Johnny Foreigner: Jo-Fo No Slow-Mos.

As the old adage goes: it’s a marathon, not a sprint. But try telling that to today’s tykes of indie rock. So quickly have bands like Foals and Black Kids been projected into the upper-echelons of critical and commercial success, it’s difficult to imagine such immediate medal-grabbing resulting in anything other than long-term oblivion. After all, you’ve got to learn how to pace yourself.

With this in mind, it would be easy to cast Johnny Foreigner alongside this new breed of overnight sensations. Having shot from the blocks like a speed-freaking Ben Johnson with last year’s - praised in all quarters - mini-album Arcs Across The City, the Birmingham born trio’s debut LP Waited Up Til’ It Was Light is one of the indie blogosphere's most eagerly anticipated debuts of the year. So in the run-up to their maiden full-length release, I caught up with bassist Kelly to uncover whether the sprightly young group of frantic punk-poppers have the stamina to run the distance.

Pondering the superlatives being thrown in JoFo's direction thus far, the bubbly Brummie takes it all in her stride. “It was just amazing and totally flattering but it’s kind of put a bit of pressure on for the new record,” she confesses. “We were pretty proud of the record, but we didn’t think people would love it enough to give it that much. I mean how do you beat scores like ten out of ten? We’re thinking about bribing music magazines to give us eleven next time.”

Formed just over two years ago when college chums Alexei (guitars/vocals) and Junior (drums) coerced Kelly into enlisting in their pursuit of creating break-neck indie rock, Johnny Foreigner’s trajectory toward the top of the indie rag-pile has been meteoric. However, despite amassing plaudits from critics and bloggers alike in such a short space of time, Kelly struggles to pin down a point where success seemed inevitable.

“I don’t think there really was a moment when we thought: ‘Right that’s it, we can actually make a living out of this’ – it was more of a gradual progression,” she says coyly. “I suppose when we signed to Best Before [small London based label, also home to The Pistolas] it was maybe the time when we started thinking we could make something of it. They wanted us to be touring loads and we’ve always liked to do lots of gigs so it’s worked out well.”

With a blizzard of hype surrounding Waited Up Til It Was Light’s arrival, it would be forgivable if a few primadonna moments had crept into the band’s carefree attitude but Kelly believes change has come only in the form of tour-van spawned professionalism: “I think we’ve been so busy that we don’t have time to put emphasis on what people say,” she explains. “The only difference is that when we first started out we were pretty shambolic and all our gear was falling apart. Now we like to think about ourselves as a professional band; all our equipment works and we get to change our strings now and then.”

With the eyes of the mainstream gazing down on the band, does Kelly believe they'll ever curtail their misdemeanant ways and vitriolic snarl to play ball in the cash-rich courtyard of populism? “God, I dunno. We could turn into REM and sell to the masses before living in big hillside mansions,” she says mischievously before quickly retreading her steps: “Nah, nah. Honestly, we’ll be in wheelchairs playing the same old music before we do that. If not, it would be the end of Johnny Foreigner.”

ALBUM REVIEW: Pram - Prisoner of the Seven Pines EP

As previously iterated, I’m nae a big fan of the remix concept. Yet, somehow, this seems to have bypassed the promo issuers that be and I find myself confronted with a second remix record in a week. So, instead of re-treading old ground, these few words will focus on Pram’s Prisoner Of The Seven Pines as a standalone entity without reference to the source, last year’s The Moving Frontier album. It being possible to do so, however, bears resounding testament to the strength of this EP.

A dizzy carousel of downtrodden electronica, Prisoner… takes Pram's sultry minimalism and builds atop an extraordinary wealth of effect-laden idealism that further magnifies the cinematic soundscapes of these Birmingham-born avant-gardeners.

Setting sail with the unaffected album cut of ‘Beluga’ initially appears a baffling decision. As phosphorescent and dreamy as the stumbled percussion and xylophonic chimes are, there seems little point in its existence on this, a remix record. But once each proceeding number gloops honey-like into the atmosphere, the track begins to emanate as a clear focus point in this crossroads of ideas.

Psapp Vital Sand Pit’s touch up of ‘Metaluna’ is first to wriggle its way into the bloodstream, tweeting and chirping to Spirographic effects that march stoically against a grieving viola wail. It’s an infectious juxtaposition of child-like emotion bound together by the sensuous scales of Rosie Cuckson that would be an unperturbed highlight if it wasn’t for the brilliance to come.

See, the curiously named A Guire Wrath of Godsy’s interpretation of ‘The Silk Road’ is simply phenomenal. A slime-infested cavern of synth and drum, the sheer depth of sound emitting from the speakers is enough to have an audiophile running to the launderette, soiled bedsheets in hand. As harrowing and orchestrated as Liars’ ‘A Visit From Drum’, the track’s duplicity both bleeds the lugs and soothes the soul with a shrill of aching skin pummels wedged between textured melodic lilts.

Such peaks, of course, are hard to maintain and Grandmaster Gareth’s reprisal of 'Beluga' lacks the sonic intensity of its predecessor; embellishing an annoying merry-go-round of kiddie-tronic keys amidst the track’s antsy-pants percussion. Thankfully, the Modified Toy Orchestra’s skewering of ‘Salva’ resuscitates the EP’s withering lungs at the last. Making for a sublime finale, the track's opening blow of oxygen grabbing chimes and floating harmonies submerge into a dreamy mezzanine of instrumentation upon which Cuckson wondrously exhales.

Who'd have thought it: a remix record that stands up on its own. Pram’s Prisoner Of The Seven Pines truly is one of life’s oddities.

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Video: Pram, ‘Beluga’





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ALBUM REVIEW: Simian Mobile Disco - Sample & Hold

As a teenager, ‘The Remix ’ was always my pet hate. Draped in embarrassingly ill-fitting clothes and chomping on even iller-fitting traintracks, much of my pluke-speckled years were spent revering every parp exuding between the chiselled cheekbones of Suede's Brett Anderson. And from this narcissistic fringe-flicker I learned everything I ever needed to know about the virtues of the b-side. Sure, tracks like the magnificent ‘My Dark Star’ or ‘He’s Dead’ were merely space-filling session cast-offs but, to these ears, each was an un-explored nugget that had me queuing outside Woolworths on a Monday morn’ giddily awaiting the single's release – something a half-arsed hatchet job by DJ Jizzmeister could never do.

Teeth now straightened and threads finally befitting (thanks to a nicotine-replacing antidote of cheese and biscuits), the prospect of ‘The Remix’ continues to rest unsteadily. Throughout all my adult life it's been drummed home, like some sort of God-fearing Calvinistic maxim, that plagiarism is unacceptable, unforgivable even, so for someone to have free reign over another’s work and *gasp* profit from it is beyond contempt. And aye, I’m full of contradictions - my love of The Avalanches’ ‘Since I Left You’ bears testament to this - but for all the sticky-fingered sample swindling that goes on in my iPod you’ll be hard pushed to find a remix record amidst the clutter of overplayed MP3 and podcasts.

That is until now.

With the release of Sample And Hold, Jameses Shaw and Ford – aka Simian Mobile Disco (SMD) – have compiled a till-ringing mash-up of last year’s electro-spectacular Attack Decay Sustain Release (review). Riding on the coattails of Health’s much vaunted HEALTH//DISCO (review), it’s pleasing to see the running order’s an exact replica of the London duo’s beat-freaking debut; if only that unmistakeable remixer’s signature - the concaved shaping of parenthesis - didn't proceed the final letter of every title.

Chopped, grated, toasted and garnished by “new, exciting DJs and producers and established dance heavyweights” (thanks, the press blurb), truth be told, this is a record no discerning listener should really give a shit about – least of all me. But, y’see, Sample And Hold’s a perplexing swine.

