Sunderland's Brewis brothers have consistently produced interesting music, either together as Field Music or via their various solo guises and side projects; David Brewis has released a couple of albums under the School of Language banner (2014's Old Fears is an excellent listen, if you've not checked it out already I heartily recommend that you lend it an ear or two), brother Peter forming The Week That Was in 2008 to release a one-off album of self-penned tunes.
You Tell Me is Peter's latest excursion, a collaboration with Admiral Fallow's Sarah Hayes, the pair bonding over a mutual love of Kate Bush to record an eleven track collection of delicate folk-tinged indie, introspective alt-rock and stabby electronica.
Initial single Clarion Call, a lilting folk number released last September, sounds far removed from subsequent single Water Cooler (which is itself heavily infused with Field Music's DNA). Listen to one after the other and you may even wonder if the same band is responsible for the two songs.
And yet, over the course of their recently released and eponymously titled album, the songs take their place amongst their cohorts, combining to make a very pleasurable listening experience.
The
collected songs all have a conversational bent to them, first-person
narratives of failing office romance, jealousy and intrigue, that occasionally take dark turns
into internal turmoil, all set to beautifully arranged music.
Showing posts with label review. Show all posts
Showing posts with label review. Show all posts
Friday, January 18, 2019
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Cate le Bon @ The Wedgewood Rooms (10/09/2014)
I feel a bit sorry for Oxford.
The city of dreaming spires may have gifted the nation the likes of Supergrass and Radiohead, provided a home for Lyra Belacqua and played a part in the education of Professor Stephen Hawking, but apparently its audiences aren't very lively. Or, at least, this is what Cate le Bon tells us of her experience playing there the previous evening. Depending upon your level of cynicality this could be viewed as disparaging to the fine people of Oxford or, instead, that well used tactic of winning over a new audience by rubbishing an old one. If it is the latter then it's not a tactic that le Bon needs to use.
The comment regarding the previous night's crowd is dropped several songs into her set, needlessly as I (and, given the applause, the rest of the crowd) am enthralled. What a difference a few songs can make; at the outset I wasn't so sure what we were in for, with le Bon striding across the stage to stand in a dark corner, set apart from the three members of her backing band. Thoughts of J Spaceman, standing aloof at the side of the stage, stirred at the back of my memory. Would this be another such gig where I left feeling that I'd paid money to watch someone who didn't want to be looked at? No, obviously.
From the opening bars of the first song le Bon becomes possessed by the music, stepping into the light and swaying toward the microphone. Holding the guitar like a weapon she moves around the stage, a fluid and better choreographed Wilko Johnson she could machine gun us down at any time. That the set plundered latest album Mug Museum is no real surprise; the first track from the new long player, I Can't Help You, is dispatched early on and a stirring Wild is dedicated to the fine folks of Portsmouth (and sees an errant string broken midway through its wig out, thus the guitar is replaced by handbells for the next couple of numbers).
Her backing band of Huw, Dan and Steve (who were all introduced to in another break between songs) leave le Bon alone for the first song of the encore, a beautifully delicate take on Frank Mills (from the musical Hair but probably better known by some as the last proper track on The Lemonheads' It's A Shame About Ray album). The band rejoin for one last song and then, all too soon, the lights come on and we make our way to the door and the delights of the merchandise desk that awaits us in the foyer.
So, yes, I feel a bit sorry for Oxford. Cate le Bon was an exquisite delight, you'd have to have been staring at your shoes, with fingers in your ears, not to have been swept along with her.
The city of dreaming spires may have gifted the nation the likes of Supergrass and Radiohead, provided a home for Lyra Belacqua and played a part in the education of Professor Stephen Hawking, but apparently its audiences aren't very lively. Or, at least, this is what Cate le Bon tells us of her experience playing there the previous evening. Depending upon your level of cynicality this could be viewed as disparaging to the fine people of Oxford or, instead, that well used tactic of winning over a new audience by rubbishing an old one. If it is the latter then it's not a tactic that le Bon needs to use.
The comment regarding the previous night's crowd is dropped several songs into her set, needlessly as I (and, given the applause, the rest of the crowd) am enthralled. What a difference a few songs can make; at the outset I wasn't so sure what we were in for, with le Bon striding across the stage to stand in a dark corner, set apart from the three members of her backing band. Thoughts of J Spaceman, standing aloof at the side of the stage, stirred at the back of my memory. Would this be another such gig where I left feeling that I'd paid money to watch someone who didn't want to be looked at? No, obviously.
From the opening bars of the first song le Bon becomes possessed by the music, stepping into the light and swaying toward the microphone. Holding the guitar like a weapon she moves around the stage, a fluid and better choreographed Wilko Johnson she could machine gun us down at any time. That the set plundered latest album Mug Museum is no real surprise; the first track from the new long player, I Can't Help You, is dispatched early on and a stirring Wild is dedicated to the fine folks of Portsmouth (and sees an errant string broken midway through its wig out, thus the guitar is replaced by handbells for the next couple of numbers).
Her backing band of Huw, Dan and Steve (who were all introduced to in another break between songs) leave le Bon alone for the first song of the encore, a beautifully delicate take on Frank Mills (from the musical Hair but probably better known by some as the last proper track on The Lemonheads' It's A Shame About Ray album). The band rejoin for one last song and then, all too soon, the lights come on and we make our way to the door and the delights of the merchandise desk that awaits us in the foyer.
So, yes, I feel a bit sorry for Oxford. Cate le Bon was an exquisite delight, you'd have to have been staring at your shoes, with fingers in your ears, not to have been swept along with her.
Saturday, October 08, 2011
NME Radar Tour @ The Wedgewood Rooms 04/10/2011
The NME Radar Tour always throws up a mixed bag of musical delights; like a tin of Quality Street you're never quite sure if you're going to get the Noisette Triangle or the Peanut Cracknell. The bands on this, the Autumn leg of the tour, are not unknown quantities however, I'd made sure I downloaded the tour EP from the venerable music mag's website beforehand. Nice.
Sweden's Niki & the Dove are first up; lead singer Malin Dahlström appears to have raided Cyndi Lauper's wardrobe whilst keyboardist Gustaf Karlöf has come straight from the set of Miami Vice. These are good things; I liked Cyndi Lauper, I liked Miami Vice and, is it transpires, I really love Niki & The Dove. I could be objective and witter on about where the elements of their music have been lifted from, or make comparisons to other fine acts from Scandinavian parts *koff*The Knife*koff* but, honestly, where's the fun in that? Suffice to say that I thought their performance was excellent, powerful, gripping and delicate. So, after this wonderful start, what follows?
Next to tread the boards are S.C.U.M, a London-based five piece who [reads notes] take their name from Valerie Solanas' SCUM Manifesto. They're a hairy combination of pretentions and driving beats and, whilst I like the sound the band produce, I must confess I find it lacking when compared to The Horrors' current and similarly 80s flavoured tunes. Ultimately it's the antics of the lead singer that begin to disjoint my gigging experience; within two songs of their set the lead singer has appealed to the lighting engineer for the front of stage illuminations to be turned off. This, he assures us, will make things nicer. Subsequent to this he prances around the stage, barefoot, finally sitting down out of sight of the audience. Sitting down, on the stage, right where the singer from The Computers spat copiously several weeks previously. Oh dear.
