*Televised Crimewave *Popular Workshop *Section K - Moles Club, Bath - 22.1.09

Gigs are like a box of chocolates yada yada yada...

Section K baffled the audience before they played a note. With the guitarist in a lab coat, the bassist in full judo attire (only a red belt though) and chief synth/knob-twiddler dressed as Cruella DeVille’s sexually-confused nephew the audience braced themselves for some Uber-Eccentricity. Uber-Shite was unfortunately what they got. Clanking industrial drum-loops, vocal samples courtesy of some dull science-based radio broadcast circa 1954 and the murky guitar and bass sounding like incoherent tramps arguing over who gets the last can of Special Brew it appeared they were pretty much making it up as they went along. If you want to hear three mates fuck around I’d suggest this highly, otherwise just do it yourself.

Popular Workshop brought the audience in towards their warm, reassuring indie bosom with a jagged attack of feedback and askew, off-kilter guitar from their greasy-haired Italian frontman. Funniest moment of the evening: In an attempt to get the audience roused their singer/guitarist shouted defiantly into the microphone ‘BARACK OBAMA!’, only for the mike stand to impotently fall down.

Televised Crimewave's distinct brand of Northern-Goth-Nihilism evaporated any trace of the word ‘refund’ in the minds of paying punters. With a genuinely interesting frontman their songs are loaded with a hidden menace which always threatens to rear the ugliest of heads. Backed by a bowel-rattling drum sound and ersatz-50s echo these guys are Bloc Party’s Friends In The North playing their own soundtrack to a British horror flick not yet written.

The Bohemian Embassy - The Horseshoe, Bath - 17.1.09

The Horseshoe is a pub about a hundred metres along the road from me and is about as traditional as it gets. With an interior that refuses to let go of the Seventies, the walls are covered with paintings often found plaguing car-boot sales, decorative plates and basically anything which can be stuck to a wall.

At best you can expect to see about a dozen people in there at any one time yet when I walked in to watch Bath four-piece The Bohemian Embassy I was greeted by at least 30 youths drunk on cheap vodka and lager. However, they weren't there solely to see the gig. They were from the local private school; the boys were getting drunk trying to forget the promises they made with their form-masters whilst the girls were dangerously drunk, dangerously blonde and dangerously young.

Eventually we were all let through into the pub's long, thin skittle alley where everyone was scratching their heads realising that this wasn't thought through. Because of the narrowness of the room people were finding it hard to get a glimpse of the band at the far end. 'It's my local,' I thought, 'to the front I go!'

As for the band themselves they proved good entertainment for the evening. With the singer/rhythm guitarist and lead guitarist looking like rejects from an indie Rocky Horror Show, the drummer as ostentatious as Keith Moon and, um, a bass player, their sound is of the punchy indie sort which doesn't seem to understand the concept of slowing down or pausing to think about trivial everyday things. Every chorus seemed to sweep you up in it's fiery wake before letting you tumble to the ground until the chorus mercilessly came back round again...

As the band exited through a fire escape into the raging night, everyone vacated the alley and returned into the heaving, pulsating bar. Managing to catch the landlord's eye the drinking began. Well, you have to support your local, don't you?

BBC Omnibus: Cracked Actor

Filmed on David Bowie’s 1974 Diamond dogs tour, this 53-minute BBC Omnibus special follows the man himself as he floats around America, paranoid and uneasy, on a blanket of cocaine.

A brief history: Bowie had recently stuffed Ziggy Stardust back in his dressing up box and after recording the album Diamond Dogs embarked on a tour of America to promote said record. His new guise was that of a seasoned ‘showbiz’ performer playing Philly Soul complete with an elaborate stage show which gradually lead to his Thin White Duke persona.

Between footage of Bowie performing in the Universal Ampitheatre, Los Angeles, we get him coked up in his limo blabbering on or looking pensively out of the window, coked up at a service station and coked up backstage taking the film crew through his wardrobe and applying makeup. David’s dependence on the white powder at this time was huge and he is frequently seen sniffing violently, zapping up any stray flecks of coke which didn’t make it to his racing brain.

Like anyone who is on cocaine the man obviously loves the sound of his own voice and everything he says is so brilliantly Bowie: teasing, coy, confident, profound, bollocks. Crouching on a floor taking the film-crew through his cut-up method of creating lyrics (writing sentences, cutting them up and re-arranging them to create new sentences) he imparts with the gem: “I tried doing it with diaries...it would predict things or tell me about my past.” (My italics, brother).

