Sergeant

NME once described this jolly gang of teenage indie-pups as 'the most exciting band in Scotland'. At first this seemed like quite a bold shout. Glasvegas had just begun their long journey to the top and The View still seemed set on destroying, drinking and snorting anything in their path. Scotland was flourishing in the rock and roll world, and after chatting to Kieren Webster from the View of their recent tour he assured me that local bands like The Law were also destined for great things.

Since this statement, however, Sergeant have gone a little quiet. It's not irregular for this to happen, I mean, how many bands have we seen set for the mystical rock and roll fairytale only to fall flat on the face of their shoddy debut effort that promised everything and delivered nothing. The odd thing here though, is this is not the case for Sergeant. After the release of 'K-OK' they didn't stop. April saw the release of their second single 'Sunshine' followed by 'Swiftly Does It' and more recently 'Counting Down The Days' which was released on their own label, Shy Recordings.

Now, while The View are far from manic depressives the chirpy jingle-jangle of Sergeant makes them look like funeral directors. 'Sunshine' was an exploding bowl of sweet loveliness in which Nick Mercer's yappy little vocals squeezed all the happy-go-lucky juice from your now-slightly-better-day. Youthful and optimistic, the La's-esqe twinkle of this song looked on life in a positive way - be happy with what you got and live your life to its full potential is the general idea, except in a more sincere and poetic manor that at no point sounds like the dying teen-hood of a pub drunk who had it all and lost it.

The most recent Sergeant drop of poppy goodness comes in the form of 'Counting Down The Days'. Released earlier this month their fourth single sees Mercers vocals sound a little less Scottish and a bit more Scouse but really doesn't bother me. He's got a catchy and tuneful gob and he's more than capable of penning a tip-top pop song, so this combined with flashes of The Coral and Lee Mavers genius, they could become quite the sensation.

'Away With The Fairies' is an unreleased track that will appear on the bands debut album later this year - I think! It's a delicate, homely blossoming bubble of lovable and innocent lyrics. 'You know you got a problem, when you show no signs of stopping, and you end up in the kitchen sink' sings Mercer. It's the sort of teenage escapist skit that sees you day dream the day away.

I'm excited about the album, as should you be, because I think the joyful spark of Sergeant is about to really catch fire!

Download sergeant - Away With The Fairies

Arctic Monkeys - Humbug

The Mojave Desert in South Eastern California is one of North America’s most popular tourist spots. Its scenic beauty and dusty open landscape is home to countless native plants, four picturesque national parks, a handful of lavish lakes, the Hover Dam and the gambling gutter of the universe, Las Vegas. More recently however, Sheffield’s finest export, the Arctic Monkeys, found solitude and stimulation on those very plains. But what were Turner and co doing 5258 miles from their Yorkshire turf?

Located in the sandy scenes of the Mojave is a small house that’s since been converted into a mystical desert beacon for inspiration-searching musicians. Owned and manned by Josh Holme of Queens Of The Stone Age, the Joshua Tree Studio became a visionary symbol of hope for the Arctic Monkeys whose overseas pilgrimage changed the sound of a band who, on their third full length studio effort, have returned home darker and ready to take on the world, one again.

In the music industry, like in fashion and technology for instance, focus is often jaunted. Don’t get me wrong, nostalgia is a wonderful thing, it really is, but instead of looking in the caldron of the past for inspiration the Arctic Monkeys have done something completely different. Their new record, ‘Humbug’, takes a full-fronted leap into the future as a visionary statement of their relentless creativity and hunger to blossom and grow as a band whose ambition knows no boundaries.

The development from album number one to number two was obvious. They showed an ability to flourish given their own space. From a chipper, upbeat debut of social commentary to a more experimental collection of slightly darker songs, heavier guitars and an atmospheric album closer, they’ve always been a sprightly bunch. Growing closer over the years has allowed the band to become a tighter unit, but ‘Humbug’ comes as a surprise. Enter the haunting operatic-rock growl of a new, better Arctic Monkeys.

‘Pretty Visitors’ picks up certain attributes from b-side ‘Nettles’ with it’s roughly tripped out riffs and undeniable lyrical wisdom. Choir-like hollow chants bellow during a very metal-ish breakdown and all those ’Black Sabbath’ comments of Turner’s begin to make sense. The record’s first single, ’Crying Lightening’ displays the grandiose ability of this urban poet with it’s darkly romantic playground twinkle, developing from the well constructed social observations we’ve previously heard from the wordsmith, the lyrics become sharper, edgier and unaffected by preconceptions.


Influences for this album vary. ‘Secret Door’ bellows Turner’s distain for the celebrity lifestyle, the red carpet and the fickle characters whose friend-on-recognition ethos will be short lived. Taking a guess and stating that this ballad-like swoon is about Miss Alexa Chung would not be too far fetched, ‘Grabbed my hand and made it very clear, there’s absolutely nothing for us here’ sings Turner as he labels these monotonous paparazzi mugs ‘Fools on parade’.

‘Dance Little Liar’ changes direction once again with a light gothic-like psych approach, while ‘Corner Stone’ marks Turner as truly being a man in love. Not being one for the spotlight, it’s sometimes hard to determine the cynical sarcasm of this band which at first appears like rudeness. We’ve all seen the awkward interviews and carefree replies but as a front man and lyricist, Alex Turner has poured some of his finest written literature into these songs.

Holmes input on this album is clear. His ability to adapt as an inventive artist and exude enthusiasm has allowed the Arctics to open previously unexpected doors, but he cannot receive all the praise. The record’s final track, ‘The Jeweller’s Hands’, embeds itself as yet another show stopping album closer for this band. It’s eerie glare and glockenspiel underbelly are ghostly to say the least, but they prove to be no match for Turner's scribbled down thoughts. He’s matured from tales of backstreet boozing and barnies over birds into a man who views the world in a very unique way and tells it better than anyone.

To get taken back by a record is rare. The last time something this innovative hit the shelves was in 2006 and Jon McClure’s brother was on the front of it. This time round though, it’s not going to be such a smooth ride. To all those who adored the whimsical penning’s of the bands debut be prepared for something utterly different. It’s an album that shows a band restless with staying stagnant and safe in what they know. It’s a documentation of growth and excitement, an interesting spectacle of musical evolution that’s not protected or secure with its standard stylistic novelties. The boys may be a little apprehensive with the release of this album, but know this, the determination and drive of their tentative and experimental third effort will not necessarily be what you expect, all the same, the beauty of this haunting squeeze is going to be inescapable and irrefutable.

New Editor of NME announced!

