We Have Band - Live

We Have Band
Fabric, London
Friday, 23rd January 2009

With most bands that suddenly appear and are hyped within an inch of their lives for a fortnight, they don't actually turn out to be all that special. However, with We Have Band – ok, that is absolutely true. This is rehashed and restyled but the same old stuff; far from awful yet further from awesome, if you didn't come to see them tonight you wouldn't remember you did.

In their defence, playing to a crowd that isn't really there to watch live music is quite an obstacle for any group. This is Fabric, it has speakers in every dancefloor, substances in every pocket and favour for beats over bands. Still, We Have Band are more inclined to succeed here than most, with their rickety, disco-laden electro feel, and they do hold the attention.

The buzz about the band of former EMI workers is enough to attract a sizeable gathering to the clammy, crammed room that holds the gig. The trio manages to make them move with a blend of rolling bass and bleeping keys, but Dede's backing vocals get more than a smidge overawed.

Nevertheless, it sounds suitably messy and gladly doesn't place a 2007 glowstick gloss on the rougher elements of the mixture. Hear It In The Cans carries real momentum, kick-starting the set and revealing hints of charisma to come in singing/drumming/synthesizing Darren Dancroft.Then breakthrough track Oh is aired. With grating, monosyllabic repetitiveness, it could work in the sticky confines of a gig, but not the wider surroundings of a superclub. A cover of The Pet Shop Boys' West End Boys is cheesy enough to be cool and brings renewed vigour to a momentarily sapped crowd, but their rhythm cannot be recaptured.

There is potential, especially if the momentary sizzling moments can be stretched and the monotonous minutes minimised. While it is far too early to write them off, it is certainly not worth seeing them out of their comfort zone yet. The problem is there are dozens of breaking bands with synths, singles and stylish singers, so why should these stand out? The generic nature of their name doesn't seem so wry after watching DJs set the same room ablaze with flailing arms and happy faces. We have band have work to do.

Franz Ferdinand, Of Montreal - Live

Franz Ferdinand, Of Montreal
Heaven, London
Tuesday, 20th January 2009

The strangely sanitized-smelling setting of Heaven nightclub welcomes Franz Ferdinand back into the fold – and it's soon business as usual for the returning arch art pop act.

Before the hordes of Franz Fucking Ferdinand t-shirt wearers can catch a glimpse of their heroes, the considerable prospect of Of Montreal is on show. Show is an apt description for this colourful troupe, the visual aspects of their performance more than matching their musical meanderings.

They open with thundering guitars and tight, rigid drumming, the indie Barney Rubble on guitar and the wonderfully unglamourously-named Kevin Barnes exuding outrage and cool on vocals. It's sonically confused, flitting from sparkly disco to flailing solos, but engaging nonetheless.

However, concentrating on the experimentation in the sound is difficult due to the controlled carnage occurring behind, with actors in pigs masks and leotards performing intermittently. Many miss the drums being dismantled as Bunny Ain't No Kind of Rider's rhythm reverberates– giant alien heads can be distracting.

After a while, it's hard to work out what they are, with numerous identities hurtling together into one set. Nevertheless, they did themselves no harm tonight and many will have been converted to their cheerful contradictions.

When Franz Ferdinand arrive, their punctuality fitting the tightness of their jeans and riffs, their intentions are clear. New tracks zip snugly into the set, with opener No You Girls getting toes squiggling as well as Do You Want To manages. There is quirky dancing, elastic drumming and pinging guitars – it's like they never left.

Then, hang on, what's this – the rumours of a more synth-driven sound are true. Turn It On grooves on a sleek bass, but it's the finger twiddling on the keys, plus the stark absence of two guitars that dominates. It suits them as well as the sweaty surroundings, adding a danceable funk to their teeth-grindingly taut sound and making the tracks with competing axe work sound all the more vital.
Alex Kapranos is as enticing as ever, geeky but supremely confident, sipping red wine after gasping at his inhaler. His lithe moves and suggestive delivery keeps oldies like Michael and the impossibly stompable Take Me Out sounding fresh, while he revels in the sensual mystery of What She Came For.

The drum-fest of Outsiders works better in an intimate venue, while Ulysses is more anthemic live. It's 40' that brings the showman out of Kapranos, call and response working a treat, before the happiness of balloons descends on the masses for closer This Fire.

