Spins & Needles: Whinging like fuckety...

Hello and Happy New Year! As you may, or may not, have noticed Spins & Needles has undergone a bit on an aesthetic upgrade since the arrival of 2009. This aint part of no new year's resolution I'd like to point out, I just thought I'd try and instil a bit of life back into my writing as well as this here site. It’s been a hectic and tumultuous six months that’s involved getting married, dealing with the UK Embassy, getting a new flat and trying to feed two mouths on the measly wage of a single Edinburgh financial sector job – so apologies for not updating as much as I did before, I've been a little tied up.

I’ve also been pondering exactly where I’m going with this writing milarkey. I once thought of it as a possible career; y’know, I’d be a kind of Lester Bangs of the Central Belt or something equally as ridiculous. But REAL music journalism is dead. Kaput. The blogosphere has seen to that. I quote from an interview I did last week with Ben Curtis of School Of Seven Bells: “Music journalists would write something and that was the definitive word but now any kid in any country can write to a blog and say whatever they want. And this is just some kid who hates his life... it’s such a delicate situation”. (full interview soon to come...)

Sadly, never has a truer word been said. It’s all blaggers who wanna find the next scene; vocabulary-bereft fucktards who’d gladly suck Billy Sloan’s cock to progress; and joy riding dirtbags all about the swag of free Big-boy band gig tickets but none about frequenting a scuzzy dive to dish out a few constructive sentences on some up coming local scamps. Man, I sound cynical. Fuck, lets face it: I AM cynical. But that’s what a new found sense of perspective brings. I’ve never done this for the money – which is pretty fucking fortunate – but sometimes, just sometimes, the lack of imbursement for all those hours stashed away in a stinking, airless cauldron of a room grates like the rubbing of a thistle to the scrotum.

So where now?

Well, that’s what I’ve been asking myself.Perhaps it’s time to branch out; move on to pastures new? A fucking degree in journalism wasn’t attained by effusing over some jumped up, ratfaced cunt attempting to master the intricacies of playing six different chords in succession. Admittedly, it wasn’t gained by reading Su’s trash mags either but, hey, a boy can have some vices, right? Anyway, this year Spins & Needles may take on a bit of a different guise. Sure, expect the usual plenitude of overly-verbose reviews and interviews but nestling in between these mainstays may be a scattering cultural observations, a shower of incoherent rants (as this one has so become) and, yes, a rainbow of witty asides.

Oh...and from now on there will be no more scoring. You want to know how I feel about an album? Read the words. Scoring was so 2008.

RECORD REVIEW: Antony & The Johnsons - The Crying Light

It feels like aeons since Antony & The Johnsons' majestic I Am A Bird Now snatched the Mercury Prize. In reality, only four years have elapsed since that fateful eve but group lynchpin and New York-dwelling cooer Antony Hegarty - sans dabbling with euphoric disco ensemble Hercules And Love Affair - has been as reticent as the record’s coy melodies.

Finally returning with The Crying Light, Hegarty remains ill-at-ease with the limelight’s blinding gaze; fortunately, he’s retained a penchant for jaw-gaping compositions. His unmistakeably enunciated chords soar across every ivory-keyed arrangement like a sea bird migrating to the heavens. Subtly nuanced numbers like One Dove and Daylight & The Sun are still riddled with the inherent complexities of an outsider looking in but furrowed beneath is an optimism that stirs hope into the heart-melting vignettes. It may have taken an age but, here, Antony proves he was well worth waiting on.

Record Review: Animal Collective - Merriweather Post Pavilion

After a six-month long fanfare of blog-whetting hyperbole and disingenuous half-truths, Merriweather Post Pavilion [MPP] has finally – FINALLY - landed. So what’s to be made of Animal Collective long-player number nine? Well, iris-crossing cover art aside (It's nae moving, but it fucking is), it's exactly what you'd expect from these perennial, Baltimore-born boundary pushers: A micro-cosmic conflate of wobbling electronics snared by harpsichordal Wilson-stitched harmonies and skeletal folk ricochets.

But far from an extension of 2007's much-lauded Strawberry Jam, MPP seems more attuned to the cloud-bursting dreamscapes of Panda Bear's majestic Person Pitch. The shimmering, cherryade sonics imbued within on-the-spot jogger Brother Sport and the equally frantic My Girls may not mark a Tardis-like rejuvenation in either scope or scale but they're unavoidably Animal Collective and, with that, they're undeniably mesmerising.

A wealth of ethereal, space-aged cuts peppers the inner core of this openly exploratory affair. Summertime Clothes' slew of key and chorus spiral giddily into the cosmos before crossing more intricate constellations in Daily Routine's mesh of rhythmic synth-bending; and such star-twinkling pathways continue to be hopped, skipped and pirouetted throughout the record's remaining numbers.

So far, so Animal Collective.

Yet, MPP displays a side that’s long been embellished under layers of gauzy instrumentation and muffled, tin-pot vocals: a cohesive, linear narrative that reeks of affection. Bluish, a hopeless, habitual love song that’s engrossed in childish desire, is the kind of tear-duct moistening lament that's oceanic in melodic depth, while No More Runnin’ and Taste are textured in such creamy, heart-cooing splendour it feels almost intrusive to wade through their deeply welled, emotional mires.

For those requiring the less expressive edifices of yore, a familiar sense of derangement eventually emerges in the Lion In A Coma’s pulsing tribal fizz. But even in this chasm of android chimes and scattershot percussion, wary lugholes retain a periscope-like tautness in anticipation of the soul-plucking ambuscade destined to follow. But, like the teasing chanteuse of an album MPP is, it never comes.

See, such playful, esoteric card-shuffling is what renders this record - and, ultimately, this group - a truly unique proposition. A rich, multi-layered amalgamation of the band's past, MPP captures the cascading feints of their less-celebrated roots and cloys them together with Strawberry Jam's pyrotechnic showers, producing an instantaneous and exhilarating imprint of Animal Collective in the here and now.