Despite your preconceptions of this publication you cannot dispute that this magazine has buried its legacy deep within the industry we love so much. It's bean a beacon of literary and musical genius since its birth in 1952, inspiring writers and musicians alike to live out their wildest rock and roll fantasy's on a weekly basis.

And now, after seven years at the magazine, Conor McNicholas will be leaving. His replacement is one of my favourite NME writers ever. Her fresh take on things and inspirational perspectives are partly what inspired me to write about music. She's a creative and articulate visionary within the music industry who will certainly prove herself to be a worthy editor!

I for one cannot wait to see what Krissi Murrison does with the magazine!

The Dead Weather - Horehound

What exactly do we know about Jack White? Well he's a restless oddball for starters. Since ditching that fetching outfit of red trousers and a red t-shirt he's not only started to change up his wardrobe but his music's taken a bit of a shaking as well.

After ditching Meg White for a bit of Brenden Benson and forming The Raconteurs, White began to show his hunger to grow as a musician. Where the Stripes were far from a non-experimental straight-down-the-line outfit, it seemed sensible for the Detroit eccentric to embark on pastures that would allow him to create something greater.

Alongside Benson and Jack Lawrence, White seemed to flourish. The Raconteurs were, and still are, a solid gang of musical outlaws. But as fidgety as ever, that clearly wasn't enough for Jack. He has an outlet that needs to be exposed, a creative flare of rock and roll that he needs to release, and where the rough-scuzzy edge of the White Stripes was a little hiatus in the Raconteurs Jack has once again embarked on another mission, a dirty bluesy-punk one. Enter The Dead Weather.

Miss Alison Mosshart of The Kills, the modern lady of rock'n'roll (that's right, screw you Ditto!), fronts the band as White, Jack Lawrence and Dean Fertita (Queen of the Stone Age) swap instruments and band roles like young'uns swap football stickers.

Taking this project by the horns, the band cut the CD in just three weeks, stripping the production process back to basics and leaving those unpolished edges as rough as you can without sounding like a self-produced Babyshambles album.

The term 'super group' has been used countless times to label this band, with White undoubtedly being the focal point of these descriptions. He's clearly the most accomplished musician in the group, and maybe for some, the reason why you may purchase this record. But let it be known! Mosshart is the character who clearly comes to form. The dirtbag biker howl of the Kills frontlady casts darkness over this album. Mossheart's screach is followed by a gloomy, satanist storm-cloud that casts a shadow over the beating heart of the Dead Weathers mystical collaborative cult, elevating you to the Arcadian alt-punk heavens and back down to the damp corners of depressive loneliness.

The devilsh squeal on 'New Pony' is as menacing as the guitar growls that scale its gritty surface, while 'Treat Me Like Your Mother' intensifies the icky thump-ness of White's unforgettable two-piece past. 'I Cut Like A Buffalo' provides an unexpected funky edge to a seemingly carnage-causing record as it's rippling guitar-organ bubbles like a cauldron of funk-punk filth.

Sorting the record in three weeks was an ambitious effort. It's easy to appreciate the jagged brink of this album because over production usually means over kill, but it's the songs that lack that certain dazzle. 'So Far From Your Weapon' is almost there with it's underhanded psych-echo but it soon becomes hard to distinguish, or really remember the songs. At first it's an exciting piece of work. Exploding with noise and an undeniable rock ethic but the tracks leave little long-lasting, memorable effects.

Once your in 'Horehound' you're a frantic mess, excited and taken back by its forceful blow, but once you're of the express train, it leaves you sitting comfortably wondering what was that last Dead Weather track called?

Monkey's Escape!

So the inevitable has happened. A handful of songs from the Arctic Monkey's forthcoming third studio album, 'Humbug', have leaked on to the web.

The three tracks are: 'Secret Door', 'Dance Little Liar' and 'Pretty Visitors'.

If there's one thing to be said about the songs, and the Monkey's themselves, it's that they never, and i mean never, fail to progress as a band. These three songs demonstrate an ability to learn and develop. The musical maturity and experimental darkness heard on these tracks is overwhelmingly comforting because it's the sound of a band who don't stagnant themselves with what they know.

'Favourite Worst Nightmare' was a totally different sound from 'Whatever people...' and 'Humbug' doesn't even come close to sounding like either.

'Secret Door' grows throughout and develops into a Shirley Bassey like champagne-sipping ballad. Escalating to a late 80s/ early 90s crest of swooning strings and undeniably Turner-esqe lyrics, it truly is a bit of a masterpiece.

'Pretty Visitors' is a dark-distorted rock-thrash. It looms in the shadow of b-side 'Nettles' as Turner states 'What came first? the chicken or the dickhead?'. There's a very Queens breakdown mid-way with ghostly choir echos, complemented by the haunting howl of a very church-like organ. You're able to see what Josh Holme actually bought to the production of this track. His warped mindset has assisted in creating a scuzzy-gloom ridden rock'n'smash Monkey's track that sounds, well, fucking amazing.

Reverend And The Makers - A French Kiss In The Chaos

Where on God's green earth do you begin with Jon McClure? The man's undoubtedly had his fair share of ups and downs, just take a look at the facts: He's been mentioned alongside fellow Sheffield musician's the Arctic Monkey's more times than Alexa Chung, he's been both shunned and praised for his knighthood worthy political uprising and he's even entered the odd charity football game with money-struggling ex-libertine, Carl Barat. It's no wonder the Rev went hiatus with Mongrel, every time he's mentioned it appears his music is no where to be seen.

McClure was under pressure. 'The State Of Things' received a tough critique from the publications who previously praised him, his fans and in some cases, himself. But lets be honest, it actually wasn't that bad. 'Open Your Window' and 'Heavyweight Champion...' were solid pop motifs in which McClure bellowed rather proudly. Perhaps his bark, or rather the press' perceived self-proclaimed bark, was not in fact as big as his bite. Despite this his sturdy first effort still gets the indie disco kids a'groovin', whether they like to admit it or not.

Just under two years later and his overdue second input has arrived. The Rev's had time to grow since 2007, developing as a prominent figure in both music and politics, not to mention his transformation to UK hip hop father figure, all of which have evidently not only had an effect on his lyrics and his ideologies but also his music.

The opening post-Stone Roses psychedelia of 'Silence Is Talking' basks in technicolour-dance beats with hints of Hindi and Happy Mondays. Sampling 'Low Rider' by War its familiarity will not go unnoticed, but it doesn't seem recycled. It's an up-tempo summery skit that sees McClure setting the album bench mark rather high, with mixed follow ups.

