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

Sometimes I Get A Good Feeling…Etta James

It’s Friday night, 20:52 on 29 Feb 2008 at the time of writing to be precise, and I’m revisiting the shimmering, blasé blues-soul grizzle of Etta James. Due to all the pieces of plastic I’ve had to review over the past few years I often forget the artists who made me want to do this in the first place and Madame James was, with out doubt, without question, one of those.

Ever since I was a wee boy bouncing on my granny’s knee while she cooed lullabies born on cobbled Weegie streets I’ve always been obsessed with ‘the voice’. From Mercury to Cobain, Redding to Morrissey, Sinatra to Brown (James, not Ian - although my blustered barnet probably owes much to the monosyllabic Mancunian), each and every one of their quivering chords have impacted my life in their own unique way; they were my rights of passage to a barely scraped 2:2 degree in musical pedaniticism. But none, and I mean none, hit me like Etta.

Her voice is straight from the boardwalk. It has hook, it has rhythm, it has melody – it's a song in itself - and, by fuck, it has soul. The moment those hip tossing tones exuded from Something’s Got A Hold On Me’s preaching, love-struck groove I knew this was everything I’d ever need. A friend, an acquaintance, a pick-me up, a put me down, it was a track that balanced every emotional extremity on the protruding divot of her finely tuned mew.

Soul was my pet obsession at the time, hoovering up £3 compilations from Fopp like my student loan depended on it (which it did, hence the use of such a tiresome cliche). But Etta was different. I would gladly cough up £15 for a slice of some mysterious duet with Billie or those – so often pitiful – ‘love’ collections that were churned out regularly by non-descript record companies and packaged in that impossible to open sliver of skin tight cellophane. Those were the days when ‘the voice’ was more necessary than ever, the days where careers, relationships, friendships were at the boiling point of success or failure. And throughout it all, she was there.

And here I am now, glass of red in hand and cigarette in ashtray, still mesmerised by Jamesetta Hawkins’ tales of cheating swines, broken hearts and promised love. Yeah, it’s a retrospective waltz down memory lane but it’s a lane I doubt I would ever have ventured down quite so quickly if it weren’t for her.

It’s funny how things change, but then again sometimes its just as funny realising how much they don't


Reference Points:


At Last


A Sunday Kind Of Love


Stop The Wedding

ALBUM REVIEW: Balmorhea - Rivers Arms

Y'know those days when everything you do goes spectacularly wrong? Where the tiniest movement triggers an avalanche of disaster and the best intended words offset a storm-shower of tears? Well, Balmorhea’s second full LP Rivers Arms was made for such occasions. Granted, it’s never going to alleviate the numerous catastrophes you've ignited during that intermitting 15-hour period between head and pillow, but it’ll help massage the anxieties invoked by the despising looks and disparaging remarks darted your direction ever since stepping into the office.

Pronounced ‘Bal-moor-ay’, the Texan duo of Rob Lowe and Michael Muller have composed a tranquil, glistening affair brimming with organic instrumentation and bereft of any focus-slipping lyricism. It’s a record perfect for solitary moments of personal confinement; one that takes you beyond the strains of modern living and out onto an ocean of spacious melodies through a tightly structured raft of soothing guitar lilts and understanding keys that seep through massaging endeavours like ‘Theme No.1’ and, the equally gliding, ‘Limmat’.

Such a collection of reclined, hand-holding canters allows the listener to delve in and out on a whim without ever tiring of the intricately arranged back drops of cello and rustic violin. However there’s no escaping it, Rivers Arms is essentially mood music not suited to the requirements of everyday listening but that’s of little detriment to the beautiful compositions lying await here. Because sometimes, just sometimes, we all need a record like this; a record that blows ‘Barefoot Pilgrims’’ mournful piano lament into withered bones and rejuvenates downbeat hearts with the ascending acoustica and hymnal humming of ‘San Solomon’.

Understated in its production, each track plays out as a counselling session for the weary, dispensing affecting and emotionally rousing imagery like medication for flagging, defeated mindsets. Over the course of an hour it’s perhaps too sentimental and reflective to deem truly essential but then I suspect that’s not really the point of Rivers Arms. It’s a pacifying accomplice for a night of red-wine soaked relaxation that helps forget the pressures of working life. And when the shit hits the fan, as it invariably will, it’s reassuring to know you’ve always got Balmorhea to come home to.