The final band of the evening are Wolf Gang. Throughout the two previous sets my attention has been slowly drawn to a large white cube, resting on a keyboard stand, at the rear of the stage. Given that it was emblazoned with a large W and a large G I surmised, correctly, that it was part of Wolf Gang's stage accoutrements. Other than the natty scarf the lead singer employs to differentiate himself from the rest of his suitably attired cohorts, this is pretty much the most interesting thing I can say about their live set. Whilst I liked what I heard previously the live experience, especially after Niki & The Dove and S.C.U.M, is to my ears bland to say the least. I recall muttering something Coldplay related under my breath (I know, I shouldn't but...) before making for the door, it looked like we got the Toffee Penny in the end after all.
Sweden's Niki & the Dove are first up; lead singer Malin Dahlström appears to have raided Cyndi Lauper's wardrobe whilst keyboardist Gustaf Karlöf has come straight from the set of Miami Vice. These are good things; I liked Cyndi Lauper, I liked Miami Vice and, is it transpires, I really love Niki & The Dove. I could be objective and witter on about where the elements of their music have been lifted from, or make comparisons to other fine acts from Scandinavian parts *koff*The Knife*koff* but, honestly, where's the fun in that? Suffice to say that I thought their performance was excellent, powerful, gripping and delicate. So, after this wonderful start, what follows?
Next to tread the boards are S.C.U.M, a London-based five piece who [reads notes] take their name from Valerie Solanas' SCUM Manifesto. They're a hairy combination of pretentions and driving beats and, whilst I like the sound the band produce, I must confess I find it lacking when compared to The Horrors' current and similarly 80s flavoured tunes. Ultimately it's the antics of the lead singer that begin to disjoint my gigging experience; within two songs of their set the lead singer has appealed to the lighting engineer for the front of stage illuminations to be turned off. This, he assures us, will make things nicer. Subsequent to this he prances around the stage, barefoot, finally sitting down out of sight of the audience. Sitting down, on the stage, right where the singer from The Computers spat copiously several weeks previously. Oh dear.
The final band of the evening are Wolf Gang. Throughout the two previous sets my attention has been slowly drawn to a large white cube, resting on a keyboard stand, at the rear of the stage. Given that it was emblazoned with a large W and a large G I surmised, correctly, that it was part of Wolf Gang's stage accoutrements. Other than the natty scarf the lead singer employs to differentiate himself from the rest of his suitably attired cohorts, this is pretty much the most interesting thing I can say about their live set. Whilst I liked what I heard previously the live experience, especially after Niki & The Dove and S.C.U.M, is to my ears bland to say the least. I recall muttering something Coldplay related under my breath (I know, I shouldn't but...) before making for the door, it looked like we got the Toffee Penny in the end after all.
Monday, July 04, 2011
Glastonbury Festival 2011 - Part One
In previous years my enjoyment of the "Glasto experience" has meant gravitating toward the sofa, cracking open a cold one and watching events unfold over the various BBC channels; if I wanted the full effect I'd stand in a bucket of mud at the bottom of the garden, downwind of the neighbour's compost heap, and squint at a screen 15 metres away (a screen that's partially obscured with flags obviously). However for the past few years a mate of mine has been gently badgering me to go, assuring me that (as I'm something of a gig whore) I'd love it. Frankly there is only so much prodding my willpower can take before it melts like a Kit Kat in a hot car. And so, inevitably, it came to pass that I got off of my keister, bought a ticket, and made the journey to that special corner of the world known as Glastonbury.
Friday 24th June
For the people at home, watching Auntie Beeb's coverage, the festival starts today. For me and several thousand others however the festival has been already ticking over for a couple of days; I've been in Somerset since Tuesday, on-site since Wednesday morning, and the novelty of wet-wipe bathing has long worn off (though the shock of the long drops is still fresh in the mind).
Under an overcast sky The Master Musicians of Joujouka start events on the Pyramid Stage, bringing a slice of Morocco to Somerset; the soft drone of their instruments carries on the wind, a strange and intriguing cacophony. Over at the West Holts Stage the Brazilian sounds of Ziriguidum are more my thing, a 50-strong outfit whose samba drums dance my feet in the direction of the Brothers Bar and back again a couple of times.
Following an extended sojourn in the Green Fields I return to the Pyramid Stage in time for the Wu-Tang Clan; from my vantage point halfway up the hill the mix sounds stodgy and distorted, heavy waves of bass slosh around and I can barely pick an F-bomb out of the lyrics. Instead I watch the Swallows who, oblivious to the music, dart through the sky just inches above the tent tops.
At 85 years of age BB King is the Grand Master of the Blues, he can therefore be excused for letting his band warm the crowd up a bit before making his appearance. Not that he needs anyone to warm up an audience that is; the throng at the Pyramid Stage hang on his every word and, it must be said, I get a weird squishy feeling inside when I hear the opening bars of The Thrill Is Gone.
Scottish rockers Biffy Clyro have had an amazing 18 months, discounting having one of their tunes used to line Simon Cowell's pockets that is, and their Glasto set is icing on what must be a very large cake indeed. The band stir through a large chunk of Only Revolutions, mix in some of Puzzle and a sprinkling of Infinity Land and Blackened Sky. All good stuff, though the mass sing-along is reserved for that one that the guy from X Factor covered.
The enigma that is Steven Patrick Morrissey swaggers out into the evening, a heady mixture of sarcasm, dourness and self-deprecation, and launches into I Want The One I Can't Have. I immediately turn back into a 15 year old wastrel and start waving my arms wildly, wondering idly if there's a flower shop nearby. Indeed the first half of the set blends a fine mix of classic Smiths tunes (Shoplifters Of The World Unite & There Is A Light That Never Goes Out) with up-tempo solo material (First Of The Gang To Die & You Have Killed Me). Unfortunately things seem to stall midway; the inclusion of so-so new material leaves our party shuffling about in our dampening ponchos, a state that not even a cover of Satellite of Love can resolve.
Meat Is Murder would not then seem the obvious choice to warm up a cold and wet crowd; a paean to vegetarianism sung in the middle of what is, for most of the year at least, a Dairy farm. A odd choice but, now on a roll, our hero heads toward the big finish. Earlier in the set Moz had announced that he'd sing as fast as he can, given that the audience were all waiting for U2; whether this is the reason for the sprint through This Charming Man or not I don't know, but motor through the song the band duly do. And, just like that, he's gone; some old songs, some new songs, a change of shirt and a dig at David Cameron. Like I said, an enigma.
Even though the Glastonbury Festival site is, I am reliably assured, the size of the city of Bath, I wonder if it's big enough to hold Bono's ego. I'm still pondering this thought when, shortly before 10 o'clock, things start to happen on the Pyramid Stage. The strains of Bowie's Space Oddity can be heard and the additional video screens fire into life; bugs and butterflies are animated in bright colours as the opening chords of Even Better Than The Real Thing fill the air.
If I'm honest at this point we're still not 100% if this is still an introduction or whether U2 are actually there; the primary video screens, usually showing the act on stage, are off and, from our place in the field, the front of the stage is obscured by flags. Eventually the video screens flicker into life and, there dressed in black, Bono strides the stage. The crowd roars, the ego has landed.
