February 8, 2011

You can’t help feeling that The Joy Formidable shouldn’t be here. That a band who have been consistently tipped for mainstream success since 2008 should have outgrown the smaller rooms at gig venues by now. Undoubtedly if the trio had had a penny for every time someone poured hype upon their heads they’d be millionaires by now. And looking at their rather cramped stage space tonight, this writer wonders if they had only capitalised on such exaltations, they could be playing in Newcastle Academy’s cavernous main room instead of The Hold Steady, who are holding court downstairs.

But it’s a full to bursting second room that have turned out to see the band on this cold Tuesday never-the-less. First though, the crowd have to contend with one of their own – Teeside’s The Chapman Family. As bleak and austere as tonight’s headliners are anthemic and euphoric, they open with ‘All That’s Left to Break’, a truly unsettling, doom knell, ten times more visceral than its recorded counterpart. Front man Kingsley Chapman’s lips pulled back bestially in a snarling leer while later in the set he announces a song about “killing children” and attempts to strangle himself with his own microphone cord.

It all couldn’t be more different from The Joy Formidable, who take to a stage now adorned in blue twinkling lights, beaming and waving, Ritzy Bryan’s trademark blonde bob bouncing as she leads her warriors into ‘The Ever Changing Spectrum of A Lie.’ And from the offset its clear this is going to be loud. Very, very loud. The sheer volume of ‘The Magnifying Glass’ almost rips the roof off, becoming more intense with every thunderous blast from Ritzy’s guitar. By the time they throw out one of their most gleaming jewels, ‘Austere’, they’ve well and truly hit their stride and the floor is literally shuddering with the noise.

The break-neck pace is almost breathtaking to behold as the band delve ever deeper into what is now a bulging box of treasures; the uncontainable torrent that is ‘The Last Drop’, the driving swell of ‘Cradle’, the ethereal, swirling drone of ‘The Greatest Light Is The Greatest Shade’ – this is the sound of a band who have taken the time to hone and sculpt their sound, to write anthems worthy of filling arenas.

By the time they hit closer ‘Whirring’, which epically lasts the best part of ten minutes, Ritzy has lost herself completely in the rising surge of feedback and riffs and boyfriend bassist Rhydian Dafydd’s head is banging so much it’s a wonder he can see what the hell he’s playing. It’s literally impossible to keep from punching the air, triumphant grin on your face. Finally we have a band capable of sweeping you away on a crest of pure giddy emotion and all those people bleating about the death of rock couldn’t be more wrong. As Ritzy purrs knowingly on ‘The Last Drop’ watch her band “rise like spirals”.

Delorean (photo credit Sebastien Dehesdin)

December 6, 2010

So how can a Catalonian band who are more used to all things Balearic, rather than Baltic (it was freezing out!), come across in one of east London’s trendier than thou venues? Rather well, actually. If you decided to stay in watching Corrie, drinking tea and eating toast then you definitely missed out.

The four-piece, casually dressed in slightly too large t-shirts, grab the opportunity to warm the cockles with gusto.  They launch into an hour-long set, carefully blurring tracks from their critically acclaimed Ayrton Senna EP and Mushroom Pillow released album Subiza into one another.

The abject noises, drum pads, spacey vocal delivery, minimal piano chords and effects pedals on top of pulsating synth drones that appear in the glorious opening track ‘Seasun’ sets the scene perfectly.

Photo credit: Sebastien Dehesdin

Electronica mixed with live drums can prove to be a bit of a stumbling block, but tonight it works very well (despite the occasional lack of cut in the heavy “snare n bass n snare n bass” beat you crave during the bigger drops). The band help their drummer out by cleverly mixing programmed and live bass.  Plus, there’s not a click track in sight (according to their friendly sound engineer, Marco, anyhow).

By second song ‘Stay Close’, the crowd are doing that reserved Shoreditch-style head nodding and studied swaying dancing that isn’t really dancing at all, which generally means “I bloody love this!” If it weren’t a school night and if London crowds weren’t so predictable, for a moment I am almost able to trick myself into thinking “this could really kick off”…

Photo credit: Sebastien Dehesdin

Of course it didn’t and was never in danger of doing so, but that was nothing to do with Delorean, or their carefully crafted set.

