We’re launching a brand-new free-entry clubnight called woo. at the Queen of Hoxton in London on Thursday February 18th [Gmap], featuring The Power Trio DJs (ooh, mysterious!) on the decks, playing:

My Bloody Valentine, Air France, Yo La Tengo, Memory Tapes, The Ronettes, Air, New Order, The Shangri-Las, Neon Indian, Vivian Girls, The Velvet Underground, Sonic Youth, The Cure, Summer Camp, Beach House, TV On The Radio, M83, The Knife, Iggy and The Stooges, Sonic Youth, Jimi Hendrix, The Radio Dept, No Age and more.

The PR has this bit of parodial wankery so we’re sticking it in here too:

woo. [wu?]
interj & n & vb
A less sycophantic and more authentic version of its descendent, ‘woo!’.

Do come.

Arctic Monkeys

I’m not really too bothered about who he’s fucking, or where he lives, or even what he gets up to outside music. He can become an actor if he wants, start painting….. whatever. I’m concerned about Alex Turner, ‘the indie icon’, about this ‘genius’ tag that has prematurely been bestowed upon his slender frame.

Though success, both commercially and artistically has dictated that we should place Turner in the upper echelons of the indie hierarchy. Close to the likes of Jarvis Cocker or Morrissey. There seems to be an issue about how all the adulation can extend beyond his work on the Arctic Monkeys debut release Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not, culturally it was an album that changed the whole landscape of indie music, and by indie I don’t mean real indie, I mean indie. Y’all dig?

Think about it. It was an album that came from nowhere, produced a plethora of singles that everybody could relate to, transcending generations. You had everybody from the thousands in festival crowds singing ‘When the Sun Goes Down’ arms joined in unison, to a couple of middle aged dinner ladies singing along to ‘Mardy Bum’ on the radio whilst smeared in breadcrumbs and chip fat.

Then came the expectation, the hype, the pressure. Briefly acknowledged in the EP Who The Fuck Are Arctic Monkeys? we saw Turner the songwriter admitting that becoming a rockstar is not all it’s cracked up to be, and that life on the road can be a bit boring. Favourite Worst Nightmare seemed to reflect the hectic new found lifestyle, generally more frantic the band’s debut, we witnessed something unsure emerge from Turner. Where as in these circumstances, a more extroverted personality can embrace the notion that all eyes are on me now, for Turner a reticence set in. It appeared the man became serious too soon, and muddled himself in the quagmire of maturity.

Crooning on tracks such as ‘505’ and ‘Do Me A Favour’ Turner seemed hell bent in becoming an old man in his early twenties, adopting a vintage romantic persona that men such as Richard Hawley, Nick Cave and Scott Walker have naturally grown into. But the jacket didn’t fit. It seemed even less believable when he jettisoned the Monkeys to work with Miles Kane on the ridiculously pompous The Last Shadow Puppets side project.

See Turner found himself in a quandary, his popularity intact, his star fixed firmly in space. But his legacy perhaps already ruined. Arctic Monkeys couldn’t even do what Oasis did, and release two GREAT albums consecutively, they merely released one. Lyrically Turner deserted observation and wit, and became a little more cryptic, alienating the public by mystifying the private.

Though Humbug has established the Monkeys alongside Muse, Coldplay and Kasabian as festival headliners and bona fide heavyweights, what they share with those bands is a lack of pushing the boundaries, solid but unspectacular. Trustworthy musicianship, an almost bankable guarantee of a good gig, but the element of surprise is missing. Humbug seemed almost predictable, the getting back to basics album, working with Josh Homme in the desert to merely reconnect with the essence of rock.

I don’t believe that the other three members of the Arctic Monkeys are musical visionaries. Turner doesn’t have a foil within the band; there is no Lennon or McCartney, or better still Morrissey or Marr dynamic. He can trust his band to play, but not to create, and obviously the limitations of his band mates influenced his decision to adopt a side project involving the likes of James Ford and Owen Pallett. The group dynamic is tight musically, but seemingly unlikely to produce a Kid A defining release.

Maybe it all came too soon. The lad had to quickly adjust, and his life abruptly altered from having a comfortable little to acquiring an awful lot. Turner has always downplayed his success, though you’d be foolish to believe it hasn’t affected him. You go from being a bedroom bard to the voice of a generation, the expectation paradigm shifts.

