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.
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)
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Ok. I apologise. Once again, being a naive little guitar obsessed prat has come and bit me right in the arse. After muchos hype I gave in and bought the La Roux album which I have to say has knocked my socks of with its electro-pop wonderness.
I always seem to shy away from synths and self-proclaimed revolutionairy pop stars. I just don't really get on with the whole concept of electro. Maybe it's just that I have never really liked it before or maybe it's because I shut myself up in a folk-bubble of I-don't-want-to-like-anything-because-I'm-a-plonker, but here, I stand well and truly corrected. Slap me with a heavy-beat and let me touch La Roux's quiff, she's fantastic.
Highlights for me on this uber-contagious, beat-bleep packed debut include 'Tigerlilly' and 'Colourless Colour. Hook-laden chorus's and chirpy upbeat tweets take the 80's dance scene and mould their reputable credentials into an exciting modernisation that screams top-pop excitement.
La Roux's actually lived up to the various seemingly pompus presumptions that spilled from her gob in the past six months. But, you know what?, I'm going to let the dance-prance high note hitting new queen of pop talk all the comtemptuous crap she wants. Songs like 'Quicksand' and 'In For The kill' defy modern pop's building blocks and far from conform to any sort of commercial regime, but in some obscure realm they have the potencey and power to take over the charts, one by one.
Fuck Lady GaGa, a so called breath of fresh pop-air. It's La Roux who takes the crown. And while I sit here pondering what a twat I've been I'm happy that the impending chart derby is in the hands of Elly Jackson and her poptastic, electro beauties.
Right, I'm just off down the shops to pick up this weeks new music magazines. I'm interested to see the NME feature regarding the 50 most forward thinking people in the music industry, so I will report back on that one in a bit.
In the mean time, check out Kitty, Daisy and Lewis. It's quite astounding that such a young family trio in their teens have the ability and musical maturity to create such 50s, slicked haired, swing that seems pretty much non-existent in today's new music.
Vintage country-like blues-bounce rockabilly from a trio of Londonders. And even better. The band roped in their mum and dad to play a handful of instruments on their 2008 debut. It's got a rustic, crackily sound that adds to the authenticity of it, and at no point would you think this album was made last year. Proper knee-bending, arm-swinging sweet jives.
I heard about this gobby gang of Stoke rockster's when they supported The Rifles on their past tour. Having read a little about their aggy antics and confrontational performances I was intrigued. Picking fights with audience members, being banned from pretty much every Stoke establishment and harvesting the self-proclaimed brilliance of Liam Fray is no easy feat.
NME recently ran a radar feature on this lot and labelled them 'proper good British rock' or something along those lines. Firstly, I don't disagree with the statement. They invoke all the solid features of what is considered to be proper British rock. They've got attitude, they don't give a fuck, they think they're the best thing since the last over-hyped band and their outlook takes both the positives and negatives of inhabiting our little island...
But when we talk 'proper good British rock' it always seems like a euphemism for Oasis. Twisted Wheel, The Courteeners, The Enemy etc have all suffered the prick of this out-dated syringe at one point or another. Now, I like these bands, all be it some more than others, but why must we continually cast these similarities that pay very little relevance to the band in question. Sure Oasis were one of the best English bands ever, but it doesn't mean that every loud-mouth northerner thinks they're Liam or Noel. Ambition to create a BIG sound doesn't need to mean 'The Next Oasis', and it often doesn't. The Courteeners sound nothing like Oasis but because they're Manc's people will identify in such a way, all be it harmlessly. Twisted Wheel, same story. I could go on.
I feel that northern vocals always add something special to a track. If you're Southern and you can't sing it's pure cack. If you're Northern, however, there's a certain flare of hometown pride and heritage that sounds like it's got a better story to tell. New Education's vocals, on the track up for download, 'Today', is rich in this certain je ne sais quoi vocal experience, steeped in break away tendencies and longing.
Let it be known, these guys are not scared of you, they're not scared of me and they're certainly not scared of anything anyone has to say about them. You, on the other hand, should be scared. You might just end up liking them and getting a very personal beating from one of them at a gig near you soon...
Binge drinking is actually, well, quite fun. Don't fight the facts, every British twenty-something does it. I know it's disgusting and eroding the cultural legacy of this nation but it doesn't mean that every young'un who fancies a bevvy will kick the shit out of a homeless man or smash the windows of your elderly neighbours car. That's not down to binge drinking, those people are just cunts.
To fight this incongruous activity the Government have decided to spend yet more money on some fruitless and ineffective adverts. 'Drink Sensibly'. Oh, Ok then. That's that sorted. Come on guys!
