So Many Go Unnamed

Kick Up The Dust

2011-08-25T10:24:00.000-07:00

‘American Goldwing’ is the title track taken from Blitzen Trapper’s 2011 effort, and much like ‘Love The Way You Walk Away’, a taster from the record that leaked earlier this month, it persists in affirming an amended direction in which the American pop band substitute their future-folk for desert-bound traditionalism.

What with a rocketing esteem for the new breed of country-crafting troubadours and whisky swigging urban cowboys indebted to the Canyon clan, Blitzen Trapper’s sixth validates that their dormant aptitude for harmonica tooting tales has exposed its slack-jawed slur at the right time.

From what I’ve heard so far, these two songs suggest that their previous album, ‘Furr’, marked the dying gasp of waving dysfunctionalism as they take a leap into the past while pulling on the strings of modern ramblers like The Only Sons. Banjos cling to coarse and smoky harmonies while harps stomp their snake skin boots upon the spat tobacco that lines the sawdust of honky tonk bars from Atlanta to Alabama.

Even the title, ‘American Goldwing’, suggests a tipped Stetson towards Nelson and the Outlaws, strengthening the fact that this is much more for the Drive-By Truckers tribe than the angelic folk of Peckenfold and co.

Blitzen Trapper -- American Goldwing by gatorbutts

Outfit - Two Islands

2011-08-25T10:22:00.000-07:00

Eerie tribal beginnings open upon the gate to Outfit’s newest single, ‘Two Islands’. Spirits from the chasm of The Jesus and Mary Chain are quickly counteracted by vocals that, despite trying to accompany the gloom, actually heighten its air of spook to a neo-pop bubble that trips through Phoenix chirp with disrupted pools of Animal Collective digital effervescence. While the static undergrowth fails to capture the colourful vibe that Outfit possess, one hopes that in the future they embrace the sunshine and hang loose in acid-doused Washed Out vibes.

Two Islands by OUTFIT

Taking It Easy

2011-08-24T07:49:00.000-07:00

The expectant veil of prospect that looms above the heads of Dawes must be a weighty one. They hail from the North Hills of Laurel Canyon in Los Angeles, a place rooted in musical heritage. It’s been a fortress of demise and uprising for singer-songwriters since the late 60s, and more recently, Jonathan Wilson, the mystically nostalgic troubadour who bought us ‘Gentle Spirit’ on the Bella Union label, has triumphed as the best thing to sprawl from the Canyon since, well, the last best thing.

For Dawes, however, it’s not been a such an easy rise from the eucalyptus shrubs that coat the Canyon’s dusty paths. After the departure of co-songwriter, Blake Mills, back when the band was called Simon Dawes, brothers Taylor and Griffin Goldsmith went it alone with Wylie Gelber and Tay Strathairn and substituted the previous post-punk rabble in favour for a dabble in sun-drenched folk.

And what better place to catalyse an adulation in folk-rock than the woodland isolation of this Hill dwelling arcadia?

Now on their second album, ‘Nothing Is Wrong’, Dawes have edged into the territory of their forefathers. ‘If I Wanted Someone’ blends the ambience of Treetop Flyers and The Mountains and The Trees with Glenn Fry lyricism, humbly paired with the emptiness of the country music that influenced the early ramblers. ‘Maybe ‘cause I come from such an empty hearted town’ Taylor questions before declaring, ‘I want you to make the days move easy’ in typical Jackson Browne fashion.

Dawes - If I Wanted Someone by therecordcrate

Richmond Fontaine - The High Country

2011-08-23T05:57:00.000-07:00

'All it does here is rain' croons Willy Vlautin in a typically forsaken tone on 'The Meeting on the Logging Road', a track taken from his forthcoming Richmond Fontaine album, 'High Country'.

Desperation in both literature and music have always been pivotal in the desolate themes of Vlautin's work. 'The Motel Life' and 'Northline', two classically barren Americana novels by the wordsmith, are both recklessly forlorn tales of suffering attributed by the burden of addiction and bludgeoned pride. They ache and they crave acceptance. They desire balance and they delineate images of lower class America and its enduring struggle through a wasteland of urban decay, torn families and broken needles.

The importance of Vlautin's work lies in his facility to expose this abandoned side of America, the evil twin that Hollywood has shackled to the abyss. The people we hear in his songs and read in his written words are lonely and miserable. They are ruined and they are lost.

'I need help', a voice cries on 'Claude Murray's Breakdown' before 'The Eagles Lodge' begins in Oberst-like simplicity and swells into a sonic undergrowth of discontent. The surge of up-heaving gloom that begins to develop on this track cements a theme of versatility throughout this record that morphs from acoustic country simplicity to Marlboro-rock. 'Lost In The Trees' and 'The Chainsaw Sea' both advance with comparable barks of Reckless Kelly and Rich Hopkins, fearfully clinging to the ghosts of rock and roll. 'Everyone was tripping except me', snarls Vlatuin before shaky bass lines continue to ramble on, 'heaven was listening to a mix tape of Judas Priest', he continues.

'Inventory' is another narrative of alienation told through a female voice which fails to numb the heartache of this trailer park demise. Its sweet Raitt-like chatter accompanies the theme of hopelessness and unavoidable peril as financial weights and eventually, the collapse of human life, go unnoticed as America goes about its business and the insignificant reach their inevitable passing.

This album, after the first listen, then shows its teeth under the light of loss. It's a concept album built upon a tale of love and madness in a small logging community. A gothic country ballad stretched upon the stark plains of neglected America, this is one of Fontaine's darkest efforts to date.

There are a number of destitute entries in this album that bare their solemn heart in between songs. They sit woefully beside the dusty country and the coughing rock comfortably because they are one and the same. The fallen hope of these spouting accounts are as meaningful as the songs. They provide a basis for loss but no answer to it. Richmond Fontaine don't have an obsession with the harsh concept of failure that's omnipresent in their albums and Vlatuin's books, they simply believe in telling these stories because they're as important as righteous depictions of cosmic triumph. Damaged souls and broken homes construct as much as society as the success of an individual, if not more. Why should victories only pout their smug grins upon the face of idealistic rock and roll? We will not learn from our accomplishments we will only enjoy them. We build from our mistakes and we grow from our misfortune. The desperate, as Richmond Fontaine expose, often paint a bleaker yet more veritable picture of life because ultimately, they have survived.

Something about roses and thorns that's a bit witty

2011-08-22T06:54:00.000-07:00

While we all kneel to the submission of the sweeter things in life, the guilt of enjoyment often rises its head with a tutting finger and a smug grin that confirms for each flash of fulfilment you inhale, something equally shitty will bite you on the buttocks.

It’s the pessimists way. Expect nothing and you will never be let down. Enjoy something and you will pay for your happiness because aint nothing free. Girls, cigarettes, fast food, Big Brother…it’s all there waiting to fuck you over. And don’t think for one second that music will console your dying anguish because it wont, it’s there to further your longing, antagonise your dismay and poke fun at your pathetic life.

Lucy Rose is no different. Sure, her twee name suggests fields of heart-shaped smiles and happy endings, and yes, her saintly hum matches the alluring pitch of the sirens who lead sailors to their immortal peril and obviously her eyes look like diamonds cast from a secluded ocean in the heart of Babylon, but if you listen to ‘Middle of the Bed’ too much you’ll go and fall in love with her and trust me, she’ll never call you back.

Dexters

2011-08-22T05:39:00.001-07:00

Dexters wordsmith, Tom Rowlett, thinks that his band are arriving at just the right time to give the British music scene what it needs: Anthems.

Bought together through disbanded musical experiments of the past, Dexters are still at the early teething stages of emerging band status. Careful not to pull a Viva Brother and formulate claims of grandiose satisfaction, they’ve remained relatively under the radar and a little mysterious.

I saw (and put on) their first show at the Old Queens Head around six weeks ago and the striking prowess of Rowlett’s engaging on-stage frivolity was mirrored by his effervescent lyrical tangents of urban glories and urchins done good.

With only one song floating around it is hard to gauge the potential might of this developing outfit, but ‘Start to Run’ suggests gallant strides of inner-city indie-rock are on the menu. Mention ‘lad rock’ and I’ll set the hounds on you, it’s far more than that…

DEXTERS - Start To Run (demo) by dextersband

Country Is The New Cool

2011-08-18T02:59:00.001-07:00

Country music is the one genre of music that's bludgeoned by preconceptions at every turn. Those confederate flag-waving, right-wing, sweet-tea drinking, Bush supporting rednecks who sing about the righteous throne of man and the deteriorating wealth of the South. You know the type...

In the U.K, more than anywhere it seems, the fiddle-wielding yelps of the Nudie shirt clan is so detached from what is considered to be cool that it almost crosses the line of embarrassment. Maybe your parents have stacks of Alan Jackson records that used to haunt your childhood, maybe Gretchen Wilson's screeching howl gave you nightmares or maybe your disgusted at the right-wing ideals of these swamp dwelling individuals...

Look deeper though. What do you really know about this broken music? probably nothing. You've cast assumptions from hearsay and perhaps a few dulcet tones that are more pop than country. I understand that the high-pitched hick bark of Elizabeth Cook or even the Dixie Chicks can be unappealing, but pick up some David Allan Coe, some Charlie Daniels, hell, some Willie Nelson and Steve Earle, because country music, as it stands, is about outlaws, it's about societies misfits, it's about a fight for your identity and it's about crushed souls by small town girls.

Charlie Daniels 'Simple Man' (No connection with the Skynyrd song) might be a bad song to plead my case with as he sings about uprising and shooting people, but there's more to it than simple lawless redemption and vigilance. While working at a website some months back we used to listen to Spotify and I put this song on. The raging guitars and the Marlboro slur are all elemental to the songs success as a country-rock growl, but someone commented on the songs lyrics, then stating that they were 'racist' and 'right wing'. While they fail to comment lightly on the state of America, there is no racism in this song, nor is there anything to suggest so. Following this, that person then put on Odd Future. The homophobic, woman-baiting, misogynistic, faggot-calling, middle-class rap troupe posing as hard-grafting, street-dwelling die-hard rappers. Now call Daniels a right-wing lyrist.

Country music is basically folk with balls and soul. The barren grace of an acoustic guitar and some lost words, hummed through a broken heart, illustrate the authority of this music's virtue, paired with the rapport these singers embody through their woeful tales of loss. When Townes Van Zandt sung...

The poets tell how Pancho fell
Lefty's livin' in a cheap hotel
The desert's quiet and Cleveland's cold
So the story ends we're told

he was singing about losing something so close to him but gaining something legendary in status. And that's how the great Outlaws are remembered. The lives they chose to live were fraught with violence and heavy drinking, quick-fire love affairs and an inevitable descent to the pits of despair, but this existence is one they chose because it was their only way.

Now, while the Country music Billboard charts thrive with the likes of Toby Keith and the foolish mummers of Alan Jackson's pro-Yank bile, you must realise that this is a pastiche of the country legacy, much like the way that British pop is now a shell of its former self. Times transcend generic tendencies and although the roots may remain they can be deformed and distorted, thus the product is not a product of its legacy, it is a product of the times.

But there are saviours of the scene. People who have lived and grown up on the road. No formulated faux-image, no stage school, nothing is contrived, it's all drawn from experience and the highs and lows of the concrete they march on a daily basis. And, fortunately for us, these figures of importance are the new generation of dust-road troubadours who will pen the next chapter in this vibrant and twisting tale. As Robbie RObertson once said, 'It's a God damn impossible way of life', but it's one that's necessary to keep the stories alive.

Justin Townes Earle

Justin Townes Earle - "Harlem River Blues" by TwentyFourBit.com

Drive-by Truckers

Drive-By Truckers -- Girls Who Smoke (Bonus Track) by Sir_Quickly

Ryan Bingham

Depression by Ryan Bingham

Tallest Man On Earth

Tallest Man on Earth - The Gardener by LeFant

Laura Marling Is Britain's Brightest Hope

2011-08-17T04:36:00.000-07:00

The first time I saw Laura Marling she was 16 years old. On a boiling hot summer's day in Brighton I found myself cramped in the basement of a venue called Sumo which no longer sits down one of the many seaside alleyways.

Jamie T was the headline act. It was a few months before his album came out. 'Back In The Game' and 'So Lonely Was The Ballad' were knocking about and the Eel Pie Island cartel were beginning their short lived rise to the top of the indie charts. It was definitely a time of diversity, a time where the odd bared their scars from under the leather-clad image of 'cool' and the left-field was welcomed. Records were gloriously under produced, dry wit was something of a welcomed counterpart to idealistic Bohemia painted by The Libs and the indie groups of this time drew the guts from pop music and added their own twist. It was the emergence of a new scene.

Yet while Good Shoes have struggled to record a second record, Larrikin disbursed for careers alongside Courtney Love and Burberry and Mystery Jets inhale from the dried up lungs of the 80s, Laura Marling, the pup of the revue, has blossomed into the most mature song writer in Britain.

Laura's third record is due out on 12th September. 'A Creature I Don't Know', as its title may hint towards, suggests that the elegant beauty is still trying to find her feet in the murky waters of folk, when in fact, this couldn't be further from the truth.

At 21 years old, Laura is certainly still growing as an artist but her records suggest that she's been an adult for some time now. The early bare folk of 'Failure' and 'New Romantic' solidified an aptitude for lyricism that drafted early comparisons to Joni and Joan Baez. Her hymnal and angelic tones, even when I first saw her, before she was legal to drink, accompanied the acoustic guitar like a brother in arms and something extremely potent was embedded in Laura's performance. Unlike the gaggle of countless other acoustic singer-songwriters, Laura has a knack for writing lyrically vibrant tales and it's like the words she sings were made just for her.

Her debut album 'Alas I Cannot Swim' showed that the young girl from Reading had a darker side to her than earlier songs like 'Mexico' led us to suggest. 'Night Terror' and 'Ghosts' portrayed a girl, wise way beyond the years that her age hints at, penning these absolutely divine musings that were both pensive and completely confessional. She had the ability to make each and every phoneme bleed with intensity and feeling, elongating that sense of unaffected and broken-hearted passion for just a snippet longer. Overall, this was a record about love and being in love. At a young age these sort of pensive ramblings can come off as entirely cliche and even sloppy in their construction - but this didn't. It was refined and paved the way for her sophomore effort.

'I Speak Because I Can' was one of the record's of 2010. While Laura's debut suggested womanhood was already upon her, 'I Speak...' dealt with it first hand. An affirmation of development, songs like 'Made By Maid', 'Rambling Man' and 'What He Wrote' were open-souled revelations to the world. The songs grew in depth and texture and Laura's style blossomed to emulate a bleaker side of folk that, when paired with her cracked words, could slice even hearts made of stone. 'I wouldn't want to lose something I couldn't save' she chirps on 'Darkness Descends'. These aren't the words of a twenty year old woman from England's forgiving lands, these are not the tentative teething steps of a young song writer, this is the sort of perfectly crafted, completely love-struct, open-wounded barrings of an individual whose life has been fraught with experience. How she conjures some of these lyrics is best left untold, but while pop music becomes sodomised by the ill-fated vampires who suck the originality from the world, Laura's words must not go unnoticed or unappreciated because, if we look to the bones of it, she is possibly the greatest female songsmith in the U.K, if not the world.

Earlier this month, the video for 'Sophia', Laura's forthcoming single, appeared online. Delicately, the song begins with melodious picking and soft hums as she states, 'Where I've been lately is no concern of yours' before gouging on tuneful conviction that builds into a slowly developing folk crescendo. As the drums begin to beat in the background, lyrics progress and build into wooing hooks with each instrument contributing wholly to the soothing tone. As the song grows in pace, the sonorous echoes mirror the advancement of the accomplished singer Laura has blossomed into. It's resplendent in its cleansed vision, sophisticated and beautifully primed, this marks the arrival of another incredible record for Britain's brightest hope.

