ALBUM REVIEW: Diamanda Galás - Guilty, Guilty Guilty

When Franklin D Roosevelt announced “we have nothing to fear but fear itself” he'd clearly never been subjected to the Warlockian annunciations of Diamanda Galás. If he had, you can bet your bottom dollar his inaugural address to the American nation would have been a helluva less optimistic affair.

Rampaging of tone and terrifying of scale, the San Diego-raised warbler has released 16 supernatural séances over the course of her 26-year-long recording career, garnering such back-handed accolades as “Lizard Queen” and “life sucking” from petrified hacks. And album number 17, Guilty Guilty Guilty, does little to readdress the zombified persona this 52 year old has revelled in since her screeching, scented-sleeved debut single ‘The Litanies of Satan’ was unleashed upon an unsuspecting music buying public back in 1982.

Abound with gothic reinterpretations of classic song writings by the likes of Edith Piaf and Ralph Stanley, this exhilarating collection of avant-garde horror-jazz furrows itself deep within the pits of churning, nauseated stomachs whilst slowly unleashing a swill of disarming sonic poison into the bloodstream. From the first predatory strike of ivory keys that jitters out from the O.V. Wright-penned ‘8 Men And 4 Women’, it’s clear this is going to be a tumultuous journey, with Galás' acidic growl dislodging comfort zones in a midden of acrobatic shrill.

To describe Galás’ astonishing rasp in mere words is, quite frankly, undoable – these are a set of lungs that demand to be heard, deserve to be explored. By mimicking the age-old ‘speaking in tongues’ technique Glossolalia – a Christian practice of reciting fluent speech in inaudible, intelligible utterances – this demonised damsel transforms jazz bar staple ‘Autumn Leaves’ into a macabre vaudevillian opus that quick-steps from slooping Simone-like blues to a writhing hellfire of burning, inconsolable heartbreak.

The obvious stand out in this aurally challenging compilation of tear-stained love songs is the overwhelming reaper-like reprise of Stanley’s ‘O Death’. Beginning with Galás’ incoherent tombstone-cut bawl, it emerges as a Waits-esque guzzle of bloodthirsty tankard swilling, ravaged by deft Dirty South keys and a harrowing underpass of pin-dropped silence that’s punctured intermittently by the occasional whoop of appreciation from a jaw-agape audience.

And it's this which makes Guilty Guilty Guilty such a remarkable feat – much of its content is recorded as live. Yet, in these times of multi-layered production, the thought of each staggering, pitch-perfect cut being concocted in just one take seems like an incomprehensible, noggin-crunching proposition. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what we should truly fear. Not fear itself but the brilliant, shrieking holler of one Diamanda Galás.

Rating: 7/10

Out now on Mute

ALBUM REVIEW: Tindersticks - The Hungry Saw

Since my first introduction to the cavernous splendour of Tindersticks - 1997's gorgeously hushed Curtains - the world has changed dramatically. Terrorism's become the athlete's foot of a globalised society, New Labour's regressed from the voice of the everyday man to a whimper which represents only the silver-spooned few, and Britney… well, let’s just say that that once-delicate seed has blossomed into a overly pollinated flower that’s slowly beginning to wilt in the Heat, or whatever shit-stirring gossip rag it is that barricades the shelves of your local newsagent.

But for all the seismic cultural shifts that have transpired over the past 11 years it's reassuring to know that two constant elements have remained intact: the Earth's still spinning on its axis despite its inhabitant's best endeavours and, the king of the sombre psalm, Stuart Staples is continuing to bellow out a stream of doom-harbouring canticles. Yet the question has to be posed: in these turbulent times of modernity, where every lovelorn troubadour gushes out matters of the heart like a wonky faucet in a rat-infested squat, is there really any place for the Nottingham-born grouch’s ensemble of tear-jerking tunesmiths?

The simple answer is yes.

Spawned in the belly of Staples’ Le Chien Chanceux studio in France, new record The Hungry Saw is an understated (what else?) return to the fore. If the hiatus since 2003’s breathtaking Waiting For The Moon - ignoring Staples’ three solo offerings, which included the trembling soul-plucking of 2006’s beautiful Leaving Song - left a black hole of sorrow lingering in your heavy heart then this, the band’s seventh long-player, will slowly reignite those empathetic fires that fizzled out after the last spellbinding notes of the album's closer, ‘Running Wild’, faded from your ear sockets.

For the freshly enticed, there really is nothing like a new Tindersticks record – of course, the irony is that there really is everything like a new Tindersticks record. Because, as long-standing devotees of the group will already know, deviations between albums are as rare as a plate of steak tartare served up in a Parisian restaurant. Sure, a greater depth of miserablism may dwell under every eagerly opened sleeve but the group’s innate aural essence always persists, i.e. lilting, nocturnal soundscapes embedded in the mire of Staples’ brooding, baritonal mumble. The Hungry Saw is no exception.

The record’s introductory offering - snappily entitled ‘Intro’ - is a crawling instrumental, deep-seated in creepy ivory keys and tepid glockenspiel bound together by bleak clouds of sadness that eventually cascade into the loungey bassline of ‘Yesterdays Tomorrows’. A guitar clanking fallow of roomy atmospherics, the track builds from Staples’ inimitable croon (bar this, obviously) into a swell of brass and flute that sets the melancholic tone for the ten introverted gems to come.

Undoubtedly a master apologist at heart, Staples is perhaps not the most willing expresser of sorrow to those he's wronged, with tracks like ‘The Other Side Of The World’ and the sumptuous ‘Mother Dear’ spent untangling the frayed knots of irredeemable loss amidst a barren backdrop of windswept strings. But this crestfallen sense of hopelessness is what makes The Hungry Saw such an engaging, endearing record. Every gloomy paean feels as though it’s been written for the sole purpose of your forgiveness, like a collection of melodic repentance in which Staples derives comfort from the knowledge that someone, somewhere will nuzzle him into the crux of their bosom and tell him everything is okay, that it wasn’t his fault.