Rating: 7/10

To read this on a real music website click here

INTERVIEW: Foals - The final cut...

Okay, okay...i posted a cut of this interview months ago BUT things have changed: Foals have become one of the most talked about bands of the year, their new album 'Antidotes' is about to drop with the velocity of an unstoppable meteor heading for YOUR eardrums and, to top it off, the fuckers ditched the original Sitek mix. As such, words had to be cut, pasted, added, subtracted, multiplied and finally polished. So, without further ado, here is the Foals interview all lovingly revamped, courtesy of this fine publication

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Sitting cross-legged in a freshly used shower-room whilst necking a glass of Campari hardly equates to the nihilistic excess expected of today’s gak-snorting rock reprobates. Yet this is exactly how The Skinny finds Yannis Philippakis as we catch up with the diminutive lynchpin of hype-hoarding Oxford quintet Foals before a gig at Edinburgh’s Cabaret Voltaire. But as the dapperly-attired 22 year old guzzles down his intestine illuminating beverage without a flinch of discomfort, we quickly discover the spirit of Rock ‘n’ Roll is firmly in the eye of the beholder.

“I’d consumed half a bottle of vodka in about two hours and I was just pissed off about the number of journalists I’d spoken to that day,” explains Philippakis, referring to a now renowned interview where he described droning Clash-wannabes Hard-Fi in overtly disparaging fashion. “Don’t get me wrong, I stand by what I said: I don’t give a shit about Hard Fi – I find them the most disgraceful, disgusting people who’ve disappeared into this kind of bloated rock world. But that wont change with us, well, only if I wanted to be a fucking hypocrite in a year’s time. That’s what I despise in the entertainment industry and I would never want to be like that. I like bands who are always the underdogs or frontmen who blow their heads off. I’m not into bands who lavish themselves like some pig in a trough.”

Having spent just a few minutes in his company, its instantly clear Philippakis is a loquacious live-wire - energetic, articulate, electrifying - and such hyperactive hustling is transferred into the gauzy spectrum of rhythmic techno-punk thrusting that saw Foals billed as one of the hottest acts of last year. Now in 2008, the band are preparing to release their long awaited debut record ‘Antidotes’ amidst a slavering hoard of hacks and fanboys but such blanket coverage is far removed from the day in May 2006 when five university friends conglomerated under that common banner of just making music:

“When we started the band it was fun and we played house parties around Oxford but now we’re signed to a label [Transgressive Records] we’ve got a purpose,” says Philippakis. “We’re trying to make pop music that subverts and moves forward like some quiet little victory that shows its okay not to simply ape your peers and be successful. We want to make music that communicates to a large number of people without remaining in the insular, backslapping, elitist Shellac fan scene we were very much a part of when we were younger. We’re pretty much like a fucking gang now - all this external stuff, like pressure or exposure, is kind of secondary to how we feel about each other.

Yet all the “external stuff” is exactly what’s seen Foals projected from the bottom of the new band barrel to one of the UK’s most promising acts, with online blogs and zines’ chomping at the proverbial bit to write effusive adjectives about the virtues of this fledgling band. However, in the face of such widespread acclaim, Philippakis still believes it’s the band’s infectious musical strides and not the intense media coverage that’s caused such a commotion in the cauldron of indie-dom:

“On the occasions I do read things that have been written about us, I’d like to think that people are into us because we’re constantly trying to progress. Our band wants to be out on tour and selling out shows and still be getting along without anyone having a major drug addiction or having lost a limb along the way,” he says assuredly. “If people like us because I’m small and I look funny or because Walter [Gerver] is tall and has big arms I really don’t care. I don’t think we’re going to change the mainstream appreciation of music but at the very least [people] will get into us and hear me banging on about a band I like and listen to them and then form a band - or at the very least quit school, or rape their dad or kill their mum.”

Such staunch proclamations of musical insubordination tend to play out as ultra-confident, yet salt-pinched, soundbites used by every up-and-coming gaggle of scene-lurking delinquents desperate for their big break. But Philippakis is at pains to stress Foals aren’t here to fill the gaps of any industry contrived categorisations:

“Those things are only important if you actually are that kind of shitty band,” he explains. “It doesn’t really bother me if someone says we’re New Rave or Math Rock or Puzzle Pop. It’s like: “you’ve got us nailed – good one”. It doesn’t mean anything does it. I mean, what the fuck is Math Rock? It’s such a load of shit. We’re not like To My Boy or any of the other New Cross bands - and if we were it wouldn’t work with us. We are really grouchy snotty nosed fuckers when it comes to our music and if I thought being part of a ‘scene’ was what we were doing it for then I wouldn’t be doing it at all – that’s just not what I’m in this for.

