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gigs : reviews PIXIES Food stalls, cash machines, giant snaking queues. Armies of bar-staff pumping tens of thousands of pints in plastic glasses. Laptop enabled merchandise stations, shuttle services and intermission music echoing off the back wall of the venue’s cavernous interior. Sounds like the perfect place to see the Pixies, recently reformed heroes of indie rock, huh? The ideal venue for the humble Boston quartet who, practically by accident, changed the sound of modern guitar music forever? My inner cynic is not convinced, and my outer cynic is having a pretty tough time too. Resolution of those nagging questions will have to wait until after the tiresome business of The Futureheads, however. If you really want an accurate concept of The Futureheads’ show, try listening to Helicopter by XTC about a dozen times in a row. Not only will you have a fairly rock solid idea of what it sounds like, but you’ll know exactly how fucking irritating it is, too. Their acapella shtick is deeply lame, their uptight staccato rhythms grating as hell, and to be honest I’m having a hard time remembering why I’m supposed to have heard of these retro hosers until they play their Hounds of Love cover. Ah, I think: it’s those clowns. And then - a little older, a little bigger and a lot balder - the Pixies take the stage, and those doubts I had are carried away in the lazy wash of opener Wave of Mutilation and replaced with a fat, almost painful, grin. It’s the start of a set full of solid gold classics and a list of memorable moments as long as the Pixies’ 12-year absence: drummer Dave Lovering’s infectious good cheer; a version of the Lady in the Radiator song from Eraserhead that has me wishing I could listen to Kim Deal’s voice for another hour and a half; the chorus of oooh-ooohs from the crowd that greet Where Is My Mind?; and Cactus, which actually has people throwing their sweat-soaked dresses onstage in accordance with Frank Black’s creepy lyrical request. It’s during moments like the last that it becomes obvious how effortlessly the Pixies can work a room this size, and as the crowd raise their hands in fives, sixes and sevens to Monkey Gone To Heaven it’s clear that these songs are practically custom designed arena pleasers. There’s even an MTV award show style medley, as a riotous rip through Isla De Encanta gives way to Surfer Rosa’s Something Against You. The extension of the opening riff is a masterpiece of moshpit manipulation, and Dave’s thunderous beat, when it finally arrives, sends hundreds of bodies hurtling towards the venue’s colossal ceiling. As a closer, Gigantic couldn’t be more fitting, and as the band wish each other and the audience a good night it’s clear that the problem isn’t that the Pixies are now playing a venue this size. It’s that those other lesser bands are too. Few of them deserve it like these guys do. CM MULTI PURPOSE CHEMICAL I'm idly passing my Monday evening in the Bull and Gate when word reaches me that a signed metal band are playing in the back room for a fiver. Well hell, I like metal, and I don't care who knows it, so I mosey on back for a looksee. The furrows warp my brow almost as soon as I step through the doors. Did I say I liked metal? I may need to rethink that statement, because if this is metal then I like something else entirely. I was expecting power, fury, aggression, urgency, all that good stuff. I was expecting to be challenged. What I wasn't expecting was HOOBASTANK. Hold on a second - is this HOOBASTANK? Jesus, it could be. I have no idea what HOOBASTANK look like, but it's probably something like this. Let's run through the sports metal checklist: pretty boy lead singer - check; giant bass player with too many strings - check; and uh, a couple of other guys - check. Good lord, I think this is HOOBASTANK! It certainly sounds like HOOBASTANK. Amazingly, this isn't HOOBASTANK at all, but some other perpetrators called Multi Purpose Chemical, which I guess means they're effective against plaque and the germs that cause bad breath. Their name brings to mind sanitised mass production; it's the label on a cheap Domestos knock-off, and it's probably the most perfect band name I have ever heard. Except, that is, for the word "purpose". I can't for the life of me work out what these guys are for. I try to imagine some A&R saying, "I know what the world needs! More HOOBASTANK!" but even with my advanced-level cynicism it doesn't seem plausible. They play well, at least. It's tight and punchy in all the textbook places, and the little singer fella hops around with a fair amount of energy, but it's so slick and safe I might as well be listening to a CD. A CD by HOOBASTANK. Later tonight I'll check their website. They "possess a genuine comedic talent", it says, but unless you get your yucks from casual misogyny (ha ha, he said he'd even "do" ugly girls!) I can't quite spot the laughs. I suppose sounding like HOOBASTANK is pretty funny. There's a mercifully brief sortie into clumsy funk metal in which they lift the chorus straight out of Edwin Starr's War (What is it Good For?) and do precisely nothing with it, and after some bizarro-MC Hammer dance moves they're off, leaving me scratching my head in confusion. They can clearly play their instruments, and they're tight enough for the genre, but why would they model themselves after HOOBASTANK? One HOOBASTANK is already more than enough, and the last thing we want is a HOOBASTANK epidemic. Jesus, just think of all the mustard gas we’d need. CM SMOG Oh, this should have been so good. Bill Callahan is one of the most original and interesting contemporary American singer songwriters, and his unsettlingly surreal folk is a rare treat in an often homogenised genre. But here’s what went wrong. The sound. Thin, watery and heavy on the treble, it’s a dry brillo pad all over my cowering cochlea. Howls of feedback tear through the mix – fine at a rock gig, but as welcome as a turd in my beer tonight. Technical hitches abound, and the electric guitar played by the Bill Gates look-alike sounds like a set of fucking ripped bagpipes. The venue. Is it possible that I hate this place more than the Mean Fiddler? The overhead air conditioners hiss and hum incessantly, and it sounds like the band is somehow playing on an old C-90 cassette. The main floor is flanked by two noisy bars – tremendous if you want a drink, but a total nuisance if you fancy doing anything as arcane as listening to live music. The show. The principal appeal of Smog is Callahan’s strikingly lugubrious voice and the queasy intimacy of his records, but tonight those qualities are largely lost by the decision to perform with a full band. Dirty Three drummer Jim White provides his usual peerless backing, his skittery fills and deft brushwork frequently threatening to upstage Callahan himself, but on the whole the bigger sound swamps the subtleties that make the songs work and, with a few exceptions, the performance fails to engage. The crowd. Man, there’s a surfeit of knobjockeys in here. The guy to my left is whooping like he’s at the Jerry Springer show. The couple behind me are discussing something their line manager said. The guy in the green shirt on my right is hopping around and pumping the air with his cigarette hand as if he’s watching a Chemical Brothers show, as opposed to a creepy death march about, I don’t know, incest or the like. I move around looking for the people who want to listen to the tunes, but I am destined to remain in the Asshole Pen for the duration. I cannot shake Mr Green