Le Martells @ Hamptons

In many cases my cynical perspectives on the eroding authenticity of our beloved music scene is characterised by the dribble and drawl that splatters the pages of the British music press like the stray spittle of an underage drinkers vomit, as these ever-increasing muso hacks glorify the trivial actions of worthless musicians posing as revolutionaries.

Le Martells, however, are not one of these bands. Absent is the thrusting of contrived originality in order to make way for the simpler things in life, no peripheral frills, no deceitful gimmickry, just straight forward good, solid, glistening indie-pop.

Crafted around toe-tapping melodies, throat wrenching sing a-longs and that elusive curveball hook, the Southampton students come golden guitar-pop pups glisten with the gem of hope and excitement, as, to make a change, they actually look dead chuffed to be playing their music.

As short and sharp as their set is, they’ve got all the elements needed to get things rolling. Lyrical wisdom and whit (‘One Of Those Gimely’), ramshackle knee-jerking peaks (‘Bandit’) and a colourful bounce to their live on-stage jig that’ll make teenage girls tear down their posters of Luke Pritchard and google the charismatic Jamie Smart.

Jim Jones Revue

I've got a bit of a love / hate relationship with rock and roll. I suppose I'm rather old fashion in once sense of the word. I like my cliche ideologies, my Almost Famous dream-like ethos and my uber played-out Laurel Canyon arcadia.

It's not like I think 'rock and roll can save the world' or anything ridiculously callow like that, I just get excited about music and the bands who make the music I love. And that, and that alone, is why I think the Jim Jones Revue are a lasting life line of this rock and roll escapade we're all searching for, a revived heart beat that's still trudging on through the shit and the squalor of the dying visions of pure ectasy, worthless riffs and seemingly throw-away penned words.

Why are the Jim Jones Revue so important though? Well, firstly the fervour and rustic bite of their back-to-Berry howls echo a sound like no other in this day and age. It's thrilling and breath taking, a non-stop train of fucking growls and scowls and screams and shouts that takes no time to pause, no time to consider your feelings and no time to revel in any mistakes or past problems - it's a live for the moment type thing and when you're in it, you're in it. There's no getting out of it, no escaping and certainly no avoiding, that is, until Jim Jones himself has put down his guitar and stripped off his flashy gold embezzled jacket and foxy bow tie for a quick breather before the next destroyed screeching blitz of musical massacre.

Fundamentally they're a rhythm and blues band who like to kick up a bit of noise, but once they've been iced with all of the distortion and static and glass gargling cries that appear prevalent of their record it becomes a totally different affair - a dirty, middle fingered, screaming curse of rock and roll that lives in the filthy soul of our heroes past, and in this case, our future heroes who are here to seriously clutter your mind with mayhem.

The second reason, and yes I was getting onto this, that Jim Jones Revue are so completely and utterly awesome is Jim Jones himself. Call me a dreamer, call me an idealist or simply call me a knob, but this is a man who is rock and roll, just as Jagger was, just as Neil Young still is, he is it, he has it, he fucked it and came out victorious. X Factor? pah! this is what it's all about: Captivating, hypnotic, mesmerising and one hundred per cent fucking real.

Indulge and get caught up in it, you'll never look back.

Kill It Kid @ Hamptons

With baby faced bands often comes a lacking level of maturity or even a slightly predictable onslaught of whiny, child-like tunes, crafted around the lulls of being young and in love and not having the faintest about what to do about it. Boring, right?

Not the case with Kill It Kid. Sure, their angelic faces shine with the hope of innocence and their humble presence suggests they're but mere musical pups on a learning curve, but what they delivered packs potency of another scale - a haunting, eerie and damn-right rockin' show that transcends appearance and wisdom to wholly shock an audience and boy oh boy, you wouldn't expect to see such a sight from these sixth-form looking stars.

When Chris Turpin spoke prior to the gig, the frontman and guitarist was feeling a little rough. Tour had begun to take its toll on the little guy. A groggy voice and a general sense of disorientation had ensued after 11 days on the road and a handful of not-so-well-thought-out nights on the town have led this young man to a fortress of Lemsip and chronic sniffing - but if one thing's to come out of this then it's the fact that he knows how to get the fucking job done. And done well.

The first half of the bands rapturous set swam around the more folk based rattles of their back catalogue as the tentative pickings begun and pretty soon Turpin announces that the next song is a favourite of theirs with 'Private Idaho' quickly commencing, lapping around its deeply rich male-female vocals and porch jammin' strings. 'My lips wont be kept clean', as Turpin confirmed, is a folk song, the type of head bopping, hip-swingin' folk song that requires a whole load of hay bales and a jar of whiskey as we get our line dance on in leafy surburbia.

'Heaven Never Seemed So Close' and 'Dirty Water' however, are two Les Paul aided blues'n'roots epics, both of which pack a powerful forearm of grubby distortion and wailing vocals that contrast the ghostly shadows of the first half of their set. It's heavy and it's full frontal and most importantly, it demonstrates that this band have the ability to chop and change their pace and noise making ability with seriously overwhelming results that, to be honest, are rather unexpectedly brilliant.

AUTHENTICITY IN POPULAR MUSIC CRITICISM

Chapter One - Authenticity in critical discourse

In order for music to be consumed by an audience it first needs to be bought into the public eye. This has been done via a number of mediums over the past 60 years. Radio has played a considerable role in the publicising of music, and continues to do so. The 1980’s saw the emergence of Music television which went hand in hand with the rise of the music video, and live performances continued to become notoriously important in sculpting s musicians reputation. Perhaps the most influential of publicising mediums which has continued to shape not only public opinion but invest in cultural significance is the music press.

The literature of rock and roll began with the birth of the music publication in the 1950’s when magazines such as NME (1952) we born. Critics in this field became increasingly important in the promotion of music and their importance lies in their ability to deconstruct meaning out of music for which an audience can consume and interpret as they see fit. When the 1960‘s emerged the aesthetic standards of a music critic began to become more concrete. Writers from the music press began to experiment with different styles to suit this new form of journalism. It was fast and punchy with wham-bam characteristics to reflect and emulate the non-stop notion of rock‘n‘roll. Rock journalists told sanctimonious stories of rock stars and painted images of hope for fans and readers. “We give the kids what they want. We write about their idols”(2005,p198) stated ex NME editor, Alan Smith. But perhaps most importantly of all, there was no element of prejudice in these publications. They simply concentrated on what really mattered - Good music.

“In a society increasingly divided by colour and class, teenagers are able, at least through their music, to transcend those barriers.”(2002,p24)

New music publications began to crop up everywhere. They not only concerned themselves with the publicising of music, they took it further than that. Rolling Stone magazine was launched in November 1967 in San Francisco. Its founder, Jann Wenner, made it their priority to focus on more than just music. “Rolling Stone was for the artists, the industry, and every person who believes the magic can set you free”(1994,p88). By the 70‘s the Rolling Stone became a symbolic marker for youth culture and American politics. Its writers embarked on an earnest and ideological mission to show the public that music was more than just a tune. Critics became gatekeepers of quality with a number of primary concerns, not only to their publications, but to a dedicated following of readers. This chapter intends to highlight the aims of the music critic, focusing on their primary responsibilities as the voice behind the music.

The concept of “Authenticity” in popular music criticism is a notoriously inconsistent term, yet critics in this field have consistently adhered to such a paradigm, expressing its significance and importance when criticising rock and pop music. The problem that arises in this instance is how is the “authentic” article is distinguished from the non-authentic.

Popular rock critic and Sociologist, Simon Frith, describes the term in two ways.

“In the history of rock, two different authenticity discourses flow together. One originates in a folk art paradigm, the other in a version of high art”(2005,p45).

The first definition listed by Frith relates to notions of tradition, community and roots. He highlights that an audience needs to observe some recognisable traits in order to connect with the music. We can see here that past experiences and recognition play a large part in confirming the authenticity of music, and in particular, that the authenticity of a song or album is decided by its listener.

An interview conducted with Jamie Fullerton, current deputy news editor at NME, highlighted some issues regarding authenticity in music criticism. “Anything that is written with music rather than commerce in mind I'd class as authentic.” Fullerton’s theories on this aspect of music criticism do differ slightly from Frith’s. When asked about authenticity as being the primary concern of a rock writer he also believed that the audience play a part in assessing an authentic product.