On one hand, it’s a diluted etch-a-sketch of the screwball beat-makery that made Attack Decay Sustain Release such an entrancing proposition, with The Invisible Conga People’s Balearic-infused rehash of ‘I Got This Down’ and Danton Eeprom’s pitifully limp take on ‘Wooden’ eking out the last remnants of joy from their floor-spitting blueprints. Yet, in ‘Sleep Deprivation’ (Simon Baker Remix) lies a smattering of hope that leaves limbs loosened and senses perked to the tune of escalating synth wobbles and alien chimes. And the drug-hound breaks of ‘It’s The Beat’ (Shit Robot Remix) has pristinely buffed sneakers cutting rug like Jesus on overtime to the Casio-toned odyssey of B-Boy chants and ulcer-stinging afro-rhythm.

What’s perhaps most surprising about Sample And Hold is the unveiling of a thriving instrumental tapestry lurking beneath its parent's electro-bending exterior. The scattershot ‘Hotdog’ (Cosmo Vitelli Remix) exhales a traditional melee of bass and percussion that, when laden in wah-wah, jaywalks with the funky swagger of a ‘70s blaxploitation hoodlum, and Oscillation’s ‘Tits & Acid’ is a shrill of rattle-bone drums that belies the paranoid wench of electronica served up on SMD’s inaugural slab of mongoloidian debauchery.

As enjoyable and fresh as these reappraisals are, it’s difficult to resist reaching for the original to excavate each hidden crevice yourself. And with cursory remix tokens spread thickly – many tracks predictably over-stretch in aid of deluded bedroom beat-matchers while others merely annihilate the already atrocious (Pinch’s schmooze-infused take on the originally jaded ‘I Believe’ is particularly grating) – those glances towards Attack Decay Sustain Release's grassy-pitched sleeve become all the more frequent.

But in Joakim’s mix of ‘The Hustler’ rests a sliver of ingenuity that's brought to the forecourt as a tirade of brutal beats resonating around the track's deep, galactical bassline. Climaxing with a clunk of android disco-filth, it's the only true, pocket-burning moment on an album that drizzles attention-spans with infrequent showers rather than engulfing them in a waterfall-like continuum. Yet while Sample And Hold’s not quite a vehement affirmation of The Remix’s merits, it’s enticing enough to have you wondering what life would have been like without all those Suede records.

Dananananaykroyd: Eurovision Contenders?

It’s been a tumultuous couple of years for lug-puncturing melody merchants Dananananaykroyd. Over the last 24 months, the Glaswegian sextet have been advocated by the slaver-strewn quills of the UK music press, undergone a string of momentum halting line-up changes, found the time to tour – and, in the case of bassist Laura Donaghey, even proposed nuptials with Sunderland’s indie kings The Futureheads - only to see their record label go bust on the eve of their debut EP’s release.

Having faced such turbulent vicissitudes in a thus far brief career, it would be entirely understandable to find the group looking no further than the proverbial next meal. Yet when I get chatting with 22 year old frontman Calum Gunn, it seems the band has its eyes on a belly-bulging banquet. Or to be more precise, the Eurovision Song Contest.

“Oh, I would definitely play Eurovision,” says Calum. “Someone needs to do something different. What was it last year with those folk who dressed up as flight attendants?” I shamelessly display my knowledge of all things Eurovision by revealing it was stomach churning pop-suckers Scooch. “Aye, that’s them – they were absolute idiots… I think I’d definitely have to wear a monocle though - we would need to be in full British costume to get the point across.”

Such bold – and somewhat tongue-in-cheek - declarations are, of course, the token sound-biting responses of today’s modern young gun-slingers, yet Dananananaykroyd are different; somehow you find yourself believing their every word. Perhaps it’s down to the band’s unhinged live performances where chaos brews menacingly like a bubbling vat of acid, or maybe it stems from the yelping, chugging triumph of inaugural EP Sissy Hits. Whatever; there’s certainly no denying this mob of rock-glazed chancers have both the audacity and ability to surpass even their own expectations.

Yet it’s been far from an easy ride. After garnering critical acclaim for advance copies of Sissy Hits back in January, the band’s label Jealous Records suddenly collapsed prior to the record’s nationwide release. “It was quite worrying when it happened – we had a wee bit of a crisis where everyone was phoning each other and screaming ‘what’s going on?!’” explains Calum. “Luckily [London-based record label] Holy Roar came to the rescue, but then the pressing plant went into liquidation and we ended up thinking it was never going to happen. In the end it turned out okay.”

Some would say it’s turned out more than just okay. Religiously followed by an ever-growing gaggle of adrenaline-hankering teens, Dananananaykroyd seem to have been on the cusp of success for as long as they’ve been around. Despite such adulation, Calum insists the band feels under no pressure to pander to the mainstream: “We’ve not bowed to any requests to be softer and we’ve got to this nice happy level where we’re just doing what we’re doing. We’ll just see where it takes us on our nice long tour of, um, everywhere!”

So where does Calum envisage Dananananaykroyd’s so-called “moronic” brand of “idiot rock music” will carry them to in the next 12 months? “It would be great to play Japan and places like that, but we would really just like to play to more people and be doing the same thing without having to have a job,” he declares before quipping: “And, of course, we want to be selling tickets for £36 and programs for £15. We wanna keep on rocking in the free world, yeah!”

First published here

El Padre: That's Not My Name....

Despite a loving embrace from globe-conquering hip-hoppers, the pseudonym is much derided in today’s bourgeois indie circles. Keeping it real’s all part of the deal and, unless you’re after a one-way ticket to attention-starved oblivion, that tight little package your band earnestly plugs had better not include any weed-induced appellations. So when I chew the fat with El Padre’s entitled guitarist/vocalist Bobby Steve Jacksonson it’s a shock to discover his mammy didn’t christen him so.

“One day, a long, long time ago when the old version of El Padre was falling apart, I renamed everyone and came up with [Bobby Steve Jacksonson] and when the day came to stop using it I thought: ‘na, na I’m keeping that’,” Jacksonson explains. “Now I kind of like the anonymity of it all.”

Completed by the equally well-monikered Beat-á-Maxx [Beats/Vocals] and Papa Flash [Guitar/Vocals], El Padre’s synth-centric furore of jay-walking lyrics and rumbling melodics has been striking a dagger deep in the heart of po-faced fashionistas since the current line-up coagulated just over a year ago. A spate of doom-saying tracks like electro-ballad Monsters In The Blue certainly bely the trio’s playful disposition but Jacksonson is eager to stress that any perceived dolorous moping is unavoidable.

“I want [El Padre] to be fun but it’s very hard to write a happy song with synths,” he says. “When you introduce synths you’re treading into weird territory - you’ve got to do it really well. I guess some of the lyrics are very, very sad but it’s just a bleak way of saying something nice. It really annoys me when you hear that band who wrote that song about dancing to Joy Division (that'll be the Wombats - Ed). I mean, who actually has the audacity to write a song like that. They’re just a terrible, terrible band.”

Having fervently established those not on the group’s hitlist, Jacksonson unveils who tickle their electro-shock fancy: “There’s a huge influence coming from Scotland. The three bands who quite accurately form our sound are Errors, Frightened Rabbit and Twilight Sad. El Padre’s really a combination of different styles: Beat-á-Maxx has a lyricless, electro project whereas Pappa Flash is in many, many strange and wonderful bands. Hopefully, he’ll get a wedding gig soon – that’s where the money is and we could do with some new gear.”

Jacksonson’s own solo work is a skewer of introspection that flickers to the tune of dreamy acoustica, far removed from El Padre’s oceanic depths. So how does his work compare to El Padre’s motorway-rolling sonics? “It’s the kind of thing I do for myself, the things I relate to,” explains Jacksonson. “In [El Padre], Beat-á-Maxx is the one who does the sounds and I’m just an instrument for that. I really like that, I like being able to write lyrics for chords I normally wouldn’t produce myself.”