The front of the set favours Achtung Baby, an album I played to death when released but, honestly, I've not touched for many years. If the rediscovery of U2's 90's reboot album is a joy for me it's something the voice next to me is not happy about. "I don't want to hear this new shit", it says. I point out to my chum that the album is at least 10 years old (it's actually just over 20, a worrying thought indeed). Shortly after this I Will Follow has him, albeit briefly, jumping around.
For their Glastonbury performance U2 have forsaken the majority of their usual theatrical tricks; the additional video screens the only concession. Unfortunately Bono appears to have taken this to mean that he must try and connect with the audience; he tries gamely, expressing his regret that he can't watch Primal Scream at the same time as entertaining us, launching into a cringe-worthy rendition of Jerusalem, but it falls flat.
With a set straining at the sides with hits, packed with songs we all know, with nods to the weekend's remaining headliners as well, it could be that the band are trying a bit too hard. Or, then again, it could be that I've been standing in the rain for several hours, the annoying drizzle long since permeating my German Army poncho, and I've just finished my last beer.
The huge screen at the rear of the stage flickers with static and an astronaut appears, live from the ISS, linking the set back to Bowie's opus at the introduction. So much for no smoke and mirrors, I am beguiled by the giant spaceman releasing the lyrics of Beautiful Day into zero gravity and turn grinning to my chum. "That was amazing!", I say. "What was?", he replies. A 50 foot spaceman appears in a field in Somerset and he misses it. Typical. With renewed vigour, or maybe it's just my recaptured attention, the band roar into the home straight; forgiving the execrable Get On Your Boots we're swept up with Vertigo, carried along with Sunday Bloody Sunday before being left sated by Pride.
Abandoning my plan to trudge through the rain and mud to the Avalon Stage, where Barenaked Ladies are no doubt singing about Brian Wilson, I instead head back to my tent after U2's encore, sodden and too sober to enjoy it. As I pass the camp-site crew's caravan I see the weather report chalked on the door; rain until 4AM, lovely after that.
Fingers crossed.
Friday 24th June
For the people at home, watching Auntie Beeb's coverage, the festival starts today. For me and several thousand others however the festival has been already ticking over for a couple of days; I've been in Somerset since Tuesday, on-site since Wednesday morning, and the novelty of wet-wipe bathing has long worn off (though the shock of the long drops is still fresh in the mind).
Under an overcast sky The Master Musicians of Joujouka start events on the Pyramid Stage, bringing a slice of Morocco to Somerset; the soft drone of their instruments carries on the wind, a strange and intriguing cacophony. Over at the West Holts Stage the Brazilian sounds of Ziriguidum are more my thing, a 50-strong outfit whose samba drums dance my feet in the direction of the Brothers Bar and back again a couple of times.
Following an extended sojourn in the Green Fields I return to the Pyramid Stage in time for the Wu-Tang Clan; from my vantage point halfway up the hill the mix sounds stodgy and distorted, heavy waves of bass slosh around and I can barely pick an F-bomb out of the lyrics. Instead I watch the Swallows who, oblivious to the music, dart through the sky just inches above the tent tops.
At 85 years of age BB King is the Grand Master of the Blues, he can therefore be excused for letting his band warm the crowd up a bit before making his appearance. Not that he needs anyone to warm up an audience that is; the throng at the Pyramid Stage hang on his every word and, it must be said, I get a weird squishy feeling inside when I hear the opening bars of The Thrill Is Gone.
Scottish rockers Biffy Clyro have had an amazing 18 months, discounting having one of their tunes used to line Simon Cowell's pockets that is, and their Glasto set is icing on what must be a very large cake indeed. The band stir through a large chunk of Only Revolutions, mix in some of Puzzle and a sprinkling of Infinity Land and Blackened Sky. All good stuff, though the mass sing-along is reserved for that one that the guy from X Factor covered.
The enigma that is Steven Patrick Morrissey swaggers out into the evening, a heady mixture of sarcasm, dourness and self-deprecation, and launches into I Want The One I Can't Have. I immediately turn back into a 15 year old wastrel and start waving my arms wildly, wondering idly if there's a flower shop nearby. Indeed the first half of the set blends a fine mix of classic Smiths tunes (Shoplifters Of The World Unite & There Is A Light That Never Goes Out) with up-tempo solo material (First Of The Gang To Die & You Have Killed Me). Unfortunately things seem to stall midway; the inclusion of so-so new material leaves our party shuffling about in our dampening ponchos, a state that not even a cover of Satellite of Love can resolve.
Meat Is Murder would not then seem the obvious choice to warm up a cold and wet crowd; a paean to vegetarianism sung in the middle of what is, for most of the year at least, a Dairy farm. A odd choice but, now on a roll, our hero heads toward the big finish. Earlier in the set Moz had announced that he'd sing as fast as he can, given that the audience were all waiting for U2; whether this is the reason for the sprint through This Charming Man or not I don't know, but motor through the song the band duly do. And, just like that, he's gone; some old songs, some new songs, a change of shirt and a dig at David Cameron. Like I said, an enigma.
Even though the Glastonbury Festival site is, I am reliably assured, the size of the city of Bath, I wonder if it's big enough to hold Bono's ego. I'm still pondering this thought when, shortly before 10 o'clock, things start to happen on the Pyramid Stage. The strains of Bowie's Space Oddity can be heard and the additional video screens fire into life; bugs and butterflies are animated in bright colours as the opening chords of Even Better Than The Real Thing fill the air.
If I'm honest at this point we're still not 100% if this is still an introduction or whether U2 are actually there; the primary video screens, usually showing the act on stage, are off and, from our place in the field, the front of the stage is obscured by flags. Eventually the video screens flicker into life and, there dressed in black, Bono strides the stage. The crowd roars, the ego has landed.
The front of the set favours Achtung Baby, an album I played to death when released but, honestly, I've not touched for many years. If the rediscovery of U2's 90's reboot album is a joy for me it's something the voice next to me is not happy about. "I don't want to hear this new shit", it says. I point out to my chum that the album is at least 10 years old (it's actually just over 20, a worrying thought indeed). Shortly after this I Will Follow has him, albeit briefly, jumping around.
For their Glastonbury performance U2 have forsaken the majority of their usual theatrical tricks; the additional video screens the only concession. Unfortunately Bono appears to have taken this to mean that he must try and connect with the audience; he tries gamely, expressing his regret that he can't watch Primal Scream at the same time as entertaining us, launching into a cringe-worthy rendition of Jerusalem, but it falls flat.
With a set straining at the sides with hits, packed with songs we all know, with nods to the weekend's remaining headliners as well, it could be that the band are trying a bit too hard. Or, then again, it could be that I've been standing in the rain for several hours, the annoying drizzle long since permeating my German Army poncho, and I've just finished my last beer.
The huge screen at the rear of the stage flickers with static and an astronaut appears, live from the ISS, linking the set back to Bowie's opus at the introduction. So much for no smoke and mirrors, I am beguiled by the giant spaceman releasing the lyrics of Beautiful Day into zero gravity and turn grinning to my chum. "That was amazing!", I say. "What was?", he replies. A 50 foot spaceman appears in a field in Somerset and he misses it. Typical. With renewed vigour, or maybe it's just my recaptured attention, the band roar into the home straight; forgiving the execrable Get On Your Boots we're swept up with Vertigo, carried along with Sunday Bloody Sunday before being left sated by Pride.
