Moving on

Dearest All,

I am moving onwards and upwards. No new posts here, you'll be able to find them at my very own website www.gigsreviewsnews.com

Check it out.

It's been a pleasure!

Bx

Art Brut, Goldsmiths Union, 23/03/07

“Are you ready Art Brut?” hollers Eddie Argos before commencing each track in this incendiary secret show. Of course they are. Mixing together much-loved tracks off Bang Bang Rock & Roll with material from the highly-anticipated new album – which they finished “an hour ago” – the smart-as-you-like art rockers are out to capture both the feet and minds of their audience. Eddie’s vocal style: part-singing, part-ranting, all-entertaining, lends itself well to mid song break-offs like: “You are the kids of New Cross, go home and start a band. Start a band or we are left with The Twang”.

These guys certainly know how to bring the stage to life. Eddie flails and high kicks like a drunken ninja whereas Jasper’s wide-eyed gawps, seemingly of pleasure and surprise at the sound he is contributing to, brings to mind a mate of mine on the party-time class As. There is even a feedback drone-fuelled Jasper/Ian headlock onstage. Antics like this have the crowd baying for more and Art Brut aren’t ones to disappoint, returning for a finely executed encore. New tracks such as Direct Hit mesh well into the set and bode well for the new album.

The realisation that they shall soon be doing a stint on tour with overblown pseudo-intellectual rockers Maximo Park doesn’t settle well on the stomach. But then again, maybe watching the Art Brut explosion from the wings will teach the Maximo boys a thing or two about wisecracking your way through punk rock that’s got brains and balls. Take it away Art Brut!

The Birth of BonOyster, Catapult Club @ Amersham Arms, 16/03/07

*This post cannot be accompanied by photographs because unfortunately I managed to leave my camera at home. This was not without a moment of panic and frantic bag searching that was probably humorous to observe had your attention strayed to my direction.*

Middle act in tonight’s Catapult Club line up, skink-loving four-piece, The Birth of BonOyster, leap and bound ahead of the bloated hairstyle-punk pop on offer from the other bands. With a stage presence and sound already too large for the venue, the band, led by, appropriately enough, BonOyster produce artsy ska punk that simply comes alive live. This is no mean feat tonight; in all this reviewer’s years of gigging Catapult Club is one of the strangest nights I’ve ever been to. The crowd is full of people who, it seems, never go to live music and the tables and chairs are arranged much like a 1930s music hall; certainly not conducive to a night of rock abandon. Yet the band proves they are beyond such lacklustre trappings as this.

BonOyster – a mid-90s Billie Joe Armstrong had he been brought up in Tyneside not California – has a voice of rich depth and range moving from the feedback holler of Art to the gentle, searching sound of Yours Sincerely to the mash-up rap styling of Ice, Ice Baby and Let’s Get Ready to Rumble (you remember the one, it’s by those cheeky Geordie chappies Ant and Dec). Indeed the rap interlude is accompanied by hilarious rock-posturing and crotch-grabbing escapades that show BonOyster is perhaps not only hip hop’s undiscovered son but also that the band has a sense of humour. This is further enforced by Paul Stromdale, by day mild-mannered Physics teacher, by night hand-clapping, foot-stomping bass geek. Meanwhile lead guitarist Paul Langford has the nonchalant swagger of a man who has been round amps and booze for quite sometime. Indeed, he makes use of a brief pause in tonight’s set to jump off stage and get a fresh drink. And without wanting to promote over-indulgence (well, okay, maybe a little bit) if the sinking of a few beers keeps him sounding this good then who am I to refuse? Finally drummer Stu wears his punk glories on his (bare) chest; beating the hell outta the skins, all for our aural pleasure.

The enthusiasm of the band and the tightness of their sound – despite having only played a handful of gigs – make them infectious. Those with any sense in the room, shimmy, shake and cheer them on, and those who don’t seem to get it, well who’s losing out here really? It’s easy to imagine that with a more receptive audience and with an increasing band of repeat customers a sweaty pit of joyful abandon could form at their feet. Skink the night away boys!

Fortuna Pop! @ Brixton Windmill 12/03/07

An action-packed night at the Windmill with Fortuna Pop! gathering together some of their favourite people to play for our delectation. Opening four-piece Little Things (http://littlethingsmusic.co.uk) bound onto the stage and straight into the sort of melodic pop that hotwires your feet. Singing about animals, friends, love and putting the world to rights is a swell thing to do and if you can do it whilst making people dance then so much the better. From the gloriously silly (and Piney Gir-tinged) Animal House to the delicate beauty of Lullaby Little Things sing simple, pretty lyrics; matched by upbeat folk-countryesque musical arrangement – oh, and excellent kazooing. Start a springtime affair and let them be your soundtrack.

Face paint does not great music make; perhaps someone could mention this to The Bobby McGee’s (http://www.myspace.com/thebobbymcgees) next time they take to the stage. There’s nothing wrong with a band having a bit of swagger but know your audience. Walking on stage and telling the bunch of scrawny indie kids who frequent Fortuna nights that “We’re the Bobby McGee’s and you’re not, so shut the fuck up” really isn’t necessary. In fact it makes us even less inclined to overlook the fact that you are dressed like an old sea captain moonlighting as a boozed-up circus clown. It’s a fine line to walk between twinkly folk-pop and the wrong side of twee; this line is also found between ballsy edge and unabashed hostility. That The Bobby McGee’s manage to wobble like a new-born giraffe along both is actually quite a feat. “Please don’t dump me”; honey, we never had anything anyway.