“Not sure what you mean by authenticity - literally it means "real", so do you mean "not manufactured"? If so, then not really, music is generally listened to on its own terms.”

Arguably Fullerton’s ideas on the topic do lack some academic substance. A number of prominent figures in this field would argue with his assessment on the matter. Ex-Rolling Stone writer Jon Landau, for example, would side with Frith, stressing the importance of the audience, their subconscious and their experiences. “Landau regards rock authenticity as the expression of individuals or groups, but related to traditions, roots and the audience”(2005,p193). The importance of a “lived experience” is labelled as vital by Frith and Landau in assessing the authentic article.

The second definition listed by Frith can be described as opposite to the first. In the case of high art, we can see the article as an authentic product because it deviates from particular traditions and roots and does not conform to such reproductions. This idea of an “original“ product is seen as significantly important when discussing authenticity, partly because it avoids what may be considered to be normal or average - and in an ideological sense, rock music prides itself being anything but average.

Within rock culture, deviating from the norm is seen as essential. Critics, fans and musicians are all searching for something “new” and potentially, although cliché, something “revolutionary”. When rock and roll emerged in the 1950’s, along with the new “teenage” generation, it did exactly this. The likes of Buddy Holly and Chuck Berry introduced a new form of fast paced, rebellious music to the masses and it was a hit. The reason for this is because rock and roll was new and it was created by the artists on their own terms without embracing any level of commercialisation. Modern day music critics know this all too well and that is why the rock stars of the 50’s are labelled as original, real and authentic.

Rock and Roll throughout the 1950’s, 60’s and 70’s was definitive in influencing the music we listen to today. It was an experimental stage which gave rise to a number of sub-genres and it was when rock and roll was at its purest form, untouched by records conglomerates, MTV and commercial pop music. The commentary of rock stars in this era was responsible for shaping the opinions of the public and criticising the social state of the country. Music soon became more than a tune, it became intellectual. In 1962 when Bob Dylan released his self-titled debut, “Bob Dylan” this new rock and roll art form became a whole new academic entity and voice of the people. Where Elvis freed the body with his groovy 50’s rock and roll dance moves, Dylan became a pioneer who freed the mind with near lyrical perfection.

Arguably the greatest rock critic ever, Lester Bangs, believed that the importance of rock as a voice of the people was vital, and it is partly what makes music authentic. “The Clash are authentic because their music carries such brutal conviction”(2005,p194). In this case Lester Bangs has opted for a traditional approach in confirming a bands authenticity. In “Reading Rock and Roll” Kevin Dettmar stated that, “Real rock is always about rebellion, always about disrespect to the hierarchy, a blow to the empire. The authentic article is never the commercial article.”(1999,p25). Dettmar’s definition would confirm The Clash as an authentic group of musicians, not only because of their punk ideologies and protest songs, but because they wrote music from the point of view of the oppressed. They opposed commercialisation and welcomed creativity.

Dettmar’s ideas on the definition of rock and roll lead us on to another topic surrounding the authenticity of music . He stated that “The authentic article is never the commercial article.”(1999,p25) and although a number of critics would probably agree with this comment, it does highlight an area of possible conflict. The first being, how is the word “commercial” defined in this particular instance. In the case of Dettmar the definition he is referring to would be as follows:

“Done for profit: Done for the primary aim of making money”

Although the music industry, and the music press, are both businesses with the primary objective of profit we can agree with Dettmar in this case. Musicians with profit in mind rather than music are subjects manipulated by commercialisation and their music will automatically ignore the idea of authenticity because they are plagued by money and success.

“Musicians make records so that their music can be heard, but they must make them without appearing to be in the embrace of the corporate beast”(1999,p23)

Dettmar’s concern of commercialisation highlights another negative issue of music criticism that is vital when discussing authenticity - The notion of “Selling Out”. This is a term, often overused in music criticism, that can refer to the demise of a previously popular band. Jamie Fullerton of NME described the term as “Compromising artistic values for success”. In the case of authenticity, a band who disregard their previous musical ethics and ideologies in search of success would be considered to be inauthentic.

The idea of “selling out” can be associated with a number of areas within popular culture, but the primary area where its deepest response lies is within rock music. It would make little sense to say that musicians such as Madonna or Britney Spears have “sold out” because they are products of a popular capitalist music scene. They would have very little ethical standards from their birth of their contrived music careers and their music carries little sense of conviction, anger or aggression. One of the key distinctions between rock and roll and pop music is the emphasis on their ideologies and perspective goals. Rock music prides itself on integrity, realness and the search for authenticity. The musical careers of these rock stars is not characterised by a yearning for profit or publicity, its about messing with the system, about making people feel something and its about taking something completely undiscovered and showing it to the world. Rock bands and pop stars ultimately play to a different set of unwritten rules.

“The potency of the idea of ’selling-out’ lies not simply in the selling of recorded music, charging for performances and the marketing of fan merchandise, but in professed attitudes and symbolic responses to the process by which resources are transferred from the ’buyers’ of rock to its sellers.”(1995,p22)

The production and consumption of rock music, in this instance, is characterised by a long term struggle that has been an area of dispute since the 1960’s. Recording artists in the rock and roll field are driven by an enigmatic urge to express their natural creativity, an urge to write something original and utterly unpredictable. The problem that then occurs with these rock acts relates to their “bosses”, the record labels. They are characterised by less of an “urge” and more of a “need”. First and foremost, record labels are a business, and they have a responsibility to ultimately maximise their profits, this may mean that a particular band has to change their sound, style or dumb down their creativity to adhere to a more commercial route. Simon Frith, rock critic and sociologist, notes the negativity of these actions and their effects in the following quote,

“What is bad about the music industry is the layer of deceit and hype and exploitation it places between us and our creativity.”(1995,p21)

Barney Hoskyns, established music critic and author of “Hotel California” and “Waiting for the Sun”, two texts about the history of rock music in California throughout the 60s and 70s, would most certainly side with Frith in this case. He argues that music is not about sales or materialistic intentions. His views reflect the ideological rock and roll dream of untouchable elements that can only be described and never physically grasped.

“Music is about spirit, not matter, it’s about our emotional lives, not our material status.”(2003,p6)

In this area of music criticism and music production, the ideas of philosophical thinker Karl Marx can be highlighted as an issue of concern. We understand that record labels are primarily a business with the main goal of maximising profit but there is dispute over the music press and their primary role. Some would argue that as a printed publication they are primarily a business, but the role of newspapers and magazines is arguably subject to some dispute. Is it a business or should it act as a fourth estate (A voice of the people) ? Marx stated that, “The freedom of the press was not to be a business”. If we were to apply Marx’s ideas to music criticism we can argue that music critics should search for authenticity and then report on it. If critics believe a band has “sold out” or are “inauthentic” then they have the right, the freedom and the responsibility to say so.

An argument opposing Dettmar’s comes from Jamie Fullerton of NME. He believed that commercialisation and authenticity do not have to juxtapose one another. He stated that commercial music could “Definitely” still be authentic music. In some cases the term “selling out” is used as an easy scapegoat by lazy journalists. If a band maintains their previous ethical standards yet are commercially successful then arguably they maintain their authenticity. In this instance, authenticity can be viewed as less of a quality that a band searches for but more of a way of affirming the quality of a band.

Music critic, Leon Rosselson, believes that bands do not exist to adhere to this cliché notion of disrespecting the hierarchy and sticking it to “the man”. His perspectives on a bands existence do not conform to the nostalgic ideologies of Lester Bangs and Simon Frith - He sees music as another form of entertainment, simply constructed for an audience to consume and listen to. His slightly cynical perspective disregards the work and ideas of academics in the music criticism field, who would undoubtedly disagree with him.

“Songs never converted anyone. This is not what they are for. They are for sharing ideas, hopes and feeling about what is sad, funny, ridiculous, horrifying.”(1995,p56)

When Jamie Fullerton (NME) was asked whether an audience can identify with the authenticity of a particular band, his answer reflected that of Rosselson’s. He to views music as a simply constructed form of entertainment. “Audiences aren't really concerned - people just care about a tune. Which is all music really is“. In one way, Fullerton is right, music is just a construction of sounds created by instruments, but as Landau stated in point 5 and Hoskyns stated in point 13, rock music is a lot more than that.