The Duke and The King

2011-08-17T02:40:00.000-07:00

Simon Felice has come a long way since departing from his brothers band, The Felice Brothers, some two or three years back.

Upon leaving the raspy, dust-kicking folkies, Simon embarked on a new project with a more subdued direction. The Duke and The King was his next port of call. Their debut record, 'Nothing Gold Can Stay', drew blood from The Felice Brothers more mellow moments of dreamy ambience. There were no riotous fiddles waltzing their way through drunken barn dances but there were those hints of acoustic clarity that Simon bought to the band.

Following the first Duke and The King record, their second effort was coined as having funk and gospel roots. Country music, the likes of which Simon made with his brothers, has always been influenced by the church-going realms of gospel and soul, it just transcends differently differently when sung by white boys on washboards and acoustic guitars.

Self recorded in a woodland area north of New York, Simon was joined by Nowell "The Deacon" Haskins and Simi Stone to make an album that would go on to fuse the funkadelic vibes of Sly and The Family Stone with the harmonious properties of CSNY. The results are sublime as Simon and his new band ring out the blues like seasoned professionals.

06 The Duke & The King - Hudson River by CBSIMG

Beatitudes - Mary

2011-08-16T07:28:00.000-07:00

A new Southampton band to feast upon...

I'm weak at the knees for Beatitudes pensive musings. ‘Mary’, a self-recorded swoon from the Hampshire based band will have the quivering lust-fuelled lovers opening their weary hearts to all passers by via its over-coming melody that calls on Etta James and new Duke and The King material. While high school dances might not always end in romance fuelled exchanges across the virgin punch bowl, this 50s influenced twang of desire will soundtrack the heartache perfectly. And to get over it? Try ‘Seismic Magnitude’, a wobbly indie-pop husk that counteracts its woeful predecessor with glitzy charm and a faster pace to brush away those tears.

Mary by Beatitudes

Life In Film - The Idiot

2011-08-16T02:46:00.001-07:00

London's Life In Film have been grafting the capitals gigging circuit for some time now. Around three years, I think. It's a God damn minefield out there. Promoters are slack and uninterested, money is elusive, breaks are hard to come by - each turn presents a new problem, yet they keep on plugging and thank God for that.

The two striking attributes that launch Life In Film above the rest of the London indie cartel is their distinct Steadman-like melodies and their richly vibrant vocals. Earlier songs, 'Get Closer' and 'Sorry', demonstrated that pop hooks are not a problem for these guys, and after Christopher Bailey approached the band to film a video at the Burberry store in Milan, the high life beacons for Life In Film.

The War On Drugs

2011-08-16T02:30:00.000-07:00

I had only heard this record yesterday but reviews from Uncut and comparisons towards Springsteen sparked intrigue that was matched by the adhesive gaze of this Americana beauty. Although Kurt Vile, whose 'Smoke Ring For My Halo' is one of this year's best records, left at the end of 2008, his lo-fi inflictions still remain, with 'Baby Missiles' in particular, demonstrating that Tom Petty's 'American Girl' also had its part to play. Also, if Vile's sound can be coined as Philadelphian then so can The War On Drugs. A dreamy and expansive record that continues to thrust and drive from start to finish.

Some Summer Songs

2011-08-15T02:43:00.000-07:00

Whenever the sun casts its rays upon the numb matter that sits beneath it, the pop bands of the world feel obliged to repay these mysterious Gods of rare-casting light by hounding out ‘songs of summer’, or something equally as droll.

The last time we had a band trying to replicate the tan lines of the glory days it was The Drums, who, it turned out, made an entire record comprised of the same song at slightly different speeds. Then apparently The Vaccines were placed on this earth to rid the pop spectrum of pretension via three-minute bubbles of chipper distortion and optimistic wailings that were over quicker than a horny teen’s first trip to Amsterdam. What both these bands failed to do, in any sense, was inject an element of surprise into the predictable mix, thus being under-whelmed is something we’ve come to expect from these marketed mugs. Lacklustre and safe seem to be the objectives of these unambitious, grin-bearing smart arses.

What we really want is a little filth. You can be poppy with being grubby, and adding little rough to the glitter ball gives it character, the likes of which the comfortable players on the scene fear more than anything.

So to commemorate those who are trying to strut with a little more pout and prowess, I’ve got a handful of slacker-popisms here that adorn to the three-minute demographic and hook-heavy chirps of idealistic pop but aren’t afraid to put their nuts on the chopping block.

Gross Magic - Teen Jamz

Possibly the best band to come out of Brighton in a long time, Gross Magic are the lank-haired, weed-smoking, fuzz-crafting layabouts who provide the missing link between Teenage Fanclub, The Lemonheads and Dinosaur Jr. The brainchild of Sam McGarrigle, Gross Magic’s brazen and edgy rhythms chug down fuzz like a litre of free Slush Puppy while dreamy lyricism clips the ear of Smith Western’s and tells Cloud Nothings they’re a bunch of losers. Their debut e.p, ‘Teen Jamz’ is a reet belter.

Gross Magic - Teen Jamz EP by TheSoundsOfSweetNothing

Ganglians - Drop The Act

This Californian four-piece couldn’t be more, well, Californian. The static production of their group echoes make the Drums sound like urban monkeys chasing stray cats down alley ways. There’s glints of buoyancy sweeping through the waves of lo-fi surf that take ‘Drop The Act’ and place it upon a plinth of righteous perfection, dude.

Ganglians - Drop The Act by souterraintransmissions

Blitzen Trapper - Love The Way You Walk Away

Not quite as wave-laden as the first two, Blitzen Trapper’s husky swell has a country tinge to it, reminiscent of Roman Candle and Neutral Milk Hotel. ‘I‘ve been feeling hard to get, like a dog hiding down underneath the step’ coo the alt-folk Oregon collective, unashamedly brandishing a yearning sense of acceptance when the tagline, ‘I love the way you walk away’ hits, re-opening all the broken souls that have ever dealt with such downtrodden beatings.

Blitzen Trapper - Love The Way You Walk Away by subpop

The Music. My Band

2011-08-11T10:38:00.000-07:00

The first time I saw The Music was with my Dad at The Forum in Kentish town. The show occurred just before their second record was released, and it was a night that changed my perspective on music forever.

I had been to shows before. I had just hit 17 years old and I was really starting to get into music. It was a winter night when we went to see them, I don’t quite remember the date but I remember the show clearly. The band played songs from their debut record, which I had not really heard, and about half of the second album, I remember ‘Breakin‘ was being played on the TV quite a bit (ironic considering it‘s possibly their weakest tune). I always had a prudish attitude towards live music that I’d never heard because part of the fulfilment for me was singing along to the words and burying myself into the vibe of the tunes. That night, however, my cynicism was disbanded beneath the glare of The Music’s combustible indie-dance that span webs of noise throughout the venue and my mind, in equal measures.

In a short space of time I became absolutely hooked with the band. I had never quite heard anything like it before, nor since. The undeniable groove that cascaded the underbelly of these fiery riffs and Plant-like vocals that reached the top of mountains, howling side by side with Gods - it was the most untouchable, authentic and mind-blowing rock and roll that I had ever come across.

It must have been around 2004, something like that. Pretty soon, once my Dad realised my adoration for this band, it became an occasion, as many times a year as we could, to go and see this band play all over the country. I’ve seen them in London countless times, Leeds three times and Sheffield once, quite far considering I live in Brighton, but in retrospect, I would travel to the ends of the fucking earth to see them one more time.

Something thing that hit about The Music were there fans. While we’d travel all over the place, there were people who had always travelled further. I always recognised faces at the shows, the same people there to catch the same buzz that I was after. Even at University, once I found out someone liked The Music, whoever they were, I felt like I could talk to them for hours about the intricacies of ‘The Walls Get Smaller’ or ‘Raindance‘ - I never usually saw them again though, ha. There has always been that bond between fans that I have never encountered any where else. No pretension, no gimmicks, nothing to prove. It was as real as it got. Dedication at its rawest.

One of the highlights for me, as well as a Cockpit show, I remember seeing the band at the Brunel Social Club in 2009. This scraggy hub in the centre of a dodgy looking estate seemed the most unlikeliest of places for a rock show to happen but it couldn’t have been more fitting - a band of the people, playing for The People. Always expect the unexpected, yet always expect to be wowed. The quality of the sound in that venue was crystal while the cheap drinks and a support slot from The Mouth made it one of the greatest nights of music that I have ever witnessed. Consistency seemed to be something The Music have never had an issue with.

It has always baffled me why The Music have lacked further commercial success, owing to the fact that they make the most anthemic, face-melting indie-rock of my generation, yet, as I always go back to, I’m glad I’ve got to share these revolutionary nights with people whose faces I know yet their lives remain a mystery to me, much like the band. And in a way, I’m glad they remained relatively untouched. They always came out and spoke to the fans after the show, and it wasn’t like a celebrity had walked into the room, it was simply, ‘Oh look there’s Rob’, despite the fact that these four men from Leeds were heroes to many. Untouchable on stage, up for a drink afterwards.

The undeniable mysticism behind the sublime etherealism of ‘Too High’, ‘Disco’ and ‘The Dance’ was unconventional yet completely perfect, to me. The music towered above anything I’ve heard, emotionally rich and rife in the sort of potency that should make modern rock bands think, ‘why bother?’. ‘Welcome to the North’, ‘Freedom Fighters’ and ‘Bleed From Within’ followed with an amped-up fervour that was a little less ‘acid-doused’ than their debut but equally vibrant. Although album number three didn’t quite punch with the strength I was hoping for, ‘Drugs’ and ‘The Spike’ were strobe-heavy anthems that still rise above the majority of modern music. The still had the flair. I’m not disowning that record, it’s just impossible to follow up their first, I think most will agree.

And when I think about ‘The Music’, album number one, I know it’s something I will go back to for the rest of my life, no matter how many times I’ve already listened to it, it will be there, sound tracking my existence forever. It embodies the underdog and the good times. It represents the talent of this country and the unspoken heroes of music who will never be rewarded yet require no reward but acceptance. It represents me, everyone who ever went to the shows, every night you’ve ever listened to that album.

I went to their second to last show in Leeds on 5th August 2011. I wanted to see them out on their home turf, the same way I’ve followed them for the past six or so years. Looking back on it, there was no better way to end. The set list was perfect, the lights were perfect, the band were perfect. I was almost in tears as I thought ‘this will never happen again’ when the closing reverb of ‘The Walls Get Smaller’ faded into the abyss. Never. Never again will I go out with my Dad and my friends and the friends I don’t know to see this band that mean so much to me. It’s sad, but it’s best to go out on a high, and there was no higher point than that. So, here’s to The Music - My band. Our band.

Francis Lung - Nu Lyf

2011-08-11T07:25:00.001-07:00

Francis Lung is the pseudonym of Wu Lyf bassist, Tom McClung. And, in typical Wu Lyf fashion, little is know about this ethereal side-project, and I expect it to remain cryptic for a while to come.

What we can grasp from this is that the rumbustious growl of Wu Lyf's spittle tone has been replaced by McClung's equally sombre coos. While Wu Lyf evoke excitement through riotous delivery, edgy in its unpolished and raspy shunt, McClung does the exact same thing through honest and bare sincerity. Equally as ghostly is the minimal approach which confirms, if you did not already believe, that the Manchester group are far from a PR hyped, industry stunt. They are the real deal.

WU LYF – Brooklyn Girls by pmwtumblr

A Forgotten Soul..

2011-08-11T05:46:00.000-07:00

In the newest issue of Uncut magazine there is an 'Unsung Hero' type piece on Jim Ford. Around the time this issue came out a friend also emailed me a Jim Ford track called 'Go Through Sunday' and it was this double-pronged attack that got me hooked to the singer-songwriter who Sly Stone called 'The baddest white man I've ever met.'

I thought, if soul's notorious coke-sniffing, girl-baiting, bling-wearing madman is casting such labels upon a curly haired country-soul singer who looks like a Southern John Martyn, then this guy must be a rebel. And he is.

Over time, Ford's unhinged ballads become deeper in emotive context, both political and love-fuelled. His angelic but telling tone rolls between Van Morrison and Gram Parsons, painting images of broken country homes over revolutionary visions. His song's content is formed in such an unmanageable quality and delivered in a completely gut-wrenchingly beautiful manor, that no one but Ford could sing them.

Big Deal? Big Deal

2011-08-10T10:11:00.000-07:00

Earlier on today I talked to Alice and Kasey, the girl-boy duo who make up introspective-grunge two-piece, Big Deal. But, as their debut album confirms, there's more to it than Sonic Youth and Nirvana...

While the full interview will come soon, I thought that their confessional diversity was worth a shout. They differ from the likes of Tennis and Summercamp and other girl-boy duos because their sound sprawls into different territory throughout the record, despite only containing two guitars in the whole heart-busting epilogue. 'Talk', the track below, is a stripped back, harmonious grope at the groin of depression and loneliness and inability to understand or question.

Talk by Big Deal

Girls Come Shining Through...

2011-08-10T09:36:00.000-07:00

San Francisco duo, Girls, return after the relative success of their 2009 indie-pop debut, Album. Attributed by a jangly undercurrent of neo-hippie optimism, they forgo such Summer-coated, field-chasing idealism in their new track, 'Vomit'.

If this expansive canvas of dream-pop and towering Spiritualized-like gospel is anything to go by then Girls have delved deep within their souls with the intention of exposing the most honest of gutsy innards. To begin with the delicacy of Bright Eyes and then crash through to Lush meets MBV distortion would never usually nip at the heels of the heartfelt, however, when soulful yells scrape through the gritty surface, something quite beautiful bares its tentative heart upon the horizon. And we didn't even mention the 70s guitar licks...

Girls - "Vomit" by RandmMusic

Laurel Canyon's New Tourbadour

2011-07-28T08:54:00.000-07:00

I wont bore you with my Laurel Canyon obsession, I will, however, pin-point the fact that Jonathan Wilson is one of the most refined troubadours to spawn from the Canyon's post-acoustic scene in a long time.

Guitarist for the early 70s original country-folk sweetheart, Jackson Browne, Wilson's debut album is a dreamy whiff of stoned-out ambient refinement. It calls upon everyone from Taylor to Browne to King, while also owing just as much to Stephen Stills in its drugged-up, mythical enchantment.

'Gentle Spirit' is an alluring folk charm that's built upon a world gone but not forgotten. Evoking and magically conjuring images of lost spirits, the real seductive winks of this record can be heard, specifically, on the incendiary guitar that skips through 'Desert Raven' like a peyote fantasy in which Morrison's finally calmed down, Crosby's not trying to punch someone and Joni's giving you the eye.

Jonathan Wilson - Gentle Spirit by jonathanwilson

Fallon Stretches Springsteen Limb To Higher Ground

2011-07-28T08:42:00.000-07:00

Brian Fallon's relationship with words is one rife in blue collared romantacism. That much was established early on with all three of the Gaslight Anthem's L.P's.

His Springsteen comparisons, however, have began to flourish more under the cinematic glare of his new side project, The Horrible Crowes. Standing by the side of Ian Perkins, the inked New Jersey punk-rocker has rounded the edges of Gaslight's Americana to create something slightly more gallant, adorning those old time Move Star heroics that were always a little dormant beneath songs on 'American Slang' - that's not to say they didn't impact with with a valiant spark.

'Behold The Hurricane' portrays yet more triumphant rock and roll imagery as the optimistic bellows of the refined classic rock mini-epic builds into crescendos of grandiose brilliance.

While not a million miles away from Gaslight, The Horrible Crowes are something of an open playing ground for Fallon who can really cut his teeth amongst the mythological flare of nostalgia.