Abandoning my plan to trudge through the rain and mud to the Avalon Stage, where Barenaked Ladies are no doubt singing about Brian Wilson, I instead head back to my tent after U2's encore, sodden and too sober to enjoy it. As I pass the camp-site crew's caravan I see the weather report chalked on the door; rain until 4AM, lovely after that.
Fingers crossed.
Monday, June 06, 2011
The Duke Spirit @ The Wedgewood Rooms 02/06/2011
Little has been heard of London alternative rockers The Duke Spirit since dust settled on 2008's Neptune. The band have been on an extended sojourn in the US, gigging and working on forthcoming long player Bruiser, but are now back in Blighty, showcasing new material on a tour of smaller venues.
Having recently played just up the road in Southampton I hadn't expected to see 'sold out' on the door, even so I'm surprised to find the Wedge a shave under half full. It's still a good crowd for a band who've been away awhile though.
Before Liela and chums entertain us we've the support act to enjoy/endure. Going by the moniker of The Computers they're an unknown quantity. Neither I nor my gigging buddies have heard of them but already we've come to the same conclusion; that''s a crap name for a band, it fails the all important "Good Evening Springfield" test for a start.
We're further perturbed when, sporting Mark Lamarr-style 50's throwback quiffs, they take the stage. "Oh crap", one of my chums mutters, "they're a Rockabilly band". Collectively we make the decision to point feet toward the bar and hide out there. Too late, there go the lights. We realise our mistake in judging them on their name and look up almost immediately; a sonic assault of indie powered punk, all loud guitars and throat ripping vocals, hits us amidships.
Short spikey songs, powered with rage and delivered with attitude, fire out from the stage. Between tunes the lead singer hawks another gob of spit on the floor and shakes the quiff out of his eyes. That guy down the front, you know the one, yells something we can't quite hear (but can catch the gist of); too much talking between songs. He gets a volley of expletives for his trouble as the band launches into another rocket-powered opus.
As the set progresses the lead singer/guitarist keeps moving his mic stand ever closer to the edge of the stage, into the gap by the barrier, then into the audience. He finishes up at the rear of the room, doubled-over in guitar-gasm, next to three 40ish year old blokes with jaws dropped open (guess who).
Unfortunately, after this debauched display, it pains me to admit that the headline act pale by comparison. Yes, The Duke Spirit can rock. They can roll. They can do both at the same time even but, after The Computers' energetic performance, their static stage presence seems tired.
Tracks from the first two albums sound as good as ever and new song Villain, available as a free download from the band's website, entertains. But they don't grab me, shake me, throw me to the floor and pick me back up again. I've been broken by The Computers and The Duke Spirit can't fix me.
We hear the end of the headliners' set from the relative comfort of the foyer where, as fate would have it, The Computers' lead singer is manning the Merch desk. Like the drunken fanboys we are we gush over their performance, handing over cash for CDs and coloured vinyl.
But, we tell him, that really is a crap name for a band.
Having recently played just up the road in Southampton I hadn't expected to see 'sold out' on the door, even so I'm surprised to find the Wedge a shave under half full. It's still a good crowd for a band who've been away awhile though.
Before Liela and chums entertain us we've the support act to enjoy/endure. Going by the moniker of The Computers they're an unknown quantity. Neither I nor my gigging buddies have heard of them but already we've come to the same conclusion; that''s a crap name for a band, it fails the all important "Good Evening Springfield" test for a start.
We're further perturbed when, sporting Mark Lamarr-style 50's throwback quiffs, they take the stage. "Oh crap", one of my chums mutters, "they're a Rockabilly band". Collectively we make the decision to point feet toward the bar and hide out there. Too late, there go the lights. We realise our mistake in judging them on their name and look up almost immediately; a sonic assault of indie powered punk, all loud guitars and throat ripping vocals, hits us amidships.
Short spikey songs, powered with rage and delivered with attitude, fire out from the stage. Between tunes the lead singer hawks another gob of spit on the floor and shakes the quiff out of his eyes. That guy down the front, you know the one, yells something we can't quite hear (but can catch the gist of); too much talking between songs. He gets a volley of expletives for his trouble as the band launches into another rocket-powered opus.
As the set progresses the lead singer/guitarist keeps moving his mic stand ever closer to the edge of the stage, into the gap by the barrier, then into the audience. He finishes up at the rear of the room, doubled-over in guitar-gasm, next to three 40ish year old blokes with jaws dropped open (guess who).
Unfortunately, after this debauched display, it pains me to admit that the headline act pale by comparison. Yes, The Duke Spirit can rock. They can roll. They can do both at the same time even but, after The Computers' energetic performance, their static stage presence seems tired.
Tracks from the first two albums sound as good as ever and new song Villain, available as a free download from the band's website, entertains. But they don't grab me, shake me, throw me to the floor and pick me back up again. I've been broken by The Computers and The Duke Spirit can't fix me.
We hear the end of the headliners' set from the relative comfort of the foyer where, as fate would have it, The Computers' lead singer is manning the Merch desk. Like the drunken fanboys we are we gush over their performance, handing over cash for CDs and coloured vinyl.
But, we tell him, that really is a crap name for a band.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Courtney Pine @ The Wedgewood Rooms 24/02/2007
Jazz.
Even saying the word can provoke an instant, sometimes violent, reaction in people. An over-exposure to Kenny Ball's Jazzmen at an early age can scar someone for life; just the image of a moustachioed man in a bowler hat can cause cold sweats and tremors in folks I know.
Not me though. Oh no.
Unfortunately it's likely this mental conditioning of what jazz is that puts people off. It may also explain the dearth of jazz in our record shops, something Courtney Pine railed against at the end of his set last night, and perhaps even the less than full venue in which he found himself.
Perhaps.
For the most part the ebullient Pine entertained us with some funky slices of sax jazz, backed by his exceedingly talented band (two fifths of which had acted as his support). A selection of his back catalogue, mixed with jazz standards such as the classic Take Five, were dropped on us like funky bombs. The hep-cat kids standing next to me were getting down, the tall guy in front of me was definitely nodding his head.
Great.
Unfortunately just weaving around the melody wasn't enough for Pine; soon the stereotypical jazz noodlings started and I had to strain to hear the notes he wasn't playing. The hep-cat kids were in ecstasy but I was getting lost. And then it got silly. Playing a saxophone fast is one thing and there's no denying that the saxophonic callasthenics were technically impressive. But playing it with no hands, or playing two at once? That's just showing off.
This was showboating for its own sake, the kind of musical masturbation I imagine Steve Vai gets up to. But I appeared to be alone in my opinion. The majority of the audience clapped politely after each noodly tootle; the hep-cat kids next to me shouted their appreciation and blew a large herbal cloud in my direction.
Mellow.
If I could play two saxophones at once I'd damn sure let everyone know about it, but it's a talent I feel would be more at home on Opportunity Knocks than onstage at The Wedgewood Rooms. Thankfully the showing off was reined in toward the end of the set and we were treated to a funky take on the Billy Taylor Trio's I Wish I Knew (How It Would Feel To Be Free) for putting up with it.
Nice.
Before sending us out into the rain, and after making us jump up and down seventy two times to show our commitment to jazz, Courtney Pine made an impassioned plea on behalf of the UK jazz scene. Sadly, to a casual bystander like myself, the more outlandish elements of the evening's performance appear to explain the state it's in.