'Hidden Persuaders' is a little draining. We all know that the Rev has had his finger on the political pulse for a while now, and although his successful and rather inspiring appearance on Question Time was a poignant one, this song lacks the passion seen on such television exhibitions - with the social commentary on 'Manifesto/ People Shapers' continuing along this execution-absent trail. The ideas and the lyrics are there but the anger and distress for the spiralling control of the BNP and racist dicks alike is a little ghostly.

McClure seems to find it hard to write a political orientated anthems that rally against the fucked up and the twisted. These songs are almost there, but there's a lack of anger, I mean, he's pissed off at these people, like, really pissed off, but he doesn't come across like that on record. He drawls in a slouchy manor at times and keeps the fire and the fury a bit too secure within himself. Where we expected bellowing outrage and uncontrollable vexation we got a restricted storm that leaves us thinking that McClure still has a lot more to offer.

'Long Long Time', however, is something different, something of distinct beauty. A subtle acoustic Noel-like song that shows McClure's song writing is best when it's about the things that make your heart ache and your longing soul tremble, quickly followed up by 'No Soap In A Dirty War', the album's pinnacle point. Flowing with finesse and that ever-eloping passion we've been searching for, McClure takes the wheels off the anti-government accelerator and hops onto a romantic crest of harmonic group vocals that weep with melody and escapism as he sings 'I don't want to die in the same hole I was born' in a loving chorus that ups the credentials of this album from a six out to ten to a solid seven.

Not one to quash his original intentions, McClure returns to a politico-charged album closer, but wait! it's fucking fantastic! Alluring and graceful, 'Hard Time For Dreamers' ponders the potential end of the world beneath the mushroom clouds of nuclear missiles and inter-country invasions. Mentions of World War Three and the collapse of both the enviroment and the government seem a little far fetched, but you know what? this is the heart-pouring anthemic rant we wanted from McClure. It's a powerful ending to the album, but whether it was enough to solidify the Rev's greatness is unclear.

What was promised was not quite what we got, but it wasn't far off! Where 'The State...' lacked the anarchic angst that we were expecting, we become a little stuck with 'A French Kiss...' because it's packed full of it, the problem being maybe a little too much. When McClure is at his peak of song writing he's untouchable. A witty and articulate Sheffield messiah who could quite easily tackle countless indie bands to the ground, but when he gets all high and mighty it becomes a little insincere, despite the fact that it really isn't! This is a step forward from his debut, a real fucking giant leap in fact, leaving you thinking that McClure has a lot more to offer, but this will keep us occupied for now.

Slow Weekend Away

So there have been no posts since Friday. I've just had a weekend away staying at a mate's house up in East London, a nice break from the solitude of Uckfield.

This week's going to be full on. There will be a number of new bands featuring on the site, some new downloads and some new reviews. I also intend to write a feature on the dying Romanticism of music journalism, nostalgia vs cliche or something along those lines.

I suppose I would be classed as a bit old fashioned in my perspectives of certain aspects of music, music journalism and the music industry, but I guess you can be the judge of that later in the week. The reason for me writing this article is that I've been listening to The Byrds and Lyrnyrd Skynyrd quite a bit and I'm feeling a little Cameron Crowe, yet far from being able to write like the man!

So, this week will involve a lot more productivity, hopefully with a successful outcome as I still search for a post-uni job. Tough one.

Darker My Love - Dreamy psych-pop that gazes like The Big Pink

Darker My Love are a five-piece psych-gaze troupe who hail for LA. After the release of a 2004 e.p and two full length studio efforts, created in 2006 and 2008, the static growl of this trippy effervescent outfit has hailed comparisons to the likes of BRMC and MBV.

With dashes of 60's psych-pop and gritty pedal pushing squeals Darker My Love could pose a threat for the likes of The Big Pink. Soon to tour with the mood-laden White Lies, the band are sure to establish a bit more of a name for themselves, which surprisingly is yet to occur, even after two albums.

The download up for grabs is 'Catch'. Hypnotically psychedelic and dozily hallucinogenic, the ever-increasing dark Doors-esqe build up haunts like the winning battle of a dodgy trip turned good.

Download darker my love - Catch

The Soft Pack - Back To Basics Roots-y Rock

First of all I will start by getting one particular issue out of the way first. I didn't want this to end up being the focus of the article, although I imagine it has become that very problem for so many. The quartet in question hail from San Diego, previously this band went by the name of The Muslims - shock horror! think of the controversy, the political correctness, they must be racist right? yeah either that or terrorists? ohhh who knows, what a nerve they have! cheeky bastards...blah blah blah. Who gives two flying fucks about that? Well, people who want to create something out of nothing I would imagine, Oh and the Guardian Newspaper who spent almost three paragraphs jabbering on about the bands old name and only one on their actual music, priorities in order then chaps? Good to know, anyway…

The four-piece now live in LA, a pilgrimage taken by many in the past, searching for that romantic rock and roll odyssey in a big city that can drop you into the grimy gutter just as quickly as it's elevated you to the heavens of musical fantasy...

What the Soft Pack do is pretty darn fun. The San Diego tearaways are taking their rock and roll back to basics. Stripped down, scuzzy riffs that pack and short, sharp punch. A little bit Vines-like in parts, specifically in 'Call It A Day', the Soft Pack have taken a simple and ultimately effective route with tinny guitars and a rough-around-the-edges approach.

'Right And Wong' sounds like it could have been on the Kings Of Leon's first album, minus Caleb's unique vocals obviously. A head-bobbing, trailer twang it too keeps the instrumental construction relatively simple leaving crackly and unpolished results. Every now and then the dirty riffs go a little garage-rock and although they're at times predictable, it's solid indie-rock they're making, and predictable or not, it's fucking fun.

For fans of Iggy and The Stooges you may enjoy this back to basics, stripped tactic, for fans of The Strokes you may enjoy the slightly-more dirty approach to rock and roll and for everyone in between you might just like the fact that their music is not safeguarded by any stylistic novelties that try to embellish any non-existent attributes. What you hear is what you get with The Soft Pack, and I like what I hear!

Download The Soft Pack - Right And Wrong

The Accident That Led Me To The World

Keeping things simple, and on track I suppose, I have just come across another graceful folk trio who hark back to a time when things were simpler. The Massachusetts's outfit in question go by the rather elongated name of The Accident That Led Me To The World, but I'm sure we'll be able to find an abbreviation in no time.

With a felicitous selection of instruments and some melodically lustrous vocals that meet like The Decemberists, The Bowerbirds and folk's gentle angel, Cara Dillon, they're a soft bunch with some bold songs.

I came across this group whilst scaling the countless, and mostly monotonous, pages of mysapce. Friends of The Low Anthem and cello brandishing moguls alike, I was surprised to find that I'd hit somewhat of a musical jackpot.