The Horrible Crowes by SideOneDummy

Cashier No. 9

2011-07-26T09:55:00.000-07:00

It's no lie that some of the best British bands who made seminal records in the last twenty years were high off their skulls on drugs. When discussing Primal Scream and The Stone Roses, I imagine a hefty dose of E, a handful of joints and a smidgen of psychedelic's would have just about done the job.

Not wanting to pin-point anyone as junkie or even a drug taker for that matter, I would not claim that the above substances had anything to do with Cashier No. 9's swelling technicolour outcome. With that in mind, it sounds like this Belfast four-piece were more susceptible when under the influence of The Byrds and and The Beach Boys perfected pop. However, Brown and Gillespie have definitely had their part to play...

The Lemonheads Announce U.K Tour

2011-07-20T11:47:00.000-07:00

The Lemonheads have announced that they will play a ten date U.K tour this winter, playing 'It's A Shame About Ray' in its entirety.

Evan Dano has an aptitude for penning perfected three-minute pop songs, the likes of which are often under appreciated, considering their lyrical brilliance. They take their seminal 1992 record on the road, ending at the Shepperd's Bush Empire on 13th December.

One of Dando's finest drug-induced songs. Astutely written, but ultimately, one of the most tragic and troubled songs you will ever hear.

Troubadours

2011-07-20T11:15:00.001-07:00

My adoration for the players of Laurel Canyon has probably bored everyone I know to death.

Recently I got hold of a copy of 'Troubadours', a new DVD documenting the rise of singer-songwriters in early 70s L.A. It tells the wonderful story of how rock and roll took a breather after the Manson murders and the problems encountered with the Hells Angels at Altamont, to make way for the unplugged wordsmiths who changed a generation.

It seems that people needed something personal to once again attach them to the heart of music. While rock and roll was thriving, and we cannot take anything from that, there was something incredibly authentic and personal about the songs Jackson Browne, James Taylor, Joni and Carole King were writing. These sincere emotions were not accessible in the riffs of rock music that pranced about in egotistical poses, however, when Taylor penned 'Fire and Rain' those who had seen the L.A riots, the Vietnam War and the oppression of modern day America could relate to something, albeit sinister and heart-breaking...

The film also looks into The Troubadour itself. A club owned by Doug Weston on Sunset Boulevard that later spawned the likes of the Whiskey Go Go and The Roxy, owned by label titan, David Geffen.

Uncovering the dream is a beautiful and upsetting journey. As Crosby says, 'Free love and pot are a good thing but they're not the basis for a functional society.

Shimmering Stars - Sent From The Future To Rekindle The Past

2011-07-20T10:35:00.000-07:00

We're hardly in a drought when it comes to music circling the dream-pop ilk, or any other genre for that matter. One a near-minute basis, labels are being crafted by musicians and band's who are creating a variety of melodies and swoons that splice classifications into pieces.

But innovation and new ideas will always be welcomed. So that's irrelevant.

Hailing from Vancouver, Shimmering Stars create the sort of spacey pop that Memory Tapes are known for, throwing in a little dreamy Cults and an up bringing embedded in the delightful whitened grins of The Everly Brothers.

They look like extras from Rebel Without A Cause but that pearly preppy preconception is quickly extinguished when their galactic popisms transcend upon the three-chord muffles of their love-lorn hip-shakers. 'I lost my mind, I'm losing you, it's just as well'...They may croon like lost teenage hearts but they have bold souls and even bolder songs.

Shimmering Stars - I'm Gonna Try by hardlyartrecords

The Anti Sheeran

2011-07-20T09:35:00.000-07:00

While Ed Sheeran finds a new home on Radio 1 (and fair play to him), singing songs about heartbreak and bags of shit drugs passed around at house parties, Benjamin Francis Leftwich has been dealing with the hangovers and break-ups that Sheeran has yet to encounter.

Sounding like he was bought up on the morbid, no-hope depression of Death Cab, this atmospheric folkie delves into the reality of ambient, soul-crushing truths. 'Atlas Hands', which appeared on his 2010 E.P, 'A Million Miles Out', makes a reappearance on his 2011 debut album, 'Last Smoke Before The Snowstorm'. It's melodic and equally majestic, sweltering beneath the waves of picturesque neo-folk.

Atlas Hands by liiiiily

An Ode To Stephen Stills

2011-07-20T08:17:00.000-07:00

Treetop Flyers 2009 E.P, 'To Bury The Past', was a dusty country-rock debut that bought the eucalyptus trees and the stoned air of passed joints of Laurel Canyon to British shores.

It's enigmatic woos of 'Deja Vu', harmoniously rinsed through the shadows of a post-Manson L.A were oddly British with a clear adoration for a scene that spawned the infamous troubadours of the early seventies acoustic boom. There are inflictions of both Browne and Taylor throughout 'To Bury The Past', with the homely 'Old Days' beaming like 'Sweet Baby James' through the overcast English coast.

Two years later, the Treetop Flyers released their 2011 effort, 'Things Will Change'. While their debut was reflective of their hero, Stephen Stills, and his earlier work with Crosby and co. 'Things Will Change' mirrors both his and their progression in the form of Stills 21 track monster, 'Manassas'.

Standing at only four tracks it's obviously not a comparison in any literal sense. Given free reigns as the 'boss' on 'Manassas', Stills was devoid of Crosby's prying ego and the unpredictability of Young, thus thriving in a creative hub that he could truly call his own.

While ambitious and a little limp in parts, for the majority, 'Manassas' is a throbbing rock and roll sandstorm of burning guitar riffs and insightful lyricism that's as open as anything Stills have penned before or since. 'Colorado' is a heart-wrenching, mountain-trawling country hum of husky refinement. 'How Far' and 'Song of Love' blister with a glare that scours into the soul of rock and roll, completely dismantling it and rearranging it into dusty, country mannerisms that seem subdued but equally ache with the fervor that burned beneath Stills hunger to succeed.

'Things Will Change' mirrors this with eclecticism and hunger.

'Long Cold Winter', in particular, is more of what we want to see from the Treetop Flyers. It's soulful verses ebb and flow with winking pop-like hints, while the chorus' flicker through eager rockin' hooks and straining vocals. I think we can expect a stunning record from these guys, especially if these two E.P's are anything to go by...

Treetop Flyers- Long Cold Winter by Maludo

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

2011-06-28T11:38:00.000-07:00

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

2011-06-28T11:36:00.001-07:00

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

2011-06-28T10:06:00.001-07:00

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

2011-06-28T10:04:00.000-07:00

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

2011-06-28T10:01:00.000-07:00

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

2011-06-28T09:57:00.000-07:00

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

Oh I'm Surprised...

2011-03-09T08:42:00.001-08:00

Few things on the cards...

The Crookes

Way over a year ago I booked The Crookes to play a night in Southampton and subsequently, the Sheffield band came back and played three more shows for me, all of which were fantastic declarations of chivalry and the resurrection of gentlemanly conduct.

Monday saw the release of their debut album, ‘Chasing After Ghosts’ which has been put out on Fierce Panda. One thing that this was to signify was primarily a boost in production for the band. Their past e.p’s, although lyrically plentiful, were left impaired by weepy production that packed little bite of heightened edge.

‘Dreams of Another Day’ was their 2010 output and it just delivered a limp, lifeless gmaw on the underbelly of what could have been an accomplished selection of romantic pop songs. Thankfully, in part, things have improved some what on ‘Chasing After Ghosts’.

As well as including a handful of previously released demos (‘Chorus of Fools’, ‘Bloodshot Days’ and ‘By The Seine’) there are eight new tracks to gawp over. Evidently, The Crookes are still a band fuelled by Victorian romanticism and vintage china tea pots, eloquence, good behavior and the like, but with the punchier product comes more of a snap and ‘Godless Girl’ obscurely morphs, in parts, to an unexpected Kings Of Leon-esqe pop declaration that confirms they really aren’t as straight laced as you think. While the old demos remain my favorite, it’s worth checking out…

Godless Girl SAMPLE by thecrookes

Phosphorescent

Hailing from Athens, Georgia, Phosphorescent is the moniker of Matthew Houck. Houck previously toured under the name of Fillup Shack and in 2000, released his debut album before transferring his thoughts and energy to Phosphorescent.

As a folk band from the Southern states of America they obviously that untainted artery of rooted soul flowing through their hardened exterior that runs all the way from the bust-ups of Bobby Womack and the insane drugged-up ramblings of Wilson Picket to the Alabama park where Eddie Hinton slept for a year.

Phosphorescent - It's Hard to Be Humble by thebangpop

Deer Tick

I’m very disappointed in myself for not getting into Deer Tick sooner. Three albums down and the congealed, sandy rasp of this country-rock outfit has developed from waltzing Replacements-meets-Strange Boys country to the rendered gothic-soul of Deer Tick’s blackened soul – as heard on their most recent record, ‘The Black Dirt Sessions’.

Songs of bereavement and bereft have trodden the folk path for years since, and will continue to do so for years to come, but that doesn’t hinder the poignancy and heart-break of their haunting third effort.

Deer Tick - Twenty Miles by Partisan Records

Josh T. Pearson

2011-03-03T07:11:00.000-08:00

The first time I heard Josh T. Pearson was in Rough Trade – oh how absolutely cutting edge. But seriously, his second album, released February this year is titled, ‘Last Of The Country Gentlemen’, haunted the trendy 12 inches of the east end store like the ghosts of Lonesome Dove.

The second time Pearson shot into my vision was in the recent Uncut review, featured in March’s issue. This astute and accurately penned album breakdown was an insightful parchment into the warped mind of this shack-dwelling, bearded oddball. And as with all tortured country souls of his weary disposition, he is a troubled genius with a flourishing tale to tell that reaches peaks of alcoholism and depths of the darkest depression, blackened by fear and self-loathing and all these rancid attributes that bestow broken hearts and dying souls.

There was, however, shards of light creeping through the end of the tunnel as Pearson did an ‘Into The Wild’ and sold all his positions and moved into a ramshackle hut in the Texas desert. After a brief stay there he moved to Berlin where he created his latest album and then, illusive as ever, ended up on the banks of Paris where he now resides. Driven by his only hope left and a complete abundance of selflessness, he began to write again, fuelling his own self-mythological image by penning these pensive and apocalyptic country epics.

The aura of downfall and desolation that orbits his newest record sounds like the shadows of Texas themselves, creeping from the run-down homes and broken families and death that lies dormant in these desert towns.

I haven’t had enough time to fully immerse myself in the sorrow of this album, but the song below, ‘Woman, When I’ve Raised Hell’, suggests that anguish and woe may be removed from his own existence, but they certainly live on through the mysterious hells of his song writing.

Josh T. Pearson - Woman, When I've Raised Hell (Alternative Version) by Mute Artists

Various Cruelties

2011-03-03T04:54:00.000-08:00

Plan B stating that he’s conquered soul was a bit presumptuous. In fact, it was a totally outrageous and ill-informed statement that holds little authenticity. The audacity of people these days is blood-boiling…

See, every once in a while an act like Plan B will hit the mainstream by shifting their original, rooted sound to a more polished, or possibly, totally altered outlook. These mainstream altering shifts then greet the public eye like a beacon of originality, and in turn, the audiences for whom this is crafted will leave their house, go to Tesco and buy their annual CD. This happens all over and it’s responsible for chart-dominating success, because think how many people fall into this category. Your parents maybe? Your sister? Your friends? – all of them.

Grandiose claims such as the one made by Plan B don’t affect the once-a-year CD shoppers though. Declarations and statements which burry themselves in the root-canal of music hold little stable ground with these music grazers, the deriding of soul means nothing, the alteration of sound is irrespective – but why should they care? It’s normal not to give a hoot, the oddities come from actually caring too much…

I was curious though, if Plan B has mastered soul and is apparently moving on to Reggae, where does that leave ‘Cold As You’ by Various Cruelties? Just teetering of the peripheral of Plan B’s conquered scene? Or is it a challenge? A fist-clenched challenge to the grime-turned-pop wordsmith? Nah, it’s more of an unintentional retort that disproves Plan B’s muggy, narcissistic presumption via oceans of fulfilling, Technicolor fore-frontal pop.

Various Cruelties stand firm, however, because the full-bodied brass and wavering melodious tones of Motown only hint towards their pop sensibilities. The London band formed in 2010 and have since supported Mumford and Sons, The Villagers and The Vaccines. An impressive roster of shows so far – and although personally I feel that means fuck all in the grand scheme of things, its something people like to write, so like the generic blog-mug I am, I’ve followed suit…

Various Cruelties - Cold As You by ListenBeforeYouBuy

The recently released ‘If It Wasn’t For You’ received some critical acclaim with its trembling surf guitar, undulating with mood and possession, but I feel the real extent of their sumptuous croons comes during ‘Chemicals’. Although extremely poppy and landing comfortably into the Brit-folk scene that emerged in the past couple of years, Various Cruelties lead the pack with throaty pouts and a sense of unaffected ease and comfort. At points it appears so perfectly delivered that you think you shouldn’t like it, but dismiss that moronic idea right out the window into on-coming traffic.

Various Cruelties - Chemicals by rockfeedback

There are many many positives that come from striving towards the polished product. They sound remarkably accomplished considering it’s still early for them, but most of all, the band wont have to alter any sound or direction to ‘conquer’ any form of popularity because they’re pretty much impeccable as they are.

Flats @ The Victory

2011-03-02T01:47:00.000-08:00

I read the funniest interview with Flats the other day. In fact, it was less of an interview and more of a declaration of hate for various people. Firstly their fire-spitting angst and claims of just how punk they are teetered delicately along the line of cliché. “We’re the only band who are for real, out there smashing it,” stated bassist, Craig Pierce. It's dangerous territory this early on in your career, but you've got to admire the bravado.

The second thing that tickled me was frontman, Dan Devine, and his distain for mods as displayed in the visceral holler of 'Rat Trap', “I hate Paul Weller!, I hate The Jam!, I hate Roger Daltrey!” Someone needs a cup of tea and a nice lie down, I thought, as I sat there in my penny loafers and Harrington.

So I removed my paisley scarf and Wigan Casino t-shirt and geared up for Flats' show at The Victory in Dalston, with images of bloody revolt and murderous interaction swarming round my brain like the elated treasures of half-bit anarchy. It was quite exciting, if not a little scary.

From early on in the gig, the truth of these previous statements soon becomes clear and an overshadowing thunderous wave of sudden throttling noise is waved over The Victory by the dark hand of Flats. This is punk. Not garage rock or new wave hardcore or anything you might tend to bracket these guys in. It's an alarming projectile of anger, kicked in the behind by speed and the fowl, lewd bile of Dan’s uncompromising, rough slur that fuses The Damned, Ian Dury and Gallows into one fierce shrill.

‘Big Souls’ is a gutter-dwelling pit of doom breakdowns: unrestrained and feral, edgy and punchy, and equally as heartless as ‘Never Again’ with its rowdy, provoking overtones of fear-inducing wails. As Dan coughs up screams, his coiling and wiry figure seems unstable, but with a certain air of power about it. He will not be moved. I'd suggest you avoid eye contact because it looks like he might begin foaming at the mouth, ready to attack your face.

At points it’s hard to see a line of distinction between the songs, but then that’s the nature of this sort of burning onslaught: audio intrusion into the mind, screw with heads a little, bash about your thoughts of comfort into on-edge surprise. Don’t settle for any less.

So while Dan and co. hate everything except from themselves, I remain pleasantly surprised at the level of intensity knocked out by a band who are still taking their first steps. Their confidence is alarming (in a good way) and their arrogance sits well. But then what do I know? I’m off to watch ‘Quadrophenia’.