Shirt. Why? Why must he turn my gig experience into a series of homicidal fantasies? Of course, there are cats like this in the crowd at any show, but normally I’m too involved in the music to notice. But tonight’s show fails to move me, fails to transport me out of this crowded hall, and I can’t escape my awareness of the dreary mechanics of gig-going. It’s all a great disappointment, because Callahan undoubtedly has the talent and the songs, but apart from a few tantalising glimpses of greatness, tonight is a thoroughly miserable affair. Next time, Bill. Next time. CM ISIS The dying strains of Bohren’s film noir saxophone great us as we navigate the Mean Fiddler’s MC Escher-esque staircases. It sounds like the soundtrack to a David Lynch version of Casablanca, and I’m picturing Bogie alone at a smoke-filled bar, raising a glass of bourbon and toasting the death of his partner at the hands of a backwards-talking midget. And if you find more gratuitous pop culture references crammed in the first two-sentences of any other gig review, I’d like to hear about it. Thanks to the near-obligatory five-mile queue in the malodorous alley by the venue, however, this tantalising snippet is all we get to hear, but we’re in time to catch Jesu, the new project by Godflesh’s Justin Broadrick. Their tremendous self-titled debut, Jesu (that’s “yay-soo”, for anyone reading this aloud) creates dense, slow-burning moods and sad, dreamy melodies, perfect for losing yourself to in those melancholy moments, but onstage the three-man band doesn’t quite manage to recapture the thickly layered drama of the record. It may just be teething problems (Roderic Mounir of Swiss nut bags Knut is filling in on drums tonight), but I’m just not sure that Jesu’s heartbroken slow core epics suit the shoulder-jostling confines of this sweaty rock venue. Happily, any chance of disappointment being the theme of the evening is smacked cleanly in the arse cheeks by the time Boston’s mighty five-piece Isis reach the stage. A hum of static builds to a climax and stops dead, the stark silence allowed to hang in the air for a fraction of a second, before the band burst into So We Did, the opening track of their latest post-rock / metal opus, Panopticon. Aaron Turner, a man currently taking a good crack at swiping Mike Patton’s title as the hardest working man in rock, bellows like an 8-foot bear who has just seen the state of the Mean Fiddler’s toilets, and seven hundred or so heads nod in furious agreement. Sticking to material from their last two records, Isis’ output is of such a uniformly high standard I wouldn’t be surprised if they have a lucrative sideline delivering powerpoint presentations on quality control to boardrooms full of pen-chewing MDs. Of particular note are majestic instrumental Altered Course, with its multiple crescendos and spine-tingling layers of soaring atmospherics, and the beautifully brutal (and aptly named) encore, The Beginning and the End, a towering bruiser with more chugs than a frat party. If you’ve ever wished for a metal band with the subtle dynamics of Mogwai, or fantasized about what would happen if Godspeed ditched the violins for power chords (and hey, who hasn’t?), you’d be in hog heaven with the colossal Isis experience. Hell, you were probably here too. CM RED SPAROWES The Garage is a great venue - just the right size, crystal clear sound, and a sweet view from almost anywhere. You can be perched at the bar, draught beer safely within reach, and your line of sight will still be largely unobstructed. In fact, I recommend you adopt this position should Suns Of The Tundra happen to be playing. The Suns were once called Peach, and once featured Justin Chancellor of Tool on bass. And there you have it: everything that is interesting about them, in one short sentence. It's slick, it's professional, and - gosh - it sounds just a little Tool-ish. Another round of Carlings please, in other words. All efforts to remain similarly nonplussed in the presence of Red Sparowes would have proven futile soon enough, but we are positioned at the front of the stage before they even play a note. This is a post-rock super-group of sorts, built around a core membership of various Isis heads and Neurosis collaborators, and their debut record, At The Soundless Dawn, is a master-piece of sprawling, epic instrumental rock. The expectation in the air looms as large as one of their sentence-long song titles. The second the five-piece launch into album opener Alone and Unaware, the landscape is transformed in front of our eyes, and it is obvious that expectations, for the most part, will be casually exceeded. The sound is crisp and full, the subtle interplay of Cliff Meyer and Josh Graham’s guitars is nicely balanced, and the drums kick harder than on the record. Cooler than all of that are the layers of pedal steel guitar that lift the whole enterprise into yet another league. Somebody somewhere will no doubt be tempted to call this “shoe gazing metal”, although that would not even begin to do justice to how much it rocks. Whatever it’s called it is ambitious stuff, effortlessly executed. Basically, it’s gonna be difficult to describe what I liked about this show without running out of superlatives, so how about I deal with the cons instead? It’s too damn short. That’s it; that’s my only beef. After about 45 minutes and maybe seven or eight tracks that run the gamut from dense, brooding claustrophobia to near orchestral washes of shimmering noise, Red Sparowes call a halt to their final cathartic crescendo and depart without a word. I turn to Sheepy, and he looks as astounded as I feel. CM SLINT When Kentucky post-rock pioneers Slint disbanded in the early nineties they left a relatively modest legacy consisting of two full-length albums and one EP. However, one of those albums was Spiderland, a record that sometimes seems to be spoken of in hushed tones more often than it is heard. Luckily, it is a genuine masterpiece too, and was responsible for a sea change in alternative rock that can still be felt today in the disparate forms of bands such as Isis, Mogwai and Godspeed You! Black Emperor. Its creators then went on to play in such cult favourites as Tortoise, Gastr Del Sol and The Breeders. News of Slint’s reformation this year obviously generated no small amount of excitement, but when the hysteria died down, one inevitable question remained: “So, are they going to fuck it up, or what?” Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present, in association with Slint, “Maintaining Near-Mythical Status: A Four-Point Master Class”. 1. Do not say anything. 