Associated with the idea of “selling out” is the debatable relationship between the record labels who produce these rock bands and the music press themselves. This area of assessment still remains relatively unclear as to the function that each entity is responsible for. Roy Shuker noted that the ideologies of the music press have shifted due to over influence by record labels. His ideas focus on a dependent relationship in which the press and the music industry need one another to maintain existence.

“The music press and critics are not, at least directly, vertically integrated into the music industry…A sense of distance is thereby maintained, while at the same time the need of the industry to constantly sell new images, styles and product is met.”(2002,p6)

This “relationship” has been identified by a number of critics in the field as vital. Both the press and the music industry do rely on one another to sell their products, but the question remains as to what extent they do rely on each other. Barney Hoskyns idea that rock journalism has become little more than a “Service industry”(2003,p5) to the record industry concurs with Shuker’s ideologies. If this is the case then the concept of the authentic article means very little. There can be no concrete authentic product if this industry is as artificial as Hoskyns and Shuker note it to be.

Simon Frith, on the other hand, opposes this argument to some extent. His ideas on the dependency of both industries is not associated with a controlled music press, more of a set of mutual beliefs. In “Pop music and the press” Frith declares this statement,

“Music papers and record companies work together. Not because the papers are ‘controlled’ by the companies advertising, but because their general interpretations of rock are much the same.”(2002,p36)

This suggests that the music press lies untouched by any negative influences of the music industry. It is encouraging to note that the press remain independent in this situation, able to construct autonomous opinions of particular musicians by simply listening to a record, and most importantly of all, they are able to do this on their own terms. This relates back to Marx’s viewpoint - notifying the press as an independent service industry for the people, or in this case, the fans of the music press and the music they publicise.

To regard authenticity as the primary concern of a critic is a bold statement. There are a number of listed arguments that suggest a critic is just another monotonous cog in the publishing industry, there to serve a simple purpose - writing reviews, detaching themselves from the nostalgic romanticism of music, but it is clear that there is more to it than that.

As this chapter has highlighted, there are a considerable number of debatable attributes that help to label the role of a music critic. The aesthetic of rock is that it is distinguishable from what is considered to be “middle brow”. It deviates from the norm and it thrives on tensions and conflict. The idea of “selling out” plays a crucial role in defining what is authentic because rock culture is generally characterised by deviating from a commercial framework set in stone by our mass consumer society. Perhaps the most important thing to note is that rock journalism, more than any other form of journalism, is not about detachment, in fact it’s about the complete opposite.

There is a very real connection between a rock bands search for authenticity, a fans search for authenticity and a critics search for authenticity. It demonstrates a tightly woven community of people with shared values and dreams - All of whom are in search of that artistic integrity and mythical romantic genius.

Music critic, Nick Cohn, classifies this intrinsic fantasy as sociological need, in which critics deliver this notion of the rock vision to the people. “Rock is a dream, a heaven, an imagined community of lonely boys with subversive attitudes. Life itself is all about listening to records.”(2002,p49). For critics like Cohn, music criticism is about conveying that illicit hope of love and love lost. It’s about telling an audience that rock and roll is alive in our hearts and in our souls, it’s about conveying that indescribable magic of when you first hear a record - And when this is all said and done, it’s far from just a record, it’s a beacon of hope that shapes a generation with stories that only appear real when we close our eyes. And that, more than anything else, is authentic.

Why The Gaslight Anthem Could Save Rock 'n' Roll...

What's this whole god damn obsessive musical exploit about? People have been asking this very question for years, I even wrote a dissertation on the issue. Why oh why do we lustingly drawl over countless records, songs, albums, visions, ideas and idealistic imagery of some seemingly deluded rock and roll dream?

There probably isn't an answer to this question, or perhaps simply a bias one. I, for one, would agree with the late, great music hack, Lester Bangs. The literary junkie once penned the following statement that holds the honest truth behind our reasoning and begins to pave way to the construction of a predictably long-winded answer.

'The main reason we listen to music in the first place is to hear passion being expressed...'

For an unanswerable question, that's not a bad answer. Passion, ey? sounds about right. There's nothing more desirable than seeing a band bellow their hearts out with real soul and meaning, the ache of heartbreak, the pain of loss etc. etc. I mean, that's probably what makes this whole deal worthwhile and as exciting as it can be. When passion's delivered in this way, heartfelt and purely, you know it's real and authentic - and that could be the most rewarding feeling in the world.

Passion, however, is a loose pathway of problems in the fickle music biz of today when acts are picked up quicker than Lindsay Lohan fuck tokens and dropped faster than an Ordinary Boys comeback record - thus passion's become sparse and almost mythical as we loose faith in this industry and the hum-drum, monotonous acts who inhabbit it.

In a Channel 4 interview with Courteeners frontman and songsmith, Liam Fray, the surprisingly wise twenty-something singer talked of a recent festival experience of his that pretty much hit the button. Fray spoke of countless bands who graced an unnamed festival stage with their egos in hand and a lacklustre collection of beige tunes in the other, rambling on like everyone was there to see them, a fact obviously misconstrued in the festival experience. Fray stated how only a small percentage of the crowd would actually be there to watch that particular band so why settle for that - win the other fuckers over! You've got an opportunity that many would give their right bollock for, so play your hearts out, show some soul, show some vehemence and for gods sake, show some fucking passion!

Sadly this idealistic vision is just a crumbling dream of musical hopefuls, like myself, who for some screwed-up reason still have faith in the rock and roll world.

Passion was rife when rock and roll was breeding like a troupe of horny rabbits in the 60s and 70s because that was all people had to give them hope. Certain individuals like Neil Young and Bruce Springsteen had something to sing for, something worth fighting for, something so fantastically soulful that they had an unwritten obligation to write these aggro epics about - but now we live in a hand fed generation of settled prick-wits who get what they want when they want, so what's the point?

Thankfully for us New Jersey's Gaslight Anthem think we've got something worth loving and worth singing for. Brian Fallon and co have been hailed by the press and the critics as this years Hold Steady, a working class gang of rock 'n' lust story telling romantics, but they're a lot more than that, they're a gateway to the dying dream that rock and roll has the ability to construct for us.


Primarily it's their songs - duh, obvious! but it's true. Their romanticised vision of endless summer nights and sweeping relationships with young beauties who grace your life with their angle-like presence depict what everyone is searching for. Poetically construed over a variety of smash and grab, distorted punk-rock, plaid shirted anthemic punches but also, and rather effortlessly, over the delicate pickings of a simple acoustic guitar. Much in the way that Springsteen could unsuspectingly blow your gonads off with a power-thrusting version of 'It's So Hard To Be A Saint In This City' and then quickly slow the mood with an aching tickle of dainty wisdom in something like 'Atlantic City', these boys have this exact same, and rather rare, ability.

For instance. The nostalgic swoons heard on 'Blue Jeans And White T Shirts' from their eponymous e.p are completely contrasted by the stomping acceleration of the cascading esoteric 'Backseat' from their most recent album 'The '59 Sound'. And although these two songs appear at two totally different ends of the spectrum they're much the same in that they provide an honest story of hope, a love for something untouchable and they take you on a journey.


Alongside their catalogue of street-wise yearning sagas comes the fact that singer-songwriter and guitarist Brian Fallon is the most charismatic man in music right now. A good lookin' young spotlight hugging individual, he's a real rock star. His husky Americana vocals scream hometown pride, tattooed with sleeves of alluring beauty and always grinning ear-to-ear, he embellishes an infectious enthusiasm that's near impossible to shake off.

Better than this though, he's a humble enchanting type. Never out spoken and always grateful, Fallon resembles a fifties movie star of the people - a heroic figure of Utopian aspiration he gleams a ray of promise. Try and fight this fact and you're pretty fucked because he's totally and utterly undeniable, mesmerizing and charmingly hypnotic.

While at Glastonbury this year I was lucky enough to see The Boss enter stage right during the Gaslight's set to help Fallon blast through 'the 59 sound'. This was a truly euphoric moment that saw the past accompany the present. Old heroes joining hands with new heroes, and the reason that this was so special was that it created a rapturous atmosphere that saw both individuals elated to simply be playing music together. It's an old fashioned analogy but it really was authentic and in particular, refreshing. It's not often you see bands that excited but boy oh boy when they are you feel it too.