Like many a Tindersticks offering there are few standouts amidst a steady tide of immaculately arranged and tenderly caressed compositions but so lug-pricking are the title track and ‘All The Love’ it’s difficult not to wallow in the shimmering resplendence of both via a few clicks of the Repeat button. The former is a sway of speckled country guitar and washboard percussion that exudes a terse lyrical reflection akin to the biblical mutterings of a The Boatman’s Call-era Cave, whilst the latter's pensive, drowning lament clings mercifully to the steadfast pillar of Staples’ baited breath vocal.

The one slight that could be pinned on the The Hungry Saw is that there’s very little here that couldn’t slot seamlessly into any of the group’s output over the last 16 years. But then, that’s surely not the point: this is a Tindersticks record and, much like our world orbiting the sun, it’s something that can be unequivocally relied upon to produce the goods. And thank heavens for that because (begins lighting pipe before sitting back on well-cushioned rocking chair) in this day and age there’s not much out there you can safely put your money on.

Rating: 7/10

Out now on Beggars Banquet

Album Review: Dave Cloud & The Gospel Of Pwer - Pleasure Before Business

As a performing artist whose career’s spanned over quarter of a century, Dave Cloud’s probably earned the right to the title ‘Psychedelic Shaman’. With his band The Gospel Of Power, the Nashville dwelling mainstay has consistently blurted out a tirade of deranged blues stomps since the release of 1999's seminal offering Songs I Will Always Sing and, with a debut title buried in such bold intent, it’s unsurprising to find new release Pleasure Before Business embedded once again with his unflappable penchant for acid-infused bedlam.

Owing much to the unhinged surrealism of Captain Beefheart, this assortment of originally penned numbers and screwball covers is a far less accolade-garnering affair than his ragged, reverb-friendly pillars of yore. Setting the scene with ‘You Don’t Need Sex’’s driven atomic chords, the tumultuous swirl of low-mixed guitar and scrunched drums retreats in to the kind of mangled ‘70s swamp ‘n’ roll that soundtracks ‘tales from the street’ B movies and has back-catalogue pillaging vultures like David Holmes salivating at the jowls whilst hurriedly over-coming the hurdle of copyright infringement.

Unconsciously made up of two distinct parts, side A is a linear sprawl of middling bass-rattlers that injects jaywalking Hammond organs and Cloud’s, Andre 3000-esque, drawl into the voodoo-centric, pre-coital courtships of ‘Hey (You’re Beautiful)’ and ‘Orgy’ without ever managing to fully engage the senses of the listener, so predictable and basal do they become. Side B, however, finds Cloud chartering more dishevelled territories and, with it, the album transcends as an enterprising warble of writhing over-dubs and lunatic, mouth-frothing rhythms.

Often unintelligible and seemingly directionless, tracks containing the Transylvanian horror-schlock of ‘Rock Video’ and ‘50 Dollar’’s mescaline induced drone prove a refreshing, attention-bothering antidote to the token Blues-isms of the record’s opening gambits. Riddled with primitive tribalism and a diseased sense of vengeance, Cloud’s ragged snarl besieges Resnick and Levine’s ‘Yummy Yummy Yummy’, skewing its bubblegum-popping playfulness into a jungle of rabid acoustic strums. Whilst his inane professions over Yvonne Elliman’s Bee Gees-drafted hit ‘If I Can’t Have You’ result in a curtain-closer so draped in frenzied, vociferous feedback it sets his place in the queue to the pantheon of deranged, psycho-babbling experimentalists inhabited by the likes of Zappa and Barrett.

A first half burdened by humdrum mediocrity may diminish the overall effect of Pleasure Before Business but, in the brawling strides of its finishing flourish, this ‘Psychedelic Shaman’ just about shows he has the talent to persevere for another 25 years.

Rating: 5/10

Out now on Fire Records

PREVIEW: The Kills, Liquid Rooms, Edinburgh, Tues 15th April

Call her what you will but Kate Moss sure knows how to pick ‘em. Having leeched off Monsieur Doherty’s media jamboree until it scurried away like a rozzer raided crackhouse, she’s quickly clambered onto to the cliff-edged cheekbones of The Kills’ guitarist Jamie Hince. Unsurprisingly, it’s all coincided with the release of Hince and Alison Mosshart’s third long-player Midnight Boom but, rest assured, the Anglo-American ensemble are the antithesis of Moss’ ex-beau’s gum-diseased rapscallions. A phlegm gobbing frontgal with a snarling blues rasp, Mosshart is the embodiment of late 70s DIY Punk – abrasive, antagonising, alluring – and backed by Hince’s minimalist riffs the duo make for an enthralling live proposition that leaves eardrums battered and bloodied. If reports are to be believed, the scene-fucking supermodel has been barred from blurting out her dulcet tones on unsuspecting audiences so you’ll have the added bonus of witnessing her diva-esque strops from the sidelines. Result.

PREVIEW: The Dirty Projectors, Cabaret Voltaire, Fri 25th April

Dave Longstreth is nothing if not obscure. A Yale school dropout with a history of voluptuous sonic conceptualisations, Dirty Projectors’ 2007 release, Rise Above, was a stirring reprisal of its awkward spearhead’s favourite Black Flag LP Damaged. Littered with wiggling melodies and three part harmonies, it’s challenging rhythmic twirls corroded the grey matter of hypnotised listeners and scuffled almost unnoticed into every on-the-pulse critic’s end of year hitlist. Live, the band encapsulate the record’s intricate components with remarkable ease, adding to it a depth that fingers the African spindling of Peter Gabriel and slivers across the rarely chartered canyon of avant-garde jazz. Such labyrinthical arrangements can, of course, mystify at times but so resolute is Longstreth’s dedication to his art it’s difficult not to be swept away in the sea of on stage aural mastery. Obsure? Certainly. Breathtaking? Absolutely.

INTERVIEW: Isosceles

In the overtly verbose world of modern-day music journalism there’s an adjective that rears its grubby heid time and time again. It’s a word that, according to The Oxford English Dictionary’ trusty conglomeration of morphemes, has little pertinence to the creation of melody, but amidst the music industry’s ink-smudged pages it’s an omnipresent, siren-screeching indication of a specific sound. The offending word is of course ‘Angular’. The sound? Turbo-charged Post-Punk Pop - or something.