2. Do not mess with the tunes 3. Confuse the shit out of everybody 4. Absolutely no encores MASTODON We're in the Mean Fiddler again. God, it depresses me when that happens. Can someone explain to me why the centre of the dance-floor area is on a higher level than the rest of the venue? Maybe they have a special club night here for idiots who need a few extra clues as to where they are supposed to be getting their groove on. Maybe it's a conspiracy against wheelchair-bound rockers. Basically, I can't think of any good reasons, so I made up those ones instead. Whatever the reason, the effect is basically that everybody directly in your line of sight has a good 6-inch height advantage. You will be lucky if you catch much more than a glimpse of the lead singer's eyebrows, assuming you have time to catch a glimpse of anything while trying to avoid all the bodies toppling off the edge of the platform during the rowdier moments. And with Mastodon in the house, that's pretty much all the time. The Atlantans made a splash a few years ago with their unironic and unrepentant updating of classic heavy metal styles. It's all there: the sprawling intros, furious chugging, dueling harmonic guitar lines, wailing solos, growling vocals and pounding double kick-drums. A recipe for disaster, surely, but Mastodon somehow managed the impossible. They made that shit cool. And I mean really, really cool. The X-factor here is two-fold. First, it's in the ferocity and passion of their playing - this isn't some post-modern exercise in tongue-in-cheek retro, just four talented guys playing the music they love and playing it harder and louder than anyone else. Second is Brann Dailor's superlative drumming. His rolls, paradiddles and, uh, what not will transform even the most studiously disinterested zeitgeister into the lamest muso geek. Imagine what might happen to someone who was already the lamest muso geek and you're halfway to understanding how I feel. So there's excitement in the air but, this being the Mean Fiddler, it's never going to be that straightforward. The sound is muddy as hell throughout. The high-end is swamped in bass rumble, the subtleties of the band's guitar work are completely lost and the resulting noise only really comes together when they all throw their backs into the passages of mighty riffing that mark the end of most of their songs. It picks up a little around half-way through with a riotous version of Blood and Thunder from their Moby Dick-themed new album Leviathan, but on the whole the sound remains frustratingly indistinct. That said, the band pour their hearts and beards into their performance. Dailor appears to have four arms, and looks freakishly relaxed considering the noise he is producing. Bassist and front man Troy stalks the stage, saluting the punters in the balcony and stepping up to the barriers to survey the crowd, making his head say "yes-yes-no-no-no". They're short on banter but long on rock, and they just about manage to win the night back from the piss-poor ear-sludge dripping from the speaker stacks. Mastodon rock, the Mean Fiddler blows. Pass it on. CM THE FRAMES The Frames are always wonderful live. Whether or not the gig itself is good depends on three things: the place, the crowd, and yourself. The band is a sure bet. On stage, lead singer Glen Hansard is just sinking his teeth into A Caution for the Birds from their new album Burn the Maps, the second song of the evening and the crowd has settled down long enough to listen. It's a heart-wrenching epic. It's a mother cat pawing over her dead kitten. Above my head there's a rattling air-conditioning unit destroying it. It's a car running over the mother cat. I politely tell the bar girl that all we can hear is the fan. I am politely told it has to stay on because people are smoking. "Sorry about the funny noise" she says. The crowd cheers and laughs because the song has finished and Glen Hansard's a funny fucker. I grab my girlfriend and move to the other side of the room. I can still hear it at the other side, but it's not so bad so I start to relax. In front of me is a giant and his dancing giant friend who jiggles and reels and rocks and jumps and knocks my beer onto my wrist. I re-group and I try to see between hooded tops, noses and ears and hair. I'm fuming. And then I get a grip and listen because the band has just blasted into Fake, the sing-a-long sour grapes pop number also from their new album. And now I'm smiling and swaying and singing like a prat. "C'mon the guy's a fake, what do you love him for?" Yeah! Fuck it. They're on form. Hansard seems particularly happy, throwing his arms in the air and generally reveling in it. I think it's the new material. "Most of you here probably won't know any of these" he says. And he's right. Burn the Maps isn't out here yet. Suddenly some cow shouts "go on the Malahide" (Hansard's home in Dublin) and I notice the air-conditioner again. It's like a fat man's breath on my face, rattling in his flabby throat. A girl barges past me. The dancer giant knocks my beer clean out of my hand. I'm on the verge of frenzy. And again I'm dragged into sanity when a familiar cooing makes me stand on my curious toes and angle my head to find out what's going on. They're doing Where is My Mind by the Pixies. I don't care if I can see. I don't care about the ass hole behind be who bellowed all through Star Star, the quietest track of the night. I've forgotten the posh ass hole beside me saying they made "a nod to a fellow guitar tactician" when they finished a song with the Amen from Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah. That one had been burning within for some time. Yet I leave disappointed through the still cheering crowd. See, I've decided that a Frames gig can either be the most amazing night of live music you can have outside of naked angels playing the guitar solo from Get Me by Dinosaur Jr for you at the pearly gates to god's own free bar. Or it can be as stressful as newcomers to the cinema making you miss the start. The band will have nothing to do with it. They are consistently one of the best live acts around. I guarantee you fantastic music and charismatic frontmanship. Just like last night. I got the stress. Everyone else had the night of their lives. I need to have a serious word with myself. DB LES INCOMPETENTS Some of the stuff I enjoy listening to on a recreational basis could strip the eyebrows right off your face. I only have to say "Lightning Bolt" or "Daughters" and the noise-heads among you will know that I am no stranger to the brain-damaging joys of a good old slab of caustic aural violation. This is to say that I ain't no slipper-wearing stick-in-the-mud, but goddamn it I'm about to grumble like one. I'm all set to grumble like a Travis fan with his cock caught in a Napalm Death CD-case. It's tempting to let their (no doubt ironically intended) moniker speak for itself, but tragically these guys are way, way worse than incompetent. Jesus, how can I possibly describe this? Try this: imagine one of those school talent show bands you used to see playing anaemic cover versions of tunes that were shit in the first place. Then imagine them trapped inside a metal biscuit tin, which is then strapped to an industrial paint-shaker and subjected to great distress. No actually, forget that. That sounded kinda cool. Anyone remember The Zit Remedy from Degrassi Junior High? Also, I don't want to give the impression that these clowns are even on speaking terms with the concept of rhythm. Their tempos slide up and down the scale within songs like there's a fucking worm hole on stage. That is, if you can even hear the beat. The young cavalier behind the drum kit appears to be afraid his snare will hit him back if he annoys it, and he is frequently drowned out by the epileptic macaroni in the front who has evidently just been given a cowbell as a reward for mucking out the stables. A fucking cowbell! I can hardly believe my ears. In fact I hope for your sake that this whole night is some sort of terrifying tinnitus-induced ear-hallucination of mine. I'll say this, though, they've got some chutzpah turning up, woefully under-rehearsed as they are, and playing to a live audience (they also have a lot of friends, which explains most of the audience in the first place). It takes guts to play when you have spent more time trying on scarves and combing your dandy side-parting than you've spent, I don't know, learning how to write and play songs. It is also amazing how these chaps have managed to express their individuality by dressing