Noah & The Whale and Soko Live

Noah And The Whale, Soko
Scala, London
Wednesday 4th July 2008

Believe it or not, but a folk band could be about to get big. Noah and the Whale not only pack out this ample venue, they fill it with more woozy, swaying fun than can rightly be expected from a band that just lost their most-lauded member.

Tonight, Noah are sans-Marling, but another sprightly songstress is here. French performer Soko has garnered a sizeable reputation with some teasing, petite performances of late. Her formula of Parisian cutesy-pie unawareness mixed with endearingly raw songwriting raises smiles, despite dreadful guitar playing.

However, having gone about half hour playing novelty songs like ‘Peanut Butter’ – guess what that one’s about - she is joined by Peggy Sue & The Pirates’ Katy Klaw who is asked to meow like a cat for an entire track. While attempting to be kitsch, it’s just plain atrocious.

Just in case she seems too sweet and innocent, a song called ‘My Wet Dreams’ is chucked in. The audience laughs, but the musical merit of the show is non-existent. Most exasperatingly, she ends with ‘I Will Never Love You More’, a wonderfully candid, thoughtful lullaby. It utterly outshines the rest of the shambolic set, leaving many wistful wonders of what might have been.

Though the crowd lap up Soko’s gimmicky dross, when Noah arrive onstage it only takes a few notes of Charlie Fink’s yawning, yearning voice to improve things considerably. They play ‘Mary’ early, its balancing beam of lovelorn pondering and fiddle jiggery an uplifting sign of the set’s direction.

There are slow, solicitous songs of brooding hopefulness, like ‘Two Bodies One Heart’ and ‘Peaceful’; then there are jumpy, joyous numbers like ‘Five Years Time’. Often, they flit between the former and the latter in a matter of syllables, such as on new single ‘Shape of My Heart’, a delicately poised blend of lyrical perturbation and harmonious elevation. They are assertively delivered, the seven-piece clearly elated at the reception they receive, with coy little dance routines even springing up in the audience.

Without Laura Marling, Slow Club’s Rebecca fills in, but fails to make much of an impression, flittering uncertainly in the background. Still, Charlie’s piercing stare and sensitive strumming hold the attention, while even a replacement drummer cannot deflect from the taut togetherness of the group.

Nevertheless, meaningful this isn’t. While the lyrics have poetic leanings and the music lofty aspirations, some songs are pure throwaway pop. The choice of covering The Temptations’ ‘Don’t Look Back’ typifies this; it’s a jubilantly played, bubblegum moment. They are lured back for two encores of toe-tapping pleasure, even playing ‘Five Years Time’ again with a cut of The Drifters’ ‘Sweets For My Sweet’ tagged on the end. Despite the fiddle and fiddly arrangements, Noah and the Whale are no folk band. Just clean good fun.

Jarvis Cocker - Saying The Unsayable

Jarvis Cocker gave a lecture on lyrics at Brighton Festival last night.

Special praise was singled out for the lyrics of Amy Winehouse’s track ‘Me And Mr Jones’, with Cocker stating: “Amy just makes words up. What kind of fuckery is this? I dunno, but I like it.”

Babyshambles ‘Baddies Boogie’ was also commended, as Jarvis – famed for his own unsubtly sexual songwriting - explained: “Anyone who writes ‘He’ll bum your wife then shake your hand’ is alright by me.”

The Pulp frontman showcased his PowerPoint skills in the rapturously received presentation, called Jarvis Cocker on Song - Saying the Unsayable. He also found time to debut a new track as well as give a rendition of his first ever songwriting attempt.

The new song is titled ‘Girls Like It Too,’ while Jarvis’ earliest song, written in 1978, is called ‘Shakespeare Rock.’ He played it solo on acoustic guitar and squirmed at lyrics including: ‘Got a baby, only one thing’s wrong/She quotes Shakespeare all day long/Said baby why don’t you ring me/She said to be or not to be.’

Jarvis discussed such songwriting greats as Leonard Cohen, The Velvet Underground, The Beatles, The Fall, Scott Walker and David Bowie. Contemporary acts such as Rihanna, MGMT and The Last Shadow Puppets were also praised.

The likes of James Blunt and Phil Collins didn’t fare so well, with Cocker complaining most music now has the air of sophisticated shopping lists. He justified his authority on the subject by saying: “This is all based on my subjective opinion, but I’m always right.”

Elegantly strolling about the Brighton Dome stage with a cane in hand, he admitted to being nervous and apologised for running over time by an hour. “Sorry, I’ve not done one of these before. Nobody needs to catch a bus home do they?”

In a question and answer session at the end, Cocker heralded Jimi Hendrix’s version of Bob Dylan’s ‘All Along The Watchtower’ as the greatest cover of all time, while confessing his affection for William Shatner’s attempt at ‘Common People.’

With regards to Pulp’s biggest hit, he clarified how the lyrics came about: “The girl from Greece with the thirst for knowledge was real….But she never wanted to have sex with me.” His own writing process was defined as “just stumbling along, the way I live my life. That’s why I’m carrying a stick.”

The Great Escape Festival 2008

The Great Escape
Various Venues, Brighton
Thursday 15th – Saturday 17th May 2008

Festivals don’t have to be about mud, tents and seeing recently reformed groups picking up paychecks almost as big as their egos. The Great Escape takes one city, throws hundreds of new bands into dozens of venues, adds thousands of punters and conjures millions of magical moments, all in three hazy days. On arrival in Brighton, a stroll down the beach seems the natural choice, so it’s off to Concorde2 with high hopes and a metaphorical bucket and spade.