It still sounds like Franz, as fast and fun as it is superfluous - but there's room in music for that. As one drunken punter melodramatically exclaims outside, balloon in hand: "Screw the credit crunch, that's the first time I've been happy in ages".

Golden Silvers - Live

Golden Silvers
The Macbeth
Friday, 16th January 2009

When a band doesn't come onstage until 11.30 pm, it can mean one of two things: the crowd is so pissed at having to wait all night that the band is slated, or the crowd is simply so pissed that the crowd is elated. It appears the latter is the case here, as Golden Silvers bring their musical mish-mash to the Macbeth.

They are a spangled, glamorous 80s throwback that demand dancing and care not a jot for credibility. No, wait, they want to be Talking Heads. Hang on, this is cheesy silliness that requires a moustache and shoulder pads to even contemplate. Arrows of Eros is almost the Holloways, almost Earth Wind and Fire – and nobody wants that. OK, we don't know what it is, but neither do they, so maybe that's a good thing.

Magic Touch draws an ebullient response from a venue usually far too concerned with looking cool to remember to have fun. It's jerky and poppy, its bounciness in a similar vein to the much-maligned chart fodder of The Wombats, but with enough going on to remain interesting. Another recalls The Animals doing Dylan and shows a more subtle side, the three boys revealing signs of a knack for melody among the melee they make.
It's hard not to make Elvis Costello references to Gwylim Gold's nasal, gooey voice. He sings at odds to the hotchpotch assortment of sounds the band conjure, sometimes entering darker territory before dragging back pop sensibilities with a squeak and a screech. Psychedelic solos race around intermittently, along with lulls that crave more instrumentation but make do with pub feedback.

There is no time to reach conclusions. They crash and tumble into the set and depart 30 minutes later, leaving many with an impression that they could be one of the bands of 2009. But a worry persists that it may be all sass over substance. It's great to be eclectic, it's even better to provoke Hoxton questionables to dance, but is it enough to make a great group? Golden Silvers haven't decided themselves yet, but it's worth watching them work it out.

Emmy The Great – First Love

Emmy The Great – First Love

The title of this album could not be more fitting. Emmy The Great's first record strives to capture that magical, muddled debut attempt at meaningful connection. It is a startlingly intimate, patchy record that is not destined or designed to be adored forever. Yet, while it lasts, it is easy to kid yourself that it is surprisingly wonderful, for all of its blemishes and imperfections.

It is unashamedly stark in its subject matter, with Emmy's young heart laid on the line from its opening and tied there until its end. Simple arrangements tangle around her lines of loss, affection, despondency and humour. There is little inflection from the theme, but the likes of We Almost Had A Baby and Dylan are delivered with sincerity and manage to cajole fondness for their singer.

References are sewn throughout, from the aforementioned Zimmerman nod to the title track, which picks at Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah with at least more invention than a certain X Factor winner. The highlight of these artist allusions, though, is MIA, a delicate acoustic strum playing with the tapestry of an innocuous conversation concerning the singer.

Emmy's voice is unspectacular, but this fits the sparse sound by never overpowering it, such as on Everything Reminds Me Of You. It allows the lines to shine more, which betrays her immaturity as a writer, but also showcases the standout lines. Also, for those who enjoy the soap-style relations between the whole new-folk scene, there is plenty of scope for speculation about the subjects of lyrics.

One song that should have been cut is 24, a hackneyed hash that loosely hangs upon the foundations of the hit US television show and is neither clever nor interesting. But the misses are rare, Emmy's dreamy style just about carrying off numerous corny moments, such as grating references to 13th century Italian literature and the shipping news.

Regardless, On The Museum Island makes up for these. As she focuses on friendship, clarity flows out of lines of a Berlin escape filled with renewal and remembrance. If it wasn't so dainty it would be harrowing, such is the unrelenting emotional nature of the content.

The album triumphs through its honesty more than anything, its personal nature – self released, funded and produced - validating this. There isn't a throwaway happy folk jig in sight, even the throwaways deal with heartache. But this is fitting, creating a record filled with substance despite its prettiness, which makes it hard to forget, like your very own first one that got away.