exactly the same as every other mother fucker in the room. But, in all fairness, it must be noted that these are early days yet, so a better life for all of us may lie just around the corner. Perhaps we can make some sort of deal? How about the rest of us promise never to experiment with blazers, hands-in-pockets and PLO scarves, and Les Incompetents promise to stay the fuck away from all music, now and forever? CM TOM MCRAE McRae’s songs are paranoid tales of stalking and surveillance, his music is rippled with menace: You Cut Her Hair sees someone shadowing their ex's new lover, The Boy With the Bubble Gun is equally sinister. With the characterless corporate box that is Islington Academy enforcing a strict 10pm curfew (something to do with an Xfm club night) he did well to fit in so many favourites, giving us Sao Paulo Rain, End of the World News and the epic A and B song from his self-titled debut album, along with most of Just Like Blood and a good sprinkling of new stuff, penned in LA, yet sounding as bleak as ever. Midway through the set, his eloquent rant against apathy, Bloodless, became subject for a bizarre bit of audience participation, hardly the most sing-alongable of songs yet there everybody was happily chanting McRae’s bitter lyrics back up to him. Maybe I’m on my own here but when I go to a gig I kind of want to hear the man I paid money to see and not have to listen to a choir of Carling fueled twenty-somethings. McRae has an innate understanding of how to make his music work on stage and his gigs are always a pleasure but there’s always the sense that he’s not that engaged with all that he’s saying. He still exudes an aura of roll-up smoking, poetry toting student, a whiff of intellectual superiority that it’s hard to warm to. And really, that hair… NT AND YOU WILL KNOW US BY THE TRAIL
OF DEAD There are many problems here, most notably the superfluous second drummer and the over-emphasis of the vocals in the mix. We can barely hear the guitars, so the subtleties that make their formula work so well on the albums are lost amidst the riotous drumming and startlingly banal lyrics. In truth, Trail of Dead have only ever had two songs - the moody rocker with the delicate intro, and the moody rocker with the violent intro and delicate coda, but tonight they have reduced these to their base elements and lost whatever it was that distinguished them from each other in the first place. They play Song A, they play Song B, then repeat until apathy kicks in. Oh, and here's another slight difficulty: the new songs are balls. Conrad Keely introduces one of these clunkers thus: "Here's a song from that album we just spent a year recording". He sounds pissed off, and we can feel his pain - in fact, we can hear it. A year, and this is all they got? An alternative intro might have gone: "This next one's called 'Fulfilling Our Major Label Contractual Obligations', hope you like it". Two redeeming features: Mistakes and Regrets, which is such a good song that it rules no matter how badly it's played (mind you, they play it second, making the temptation to split and have a pint somewhere quiet awful hard to resist); and Jason Reece. Jason is the star of the gig by a country mile. Most of the time he is behind one of the two drum kits, beating at it like it just touched up his granny, but it's when he steps up to take over vocal duties that things really get going. Climbing into the crowd, scaling the speaker stacks - this guy is quite au fait with the concept of rocking out, and his sweaty gusto is basically the only reason we end up sticking around. The rest of the band, no matter how much they throw their guitars in the air, can't muster an ounce of the righteous fury that Reece possesses on tap. Maybe seeing Shellac the night before has us spoiled, but by the end, as the band are in the midst of the by now traditional Trashing of the Instruments, the final verdict is clear: this is a one-man show, and you will know Jason Reece by his trail of other fellas. CM SHELLAC OF NORTH AMERICA I've written about a half-dozen gig reviews, so it's safe to say that I have no idea what I'm doing. But I've noticed one thing: if I find myself at the show actually thinking about what I'm going to write the next day, it's a pretty good indicator that the gig isn't the best. If it's truly good, I'm lost in the moment, and my memories are a feverish smudge from which I struggle to concoct some kind of coherent narrative. I thought this was a pretty fail-safe rule until tonight. Albini is ranting now, curled up at the mic. "Can you hear me now? Is this thing on?". I'm fully immersed in this brutal, angular racket. He name checks John Peel, and there is whooping and yelling. And the thought attacks me from within my adrenaline-rush fug. Jesus. John Peel is dead. The radio is dead. Music is fucking doomed. On Jools Holland's show recently, the amassed celebs were quizzed about their John Peel memories. Not only did they all have a version of the "under the covers with the radio after lights out time" tale, but they all pretty much said they do what they do, and are where they are, because of Peel. I could barely raise a shrug when it was, say, the Manics, but Nick Cave? The list of legends given the leg-up by Peel is astounding. Who will pick up the reigns, now that he has finally shuffled off to The Great Gig In The Sky? Chris Mother fucking Moyles? It's all swell for us right now, we're here at Shellac, our indie cred intact and in rare form. But I first heard Shellac on Peel. I listened to the Big Black Peel Sessions just last week. How long before the warm glow of his legacy fades, leaving us with the bland offence of Keane or the identikit retro of Jet and The Whogivesashits? When all the indies are swallowed by the majors, they'll not be spending their advertising dollars on the likes of McLusky (tonight's tremendous support) or the pre-hysteria Pixies. The only viable "product" will be the type that serenades the consuming masses while we queue for our popcorn at the multiplex. So tonight we whoop and we yell, but this is not a celebration and Albini knows it. At best, tonight is a warning of the what's to come. At worst, it's a fucking wake. CM MCLUSKY Jeffrey Dahmer was in town, you see. No, he didn't kill himself. He plays bass for McLusky. I saw him at ULU. I saw him! Same guy: blonde, shirtless, big glasses, camp looking, dorky, prone to violence. OK, there was no violence, but I did think he was going to pop a neck-artery each time he howled, spraying the crowd with blood and pus from the exposed thrashing tube. It was building up within him. Conor's cousin was done for once this dude hit the streets, that look steaming up his NHS specials. It's only when we saw him get into that tube carriage that I realised. And I was too drunk to say anything. I'm ashamed of myself. See, I'd cut my finger somehow and accosted some poor sap, wagging my finger in her direction and spouting something about toilet roll. She was staff I hope. Oh god, what if she wasn't? I'd been bleeding for a while without realising and my jeans looked as though I'd been humped by some marauding arse. A few minutes later, after she actually went and got the paper for me (many thanks) Sheepy asked if we should do vodka mud shakes and I sensibly said no. Then we drank more beers and more beers and watched McLusky's chubby, be-chopped lead-singer, Jeffrey Dahmer and the drummer in his jungle gym of tom-toms and cymbals tear through their enjoyably splenetic set, beginning with deranged rocker Lightsaber Cocksucking Blues and pausing