If I recall correctly I remember that the San Francisco two-piece were slowly gaining a reputable name for themselves. Husky country-rock moans and aggy grubby-folk foot stompin' fun, they may have been a little bleak but they made one hell of a rowdy racket.
Signed to Saddle Creek, the two brothers who made up the band were talented little buggers. Guitarist and man of the pipes, Adam Stephens, had the playing ability of Jack White and a voice to match, but the Gallants had more of a country, rootin' tootin', booze-fuelled howl to them. Something dark and depressing was covered by layers of mass guitar thrashing, throat-grazing bellows and to-the-bone playing, but at no point did the mournful mooding start to fade, it was always in the back of your mind.
I saw them play the infamous 100 Club on Oxford Street a few years ago, and it was sold out. A year or so later I saw them play Audio in Brighton, and it was sold out. Three albums and one e.p down and they're no where to be seen on the shores of the U.K. Will they ever come back? I don't rightly know...but it would be nice.
I went to New York once and the one thing that I have to say about that little excursion was that New Yorkers are the most self-obsessed, closed minded, rudest fucking people I have ever met. The cringe-worthy patriotism is near vomit inducing and the countless crop-topped, chino wearing, bird-perving twenty-somethings really defined the word asshole for me while I was there. But the scenery, oh boy, the scenery, that was lovely.
I felt set in my ignorant ways after this. I don't like these people I thought. Naive? oh probably so, but I was really quite shocked at how some people could act, especially around some of my female friends. Dirty perverted, cock-sure, toss pots. But! and there's always a but, I like to think that at any point this can change.
Maybe I just had a dodgy experience with these people. It was obvious we didn't quite go to the right places when I walked into a club playing some ghetto-garbage crunk music, but it was a holiday, so fuck it, yeah? I'm always willing to be open minded though, and the new Darlings record has made me think that maybe there's a light at the end of the subway.
A lavishly lo-fi indie outfit from the East Coast, they've harnessed elements all the way from static-shoegaze to skippy, beach-bound surf-rock that sounds like The Beach Boys with an added get-up-and-riot Stokes mentality.
'Teenage Girl' gives heed to past simplicity. It's an utterly indie back-to-basics song with obligatory 'do do do', but surprisingly this track extinguishes all your preconceptions of its bubbly, wide-grinned attributes as a splatter of unexpected distortion begins to kick up a shit-fit mid-way though, leaving the path wide open for 'If This Is Love' and it's West Coast, stoner teenage revolt that screams scruffy hair and rip curl.
'We're Not Going' is a Sunkist Cali head-boper that closes the last rays of the Summer sun before we hit the torrential rain and long nights of nothing to do. A cheeky and rather predictable solo ensues, but you know what? this isn't a ground breaking record, but it was never meant to be, it's simply a barrel load of fun that encases summer in a fistful of songs for you to break open when the gloomy winter gets too much.
After the over whelming success of Laura Marling's debut last year, the female singer-songwriter has taken a bit of a dip. It's less folk and Fender's these days and a little more 'lectro and Little Boots.
There's no doubt that the likes of Florence, La Roux and MIA have proved themselves this year. All have crafted innovative records that shattered creative boundaries and smashed preconceptions of synth-splashed crap, with Florence in particular demonstrating a comfortable ability to wow a crowd with jaw dropping performances, outlandish outfits and pitch-perfect, high note hitting screeches.
But I've got to say, I kind of miss the delicate pluckings of last years success stories. Adele, Marling and Nash, prior to her album's release, showed an aptitude for love songs and heart-wrenching, folk-provoking, pop ditties that bought back to life the likes of Joan Baez, Emmylou Harris and Joni Mitchell.
Their songs fuelled by male malfunctions, relationship problems and love tackling tribulations have proved to be an influence on countless acts throughout the years, and talent, in this case, is undeniable with influence sure to follow...
Jolie Holland is a Texan born singer-songwriter whose bluesy, Southern velvet like voice is rich in a very jazz club-like, seductive slur. Trumpets and horns tip-toe over 'Old Fashioned Morphine' like an underground 1950's New York hot spot. Whiskey in crystal glasses, single women looking for love and a musky air of cigar smoke circulates this wholesome swoon like a Marilyn Monroe black and white tale of lust and sinister romance.