FrYars are first on; they have a capital letter in the middle of their name so must either annoyingly pretentious or some cutting new electro act. Ah, it’s both, but with enough Talking Heads vagueness in singer Ben Garret’s curt brogue to engage as the fuzzy gloom of ‘The Ides’ booms around. School Of Language wander onstage next, telling the swelling crowd: “Thanks for coming, even though you’re only here for Vampire Weekend.” They may have a point, but as they struggle through the mediocrity of ‘Rockist’, the audience can be forgiven for not showering them with adulation. This is the current plaything of Field Music’s David Brewis, and reeks of side project cosseting. The drummer looks like he’s been in about 17 bands, waiting for a break that isn’t likely to materialise.

Vampire Weekend’s break may have arrived prematurely, but their unadulterated brand of kitsch pop impishness is far too genial to dislike. Sadly, most Escapees miss the show, as the first instance of queuing difficulties surface. As the Ivy League quartet begin with a looping rendition of ‘Mansard Roof’, scores of fans wait in vain outside. Nevertheless, those within are treated to a refreshingly tight as well as suitably enthusiastic set. ‘Campus’, an idyllic ode to adolescent apathy, is ready-made for festival frivolities, with The Kooks’ amongst those moved to move by its sheer catchiness. Luke Pritchard’s questionable dancing is again witnessed as ‘A-Punk’ provokes revellers to climb poles and generally run amok. Before closer ‘Oxford Comma’ combines grammar and giddiness, singer Ezra Koenig proclaims Brighton as his favourite place. Right now it’s easy to agree.

The real masterstroke of this event is its spontaneity. Somewhere, deep inside Great Escape HQ, an omnipotent being armed with only a headset and a contract phone frequently beams titbits of gigging gold out to eager recipients. In text message form. The simple idea of letting people know an obscure Icelandic bassoon player is about to play on the carousel ensures the day can be as exhilarating as the more rigorously organised evening. It is this service that leads to a capacity crowd filling Audio at 3pm, to see the elfin charm of French singer Soko. The quirky soloist strums her ukulele and spouts stories of peanut butter and other childish delights. ‘I Wanna Look Like A Tiger’, complete with elaborately appropriate headwear, continues the loveably novel atmosphere, before she shows depth with a piercingly fragile version of ‘I Will Never Love You.’ Soko is the find of the festival, popping up everywhere, leaving fresh devotees in her wake.

Earlier, Vinny Vinny played a midday set at Barfly showcasing their Sixties style, a foot-stomping melding of Motown with mod that references The Temptations as much as The Who. It’s all a tad too retro to be successful, but bracingly agreeable nonetheless. Another daytime session continues on Virtual Festivals’ very own stage on the pier. My Federation have borrowed Kasabian’s swagger and riffs, but are as pointless as building a sandcastle on the pebble-covered beach. Still, there’s an amusements arcade next door – you can’t play Air Hockey at Reading can you.

With over 200 bands playing, clashes are as inevitable as they are frustrating. Eventually Crystal Castles get the nod and the sweaty confines of Digital become base for Friday night. After a bitterly underwhelming performance from George Pringle, the headliners crash onto the tiny stage in an incursion of colour and intent. Incessant, loud and contagiously energetic, the duo rage into the pulsating blur of ‘Crimewave’. It’s intentionally unsubtle and structurally questionable, but their allure is insatiable. Front-woman Alice Glass is relentlessly suspended in transition between stage and crowd, much to the security team’s displeasure and the audience’s joy. She’s a buzzing ball of alacrity, never still and never clear. Crystal Castles set whizzes past, completely unoriginal but enthralling regardless. Speaking of fun but derivative bands, The Wombats then arrive on the decks to entertain the throngs of hyper revellers.

After the carousing of the night before, sanctuary comes the next afternoon in the form of three sultry tunes from Ida Maria, strumming atop the balcony of the Theatre Royal. The Swedish songstress stops pedestrian traffic with a racy acoustic run through ‘Better When You’re Naked’; her set is gloriously casual and far too short. Then, inexplicably, a string ensemble starts playing in the street. A cup of coffee and shot of Mozart and we’re back in business.

Lightspeed Champion plays three shows on Saturday, so catching him early may have been a misjudgement. A far cry from his imaginative, melodious album, his Old Market gig is a disaster. Playing solo, his electric guitar is abrasive and sketchy, burying his strengths of twisted lyricism and dazzling harmonies. Appearing uncomfortable throughout, he races through the likes of ‘Midnight Surprise’ and ‘Dry Lips’ without pausing between songs. The only respite for the perturbed crowd is a few licks of Weezer’s ‘Buddy Holly.’ At his later Barfly set, he apologises for this earlier performance. It was different, but ultimately plain shabby.

Over at the sumptuous setting of the Sally Bennis Theatre, Noah and the Whale play the gig of their lives. With a sympathetic audience, the seven-piece soothe with ‘Shape Of My Heart’ and thrill with the folk jiggery of ‘Mary’. It’s vulnerable but intense, the group dynamic cultivating a full, organic sound bereft of pretence and glimmering with emotion. The reasons for the affecting nature of the performance become clear as they announce the departure of Laura Marling from the band. As peculiar as it is warming, it’s a fitting send off.

When Marling returns, this time solo and centre-stage, it is clear her talent is thriving on its own. ‘Shine’ is a display of vocal range, while ‘Ghosts’ is almost painfully quaint. She is soon joined by her band, who add a more up-tempo drive to ‘Cross Your Fingers’ and a jubilant interpretation of ‘You’re No God.’ She is reluctant in the face of worshipping fans, her doe-eyed shyness appearing in every fiddle with her sleeves. Yet, mid-song, she’s assured, confidently aware of her ability. Every song is lapped up, before a sing-along encore of ‘Alas, I Cannot Swim’ cheerfully signals the end of another triumphant Great Escape.

The sheer volume of bands makes catching somebody startling a certainty, while Brighton’s festival feel gives the event an individual air of excitement. There is the possibility of spending large chunks of time standing in queues, unless you have a far more expensive delegate pass. Still, it’s all the positives of festivals, with fewer irritations. What better way to escape.