only the hand out verbal beat-downs to hecklers, as is their shtick. Then I said "Good idea, let's do vodka mud shakes!" but it was an hour later, the gig was over, I was wankered, and Sheepy said no, confused. The toilet paper around my fingertip was bright red, like E.T.'s magical digit. We left, my finger guiding the way, and we let that poor boy go home alone, into the clutches of Dahmer, now free of his contractual obligations and looking for an off-colour long-haired cherub to destroy. Sorry. Sorry. DB LHASA You think my voice is sexy, right? Will you still think it's sexy after a long and rambling monologue about my invisible relatives tooling about in Marseilles? How about if I go off on one about how the clouds sometimes do some shit, and other times they don't do any shit at all? Still diggin’ these breathless, husky tones? A little less so, I'll bet. In fact, you're starting to think it's kind of hilarious instead, aren't you? Anyway, here's a song, you're gonna like it. I wrote it in French. You're gonna like the one after it too, because there won't be any talking in between. Got a guy in the corner playing one of those little keyboards with a hose on it that you blow through. Got a drummer playing a brownie tray, a bit of cello, and there's a big double bass over there too. This is all very cool, you got to admit it. And now that I'm singing, you like my stuff again, don't you? Yeah, well don't get carried away, because here comes another story. This one's about my dad, how he thinks about some stuff, for, like, a year, and then rolls out some crazy shit about multiple successive worlds and how we might all be, like, foetuses about to be born again into a new world, and so on. Fuck, what was I smoking before the show? Did I really just say all that stuff? Did I tell that story about my sisters again? Goddamn. Time to play another song. This one's real nice. This time it's in Spanish, and it's got that sultry, smoky vibe that I do so well. The brownie tray guy is hammering out a clang-boom type of noise that Tom Waits would cream over. This is why you're all here, isn't it? Nobody does this shit as good as me - in fact, nobody even does this shit. I wish this place was a little smaller though. It'd be cooler if you could all be a little closer, and this place wasn't so cavernous, but it's nice you all have room to bend your head forwards and hide when you're worried you're gonna bust out laughing. Man, this story's going nowhere. Sometimes I wish one of the guys would interrupt me with a 1-2-3-4, but they always just sit there, patiently waiting. I guess it's because when I do eventually get going I make a really beautiful noise. I can do raucous party tunes, smouldering love songs, tales of life on the road - all laced with a spooky otherness that nobody else can touch. And that's how it goes. Well, I got one more story and one more song. And then you'll all wander off into the cold, wet streets of London and back to your homes, and in the end you won't really know what to think about tonight at all. And maybe that suits me just fine. CM HORACE ANDY The tramp that harassed us for cash outside Camden tube by trying to sell me a three month old Big Issue had a fine line in aggressive selling. We ran away. He ran after us. Little did we realise that this tramp needed money for a reason - not for Tennent's Super, not for 10 Lambert and Butler, not even for crack as you may have thought. This particular street dweller needed my money to fund a tramp outing with his tramp friends to see Horace Andy (and at £22 a ticket, that's a lot of almage). So when he stumbled into the Jazz Cafe and started to hassle me for pints, I applauded his resourcefulness, but felt compelled to tell him to fuck off. We arrived early, so early in fact that I had to switch to shandies halfway through to ensure I'd make it to work next day. We were being treated to some classic roots from the Trojan label and the support act, some sort of Rastafarian Pearly King, played two songs and he was off (Mike Patton and Rahzel take note). I thought Horace Andy was like 80 or something, so when he came bounding down the stairs on to stage I feared for his hips, but Sheepy's girlfriend reliably informed me he was only 53. I was relieved. The horn/backing vocals/percussion section comprised of a hippy, a chav and a pork pie hat. They were outstanding and clearly enjoying themselves (except the hippy who remained pensive throughout). Horace was outstanding too, dancing several variations of the Running Man during every number. The French love reggae. All of it. Even Chaka Demus and Pliers. On a pillar beside the stage was stenciled"STFU during performance". It took me a while to work it out. Not our tramps or French though, god bless 'em. Others, unfortunately, clearly never did get to the bottom of it. Mainly girlfriends. Mainly with their jeans tucked into their stupid fucking boots. Unfazed, the music continued, a booming rhythm simultaneously competing against and complimenting his fragile, lilting voice, as sweet and as pure as in his Studio One days. After a substantial set, he bounded back up the stairs. Everybody screamed. Back down the stairs, and we were given a searing a cappella of The Hymn of the Big Wheel and a bouncy Skylarking. They left. We left. The tramps are probably still there. JOD DEUS The Mean Fiddler is run by a fucking evil anarchic mastermind. We keep saying we won't go back, especially since that time they made us queue for an hour and forty minutes in a piss-slicked alley, because we were going to a hip-hop show and so of course we were all concealing glocks inside our anoraks (we ditched our Tech-9s in a bin around the corner). But then they dangle bands like this in front of us: dEUS, the Belgian art-rock curiosity, who have manage to distill the very essence of what makes alternative music work, and who have been AWOL for the last five years. Once we have been lured back inside this squalid mausoleum, every effort is then made to shit all over our gigging experience. That fucking raised platform thing in the middle, a stone pillar or grotesque big-haired giant blocking every view you can find, MC Escher staircases and ass hole bouncers - this has to be the worst venue in London, if only because it is so frustratingly close to being great. Thankfully, dEUS have the rare skills to lift you out of this shit-hole, if only for an hour and a half. With a new line-up, half a decade of absence, and a couple of cancelled festival shows behind them, they've got something to prove. Tom Barman announces his 'one old song, one new' policy at the outset, deftly taking care of the twin dangers of comeback shows: the suspicion that a band is not playing the new stuff because it sucks, and the fear that they won't play the old crowd-pleasers because their swollen egos don't permit it. So we get terrific versions of old favourites like WCS and Turnpike, along side sneak previews of promising new material. I guess we're at that age where line-up changes begin to matter. When you've been following a band for 10 years and they turn up with only two of the original members left, it starts to feel like a betrayal. This is nothing like a Bon Scott/Brian Johnson thing here - no-one died - but somehow you can't help looking up at the stage thinking: "Who the hell are these guys?" But by the time they are making a room full of jaws drop during quiet/loud/louder classic Roses, all misgivings are forgotten. dEUS are fucking back, and I couldn't be happier. Shit, there's that grin again. CM GWYNETH HERBERT Fortunately