God only knows where they go from here.

First published here

The Skinny's Ones To Watch in 2009

Last year our scribes foretold glories for the likes of Frightened Rabbit, Yeasayer, MGMT and the now omnipresent Noah & The Whale and, by Jaga's beard, were we right. But, rather than patting ourselves on the back for a job well done, we’ve come up with another batch of acts upon whom we’ll put our house. So, infused with more buzz than a crack addict in a beehive, these are ten of our ones to watch in 2009...

Crystal Antlers are more than a wee bit special. The Californian quintet’s debut EP is a cranium-compressing bruiser: skewering brutal guitars with whip-cracking drum thunderstorms to create a cacophonous frenzy of amp-blowing sound. As ravaging as this will no doubt be to hair-flicking indie hipsters, droplets of prog and classic rock can be found slithering between the sheets of every rambunctious number. And that's what makes Crystal Antlers such a pant-pissing proposition: by having one foot in what was proven righteous in the past they're about to catapult straight into the future.

Exalting colourful yarns of banana slugs and dinosaurs with seagulls’ wings, High Places' lyrical content bears more than passing resemblance to a Roald Dahl novel. But underneath the Brooklyn duo's quirky, childish disposition lies an ocean-sized penchant for lucid melodies, woven into a tapestry of highly strung calypso and jovial, swooshing synths. The sublime collection of EPs 03/07 – 09/07 first brought the pair to the Skinny's attention and the release of their luscious debut LP coupled with a hectic continent-hopping touring schedule will have this phosphorescent ensemble bending its way into your imagination soon.

Joe Gideon and the Shark are the kind of band your mother warned you about. With scuzzed-up guitars leering over nihilistic pummels of drum, theirs is the sound of writhing rustic blues. To call this 'electrifying' would do little to convey the surging energy created by this London based brother-sister duo whose debut longplayer is set to embed itself within the nation’s ear-sockets early this year. Think the Archie Bronson Outfit muzzled by Mark E Smith’s flaming growl: there’s absolutely no doubt about it – you need Joe Gideon and the Shark in your life this year.

Math Rock may have slipped from the pickled brainboxes of de rigueur-happy aficionados but Maps and Atlases are far from Foals-mimicking rehashonistas. Nestling between the algorhythmic rush of Cap’N Jazz and Battles' more inclusive moments, this fresh-faced Chicago quartet have already whetted palates with a brace of mindblowing EPs in Trees, Swallows, Houses and 2008’s melodically serrated You & Me & The Mountain. Armed to the gnashers with barraging, algebraic percussion and spasmodic guitar taps, 2009 should finally be the year this band not only pins itself on your map but the whole damn globe.

2008 saw Edinburgh’s musical subculture rise with a boldness not seen since the halcyon days of Josef K and the Fire Engines. And sitting proudly atop Auld Reekie’s perch of creativity is the alchemistic sonics of local quartet Meursault. A schizophrenic ogre of heart-pounding acoustic folk and shuddering synth, the ensemble’s debut longplayer Pissing On Bonfires/Kissing With Tongues – our album of the month last December – plundered lugholes with vehement surges of electronica before soothing the mind with lilting strums and frontman Neil Pennycook’s reassuring crow. Already a favourite amongst the central belt’s more tuned-in dilettantes, Meursault look set to venture out onto more luscious pastures over the next 12 months.

In almost every sense Over The Wall are a typical Glasgow band. The duo of Ben Hillman And Gav Prentice makes charming, minutiae-detailing paeans that bleed twee pop sensibility while stoking the fires of transient electronica. Really, the only noticeable difference between this pair of west coast wannabes and many of their hometown adversaries is this: they’re good. Very fucking good. Without pretence or sneer, the captivating ensemble have built up a devoted following on the back of ditties like the impeccable Thurso and equally elegiac A Grand Defeat. Having recently made a successful play for the nation’s airwaves, these lads should this year prove just how untypical a 'Glasgow band' they can be.

Passion Pit ain’t exactly a band for all seasons. Toploaded with handclaps and synths, the Massachusetts-based quintet’s debut EP Chunk Of Change was built with one thing in mind: sunshine – and plenty of it. A firm sense of Hot Chip’s retro-tronica resonates throughout their gush-heavy reveries but below this floor-filling core is the good time pop sensibility of Phoenix and The Sleepy Jackson. Despite having only a handful of gigs under their belts, the group’s disco melodics and cuddling hooks have already wormholed their way through the blogosphere and with Frenchkiss Records spurring them on, this lot will bedazzle you with sunshine long before the summer does.

The hushed reverence of Rob St John is a sound to behold. The Edinburgh based troubadour’s cerebral tones and stupefying sense of atmosphere is always breathtaking, and at best the purpose of adjoining strum and voice as one. Tingling neck-hairs with his slow-handed brilliance, St John’s knack for a tune is similar to local luminary James Yorkston, but there’s enough autumnal despair in his finger-plucked trinkets to suggest Messrs Drake and Buckley have had a hand in developing his wispy, evocative laments. Either way, Rob St John’s a remarkable, uncut diamond soon to be dug up.

A rip-roaring stomp of indie-pop, Sky Larkin teetered on the brink of a crossover last year. With more gazump than Los Campesinos! and less whine than Johnny Foreigner, the Leeds-born trio seem perfectly poised to make that final step when their debut long-player is released through Wichita in the coming months. With hooks aplenty and the bolshie tones of Katie Harkin at the helm the group’s live shows have become a must-see spectacle of raucous, virulent energy, and if they can muster up a record half as exhilarating then the world is theirs for the taking.