The video below is from Hard Rock Calling in Hyde Park. This happened on the Sunday of Glastonbury so I was unable to attend. I've posted this video instead of the Glastonbury one because it's better quality and I think Fallon and The Boss go at it a little harder.



It's lyrics like 'We sing with our heroes 33 rounds per minute, we're never going home until the sun says we're finished' and 'honey we came to dance with the girls with the stars in their eyes...never break their hearts, never make them cry' that inject that illicit nostalgia back into music, because lyric wise, the thing that's going to touch an audience is stories of the past, dead and gone heroes, lost romances etc. etc.

In between songs Fallon loves nothing more than to talk to the audience. Talk about the songs, his life, his influences and all that jazz and this is something that seems to have died out. It's become - get in there, play the set and fuck off. When you fall in love with a band you fall in love with everything about them and therefore you want to feel like you know the people crafting your musical fantasies and why they do so. Lets face it, you're not going to get La Roux having a chat with an audience, she's got a job to do and you ain't getting anything else out of her so don't even try!

In the interview below you can begin to see Fallon's gentle and reserved old fashioned grace.



I think that come 2010 it'll all be in full flow. The boys already have a back catalogue containing one four track e.p and two albums so we can hope for a third on the horizon. It took Springsteen the release of his third fell length studio album (Born To Run) to really grab the attention of the world, so what's to say this is going to be any different? I'm hopeful in Fallon. He's a visionary and a talented young song writer who is clearly only getting better. With that in mind, take it away boys...

Jamie T - Kings And Queens

It's been around three years since the release of Jamie Treays honestly depicted, Mercury Prize nominated, adolescent-rambling debut. A wonderfully rough, anti-sugar coated record that highlighted the perks of dingy corner boozing and runaway teenage scamps - it seems that the impact 'Panic Prevention' made on British music may have gone slightly unnoticed and undernourished, because lets face it, the brik-a-brak near-rap effort solidified a skatty future of beloved new-age English eccentricity.

I fell in love with London after hearing 'Panic Prevention', and not the sort of contrived, fad-skipping, trend-hopping, fake-painted imagery of a no-hoper Arcadian, Bohemian dream that fabricated poets of Brick Lane transcend. It was more the grime, the dirt and the gutter of backstreet boozers and unrequited teenage love affairs - a twisted Romanticism of youthful lust that peaks to the stars and falls back to the sewers of the infected streets.

Where the Arctic's whimsically outlined our love for weekends on the streets knocking back bargain shots and chasing the various mini-skirt clad teases of the tiles, Treays detailed a different side of these activities. Drugs and so forth. When he rattled out 'Max said beans are like the touch of God' on his debut I thought to myself, Jamie T knows what's going on - fuck me, I hope he can keep this up.

And now, here it is - 'Kings And Queens'. A spit'n'chewed mosaic of refined patchwork rusticity, Treays has returned wiser with a surpassing gaggle of more guts and flaunting fuckability to produce possibly the best record of this year.

I think what we truly love about Jamie T's records is his stripped down, vulnerable honesty. At what first appears to be the juvenile skits of a cheeky capital inhabitant soon transcends into mature pin-pointed wisdom of a humble street dwelling veteran, much as is first dotted genuinely in album opener '368' as Treays slurs 'It's the only way that your getting out, if you hang around boys round here they'll bring you down'.

After the rushed rabble of recent e.p title track, 'Sticks 'n' Stones', comes an anthemic back-in-the-day punk influenced epic punch of chorus driven brilliance, 'The Man's Machine'. Its distinctly urbanised old-school skins'n'punks opening sample sets the foundations of what we've come to know as Treays main influential vein. It's a big song that completely contrasts the inner-city romanticism of the acoustic simplicity heard in the beautiful 'Emily's Heart' that, if for only an instance, breaks the up-tempo rush-around knee jerking speed heard on the majority of this record.

'Chakus Demus', as you probably already know, keeps with Treays now ever-so well attained sound while 'Castro Dies' embodies a clean-cut dark sense of U.K hip hop with some shadowy bleeps and beats and the quickly spit distinct vocals of some imperfectly delivered, yet ever-so perfect, vocals that trickle above the hookiest of hooks.

To once again confirm the aptitude and endless capabilities of this curb-side troubador all we can do is listen to the last three tracks of this record. 'Earth, Wind And Fire' hops like dashed pebbles over a pit of eerie filth, quickly switched up on 'British Intellegence' that pops and drops like any hit single from 'Panic Prevention' and finally, this eclectic affair is concluded by 'Jilly Armeen'. An affectionate album closer of dainty lovability and softheartedness, it's the sort of song that we've always wanted Treays to write - a simplistic, hook-laden penchant that's a little more gracefully delivered than his previous acoustic ditties such as 'Back In The Game' and the acoustic demo of 'If You've Got The Money'.

Treays influences on his second effort have remained much as they were on his debut. There's a gritty Clash-like ethos, some Sham 69 aggy over-the-top acceleration muddled in with a distinct scroll of 80's ska, a well put-together duo of John Martyn meets Mick Jones meets Mike Skinner dreamy acoustic pennings, but as always, and possibly most importantly, he's not taken this whole fucking dog and pony show too seriously - and that could be the secret.

Brighton's Salvation - The Lanes

I've always queried why Brighton's music scene has never quite produced an act to the potential of its possibilities. On paper it's a breeding ground of brilliance with it's numerous back alley buskers and run-down pubs filled with musical hopefuls, but in reality, it's become a bit of sodomised stag-weekender cauterized by the trail end of The Kooks success and the countless acts honing in on this popular swill pit of substanceless droll so that they can shamelessly attempt to ride the fading ripples of the tidal wave left by these pop sensations.

I mean, the bohemian seaside town dicks all over London's supposed cultural hubs of creativity that plinths image over content in almost any circumstance. Obsessed by the latest passing trend of musical massacre and the glorified shit-storm genre-swapping, synth-chopping tornado left every other week by some soon-to-be irrelevant fuck-wit, I would say it's a churned up, over-rated, minefield of pretentiousness that needs to be extinguished.

Brighton needs something to shoot it back up to the top of the tree. Something that once again flashes glimpses of subversive euphoria and overthrowing enchantment. We've had the Maccabees (who arn't even from Brighton) and other than a handful of heardcore-punk outfits there's been little to give me hope that this spiritual location can actually deliver the fucking goods that it's due to do so.


Enter The Lanes. I saw this group first perform at the gaining-infamous Prince Albert pub while watching New Street Adventure support. I'm usually disappointed with the tirade of fruitless and vain scum-rags who parade the Albert stage at these types of shows, but this was different, this was exciting.

Smashing into a set of trippy psychedelia, the local Brighton gang began to fuse the rock and roll purity of BRMC and the spaced-out, technicolour dance-groove of The Happy Monday's while maintaining the fervour and quality of the Doves. And better than all of that, they provided an authentic performance that demonstrated that they didn't give two flaming shits about image or scenes or all of that monotonous monkey crap that stigmatises new music.

'Raw Ether' is a audio acid trip that paints mind-boggling images of Joy Division's eerie howl humping the elongated growl of Oasis while remaining distinctly Southern, which proves to be vital in this case, primarily because they confirm they are a Southern band and proud of it, they don't need to adhere to any sort of Northern Brit-rock legacy by changing their accent or singing about the lulls of being working class and still wallowing in the oppression of Thatcher's fuck-ups past.

I found their humble presence comforting, which is a dodgey area of assesment at times because this music is partly characterised by attitude and swagger, but only if you've got the gonads to pull off such a stunt. But in this case, a hitatus of ego's was rather lovely, and after hearing them screw the soundwaves of the earth's atmosphere during their set the ever-tiresome, probably disgustingly dullard cliche of music being their outlet of rage actually applied and actually made a shit-load of usually dried up but-not-so-much-now sense.

I'm unable to attain any of their tunes as of now because they're a tiddly band without any major label interest but thrust yourself upon their myspace for some kaleidoscopic whirlwind of splashed out rock'n'smash-your-nuts-off wonderfulness. The Lanes, Brighton's best new band.

http://www.myspace.com/thelanesuk

And I Thought They'd Liver Forever

Following Noel Gallagher's long overdue departure from Oasis on 29th August, the brainless colloquy on everyone's lips is - can Liam go it alone?

The answer to this is incredibly simple. Of course he fucking can't!