I will settle on one thing regarding this issue. Those rather shocking ads involving people dying and smashing their bones into oblivion are a little effective. No one wants to fall of scaffolding while pretending to be Batman, you not only look like a bellend but I think it might hurt. Drink driving as well. They're a little graphic. Nose breaking trips home from the pub and the guilt of running over a cat sucks. But the same rules apply to all of these. IF YOU DO ANY OF THOSE THINGS YOU ARE AN IDIOT, so, although it's a little crude, you kind of get what you deserve because your self centered and fatuous actions are no ones fault but your own.
But there's one good thing to come out of these adverts. A recent campaign titled 'Binge Drinking Boy' or something along those lines was not only amusingly inaccurate at trying to emulate the actions of today's teens, but it featured a rather tantalisingly, distinctively British ditty by Eight Legs titled 'Those Grey Days'.
A precise British swagger that combines The Libertines with the cockney scent of The Rifles and the ruckus, ripped denim scour of The Paddingstons twinkles through the gritty cracks of 'Those Grey Days'. It's a very East London type of song, the sort of jingle that would have had the indie pups whacking on their Chelsea boots and leathers had it been released about four years ago.
Sleazy squatter indie-punk has never sounded so strangely patriotic and binge drinking has never looked so appealing.
The elegance and finesse of pops past femme fatale's was principle to their refined and majestic heart breaking glares. Suggestively they swooned on stage, beehive barnets and flirtatious frocks in hand, unknowingly entering the souls of the onlookers.
It was a time when less was more. The likes of Dusty Springfield and Lulu could seduce an audience with a gaggle of lovable pop pennings and needed little more than a flutter of their eyelids to get the geezers going. There was no market for saucy, under dressed bimbos wrapped up in pythons singing in showers, and despite MTV, I don't think there is today.
Camera Obscura's new album 'My Maudlin Career', harks back to a simpler time. An air of '64 sophisticated-mod revels in this albums timeless lucidity. Both souly and temptingly poppy the Camera Obscura invoke very little from the egotistical, crass chart temptresses of today.
Despite only two fifths of the band being female, Carey Lander and Tracyanne Campbell, it's vital to assess these comparisons because, well, they make Camera Obscura the lavishly gorgeous vintage pop outfit they are today. Get your over priced Camden charity clobber on and relish in the band who are everything that The Long Blondes wanted to be.
"Pete Doherty has revealed that he and Carl Barat discussed plans to make an album and tour together after The Libertines reunited for a one-off gig in London in May."
On July 31st the above statement hit the Internet like a Katy Perry nip-slip...all over the place. Some, no doubt, would be on a bohemian cloud nine at this point with idealistic images of their Arcadian dream drifting poetically around there minds as they pull their military tunic form the depths of their wardrobe. For others, however, this statement, much like Miss Perry's unintended garment malfunctions, would have been greeted with the same disgust and disdain as it always has. Played out, dried up and now, not only irrelevant, but a bit bloody boring. Ask yourself, do you really care if The Libertines reform?
If we're talking the comfort of nostalgia then it's an easy one. 'Up The Bracket' and 'The Libertines' were records that defined a nation of identity searching youths who scoured music for some form of consolidation and rebellion in a time of need. Punk ideologies with a gritty indie sound, fronted by two charasmatic charming young urban poets seemed perfect, and it was. The United Kingdom hadn't seen that sort of uprising since the birth of punk in the late 1970s.
There was that sense of live fast and die young, felt both by the fans and the band. Who knew what The Libertines would do next? what hole they'd wake up in trying to piece together the events of the previous night. It was exciting and unpredictable, it was what British music had been looking for since Oasis sunk into a pit of becoming a parody of themselves.
The brilliance of songs such as 'Time For Heroes', 'Don't Look Back...' and 'What A Waster' have become songs of potency and legacy. We love these songs because they now define our youth (depending on how old you are obviously). They embody the trippy and raw essence of what was once Britain's most exciting act - fast and fucked up.
What with recent discussions regarding The Stone Roses and their constantly unsure yes-no reformation, the highly succesful Blur reunion and the Pixies storming various show stopping sets, the topic of reforming, reuniting and regenerating what once was once great is now a hot topic in the music biz - all be it for various reasons. But is it worth trying to revive something that was, for the most of it, such hard work?
Regardless of your Doherty related opinions, be he brilliant or be he bullshit, this is a rejuvination of four people, not just one. Hassel now has the quite bad Yeti to keep warm and comfortable, Barat, well we don't really no know what he's got at the moment, Gary, yep same answer, and Pete has Babyshambles, his solo career and a troupe of adoring females following him wherever he wanders, praising him as Dylan or some sort of modern literairy genius, and that, right there, is part of the problem.