Armed with a scattershot of chiselled guitar jerks, hyperventilating drum splutters and a name that hardly suggests horizontal linearity, it was perhaps inevitable that Glasgow quartet Isosceles would be quickly scurried in with the radian contorting ‘It’ crowd since forming at the back end of 2006. So, armed with both protractor and a dusted down Secondary School physics text, The Skinny catches up with keyboardist William Aikman to uncover whether there’s a certain *cough* degree of truth to the media’s eager-beavered pigeon-holing.

“Aye, we get a lot of comments about how our sound is ‘angular’ but it’s not an intentional thing at all,” he says despairingly. "Musically, we don’t want to be lumbered in with anything, but once it’s out there and people are writing about it it’s not up to us what they say about us anymore. We just want to get on with what we’re doing and hopefully make a bit of a success out of it if we can.”

***

***

Success is beginning to come easily to this fledgling ensemble of university chums who initially converged for a friend’s birthday party in Aberdeenshire (intriguingly entitled ‘Muckfest’). Having released their riotously infectious debut A-side Get Your Hands Off/I Go in August last year to an ambuscade of praise, the group were hand picked by, some time Guardian food critic and art-chic chieftain, Alex Kapranos to support Franz Ferdinand on an 8 gig Scottish tour. And after mingling with such indie-pop glitterati it seems Isosceles have developed a taste for the golden crusted cracknel of stardom:

“I think [playing with Franz Ferdinand] was the point where we thought ‘actually, we can do this full-time’,” William states assuredly. “It was obviously a professional operation they were running and it was our first introduction to a proper tour where it was really busy and we had professional equipment to use. So in that way we’re doing a little bit better handling the practicalities of touring and things… At the beginning we did it for a bit of fun but now we’re taking it a lot more seriously and writing songs with a lot more of a purpose.”

But as a sardine-crushed smorgasbord of Glasgow bands currently catches the eye of the nation’s salivating A&R men what is it that makes Isosceles unique? “I’m not sure if any one thing does,” says William. “Maybe we are just another Glasgow band but I think that all the Glasgow bands, certainly the ones that are fairly successful, are completely different from each other. I think the thing about it is that you have to be unique and have your own style and if you don’t the Glasgow record-buying public aren’t going to be too impressed – in this city you can’t reproduce anyone in order to succeed.”

A radiant blush of Hammond keys and jinking riffs, new single Kitch Bitch doesn’t quite fill a swag-bag with the triumphant sounds of West-Coast dwelling luminaries past but it certainly tips its head to the likes of Orange Juice, Franz and 1990s. So how are we categorising-crazed hacks going to describe the sound of Isosceles in future? Sharply drawing breath for a brief second of comedic timing, William quips knowingly: “I dunno. Angular maybe?”

First Published here

Photos by Loraine Ross

ALBUM REVIEW: Barry Adamson - Back To The Cat

Having had neither the desire nor financial capability to undertake a four-week cruise around the tropics it's difficult to envisage life aboard such an ostentatious vessel. But, aided by the picture-box glow of a few late night infomercials, I imagine it goes something along the lines of: wake up, wander around the deck in the pissing rain / scorching sun, retreat to bar, vomit, eat, endure some god awful cabaret act, vomit once more, sleep (repeat until either land is found or ship capsizes).

Such regimented ventures are almost certainly made for those whose hunger to explore has vanished from world-weary bones, replaced by the need for a satisfactory jaunt around the globe without spark or stimulation. And in many ways Barry Adamson’s eighth solo outing Back To The Cat mirrors this unchallenging nautical vacation, with the former Magazine guitarist and one-time Bad Seeds collaborator taking the helm as the ship’s late night crooner.

For someone who possesses a CV of such disagreeable industry, Adamson has created an insipid, spiritless record that’s the absolute antithesis of his past glories. Bulging with disposable jazz-stained ballads and mould-encrusted soul, the sum of these sleekly produced numbers is an inexplicable conundrum when you consider the Manchester-born conceptualist was at one time accosted by David Lynch to transfer his 1988 debut, Moss Side Story, onto the silver screen. On the basis of this lacklustre affair, it’s safe to assume his digits are now dialled by the likes of Tom Jones or – more distressingly – Mike Flowers Pop.

Full of bruising bass and smouldering, air-tight brass, opener ‘The Beaten Side Of Town’'s off-the-cuff blues initially disguises the unbearable cheese-mongering to come but once the big band swing of ‘Straight ‘Til Sunrise’ coos its way through the airwaves Adamson’s easy-listening predilection begins to unfold. Smothered by a spread of twinkling keys and saccharine trumpeteering, the track’s swooning lamp-swaying is perfectly executed but lacks the substance to indent the attention before being rejected as little more than the loungey ear-comforting exuded by Bennett or Manilow.

Admittedly, Adamson’s bleak narrative is distinctly more coarse than the cringing granny-wooing pursued by either rubber-faced cripple, but the limp, melodic sheen embedded within ‘Walk On Fire’ silky smooth nu-soul or the decrepit loin-burning of ‘Straight ‘Til Sunrise’ renders his fiery-eyed tirades obsolete. A moment of luscious tenderness resides in ‘I Could Love You’’s tear-duct inducing pleads – a precious, misery-strewn lament that owes much to Redding’s classic ‘I’ve Got Dreams To Remember’ – yet this is a mere blip, one gorgeous ray of sunshine that’s quickly consumed by ‘Civilization’’s miserable MOR-spewing rain cloud.

Album closer ‘Psycho_Sexual’ displays one final hint of menace as Adamson’s vulgar, predatory tones mingle lecherously amidst the smoky haze of trumpet, drum and organ but, having endured the Hamlet-chuffing vapidity that precedes it, this eerie finale lacks the heart-shuddering impact so clearly intended. And that’s perhaps the most mystifying element of this record; for all his banal Radio 2-aping, Barry Adamson is undoubtedly a talented composer with a penchant for voluptuous waves of sound. But once you’ve set sail with Back To The Cat make sure you find the nearest life jacket – you’ll need it a lot sooner than you think.