With fingers buried deep in a multitude of pies, surely it’s time for the trio to refocus as one singular unit? Unsurprisingly, Jacksonson disagrees: “Well, right now, we’re working on one of Beat-á-Maxx’s projects which has something to do with twin peaks – it’s a Dr Dre influenced electro song called ‘The Owls Are Not What They Seem’. As for me, I’ve done a poem called a Πem, where the first word of each line is three letters long, the second one letter long and the third is four letters long – you know, 3.14? It could go on forever.”

Much like that age-old mathematical constant, you get the impression El Padre’s possibilities are endless.

The published version of this feature can be found here

T In The Park Diary - Part 2

News of Saturday night's stabbing at T In the Park (TITP) won’t surprise those who've denounced the 15-year-old festival as an uncultured Ned extravaganza. But, as anyone who spent more than a minute in the presence of 80,000 revellers yesterday will testify, this is a tragic one off. Aye, a gaggle of Scots after an ale or twelve can be an intimidating proposition but the vast majority are here to get off their tits amidst a backdrop of sweet (although sometimes very sour – step forth Mr Will Young) music. And the few who're not? Well, they're the sort of cunts you get everywhere, be it Balado, Glasto or outside your local off-license.

Now, I'm not here to stick up for Geoff Ellis, DF or the Scottish booze behemoth that is Tennent's - all three are more than capable of doing so themselves with much more professionalism than I ever could - but TITP, despite its many detractors, is a welcoming, all-embracing festival devoid of snobbery and fizzing with bubbles of lager-induced character. For one appalling incident to overshadow the entire event would be a sorry and entirely unworthy way to remember what's shaping up to be another cracking weekend and, perhaps sensing the story may no longer be how many litres of alcohol they've consumed in 72 hours, today's frolickers have begun the Sabbath exactly as they finished last night: Pished.

For some reason, I'm a little more delicate; yesterday's booze-drenched hilarity is wreaking havoc on my puny excuse of a nervous system, leaving me frustratingly dehydrated in the heat of a sweat-invoking afternoon sun. So, it's with not much more than a shuffling of foot that I enter The Pet Sounds Arena to find local jingle-spurters 1990s kicking off today’s proceedings. The trio's hi-NRG power-pop appears to be flavour of the month with a soiree of checked-shirt fashionistas whose achingly nimble limbs combust to the sound of clunking guitars chopping over a rash of pitifully composed couplets (seriously, you should hear the kindergarten mutterings of ‘The Box’). Sensing this is not exactly the tantalising Sunday brunch I’d envisaged, I make a speedy retreat to Camp Media for a hangover-quelling feast of sausages, wine gums and olives.

Belly filled and sweats adequately contained, Southampton quartet The Delays are next on my agenda. Not being so clued-up on the group's forceful symphonic pleadings, I toddle along with a fellow scribe who irritably informs me their set is top-loaded with cuts from new long-player Everything’s The Rush. In all honesty it makes no odds to me, every track sounds exactly as follows: pristinely polished indie-fizz accompanied by a terse falsetto that never quite manages to touch base. All in all, it's a bit meh yet bizarrely a vast crowd of scenesters buzz about the tent like bluebottles would a freshly laid jobby. It's a curious sight indeed, but once some oh-so-cunny funt blurts out ”That's not my name” every time a pal hollers - what I presume is - his birth-name, it doesn’t take long to establish the excrement they're awaiting is head-fucking chart reprobates The Ting Tings.

Quickly deciding this basal-needs pandering scuzz-pop definitely ain’t for me, I head back to the media bubble to find a group of hacks deliberating over whether some lusciously-locked fella chatting up TV presenters is a celebrity or not. This riveting conversation concludes with one journo shamelessly showing off an uncanny knowledge of all things Friends before we form a huddle and brave the scorching (well, warm) Scottish sunshine to catch Battles at the Pet Sounds Arena. An incessant wrath of disorientating chaos, the New Yorkers’ performance perfectly encapsulates the essence of the TITP audience: utterly fucked but somehow pulling it off with guile and panache. The jitterbug machine-gunnery of ‘Atlas’ is, of course, an enraptured crowd favourite but ‘Tonto’ and ‘Tij’ feel better suited to today’s surroundings, so blistered and fragmented are their prog-styled leanings.

Glands now completely free of yesterday’s boozing, I grab my first pint before failing to impinge upon a rammed King Tut’s Stage for Vampire Weekend. Slightly disheartened, I stop kicking my heals and scoot along to The Futures Stage where New York combo Yeasayer are setting up their effervescent shop filled with tribal rhythmic treats. Having fingered my way through a distinctly mixed bag of recent live reviews I’m not expecting much but, frankly, their set is a revelation. Speckled with glorious rays of sun-soaked melodies, tracks like the dewy saunter of ‘Wait For The Summer’ and ‘2080’’s evocative séance are heart-moistening blushes of cascading drums and slinking effects that elate the spirits of the few who’ve come to greet the band’s harmonious endeavours. It’s a joyous, transcendental affair and it’s with a new found skip and a hop that I make a dash for The Relentless Tent with high hopes for DiS faves Johnny Foreigner.

After hearing the Brum-based trio before even reaching said tent, my lugholes are quickly bludgeoned by a swathe of zealous guitar and furious percussion once inside. The levels are far, far too loud and although I’m sure “JoFo blew the roof of that Mofo” (or however you kids say 'were good' these days) I pick up my pipe, slippers and Wine Gums and swiftly depart to the Pet Sounds Arena, eagerly anticipating The National’s (pictured) imminent arrival. Admittedly torn between this and Frightened Rabbit’s ill-timed set at the T-Break Stage, the second Matt Berninger’s baritonal crow flickers out over the opening notes of ‘Start A War’ all inner turmoil is appeased. A staggering showing lit up by the group’s air-tight instrumentation, these Brooklyn-born miserablists flutter heart-strings with a gorgeous ‘Baby, We’ll Be Fine’ before enveloping listening ears in the thick, macabre mist of the cacophonous ‘Fake Empire’.

As the sun plunges below the horizon after triumphant closer ‘Mr November’, the only sensible way to shake off this deep-seated sensitivity is to find Holy Fuck at the Relentless Stage and let loose (although some seem to prefer cutting loose) on the dancefloor. The quartet’s filthy-funk grooves whirr from stage while incessant, scattershot effects hop-scotch their way into the burning rubber of fleet-footed soles, demanding all bow down to the quartet’s artillery of blitzkrieg beats. It’s a hyperactive ransack of a show that cuts rug quicker than Speedy Gonzales on a carpentry course and, at just thirty minutes, sadly lasts just as long. So, with TITP’s final curtain soon set to draw, it’s decision time. Who’s it going be? Primal Scream? R.E.M.? The Prodigy? Nah, somewhat foolishly I put my money on Brian Jonestown Massacre (BJM) at the Pet Sounds Arena.

With the headliner only this morning announced, a substantial congregation arrives somehow under the impression The View are to be appearing. Thankfully they’re not, but needless to say the baying masses are nae too impressed when BJM take to the stage and a blanket strike of plastic cups once again fizzles through the air, rattling the noggin of tambourine tapper Joel Gion. Never one to swallow his words, frontman Anton Newcombe turns nasty - lambasting us as “pussies” and “cunts” – and all of a sudden things seem like they're gonna get interesting. Only they don’t. Four-thousand attendees rapidly diminish into 500 and BJM produce one of the dullest end-of-festival finales TITP has ever seen. As one disheartened punter perfectly surmises, BJM are “as bland as Salt ‘n’ Shake - sans salt” and I, like many others here, make my way home from Balado for the final time.

