CD Review: FAC. DANCE: Factory Records 12" Mixes & Rarities 1980-1987

Those forking out huge amounts of money to see The Stone Roses’ reunion shows this Summer might be surprised to learn how unfashionable indie music was in certain quarters during the Eighties. While admitting to a liking for The Chesterfields of The Brilliant Corners was never something to be entered into lightly, even a penchant for the decade’s big hitters was often sneered at – The Smiths, Bunnymen and company were ‘white boy indie’, music for bedroom dwellers (as opposed to Alan McGhee’s later bedwetters) and often played out to sparse audiences.

This was never more the case than in Manchester itself. While the Roses and Mondays have been afforded retrospective credit for firing up The Hacienda, the boom that nonetheless failed to save such a poorly run concern was largely the result of Music of Black Origin – achingly trendy nights like Nude and Hot brought acid house and funk to the masses while Thursday’s Temperance night was a poor third in the hipster canon.

Given that Joy Division were already abandoning the post punk template on tracks such as Isolation, their successor band’s swift embracing of dance music should have come as no surprise. Sure, it was always leavened with a dose of guitar – not least from Mr. Hook himself, but interviews with the foursome have always seen them quick to distance themselves from their indie roots.

As the primary act on a label whose other main assets, A Certain Ratio and the Mondays also owed little to Swell Maps or the Buzzcocks, New Order’s influence in Factory was profound. As a unquestioning fan of the brand, I was quick to lap up anything to do with it – the rectangular cassette boxes drew me in and I was soon investigating every obscure act the label could produce.

Pre-internet, this was always difficult – so the release of a double album of early Factory rarities brought back a few memories. It’s not one for completists – the accent is largely on dance music (Stockholm Monsters do not appear) and all the songs are twelve inches . Also, neither New Order nor the Ratio feature – one suspects more box sets could be in the offing.

The result is a fascinating breakdown of the influences on early Factory from a host of acts which, given they nearly all hailed from the one city, represent a robust musical scene. An array of former punks, purveyors of industrial experimentation and other assorted council house kids and scenesters make up the dramatis personae and if the music seems raw in comparison to post-1987 house and techno, it’s a good overview of how England came to be influenced by the sounds of Detroit, Chicago and New York, while applying its own rain addled spin on things of course.

Several tracks are straight up commercial – Shark Vegas’s Pretenders of Love sees a soul diva wailing over a vaguely New Orderish beat but isn’t that far away from Go West territory, and three tracks from 52nd Street nod vigorously towards The Big Apple. John ‘Jelly Bean Benitez’ remixes the version of Cool as Ice herewith included and Diane Charlemagne (later to provide vocals on Goldie’s Inner City Life) lends vocals to a track that Paul Morley announced as NME Single of the Week on its release.

There are anomalies – The Durutti’s Column’s plaintive fretwork is out of place in a dance compliation, good as it is – but many of the oddities provoke respect at the breadth of the Factory roster – from the Trojan records style dub reggae of X-O-Dus to Blurt’s Beefheartian work-out on Puppeteer; from twelve minutes of minimalist clubby beats on The Hood’s Salvation to Swamp Children’s warbling that recalls a range of acts including The Beatles of Revolution Number 9 and The Slits.

Most rewarding ultimately though are Section 25 – especially on their album opener, Looking from a Hilltop and the curious Royal Family and the Poor, a front for the projections of just one man in Mike Keane and critically berated at the time. John Cooper Clarke lends vocals of a seriously situationist bent to Art on 45 and Motherland contains a breathless vocal croon over low key but luscious synths.

So, it’s a real pot pourri and naivete is very much to the fore – angular skinny white kids attempting to conjure up the spirit of The Paradise Garage while remaining in thrall to Throbbing Gristle doesn’t sound like a great combination, but it largely works and just about every track stands up as a historical timepiece. Congratulations to Strut Records for making it all available.

Film Review: Anyone Can Play Guitar

What constitutes a scene? If Madchester and Merseybeat were defined by a restricted time period, the argument put forward by the makers of Anyone Can Play Guitar that Oxford had an identifiable flowering of talent – enough to define a city – seems unconvincing. A tradition maybe – after all, the bands that made up this grouping operated over a good ten to fifteen year period. Nonetheless, as a Berkshire boy trained to be suspicious of anything from the shadow of the dreaming spires (Joey Beauchamp included) , I was a little cynical on pressing ‘play’ – this despite having recently moved to the city and been talked into purchasing a copy of the DVD by the salesman at the marvellous Truck Store.

Add to that the paucity of the goods on offer. Radiohead? OK – genuinely good. Ride? Decent also – the commercial end of shoegaze they may have been and not a patch on My Bloody Valentine, but in retrospect a clear link between C86 and Britpop with some rattling good wig outs. Talulah Gosh? Vilified at the time for overdoing the tweeness – I liked them but then again I was a saddo. Supergrass? A sugar rush of singles but ultimately a trifle cartoonish. Foals? A ‘haircut band’ as Pitchfork would sniffily define them. As for the others - the acts that form the lion’s share of this documentary – the Candyskins, Swervedriver, The Unbelievable Truth, Rock of Travolta and some band called Dustball whom we were led to believe could have altered the whole course of musical history – footnotes surely.

But the brave attempt to start a record label in Shifty Disco, the establishment of the Zodiac as a premier live venue and club and those mainstays The Wheatsheaf and Jericho Tavern playing the Eric’s/Boardwalk role all provided a focus for Christminster’s disparate musicians to huddle around, and the thesis gradually becomes more convincing as the film continues, lugubriously narrated by Stewart Lee and starring a bevy of talking heads.

The result is a satisfying exploration of twenty years of indie music – a microcosm of the world at large with all the musical styles represented. Ed O’Brien represents Radiohead and there are engaging interviews with Mark Gardener of Ride and Gaz Coombes of the ‘Grass, as well as the movers and shakers from Shifty Disco itself. Sure, there’s no Thom Yorke but the movie ends up navigating the shark infested waters of copyright law rather well – Radiohead’s choicest cuts were presumably too expensive but other classics are present and correct. Fascinating too is the portrait of an eighties and nineties Oxford of a more down at heel tinge – not at the doorstep of the Bodleian I’ll grant you, but along the now suffocatingly gentrified Walton Street in particular.

But even more fascinating are the extra on the DVD with Andy Bell talking regretfully of his decision to allow The Sun to use Hurricane No. 1’s music and Mark Gardener trying to conceal his financial jealousy at his mate ending up in Oasis. Then, the Young Knives are wheeled out for a eye poppingly embarrassing interview – having initially refused to take part in the piece, they had a change of heart and treat us to half an hour of explaining why they are an Ashby-de-la-Zouch band as well as bemoaning the fact that their countryside homes disallowed them from properly exploring the Oxford nightlife – Keith Moon probably wouldn’t have let that stop him.