The Oasis frontman has become obsolete in the previous years. The arrogance and self-righteous smugary of L. Gallager that previously adorned the punchy rock and roll rush of this beloved Manc outfit has since transposed itself from untouchable, ivory-tower indie icon to a paradoxical figure of what once symbolised greatness and now simply embodies gimmickry and frills that encapsulate nothingness - a substanceless image of ruined brilliance swallowed by his own self-proclaimed genius that transcends as both mockery and counterfeit accomplishment.

And now Liam also has his mind on other things. A handful of months ago he released his new clothing range - Pretty Green. A bland collection of over-priced, lifeless and sluggish garms that provide a visual mark for Liam's moronic and opinion less followers. Anyone caught in this dreadful clobber needs no introduction as we already know their stance on this subject and their sheep-and-Sheppard affiliation.

He's let the music go to shit with his new fashionista lifeline, but this has simply been the catalyst of their prolonged corruption, because lets face it, the cracks in Oasis began to creep into their bloodline long before Liam decided to go all Vivianne Westwood on us.


Discussions regarding their epic Knebworth gig in 1996 have frequently orbited around the subject matter of should they have called it a day then and there? Luke Lewis of NME discussed this rather brilliantly on his recent blog (found at nme.com). He made compatible points that make a lot of sense, and after the tirade of typical Oasis numb-skulls hounding the NME hack with various blubbering statements of both unexplainable worthlessness and their typical geezer-like aggression, it was in fact obvious who surfaced victorious. And despite what people think about me, if you know me that is, I often dispute the aimless garbage that stains the various pages of NME, but in this case I agree with Mr Lewis, this farce has dragged on for too long.

Ask yourself seriously: When was the last time Oasis made a truly brilliant album? Fucking years is the answer, and that's the truth. In my own worthless opinion it was 'The Masterplan', an album compiled of b-side and tracks that never made it onto full length albums - all of which were written by Noel, bar 'I am The Walrus', and we all know who wrote that.


'Heathen Chemistry' had its moments, but moments were all. 'Don't Belive The Truth' was overrated and generally uber predictable, lacking in any real gut-wrenching rockable grit. 'Dig Out Your Soul' was poor, and I truly believe that. 'Standing On The Shoulders...' well, even Liam thinks it's a feckless flap of musical exploration, so the less said about that the better.

You may disagree, you may agree, I don't really care. But, for me anyway, music, and rock and roll in particular, has always been characterised by two tings: attitude and emotion. Laim's got attitude, that's evident, but emotion? that's Noel's area - especially considering he's the primary songsmith behind the band.

You need both these clogs to function together, in harmony if you like, for a rock and roll band to work. You need talent (Noel) and you need swagger (Liam), but you need them together, whether they like each other or not, and in some cases hate and resentment will be responsible for some truly fucked up yet thrilling art - therefore the future of this band is about as bright as Basra's.

Noel's the talent, the song writer, the genius, the whit, the skill and the whole god damn fairground ride, so without him, I think you'll find it's dead.

The River Rat Pack Tour

Three barges, eight artists and seven free gigs. Six Nation State, Beans On Toast, Nat Jenkins and four other acts embark hit the river for Oxford charity gigs.

From 30 August to 6 September a number of bands will be travelling on three barges along the Thames, playing gigs at various stops on the way in order to raise money for Oxfam.

Brighton's answer to Bob Dylan, Mr Nat Jenkins, will be along for the ride. A folk-rock driven husky voiced, knee-slappin' country type, Nat has a rather impressive back catalogue of demo's and a number of Kooks support slots under his belt. He's a real breath of fresh air in this synth obsessed generation, plus he's got a cracking voice.

Southampton's Six Nation State and London's gritty voiced, three-foot tall, forty-a-day, fuck the smoking ban, acoustic whit child, Beans On Toast, will also be there to amuse you with his general stance on world issues. Plus loads more bands!

All the gigs are free so there's no excuse not to go really.

Jamie T - Chaka Demus

After recording his second full length studio album, 'Kings And Queens', which is to be released early September and the release of four track e.p 'Sticks 'n' Stones', Jamie T has gone and got himself all excited. In a recent interview with NME the Wimbledon wordsmith explained how he is having a creative streak at the moment, churning out countless songs with no where to go. Due to this, Jamie T is to release another e.p on 31 August titled 'Chaka Demus'.

This video available to watch on this installment is the new title track from his forthcoming second e.p of the year.

The one accolade that follows Jamie T constantly is his aptitude for creating something that seems distinctly British. His slurred ramblings of drinking, chasing girls and getting up to general mischief on the streets of the big smoke exude a sense of working class, weekend banter. A proud man in what he does, never has Jamie sugar-coated a situation or shyed away from the bitter truth, and thankfully this remains.

Always rather varied in his musical approach to records, be it electro-bleeping or near-rap word-play, new single 'Chaka Demus' is one of the popiest beats he's produced so far. His immaculate cockney spit continues a vivacious trail through the fleeting verses while the chorus' sees him attain a melodic streak in which he sweetly moans on yet another set of outlandishly contagious sing-a-long lyrics of patriotism and the brilliance of Britain.

Where 'Sticks 'n' Stones' contained four individual tracks, each of which displayed Jamie's potential, it will be interesting to see how his second e.p fairs after he's re-established himself as a potent force in British music.

Tracklisting:

1. Chaka Demus (Single Version)
2. Forget Me Not (The Love I Knew Before I Grew)
3. Planning Spontaneity
4. When They Are Gone (for Tim)

Good Shoes - The Way My Heart Beats

2006 was a blossoming year for a new wave of indie bands. It seemed that every where you turned there was a growing band who actually had something decent to contribute to the scene, and when we look back on it, I think we were in fact over whelmed with new, innovative acts, all of whom seemed to be under twenty years old. What with the exploding success of the Arctic's slightly prior to this everyone was excitable, who knew what would happen next?

We had Eel Pie Island hermits and general odd-balls, Larrikin Love. A gang of urban gypsies who set the London scene ablaze with their amazingly fantastic and utterly underrated debut record, 'Freedom Spark'. Then there was near-by Jamie T from Wimbledon. A cut-the-crap, fast talking, street dwelling wordsmith who's debut effort was near revolutionary. Weaving various patches from hip-hop to ska and indie to rap, the urban troubadour penned a genre-hoping first effort that put him very much in the driving seat of popularity. Next up was Brighton inhabitants The Maccabees. A sophistocated gang of quiet types whose lovable and bright art-pop was technically mastered, honestly heart-felt and rather different to everything else that was floating about, not to mention they returned with a tremendous second effort.

In between these bands a number of other floated around with enthusiasm and potential. Dustins Barmitzvah, Louie, Mystery Jets, Cajun Dance Party and Kid Harpoon poked their heads out for a glimpse and all released some wonderful first demo's and perhaps the odd album, but little remains after that.

Morden's Good Shoes were another one of these bands to add to the list. Their 2006 e.p 'We Are Not The Same' and their 2007 debut album, 'Think Before You Speak', were two rousing records that never quite reached their full potential. After a number of tours and some rather hectic shows Good Shoes then just disappeared a little.

This hiatus, it seems, has been spent wisely though. The London four-piece who previously thrilled us with tales of dissatisfaction and malcontent have returned with an arousing, speedy, indie-jab in the form of new track, 'The Way My Heart Beats', from which two things seem clear.

The first is singer-guitarist Rhys Jones' voice. Despite their stimulating and rip-roaring performances, it was clear that his vocals were a little inadequate. He wasn't the best singer and this came across even more in the live shows in which Jones struggles at points to catch his breathe and sing to his full potential. Now, however, there seems to be a more refined echo to his generally better vocals.

The second is their uber-catchy song writing. 'The Way My Heart Beats' is a sing-along of contagious tendencies that's in and out quicker than a virgin in a brothel. It's a quickly executed, stripped-down guitar spit that does the job in the time needed, quick and effective.

You can download the Good Shoes new track from their website, or better still, from the link below.

Download Good Shoes - The Way My Heartbeats

The XX

In this instance it appears that the hype surrounding South London band The XX is in fact pretty true. Their alluring timid-pop self titled debut is a fantastic surprise that makes the list alongside this years other top-notch records.