Despite the media’s eagerness to pigeonhole their progressive sonic-charge, Foals have burrowed their own trail to success and, in doing so, have created an extraordinary debut long-player that straddles a multitude of genres without slooping into the banal formalities exhaled by today’s new breed of generic tune-merchants. Originally produced by TV On The Radio’s David Sitek, the band were unsatisfied with the results and bravely ditched those first mixes to follow their self-planned blueprint for the future:

“It was a very conscious decision to break out and make this autistic, kind of retarded but thoughtfully stupid pop music that’s very simple and at the same time uses different influences like afro-beat,” says Philippakis. “Working with Siteck certainly helped a lot and we’re definitely not where we want to be yet - but then, if we were we might as well fuck of back home and put down the guitar. Our next record will sound totally different from this one and the stuff we play in six months time won’t sound like anything on this record.”

Yet for a group so devoted to creating intricate wafts of progressive, sneering pop it seemed somewhat contradictory to plug into the conscience of the mainstream with an appearance on Channel 4 ‘yoof’ drama Skins. Philippakis, unsurprisingly, disagrees: “I want everyone to hear our band and Skins was just another avenue for that to happen,” he reasons. “The moment you enter into the music industry there’s no advantage in being part of this ethical insular island. If someone gets into our band who only listens to the fucking Dykeenies or The Enemy then that’s the point - it’s about getting the music out there and not satisfying your musical ego.”
And that’s it - Campari drunk, cigarettes smoked, pleasantries over. Yannis stands up and begins to make his way to tonight’s stage where he and his four band mates are met with an air-strike of applause. They may not conform to the dictum of rock ‘n’ roll, but you get the impression Foals are more than happy writing a rulebook of their own.

ALBUM REVIEW: Guillemots - Red

Do-gooding celebrities have never been my bag. Flicking through the daily rags to find a bosom of botoxed socialites slumming it with the needy frequently reintroduces me to a more coagulated form of my morning oats. The same can be said of that smug-pussed sect of the musical aristocracy who spoon-feed us shite about needing to make a difference to the world before skulking off to their countryside manors founded on sweatshop-produced merchandising and carbon-emitting live shows. (Bono, Sting, Jagger, McCartney: I'm looking at you.)

Thinking about it, this inherent scepticism of celebrity self-righteousness has probably been a feeding factor in my dismissal of Guillemots since they released 2006’s debut long-player Through The Windowpane (review). Sure, it was a record engulfed in crisp, string-laden indie-isms, but its tone was always too smirksome; too holier-than-thou in its pandering to the masses to merit attention. For me, this London-based quartet were a group who promised to soothe the music-buying public's ailments but delivered little more than earnest ballads whilst, at the same time, lining their pockets with our hard-earned coinage. Or, in short, a glorified Keane.

But full length offering numero deux is an altogether more adventurous proposition than the thimble-thumbing schmindie wincing of its predecessor. Red could be pop, it could be R&B, it could be disco. Christ, it could even be dub. Whatever way you wish to categorise this, it certainly ain't The Guillemots that I – nor anyone else who chastised the group as insubstantial meh-merchants – remember. But what I do know is this: Red is good. In fact, it’s very, very good.

Yet, taken as a whole, the facets of this genre-shuffling affair feel like the cringing culmination of your family’s record collection: yer da’s ostentatious pomp-rock is here, as is the old dear’s lipstick-caked ‘70s soul nuggets; your little sister’s glossy chart buggery also rears its naïve, hair-straightened head until wee bro' scythes it down with a trigger-shot of Timbalandic beats. And to top it off, mind that gin-guzzling, cheek-plucking embarrassment of an aunt? Well there’s a splattering of her Stock, Aitken & Waterman collection in here too.

Fucked up, huh? Well, after touching base with this multi-directional beast for the first time it certainly seems so, as a shower of futuristic sonics warp into straight-laced strum and drum before upping-sticks and launching onwards through a rhythmically skewed middle-eastern tangent. But, two, three, four spins later and Red’s mutilated exterior begins to heal as a patchwork of lush, fluid melodies that wiggles its way past resistant nerve-ends and into giddy, nauseated stomachs.