Clap snare sample pads and the gradual introduction of old school rave samples (think of the “wahhhh oh… wahhhh oh… a ahhhh oh uh oh ah ahhhh oh” from Black Box‘s ‘Ride On Time’ and you’re in the right ball park) help the set to develop. The second half also introduces some sparkling guitar lines and choppy, rhythmical disco chords and if anything, there’s not quite enough of this.

So, how do the songs translate from the heavily produced recordings into the live sector? Well, the songs not only stand up, but sound great. Plus there’s enough of a change from the recordings to justify seeing this band several times over.  Stand out track of the evening for me is ‘Deli’.

Photo credit: Sebastien Dehesdin

One particularly good moment comes in ‘Grow’, when the blissed-out outro synth is doubled with some wordless vocals.  This turns the recognisable line into a more predominant first album MGMT style motif and perhaps this is the gap in the market, which Delorean can comfortably fill.

Closing track ‘It’s All Ours’ gets one of the biggest reactions of the night, despite losing a little of its impact due to the lack of live backing vocals.  It’s still a great, euphoric, inspiring last track, however and as the crowd heads into the sub zero night sweating, grinning and generally agreeing “they’re such a good band”, what more could you ask for?

A little less ‘George Lamb Bull Horn’ would be top of my list but that aside, this was a thoroughly enjoyable gig and I for one, can’t wait to see them smashing it on the festival circuit next summer.

Photo credit: Sebastien Dehesdin

tUnE-yArDs

June 23, 2010

Make no mistake: tUnE-yArDs‘ show displays the sort of oomph, pizazz and prowess to induce full-on obsession. And this higher-than-ceiling level of intense fangirling is not just emitting from me, on a whizzaround analysis of whoop-levels and dropped jaws. This hyperbole isn’t unexpected either, with Merrill Garbus performing like she’s got just five seconds to impress. From the moment she launches, she’s connecting and giving it everything with her phenomenal vocal range, blinding arrangements and an immense helping of charm presented near-aghast, with bulging eyes and direct calls to the crowd to interact. They’d do anything for her by the time the first song’s over…

From the beginning of the set to the grand finale of ‘Sunlight’, there’s never the sense of a momentum waiting to kick in, or the foreboding feeling that the next gear’s about to be reached; the entire show runs at optimum power. There is, however, a lurching feeling for each break and Mariah-high squee – just like Garbus‘ phenomenal show at Cargo earlier in the year, these frequent ‘moments’ are received with whoops, hip-shakes and wordless glances between audience members.

There’s the sense that we’re watching tUnE-yArDs as a ‘we’ rather a solitary ‘I’, in the presence of a performer with a blindingly unusual talent. The concept of layering one voice, tapping out African-influenced patterns on a single drum and picking out histrionics on the ukulele appears divisive at first, but Garbus breaks it down to make her mix look the norm. And the self-effacing yet super-confident nature of Garbus‘ show takes a hammer to the canon by showcasing the personality and drive at the heart of her vision.

There’s an incredible contrast between the complexity of this set’s genre-hopscotch, and the fresh and simple way it’s presented. Each slice of vocal is precisely slipped atop the previous, forming a tUnE-yArDs choir, and just how raw and exposed the processes are on stage  automatically breaks down the obscurity. The construction of songs from BiRd-BrAiNs and Garbus‘ frankly astonishing new material (‘Gangsta’ and ‘Business’ the highlights) is clean and simple, with her dense vocals propelling the songs to impossible levels of exciting. ‘Hatari‘ is played out with deliberately ugly facial expressions, mirroring the often uncomfortable, personal lyrics in tUnE-yArDs‘ music, and each move feels perfectly placed.

Another striking observation is the guises Merrill Garbus conquers. She plays the sultry soul singer on ‘Real Live Flesh’, the hip-hop guest vocalist on ‘Gangsta’, the torch singer on ‘Fiya‘, the Alp-dwelling yodeler on ‘Hatari‘, even slipping into a punk frontwoman persona on ‘Do You Wanna Live?’. It’s more than just vocal stylism, adding a degree of acting and conversely childlike role-play, pinpointed by repeated sounds and call-and-response vocals.