FLATS - EP 2 by flatsofcourse

Napoleon IIIrd

2011-02-28T09:03:00.001-08:00

The one discernible factor that separates the expansive soundscapes of Napoleon IIIrd is the raunchy, punk-husk of the vocals that dominate the electronica tweaks that paint this technicolour canvas in visual and audio oddities.

The Unknown Unknown by Napoleon IIIrd by fabagency

Only Sons - I'm out of touch...

2011-02-25T07:35:00.000-08:00

The Only Sons fall somewhere in between Drive-By Truckers and Lucero singing Justin Townes Earle songs. There’s that rooted, country-husk of booze and smokes that needs to be invested in the telling of fruitful, Southern tales.

Having heard, ‘Lay Back Down’ some two or so years ago, I did ponder upon their existence recently and prodded myself to scour for their whereabouts. Sure enough they’re still writing songs and have just completed a new album. So while I am clearly out of touch with the world, I can take some comfort in the fact that the violin still struts around The Only Sons, achy country toots.

The Only Sons - 01 - Modern Men by user3563993

Doyle And The Fourfathers

2011-02-24T09:49:00.000-08:00

From song titles alone you can conjure images of acute responsibility from Southampton’s Doyle And The Fourfathers. Clad in tweed and Prince of Wales check, their Brit-pop librarian chic sits somewhere between Jarvis Cocker and Ray Davis, but musically, they bellow social and political declarations of distinctly Southern notions that muster up racing Brit-folk with undertones of a well-nurtured diet of punk.

Of course the notion of young middle class gentlemen with side partings stomping through acoustic-driven folk-punk will deter some of you uppity, student-protest, fire-extinguisher-throwing, part-time anarchists, but don’t cast judgments so brashly. These undertones are simply comments of social awareness. New single, ‘The Governor of Growing Up’, is a case in point. Racing eagerly through double-time drums and deeply pouted vocals, its Pulp-ish hooks undulate from subdued, articulate verses to violin-aided bridges that quickly rise towards something anthemic. ‘It must be the rebel of his childhood, lonely, misunderstood,’ spouts William Doyle like some aching, pen-bound poet of the mid nineties, and as ‘Every Woman You’ve Ever Met’ would suggest, there’s as much Cure and Bowie in there as Cocker.

The Governor of Giving Up (Single Version) by Doyle & The Fourfathers

An air of utter Britishness swarms through Doyle’s music like a tea party at a cricket match, but more than that, the Britishness confirms their adoration for a past musical heritage and that, despite some particularly witty lyrics, they are proud to be a British band. If we weren’t faced with this constant woe and dole-queue mayhem, teenage mothers and all, some of today’s wise lyrics wouldn’t have been penned. No one likes to sit on public transport and have some drooling, knuckle-dragging chump churn distorted, fizzled out-grime from his mobile phone, but it makes for an amusing song topic.

As their songs become slightly varied in more swooning currents of wavy, acoustic pop, their tender side comes to the boil. ‘What Else Are We To Do?’ confirms yet more Pulp-influenced eccentricity – boredom and loneliness in tact – while ‘Please Send My Regards’ enters into the realm of big band drums, snares skipping like soldiers marching through the villages of left-behind teenage souls.

Tom Robinson of 6Music has praised the band on numerous occasions, playing various Fourfathers' demos on his radio show, and now they’re beginning to pick up a little pace, recognition is looming in great, glorious clouds

Wolf People @ Cargo

2011-02-24T09:47:00.000-08:00

Expectations are either quashed or amplified when you see a band for the first time. It’s that make or break moment that rests on the shoulders of triumph or despair. Like a first date in many ways. Will she be as attractive as she is through a pair of binoculars from the tree in her back garden? Or was that just her sister? Judgment day has arrived…

As Wolf People enter the stage, smoke starts to fill the air in Cargo. I haven’t seen a smoke machine in a long darn time, and although some venues stand firmly against it, this is the sort of haunting alt-folk affair that benefits from such additions. Slowly escalating eerie coos start to trickle through the cracks in the feedback, at first dripping into mystified pools of electric folk until it builds in to mountainous solos that clamber up and up until lighting strikes and ravenous musical thunder screams.

Constantly building, with a riff that resembles Black Mountains' ‘Don’t Run Our Hearts Around’, ‘Silbury Sands’ burns, engulfs, and ascends into a rousing pound of trippy rock. But when ‘Morning Born’ drops, it becomes fundamentally clear that ‘Salbury Sands’ is the tip of the psych-burg. It commences as a near-Celtic folk squeeze of ambient vocals that ring through the ages of seemingly medieval notions, before its Fairport Convention credentials slowly disintegrate. From these dying embers come the monstrous rock and roll fires of '70s Zeppelin, as guitarists Jack Sharp and Joe Hollick let their fingers run over fret boards like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Wolf People’s debut record, ‘Steeple’, is clearly influenced by the 1970s. But what confirms its authenticity is the diverse range of influences – from the harmonies of Laurel Canyon with Zappa and his groupies running wild in scenes of hallucination, all the way to the Continental Hyatt House with over-indulged rock stars prancing around in women’s blouses, grooving to torrid guitars that sound so important they become like the roar of God himself.

Wolf People - Silbury Sands by All Tomorrows Parties

Jack Sharp’s voice contributes largely to Wolf People's significance. He could’ve easily slipped comfortably into a harmony-based CSNY folk collective, crafting melodic Fleet Foxes / Low Anthem ditties. But instead he’s chosen to utilise his gift and lend it to rock and roll. 'One by One from Dorney Reach’ embodies this notion religiously. Its ‘Immigrant Song’ riff judders and undulates before the inevitable fret-play kicks in and guitars, once again, run rampant through the debauched hamlets of feedback and distortion.

Recorded in a 17th century barn in Wales, 'Steeple' has clearly benefited from such archaic surroundings. Tonight, however, shows something else. Wolf People clearly have one foot in the past and an adoration for their musical heritage, but every other part of their body, instruments included, is leaping forwards into the modern age as they commence their takeover of rock and roll.

Back Baby...

2011-02-24T07:41:00.000-08:00

I’ve not been up to this recently. Very piss poor indeed, but alas! the spark has once again been ignited and I’m back on track. Despite a number of know-nothing punters who come to my club night on Saturday’s in Southampton, I am not in fact a post-Oasis, NME obsessed indie kid. Honestly, I’m not. But hey, there’s nothing wrong with that anyway, it just vexes me that these impendent-film watching, James Blake-adoring, no-wave, post-everything hipsters cast judgments so brashly.

With that in mind, I’m standing up for the little man and I’m not taking any crap from these fools any more. So here is my obviously contrived list of music I’ve never heard before and am simply posting to prove a point which I know nothing about. Honestly, I have never heard of these bands before…HA!

Hiss Golden Messenger – Bad Debt

North Carolina’s gloomy folk troubadour, Hiss Golden Messenger, creates rather solemn, dark country ditties with thrilling and haunting undertones that muse Townes Van Zant and Josh T. Pearson. ‘Bad Debt’ is one of his more melodiously rich compositions, lyrically layered with subtle hooks and a tentatively uplifting chorus. Achingly crooned, flutters of pain and optimism flutter like newspapers blowing in the desolated streets of forgotten America.

Bad Debt - Hiss Golden Messenger by blackmaps

The Tallest Man On Earth – The Dreamer

Obviously The Tallest Man On Earth drew Dylan comparisons at an early stage. Husky pouts and loneliness pump through the smoke-filled veins of this acoustic wordsmith, but it’s the rugged delivery of swamp-laden, bar room folk that adds to their flair of his small-time ballads. Following in the footsteps of Joe Pug, he falls onto six-strings like the Great Despression ensued and all there’s left to do is play because there’s a dustbowl coming and we’re all fucking doomed.

The Tallest Man On Earth - The Dreamer by everythingstartssomewhere

Grouplove – Colours

Landing somewhere between Born Ruffians and Avi Buffalo, Grouplove’s thumping, colourful indie-pop squeezes resonate lusciously upon sweet repetition and lyrics of an innocent complexion. But while lyrics may ponder the honest, there’s valleys of up-lifting rock and roll unison that lightly explode as the song develops. ‘Getaway Car’ is also worth a peep.

Grouplove - Colours by KROQ

Justin Townes Earle – Mamas Eyes

As a big fan of country music, from Gram Parson and Townes Van Zant to modern groups like The Felice Brothers and The Low Anthem, I have always had a thing from simplicity and despair over acoustic guitars, so Justin Townes Earle was a perfect choice for me.

When his father, country singer Steve Earle, was too out of it to look after Justin he used to go and live with Townes Van Zant, probably not the sharpest idea. Anyway, without delving into history too much, Justin’s struggle with drugs is something he’s come to accept, and individually, without doubt, he is the most important young country musician of today. Blues-doused, skipping ditties and morbid declarations balance over exciting tales of woe and lyrically rich stories of family et al. Three albums down and he’s still going strong. ‘Mamas Eyes’ was taken from his most recent album, ‘Midnight At The Movies’.

Justin Townes Earle - Mama's Eyes by mollyunravel

Tomorrow I discuss my favourite Gallagher haircuts...

Little Walter - My Babe

2010-12-07T06:39:00.000-08:00

I watched that 'Cadillac Records' film the other day. It's the story of Chess Records - the infamous label that launched the career's of Muddy Waters, Etta James, Howlin' Wolf and Little Walter.

Although the film may be a little bit of a vanity project for executive producer and actress Beyonce, and although it may be a bit inaccurate - we do allow for a bit of artistic interpretation.

Cynicism aside though, it is an entertaining film and the soundtrack is tip-top. Phenomenal soul croons and foot-shuffling beats mixed with the bluegrass beats and all the rock and roll associated violence, sex, booze and drugs makes this a worthy watch. It also got me into Little Walter. There's no point to this entry other than this song...it's brilliant...

Bright Eyes Come To England

2010-12-07T06:09:00.000-08:00

Conor Oberst has been a busy boy.

The tortured soul has been releasing songs since the age of 12. He's released nine albums under the Bright eyes name with a tenth to be released next year, titles 'The People's Key'. From 2008 Oberst then went on to release two albums with the Mystic Valley Band, travelling to the dusty dunes of Mexico, drinking too much and crafting amped-up folk-rock songs to a rapturous response. The two records with the Mystic Valley clan, 'Conor Oberst' and 'Outter South', demonstrated that Oberst was no longer affiliated with the fringe-flopped emo's who used to attempt association with the folk singer.

In 2009 Oberst then released an album under the title of 'Monsters Of Folk' with Jim James of My Morning Jacket and Mike Mogis who has recorded on albums by The Faint, Rilo Kiley and Bright Eyes. This was another stomp of variety for Conor. Time and time again he's proved himself to be more than just a folk singer. Analogies cast out comparing him to Dylan may be accurate in a sense that this man is one of the most gifted and virile song writers in the world, with ideas swirling around a cauldron of country-rock folk like some sort of Townes Van Zant shaman, but he's continually growing and can move away from the folk circuit as quickly as he can return to it.

When Oberst last played in the U.K under the Bright Eyes title it was at Glastonbury in 2007 (I believe - could be wrong) and under the influence the Omaha folk troubadour insulted one John Peel. But we'll put that in the past.

On June 23rd Bright Eyes will play the enigmatic Royal Albert Hall - a fine setting for such quaint bellowings of utter beauty. But take note! this is also the date of the Glastonbury weekend, so could Oberst be returning to that field in Sommerfet to repent for his sins? who knows, he works in mysterious ways...

Refreshed A Little..

2010-12-03T11:35:00.000-08:00

Here are some songs i'm liking at the moment.

I've embraced the weather and the lack of buses to work has emerged favourably. Some songs i haven't heard in a while and appeared forgotten, and some new stuff which might not actually be new.

12 Dirty Bullets - A New Limb On The Body Of British Indie

2010-12-02T01:48:00.000-08:00

In order to function and consume a product of nearly any nature, be it music, films, food, wine etc. it is the very nature of a normal, non-mental human to require some form of comparison in order to grasp their association with the product.

Critics and the like will constantly name drop people and influences and inspirations to a product because then the audience can conjure their pre-conceived perception of the item in question and whether they would benefit from the discussed entity.

Obviously this is frowned upon by musicians because everyone wants to be envisaged as 'original', but unfortunately, nine times out of ten this is far from the case. I get it though. You strive over your music for endless hours, you quit your job to pursue it, you break up with your girlfriend and then some ponsey, blogging prick (like myself) comes along with some utterly lucid comments and BAM! he defecates all over your hard work. But who cares? he's just a chronic masturbater hiding behind a computer screen.

Anyhow. Translucent comments are the bane of both musicians and critics, and it's a dangerous path to tred, comparing bands to other bands. But as i said, grievously, this is the human way - and we need it to function.

My problem with this whole facade is lazy journalists. Journalists who hear a london accent and see a bloke with a guitar and instantly spray images of 'Lad Rock' and 'Kasabian' and 'Brit pop revival' etc. simply because they're either too comatosed in their bubble to muster up the energy to go and see the band or because they really are that ill-informed and oblivious to the way the band actually differs from these mentioned analogies. But then again, their often right.

They weren't right, though, with 12 Dirty Bullets.

A lady at the BBC wrote about their 'well-used sound', 'the libertines' and even opened the bloody review with 'Hard-Fi'. Lazy. If she'd have taken the time to immerse herself in the raucous goings-on at the 12DB camp then she would have heard a whole lot more.

Lyrically rich in social observations that eb and flow with a backbone of sharp wit and an accurate eye, Singer / guitarist Jamie Jamieson hurls out contagiously hook-laden words like their confetti, casting them deep into the growling guitars that cascade their debut record like a tidal wave of distortion and distinct Britishness. On record, these are songs that embody a generation of young men and women in modern day Britain. Nights out on the tiles, boozing and birds, pubs and problems, the usual stuff, but the subject matter that transcends them into a grimey rock and roll band that cast them further away from the likes if Arctics and Jamie T than you first think.

The conviction in which these indie-rock punches are packed with is sincere on the highest level. 12DB's songs bleed with the grit of London and the stories they tell exude reality and sentiment and verve. They're not smooth-surfaced happy endings - they're the pennings of urchins scrambling urban playgrounds and dodgey tainted characters who you wouldn't want to meet down a back alley.

But what this young lady at the BBC clearly failed to do was to see the band perform these convincing roars of incendiary modernism's on a stage. Because if she had, she would have mentioned that the transformation of these songs from record to live performance is near inconceivable. They roar and pound with the ferocious vigour of rabid guitar-wielding rock stars. They cascade the scene with poignant wails of exploding vocals that induce flashing lights and a berserk audience response, primarily because it's inescapably up close in your mug - loud, booming and infectious.

'Rock And Roll Pretty Boys' begins with a subdued one-man-one-guitar enterence until crashing into a paced-out foot-stompin' indie-pop riot. 'Good Time Girls' and 'Black Roses And Violence' not only provoke urbanised hedonistic imagery from their titles, but they also bark with non-pretenious erruptive eye-gauging blasts that are nothing short of colossal.

A recent U.K tour saw them showcase a number of new anthems, namely 'Motown'. A howling judder of noughties indie-rock - and with this debut of new songs came the confirmation that 12DB are no longer still taking the tentative steps of a developing outfit: they are infact THERE. At the point they need to be, to make an impact, to demonstrate their ability, and just maybe, to change a few pre-conceptions of the couch-bloggers and the like. Swell.

Oh what an exciting update!

2010-11-26T08:46:00.000-08:00

Exciting times isn't it?

Wagner is on the road to X Factor glory! and you've all been following it like faithful pups, sitting comfortably at the heels of Cowell and the other three, lapping up any polished-up piece of shit he hand feeds you and thanking him gleefully for yet another filling instalment of prime-time entertainment.

Where would we be without it?