Blessed with the most inspired moniker since Lesbian Dopeheads On Mopeds, We Were Promised Jetpacks have established themselves as firm favourites in these quarters. Now signed to the mighty Fat Cat Records via a nudge and a wink from Glasgow brethren Frightened Rabbit, the four piece wear the badge of Franz inspired indie-pop-pickery with brazen aplomb. Bulging with infectious riffage that rushes into you like a two minute knee-trembler round the back of the bikesheds, WWPJ have both the cheek and charm to launch beyond the stars in 2009.

First published here

TLOBF's Alternative Xmas Crackers

With Crimbo merely a couple of days away, we here at TLOBF Towers have been decking the halls with boughs of holly and roasting chestnuts on a health and safety-snubbing open fire. Of course, no Xmas festivities would be complete without a few tinsel-tingling ditties and, with auditory nerves quivering at the prospect of Sir Cliff and Noddy once again percolating ear canals, we’ve lovingly compiled an alternative list of Yuletide cuts so sharp they’d scythe through the toughest of turkeys. Seriously, with presents like this, who needs an iPhone under the tree? Oh…

Sufjan Stevens – “Put the Lights On the Tree”
Aye , it’s predictable but there’s nae doubting Sufjan’s ability to coax out the inner child of Christmases past. Eliciting goose-pimpled skin with a sledge ride of chime and key, the video is a gobsmacking festive ditty that recalls Crimbo morning cartoons whilst eagerly awaiting the unwrapping of presents.

Low – “Just Like Christmas”
Forget Wham’s “Last Christmas” – Low’s brilliant sleigh-bell symphony is the perfect hand-clasping saunter for Christmassy couples. Built around beatific, lip-pursed harmonies, this gooey-hearted lament is brimming with the kind of soulful tidings Phil Spector once brought to the Christmas table.

The Bicycles – “It’s a Magic Christmas”
Abounding with the antsy anticipation of a Crimbo morn, this all-too-brief instrumental exudes festive cheer with every twinkle-toed note. On top of that, the video’s unifying undertones should make us all step back and think about what’s really important this Christmas – yep, that’s right. Guitar Hero: World Tour.

The Wave Pictures – “I Love You Like Like a Madman”
Instrumentally, there’s nowt particularly festive about the London trio’s jangling swoop of guitar and brass. But amidst this tale of awkward family get-togethers, gluttonous overeating and heart-wrenching solitude is a Christmas message everyone can relate to: get pissed, dance and proclaim your unyielding devotion to those you love the most.

Billy Idol – “Jingle Bell Rock”
Words can shed little light on the motivation behind the ex-Generation X frontman’s strangely compulsive abomination of a Christmas classic, so it’s best to just sit back, watch the video and be dumbfounded. Remember, kids, this man was once a punk pioneer.

Malcolm Middleton – “We’re All Going To Die”
After Mr Idol’s plastic-faced shenanigans, Malcy’s overbearing miserablism is a welcome relief. The curmudgeon Scot’s icy blast of winter doomsaying may not be a breezy festive frolic but, let’s face it, the ginger-topped big man makes a cracking Santa Claus.

The Killers – “Don’t Shoot Me Santa”
Typical of the Killers with its self-effacing verses and life-affirming chorus, this major-key opus sees the Vegas-born quartet making good use of their power-ballad predilections. In all honesty, such overindulgence could only ever be forgiven at Christmas. Hey, at least it’s not the Darkness.

The Raveonettes – “The Christmas Song”
Shoegazing and Christmas may not seem like the perfect match – unless it’s a brand-new pair of Jimmy Choos under the tree – but the Raveonettes have somehow created a remarkable hybrid of the two. Brooding with sanguine percussion, the sighing vocal and twitching fret taps transform into a chasmal winterland hymn that’s as luscious as it is haunting.

Ramones – “Merry Christmas (I Don’t Want Wanna Fight Tonight)”
A primitive blast of rampant punk-pop, this is Ramones at their finest: throttling, barbaric and gushing with puppy love. Accompanied by a video that will resonate with many a couple at this time of year, “Merry Christmas” is one of the truly great Xmas songs.

Reuben – “Christmas Is Awesome”
Awful Christmas jumpers? Check. Miniature instruments? Check. Carol-singing children? Fuck , yeah. Reuben’s apoplectic stab at festive cheer may not be a melodious splurge of singalong glee but, as riotously infectious rock throbs go, it shits horseradish sauce on allcomers with just one line: “We’re sorry about all of that ‘nailed to a cross’ business”. Sheer genius.

Now you’ve seen our favourite Xmas videos, we want to know yours. Why not leave your fellow readers a little something under the tree and drop us a [legal] link below. After all, it’s the giving – not the receiving – that matters…

ALBUM REVIEW: Blackmarket - The Elephant In The Room

Let’s get this out before laser strikes disc: I already dislike Blackmarket. But please don’t assume this is a deep-seated vendetta against an up-coming band, oh no, my disdain’s evolved from a much more honourable predisposition: I can’t stand mainstream chasing Emo ‘Rawk’. In fact, I hate it. From the VapoRub snubbing nasal wails to the vapid chug-chug-chug of guitar, every element of this chart-humping genre sears into me like a ravenous electro-current intent on lobotomising my chin-stroking spirit.

Harsh? I doubt it.

See, if the prospect of enduring Fall Out Boy, Bullet for My Valentine or Plain White Ts for any prolonged period of time doesn’t tauten your neck hairs with a conflate of anxiety and revulsion I’ll, well, I’ll just not believe you. Because it’s impossible to truly enjoy these bands; impossible to etch even a modicum of empathy for their overly preened, baseball cap wearing, Ashley Simpson-wooing Rock-Pop jizz; impossible to feel anything but vehement opposition to a sound that clogs up the airwaves like a Big Mac does arteries. I don’t care how many pseudo goth-kids wail about its meaning, the music’s just just shite. End of.