The gargantuan rumble of magnificent opener ‘Kriss Kross’ sets its precedent with a hooligan-like swarm of strings and brutal guitar that finds a willing accomplice in the pit of frontman Fyfe Dangerfield’s throat stretched bellows. This stinging intro eventually gives way to sleazy, lascivious loin-burning in the form of ‘Big Dog’ – a metallic synth shuffler that gyrates hips with such virile sexuality it makes JT’s ‘SexyBack’ seem like a laughable lunchtime fumble in the playground – before lounging out into ‘Falling Out Of Reach’’s summery acoustica.

And it’s the sum of these first three offerings that epitomises this lavishly produced record’s entirety. Undoubtedly inspired by the new-breed of indispensable, utterly infectious British Pop, tracks like ‘Get Over It’ (video) and ‘Last Kiss’ pout and pose their way into the razor-cutting dance-floor mechanics of Sugababes and Girls Aloud. But there’s more to it than splicing together a wealth of modernistic melodies - shades of Terry Callier and Gwen McCrae colour the slinky disco-kitsch of ‘Cockateels’; the wistful guise of Tracy Chapman seeps into ‘Words’’ sobbing down-tempo lament; and flashes of Sandinista-era Clash dart through ‘Don’t Look Me Down’’s muffled tundra of bass and drum.

All in all, Red’s a grandiose statement of intent, crammed with aspirational symphonies that run the gambit of popular culture over the past 40 years without ever succumbing to grating pastiche. And although the echoing layers of ‘Standing On The Last Star’ may stray just a little too far into Le Bon-like territory for comfort, the sheer density, scale and magnitude of this ambitious offering ensures the thirsty desires of pop-connoisseurs are quenched with plentiful slurps of lip-licking melody.

Guillemots may never convince the cynics who’ve discarded them as yet another bunch of scruffy, talent-starved miscreants, but for those ready to bury the hatchet, Red will prove to you just how much good these indie boys cum pop experimentalists can do.

Rating: 8/10

First published here

LIVE REVIEW: Hot Chip - Glasgow Barralands, 26 March

The pre-gig prominence of glowsticks and grinding jowls suggests the buzz resonating round the Barralands tonight may not be entirely down to the anticipation of some scintillating Hot Chip action. And, with DiS struggling to stave off the incessant, and slightly amorous, advances of a saucer-eyed, shell-suit wearing 40-somethin’, there’s a strange, nostril burning whiff of a Gatecrasher jamboree about the occasion when those electro-pop mongrels take to the stage.

But, really, is such intoxicated reverence necessary for a group like this? C’mon, Hot Chip are hardly beat bulging behemoths of club-land. Aye, new album Made In The Dark may be a spasmodic trampoline of bleeps and grooves and ‘Over And Over’ was, undoubtedly, an infectious dancehall ready rhythm but much of their output is laden with slivers of down-trodden electronica more suited to the valium-necking comedown of daybreak than this, the sweat reeking pit of the Barras’ ballroom.

Or so I thought.

Y’see, tonight Hot Chip are ravenous; a frenzy of strobes, basslines and buoyancy. The slouchy synth-plays of ‘Coming On Strong’ and ‘The Warning’ rarely raise their reticent pusses during a set built almost entirely on the new LP’s radio-friendly floor-bulgers. If you're here to catch the funk-quirked intricacies of ‘Down With Prince’ or ‘Crap Kraft Dinner’ you’d no doubt be sorely, sorely disappointed. However if - like the harem of 16-year-old girls ricocheting off punters with the screeching velocity of discordant pinballs - you came for a limb-flinging, dancefloor inferno, well, by fuck did you get it.

In all honesty, this DiSser has perhaps grown a little elongated gnasher-wise for such non-stop disco-riddled shenanigans but, when ‘Shake Your Fist’ and ‘One Pure Thought’ come hurtling towards you like the spear of some deranged African tribesman, it’s almost impossible to contain those aching, creaking joints in this gilt of dizzy percussion and warping keys. ‘Over And Over’ is, of course, what many of tonight’s masses are here for and the band duly oblige mid-set. Yet, caught between ‘Hold On’’s sveltely-dressed psycho bleepery and the contorted rhythms of ‘Don’t Dance’ it feels strangely diluted, as if a thousand plays has waned the power of its virulent, rolling bass and unifying chorus. Not that those bug-eyed fiends down front noticed, so engrossed in approximating the size of cardboard boxes and sea-dwelling vertebrates were they.