Next up is Megan Washington. Megan grew up in Papua New Guinea, and moved to Brisbane at quite a young age. Her delicate, rustic ticklings of simplicity ring with originality and a quaint sense of modern pop intelligence. 'One Man Band' jogs along like Marling's 'The Captain And The Hour Glass' with a skipping drum and an escalating tempo of whistles and grins.
It's the type of guitar based clapping-folk pop that the likes of Kt Tunstell can only long to create. It's got a commercial sound but remains under the radar of corporate pop for the simple reason that it's probably too good for the charts and its dullard followers. Not to mention its wishful lyrical wisdom is far to clever for Radio 1 and T4.
The final act of this mini feature is the Portland songstress, Mirah. Born in Philadelphia in 1974 this soft-voiced young lady provides the most subtle of today's songs. '100 Knives' is as delicately basic as it comes with Mirah's voice proving to be the main instrument. Primarily it's a love song about long days lost under bed sheets in the fortress of your own home. Her voice peaks pretty darn high at points but remains perfect throughout.
Now, these performers are hardly new. Some have have studio albums dating back to 2002, and more importantly, I'm not disregarding the likes of Regina or Cat Power, I'm simply shinning some much deserved light on these talented young ladies who need a little recognition.
In the 1960s Los Angeles was a thriving community of hipsters, daydreamers and visionaries who lived by their own laurels, carefree and footloose, unhindered by the pressure of modern day commodities and pompous properties. We all know the score. Impromptu porch jamming, drugged up desert exploration and a near-cult neighbourhood who sing, play and fuck one another on a regular basis.
For Edward Sharpe And The Magnetic Zeros this hedonistic habitat of simplicity is something of a utopian world, set apart from the iphone obsessed, computer glued generation of today. Rather than dribble over the new Adam Sandler flick and plasma flat screen’s, this unshaven, long haired gang of eclectic ‘69 throwbacks would feel it more fitting to hop into their greyhound tour bus and play any instrument they can get their hands on as they discuss various ways to open their minds.
Previously the top dog in Ima Robot, Edward Sharpe (real name Alex Ebert) appears to have embarked on some sort of abstract quixotic epiphany with his Magnetic Zeros who clap, stomp, strum and sing their way through a melodically mosaic-like debut that encases everyone from The Incredible String Band to Johnny Cash.
‘Up From Below’ opens with the stompin’ of ’40 Day Dream’. A joyous trample of folk-rock retro goodness that embodies the quirk of an acid-laden Arcade Fire, followed by the trouble-free harmony of ‘Janglin’ with its softly-sung sweet chorus of chipper whistles and buoyant horns. The spirit of California is certainly rife within this record, spaced out and psychedelic in parts, songs like ‘Come In Please’ reference cult citations like Kerouac and ’The Catcher In The Rye’ whilst beckoning like a pitch-peaking Love.
‘Home’ is absent of the musical nuttiness we hear on the blossoming openings of the record - a Carter and Cash county bop honing in on a subtle side of this unpredictable band that has yet been heard. Its bizarre and noticeably narcotic sense-making lyrics like ’Hot and heavy pumpkin pie/ chocolate candy Jesus Christ’ formulate about as much sense as Kasabain’s ’Cut Off’, but it’s strangely salvaged by some rather more adoring penning’s that demonstrate mutual adulation between two lovers drawn to the heart of home.
At certain points this record can seem a little cluttered and unsure of itself. The direction understandable but it looses its footings at times, dipping mid-way into a hole of eerie, full mooned weirdness with songs such as ‘Desert Song‘ and ‘Simplest Love’ proving a little too extrovert, minimal and absent of any graspable excitement - but thankfully its finest moments outshine its irresolute ones. As the album closes its thirteen track journey with ‘Om Nashi Me’, an atmospheric wail of full bodied jingles, jangles and everything in between, we can quite comfortably state that this first effort of nostalgia and recollection is not half bad.
