White Denim, Welcome to the Rock and Roll Dream...

The search for new music is not without intent. Every hack, fan, die-hard blogger and hipster who scours the multiple sources of access is searching for enlightenment and enigma. It’s not something we do promote some faux-image of rock and roll, nor is it an allusive badge of underground-cool that can be flashed from the depths of a Rough Trade shoulder bag, it’s something we do because we want to feel that fluctuating bubble of excitement rise from the depths of our gut as we traipse over something completely new and brilliant.

It’s a quest fraught with disappointment and broken souls, but in the rare occasion when that negative slump is juxtaposed by the most glistening moments of euphoria, the reward is incomparable. Something clicks, and it’s not always an instant grasp of the gonads, as Josh T. Pearson’s latest entry proved, sometimes the hard work comes once you’ve found the record.

White Denim, however, take a short cut to satisfaction in their newest record, ‘D’. With another extremely gifted guitarist on board to take the band to a quartet, the garage-Texan rockers have shifted the plates of their being. From brawling, sharply-stabbed, unhinged indie-rock, they’ve come from the depths of their practice trailer reeking of booze, smoke and the spirit of The Dead.

‘D’ has marked itself with razor sharp talons, scrawling deeply into the skin of modern rock and roll. It’s an album of levels and stunning, dust-coated perfection. From the ramshackle splatter of ‘It’s Him’, the tooting, country-whistle of ‘Keys’, the impacting chorus of ‘Is And Is And Is’ to the sublime potency of ‘Street Joy’. I want to avoid reviewing the album but I did want to post a couple of videos that display their virtuoso musicianship along with their aptitude for compelling rock ‘n’ roll. Behold, bitches.

Completely mind-blowing stuff.

Graham Coxon at The 100 Club

Having been pulled from the jaws of financial collapse by Converse a few months back, The 100 Club has now joined the long line of venues fed by the hand of sponsorship.

Until recently, the ‘iconic’ venue offered little more than apparent nostalgia that only really appealed to those who once owned a ration book. Riding on the coat-tails of the past will only last for so long, and in 2011 when romanticism and rock and roll are quick fix folders you download off the internet, you need to ensure excitement at every turn.

This seems to be something taken on board by the Oxford Street residents. Alice Cooper is booked to play this coming Sunday, Macca played there some six or so months ago and tonight, and Graham Coxon has forgone his usual Camden haunts for a punk show under the sidewalk of the capital.

The Blur guitarist is as brilliantly brief and humble as ever. Quickly chirping “a’right” to the crowd of competition winners, hacks and industry heads, Coxon kicks his heels and spits into crisply clear punch-drunk numbers, with ‘Standing On My Own Again’ getting an early airing. Its mountainous crescendos of grit-laden guitars and Coxon’s fret-play throw them in the direction of indie-rock, but when transferred live, as is often the case with band’s weaned on Weller and The Clash, their urgency to formulate riotous proceedings eclipses the undertones of melody. Far from this being a downer, Coxon’s live performance benefits from this transition, adding a little more bite to his bark.

The majority of tracks come from the first two records, ‘Happiness in Magazines’ and ‘Love Travels at Illegal Speeds’, with a present shying away from his more subtle moments on ‘The Spinning Top’. ‘I Can’t Look At Your Skin’ and, for obvious reasons, ‘Freakin’ Out’, thrust into action to confirm Coxon’s aptitude for instant, sharply honed, distinctly London rock and roll.

Without his glasses on, Graham’s well-known image is slightly shifted, and with his Harrington also absent, you could be mistaken for thinking this is just a normal, average, mundane man; but he’s clearly not. Slipping out a slight grin every now and then, he looks to be enjoying himself, and despite the stationary glare of the crowd, they could well be having a bit of fun themselves.

The beautiful thing about underground venues like The 100 Club is that there could be a goddamn zombie apocalypse kicking off outside and we’d be none the wiser. They provide hubs of solitude for a snap-shot evening where beer and sweat and the dirtying of new shoes come together. We benefit from no windows and a sense of ragged, unorganised community because it seems so uncontrived. But most importantly Graham Coxon is made for places like this: up close, personal and unmistakably authentic.

Feis Festival

Founder of the Mean Fiddler empire and curator of today‘s festival, Vince Power is something of a new-age Peter Grant. His stocky and pugnacious stature is reflective of his frequently praised antagonistic work ethic. As an Irish man, Power knows better than anyone that the emerald island has scoured its influence onto the surface of modern music since Gutherie was kicking dust down the box-cart trails of Kerouac America.