And that’s it: the end. It’s been a rough and often frantic weekend but I’ve survived intact and somehow rejuvenated my faith in the great British music festival, no matter the inhumane actions of a small few. So, farewell T In The Park 2008, it’s been one hell of a blast.

T In The Park Diary - Part 1

Surviving the weekend at T In The Park requires a strong heart and a sturdy liver but, judging by the multitude of urine waggling wangs that welcomes belated festival goers into Balado, such resolute functionality doesn’t extend to matters of the bladder. Quickly bypassing this full-mooned greeting of 100 shit-faced Scotsmen, I (hello!) venture forth into the Media Centre to devise some sort of structure to the next two days of ensuing chaos. Having already missed Friday's “amazing” line-up containing The Verve, The Wombats and KT Tunstall I’ve been praying Saturday's running order can muster up some sort of musical treat upon which my lugholes can feast.

Alas, the initial outlook is bleaker than the overbearing skyline. The mid-afternoon triumvirate of Kate Nash, Will Young and Sharleen Spiteri (lovingly dubbed the 'Holy Trinity o’ Shite' by certain cynics) ain't exactly tickling this rather parched scribe's fancy and a late night finale of Rage Against The Machine smacks of nowt but cash-hungry retrospection. So, what to do, what to do? Well, after a swift half at the bar and a couple of pig-wrapped sausages (seriously, it's like Christmas come early) I scarper over to The Main Stage to find Eddy Grant kicking off proceedings with a summertime splurge of dancehall friendly reggae. It's a solid opening set - consumed by ‘Electric Avenue’’s synth-bulging gusto - but after witnessing Eddy's all-too literal take on knob-twiddling musicianship I decide to refuel with some fellow-minded hacks (i.e. alcohol ravaged ex-university chums) and head across to catch Haight-Ashbury manning an almost empty T-Break Tent.

The local trio's courteous strums and beatific harmonies are pretty enough if Sunday-morning Belle & Sebasitanism's your thing but with Mr Sun nudging his sweaty coupon through the clouds it’s painfully clear the 20 or so folk nodding appreciatively in this dank cavern are obligated only through bloodline and friendship. So, with a spring in my sneakers, I mosey the fuck on out to find myself confronted by Kate Nash whining nasally from the Main Stage to anyone who'll listen (somehow that's A LOT of folk). Two songs down, and with roughly the same number of fingers plugging the sockets that allow her screeching yelps to penetrate my brain-box, I’ve had my fill and brave the trek beyond the Bacardi Tent’s pill-head mafia in the hope that Will Young can stop the rot in the Pet Sounds Arena.

Yeah I know, what the fuck was I thinking?

Whoever believed showcasing an ex-Pop Idol winner was a good idea should be forced to write a letter of resignation in the blood of their pencil-sharpened genitals. Young is no doubt a fine vocalist in the right setting (where? Answers on a postcard please) but here he’s a novelty act; an irksome, curiosity-feeding, barrel-scraping clown. And as he patronises the crowd with token Proclaimers ditties and feeble attempts at replicating traditional Scottish dance, it’s of no surprise when a flurry of piss-filled pints begin to fly stagewards. I’m sure there’re those who’ll have enjoyed his emotion-bereft nu-soul mewing but there’s absolutely nae chance his performance could be considered a triumph, begging the question: what was the point?

While pondering this conundrum and a passing security guard’s equally relevant poser “What kind of name is the fucking Pigeon Detectives anyway?”, I decide this Holy Trinity lark's definitely not for me and skip the Texas-frontwoman-cum-Tunstall-bandwagon-jumper's set to find an utterly yawnsome Lightspeed Champion going through the motions like he’ll no doubt do at every one of the ten-thousand festivals he’s playing this summer. Trying desperately not to succumb to this water-treading snoozefest, I make my retreat to the Meeja Centre where some genius/fool has left a booze-filled bar unlocked and, more to the point, unmanned. Deciding it would be rude and - at £3.40 an on-site pint - stupid not to, a few five-fingered swallies are downed before jostling through the gates of an absolutely rammed Futures Stage where Glasvegas are about to step up to the fore.

In normal surroundings the Weegie quartet are at best humdrum indie-stargazers, at worst the diabolical cousins of fellow shit-janglers The View, but none of this matters right now because what unfolds in the confines of this bulging, sweat-soaked tent is the accumulation of every arse licking tribute you’ve ever read about a Scottish crowd. The moment the Strummer-like figure of James Allen sets foot on stage this place erupts as pure, unadulterated pandemonium: a storm of plastic glasses besieges the sky, beer-titted chests are thumped with violent pride and every brogue-strained word of ‘Daddy’s Gone’ is recited like the purple tin drinker's national anthem of choice. I have never, ever experienced anything like it and as punters from all sides threaten unequivocal violence upon me for even considering penning something derogatory about their idols, I can confirm this: Glasvegas fans are fucking mental. Shame about the band.

Finally escaping the Future Stage’s baseball capped clutches after a remarkably short set from ‘The Vegas’ I find myself in the cusp of The Twilight Sad’s even brisker showing over at the T-Break Stage. Pleasantly spacious compared to what I’d endured only minutes before, the setting’s not quite tailored to the group’s chiselling sonics and tracks like ‘Cold Days From The Birdhouse’ and ‘That Summer, At Home…’ sound limper and less intense than what’s so often experienced in more intimate climes. But this is The Twilight Sad and the prerequisite of life-affirming lyricism bound by crashing instrumentation still rings true, especially as vocalist James Graham seems intent on adopting a disposition that oozes confrontation; staring rabid-eyed at the crowd while hollering feverously about “putin’ the boot in” to his petrified prey.

With the adrenaline now pumping like a speed-freaking Dwain Chambers eying up a place on the British Olympic team, I shuffle along to the Relentless Tent in the hope that Fucked Up (pictured) are as exhilarating as their expletive-strewn moniker suggests. I’m not disappointed. Led by elasticated podge-meister Damian Abraham, the Toronto-based quintet launch into a head-fucking, sensor-crunching, ear-bleeding brawl of a set that’d be entirely unlistenable on record but is absolutely hypnotic live. Central to this bewildering brilliance is Abraham. Catapulting across stage like an uninhibited flesh-hankering beast, the bearded man-mountain demands attention through sheer girth alone before shooting out onto the 30-odd revellers below, displaying a spectacular array of gravity defying acrobatics. It’s the finest, most choleric 30 minutes of the day and as the sun begins to set on a completely intoxicated Balado my thoughts begin to focus on just who to have my final dance with tonight at T.

Enduring the opening three numbers from Rage Against The Machine’s “incredible” (so say the faction of RATM loving journos who were moshing stageside) set is more than enough for me and I trek back to the Relentless Stage praying that Fucked Up have decided to re-emerge. Unfortunately, all that remains is shrieking Canadian’s Cancer Bats, whose brand of maniacal hardcore is alluring enough to hold the attention but, ultimately, as inspiring as the sound of a leaden pole being battered continuously against the temples. So, guessing it’s time to call it a day, I saunter off through the exit’s ever-expanding sea of piss and clamber on to the relative safety of a bus back to Edinburgh. After a day like this, Christ only knows what Sunday will bring...

DiS MySpace Trail #5

Here's a little feature I wrote for Drowned In Sound recently. The real thing can be found here..

***

Greetings ramblers and welcome to the latest instalment of our mighty fine MySpace Trail series. This being feature number five, we’re sure you already know the script, but just in case you somehow overlooked the last four outings of spanking social-network strolling here’s the idea:

DiS introduces you to a ream of exciting new acts via the starting point of one fairly established band, e.g. #4 saw us kicking off with iLIKETRAINS and ending up taking in the extraordinary sounds of Nottingham outfit Mint Ive.