Hot Chip have never had the presence of a truly awe-inspiring live act, always too immersed in their techy-eyed-tronica to bother with the effort of having to actually entertain aesthetically. But in Made In The Dark’s less instrumentally entangled numbers the quintet are able to cut-loose, with Alexis Taylor bouncing child-like across the stage during the futuristic scuzz-fest of ‘Bendable Poseable’. However, the propensity to meander is still prevalent - particularly during the yawnsome ‘In The Privacy Of Our Love’ and heel-traipsing R ‘n’ B snuggler ‘Wrestlers’ – and, as the eruptive shock of the set’s pummelling cuts begins to diminish, the night eventually fritters into humdrum, mid-‘90s techno nonsense; fine for a retrospective visit down memory lane but not exactly on the razor-slashing edge of modernism.

Once the lights go up and the crowd disperses, DiS catches a glimpse of its pill-popping admirer scuffling shakily towards the doors. Sweat soaked and not quite as twinkle-toed as before, he’s a shadow of his former self: dazed, dishevelled and a little disappointed. As strange as it may be, a straight-laced DiS knows exactly how he feels.

Rating:6/10

Photo-snap taken by Loraine Ross

LIVE REVIEW: Sons And Daughters/Black Kids/Broken Records, 16 Feb, Queen's Hall

The cathedral-like confines of Edinburgh’s Queen's Hall have always made for uncomfortable listening. Sure, those over-bearing balconies and sky-scraping ceilings present an ostentatious welcome mat for the pounding feet of gospel choirs and cabaret acts that traipse inside during the annual festival melee but on a freezing cold February eve the venue’s hollow, chill-filled acoustics do little to warm the cockles of the city’s everyday gig goers. And tonight is no exception.

With a bill containing three acts that span the length of hype past, present and future, this should be a sweat-clad celebration of celestial indie goodness. Yet once past those gleaming front-doors and into the gaping jaws of the main hall the promise of a bucks-fizzing atmosphere falls depressingly flat. Perhaps such staidness is due to an infuriating fire-alarm that found hundreds of well-preened punters besieging the sub-arctic streets of Newington but as the much-vaunted Broken Records take to the stage there’s a distinct lack of eagerness to the occasion.

The septet are, in every sense, sublime; their pillaging soiree of earth-covered melodies flooding the eardrums of the few who’ve found their way from the bar. In all honesty, there are only so many words this DiSser can write about the star-bound ensemble without coming across as an arse-sniffing fanboy infatuated with their melodramatic sways and soul-lifting symphonies. So, for a more detailed depiction of Broken Records tonight, add this
to this, divide by two and you’ve got a fairly representative account of another wondrous showing.

Strange as it may seem, Pitchfork-pushed indie-darlings Black Kids might just have the most to prove tonight. Whereas 2008 will be the year Broken Records test the warmth of the waters out with their Scottish hinterland, this Florida-born quintet will be looking to build upon 2007’s dramatic rise to prominence and convince the cynics there’s more to their swollen romance-blushed jingling than just meeja-led flag-waving. Yet, as they shuffle to the fore with all the awkward indignity of a morning after walk of shame, the chances of witnessing a gasping display of potential-filling appear as likely as the law acumen of a helium-brained ex-model ‘winning’ a divorce battle against her pop-behemoth husband.

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However, all traces of doubt disappear the moment the first blast of swirling synth-splattered melody gushes from the PA. Instantly invigorated, the band are a buzz of activity led by the spasmodic barnet flailing of figurehead Reggie Youngblood – a man surely blessed with the finest name in music today. The funk-laden lounging of ‘I Wanna Be Your Limousine’ is first to stoke the set’s fires, exquisitely combining a buxom bass with Youngblood’s Robert Smith-like wail to create a booty-wiggling slice of ice-cool pop that culminates in a cooler-than-fuck-tastic rendition of “Chrome-e-o, oh, oh” resonating around a rapidly pore-seeping venue.