Three fairly unassuming lads making 60s guitar pop filtered through the lyrical styling and cultural references of the present day; The Wave Pictures (http://www.thewavepictures.com) are The Byrds claiming to be the real Slim Shady. Keeping the chat to a minimum and getting on with the business of playing solid music The Waves Pictures nevertheless show their humorous side, introducing Blue Harbour as a song about the sturdy dad-shirt M+S range in which they are quite possibly attired. Although friends, and sometime collaborators, of Herman Dune, they keep their sound their own; these guys soundtrack lazy afternoons in beer gardens rather than Woo-Woo-harmonied road trips in a Campervan. The songs offered up by The Wave Pictures, stand apart from those of the other bands in tonight’s line up. This, of course, is no bad thing. It shows, rather, that label interests need not be insular and exclusive and are indeed much more exciting if they simply make nights like this a big, interesting, and talented family; even with M+S dads.

Filling every square inch of the Windmill stage the Brighton seven-piece that is Esiotrot (http://www.myspace.com/esiotrotschmesiotrot) can’t help but demand your attention. Singing about not always getting the girl has never seemed so much fun. Emotionally honest, or emotionally explicit, lyrics that say: “You know what? Sometimes you want something that isn’t right, or could be right but won’t happen. And guess what else? That’s okay”. Lead vocal duties are split between Duncan and Matthew; each imbuing their charge with their differing style. This is drawn together through Esiotrot’s fluid yet consistent musical arrangement. The resulting upbeat vibe has the room dancing almost instantly. This included, if I’m not mistaken, the staunchly-seated Windmill regulars who momentarily stopped their talk of boxing to shake their asses. From the sing-along pining of Emily Scott to the short and sweet Sally like the Beach Boys and the dance floor-shaking Marianne, Esiotrot have the crowd hooked. If you haven’t seen them live then I insist you go immediately. If only to watch my spasm-jig up front….

Tom Hatred, The Betsey Trotwood, 23/02/07

“I’ve broken the first rule of GigClub: Don’t Drink”. If, inwardly, Tom Hatred was feeling the effects of an evening on the sauce outwardly it didn’t show. Well not much. Moving through his set with charm and modesty, Tom conjures beauty with three simple tools: guitar, harmonica and, of course, his enviably deep, resonant voice. Moving through some new tracks in quick succession whilst he could “still remember the words”; showing us that we have much to look forward to from Mr Hatred over the coming months. Dead man down, exploring the pain of lost love, is reminiscent of Johnny Cash, particularly during the chorus. Whilst on Arrow in my heart Tom sings of the often visceral nature of falling in love (Cupid shot me/The bastard got me) and includes one of the finest uses of mid-track whistling heard in quite some time. Ending the set with Fell off my bike, for what was, allegedly, his first encore, Tom Hatred played a tight, well-paced set, evocative of the pain of love, the love of pain and anything else to induce idle musings over your nearest harmonica.

Oh and finally, I don’t want to get overly folksy or anything but when did it become okay to talk so openly in an audience at intimate gigs? Whilst I shun cross-legged holy reverence to music, loud conversations, especially in a venue this size, are just not on. Understood?

Album Review: Giant

(Outdated I know but...)

Giant

Herman Dune

Herman Dune are the purveyors of the sort of giddying, sun-drenched pop that immediately induces in the listener a yearning for long days with friends, Frisbees and fizzy pop. However, what sets them apart from their saccharine counterparts is the bittersweet tinge that infuses the lyrics throughout Giant. This is an album about love, joy and the spectrum of emotions that make the world a beautiful place. The brothers Dune mix attempts at expressing the often inexpressible – how do you adequately tell another just how much you love them? (“Well your name ain’t Susan but I would call you Sue/To show you how bad I want to be with you”) with the weightlessness that stems from relinquishing control to the Universe (“Do you think that she will wait for you?/ Well I have no way to say and there is nothing I can do”). David-Ivar is the driving force behind Giant but it is clear he thrives off the band dynamic; seeking out Andre and cuing in backing vocals from younger sibling Lisa Li-Lund. This engenders a close-knit clarity in the album, leaving you with the hope that when you whip out the Frisbee, a Dune will be there to catch it.

Clash Club, Luminaire, 17/02/07

Saturday nights: a time for drinking, dancing and fucking. Perhaps Clash Club didn’t get the memo as night openers, Alberta Cross, and their well-worn brand of funereal alt-country left the spirit distinctly unmoved. Their uniform of black hats and overcoats doing little to lighten the mood, the London duo proceeded through a thirty minute set, which gave credence to the argument that music is as much about the moment as it is technical accomplishment.

The arrival on stage of Kubichek! sent a buzz through the room. Aided, no doubt, by an initial PA problem; the resulting whine of feedback spurred the crowd into action. Spiked guitar and repetitive, catchy lyrics brought reckless abandon that was delightfully offset by slightly indulgent solos and feedback play. Ending the set on new single Nightjoy the Newcastle lads tempted Kilburn’s finest to “put on your silver shoes and watch the house collapse”. What else are Saturdays for?

Frustrated minutes spent waiting for The Rumble Strips to perfect their sound settings were dispelled when they did start to play. Solid guitar and drums underscored by perky brass had heads, hands and feet moving in no time. Always attracting an appreciative following, the band, tonight channelling an aesthetic that was Dexy’s Midnight Runners via a vintage clothing exchange, moved through their setlist at full throttle, leaving the stage primed, sweaty and the crowd begging for more.