This month we’re leading with the outstanding Frightened Rabbit (pictured, top), a band currently riding a wave of critical acclaim following their excellent April release The Midnight Organ Fight, which already looks destined to nuzzle itself within many a hack’s end-of-year hitlist.

The rules themselves are fairly simple: we jaunt from top friends to top friends on each artist’s MySpace page, eight times; where we wind up, we don’t know ‘til we get there. Exciting, huh? Oh aye, one last thing, remember to click the artist names for the necessary MySpace links. Here goes…

- - -

Frightened Rabbit

If you’ve not heard of Selkirk-born songsmiths Frightened Rabbit by now, well, you’ve not been reading DiS over the past six months have you? DiScovered by us at the tail end of last year following the release of swooshing debut long-player Sing The Greys (review), the Fat Cat-signed quartet’s sophomore record The Midnight Organ Fight (review) has been met with a salivating fountain of ink-smudged superlatives. Stabbing together clusters of escalating rhythms and soul-searching lyricism, they’ve already become one of the UK’s must-see live acts. So much so, it would take a brave man to suggest global domination is lurking anywhere but round the next corner.

Play: ‘Fast Blood’ may be The Midnight Organ Fight's next single but ‘The Twist’’s incessant key chimes and heavy-hearted vocals are at the cornerstone of Frightened Rabbit’s sound: spine-tingling, embracive and absolutely encapsulating.

Endor

As their MySpace pull-tag succinctly puts it, Endor are “a simple band for simple people”. But don’t let that put you off, as the Glaswegian four-piece’s hook-bound melodies have been concocted by a detailed jigsaw of instrumentation all lovingly pieced together to create rousing streams of breezy, Celtic-tinged jangling. Following on from the release of two sterling early-days singles, the band have this year seen an already buxom fanbase swell through support slots with kindred spirits Lightspeed Champion and Semifinalists. Not quite ready to be placed in the same bracket as Broken Records or, the aforementioned Frightened Rabbit, Endor are sure to be knocking on the nation's welcoming door of indiedom by the end of 2008.

Play: ‘Fly Straight’ is a trembling, understated stomp that weeps with the traditional myopic charm of Fence luminary King Creosote.

We Were Promised Jetpacks

Despite being blessed with the sci-fi nerd’s band name of choice, Central Belt-based foursome We Were Promised Jetpacks (WWPJ) seem to have been lingering around the Scottish music scene for aeons without ever threatening to venture out from its insular safe-haven. But finally their time has come. Seething with a new found intent, their crisp, flighty choruses and sure-footed narratives are bolder and more purposeful than ever before, recalling Postcard-era jingle-poppery bludgeoned by a Smiths-like penchant for lyrical dexterity. Far removed from the sonic moroseness that’s long been a staple north of the border, WWPJ look set for lift-off in the very near future.

Play: It may only be a live recording but ‘Roll Up Your Sleeves’ is the perfect introduction to WWPJ, full of frantic guitars and scattershot percussion led by a rasping Scottish brogue.

El Padre

As much as these Myspace Trail features are intended as a careful signposted introductory pack for you to, y’know, DiScover some startling new sounds, it seems DiS has joined you in this process of blindfold learning. Aye, we’ve gotta admit, Glaswegian trio El Padre have completely slipped under our radar, yet we’re not entirely sure how. Their homemade synth-dazzled crankings are, quite frankly, a revelation; rumbling with dark layers of keys, drum-loops and guitar all smothered in Bobby Jacksonson’s fragile crow. Quite how they’ve got here is anybody’s guess (i.e. nae information’s available on t’internet and they’ve only produced one demo EP) but rest assured an excitable DiS will be doing its best to find out more in the coming months.

Play: The effects-riddled ‘Monsters In The Blue’ is a transient sprawl of synths and riff that’s as euphoric as any New Order number and just as infectious.

Ross Clark

Five steps into this eight-story MySpace Trail and a woefully unfit DiS needs to take a breather, so it’s lucky for us we’ve stumbled upon scruffbag singer/songwriter Ross Clark. Now, wistful guitar playing stool-sitters are not normally our bag, but this Glasgow-based troubadour creates wind-blowing acoustic lullabies of such striking beauty it’s impossible not to be captivated by his lonesome, fireside mew and choppy fret-picking. Already picking up a plethora of praise in the dog-eared pages of the local press, Ross’ stirring nomadic psalms rest steadily in the fissure between James Yorkston and Daniel Johnson. With a debut single out this month and an album set to follow, a bright future surely beckons for this charm-oozing romantic.

Play: ‘Anthem In Clams’’s world-weary brooding and hushed strums melt the heart with the same touching poignancy as Dylan’s Simple Twist Of Fate did all those years ago.

Y’all Is Fantasy Island

With a name like Y’all Is Fantasy Island (YIFI), the Falkirkian quartet could easily be cast aside as blinged-up hip-hop merchants by uneducated ears. Yet, theirs is a sound that is nothing of the sort. Containing melodious wreaths of doom-laden Americana, 2006’s debut album In Faceless Towns Forever and this year’s Wise Blood Industries-released Rescue Weekend have drawn a multitude of comparisons with fellow hometown misers Arab Strap. DiS can’t quite see it – there’s a definite sprite of hope residing in their gloomy paeans that’s missing from Moffat and Middleton’s self-effacing soundscapes – but what we can see is this: YIFI should be welcomed into your heart like an orphan from the cold.

Play: Perhaps not quite fitting in tandem with YIFI’s mournful predisposition, the jaunting ‘With Handclaps’ teems down with a glorious barrage of riff and drum that expands into a ragged, infectious chorus.

De Rosa

Anyone whose ears were entranced by De Rosa’s inaugural long-player, 2006’s Chemikal Underground-released Mend, will know just how criminally underrated this band are. Creators of idyllic, soaring Scot-pop, the Lanarkshire outfit’s debut was quilted with shivering anthems and withering laments, providing a refreshing antithesis to the luminous art-school froth exploding from both sides of the M8 at the time. Back in the studio to record album number two, the quartet have been posting demos from their Chem19 sessions as a teaser to its imminent release and from what DiS has heard it sounds every bit as astonishing as its predecessor. Perhaps this time someone will finally stand up and take notice.

Play: A moody blues bassline and creeping guitar fused with Marting Henry’s whispered vocal renders ‘The Sea Cup’ as, quite simply, the best thing De Rosa have recorded thus far.

Foxface

And here we are, right at the foot of step number eight and how fitting it is that this tartan-clad trail should finish with the rambunctious sound of Foxface. While the likes of The Fratellis and The View were off whoring themselves to every cubicle-dwelling A&R man who’d listen, this Glaswegian trio stuck to the age-old maxim of ‘gig, gig, gig’ – and what wonders it’s done. Sure, they’ll never be a band that coins it in financially but after a string of far-from-perfect early showings they’ve overcome their demons to emerge as one of the most rabid bands in Scotland today. Debut LP This Is What Makes Us was met with warm if not glowing reviews, but their blend of breakneck, early Sons & Daughters-esque stomps brushed against purified arable folk makes for an exhilarating live experience.

Play: The rockabilly horror-schlock of ‘Face Looks Familiar’ is a scintillating zenith that shrieks with inner-band tension.

***

Over, out. Happy DiScovering, and see you for more of the same when we next hit the MySpace Trail.

ALBUM REVIEW: The Presets - Apocalypso!

“Scream if you want to go faster.”