The fun is replicated by the band she’s got with her tonight (as a one-off), comprising two almost-choreographed drummers, a guitarist and her regular touring bassist – they come in for occasional songs to add power and provide a human spotlight for tUnE-yArdS. Even as a heftier line-up, the additional members thankfully never overpower the main act, but they certainly do test the limits of the venue’s sound technicians.

Sitting somewhere over tUnE-yArDs‘ live show is an intense sense of relief, one where I realise I’ve found my new favourite. Each of her enormous strengths are so concentrated and visible, so when the songs are delivered, it’s a touching experience to gaze around the room at an audience wrapped up in the warm blanket of Merrill Garbus‘ vision. The excitement never dips, making the second album my most anticipated release in the limitless future. And watching this crowd move between rapture, open-mouthed wonderment and sheer, unfettered delight at not just the familiar songs but the new, suggests I’m far from alone in that thought.

The Drums

June 7, 2010

There’s a marked contrast between the simplicity of pop put out there by  Summer Camp and The Drums. The Drums’ music – save being heard in isolation, for ‘I Feel Stupid’ is a great big chunk of fun-pop – is ungraciously distilled if you’re vaguely familiar with the 1960s, Sarah Records, C86, Labrador Records, Joy Division, New Order, The Cure, Beach Boys or The Smiths. Their main trick is in producing a stream of concussed-simple lyrics encouraging dumb dancing as reflex. Summer Camp, on the other hand, offer pure pop key changes, beautiful nostalgia, two entirely distinctive vocals and intricately put-together songs so adorable they feel like they’re soundtracked the ’80s I imagine my older (, dafter) incarnation to have lived.

It’s obvious that Summer Camp have blown up since last caught back in March at Notting Hill Arts Club. But with that added gloss and finesse I must stall, for it was but three months ago – in the grand scheme of Pop, that is but a breath. Elizabeth Sankey, Jeremy Warmsley and the three others in the band are now the real deal, with new songs – including set-highlight ’1988′ – taking them miles away from the ‘lo-fi’ and ‘chillwave’ labels misplacedly thrown at Moshi Moshi released single ‘Ghost Train’. ‘Round The Moon’ is now a massive great pop song, Warmsley and Sankley’s vocals  neatly contrasting into a sound alive and kicking like an excited child.

Summer Camp’s too-perfect-to-be-true breakthrough has birthed a set of darling songs, ramshackle back in March but now fully potent. It’s a neat contrast still though, between the dinkiness of the recorded ‘Was It Worth It’ and the show-stopping performance of that very same track. Transferred from the synthetic bedroom to its Polaroid-equivalent, the stage, the set might as well be sub-titled ‘The Soundtrack To The Best ’80s Movie… Ever’. And let’s not forget the trigger to listen to Warmsley’s own excellent solo material, starting on 2008′s jittery-pop spectacular How We Became.

The Drums, however, take this level of innocence into new and dangerous territory. They’re being marketed at a young audience, from what it looks like, an audience happy and perhaps even oblivious to their influences-by-numbers tack. And while that’s not a de facto awful thing – see New Young Pony Club‘s The Optimist - it’s the non-stop doe-eye that infuriates. I’m curious as to the wild-dancing nature of the set I’ve been reading about, and it’s actually more odd than complementary; the four-piece (save the drummer, risibly) are flailing about on the stage like performing monkeys, their eyes sunk back into their heads doing perma-360s. ‘I Felt Stupid’ is played completely out of tune and balance, the performance on its own proving so deliberately infantile I’m left standing with an open mouth.

It’s a neat idea, taking these excellent influences and forging something deliberately so simple, so magnetic, but the lack of another dimension is forced – it’s too contrived for an intelligent human to write every single lyric along these lines. The “I did not want to let you go/ ooh, I knew I had to” refrain of ‘Submarine’, coupled with the bizarre child-auditioning-for-reality-TV stage antics of particularly singer Jonathan Pierce and guitarist Adam Kessler, is enough to kill all enthusiasm for the summer.

