situated in the basement of a busy pub/restaurant that is doing a roaring trade with crowds of young men sporting identikit Edward Lear beards and tall young women clad in black. Kids, eh?

The Waiting room itself is a simple space with benches along the walls. With Spartan décor that is either plain wood or white tiling it resembles a cross between a sauna and a butcher’s shop.

First up are cosmic six piece Psychic Markers. In addition to the usual guitars, bass and drums they have two backing singers who share a microphone while swaying side to side and clutching bottles of beer. They all play in other bands – Grass House, Still Corners and several others. They are here tonight for gentle psychedelic shenanigans.

Band leader Steve Dove has the sniffles, and snuffles disconsolately between songs. The band start off with an instrumental that doesn’t quite work, but the set soon builds a momentum of whirling space rock that enraptures the room.

The vocals are narrated as much as sung and the woozy charm of proceedings sees me turn on, tune in, and stop out for the evening. My colleague wonders if the band should fully embrace their inner Hawkwind and have the backing singers covered only by glitter and paint. This is only a suggestion.

Furs (or F.U.R.S. depending upon which flyer you read) have a weekly residency at this venue throughout January. They are bright and cheerful and showcase the vocals of Elle Wade.

There’s no angle to Furs. They play proper songs with proper verses and catchy choruses and when they have a good time on stage this communicates through to the audience and suffuses us with a warm glow of contentment.

Highlights include ‘Just Kids’ and ‘An Eye on the Vicious’. It’s the kind of smooth music that is sometimes tagged ‘Adult Rock’. And there’s nothing derogatory about that statement.

It’s this spirit of charm and wellbeing that is the band’s main asset and it is not one to be underestimated. We are happy in their company and they make the trip out tonight worthwhile.

And I hold on to that thought as I begin the long slog home.

Call of the Wyld - Review of the Year 2014

Autobahn: Band of the Year

It’s time to be reflective and think back over the past year’s gigs. As ever it’s been a mixed bag – sherbet lemons and razorblades as always.

January and February were quiet…too quiet. I saw the reliably wonderful Skinny Girl Diet at the Barfly and had my first encounter with Abjects. Catching this same band later in the year was a revelation – either my radar hadn’t yet warmed up in January or else they had improved beyond measure.  

In March I saw The Men at Village Underground. It was the second loudest gig I have been to in my entire life (Swans in their heyday hold that dubious honour) and my ears were effectively ruined for the next three days. It genuinely hurt.

Undeterred I headed to the Buffalo Bar (RIP) to relive the mid-Eighties madness of A Witness and The Cravats.

At Brixton Windmill I enjoyed an all-day festival and particularly the performance of Ravioli Me Away, who were dressed as KISS at the time and have one of the songs of the year in ‘Cat Call’.

From there I trotted off to the O2 to see Miley Cyrus redefine the arena experience with a show that was so gleefully over the top that there wasn’t any point in the two hours that weren’t completely bonkers. I especially enjoyed her tribute to her dead dog Floyd accompanied by a vast inflatable model of the unfortunate creature that shot lasers from its eyes. It was both barmy and deeply moving.

In contrast, in the Autumn I saw Lady Gaga at the same venue and it was like spending an evening with an Agony Aunt who occasionally shook her ass at you.  1-0 to Miley.

I saw Tune-Yards twice in 2014. I was out of sorts for the Village Underground show, grumbling about the audience having the temerity to enjoy themselves. At a later show at Brixton Electric I was able to lighten up and enjoy the continued genius of Merrill Garbus.

In May I had my first encounter with Autobahn, a full blooded, honest-to-goodness rock band with a dynamic lead singer and a gale of sound that pinned your ears back. I later saw them in the confined spaces of the Lock Tavern on the Camden Crawl. Autobahn went off like a rocket about a foot away from my face. It was majestic and awesome and the best thing I saw all year.

I really enjoyed this year’s Crawl and it is a great pity that within days the whole enterprise fell apart in acrimony and unpaid debts. It’s unlikely to be back, but I shall treasure memories of a warm day outside the Camden Town Brewery watching Jeffrey Lewis frolic in the sunshine.