Even saying the word can provoke an instant, sometimes violent, reaction in people. An over-exposure to Kenny Ball's Jazzmen at an early age can scar someone for life; just the image of a moustachioed man in a bowler hat can cause cold sweats and tremors in folks I know.
Not me though. Oh no.
Unfortunately it's likely this mental conditioning of what jazz is that puts people off. It may also explain the dearth of jazz in our record shops, something Courtney Pine railed against at the end of his set last night, and perhaps even the less than full venue in which he found himself.
Perhaps.
For the most part the ebullient Pine entertained us with some funky slices of sax jazz, backed by his exceedingly talented band (two fifths of which had acted as his support). A selection of his back catalogue, mixed with jazz standards such as the classic Take Five, were dropped on us like funky bombs. The hep-cat kids standing next to me were getting down, the tall guy in front of me was definitely nodding his head.
Great.
Unfortunately just weaving around the melody wasn't enough for Pine; soon the stereotypical jazz noodlings started and I had to strain to hear the notes he wasn't playing. The hep-cat kids were in ecstasy but I was getting lost. And then it got silly. Playing a saxophone fast is one thing and there's no denying that the saxophonic callasthenics were technically impressive. But playing it with no hands, or playing two at once? That's just showing off.
This was showboating for its own sake, the kind of musical masturbation I imagine Steve Vai gets up to. But I appeared to be alone in my opinion. The majority of the audience clapped politely after each noodly tootle; the hep-cat kids next to me shouted their appreciation and blew a large herbal cloud in my direction.
Mellow.
If I could play two saxophones at once I'd damn sure let everyone know about it, but it's a talent I feel would be more at home on Opportunity Knocks than onstage at The Wedgewood Rooms. Thankfully the showing off was reined in toward the end of the set and we were treated to a funky take on the Billy Taylor Trio's I Wish I Knew (How It Would Feel To Be Free) for putting up with it.
Nice.
Before sending us out into the rain, and after making us jump up and down seventy two times to show our commitment to jazz, Courtney Pine made an impassioned plea on behalf of the UK jazz scene. Sadly, to a casual bystander like myself, the more outlandish elements of the evening's performance appear to explain the state it's in.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Mew Live in Copenhagen DVD
The Mew Live in Copenhagen DVD arrived on my doorstep this morning. This is Mew's first live DVD, recorded at a packed KB Hallen in Copenhagen last March. Needless to say the disc was out of the jiffy bag and into the player before the cellophane could hit the floor.
The 16 track DVD favours the recent And The Glass Handed Kites album but that's to be expected. There are a couple of gems from earlier albums included in the set, both 156 and Comforting Sounds are accompanied by their mind-bending rear-projected films (you'll believe a cat can play the violin, I'm still not sure what those white things are though). In addition Jonas performs a delicate solo medley of Panda, Mica and Saliva at the piano. Also included on the decidedly minimalist DVD (no fancy menus with music) is a bonus 60 minute "documentary" of the making of ATGHK (or rather a collection of clips of the chaps in various rehearsal rooms and studios).
The only criticism I can muster, given that I'm fairly stoked to get my grubby little mitts on it, is that the footage has been tinkered around with too much in post-production; it's decidedly murky in places (either that or my TV screen is due a clean).
The Region 0 DVD was released in Denmark last December and it's not on general sale elsewhere as yet. It can be purchased from the Mew website via a link to Vibrashop but, thanks to a tip-off on the Mew forum, I pointed my browser to the Irish CDWOW site. There the DVD is available for a bargain €5.99 (someone must have screwed up, it should be €22.00 at least!).
Anyway, enough banter, here's the opening track of the DVD, Special:
The 16 track DVD favours the recent And The Glass Handed Kites album but that's to be expected. There are a couple of gems from earlier albums included in the set, both 156 and Comforting Sounds are accompanied by their mind-bending rear-projected films (you'll believe a cat can play the violin, I'm still not sure what those white things are though). In addition Jonas performs a delicate solo medley of Panda, Mica and Saliva at the piano. Also included on the decidedly minimalist DVD (no fancy menus with music) is a bonus 60 minute "documentary" of the making of ATGHK (or rather a collection of clips of the chaps in various rehearsal rooms and studios).
The only criticism I can muster, given that I'm fairly stoked to get my grubby little mitts on it, is that the footage has been tinkered around with too much in post-production; it's decidedly murky in places (either that or my TV screen is due a clean).
The Region 0 DVD was released in Denmark last December and it's not on general sale elsewhere as yet. It can be purchased from the Mew website via a link to Vibrashop but, thanks to a tip-off on the Mew forum, I pointed my browser to the Irish CDWOW site. There the DVD is available for a bargain €5.99 (someone must have screwed up, it should be €22.00 at least!).
Anyway, enough banter, here's the opening track of the DVD, Special:
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
SouthScene @ The Joiners 25/11/05
A combination of my legendary tardiness (I missed the train I was planning to catch), being too clever for my own good (I hopped the next train to Eastleigh, it seemed a cunning idea at the time) and a suicide at Surbiton (all the trains were delayed and I kicked my heels on a cold platform for half an hour) meant that I was later getting to The Joiners than I'd planned.
My late arrival meant I missed the first half of The Kiks set. For a Southampton band The Kiks had me fooled; I was convinced they'd just got off the train from Liverpool. The 60's influence and Mersey guitar jangle oozed out of them, accompanied by a cheeky chappy attitude. Now I like The Coral and I love The La's but, whilst The Kiks were obviously having lots of fun being in a band (and I can't fault them for that), they didn't offer me anything different than what I might find on a Cast b-side.
As the set continued it became apparent that they had a couple of good tunes tucked away, but they weren't good enough to sway me from my first impressions (and I'm sure they used "showaddywaddy" as a lyric at one point). So, not quite my bag of donuts (this from the man who hated The Coral when he first heard them but loves the new album) but seeing as I'd only paid a fiver to get in I can't really grumble.
Next up were Dead!Dead!Dead! who, I must admit, were the reason I'd travelled to Southampton on a chilly Friday night. Again another local outfit (well, it was a SouthScene showcase), D!D!D! have a shambolic polish about them that bigger acts I've seen could learn from.
They roared onto the stage, grabbed my attention, threw it around a bit, stopped for a couple of jokes at the drummer's expense (if the music career fails then a future in stand-up comedy beckons for the lead singer), then dropped the speed a notch before revving up for the end (OK, so I've been watching Top Gear).
The band themselves were very tight musically, with the two guitarists\vocalists knowing how to work the stage (something which can't be said of some of the bands I've paid more money to see), so chances are the signed CD I bought at the gig might be worth something on ebay some day.
Third up were Cayto who, strangely for a southern showcase, hail from northern climes (Glasgow to be precise). The lead singer, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Seth Green, built a piano wall to block himself off from one side of the audience and the bass player; with the rest of the band assembled loosely they started to play.
H'mm.
I have to admit that Cayto didn't connect with me. They made music that, to me, was far too clever for its trousers. Yes, they can play. Yes, they're talented. Yes, the lead singer was wearing a neckerchief. Yes, they make interesting music. But it's not music that you can dance to. Or sit still to. Or even do the ironing to. It's music that you have to go away and have a think over and work out whether someone is taking the piss or not.