Fuck, I hate that phrase. Ever since spending my first day of Fresher’s Week, sitting glum-pussed in a run-down shack watching hoards of fellow students dousing their livers with a luminous soiree of cocktails, it’s been a saying that transmits cringing shivers down my spine. On its own, the combination of vowels and consonants may seem relatively harmless, but those six little words are always – always - accompanied by two soul-sucking constants: a pissed up letch pitifully attempting to be hip with the kids (no matter how ironic his attempts may seem) and the spasticated sound of Neanderthalic, chart-bound techno.

Without context the above paragraph no doubt resembles the semi-intoxicated rant of an ageing, snotty-nosed hack whose idea of fun is slurping coffee on a Sunday morning while trawling through the entirety of Etta James’ back catalogue, but if you’re reading this while listening to The Presets’ Apocalypso I’d wager you know exactly where I’m coming from. See, the Aussie-born duo of Julian Hamilton and Kim Moyes’ second long-player may not churn out swathes of Scooter-like filth but this is a record - both lyrically and musically - that fully embraces such incorrigible idealism.

For those accustomed only to The Presets’ through saucer-eyed floor stomper ‘Are You The One’ such accusations will come as no surprise, so bolshy was the cut of its surging, bass-hungry jib. However, the track’s long-play parent, 2005’s Beams, instilled an undercurrent of intelligence to its pulsating mainframe of industrialised electronica. Granted, some truly awful moments of delinquent-styled loin-burning were found lurking within - the innuendo laced ‘Down, Down, Down’ being a tragic nadir - but a few well-groomed instrumentals like ‘Black Mountain’ suggested record number two may serve up a distinctly more challenging selection of sonic delights.

Yet rather than turning their creative talents on to full beam, it seems the Sydney Music School drop-outs have dimmed the lights even further with the release of Apocalypso. Awash with diluted beats and token ‘80s synths, everything here – from the sub-par Green Velvet-like romp ‘Kicking And Screaming’ to the fist-pumping surge of ‘Together’ - feels like an attempt to muster approval from the weekend-living, brain-frozen pillheads who frequent Pete Tong-curated festivals. For sure, it’s a brutal, hyper-paced affair, tempered with moments of unaffected bombast (in particular the rampaging ‘My People’, single review) that lend themselves to the embracive unity of clubland, but the record’s instincts are so basal it appears evolution is the last thing from the minds of The Presets.

Unsurprisingly, a spate of lascivious lyricism is central to much of Apocalypso’s hip-grinding output, with Hamilton promising “Baby, tonight the world belongs to you and I” like a brazen, credit-happy playboy during ’This Boy’s In Love’'s key-scattered dropkick. Worse still is horror-schlock squeal ’Talk Like That’, a track that finds our love-hungry frontman attempting to wriggle into his prey’s undergarments with bricklike subtlety, slavering “My how you’ve grown, I think I’ll call you on the telephone and tell you all the things that I’ve been missing” atop vampire organ chimes and an elasticised, throbbing bassline that's monumentally let down by such primitive wordplay.

Despite such wormlike mutterings it’s Apocalypso’s linearity that disappoints most. Track’s like ‘Eucalyptus’ and ‘Yippiyo-Ay’ set off as springy, funk-laden bed-hoppers - splicing together glitch-riddled effects and Hamilton’s regal vocal to create intriguing cuts of jerking, piston-charged electro - only to be stripped bare midway to re-build as one final, dramatic crescendo. It’s without doubt a formula designed for the dancefloor and one that works immaculately in a live setting but at home, with only a mug of kettle-boiled caffeine to stimulate the senses, this euphoria-inducing trick leads only to pent-up infuriation that eventually reaches its way to the eject button.

Closing number ‘Anywhere’ at least attempts to furrow the record forward, streaming out minimal surges of electronica that exudes the gothic doomsaying of Depeche Mode peppered with LCD Soundsystem’s more ambient excursions. But as Hamilton lecherously bellows out “Deeper, I know you want it / Faster, I know you want it” over a flurry of transient synths my spine begins to shiver and that all too familiar cringe immerses itself across my body. The Presets may not have demanded I scream this time but, judging by what Apocalypso has to offer, I'm pretty sure it's coming.

Rating: 5/10
Out 29 June through

ALBUM REVIEW: The Loose Salutes - Tuned To Love

With the sun resting high above the skyline and sweat-beads trickling down the line-burrowed foreheads of early-morning commuters, now seems like the perfect time for The Loose Salute to release their debut long-player Tuned To Love. That’s not to say the Cornwall-based quintet’s predilection for sweetly coined country twanging couldn’t prosper in more temperate seasons, but the record’s feel-good glow is entirely in keeping with the carefree lounging of an early summer’s eve, iced cocktail in hand while a contented bluster of inane chitter-chatter flows long into the night.

Contrived by ex-Mojave 3 sticksman Ian McCutcheon and the breathlessly toned Laura Bilson, The Loose Salute draw parallels with much maligned tune-churners The Magic Numbers, brandishing reams of melancholic, self-examining vignettes over blushing melodic tempos. But whereas the sibling-spawned quartet’s soaring ditties are firmly of the major-key, there’s an ever-present feel of scuffling understatement to Tuned To Love that’s occasionally as endearing as a bubble-gum blowing toddler, but more often feebler than a coffin-dodging geriatric.

Permeated with chirpy glockenspiel twinkles and carousel-twirling keys, opening number ‘Death Club’ initially sets off as a fuller-bodied The Boy Least Likely To, bristling to the cowboy-like saunter of harmonies and banjo while McCutcheon coos reminiscently over days of yore. Brittle and melodious, it’s a dew-soaked spine-tingler that should pace-make for the wealth of paddling-pool janglery to come. Disappointingly, what prevails is a more whimsical, disposable proposition, weighed down by stop-start jitters of flagging self-confidence and swathes of preposterous, stomach-churning lyricism.

The problem is that very little here sticks. Tracks like the mundane ‘Photographs and Tickets’ and the stagnant ‘Why’d We Fight?’ bypass attention spans like a mascara-adorning teen would a family trip to the Lake District, and as the record progresses it becomes increasingly apparent that such instances of banality are almost all accosted by Bilson’s wilful purr. Undoubtedly blessed with a smouldering set of pipes, her Nashville-aping vocal borders constantly on the puerile, particularly during the woeful ‘Turn The Radio Up’ as she dispassionately declares “I’ll drive you right out of my mind” to a fella who – judging by the languid amalgamation of guitar, bass and piano – would have bought her the motor himself just to escape the tune’s lumbering tedium.

When McCutcheon takes the reins a rich picturebook splendour radiates from the vivid word-plays of the muted ‘Ballad Of The Dumb Angel’ and ‘The Mutineer’’s woozy, ethereal floating, while the title track’s barn-stomping blues finds him crowing like a cherry cola-slurping Dylan as a runaway train of steel-guitar and organ keys hurries alongside. Yet despite such crisply composed endeavours, The Loose Salute all too often dawdle in the mundane, seemingly unsure as to how to navigate themselves on the road to the simple, ebullient songsmithery they crave to create.

Sure, there are moments of blue-sky soaring beauty tucked away in this collection of fey, pop-country cuts but, perhaps mirroring the inconsistencies of a typical British summer, Tuned To Love is very much a disappointing damp squib.

Rating: 4/10

Out now through Heavenly

Back in business...

Blimey, it’s been a while since I’ve bothered to type anything into these here pages so I’m assuming I’ve lost any reader who once frequented this shambolic excuse for a blog. Anyway, I’m like, y’know, whatever…

So I’ve been away from these shores for a while only to return to discover that football is on television constantly and that there really is fuck all music about right now. Well, that’s not strictly true, there are numerous records/bands I've
enjoyed immensely (see the Subtle and Times New Viking reviews below) but for the most part the musique I’ve been sent recently has been of a pretty low standard (you wait for two of my next three reviews to turn up and you’ll see what I mean).