Armed with a rash of incessant, feel-good popsicles, the band revisits almost every chart-infecting genre of the last 50 years with effortless aplomb. Tracks like ‘I’m Not Going To Teach Your Boyfriend How To Dance With You’ and ‘Hurricane Jane’ drench lugholes with the bedazzling sound of ‘60s soul, powder-puff pop and cranky indie-jerking without overburdening either’s gorgeous sun-kissed simplicity. Despite the sure-footed endeavours of the band’s entirety, it’s the honey-coated harmonies of Dawn Watley and Ali Youngblood (Reggie’s slightly less dapperly named sibling) that steal the show. Spread across every one of tonight’s rosy-cheeked offerings, their polka-dot speckled doo-wopping reaches its peak during an ebullient closer that somehow ends up sounding like the cheery-cola slurping, Hubba-Bubba chomping repercussion of a Sugar Hill Gang and New Order fuck-fest.

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Arriving to a boisterous reception, veteran hype-hoarders Sons & Daughters (S&D forthwith) have a lot to live up to if they’re to surpass the scrumptious pop-twinkling of their stage predecessors. But from the moment the Weegie quartet set the wheels of their screeching, rockabilly vestibule in motion it’s clear this ain’t gonna be a showing to etch in the memory banks as the night S&D finally lunged out of Franz Ferdinand’s shadow and into the limelight. And the sad thing is that it’s starting to feel like they never will.

Not so long ago, S&D were a ravenous brawl of a band, wielding an array of jack-knifed riffs and pummelling percussion that bayed for the blood of the adoring crowds below. But tonight there’s few glimpses of such flesh-hankering desires, as ‘Red Receiver’ and ‘Medicine’ – so often the raucous, acid-spewing punk highlights of S&D’s live showings – are churned out with all the apathetic sincerity of a band that seems eager to show off their newer numbers.

Yet, the less than ornately wrapped tidings of The Gift are the lowlights of a disappointingly sterilised set, with record stomping romps like ‘The Nest’ and ‘Gilt Complex’ tempered by an overwhelming sense of insecurity. At one point, frontwoman Adele Bethel appears so overcome with timidity it’s as if she’d prefer nothing more than to cradle herself into another world where no-one can hear her crow, suggesting S&D are struggling to acclimatise to the record’s newer, pop-aping direction.

‘Rama Lama’’s Stooges-infused chaos at least adds a short, sharp boost of adrenaline to this dreary, and thankfully encore-less, affair but having endured a succession of half-arsed set-fillers it’s difficult to excerpt any joy from the track's pandemic guitar crunches. This distinct lack of urgency from the stage is of little concern to a bevvied-up crowd that embraces the performance as if it were the band’s last – sadly, if Sons & Daughters continue in the same vein as tonight's languid display, that may not be such a bad thing.

* photos courtesy of the lovely Loraine Ross

INTERVIEW: Elle S'Appelle

Handclaps, keyboards and harmonies: could three ingredients be any more integral to the sweetly-baked delight that is indie-pop? Here at DiS we certainly don't think so and that's why our eyelids have been fluttering in the direction of sprightly scousers Elle S'appelle since the release of 2007’s giddy, hook-splattered debut single Little Flame (review
here).

For just over a year now, the trio of Andy Donovan (bass), Lucy Blakeley (keys) and Owen Cox (drums) have been flying the flag for Liverpool’s Bosspop revolution with a gorgeous waft of bubble-gum chomping melodies. In that time they’ve dazzled the airwaves for the likes of Lamacq and Lowe whilst building up a smitten of rosy-cheeked admirers through the strength of their phosphorescent live showings.

So before the ageing process kicks in and these chirpy upstarts succumb to the perils of beer-bellies, mortgages and bairns, a world-weary DiS caught up with life-long Evertonian Andy to find it what it’s like to be in one of Britain’s cheeriest new bands…

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Video: ‘Little Flame’



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Evening Andy. Let’s get straight to it: surely you guys can’t always be as happy as your songs would have me believe?
Andy Donovan: You know I would say more often than not we are. We’re doing what we’re doing and we’re happy doing it. I can honestly say we’re never happier than when we’re on stage. I know it sounds like a cliché but it’s all about the audience. Even when you’re touring round playing the same songs ten nights in row, when there’s someone bouncing around in front of you can’t help but buzz off it.

Ach, and there I was hoping this would turn into a half-hour moan-a-thon. Anyway, there seems to be a bit of a buzz round the banks of the Mersey at the moment. How did you guys become a part of the new Liverpool revival?
AD: Well, when goFASTER (fellow Scouse jingle-merchants) initially got together it was to a brief along the lines of: “We want Liverpool to have loads of good bands again”. So they pulled their resources and blew everyone in Liverpool away with what they were doing. Meself, Lucy and Owen were all in different bands at that time and the three of us thought, “let’s do something like that”, and put a band together with a bit of an idea and make as big an impact as them.

