From the mouths of babes

I don’t know why exactly, but the sound of children singing on pop records fills me with angsty dread. It’s not that I dislike kids in any way or have anything against young people raising their voices in song. It’s not some repressed childhood memory thing either – embarrassing revelation coming up – I actually rather enjoyed being part of the school choir; not that it did anything for my credibility or popularity at the time though, and we once absolutely butchered Bohemian Rhapsody.

I raise this issue now as Swedish singer Lykke Li releases another frustratingly catchy single ‘Breaking It Up’. On previous tracks ‘Little Bit’ and ‘I’m Good, I’m Gone,’ the potentially irritating bubblegum tunes were made irresistible by her enticing voice, sweet and innocent yet so sexual and aware that a few notes were enough to conjure the mental image of her legs wrapped firmly around you. But on ‘Breaking It Up’ all that is replaced with the incessant whining of (at least what sounds like) a gang of twelve-year-old girls. The fantasies vanish in seconds and my hand rushes for the stop button. Listener’s droop. When it comes to pop songs, there’s just something about the high-pitched unison of a children’s chorus that seems inherently out of place.

For the last 50 years, from rock’n’roll to hip-hop, pop music has been the cultural representation of teenage rebellion, of fighting against the system and breaking free from authority. Sex, drugs and occasional political diatribes were the themes and guitars and turntables were the means. Of course the reality of the music industry production line is most often a world away from this romanticised image; but in my mind, the sound of a harmonised troupe of young people, trained and disciplined by their elders, is the opposite of pop’s symbolic freedom.

I fear I’ll always have this immediate aversion to the sound of children on record. It was a stroke of genius to for Pink Floyd to invert the common connotations of the choir by getting a bunch of cockney schoolkids to coarsely holler “We don’t need no, educayshun!” Yet I still can’t help but cringe when their prepubescent voices emerge from my speakers. Maybe attending one too many recitals has forever burnt the associations of Andrew Lloyd Webber medleys into my brain.

Ironically, my own choir carried out a miniature rebellion by refusing to sing Another Brick in the Wall at the suggestion of one long-haired prog fan. Perhaps even then I knew that four part arrangements of unbroken voices just weren’t meant for rock and roll.

Top five songs to shudder to when the kids’ voices kick in:

Another Brick in the Wall (Part II) – Pink Floyd

Dirty Harry – Gorillaz

You Can’t Always Get What You Want – The Rolling Stones

Never Forget – Take That

The Lost Children – Michael Jackson This slightly obscure album track from 2001’s Invincible is especially unnerving because you don’t know how many of the kids on the record might have spent the night at Neverland.

No Age + HEALTH + Lovvers @ Scala, London 11/08/08

When you arrive at a gig and there are more men with beards than there are women of any kind, you expect to see chin stroking aplenty as skinny guys play intricate and intellectually challenging guitar parts. You don’t expect stage invasions and rousing raucous rock and roll. Yet that’s exactly what this triple lineup of noisemongers produce tonight.

Lovvers sound retro. Not retro like they’re just ripping off old songs. Retro like they are actually an early 1980s punk band. Like they were actually there. Like in a 1980s teen movie when the rebel character goes into a grotty little club to watch a band – Lovvers are that band. Like when you’re a teenager and you download a song because you heard it was an influence on Kurt Cobain, and you’re not sure you really ‘get’ it but you know it’s good – Lovvers wrote that song. Can a band so old fashioned really be relevant? When they sound this vital then the answer is “hell yes!”

Lovvers are what punk is supposed to be: heavy, hard and shouty but essentially three-minute pop songs with plenty of hooks. Singer (or perhaps vocalist is more appropriate) Shaun Hencher screams his way through a slowly awakening audience, but it is Henry Withers’ melodic guitar licks that really entice and keep you listening after your in initial excitement has abated.

A term like ‘experimental punk rock’ is confusing at best and mostly just an apparent contradiction. Wasn’t punk supposed to kill off all that weird proggy shit? HEALTH certainly exhibit plentry of fret wankery; in fact, when they stop thrashing about long enough for you to catch a glimpse of their faces, it looks as if they’re really having a wank – mouth open, eyes closed in a kind of tired, almost pained ecstasy orgasm face. It might occasionally verge on the ridiculous, but HEALTH take their music seriously.