But not to dwell on the negatives, I’ve posted some of my most recent articles underneath and, as way of an apology for being AWOL for so long, I thought I’d rattle off some blurbage about a few of the bands who've tickled my fancy of late...

El Guincho
Okay so this guy is a genius whose sense of grandiose melodics is comparable to Animal Collective’s Panda Bear. His debut album Alegranza! is a kaleidoscopic swarm of Latino rhythms and floor-stomping beat-splicing that lifts you into a giddy, unapologetic haze of euphoria. It’s truly a wonderful, bottomless pit of a record and one that’s become the perfect remedy to the pressure that is my working week.

Dananananakroyd
So the name has to be sung and it’s a bitch to write but these Glaswegian screech-merchants have made a cracking debut EP in the shape of Sissy Hits. For some reason I feel like they’ve been about for aeons but they’re only now breaking into the spotlight. A squinty-eyed, jittery beast of an EP, Sissy Hits reminds me a little of early Manics only with a lot more flair and far, far less pretension.

The Cool Kids
An editor suggested I've become more hip-hop orientated these days but to be honest I’ve always enjoyed it, there’s just not been much that’s intrigued me of late – that is until now. The Cool Kids EP scrawls genius beats against Olympic sprinting rhymes that veer headlong into your conscious. As they say themselves, there’s a bit of the Beasties to their sound but if you dig deep enough traces of Ugly Duckling's feel good glow emanate under each idiosyncratic cut.

The Ruby Suns
For a more detailed description see my review down below but this band are staggering, simple as that. Their new record Sea Lion displays all the intricacies of Animal Collective meshed together with the Beach Boys’ harmonic splendour. Believe me, you need to see this band live.

Ulysses Campbell
This is an odd one. For some reason I found Ulysses Campbell's debut LP Color It All dwelling inside my I-Pod yet have absolutely no idea where it’s come from. Nonetheless it's a good 'un and despite the inaccurate spelling of the word ‘colour’, this is a down-trodden slice of harpsichordal, bedroom bound pop that proves itself just as affecting as any of the above groups pristinely polished offerings. Oh, it’s also free to download on his Myspace by all accounts.

ALBUM REVIEW: The Heart Strings - Try Fly Blue Sky

Everyone loves a spot of goody two shoes indie-pop jangling, right? Nah, me neither. But, try as I might, I just can’t bring myself to hate it. There’s nothing remotely inspiring about a flush of glockenspiel and brass floating feyly across some namby-pamby sub-GCSE poetry about dunking Jammy Dodgers into mugs of lukewarm Earl Grey yet, at the same tine, there’s little particularly offensive about it. Which is perhaps the most infuriating thing of all: such sterile sonic monotony does absolutely fuck-all to provoke opinion one way or the other.

Strangely, in the release of Try Fly Blue Sky it seems The Heart Strings are determined to prove themselves the quintessential embodiment of this uninspiring, insipid ‘meh’ mongering. A dashing, summertime splash of good time melodics, London-based twins Todd and Max Roache’s inaugural long-player fully embraces cooing pop-pukers The Feeling’s teeth-rotting candy-isms yet attempts to shoogle out of such incorrigible unhipness by styling itself on the pristine multi-layered preening of Sufjan Stevens and Stars.

Immaculately sheened by Midlake and Guillemots producer Julian Simmons, Try Fly Blue Sky is bulging with dreamy, sky-reaching soundscapes all dipped in an Enid Blyton-esque sense of escapism. Slow-burning tracks like ‘General Sherman’ and ‘Pedalo’ ooze a heavenly, child-like simplicity that’s cutesy and alluring in its own charming manner but so heavily sprinkled with xylophone chimes and parping brass are both it begins to feel like overcompensation for the stale, taste-bereft cake that lies underneath.

With couplets like “And thus began a summer camp sonnet / she saw a boy who would soon be a bee in her teenage bonnet” it’s impossible not to squirm throughout the whispering ‘Nina and Her Very Long Hair’, despite whatever virtues its escalating flutter of keys may exhale. Similarly embedded with corduroy-clad teen-tweeisms, the likes of ‘Cannonball Stan’ and opener ‘Kids’ continue this vein of daintily composed arrangements that swoop away the heart, leaving behind a sickly taste of winsome romanticism with their love-struck tales of kryptonite-pilfering and gleeful human cannonballs.

A moment of genuine tenderness resides in ‘He Wanted To Flay And He Flew’’s luscious, string laden jauntiness but the drib-drab la-la-la-ing of ‘Her New Disasters’ curtails this attempt at over-throwing the clutches of maudlin indie-popdom with a stream of stagnant, token lyricism best suited to the love-letters of a hormone-crazed fifteen year old. And herein lies Try Fly Blue Sky’s overwhelming flaw: every whimsical ditty floats along without ever calling attention to itself. It may not be intentional but The Heart Strings’ ever-present sanguinity is the only thing here that actually does create an opinion.

Rating: 4/10

Out now through some record label i havent written down an quite honestly I can't be bothered looking for...

LIVE REVIEW: Times New Viking @ Studio 24, Fri 23 May

Having spent an evening in the presence of shit-shivering screech-merchants Times New Viking I’m no longer sure quite how I feel. What would have passed off as normal, pitch perfect hearing has been bludgeoned to a dilapidated pulp by relentless throbs of seething white sonics, ensuring every sound my aching brainbox digests is accompanied by an insatiable, omnipresent ring. Yet I consider myself one of the fortunate few - Christ knows what those camped by the front are enduring after surviving the eardrum perforating siege that exploded from the stage tonight.

So was it worth it? Given the potential implications for long-term sensorial damage, an audiologist’s assessment would probably conclude no, but having been shaken to my spinal core by a dazzling thunderstorm of drum, guitar and keys for forty minutes it would be difficult to answer anything else but one big, fuck off, yes.

Bound by a decidedly shaky patchwork of bricks and mortar, the dimly lit cavern of Studio 24 is perhaps not the safest of settings for such an oscillating spectacle of sound, and as the Ohio-born trio take to the floor, the gathering hordes look distinctly uneasy amidst these brittle surroundings. Of course, they have every right to worry, because what unfolds is a pneumatic air strike of noise intent on drilling everything before it into the ground as shards of shattered bone.

Immediately penetrating temples with a Krakatau-like combustion of decibels, the group charge into their melody-strewn brand of dirtbag punk-scuzzery like a searing hot poker lusting after the acrid smell of burning flesh. Few pleasantries are exchanged between turbo-boosting air-slicers like the rambunctious ‘(My Head)’ or the fuzz-flurried ‘The Early 80s’, but then again I don’t suppose you’re likely to discuss the picturesque splendour of Edinburgh Castle when you’re throttling your prey to within an inch of its life.

As intent as they are on sprinting through this riotous sneer of a set, the group are clearly keen to show-boat their rapid-fire abilities. Drummer Adam Elliot is a hair-flailing beast of a percussionist, pounding his skins like an amphetamine-frazzled Tasmanian devil as he somehow spews out a croak of indecipherable vocals into his mic. But for all Elliot’s hi-NRG endeavours its Beth Murphy’s un-tameable limb contortions and pirouetting keys that steal the show; transforming feedback-dazed cutlets like ‘The Apt’ and ‘Faces On Fire’ into rainbow-blotted dashes of translucent melody, albeit with a rather abrasive, head-severing edge.

And this, in the most basic of marketing terms, is Times New Viking’s unique selling point: underneath the brazen mesh of rattle and drone lies a warm-hearted interior glazed with coatings of unaffected pop splendour. For some, the ringing may never quite cease but as tonight’s crowd ventures out onto Auld Reekie’s streets all thoughts of hearing aids are far from those hedge-draggled minds. After all, one man’s noise is another man’s nous, no matter what your audiologist may say.