The concert footage is testament to his unparalleled innovation and artistic restlessness; gone is the sleazy lurch of Ziggy, replaced with a slick display of plastic showmanship and artificial pizzazz. Moonage Daydream becomes an excercise in funk; Diamond Dogs a power-gallop; whilst John, I’m only dancing is re-moulded into cabaret – Full-Blown Hot Night Cool Breeze Copacabana Malibu Cocktail Cabaret .

Bowie’s overhaul of his music and image to what it is here alienated a lot of his Glam disciples and made them cry tears of glitter yet it shows how utterly unique he is as an artist. To have an insight into his world is a treat which you can’t help but feel you don’t deserve but, hey, it’s decadence all the way in David's kingdom.

Late of the Pier - Fantasy Black Channel

It must be terrible being so darn creative. Just when you think it’s probably best to move back into a verse there’s Brian Eno dressed in a latex Devil's outfit perched on your shoulder whispering in your ear to double the tempo and go in for a flute solo.

Such is the dilemma on Late of the Pier’s debut album, Fantasy Black Channel. The thirteen songs here are as experimental and schizophrenic as you are likely to find yet it occasionally sounds like someone tripping over their own multi-coloured high-tops.

The album introduces itself with Hot Tent Blues, just over a minute of bloated synth lines which manages to sound like both a beginning and an end. It could well be pumped gloriously from the blood encrusted p.a. systems the day after The Revolution as it could be the soundtrack to the last days of Rome (2059 A.D.).

And then the odyssey begins. For that’s was this album is – an odyssey. We are taken through a universe where the clouds are matt grey and dangerously low whilst the horizon is an explosion of Technicolor; a world where the nihilism is crisp, occasionally sprawling and lasts about three-and-a-half minutes.

The highlights? Space and the woods is a futurist fantasy driven by thunderous, hi-energy synths whilst VW is an impressive nomadic electro journey sans lyrics; single Heartbeat is good value too with a most gloriously dizzying chorus.

A special mention has to go to the song Whitesnake. Whilst the notion of pomposity is intrinsic to the band it seems that when they try too hard it becomes plain embarrassing. Mining the quirkiness which made Sparks such an irritating band the song is avoidable at best but, if you’re like me and enjoy listening to the occasional song for it’s comedic crapness, then be my guest.

The kitchen sink mentality and lofty ambitions of the band can only be admired and provides an album which is never dull, yet this can be problematic in its own right. They probably won’t release a second album for a good few years because all of their ideas have been thrown into this long-player. It’s about pacing yourself and that would imply having one eye on the future – a place I thought the band couldn’t remove their gaze from...

18.12.08 - Moles club, Bath

PURR Presents:
*KAPUTT
*ROSE ELINOR DOUGALL
*EL WRISTO

Purr toyed with us all on this crisp December eve, giving us three bands from vastly different chapters of the indie handbook. El Wristo opened the evening, offering us poor souls their paint-drying rock sound. Distortion don’t maketh the band, dear reader, but being able to write a tune does and whilst they embraced the former with all the zeal of a dog who has just stolen a string of sausages from a butchers, they spectacularly fell short of the latter. They seemed so middle-of-the-road as to be a one-way street.

Once everyone had woken up ex-Pipette (it’s gonna be on your gravestone, dear) Rose Elinor Dougall offered us her luscious, tender musings, with danger always lurking beneath the cracked smile of her tunes. Embracing a Year-Zero mentality, gone is the saccharine veneer of her former outfit, replaced with introspection and the jaded maturity of jilted lover. Still quite dull, mind.

And what about Kaputt I hear you scream. Well, sucking from the teat of all the correct indie Mothers they had this reviewer making shapes on the dancefloor like a smitten buffoon, all wriggly squiggly like. Their jarring guitars and rampant stomp sounded like it never gave a shit, drenched in abandonment and wearing a juvenile sneer. Life is worth living after all.

10.12.08

Moles - Bath Battle of the Bands 2008 Grand Final

Warning: Those of you in the Bath area look away now. Your city has the creativity of a brussel sprout.