headliner Gwyneth Herbert was in no way disappointing. Looking stunning in scarlet and black, she was every inch the professional performer, sashaying across the stage, introducing each number with a snappy anecdote or a reverent purr, careful not to overly eclipse her band. Her set was an eclectic joy, switching between jazz standards and her own self penned numbers, effortlessly gliding from a song by Cole Porter to one by Janis Ian. Not everything worked. Her version of Crowded House’s Into Temptation lacked a certain spark and a Tom Waits song also failed to sparkle; each of her backing band was allowed a moment in the spotlight but this democratic approach was perhaps taken too far when the guy on the bongos embarked on a solo. When things came together they did so with style. A minimal, double bass accompanied Cole Porter number became a staccato gem. A Portishead track was wonderfully reworked, playing to Herbert’s vocal strengths. And her version of Fever was a highlight of the evening, her voice dipping and soaring, building from a sensual softness to a show-stopping boom. It’s a real credit to her own material that it stood up in comparison. Once again there was a sense of being let down by the boxy inadequacy of the South Bank’s venues – at the end of the night we were left with a strong sense of regret at having missed her pre-Bittersweet and Blue sets at the Pizza Express jazz club – but this could not diminish the fact that Herbert is a fantastic talent with a voice to die for. NT PO' GIRL The multi-talented Klein seemed happy to allow the glorious Alison Russell to take centre stage. In a black basque, floor length skirt and pearls Russell was certainly a worthy front woman, with a strong soulful blues voice, often reminiscent of Tracy Chapman though without the masculine edge. The threesome is completed by Diona Davies, alternating between fiddle and guitar. Subverting convention, their support act took to the stage after the interval; fellow Vancouverite CR Avery is an urban wordsmith, a literate rap artist with a nice line in beat peppered poetry. Avery’s a unique talent but there was perhaps too much of him here, he popped up at regular intervals throughout the evening and as a result the set flagged ever so slightly in its second half, you longed for Russell to be allowed to hit full flow, unhampered. Po’ Girl are a band unafraid of being worthy. Alongside the inevitable anti-Bush jibes, their songs touched upon prostitution, abuse and politics. The word ‘revolution’ received more than one mention. And while, as a cynical Brit, my first response was to squirm, another voice spoke up reminding me that this world could do with a few more protest songs. Po’ Girl sing about tolerance, peace and empathy and it’s actually pretty refreshing. There’s only so much art-rock posturing you can stomach. The undoubted high point of the night was Russell’s ode to Billie Holiday, a storming tear stained number that built to a rousing finish, “if the spirit says sing then sing!” It was a wonderful performance undermined only by the setting. This was beer-sipping, muted-lighting music and the rigid, formal Purcell Room just seemed the wrong venue, taking the edge off an otherwise excellent set. NT THE HAZEY JANES Support came from The Getaways and Red Pony. The latter were an agreeably 80s trio with a shirt-and-tie clad front man who seemed to have stepped off the cover of Douglas Coupland’s Microserfs. I’m predisposed to like band’s whose names reference Steinbeck novels and Red Pony were no exception: they were smart, sparky and undeniably retro without being overly derivative. The former attempted to compensate for their bottom of the bill status by playing with the volume cranked up to stomach-pulsating levels. Composed of three blokes and one girl The Hazey Janes’ songs frequently rely on their three part harmonies to give their lyrics a lift. After All, the first track from their eponymous debut is a particularly cool example of this. Other songs see them up the tempo to winning effect. Confidently occupying the front of the small stage, Liam Brennan takes main vocal duties while the others back him up. Alice Marra, the band’s sole female member, looks equally happy up front, her smile shining from beneath a thick, primary school fringe, her voice bringing a pleasant texture to the harmonies. A strong live act, The Hazey Janes may not be original, but they have a sweet upbeat sound that it’s hard not to like. NT IDIOT SON With competent support by the Matrix-sampling Moeker, this was a triple bill of the highest order. Fronted by the magnificently bequiffed Andy Thompson, Idiot Son came on stage with a string quartet in tow and proceeded to awe the crowd with a set comprising songs from their wonderfully named debut album Lummox. Charismatic and confident performers, they won the audience’s attention with a collection of intimate, intelligent songs permeated with an affection for the city. Building to string-laden crescendos, Thompson’s tales of love, loss and London life were compelling, complex and not without humour. Quirky and bittersweet, smart and assured, Idiot Son are certainly something. If you haven’t heard of these guys, and I hadn’t before tonight, then do everything you can to rectify this oversight. You won’t be disappointed. NT MIKE PATTON VS RAHZEL Why I left For 2 fucking hours. Rahzel was late, leaving us with Where's Wally and his collection of drum and bass. This gangly rube pointing at us and nodding his head as tune after repetitive tune built up to the inevitable sped up snare that sounded like a big fart razzing my stiff knees and sore back. I know Rahzel was to blame because I saw him arrive as I took a break from the onslaught to visit the bog. After a further 30 minutes, at about 10.15, Rahzel and Patton appeared without so much as an explanation and most people immediately forgave the preceding horror because look! It's Patton and Rahzel! Let's point and let them know how great they are. Not me. None of their combined talent was on display and something very special was required (and, admittedly, anticipated) in order to redeem the evening. But they seemed simply two grown men making noises at each other, with the odd interesting beat from Rahzel and howl from Patton. And then it happened... Say OH! Why I stayed 2. Your rock star/rapper/country singer? None of these
guys are EVER gonna 3. The D'n'B milquetoast was a big mistake, but the main
act can't be 4. I hung around because of Patton, who always entertains
me (I can't work 5. Most of all, I stayed because it was a genuine treat