Drum lift me up

Charles Hayward
Shoreditch Catch. 25aug11

In the mid-70’s, This Heat provided a bridge between the German progressive rock scene and UK post-punk, incorporating loops to advance a pre post-rock, eerie industrial sound. Following their disbanding in 1982, drummer Charles Hayward went on to play with Camberwell Now, Gong, About Group, Monkey Puzzle Trio and Blurt, as well as undertaking session work with groups ranging from Everything But The Girl to Hot Chip to Crass. In addition, he has performed in a number of free improvisation collectives, as well as performing solo.


To some the idea of a drummer doing a solo show will no doubt bring one of two thoughts to mind; noodling prog acts giving their sticksman an ego boost and their guitarists a fag break; or a council- funded community rhythm workshop. Charles Hayward fits neither profile.

First of all one must disengage from the idea of the drum solo which tends to be a case of “let me show you how quickly I can hit all these drums”, and into the idea of the drum lift, where the vocal is of equal prominence. Indeed, the drums are never chaotic, every beat and fill dovetailing with the pre-recorded bleeps and synth washes; Hayward staring roguishly into the middle distance whilst projecting his fragile vocal.

“My maaaaad-ness” he begins, the glint in his gaze increasingly vivid, before moving smoothly into a groove that feet can respond to. A kindly, mildly eccentric presence, he later rises from his stool to pause one song for a good thirty seconds just so that he might peer out at us incredulously.

Rather than showcase lightning speed, he is unafraid to use space and the pregnant pause, whilst his experience of free improvisation means the catatonic beat is consistently side-stepped whenever a full-on groove threatens to take-hold.

The lyrics tend to be the repetitive hook, cycling around a kind of 21^st century paranoia; “information rich, information poor” he intones as mantra, at one point backed only by shaken maracas. He may only be one 60 year old man inside one drum set but Charles Hayward’s sets not only engage, they haunt.

*photo found online and was taken at Sonar Festival in 2007.

Shout, shout...job done

Bearsuit.
Old Blue Last. 14aug11.

Time was there were six of these bears, with flutes, horns and all kinds of caper that clattered about like prodigious toddlers high on sugary contraband. They had a disarming tweeness to beckon people towards them, to wriggle under stroking hands like a playful kitten, only to then morph into a beast of pure malevolence, launching the suckerpunch assault of caterwauling chaos.


Now there are five of them and the wind and brass have been replaced with a greater emphasis on synths and while it’s not different per se, it’s certainly not entirely the same. Not that singer and guitarist Iain Ross sees it this way, suggesting by way of introduction here into Foxy Boxer (an atypical ‘oldie' this evening) that “we’ve only got six songs, it’s all the same formula isn’t it – shout, shout.”

However, if they do only have finite methods, they are clearly keener to play the newer versions born of them than delve into the back catalogue. As if to plant a big new footprint down upon the world of pop, their set is top heavy with material from their latest LP The Phantom Forest with popular singles from their earlier years, such as Drink Ink, Stephen F****** Spielberg and Itsuko Got Married, seemingly put out to pasture.

Amidst Joe Naylor’s frisky drumming and the vocal and instrumental fidget provided by three original members Ross, Jan Robertson and Lisa Horton, Charlene Katuwawala is a fairly low key presence but her gritty bass is vital in underpinning the ever increasing maturity within the Bearsuit sound.

With an electro-pop tune like When Will I Be Queen, so bright you could floodlight a goods yard with it, and in A Train Wreck a glorious song which marries a hymnal harmony with both ripening art-pop and post-punk thrust, it is clear that Bearsuit have added plenty to their toolshed since their salad days.

Thankfully though, we cannot look at the Bears and consider them all grown up as fundamentals of the Melt Banana-esque whizz and skid which dictated the pace of their early tunes are still extant in Princess, You’re A Test and, even more vividly, Jim Henson’s Creature Workshop which top and tail tonight’s set.

While there appears to be less of that well defined cutesy-abandon-leading-to-frenzied-assault element, there is still a roughness around their edges and a sense of requiring to surrender to them; that to not be seen dancing during their sets is to meet with their eye-narrowing displeasure.

Donaufestival
Krems, 05-07may11

The donaufestival plays out over two consecutive weekends in Krems, a town sixty minutes away from Vienna by train. Krems has been transformed in recent years with cultural spaces breaking out in an old tobacco factory (Kunsthalle) and a former monastery (Klangraum Krems Minoritenkirche) and has dragged a type of city-based arts culture to a picturesque town on the banks of the Danube or, as they would have it, the Donau.

The previous weekend’s line up included esoteric delights such as John Cale, WU LYF and James Blake as well as the gallery exhibitions, performance art and theatrical pieces that continue over to this weekend.

News at the end of last year that Carla Bozulich (formerly of Ethyl Meatplow and The Geraldine Fibbers, now a sonic adventurer both solo and with her Evangelista group) would not only be curating parts of the second weekend, but also putting together a one-off performance to take place in the Minoritenkirche was certainly the hook that reeled me in.

Entitled ‘Eyes & Ears 5: Under The Skin’ it would continue a series of site specific performances that Carla has put together, and use the resonant monastic space to its full potential, rather than having the stage as the sole focal point. In that respect it worked wonderfully, the audience on being allowed to enter wandering between players arranged around the room, with films projecting across the space onto side walls, and also so that flickering images cascaded down the central pillars, encasing us as though in a cage of static electricity.

Then, with the rap of a drum, Carla entered dragging a gong, the musicians leaving their perches to join the full collective on stage (some returning to the floor later to mirror on-stage drum clash, or to offer a mid-set trumpet vigil). Following the entrance, elements of her regular performance weaved in, such as using a child’s mini-microphone toy to sing through her guitar pick-ups [below] like a wailing widow about to turn her mind to vengeance. Baby, That’s The Creeps from the astonishing 2006 Evangelista LP allowed her to go walkabout, descending into the crowd like a preacher; all that’s missing is the hand placed on foreheads and the subsequent flailing limbs.



That is what Carla captures so well in her music, an outsider-art hunger firing practically Pentecostal turbulence. If you’ll forgive me quoting myself, I said in a prior review that “When fully flaunted, [Carla’s voice] is like a feral growl contained in a rickety cage; burnt yet eager, sharing the kind of ragged timbre one might associate with the Rev. C.L. Franklin as he looms over a pulpit roaring the gospel.” That gives a sense of the dark and tattered melodrama just within the music and thus a visual theatricality can be interlaced without it feeling too ‘forced’.

As I say though, as much as it is a chance for Carla to perform this exclusive work, the festival also allowed her the opportunity to showcase both her contemporaries and her heroes. In the case of the latter, the first night was top heavy with them, both Laurie Anderson and Lydia Lunch appearing in the Messegelände main hall: Halle 1.