To mark 21 years since the introduction of the deceased Fleadh events which ran in North London between 1990 and 2004, Power and his clique of efficient staff are putting on an Irish influenced anniversary event. In a relatively organized manor, Feis begins in a dignified fashion…

The Waterboys make an appearance on the main stage at 3pm. Prior to entry, Mike Scott’s microphone height is precisely measured to ensure the infamously fastidious front man doesn’t throw a Cher Lloyd and declare himself a worthless diva. With considerable enthusiasm the Boys excitedly throw themselves into things. Their fiddle-aided folk reeks of the untouched sea air, musky and brutally honest, they burst out the fondly digested ‘The Raggle Taggle Gypsy’ and ‘Fisherman Blues’ before ‘The Whole of the Moon’ gets a brief airing, just as it's rushed onto a Father’s Day Hits CD.

Brian Fallon and the Gaslight Anthem chaps are left underwhelmed by a seemingly odd placement. Their quarter Irish roots do the best they can in rickety conditions, kicking through blue-collar Americana-punk from their first three albums. ‘High and Lonesome’, ‘Diamond Church Street Choir’ and ‘59 Sound’ are shot from the powerhouse barrel but the damp and sodden sound fails to travel further than Fallon’s nose, and despite their admirable persistence, Gaslight are lost in the wind.

With the weather continuing to hold out, the smaller two stages are abandoned in favour of catching a distant glimpse of Bob Dylan. Although unable to see his grizzly, weathered features, when his viscose growl grazed into ‘Gonna Change My Way of Thinking’ and soon after, ‘It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue’, Dylan's ravaged tone becomes hard to consume.

Cheers erupt during harmonica moments to let Dylan know all aspects of his musicianship are still held in high regard. ‘Tangled Up In Blue’ is almost unrecognisable, however, as the music is cut up and disjointed in order to accommodate his growing lack of vocal conviction and, it seems, his inability to conjure up sizeable verses.

The lyrical potency of ‘A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall’ obviously doesn’t stab with quite the same fervour as it did back in Greenwich Village, but we all expected something slightly off key anyway. It’s difficult to remain grounded when watching Dylan. His importance is obviously immeasurable, but as this moment goes, his languid performance tells us more about exhaustion and old age than it does about rock and roll.

Compared to other Dylan shows, we’re treated to a rather hit filled set. ‘Highway 61 Revisited’, ‘Ballad of a Thin Man’ and ‘Like a Rolling Stone’ are all present and to see those performed by the hand that crafted them is something to take from the rubble.

‘It’s amazing that he’s 70 and he can still pull a crowd’ some plonker remarks nearby. Resisting a full-frontal slap I remain content knowing that that person is in fact an idiot. Trying to ignore my elated experiences watching Springsteen and Neil Young I accept that people age differently, and a mixture of chain-smoking, drug taking and fast living forces some into hunched images of their former selves. Sure, it’s good to see Bob today, especially when he cracks a slim smile, but it’s a one time event that I'll never repeat. Ever.

Tribes at Dingwalls

From very early on, even before they’d released anything of heavyweight substance, labels were drawn to the allure of Tribes like bees to nectar. Something good was certainly brewing in the Camden camp, and with Island nipping at their heels like a teething pup, the band needed to release something almost omnipotent to justify all the hype that had been built up.

When ‘We Were Children’ hit the internet midway through last year, it was a record that was rooted in new-age nostalgic simplicity. Standing at only four tracks long, it squashed expectations beneath a raging rampage of early 90s influenced Americana rock. It was just a shame there was no scene to release it into.

Almost 12 months on, and the difference is staggering. Tonight, Dingwalls is absolutely throbbing. The show’s sold out and the bar is a damn cattle market. This is Tribes' largest headline show to date and Camden is hungry for the four young leather-draped, scruffy rock 'n' roll urchins.

Their second song ‘Girlfriend’ brings with it chunky riffs that slowly begin to elevate along with the exuberant crowd. While they continue to feast on distortion, Smashing Pumpkins influences infuse with the jagged drive of Pixies and the smoke begins to lift. ‘Sappho’ confirms my suspicions: bathing in lo-fi Pavement-like warmth as Johnny Lloyd questions, ‘How’d you tell a child that there’s no god up in the sky’. They’ve grabbed the 90s by the gullet and added them on Twitter. This is a musical renewal.

‘Coming of Age’ is stripped back to basics, ringing with clarity and hints of Blur at their anthemic best, iPhones out, hands up - you get the picture. It really is quite a flawless moment. Here we are, in a room rammed to the rafters with hoards of boozey people, consumed by this new band who evoke the imagery of our childhood.

That’s what makes it all so damn special. Tribes are our age, they grew up with Blue Peter and Oasis and Americanisation and broken hearts. Our parents quiver when listening to ‘Thunder Road’ and ‘Brown Eyed Girl’ because it reminds them of Knebworth and acid and Thatcher. We go weak at the knees of Tribes for this very same reason, they’ve revived a sense of ‘90s romanticism that we’ve not yet had the chance to hear because those years have only just passed.

By the time ‘We Were Children’ howls in, the echo of ‘we were children in the mid-nineties’ sends the crowd over the edge with joy. Maybe all these emotive lyrics are triggering an unsuspected attack of age but for half an hour or so, no one gives a hoot.