Rating: 4/10

Out Now on Central Control International

LIVE REVIEW: Isosceles & Meursault, Voodoo Rooms, 26 March

Four years have passed since the release of indie-disco filling gargantuan Take Me Out and ‘The Franz Ferdinand Effect’ is still percolating its way through the sounds and styles of today’s sprightly young Scots. Over this period there’s, unsurprisingly, been a number of not-so-welcome downsides to the band’s chart-seiging rise to prominence, with a glutton of rueful, fame-hungry reprobates clasping to their coat-tails with barely a modicum of tune between them [see The Fratellis or, the infinitely more despicable, The View]. But, by injecting a shot of libido-stirring energy into the fey bookism emanating from the cafes of Glasgow’s Byres Road, Alex Kapranos and co have, on the whole, spawned a shameless awaking of intelligently cut poppism in our guitar-clutching, tartan-clad hopefuls.

Of course, such overt self-awareness hasn’t affected those of a more deadpan disposition and as Edinburgh four-piece Meursault shuffle on to the Voodoo Rooms’ starlit stage tonight you get the impression Franz Ferdinand means little more to them than the name of an assassinated Austrian Archduke. Normally a dazzle of acoustic infused electronica, the group have been called in as a last-minute replacement for local upstarts Come On Gang! and, disappointingly, their set is bereft of the astral-gazing effects sprawled across debut LP Pissing On Bonfires/Kissing With Tongues. Yet, as Neil Pennycook’s miserablist tones howl out amidst a glorious cackle of ukulele and feather-plucked banjo the ensemble’s thread bare paeans lose none of their throat gulping beauty.

Riddled with a tenderised charm that cloaks Pennycook’s lyrical brutality, each stool-bound pslam is a mysterious haze of late-night contemplation that scours matters of the heart with the finest melodic tooth-comb, gutting out long-forgotten sins into an open-forum of confession that absolves itself in the audience’s forging eardrums. Of tonight’s offerings, the tumultuous strums of ’The Furnace’ is the stand out; impatiently hovering at the crossroad between the brittleness of Besnard Lakes and Cave Singers’ hollowed out chasms. But such is the depth of the band’s hard-worked industry it would be foolhearty, and somewhat blinkered, to linger on specific peaks in a mountainous range of highs and, as the jagged re-working of The Pointer Sisters’ ’I’m So Excited’ calls the curtain on this jubilant set, giddy minds begin to ponder the exquisite aural goodness a fully-functional Meursault could induce.

It's in tonight’s headliners, Isosceles, where the seeds of Franz have undoubtedly been sewn. Hand-picked by the indie-leviathans as support on the Scottish leg of last year’s UK tour, the Glaswegian quartet’s penchant for clean-heeled pop and abrasive riffs certainly bears all the hallmarks of a Mini-Me Franz awaiting the arrival of self-distinguishing chin hairs. Yet, in the avalanche of squiggling keys and quirk-driven jangles that bulges incessantly from the stage lies a sense of independence that differentiates the ensemble from the current gaggle of plagiarising, skinny-tie wearing clones currently stomping their way through the bristling underpass of the Scottish music scene.

A deranged fusion of Bis’ disco-poppery and Josef K’s jittery guitar clunking, debut [double ‘A’ side] singles ’I Go’/’Get Your Hands Off’ are unadulterated spurts of retroised, rug-cutting brilliance laden with hooks, wonky-tonk synths and gleeful handclaps. Throughout the set’s entirety frontman Jack Valentine is a hyperactive blur of activity, projecting his sweat soaked skeleton into a ream of protractor defying angles during every candy-coated freak-out, but there’s infinitely more to the group than his limelight stealing showmanship.

Tighter than the breeks of a poodle-permed 80’s rocker with a slowing metabolism, ’ISOSCELES’’ illicit wooziness jerks off to a flurry of four-pronged harmonies and vibrant Hammond all hurried along by Valentine’s sneering wordsmithery, while the cowbell-infused stomp ’This Is Where It Ends‘ recalls early Fire Engines skewed with the melodious guitar jangles of Orange Juice. Forthcoming single ’Kitch Bitch’ makes for a climatic closer - ablaze with lascivious chord quirks and a full-bodied bassline not too far from the hedonistic squirms of fellow Glaswegians Mother & The Addicts – ensuring these starry-eyed scamps leave the stage to a rapturous smattering of adulation befitting a band teetering on the brink of a breakthrough.

And in this multitude of comparisons is where Isosceles most staunchly replicate a certain Glaswegian arthouse-lounging troupe. Never the most original of acts, Franz pilfered the ear pleasing elements of their idols and stewed them into one globe-dominating beast of a record. Isosceles may not quite be the finished article but, on the basis of this performance at least, such lofty ambitions are far from unattainable.

Meursault: 8/10

Isosceles: 7/10

Photos by Loraine Ross

ALBUM REVIEW: Miwa Gemini - This Is How I Found You

I feel ashamed and somewhat perplexed for knowing nowt of New York-based multi-instrumentalist Miwa Gemini’s previous output. Her feisty mew is cut from the same cloth as the vengeance-seeking felines who so brightly illuminated my younger years; y’know, the likes of Holiday, Harvey, Simone and Cline - the ones so intent on righting the wrongs of their good-for-nothing partners they drove a repentant dagger through the testosterone-riddled bones of all heart-breaking rapscallions.

Yet here I am, immersed in the heart of Gemini’s second long-player This Is How I Found You having never once encountered the rasping lash of her sultry tongue – and what a terrifying privilege it is. Because behind the curtain of this devilish, jazz-tinted affair lies a world where no man dares tread; a bubbling cauldron of deep-seated female emotion where us fellas play the pathetic part of drunks, philanderers, scoundrels and reprobates. And with every intrepid spin of this frothing, seething record, I begin to feel like a fraudulent makeup-caked, dress-draped, balloon-bosomed charlatan certain to be uncovered then hung, drawn, quartered and fed to a ravenous pack of men-hating vixens.