The Raconteurs Live

The Raconteurs
Hammersmith Apollo, London
Wednesday, 14/05/08

“I’m not sure if there’s a point to the story, but I’m going to tell it again,” preaches Jack White in his distinct primal squeal, beginning The Raconteurs final song. Yes, we’ve heard it all before, but that doesn’t make White and company any less electrifying. In fact, the back story makes their current glory all the more alluring.

The phrase ‘side project’ usually signals self-indulgence, obscure artist referencing and a horn section. In White’s case, his hobby has snowballed into an accomplished live force. Tonight they showcase the melodious blues of second album ‘Consolers Of The Lonely’, but also affirm affinity and mutual admiration for each other. They are absolutely elated onstage, oozing even more enthusiasm than an audience that isn’t exactly apathetic.

A charged charge through the new record’s title track sets a ferocious pace, before ‘The Switch And The Spur’ brings a grandiose flavour to the band’s rough and ready style. ‘You Don’t Understand Me’, with White on piano, sounds a little too close to Elton John for comfort, but ‘Old Enough’ is a delightfully dulcet ditty. Joined by a 5th band member on fiddle and White on acoustic duties, there is a delectable playfulness to the track.

The affable atmosphere persists as old favourites ‘Level’ and ‘Steady As She Goes’ are aired. The former sees White and Brendan Benson trading rapid-fire lyrics; the latter gives the crowd chance to test its voice. There is a solid platform built on Little Jack Lawrence’s sedulous bass playing that gives the guitarists freedom to experiment. One moment Benson leads, the next White is soaring into a trademark puissant solo.

There is a darker element to the show though, with the tenebrous background, complete with overhanging tree branches, casting the band – all clad in back, waistcoats aplenty - as shadowy puppeteers orchestrating the throngs below. After a stripped thunder through Charley Jordan’s blues staple 'Keep It Clean', they are in their element as the sullen smokiness of ‘Blue Veins’ gives way to an extended jam. White’s microphone is distorted heavily, adding to the inscrutable tension, until release arrives with a towering solo and the band exit.

On return, news of Mick Jagger and Ronnie Wood’s presence has spread. The Rolling Stones are teased with a short blast of their own ‘Little Red Rooster’, then new single ‘Salute Your Solution’ is delivered at apoplectic pace, Benson’s snarl competing with White’s wail. The exhilarating, breakneck performance is confirmation that this isn’t a mere plaything, their hearts are in it. Benson’s dripping with sweat as White regales ‘Carolina Drama’s urban legend, the sold-out Apollo hanging on every syllable.

“Well now you heard another side to the story, but you wanna know how it ends,” he howls, drained but exuberant as the song, and show, climax. Hopefully these tellers of tales have many more yarns to spin and many more years to span.

The Maccabees and Good Shoes Live

The Maccabees and Good Shoes
Concorde 2, Brighton
Saturday 3rd May

A summery, seaside stroll down to the secluded setting of this secretive gig is strikingly fitting for this showcase of two sun-kissed bands that really should be a lot bigger.

While Scouting For Hoosiers Only continue to brainwash a nation with saccharine tripe, The Maccabees and Good Shoes have released two of the most accessible yet credible pop records of recent years, yet can still amble into their hometown Harry Ramsden’s unnoticed.

This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. The bands have been left alone to write the follow-up albums, tonight giving a glimpse of their efforts to an adoring audience. Good Shoes begin with a well-received newbie, mainly due to explaining it’s about Brighton. The unheard material is greeted with toe-tapping and hand-clapping, often adopting a cleaner, less stop-start style than in the past.

In playful mood, the band whet appetites with the opening riff to The Maccabees track ‘Tissue Shoulders’ before racing through the spiky blitz of ‘Ice Age.’ The last new song repeats the pointed refrain of “The more I want/The less I need,” all splintering immediacy, continuing the jerky realism that typifies their sound. Then they’re gone in a whirr of ‘All In My Head’ paranoia and the faux-epic urban despair of ‘Morden.’














If Good Shoes are likeable, The Maccabees are loveable; a heady mix of nervousness and assurance, watching them is comforting but never comfortable. Long-time closer ‘Lego’ is unleashed early, raising the already sweltering temperature in a clash of competing guitars and storybook lyrics.

There is a harder edge to the new material, singer Orlando playing guitar regularly to create a thicker sound. However, the melodious purity of ‘Toothpaste Kisses’ and giddy gaiety of ‘Happy Faces’ is still present. Whenever they dip into their back catalogue the venue is a riot of smiles, but the new songs stand up well, a freshness and intensity attached.

The exception to this is the peculiar choice to stick guitarist Felix on lead vocals and give Orlando an accordion. The sound of the instrument, if not the novelty, is lost amongst the clanging of guitars and unnatural singing.


It’s only a blip, but a revealing one. Orlando’s wonderful resistance to theatrics, an anti-frontman who holds attention through original delivery and understated presence, contrasts strikingly with Felix’s grinning desire for centre-stage. The chemistry between the two is captivating, but most effective with Felix playing second fiddle (not literally) however reluctantly.

It’s back to business with a hectic ‘Latchmere’, then a strident encore of a Strokes-referencing new song and the rapturous sing-along of ‘Precious Time.’ It’s furiously played, the gig showing an impatience to release the tension and music of a busy break. Still sounding slick, but adorably flawed, expect them to return with songs the radio will play to death, as well as you.

The Postelles and Cage The Elephant Live

Thursday 24th April
Proud Gallery
Camden Town, London

There are about six bands on tonight, but the ones worth mentioning are inconveniently placed at either end of the bill. Both are very young, very American, and very good in very different ways.

