When The Beta Band called time on their up-and-down but never less than interesting career, I was just as intrigued to see what John Maclean (decks, keys) and Robin Jones (drums) would do next as I was to see what Steve Mason could come up with when left to his own devices. As we all know now, Mason grew disinterested with music pretty much as soon as he cut his King Biscuit Time debut, but John and Robin decided to pal up with another maverick frontman, Gordon Anderson aka Lone Pigeon.
Tonight's gig leads me to think that they shouldn't have bothered. John, the electronics master and Robin, the funky drummer are left pandering to Anderson's every flower-power whim, which leads to most of tonight's gig being a mess of muddied sonics and overly histrionic fret-wankery, with the odd bleep, glitch and break thrown in at the sake of eclecticism.
Erratic doesn't begin to cover it and Anderson does not help matters, wittering away between songs, telling bad jokes and generally stilting any momentum they might achieve. On record, the musical magpie effect is often pleasing and at the very least charming, but live it's just frustrating. Doubly so, when you realise that The Aliens do have quite a few really good songs. 'Only Waiting' is buried under wig-out excess and 'Ionas (Look For Space)' could do with being stripped of about five minutes of directionless noodling.
Things pick up at the end with a chunky 'Robot Man', a rowdy 'The Happy Song' and an edifying 'Rox', but it's too little, too late. Maclean and Jones need to ditch the Pigeon and make with the beats. Then things might start to get really out-of-this-world.
http://www.highvoltage.org.uk/displaydemoreview.asp?num=2725&band=1642
Tuesday, 18 March 2008
Single: Black Lips - Cold Hands (Vice)
Black Lips' albums and singles to-date have been exercises in re-creating the fuzzed-out no-fi of the 60s' garage-punk progenitors like The Sonics, The Seeds and The Monks, culminating in this year's live document, Los Valientes Del Mondo Nuevo. This new single, the first from their forthcoming fourth studio album is a progression from that sound without losing any of the raw, giddy thrills that those records had in spades.
'Cold Hands' is a surf-punk rumble that sounds like it should be soundtracking a knife-fight between Dean and Brando and evokes, amongst other things, pomade, leather and gasoline. It's also catchy-as-hell and not a million miles removed from the punk-pop bands you hear on the radio everyday, only, like, tons better and a lot more dangerous. What are Black Lips rebelling against? I'm tempted to say, "What have you got?", but it's clearly mediocrity that they're striving to save us from. It's about time that we learned to love the kids from the wrong side of the tracks again.
http://www.highvoltage.org.uk/displaydemoreview.asp?num=2727&band=1728
'Cold Hands' is a surf-punk rumble that sounds like it should be soundtracking a knife-fight between Dean and Brando and evokes, amongst other things, pomade, leather and gasoline. It's also catchy-as-hell and not a million miles removed from the punk-pop bands you hear on the radio everyday, only, like, tons better and a lot more dangerous. What are Black Lips rebelling against? I'm tempted to say, "What have you got?", but it's clearly mediocrity that they're striving to save us from. It's about time that we learned to love the kids from the wrong side of the tracks again.
http://www.highvoltage.org.uk/displaydemoreview.asp?num=2727&band=1728
Live: Kathy Diamond @ El Diablo's 4th Birthday (Po Na Na, Manchester, 27.5.07.)
Kathy Diamond, I love you, but last night you brought me down. Your impervious, superlative debut album, Miss Diamond To You is a great record and one of the year’s best so far, all shimmering, smoked-out disco-soul of the highest order. Quite why you feel like you should denigrate the material in the live arena by belting it out like a hen-night fishwife with too many Vodka & Red Bulls inside you is completely beyond me.
An album as fine as yours deserves to be treated with the class and respect that only a full live band can bring, but instead you and Mr Maurice Fulton presented us with a glorified PA, Maurice looking all bored in back, spinning instrumentals from the album, you upfront giving it the bluster normally reserved for forgotten Europop divas desperately trying to salvage something, anything from the wreckage of a career that’s been reduced to a three-song hits spot at the local Ritzy’s.
I didn’t want to have to write this review, Kathy, but you drove me to it. The blatant, overly-showy mishandling of your beautiful music was completely uncalled for and my massive, crushing disappointment at this has led me to write this in the hope that you see it, take my notes onboard and go back to rethinking just how to make the songs sparkle in the live arena, because last night’s show was most definitely not the way to do it.