to see two musicians Somebody really needs to sack that DJ though. CM KATHRYN WILLIAMS Backed by her usual band of cellist Laura Reid and guitarist David Scott, Williams’ set doesn’t neglect her self-penned songs, the regretful Fell Down Fast is a particular gem, and even includes one number from her “lesser-spotted first album.” The undoubted highpoint of the evening comes however towards the end as she tackles Leonard Cohen’s oft-covered Hallelujah. Most closely associated with Jeff Buckley and the tune of choice for a host of over-ambitious buskers, Williams draws a refreshing tenderness from Cohen’s lyrics and her clear, gentle voice builds to a raw roar that sends shivers through the entire audience. She leaves us exactly as she wants us, warm, elated and aching for her return to songwriting. NT MESHUGGAH "The fat man did it". Last night, I believe I saw him. The sound engineer for Meshuggah at the Mean Fiddler. He stood in the raised booth opposite the stage and looked down upon the band with his shirt off, his beard hanging between his breasts and his massive belly leaning on the mixing desk. To his right and left, two thinner, younger roadies leapt about and rubbernecked their way through the set, but he and his belly remained still. Watching. Onstage, all hell was breaking loose. Eight-string guitars and the most obscene drum kit in the world making the wall behind me rattle. I looked for fire exits. I worried that it was a support structure and turned to ask Sheepy, who's good at that kind of thing, but he wasn't there. I semi-consciously leaned against it to prevent shatter like a windscreen on a pebble road. I pictured a mass of rubble and a single arm, bull-horns frozen in place, emerging from the rock-wreckage in the terrible silence, the dry-ice dispersed by the breeze from the missing roof. But in the midst of all the hair and heads and strobe lighting and thrashing chaos the lead singer stood centre stage. Thin, bald and bearded, his shoulders arched, his arms wrapped about the air in front of him as if flexing his deltoids, or more like cradling a great missing belly. He was looking up to the booth where the fat man returned his glare as the noise continued to grow and they were the only still people in the room, besides me, petrified and frozen to the spot. And I realised that there was something between them. There was something causing this. Something in that belly. So now he has troubled me again. The fat man did it. DB / CM UNSANE According to the pre-gig publicity, Raging Speedhorn should be Murder One, but they aren't and thank Christ for that, and thank Christ for bottles of semi-cold Kronenburg. Speedhorn are pretty heavy. If they all got into a lift at the same time you could expect problems. They do the two vocalists thing, and it's an enjoyable show, mainly because they are pretty handy at recycling all your favourite riffs from your favourite bands and serving them up with no small amount of moxy. Still won't buy their records though, for the same reason. Apparently they won some sort of sideburns award last summer, and by the looks of it they're still going strong in 2004. Unsane struggle through some muddy sound in the first
half of their set. Chris Spencer has an evil glare so intense we suspect he's maybe as unhinged as his band name suggests, so it's quite a surprise that he turns out to be just about the politest man in rock, ending each song with a flurry of sincere thank-yous and half-bows, like a hardcore Japanese hotelier. It's only a bit of a shame that they have no new material, but tonight Unsane play with the hunger and the energy of a band ten years younger, proving that they are still relevant even when tearing through tunes written a decade ago. DB / CM NINA NASTASIA The thing is, I could attempt to describe the show in
as much detail as I Ending early, normally the done thing with us would be
to go for a post-gig SILENT FRONT I want to be surprised, blown away. Right now I’d settle for plain old entertainment of any sort, but, like I said, it doesn’t look good. And then Silent Front happen, and right from the first note it’s obvious that these guys are something different. It’s rough, it’s punchy - it’s got hair on its chest, goddammit. It’s the power and discipline of Shellac, with the propensity for obtuse self-indulgence swapped for with Unsane’s dedication to the sweaty, bass-driven groove. But forget all that stuff. Only one thing is important: they rock like an elephant’s nut sack, throwing themselves into every wild, angular twist and turn, the drummer playing like he’s trying to kick his way through the drum-kit and out into the audience. He very nearly does, and there’s a five-minute pause while a new bass drum is set up, the beater being firmly lodged in the skin of the old one. Their set has easily the most technical hitches I have ever witnessed – it’s like a gig version of Armageddon where every thing that can go wrong will go wrong, but even these problems are handled with good humour. Come to think of it, even the equipment breakdowns sound cool. I wanted to be blown away, but I didn’t expect this. My friend Sheepy thinks we don’t go to enough local gigs, checking out bands at random. I was a little unconvinced before, I admit, picturing the likes of Red Nettles, but this refreshing dose of homegrown hardcore has me sold. Any amount of gutless Nickelback-alikes is worth enduring for a half-hour of a band with a fire in their belly like Silent Front. I’ll see you in your local booze-soaked flea-pit. DB / CM FANTOMAS I fucking hate toilet attendants too. The toilets are stink-holes, worthy of no more than a beery turd right on the tiles, and often there is one or two. Who in their right mind allows a guy to spend the night in there, spraying sweaty meatheads with Paco Rabanne and Lynx? Gurgling shirtless proles who elbow each-other as a dance and place their open beer on the toilet floor beside their steaming streams and pluck it up with their unwashed hands and head back out to touch off people like me. These guys care no more about the way they smell than how stupid their spider-web and gothic cross tattoos will look all over their wrinkled faces and hands in forty years. And I fucking hate queuing. For anything. Especially down a piss-smelling alley off Charing Cross Road. This was Fantomas at the Astoria, Mike Patton’s ear-bashing for dedicated fans. If you know them and like them you were probably there, endured it and loved it, like I did. If not, you’ve probably never heard of them, have little or no interest in knowing them and nothing I could say would describe them or make you like them. I’d make it sound like a hideous noise, and they’re better than that. Just like they’re better than the some of the cretins who attend their gigs and the venues in which they play. Much, much better. DB / CM THE LIARS Coming on stage early (they're keen!) The Liars whisked through an hour long set which consisted of my favourite song at the moment If you're a wizard then why do you wear glasses? (they have got a point). They look on odd bunch. The drummer is a cross between both Tarzan and Jane. The lead singer is very hairy and very scary. The guitarist, who can only be described as work experience boy, kept the band together. Plucked straight out of Pink Floyd we find ourselves witnessing him play synthesizers, samplers, guitar, bass and drums. With a regular haircut and regular dress sense he seems slightly out of place in this trio but is the Jonny Greenwood of the band. The Liars are at some points scary, often funny - something that is not evident on the album They were wrong, so we drowned. They are anything you want them to be. A true find and a great band live. Definitely one for the future. DC BLANCHE THE VICHY GOVERNMENT The recipe for this incendiary cocktail is Jamie Manners' spoken word misanthropy and the lo-fi casio-tones of Andrew Chilton. Manners' subject matter is resolutely un-PC and perhaps uncommon in pop-music, but won't be unfamiliar to anyone who ventures beyond the Top 40. He lays on the petulant sarcasm so thick he comes off like a slightly better read Teen Boot Camp brat, and the only memorable line is the risible "I told them I was warts'n'all... they thought I was talking genital!" which comes complete with the "wait for it!" pause of so many student union standup comedy acts. The music is mildly irritating and consists of a dozen or so variations on the "Tuesday Lunchtime Quiz Show" theme, and will no doubt prove a big hit with The Darkness-loving irony crowd. Things threaten to get