Another festival that went belly up was the Jabberwocky event at the Excel Arena. I benefited by attending a hastily re-arranged Deafheaven / Chelsea Wolfe show at the Garage.

Loop came back from nowhere at Heaven and were marvellous.  I saw The Fall for theumpteenth time at Stamford Bridge and was blown away by how invigorated they are in their current line-up.

In July I saw a jaw-dropping show from Japanese rockers Babymetal. I loved it to bits, but one clumsily worded sentence earned me the wrath of their fans. Apologies.

In September I finally saw Desperate Journalist do themselves proud at Madame Jo Jo’s, another venue that did not survive theyear.

But as one venue closes, others are discovered. The latter part of the year saw memorable shows at Oslo (Carter Tutti Void, Stealing Sheep) and – my venue of the year – The Shacklewell Arms.

At the Shacklewell I saw terrific performances by White Lung, Skinny Girl Diet, Abjects, Girlpool and The Coathangers. I’m back ther early in 2015 for New York synth punks Pop. 1280 and I’m excited already.

In a move that no-one could have foreseen, Kate Bush returned and was utterly awesome. It was more like a lavish stage musical than a gig, but it was wholly extraordinary, not least in that she did it entirely on her own terms and barely played any of her most famous songs.

A claustrophobic Goat gig at the Roundhouse put me off that venue for good (so no Ride in 2015).

There were two stand out shows at the end of the year. ThePop Group were all kinds of magnificent at Islington Town Hall and Charli XCX blew the roof off at Heaven.

All praise too to Kero Kero Bonito and Bo En for a show at Electrowerkz that completely subverted what I expected from a live performance.

Looking back, it was a great year. Again.

Now… on to 2015.

Stealing Sheep and Kiran Leonard at Oslo - 18 December 2014

Stealing Sheep

It’s all very Christmassy. The restaurant downstairs is doing good business. A fat guy is so drunk that he is repeatedly falling against the table on which the DJ is perched, causing the records to jump. All is merry and bright.

I had heard good things about Kiran Leonard. What I initially actually get is a drummer and bassist gamely accompanying a gawky, gurning guy who is howling like Wild Man Fischer and assaulting a guitar. It’s not entertainment so much as a possible cause for medical intervention.  Not good at all.

However, having retired to another room for what seems like a safe period of time and then returning for his last three songs, I find the band transformed.

There is now a driving jungle rhythm and Leonard’s guitar is soloing wildly over the top. The whole room is rocking and dancing. Leonard seems much less physically awkward and is tying himself in knots to wring notes from his instrument.

Needless to say, this is a vast improvement over what went before.  Speaking to friends afterwards, the general consensus seems to be that the artist started very slowly but that everything seemed to gel and take flight about halfway through the set. So, recommended, but with reservations.

We have been promised that Stealing Sheep would put on an extravagant show. They certainly know how to make an entrance.

Led by a vast life size Chinese dragon, a procession of Pharonic figures make their way around the room. There appears to be a giant pink hippo with a fish stuck in its head. The rear of the party is brought up by a magnificently horned white ram. I’ve been drinking – but this is definitely real.

The three members of Stealing Sheep are almost unnoticed on stage, but start playing as the pageant in front of them moves away.

There is an immediate problem. Stealing Sheep are polite and pleasant but their music is so slight that they initially have difficulty in obtaining the interest of the crowd, many of whom are just blithely ignoring the band and are excitedly shouting into each other’s faces.

Stealing Sheep remind me rather of Ravioli Me Away, another band of women for whom the visual elements of performance are at least as important as their music. Stealing Sheep though are more lightweight, so unobtrusive that while they spread an undeniable vibe of bonhomie, there is very little else to fasten on to.

About halfway through the set, many of the musicians who had formed part of the pageant join the band onstage to play a variety of percussion instruments. This immediately beefs the sound up immeasurably and adds a sense of direction and purpose to proceedings. There’s a happy atmosphere and a warm glow about the place.

It’s been a very convivial evening. The visual elements will stick in the mind longer than the music, but that’s cool too.

Merry Christmas.