As you already know from my previous article about X Factor, I'm not the biggest fan. But this could be something rather special. Wagner to win? it's like the skin's been stripped off the body of Sarah Palin and you can see all the toxic waste and bile and evil spew from the inside to reveal what's really hidden underneath. Scary stuff

In recent years a facebook campaign has proved to be a vital method of protest and influence. Get Rage Against The Machine To Number One! Jodie To Win Big Brother! Kill The Paedophile Who Lives At This House (Address inside)! and now, Wagner to Win! Yeah!

If we ignore the fact that this debauched numb-nuts has been claiming thousands of pounds worth of our hard earned money on a false benefit claim (after he was welcomed into our country with open arms), we might find it in our hearts to actually pick up the phone and vote for the hairy, talentless beast who looks like a melting Madam Tussauds exhibit because it will expose this program to the majority as the advertising-hungry, publicity-absorbing, money-sucking sham it is - with talent clearly being bottom in the line of priorities.

It really is a plethora of hypocrisy. 'Oh this program's about talent'....'oh this programs about entertainment'...make your minds up, ey?!

Recently the mighty Cheryl Cole blasted Wagner for some comments he made regarding her and her upbringing on a council estate in Newcastle. Word for word, the Brazilian nut-job referred to Cole as 'A girl from a council estate who got lucky'. This annoyed Cole. Fantastic.

But lets deconstruct this comment which bought the Geordie tart to tears. Firstly, she is from a council estate and much like 'Jenny from the block', she blubbers about how she's proud of her roots, just a normal girl living the fucking dream, right? apart from when her Latte gets cold and there's not enough red Skittles in her dressing room. Why did this comment rile her up so much? she confronted Wagner about this, red-faced and slightly peeved, claiming slander from the nearest Max Clifford office. SHE IS FROM A COUNCIL ESTATE! it's not an insult, it's a statement of truth, perhaps it was said with a smidgen on malice, but hey-ho, take it on the chin you rough and ready street urchin. That young black female you hit outside a Guildford nightclub certainly took it on the chin like a pro. So calm it Cole. And, as for the 'lucky' implications - he's right isn't he?

Her solo trash is just another confirmation of the fact that people will buy anything with a celebrity on the cover. I mean, the Cheeky Girls sold thousands of singles, Peter Andre continues to do so, popularity really isn't a clarification of quality. And as you already know, i believe she has no right to comment on other peoples musical abilities because all she does is sing other peoples songs with a heap of auto-tune and, well, she doesn't even bother live - just moves her lips to a pre-recorded audio-screech claiming to be a song.

So, Wagner to win. I wont be watching it as it nearly makes me sick, but this advance could be the catalyst we need for exposing the crippled backbone of this corrupt creation - you're all mugs. You all voted for Jedward, you continue to consume this tripe and you continue to help this abomination breed. Some of you are beginning to realise the errors of your ways, but its to late. You've sewn your poison, now enoy the effects.

That Muscle Shoals Sound...

2010-11-26T06:38:00.000-08:00

God bless Muscle Shoals...

Drive-By Truckers @ Concorde2, Brighton

2010-11-26T06:32:00.000-08:00

The soulful croons of that illusive Muscle Shoals sound started early on at the Concorde2 the night of Drive-by Truckers last U.K date. Wilson Pickett, Etta James, Otis Redding and a wonderfully solemn James McMurty number all blasted from the stereo prior to the bands onstage arrival. The real legacy and potency of that mysteriously salient catalyst of genius shines though at moments like this, with a sold out crowd beginning to hop-scotch with the excitable contorts of children on Christmas eve, and it became infectious.

As bottles of Jack began to appear onstage, the hair-raising coos of some black-and-white 50s country-goth ditty commences and its distinctive haunting gloom of utter Southernisms mean only one thing, enter Mike Cooley and co. stage right.

Searing volume instantly launched its uncontainable waves into the atmosphere, ragingly brash and howling like the screech of a 747 Booing jet engine as Cooley growled into ‘Where The Devil Don’t Stay’ from their southern-rock masterpiece, ‘The Dirty South’. It stomps with the ferocity of Lucifer himself, hollering with vigour and doused in the slurring whiskey that soaks their numerous albums, and then, out of the shadows comes Patterson Hood’s ‘Tornadoes’, straining a tense elongated yearn as he bawls, ‘I can still remember the sound of their applause in the rain, as it echoed through them storm clouds, I swear, It sounded like a train’.

Drive-by Truckers eighth album, ‘the Big To-Do’, was released earlier this year. Continuing the theme of creepy cartoon cover art, this was a record that sustained to coagulate the Atlanta-formed gang of musical outlaws as an unprecedented and unintentionally surreptitiously vital driving force in American rock and roll. Hood’s astute sense of being has always captured me. On the Southern Rock Opera he cast his acumen out on a line, particularly on ‘The Three Great Alabama Icons’. Hood, whose Dad was a Muscle Shoals bass-wielding legend in his own right, muttered about the misunderstood mythical element of Lynyrd Skynyrd, undervalued in all its gritty fabled glory, and I would argue that the same avowal applies to DBT - to a certain extent. But after two hours of DBT tonight, it’s clear that the genius of southern wit and brainpower, pooled with the assault of face-melting guitar riffs that will propel the roof off any venue, is near unstoppable.

Introducing the following belter as a redneck anthem for his redneck friends, Hood spills into honkey-tonk rock-punch ‘The Company I Keep’, followed closely by the whimsical stirring of ‘Self Destruction Zones’ with Cooley at the helm. Its insightful pennings and grubby group delivery, lyrically rich in cunning social observations, pin-pointing problematic generational issues that illuminate unfortunate concern: ‘Till the pawn shops were packed like a backstage party, hanging full of pointy ugly cheap guitars, And the young'uns all turned to karaoke, hanging all their wishes upon disregarded stars’.

The vital wordings of these songs are so affluent in the diversity of story telling - they cascade from poignant declarations of societal issues to the boozy joys of the duality of the southern thing. And it’s this beautiful multiplicity that makes DBT an extremely accomplished song writing outfit, but when Cooley lets rip like a rampant bar-room rocker who’s playing for his very existence on ‘Hell No I Aint Happy’, they reveal they are so much more than simply a rock and roll band - they’re the pulsating mainline artery of American rock and roll and everything debauched, doped-up and outrageously raucous that embodies the divine nature of this illicit necessity.

As the night goes on and the Jack Daniels slowly sinks until the bottle becomes transparent, bassist Shonna Tucker holds her own with a couple of bottles of red, delicately plonked on her bass amp, and after a few well-earned swigs she’s introduced by Hood and the band burst into the edgy ‘(It’s Gonna Be) I Told You So’ followed swiftly by a dazzling amped-up instrumental-riot of ‘World Of Hurt’. This perspicacious country-rock anthem ebs and flows with the tender of Little Feat’s ’Willin’’ and all the acumen of Ronnie Van Zant’s ‘Am I Loosin’, as it ponders love, loss and pain - the three incessant topical mediums. It’s a creation clearly constructed by someone who, in their own right, are a priceless factor in this rock and roll dream and when Cooley gets his mits on it, the subdued country ballad revamps into a riotous eruption of rock and roll bliss, and its all summed up by Hood in a brief lyrical ache…

“"To love is to feel pain" there ain't no way around it
The very nature of love is to grieve when it is over
The secret to a happy ending is knowing when to role the credits
Better role them now before something else goes wrong”

Now tell me that aint the words of a genius…

James McMurtry - We Cant Make It Here Anymore

2010-11-26T06:23:00.000-08:00

James McMurtry is the son of Larry McMurtry - author of the phenomenal Western ‘Lonesome Dove’. If you’ve ever read this book or seen the brilliant film adaptation with its stellar line up including Robert Duvall and Tommy Jones, then you’ll know that this is a narrative that’s brilliantly adheres to the particularly quirky traits of the South while deepening its tale via tangents of wisdom and a struggle for a better existence, with its inevitable fuck ups along the way.

Fast forward and now Larry’s son James is in the story tellers chair, and the world sure has changed but we’re still swamped with problems, this time however, of a different nature and of someone else’s doing. Mr George W. Bush.

And that's how it is
That's what we got
If the president wants to admit it or not

Songs of a political disposition are often unsteady ground. Sometimes they’ll come across as uninformed ramblings of wannabe politico hot-heads, sometimes they’ll come across as do-gooder slurs of clueless uneducated part-time anarchists but very rarely they’ll strike a nerve of sincerity and authenticity. Springsteen is completely capable of crafting a politico anthem that actually endures worthy substance, much like The Clash and Dylan, but new music rarely hit’s the spot and reflects little more than just another musical faux pas, an ill-informed cliché without heart.

With James McMurtry however, it’s different. It’s hardly a new song, penned during the height of Bush’s corruption and lies as he and his crooked colleagues flashed untrue claims of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, but it’s a vital rock and roll anthem that demonstrates the fist-fighting vigour of rock and roll sure aint lost. In ‘We Can’t Make It Here’, a song from McMurtry‘s 2007 album, ‘Childish Things‘, the song writing, guitar-tooting Southerner ignores the focal point of these oil-hungry lying smear-merchants and sings about the struggle of soldiers returning from someone else’s Hollywood war - much likes The Boss’s ‘Born In The USA’ and ‘Atlantic City’.

Will work for food
Will die for oil
Will kill for power and to us the spoils
The billionaires get to pay less tax
The working poor get to fall through the cracks

Lyrically this is one of the most accomplished and sincere songs of the last ten years. It’s blistering country-rock riff calls to mind films like ‘Apocalypse Now’ and ‘The Deer Hunter’ with its conspicuously 70s Southern bar-room-rock sound. It’s the sort of sound that paints explicit images of an era that we’ve come to conjure through the songs of that time. Jefferson Airplane in ‘Platoon’, The Doors in ‘Apocalypse Now’ and Creedence in ‘Forest Gump’.

‘We can’t make it here’ isn’t in a film though. It’s the soundtrack of coherent problems. We don’t have producers picking songs to soundtrack our lives, the bands and the artists do that themselves and you pick the soundtrack to your own existence, and even though you don’t know it, McMurtry has penned an anthem to soundtrack all of our lives. Locked up far away in middle class suburbia or a boarding school in the far ends of Scotland or a semi-detached in leafy Surrey or University Halls in Birmingham, you may think you’re safe - and although you are, this shit continues to trundle on through the world and McMurtry has found a way to bring the terror and strife and heartache to your door - and you better fucking listen.

Vietnam Vet with a cardboard sign
Sitting there by the left turn line
Flag on the wheelchair flapping in the breeze
One leg missing, both hands free
No one's paying much mind to him
The V.A. budget's stretched so thin
And there's more comin' home from the Mideast war
We can't make it here anymore

With the current economic climate, the rich getting richer and the poor getting poorer and the countless soldiers who wont return home to their families this Christmas and the endless bloodshed throughout the world, the struggle faced by the lucky ones who return is colossal.

As well as focusing on the money problems of people in today’s crumbling society, this mind-blowing rocked-up power-house punch draws on the dying identity of America, the jobless and the homeless, the imported goods that have forced unemployment to an all-time high, the throw-away nature of society and the general despair felt by thousands upon thousands of people throughout the world.

With it's filthy distorted-out guitar sound and layered out wailing vocals that pile up on the song like the bulked-up harmonies of John Fogerty on a Bloodkin record, this is one hell of an anthemic heartbeat of hope.

Should I hate a people for the shade of their skin
Or the shape of their eyes or the shape I'm in
Should I hate 'em for having our jobs today
No I hate the men sent the jobs away

This isn’t some moral message that’s going to tell you to get up off your arse and fucking do something, because I’m guilty of this, we all are. It’s just a message telling you to listen to this song - there’s still some good left in this world, and at times, I think that this song could be why McMurty was sent to us in the first place…

Still Willin'

2010-10-22T08:51:00.000-07:00

If you’ve ever read this blog before (which I doubt many people have) then you’ll know I’ve got a real thing about nostalgia. That Laurel Canyon experience is something that’s intrigued me for years now and there’s an undeniable aura of freedom and happiness that follows the scene of this period (and some incredibly dark ones, I know). Yet I always find myself going back to these past troubadours whose knowledge, experience, tolerance and bare talent will override anything you hear in modern music.

Here I’ve gone back to Little Feat. Not a band of the Canyon era and not a hipster California outfit, yet they’re a country howling outfit who exude sincerity and warmth and depth. This video’s hardly from their prime but it’s a gorgeous tale none the less.

A Different Kind Of Daydream

2010-10-22T08:48:00.000-07:00

For three decades The Grateful Dead have expanded their trippy mindsets via hallucinogenic additives and by faithfully loosing themselves in their doped up hippy psych-folk fest, and finally, or though I’m rather resentful to declare, I have willingly and rewardingly immersed myself in their extensive back catalogue. With an expansive collection of studio albums and an even more impressive anthology of ’live’ experiences to bury yourself into, you really would be a fool to overlook these impromptu Technicolor instrumental journeys of love, life and all things incredible hippy.

The X Factor - The End Of Society

2010-10-08T10:40:00.000-07:00

For the past few years, every Sunday morning, I’ve had to bite my tongue around even my closest of friends. If dealing with a hangover and a mouth like an ashtray wasn’t enough, I‘ve been subjected to listen to my deluded buddies chatter incessantly about The X Factor.

From my vaguest of memories I can remember a few things, primarily that I have always despised Baked Beans and The X Factor. And recently, after seeing countless posts and tactless feeds on my Facebook and in newspapers about this abomination of a program I began to question why I’m friends with so many of these people, but this got me in trouble before, so rather than rant until I’m blue in the face I thought I’d put it in words and post it through every letter box in the world, if I ever get round to it that is.

Arguments have ensued before with myself and my friends and my friends friends et al. and I’ve never had enough time or evidence to convince these duped individuals why this program is so god damn unpleasant and why it’s the beginning of the end of everything we’ve ever fucking adored. So with a world of information at my keyboard I’m going to give it a go, but I genuinely think it will have no effect, but what the hell, I’ve done my bit for society, right?

The X Factor began in 2004, the illegitimate brother of Pop Idol fame it immediately secured it’s prime time slot on Saturday night television, and rightly so. It claims around 12 million viewers per series, and if people want to waste their lives away watching this anti-reality then be my guest. However, since 2004 and the vigorous sessions, the tears, the scandals and the awful Sharon Osbourne, The X Factor has presented the music industry, and society respectively, with the likes of Steve Brookstein, Shayne Ward, Leona Lewis, Leon Jackson ( I don’t even know who this person is), Alexandra Burke and the captivating Joe McEldery. Well well, I could stop there, but I wont….

Leona Lewis, fair play on that one. She’s not my cup of tea but she’s certainly the biggest success story that this program has produced. She does have a fantastic voice and a slight personality about her, and in all honesty she sings songs written by other talented individuals hidden behind the ghost writers screen very well, but I can’t deny that she’s a golden girl. That ‘Keep Bleeding’ song, or whatever it was called, hit the charts harder than a re-mastered Elvis record and stayed there for longer than all of the other winners musical products put together. Her due success has shaped her into a popstar as well. She’s got better with experience, and although this does include the unjust demanding diva in her, I can’t complain as she slips into the pop industry of today faster than an England international and a ropey of fifty quid brass.

But then there’s the others. All of them. Steve Brookstein, the middle aged balding twerp with a grin like Zippy from Rainbow. He now sings Sinatra covers in Pizza Express, I hope Cowell’s still getting his cut. In what complex strata of humanity did anyone anywhere in England believe that this was the undiscovered gem of talent that had been kept secret from us? And who on earth thought that this man ‘had it’? he’s got a future on a cruise ship, better still, overboard one.