In what was essentially a full live performance of Laurie Anderson’s latest album Homeland, washes of slender synth ambience underpinned stories, parables and jokes essaying the ten post-9/11 years. At one point, Anderson sat in an oversize armchair speaking to us as though we were grandchildren eager to learn about life during wartime mostly through being on a promise of some toffees. The piercing moments when Anderson picks up her violin act as the start, finish and ‘turn-tape-over’ moments for a set that is otherwise like a ninety minute hypnosis reel.

Later Lydia Lunch also offered a performance of an entire LP, in her case her 1980 debut Queen Of Siam (apparently for the first time, although a tour will follow), and was a much livelier watch; ‘no wave’ era rock n’ roll delivered with a strident PVC boot. Lunch’s group offer a post-punk take on Broadway swing, a gothic cocktail jazz, over which Lunch growls and sways. The highlight of the set was when Atomic Bongos fired out, inspiring here a dancing stage invasion from our curator.



Offering a similar vibrant spirit, despite also now being of ‘veteran’ status, was Marc Ribot and his group Ceramic Dog ( Messegelände Halle 2). Ches Smith running his drum stick along the edge of a cymbal, Shahzad Ismaely pressing at his bass guitar and Ribot tickling his strings so they twinkle; such were the beginnings before they moved into more robust territory, unleashing an unhinged part-surf-part-Hendrix-part-fusion-freak-out stripped down and sinewy blues.

Ribot’s set was certainly a fine way to close the first evening but possibly not quite as impressive as its opening act. Cult-like propaganda videos, golf tutorials, the dark thoughts of unknown children captured on found Talkboy tapes featured among the collaged ‘samples’ that play out in synchronicity on a screen behind The Books (Klangraum Krems Minoritenkirche) [above]. These found visuals and sounds are the kind of foundations upon which our three players build their jazz-trained whimsy beyond-New-Age expanse towards a 21st century folk music celebrating the technology as well as the spirit of the age. For Free Translator, the lyrics of an old folk song are filtered through a number of online translators, through many a language, a dragged-through-a-hedge-backwards phrasing coming out the other side.

Pretty sprightly stuff but, despite this as the kick-off; dense noise and intense sound collage was also well represented at the festival. Hiss Tracts (Minoritenkirche) grouped members of Godspeed You! Black Emperor, Fly Pan Am and Growing to offer chimes, rolling bells and a terrifying haunted rush. Their half hour piece wandered shimmering like a river and before too long the drone was all enveloping, before eventually petering out to bird song and black.

The darkness continued over at the Evangelische Kirche. Like Hiss Tracts, Tim Hecker has a dark undercurrent but with far more glimpses of light, a sense of hopefulness shimmering out of his deep-think drone. Moving between apocalyptic lows and ethereal highs, a strange divinity occurred perhaps through his interactions with the organ sound.

The following day at Minoritenkirche, Barn Owl would also offer dark soundscapes, although these were evocative of the desert, and of tribalist mysticism. One guitar delved into the underbelly, whereas the other overarched a light swirling with the occasional vocal howl; like Morricone in a dust bowl sky darkened by the swirl.



Another intensive sonic experience the festival offered was former Cabaret Voltaire man and field-recording troubadour Chris Watson who offered a live performance (Kunsthalle) entitled ‘A Journey South’. Less a gig than it was lecture and slideshow, Watson talked through his experiences recording on location in the Ross sea, Antarctica, at the start of last year detailing the transformation of sea ice from solid to fluid in the Austral summer season. Interesting as this was, his collection of recordings such as pressure ridges, glacial caving, melt water and deep ocean current were best experienced as a sound collage installation running throughout the festival in the same room. Invited to lie down on cushions, the quadraphonic sounds attacked and doused as water and ice collided, capturing the ebb and flow as a force of seismic change rather than something gentle and calming.

Another act at the festival offered a similar intensity to the likes of Hecker and Barn Owl, only adding a sense of playfulness, was Gambletron and her ‘Extreme Karaoke set’ ( Messegelände Halle 2) where members of the audience chose the tracks that they would then re-interpret live with noise artiste Lisa Gamble. Watching a keen Carla Bozulich throw herself into a George Michael re-invention was certainly the highlight, despite the best efforts of the lay punters. Certainly a niche product but the right environment for it.

If anything, what the ‘noise’ acts were missing was a beat. Factory Floor [above], however, were on hand (Halle 2) to offer both intensity and pulse; their incessant palpitations underpinning a detached brutal malevolence. Bows attack guitars, vocals are moaned out like injury, beats pulsate like heart attack and when they are on form they ensnare like a venus fly trap.

If this festival bill sounds a bit unyielding dark, then acts later in the weekend offered some lighter relief. Electro flavour of the month, Gold Panda (Halle 2) [below] uplifted without being mindlessly euphoric, Snow & Taxis being a giddy highlight in this respect, while Mount Kimbie (Halle 1) overcame technical difficulties and a dull first impression to seep themselves in slowly.



The Irrepressibles (Halle 1) were certainly very different from anything else on the bill, but went down a treat. My only previous encounter with them was at a cold and wet Bandstand Busking event at Victoria Park last year. There were only about thirty watching, but even in more stripped down conditions it was clear from their choreographed movement that there was more to them than just (just!) the grandiose chamber pop sound. So here they presented their ‘Mirror Spectacle’, reflections making it appear as the more than just (just!) the 9 of them, in their full fallen angel/marionette kit and make-up caboodle.

Death From Above 1979 used the same space (Halle 1) with just the two in the personnel. Back five years after calling it a premature day, bass (and sometimes synth) combined with the drum set to fire out a red hot pop thrash. In Halle 2, Candelilla also offered a power pop style, without being as one dimensional in pace. From the Heavens To Betsy end of Riot Grrl in spirit, the interweaving vocal lines captivated with the simplest of tools.



As the festival drew to a close on the Saturday night, electro and synth ruled the roost, with Ladytron (Halle 1) promoting their new ‘Best Of’ LP with, as you might imagine, a set crammed with career highlights. Had they asked me to write their set list to my specification, I’d have likely come up with something similar to them (although I’m Not Scared would have been very welcome). Early numbers betrayed a slight rustiness, their last record proper ‘Velocifero’ having come out three years ago with live performances few and far between in the last two years, but they soon warmed up to the task, Discotraxx and Destroy Everything You Touch being distinct highlights.

Three days in then, one o’clock in the morning and Bordeaux’s Kap Bambino (Halle 2) are tasked with closing out the festival. No wind down is allowed though as Caroline Martial rips across the stage, like a pocket version of bubblegum and biker leathers period Madonna, bouncing incessantly and making an astonishing impact for their time slot as the room succumbs to dancing with an abandon not seen in the three days hitherto. So, after a weekend that has often been about the art of music, we are brought to a flurrying dervish of a climax by a band for whom the body response is of equal validity to the effect upon the mind.