Just when I heard a tune or a rhythm that I could hook into it was kicked down a flight of musical stairs on its way into the next movement. Maybe I wasn't in the right frame of mind for them; I have a bottle of Absinthe here so maybe I'll give them another try one rainy winter evening (I think a warm-up session listening to The Bad Plus might come in handy).
Mach Schau were the headlining act of the showcase. Unfortunately a combination of a need for beer and my inherent geekiness meant that I missed the start of their set; I was at the bar talking to the guys from Dead!Dead!Dead! about the Evil Office baseball cap the rhythm guitarist had been sporting earlier on. Yes, all very sad.
As I returned with a fresh Grolsch the lead singer of Mach Schau teetered on the edge of the stage, leering out to the crowd in a casually disinterested manner. Sounding not unlike Maximo Park in places, Mach Schau ooze attitude; as they powered through their set the lead singer padded around the stage as if he couldn't give a toss if we were there or not.
He soon had his wish, we had to leave. I'd have liked to have stayed and seen the rest of their set but we had to hotfoot it to the station to get the last train out of the big city. Life is hard when you live in the suburbs, I didn't even get a chance to buy their CD (there are freebie MP3s on their website though).
Both Mach Schau and Dead!Dead!Dead! have gigs in the pipeline, I'd recommend checking them out if you get the chance.
My late arrival meant I missed the first half of The Kiks set. For a Southampton band The Kiks had me fooled; I was convinced they'd just got off the train from Liverpool. The 60's influence and Mersey guitar jangle oozed out of them, accompanied by a cheeky chappy attitude. Now I like The Coral and I love The La's but, whilst The Kiks were obviously having lots of fun being in a band (and I can't fault them for that), they didn't offer me anything different than what I might find on a Cast b-side.
As the set continued it became apparent that they had a couple of good tunes tucked away, but they weren't good enough to sway me from my first impressions (and I'm sure they used "showaddywaddy" as a lyric at one point). So, not quite my bag of donuts (this from the man who hated The Coral when he first heard them but loves the new album) but seeing as I'd only paid a fiver to get in I can't really grumble.
Next up were Dead!Dead!Dead! who, I must admit, were the reason I'd travelled to Southampton on a chilly Friday night. Again another local outfit (well, it was a SouthScene showcase), D!D!D! have a shambolic polish about them that bigger acts I've seen could learn from.
They roared onto the stage, grabbed my attention, threw it around a bit, stopped for a couple of jokes at the drummer's expense (if the music career fails then a future in stand-up comedy beckons for the lead singer), then dropped the speed a notch before revving up for the end (OK, so I've been watching Top Gear).
The band themselves were very tight musically, with the two guitarists\vocalists knowing how to work the stage (something which can't be said of some of the bands I've paid more money to see), so chances are the signed CD I bought at the gig might be worth something on ebay some day.
Third up were Cayto who, strangely for a southern showcase, hail from northern climes (Glasgow to be precise). The lead singer, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Seth Green, built a piano wall to block himself off from one side of the audience and the bass player; with the rest of the band assembled loosely they started to play.
H'mm.
I have to admit that Cayto didn't connect with me. They made music that, to me, was far too clever for its trousers. Yes, they can play. Yes, they're talented. Yes, the lead singer was wearing a neckerchief. Yes, they make interesting music. But it's not music that you can dance to. Or sit still to. Or even do the ironing to. It's music that you have to go away and have a think over and work out whether someone is taking the piss or not.
Just when I heard a tune or a rhythm that I could hook into it was kicked down a flight of musical stairs on its way into the next movement. Maybe I wasn't in the right frame of mind for them; I have a bottle of Absinthe here so maybe I'll give them another try one rainy winter evening (I think a warm-up session listening to The Bad Plus might come in handy).
Mach Schau were the headlining act of the showcase. Unfortunately a combination of a need for beer and my inherent geekiness meant that I missed the start of their set; I was at the bar talking to the guys from Dead!Dead!Dead! about the Evil Office baseball cap the rhythm guitarist had been sporting earlier on. Yes, all very sad.
As I returned with a fresh Grolsch the lead singer of Mach Schau teetered on the edge of the stage, leering out to the crowd in a casually disinterested manner. Sounding not unlike Maximo Park in places, Mach Schau ooze attitude; as they powered through their set the lead singer padded around the stage as if he couldn't give a toss if we were there or not.
He soon had his wish, we had to leave. I'd have liked to have stayed and seen the rest of their set but we had to hotfoot it to the station to get the last train out of the big city. Life is hard when you live in the suburbs, I didn't even get a chance to buy their CD (there are freebie MP3s on their website though).
Both Mach Schau and Dead!Dead!Dead! have gigs in the pipeline, I'd recommend checking them out if you get the chance.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Skin @ The Wedgewood Rooms 22/11/05
By my own admission I'm a gig whore; I love gigs, I just love 'em. That said, I've never being much of a Skunk Anansie fan so, quite unbelievably, I had to be talked into this one (my willpower has the breaking strain of a Kit Kat where gigs are concerned though, so it's not like I had to have my arm twisted that much).
Brighton's Make Good Your Escape kicked off the evening. From my position at the rear of The Wedgewood Rooms, I could only see three people onstage, I therefore naturally assumed that the muezzin-style introduction was a backing tape. No, though I only realised this as the band's front man slowly got to his feet. In addition to being possessed of a powerful range lead singer Mike Yates also has a comfortable stage presence; he works the crowd whilst the guitar and bass players blur out in time to the music, the drummer hiding at the back (only surfacing to run offstage for a disposable camera, returning to snap a a photo of the audience).
In a "it's late and I'm lazy and I've mislaid my big book of adjectives" way to describe their sound I'd say that they started off with a Mew\Muse feel (power chords, power vocals), changing to a more Muse\U2 sound as their set progressed (slightly more anthemic, mellower lyrics). All good though, and I'd like to hear more of them (luckily there are a few MP3s available from the band's website).
Skin stalked onstage, a woolly hat covering her trademark shaved head, and grabbed the microphone firmly by the stand. Lifting it above her head she began to sing and, frankly, wow. Her vocals boomed though, I must confess, they sounded slightly muffled. All was explained after two songs when, after trying in vain to introduce herself to the audience, she discovered her radio mic wasn't switched on.
Brighton's Make Good Your Escape kicked off the evening. From my position at the rear of The Wedgewood Rooms, I could only see three people onstage, I therefore naturally assumed that the muezzin-style introduction was a backing tape. No, though I only realised this as the band's front man slowly got to his feet. In addition to being possessed of a powerful range lead singer Mike Yates also has a comfortable stage presence; he works the crowd whilst the guitar and bass players blur out in time to the music, the drummer hiding at the back (only surfacing to run offstage for a disposable camera, returning to snap a a photo of the audience).
In a "it's late and I'm lazy and I've mislaid my big book of adjectives" way to describe their sound I'd say that they started off with a Mew\Muse feel (power chords, power vocals), changing to a more Muse\U2 sound as their set progressed (slightly more anthemic, mellower lyrics). All good though, and I'd like to hear more of them (luckily there are a few MP3s available from the band's website).
Skin stalked onstage, a woolly hat covering her trademark shaved head, and grabbed the microphone firmly by the stand. Lifting it above her head she began to sing and, frankly, wow. Her vocals boomed though, I must confess, they sounded slightly muffled. All was explained after two songs when, after trying in vain to introduce herself to the audience, she discovered her radio mic wasn't switched on.