In a time, as the fine football journo John Nicholson remarked where we have a tendency to over-rate, over-praise or even over-criticize. Turner exists as a man accelerated; perhaps not a genius, not yet a legend, but somewhere in the middle.

The Mary Onettes

The Mary Onettes have made my job easy; I could do away with mentioning how their name reminds me of Earthbound (that SNES game from the 90’s) and just cut the whole review down to one sentence: Do you like The Cure? Yes? Then you’ll probably like The Mary Onettes.

Annoyingly that ‘probably’ means I have to elaborate and actually write a proper review, damn. Hailing from Sweden, The Mary Onettes are essentially an 80’s inspired pop band, taking their cues from gloomy acts such as Echo and The Bunnymen, and of course, The Cure.

However, where The Cure were known to produce the occasional upbeat tune, such as ‘Lovecats’ and ‘Friday I’m In Love’, this band maintain a steady level of mediocre melancholy in their sound, making them great for sad funeral moments in low budget films and sitting rocking gently in the dark, but not good for much else.

While Islands is without doubt a well performed and polished album, it just lacks energy, with each track agonisingly dragging into the next, like the horror that was the Freddie Krueger TV series (although The Mary Onettes could probably benefit from the excitement of having razor sharp fingers).

On paper it should all work, flowing orchestral strings, light guitar work and steady percussion, all with smooth, warm production and melodic vocals laid over the top. ‘God Knows I Had Plans’ is a perfect example, mixed to perfection, with lovelorn vocals and a sound softer than air, and it would be great by itself, but with a whole album of samey tracks, it just grates.

So, if you’re not one for the cheer of Christmas, or if you’ve just seen a box of kittens carried by the world’s most adorable monkey run over by a convoy of Coca Cola lorries, then this could be for you. If you still actually have some semblance of warmth in your heart, then there are far better albums out there for you.

Brett Anderson

January 22nd 2009

The last time I saw Brett Anderson he was fronting Suede on the Coming Up tour.  He swaggered on stage joining his band (everyone dressed in black) and delivered a set of songs which rode the crest of the Britpop wave which he had helped to kickstart. He pranced, he clapped, he put his foot on the monitor and sang songs about sex and drugs and the urban, working class world he inhabited.

Since then a lot of water has passed under his bridge; drug addiction, the break up of his band, death and the release of three solo albums in as many years, generally to critical and commercial indifference.  His solo output has been a much more sombre affair than the majority of Suede’s, preoccupied by death and broken relationships and on his latest LP, Slow Attack, the terrible beauty of nature. With this in mind I’d expected a much downbeat Anderson.  Although not quite as lively as 15 years ago, after sauntering onstage dressed in his trademark funeral apparel to join his band (piano, cello, guitar, bass, drums) his fringe flops, his hip sway and his tambourine shakes once more.

Opener ‘Hymn’  is breathtaking, Brett croons over minimal piano. When the band join in for the bass heavy crashing swells of the chorus the sound is immense, like waves crashing on a lonely beach. Two of the more pop songs from Slow Attack follow, (‘Wheatfields’ and ‘Hunted’) which are nice but don’t have the same impact as the opener, if anything they sound a little MOR.

With ‘Frozen Roads’ and ‘Leave me Sleeping’ he returns to a more poetic, abstract style. On the latter, a moving piano ballad, he dreams of being a child again, reunited with his now dead mother.  For those only familiar with his former band’s radio hits the emotional starkness of these songs might come as a surprise but there were many of these dark ballads lying in wait on Suede’s B sides and album tracks (‘The 2 of Us’, ‘The Living Dead’)  which had more in common with Nick Cave or Tindersticks than with their Britpop contemporaries and it’s a style Brett has increasingly pursued with his solo records.

The set continues with songs from Slow Attack, the band making up for the absence of the woodwind section which appears on most of the album by rocking them up a little, particularly on ‘The Ashes of Us’, where the guitarist gives us a Bernard Butler-style guitar workout.

We’re 10 songs in before any songs from Mr Anderson’s first two albums get an airing.  The band leave the stage and Brett delivers a solo rendition of ‘Clowns’ on acoustic guitar after which he quips “don’t worry, that’s the last time I’ll pick up an instrument tonight, I’ll leave it to the people who can really play.” Although more than competent as a guitarist, Brett clearly views himself as a singer and understands the emotive force that a vocal can have. Tonight his voice is in fine fettle with his singing style closer to the ballads on Dog Man Star than the camp, Bowie-esque screech found elsewhere in the Suede back catalogue.

