Wednesday, 9 September 2009

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


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

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

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

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



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

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

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



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

Monday, 7 September 2009

Jamie T - Kings And Queens


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, 6 September 2009

Brighton's Salvation - The Lanes


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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

http://www.myspace.com/thelanesuk

Friday, 4 September 2009

And I Thought They'd Liver Forever


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

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

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

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

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


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

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


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

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

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

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