Fee Fie Foe Fum

Festive Fun with Mumford and Sons at Fee Fie Foe Fum

Fi Fie Foe Fum is an office party like no other. Everyone is dressed impeccably, the drink is flowing and people are dancing with abandon. But there are no po-faced managers or giggling secretaries in sight, just the elite of the UK's new-folk scene all in one room. This is a festive celebration of all the twee talents who have started making inroads into the musical landscape in the past year.

Cargo is already bustling as Jay Jay Pistolet plays his doleful, melancholy music. The understated singer-songwriter divides opinion with his nonchalant use of effects on his microphone. He conjures a tone similar to that produced on a creaking gramophone, but his songs have a depth and tenderness to match the antiquity of the sound. When he claims he has never heard any of the rest of the bill, but suggests the crowd enjoy them anyway, this masks the closeness of the artists on display.

Most of this bunch have been touring, recording and dating each other and there's an easy familiarity between the audience and artists too, a cosy, celebratory feel that culminates in Mumford & Sons' performance. While half of the four-piece are usually in Laura Marling's backing band, tonight they lay claim to the gig's most entertaining set, despite two acts being higher on the bill.

Singer Marcus has the giddy look of a man confident in his songs and his setting, blasting into the jostling folk of White Blank Page with aplomb. However, the swerving, cantering nature of Banjolin Song epitomises their performance, its soaring harmonies pitch perfect and snatching a jubilant moment from the raucous venue. They are strident but playful, clearly enjoying themselves utterly. As they depart after a set that is far too short, the wait for their debut album seems suddenly too long.

Laura Marling rightly receives adulation for her Mercury-nominated first record, but tonight she is content to play four songs solo, the first of which, No Hope In The Air, is new. There is a disconcerting rowdiness to her performance that isn't quite natural, the crowd roaring back delicate lyrics with endearing devotion, but stealing poise from them simultaneously. She is demanded back for an encore of My Manic & I, which has no chorus but becomes a terrace chant regardless. Well, it is Christmas.

Johnny Flynn manages to round the night up in jolly fashion, his boyish good looks and regular changing of instruments keeping the hordes swaying until the early hours. Next year could see one or more of these acts penetrating the mainstream, but for now, those present are glad to be in on the secret.

The Kinks - Picture Book

The Kinks - Picture Book

"And now, meet The Kinks, five more representatives of the…shaggy set." As soon as Brian Matthew provides this delightful introduction, Picture Book begins to paint a complete image of one of the UK's most irrepressible acts. Ever since they burst into England's pop consciousness over 40 years ago, their hooks have been nagging at the minds of consecutive generations.

In this collection, all of the hits are present and correct, along with everything else the band ever did. With 138 tracks over six discs, it seems every time Ray Davies ever opened his mouth someone pressed record. However, even connoisseurs of The Kinks will be pleasantly bemused by the rarities present, which show a craftier edge than the pop perfection of the likes of Long Tall Sally and 20th Century Man.

The ubiquitous 60s feel of the band does wander at times, but the most memorable moments remain those that are glued in the decade when the group crafted their youthful tales of twisted love. Dedicated Follower of Fashion still hops along daintily, while Days manages to provoke memories of an old Tetley advert yet still sound fresh. The track-listing, albeit extensive, is interesting, deciding to flit in and out of moods and periods rather than follow chronologically.

An extra dimension is added by numerous live tracks, the pick of which is a misty rendition of Alcohol, complete with a clap-trap, likely lad introduction and a shaky organ. Such is the depth of the collection that it is impossible to maintain the polished sheen of their singles. This is a definite advantage, as even Lola begins to grate after countless listens.

Instead, alternative renditions such as a piano-led Face In The Crowd, taking on a solemn, lonelier feel, leave a more lasting impression. After all, it's only superfans that this collection will appeal to, due to its magnitude and price, so the uncommon gems it unearths are where it reveals its worth. Those looking for signposts to the music that dominates the modern age will enjoy picking out the blueprints for many songs in even the Davies brothers and friends' most throwaway moments, such as The Moneygoround.

Regardless, everyone with ears still loves Waterloo Sunset. Forever incisive and grittily clinging to British eccentricity and melancholy throughout, at its core this anthology is a remnant of a past age. It is packaged beautifully and lovingly to boot, with the vital factor of Ray Davies' approval and official contribution another bonus. Nobody is ever going to get through it all unless they have already, but it is certainly worth giving it a go while waiting for that possible reunion tour.