Nimble round the neck

Meaghan Burke, Dead Western.
Vienna Rhiz. 04may11.

Despite being a native of New York, Meaghan Burke is, as a result of living in Vienna for a number of years, being asked to represent the city’s pop scene at the Popfest Wien free festival. This is the warm-up and it is clear that the anomaly is two-fold: her being merely an adopted daughter, but also that the music she makes is only on the barest of nodding terms with ‘pop’.



That said there are hi-jinks in her business, an embroidered, fresh-faced charm; the manner in which she beams, sporting the ivory being a facial equivalent of Doris Day greeting the day’s business with a windmill slap of a thigh.

Yet she marries this innocence with regular dips into Diamanda Galas style melodrama, the voice flitting and swooping like a swallow, elasticising from trills to treacle. The other act this evening, Dead Western, do something a little similar in that respect, but their singer Troy Mighty’s facial mugging whilst exaggerating his vocal depth only succeeds in grating rather than beguiling. Meaghan Burke’s singing style feels much more natural, and it thus follows that her lyrics about bed bugs and such pass under the radar of irritation.

What might not beat the radar for some listeners is that this is very much a voice and cello performance, with no looping and no gradation. There is not even a reliance on heavy bowing to layer a warming underbelly, the neck of her instrument more often plucked or beaten.

Yet despite this plain set-up, the sound is agile and lively, moving across smoky blues, nimble jazz and scattergun torch song and back with barely a blink.

House music

No Babies, Meddicine
Dalston Lane house show. 23apr11.

With galactic projections ebbing and flowing on the back wall of what was once someone’s lounge, one might expect an ambient swirl from Meddicine but not a bit of it. Instead the beats are uncomplicated and firm of wrist, Monika’s treated vocals colliding with synth stabs and drones. However she seems to suffer both from technical difficulties and the short attention span of a grindcore goldfish, as the pieces are too limited in their length to really bed in. As a groove begins to flow, it’s cut off in its prime; a row of electro ox-bow lakes. As a set of short, sharp vignettes it’s a little slender and would certainly benefit if the set were to be more cohesive with a touch more bob and weave.

Meddicine uses the back wall projection to divert from her retiring stage presence. If No Babies were to do the same, it would be a shameful waste of electricity as at no point would anyone be looking at it. Indeed audience eyes rarely rest even upon drummer Sean simply for the fact he’s somewhat anchored to his post. The others meanwhile seem keen to mingle.



It is abundantly clear when one watches a band make like amateur joggers and undertake a series of stretching exercises and pumps, that what you’re about to watch will not exactly be like Van Morrison tilting his fedora as a single concession to movement.

All five members raise the arms in the air to synchronise their body clocks and provide a fleeting calm prior to the storm they are about to unlock. When it comes it’s like being hit, and for those in the front row it’s more than a simile, as the mobile members of the band treat their audience as a boundary that has to be tested. For singer Kim, we are like the hedges at Hampton Court maze, darting in, out and around, disappearing for some time then crawling out between some legs.



For guitarist Yacob and saxophonist Misha we are more the rubber coating on their Bedlam bedroom, hurling themselves backwards into the watching collective as if oblivious to the hefty instruments they’re twirling about.

For twenty minutes they unleash a kind of Melt Banana meets Black Flag stop/start hardcore aligned with When Big Joan Sets Up bath-tub-down-a-hill jazz chaos, and then down tools, possibly as an act of mercy. No Babies create a twitchy angst funk, an utterly beastly racket twinned with a rather invigorating noise.

Here's the science bit...

Matt & Kim.
Highbury Garage. 23mar11.

Matt Johnson & Kim Schifino first sprung out of the Brooklyn scene in 2004 and it’s hard to imagine that they’ve changed much in the past seven years. After all, the synth playing never sweeps into show-pony virtuosity, the singing is not rich with variation and if Kim is drumming on a track, it is likely to fire out like a buffalo stampede.

Incidentally, if Kim is NOT playing on a track, she will most likely be found stood atop her drums with arms raised, or stepping out onto the supportive hands of the crowd to dance above their heads. While doing this, and even when playing her instrument, an extreme grin never leaves her face, as though the corners of her mouth have been introduced to her cheekbones by way of a staple-gun.



Clearly Matt & Kim learned their trade playing loft parties and front rooms but their skill comes in translating that experience to larger settings. I have seen them twice now, here in a sold out 650 capacity room, and in front of thousands on the Vice stage at Primavera Sound last May. On both occasions, a sizeable body of onlookers have responded like a drunk teen bouncing over the heads of their friends in their parents' garage.

The Principle of the Conservation of Energy tells us that energy can never be created or destroyed, only changed from one form to another. In keeping with this principle, Matt, Kim and their audience rebound the revving oomph between each other; the room effervescing to a critical mass. At which point the balloons are released. Not from the ceiling, no – that would be a bit too glitzy showbiz – instead, balloons are thrown into the crowd to be inflated individually and later released on cue.

This is not to say that Matt & Kim don’t use that old showbiz trick of making the audience feel as though they are more involved than any prior audience – and are seeing something different, more intense, than anything the band has hitherto delivered. They claim their last visit to London, at the tiny Old Blue Last, was their sweatiest show. They reference it often, as though the perspiration levels are on a Blue Peter totaliser, until Kim announces after a while that a new bar has been set.

Canard it may be, yet when Matt exclaims “it’s never been like this” several times late in the set in response to the wild enthusiasm of the crowd, he does appear genuinely moved and overcome by delight. “This makes us realise we have to come here more often” he says, at which point the room registers its clear interest in keeping in closer touch.

Photo by wumpie woo (taken 2009)

Behind the counter

Veronica Falls
Islington Flashback Records. 25feb11.

The time not to make an in-store appearance at a record shop that deals only in second hand merchandise is about a year after releasing an LP. Seeing twenty copies of your magnum opus stacked up with ever decreasing amounts stickered onto the cover would, I imagine, do little for the collective morale.

As such, Veronica Falls pitch up at Flashback at an ideal time, as their debut LP has yet to appear, despite their spending the last 18 months being a support band of choice for Teenage Fanclub, Vivian Girls and Slow Club amongst others as well as being followed and tipped by various players in the radio and press.



Tonight we crowd into this tiny outlet, pushing the band back not only behind the counter but into the office section further beyond. On the cluttered mezzanine, the four members huddle together as though having been cornered by a gang of cosh-wielding muggers who’ve at least given them the chance to busk their way out of a beating.