The first few songs come across like derivative shite, but as more and more weird keyboard noises emerge, things become a lot more interesting, hypnotic even. As the long haired vocalist/pixie prances around the stage, limbs a-flailing, you realise those screams aren’t coming from his mouth. They’re coming from the effects pedal, as if somebody’s soul were trapped inside; like the sounds you’d expect to hear emanating from the Ghostbusters’ trap. Ghoulish.

It’s with the appearance of tonight’s headliners No Age that the crowd gets really excited. Their simple drum and guitar combination is about as far from the White Stripes as limitations allow. The seemingly poor quality sound only adds to the effect of a band so scuzzy they make the Jesus and Mary Chain sound like they’d been playing acoustic guitar all this time.

From about halfway through the set, the stage is near permanently invaded by a group of extremely earnest fans. Though No Age’s songs aren’t always the most memorable, as a live act, their combination of intelligence and vigour has the ability to release the inner mosher of even the nerdiest, most skinny-wristed, curly-haired, four-eyed, socially awkward young gentlemen. And really, that’s what rock and roll’s all about: making the uncool cool, or at least seem cool, or at least feel cool, at least forget that they’re uncool because for that brief moment, nothing but the music matters.

Field Day festival 09/08/08

Almost all new festivals seem to suffer an inescapable array of organisational pitfalls from sound system failure to toilet overcrowding. Just take ZOO8 and the Mighty Boosh Festival this year as dramatic examples. This leads me to believe that a) most people thing organising a festival is easy when, b) it is bloody difficult, nigh impossible.

East London’s newcomer to the ever-burgeoning festival season is Field Day and, by all accounts (that I’ve heard), its first outing last year was little short of a disaster. However, the organisers have bravely carried on, pulling themselves up by the laces of their plimsolls and attempting to learn the harsh lessons of their initial attempt. And while there seem to be some haters still out there, in my opinion it was a great success.

Field Day lived up to almost all its promises, providing an eclectic and interesting cross-genre lineup of artists in a fun and friendly atmosphere. And without too many perfectly coiffured trendy try-hards, drunken aviator-sporting landfill-indie louts or worn out fogies complaining it wasn’t as good as festivals used to be.

Yes, the weather was miserable. Yes, Mystery Jets and Dan Deacon pulled out. Yes the female festival-goers had to queue for yonks to use the portaloos, resulting in a line of squatters along the perimeter fence. But despite all of this, everyone I came across seemed to be in high spirits, in a “hardship brings us together” kind of way, and genuinely excited about the music.

Noah and the Whale kicked things off with a brightly coloured start (from their blue and yellow getup at least). Much-hyped “song of the summer” ‘Five Years Time’ goes down well but there’s a certain repetitive formula to each remaining song – start quiet and slow, build to energetic folk tune complete with fiddle and trumpet backing – that leaves the crowd wanting.

Howling Bells adequately release their brand of female-fronted grungey rock before giving way to a band whose performance both live and on record continues to astound me: Wild Beasts. Even in the setting of a dreary day with a limp crowd, they perform each song with the love and attention usually reserved for small children (who thankfully seem to be largely absent today – what on earth makes people think it’s a good idea to bring their toddlers to festivals?!).

Laura Marling seems to be plodding along in a pleasant and inoffensive way as I watch from behind the control tent but I don’t stay to hear the beautiful ‘Ghosts’ as I’m keen to hear the Mae Shi. Initial disappointment at what appears to be another dull band supposedly working under the banner of ‘experimental punk rock’ gives way to some actually pretty interesting sounds and some actually pretty fun songs that my little brain doesn’t quite know what to make of in the 15 minutes I see them perform for.

Choosing Jeffrey Lewis over Of Montreal, I head to the Homefires stage and peer over the umbrellas to watch Jeff and his female companion crank out some classic anti-folk. Much to my surprise and delight this included the epic and incredible ‘Williamsburg Will Oldham Horror’ with the scratchy violin replaced by battered acoustic guitar but losing none of the head-fuck of lyrical flood of consciousness. Plus to experience previously unfamiliar songs is a genuine treat from this master of storytelling and “Creeping brain, creeping brain” still rings round my head.