Next up, Mr Shayne Ward - now I had to google his whereabouts. Well the Manchester born All Saints clone is currently working on his third album which he’s originally titled, ’Obsession’ - no narcissism involved there. This record is sure to be a delight, and although I was half hoping he was now homeless or dead or something along those lines, I’ll admit that I am not surprised he’s still allowed to make music because after all we recently let a Nazi pope into our non Catholic country and judges all over the country are re-housing paedophiles near schools without really thinking, so you come to expect these things. I also googled teasers from his new record, out of curiosity more than anything, and it’s good people - it sounds a bit like someone farting in a jar. But one thing that pleased me about Ward was his consistently chart-slipping releases. He started with a number one and slowly the positions began to tumble like a fat kid down a hill. His third single, ‘Stand By Me’ (Ouch!), only reached number 14, such a shame. Luckily for us though, he did beat Journey South to win the X Factor, well, lucky for you I mean because if those two would’ve won I might have pulled a Columbine stunt of sorts.

Number three on my list is Leon Jackson. Not only did I have to google this bellend but I also had to dig up fucking relics to prove his pathetic existence. The first thing that caught my eye was a double figured number, 94. This was where Mr Jackson’s third single entered the charts. It was called ‘Creative’, remember? No? well we’ve got a lot on our plate. It makes you ponder really, all those people watching the 2007 X Factor religiously, praying for their contestant to emerge victorious, praising their every performance in front of that little dumpy Irish man, the man who ruined music with his trousers ever so high and that prostitute with the purple wig who used to fuck rock stars. I’m sure one or two of you must have thought this guy was the real deal?! Hold up! Thousands of you must have thought that, after all that’s the purpose of this program, to find the next big thing right? Or is there a time frame on that? ‘YOU COULD BE THE NEXT BIG THING FOR AROUND A WEEK IF YOU ENTER THE X FACTOR NOW!’.

Let me just show you a little extract about…Leon is it? Well here’s what it said…

“In 2010, Leon Jackson embarked on a new journey, he has became a real 'jeans and t-shirt' artist, gave up his pop-jazz material and is now a singer/songwriter working on guitar and piano led music. Over the last year he has been crafting songs that uncover the last few years life, love and dreams. Jackson has also worked with American artists to produce acoustic songs as well as writing some himself”

Well done Leon Jackson! You working class mother fucker you! He might actually be onto something here, songs about love, life and dreams? I’m losing all faith in humanity. Since the beginning of music people have poured every ounce of passion and soul in their body into writing songs about their far more interesting, debauched, enigmatic and poignant lives - and now this smarmy little gob shite has decided to up sticks, kick of his Dunhill and write some blue collar songs about his fucking troubles? Give me a break, it makes me feel physically sick and fist-throwingly violent all at once.

See what the X Factor does is it glorifies the mediocre actions of worthless morons such as Leon Jackson and Steve Brookstein and it transcends them to you, the handfed hypnotised audience, bags it up in a commercial wrapper made of deceit, lies and the ill informed notion of talent and delivers it right to you with a label on it telling you that ‘this is good’ - because you need to be told what it is, you need to be pointed in the direction of what these money hungry moguls have now contorted into supposed talent - when all it remains is excessive commercialism in a shiny box for people who have lost their way with real music.

Then there was Alexandra Burke, not only is she a clone of Lewis but she also committed one of the biggest sins of the century when she left her shit stained mark on Leonard Cohen’s ‘Halleluiah’. This delicately enigmatic piece of song writing beauty was tarnished by the over produced screech of this incredibly dull individual. Not only am I bemused at the fact that Cohen gave consent for this monstrosity to be released to the masses, but I’m also stunned at the fact that in 24 hours it sold over 105,000 copies - and no, popularity doesn’t country for very much when we consider that both The Cheeky Girls and Katie Price released a single that reached the top ten. Also, I doubt that many people know this is even a cover.

But she was just what we needed. Another scantily clad, bone-skinny dullard singing yet more covers. I’ve seen enough smouldering faces staring down the camera with wind blowing through their extension filled hair to last me a life time, and if I do end up going to hell for my sins they’ll probably just sit me in front of a tv screen for 23 hours a day and show me these punch-worthy faces over and over until I end up hanging myself with a novelty Jedward skipping rope - what a way to go.

Before I get to last years winner, lets talk about the current panel of judges. Although I loathe Simon Cowell and what he’s done to the industry you have to pay give him his dues. He’s a clever chap. He knows how to work the industry, he knows how to pick a hit song, but he is literally the only man who deserves a place on the board of judges.

In regards to everyone I’ve ever spoken to about this program, I can honestly say that no one on the face of this planet, except house-bound middle aged women with lots of cats, give one solitary shit what Louie Walsh has to say. His input is about as useful as giving a rapist the benefit of the doubt. He mumbles his fruitless comments with zero sincerity, he’s wet and useless. I really don’t like him, but no one does so I’ll leave him alone.

Now for the ladies. Although we’d all like to wake up next to a face like Cheryl Cole’s on a daily basis we can’t deny the fact that she is in fact a melodramatic cunt. Her evaluating expressions are far from convincing and the fact that she married a footballer like Ashley Cole shows she’s hardly a good judge of character, let alone a judge worthy of notifying talent. Malaria or no malaria, she’s not fit for any form of authority when it concerns other people’s livelihood. Slag.

And Danni Minogue. Her sister’s a star, she however, is not. I wasn’t even aware of her past achievements prior to this show until I scoured the internet for dirt, as per. Apparently she started off in TV and film, well that slipped past me. I thought to myself, if we’re talking the small screen that inhabits your living room then it’s got to be one of two programs. ‘Neighbours’ or ‘Home and Away’ - it was ‘Home and Away’. Hardly a pedestal for permission exposing clout. Who thought this would be a good idea? Right, picture Cowell and his followers in the penthouse boardroom of Psycho Records in London. Swanky and covered in marble and ivory and the bones of children, they discuss possible candidates for the job…’Who do we know who has a lot of experience in show biz? Who’s got that certain flair of indefinable brilliance? Who has the intellect to splash their ideologies into controversial situations?’ and the answer was a ‘Home and Away’ veteran who was in the stage show of ‘Grease’, were they high? I’d have to be high to sit through that tripe, and I usually am.

If I bare the bones of my honesty in true guilty fashion, I’ll compromise with one point that people continually bring up when jabbering about the hullabaloo of the X Factor, ‘But it’s entertaining!’ they cry. Well, let me raise a few issues on this.

One big seller for this program lies in humiliating the future mass-murdering odd balls who hit the stage in the audition period of the show. Every year they crawl out from under their rocks to reassure us that England still has the ability to produce a high quantity of seriously outlandish, peculiar and often plain menacing individuals. They screech their way through Robbie Williams ‘Angles’, they howl like horny hounds through Take That’s ‘Rule The World’ and occasionally a duo of midriff-exposing over weight teenagers with Big Mac stains down their tracksuits with drawl over a Pussycat Dolls cover. Sure it’s funny. Anything that mugs off strange people in front of an audience is funny, but there’s three audition stages prior to the television appearances. The problem with this returns to what I was talking about earlier regarding the handfed audience. This is the X Factor, once again, controlling what you view, how you view it and it’s revoltingly manipulated so that you see what they want you to see - what else are they hiding from you?

I’m not against anyone having fun. Each to their own, right? Fair enough it’s primary purpose is entertaining, especially the freaks - they‘re amusing to a certain extent, So why get carried away? One of the things that vexes me more than anything, and this goes for Britians Got Talent as well, is that the susceptible audiences who grace these shows are literally so devoid of any rich and fulfilling that they see it fit to rise on their chubby little ankles to give anything with a remote hint of tone a standing ovation. This dim-witted reaction has numbed the potency of a deserved retort when someone viable actually twaddle’s along. Oh and they now use auto-tune during the first television auditions, for those of you who don’t know what that is, here’s an explanation…

“Auto-Tune is a proprietary audio processor. Auto-Tune uses a phase vocoder to correct pitch in vocal and instrumental performances. It is used to disguise off-key inaccuracies and mistakes, and has allowed singers to perform perfectly tuned vocal tracks without the need of singing in tune.”

So to put simple for all you Jeremy Kyle fans and X Factor obsessive’s, it helps those who cannot sing sound near-perfect, followed by Mr Walsh exclaiming, ‘I tink you made de song your own’. Of course they did tubs - queue standing ovation.

I’ll compromise further still. I agree that a number of the people who go on this show can sing, some of them very well. However, rather than moan about the fact that there are countless other people out there on cruise ships, in pubs, in casinos and in back street music venues who can hit a note just as well as these people (because there are), I’ll argue that there’s more to this elusive x factor than clearing your pipes like Tina Turner. We have to understand that a powerful voice, cringingly spouted out at its highest possible velocity, isn’t an indication of conviction - it’s merely a peripheral frill with the primary function of flaunting the one dimensional ability of a totally boring twat. A good voice is a good voice, the x factor, if there is such a thing, is an indescribable spark of beauty that triggers Goosebumps on your skin, a presence that wells up your tear ducts with something so heartfelt that it surely can’t be bottled up and sold by the mass. (see The Beatles, Bruce Springsteen, Neil Young, Joni Mitchell, The Rolling Stones et al).

Last Saturday I was in the pub with a friend. In front of us, on a screen the size of a bus was X Factor, in all its superficial glory. On stepped a girl, a blonde girl with a silly umbrella who was wearing too much make up and had a bit of a Jimmy Hill going on. Now this girl has a distinctly average voice and a less than average face, however I believe it was because this girl looked a little different to the other chumps who grace this visionary program that she was given a shot. She didn’t have a skirt creeping up her buttocks and she wasn’t into ‘R ‘n’ B’ - wowza. But here’s the thing with this grubby little 80s throwback who believes her individualism is key to her success - walk down any university hall or street in London, Manchester, Liverpool, Brighton blah blah, you’ll see an exact clone of this social faux pas minus the voice but double the personality and authenticity. She’s no more than a gimmick who is hoodwinked by her own image, which by the way is diabolical because she’s obsessed with Madonna and all things 80s. Vomit.

It’s difficult to write something with balance when you dislike something so much. I’ve tried to show both sides of this show and even a dashing of compromise here and there, along with a smattering of sarcasm, apparently. But its tough for me - I just hate the false entity that runs through the artificial veins of this apocalyptic beginning. I do understand that its entertaining, but a lot of things are entertaining - throwing rocks at cats is one, lighting a paper bag full of human turds and placing it on your teachers door step while watching them stamp it out, shaving your drunken friends head and writing ‘Penis’ on his forehead, hurling abuse at lowlifes from your speeding car window and also farting on people - that‘s one of the best. But what is more entertaining than all of that is music with heart. Good music that invokes nostalgia, because that means the world to more people than the retarded z list celebrities who coast this show. Ask yourself, do you genuinely think the ‘original’ Ollie Murrs will make a seminal record? Will you go and see him live? Will Leona pen a ditty that with bring tears to the eyes of the future generations? Will Leon Jackson…oh fuck Leon, he’s not going to do anything, but you get my point. This isn’t real, it’s the beginning of the end.

Oh, and I didn’t bother with that Joe chap who won last year because I can only insult these bottom-feeders so much, oh and i was sooooooo surprised he 'came out' (because we were all fucking stunned at that one, it was like when H from Steps came out on Big Brother - we know, we don’t care and, no, it wont appeal to a homosexual audience so you literally have no niche. Tough break).

Mobile Phones And Dappy Drones...

2010-09-24T08:14:00.000-07:00

Recently I‘ve come to the conclusion that I‘m a bit of an old man. Not any sense of age or appearance as I’m still able to bend down and pick things up without making a noise and I know how to update an ipod - it‘s more a state of mind thing. I’m not the type of person who will get peeved at Facebook changing their homepage - who gives a flying fuck? I think young people’s manors have taken a decidedly dire turn towards inexcusable discourtesy and I’m only 23 and I also fucking loathe the X-Factor and believe it is the foundation of apocalyptic happenings with civilisation almost certainly being doomed due to the smoke and mirrors tricks played by these corporate, know-nothing Nazi bastards.

But there’s a number of reasons for this - My overbearing cynicism and slight naivety certainly contributes to this uneasy state of agitation, not to mention a touch of unjust arrogance and a healthy helping of stubbornness. But most old men confine to these tendencies so I’ll sweep it under my Marks and Spencer’s rug and sit with a smug grin as I don a Boden shirt.

But before I appear too grumpy to even approach, I‘d like to confirm that I do enjoy a number of things. Cigarettes is one. Bruce Springsteen and Neil Young, The Rolling Stones, red wine, Uncut Magazine is a god damn bible, bitter, the debauchery and love-fest of the sixties and seventies which I can sure as hell read about due to being born a few decades too late. Then there’s the Drive By Truckers discography which is a work of exploration in itself. The entire rock and roll saga of nostalgia intrigues me on a daily basis, and I also like to read. But that’s it.

Currently my life is a little hectic. I’m working two jobs so I can pay of Uni debts and eventually collect enough tender to be able to do what I want in a year or so. Write. So while I work my near-seven day weeks I come across a variety of utter twats. In particular, one excruciating trait dominated particularly by buck-toothed, public school girls grates me like nails on a chalk board…

In what complex strata of humanity do these hand-me-down, second-class princess’s believe it’s satisfactory to wander around in shops, cafes and restaurants while aimlessly spewing out futile noises posing as conversation on their phones. While being served they jabber, while waiting in line three inches from my face they jabber, when did this become acceptable? I’m sure Tara and Beatrix can live without your ineffectual input for a minute of two while you show some politeness and courtesy to those around you.

Just the other day in a retail outlet I was standing there when this bouffant haired, cocktail drinking Ab Fab throwback plods in, hand glued stuck to her left ear, ‘Yaaaaar’ she disgorged as her face contorted back into that scrunched up balloon knot of failed botox, ‘Yaaaar I know, yes Mummy, I’ll explain it all later but it was sooooo gorgeous’. Well that must have been a vital line of communication between to highly intelligent individuals. The only hope these air-heads have is to marry rich, which most do, or let their parents path their way through private education and high-class social networking until Daddy has to call in a favour to the chairman of the board.

These are the type of girls footballers love. Someone with a corresponding echelon of aptitude and intellect. Maybe we should just let them breed in a gold-clad farm somewhere among telephone pylons and a cloud of carbon monoxide that their gas guzzling, grotesquely personalized automobiles emit with constant coverage of their meaningless subsistence by Hello and Ok magazine. But obviously this doesn’t apply to all, just most.

I gather though, from my experience among these characters, that there is a sense of superiority amid the upper-class females whose Blackberry’s are surgically attached to their scathing paws. And I suppose this is nothing new. The poor only have themselves to blame, right? So the paupers who come face to face with these vulgar and uncharitable ‘yaaaars’ should really just accommodate the substandard conduct. OMG.

It's A Southern Thing...

2010-09-10T08:58:00.000-07:00

Since I can remember I’ve always been curious about the Southern states of America. Perhaps it’s my Dad’s interest in Westerns like ‘Lonesome Dove’ and ‘Dances With Wolves’ along with a youth spent travelling the U.K and places like Georgia and Alabama to follow the misconstrued legend that is Lynyrd Skynyrd. Both of these suggest reason for curiosity, but I think there’s more to it than that.

There’s some fear inducing element that appeals to me regarding The South. It appears as a straight forward and slightly backward existence aided by confederate right wingers and crooked politicians, but I think this is the misunderstood beauty of it all - as Ronnie Van Zant attempted to interpret in ‘Sweet Home Alabama‘. Fuelled by liqueur and horse riding mafia men, leather jackets and Jack Daniels, bar room brawls and backhanded compliments, a unified sense of brotherhood and above all - that mythological flair of old time rock and roll, and when a Southerner slurs his way through that viscose accent under the smoky cloud of 20 Marlboro Reds, there’s a harsher sense of reality, but one that’s all the more exciting.