With ‘Funeral Mantra’  Brett’s lyrics are at their darkest. “We kneel before the open grave and light the candles with our pain” is a million miles away from the Britpop party, and is the kind of song Nick Cave might write on a rainy day.

‘Love is Dead’, a mix of Morrissey and Suede’s ‘Stay Together’ illustrates why many critics panned his first record; it’s essentially a less inspired retread of his work with Suede and The Tears.

‘Song For My Father’ and an encore of ‘Back To You’ wind up the set and as the musicians leave the stage and the audience drift away into the rainy night it seems that Brett Anderson is enjoying a new freedom away from the glare of public expectation and Radio 1 playlists. This exile seems to have enabled him to more fully explore the darker subject matter which he touched on in his earlier work, writing in a way he hasn’t for years. Although onstage he may come across as being more at ease than ever, Brett Anderson is clearly a man beguiled by the dark side of life.

The Temper Trap

December 21st, 2009

After bad weather, delayed trains, and some difficulty persuading the doorman I was there to review the gig, I almost left Koko defeated, fed up and ready to trudge through the snow back home.

Luckily, a nice man let me have his plus one, which was good news, because I really wanted to find out if The Temper Trap lived up to the hype they attracted after featuring on (500) Days of Summer.

For those who have missed The Temper Trap before now, ‘Sweet Disposition’ was played on the trailer for the film; front man Dougy’s ethereal falsetto floating over driving percussion and guitar work – the perfect match to Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s ever hopeful character looking for ‘The One’.
I thought they might play this as the encore, but actually it came toward the end of the main set, the crowd obviously pleased after recognising the first few bars and singing along anthemically to “a moment/a love/a dream/aloud/a kiss/a cry/our rights/our wrongs”.

Current single ‘Fader’ also got the audience moving and ‘oohing’ along to the chorus, whilst ‘Down River’ – undertones of ‘Walk on the Wild Side’ by Lou Reed coming through on the guitar – had the band bringing out a plethora of percussive instruments including tambourines and shakers.  This all led to an epic finale of ‘Drum Song’ which was elongated so we could all bask in its glory.  Dougy got involved in a brilliant drum battle, and the lighting (which had been quite mellow throughout) flashed violently in time with the music.  The whole thing created quite a scene.

Sometime toward the end of the main set, I bumped into the guy who’d given me his plus one again.  It transpired he was something to do with the band and knew them.  He told me it was the most relaxed he’d ever seen Dougy on stage.  There were quite a lot of Aussies in the crowd, so perhaps it felt like a home from home.

That, or perhaps the fact that this gig was the last on their European tour.  Whatever it was, he had a good rapport with audience, initially thanking us all for braving the “brutal weather’”to see them, telling us the band were “sick of playing the same old shit” midway through the set before launching into some new material, and jumping into the crowd during the final song – much to the delight of the guys in the front.

Overall, I was pretty impressed with the whole thing.  The band were energetic, engaging and most importantly, entertaining.  The sound was great; Dougy’s vocal amazing against the percussive sounds of the rest of the band.  The Temper Trap definitely lived up to the hype, and my expectations.  They’re playing the UK again from April; I suggest you go and get tickets, fast.

Delphic

The new Musical Season starts in December; various names are being banded about, the next big thing is about to be chosen. Could it be Delphic?

Already they’ve appeared on Jools Holland, achieved considerable airplay for their singles ‘This Momentary’ and ‘Doubt’, and significantly they are signed to the very fashionable label Kitsuné. Their sound is of the moment – ‘elecdie’ (electro-indie).

The problem with Acolyte is that it doesn’t sound particularly revolutionary. It wouldn’t be wise to get down to your local bookies and place money on this album winning the Mercury Prize, and you really wouldn’t imagine gazing into the crystal ball and predicting Delphic will light up the hundreds and hundreds of festivals next summer. But who really cares about hype? If we ignore all of the above then Delphic are just another band from Manchester; yet Mancunian bands usually, historically speaking have a bit about them. Even The Courteeners got some goodwill from critics because their postcode started with an ‘M’. I guess we get caught up in the folklore of the city, and believe that there is still some magic in the Northern air, despite the city’s radical facelift over the last twenty years.