The 'chamber folk', 'All acoustic' group released their debut in 2006 on Nobody's Favourite Records. A curious shanty driven record, followed up by their quaint sophomore effort 'Island Gospel'. A seemingly fragile group, I have an inkling that their bite is in fact bigger than their bark.

With two album's out it's about time the refined allure of TATLMTTW (doesn't really work, does it?) comes into its own.

Download The Accident That Led Me To Th - Hole Of Doubt

The Low Anthem

It appears I'm having a little bit of a folk revival within the walls of my 'office'. The Felice Brothers (probably gone on about those guys a little too much), Roman Candle, Local Natives, and now Rhode Island's Low Anthem.

I might have to start growing a beard and listening to CSNY a bit more because I really think there's an independent folk explosion going on, just give it a little time to surface. My new interest in this field, The Low Anthem, are a harmonic, back-to-basics roots and country trio whose songs range from the beautifully subtle pickings of an aching heart to the stompin' Tom Waits-y growl of a bar room brawl.

The trio's new album, 'Oh My God, Charlie Darwin', is a traditional exploration of folk music that crosses its delicate path every now and then to indulge in a little bolshy bluesy rock 'n' roots.

The acoustics on 'Oh My God...' skim over the likes of Dylan and Simon and Garfunkel to the most recent six string, plaid shirted pioneers such as The Fleet Foxes - infusing delectable and atmospheric harmonies that float in the eerie air, uplifting yet still quite sombre. 'Charlie Darwin', for instance, is a Bon Iver-esqe haunt, choir-like in its lush and relaxing wail The Low Anthem demonstrate a real ability to craft a hypnotic hymn. 'The Horizon Is A Beltway' on the other hand is a roots-y jig with husky Waits-like vocals. Its standard bluesy stomp is nothing new yet it's a Southern swamp sound that's as uplifting and fun as it's always been.

Download low anthem - Ticket Taker

The Felice Brothers - Yonder Is The Clock

The upstate New York dusty buskers have been subjected to some criticism in the past. Try not to mention Bob Dylan in conversation with this dustbowl, roots outfit because, let’s face it, that tiresome analogy is played out, dull and, judging by their third studio output, inaccurate.

The mythology and depression of country music is partly what makes the genre so romanticised. Where their self-titled 2008 effort honed in on money troubles, alcoholism and the woeful tread of dead end town philosophies, their third release depicts a more experienced journey from their home town to the struggles they encountered elsewhere.

Rusty-folk opener ‘Penn Station’ jigs with both the enthusiasm and hardship of their move Brooklyn during their early days when the subway at Greenwich Village would double up as a platform for their impromptu busks. Big city livin’ must have been a tough move for the brothers and their washboard, fiddle wielding cohorts, as songs like ‘Chicken Wire’ and ‘Memphis Flu’ would suggest. They’re country folk, and although they’ve diminished the routine marching drum of their parents and cast away futures that predict mediocre routines and farmland graft, their hearts are clearly still firmly buried in the dusty land of their home town.

Album closer, ‘Rise And Shine’, is a slow ditty. The dirty yap of Ian Felice takes a sombre pathway for this melancholic hum in which delicate pianos tinkle unobtrusively like the subtle narration of a sincere love letter.

With such an earnest record, the Felice Brothers have established themselves as a genuine force in country music that is slowly branching out its confined generics. Roots and rock cross with upbeat, grubby skits, and they‘re clearly sitting on a gold mine of ideas. In three albums they’ve built themselves the future they wanted, the one they truly desired, and more importantly, as the late Ronnie Van Zant once sang, ‘You can take a boy out of Dixieland, but you can’t take old Dixie out the boy.’

Indulge in the video below, what a voice!

White Denim - Fits

Where Texan trio White Denim crafted something of ramshackle beauty on their studio debut, ‘Holiday Workout’, there was no doubt that it all seemed a little cluttered. The wild garage-punk howls and weird rustic waltz’s were welcome, oh boy were they welcome, but it was viewed as more of an experimental creation of a band still finding their feet.

Just one year on and the Austin multi-noise pups have successfully built on last years foundation. The glorious construction that is ’Fits’ sits like a mansion of transcending psychedelic-garage with more levels of delightful grace than you’d first expected, building on the base last years erratic roots.

‘All Consolidation’ brawls with chaos-inducing wails as destructive guitars demonstrate progression from ‘Holiday…’ as they rampage with Technicolor rock’n’rage funk squeals. To say this is chaotic would be a little under stated, it’s a beautiful mess, an organised chaotic smirk and it actually gets better. ‘I Start To Run’ has a funky-bass backbone and shout-y tendencies, brazenly dabbed with yet more rowdy naughtiness.

Singer James Petralli later comes into his own a little more on ‘Paint Yourself’. A colourful country bounce, mellowing out from the brash beats of the previous six tracks, but it proves to be no match for ‘Regina Holding Hands’. An alluring, heart-felt near-ballad, it’s the most soulful, emotion-tugging track the band have produced so far, a poignant state continued in the drum-based atmospheric album closer, ‘Syncn’.

If This Isn't The Coolest Thing I've Ever Seen...

I think this might be one of the coolest, most darn right rock and roll things I've ever seen. Bruce Springsteen's always had it and lets be honest, he's going to have 'it' for a lot longer than most.



The video has nothing to do with anything in particular and I don't think that any words I could ever construct could do The Boss and justice. I just LOVE this video. Rock and Fucking Roll people. Make sure you watch it right until the end...

The Felice Brothers

Bob Dylan and The Band. Right, now that apathetic analogy's been cast we can get on with it properly.

The Felice Brothers hail from an area in upstate New York, a small town set in its mediocre routine and live-and-die aimless philosophy. Surrounded by very little it's the sort of dead end place that sculpts your predictable future for you. Escaping is rare and an output of creativity is even rarer. It's a hard unwritten law to upstage when you're expected to march to the blunt, future-less drum of your predecessors and take over the family business.

But thankfully for us, The Felice Brothers (three of whom are actually brothers) have romantically embarked on the illicit, folklore journey that sees them living out of old buses on a pittance playing their heartily-painful folk blues from dusk till dawn. This is the dream though, the real fucking pilgrimage of folk legends, upping sticks and travelling the mighty country in search of nothing in particular but finding everything.

Despair, bleakness, misery and death are strange things. A spanner in the cogs of the tred of every day life and fundamentally always unwelcome, but it's these gloomy episodes that fuel the greatest music in the world. If people didn't sing about heartbreak, suffering and the torture of love and love lost there would be no great art left, just happy fucking people running around, holding hands and hugging in fields of lucky charms.