Perhaps such graphic depictions do Gemini a disservice, after all no record so entrenched in bitter retribution could have been crafted this diligently without having experienced mankind's (or should that be womankind's?) propensity to love. But amidst vampish, vitriolic tracks like ‘Pieces’ and ‘Crazy Over You’ dwells a darkly attired chanteuse ridden with animosity, loathing and repulsion; the sort of girl that says: “come one step closer and that ‘thing’ you call a truncheon will amount to little more than a pitiful excuse for a coat-peg” while a flesh hungry meat-cleaver glistens menacingly in the grooves of smooth effeminate fingers. And, as her soaring vocal marauders through the stifling rape of keys and snarling riffage emitting from ‘Travelling Man’’s blues-ridden haemorrhage, you’d certainly never wish to underestimate such gruesome threats of genitalia butchery.

Of course, in possessing that canny guile of scorned maidens everywhere, Gemini can embellish her wrath with effortless poise – strewing fluttered eyes glinting with lustful sexuality across ‘Room of You’’s whispered bed-baiting or the coy suggestiveness of the cotton-soft ‘Paperwhites’ – but these tender moments cease dramatically during the intersection of ‘Angel’s Prayer’’s magnificent nocturnal witchery. Gently guided by our hostesses initially muted tones, it erupts as a barrage of exasperating gothic fury that embroils her newly-acquired ragged exertions within a cacophony of blistered drums and unrelenting guitar.

In truth, it’s a track that’s as petrifying as it is terrific and one which quite possibly explains why I’d never previously acquainted myself with Miwa Gemini's mercurial talents. But, like some lecherous, slavering dog-on-heat that embodies much of my gender’s regretless libido, I have a sneaky suspicion I’ll keep coming back for more.

Rating: 7/10

First published here

LIVE REVIEW: Long Blondes, Cabaret Voltaire, 19 March

The trouble with reinvention is that it often leads to confusion. Take the self-appointed Queen of Pop, Madonna, for instance. One minute she's a prowling, cock-hungry chanteuse, the next an electro-lit hippy-chick and now, it would seem, she's all bingo-wings and muscles, directing shit films while leeching off fellow careering connoisseur Justin Timberlake. Christ only knows what her original fanbase thinks of this latest incarnation, but I'd imagine they consume Madge's wafer-thin Optimus Prime-isms (y’know, she's a transformer…) with a kidney disease-inducing pinch of sodium chloride, if even at all these days.

Now, this may well seem like a tenuous attempt to link Mrs Guy Ritchie with The Long Blondes but anyone who's heard the Sheffield ensemble's new LP Couples has to admit there are definite parallels to be drawn in both acts' predilection for reinvention. The record is the antithesis to the chipper schmindie-punk of 2006’s debut Someone To Drive You Home and one that's sure to polarise a fanbase made up of vintage shop fashionistas and hair-straightened pretty boys as it straddles the robo-pop bandwagon currently pillaging its way through the British charts.

So when the quintet take to the stage of a sold-out Cabaret Voltaire, it’s fair to say there’s a certain amount of apprehension in the ripple of applause that greets them tonight. And as they launch into the ring-rusty goth-groove of recent single ‘Century’ there’s considerable weight behind the suggestion that reincarnation isn’t to the benefit of all. Perhaps it’s down to the aesthetic anomaly of witnessing Pride and Prejudice-dressed front-gal Kate Jackson gyrating to a futuristic blur of bass and metallic riffage, but this underwhelming intro does little to ease the concerns of an increasingly subdued audience.

Made up almost entirely of cuts from their forthcoming record, the set will no doubt have disappointed those who ventured out for a night of unabashed scruffbag sing-a-longs, but as the first-song nerves erode, Miss Jackson and her skinny-fit cohorts pull out a showing that signifies a steadfast belief in their new direction. The backseat breeze of ‘The Couples’ is first to impress, impregnating the venue with a summertime fluster of guitar janglery that eventually cascades into the basal impulse of ‘Too Clever by Half’, a track that gloriously accentuates Jackson’s wispy mew amidst the lustful nuzzle of a slow-handed nocturnal rhythm.

Having witnessed many an act stumble spectacularly when confronting the perils of change, there’s an admirable air to the way The Long Blondes sure-foot through the sugar coated confectionary of ‘I Liked The Boys’ and ‘Erin O’Connor’ without any self-questioning trepidation. Admittedly, a portion of tonight’s crowd – the ones here to be ‘scene’ - appear ill-at-ease with this new-fangled beast sprawled before them, but in the glam-stomp glow of ‘Here Comes The Serious Bit’ and ‘Guilt’’s milky-pop aloofness the heads of less-image conscious sceptics are turned, senses perked by each track’s sleek, Blondie-like reverberations.

Despite the wilful presence of these new numbers, the rapturously received arrival of angle-jerking closer 'Giddy Stratospheres' is the truest indicator of the band's standing at present: caught between wide-eyed reminiscing and the future’s un-sauntered pastures. But on the strength of tonight’s triumphant display, it’s safe to say The Long Blondes will make their move much more credibly than a certain decrepit, genre-hopping hag.

Rating: 7/10

Photos by Loraine Ross
First published here

Record Review: Thee Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra & Tra-La-La Band - 13 Blues For Thirteen Moons

Two distinct factions exist within the music reviewing fraternity: there are those quite prepared to give a record a flawless commendation and those who would never entertain such notions of perfection. I belong to the latter sect, believing that absolutely nothing merits a glittering array of 10 golden stars. Of course, it’s an entirely different proposition when dealing with a five-point scoring system – a full house tends to equate to a 9 on big brother’s more expressive scale – but, to this hack, a 10 is the equivalent of ringing the bar-room bell at the end of the night. Everyone should just give up and go home.

Thus far, nothing has persuaded me to reconsider this stance – that is until now. Because Thee Silver Mt Zion Memorial Orchestra & Tral-La-La Band’s [for the purpose of space saving, this mouthful of a moniker will be condensed to Silver Mt. Zion from here on in] 13 Blues For Thirteen Moons is, quite simply, one of the records of 2008, perhaps even the decade. Make no bones about it: this gargantuan beast of an album is the reason for those woofed-up, bass-bulging speakers sitting on your shelf. Christ, Efrim Menuck’s fifth full offering with Silver Mt. Zion may even be the reason for this and every other music site’s existence on the face of planet t’internet.