‘Clarion Call’ opens epically like the introduction music to the hourly Sky Sports News bulletin. The blend of blip blip synth noodles and tick tick tick eighties drum machines segues into ‘Doubt’, the angular, sterile cousin to the Klaxons, Friendly Fires and The Temper Trap et al. We’re revisiting the recent; the anthemic chorus that precedes the frantic rhythmic setup. Divinely robotic. Utterly lifeless.

The Balearic Beat of ‘Halcyon’ seems to portray what Delphic want to achieve on this album, blending the nineties Ibiza sound with angelic indie. Better late than never the album seems to suddenly step up, ecstatic and hedonistic ‘Submission’ and ‘Remain’ both divert the listener away from the soggy grey every day. But is it enough to merely distract, to recall holiday’s in the sun, and past times when you were probably too pilled up to truly appreciate what you were moving your body to?

Delphic are a timid time machine of a band, travelling back to yesterday, only cursed by an early onset of Alzheimer’s, unable to remember the divine elements of their fundamental influences.

Adam Green - Minor Love

Adam Green is perhaps most famous for being the lead singer of anti-folk band, The Moldy Peaches, who are perhaps most famous for having a song in the hit film Juno. As a solo artist he has released five albums to modest critical and commercial success.

On sixth album Minor Love, Green doesn’t seem to have changed an awful lot since 2002. This is no bad thing. He sells his short and sweet indie-pop songs on his tender voice, which some people have described as an acquired taste. I don’t agree with this. There is something so classic and subtle about his vocal performance on this and all of his albums that I can’t help falling in love with his voice every time I hear it.

Musically, for the most part this is very simple. Acoustic indie songs with strong lyrics and very to the point. There isn’t much, if any complexity to the arrangements. There also isn’t a single song on the album that is over three minutes long. This is an album for people with short attention spans. Luckily, I am often in the mood for such a thing.

Opening track ‘Breaking Locks’ sets you up for what’s to come. It’s catchy, as much of the album is, and it’s very warm sounding. It keeps it to a couple of guitars and a bass, with a little bit of organ low in the mix for extra texture.

You could describe this album as one that rewards repeated listens. At first not one song leapt out at me. I was enjoying it, but nothing stuck in my head. There were no obvious singles. After listening to it a couple of times there are definitely some more memorable moments, for better or for worse.

‘Bathing Birds’ is just lovely, and introduces the much-needed Greenesque quirkiness.

My favourite track on the album has to be ‘Castles and Tassels’. It’s fun, funny, a little more exciting than anything else on the album and it contains some fantastic lyrics, such as “Castles and tassels and flatulent assholes/I love you, always”.

For worse? The less said about ‘Oh Shucks’ the better. A song which sets out to be as lo-fi as possible, it ignores the fact that there is a certain art to getting that raw sound, and just ends up being hideous screechy and annoying.

If you’re not an Adam Green fan this isn’t going to change your mind. The album is a slow paced, calm collection of short acoustic indie songs from a man with a great voice and a gift for lyrics. Not terribly exciting, and I doubt I’ll be listening to it in a few months time but for now, it’s nice. That’s sort of it. Nice.

Good Shoes

December 12, 2009

A frosty Saturday night sees Morden-based indie outfit Good Shoes roll over to the London ULU for a night of catchy rock-pop tunes, but the arctic weather doesn’t stop them from packing out this dainty music venue in the capital.

After losing a band member and taking time out to write their second album, Good Shoes have been away from the music scene for what seems like forever. But even with a sizable gap since their last tour or album, Rhys Jones and Co still manage to pull in a decent crowd.

Opening their set with a fondly stumbled into rendition of  ‘Photos On My Wall’, they then lead into new song ‘The Way My Heart Beats’. It’s obvious the band are feeling a bit rusty after so long without a tour, but all the usual hits are well received and fondly remembered.

Whilst mingling through the crowd an unreliable, and probably quite drunken, source informs me we should expect a much darker sound on the forthcoming Good Shoes album. Seconds later as Rhys Jones and his fellow band members launch into new song ‘Under Control’, it appears that this fellow audience member has his facts correct. Instead of the joyful pop tunes Think Before You Speak brought us, we were treated an array of sinister and somewhat heavier tunes.