Paying £6 for uncooked pasta is enough to dampen things more than the rain ever could, especially when done to the sounds of Lightspeed Champion who receives an undeserved bump up to the main stage. Indeed Mystery Jets cancellation is my biggest disappointment of the day as “Two Doors Down” and “Young Love” would no doubt have blown the clouds away, such sunny pop songs as they are.

Another hard choice comes as Efterklang takes precedence over Les Savy Fav, but thankfully their creamy mix of Sufjan Stevens sounding baroque pop and Broken Social Scene collective zeal instils me with joy. However, the weather has finally broken me and with no great love of headliners Foals or Simian Mobile Disco I decide to retire to the warm and dry.

For all the complaints made since the day, I remain convinced that the weather was the biggest problem and that Field Day presented the left-field-loving public with a festival of impeccable taste. Where else could you find as great and varied a collection of artists for a mere £26.50 plus booking fee?

Radiohead @ Victoria Park, London 24/06/08

I’ve just been to see one of my all time top-ten favourite artists – and possibly the most important band of the last 20 years – and I feel a little odd. I should be elated, ecstatic, enthralled; instead I’m overcome by a mere contentment, with the tiniest hint of disappointment.

With last year’s number one album, In Rainbows, Radiohead broke a hundred rules of the industry, and musically went where most people were unsure they’d ever be able to go again. In Rainbows brought a warmth and a grandeur back to Radiohead’s sound that had been missing for the past seven years, while still retaining all of the stunningly clever experimentation that they have become known for. OK Computer might still be their masterpiece but last year they delivered, in my opinion, their second best album. Yes, it was better than The Bends.

Radiohead launch into the two tracks that open their recent album: the jittery ‘15 Step’ and ‘Bodysnatchers’. In the fading summer glow, this behemoth of a band appeared on the giant stage and seemed altogether very small. Thom Yorke almost seems like a schoolchild so dwarfed is he by the dangling stage effects and the empire of fans he surveys. No wonder he admits to being terrified. He still finds the will to lose himself completely in the music, that trademark haunting voice emanating from him as he dances with all the lunacy of someone due a visit from the Exorcist. Johnny Greenwood meanwhile also has something childlike about him, but it’s in they playful spirit with which he adjusts his synths and keyboards rather than his size.

The music, of course, is superb and performed with all the skill and passion you’d expect from an act of this calibre. It comes as no surprise that the band steer heavily through their most recent material, playing nine of out of In Rainbows’ ten songs including the ‘Jigsaw Falling into Place’ and the utterly beautiful ‘Nude’. (Unbelievably my favourite on the whole album ‘House of Cards’ is the one they miss out).

They add a few cuts from each of their previous albums except for the absent debut Pablo Honey (but that’s hardly a surprise). This creates a lean towards their post-millennium electronic era and herein lies the problem. Victoria Park is a location so huge that only the front 20% of the audience can see the band members without a struggle; and outside on a summer’s evening there’s an almost festival-like vibe to the show. Such a massive venue requires massive songs and lacks the intimacy needed for some of their less accessible work. The part-time fans who crowd the park might give a warm reception to ‘How To Disappear Completely’ and ‘The Gloaming’ but it’s nothing compared to the to response from ‘Just’.

I don’t blame the band for wanting to avoid a ‘greatest hits’ setlist at a time when they have such high quality new material and while former record label EMI hawks a messy compilation. And it’s a fine show, wonderful even. Yet what’s missing tonight is the sense of shared experience among the audience that might have been ignited if Radiohead had given us just a few more reminders of why we first fell in love with them.