With rant firmly over, it’s time to get on with the review. So, let the disc spin and the laser burn…

Crass, thrusting and absolutely abhorrent; The Arizona trio’s debut LP The Elephant In The Room stitches together a patchwork of insipidly contrived teeny-Rock that constitutes the very fabric of this scribe’s aural chagrin. The shuddering crossfire of guitar that strikes a light under opening number ‘Magic Tricks’ shoots down any hope of resuscitating my already flagging affections as it shamelessly flaunts a grating dog-whine of a chorus that masquerades like an eyeliner-clad Plug In Baby. Which it’s not. Not even close.

In all honesty, to describe these twelve tracks as silence filling tripe would do a considerable injustice to the blissful sound of absolutely nothing. A prime example of this creative abyss is the laboriously entitled ‘Alibi Can’t Give Me A Place To Go’: a bloated spectrum of drum and riff that becomes so nauseating it could only be enjoyed through the rose-tinted hearing aid of a deaf grandmother.

Left reeling by such a plague of slapstick cranking, ‘Sheila’’s roundhouse blow of excruciating lyrics [ 'Sheila, you look good today'] and ‘Sooner Or Later’’s grunge-sponging uppercut knocks this limp record face first into the canvas, gasping for the air that will give it a bit of life for one final fight. Sadly it doesn’t come but, mercilessly, neither does a swift KO.

Instead, the band Pritt Stick to the belief that rampant, uncoordinated drums and shrieking guitars are somehow a rite of passage to commercial appeal and blindly proceed with the loathsome clutter of instrumentation found pulsing through ‘Permanent You’ and the equally epileptic ‘Drag Addict’. Even ‘White Lie’’s promise of slow-creeping acoustica becomes not so much a pitchfork in the road but a hedge-hiding piss break on the long and dreary highway to MOR Punk-Pop hell.

A sheenful glaze of production at least attempts - and almost succeeds - at washing away the woefully inept song writing but, so linear are the monotonous ‘Ctrl Atl Dtl’ and ‘Out Of Order’, you’d need Phil Spector, a rifle and a shit-ton of microdots to make this record sound halfway entertaining. And, really, that’s my main gripe with the entire septic tank of a genre: There’s no challenge or enjoyment in listening to such sterilised endeavours. There’s just nothing, at all.

20%

Record Review: Trost - Trust Me

During the sloppy last season of The Mighty Boosh, Vince and Howard find themselves in a sticky predicament. Pushed out of the ‘scene’ by a duo of imposters, the pair earnestly attempt to conjure up a new sound and, as is de rigueur these days, plump for full-on retro-revivalism. Of course, their over exuberant choice of medieval twanging bombs with the Klaxon-humping hoards but - and forgive me for eliciting meaning from this moronic show - the message is plain; even the UK’s hip-shaking fashionistas have limits.

So what will the cheekbone protruding, hair care crew make of Trost’s latest decade transcending genre-hopping excursion Trust Me?

Well, laden with kitsch, slick melodies and contour warping rhythms, the Berlin-born Annika Lin Trost’s sophomore LP could slot seamlessly between Nouvelle Vague and Miss Kitten in the collection of any self-respecting Boho wannabe. Every glacial statuette boldly attempts to balance the perilous dichotomy of substance and style, producing a record that’s razor sharp in execution and unforgiving in smoke ring puffing chic. But underpinning this iceberg exterior is one fatal flaw: It’s much too clinical to love.

Chamber-dwelling numbers like ‘Black’ and the brutal ‘Sans Ta Scie’ reject your advances with the aloofness of a monochromatic actress; wishing you away with a Ray Ban impeded glower of bass and drum while Trost’s whispered, ethereal mew suggests she’d rather be anywhere else. The songstresses sublime rotation of German, French and English does make an alluring proposition - particularly on ‘Cowboy’’s Free Association-like splurge of microdot-popping soul- yet her icy blasts over piano waltzing trinket ‘I Was Wrong’ and ‘In Diesem Raum’’s tundra of guitar rankles as nose-turned elitism.

Fathoming pastiche from austere is half the battle. ‘Neonlight Deadland’’s wobbling, vaudevillian groove swings like the enraptured fumbling of a Parisian cabaret show, while ‘Man On the Box’ portrays Trost as a snarling chanteuse trapped amidst a seductive boudoir of rotating guitar and hypnotic snake charmed rhythms. By the time album closer ‘Filled with Tear’’s string-stained toil flutters out of the speakers like a wispy Campbell/Lanegan cast off, it’s anyone’s guess whether her tongue is placed firmly in cheek or seductively in mouth. Either way, it’s tiresome listening.

By creating a stone cold mezzanine of abrasive R’n'B and self-conscious electronica, Trost’s enforced ambivalence has produced a record that’s difficult to embrace and impossible to return to. Despite fleeting moments of melodious industry, Trust Me’s only real achievement rests in disengaging listeners with overly contrived, achingly cool cuts of metallic neo-pop. The sad thing is you know the fashionistas will lap it up.
60%

First published here

Record Round-Up: November (Yes, I know it's December but I've been lazy of late)

Having already served up an honourable leader of the free world and a brand spanking new Guns N’ Roses album, you have every right to expect something a little bit special from The Round Up this month. So, ladies and gentlemen without further ado your friendly, four-weekly record synopsis brings you, erm, The Paddingtons.

That's right, everyone’s favourite Libertine-aping dangleberries who aren’t The View have returned with No Mundane Options [*], the ‘rocking follow up to their acclaimed debut First Comes First.’ Sadly, the hyperbole of the press release translates to 'a pitiful excuse for a record'. Tuneless protestations like “What’s the point In anything new?” rankle alongside droning riffs and plod-a-long drums that only serve to make tracks like Molotov Cocktail and – the ghastly– Punk RIP even more incorrigible than their titles suggest.