The XX are four 19 year olds, school friends I believe, whose simple, modest pop delicacies range from gentle male-female duets to smokey, atmospheric echoes of beauty. They come across as awfully humble, and although simplistic and shy in parts, it's their frill-absent, basic approach to things that crafts their enchanting love sick urbanised coos.

Single 'Basic Space' is driven by two sets of vocals and a ethereal ticking beat while 'Shelter' is a love-lusting, relationship-questioning ditty of a stripped down nature - easily consumed and easily adored, The XX are teen-beauties who have demonstrated an outlandish sense of maturity for such tender young'uns, successfully honing in on the fact that a devotion to integrity and clarity is sometimes all it takes.

Download The XX - Shelter

3OH3

I first heard about this emo-crunk-core duo around four months ago during their Katy Perry (urgh!) support slots on her European tour. A lot of new-age, down-with-the-kids terms have been following these boys around. Apparently they're on lock down with the 'scene kids', which can never be bad, because lets face it, if you want to influence someone it's probably best to infiltrate the most fickle of genre-hoping, fashion-swapping cock-jobs. But that's not their fault.

Their debut album 'Want' is a heavy fucking fusion of electro crunk-drop beats, Lil John 'Yeeeeaaahhhhs!', emo-core breakdowns, hip-rock meets Bloodhound Gang humorous lyrical flow and a whole host of synth screeches entwined with white-boy, middle class, girl obsessed rap. A mouthful at the best of times.

Usually I'm not one for music and humor together but here I'm converted. This is a fast-paced and exciting record that could potentially revolutionise the dance scene. The Colorado jokers who are responsible for this electro-hop mess are Sean Foreman and Nathaniel Motte. They met in a Physics class while attending college together in their home town of Boulder, and after reading a number of interviews with them I don't think they're the type of guys to take things too seriously, and this couldn't be reflected any better in their debut record.

'Chokechain' is a weighty bomb-drop of scuzzy electro beats and growly, dirty-south crunk-drunk vocals that snaps your spine in two, while 'Don't Trust Me' is a rap-trap of emo-core and bleep-tweak electro clashes. The whole 'funny' side of this is admirable. The fact that they're really not too bothered about what people think or what substance-less scene they fit into is a good thing, all too often bands try to adhere to such worthless credentials with pathetic results, but not these guys.

What they've created, despite its tongue-in-cheek persona, is in fact quite clever. Their amalgamation of genres, production quality and the general catchiness of their debut record shows this band to have a serious side, and I believe that 3OH!3 are ones to watch out for.

Download 30h!3 - Chokechain

Download 3oh!3 - Starstrukk

Amazing Baby - Rewild

Pals of fellow Brooklyn psych-pop pups, MGMT, Amazing Baby's debut suggests that they've taken a slightly more experimental trip than their tie-died associates.

Absent in the mainstream appeal of 'Oracular Spectacular', the East Coast quintet discard any Andrew VanWyngarden knock-off preconceptions by providing a spaced out, hallucinogenic trip that dribbles like a drugged Love mounting Yeasayer's various eclectic echoes. Stoned bliss shines through the grittiness of 'Deerripper' while album opener 'Bayonets' takes a bench-mark making stance with an Elvis Costello-like vocal performance over a multi-coloured psych-pop backdrop.

The fact that this band's own dreamy prog-pastiche can range from kaleidoscopic Zeppelin-like detonations to Bowie driven post-rock starry-eyed glamour is an achievement in itself, what is not however, is Amazing Baby's irresolute and wavering search for a solid musical identity.

We're not talking generic labels of pop and rock here, just singer Will Roan's lack of vocal consistency. One minute he's chirping melodically on 'Invisible Palace' the next he's slouching it on 'Dead Light'. It's nit-picking a little but there's something a slightly capricious about it that drowns out some level of integrity which suggests Amazing Baby have tried to cover too many bases.

Overall though, pretty darn majestic.

Devil Of The Airwaves

Too long has this radio-wench soiled the airwaves with empty-headed, know-nothing, chart-derby tripe. The time has come to amputate Jo Whiley’s lasting limbs of musical association.

Prior to the internet, music television and all the other sub-sections of our new age media that publicise, promote and expose new music, the only viable life line that existed was the radio. After being bought to life in the early 1900’s this revolutionary form of broadcast media established itself as a powerful medium in British society - influencing, persuading and informing people from all corners of our humble island.

In a nutshell, music began to find its way onto the radio in the 1960s. Pirate stations, such as Radio Caroline, began to broadcast their shows from off the coast of the United Kingdom, and although illegal, they quickly gained a reputation as reputable sources for musical deliverance. The first recorded attempt of broadcasting from these stations was in 1964 and rumour has it that the opening song played was ‘Not Fade Away’ by The Rolling Stones, a great start I think we would agree.

But as with all groundbreaking commodities and mould-smashing musical innovations this was short lived. The Government saw potential in this medium and had to get its grubby little paws on part of the pie. Therefore in September 1967 Radio One was set up by the BBC as a direct reaction to the offshore pirate stations who, by that time, had been recently outlawed by an Act of Parliament.

The rest, as they say, is history. We all know the score. DJ’s of various statures, tastes and classes came and went, notably the late great John Peel who shaped a lot of music as we know it today. Clearly the BBC knew John needed to be left to his own devices, letting the new-wave innovator play whatever he desires, and with good reason. And although as predictable as ever, no one has challenged the pioneer and very few figures probably ever will, especially that hot-headed, self-assured, dimwit Miss Jo Whiley.

I recently read in an interview that this absent-minded so called DJ dislikes any music prior to 1980. What? Sorry Jo, you don’t like any music prior to 1980? Well sharpen your axe and get the stage ready, this pop-chump musical stigma is up for the chop.

When The Who played Hyde Park a few years back Miss Whiley was presenting it with some other smarmy, crap-grinned toss pot. A lucky gig some might think. I mean, The Fucking Who! When asked what she thought of their set, which may I add included ‘Baba O’Riley’, ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again’ and ‘My Generation’, the ignorant bimbo felt it unfair, shall we say, to reply with a legitimate answer due to her…stance on music prior to the invasion of disgustingly rank, glammed-up, substance-less 80’s scene.

How on Gods green earth can someone have so much power in the broadcast media if she will not open her padlocked and curiously empty mind to music made in the 60s and 70s, which may I add was an era responsible for the greatest music our fucking country had ever seen. Led Zeppelin, Bad Company, The Clash, The Rolling Stones…I could really go on.

What is Radio One thinking? The obvious analogy is that these money hungry, fuck-wits don’t give two flying shits about music. Passionless suits with pound signs fluttering around their debauched heads are bad enough in our Government, but to discover that similar heartless, moronic, cretins reside in our beloved music industry really takes the biscuit. I actually makes me quite sick.

And Whiley’s lack of acceptance and musical knowledge is not the only problem. That numskull also has the audacity to praise the likes of Mika, Pixie Lott and Daniel Meriwether as pioneering and novel acts who are assisting our nation on its search for our illicit musical dream. Give me a break you self-righteous dunce. She’s as bad as those talent less, chart-hungry, soulless puppets. As they stain our airwaves with their reproduced and undernourished twaddle, as does she with her high-and-mighty jibber jabber.

The likes of Steve LaMacq have given it a worthy shot. He’s a great DJ with a varied show that clearly demonstrates awareness and diversity, breaking through a number of new acts and establishing the legacy of old ones. Even Zane Lowe gets my thumbs up. Although the New Zealand born DJ seems to like absolutely everything ever, his enthusiasm outweighs his gullibility and he knows his music very well.

Why oh why are we not filling up Whiley’s slot with characters like the ones above? Well, although listeners have a big part to do with it and not everyone likes a guitar, at least find someone with a little more fervour. This deluded individual is a walking corruption, destroying past legacy’s as she chitter-chatters on about extraneous drivel that reeks of egotistical self-assurance, not to mention she thought the Darkness were the next best thing….that needs to insult because she’s done my job for me there.

Take your Heat magazine Miss Whiley, take your latest Mark Ronson demo and your newest boredom inducing Amy Winehouse interview and please vacate to Heart FM where your can roll around in all of your sanctimonious, smug, superiority.

Broken Records - Until The Earth Begins To Part

Edinburgh's multi-instrumentalists, Broken Records, embody a more cultured side of Scotland. Discarding social errors such as copious alcohol consumption, knife crime and job seekers, this cultivated gang of eclectic educators clatter poetically like an eastern block Arcade Fire.