That setlist in full:

Main Set:

‘15 Step’
‘Bodysnatchers’
‘All I Need’
‘The National Anthem’
‘Pyramid Song’
‘Nude’
‘Weird Fishes / Arpeggi’
‘The Gloaming’
‘Dollars & Cents’
‘Faust Arp’
‘There There’
‘Just’
‘Climbing Up The Walls’
‘Reckoner’
‘Everything In Its Right Place’
‘How To Disappear Completely’
‘Jigsaw Falling Into Place’

Encore 1:

‘Videotape’
‘Airbag’
‘Bangers & Mash’
‘Planet Telex’
‘The Tourist’

Encore Two:
‘Cymbal Rush’
‘You And Whose Army’
‘Idioteque’

Limbo, Panto - Wild Beasts

It’s difficult to believe what you’re hearing on your first encounter with the voice of Hayden Thorpe, lead singer of Kendal four-piece Wild Beasts. Surely no genuine artistic outfit would opt for such an overblown falsetto croon? The man appears to be attempting a Kate Bush impression! Yet as the sweeping strains of debut album Limbo, Panto take hold, it becomes strikingly apparent that Wild Beasts are, in fact, utterly serious. Overstated it may be but the passion and inventiveness on this record are undeniable.

While the absolutely delightful early single ‘Assembly’ boasted an addictive silliness, the song is boldly absent on Wild Beasts’ full-length debut where they seem to take a more sincere approach. From the swirling crescendo of opener ‘Vigil for a Fuddy Duddy’ onwards, this is a musical exploration that borrows lightly from all sides but gives back more than you could hope for. There are injections of soft funk and haunting wails; sometimes it sounds like a classical concert, sometimes like a circus; but rarely (if ever) does this sound like your typical indie rock band. The playful side is still there, most obviously in ‘Brave Bulging Buoyant Clairvoyants’ which takes you to giddy stratospheres with all the spring its name suggests. However, there’s so much more than caricature and camp to be found here.

Thorpe’s voice is the central uniting thread in all of this, projecting the kind of intensity usually purveyed by Final Fantasy’s Owen Pallet. It might be almost laughable to the uninitiated and nears tiresome if overplayed, but it holds a strange beauty in the right dose. The falsetto makes it even more powerful when he comes down an octave into his guttural growl of a normal register. It also finds a great counterpoint in the voice of bassist Tom Fleming (most notably on new single ‘The Devil’s Crayon’), whose thick baritone lies somewhere between Anthony of the Johnsons and Editors’ Tom Smith. Most of all there’s something so intent about Thorpe that it’s difficult to doubt what he’s saying. He does, after all, swear on his own cock and balls and that’s not an oath a man takes lightly. When he declares “I’m not a soft touch and I won’t be seen as such,” you don’t for a second doubt him.

The rest of the words are a rollicking journey through rhyme and alliteration and every phrase rolls off of Thorpe’s tongue and bounces around your head. Few would be daring enough to use the lines “When I’m utter putty I’m wetblanketfully lay lumpen/I feel red hot heart’s heat beneath left teat a thumpin’.” This might sound painfully over the top on paper but Wild Beasts somehow bring credibility to their ridiculousness. True there’s a sense of traditional English eccentricity and foppery here and Limbo, Panto positively revels in its own pomposity; however, the initial shock-value of the vocals gives way to the revelation that this is a serious, stunning and musically accomplished album. Absurd and unfashionable it may be, yet it’s utterly charming if you want it to be.

In defence of the CD

A package arrived for me in the post yesterday. Although it wasn’t unexpected, I still got a tingle of excitement as I carefully tore open the cardboard envelope. I knew almost certainly what lay within and yet some it recreated that Christmaslike feeling of surprise and sweet anticipation.

Inside was not anything extraordinary: a CD. To most people an everyday object and hardly worth getting excited over, never mind writing a blog about. CD sales continue to decline year on year and, in an era of instant access, downloads and iPods, many view those shiny plastic discs as relics, soon to be consigned to the annals of history.

I, however, still hold a special affection for the humble CD. Of course, much of its appeal can be found tenfold in a vinyl LP: giving you something that is tangible to hold and beautiful to look at, creating a sense of musical heritage and importance. I am not trying to laud the CD as some great as a great technological and cultural icon (though the argument could probably be made). My point is more general – that music any a physical format provides something that no mp3 ever could.

iPods and the like are an incredible invention, a gift from the gods to music lovers, and the internet give us more freedom than ever before to seek out and listen to music. Illegal downloads (for all their negative points) allow us to avoid making those regrettable choices, picking albums that seemed like a good idea at the time but soon turn out to be bland, sleep-inducing or downright awful. The internet has saved me from wasting my hard-earned cash on over-hyped debuts and derivative follow-ups. At the same time it has introduced me to the work of artists I may never have spent money on without the reassurance of first hearing their records online.