Hey, what the fuck do I know? I’m only a fan. How is it my place to tell you how to do your thing? It’s because I’m a fan of your work, first and foremost that I’m writing in this manner. I could have approached this review with the cold, detached air of a critic and ritually dismantled every one of last night’s missteps. The wretched bummer of last night’s gig was a killer blow after a month’s anticipation from buying the tickets to arriving at the club that has left me and I’m sure many others despondent.
Kathy, you seem like a lovely person and you and Maurice make a wonderful team on record, but last night, when you seemingly couldn’t have carried a tune in a bucket, you broke my heart.
Yours disconsolately,
James Morton
http://www.rachaelburns.net/html/music/2007/05/gig-review-kathy-diamond-el-diablos-4th.htmlFeature: Futuresonic 2007
For all its admirable intentions, it’s never entirely clear just what exactly Futuresonic is supposed to be celebrating. Artists to have played the festival in the past have come from a wide range of musical spheres, encompassing math-rock (Battles), 21st century soul (Jamie Liddell), underground hip-hop (El-P) and big band swing (Matthew Herbert). You have to applaud their scope, but you get the sense that this is a festival striving for identity, while the bill pushes in the other direction.
It’s with this eclecticism in mind that we’re faced with opening night main attraction, TTC. The Parisian hip-hoppers aren’t the kind of group that spring to mind when you consider the esoteric nature of Futuresonic bills past. TTC’s aim is to move our feet, not get us stroking our chins and even the forward-thinking programmed beats provided by DJ Orgasmic are just a conduit to getting the party started, despite the fact that they probably have more in common with the average Warp Records act than anything by DJ Premier.
In fact, you can pretty much blame TTC (alongside Daft Punk) for the current French nouvelle vague of electronic party music (Justice, Ed Banger, Institubes), as their bleepy, video game aesthetic has ended up bridging the gap between the hip-hop culture so ingrained in France’s inner cities and the hard, underground house and techno scene. Their work with scene progenitor, Para One has led to them being labelled as godheads of a movement that they’ve fully embraced (both Tido Berman and Teki Latex sport Institubes tees tonight), but that they’re at enough of a remove from to be able to assess on their own terms.
A forceful, lusty assault on the senses, the TTC live experience is an invigorating one. One that makes a mockery of the hipsterish posing going on in the front rows. Faced with a swathe of faux-hawks and aviator shades, TTC just stick to what they know best, throw bottles of water on everyone in soaking range and grab the nearest girls for some bump and grind. The group’s focal point, the aforementioned Teki Latex, the spawn of an ungodly union twixt Benny Hill and Biz Markie, is an absolute star and he knows it. Seemingly the only member of the group with any grasp of the language, it’s he who sets about getting the crowd to indulge in a bit of call-and-response, with the usual cries of “Put your hands in the air!” and “Make some noise, Manchester!” taking on a more charming edge when recounted in broken English.
By the time a chest-rattling ‘Dans Le Club’ has reached it’s umpteenth and final run-through of the chorus, the hawks have drooped, the vintage Gola tracksuits are sweated through and Futuresonic have pulled another rug from underneath our feet. Feet too busy dancing to care about where they land.
We ventured down to Club Underground on Saturday to check out Tramp! Vs. UFO. The Tramp! DJs are building a healthy reputation as some of the best in Manchester right now, so their hook-up with 60s legends, The UFO Club should have been a spectacular meeting of minds, not the ungainly cut-and-shut that it turned out to be. True, the visuals were very nice indeed, but it was difficult to pinpoint just what end they were serving.
That mattered not once ex-Kraftwerker, Wolfgang Flur took to the stage for two and a bit hours of pumping electro-tech, played at ear-bleeding volume. Flur looked for all the world like a Biology professor ploughing through a Power Point presentation before a liquid lunch at first, shifting in his own skin and generally looking a little uncomfortable. Once the first hour was out of the way, the suit jacket came off and he was, as they say in the business, loving it.
So much so, in fact, that Black Devil Disco Club spent a good half-hour waiting in the wings, looking more than a little disgruntled that this 60 year-old ubermensch was stealing their thunder right from under their noses. BDDC was only ever going to be an anti-climax after Flur’s stunning set, but they trooped on regardless and ran through a set that took in highlights from both their EPs, separated by 28 years.
If you know of the mystery that’s surrounded BDDC and, most importantly, Bernard Fevre for the last five years or so, then you’ll know that this music uses the mystery to its own gain. It’s music that evokes rain-slicked streets and amyl-stained dancefloors, of silver-suited disconauts and androgynous cybermen. It has never evoked the sight of two aging men sat behind synths and laptops, looking generally bored by the whole endeavour.