Balkan toe-tapping jig 'If The News Makes You Sad...' becomes an early competitor for the album's highlight, a shame really, because the influences and inventive inclinations of this record are there, they're just delivered in such a sombre manor that it the album's low points begin to drag a little.

It's easy to see how songs such as 'If Eilert Loevbord...' and 'If The News...' could come across as rather electrifying, zestful live songs. They reek enthusiasm and you can envisage the troupe hop-scotching over the stage like excitable offspring bred on a diet of folk music and gloomy novels predicting the earths perils. 'Wolves', further more, is a successful piano twinkle that comes across as a lot more natural than other songs on the album. The influences are seriously obvious during parts of this debut and can come across a little too abruptly at times, but on 'Wolves' it's less encroaching and a little more...well, Broken Records.

'Slow Parade' isn't quite the album closer you'd expect. After admiring the hectic, hair-raising high-points of the album's finer, more magnificent moments, you would expect something a little more epic. Where Sutherland's voice is heart-wrenchingly accurate it just seems like the hysterical musical thrill expected by various fiddles, horns and guitars is a bit too absent.

I'm not disappointed, not by a long shot. It's got its operatic, eruptive moments that bellow like the Broken Records we expected, but when it gets too delicate it gets too dull. They've got more to give, and more is what we want.

Two Gllants - Where art thou?

Whatever happened to the Two Gallants?

If I recall correctly I remember that the San Francisco two-piece were slowly gaining a reputable name for themselves. Husky country-rock moans and aggy grubby-folk foot stompin' fun, they may have been a little bleak but they made one hell of a rowdy racket.

Signed to Saddle Creek, the two brothers who made up the band were talented little buggers. Guitarist and man of the pipes, Adam Stephens, had the playing ability of Jack White and a voice to match, but the Gallants had more of a country, rootin' tootin', booze-fuelled howl to them. Something dark and depressing was covered by layers of mass guitar thrashing, throat-grazing bellows and to-the-bone playing, but at no point did the mournful mooding start to fade, it was always in the back of your mind.

I saw them play the infamous 100 Club on Oxford Street a few years ago, and it was sold out. A year or so later I saw them play Audio in Brighton, and it was sold out. Three albums and one e.p down and they're no where to be seen on the shores of the U.K. Will they ever come back? I don't rightly know...but it would be nice.

The Darlings

I went to New York once and the one thing that I have to say about that little excursion was that New Yorkers are the most self-obsessed, closed minded, rudest fucking people I have ever met. The cringe-worthy patriotism is near vomit inducing and the countless crop-topped, chino wearing, bird-perving twenty-somethings really defined the word asshole for me while I was there. But the scenery, oh boy, the scenery, that was lovely.

I felt set in my ignorant ways after this. I don't like these people I thought. Naive? oh probably so, but I was really quite shocked at how some people could act, especially around some of my female friends. Dirty perverted, cock-sure, toss pots. But! and there's always a but, I like to think that at any point this can change.

Maybe I just had a dodgy experience with these people. It was obvious we didn't quite go to the right places when I walked into a club playing some ghetto-garbage crunk music, but it was a holiday, so fuck it, yeah? I'm always willing to be open minded though, and the new Darlings record has made me think that maybe there's a light at the end of the subway.

A lavishly lo-fi indie outfit from the East Coast, they've harnessed elements all the way from static-shoegaze to skippy, beach-bound surf-rock that sounds like The Beach Boys with an added get-up-and-riot Stokes mentality.

'Teenage Girl' gives heed to past simplicity. It's an utterly indie back-to-basics song with obligatory 'do do do', but surprisingly this track extinguishes all your preconceptions of its bubbly, wide-grinned attributes as a splatter of unexpected distortion begins to kick up a shit-fit mid-way though, leaving the path wide open for 'If This Is Love' and it's West Coast, stoner teenage revolt that screams scruffy hair and rip curl.

'We're Not Going' is a Sunkist Cali head-boper that closes the last rays of the Summer sun before we hit the torrential rain and long nights of nothing to do. A cheeky and rather predictable solo ensues, but you know what? this isn't a ground breaking record, but it was never meant to be, it's simply a barrel load of fun that encases summer in a fistful of songs for you to break open when the gloomy winter gets too much.

Female Folk Revival

After the over whelming success of Laura Marling's debut last year, the female singer-songwriter has taken a bit of a dip. It's less folk and Fender's these days and a little more 'lectro and Little Boots.

There's no doubt that the likes of Florence, La Roux and MIA have proved themselves this year. All have crafted innovative records that shattered creative boundaries and smashed preconceptions of synth-splashed crap, with Florence in particular demonstrating a comfortable ability to wow a crowd with jaw dropping performances, outlandish outfits and pitch-perfect, high note hitting screeches.

But I've got to say, I kind of miss the delicate pluckings of last years success stories. Adele, Marling and Nash, prior to her album's release, showed an aptitude for love songs and heart-wrenching, folk-provoking, pop ditties that bought back to life the likes of Joan Baez, Emmylou Harris and Joni Mitchell.

Their songs fuelled by male malfunctions, relationship problems and love tackling tribulations have proved to be an influence on countless acts throughout the years, and talent, in this case, is undeniable with influence sure to follow...


Jolie Holland is a Texan born singer-songwriter whose bluesy, Southern velvet like voice is rich in a very jazz club-like, seductive slur. Trumpets and horns tip-toe over 'Old Fashioned Morphine' like an underground 1950's New York hot spot. Whiskey in crystal glasses, single women looking for love and a musky air of cigar smoke circulates this wholesome swoon like a Marilyn Monroe black and white tale of lust and sinister romance.

Download jolie holland - Old Fashioned Morphine


Next up is Megan Washington. Megan grew up in Papua New Guinea, and moved to Brisbane at quite a young age. Her delicate, rustic ticklings of simplicity ring with originality and a quaint sense of modern pop intelligence. 'One Man Band' jogs along like Marling's 'The Captain And The Hour Glass' with a skipping drum and an escalating tempo of whistles and grins.

It's the type of guitar based clapping-folk pop that the likes of Kt Tunstell can only long to create. It's got a commercial sound but remains under the radar of corporate pop for the simple reason that it's probably too good for the charts and its dullard followers. Not to mention its wishful lyrical wisdom is far to clever for Radio 1 and T4.

Download Washington - One Man Band


The final act of this mini feature is the Portland songstress, Mirah. Born in Philadelphia in 1974 this soft-voiced young lady provides the most subtle of today's songs. '100 Knives' is as delicately basic as it comes with Mirah's voice proving to be the main instrument. Primarily it's a love song about long days lost under bed sheets in the fortress of your own home. Her voice peaks pretty darn high at points but remains perfect throughout.

Download mirah - 100 Knives

Now, these performers are hardly new. Some have have studio albums dating back to 2002, and more importantly, I'm not disregarding the likes of Regina or Cat Power, I'm simply shinning some much deserved light on these talented young ladies who need a little recognition.

Edward Sharpe And The Magnetic Zeros

In the 1960s Los Angeles was a thriving community of hipsters, daydreamers and visionaries who lived by their own laurels, carefree and footloose, unhindered by the pressure of modern day commodities and pompous properties. We all know the score. Impromptu porch jamming, drugged up desert exploration and a near-cult neighbourhood who sing, play and fuck one another on a regular basis.

For Edward Sharpe And The Magnetic Zeros this hedonistic habitat of simplicity is something of a utopian world, set apart from the iphone obsessed, computer glued generation of today. Rather than dribble over the new Adam Sandler flick and plasma flat screen’s, this unshaven, long haired gang of eclectic ‘69 throwbacks would feel it more fitting to hop into their greyhound tour bus and play any instrument they can get their hands on as they discuss various ways to open their minds.

Previously the top dog in Ima Robot, Edward Sharpe (real name Alex Ebert) appears to have embarked on some sort of abstract quixotic epiphany with his Magnetic Zeros who clap, stomp, strum and sing their way through a melodically mosaic-like debut that encases everyone from The Incredible String Band to Johnny Cash.