The set list includes all the usual first album hits, with the ever popular ‘All In My Head’, ‘Morden’ and ‘We Are Not The Same’ prompting the biggest reactions and sing-along from the crowd. This eager London audience is also treated to a sprinkling of new songs taken from the impending album due for release in January 2010. New tracks ‘City By the Sea’ and ‘Then She Walks Away’, although unknown to most prior to the gig, demonstrate exactly how different the next album No Hope No Future will be, but still manage to keep the fans content.

The only sour point of the night comes with the exclusion of  ‘Never Meant to Hurt You’ from the set list, but I guess you can’t have everything in an otherwise enjoyable night.

Lawrence Arabia’s star is swiftly rising, he’s talented and a New Zealand export; a rarity in the last case.  James Milne’s second album Chant Darling, follows his 2007 self-titled debut but certainly doesn’t lag behind it; ten new uniformly charming and mostly brilliant tracks will cement his image as favourite NZ expat for many.

Opener ‘Look Like A Fool’ begins with an honest tale of (you guessed it) looking silly in front of a nice girl; Milne’s accent sounding somehow Beatles-esque. As the initially melancholy instrumentation swells behind these earnest vocals, Chant Darling’s signature sound becomes quickly apparent; gorgeous strings dictate subtle mood shifts and the clever vocal/guitar harmonies are wonderfully warm and full.

By third track ‘Apple Pie Bed’, a lightly overdriven guitar line and gleeful falsetto harmonies have made their welcome introductions and a plethora of 60s/70s pop influences suggest themselves but don’t overwhelm.  As the album progresses though, the delightful realization that every track has some kind of signature, stand out element or passage will rapidly dawn on you, as will the innocent, extravagant, quirky genius of it all.

Indeed, this is not music to brood or plot to; it’s a consistently fun semi-homage to classic pop nuggets as seen through a lightly tinted psych lens buoyed by some pleasingly original ideas. To suggest it’s tongue-in-cheek would be a disservice but a dramatic or cathartic LP this certainly isn’t, and it knows it (to its credit).  So long as you’re prepared to end this record in a blissful good mood then you won’t begrudge Lawrence Arabia his whimsy, and whilst you might not feel like singing his praises you’re certainly apt to chant them.

Deerhoof

December 8th 2009

Two confessions have to be made at the outset of this review. Firstly, previous to this gig, this writer was more or less completely unfamiliar with the work of the San Franciscan quartet Deerhoof. Secondly, having only just completed an article for this very website stating that “Anyone who misses the opportunity to see DIVORCE [tonight's support band] is, frankly, a fucking idiot”, he manages to do precisely that, arriving with the dying notes of this tremendous band’s, no doubt brutal and thrilling, set. How embarrassing. Fucking idiot.

Anyway, Deerhoof are swift to take to the stage, and what an odd bunch they look, awkward, gangly drummer Greg Saunier an interesting contrast to diminutive singer and bassist Satomi Matsuzaki, cute as a button as she is. It doesn’t take long for them to establish an agenda for the night’s proceedings, starting with the eccentric noise-twee of ‘Panda Panda Panda’.

The first few songs are mostly instrumental, and verge dangerously to that most lamented of genres, Jazz Rock. Now, it’s true that this is normally a hideous prospect (with a few notable exceptions), but the ‘hoof actually pull it off, with just the right amount of fun and melody to balance out the abstract rhythmic and tonal excursions. They synchronise movements, they gurn, Matsuzaki enacts the lyrics with child-like enthusiasm. It’s both genuinely interesting in terms of the music and the show provided. It’s hard to pigeonhole too. There are bits of Sonic Youth, Hendrix, Zappa, but even then, it’s a stretch to pin down the influences, and it doesn’t matter, because it makes for an exciting concoction.

The only real drawback is, at times, it almost seems like too much. Having said that, they seem aware of the potential for boredom with too much eclectic avant-garde play and know just when to pare things back. Deerhoof achieve a combination that would appear nigh on impossible on the page – noisy, melodic, experimental, charming, fun, interesting music and this is reflected in the performance. If at least a couple of those qualities don’t tick boxes for you dear reader, then there’s probably a chance that you don’t like music.