So, do you think there was a lull in Liverpool’s music scene at the time?
AD: I don’t think so. After the Deltasonic stuff with The Coral and The Zutons there was quite a big divide between indie and alternative music in the city. At the time, I was a frontman for a band that was very much part of the rock scene and - while I didn’t get involved - there was a bit of an ‘us and them’ mentality between those who thought The Beatles were the Bible and the people like us who were influenced by American indie-rock. But it just kind of seems like everyone is in amazing bands at the moment, like Hot Club De Paris, goFASTER and ourselves – we go watch and support each other all the time.

Sounds vaguely familiar to the pack-like mentality of the Glasgow ‘Chateau’ scene from a few years back, doesn’t it?
AD: Yeah, I guess it does. People outside call it a scene but it’s not really. It’s just a load of mates who are in bands that are very like-minded and focused on making great music and getting it out there. It’s like a big family really – we even have a five a-side game on a Saturday then have a few drinks and watch the football together… There’s nothing that’s too industry, or geared towards being commercial; it’s all really good stuff that deserves recognition outside of the fact that it could end up getting commercial success.

And are you interested in becoming commercially successful?
AD: Not really to be honest with you. I mean, it would be nice to think that after a couple of indie releases the industry will notice us and we’ll maybe be able to make a little bit of money from it to achieve what we want to achieve, but I think you can angle yourself towards that too much. Any industry attention we take with a pinch of salt.

You guys had only played one gig before your demo was picked up by 6Music. Do you ever worry you may have peaked just a little too soon?
AD: I think if it’s all going to come crumbling down there’s nothing we can do about it. The way I see it is, as long as we’re writing songs we’re happy with and people are still coming to see us and are having a good time then we’ll have a good time doing it. I think the media have been really great with us but it can just come out of the blue and if you grab on to them and say “this is what we’re doing” it’s just setting yourself up for a big fall. The phone could stop ringing tomorrow and people could stop booking us, so we’re just doing it for the love of doing it and not taking ourselves too seriously.

Probably for the best - us sweat-soaked hacks are a fickle bunch at times. Anyway, I was going to attempt this interview in French but, alas, I failed to get past bonjour. Is the name inspired by the brilliance of French pop perchance?
AD: Nah, not really. There’s just something a little bit more classy about the French; y’know their football and their style. But to be honest with you, I was watching The Simpsons and Bart sprayed ‘El Barto’ on a wall and I thought “that’s fucking great.” So I put ‘El’ in front of everything until I saw El Nino and dropped that idea. Then I typed in ‘El Sapel’ into a language converter and it corrected me in French with Elle S’appelle - it clicked with me because it’s the first time I’ve been in a band with a girl.

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Elle S’appelle (l-r): Owen, Lucy, Andy


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Being a melodious pop troupe from Liverpool will no doubt have drawn parallels with certain ‘60s luminaries. Are you sick of being consigned to stereotypes?
AD: I’m not arsed man, if people want to call us shit-rock or whatever it’s up to them y’know. You can pick up an instrument and try and be the same as everyone else or you can try and do something different. That’s what we’re trying to do by making interesting music that doesn’t have to be for everyone. In Liverpool people are calling it Bosspop but, at the end of it, it’s good intelligent pop music you can sing along to.

Aye, sing along you certainly can. But, if you’re not the typical Beatles-aping Liverpudlian outfit, what’s inspired your jaunty tune-smuggling?
AD: Sound-wise, it’s quite reactionary. I’ve always been in guitar bands and I always paid attention to reviews which basically said, “the music’s good but it’s just four lads playing guitar”. So from those I just thought about creating a three-piece pop-punk band but without guitar. I’m still writing the same songs as I was when I was 13 but I’m doing it with different people, using keyboard chimes and a female vocal.

Hmm…you didn’t cite Billy Joel as an influence there but I swear I can hear speckles of ‘Uptown Girl’ in your song ‘Monkeyshine’.
AD: [Laughs] Actually, someone told me about that fairly recently, but I’ve never noticed it before. People always quote other theme tunes and say our tracks sound like this or that, but I’ve never ripped anyone off. I just think we have really playful melodies and people really like the delivery of them. The songs have a little bit of ‘oomph’ compared to a lot of today’s indie bands. A lot of them say, “It’s not about having a competent singer, it’s about passion”. But if you can actually sing and have the passion you’re well on your way, y’know. Lucy has an amazing voice and I try me best so I think we pull it off well.