‘Up From Below’ opens with the stompin’ of ’40 Day Dream’. A joyous trample of folk-rock retro goodness that embodies the quirk of an acid-laden Arcade Fire, followed by the trouble-free harmony of ‘Janglin’ with its softly-sung sweet chorus of chipper whistles and buoyant horns. The spirit of California is certainly rife within this record, spaced out and psychedelic in parts, songs like ‘Come In Please’ reference cult citations like Kerouac and ’The Catcher In The Rye’ whilst beckoning like a pitch-peaking Love.

‘Home’ is absent of the musical nuttiness we hear on the blossoming openings of the record - a Carter and Cash county bop honing in on a subtle side of this unpredictable band that has yet been heard. Its bizarre and noticeably narcotic sense-making lyrics like ’Hot and heavy pumpkin pie/ chocolate candy Jesus Christ’ formulate about as much sense as Kasabain’s ’Cut Off’, but it’s strangely salvaged by some rather more adoring penning’s that demonstrate mutual adulation between two lovers drawn to the heart of home.

At certain points this record can seem a little cluttered and unsure of itself. The direction understandable but it looses its footings at times, dipping mid-way into a hole of eerie, full mooned weirdness with songs such as ‘Desert Song‘ and ‘Simplest Love’ proving a little too extrovert, minimal and absent of any graspable excitement - but thankfully its finest moments outshine its irresolute ones. As the album closes its thirteen track journey with ‘Om Nashi Me’, an atmospheric wail of full bodied jingles, jangles and everything in between, we can quite comfortably state that this first effort of nostalgia and recollection is not half bad.

The Ruling Class

What with the success of Oasis's recent tour, the successful reformation of Albarn and Co. and the rather continuing gormless grape-vine blabbers regarding the Stone Roses and their definitely-not-happening-maybe-happening-Mani-seduced-rumors, the 90's appear to be a hot, if rather tedious, topic.

But it doesn't have to all be about past premises and dragging humdrum feuds. I think we can all agree that it's time to move on, which is ironic as it happens because the band in question, The Ruling Class, haven't progressed in any way shape or form. But far from staying stagnant, they've searched the past for inspiration, finding it on a groove-ridden funk flight of Spike Island, Stone Roses and Tim Burgess barnets.

Never has a band's influence been so apparent, but it's not a negative thing. 'Flowers' floats like a spaced out 90's bucket hat wearing, pot smoking, maracas shaking, tie-dye dancing lost boy in a haze of ecstasy and escapism.

Download The Ruling Class - Flowers

A Simple Kinda Man

On Thursday, October 20, 1977, just three days after the release of Street Survivors, and five shows into their most successful headlining tour to date, Lynyrd Skynyrd's chartered Convair 240 ran out of fuel near the end of their flight from Greenville, South Carolina, where they had just performed at the Greenville Memorial Auditorium, to LSU in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Though the pilots attempted an emergency landing on a small airstrip, the plane crashed in a forest in Gillsburg, Mississippi. Ronnie Van Zant, Steve Gaines, Cassie Gaines, assistant road manager Dean Kilpatrick, pilot Walter McCreary and co-pilot William Gray were all killed on impact. Although Don Mclean might have a different opinion on this one, I put it to you that October 20, 1977, was in fact the day the music died.

My quest for some sort of roll and roll relief has been ever-lasting since I first listened to 'Born To Run' when I was 16. The lawless musical fairytale that the likes of the Bad Company, Creedence and The Stones embarked on painted a fantasy world of drugs, women and a reckless lifestyle that seems savagely beautiful to me.

It was a community in which prejudices were left at the door. Just chill the fuck out and enjoy the ride. There were no labels, no image conscious preconceptions and judgemental style obsessed individuals. I didn't matter if you were cooler than the next person or knew some gutter-electro Dalston outfit whose supposedly revolutionary audio-trash was a break through. It was simple.

While Gram Parsons was wandering around snorting everything in sight and Joni Mitchell was fucking either Crosby, Stills or Nash something was brewing in Jacksonville, Florida.

It was in the summer of 1964 that teenage friends Ronnie Van Zant, Allen Collins, and Gary Rossington, formed the band "The Noble Five", which then changed in 1965 to "My Backyard", when Larry Junstrom and Bob Burns joined in Jacksonville, Florida. In 1970, roadie Billy Powell became the keyboardist for the band, and Van Zant sought a new name. "One Percent" and "The Noble Five" were each considered before the group settled on Leonard Skinnerd, a mocking tribute to a physical-education teacher at Robert E. Lee High School, Leonard Skinner who was notorious for strictly enforcing the school's policy against boys having long hair. The more distinctive spelling was adopted before they released their first album.


After performing in the South throughout the opening years of the 70s the patriotic, country bred, outlaws began to make a name for themselves. In 1972 the band was discovered by musician, songwriter, and producer Al Kooper of Blood, Sweat, and Tears, who had attended one of their shows at a club in Atlanta. They changed the spelling of their name to "Lynyrd Skynyrd", and Kooper signed them to MCA Records, producing their first album the following year "Pronounced Leh-nerd Skin-nerd".

The plane crash was a tragedy, that much is true. A mournful day that will forever be in the hearts of Synyrd fans, but other than the loss of one of America's greatest bands, the world lost a soulful, charismatic and undeniably talented young song writer - Mr Ronnie Van Zant.

Sadly I feel that Van Zant's capabilities have been sodomised by the over-playing of 'Sweet Home Alabama'. Don't get me wrong, it's a fantastic statement of Southern political ideologies that's far from the racist Confederate anthem people think. It demonstrates Van Zant's acceptance and understanding of people's opinions but it also exudes a considerable level of whit and intelligence at the state of corruption and deceit in a nation at war with its enemies and itself - with Van Zant remaining calm and comfortable in his whiskey world of brawling, boozing and playing music.


But for such a talented and straight talking fella there are other songs of pure brilliance that we need to pay recognition to. And these are the types of songs that define everything that is totally fucking awesome about what you might call 'old' or 'classic' rock'n'roll. They’re songs of pride from an experienced mind. A man whose been beaten and to hell and back, drunk more uncle Jack in a week than you will in your entire life and punched anyone who needed a good ol’ whack.

Ronnie Van Zant lived rock and roll, he breathed the very essence that thousands spend their entire life trying to harness, but this was different, it was natural. His band didn't know boundaries or behaviour, they did what they want, when they wanted.

'Simple Man' is an astute and tender country-rock picking that deserves some sort of fucking award! Van Zant's voice is at its peak of growly Southerness as it resinates sencerity whilst scaling the various Les Paul's that poetically brawl on the songs chours. Despite being this god-like frontman, this is Van Zant’s carving of being grounded - a man who's happiest without the frills and flirtations of glamour and money. (The video below is the most face-melting performance you will see for a long time. Not just for Ronnie, the whole band prove to be an untouchable force of nature)



Continuing the country theme with a little less rock this time is 'Made In The Shade'. A waltz-y ditty complete with harmonica, its two-step dust bowl characteristics bop and weave like a chase from a black and white movie while 'Am I loosin'' sees Van Zant's soft-spoken modesty reach new moral peaks as he ponders success and hometown friendships. 'It's so strange, when you get just a little money, your so called friends want to act a little funny', he sings whilst confirming he's the same rough'n'ready country baller he's always been.

Home town pride continues in 'The Ballad Of Curtis Loew' which sees Van Zant pay homage to his Southern natives whose blue-grass, knee-slapping musical legacy will never be forgotten. Banjos in the shade and impromptu porch jams are the mystical breeding grounds of these dungaree clad veterans, and 'All I Can Do Is Write About It' aluminates the darkest corners of depression in which Van Zant's writing scales new summits of outstanding ability.

Humble rock stars are a certain rarity. Being grounded during times of excess is no easy task, the temptations that flutter carelessly in your face can be yours for a small price, but Skynyrd didn’t conform to this. Sure they enjoyed their narcotics, but when in Rome…

To say that Van Zant is on a par with Springsteen is a dangerous statement. But as with all great art in the world, you sometimes have to look deeper than the obvious. If everything was as easy as a greatest hits record there would be no surprises, and I think in the case of genius, it’s the elusive search that makes this journey worth while.

So dig deep into the dirty, debauched past of Skynyrd and you’ll find something untouched and unblemished. It might take time, it might not, but it’s a worthwhile expedition of dreamy fucked up rock’n’roll desire. Michael who? Rest In Peace Ronnie.