Luckily, the belly rumbling clatter of Threatmantics wipes away The Pads’ lingering acidity. Abound with rockabilly jangling and microdot infused breakdowns, the Welsh quartet’s debut LP Upbeat Love [***] is a fun-loving, no-frills stomp of archaic folk that wails to seductive viola strokes and loose-limbed, harrying guitar tempos. For all the throaty joviality of numbers like Big Man and Don’t Care, dark tribal rhythms still embed themselves within the dungeon of bass and chant found in the magnificent Get Outta Town, making for an enthralling - if slightly confusing - half hour of valley-dwelling sonics.

Less robust and much less pleasurable to The Round Up’s ears is the windswept blustering of Rome-born trio Semaphore and their eponymous longplayer [**]. Sitting atop the unbeknown pivot lodged between The National and Crash Test Dummies, this is a record that growls to the sound of ball-busting baritone strewn over a baffling juxtaposition of grating 80s power-chords and mid 80s country pop, depending on which half of the record you’re unfortunate enough to be enduring.

Smothered by more cheese than this lactose intolerant article can take, The Round Up quickly switches discs to find itself staring into Trickbaby’s Chor Bazaar [***]. A pavement-strutting flurry of Middle Eastern rhythms and slinky pop hookery, it’s a sound far removed from The Round Up’s usual snot sniffing predilection. Yet somehow, amidst the chromatic production and bangra-frazzled beats, this is a compelling, noggin-nodding exploration of alternative India. A surefire certainty to fall foul of the myopic record-buying masses, it’s still a fascinating scurry through the unventured warrens of your earholes.

Alas, the terrifically entitled Ox.Eagle.Lion.Man’s Opus 2 [**] etches out a less compelling pathway. With a vocal that worryingly resembles that cunt from The Killers if he'd taken elocutions lessons, the pretentious, over blown introduction of opening number If This Is A Man does little to tantalise the senses. Thing is, the proceeding five tracks barely improve matters. Abound with crumby production and pantomimic horror-schlock, much of this record is Proggish, sky scraping rock a la Muse that broods like Dracula in its nocturnal lingering but is as ghostly as Casper in sound i.e., completely transparent and, well, really rather irritating.

All things considered, The Round Up counts its blessings to find School Of Seven Bells' gorgeous debut Alpinisms [****] standing patiently in line. Blushing with radiant, gossamer pop undertones and transient post-rock dalliances, it’s easy to see why the Brooklyn-based trio have been moistening the sweat glands of high-brow music rags of late. Mesmerising cuts like the steam-engine puffing Iamundernodisguise and the sauntering Connjur blend Atlas Sound’s ethereal synth runnings with the antsy acoustics of Broken Social Scene. A delight to behold, this record may well be 55 of the finest musical minutes left in 2008.

Sadly, Maple Bee’s Home [**] is probably the most insipid 44 minutes of music left in 2008. Rife with glaucoma-inducing beats and sheepish, helium abetted vocals, the emo-styled chanteuse’s sophomore offering is a dreary clutter of drums cloyed with star-gazing synths that are as ineffective as a hooker in an asexual’s undercrackers.

And with that, The Round-up buffs up its credit card, slips on a Santa hat and prepares for the capitalist utopia that is Crimbo.

First published here....

Meursault - Pissing On Bonfires/Kissing With Tongues

Much like the vino of their French regional namesake, Edinburgh's Meursault have been on a lot of lips recently. So, after establishing a fervent following with a string of spellbinding live shows over the past six months, the quartet's decision to give their debut long-player Pissing On Bonfires/Kissing With Tongues another push via Edinburgh indie label Song, By Toad couldn't have been better timed. Knee-deep in folkish narratives, rousing numbers The Furnace and Lament For a Teenage Millionaire are transformed into rapacious tidal waves by the gnarling tectonic plates of electronica that underpin them. A Few Kind Words is an aural minefield and the record's immediate stand-out; laced with bombastic percussion and the screeching banshee wail of frontman Neil Pennycook. Yet, as time flies, it's gentle cutlet A Small Stretch Of Land that springs to the fore as a tortured, weeping lament bound by introspection. Make no mistake, after a spin of this sublime record only one word will pass your lips: Magnificent. [Billy Hamilton]

LABEL FEATURE: One Little Indian

Contrary to popular belief, 1985 was a great year for British music. Amidst a spew of poodle-permed rockers and gak-snorting pop philanthropists (say hello, Band Aid), the remarkable One Little Indian (OLI) was conceived. Founded by various sects of London’s dissipated underground scene – including members of renowned post-punk outfit Flux Of Pink Indians – it quickly established itself as a label focused on providing artists with three special Cs: complete creative control.

“One Little Indian was inspired by the DIY principles and anarchistic ideals of independent labels such as that of anarcho-punk band Crass,” explains the stable’s Digital Manager Toby McColl. “They became so frustrated with the restrictive nature of the music industry that merging the creative aspect with the distributive side of things became the only viable option.”

Video: Bjork - Declare Independence

Twenty-three years on and the London-based label has evolved from its bohemian roots, becoming an influential player on the music industry’s mean streets. Despite this rapid proliferation McColl believes OLI’s remained true to its stoic mission statement: “We don’t look for specific styles or trends with music, we sign bands that we love. So a One Little Indian band has to be a band that we believe in. They could be a metal band or folk, it makes no difference to us. That is why our roster is so diverse.”

And diverse it certainly is. A creative sanctuary for the likes of Bjork, The Shamen and Skunk Anansie during the 90s, OLI currently plays host to Rose Kemp, Minus and the majestic Asobi Seksu. “We have great relationships with all of our artists,” says McColl when discussing the label’s allure. “They are free to do what they want but we put their interests first all the time, and because of that it's really a mutually beneficial relationship... One Little Indian has had a long history; we are very flexible, we are passionate about the music we sign and we stand by our bands.”