Live, The Drums produce one of the most unnatural shows I’ve ever seen – the manic Ian Curtis swaying is a step too far. I find myself obsessed with the steps The Drums must have to take in submitting to the simplicity and baby animal persona they’re so fixed on as a PR trick, and it makes me puzzled.

Marina and the Diamonds

May 31, 2010

Upscaled from the modest Cockpit to the more accomodating Leeds Met, Marina and the Diamonds return to Yorkshire on the back of some pleasing album sales and a pair of heavily-playlisted singles. Her ascent to the aisles of Tesco’s has been an elongated one, but hardly hindered by the recent victories of a more successful, yet similiarly kooky female solo-singer also masquearading under a band name.

Marina enters onto the stage donning a characteristic pair of gigantic red heart-shaped glasses and her now familiar cheerleader attire, shadow-boxing and bouncing her way through album track and well-chosen opener, ‘Girls.’ Only having the one album’s worth of material, aside from the appearance of b-side ‘Seventeen’ and a stark, yet unmoving cover of ‘Starstrukk’ by 3OH!3, means that at times the setlist comes across as simply the album via a shuffle function, lacking the narrative and drama of the LP. Marina’s often-criticised yelps and other vocal frolics are in full throttle tonight, arguably even more testing when accompanied by visual portrayals of mock-shock, and most lyrics actually being acted out to some degree. It’s all very theatrical, but it doesn’t half throw her sincerity into question.

Despite the absurd fashion statements, self-help Whitneyisms (“Always follow your dreams!”), and the ruthless drive and ambition (“Don’t do love/ Don’t do friends/ I’m only after success”) there’s no real denying the power of the pop hooks and inventive instrumentation, and Marina delivers melodies with all the confidence of someone generally fulfilling the dual demands of acccessiblity and credibility rather well. ‘Obessions’ remains timeless, and ‘I Am Not A Robot’ and ‘Hollywood’ are devoured by the audience. There’s enough sensitivity and humour on display to defend most allegations of depthlessness, and the closing ‘Mowgli’s Road’ (still arguably her finest 3 minutes) is as much of a bouncy, euphoric romp as on record.

It remains to be seen whether there is any true longevity in Marina’s armour, and critics have noted a certain amount of confused clutter within her musical style, but it would be wrong to write Marina and the Diamonds off just yet. It’s just that the self-centredness (although more than a hint of irony is detected) and the slight lack of clear direction that makes the proposition difficult to love, but easy to admire and respect.

The Crookes

May 31, 2010

The Manchester leg of the Dot To Dot Festival 2010 plays host to an impressive array of established and upcoming artists, with notable mentions for the ferocious and fantastic The Chapman Family and the ever-dependable Mystery Jets. However, there was one band that stole the show (and hearts) of all with the good fortune to stumble across them.

Ladies and gentlemen, The Crookes. They are a four-piece pop band formed during their time at Sheffield University studying English Literature. Their grounding in the literary world is borne out in their imaginative and touching lyrics, which are delivered with sincerity and aplomb by lead singer George Waite. Telling tall tales of romance in the most affable manner possible, The Crookes are an example of an emerging band that is brimming with potential.

In front of a sizeable crowd tucked away inside the music hall of the Deaf Institute, The Crookes clamber on stage and afford themselves a quick glance up at the gathered audience before starting a simply stunning version of ‘Yes, Yes, We’re Magicians.’ Beginning gently with the haunting voice of Waite over the finger-clicks of his brothers-in-arms –  Daniel Hopwell, Alex Saunders and Russell Bates – the audience is drawn into his words and tone before the song explodes into life. The jangle-pop that The Crookes espouse is a multidimensional beast. Often it is jovial and bouncy, yet other times it is equally as introverted and sorrowful.