Despite The Felice Brothers uplifting ditty's and waltz-y accordion squeezes there is heartache and grief in their folk songs, and it's not the heartbreak that most know, it's real desolation and real woe, the likes of which many of us will never know. 'Frankie's Gun' begins to paint a picture of such sorrow, but one that shows heart behind actions. Accordion's busk over the husky howl of a heart-draining tale concerned with a lack of money and a not-so-legal way of obtaining it. It soon becomes clear that brilliance of this sort is hard to come by nowadays. Country music by individuals who have lived their lives, people who have crossed the darkside and came back fighting with their foot stompin' Fender riffs brandished proudly on their sleeves. It's a vivaciously marvelous song and one that shows the Felice Brothers to be the outlaw, rock-folkster's whose days we all thought had past.

Having only just got into their first album I feel like I've got a lot of ground to cover. I've only just managed to get over the gloomy, booze fuelled waltz that is 'Put Some Whiskey In My Whiskey'. Its simple foundation challenges nothing but really takes whatever it wants. Suicidal almost, a dark shadow looms over the low bellow of James Felice who takes over the vocals for this song.


This mythological brotherhood is a folk saga in the making. The venture behind such lyrical novels sometimes seems a little too cliche to be true. Recruiting travelling dice rollers to play bass, busking the New York subway and wallowing in the gutter of defeat, to now, having the potential to upstage folk and country music as we know it today - Embodying endless possibilities with a fiddle player and an accordion, two instruments that some how now seem like the fucking coolest things in the world!

It's going to be a big year for The Felice brothers - modern day outlaw folk singers who know more about life than you, your friends and even your bloody parents, and the fact that these whiskey swigging, Marlboro men have climbed from the bottom of their bottles to the cusp of the heavens means we ain't getting rid of them for a long time. Good.

I'm not going to put a download up because I think you need to buy this one! plus I imagine i will get in trouble for it! So below is a video for 'Frankie's Gun'.

Band Of Skulls - Baby Doll Face Honey

Other than boozed up pugnacious sailors looking for some faces to smash, oh, and the highest rate of teenage pregnancy in Britain, what is it exactly that Southampton has to offer? Thomas Tantrum? No thanks. Six Nation State? Pah! Not Advised? Who…?

Lets face it, it’s a pretty weak hole of unimaginative tosh. After living there for three years I found it to be a scene fuelled by image-honed individuals whose musical ethics circle around not what you know but who you know, and what you look like in most cases.

Thankfully this isn’t the case for local three-piece, Band Of Skulls. With thundering gushes of bluesy White Stripe clatters and feedback soaked psych-dreamy howls, they quite effortlessly shun the town’s facile scene into self-regretting oblivion. The trippy, atmospheric, ghostly moans seen on 'Honest' and the electrified rock’n’blues power-clouts of ‘Light Of The Morning‘ sees BOS attempt to cover nearly all musical bases, with pretty much one hundred per cent success.

Their new album, 'Baby Doll Face Honey', is a cracker and it's out July 28th.

Pre-Results Nerves...

So I get my University results at 12 tonight and I am bricking it. I think I'm making myself ill from actually worrying too much - something I've done quite a few times before...pathetic little man.

Anyway, to ease this tension I plan on blogging all day to keep me busy. First off, some Tuesday fun with a few downloads of some unknown bands who deserve a little recognition.


New Street Adventure are a band a hold dear to my heart. For those of you who know me you will know how much they mean to me, and more to the point, how singer/guitarist/song writer Nick Corbin is one of the greatest social commenter's in the country. Penning soul-pop skits that depict the highs and lows of this nation. Nick takes you from the gutter to the stars and back again in a handful of minutes and the boy's got real talent. The first of today's downloads is 'Fate Britain'. It's a track I've had for ages but it needs to get out there. A fast paced, near-rap that skips over simple guitars - dominated by a wondrous lyrical flow and stupidly awesome lyrics.

Download New Street Adventure - Fate Britain

The second download up for grabs is from a local Brighton band I used to love. Since I last saw them they seem to have grown a rather large pair of pretentious balls that thrust out just as much as their escalating ego's. There's definitely something about Brighton bands - the majority of whom all think they're revolutionary, bohemian rock stars, when in fact they're mostly rich kids dressed in over-priced vintage clothing. But this track by Dr Razzu is a dirty punky scramble, short, sharp and lovely.

Download Dr Razzu - Old Soldier

The final download comes from my favourite band at the moment, and probably of the last 18 months, Them:Youth. 'F.R.A.N.C.E' is a musical epiphany in my humble opinion. Sonic eruptions of intense sound that goes about as wild as Ian Curtis under a strobe light. It's euphoric psychedelia howls miles into the future, simply waiting for the rest of the world to catch up. (You will have to excuse the download that says F.R.A.C.E - it is in fact F.R.A.N.C.E)

Download Them:Youth - F R A C E

Enjoy. A couple of reviews coming up later today and maybe another download!

Dinosaur Jr - Farm

Returning to the music circuit is always a tricky one. Primarily these insignificant events see one or two comeback shows bask in the aura of disappointment with profit in mind, frequently leaving you wishing they’d stayed hidden from the beaming rays of exposure. Thankfully it’s a different tale for Massachusetts lo-fi grunge outfit, Dinosaur Jr.

Since successfully re-establishing themselves in 2007 it’s been an exciting excursion. Numerous noteworthy performances and two new album’s means this ain’t your regular comeback. It’s a successful one. The rarity of such occurrences, just ask Blue, is a tough one to pull off, but Dinosaur Jr came out riffs blazing . No peripheral frills, no deceitful gimmickry and certainly no flash-dance circus aided shows at the O2 were needed to confirm the boisterous potency of these slouchy rock veterans.

We hold our hands up in awe as Joseph Masci and his hermit cohorts re-embellish their legacy with a sixth studio effort that marks a paramount, solo-aided point in their career. ‘Farm’ effectively solidifies this musical epiphany for a band who have earnestly built on their fabled notoriety without any hint of dwindling.

From the opening smash-grab of ‘Pieces’ to the near-seven minute epic of ‘Plans’ we can begin to hear a band who sound comfortable in the position they’re in. As Masci’s fingers dance over six strings the authenticity of the solo is once again restored, smashing the now-stigmatised characteristics of this credible creation into oblivion. The gushes of euphoria heard on ’Farm’ howl like angles under the bellow of an alt-rock, vivacious explosion with certain whiffs of 90’s nostalgia scattered throughout.

For someone who’s been attacking incendiary licks since his band’s birth, it’s stimulating to know that his instrumental dexterity heard on tracks such as ‘Over It’ and ‘I Don’t Wanna Go There’ still sounds as innovative and colossal as the first time he stamped on an effects pedal.