With such purist intentions OLI should be tender prey in an unforgiving industry but underneath its innocent exterior lurks the insatiable desire to evolve. Having already welcomed Clean Up, Partisan, Elemental and Fat Cat Records under its expanding umbrella, McColl believes the future lies in self-created opportunity.

Video: Asobi Seksu - Walk on the Moon

“We have some great young people at the label who are very in touch with the latest trends and styles,” he enthuses. “There are infinite new possibilities and companies out there at the moment and it’s our job to find out which of these is going to work best for us and for our fans. We've started our own digital distribution arm, Second Wind Digital, that aggregates digital music, and have begun reissuing a lot of old releases on heavyweight DMM Vinyl. By presenting the music in new, unique formats, we feel our customers are listening.”

Armed with a scroll of effervescent artists, OLI’s quest for innovation ensures the label stands head and shoulders above its rivals. But with the credit crunch gnawing away at record company profits, McColl feels the time is ripe for indies to step up to the play.

“Bear in the mind, the music business has been in its own recession for over five years,” he declares. “One good thing about being at an indie is that we are in a better state to deal with issues than the bigger institutions that take longer to adapt and change...It seems the majors are finding it hard to flex their muscles quite as much in these financially tougher times. [Indie labels] have always been up against it; we are used to smaller budgets and using our heads rather than our wallets all the time.”

First published here

INTERVIEW: Ten Kens

2008 was quite a year for Toronto ensemble Ten Kens. Cherry-picked by the trend-inciting FatCat Records, the quartet’s gorgeous, genre-defying debut LP was met by a barrage of superlatives and compared favourably with indie luminaries Arcade Fire, Liars and Black Mountain. So during the band’s inaugural UK tour, The Skinny caught up with laconically worded vocalist Dan Workman for a quick chat about the group’s past, present and future...

How are you enjoying your first trip to the UK?
We're enjoying it so much we don't want to leave. The UK crowds, surprisingly, aren't that different from Canadian crowds, you have to win them over the same way. Everyone comes out to be entertained, and entertain you must. They do like it loud however, abnormally loud. But that's just fine with us.

True, we’re all about the decibels. So how did you guys get together?
Dean [Tzenos – guitar] and I met in art school. We started jamming together, with various musicians in the mix, all the while writing songs. Once we had enough material put together, we broke away and hid out in a townhouse for a year, writing and recording. At the end of that year we had an album...but no band. We rounded up Lee [Stringle – bass], another friend from art school, then held auditions for drummers, which is how we found Ryan [Roantree – drums]. And that was that.

Writing your debut LP in a townhouse sounds a little intense. How much of an impact did that have on the sound?
That situation made the record what it is. Dean and I went completely insane; we lived and breathed the project the whole time we were there. We never went outside. It was a labour of love and madness. It couldn't have happened any other way.

Considering the claustrophobic environment, did you expect to produce a record as wide in scope?
We just wanted to make a cool record, pure and simple. Once we started recording we didn't know what to expect, but we definitely knew what we wanted. All it took was working with the right people and a tremendous amount of patience.

You’ve been compared with a lot of influential bands, but are your role models really that predictable?
I think so. Throw some early nineties bands in there such as Pixies and Sonic Youth, and you've more or less got the bulk of our influences for this record covered. Those comparisons put us in some pretty amazing company, it's definitely flattering.

Are you happy with the reviews you’ve received thus far?
Yeah, we're really happy; most have been super positive. I'd like to say we don't pay attention to the press, but we do. We're so new, even bad press is exciting to us.

Talking of which, do you think the music press is still as influential as it once was?
We don't think you writers are a dying breed, we actually think it's scary how much power you all have. Our good press has already helped us tremendously; I imagine bad press could harm us just as easily.

Considering there's only four of you in the band, the moniker’s a little misleading. What’s the meaning behind it?
Ha, sorry, sworn to secrecy on that one. But by all means, feel free to invent your own, we've heard some very interesting theories.

Okay, if you’re sure. I have a ‘wacky’ Ken Dodd theory. Perhaps not, eh? So, finally, can we expect the next record to be your giant pop opus then?

Um, no. Our next record will be darker, louder and bigger...maybe.

Initially published here

ALBUM REVIEW: Air France - No Way Down

For a country that’s five times smaller than Blighty, Sweden’s recent output of pretty-pink pop pickers is remarkable. Escaping the mainstream banality of - the hyperbolically bloated - ABBA, gorgeous tunesmiths like Jens Lekman, The Concretes and Peter, Bjorn & John have filtered into the hearts of both snot-nosed musos and tune-hugging mainstreamites with their clutterless, pursed lip melodics.

It’s hardly surprising,then, to find that sky-soaring duo Air France [one part Joel, one part Henrik] are yet another product of this brilliant Scandinavian conveyor belt. Their debut EP - 2006’s On Trade Winds- was a cacophonous masterpiece brushed by Tropicalia and flighty, cloud-bursting grooves. Follow-up EP No Way Down was equally lush; flooded in Casiotoned symphonies and cut-paste-splatter samples that left the palate whetting, desperate for more.

So here it is…Only it isn’t.

What’s served up on No Way Down (LP? Compilation? Whatever…) is an intermittent aperitif intended to capture that attention of the Johnny-come-not-so-latelys. By amalgamating both EPs as one rotating plastic disc Air France are offering a lifeline to those not yet on-board their voyage to widespread populism and if you’ve any sort of inclination for music acumen then clutch it while you can.

Put simply, if No Way Down was an original release it would be record of the year. Soaked in synth-heavy retrospect and enchanting rhythms, each sumptuous cut is a joy to consume. The chasmal bliss of introductory number ‘Maundy Thursday’ initially massages the lugs with a stoic 80s regalia that would have M83 blushing. However, it’s the Balearic quip of follow up ‘June Evenings’ that truly sets the standards for what’s to come.