I began listening to The Drive By Truckers around eighteen months ago. I’d heard bits and pieces, shards of praise and adoration from Uncut Editor Allen Jones prompted me to delve deeper into the thrilling truth behind this unappreciated and undervalued genuine Southern rock band.

Since the release of their first album (now on their 10th) there have been numerous changes to the line up. Including the five in the band at the moment, there have been seven others involved throughout the years, all adding some form of solicited input to the records they have been putting out - either personally via their first two albums or on the major who has supported them since 2000. Out of all members been and cast into the abyss, one name will notably engrave itself into the long history of DBT as a legend, and that is Jason Isbell.

In 1998 the Truckers released their debut record, self-funded and individually put out for the masses to enjoy. ‘Gangstabilly’, which was then re-released by their Major in 2005, is the most ‘country’ of their eleven albums. A vein of authenticity and true southern spirit ran through this album, which although doesn’t portray them in their brightest hour, it did construct a future for them to build upon.

In 2001 Patterson Hood, Mike Cooley and the other DBT bandits created a concept album (Isbell was not in the band yet). An unsettled and nervy path to explore, especially when you consider the subject of this concept record was Lynyrd Skynyrd, a misunderstood collective whose genius pennings of country rock and roll stormers has met with slightly unappreciated response from a world who maybe just don’t get it quite yet…

It was not so much a point to prove for DBT but more of a story to tell. People’s misconceptions of the Southern thing have led them down a dubious and ill-informed street where Skynyrd’s greatest achievement is portrayed as ‘Sweet Home…’ and every other confederate flag waving, hard-working, chain-smoking working class individual is an uneducated racist whose adulation for George Wallace comes before the welfare of their family. It soon became clear ‘The Southern Rock Opera’ was a record about exposing the tales of legends with blasting guitars and an overwhelming sense of beloved pride. It was a record supported by an in depth spine of research behind Skynyrd and co. as well as a flirting sense of nostalgia for a group of people who grew up around The Southern Thing.

‘The Southern Rock Opera’ was also created with the intent of exposing some rather fabled elements of the past. When Patterson Hood wrote ‘Ronnie And Neil’ he was writing with passion, and that comes through with a gritty rockin’ ease. His deep awareness of the Muscle Shoals association (due to his father being in the original line up) added a sense of historic importance to the song and when singing about a misread friendship between two of rock and rolls greatest song writers you have to be careful, but Hood didn’t approach this with a sense of care - he couldn’t. Throughout the howling anthem about Young and Van Zant, Hood tells a tale of unity and understanding between to very delicate individuals who consistently attempted to keep their private lives private - the way it should be. It hits emotional peaks of utter rock and roll brilliance when Hood hollers out with absolute awe-inspiring growl…

“Now Ronnie and Neil became good friends their feud was just in song
Skynyrd was a bunch of Neil Young fans and Neil he loved that song
So He wrote "Powderfinger" for Skynyrd to record
But Ronnie ended up singing "Sweet Home Alabama" to the lord”

And in the aftermath of this poignant anthem Hood brings the fatal reality of it back to us, ‘And Neil helped carry Ronnie in his casket to the ground, And to my way of thinking, us southern men need both of them around’ and our sense of displacement with our existence resumes as we realise that DBT are right, we still need Skynyrd - or the legend that they’ve tattooed to the history of music.

Other reflective highlights of this double album include ‘Let There Be Rock’, a song about Hood’s music obsessed youth, up to no good and not regretting it, ‘Greenville to Baton Rogue’ which tells the unexpected journey Skynyrd took on their private plane before its incurable crash in 1977 which took the lives of Van Zant, Steve Gaines, Cassie Gaines and two road crew members. It’s embedded with glory and elation as well as fear and mortality, which is what makes this record celebrated and in-depth in its own terms.

Then there was ‘Decoration Day’. A sinister premise beats throughout this record like the black heart of these North Alabama characters whose unfavourable antics make this gloomy product of crooked swamp-dwelling cowboys an intriguing and humanizing listen. In this, Jason Isbell‘s first full length album with the band, the young guitarist and singer comes through as a wiser-than-his-years preacher, invigorated by booze and hard-living, calmly stewing his way through the traditional country ballad of ‘Outfit’ which is charged with good old southern morality, originally penned after Isbell’s Dad advised him on staying clear of particular narcotics and to call home on his sisters birthday. The record hit’s a ominous but captivating climax on the epic disruptive scream of ‘Decoration Day’ - a title track that’s enriched in the fraudulent and violent heritage of family’s at war in a place where junkyards act as playground for criminals and the firm hand of the law has little sway over anyone. As heard through the grapevine, Isbell penned this song three days after joining the band, basing it on a true story of a family feud in his home town.

The folklore heard on ‘Decoration Day’ is enhance by its by its heavy-hitting rock and roll punches, packed by the trio of guitars that wail through the grimy thunderous tracks on the album. Then there’s tracks such as ‘Heathens’ and ‘Your Daddy Hates Me’ which add to the substance of this album and the legitimacy in which it relies, and as a whole we can stand back and appreciate this album for what it is - a record of actions and consequences.

One year later in 2003, DBT began work on their sixth full length studio effort - ‘The Dirty South’, another concept album intended at exposing more false impressions of the lives they live and the past they adore. It’s an album packed with irony and hypocrisy, with an air of catastrophe circulating through the darker corners of it‘s gloomier parts.

Another change to the band occurred during the recording of ‘The Dirty South’. New bassist, Shonna Tucker (Isbell‘s wife at the time), had been recruited as the first and only female participant in the band. She bought a variety of skills to the gang, including a luscious and richly soulful voice that yelps its way through the chorus on ‘Never Gonna Change‘ like Merry Clayton in ‘Gimme Shelter’. And it’s this track in question which provides a steady anchorage to the album about the misread southern thing, with Isbell crooning his way through the tracks final declaration of pride and self-respect, ‘You can throw me in the Colbert County jailhouse, You can throw me off the Wilson Dam, But there ain't much difference in the man I wanna be and the man I really am’ he concludes as the scorching guitars slowly burn out.

This, possibly their most accomplished record to date, also contains an edifying and revealing three song suit about Sherriff Buford Pusser. Pusser was a sherriff in Mississippi during the mid to late sixties. Unfortunately for the crooks and thugs who make DBT’s songs so damn appealing, Pusser was on a one-man mission to rid this southern minefield of illegal activity, riding the shacks and bars of moonshine, gambling, whores, brawls and all other filthy antics that make these shady whiskey rock’n’rollers the fabled outlaws they are. His mission, however, was not as straight forward as he had hoped. Pusser died on August 21, 1974 from injuries sustained in a one-car automobile accident. Earlier in the day, Pusser contracted with Bing Crosby Productions in Memphis to portray himself in the sequel to Walking Tall. That evening, Pusser, returning home alone from the McNairy County Fair in his specially and powerfully modified Corvette, struck an embankment at high speed ejecting him from the vehicle. But as with all good tales of misfortune, Patterson Hood felt that the other side of this story must be told, and that’s precisely what he did in ‘Boys From Alabama’, ‘the Buford Stick’ and ‘Cottonseed’, which adorns a multifaceted quality in which Mike Cooley’s corrupt lyricism thickly delves into the darker side of politics and the deadbeats who associate themselves with the fraudulent scheme…

“Stories of corruption, crime and killing, yes it's true
Greed and fixed elections, guns and drugs and whores and booze”

And…

“Somewhere, I ain't saying, there's a hole that holds a judge
The last one that I dug myself
And I must admit I was sad to lay him in it, but I did the best I could
Once his Honor grows a conscience, well folks, that there just ain't no good”

By February 2008 this was the DBT’s most successful record, intensified by a number of things, namely the growth and development of the band whose many years together demonstrates that with experience comes an ability to grow as musicians and song writers.

In 2006 the band were to record their final album ever with Jason Isbell. A young man who acted as a totem of solidarity, providing endless quantities talent and an ear for lyrics that scale the path from irony to depression, wit to reality and, possibly most important of all, an ability to craft musical narratives installed with tradition, value and heart-wrenchingly terrifying truth.

The album was named ’A Blessing And A Curse’ and was to be the only other DBT record with the exact same band line up as it’s predecessor, ’The Dirty South’. So with an satirical and rather close-to-home title already set in stone the band went about creating their most controversial album thus far.

It had been a drink-heavy rocky affair since ‘The Southern Rock Opera’. Distortion was rife and people had come to know this band as an Alabamaian rock collective, heavy in the bite that makes rock and roll what it is, but also with the ability to craft a melodic acoustic ditty every now and then, but that was not what they were particularly treasured for. So when ‘A Blessing And A Curse’ came out, fans and critics were slightly challenged as they were hit by an unexpected melodious and harmonious output in which the Truckers owe as much to Willie Nelson, Guthrie and CSNY as their first few outputs did to Skynyrd, Young and Creedence.

Isbell’s input included the oh-so sweet high-note hitting country-pop beauty that is ‘Daylight’, along with the more Springsteen-esqe ‘Easy On Yourself’. Cooley’s ‘Space City’ and articulately insightful ‘Gravity’s Gone’ do not go unnoticed either. The lyrical craftsmanship on ‘Gravity’s Gone’ exhibits some astute observations which includes…

“Those little demons ain't the reasons for the bruises on your soul you've been neglecting,
You'll never lose your mind as long as you're heart always reminds you where you left it,
And don't ever let them make you feel like saying what you want is unbecoming
If you were supposed to watch you're mouth all the time I doubt your eyes would be above it”

Despite the varied opinions of this album, the closing track, ‘A World Of Hurt’, pin points a seminal moment of literary clarity within a judicious bands whose weighty drinking sessions have clearly not malformed their outlook on a world gone to pot. It’s scenic aura and talk-through verses embellish that country-rock lifestyle and the highs and lows of being a normal human, facing the same god damn problems that everyone else does. ‘The secret to a happy ending is knowing when to roll the credits’ Hood chatters as the charismatic depth of his southern slur prudently runs its way through pretentious-absent wordplay in this morose album closer.

On April 5, 2007 Isbell announced that he was no longer a member of Drive-By Truckers. The following day, Patterson Hood confirmed the break on the band's official site. In his letter to the fans, Hood described the parting of ways as "amicable" and expressed the hope that fans would continue to support Drive-By Truckers as well as Jason's solo efforts.

Since that point, DBT have released another four albums, including the nineteen track monster that is ‘Brighter Than Creations Dark’ and, most recently, ‘The Big To Do’, which was met with critical acclaim and a rousing applaud with Uncut editor, Allen Jones, stating that the album ‘Blows the fucking roof off!’.

What I believe is special about the Truckers is that their albums are more than a collection of aimlessly penned rock songs. They steer away from meaningless ditties and filler-heavy tracks as they portray a lifestyle that remains a vital part of American culture and the music scene that continues to thrive there. Obviously the references heard throughout a number of the albums mean very little to us Brits, comfortably wrapped up in our suburban bubble of on-coming social decline, but it’s the insight they construe of being a misunderstood sector of culture that nearly all inhabitants of any form of well-rounded civilization can identify with. Then there’s the nostalgic aspect. They name-drop individuals who most will have no idea about while also paying homage to the likes of Neil Young and Molly Hatchet which only adds to the illusive sustainability of the legends that preceded them.

So while the Drive By Truckers continue to rock, nearly 12 years into their existence, I suggest you take your time to rejoice in a modern day revolution that will never amount to anything larger than is has so far - but that’s what makes these things special. ‘I never saw Lynyrd Skynyrd’, Hood sings during ‘Let There Be Rock’, and neither have we, but at least we can still see Drive By Truckers.

Classic Albums. PT1, Bruce Springsteen - Born To Run

2010-09-03T13:08:00.000-07:00

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything. The past six months slowly chipped away at my soul as I trod the monotonous path of promotion, aimlessly assisting in the false-expectation of dullard no-hopers and post-oasis thugs with guitars. It got extremely tiresome to be honest, and music became just another blunt clog in my depressing existance and i knew that when i started to not worry about music then it was time to get the fuck out, but I’ve always been a cynic and I’ve always been naïve - so why change now?

But I’m back behind the keyboard and back listening to music I love, for me, and not for the profit of others. (by the way if anyone i know actually reads this, its not directed at anyone - but the music industry, with big booking agents anyway, is fucked)

So in the spirit of my newly established optimism I’ve decided to review my favourite albums, and although my words will never do them justice and my literary cock-ups will never portray the real beauty of such enigmatic works of art, I thought I’d give it a whirl…

Bruce Springsteen - Born To Run

To review an album of such unfathomable fantasy is a hazardous undertaking which I certainly do not have the talent nor knowledge to complete lucratively, but then again, I believe that very few can put down in words the enormity installed in the lyrical dexterity of this 70’s marker of utter genius.

It’s hard to believe that Columbia were debating the dropping of The Boss and the E Street Band during the year long construction of this, Bruce’s third full length studio output: regret would not have come close to the summing up of that situation had it ensued. Luckily for Bruce and the rest of humanity though, their record label held out for the completion of an album that would define the lustful romanticism of the working class beauty and hope that Springsteen held so dearly to his heart.

Perhaps the most accomplished thing about this album is that over time the myth has not preceded the legend. In the three and a half decades since this defining piece of work was released, the teenage generation has undergone numerous changes be it social, technological and economical, yet the theme of endless summer nights held together by the backdrop of young-gun love and stunning tales of girls, love, lust and escapism still remain so relevant and hopeful.

The thing that captured me about this album is the way that Bruce creates this urban wasteland that through the eyes of a romantic construes into an Arcadian paradise where the summer never ends and our hearts never falter. ‘Screen door slams, Mary’s dress waves, like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays’ he tinkles in the opening spark of subtlety that launches ‘Thunder Road’ into the mini epic that it soon becomes, blossoming with the helping hand of a piano, that as Bruce describes in the ‘Wings For Wheels’ documentary, signifies the beginning of something: in this case, youthful vehemence and unbreakable passion

For someone who rather loathes America, I do love the sheer American-ness of this album. The way the movies portrayed it, they way they said it would be, except slightly more imperfect which undoubtedly adds to its flair. The pretty girls cascading the boulevards, the classic American cars, the shore-side scraps and seaside fires that burn as brightly as the love that inhabits it. Lyrical perfection layered by multi-instrumental howls, building a canvas of saxophones, guitars, pianos and the New Jersey growl of a young man who dreamed of changing the lives of thousands through his melodically uplifting narration.

The concept of escapism runs through the veins of ‘Born To Run’ via tenderly penned lyricism as Bruce displays a sense of captivity within his curb side utopia, ‘Tear drops of the city bed, Scooter’s searching for his groove, the whole world’s walking pretty and I can’t find the room to move’ and he continues, ‘I’m going to sit back real easy and laugh, while Scooter and the big man bust the city in half’.

There’s something mystical about the way Clarence Clemmons saxophone invokes a sense of buoyancy into this album, making it all the more energetic and, as becomes clear throughout the rest of the record, it becomes a necessity in Bruce’s blue collar anthems, accurately construing images of mid-seventies Asbury Park.

As heard in Bruce’s first two releases, ‘Greetings From Asbury Park’ and ‘The Wild, The Innocent And The E Street Shuffle’, these illicit characters he continually turns to, semi-autobiographical in parts, attach themselves to the records and the emotions of the listener. There’s that movie-like sense of epic endings in his proletariat settings of run down arcades and decrepit piers. ‘Jungleland’ clearly portrays this in all its gallant and majestic glory - waves of grandiose pianos and splendorous picture-painting words glamorously ache with the distinguished marksmanship of a man who has finally grasped the unobtainable cusp of perfection, crooning towards the end of the eight minute tale, ‘the poets down here don’t write nothing at all, they just stand back and let it all be’, and that is Bruce in all his unblemished splendour.

