Portsmouth alt-rock trio Fake Empire, a band who I unfortunately missed out on seeing at Dials 2019, start the new year with a new single. Elders is three and half minutes of banging indie noir, combining twangy guitar, sullen lyrics, stratospheric mixing and a thumping rhythm that, on initial listen, reminded me very much of early Editors (this is not, I must stress, a bad thing).
I confess that the more I've heard of Fake Empire over recent months the more I like them, the collective of Becky Bellinger, Simon Brookes and Les Black have a knack in serving up songs that are a beautiful blend of some of my favourite bands yet making the resulting brew their own. A pinch of The National, a sprinkle of The Cure, a dash of Suede, stir well and serve loud with a garnish of early Simple Minds, there is a lot going into the pot here. It's all too easy to spoil a dish like this by over-seasoning but the finished product is subtly flavoured and not over-powered by its constituent ingredients.
In the interests of full disclosure I must admit to previously being someone who tutted and shrugged when presented with such material (as happened after my first listen to The Strokes debut album, mostly due to its aural familiarity to another band from New York). However, in my defence, I read the NME from front-to-back in those days, fully absorbing its slights of perceived muso pedantry and pretension.
Fake Empire might wear their influences easily but they are not cloning my record collection wholesale. They channel the best of it and make something new, interesting, powerful. Case in point, Elders, a track that fair pelts along like a fast ride in a sporty convertible, the soundtrack to an urgent and windswept journey on winding roads. It's reassuringly familiar, instantly hummable and most definitely ticks a lot of my boxes. Is it the best thing I've heard from the band? No (that would be this gorgeously widescreen number) but it's a cracker of a tune all the same. And next time I get the chance to see them I'm definitely taking it.
Showing posts with label The Cure. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Cure. Show all posts
Monday, January 21, 2019
Monday, September 26, 2011
Bestival 2011 - Part Two
Rob da Bank's annual farewell to the festival season, a hedonistic September weekend on the Isle of Wight, is now in its eighth year. After a fun-packed first day on the Isle of Wight I ventured back on site for Bestival day two...
Mercury Award nominees Jon Hopkins & King Creosote may not have garnered a large crowd for their Saturday slot in the Psychedelic Worm but those of us who made it were treated to something special. Admittedly problems with the thumping bass from the Big Top caused some consternation and a slight reworking of their set list but this didn't put the duo off, indeed a couple of King Creosote's solo songs were thrown in for good measure.
Back at Wonderland, waiting for Trophy Wife to appear at the Bandstand, I came across Mr High Five, a young lad who delighted in 'high-fiving' all and sundry who entered his path. Was I having a good time? Yes? High five! Was I stoked to be seeing The Cure? Yes? High five! His Dad had bought him Three Imaginary Boys for his thirteenth birthday, he'd been a fan of The Cure ever since. That, I quite rightly surmised, deserved a high five.
Leaving the high-fiving behind I decided to head back to Bollywood via the Ambient Forest only to get slightly disorientated in the dark glades; only after being mistaken for a DJ (it must be the beard) was I able to get directions and exit out the other side (and all without finding where exactly the real DJs were). Oh well.
In The Black Dahlia, my festival home-from-home, the delightfully monikered DJ Auntie Maureen plundered the dark recesses of her record collection until she eventually found one I owned (although my version of I Tawt I Taw A Puddy Tat is on a 7" 45, not a 78). Joining in with the crackly version of the Hokey Cokey she finished with may not have been my best idea; such pursuits are best left to folks with more better knee ligaments than I but that's beer for you.
With ligaments stretched it was time to find a spot in the crowd to enjoy The Cure, my highlight of Saturday, if not the whole festival. Indeed a chum of mine had bought his Bestival ticket just to see Robert Smith on stage, his palpable level of excitement possibly causing the chest pains he suffered on Friday. I suppose I should gush on just how great The Cure were, and they were there's no doubt of that, but my enjoyment was slightly impaired thanks to the amphetamine-fuelled young lady who spent near half the set talking at me, my chums and anybody who happened to walk past. Once she moved on I could enjoy the last half of the evening, a delicious serving of their back catalogue that made me go a little bit gooey inside.