As their set progresses, the smiles spreading across each member of the audience’s faces gives testament to the charming quality of this band. The energy travels throughout the venue as Hopewell kicks his ankles out with every fibre of passion in his being, channeling every beat of the drums. Saunders throws himself into the songs with bravado, as does Bates who provides a solid foundation for the bubblegum guitars to build upon. It is a strikingly successful combination on this showing.

Even a mid-set calamity that would normally throw many a good band poses no problem for these young men. Saunders suffers a strapped string forcing him into an on-stage repair. The quick-thinking Crookes take this as an opportunity leaping into the assembled audience, armed only with an acoustic guitar, a mandolin and 3 charming voices for a breathtaking rendition of ‘Tell England’. If the crowd needed any more convincing, they had it here in abundance.

The Crookes (now complete with a re-stringed Saunders) launch into their final two tracks of the evening, sealing the deal on what has been an imaginative and engaging performance. Their recent single ‘Bloodshot Days’  goes down incredibly well, provoking a full-scale sea of bopping bodies throughout this Mancunian crowd. “They try to come between us / just hold tight / voices bleed into the night”. As their lyrics attest, there remains something instantly likeable about these boys and their set winds down to rapturous applause.

Titus Andronicus

May 25, 2010

I’m actually witnessing a crowd of people visibly enjoying themselves at a gig in Shoreditch.

Shuh-Hit you not: It’s real.  Maybe stuff like this goes on all the time, it’s just you have to travel southwest of the roundabout to find it.  Anyway, The CAMP’s a funny old space – Downstairs is very Tins-Of-Strongbow, upstairs is a bit Bottles-Of-Bulmers. 

We slope into the former just as Colours take the stage.  It takes me ten minutes to decide that I rather dig this, the same amount of time to realise who the lead singer reminds me of: John Challis – a young  John Challis torturing a Telecaster while his cohorts weave a delicious bloody-great disgusting shimmery curtain of Frrrrrannnnnnnng.  Colours, if you’re reading this, I think you’re at your best when doing that unison drum-triplet thing you did that goes:

[stand back]

BANG – BANGBANGBANG –BANG

Goddit? Great.

Right – Friendship have a fair few more afrobeat elements than when I saw them last, which don’t quite fuse tonight until they drop what I THINK is ‘Lifeguard’, a great slice of harmony-laden bopalong punk acrobatics. Good news too – they still do that frenetic warp-speed headbanging as they unleash their blissed out firestorm of a set-closer. Singummer / Druminger “Hills” sounds all but too polite between songs; this stuff would go over just as well with a beery sneer and a fuckoff pout, but Friendship are more All-In than Allin with their crowd treatment. It works in their favour, and WELL I LIKE IT WHEN THE SUPPORTS REFERENCE EACH OTHER. IT’S A NICE THING TO DO.

Lubricated with ethanol and e-numbers, I squooze into the middle of the throng and, Shit in a bag and punch it, a fucking great pillar blocks my view. No matter, the front’s the place to truly experience these noisy New Jerseyans.

Titus Andronicus, and allow me a daydream, if you will:

Bassist, and renowned psychiatrist Ian Graetzer has persuaded the public health authority of Glen Rock NJ to allow him to take several “hopeless cases” on a tour around The World.  They stop only to play an hour of the most balls-out life-affirming thunderous riot of a gig in each country before they’re back in the secure bus.  The climaxes of songs like ‘Richard III’ and eponymous Fuck-Yeah-A-Thon ‘Titus Andronicus’, see the patients making such progress through a shared-around beered-up catharsis of fists in the air and flying cans, that Graetzer affords himself some time off to lose himself in the proceedings.  This is the best he’s felt about working in mental health for many years.

That may or may not make any sense, and is entirely fictional, but before the night’s through, several crowdsurfers (Including singer Patrick Stickles) take their turns to be pinned against the ceiling pipes while the band hammer out song after song of incendiary heartfelt suburban thunder.  Shoreditchers lose their inhibitions, I lose my house keys and after a duelling-guitar rendition of ‘The Battle Hymn of The Republic’ they drop ‘Titus Andronicus Forever’ and we all just lose any sense of decorum, dancing like only dogs are watching.