Whoops.
Luckily a flick of a switch was all it took to fix matters, and then full power of her vocals became apparent (especially in a small venue like the Wedge). Not wanting to take the easy route, and save the crowd-pleasers for the encore, Skin decided to not only sing Weak early on but also to perform it in a mellower style.
There was no hiding the fact that Skin was enjoying herself, easily evident from the manic grin she sported throughout the set, and she was having so much fun she went walkabout to the back of the Wedge (aren't radio microphones great?). Later, during Take Me On, a new song which is, as she herself put it, "another [one] about fucking", she went crowd surfing too.
A couple of Skunk Anansie tracks were dropped in amongst the new songs to appease te ardent fans, the new material though sounded both very raw and very good; I have it on good authority that her first solo CD was a mellow affair, it appears though that Skin is returning with all guns blazing with the new material which has something of a punk edge to it.
The set finished up with a cracking cover of Electronic's Getting Away With It, bang on the stroke of 11. After an all too brief encore Skin bounded offstage, sporting the biggest grin ever. An excellent gig then; I'm very glad I went and I'm looking forward to hearing her new album when it's released early next year. Hopefully she'll be touring it...
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Mike Peters @ The Wedgewood Rooms 11/04/05
The Alarm are generally regarded as the band that were a bit like U2 but not as good nor as successful. Excellent live but never able to reproduce that sound on record, hampered by band in-fighting, let-down by record company machinations and, as Mike Peters mentions on his website, not helped by being welsh. They had it all against them, despite teaching Bono how to play Knocking On Heaven's Door.
These days Mike Peters keeps the flame of The Alarm alive by selling his wares direct from his website to a dedicated fan-base. The current acoustic tour is to plug an 8 DVD compilation of live performances from the Alarm-based festival he runs annually in Wales. These 'Gatherings' started small but now sell out.
Unfortunately it became clear from updates to the Wedgewood Rooms website that this gig wasn't going to be anywhere near sold out. When it says there's 'unreserved seating' it implies so few tickets have been sold that tables will be unfolded to fill up space. The additional "no support" tag didn't help any either.
Thus it was with a slight downbeat "oh well, there's a bar" air that we found ourselves in the Wedge on a murky Monday night. And yes, there were tables filling the venue, but they were all full. The candles gave the proceedings an intimate feel whilst on-stage a video screen showed snippets of previous Gathering concerts as a warm-up. So far, so good.
When Mike Peters appeared on-stage, looking slightly nervous and with spikier hair than he had any right to own, he informed us that it was to be a gig of two halves, with a short interval. This explained the lack of support act.
The first set was taken up with a sprinkling of more recent songs, with only the odd old tune in between. Also, as this was an 'interactive' tour, the songs had been chosen by visitors to his website. Mike dedicated these but, it must be said, seemed rather uncomfortable doing so. He only really came alive between tunes when recalling a rock'n'roll anecdote; for instance explaining how When The Ravens Left The Tower was inspired by The Alarm's bass player, self-medicated to the gills, watching nothing but a tourist TV loop in a hotel room for a weekend.
The evening's first half wrapped up nicely with The Stand. During the interval we were treated to more Gathering footage, including the classic 68 Guns. We also met some Alarm "groupies", one of whom had come all the way from Bedford just to see her hero. And she'd dragged her mates along as well, which was nice.
In the second set a now slightly more relaxed Mr Peters rolled out the old favourites. Rain In The Summertime sounds so much better live than on record (where it suffered from 80's over-production). It also helped that the crowd had raided the bar in the interval so we all were freer and easier when it came to singing along. Things moved up a gear with the raucous Absolute Reality, after which came the bizarre appearance of a Prince cover.
Then it was into the final stretch with Rescue Me, Spirit Of '76 and 68 Guns (which, to be honest, I didn't think he'd play, it having been part of the interval entertainment). There was a brief respite from the singalongs with the mournful Walk Forever By My Side, then everyone joined in with Blaze Of Glory to draw the evening to a close. Well, nearly to a close.
After singing his guts out for two hours he was out of the stage door and into the crowd for much taking of photos and signing of autographs. And there, forever by his side, were the Bedford ladies. Rock'n'Roll eh?
These days Mike Peters keeps the flame of The Alarm alive by selling his wares direct from his website to a dedicated fan-base. The current acoustic tour is to plug an 8 DVD compilation of live performances from the Alarm-based festival he runs annually in Wales. These 'Gatherings' started small but now sell out.
Unfortunately it became clear from updates to the Wedgewood Rooms website that this gig wasn't going to be anywhere near sold out. When it says there's 'unreserved seating' it implies so few tickets have been sold that tables will be unfolded to fill up space. The additional "no support" tag didn't help any either.
Thus it was with a slight downbeat "oh well, there's a bar" air that we found ourselves in the Wedge on a murky Monday night. And yes, there were tables filling the venue, but they were all full. The candles gave the proceedings an intimate feel whilst on-stage a video screen showed snippets of previous Gathering concerts as a warm-up. So far, so good.
When Mike Peters appeared on-stage, looking slightly nervous and with spikier hair than he had any right to own, he informed us that it was to be a gig of two halves, with a short interval. This explained the lack of support act.
The first set was taken up with a sprinkling of more recent songs, with only the odd old tune in between. Also, as this was an 'interactive' tour, the songs had been chosen by visitors to his website. Mike dedicated these but, it must be said, seemed rather uncomfortable doing so. He only really came alive between tunes when recalling a rock'n'roll anecdote; for instance explaining how When The Ravens Left The Tower was inspired by The Alarm's bass player, self-medicated to the gills, watching nothing but a tourist TV loop in a hotel room for a weekend.
The evening's first half wrapped up nicely with The Stand. During the interval we were treated to more Gathering footage, including the classic 68 Guns. We also met some Alarm "groupies", one of whom had come all the way from Bedford just to see her hero. And she'd dragged her mates along as well, which was nice.
In the second set a now slightly more relaxed Mr Peters rolled out the old favourites. Rain In The Summertime sounds so much better live than on record (where it suffered from 80's over-production). It also helped that the crowd had raided the bar in the interval so we all were freer and easier when it came to singing along. Things moved up a gear with the raucous Absolute Reality, after which came the bizarre appearance of a Prince cover.
Then it was into the final stretch with Rescue Me, Spirit Of '76 and 68 Guns (which, to be honest, I didn't think he'd play, it having been part of the interval entertainment). There was a brief respite from the singalongs with the mournful Walk Forever By My Side, then everyone joined in with Blaze Of Glory to draw the evening to a close. Well, nearly to a close.
After singing his guts out for two hours he was out of the stage door and into the crowd for much taking of photos and signing of autographs. And there, forever by his side, were the Bedford ladies. Rock'n'Roll eh?
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Mercury Rev @ Southampton Guildhall 13/03/05
Any review of a gig at Southampton Guildhall (aka The Bucket) must acknowledge the venue's appalling acoustics; the ceiling is too high and the room is too long, giving a strange echoey effect to the sound. Some bands can just about cope with this, relying on either a decent sound engineer or a packed venue to change the sound for the better. Unfortunately for Mercury Rev, the venue was less than half full and the jury was still out on the sound engineer.