Even with the matter of the staging put to one side, this is a show that captures a band out of their comfort zone. Ordinarily their shows will often see the reverb pressed to the metal, but tonight the guitars and bass work out of practise amps turned way up to, well, about three, the drums are quashed with a couple of gaudy beach towels whilst the vocals are amplified only by theatrical instinct.

Yet, this challenging environment brings out the best of them as they are forced to work that little bit harder, trying out slightly different harmonies on tunes such as the great Beachy Head where it appears, on the approach in, that the lack of their more natural volume might render the usual punch in these tunes a little flaccid in the wrist.

Instead, they turn a potential crisis of performance to an opportunity, on the quiet, to peacock their janglist nous.

Here Zea gear

Zea
Dalston Café OTO. 30jan11.

Sweat surges from Arnold De Boer’s forehead and scalp, dripping from his chin with such regularity that a stalagmite begins to form next to his floor monitor.

When I first saw Zea, back in 2003, there were two of ‘em, but a 50% cut in manpower means Remko Muermans is no longer involved. The songs were always Arnold’s in the most part anyway yet you’d have thought with his workload playing and singing with post-punk heroes The Ex, he’d have welcomed a bit of help on stage.



However for yer modern day Zea experience Arnold is handling all duties: vocals, guitar and electronics. Thus it is should be no surprise that his face appears to process more water than the Grand Coulee Dam.

This tour is supporting his fourth LP The Beginner and as a result the vast majority of the set comprises material from that record. Which means no Counting Backwards Leads To Explosions or We Buried Indie Rock Years Ago; two fine singles which, if they were mine, I’d rather be inclined to show off.

Yet this LP has signalled a growth, and a sound clearly influenced in part by Arnold’s recent excursions to Ethiopia and Ghana with The Ex and where his Zea gear was also toured. Traditional elements of his sound, bringing a They Might Be Giants lightness of touch to Chinese-burn fuzz-punk and hectic electro are present and correct, but are joined in the new stuff by a gonzo Africana on tracks like Song For Electricity (a track based on Bogiye by Abonesh Andrew) and I Follow Up Front.



Both are highlights this evening, as are Staande ben ik vergeten wat ik dacht toen ik lag which works a desert baggy groove, and Armpit Elastica where an almost happy hardcore beat is thrown down with lyrics that don’t stretch far from a repeated “I got this itch…”. During this, with no need to carry a guitar, Arnold is free to dance about, and uses this opportunity to hammer out tippy-toe pigeon steps, like Scooby Doo trying to sneak quietly but quickly into a snack-laden pantry.

The real treat though is Bourgeois Blues where the Leadbelly track is updated using the lyrics from The Fall’s Bourgeois Town version, but with a sparse, isolated arrangement where Arnold obtains his pulsing beat by working the fret-board.

Not allowed to leave until putting down two encores, one including the fiery Parked Forever, Arnold beams from ear-to-ear as he insists we all stick around to join him for a drink.

Think it’s fair to say he can chalk this one up as a triumph.

Popping up, early doors

Shellac.
Highbury Garage. 01jan11.

Shellac are not indefatigable tourers by any means, indeed playing live often just means a little time away from the office for guitarist and vocalist Steve Albini and bassist Bob Weston, the pair being respected recording engineers in the day-to-day.

So, to find them playing their first show of 2011 just 12 hours into it, and just 13 hours after their last show of 2010 (playing for All Tomorrow’s Parties with Sonic Youth and The Pop Group at Hammersmith Apollo), should probably not be taken as them starting the year as they mean to go on.

A mercantile machine they certainly are not. There is nothing in the merch booth this afternoon except for members of ATP staff, Bob Weston’s wife and a couple of toasters, as they distribute Pop Tarts, for free.

Like their gigs, the usual schedule anyway, Shellac’s albums are also sporadic concerns, although Weston claims that there will be a new record “at some point in the future”, and that it’ll be called Dude, Incredible. One heckler then offers Electric Sledgehammer as an option, which is immediately shot down as being ludicrous.

This banter is a fairly regular feature of the afternoon, with more bonhomie than one might expect. From afar Albini can appear to be a thorny, obsessive compulsive type and one heckler asks why Steve “was in such a bad mood last night?” “I was positively sparkling” he replies.

Indeed, you would imagine there would be plenty of bears-with-sore-heads here given the nature of the night before. When Albini asks “hands up who’s not been to sleep yet”, stringy, haggard drummer Todd Trainer raises his arm and smiles like someone who’s spent the last few hours staring into the sun. Clearly, with Bloody Mary’s on offer at the bar, this noon set is regarded as a hair-of-the-dog effort.

What better way to blow away the cobwebs, though, than a 90 minute Shellac-ing where the music will always be as lacking in frills as a hod-carrier’s hankie and as uncompromising as Nicolae Ceausescu’s retirement do.

Bowlie II: one-liners

All Tomorrow’s Parties: Bowlie II
Minehead Butlins, 10-12dec10

Continuing this site’s tradition of half-assed commentary on musical events, we present one-line reviews, in chronological order, of the second Belle & Sebastian curated Bowlie weekender.

Friday December 10th

Daniel Kitson & Gavin Osborn Centre Stage
Comedian and storyteller tells one of his whimsical comedic stories punctuated by singer-songwriter singing whimsical songs that he’s written, following suit.

Teenage Fanclub Pavilion Stage
So solid and unpretentious, they are the nuclear bunker of West Coast style harmony pop.

The Zombies Centre Stage
Colin Blunstone’s hair is as pristine as when they started 49 years ago, while Rod Argent has clearly kept his trousers from that mid-60’s heyday.

Saint Etienne Centre Stage
A funeral, a long drive, a traffic jam and being half an hour late as a result is probably not ideal prep for a set but Saint Etienne turn around their early disadvantages by displaying their hits like a peacock; a belated disco peacock.




Saturday December 11th

Isobel Campbell & Mark Lanegan Centre Stage
A Nancy Sinatra & Lee Hazelwood tribute act, but without any of their humour.

Edwyn Collins Centre Stage
Because of his triumph of the will, Edwyn could be said to be immune to criticism, but it is with no concession to his circumstances, yet with nods to Teenage Fanclub’s role as backing band and guest appearances by a Crib and two of Franz Ferdinand, when I say this was one of the best gigs I’ve seen all year.

Julian Cope Pavilion Stage
Dirgey on guitar, sprightly on the mellotron – next time: more mellotron.

Dean Wareham Centre Stage
With Galaxie 500’s gear re-released, Dean Wareham has gathered up his wife and new bandmates to perform songs by his former self, but without any real pizzazz.

Dirty Projectors Pavilion Stage
Struggled to understand the hyperbolic reaction to album Bitte Orca but on the basis of this set, I will need to go back and immerse myself in it once more.

The New Pornographers (above) Centre Stage
Despite watching several stream out to get a good spot for the weekend’s headliners downstairs, The New Pornographers respond to keeping chins up and delivering one of the very best performances of the weekend.