The Postelles are a stylish four-piece from New York that dress, sound and act like The Strokes. They have even got Albert Hammond Jr. to produce their new single. Their debut EP hasn’t quite garnered the same acclaim as ‘The Modern Age’, but is promising nonetheless. ‘White Night’ is an uncomplicated jig filled with Kooks-borrowed wails and catchy couplets, jerky enough to tease a few people away from their stables.

Oh, I forgot to mention: Proud has moved to a former horse hospital, so all the seating stalls are actually stalls and the concept of grazing by the bar has taken on a whole new meaning. The sheer novelty of this perhaps contributes to the thinness of numbers for The Postelles sharp set. They continue with the afore-mentioned single, ‘123 Stop’, a tighter, teenage romp about hating goodbyes that snaps past with a chart-friendly fizz.

Their five-song set ends with another toe-tapping burst of duelling guitars, likeably loose lyrics and grinning gusto from the group. There is a thrilling abandon to their appearance, looking unwaveringly unconcerned about the sparse crowd. After their show they proceed to get merry, confident that their songs – or if not then their outrageously drunk bassist - are exciting enough to eventually gain exposure.
Cage The Elephant have already captured that elusive buzz thanks to first single ‘In One Ear.’ They stomp onstage with a purposeful swagger, making their set seem an event rather than another interlude between beers. Singer Matt Shultz has an unruly manner on the mic, spitting aggressive lyrics with attractive arrogance. They sound ready for the adulation likely to come their way.

It sounds chaotic but tight, especially on the stop-start signatures of ‘Lotus’, a bright cut of pop punk that is brimming with oomph. Soon Shultz is in the audience, spreading the vigour that typifies the performance. This is essential, as the songs aren’t particularly inspiring and the vocal delivery, more a brash half-rap than singing, soon begins to grate.

Deciding not to play the only song most people know last is a daring move, but intelligent. ‘In One Ear’ sounds gimmicky and bland after being overplayed everywhere for the past few weeks, its repeated refrain sounding juvenile rather than anarchic. However, not relying on their hit suggests there may be more to the band than a cheesy chorus.

This proves true as they rip through ‘Tiny Little Robots’, a frenetic rush of Hives riffs building to a crushing climax of rolling drums and verbal ferocity. They have the attitude and energy to be successful, if not the effortlessness of The Postelles. Still, there’s enough space for both of them in a stable tonight, so your record collection should have plenty of room.

Tindersticks - The Hungry Saw

The luxurious sound conjured on Tindersticks’ long-overdue return appears to justify the frustrations and convulsions of an eventful and painful five-year-long disappearance. The record is a simply sumptuous effort, leaving the listener bathed in the opulence of a band clearly thrilled to be making music again.

Since the Nottingham collective last recorded together, the line-up has been trimmed to a core of three original members, while singer Stuart Staples now has two solo albums under his belt. There is a reinvigorated comfort and togetherness to the sound, shown in the steady progression of ‘Boobar’, with its wounded harmonies and circular structure.

The focal point of their compositions remains the dreamlike, smoky vocals of Staples. His injured utterances shape and match the understated gloom and glory of the expert playing. He appears, triumphantly desolate, in every melody. Having begun with a lengthy, plodding instrumental, the album is shook into life with his velvety moan on ‘Yesterday Tomorrow’, the most instantly accessible track on show.

The break seems to have enriched the group with an uncomplicated ease that ensures their seventh album, which includes lavish strings and long instrumentals, isn’t (too) guilty of posturing. The delicate acoustic strum of ‘All The Love’ is a ballad relying on nothing but a few simple chords and that hollow, anguished voice. They aren’t trying too hard, but equally aren’t burying any half-baked idea into the songs.

Nevertheless, at times ‘The Hungry Saw’ is exhausting. Admittedly, three instrumental songs will grate on an audience used to immediacy and laconic, audible rewards. However, the tantalising allure of the title track’s jerky shuffle, or the gruelling splendour of ‘The Other Side Of The World’, lies in a reliance on tensions constantly built and overlapped but not always fulfilled.

A few numbers miss; too elaborate and drifting into pretentiousness, or not doing enough and becoming tedious. Still, the effortlessness with which Tindersticks re-emergence sails past is testament to its consistency and quality. It washes over, growing richer in texture with each listen. If every band was certain to return from lengthy hiatuses with comebacks like this, they would all be advised to take a rest.

Benicassim

Waking up at festivals isn’t fun. Your head hurts, mud has miraculously seeped into your tent, you’re thirsty but all there is to drink is a half-empty can of Carling, and you smell like you haven’t washed for three days – because you haven’t. There is no remedy for this, other than to jet away from this meteorologically-challenged isle to Benicassim, where a beach situated five minutes away makes returning to consciousness that much easier.

Benicassim is Spain’s premier festival, a veritable feast of sun, sea, sand and sangria. It contains all the usual festival ingredients, but has the added advantage of guaranteed great weather, a stunning setting and the opportunity for a holiday.

It has been at the forefront of the growing trend for Brits to head abroad for festivals since its inception 14 years ago. Situated between Barcelona and Valencia, many opt to visit either of these cities before heading to Benicassim. It is only a small town, without the tourist trappings of other Spanish destinations. This leads to delightful linguistic difficulties when attempting simple tasks like ordering food, but the atmosphere is relaxed and friendly. Around half of the festival attendees are British, but there is still an interesting mix of nationalities and outlooks.

On the music front, the usual huge names mix with a delectable selection of up-and-comers, forgotten gems and fascinating unknowns. Last year the big hitters included Muse, Arctic Monkeys, Kings of Leon, Klaxons and Amy Winehouse. Iggy & The Stooges, The B-52s and The Human League were amongst those displaying endurance, while interesting obscurities like Devo and Kiko Venuno also graced the stages.