interesting during a song about Northern Ireland but in the end the best that can be said is that it's probably a better effort than "Belfast Child." But then what isn't? They close with new single "Rubbish", a rant which is given an extra coating of irony by the fact they have the standard Erasure/Pet Shop Boys formula down pat: dull techno-boffin in back, immersed in keyboard wizardry and in front a flamboyant singer (i.e. wears make-up - why are men-in-make-up only ever considered provocative by other men-in-make-up?), like a Lego Jarvis Cocker. Perhaps they'd argue this is an intentional subtext, but I would hope that if a band were so conscious of their own redundancy they'd have the decency to quit rather than rub our faces in it. If these karaoke lightweights are the cavalry, we really must be in some sorry state. DB / CM SHELLAC OF NORTH AMERICA Steve Albini, a thin and jowly character in an incongruous fedora hat, has recorded albums for Nirvana, Pixies and PJ Harvey, and has been at the forefront of angry, angular noise-rock for twenty years. Tonight he appears as front man of Shellac. Now, you don’t go to see Shellac expecting pretty. What you get is raw scratchy and tight. Chesty guitar coughs backslapped by the massive hand of Todd Trainer’s drums, mixed with sparse throaty vocals and bouts of gravely noise. Bone meat and sinew stripped of the fat. There were mumblings of looseness and "not their best show" in the crowd, the leathery trio sticking mainly to old favourites and not really hitting their stride until the double bill of The Billiard Player Song and Wingwalker from their early EPs. Still they appeared effortlessly tight and relaxed, joking with the crowd and taking questions, before erupting simultaneously into another staccato assault on the verse-bridge-chorus format. I did overhear bassist Bob Weston talking after the show, however. "That’s what you get for not rehearsing", he said. You don’t go to see Shellac expecting pretty, and it’s great. It’s loud, ruptured, challenging, childish, funny and brutal. And sometimes pretty. DB / CM LAURA VEIRS With Katie Melua types currently sullying the name of female singer-songwriting, the release of Veirs’ latest album Carbon Glacier was rapturously received by certain critics as a mini masterpiece capable of restoring credibility to a genre that had lost its way. Though her music is lyrically inventive and occasionally beautiful, this response had the effect of setting up expectations of Veirs that she is not yet able to meet. She is however a charismatic, idiosyncratic performer, with her nasal West Coast twang and black-rimmed Woody Allen specs, and her songs, though simple, are intelligent and delicate. Though in the past she has played with a larger band, for this gig she is accompanied only by her guitarist, Karl Blau, who struggles with an instrument that seems far too small for him with the result that when he completes a minor solo, is greeted with a warm ripple of applause. They make an endearing pair but it leaves you wondering what Veirs could achieve if her material was to get the backing it deserves. DAMIEN RICE Though his new material is genuinely exciting, all crunching guitars and howling vocals, and shows a strong desire to move on musically from the occasional whimsy of O, the atmosphere never really recovers. The wonderful Lisa Hannigan, Rice’s co-vocalist, is the main casualty of this situation, her ethereal version of Silent Night which demands, and deserves rapt silence is unforgivably drowned amid the buzz of voices. The cellist’s solo rendition of the White Stripes’ Seven Nation Army almost saves the show but it is too little too late, a real shame as Rice is an able, engaging performer and, given the right venue, capable of truly great things. NT THE WHITE STRIPES / BLANCHE Anyway the main course, The White Stripes were also magical, playing an hour and a half set but never stopping. They managed to cram nearly twenty five songs into the set. Permanently on heat I tell you! Having no set-list, Jack would just think of a song and play, then Meg would pick up the song and bang another one finished. They even took requests for god's sake - how cool is that? The set mostly consisted of material from Elephant and White Blood Cells with Apple Blossom, Pretty Good Looking and a few others making an appearance from the other two albums. Full of talent and Meg was dressed in leather. The best and most exciting live band around. Say no more! DC DAMON ALBARN If the DJ set wasn't good enough Albarn was on top form. Showcasing songs from Democrazy, an album which he describes as a "work in progress". Live, the album was dynamic and slightly odd. The night was not about Mali, the Gorillaz or even Blur; it was about Albarn, and it was interesting to see what direction musically he is taking. It was very very Kid A and for me that's fab! The small club was a perfect place and in true hippie fashion he made everyone sit down we all could see! Ingenious! Damon was in true top form laughing, joking and interacting with the crowd. It truly was one of those moments. DC THE STROKES / BRITISH SEA POWER The Strokes also were simply fantastic. They played a perfect hour long set, which was disappointing, but it consisted of every song from their two albums plus a dodgy duet and a dire Clash cover. The lighting was poor and atmosphere non existent but that's more to do with the venue than the bands. The songs sounded exactly as they do in studio, but for £25 you could have bought both albums and had enough change for a saveloy. Not good value for money, but they were amazing. One thing would have made the gig irresistible would have been a change of venue. DC BLUR Blur ran through classics as well, which sounded fresh and raw because of Albarn's enthusiasm. He was simply adorable and so intriguing to look at, he showing one of his best performances by stage diving, jumping excessively and walking and greeting many fans through the crowd. The whole band enjoyed themselves, Alex James constantly laughing. The best thing about the gig was that musically they telepathically linked and as Thom Yorke once said they've 'got that horn again'. Stunningly beautiful. DC MUSE Muse treated us to classics from all their albums. The only disappointment is no Unintended and Matt's awful shirt. The balloons at the end released to Bliss and the last single Time is running out add to Muse's persona. There were some gorgeous intimate moments and there were also some classic rock poses, leading to an enjoyable concert. Muse sing about the apocalypse and if I had the choice I'd go with them. DC RADIOHEAD But the most beautiful spectacle of the evening was the crowd completely involved singing and dancing to every word. The great thing about this band live is there not only fascinating to look at, (they all have individual styles) but they are not ashamed to like their own music and it benefits them because they evoke this feeling to the crowd. Unlike some bands, they enjoy playing live (it's not a chore Mr Dylan!). The standard claim Myxamatosis is techno and Sit down, stand up is drum and base. Hehehehe! Say no more! DC BOB
DYLAN He led us through a set which included Hard Rain, Like a rolling stone and All along the watchtower which to be honest was nothing short of awful. There were no other classics! Deciding to stick to the piano all evening at the corner of the stage in such an intimate venue playing his worst songs was a real opportunity missed. He probably should hang up those strings. DC |
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