Belle & Sebastian Pavilion Stage
The best set I’ve seen them do since their triumphant homecoming free show at Glasgow Botanic Gardens in 2004.

Jenny & Johnny Centre Stage
Jenny Lewis and Johnathan Rice collaborate on a set of brisk alt.rock gear.

Franz Ferdinand Centre Stage
A set on the smaller stage that went unbilled in the event’s advance press and, as is often the case, Matinee’s gear changes were the highlight.



Crystal Castles (above) Centre Stage
Alice Glass staggering onto the stage on crutches means restricted movement for both her and the crowd as the energy doesn’t swell quite enough for those watching on eagerly to ‘go off’ in the usual manner associated with Crystal Castles shows.


Sunday December 12th

Stevie Jackson Reds
Stevie Belle & Seb goes partly solo and partly in tandem with Roy Muller for some ideal Sunday lunchtime acoustic fare.

Vashti Bunyan Centre Stage
Possibly the quietest, gentlest gig in history.

The Amphetameanies Reds
Alex Kapranos follows up his appearance with Edwyn Collins with another guest slot in a festival highlight set, but this is merely coincidence as this party 2-Tone outfit are infectious enough to stand on their own 18 feet.

Peter Parker Centre Stage
Glam pop that, as yet, hasn’t really found a distinct voice.

Jane Weaver (below) Reds
Former Misty Dixon frontwoman doing a Gruff Rhys-esque guitar and table-full-of-tricks post-folk thing.



Sons & Daughters Pavilion Stage
Still striking me as a little lumpen, perhaps I’m missing something.

Mulatu Astatke Centre Stage
Ethio-jazz so becalming, the seas around Minehead took the opportunity for an afternoon nap.

The Vaselines Pavilion Stage
Spikiness in the tunes as well as Eugene Kelly and Frances McKee’s on-stage banter.

Camera Obscura Pavilion Stage
Any stage seems classier with Camera Obscura’s Spector-esque pop playing out on it.

Puppets, wimples and traaaaahsers

Quintron & Miss Pussycat, The Nuns, Private Trousers
Tufnell Park Dome. 22oct10.

Private Trousers work around all kinds of rinky-dink, clatter and smiley business in their opening few numbers, then all of a sudden it pulls back and reveals a further depth, one that suggests the macabre carnival, brooding like a clown plotting a murder. Then it’s back up again to knockabout end-of-the-pier wonky bobs and the kind of tunes you might found soundtracking the capers of a vaudeville tumbler.



Next up, The Nuns. Well, what else would you name an all female Monks tribute act? Mind you, where the act they are attributing to shaved large monk-style tonsures into their scalps, The Nuns show a little less commitment to the cause, with only four of the six turned out in wimples. That said, their commitment to the music is not in question, and is not a kitschfest either, being a by-and-large straightforward, and thus delightfully lively, homage (albeit with the bend on the gender).

Sister Lolo Of The Five Wounds’ vox are a lot drier than Gary Burger’s original careering style that sounded like a tyre revving smoke out of asphalt, but otherwise it’s all pretty faithful. The highlights of their half hour are a particularly vigorous Higgle-Dy Piggle-Dy and a terrific Oh, How To Do Now dedicated by banjo strummer (and former Curve and Echobelly guitarist Debbie Smith) to the recently passed Ari Up.

Embracing a Monks-like spirit in their music, Quintron & Miss Pussycat shows are, however, not just about tunes, as they also embrace puppetry. Well, I say embrace, it’s a crushing bear hug really as the first ten minutes of their set is a full-on seaside style show, Punch & Judy in the most Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds sense. It’s the psychedelic end of twee, often thousand-yard-star creepy, and no half-assed effort either. There are tigers, elephants, car chases, spilled blood, beheadings, prison breakouts and ‘secret pizza’ while their large puppeteer’s booth eventually becomes the puppet itself. If tonight is to cuddle up to kitsch and novelty, this is the point we break out the pyjamas and start to spoon.



Still, this is all part of Quintron/Pussycat experience, and after something for the child within us, Quintron walks out suited and booted, slides onto his stool, brings down his palm on the button to start up his own patented Drum Buddy drum machine, stabs repeatedly at his hi-hat pedal with his left foot and lets loose his hands across the keys of his Hammond/Rhodes combo organ like two puppies chasing each other up and down stairs.

Next to him, the maraca-wielding Miss Pussycat hops about like a toddler trying to stamp conkers into wet turf, contributing sharp vocals against and around Quintron’s unbuttoned-shirt rock n’ roll howl. Theirs is a music for garage dance parties, for nightclubs not afraid to set the mirrorball rapidly spinning and, in future, for a youth schooled on episodes of Yo Gabba Gabba.

MORE GIG PICS HERE

Quintron & Miss Pussycat @ MySpace
The Nuns @ MySpace
Private Trousers @ MySpace

Your Majesty, they've come back

The Pre New
Islington Lexington. 03jul10.

In April 1998, I went to see Earl Brutus at the University of London Union. We had travelled up from Portsmouth for it, got lost for two hours trying to find the venue, then our headlining heroes did just 30 chaotic minutes and cleared off, with no encores. All killer, no filler and no feeling of being short-changed; in short, it was one of the greatest gigs I’ve ever seen.

At this point they had made two albums and had built up a decent cult audience. However no more records were to follow and gigs slowly trickled to a halt in 2004. Four years later, singer Nick Sanderson succumbed to terminal illness, having spent his final years driving trains on the London to Brighton line.



Those of us still holding out for one more great show naturally believed that this sad turn of events would draw a line under it for good. However while Earl Brutus, quite rightly, cannot exist without their front man, Shinya Hayashida, Gordon King and Jim Fry from the group have come together once more as The Pre New to be both a tribute to the fallen, as well as a creative force in their own right.

As such Earl Brutus songs such as East, Navyhead and The S.A.S. & The Glam That Goes With It appear alongside a good mini-album’s worth of new material as well as a version of Sons Of The Stage by World of Twist, another of Sanderson’s former groups.

During their performance of Brutus’ Universal Plan, the changing of the line “I get up/go to work/eat my lunch/come home/cure cancer” to end “wish I’d cured cancer” is a subtle, and poignant, reminder of the “absent friends” mentioned by way of dedication earlier in the set.



However this was not an evening for melancholy as The Pre New more than capture the unruly, bundling spirit of their previous incarnation. Jim Fry, looking like a terrace bruiser in their court suit, does an admirable job of filling shoes and channelling some of the anarchic spirit, spiking his band mates with the mic stand, frequently dropping his burly frame into press-ups and straddling the drum set mid-song as his tubsman Gordon Phillips repeatedly tells him to “fuck off”.