This shouldn’t work really. The odds are against this now-middle aged trio and in times like these Dinosaur Jr are in danger of becoming a parody of themselves, but somehow they’ve flawlessly executed it. The gleaming goblet of success can be held high for now, and by the looks of it they don’t look like slowing down any time soon.

This Is Going To Be Huge

I'm not going to post any songs from Hockey's forthcoming debut, I just want to state right here, right now, that this album is going to be quite the fantastic first effort. If you're going to a festival in which the Portland popsters are playing then go seem them jump and jive over their new-wave, outrageously-too-good-to-be-pop, successful 80's-meets-electro-soul tunes.

Or, watch this...

The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart

Let's face it. If you haven't heard of Pains by now then you ain't really on it. They've been blogged about as much as Jacko's untimely departure and they're on a hype-par with the best of them, gracing the likes of hypem.com at a near-minute basis, and with good reason.

The twee-gaze Brooklynites fluently skip their way around a mixture of chipper poptastic-fun and effortless elated feedback-scrambles - puppy-dog peepers glimmering with a simple glaze of playground romance and a love for MBV, although comparison I imagine they near-vomit each time they hear it. Although from the states, frontman Kip Berman's slouchy estuary articulation hones in specifics of a very Royal Britannia nature that echoes an almost 'Sally Cinnamon' mimic.

There will certainly be no escaping the fuzz of these bookish teen-love bugs, therefore I have put up a live download of '103' below. To be honest, I'm a big-time late comer to Pains, but I'm certainly glad I'm along for the ride.

Download pains of being pure at heart - 103

Liam Fray Talks About New Album

I've got to say, despite what anyone else thinks, I love The Courteeners. Liam's attitude is fantastic, and although he appears arrogant I think that's the front that a lot of bands are missing, but the fundamental point to note here is that Fray can back it up - unlike that aggy bird from Chew Lips who's the only person who thinks they're brilliant...

In this video from T In The Park Liam talks out about the new album, and surprise surprise, how mind blowingly awesome it is! But I've got to say, I am really looking forward to it after hearing a few acoustic renditions of some of the new tracks.

An Ode To The Legends from Roman Candle

Roman Candles 'Oh Tall Tree In The Ear' is a rock-folk creation rammed with foot-stompin' country skits and yeee-haaa vocals that confirms the future of this Chapel Hill four-piece.

The song in question, 'Why Modern Radio is A-OK', is a buoyant cheer of folk-fun that pays homage to the music pioneers of the past. Its optimistic and promising yelp skims joyfully over acoustic strums, layered electricity and harmonica howls as the likes of Neil Young, Van Morrison and Bob Dylan are all referenced as legends who's music we owe a shit-load to.

Check shirts are a must for this eclectic outfit whose poppy-country-folk circulates the Southern state atmosphere like a smokey downtown bar and the stench of spilt beer. Their tootin' authenticity is rustically melodic and mirthful, an exciting group whose album needs a lot more recognition for the mark it has left.

Download Roman Candle - Why Modern Radio Is A Ok

The Game - Im So Wavy (Jay Z Diss)

For some reason I've always been interested in the rap scene. Maybe the reason is that I'm so middle class and I've grown up in a little shit town outside of Brighton - about as far from the "endz" as you can get - despite some of the assholes who live here thinking they're little thugs...

Any way, I find the industry and the people involved really quite interesting - despite only really liking U.K hip hop. Well as I was browsing the Internet today I found a new diss from The Game directed towards one of the worlds most accomplished rappers, Jay Z.


The songs got a catchy chorus and some pretty contagious lyrical flow. It's not until the end of the track that I think you get the real punch line to Jay Z and it's certainly not one of the most concrete diss's I've heard, but it's entertaining none the less. I'm just looking forward to Jay Z's reply - which I think will smash the Game to pieces.

Download The Game - I'm So Wavy

This Could Be What English Music Has Been Waiting For...

Part of the beauty of British music is the element of surprise. Every now and then an act will surface with infinite potential who spontaneously quash the acts of our nation with a hoard of innovative anthems that take the future of British music into their own hands.

Currently, I feel, our music scene is littered with countless false-heroes whose exaggerated and over-hyped musical creations are blown out of proportion by the British music press. Acts such as Little Boots, La Roux and Esser, to name a few, have been praised as the unprecedented genius's of the future - for some reason for another, and I have to say, I disagree...

New music sections in the press seem to constantly rave about the indolent synthesiser-wielding, talentless mongs whose button pressing antics stain the airwaves and sodomise the scene we so endlessly adore. Perhaps I just don't get these new acts. Perhaps I'm ill-informed, big headed and set in my ways. Perhaps I am in fact the one who follows the no-hopers, the anthem-absent and the down-right shit. Or perhaps, just perhaps, I'm right...

On Monday night I made yet another trip to the country's capital. Three train stops, one long drinking session in a local pub and one new club night in Kingston was all it took to transport me to another realm in which I witnessed possibly the greatest new band in the country.


There was no peripheral frills, no deceitful gimmickry, no style-over-substance counterfeit crappary, just in-your-face colossal tunes that blew the cobwebs from the strippers crutch's who reside in the seedy pound-in-pot perv-hole around the corner from the club. Myself, and everyone else in the room, witnessed what can only be described as one of the most profound acts of the noughties. Life-changing almost.

Them:Youth...heard of them? It's doubtful to be honest, but it wont take long. In between the scummy alleys, disheveled boozers and decrepit ex-con characters who litter the area lies an aura of urban-romantacism and untold affection of working class love: an orbiting haven that Them:Youth have honed with style and perfection.


Their gargantuan dance-fuelled, rock and roll aided, esoteric ballads of euphoric destruction are comparable to New Order meets Joy Division in an age of technological advancement, swirled uncontrollably with the power-house incendiary jaw-droppers of Spiritualized mounting The Music.

"F.R.A.C.E" greets the crowd like an explosion of volcanic-noise and frontman Mark Buckle looks possessed by some sort of ghost of Ian Curtis past. Demonic, rolled back eyes and frantic-cavorts make him a spectacle in his own right. It's not until guitarist Ilan near-mounts Buckle as he thrashed through "Lost and Lonely" that the potential is truly realised. It's a partnership, a duo of power and brilliance - captivating, bewitching and hypnotic to watch and it's what these seminal moments are made of.