Excited yet? You really, really should be.

In keeping with the title’s theme, the record doesn’t actually begin until - surprise, surprise - track 13. Up to that point the airwaves are impeded by 12 untitled cuts consisting entirely of linear drone, ensuring baffled glances are flashed towards the CD player and those cowering neighbourhood mongrels are busy striking the record off their end of year hitlist. But this intro is mere scene setting, a build up to the enthralling, anger-driven pandemonium to come. And when it comes, by fuck does it come.

Opener ‘1,000,000 Died To Make This Sound’ begins with a harrowing vocal recital that sounds like it’s been whipped into an echoic frenzy from the bottom of a disused silo before spewing out a sludge of primal drums, savaging guitar and grating violins. Menuck’s off-kilter wails are extraordinary, shooting straight through this wild symphonic storm with untameable ferocity as he yelps “your band, your band is bland, your band is bland ambition” with pious intent. It's a statement that leaves no doubt; other acts are merely unseasoned, unpalatable aperitifs when compared against the fired up, char-grilled flavours of this Canadian banquet.

Production-wise there’s a feel of Liars’ Drum’s Not Dead to the blueprint of 13 Blues… but, whereas Andrew Angus’ mob of miscreants often descended into vicious swamps of uncoordinated feedback, the pairing of Howard Bilerman (former Arcade Fire sticksman) and Radwan Moumneh (the band’s live soundman) have engineered a more purposeful and coherent direction. By allowing the record to ascend as sharp slitting shots of instrumental chaos before retreating into barren atmospheric chasms, they’ve created a bubbling volcano of sound that leaves little clue as to when the next scorching eruption of molten post-rock will besiege eardrums.

And in this lies the most enthralling aspect of 13 Blues… - the anticipation, the not knowing. Previous LPs like Horses In The Sky or He Has Left Us Alone... were at times bleak, barren deserts in which rumbling storms of sound could be heard building long before erupting in the eardrums. But 13 Blues… is a flash flood, an album that saturates the senses with a surge of acerbic, sledge-hammering riffs and drenching orchestration, leaving minds dumfounded and completely uncoordinated in the belly of this titanic aural siege.

The title track is exactly how the apocalypse should sound: a 16-minute shock of chaotic drumming and screaming vocals that explodes with venomous guitar tussles before subsiding into pleading reverb that’s finally dismissed by a swathe of unrelenting instrumentation. Less rabid pace-wise but equally as terrifying, ‘Black Waters Blowed/Engine Broke’ builds slowly into a peak of sniggering strings and discordant percussion until eventually relenting as an ale-swigging tankard that ends with Menuck howling, “We’re building trainwrecks in the setting sun”. He sounds like a rabid-eyed wolf pining to the moon.

Then, suddenly, all is calm. Album-closing opus ‘Blindblinblind leads you serenely to the afterlife, glowing with twinkling cello-plucks and enchanting, dew-soaked harmonies. Displaying all the hallmarks of a desolate punk masterpiece, the track finds Menuck’s pleading crows tinged with the teary eyed edge of Joe Strummer at his most reflective. Utterly magnificent to the point of astonishment, it’s an enveloping finale to an album that stretches beyond emotional boundaries and embeds itself within walls of the heart.

So here’s the stickler: 13 Blues… scores 10 in almost every sense, but to award such an accolade would imply this is a record never to be bettered. And, with a group of musicians as precociously talented as Efrim Menuck and his divine orchestra, it would take a brave man to make such a bold statement.

Rating: 9/10

First published here

LIVE REVIEW: Supergrass, 14 Mar, Liquid Rooms

Ah Britpop... how we rejoiced in its Loaded-reading, binge-drinking, coke-snorting, tracksuit-wearing, mockney knees-up aping, Kensit-fucking culturalism. And, while we're reminiscing, let’s not fail to mention the bands who flew the flag of Blighty so proudly around the globe for her majesty. Who could possibly forget the ear-pleasing pleasures of Echobelly, Sleeper, Menswear, Northern Uproar, Cast and Kula Shaker? With such a smattering of razor-sharp, life-affirming acts on offer it's nae wonder the Union Jack-draped genre was the apple of New Labour’s twinkling eye.

In hindsight, it was all a bit gash wasn’t it? But the era did have a few redeeming qualities, a number of joyous nuggets with which memory cells could erase the cack that accompanied them in order to accentuate only the positives. And there were none more celebrated than spunk-bubbling rapscallions Supergrass – a band whose debut I Should Coco was so awash with contagious post-pubescent pop it single-handedly spawned a generation of bum-fluffed sideboard bearers who were young, free and ever-so sparkly of tooth.

Fast forward 13 years and the ‘Grass are five albums down with another on the way, and as the Liquid Rooms fills to the brim there’s the distinct sense of feel-good revivalism in the air tonight. Judging by the booze-swollen bellies, much of the crowd have seen it, done it and bought the Knebworth T-shirts but, refreshingly, the wide-eyed gleam of adolescence still lurks down front, reminding those with sceptical minds that Gaz, Danny and Mick (the original line-up, joined here by Gaz’s two siblings Charly and Rob) still represent a draw for today’s scampish hipsters.

Hurling into the sleazy Zeppelin-esque sludge-fest of recent single ‘Diamond Hoo Ha Man’, the quintet kick off with an intent that suggests the cheeky-chappy charm of old is long gone, replaced by adulthood's stern focus - and it’s undoubtedly to their detriment. Despite the intensity of it’s motorway surging riffage, the track feels like a foray into the mill-running pastures of 'has been'-ism and with the proceeding run of well-executed - but ultimately dreary – blues-soaked newbies biting the dust without a trace of enjoyment on either side of the stage it seems the end could soon be nigh for the Oxford born ensemble.

But over the years Supergrass have continually proven to be stellar storm-weatherers and with the thinner-thatched but still cherubically cheeked Gaz Coombes at the helm there’s always gonna be the chance of a defeat-sparing renaissance. And once free-spirited, organ-sliding jaunt ‘Brecon Beacons’ sprints from the blocks those lovable, tail-wagging pups of the ‘90s suddenly re-emerge. The tombstone frowns and static stances are immediately replaced with monkey-toothed grins and a sprightly skip that punctures through the wriggling floor-cutting of ‘Moving’ and ‘Sun Hits The Sky’ before honking a big fuck me we’re still good horn with the inanely infectious set finale ‘Pumping On Your Stereo’.