I'd have to agree with you there Andy. So what’s on the horizon for future?
AD: We’re gearing up for this Bosspop tour with goFASTER (remaining dates below – Ed) and we’re working on a big support slot and some other gigs with bands we’re big fans off. Then in March we want to take it up a notch and hopefully release an EP in late April. And once Lucy’s finished university (perhaps unsurprisingly she’s sitting a Popular Music degree) we’ll put our all into the album. I’ve got a bunch of songs ready to put out now so hopefully that will come out this year.

Tres bien monsieur. And finally, I was wondering whether you could tell me how many successive handclaps it takes before it becomes a ripple of applause?
AD: [Laughs] I think it’s 17. It’s an out of time number; an even number is fair play but with an odd number you’re definitely just applauding.

Well in that case, DiS salutes you and your lovely band with 17 claps of its hand. Thanks very much fella.

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Elle S'appelle are touring the UK over the course of February as part of the Bosspop tour with goFASTER. Remaining dates:

February

20 Cardiff Barfly

21 Brighton Barfly

22 London Barfly

23 Southampton Barfly

24 Oxford Jerico Tavern

Their Myspace can be found lurking around here

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ALBUM REVIEW: Antarctica Takes It! - Penguin League

Few acts sketch a line between love and hate quite as finely as Belle & Sebastian. For some, the quaint Glaswegian twee-troupe are vanguards of ambrosial, bookworm-riddled melodies; the kind of band that reciprocates the embrace of it’s corduroy-clad following with a warm, paternal hug and a piping hot cup of whipped-cream topped cocoa. Yet for others, Stuart Murdoch and his sickly-sweet compadres amount to little more than church-attending bedwetters with a nauseating penchant for passionless, florally-designed jingle-jangling. There’s little scope for middle ground: it’s either resolute adulation or inherent loathing.

Following the proper release of debut long-player The Penguin Line, Santa Cruz-dwelling quartet Antarctica Takes It! will invariably accentuate the fissure between such uncompromising bipolarity. Bursting seams with a clutter of rink-a-dink rhythms and cosy fireside strumming, it’s a Litmus test that subconsciously plots positions on the musical stratosphere; an unassuming aural barometer of the cute and the curt; or, to put it coarsely, a record that will turn you on or turn you limper than Fred Durst’s biscuits.

By gleefully enduring the entirety of this excursion into indie-pop’s enchanting realms you’ve bought yourself a handmade (of course) ticket to a dreamland where I’m From Barcelona and Camera Obscura skip, giggle and make merry in dew-soaked pastures. But if gnashers are found grinding the moment frontman Drew McKeever unconvincingly declares “I’m not a lover, I'm a fighter” over tin-pot opener ‘I’m No Lover’’s frisky mariachi sway then the proceeding thirty minutes will ensure a few straw-ingested meals and a trip to the orthodontist wont be too far away.

Make no mistake, Antarctica Takes It! have little desire to alter perceptions – ‘Flightless Birds’’ perky, mandolin-infused tropicalia appeals only to the most fey of souls – but underneath the innately childish charm and marshmallow toasting exterior lurks an ear for intricate melody. The sheer scale of tracks like the delightfully twinkle-toed ‘Circuits’ and equally acrobatic ‘The Song Is You’ stupefies enough to bypass dismissive thoughts of vanilla-coated feebleness. A kaleidoscopic jamboree of jaunty guitar, brushing percussion and proud, protruding horns, each track pours the lemon-fresh zest of summer into frost-bitten hearts like a gushing waterfall of optimism.

Of course, this relentless swathe of tweeish jubilance can grate on even the most optimistic of lugholes and when incredulously dizzy sing-a-long ‘My Friend Sam Saarni’ flutters it’s wings the result is so painfully sappy it makes Tilly & The Wall seem like boisterous playground bullies. Yet the cascading furore of instrumentation emanating from penultimate track ‘Antarctica’ sheers away this woollen lull as it's bristling up-tempo saunter supersedes the hushed introduction with a giddy, harmonic alignment of both verve and vigour that belies the group's initially coy demeanour.

Sound familiar? Well, much like the inaugural offering of a certain Scottish ensemble, The Penguin Line may be a record to cherish in years to come – it just depends on which side of the divide you choose to stand.

Rating:7/10

Out now through How Does It Feel To Be Loved?