Afterwards, over at the Big Top, Diplo was winding up his set with a choice selection of tunes, causing some more bundling from the excited people in front of me. I suppose at this point I should confess that I'm not the biggest fan of Primal Scream; they're OK, they've had a couple of good tunes, but really I can't see what the fuss is all about. I did set out to watch their set but, still aglow with the post-Cure feeling, I again wandered off.
Round the corner, at Sailor Jerry's, Dutch Uncles are on stage. The Mancunian five piece feature that great audience divider, a lead singer with an affected voice. In this instance a high pitched warble that reminded me a bit of someone; three songs in it dawned on me that they were a bit like 70s electronic rock duo Sparks, only not as good. With their proclamation that they'd be on stage til 6am I decided that it was time to make like a tree.
Mercury Award nominees Jon Hopkins & King Creosote may not have garnered a large crowd for their Saturday slot in the Psychedelic Worm but those of us who made it were treated to something special. Admittedly problems with the thumping bass from the Big Top caused some consternation and a slight reworking of their set list but this didn't put the duo off, indeed a couple of King Creosote's solo songs were thrown in for good measure.
Back at Wonderland, waiting for Trophy Wife to appear at the Bandstand, I came across Mr High Five, a young lad who delighted in 'high-fiving' all and sundry who entered his path. Was I having a good time? Yes? High five! Was I stoked to be seeing The Cure? Yes? High five! His Dad had bought him Three Imaginary Boys for his thirteenth birthday, he'd been a fan of The Cure ever since. That, I quite rightly surmised, deserved a high five.
Leaving the high-fiving behind I decided to head back to Bollywood via the Ambient Forest only to get slightly disorientated in the dark glades; only after being mistaken for a DJ (it must be the beard) was I able to get directions and exit out the other side (and all without finding where exactly the real DJs were). Oh well.
In The Black Dahlia, my festival home-from-home, the delightfully monikered DJ Auntie Maureen plundered the dark recesses of her record collection until she eventually found one I owned (although my version of I Tawt I Taw A Puddy Tat is on a 7" 45, not a 78). Joining in with the crackly version of the Hokey Cokey she finished with may not have been my best idea; such pursuits are best left to folks with more better knee ligaments than I but that's beer for you.
With ligaments stretched it was time to find a spot in the crowd to enjoy The Cure, my highlight of Saturday, if not the whole festival. Indeed a chum of mine had bought his Bestival ticket just to see Robert Smith on stage, his palpable level of excitement possibly causing the chest pains he suffered on Friday. I suppose I should gush on just how great The Cure were, and they were there's no doubt of that, but my enjoyment was slightly impaired thanks to the amphetamine-fuelled young lady who spent near half the set talking at me, my chums and anybody who happened to walk past. Once she moved on I could enjoy the last half of the evening, a delicious serving of their back catalogue that made me go a little bit gooey inside.
Afterwards, over at the Big Top, Diplo was winding up his set with a choice selection of tunes, causing some more bundling from the excited people in front of me. I suppose at this point I should confess that I'm not the biggest fan of Primal Scream; they're OK, they've had a couple of good tunes, but really I can't see what the fuss is all about. I did set out to watch their set but, still aglow with the post-Cure feeling, I again wandered off.
Round the corner, at Sailor Jerry's, Dutch Uncles are on stage. The Mancunian five piece feature that great audience divider, a lead singer with an affected voice. In this instance a high pitched warble that reminded me a bit of someone; three songs in it dawned on me that they were a bit like 70s electronic rock duo Sparks, only not as good. With their proclamation that they'd be on stage til 6am I decided that it was time to make like a tree.
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