This year the likes of Sigur Ros, Gnarls Barkley and Babyshambles will be entertaining the 35,000-strong crowds. The line-up is receiving criticism for a lack of firm headliners, but this is typical of Benicassim’s alternative attitude in comparison to its UK equivalents. Bands begin playing at around 5pm, continuing past 6am. The headliners don’t appear last each night, instead arriving around 1am, when the temperature is dropping and enthusiasm peaking. Afterwards, dance acts continue in tents with water refreshingly sprayed from the roofs, until the indefatigable crowds finally leave as the sun is rising.

The musical element of the festival is not its defining factor; it is merely the thread on which a holiday hangs. With no aural pleasures until evening, daytime dalliance is essential. Escaping the blistering heat of your tent is recommended, with most heading for the idyllic salvation of a beautiful beach. Other options include heading to the water park, where racing down slides like you’re seven again really is as much fun as it sounds. There are also dozens of atypical eateries for savouring local cuisine and downing sangria. Stay off the main strip to find restaurants and bars where the service rises above uni canteen standards and the prices below overdraft-inducing level.

When flights and travel are taken into account, Benicassim isn’t cheap. However, the festival ticket is reasonable at £128, you can camp for nine days including the four when the festival is on, plus Easyjet ensure planes aren’t too expensive. The best way to reach the town from the major airports is train, which should be booked in advance to avoid sweltering stampedes mid-hangover on departure day.

On arrival, the first decision is where to stay. Some choose to rent private pitches or studios, but there are three sites your festival ticket qualifies you to camp on for free. Of these, Bonet is the liveliest but furthest from the festival, CampFIB closest but quietest, and Mercat in between the two both geographically and in terms of commotion. If you opt for the bustle of Bonet, a bus service to the festival is provided, but it’s only a twenty minute walk, relatively safe and lots more fun.

Benicassim doesn’t suffer from as much violence and rowdiness as British festivals, probably because of the heat and blissed-out attitude it creates. If drugs are your thing, they’re as available as anywhere else. To avoid queuing for drinks inside, grab tokens from your campsite beforehand.

The festival’s uniqueness lies in the feeling it generates through its environment, musical variety and attraction of like-minded people out for fun and frolics. It’s all the positives of British jaunts, heightened by the glistening sun, with the negatives washed away on sweeping waves and buried under sandy beaches.

Shout Out Louds - Our ill Wills

Sometimes an album sounds fun on first listen, and then repeated plays reveal a previously hidden ripe underbelly of symphonic treats and aural pleasures. ‘Our Ill Wills’ doesn’t. It’s rather nice, but there are puddles with more depth. The darling harmonies and summery arrangements that typified debut album ‘Howl Howl Gaff Gaff’ are present and correct, as is the endearing lyrical optimism and naivety. Shout Out Louds know about heartache, romance, that indistinguishable period between the two, plus the bit before and the time after. And they’ll be damned if they are going to write a song about anything else.

Just in case the band weren’t twee enough, they rope in Bjorn again – the Peter, Bjorn and John member and long-time Shout Out Louds producer, not the Abba tribute – to sprinkle the catchy stardust of ‘Young Folks’ onto the likes of ‘Impossible’ and ‘Tonight I Have To Leave It.’ These added pop sensibilities ensure the songs are never less than listenable, but they rarely rise to include anything remotely affecting.

The record was actually released last year in most of the world, and appears to have been astutely held back to wait for the sunshine months. Songs such as ‘Suit Yourself’ and ‘Normandie’ owe much to The Cure’s blueprint of probing pop mystery, all uplifting vagueness, bouncy bass and handclaps.

The most sparse, remote song on show is ‘Meat Is Murder’, not a Smiths cover, but a homage including lines like “Everything sounds miserable tonight.” Another dark moment arrives with ‘Time Left To Love’, but the tale of loss is still sparkling pop. “The rumours said it was a serial killer/but they got hit by a caterpillar,” wins the Lou Reed Award for throwaway lyrics to deal with serious issues, and by this stage the vulnerable vocals and sheer musical gaiety is really grating.

Strangely, the album-defining moment comes courtesy of keyboardist Bebban Stenborg’s only lead vocal. On ‘Blue Headlights’ her dainty, rosy voice sails over a delicate little acoustic loop, spinning tales of “surprising eyes,” “ladybirds,” and “frozen hearts,” before gently asking “come on everybody, take your love to town.” The song is drenched in heartfelt, but ultimately trashy, loveliness; it’s so sweet it’s sickening.

This is a petite piece of pop, delightfully delivered by a harmless, charming collective. A daydream, it may attach you like a flower in your lover’s hair, but fall out of your mind just as easily and insignificantly. It’s an album to fall in love to, but not with.

Festivals

You used to know where you stood with festivals. Go to Glastonbury if you want mud and majesty, head to Reading for rough and ready rocking. Chance V for the clean and commercial, or try T in the Park if you can be bothered to trek to Scotland. Now things have changed, with renewed interest in live music heralding a new golden age for festivals.

As the season approaches, it appears there are more festivals than fields. Whether it’s independent jaunts in unknown corners of Britain, marauding trips to European hotspots, or corporate events in the capital, there is something for everyone. So why have they got so popular?

“Festivals? They’re a place to escape control,” mused Jarvis Cocker at V last summer. “Everyone comes together, and makes something different. It can be brilliant.” They are a chance for a break from reality, where mini-civilisations are created with little more than tent pegs, narcotics and common musical tastes. The stress and strains of daily existence can be forgotten in a haze of alternative music and alcohol.

The feeling of community that springs when thousands of people are lumped in a field together is a particular sensation. With no opposition, the mob mentality that can be generated at sporting occasions is replaced by a collective identity that is built on shared experiences, be it cheering a headliner, or bemoaning a portaloo.