Rating: 8/10

ALBUM REVIEW: Isobel Campbell & Mark Lanegan - Sunday At Devil Dirt

Some people have all the luck. You know the ones I mean; the sort of folk who stride through life safe in the knowledge that Lady Fortune will prescribe yet another dose of opportunity upon which their dreams can be realised. It’s said that such fortuity favours the brave, yet when things like this and especially this happen it becomes increasingly difficult to believe that luck is anything other than a prerequisite of the privileged.It would be easy then to argue that mouse-shy Isobel Campbell is one of the luck-struck few.

Having been part of cultish twee-mongers Belle & Sebastian during, what was arguably, their most prodigious years, the Glaswegian-born songstress’ career nosedived on the release of her poorly received debut solo album (discounting two distinctly ‘meh’ Gentle Waves LPs) Amorino, leaving Campbell’s decision to flee Stuart Murdoch’s flock of bedtime reading jingle-janglers looking like a disastrous spot of self-aggrandised folly.

But then, as luck would have it, Campbell hit gold. By coaxing gravel-pit grizzly Mark Lanegan into collaborating on smoke-stained long-player Ballad Of The Broken Seas (review), the reticent cooer was transformed from corduroy-clad pin-up girl to ravishing, blues-smudged chanteuse. A devilish, fiery-eyed record exuding arresting tales of love, lust and loss, it was a remarkable juxtaposition of sandpaper and silk or, as many a hack would eagerly deduce, beauty and beast. Musically, Ballad… may not have been an entirely satisfying affair, but the stark contrast of Campbell’s sheenful purr brushed against Lanegan’s baritonal growl produced one of 2006’s most intriguing records.

Fast-forward two years and the unlikely Mercury Prize-nominated duo are once again caught in a smouldering embrace – but this time the element of surprise has disappointingly vanished. Album number two, Sunday At Devil Dirt, is comparable to the rekindling of an old flame; filled with memories of good times gone yet lacking the spark of fresh, unexplored pastures. Again penned almost entirely by Campbell before tweaked to fit Lanegan’s whisky-guzzled grumbling, there’s a distinct element of ‘seen it, done it, milking it’ to every rootsy, airsome shanty and, although executed with exemplary grace, it seems there’s not quite enough fuel left to stoke the fires of desire once more.

That’s not to say Sunday At Devil Dirt is an unmitigated catastrophe. Any record that contains the lachrymose presence of Lanegan and the smoky wafts of bromidic tone he exhales cannot fail to intrigue. But from the first brittle notes of ‘Seafaring Song’ it’s apparent that the enveloping captivation of Ballad… has disappeared, replaced with a stale, minor-key haze of strum and string while Campbell lingers sultrily in the background of Lanegan’s dilapidated crow. And it’s in this opening number’s formation where …Devil Dirt’s main problem derives.

For much of the proceeding 40-odd minutes Campbell appears so innately aware of her brutish accomplice’s ability to draw crowds she’s consigned herself to bit-part wing-woman. Tracks such as the sluggish ‘Salvation’ and gloom-laden ‘Something To Believe’ lack the sleight of touch her wistful mew provides, leaving what could be two heart-rousing duets to kick their heels in the dust-bitten rabble of Lanegan’s less than invigorated, bass-heavy growl. For sure, there are times when the ex-Screaming Trees frontman is an esteemed vocal exhilarant – adding an unequivocal snarl to ‘Back Burner’’s demanding voodoo-blues or the equally ravaged ‘The Raven’ – but, with Campbell’s main input confined to breezy harmonies, the likes of ‘Trouble’ and ‘Keep Me In Mind Sweetheart’ feel lonesome and bare-boned amidst a spate of perfunctorily arranged country laments.

When Campbell finally gets to have her say the results are heavenly: ‘Shot Gun Blues’ is a simmering bar-room rankle of steel guitar and vixen-like pleading while the tombstone bound ‘Who Built The Road’ writhes over a windswept tundra of melancholic chimes and eerie string arrangement. Yet such peaks too often succumb to Lanegan’s limelight-hogging, culminating in the beard-stroking boredom of closer ’Sally don’t You Cry’, a track that exits on such a whimper of humdrum couplets it could well have been scribed by a Johnny Cash-aping ten year old.

With Campbell’s second solo LP, 2006’s Milkwhite Sheets, barely garnering a crumb of acclaim in the pages of the unforgiving music press, it’s of no surprise to find her pulling out the stops with a double dose of prize-catch Lanegan. Yet, judging by the standards set on this less than sparkling offering, her lucky charm may be her eventual undoing.

Rating: 5/10

Out now through V2

ALBUM REVIEW: Eugene Francis Jnr - The Golden Beatle

If the merciless playground of secondary school taught its young male apprentices anything it was this: snivelling saps never get the girls. Aye sure, those tender strokes and understanding sighs may have fleetingly wooed the lasses whose hearts were shattered by Big Todd’s insatiable knicker-hopping but the moment another troublesome, tattoo-pressed reprobate came along all such romantic endeavours were dropped quicker than a post-teen boyband with a penchant for bum-fluff and a misguided desire to be "taken seriously".

Luckily, once Todd et al’s faux jailbird-isms took a distinctly more realistic turn – aided by the help of a few metallic bars and that worryingly frayed soap on a rope – those scrawny, muscle-less arms became an altogether more appealing proposition. Yet, for many, the scars of those school day denials still ache and a sense of charred self-preservation has muscled its way into the caring words and cradling hugs, giving the ladies a bit of brute to accompany that much maligned sensitivity. It’s just a shame no one told Eugene Francis Jnr.

The Welshman’s debut solo LP The Golden Beatle is immersed in the kind of wishy-washy balladry that had Alan McGee denouncing Coldplay as heinous batch of bladder-bursting mattress soakers – only worse. Much, much worse. Every track here is riddled with weepy love-struck lyricism that has hip-joined young couples clinging to one another at the end of a cosy wine-filled eve; eyes bulging with tears and heads full of nothing but insipid, box-ticking melody all pristinely packaged and despatched with all the careful intention of a sample bound bowel movement.

To give Francis his dues, his intentions are unflappable from the off. Opener ‘Savour’ finds him proclaiming “I’ll savour the day when I met you and I never will neglect you” to his feline of choice as a stream of spacious, downtrodden folk wails mournfully below his crystal clear tones. More frantic of pace, follow up ‘The Beginners’ continues this outwardly amorous ambition, with the Welsh-born troubadour declaring “I'll tell you one thing, I love you more than her” as he holds on to his missus, Pritt Stick-like, “every day”. And that’s the moment you feel it - a menacing gloop of vomit lodging deep within the back of your throat, threatening to project itself gusher-like into the world outside.

Admittedly, ‘Kites’ and ‘Turned Around’ are blessed with a star-lit subtlety that would blend effortlessly into the bleeding-hearted country-isms of Lightspeed Champion or The Thrills. But so whiney and cliché-riddled is the premise behind the soap-box standing ‘My Own Pollution’ and ‘I’m Macculate’’s relentless, stomach churning stodge that Francis’ open-soul mewings seem intent on hoodwinking weakened listeners into cherishing each tear-jerking lament as moments against which relationship ‘stages’ can be plotted.

But don’t be fooled, The Golden Beatle is nothing of the sort – it’s music that should be avoided at all costs, especially if you’re in the first few months of coupledom. This isn’t so much a soundtrack for love but a lip-service paying accessory to it; the sort of record that weepy romantics pick up to idealise where they should be going rather than enjoying what they’ve got now. So, if you’re tempted, just think back to those cold, lonely schoolyard days and remember this: sometimes it pays to be a wee bit mean.

Rating: 3/10

Out now through Legion