Despite the wonders of the web, buying CDs remains an integral aspect of my musical experience. Aside from ensuring well deserved payment reaches the artists who spend their lives creating this wonderful stuff, there is nothing quite like undergoing the ritual that comes with a playing a newly purchased record: opening the case or sleeve, placing the disc delicately in the stereo and discovering the opening strains of a new album for the very first time without knowing where it will take you. Whether you race home from the record shop clutching your little square bag or receive it in the post, that first play always holds a mysterious combination of anticipation and trepidation , precisely because you don’t know how it will sound.

Physicality should be an essential part of the experience of owning and listening to an album. There’s the artwork to gaze over and the lyric sheet to be studied in the hope that they might yield clues to some hidden meaning of the music contained within. It’s a pleasure to read the credits and discover where the songwriting talent lies, which band member can play the theremin and the maracas, and who that entrancing backing singer is.

So don’t give on CDs just yet. Don’t forget how you treasured your favourite album, the joy of taking it out of the rack to play, and the potential that small disc held because it was a representation of the music that meant so much to you.

Crystal Castles + Friendly Fires @ Astoria 2, London 14/05/08

A large queue of day-glow hoodie-clad teens is enough to put me off from entering the Astoria too early tonight (Crystal Castles did make an appearance on Skins after all). Luckily, it doesn’t actually feel like a school disco inside but the crowd is still noticeably young. The reason probably being that Crystal Castles and Friendly Fires are two bands so of the moment that you’d feel old just watching them if they weren’t both so invigorating.

 

If you thought the whole ‘new rave’ concept had finally died then you’d be mistaken, as is evidenced by the appearance of a mass of glow sticks in the audience when Friendly Fires take to the stage. But, for once, the idea isn’t totally off the mark as this is a party band at their very best. From the sexy, snakey basslines and crunchy rhythms to the knife-edge guitar lines and Gameboy keyboards, Friendly Fires are out to make you dance until your feet bleed.

 

But on top of all this they have actual proper songs. Not just a repetitive box of dancefloor tricks but melodies that arrive fully formed and ready to be lapped up and sung back. The band’s hypnotic falsetto vocals reach an apex on debut single Paris with it’s epic promise of “Every night, we’ll watch the stars – they’ll be out for us!” It’s the kind of sweeping dreamscape of sound that makes a music fan’s existence worthwhile.

 

Crystal Castles could be described as one solemn looking hooded guy hunched over a bunch of synths making a load of weird bleeping noises, while a girl in too much eye makeup throws herself around wildly and screams a lot. This summary wouldn’t be too far off the mark but would massively miss the point.

 

Those messed up, squelchy noises that sound like they’ve been extracted from a severely damaged 1980s computer have just what is needed to electrify the crowd after the benchmark of Friendly Fires. And Alice Glass’s distorted voice evokes such disturbing but strangely fascinating emotion as to be unmissable. As a live act they’re utterly captivating. Most bands would look cool under a strobe, but there’s something so fitting about seeing Crystal Castles through the flickering slow motion of lights that could cause seizures – as if the music wasn’t brain annihilating enough. 

 

Until this point, I’ve remained coolly sceptical about Crystal Castles recorded output, wary of the hype and novelty. But by the end of the set and a stunning performance of the ‘accidental’ single Alice Practice, all inhibitions have been abandoned and I’m throwing myself into the air with the rest of the crowd like I haven’t done in a long time.

 

Both these bands merge incredible energy with an experimental spirit and a desire to get people moving. But where Friendly Fires are optimistic, euphoric even, Crystal Castles are full of oppression and foreboding, like the soundtrack to a dystopian sci-fi future. The Fires may be able to boast the songwriting prowess, but the sheer magnetically weird energy of the Castles means they are more than deserving of the top slot of the evening.

Post War Years + Laurel Collective @ The Social, London 08/05/08

Tonight the Social plays host to two bands making serious rumbles in the London indie scene right now. Complementing each other perfectly, Post War Years and Laurel Collective make the ideal antidote to a Thursday night at home with the TV. Despite the rather limited dimensions of the venue, whip the crowd up into a flurry of dancefloor action as the bands promote the launch of Post War Years’ debut single The Black Morning.