The ecstasy of "Bow and Arrows" consumes everything you thought you knew about music, but not before the rock and roll rapturous ceremony is closed by one final heavy-handed kick in the nuts with "Halo". Guitarist Alan McBride, by this time, looks elated as he thrashes through a screaming-wave of anthemic noise that cuts through the crowd like frenzied fret-board attack. And then, as soon as it began, it was over. In just thirty odd minutes everything, and I mean that from the depths of my soul, everything I loved about music changed, because now hope is creeping on the horizon.

The thing is though, the one thing that makes this outfit so indescribably beautiful is that these are regular lads who don't obnoxiously demonstrate their sublime capabilities. They work nine-to-five jobs in the day, but when their clocked off, when they leave the office or the bars they work behind they become heroes of the night, gods of the stage and idols of the future.

It's comforting to see a band like this. I wont get on to their image because fashion has very little to do with it, but they look cool as fuck. And what they do, and do well, isn't being done at the moment. A noise so scorchingly profound and heart-breaking hit the atmosphere that Monday night that it could quite possibly change British music, forever.

Let's Wrestle - In The Court Of Wrestling Lets

I'd heard a little about this scuzzy London three-piece before but never had I actually embarked on a mission to listen to them - all i can say is that I'm glad i did.

The gutter-garage punk trio play sort of slightly-restrained White Denim-esqe rock that's a little less experiemental and a little more aggressive. Sounding like it's been made on copious amounts of Stella in a back garden shed, you really can't help but pull a grrrr-like face and light up a snout.

Tracks such as 'It's Not Going To Happen' and 'I Wont Lie To You' are filthy rambles of urban-punk that spit in the face of harmony and all things nice and pretty. But they have levels. 'In Dreams' is a slacked-cockney ditty that embodies a rather ironic euphony. It's rustically melodic and quite romantically tuneful - sort of like Jamie T mounting The Rakes after a few brews for a vivacious unintended scatty slouched-busk.

The Big Pink - Stop The World

Hype’s a funny old thing. A mixture of elated expectation, anticipated future greatness and a general scattering of weak prospects enhanced by Chinese whispers. It’s inaudible presence usually crumbles beneath the force of pressure, and generally, the band turns out to be a pile of no-hopers who’s supposed revolutionary art is nothing more than a ephemeral whim.

But with The Big Pink it’s different. There’s no gaudy gimmickry trusted upon you with promises of eminence, it’s kept simple - and simple, as we all found out after the Test Icicles plummeted to their undignified deaths, is what works best.

The Big Pink’s second single is a grand, dreamy, shoe-gaze squeeze. Its obsolete noise-making thrust shows them to be not ahead of the game, just simply and successfully channelling a sound that many have troubled themselves to hone. It’s lengthy static and novel boundless blare would sit comfortably under the repetitive glare of a strobe light - something I think we can all expect to see a lot more of in the future.

Local Natives - Sun Hands

Orange County is probably now best known for Mischa Barton and her materialistic shop-a-holic offspring whose unfathomable piss-poor adventures and attempted teenage angst has now left a rather blotted mark on the California district. And despite what Josh Schwartz’s teen-soap may tell you, there’s a whole load more to the city than lanky emo recluses who drool over Death Cab and Bright Eyes.

The O.C’s (Californiaaaaa!) Local Natives are on the way to releasing their debut U.K single ‘Sun Hands’. The rootin’ tootin’ melodic country-folk outfit have crafted something of distinct beauty with this harmonious combustion that starts as tentatively as a Fleet Foxes ditty and ends up scrambling over vocals of a White Denim nature.

They craftily avoided falling into the bearded, checked shirt, too-melodic-to-be-rock genre by actually letting go and running a little wild three minutes into the track. It’s refreshing to hear something that alters, at what first appears to be, a predicable direction with foreseeable results. I’m sure this will be the last time I mention Fleet Foxes in a Local Natives review, but as a cowardly music hack the first review, the first obvious comparison and the first target of cliché similarity is pretty much obligatory.

Check out the video below, it's pretty cool. (3.40 - kicks off a wee bit!)

A Handful Of Single Reviews

Them:Youth – Bows and Arrows

The palpitations of these heart fluttering Londoner’s can be felt like a warm, Spiritualized-esqe hug under the dying heartbeat of Brit pop. Euphoric ripples of incendiary and atmospheric waves creep into group vocals that firmly cement the future of this ethereal outfit.

The Only Sons – Lay Back Down

Outlandishly hearty and roots ridden, this working class spawn of what sounds very much like The Boss himself embodies gruffly romantic vocals, steel-slappin’ fiddles and a hopeful promise of the American dream. Ronnie Van Zant himself would high five The Only Sons for their bayou-thudding Southern melodic beauty, and so will I.

The Generationals – When They Fight, They Fight

Get your shuffle on and your Martha Reeves out, this soul doused ditty has the capability to elongate the grins of the despondent, get the corner disco to-cool-to-groove scenesters jiving and even the hardcore obsessed tattooed angry young men of this country give a wee wink.

The Dead Weather – Hang You From The Heavens

Blog heavy super-group prove they live up to the hype with this scuzzy scrapheap of feedback and roughed up rock ‘n’ revolt. Dirty booze-fuelled grubby vocals from Alison Mossheart prove to be a significant backbone of this band’s carefully crafted chaotic clanging.

The Gertrudes – River

Graciously alarming delectable echoes follow The Gertrudes everywhere they go. The Kingston folkster’s pick and pluck their way through this mawkish utopian squeeze that amalgamates Bon Iver with the Cinematic Orchestra in an atmospheric ringing of purity.

Listened to a lot of music today!

Fuck the middle-aged hating new-music obsessives, Glasto' was a smash!

There was plenty of beef swirling the web before the long Glasto' weekend this year. Young'uns hit up blogs and websites on a near-minute basis to express their overwhelming disappointment regarding what they saw as a "middle aged" dad-rock line up.

Slander circulated like swine flu and various uneducated splurts backed up by even more uneducated music related comments were, i suppose, what could have been expected from the numerous Internet-grazing assholes who enjoy slating anything that isn't classed in the new-wave-twee-psych-garage-scrap-punk genre. In other words, ignorant, type-heavy, Internet-occupied fuck-wits who like nothing more than to crap on the legacy of rock stars past, because now, we have synths and Shoreditch.

NME.com recently ran a feature regarding the festivals line up and its middle aged performers. Of course, Kids and cunts alike hit the site with comments that hold about as much use as fart and to be honest I was surprised at the lack of support Young and Springsteen received because I mean, lets be honest, they are the building blocks of the music we love and listen to today. But when the weekend, the rain and the sun finally came it all changed. Everything. (Well maybe not for The Sun's Gordon Smart but I will get onto that Liam Gallagher twitter obsessed brit-pop hanger-on later...)