What with the success of Oasis's recent tour, the successful reformation of Albarn and Co. and the rather continuing gormless grape-vine blabbers regarding the Stone Roses and their definitely-not-happening-maybe-happening-Mani-seduced-rumors, the 90's appear to be a hot, if rather tedious, topic.
But it doesn't have to all be about past premises and dragging humdrum feuds. I think we can all agree that it's time to move on, which is ironic as it happens because the band in question, The Ruling Class, haven't progressed in any way shape or form. But far from staying stagnant, they've searched the past for inspiration, finding it on a groove-ridden funk flight of Spike Island, Stone Roses and Tim Burgess barnets.
Never has a band's influence been so apparent, but it's not a negative thing. 'Flowers' floats like a spaced out 90's bucket hat wearing, pot smoking, maracas shaking, tie-dye dancing lost boy in a haze of ecstasy and escapism.
On Thursday, October 20, 1977, just three days after the release of Street Survivors, and five shows into their most successful headlining tour to date, Lynyrd Skynyrd's chartered Convair 240 ran out of fuel near the end of their flight from Greenville, South Carolina, where they had just performed at the Greenville Memorial Auditorium, to LSU in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Though the pilots attempted an emergency landing on a small airstrip, the plane crashed in a forest in Gillsburg, Mississippi. Ronnie Van Zant, Steve Gaines, Cassie Gaines, assistant road manager Dean Kilpatrick, pilot Walter McCreary and co-pilot William Gray were all killed on impact. Although Don Mclean might have a different opinion on this one, I put it to you that October 20, 1977, was in fact the day the music died.
My quest for some sort of roll and roll relief has been ever-lasting since I first listened to 'Born To Run' when I was 16. The lawless musical fairytale that the likes of the Bad Company, Creedence and The Stones embarked on painted a fantasy world of drugs, women and a reckless lifestyle that seems savagely beautiful to me.
It was a community in which prejudices were left at the door. Just chill the fuck out and enjoy the ride. There were no labels, no image conscious preconceptions and judgemental style obsessed individuals. I didn't matter if you were cooler than the next person or knew some gutter-electro Dalston outfit whose supposedly revolutionary audio-trash was a break through. It was simple.
While Gram Parsons was wandering around snorting everything in sight and Joni Mitchell was fucking either Crosby, Stills or Nash something was brewing in Jacksonville, Florida.
It was in the summer of 1964 that teenage friends Ronnie Van Zant, Allen Collins, and Gary Rossington, formed the band "The Noble Five", which then changed in 1965 to "My Backyard", when Larry Junstrom and Bob Burns joined in Jacksonville, Florida. In 1970, roadie Billy Powell became the keyboardist for the band, and Van Zant sought a new name. "One Percent" and "The Noble Five" were each considered before the group settled on Leonard Skinnerd, a mocking tribute to a physical-education teacher at Robert E. Lee High School, Leonard Skinner who was notorious for strictly enforcing the school's policy against boys having long hair. The more distinctive spelling was adopted before they released their first album.
After performing in the South throughout the opening years of the 70s the patriotic, country bred, outlaws began to make a name for themselves. In 1972 the band was discovered by musician, songwriter, and producer Al Kooper of Blood, Sweat, and Tears, who had attended one of their shows at a club in Atlanta. They changed the spelling of their name to "Lynyrd Skynyrd", and Kooper signed them to MCA Records, producing their first album the following year "Pronounced Leh-nerd Skin-nerd".
The plane crash was a tragedy, that much is true. A mournful day that will forever be in the hearts of Synyrd fans, but other than the loss of one of America's greatest bands, the world lost a soulful, charismatic and undeniably talented young song writer - Mr Ronnie Van Zant.
Sadly I feel that Van Zant's capabilities have been sodomised by the over-playing of 'Sweet Home Alabama'. Don't get me wrong, it's a fantastic statement of Southern political ideologies that's far from the racist Confederate anthem people think. It demonstrates Van Zant's acceptance and understanding of people's opinions but it also exudes a considerable level of whit and intelligence at the state of corruption and deceit in a nation at war with its enemies and itself - with Van Zant remaining calm and comfortable in his whiskey world of brawling, boozing and playing music.