The Low Anthem, Brighton Komedia

2010-09-03T12:58:00.000-07:00

Tonight is an important night for Ben Knox. The Low Anthem front man and multi-instrumentalist has been creating music from penniless pockets and hard graft since around 2004, but it would appear that no hard work goes unrewarded. Tonight, around three and a half thousand miles from home, Knox and his Low Anthem cohorts have created a bubble of distinctive calm in Brighton’s Komedia, and while he begins to tinkle his way through some harmonies sweeter than sugar, we realise that the Low Anthem have more to give than just graceful folk music…

The release of their second record, ‘Oh My God, Charlie Darwin’, was welcomed as a step forward from the gospel folk and ambient coos of their slightly more ‘traditional’ and much for DIY first output, ‘What The Crow Brings’, which was modestly crafted between Knox’s and Jeff Prystowsky’s apartments during 2007. After the 600 pressings of this delicate folk debut sold out, the band begun to horde in more followers around the New England area with more exposure on its way as the critical acclaim heightened and the band won the Providence Phoenix Best Album of 2008 Award.

The DIY and hard-working ethic of this humble outfit who originally sifted through garbage cans in the back alley streets of Providence to find cardboard to create album sleeves was rendered once again. Less than a year after the release of their debut they begun work on their sophomore effort which was to be self-released once again, recorded this time in Block Island in the middle of winter during a pacing ten day session.

With the completion of OMGCD the band set out supporting Ray LaMontage and Josh Ritter throughout the U.S and once Rough Trade Records in the U.K got hold of a copy of their second effort it was made album of the month and then the British bookings flooded in with the band playing Glastonbury, End Of The Road Festival, Hyde Park Calling and Wireless. This must have seemed a long way from the brisk winter bite of the snowy New England months.

What appears evident tonight is something rather brilliant. They have humbly transcended from a roots based DIY folk outfit whose angelic campfire croons have braved the violent face of the electric guitar and actually come out victorious. The three-piece swap instruments onstage like children swapping football stickers in the playground with an unhindered ability to substitute high-pitched holy synchronization with hillbilly Tom Waits growls and retain an untarnished sense of true folk authenticity.

‘To The Ghosts Who Write History Books’ was the chosen track to open tonight’s show. And as people calmly trundle through the sold out Komedia crowd, silence from all but the four-piece onstage ensues. Surprisingly it’s a while until they kick in with some of the rousing hillbilly rock that made their second album that little more inflated, wading their way through ‘Ohio’ and the apocalyptic ironies of ‘Ticket Taker’ before the sweet gasp of ‘Yellowed By The Sun’ sets in prior to a new track which is to appear of their forthcoming third album.

A real moment of clarity came from the title track off their second record. The eerie haunt of Knox’s pitch perfect vocals discard all known boundaries of sense and capability, escalating his high notes to peaks unknown he bellows out the atmospheric beauty as is heard precisely on the record, delicate and wholesome. And while the Low Anthem chop and change squeeze boxes, bass guitars, Gibsons, Hammond’s, drums and all other manor of weird and wonderful instruments, the ninety minute set seems to have been and gone - swallowed by our minds while the flickering heartbeat inside us continues to chase with optimism and excitement as we realise that if all else fails, we have The Low Anthem.

King Charles - We Didn't Start The Fire

2010-05-13T13:35:00.000-07:00

You're Fired! And You're Also A Bit Of A Twat...

2010-05-13T13:27:00.000-07:00

I’ve never written a review about a film or a television program. I’ve never really needed to, and I don’t know as much about films etc. as I do music, so it’s just never cropped up. However, last night was the first episode of the Junior Apprentice, and you know what? The younger they get the more repulsive they become.

Business entrepreneur, Sir Alan Sugar is the daddy behind this reality program in which the great commerce dealing individuals of this nation come head to head in a series of money making tasks. I was a regular viewer of The Apprentice when it first came out. Watching a collection of suit clad yuppies run around trying to flog barrels of dogs piss or a crate of pigs trotters makes for good viewing. The contestants persistently bicker behind one another’s back while reeling of cliché business terms to seem a lot more essential than they actually are. Relentlessly chattering over each other with their piercing voices fighting for centre stage, these stern-faced bull-shitters could start an argument with Helen Keller, but that’s what’s so entertaining! It’s not their ideas or lack of common sense that makes it good viewing, it’s the fact that these people are so self-absorbed with their own unjustified brilliance that they eventually combust into a whirlwind of useless ideas, squabbling ‘grown ups’ and sweat-stained Gucci suits.

Who doesn’t like conflict on television? That’s the whole appeal of reality tv, and that’s certainly why I watch it. But what makes the apprentice so engaging is that these people are no better than Big Brother contestants. They all end up in the same situation, fighting for centre stage while making an utter twat of themselves, but in brogues.

So with the first showing of the Young Apprentice I was dubious as to what age these business types start spewing out lines like ‘are we all reading from the same hymn sheet?’, and it turns out a lot younger than I thought.

Donning rather ghastly M&S junior suits and armed with a disjointed sense of entitlement, each one of these little cretins spouted out the same tosh as their adult comrades, bit in a higher voice. One little shit bag in particular, Jordan, frowned at the juvenile competition, claiming he was far superior than his GCSE taking rivalries only to be fired at the end of the show. Poor poor Jordan.

The rage that ensued within me hasn’t altered my perception or enjoyment of these reality tv programs, because I like to get cheesed off with these fame hungry cock-rags, it’s more of a reality check. These briefcase slingin’ young guns have already set their belligerent ethos in stone, and sure, a number of them have added rather fantastic achievements to their c.v before hair has hit their balls, but everything in moderation, yeah? You might even think that a finger pointing angry Jewish man might deter them from acting so big-headed, well I’m afraid not. Jordan still feels supercilious and still believes he should have emerged victorious, well Jordan, we live and we learn.

Guitar Music Back On The Rise?

2010-05-13T06:19:00.001-07:00

Guitar Music Is Beginning To Flourish Once Again

Bubbling under the cultural radar of scene-ridden acceptance is a new bred of rock and roll bands. Shunning the short-lived fads of style-over-substance electro know-nothings and the copious other disintegrating sub-genres that have been and gone are a collection of guitar-based bands who are taking the underground by storm. And it’s just what we’ve been looking for.

It’s less of a back to basics affair and more of a progressive step into new-age British guitar music. The likes of Sound Of Guns, 12 Dirty Bullets, The Rubicon and Exit Calm are all wearing the regal branding of their past nineties guitar based heroes on their sleeve but they’ve bought it into a new age of thrilling supremacy, muscled-up guitars and hollering vocals that call to mind everyone from The Verve to The Music.

This is a revival that’s well overdue. These likely lads are banishing the post-oasis lad-ethos by creating something that’s got an irrefutable dance-music groove while retaining a flair of distinctly gritty Brit-rockness. It’s unashamedly idiosyncratic and thought through rock, with songs like ‘Architects’ by Liverpool’s Sound Of Guns blistering an audience with full-throttle riffs while ‘F at Man’ by 12 Dirty Bullets infuses that cockney wit of indie swagger with some brainy analogies that cast themselves deep into the sewer of social commentary.

Where the whole new-rave / electro thing kicked off with the Klaxons et al some 3 or 4 years ago, the guitar has taken a bit of a backseat, in a rather dubious and dumbfounded manor. And although Mumford and Marling have bought the whole folk revitalization into the mainstream, we’re lacking a certain bite. I’m not expecting genre-crafting pioneers or anything like that, but what we have here is a revitalised source of new visionaries who will hopefully put the guitar, the attitude and the over-powering strut back on the towering plinth of brilliance.

Little Feat

2010-05-07T09:08:00.000-07:00

'Mungo Jerry!' Here's a wee summer playlist...

2010-05-07T08:54:00.000-07:00

A boring and utterly predictable statement, i know, However, i decided to construct a rather summer influenced playlist for you to all download as inspiration hits me like the rays of sun currently pouring through the office window. Enjoy!

Tracklistings

1. Broken Social Scene - Texico Bitches
2. Camera Obscura - The Sweetest Thing
3. The Drums - Saddest Summer
4. Electric Owls - Magic Show
5. Teenage Fanclub - Baby Lee
6. Fun. - At Least I'm Not As Sad (As I Used To Be)
7. The Hot Rats - Pump It Up
8. The Indelicates - Sympathy For The Devil
9. The Only Sons - Lay Back Down
10. She And Him - Don't Look Back

Download Long Live Rock And Roll Summer Playlist.zip from FileFactory.com

I hope you like it guys!

GASLIGHT ANTHEM - AMERICAN SLANG

2010-05-07T08:32:00.000-07:00

BLUE COLLAR HEROES BARE THEIR SOUL…

Brian Fallon became a rather understated sensation last year. The New Jersey band’s second album, ‘The 59 Sound’, was greeted with critical acclaim as their eponymous introduction to blue collar rock and roll, and that’s exactly what it was. A huge leap from their debut, ‘59 Sound’ bought fantasy and romanticism back into music. Embellished with lustful street-dwelling lovers who raced cars in the setting Jersey sun, it was a Springsteen-influenced audio movie depicting the working class American dream, and that was the easy bit…

Following ’The 59 Sound’ was always going to be a demanding affair. Fans of ‘Sink Or Swim’ were left divided by the polished production and theatrics of ‘The 59 Sound’ that saw this band mature from backstreet punks, guerrilla gigging in garages and hardcore venues to rock ’n’ roll visionaries who wanted something much more. And there’s nothing wrong with ambition in my eyes. So when we learned about the release of ‘American Slang’, their pertinently named third album, expectation was once again aroused.

After seeing Gaslight twice last year, once in Brighton and once at Glastonbury, I was taken back by a few things. Firstly their rousing character based anthemic rock ’n’ roll and secondly by Brian Fallon’s irrefutable charisma. He’s an a amalgamation of chivalrous 50s film star, polite and courteous, yet retaining a serious flair of desirability, but even better than that, Fallon is a rock and roll preacher who is here to craft stories of the legend of love in the urban jungle of N.J.

Title track, ‘American Slang’, opens the record with swelling guitars and a bubbling intensity that thrusts like a packed punch of power-punk and blistering guitars. ‘Stay Lucky’ could have easily slipped its way onto ‘The 59 Sound’. It’s typically racing solos ping above the gritty riffs of some acutely rockin’ guitars, but it’s purpose here is to provide eclecticism and diversity, as becomes clearer later…

Fallon’s always referenced great singers and bands in his past songs. Tom Petty and Miles Davis, to name a few, and it’s this that has always put them on a plinth for me. Fallon understands music. He understands where its from and where it’s going, and he pays homage to these past visionaries with various name drops, but by the time ‘The Diamond Church Street Choir’ kicks in with its soulful finger-clicking and graceful execution that we can begin to realise just how big this back catalogue of heroic musical veterans is. Elegantly Fallon swoons his way through this poignant anthem that reeks of New York soul, whole heartedly confirming that this record owes as much to the Motown collective as it does to The Boss.

‘The Queen Of Lower Chelsea’ continues in themes of nostalgia and tender topics as Fallon sings ‘American girls, they want the whole world, they want every last little lad in New York City’, and his heightened reference to a distinctly British term is a reoccurring premise as they record soon displays. References to libertines and London town make this album all the more accomplished. It’s a diverse experience, but it’s one that certainly understands the listener, giving us the punk they’re known for but adding something special, something that makes the Gaslight more than just a punk band, it makes them a rock and roll band.

‘Boxer’ is s fruity number, opening like a West Side Story street busk, accapella chirps are quickly extinguished by poppy guitars and drum sections in which Fallon pens hit wit upon subjects of adulation for his heroic elders and standing tall against the character-building beats we all endure, whether physical or mental.

The thing about Brian Fallon is that he wants to write songs about things that matter, and that doesn’t have to mean bogus political messages, nor is he trying to spray his ideologies or social stance upon any hum-drum carefree issue, he’s singing about the little things that matter. And although music can be used a method of influence etc. he feels its more about the romanticism of hope and lust, about the untold stories of every day men and women who craft the real movie scripts of our generation, and I think he’s right. So with that all said and done, the only other assessment to make is to say that the Gaslight have shown a leap of progression. ‘When We Were Young’ is an sweet ode to youth that bellows with the maturity that they’ve recently established, and although there are minimal hints of vague stagnancy (’Orphans’) they’re easily over shadowed by the heart that the New Jersey four-piece have poured into this profound third instalment of, what is soon to be, new romantic rock ‘n’ roll. Fallon puts it perfectly when he sings, ‘the clothes I’ve worn just don’t fit my soul anymore…’ perfect.

Le Martells @ Hamptons

2009-11-17T10:00:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

Jim Jones Revue

2009-10-15T06:22:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kill It Kid @ Hamptons

2009-10-15T04:39:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

AUTHENTICITY IN POPULAR MUSIC CRITICISM

2009-10-10T06:57:00.000-07:00

Chapter One - Authenticity in critical discourse

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2009-09-09T06:15:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jamie T - Kings And Queens

2009-09-07T04:54:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brighton's Salvation - The Lanes

2009-09-06T05:37:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

http://www.myspace.com/thelanesuk

And I Thought They'd Liver Forever

2009-09-04T02:39:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The River Rat Pack Tour

2009-08-20T08:31:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

Jamie T - Chaka Demus

2009-08-20T07:36:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

Tracklisting:

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

Good Shoes - The Way My Heart Beats

2009-08-20T04:14:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Download Good Shoes - The Way My Heartbeats

The XX

2009-08-19T05:23:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

Download The XX - Shelter

3OH3

2009-08-18T03:11:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

Download 30h!3 - Chokechain

Download 3oh!3 - Starstrukk

Amazing Baby - Rewild

2009-08-17T07:33:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

Overall though, pretty darn majestic.

Devil Of The Airwaves

2009-08-16T09:31:00.000-07:00

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.

Volcano Choir

2009-08-16T04:24:00.000-07:00

Mr Justin Vernon of Bon Iver fame has been working on a side project with Collections Of Colonies Of Bees. They are going by the name of Volcano Choir and are due to release their debut album, 'Unmap', on 22nd September.

Leaving the more acoustic, soft-spot ditties at his alter-ego's door, Vernon proves that after 'Blood Bank' and 'Songs For Emma' he has plenty more to sing about. Instrumental group, Collections Of Colonies of Bees, have lent a hand in casting the sombre side of the singer's past away as their skippy and sprightly backing tracks provide an uplifting tone to this new experiment.

Download 'Island Is' on the link below.

FileDropper Free File Hosting

Broken Records - Until The Earth Begins To Part

2009-08-15T06:04:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

Two Gllants - Where art thou?

2009-08-15T03:15:00.000-07:00

Whatever happened to the Two Gallants?

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

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

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

The Darlings

2009-08-14T08:47:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Female Folk Revival

2009-08-13T07:41:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

Download jolie holland - Old Fashioned Morphine

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

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

Download Washington - One Man Band

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

Download mirah - 100 Knives

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

Edward Sharpe And The Magnetic Zeros

2009-08-13T07:28:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Ruling Class

2009-08-11T12:13:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

Download The Ruling Class - Flowers

A Simple Kinda Man

2009-08-06T08:37:00.000-07:00

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.

La Roux - I'm an idiot and she's very good

2009-08-06T04:03:00.000-07:00

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.

Kitty Daisy and Lewis

2009-08-05T04:51:00.000-07:00

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.

Download Kitty, Daisy & Lewis - Mean Son Of A Gun

New Education

2009-08-04T09:05:00.000-07:00

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...

Download New Education - Today

Eight Legs - These Grey Days

2009-08-04T04:54:00.000-07:00

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.

Download Eight Legs - These Grey Days

Camera Obscura

2009-08-03T05:02:00.001-07:00

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.