Whipped into a frenzy by each break-neck dash of good-time indie-poppery, a rejuvenated crowd holler for their idols’ stage-side return and – worryingly – the last-gasp huzzah of ‘Alright’. Thankfully, the band think better of it and although two-thirds of the encore incites little more than a sea of tolerant head-nodding the closing candy-hearted rumpus ‘Caught By The Fuzz’ provides one last demonstration of just how intoxicating a live act Supergrass can be.

Britpop’s sun may have set long ago but there were times tonight where a wee part of you wished it never had.

Rating: 6/10

First published here

ALBUM REVIEW: Lost Harbour - Dead Fires & The Lonely Spark

You’ve got to hand it to Last Harbour, they’re not ones to be shoved around by the oppressive weight of modernity. Previous efforts from the Manchester-based ensemble have been shrouded in a dark mist of nocturnal austerity that bears no resemblance to the effects-impaired production of today’s musical landscape. And in the release of third long-player Dead Fires & The Lonely Spark, the septet’s maudlin orchestration and eerie soul-searching shows little sign of succumbing to the shackles of progress.

Recorded in analogue under the watchful gaze of one-time Spacemen 3 collaborator Richard Formby, this brooding, air-tight affair is as mournful as the opaque title suggests and just as difficult to revel in. The antiquated assembly should underscore the band’s gloomy atmospherics but when excavating this nine-track chamber of retrospection it becomes increasingly apparent that, for all the romanticised idealism, the execution is too often stunted and underwhelming; like the snarl of a rabid, blood-hungry hound skewed into a whimper by the duteous restraints of both muzzle and leash.

The band's coagulation of earthy instrumentation and brusque gothic lyricism bridges the gap between Nick Cave’s biblically driven parables and the more inertia-fraught lounging of The Tindersticks - however the results rarely scale beyond the treetops of either’s towering peaks. Frontman Kevin Craig’s baritonal pleas equip ‘No-One Ever Said’ and ‘Broken Nails’ with a menacing sense of engagement, etched in betrayal and distrust, yet rather than dramatising his sullen strains with a discordant melodic assault the linear wreaths of string, strum and percussion fail to entwine as one, appearing disjointed and aimless in direction.

But once Dead Fires & The Lonely Spark unlocks from such shackles, it unearths a bewitching panorama of dawn-rising rhythms drenched in melancholy. Tracks like ‘The Revenger’s Waltz’ and ‘Science Song’ are gargantuan, bombastic throbs that leave temples reeling in a gruesome storm of vehement symbol crashes, while ‘The Accident’'s intrepid juxtaposition of swooping violins and weeping keys escalates as an exhilarating crescendo in which Craig recites his lung-busting proclamations with the velocity of a devout street-preacher.

When strewn across ‘Out Back’’s playful banjo plucks, Gina Murphy’s sultry purr provides a welcome interlude to the record’s macabre complexion, but not even her wilful mew can resuscitate ‘The Further Field’’s stone-dead dreariness. A sombrely lit psalm that stagnates in a pool of slumping keys and muffled drumming, it epitomises a record bristling with promise but lacking the consistency to truly invigorate. They may not respond well to the forceful advances of progress but unless the world starts to regress you get the impression Last Harbour will finally have to embrace the modern age.

Rating: 6/10

Out now on Little Red Rabbit

Record Review: The King Blues - Under The Fog

Back in 1970 when Edwin Starr bellowed out ‘War (What Is It Good For?)’ it’s unlikely to have rendered the response: “protest songs”. But now, in the midst of 2008, that’s exactly what we’ve got. From Bobby Gillespie to Chris Martin, George Michael to Ian Brown, it seems modern day rock ‘n’ rollers can’t be considered true, iconic figureheads unless at least one ditty denouncing governmental spawned combat is found lurking within a back catalogue that contains tracks that pine over loves lost or celebrate the virtues of a cheeky gram on an inebriated night out.

So, is this politicised soap-box standing on the part of our lovable pop-rogues and roguettes a good thing? Who can really say? There are those who believe it’s the duty of today’s entertainers to enlighten the yoof on societal misgivings, but there’s an argument to suggest pop and politics should never, ever mix. (Remember this abominable attempt by Pink?) But in today’s marketing orientated climes, where a rub of green on an industry fat-cat’s sweaty palms goes a long, long way, there’s little doubting the smattering of publicity derived from straddling the pedestal of war doesn’t harm an artist's chances of success.

Of course it’s easy to be cynical and over the decades numerous acts have swathed the sword of melody-riddled activism without having to answer to claims of co-option or band-wagon jumping. And ready to join this cluster of politicised tune-smugglers are Hackney-born reggae punks The King Blues with the release of their debut long-player Under The Fog – a record that pleads for its melodic substance to be heard just as intensely as it lobbyist protestations.

Pious supporters of both the anti-capitalism and anti-racism movements, the trio’s intentions are immediately apparent, with snippets of pre-Iraq War news broadcasts pasted across the copious bass and flustered strums of the album's introductory offering. From here, Under The Fog emerges as a furious, rootsy ska-punk celebration that tips its hat to Billy Bragg’s grass-roots cultural diatribes whilst paying heed to The Clash’s muted moment’s of inner-city reflection and Gogol Bordello’s frantic hurry of instrumental uprising.

Unsurprisingly, rebellion is never far from the heart of every full-blooded cut, with the likes of 'Blood On My Hands' and 'We Ain’t Never Done' shuffling devotedly to an organic rhythm contrived by bristled percussion and folksy guitar while frontman Jonny Fox’s embittered crow promises “resistance” and impending “revolution" so urgently you begin to believe him – well, almost. See, there’s a distinct whiff of the Jamie Ts to the record’s reggae-bridling spirit; y’know the kind of Rastaman masquerading that made Panic Prevention so impossible to take seriously. And that’s the underlying issue with Under The Fog, tracks like the dub-wielding ‘Come Fi Di Youth’ and equally groove-laden ‘The Sound Of Revolt want, nay demand, completely unsalted consumption. Yet, it's a bitch of a task to pull off.