But for such a talented and straight talking fella there are other songs of pure brilliance that we need to pay recognition to. And these are the types of songs that define everything that is totally fucking awesome about what you might call 'old' or 'classic' rock'n'roll. They’re songs of pride from an experienced mind. A man whose been beaten and to hell and back, drunk more uncle Jack in a week than you will in your entire life and punched anyone who needed a good ol’ whack.
Ronnie Van Zant lived rock and roll, he breathed the very essence that thousands spend their entire life trying to harness, but this was different, it was natural. His band didn't know boundaries or behaviour, they did what they want, when they wanted.
'Simple Man' is an astute and tender country-rock picking that deserves some sort of fucking award! Van Zant's voice is at its peak of growly Southerness as it resinates sencerity whilst scaling the various Les Paul's that poetically brawl on the songs chours. Despite being this god-like frontman, this is Van Zant’s carving of being grounded - a man who's happiest without the frills and flirtations of glamour and money. (The video below is the most face-melting performance you will see for a long time. Not just for Ronnie, the whole band prove to be an untouchable force of nature)
Continuing the country theme with a little less rock this time is 'Made In The Shade'. A waltz-y ditty complete with harmonica, its two-step dust bowl characteristics bop and weave like a chase from a black and white movie while 'Am I loosin'' sees Van Zant's soft-spoken modesty reach new moral peaks as he ponders success and hometown friendships. 'It's so strange, when you get just a little money, your so called friends want to act a little funny', he sings whilst confirming he's the same rough'n'ready country baller he's always been.
Home town pride continues in 'The Ballad Of Curtis Loew' which sees Van Zant pay homage to his Southern natives whose blue-grass, knee-slapping musical legacy will never be forgotten. Banjos in the shade and impromptu porch jams are the mystical breeding grounds of these dungaree clad veterans, and 'All I Can Do Is Write About It' aluminates the darkest corners of depression in which Van Zant's writing scales new summits of outstanding ability.
Humble rock stars are a certain rarity. Being grounded during times of excess is no easy task, the temptations that flutter carelessly in your face can be yours for a small price, but Skynyrd didn’t conform to this. Sure they enjoyed their narcotics, but when in Rome…
To say that Van Zant is on a par with Springsteen is a dangerous statement. But as with all great art in the world, you sometimes have to look deeper than the obvious. If everything was as easy as a greatest hits record there would be no surprises, and I think in the case of genius, it’s the elusive search that makes this journey worth while.
So dig deep into the dirty, debauched past of Skynyrd and you’ll find something untouched and unblemished. It might take time, it might not, but it’s a worthwhile expedition of dreamy fucked up rock’n’roll desire. Michael who? Rest In Peace Ronnie.
Ok. I apologise. Once again, being a naive little guitar obsessed prat has come and bit me right in the arse. After muchos hype I gave in and bought the La Roux album which I have to say has knocked my socks of with its electro-pop wonderness.
I always seem to shy away from synths and self-proclaimed revolutionairy pop stars. I just don't really get on with the whole concept of electro. Maybe it's just that I have never really liked it before or maybe it's because I shut myself up in a folk-bubble of I-don't-want-to-like-anything-because-I'm-a-plonker, but here, I stand well and truly corrected. Slap me with a heavy-beat and let me touch La Roux's quiff, she's fantastic.
Highlights for me on this uber-contagious, beat-bleep packed debut include 'Tigerlilly' and 'Colourless Colour. Hook-laden chorus's and chirpy upbeat tweets take the 80's dance scene and mould their reputable credentials into an exciting modernisation that screams top-pop excitement.
La Roux's actually lived up to the various seemingly pompus presumptions that spilled from her gob in the past six months. But, you know what?, I'm going to let the dance-prance high note hitting new queen of pop talk all the comtemptuous crap she wants. Songs like 'Quicksand' and 'In For The kill' defy modern pop's building blocks and far from conform to any sort of commercial regime, but in some obscure realm they have the potencey and power to take over the charts, one by one.
Fuck Lady GaGa, a so called breath of fresh pop-air. It's La Roux who takes the crown. And while I sit here pondering what a twat I've been I'm happy that the impending chart derby is in the hands of Elly Jackson and her poptastic, electro beauties.