In all honesty, the feeling is not too dissimilar from when the Libertines began smashing up Bethnal Green council flats. Britain has been crying out for something like this, something at the darker end of rock revivalism, and I think it’s finally arrived.

Phosphorescent at Heaven

Matthew Houck’s latest record under the moniker of Phosphorescent came in the hazy-lazy form of ‘Here’s to Taking It Easy’. Although now living in New York City, Houck’s hometown of Alabama clearly runs through the veins of this dusty country-rock installment. It’s not quite an ode to his roots, more of a notification of recognition, indicating that you can take the boy out the South but you sure as hell can’t take the South out the boy.

Standing atop of the towering Heaven stage, Houck and his band looks as southern as ever. Lank hair drapes over faces, sleeveless Megadeath t-shirts sit upon inked frames and each member looks like they’ve inhaled something potent prior to entry. To remain compelling while in such circumstances has claimed many a-worthy individual, but those guys weren’t southerners…

Third song in, ‘Nothing Was Stolen’, and Houck’s subtle Will Oldham vocals swoosh upon country-licks that sound like subtle Steve Earle winks, while the lonesome lyricism on ‘The Mermaid Parade’ pushes Phosphorescent away from the new folk-rock borders of Deer Tick and The Cave Singers and further into the heartbreak of Neil Young circa ‘On The Beach’.

With certain beatific ditties, such as ‘Wolves’ and ‘Hej, Me I’m Light’, which Houck goes onto play solo for the first part of his encore, we get to see a side of a singer who grew up on the bedrock of Nelson, Van Zandt and Prine. There’s a barren and solitary stance to these songs that were made for deserted reflection, true broken-hearted americana built upon sadness played on abandoned stages with forgotten words: It’s the bread and butter of country. But despite the clarity of Houck’s voice when he sighs ‘staring with blood in their mouths’, Phosphorescent truly blossom when hoisting up the noise as a unified band.

Between ‘It’s Hard To Be Humble (When You’re From Alabama)’ and ‘I Don’t Care If There’s Cursing’, Houck and Co force the volume upwards, forgoing the sunny guitars and reflective optimism for shoulder-shaking, instrumental body-bashing. Pianos crash like Jerry Lee, solos rage like Robbie Robertson; the music dives into ass-kicking, booze-dripping rock ‘n’ soul just like that.

While New Yorkers may be hindered by that derogative stereotype that depicts them as rude, obnoxious, arrogant wise-guys with a disdain for manners, Phosphorescent are anything but. They’re from the Alabama, and judging by tonight’s show, that’s where their heart will always lie.

Check out the expansive Young-like epic below...

Phosphorescent - Los Angeles by handsomemusic

Published on Spoonfed.co.uk 8th June 2011

Cults at Scala

When the ever-elusive Cults announced back in January that they'd signed to Name Of, even the most astute underground minds began to rattle with speculation. It wasn’t until recently that a rep from Columbia records, of which Name Of is an imprint, confirmed that the label is in fact the brainchild of none other than Lily Allen. Clothing range, vintage stores, successful pop songs and now her very own label: the girl’s keeping busy.

For Brian Oblivion and Madeline Follin, the smitten Brooklyn couple who form the foundations of Cults, this is the beginning of a fairytale. Late last year the two anonymously posted recordings onto Bandcamp – no Myspace, no website and no fluffed-up hipster gimmicks to try and charm your musically over-saturated dome. A buzz was formed. Proof that when a song is good enough, all those other peripheral frills are simply unnecessary.

Tonight at the Scala, the duo is joined by three other band members. All amble on stage looking like suited-up extras from Lords of Dog Town with limp shoulder-length hair hanging lifelessly over pale complexions. But when ‘Abducted’ commences Follin and Oblivion spring to life and the veil of moodiness is lifted.

One of the set's highlights comes quickly: during the romanticism of early sixties soul influences on ‘Know What I Mean’. To place this incendiary vocal stretch so early on in their set almost seems like a waste. It’s a towering plot of heavenly perfection that you wouldn’t expect to hear from two long-haired Brooklynites. Follin’s vocals rise and rise, belting out elements of beauty that appear unexpected from even the most accomplished of singers.

Cults - You Know What I Mean by cultscultscults

‘The Curse’ displays that dormant shoegaze pout, which is unfortunately cut short, mid-mayhem, whilst ‘Go Outside’ is confirmation that Cults benefit from simplicity. It twinkles and glints, marrying their lo-fi credentials with doe-eyed pop. Xylophones and repetitive lyrics keep things grounded and at no point do these songs seem drowned out by the repeated wall-of-sound.

In this complex abyss of music, somehow Cults have married sweet pop with tones of darkness, and in turn, created a summer-heavy debut record that ascends into complete euphoria when they step onto a stage. Lily done good.

Published on Spoonfed.co.uk 25th May