“But then, every day should be like that,” continued Cocker. “A festival of life. Yeah…Although, festivals aren’t always like that even.” This paradoxical statement highlights how festivals aren’t necessarily sunshine and smiles; they’re often warped, intense representations of life, with the lows included alongside the highs. You might see Muse one minute but Mika the next, make a friend one day yet end up lost and alone another.

The ideal experienced by many seems mythical to others, with rising prices, increased commercialism and growing numbers of people out for trouble as much as fun. Tents can be set on fire, valuables may be stolen - it can even rain. That all-for-one, one-for-all spirit can be easily extinguished by thunderstorms or theft. Nevertheless, attendee numbers continue to rise, as people treat festivals as replacements for holidays, or even head abroad and combine the two.

As they grow in profile, the cultural influence of festivals could be growing. Cocker was equally ambiguous on their merits in the mid-Nineties. On classic Pulp track ‘Sorted For E’s and Wizz’ the bespectacled singer questioned: “Is this the way they say the future’s meant to feel/Or just 20,000 people standing in a field?” It is difficult to decide whether they are important phenomenon, or purely business-savvy organisations cashing in on media-influenced people buying in.

The impact of festivals may be exaggerated; could it just be a bunch of kids with nothing better to do? We may be being manipulated into giving huge corporations lots of money to see short, sub-standard sets from bands simply after big paychecks and boosts in record sales. We are simply consumers buying well-produced, superbly marketed products.

Festivals can be highly-controlled hedonism, with restraints as unassuming as stage times and the price of beer, plus more obvious ones like stewards and laws, contributing to what you do and when. People head to festivals to go wild for a weekend and flee their routines, but they dive straight into another – it’s just this routine is probably a lot more fun. Yet the anarchy is drip-fed, in confined spaces; there is an order and a protocol to everything, often designed to ensure minimum fuss and maximum profit.

Of course, this extremely cynical view doesn’t account for the life-affirming experiences many people find. There is now an event to suit every taste, so as long you do your research you should end up somewhere suitable, or at least know what to expect. The key ingredient to all festivals remains people, all crammed together, idiosyncrasies and ideologies mingling and altering, with the hassles and delights that entails.

“We claimed the very source of joy ran through,” sings David Bowie, summing up the subject on ‘Memory Of A Free Festival’. “It didn't, but it seemed that way/I kissed a lot of people that day.” While you’re there festivals may feel like they mean the world, but even if they don’t, they can be incredibly enjoyable. Anyway, what else are you going to do with your summer?

Inter 0 (0) - 1 (3) Liverpool

Fernando Torres showed his class as Liverpool strolled into the quarter-finals of the Champions League with a 1-0 victory against 10-man Inter Milan. The striker scored a superb shot from outside of the box as the English side won the tie 3-0 on aggregate.

The Italians had Nicolas Burdisso sent-off early in the second half for two soft bookings and never looked like achieving an upset. Liverpool were happy to shut out the Serie A leaders, and after Torres’ 64th minute strike they were never in doubt of becoming the fourth English team into the last eight of the competition.

Both teams starting line-ups were disrupted before the game, with Inter missing Marco Materazzi through suspension and Liverpool without Xabi Alonso, who controversially opted not to travel. Torres was deployed as a lone striker, while Inter looked to Zlatan Ibrahimovic, the forward, for inspiration.

Inter played into Liverpool’s hands early on, attempting to patiently probe but only succeeding in allowing the visitors time to settle into their defensive game-plan. There was no urgency to their play, with Javier Mascherano and Lucas Leiva dominating Inter’s pedestrian midfield.

However, with Jamie Carragher deployed at right-back, there were gaps in Liverpool’s defence. Luckily for the English side, the few chances Inter did create fell to the hapless Julio Cruz. He drilled a ferocious low shot from 20 yards after eight minutes, forcing a fine save from Pepe Reina, the Liverpool goalkeeper.

Cruz’s next chance was the product of slick interplay with Ibrahimovic, who showed touches of class, but flitted in and out of the game. The lanky forward slid a neat through ball to Cruz, but his attempt rolled harmlessly wide.

Liverpool’s only opportunities came from mistakes in Inter’s nervy backline. The best of these fell to Torres, who darted into the box after Esteban Cambiasso’s slip, but Julio Cesar saved well from a tight angle.

An audacious attempt from Cruz right before half-time could have sent Inter into the dressing room with renewed hope. The deceptively quick Maicon pulled back to the Argentinean, who delicately back heeled the ball, but only found Reina’s outstretched arms.

Inter gained some momentum after the restart, but this was short-lived as Burdisso saw red after a laughable decision from the referee. Challenging for a high ball with Lucas, the incident looked innocuous, but Tom Henning branded a second yellow card and effectively ended the tie as a contest.

Torres took advantage of the gaps that inevitably appeared as Inter pushed for a goal, scoring with a blistering strike from outside the penalty area after a dazzling swivel. His third goal in six Champions League appearances for Liverpool came from Fabio Aurelio’s floated cross, which Torres controlled expertly before blasting into the bottom left-hand corner.

Inter gave up completely after this, allowing Liverpool to leisurely stroke the ball around with little pressure. This was their sixth straight win, and they go into Friday’s Champions League draw full of confidence that they can reach a third final in four years.

Editors - Live

Editors
Alexandra Palace, London
Wednesday 5th March 2008

Another band runs the Alexandra Palace gauntlet. Editors, having done rather well of late, take the leap from big indie band to proper, your-mum-has-probably-heard-of-them, arena showstoppers. Well, not quite - but they give it a decent go.