Plastered with enchanting vocal dalliances and a pushy fanfare of brass, the track’s choleric beats infect the sombrero wearing ‘No Excuses’ and calypso infused ‘Beach Party’ (which brilliantly indulges a sample of Lisa Stanfield’s ‘All Around The World’) like an antidote-less virus. Yet, despite such chill-out protestations it’s The Avalanches that bear most influence; the crimson floating of ‘Windmill Wedding’ and ‘Collapsing At Your Doortstep’’s brick-a-brack samples both aligning with the Australian ensemble’s glue-sticking mission statement.

If one criticism is to be thrown this record’s way it’s that there’s no clear distinction between the two years that separated the release of each EP, with sheenfully produced numbers like ‘No Excuses’ and ‘Never Content’ similarly cloaked in green pasture melody. But when songs are as contagious and uplifting as the - Happy Monday’s lyric lifting (!) - title track, frankly, who gives a damn.

To surmise these 36 minutes of wonderful sonic mastery it’s perhaps best to let the child’s voice on the glorious ‘Collapsing At your Doorstep’ do the talking:

“Sorta like a dream? No, better.”
89%

Originally published here and here's a video of the luscious Never Content

ALBUM REVIEW: Catfish Haven - Devastator

Ambivalence - it‘s what every musician dreads. There’s surely no more spirit-sapping feeling than having done absolutely nowt to invoke even a modicum of emotion in the perked-up ear sockets of the listening hoards. For sure The Kooks, The Enemy, Pigeon Detectives et al may knee-jerk bowels into the dispatch position but, Christ, at least they’re stirring something deep within; reaffirming music’s ability to unite and segment, engage and enrage, love and detest. To merely stick public opinion in neutral is, quite frankly, unforgivable and instantly forgettable.

Fast forward to the point…

As all budding, ethic-abiding journalists will testify, if you don’t know your subject you’d better swot-up. So, once Secretly Canadian-signed Catfish Haven’s second long-player Devastator plumped it’s spherically shaped self into my stereo I thought it pertinent to crack off a web-based search on this seemingly unknown Chicago trio. But after traipsing through a number of brief round-ups I touched upon something bafflingly familiar: a short critique of the band’s debut record Tell Me typed out by these very fingers.

Sardine-tinned with vertebrate metaphors and overly verbose linguistics, it reads every inch a tooth-cutting whipper-snapper’s puff piece that says little and means even less. But in those few words I can gauge at least one thing: Man, was I bored. Really fucking bored. And sadly, Catfish Haven’s latest venture into fully-fledged album churning is just as stagnant as its predecessor - if not more so.

Bland, sterile, airwave-filling, humdrum, tedious: each one a clinical adjective to be attributed to the dreary cuts caught skulking here. If you’re sceptical of such knife-sharpened evaluations, I implore you to wrap your lugholes around the album’s opening number ‘Are You Ready’ without clutching fruitlessly for the nearest wrap of Kenco-laced amphetamine. Laden with dispassionate pseudo-soul stumblings and Ribena weak lyrics, it sets an un-arousing precedent for the 40 minutes of half-baked Commitments-aping to come.

Thing is, hating this record on face value is nigh-on impossible. Tracks like the all-jangling ‘Set In Stone’ or the romper-rhythmic ‘Full Speed’ breeze through the airwaves, jovially reaching the inner confines of the cranium before skating off as quickly as they fluttered in. Such cushion puffed numbers may appear harmless (shit, some lost souls may even purr warmly during the heart-struck musings of dishwater ballad ‘Invitation To Love’) but to the well-honed senses of discerning musos they’re as meaningful as Madonna’s wedding vows.

This aural ambivalence percolates through every pore - from ‘Valerie’’s lame, key-strewn lament to the irksome baritone during closer ‘Every Day’ - and with each slow-trotting moment Devastator seems further content to linger in the chasm of insipid, chart-hankering Blues-fodder. There’s no doubting Catfish Haven have now rendered themselves a Counting Crows for the Tesco-trotting generation. Mercifully, very few will care.
35%

First published here and here's a video of said 'meh' band. Tell me I'm wrong. Go on, I dare you.

ALBUM REVIEW: Peter Broderick - Home

Imagine the scene: By the bar, half-full glasses of cloudy, imported beer clink buoyantly while a rabble of private-school tailored voices pay no heed to the sweet rhythmic simplicity that flickers on stage. From the crowd, an angrily bellowed “shush” forces its way back but so immersed in idle-chatter are the antagonists that these protestations are barely acknowledged. And there he is - a stool sitting Peter Broderick - with only a few fey melodies and a set of hopeful vignettes to conquer those there not only to be seen but also to be heard.

A hypothetical setting this may be but it’s a scenario Broderick’s no doubt faced on numerous occasions. See, the Portland born - now Copenhagen-dwelling - troubadour doesn’t exactly demand attention. In fact so reticent is the sound of new record Home you’re left with the impression a one-punter gig would have this shy-away mewer shaking like a frost-bitten rattlesnake. But what the multi-instrumental 21 year old lacks in fortitude he more than makes up for in charm.

Rather than forcing its way into the conscience, Home slowly glides through the eardrums; fluttering heart strings and quivering neck-hairs on its way to the stomach’s pit where it radiates a warm, omnipresent glow. It’s a record of deep-seated imagination and spark, where bubbling emotions rise to the fore and entangle amidst a ream of melancholic piano chimes and withering string plucks.

Opening gambit ‘Games’ is a perfect introduction to this aural resplendence, resonating like a sweetly intended Chinese whisper imbued with snail-paced folk strums and an incoherent, soothing hymnal chant. Follow-up ‘And It’s Alright’ is equally hypnotic; a trinket of understated delight crafted by cloth-eared percussion and hand-picked guitar that creates a blushing mattress upon which Broderick’s spectral vocal bleeds reassurance.