Peppermint Hunting Lodge started with a song about a sandwich or something before frolicking around with a set which was very much an emo/hardcore affair. It’s all very shouty and vain and during the third song their lead singer was trying to eye up a girl just in front of me whilst getting all emotive with oohs and aahs. But, to indulge in some Sting-like psychobabble, there was a definite ‘Energy’ about them.

Exiles were an indie-by-numbers affair, combining futile guitars with moribund beats wrapped up in such an unconvincing manner that their name spoke volumes. But why Bath?!

Psalms were next, bringing their industrial stomp to the table, licked into shape with funky chemical synths. I wouldn’t usually go near this type of thing with a ten-inch dildo but compared to the previous acts they seemed utterly comfortable in their own skin, not taking themselves all that seriously which was a welcome change from the previous double-dose of pretension. They could be huge. In Germany.

1987 lit up their synth-laden set with rather a sweet, geeky charm. The Killers are obviously in there but the old ‘87 boys seemed to look like they were having fun, unlike Monsieur Flowers et al.

The Dusty Stars arrived soon after with a contrived eccentricity and an Englishness which was, frankly, embarrassing. Their brand of Fratellian jauntiness stuck in the craw although they certainly looked the part (and that’s all that matters, innit?)

To finish was El Wristo. I assume this means ‘Leave Now’ in Mexican or something. I was amazed. It actually sounded like paint drying. It’s so Middle-of-the-Road it’s a one-way street. As I dozed in and out of their set I found myself wondering how on Earth they had progressed so far.

The Winners? Why, The Dusty Stars of course. ‘Grand’ final? Try Bland instead.

Wednesday 4th December

PURR presents:
Piney Gir
Betty and the Werewolves
Colliding Lemons
Ill Ease.

To kick off what turned out to be a gloriously inconsistent night in Moles was Brooklyn’s very own Ill Ease. A combative little tomboy, her drum-looped, bass-heavy sleaze had all manner of body parts a-shaking, constantly winking suggestively towards Elastica, Peaches and the Gossip through the grinding guitar and tick-tock bass. She looked like she was having the time of her life, like a child who’s just been given their first handgun. Such a charming lady it felt like watching a mate from school triumph, without those all too familiar feelings of resentment. Stopping mid-song to comment on a walking sore thumb’s gaudy Warner Bros. jacket, it felt, if only for a nano-second, that I was in a skaggy Brooklyn club (in the best way possible).

With the final throbs of bass still running up and down my inside-leg, Colliding Lemons were on. All attractive ladies, I initially assumed they were having a Girls Night Out, enjoying multi-coloured shots whilst keeping a trained eye out for trilbied indie fops. How stupid did I feel when they started playing?! With enough giggly charm to warm the most celibate of hearts it was as if five female cast members from High-School Musical drank two bottles of cherry Lambrini and decided to form a band. Their set was drenched in gleaming 80s Powerpop, a heady blend of Roxette, the Bangles and Kim Wilde, and an overall appreciation of finely-honed tunes. In a bizarre, polished, nauseating way they could go on to make billions of dollars to fritter away on gold hairbrushes, diamond-encrusted jacuzzis and pink Lamborghinis.

As the full moon rose, out came Betty and the Werewolves. They were so pretty I almost wept. With beautifully conditioned hair they slammed headlong into their infectious set. Slow songs? No chance! Maudlin numbers? Forget about it! Their raucous, garage-rock sound always threatened to fall apart at any moment yet they always pulled clear of The Edge delivering two-and-a-half minute slices of cool, tense abandonment which burns the fingers and fries the brain . "I'm a school teacher," Betty later told me, "...but none of my students know I'm in a band."

After another damn mesmerizing routine from Purr’s Panthergirls, ending the night was Piney Gir. I don’t know what it means either. As the band started playing, Miss Gir (?) emerged from backstage with a female companion grinning like a Cheshire cat. Their set attempted to bring skiffle and country into the 21st century, with mixed results. They were a supremely accomplished band yet their breezy songs started to cloy after the first couple of numbers. With sound affects courtesy of a child’s toy box (you’re a bit Quirky, we get it) their songs about sticks and stones and paper and glue made me feel like I was watching a living, breathing iPod advert. At one point I was pretty sure the backing singer was playing a bottle of Merlot as percussion. After such a previously galvanizing set from Betty et al maybe they should drink more of that Merlot and just get down with it. Don’t be shy.