I'm all for iconic, lustful figures in music. Marc Bolan and Mick Jagger had more females following them than Hefner, but for good reason. Now it seems like Pete Doherty has become glorified as a godly figure who encapsulates all that is great about music when in fact his skatty, under produced attempts are nothing but the ramblings of a lost boy whose hype rarely lives up to its reality.
By raving about Doherty's supposedly infinate potential and 'rock star' facade he's become an image of disapointment. Constantly churning out mediocre melodies and unsatisfactory performances should be shunned and not commended. Since when did any other act recieve a fair cop when they turned up late, pissed and incoherent? Maybe John Martyn, but that's different, he actually gave something back. Doherty's become self obsessed, narcistic and cares about no one but himself - and that is the fucking truth.
The second problem that then occurs is money. Yep, the one thing that can cause rifts in an empty room. Money is one of the primary reasons why this band will reform. Doherty's pissed his royalties up the wall right next to his blood-painted poetry, John has clearly invested it in the bland Yeti and Carl, well, he doesn't really have any. Be it both cliche and cringe, the last reason that people should reform is for money because no matter how much they resist or fight it, their hearts will be firmly dislodged and their priorities will be unsettled and unjustified.
We want to see bands reform because they've settled their differences and taken on their problems as one, not as a separate group of profit derby individuals who happen to be playing a show together.
Now I don't doubt that if the reunion occurs the shows will be epic. Firstly it gives everyone that opportunity to re-live what at first they couldn't. They are given the chance to bask in those holy anthems, sweat, blood an' all. But, and this is just a but, will The Libertines not be in any danger of becoming a covers bands of themselves? What was once washed up and dead, left in its swirling mystery will now be readily available. That's like knowing the meaning of life, it would just ruin everything.
Part of the reason why we love The Libertines so much is that it's now untouchable to us, a mystery of unknown Arcadia. Our hearts ache because we can't have them but we want them. What's to say if we could have them...wouldn't we be disappointed and under-nourished with a shit storm of paradoxical numb-nuts parading around with unjustified self-belief and guitars? It seems a little scary.
People have constantly debated the Oasis situation. Should they have quit after Knebworth? blah blah blah. And honestly, I think they should have, but that's just me. Say a year down the line and The Libertines are up and about, headlinning festivals and playing the O2...the love and the romance is gone, and not only gone, but well and truely shat on by a profit hungry gang of industry bods who don't care about the unreleased tracks, the better-than-album b-sides and the whole fucking dream of having something that seems no more accessible to you than it is to the next guy or girl.
I for one would not like to see Pete and co reform. I've thought about. At first it was an exciting idea - finally, I thought, I will be able to witness this greatness and the enigma of this act who've painted an audio picture for me but have always been out of my reach. But isn't the enigma and greatness of this band kept great by not knowing, by waiting and hoping and by, finally or though rather ironically, never knowing.
I remeber the first time that I saw The View. I was obsessed. I think it was August 2006. After hearing 'Wasted Little DJs' in May I was waiting for what felt like a year to actually see them. The rowdy rabble made the trip down to Tunbridge Wells where they DESTROYED the Forum - a converted public toilet to gig venue inhabited mainly by 90's grunge throwbacks and satanist goths...
Sweat dripped from the low ceilings in this cramped scum-box, bodies cascaded the heads of the onlookers like a human tidle-wave and there was a general sense of 'Fuck Everything' - brushing hair from their Stella soaked brow's everyone in the room had the same feeling. This is filthy, this is dirty, this is fucking amazing.
Prior to those little Dundonian upstarts was a local Kent band from Chatham, The Underground Heroes. Now for those of you who don't know Chatham, how shall I put this...well...it's a real fucking dive, Britain's own practical joke, a social mistake...yeah something like that. Apparently home to the 'chav', its Burberry clad inhabitants ain't the sort of characters who embody a sense of cultural heritage.
After a brief encounter with 1965 records that amounted to the release of one or two singles ('Stella...' and 'Skinny Twins') they went solo. Arranging their tours and shows pretty much on an independent basis, and why not? they've certainly got a bit of a cult following.
Their grotty Marlboro-munching antics and booze fuelled weekenders have a certain urban mystic to it. Far from dwelling on the negatives, the Heroes make the best of a bad situation by loading themselves up with cheap piss-like cider and trashing through some grotty gutter punk.