Support bands shouldn’t be allowed at this venue. They should just give everyone a few free drinks, or lower the price and have the gig start later. The venue is just so vast, so open, that anything but the most advanced sound equipment is utterly futile. Sons and Daughters may well be a very exciting young band with a captivating front-woman in Adele Bethel, but they sound flat and tinny against the backdrop of uninterested punters and cloudy vibrations. They look like kids in a school play, completely lost at the sheer size of their audience and task. Sadly, those listening are left grasping the sentiment of millions of parents forced to watch said productions - you stay and watch, but that doesn’t mean you enjoy it.

To succeed at Ally Pally you need an enormous, epic quality in the sound, deep, resounding distinction in the vocals, and giddy devotion in the fans. Luckily, this pretty much describes Editors. After the warm, welcoming paranoia of ‘Camera’, they soon throttle any sceptics by crashing into fire-starting, anthem mode. Songs flash past, working by blending big, effect-laden, soaring riffs - you know, that one U2 have been using for the past two decades - with deft, subtle touches. ‘Munich’ is simply deafening, a menacing carousel of intent, while ‘The End Has A Start’ feeds off a crushing drum line that forces blaring energy into the set.

This vitality doesn’t really disperse into the crowd though. It’s a surprisingly old bunch, with less than instant enthusiasm, and the band lacks the spark to turn the gig from an event to an occasion. Every time any momentum builds, a more considered track seems to lose the interest of those less than obsessively committed. While ‘Push Your Head Towards The Air’ is a comfy, plush little number, it gets somewhat lost amongst the blockbusting blaze of ‘Bullets’ and the relentless, purging surge of ‘All Sparks’.

One constant is the capricious, captivating performance of singer Tom Smith. Frustration seeps from each pained movement as he entangles his voice and arms around ’Spiders’, before a mischievous playfulness highlights an accomplished run through The Cure’s ‘Lullaby.’ Rarely has a band’s sound been so clearly expressed through a singer; his every move details each twisting guitar, every bellow betrays an intense longing for affection but distance. He hides the band’s shortcomings and amplifies their talents , and almost - almost - makes this a triumph.

Then the sound system breaks. Returning for encore, halfway through the euphoric hymn of ‘Racing Rats’, somebody throws beer on the mixing desk and that’s that. They return in vain for another try, before finally completing closer ‘Smokers Outside The Hospital Doors.’ This was a valiant attempt to break into the big time. They will before long, but tonight they fall just short.

The Futureheads - Interview

Hello, You Divvies, We’re Back - The Futureheads

Band make great first album. Band get complacent. Band release adventurous second album that sells terribly. Band get dropped. Band split up. It’s a well-worn path, but The Futureheads are refusing to be the next band to walk along it. Having been dropped, they’ve since regrouped, wrote a new album and, apparently, “rediscovered their mojo.” When Gigwise finds an affable, casually dressed Barry Hyde in a London pub, he is brimming with a giddy excitement that has more to do with a reborn zest for life than the lunchtime pin he is sipping. The other band members are milling around, but we can see Hyde has things to get off his chest, and zone in on the chief songwriter. Read on to find out about that Austin Powers reference, how Radiohead are hypocrites and why the record industry is about to change forever.

Let’s start with the single. When did you write it?

It had been kicking around for a while. I generally write them by myself, in front of the telly, and take them to the band when I’m confident. I’m so neurotic about it, I chew on them for months. ‘Beginning of the Twist’ is a song about self-doubt and mental illness, but also it’s a slightly menacing song of hope. It’s about change. Things are dark but I can feel the sunshine is starting to appear.

Talking of change, do you feel this is a whole new period for the band, a departure?

Departure? I don’t really know what that means. A radical departure sounds like something’s gone really bad. We worked with a producer called Youth, and he identified the key elements of what we do, and cut out all the other things. He put the magnifying glass on every song. It’s a good song for us to release first because we’re kind of breaking the door down with it, like: ‘Hello, you divvies, we’re back.”

What have you been listening to?

I don’t know if listening to music influences us anymore. I think we’ve already listened to all of the music that’s gonna influence us, now we just influence ourselves. Though I have been listening to lots of Bollywood funk and African funk. I think the most influential factor into this album is the business side of it - getting dropped.

What happened then?

If anything’s gonna pull a band together or make them split up, it’s that. Like, ‘Right, that’s it. I don’t like you anymore, I don’t like you anymore.’ Or it will be like, ‘Right, we need to pull together.’ Getting dropped made us a lot stronger, and actually reformed us as a band. We’d became disillusioned being on a major label. We lost our creative drive; we lost our mojo. The day that we got dropped was the beginning of the new era.

Did you see getting dropped as a positive straight away?

I was like, ‘Please, drop us, I don’t want to be involved with this anymore. I don’t want to be tied to the mast of a sinking ship. I want out. Go it alone, at least we stand a chance.’ If we’d have stayed on Warners we’d have split up. It was a very dark period, but that was when we were signed to them, not after.

Why were you so glad to get dropped?

We owed them £1 million. We owed them. They spent it, we didn’t. They spent it on adverts and various things, paying people, bribing people probably. We had to pay that money back, until they dropped us. Imagine your in a million pounds worth of debt on Saturday night, on Sunday morning you’re not. All you’ve done is go to sleep and someone else has made the decision to let you off. Who would be angry with that? I thoroughly recommend getting dropped, unless you split up in which case it’s terrible. It’s made us a better band, 100%.

A lot of anger must have come out of it all, will that be apparent in the album?

I think it’s gave us the optimism and the bravado that every band needs. It’s an audacious thing to stand onstage and say ‘Hey, you bunch of people, we’re gonna play for you now and you’re gonna listen to us, ‘cus we’re quite good at this.’ That’s audacious, and that’s essentially what every band feels.

Tell me about recording the album.

We did it in Andalusia, South of Spain. We recorded the album on top of a mountain, in the Sierra Nevada mountain range. It was tropical, fantastic madness. We recorded 20 songs, and wrote nine of them while we were there. We got it all wrapped up in 16 days, which is very good going.