The demystification of BDDC then, is a hindrance to the enjoyment of hearing this otherworldly, ahead-of-its-time, robodisco played live and note-perfect right in front of you, a feat that few of us ever thought we’d see. Great tunes though.
As the DJ draws proceedings to a close with Carl Craig’s ubiquitous remix of Delia & Gavin’s ‘Relevee’, I’m of the mind that Futuresonic’s real identity is in its ability to pull surprises out of the bag. TTC brought peerless party vibes to bear and Wolfgang Flur showed that age is no barrier when it comes to slaying the crowd. Hell, as disappointing as Black Devil were, we all got to hear ‘Timing, Forget The Timing’ played live (twice in fact) and that’s cause for celebration in itself. I, for one, say let the future become more and more disparate, exotic and surprising.
http://www.highvoltage.org.uk/displaydemoreview.asp?num=2693&band=1765
It’s with this eclecticism in mind that we’re faced with opening night main attraction, TTC. The Parisian hip-hoppers aren’t the kind of group that spring to mind when you consider the esoteric nature of Futuresonic bills past. TTC’s aim is to move our feet, not get us stroking our chins and even the forward-thinking programmed beats provided by DJ Orgasmic are just a conduit to getting the party started, despite the fact that they probably have more in common with the average Warp Records act than anything by DJ Premier.
In fact, you can pretty much blame TTC (alongside Daft Punk) for the current French nouvelle vague of electronic party music (Justice, Ed Banger, Institubes), as their bleepy, video game aesthetic has ended up bridging the gap between the hip-hop culture so ingrained in France’s inner cities and the hard, underground house and techno scene. Their work with scene progenitor, Para One has led to them being labelled as godheads of a movement that they’ve fully embraced (both Tido Berman and Teki Latex sport Institubes tees tonight), but that they’re at enough of a remove from to be able to assess on their own terms.
A forceful, lusty assault on the senses, the TTC live experience is an invigorating one. One that makes a mockery of the hipsterish posing going on in the front rows. Faced with a swathe of faux-hawks and aviator shades, TTC just stick to what they know best, throw bottles of water on everyone in soaking range and grab the nearest girls for some bump and grind. The group’s focal point, the aforementioned Teki Latex, the spawn of an ungodly union twixt Benny Hill and Biz Markie, is an absolute star and he knows it. Seemingly the only member of the group with any grasp of the language, it’s he who sets about getting the crowd to indulge in a bit of call-and-response, with the usual cries of “Put your hands in the air!” and “Make some noise, Manchester!” taking on a more charming edge when recounted in broken English.
By the time a chest-rattling ‘Dans Le Club’ has reached it’s umpteenth and final run-through of the chorus, the hawks have drooped, the vintage Gola tracksuits are sweated through and Futuresonic have pulled another rug from underneath our feet. Feet too busy dancing to care about where they land.
We ventured down to Club Underground on Saturday to check out Tramp! Vs. UFO. The Tramp! DJs are building a healthy reputation as some of the best in Manchester right now, so their hook-up with 60s legends, The UFO Club should have been a spectacular meeting of minds, not the ungainly cut-and-shut that it turned out to be. True, the visuals were very nice indeed, but it was difficult to pinpoint just what end they were serving.
That mattered not once ex-Kraftwerker, Wolfgang Flur took to the stage for two and a bit hours of pumping electro-tech, played at ear-bleeding volume. Flur looked for all the world like a Biology professor ploughing through a Power Point presentation before a liquid lunch at first, shifting in his own skin and generally looking a little uncomfortable. Once the first hour was out of the way, the suit jacket came off and he was, as they say in the business, loving it.
So much so, in fact, that Black Devil Disco Club spent a good half-hour waiting in the wings, looking more than a little disgruntled that this 60 year-old ubermensch was stealing their thunder right from under their noses. BDDC was only ever going to be an anti-climax after Flur’s stunning set, but they trooped on regardless and ran through a set that took in highlights from both their EPs, separated by 28 years.
If you know of the mystery that’s surrounded BDDC and, most importantly, Bernard Fevre for the last five years or so, then you’ll know that this music uses the mystery to its own gain. It’s music that evokes rain-slicked streets and amyl-stained dancefloors, of silver-suited disconauts and androgynous cybermen. It has never evoked the sight of two aging men sat behind synths and laptops, looking generally bored by the whole endeavour.
The demystification of BDDC then, is a hindrance to the enjoyment of hearing this otherworldly, ahead-of-its-time, robodisco played live and note-perfect right in front of you, a feat that few of us ever thought we’d see. Great tunes though.