The evening had begun to cool when The Loner himself hit up his main stage Friday slot and what followed my words will never do justice. I will completely and utterly avoid attempting to construct any creative literary bullshit and cut to the chase. Neil Young provided Glastonbury Festival with possibly the greatest rock and roll show the festival, or the entire country for that matter, has, and will for a long long time, ever see. Job Fucking Done.

But being gob smacked was the least of my worries. It was not time to dwell on the feedback that was still ringing in my earholes or the reoccurring 'Rockin' In The Free World' chorus that smashed my cranium four or so times, it was time for something else. Something just as colossal. Something just as mind blowing. It was time for a man who embodies everything that the American dream means to rock and roll, a man whose stories are perfectly and poetically crafted with a romantic musical canvas of beauty, a man whose nostalgia has followed him from the shores of Asbury Park to the mud of Glasto', it was time for The Boss.

Once again I think I will avoid trying to justify the allure of this performance, I think it's pretty impossible to do so. But I will keep it simple again. Bruce Springsteen came and surprised an audience on Saturday night of the event and it wasn't just because the uber-cool middle-aged rock and roll LEGEND played a stunning set of sheer fucking amazingness but for another reason, something that took patience but like patience, and i suppose drunken sex in a way, it takes fucking ages but once your there, fuck-a-duck you're there man!

The reason patience paid off in this particular case regarded Springsteen's song selection. All those waiting for 'Born in the USA' would be waiting a long long time because Bruce didn't subside to such faux pas patriotic social errors. Instead a selection of anthemic nostalgic anthems that included a cover of Joe Strummers "Comma" and a power-thumping rendition of "The River". Of course the usual "Born To Run" and the enigmatic "Thunder Road" tickled my tear ducts in a way that only the Asbury Park pioneer can.

But after all said and done, this was not intended to be a review. This was a statement of confirmation, a literary middle finger to all those web-obsessed cowards who sit behind their desk wanking over 7" singles by Architecture in Helsinki or some other twee nut-mugs.

Those middle-aged comments, those dad-rock slates and all that irrelevant bullshit criticism regarding Glastonbury's line up now holds fuck all grounding. The reason being this was the best Glastonbury ever. If you feel happy to criticise Eavis' decision then you're clearly a twat. Glastonbury has been characterised by being a little odd since it's birth and it's not an institution that intends to conform to the ideologies of anyone. It's a gathering of the weird, an accumulation of the outlandish and it's legacy means that it will never cir cum to what YOU want.

If you want the Arctic Monkeys go to Reading. If you want The Killers fuck off to V. If you can't grasp the bands playing Glastonbury then simply don't go. But overall, the final thing is this. You must literally have such a measly existence if the best thing you can do is sit behind your computer screen, log on to NME.com and backbite what you see as a "middle aged" line up then you're the fucking disease that's spreading through the music world. Young and Springsteen, and Blur for that matter, have a musical heritage to uphold, a legacy tattooed into the lines of melody, so don't criticise it, embrace it and try to inhale the essence of greatness. Otherwise, don't be such a bellend.

Hockey, Glastonbury 2009

Prior to Gaslight Anthem's performance with very-fucking-special-guest Bruce Springsteen came Portland's freshest buzz-band, Hockey.

The chipper pop group have a one of their biggest tours to date on the horizon, so what better way to kick off proceedings than in the sweatbox of the John Peel Stage at the greatest festival in the world.

Having been the focus point of some blog heavy musos as of late, it turns out that all this tattle-chatter has not been without a worthy end product. The four-piece hit the stage with a stockpile of poppy, climatic three-to-four minute new-wave excitements that induced frontman Benjamin Grubin into a knee-bending, arm flailing dance episode that looks like Freddie Mercury had given Orlando Weeks dance lessons - which, by the way, is in fact a good thing.

Past singles "Too Fake" and "Learn To Loose" greeted expectations with a comfortable funk-hug. And it was hard not to get excited, because lets face it, excitement is at times contagious, and Grubin was as excitable as I could have hoped for. Headband on and camp cavorts, centre stage seems a homely place to the bands vocalist, and judging by their album due out on August 22nd, he's going to be spending a lot more time up on such musical plinths.

What's truly exciting about this band, though, is that their reassuringly systematic songs are not as commercially pop as they first appear. There's a bubbling excitement beneath the seemingly simple surface that gradually liberated itself as the show progressed. They quite efficiently manage to breach a generic line that in the future will see tunes such as "Song Away" and "Work" cascade the pop-press as well as the alternative publications.

A grasp-full of funk-drive Stokes-y quirkiness layered with the ethical party stance of The Virgins means Hockey are going to have indie disco crowds getting their jive on way into the night.

Gaslight Anthem, Glastonbury 2009

Welcome, Ladies and Gentlemen to the American Dream.

Brian Fallon of New Jersey’s Gaslight Anthem is a charismatic young man. Since he waltzed onto the John Peel stage in the slowly fading evening sun a humbled grin cascaded his face that at no point looked like fading. Clad in his trademark white t shirt with ink plastering his forearms this looked like a regular Gaslight Punk proceeding, but as Fallon’s expression began to bubble with yet more excitement, anticipation and that nostalgic hope that continually orbits him it was clear that this was going to be a whole lot more.

From the stompin’ punk-punch of “High Lonesome” to the almighty penetrating lick of “Even Cowgirls Get The Blues” the four-piece held their heads high and their musical credentials of authenticity even higher. They quickly disregard criticism of having lost their way after “Sink Or Swim” as songs from “The 59 Sound” oiled up an already musky tent of raised fists and bellowing voices.

And then it happened. It actually happened. That mummer of past shows and mythical collaborations came together. “Ssssh” Fallon said, “I think I can hear the shores of my hometown...” And cool, calm and collected as ever on wandered a 59 year old man, rocking black attire and the obligatory sunglasses, it was Bruce Springsteen. One hero stood on stage next to a future musical legacy and together the Gaslight Anthem and Bruce Springsteen burst into a colossal rock and roll frenzy of “59 Sound” that sent shivers down spines, brought tears to eyes and converted the dreams of musical genius into reality.

After the smashing bellow of “Great Expectations” and the enthralling heart-on-sleeve “Backseat” it was solidified that Gaslight had firmly cast themselves into the future of rock and roll music. They sung about tales of love, about the hardships of life and about characters that only appear real when we close our eyes. And if one point has to be noted it would be this. When you witness a band so elated to be playing their own songs on foreign shores, so enthralled to be a part of rock music and passionate about what they are doing, you stop and think – could Gaslight Anthem be one of the greatest bands on the planet right now? It’s simple. The answer’s yes.