By now images of the dreary Jose Gonzalez are likely skimming through your grey matter like a dull, leaden rock and, for sure, elements of such picture perfect song-writing lie in the lethargic ‘With Notes In My Ear’. But Broderik’s scope of song and depth of musicianship transcends such limited confines; flourishing in a world where sublime, evocative paean’s like ‘Not At Home’ and - the spellbinding - ‘Maps’ can spiral from brittle folk tip-toeing to texturised thunderstorms of strum and symbol in the blink of a peeper.

Even in his more languid moments, Broderick illicits a dreamy navigation - impaling weeping keys on choral harmonies to startling effect during closing number ‘Games Again’ - and it’s here where parallels between Home and the output of Sufjan Stevens are concreted. For this is a record that proves mere song-penning is not enough for Peter Broderick. Instead, every element, every creaking sonic must lay the foundation for the intricate construction of one glorious, tantalising soundscape. And for that reason, we should all stand up and pay attention.
79%

Originally published here at my new home. Oh and here's a video....

Record Round-Up: October

During the wondrous Maple Leaves, jaunty twee-jangler Jens Lekman once mistook a conversation about autumn for Mark E Smith and - overlooking the obvious ‘Fall’ confusion – it’s easy to see why. Both exude bitter Northern blows that send neck quivering chills down the spine whilst drenching you in a storm of aqueous spittle. In fact, perhaps the only difference is that whereas one sheds leaves, the other sheds band members.

It’s fair to say, then, that autumn ain’t The Round Up’s favourite season and it’s even fairer to say The Fall ain’t red-top fawning hipsters The Metros’ favourite band. Not that Smith will be disappointed; the London-spawned quintet’s debut long-player More Money Less Grief [*] is the kind of grubby–pawed "indie" jizz-spurting sure to burst the colons of Pigeon Detective followers everywhere. For the rest of us: it’s a shameful abomination of target-market driven filth.

Fortunately, Woodpigeon’s Songbook [****] is next to enter the Round-up’s battle-hardy airspace and what a delight it is to hear the brittle whisper and fragile strum of one time Edinburgh resident Mark Hamilton. Bulging with Origami-folded laments clustered amidst twinkling, heart-melting harmonies, this is a record imbued with unpolished craft and ethereal dreaminess that recalls the early stool-bound shuffling of Belle & Sebastian and Sufjan Stevens.

Mancunian collective The Travelling Band’s Under The Pavement [***] doesn’t quite hit Woodpigeon’s giddy heights but it’s a cosy, embracive soiree of tenderised simplicity that ranges from country spangled strolling (i.M.E.A.T) to James Yorkston-like understatement (Fragments of Green). Fuller of sound but lesser of interest, French pop-rockers Arther [**] serve up a middling plateful of banal riffage and disinterested rhythms with their eponymously titled debut. Vocalist Juliette’s lingering mew is akin to Beth Gibbons in tone but the lack of imagination in the accompanying strums and strings conjures up a record that fails to break outwith the realms of monotony.

Twinkling all-girl quintet Those Dancing Days have no such issue escaping the mundane. The Swedish ensemble’s inaugural long-player In Our Space Hero Suits [***] is a dashing charge of chest-pounding brass and northern-soul swinging basslines that has The Round Up’s knees-a-knocking to the sound of full-blooded, all-action grrrrll-pop. Aye, it resembles the Pipettes-gone-Blondie but, hey, in these long dark nights everyone needs a little bit of sunshine to warm their cockles, right?

Alas, upon opening the sleeve of Emily Barker’s Despite The Snow [**] The Round Up feels all such thoughts of sunshine slip from mind. A tragic swell of organic folk, the Australian singer-songwriter’s second full-length shares roots with the plaintive storytelling of King Creosote without having the necessary charm to captivate over a stock collection of bleak and often tiresome woodland hymns.

Okay, so are all Emilys handed an acoustic guitar and drip-fed folk music at birth? Perhaps not, but having endured Emily Jane White’s Dark Undercoat [**] the Round Up’s beginning to think so. If you replace ‘King Creosote’ with ‘Beth Orton’ these next few lines of critique would be an almost exact reproduction of the verbiage spouted out about Emily Barker’s record above. So to save you the time, here it is compressed into ten words: organic folk, singer-songwriter, plaintive storytelling, without charm, tiresome woodland hymns.

Feeling like an article reborn, the Round Up decides to have a ‘compressed’ go at reviewing the new Oasis album: Banal Pub Rock Shite. Unfortunately, the ‘pioneering’ Mancs’ new record is yet to land in these grubby paws, so we must make do with the chamber-pop swirling of Ra-Ra-Riot’s The Rhumb Line [****]. Hyped to the hilt they may be but the Syracuse quintet has created a sublime long-player that apes the grandiose melodics of Arcade Fire’s Funeral. Standout number is the frothing Winter ‘05 - a track embedded with wailing viola and a harrowing, soul-plucked vocal - but so full of splendour are each of these 37 minutes it’s almost impossible to dismiss any of the blossoming cuts found spinning here. A contender for album of the year? Most certainly.

Bouyed by the almighty brilliance of Ra Ra Riot The Round Up pitches up at its final record of the month: Uzi & Ari’s Headworms’[****]. A twisting, skewering blend of percussive aplomb, Ben Shepard’s (for it is he who creates all sounds found here) third long-player is blushed with subtle nuances and inventive effect board tweaks that escalate the record from dreary lo-fi limping to elasticised ethereal sprinting. Vocally, Shepard bears an unnerving resemblance to a certain Radiohead luminary, yet so spellbinding are tracks like Patron Saints and the dazed Magpie’s Monologue that listening ears quickly find themselves lost in his hand-stitched patchwork of voluptuous rhythms.

And with that the Round-up ruffles it’s locks, double knots its scarf and braves the cold, cold breeze of Fall. See you next month!

Originally published here