As the DJ draws proceedings to a close with Carl Craig’s ubiquitous remix of Delia & Gavin’s ‘Relevee’, I’m of the mind that Futuresonic’s real identity is in its ability to pull surprises out of the bag. TTC brought peerless party vibes to bear and Wolfgang Flur showed that age is no barrier when it comes to slaying the crowd. Hell, as disappointing as Black Devil were, we all got to hear ‘Timing, Forget The Timing’ played live (twice in fact) and that’s cause for celebration in itself. I, for one, say let the future become more and more disparate, exotic and surprising.
http://www.highvoltage.org.uk/displaydemoreview.asp?num=2693&band=1765
Album: Von Sudenfed - Tromatic Reflexxions (Domino)
Von Sudenfed's debut album is the culmination of a meeting of minds between Mouse On Mars' Andi Toma and Jan St. Werner and rock curmudgeon, Mark E. Smith. In fact, it's less meeting of minds, more recorded argument. MES hasn't sounded this disjointed and fiery in many a year and Toma and St. Werner's futureshock beats and bleeps have a way of making the whole affair sound like they're trying to put the musical restraints on Smith, but all the while he's kicking, screaming, biting and refusing to be sedated.
This brings forth an uncompromising, noisy record that, at its heart would like to be a pop album. Neither Mark E. Smith nor Mouse On Mars do 'pop' particularly well, but it's a hell of a lot of fun listening to them try. On album opener, 'Fledermaus Can't Get It', Smith spits increasingly venomous vitriol atop splenetic, fuzzed out breaks and buzzing, ravey synth noise. They then follow this up with 'The Rhinohead', the album's most immediate track, owing more than a little debt to Northern Soul music. It's less homage than blitzkrieging air raid on Wigan Casino however, with Smith and MOM obliterating the bennied-up twisters from above while snarling and cackling.
It doesn't all work though, 'Chicken Yiamas' is virtually unlistenable and 'Jbak Lois Lane' (essentially just Smith shouting at someone while a lawnmower buzzes away in the background) feels more like a prank on the listener. When it hits though, it throws up some of the most exciting musical moments of the year so far, as on the sub-bass-laden grime of 'Flooded' or the disco inflections of 'That Sound Wiped'. An adventurous hook-up that manages to be brilliant against all odds.
http://www.highvoltage.org.uk/displaydemoreview.asp?num=2682&band=1759
This brings forth an uncompromising, noisy record that, at its heart would like to be a pop album. Neither Mark E. Smith nor Mouse On Mars do 'pop' particularly well, but it's a hell of a lot of fun listening to them try. On album opener, 'Fledermaus Can't Get It', Smith spits increasingly venomous vitriol atop splenetic, fuzzed out breaks and buzzing, ravey synth noise. They then follow this up with 'The Rhinohead', the album's most immediate track, owing more than a little debt to Northern Soul music. It's less homage than blitzkrieging air raid on Wigan Casino however, with Smith and MOM obliterating the bennied-up twisters from above while snarling and cackling.
It doesn't all work though, 'Chicken Yiamas' is virtually unlistenable and 'Jbak Lois Lane' (essentially just Smith shouting at someone while a lawnmower buzzes away in the background) feels more like a prank on the listener. When it hits though, it throws up some of the most exciting musical moments of the year so far, as on the sub-bass-laden grime of 'Flooded' or the disco inflections of 'That Sound Wiped'. An adventurous hook-up that manages to be brilliant against all odds.
http://www.highvoltage.org.uk/displaydemoreview.asp?num=2682&band=1759
Album: Sunkissed Mixed By G-Ha & Olanskii (Smalltown Supersound)
It's a well-known fact in the industry that the music press are likely to shift units off the back of a scene. Most of these scenes are constructs and are doomed to fail, but if the NME get a spike in their numbers for a few weeks, who cares, right?
Anyone with half a brain will approach such scenes with a cynical eye, careful not to be sucked in, but there are always a few genuine movements borne of a sense of mutual appreciation and community spirit. One of the few worth taking an interest in is the Norwegian dance music scene. A vibrant part of Norway's counter-culture for the best part of a decade, it appears to be reaching somewhat of a peak with international interest in the country's fertile cosmic disco outpourings. Triggered by the likes of Lindstrom & Prins Thomas and Rune Lindbaek and culminating in this document curated by Norway's premier club night, Sunkissed, an astonishingly dynamic and energetic mix showcasing a winning eclecticism and sense of a group of like-minded people all pushing in the same direction.