When I arrived the support act, The Duke Spirit, were gamely trying to enthuse the crowd. They had some success but, despite being less than 20' away from me, it sounded as though they were playing at the far end of a long tunnel. This didn't fill me with confidence for the main event so I strolled into the deserted bar for a cold Grolsch.
Mercury Rev's entrance to the stage was heralded by someone playing around with the dimmer switch, the lights above dying then flickering back into life almost in time with the engineer's warm-up tape. Finally the lights went out properly and the band strolled onstage, Jonathan emerging last from the wings, looking other-worldly and receiving more applause than the rest of the band put together.
One polite greeting later, delivered in a voice not quite as squeaky as that of his singing, and the band kicked off the proceedings. First up was the new single, Secret For A Song, which is also the first track on the new album, The Secret Migration.
A few bars in and it was clear that Mercury Rev were playing at the far end of the same tunnel as The Duke Spirit had just occupied (maybe the engineer was rewinding his tape, or he was getting spanked for playing with the light switch). This was a real shame, and perhaps next time they tour a smaller, more intimate venue for their fare can be found. Even the Mayflower would be better than The Bucket.
I'd read a review prior to this gig that the set on the current tour is made up mostly of new material. I was slightly perturbed by this as I didn't have the new CD but I needn't have worried. The new stuff holds up well to the classics and, perhaps because I wasn't as familiar with the material, I found myself being drawn in to their psychedelic world (OK, and the Grolsch was helping).
For a large venue it had all the makings of an intimate gig; in an ideal world someone would have been selling velvet cushions for us to lounge upon as we soaked up the strangeness. Instead I had to rely on a wall to lean on, handy for the bar (only one of which was open, and half of that was closed down midway through the set due to lack of business).
A problem some bands have with larger venues is the size of the stage: it's big, wide across and high (The Bucket is a prime example of this). Some bands use strobes to expand their presence, others invest in pyrotechnics. Mercury Rev, not exactly the most animated of bands (the lights on Grasshopper's keyboard moved more than he did) splurged on films to accompany their tunes. This worked well, up to a point.
The movies fitted the music, the occasional promo video was even re-used, with shots of CGI cell structures and the countryside slotting in well. The only problem I had was the quotes sprinkled liberally throughout. These jolted me out of my listening experience, appearing to be at odds with the songs and, in all honesty, making them try to look far too clever for their trousers. Still, tucked away at the back of my brain somewhere are some ancient sanskrit thoughts which may one day come in handy (though I doubt it).
You may at this point be thinking that I didn't like the gig. You'd be wrong. Mercury Rev were awesome (though that doesn't make for a gripping review, unless you're a gnarly dude). The old material (and one track was VERY old indeed) fitted in well with the new, showing that whilst the band has matured they've not deviated too far from their wistful and psychedelic path.
All in all a fine evening, though I just wish they'd have played somewhere slightly smaller (and closer, so I wouldn't have had to leave right at the end and miss the second encore). Anyway, for an alternate take on the gig, here's what the Daily Echo had to say:
ANYONE not familiar with atmospheric art-rockers Mercury Rev may have doubts over live performances of music best suited to soundtracks. But those fears immediately disappeared against a backdrop of huge video projections and a dazzling light show. The result was a night of powerful tracks played against a montage of images ranging from the surreal to the sublime.
The band, originally formed in the late 1980s, took the audience on a journey through sunsets and stars as they played tracks from their new album The Secret Migration. Despite the often cliched use of dolphins and spacedust on screen, the atmosphere never lulled as they wisely picked up the pace two-thirds of the way through with new song In The Wilderness.
Thanking their audience for coming out on a Sunday, and giving a superb second encore with a repeat, light-enhanced performance of The Dark Is Rising, Mercury Rev are probably best seen on the day of rest, and will no doubt be welcomed back to the Guildhall with open arms.
Well, they would say that, wouldn't they?
When I arrived the support act, The Duke Spirit, were gamely trying to enthuse the crowd. They had some success but, despite being less than 20' away from me, it sounded as though they were playing at the far end of a long tunnel. This didn't fill me with confidence for the main event so I strolled into the deserted bar for a cold Grolsch.
Mercury Rev's entrance to the stage was heralded by someone playing around with the dimmer switch, the lights above dying then flickering back into life almost in time with the engineer's warm-up tape. Finally the lights went out properly and the band strolled onstage, Jonathan emerging last from the wings, looking other-worldly and receiving more applause than the rest of the band put together.
One polite greeting later, delivered in a voice not quite as squeaky as that of his singing, and the band kicked off the proceedings. First up was the new single, Secret For A Song, which is also the first track on the new album, The Secret Migration.
A few bars in and it was clear that Mercury Rev were playing at the far end of the same tunnel as The Duke Spirit had just occupied (maybe the engineer was rewinding his tape, or he was getting spanked for playing with the light switch). This was a real shame, and perhaps next time they tour a smaller, more intimate venue for their fare can be found. Even the Mayflower would be better than The Bucket.
For a large venue it had all the makings of an intimate gig; in an ideal world someone would have been selling velvet cushions for us to lounge upon as we soaked up the strangeness. Instead I had to rely on a wall to lean on, handy for the bar (only one of which was open, and half of that was closed down midway through the set due to lack of business).
A problem some bands have with larger venues is the size of the stage: it's big, wide across and high (The Bucket is a prime example of this). Some bands use strobes to expand their presence, others invest in pyrotechnics. Mercury Rev, not exactly the most animated of bands (the lights on Grasshopper's keyboard moved more than he did) splurged on films to accompany their tunes. This worked well, up to a point.
The movies fitted the music, the occasional promo video was even re-used, with shots of CGI cell structures and the countryside slotting in well. The only problem I had was the quotes sprinkled liberally throughout. These jolted me out of my listening experience, appearing to be at odds with the songs and, in all honesty, making them try to look far too clever for their trousers. Still, tucked away at the back of my brain somewhere are some ancient sanskrit thoughts which may one day come in handy (though I doubt it).
You may at this point be thinking that I didn't like the gig. You'd be wrong. Mercury Rev were awesome (though that doesn't make for a gripping review, unless you're a gnarly dude). The old material (and one track was VERY old indeed) fitted in well with the new, showing that whilst the band has matured they've not deviated too far from their wistful and psychedelic path.
All in all a fine evening, though I just wish they'd have played somewhere slightly smaller (and closer, so I wouldn't have had to leave right at the end and miss the second encore). Anyway, for an alternate take on the gig, here's what the Daily Echo had to say:
ANYONE not familiar with atmospheric art-rockers Mercury Rev may have doubts over live performances of music best suited to soundtracks. But those fears immediately disappeared against a backdrop of huge video projections and a dazzling light show. The result was a night of powerful tracks played against a montage of images ranging from the surreal to the sublime.
The band, originally formed in the late 1980s, took the audience on a journey through sunsets and stars as they played tracks from their new album The Secret Migration. Despite the often cliched use of dolphins and spacedust on screen, the atmosphere never lulled as they wisely picked up the pace two-thirds of the way through with new song In The Wilderness.
Thanking their audience for coming out on a Sunday, and giving a superb second encore with a repeat, light-enhanced performance of The Dark Is Rising, Mercury Rev are probably best seen on the day of rest, and will no doubt be welcomed back to the Guildhall with open arms.
Well, they would say that, wouldn't they?
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