The Pre New are to all intents and purposes an art-school glam band, but one that is piloted by a combination of boilermakers, dockworkers and granite-faced shop stewards, in a dance hall where the glitter balls are lined with asbestos.

“I like our band” says Jim Fry, as one song draws to a close. He’s right to do so.

Come for the review, stay for the raffle

Gaggle, Viv Albertine, Fiction.
Bush Hall. 17jun10.

Following Fiction’s lively set where post-punk met 80’s sheen-pop head on, former Slit Viv Albertine ascended the stage got up in a dress that had the elegant sweep of something pulled from Pan’s People’s mothballed wardrobe. Stood alongside Viv as she played guitar, sang and waxed cheerily scornful, were a cellist and a player that moved between Theremin and cool sharp harp. A promising arsenal but one which proceeded to condense an apparent mid-life crisis into thirty minutes that was too often trite (see Couples Are Creepy, particularly) and too infrequently adventurous.



No such problems with Gaggle, who alighted upon the stage via a procession through the audience whilst bearing flags and a large standard that read “This is merely a distraction from the inevitable.” All in all it appeared to be some kind of anti- shuffling-on-from-behind-the-drum-set protest march.

Wearing face paint and outlandish colours, Gaggle are a colossal 40-legged voicebox aided an abetted by a live drummer, a laptop firing off low rumbles and euphoric blasts, and a choirmaster issuing important instructions like “sing louder!!”

What do they sound like? Well, the following options will be placed in the sweepstake beany for you to select from…

*A cyberpunk Gospel choir.

*A multi-tracked Lady Gaga having a live mash-up with Trash Kit and The Slits.

*An Afrobeat bonfire-side ceremonial.

*David Byrne putting on a for-the-community-by-the-community concert for women living in a Welsh mining village in the 60’s.

*A shamanistic Bananarama.

*Dull-arse bint-collective.

If you pick out the latter: llllll-loser. Any of the others, well, you are in possession of a winning ticket.

There will, of course be Polyphonic Spree comparisons but where Tim DeLaughter’s mob were more Branch-Davidian-cultish in spirit, Gaggle are much more vibrantly tribal.

Omar goodness

Omar Souleyman
King's Cross Scala. 17may10.

Call me superficial if you like, but my understanding and desire to witness Omar Souleyman was largely based on his enigmatic appearance, on a poster seen during his last UK tour, in 2009. The fact that his London shows are promoted by the Upset The Rhythm folks sealed the deal that it was probably worth checking out on his return. His actual sound though? No idea. I imagined though, judging a book by its cover, a kind of dusty folk-rock, kind of in the Tinariwen mould.


library pic by Crimson Glow Photography taken from Sublime Frequencies website

What I hadn’t expected was dance floor scenes that couldn’t have been more rave if a giant yellow smiley had been rolled onto the back of the stage and the head-scarfed Syrian gentleman in the middle of it had started squealing “ACIIIIIEEEEEED’ and blowing a neon whistle.

Not that there wasn’t similar punctuating intonations in each tune, yer ‘yallah’s and ‘aaaaahhhhyyyyy’s, regular as clockwork. Indeed, a great deal of Souleyman’s time was spent with the microphone tucked under his arm as he geed the crowd with soft ‘come with me’ gestures, fingertip-led hand-claps or genial waves.

You’ll appreciate; this is all pretty incongruous behaviour from a middle aged chap looking like a cross between Scatman John’s desert-dwelling cousin and a prototype mould for a Middle Eastern version of the joke shop Groucho Marx kit, yet all the more beguiling for its eccentricity.

Turns out the Souleyman set consists of a variety of musical styles from Syrian Dabke to Iraqi Choubi, and since his debut in 1994, he and his group have issued over 500 studio and live cassette albums in Syria. On this form, you can understand the demand for it.

For when the hard beats kick in over Rizan Sa'id’s chaotic dual-keyboard playing; when one of the bands associates removes his suit jacket to take centre-stage and, like a quiet and reserved uncle startling his family at a wedding, begins to gradually work up a slinky sweat; when Ali Shaker barrels out notes on the electric saz as though doing so whilst falling down a staircase; and when Omar takes time out from low-key cheerleading to fire out the poetry, it’s virtually impossible not to be exhilarated by their projected joie de vivre.

Omar Souleyman @ MySpace

There is power in a union part 2

Carla Bozulich & Francesco Guerri
Dalston Café Oto. 03may10.

Each time Carla Bozulich brings her Evangelista band to the UK, it is rarely with the exact same personnel. This tour is a little different still, seeing her on equal billing with the cellist Francesco Guerri. The fact that they used to group themselves under the name Bloody Claws might give a few clues as to the coarseness of the music. Guerri bows and plucks with free-improvisational dexterity, whilst Carla works over her guitar and effect pedals to parade a dissonant, abrasive blare.

These passages, it might be fair to say, can meander a bit, particular when both Carla and Francesco, at various points in a set attacked at the shins by technical issues, are forced to cover the frantic swapping of leads and desperate sound-seeking strum of the other with some hectic noise on the fly.


Pic: Carla Bozulich (Evangelista) at Café Oto in October 2009

When it works, it’s powerful stuff but, as with any Carla Bozulich performance, it is when she opens her mouth to sing that the performance really comes alive, and particularly when it is just her voice in unison with Guerri’s innovative, thorny playing. In this duo scenario, one might suggest she ditch the guitar altogether, as the best moments, and some of the more inelegant ones, happen when it is sitting untouched at the back of the stage.

Without it hanging from her neck, Carla instead trails the mic around as she weaves in and out of the crowd. One initial foray ends awkwardly as she catches an ankle on her foot monitor and falls dramatically backwards, like David Jason through an open hatch.

This does not curtail the abandon of her movement though as she continues to venture out, commandeering chairs, pirouetting like a toddling ballerina lost in a daydream or leaning her entire body weight onto the back of one chap sat in the front row whilst unleashing the full callused power of her vocal range.

When fully flaunted, it is like a feral growl contained in a rickety cage; burnt yet eager, sharing the kind of ragged timbre one might associate with the Rev. C.L. Franklin as he looms over a pulpit roaring the gospel. It is torch singing as though from the gaping mouth of a fiery apocalypse.

Whether layered over cello drone, guitar spite or just unaccompanied, Carla Bozulich as a performer and as a vocalist is arresting, spell-binding and not a little haunting.

Previously, on the Art of Noise.
27apr08: Evanglesita @ The Old Blue Last.
06jun07: Carla Bozulich @ The Spitz.

There is power in a union part 1

Micachu & The Shapes with The London Sinfonietta.
King’s Place. 01may10.

When a piece of work provokes what the cynical might call ‘the law of diminishing returns’, there is a positive spin that can equally be applied, relating to the strength of that initial impact.