My only gripe with the mix is that the Norway only policy feels limiting, hindering G-Ha & Olanskii's efforts to forge their own identity. As a snapshot of one of music's most fascinating subgenres though, it's a thrilling ride. Highlights come thick and fast, but it's worth pointing out Mungolian Jetset's two remix contributions for their all-over-the-shop cheekiness, Magnus International's New Order-esque atmos-disco, 'Kosmetisk' and Mental Overdrive's stunning space rock rework of 120 Days' 'Come Out, Come Down, Fade Out, Be Gone'. This is one that you're going to want to own, before all your hipster friends grow beards and start claiming that they had all Todd Terje's Supreme Edits series from the first press.
http://www.highvoltage.org.uk/displaydemoreview.asp?num=2687&band=492
Anyone with half a brain will approach such scenes with a cynical eye, careful not to be sucked in, but there are always a few genuine movements borne of a sense of mutual appreciation and community spirit. One of the few worth taking an interest in is the Norwegian dance music scene. A vibrant part of Norway's counter-culture for the best part of a decade, it appears to be reaching somewhat of a peak with international interest in the country's fertile cosmic disco outpourings. Triggered by the likes of Lindstrom & Prins Thomas and Rune Lindbaek and culminating in this document curated by Norway's premier club night, Sunkissed, an astonishingly dynamic and energetic mix showcasing a winning eclecticism and sense of a group of like-minded people all pushing in the same direction.
My only gripe with the mix is that the Norway only policy feels limiting, hindering G-Ha & Olanskii's efforts to forge their own identity. As a snapshot of one of music's most fascinating subgenres though, it's a thrilling ride. Highlights come thick and fast, but it's worth pointing out Mungolian Jetset's two remix contributions for their all-over-the-shop cheekiness, Magnus International's New Order-esque atmos-disco, 'Kosmetisk' and Mental Overdrive's stunning space rock rework of 120 Days' 'Come Out, Come Down, Fade Out, Be Gone'. This is one that you're going to want to own, before all your hipster friends grow beards and start claiming that they had all Todd Terje's Supreme Edits series from the first press.
http://www.highvoltage.org.uk/displaydemoreview.asp?num=2687&band=492
Album: The Maccabees - Colour It In (Fiction)
In the press release The Maccabees' debut album, it says that the band now "sell out the same venues they once struggled to fill". Fair enough P.R. fodder, you might think. Think about that sentence for a moment though and it becomes clear that this is a classic example of damning with faint praise. The phrase, "struggled to fill" intimates that the band did fill those venues eventually, it was just a bit of a chore. That they're now packing out the same halls they used to, only quicker, suggests that the band haven't really moved on much from their first single release. Hell, if their own press agency can't seem to write something glowing about them, what kind of chance do I stand?
Well, there's not a lot here to praise. The riffs are sharp and angular, just the way those skinny-trousered kids like them, but beyond all the right sounds, there's not much else of any substance. Some bands can get away with just skating along on pleasant melodies and vaguely danceable rhythms, but The Maccabees are quite possibly one of the least assertive bands I've heard in quite some time. Singer, Orlando Weeks' whey-faced, faux-impassioned delivery doesn't really help, his affected quiver being a permanent turn-off.
Their best songs, like ode on a swimming baths, 'Latchmere' are spiky and memorable, but there's way too much filler here. I'm talking three good tracks out of thirteen ('About Your Dress', 'First Love' and the aforementioned) and that just isn't good enough. Sorry boys, but you'll have to try harder if you want to graduate to those bigger venues. Maybe you could go on an indie also-rans double-header with Good Shoes or something?
http://www.highvoltage.org.uk/displaydemoreview.asp?num=2673&band=823
Well, there's not a lot here to praise. The riffs are sharp and angular, just the way those skinny-trousered kids like them, but beyond all the right sounds, there's not much else of any substance. Some bands can get away with just skating along on pleasant melodies and vaguely danceable rhythms, but The Maccabees are quite possibly one of the least assertive bands I've heard in quite some time. Singer, Orlando Weeks' whey-faced, faux-impassioned delivery doesn't really help, his affected quiver being a permanent turn-off.
Their best songs, like ode on a swimming baths, 'Latchmere' are spiky and memorable, but there's way too much filler here. I'm talking three good tracks out of thirteen ('About Your Dress', 'First Love' and the aforementioned) and that just isn't good enough. Sorry boys, but you'll have to try harder if you want to graduate to those bigger venues. Maybe you could go on an indie also-rans double-header with Good Shoes or something?
http://www.highvoltage.org.uk/displaydemoreview.asp?num=2673&band=823
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