After a seven month or so hiatus the Heroes have had a little revamp. Their new website looks flashier than a scensters myspace page, they've gone a little less chav, now opting to sport Iron Maiden t-shirts and leather jackets rather than the previous Nicholson stripped garments, and they've returned optimistic and excitable, eager to get back out there and spit in the face of something delicate.
A recent blog posted on their myspace states this very enthusiasm. Titled 'This Is The Dawning...' there appears to be a certain air of epithany following them. Rather than embarking on a spiritual mission to 'find themselves' at a Buddist temple in Tibet they decided to lock themselves up in their new practice space and get down to some writing, recently deciding what should be done with all these old and new tracks:
we have been thinking about what to do with our now extensive catalogue of old songs and demos. The solution was/is to make them available to buy!!! How about that? Underground Heroes selling some music? The first installment of music will be ready and available to buy in digital and physical format by the way of a 5 track EP in October. This will consist of 3 old tracks, a new Demo and a "Wild-card". This maybe a live track, a home demo or something never heard! All going well we plan to release one of theses every 3 months. We haven't given up on our quest to put out a full proper album, but until then we want our music to be readily available and by doing this we can!
Excited? I am. This mini release series of e.p's will begin to paint the anarchist image of just how rambunctious this bunch of unruly chaps really are.
The words 'lad' and 'rock' and undoubtedly 'lad rock' are sure to surface soon enough. A stigma unwelcomed by pretty much everyone, but the only reason this analogy will arise is due to the small minded connotations related to songs that tell stories of something we all do, yet due to some fucked up social circle, may not admit. Getting tanked up, trying it on with girls and running out of dollar may seem a little 'ladish' to a handful of indie-musos who prefer a coffee to a can, but to me, I think it's a pretty accurate depiction of teenagers in this country. Plus, things only seem to adhere to such lad, oi oi correlations because people can sing their socks off to them. Since when has that been an negative thing? I can certainly see a lot more folks bellowing out to 'Chasing The Buzz' than they do at a Little Boots or Frank Music gig...
'Dolly Birds...' is rammed with youthful experimentation and 'Lost In Dundee' Rawley scopes out the highs and lows of a chaotic weekend in Scotland with their friends and fuck-ups alike. Then there's 'Brixton Stories'. An escalating anthem of the Heroe's fans and themselves. It's winy but hey, that's the beauty of it. Their brash, shoulder-barging swagger sounds so wrong under George's cockney squeak, but at the same time, it's hard to deny it's nothing but brilliant.
New track 'The Ripper' follows the same suit as Plan B's 'Suzanne' cover but takes a notable turn when they switch onto a metal-like solo that courses its destructive mannerisms mid-way through the track. Lavishly ramshackle they haven't changed their ways, just built on them, safe in the knowledge that they now have the technical capabilities to indulge in both the hardcore-punk scene and the indie scene.
I've got faith in the Heroes, and have done for a few years now. It's often that bands come and go, that much is true, but there's no getting rid of these Chatham hell raisers. They never 'went away' as such, just took a much deserved break. But yesterday was yesterday and today's a new dawn, a heroic dawn. Get ready. It's going to get ugly.
Download the not-stop jam of 'Tracksuit Bottoms And Polo Tops' below. Appreciate the lyrics and social acceptance because you might just end up liking them...
In my quest for modern folk classics I've come across some great bands. There's something about the organic, country feel of modern folk that separates itself from other music genres. It's honesty and simplicity is the essence of its beauty - and whether it's stripped down acoustic pluckings or the rusty twang of a Fender it generally retains its authenticity.
Now expectations are high for the group in this feature. The aptly named Monsters Of Folk consists of Jim James of My Morning Jacket, M. Ward - an American singer-songwriter, Producer Mike Mogis and Bright Eyes unpredictable lonely genius Conor Oberst. A tall order here. With a band comprised of these talented young buggers great things are expected.
Where Oberst has drawn comparisons to a modern day Dylan in the past we have to sit up and take notice. He's one of the best song writers in the world at this point, he's an adaptable young whipper-snapper as he proved with the Mystic Valley band, and now, in this Crosby, Stills and Nash-like outfit his talent is scouring new shores.
'Say Please' is a pre-released track from their forthcoming debut. It's got the dreary wail of Obersts scouring vocals and it's got a more-country-rock-than-thou electric lick throughout, making it a sturdy foundation for them to certainly build on. I'm guessing that this is far from everything the group have to offer, because although it's a wonderful track, the talent that congeals amongst this outfit is top-notch, a real gang of visionairys and with this in mind, lets all wait for the album due out September.