For all their change-pushing convictions, The King Blues lack the impact to affect an audience with the ease their idols once could. Whereas Strummer or Bragg had the gusto to impale their idealism upon a culture salivating for change, Fox is preaching to a nation with an attention span barely capable of enduring a five minute news bulletin without reaching for the remote control. So when he ironically bemoans lost weapons of mass destruction (‘Duck And Cover’) or ridicules power hungry executives (’Chimp In A 3 Piece Suit’) his impact is minimal; merely an un-insisting, un-provocative vocal that accompanies a set of virulent, contagious melodies.

And that’s a real shame, because beneath the faux-reggae surface of Under The Fog lies a record of intelligence and craft that shits all over the nonplussed atrocities belted out by far less culturally conscious luminaries. The luscious gleam of last single ‘Mr Music Man’ and ‘Taking Over’’s misty-eyed stroll are so blushed with sunshine jangling they could inject the feel-good frolicking of summer into even the most granite of hearts. The politics are, of course, still heavily embedded within the lyrical content of each but when ‘Getting Out Of Here’ chaperones you to the album’s exit it bestows such a simplistic sense of self-worth and pride upon your listening lugs it matters not where your leanings lie - it's just good, spirit-lifting music that has the power to bind the divided with it’s ebullient charm.

War may be good for absolutely nothing but it’s relieving to know it can still spur acts as passionate and willing as The King Blues.

Rating: 7/10
Out Now on Island
First published here

Live Review: The Presets, Damn Shames, Cab Vol, 13 Mar

With an end-of-gig injury list that catalogues freshly battered temples, pummelled ear-drums and frazzled nerve-ends, DiS slowly trundles up the stairwell of Cabaret Voltaire a quivering, defeated wreck. This was the kind of night where the resistance of snazzy lug-plugs would prove futile, where not even a barrel of booze could numb the din emitting from the rattling bass-bin of a venue. The only escape from this furious blizzard of sound was to dance. Like a motherfucker.

But it was never meant to be this way. Three hours earlier, this bleary-eyed scribe begrudgingly broke free from the TV to catch Aussie electro-mongrels The Presets on another rancid, rain-pishing night in Auld Reekie. In all honesty this wasn't my first choice, I was quite content to witness a certain Russian oligarch's play-thing being humped by the pass and move might of Barnsley, but photographers can be persuasive blighters and, well, sometimes you have to compromise in this word writing lark.

The initial signs were far from promising. Having dislodged myself from the bar and found my way to the pit's sparse confines, local miscreants Damn Shames ambled onstage armed with their gusty brand of glitch, rattle ‘n’ roll. A splurge of ankle-twisting guitars and incoherent vocals, the hoodie-clad trio are the sound of gutter-lurking post-punk preened and spruced into a tightly bound package that wails “pick me” in the direction of whichever gak-snorting talent spotter will listen.

There’s nothing particularly irksome about their rat-a-tat air-cutting - in-fact ‘Dancing In The Isles’’ cranky angled machine-gunnery borders on the exhilarating - yet as one jerking riff whip-cracks its way into another it’s hard to shake the notion that Damn Shames are nowt more than watered-down Foals plagiarists. That’s not to say they’re the Math Rock/Puzzle Pop/whatever the fuck you call it equivalent of The Paddingtons or, god forbid, The Others but until they convert their banal consistency into an epileptic shock of something half-way interesting they’re unlikely to emerge from the coat-tails of their more lavishly gifted contemporaries.

- - -


- - -

Luckily, headliners The Presets are an altogether more engaging proposition and don’t tonight’s turbo-charged crowd know it. The sprawl of wiggling arse-cracks that greets Julian Hamilton and Kim Moyes’s arrival makes a raspberry blowing mockery of the preconceived (and often correct) notion that The Capital’s gig-goers are a disinterested bunch of arm-crossing, head-nodding laggards. And in eight years of dwelling within the city’s cobbled pathways and Medieval tenements it's difficult to remember a gig as boisterously received as this.

Of course, much of this jubilancy revolves around the intoxicating rampage of sleaze-driven electronica exuding from stage (although, judging by the queue to the gents, less virginal vices may have been at work) and as every juddering beat pounds relentlessly from a fit-to-burst PA the unruly euphoria escalates notch by notch, spiralling into a riotous, discordant apex during the cranium-crunching stomp ‘Are You The One’.

On record the duo are a sporadic, and often drudging, assortment of bleeps and beats that lacks the consistency of kindred – more globally revered - spirits such as Justice and LCD Soundsystem but live, well, they’re relentless, snarling, sexy, fuckable. The pulsating drums and grinding, stuttered synths of ‘My People’ inject their way through the blood stream like a python eager to infiltrate inhibitions with a disarming aural venom, leaving the lascivious throb of ‘Down Down Down’ free to ravage the limp carcasses left behind. Even the newer, unknown, numbers have the crowd enraptured, with sharp bursts of electronica scatter-shot across layers of robotic, endorphin releasing melodies all terrifyingly met by Hamilton’s vocoderised snarl.

A wild-eyed flail of hyperactivity, the frontman is the undoubted focal point – so uncontrollably rampant is his skeleton it’s as if he’s been possessed by the barbaric aural concoctions writhing from above - but it’s the infinitely shier Moyes’ who steals the limelight during the punked-up freak-out of closer ‘I Go Hard, I Go Home’. Oscillating through the venue like a seething, enraged tornado, his savage skin-pummelling cocoons every shape-shifting limb within an unavoidable vortex of pounding, demonoid techno that brings this sonic siege to a deafening finale.

Having barely managed to reach the summit of the seemingly endless staircase that leads to the exit, this exhausted DiSser makes his way home via the piss-reeking safe-haven of the Number 31. Head-a-thumping and ears-a-ringing, something tells me the ramifications of tonight’s staggering set will be long-lived in the haggard bones of its survivors.

Damn Shames: 5/10

The Presets: 9/10

Photos: Loraine Ross

Oringinally Published here