Laurel Collective are six-piece with two, count ‘em two, lead singers that any writer would struggle to neatly classify. Refusing to be squashed into any boxes, they mix indie sensibilities with wildly veering proggy song structures and even a hint of funk in the basslines that keeps everyone’s feet tapping and heads bobbing. Plus I don’t think I’ve seen such fervent use of a cowbell since The Rapture. The dual vocals come from very different sources – the Nigerian-blooded Martin Sakutu and the bearded cardigan-wearing Bob Tollast – but merge with perfection to create a vocal blast occasionally reminiscent of Mystery Jets. Despite all the self-confessed “genre trashing,” Laurel Collective manage to pull off a convincingly coherent set of tunes. Because for all the experimentation there are enough pop thrills to enthral the audience and enough twists and turns to keep them guessing. Watch out for their upcoming album ‘Feel Good Hits Of The Nuclear Winter.’

While Laurel Collective have few sound-alike contemporaries, the opening strains of Post War Years’ set possess the kind of jerky awkward rhythms that bring straight to mind the work of one band du jour: Foals. It would be unfair to write them off as any kind of copycats though – there is too much variety, too much warmth, too much soul here for that – and the comparison soon fades as the music moves well beyond math rock stylings into a heady and hypnotic mix of dance and indie. Swirly synths surround a double pronged bass attack; all backed by some shit-hot incredible drumming that entrances the eyes as well as the ears. What is true, however, is that Post War Years are an ultra modern band. I never thought I’d ever hear any band claim their main influences as Tom Vek and Clor (as they did in a recent interview) but by drawing on the sound of 2005 they are creating the sound of 2008.

This review was first published here on Gigwise.

Violet Hill - Coldplay

Violet Hill is not one of those songs that immediately grabs you and gives you a good aural shaking. On first listen its simple melody plods along while Chris Martin does a bit of falsetto wailing now and then. When you think about it though, few Coldplay tracks could ever be called stunning the first time around. What this band do best are to craft songs that are easy on the ears but which secretly get under your skin and into your head without you realising it. And Violet Hill’s hook, ‘If you love me won’t you let me know,’ has certainly been bouncing around inside my cranium for sometime now. It’s not an exciting song per se; it’s one filled with a slow-building energy that is released in bolts through the guitar of Jonny Buckland with an electrifying sound never before heard on a Coldplay record. Indeed, the whole song, though starting with an ethereal intro, moves the band far away from the shiny, futuristic and cold sounds of their last album X&Y. It’s still anthemic, still excellently produced by Brian Eno, still tender in the right places and thunderous in others, but it has a rawness that’s perfectly timed for a band so often derided for being dull.

 

It’s easy to take a swipe at Coldplay (and many people do) for being boring, for being wet, for being simplistic, for rehashing the same song again and again, or merely for being popular. Why then is there such commotion in the music world each time they release a new record? This band hardly embodies ‘the spirit of punk’ or any other well-worn cliché then NME like to hurl at its usual upstart artists of choice, but Viva La Vida or Death and All His Friends (when will bands stop with the ridiculous album names?) will probably be one of the magazine’s albums of the year. And they’re hardly a band you’d expect a website like Drowned in Sound to get excited about, but DiS broke their own conventions and gave Violet Hill a single review all of its own. For all the wisecracks, the critics and the public alike treat each new release as a major event in the musical calendar, with fans ranging from mums to musos.

 

It’s true, they’re not exactly the sexiest band to look at. The movie star wife probably helps draw attention but Chris Martin does not make good tabloid fodder and has never courted celebrity. So there must be something more to Coldplay than fame that keeps record buyers coming back for more. Their music has an allure that crosses tastes and markets. Though their songs could hardly be called influential in the same way that those of their own heroes (U2, Radiohead etc) can, they have undeniably become one of the biggest bands of the decade; a defining act, not of a generation, but of a time and place. They will always be the butt of many (usually undeserved) jokes but, even though it may never be cool to admit it, songs like Violet Hill will keep bringing people back for more.

My new favourite lyric - Half Man Half Biscuit

‘I want a suntan not Vashti Bunyan’

from Totnes Bickering Fair by Half Man Half Biscuit

Genius!