For example, in the four times I watched Micachu & The Shapes in 2009, they were never so good as they were the first time around. The only exception to this rule was during the encore to that fourth show when they hooked up with tour-mates The Invisible for a collective cover of Paul McCartney’s very-80’s electro single Temporary Secretary, which was astonishing. Thanks, one assumes, to that element of surprise.

This is perhaps The Shapes’ greatest weapon in much the same way the first Fall album you come across tends to remain your favourite. However, it does put pressure on them to turnover the material, and indeed their style, at a rapid rate. Although, of course, this is no guarantee of artistic success.

Indeed, the non-album material that was aired on those later dates last year hinted at a more dirge-based direction, rather than the scratchy giddiness of great album tracks like Lips and Vulture. If I’m honest it didn’t quite seem to fit.

However, this collaboration with the London Sinfonietta, as part of the latter’s ‘Experiment’ festival, makes sense of it. Mica Levi, Shape-leader, is a classically trained musician and composer and, despite her youth, has already composed for the London Philharmonic Orchestra.

This is her 50 minute score, Chopped & Screwed, essentially a brand new set-list weaved together like the Bayeaux Tapestry; an avant-garde symphony sharing its aesthetic quality in places with both the austere and the more aggressive moments in Scott Walker’s string score for ‘The Drift’.

There are sparse moments which complement the John Cage and Christian Wolff pieces that five of the Sinfonietta had performed in the first half by way of warm-up, whilst other interludes see all the players tapping at their violins, cellos and wind instruments like amphetamine-fed woodpeckers. Reflective vocals and samples weave in and out whilst one passage is reportedly anchored on the speech patterns from slowed-down hip-hop records.

It’s never been in doubt that Mica is brimming with musical ideas, perhaps too many for a common-or-garden band making an assault on the pop charse or even just the indie/alternative consciousness. As such, so you can well see her and the Shapes (whose contribution should not being ignored, drummer Marc Pell doing a fine job of conducting the pace of the Sinfonietta players at various points) ploughing a more ambitious furrow than merely the indie toilet circuit.

Then again, you can imagine that that ambition might not necessarily manifest itself orchestrally, it could equally be a hardcore grime record, an album of ‘English folk music’ to reflect the modern shape of East London, or the pursuit of the perfect avant-pop sound.

Hopefully it won’t be any of those and Micachu & The Shapes will continue to strike out with the shock of the new.

No pigeons. Fewer holes.

Caribou.
Manchester Deaf Institute. 19apr10.

Easy comparisons do not flow as easily towards Caribou as gripping rhythms do from them, which is probably how they would want it.

When I say ‘they’, I guess one has to mean ‘he’ as Dan Snaith is as much the recorded ‘Caribou’ as a caribou is a French-Canadian’s reindeer. Not that it was always thus, as Snaith previously worked under the name Manitoba until Richard Manitoba of The Dictators sent round some geezers. Geezers with law degrees anyway. Is that a court subpoena? No, it’s just the way his trousers hang, and so on.



In the live environment, Snaith works with Ryan Smith, Brad Weber, and John Schmersal, and they create a big sound for Caribou, bigger than would be within credible reach of one man. Certainly tunes from the latest Caribou LP Swim are given a little more grit. If it sounds a little submerged on the record, it bursts through the waves like an angry whale when put in these eight capable hands.

Certainly when Snaith joins Weber for a double-drum set assault, the whole Caribou experience ratchets up a notch or two, as well as when Ryan Smith’s guitar is occasionally given license to squall.

While the pinning motifs are the warp and bubble of programmed electronics, and Snaith’s forlorn howl (the plaintive wail over Kaila’s pulsing deviations being a particularly fine example), let nobody say that Caribou have not got a captivating rock band show in them, nor that they don’t have bona-fide pop songs. Cos, they have, and they do (see Odessa, particularly).

In places you could say what they do is a kind of a cool, dry, Tefal-egg-head kinda funk, all gathered up betwixt beat friendly soundscapes, or you could say they hold their ear to a glass to a wall on the other side of which Magma-style space-prog occasionally plays.

Too much shoe-horning doesn’t do anyone any good though, so let’s just say Caribou give good live show.

Caribou @ MySpace

review also appears at Vanity Project

Ba-da-bada-da, Ba-da-bada-da...

Therapy?
Kings Cross Monto Water Rats. 30mar10.

Several have come from overseas for this. There are Czechs here, Fins, Americans; all making the effort to experience three consecutive nights of Therapy? in the tiny back-room of a London boozer, as they record a live LP.

The band appear to be hedging their bets on what’s to be on the eventual album too, with each night featuring a radically different set-list. Although the big crowd pleasers like Screamager (see below) and Nowhere are ever-present, of course.

Many here have bought into all three gigs but I gambled on the middle one, slithering tactically between the potential for both ring-rustiness and demob happiness. A further element of risk was the chance that I’d miss them playing my particular favourite tune, Innocent X as well.

Thankfully, only the Monday punters missed out on that particular treat, and treat it was. The sound of the ‘heavy-breathing-down-the-phone-line’ sample that signals it appeared as the final note of If It Kills Me dissolved, and triggered the kind of giddy physical abandon that I had thought locked away in a teenage time capsule.

I guess coming to see Therapy? again after all these years is an exercise in nostalgia, given that I’ve not bought any of their albums since 1998’s Semi Detached. However a gig at the Portsmouth Wedgewood Rooms last October reminded me just how thrilling they can be live.

Whilst it’s interesting to hear the new stuff played out, and some of it, such as Enjoy The Struggle and I Told You I Was Ill is pretty rigorous stuff, and as good as current drummer, former Cable thumper Neil Cooper, is, I’m not sure they ever recovered from the loss of Fyfe Ewing. His snare-snap, rave-beat drum style was what really made those early albums and EPs special, and on record nowadays it feels as though Therapy? are content with just being a solid 4K’s in Kerrang! rock band. There are certainly worse things to be.

Looking at the set-lists of songs chosen for recording live over the three nights would suggests though that, in their heart of hearts, core members Andy Cairns and Michael McKeegan might also feel that 1995’s Infernal Love whilst dripping in addiction to both cocaine and the sartorial combination of false moustaches and frilly shirts, was their last really good record, certainly in terms of ambition anyway.

Indeed, tonight’s stand out moments all date from the early-to-mid-90’s; the mashing of their Joy Division cover Isolation with Loose; ancient b-side Evil Elvis; the Babyteeth debut album combination of Innocent X and Skyward from 1991 and the always thrilling Teethgrinder, prefaced here by the audience being required to vocally supply the “ba-da-bada-da” kickstart riff.

There’s plenty of this audience participation littered throughout, all screaming our names at once to see if we can pick them out on the record being one, but they needn’t worry about the music hall gambits, the tunes selected are more than enough to send those of us here with eager anticipation to the record shops when the eventual live opus appears.