Amy Klein (Guitar / electric violin) wigs out in glorious counterpoint to Stickles’ mad-eyed wild-man-with-a-vendetta act, we all shout “IT’S STILL US AGAINST THEM” and before we know it the lights are on, the band are buckled up, halfway up the M1 and we’re left to shout “Woah.” at each other through tinnitus and sweat.

“bes [uwwwwwwwwwww] gi [uwwwwwwwwwww]..tw..[uwwwwwwwwwww]..n”..

[pointing to ear] “WHAAT?…

“I SAID BEST GIG OF 2010”

The Brian Jonestown Massacre

May 14, 2010

For anyone unfamiliar with The Brian Jonestown Massacre here’s a brief synopsis: this experimental, psychedelic rock band from California formed in 1990, have released 11 albums, seven EPs and 15 singles, and have undergone more member changes than pretty much any other band has. They had a huge falling out with The Dandy Warhols, which has been documented in the film DiG!. What this film also reveals are the countless times the band had the opportunity to make it big with a major record label deal, but somehow screwed it up every time.

The Brian Jonestown Massacre started playing gigs to almost empty venues but tonight, the band’s sold out gig at Shepherd’s Bush Empire is so packed with people that it is impossible for the crowd to even lift their hands to applaud. There is, however, room for some serious moshing and crowd surfing. At one point, one lucky punter makes it onto the stage…only to be carried off by an angry security guard moments later.

One of the most exciting moments of the night is when Matt Hollywood walks on stage. After making a rather dramatic exit from the band, he has rrecently re-joined…and tonight’s crowd appears particularly pleased to see him.

Hollywood, and the seven other musicians on stage, play a two-hour-long set. We won’t bore you with any more of a recap of the setlist because ultimately, when BJM play live it feels more like an extra-long jam session than a bunch of separate songs.

Not necessarily known for having friendly banter with the crowd (in fact, frontman Anton Newcombe has had his fair share of fights with them), they don’t say much between the songs. And when they do, it’s pretty difficult to hear what they are saying over the crowd. Newcombe, also known for always speaking his mind, does rally in favour of saving BBC 6 Music, and encourages the crowd to show support for the station – which is met with a huge round of applause.

The Brian Jonestown Massacre are outstanding musicians and have produced some of the greatest sitar-infused modern music out there. Their songs translate perfectly to the stage and every single person leaving the venue tonight seemed to express similar sentiments –  BJM killed it.

Cold Cave

May 12, 2010

Maybe it’s the slight drunkenness, maybe it’s the moving horse head in the pub before the gig, maybe it’s the hour I spend trying to talk to a Dutch girl in rudimentary German when all I know are requests for snack food and lewd come-ons, maybe it’s the way Cargo seems like a cross between a Mediaeval dungeon and a BBC set for a dystopian science fiction drama, with huge exposed pipes and thick black curtains. Whatever the reason, opening band Factory Floor come close to being the cheapest hallucinogenic experience I’ve ever had bar sleep deprivation and that time I didn’t eat for 5 days.

Listening on record, their music is much easier to trace; Krautrocky bass rhythms, insistent drum loops and vocal processors with the reverb function set firmly to “toilet bowl”. In Cargo however, the circular ‘Atrocity Exhibition’ pounding of Gabriel Gurnsey, the shuddering and swirling synth slurry effortlessly tweaked and beckoned by Dom Butler and the shrieking stabs of violin-bowed guitar from the statuesque (reviewspeak for hot) Nik Void don’t just take centre stage, but obliterate it. The whole experience is somewhere between euphoric and terrifying, much like being drowned in a vat of peanut butter and jam by Ian Rush (my touchstones for euphoria may differ from yours).

Factory Floor own me now.

But on to the headliners, Cold Cave. Formed by legendary hardcore person/hardchorister Wesley Eisold (who has hilariously written several songs for Fall Out Boy, fact fans), grace us with their presence for significantly less than 40 minutes – and in a recession, too!

What we do hear of them, however, is promising. Wesley is doing his best Robert Smith after swallowing a reverb pedal impression over tracks that stick to the same tried and tested formula of:

REALLY LOUD DISTORTED NOISE -> DRUM BEATS -> HUMAN LEAGUE -> ABRUPT ENDING

That isn’t meant to denigrate; I like all of those composite parts and put together they really work, with the distorted squalling giving some much needed muscle and threat to their creations which can occasionally wander into anaemia on record. But there’s not a lot of variance, meaning that even a whistlestop set drags a little.

‘Love Comes Close’ betrays itself as a rip-off of New Order’s ‘Temptation’ but proves popular with the otherwise typically East-as-you-like crowd (I think I heard someone applaud once) – my personal high point is ‘Life Magazine’, where Jennifer Clavin of 4M (my name for Much Missed Mika Miko) takes centre stage for the only time in the whole set. Her heart-seeking missile vocals and the Computerwelt propulsion really lift matters with a perfect serving of fizzy pop.

If Cold Cave have taught us anything, it’s that hardcore, punk and noise (aural pugilist Prurient provides high quality knob-tweaking alongside previously mentioned artists and drummer Guy Licata) can all come together at the dinner table and add up, somehow, to POP. Sure, Factory Floor own me, but if I’m having to pick a wedding band to get people dancing (I’m assuming the wedding isn’t in East London) I’d go with Cold Cave any day. Although Factory Floor might be able to hypnotise someone into marrying me. I’ll have a word.

Everything Everything - photo by Jonathan Fisher

May 10, 2010

It’s with some intrepidation that I head through Koko’s doors, for I’ve not only fallen harder still for Everything Everything, but I’m tinged with doubt and fear following their disappointing turn back in November at the ICA. Thankfully, I’ve not added a hyperlink to my own review of that very show because on this showing tonight, the words just make the both of us look weak. We need not make reference to the near-immediate past.

The four-piece’s awkward beats and crazily intricate arrangements are perfectly pitched behind lead singer Jonathan Everything’s dizzying falsetto tonight, Koko surprisingly rising to the clarity test. That they make the whole mix sound this simultaneously dippy as crystal-clear is insane, as the unpredictability of ‘Suffragette Suffragette’ bears not only surprise after surprise, but a race through a mind at breakneck speed. 

A few more words of sheer exhilaration on ‘Suffragette Suffragette’: it starts just like a quiet pop number, before each bit comes out of nowhere until the first-time-around chorus, which appears devoid of harmonies at first, until the rocking guitars just drop right in there. And then – AND THEN – it all drops out again. The crazy structures unfold in a way that makes it all sound sub-consciously phenomenal, the fizziest pop. This band are having fun, and the viruses that form the songs’ spines make everything feel just like a classic. No wait: they are classics. Beautiful packages of stuff, bustling with bits – infinitely – that leap and jump at me, adoringly.

And there are these colossal melodies rising up so very high in the mix, in the most part due to the lead singer’s excelling vocal. The power in his range disguises the phenomenal leaps in rhythm and structure in not just one but each of Everything Everything’s songs, the language of pop overriding anything vaguely taut or serious about the sheer dexterity of the lyrics. Oft four-to-the-floor basslines thump, pitched against the rapid-fire rhythms and delirious, unexpected twists and turns.

Watching songs perplex and intrigue makes for the stuff to be obsessed with; a band to watch with a mouth open. Their very pop sensibility comes from the space given for parts to soar, and further down below ground-level, because the so-very-quickly uttered lead vocals seem to shroud standard-fare RnB triplets. It’s evident on the amazing ‘My Kz, Yr Bf’, and propelled to the heights by the sight of the four-piece striking such defined pop-star poses to the refrain, “and he was looking at me like WOAH!” This fawning is unavoidable.

There are some new songs here tonight, at least to me, which I later find out are called ‘Qwerty Finger’ and ‘Engine Room’. But in spite of their unfamiliarity, they still sound like songs I’ll be squealing along to, bridge-to-bridge full of airtight quirks, infinite lyrical entendres and this amazing, endless sense of scamp-like raunch.

All photos by Jonathan Fisher:

Everything Everything

Everything Everything

Everything Everything