How did it contrast to your previous efforts?

The second album took thirty days, so we cut it in half nearly, but did twice as many songs. That was all down to Youth producing. He doesn’t fiddle around with your music, he wasn’t fannying around. He’d play with your mind a lot more than he’d play with your songs. He really cracked the whip, it was like being in a trance a lot of the time, very intense. He works with Paul McCartney a lot, who told him The Beatles recorded their early albums in three hours! That was the era of the hard-working musician. But pressure will always sort the weak from the chaff.

Do you think now you’re on your own label you are under more pressure?

No, it’s always been there, from ourselves. Warners never pressurised us, maybe they should have. Now, we’ve got a lot more to gain. If we do well we could be running a successful business. In reality, we can make more money selling 100,000 albums than a band on a major would selling a million. But it shouldn’t affect our music. We’re not part of the machine anymore, we’re kind of vigilantes.

So why do bands still want to sign with majors?

Every time a band signs a deal with a major label they’re putting themselves in a really bad position. They don’t realise it because of the smoke screen, the false smile and the bottle of champagne.

Why did you sign then?

That’s what you had to do then, man. A lot has changed. There wasn’t the infrastructure for indie labels in place when we started. People like Domino have proved that it can be done in a more sympathetic way than ramming it down people’s throats, with a bit more grace. If we can pull this off we’ll be the most audacious band of all time.

Do you think Radiohead brought the while record label situation to a head?

Yeah, obviously they’re in a league of their own. I had years and years of wanting to be Jonny Greenwood: ‘I’m gonna buy a Telecaster, grow my hair like him, dress like him, beat the living shit out of my guitar like he does.’ You do that when you’re a young ‘un - I idolised him for sure. What they did with ‘In Rainbows’ was an outrageous idea, but only they could pull it off. The thing that disappointed us with what they did is that it did really well online, but then they went and licensed it with XL. If they were gonna do that they should have set up their own physical record company. It seemed to me to be a bit hypocritical.

So you have set up your own physical label?

Yes, Nul Records, its for real. We’re embracing the revolution that’s happening within the business. We’re fed up with the way major labels do it. We decide when we wanna do something, there’s no worries, it’s a lot more efficient. What we’re hoping is that this will show a lot of bands that they can do it themselves. They can have full creative control; it’s a fantastic feeling.

You seem to have a renewed enthusiasm for everything. Was that missing on the last album?

It’s all changed, man. We were really heartbroken by the second album, ‘cus we still love it, it just wasn’t the right time. In some respects it backfired, but we were just following our artistic instincts. But if we hadn’t done it, we’d still be signed to them and I guarantee I wouldn’t be doing this interview. It’s a fate thing, absolutely. If we can pull this off we could go down in history.

Do you feel like underdogs this time around?

Yeah, we’ve got that hunger back. Through the success of the first album, we became this top band, and that isn‘t necessarily a good thing. We were dead young, and became a bit complacent. You need hunger, it’s very competitive; you’ve gotta be better than everyone else.

You recently did a tour of small venues, and now you’re off on a bigger tour. Which do you prefer?

I don’t mind. We’re all so happy to have something to play for and someone to play to. All the gigs are our choice. We’re going to go to every country we possibly can and tour like a domestic band would. That’s something Warners would never let us do. How else can we convince people to like us? Going to these obscure places, people will remember you for that. Everyone band goes to Berlin, how many play go to Wiesbaden?

Lots of your songs talk about time, racing against it or running out of it. Is that a conscious theme?

The age we’re at, mid-twenties, is when you discover our own mortality, the invincible child mind disappears - you are actually gonna die. Writing songs about time is therapy. It’s a difficult time to be, you might even be halfway through your life. Our songs get to the point, don’t meander. We wanna get as much done as we can.

So you’re looking to the future?

Yeah, I’ve started to recently. I’m getting married this year. As well as keeping everything going with the band, I want to become a producer. I’ve been asked to produce Dananananakroyd’s album - sorry, that’s a bit sneaky, it’s my fiancé’s band! I don’t think it’s feasible that we’re gonna tour for the next ten years. I’d like to have a family, and raise kids properly, instead of giving them a backpack.

What to the rest of the band think to that?

They’re all chuffed. Nothing much will change. I wrote this album while engaged and think it’s had a really positive affect, like: ‘Get your shit together Barry, what are you doing?’ I don’t think songwriters have much control over what they create; the more control they have, the more contrived it is.

Do you feel like elder statesmen of indie music?

I know, we’re like Pulp! It’s awesome, but we’re still young boys. Whose gonna be better, the band that has played 3 gigs or the ones that has played 300? As long as you keep that drive… The carpenter that has made the most tables is likely to be the best carpenter.

You’ve said your new album is full of defiance, optimism and joy. Defiant at what?

This whole, filthy world that we live in. The obsession with celebrity that is destroying our country. ‘This Is Not The World’ is the title, and we mean it. Everything we see is covering up what is actually the world. We forget that, we think we’re the centre of the universe, let alone the world. The human ego is out of control ,we’re starting to eat ourselves, crawling over every country and shitting everywhere. The fact that we’re making an album, that we’re still together, is sheer defiance. It’s not that easy to get rid of us.

Vampire Weekend Review

Vampire Weekend
Brighton Audio
Sunday 24th February 2008

“You’re shit hot!” shouts a typically animated Vampire Weekend devotee. “You don’t like us? Oh…” enquires clearly deflated singer Ezra Koenig. “No, no, shit hot means good over here,” he is assured. Although some things are lost in translation, the band’s irrepressibly joyous pop kitsch is well understood.

The New York band have enjoyed (or endured, depending on your viewpoint) more hype than is strictly plausible for a preppie four-piece with a penchant for Peter Gabriel. If this had gone to their heads the ridiculously tiny stage wouldn’t be able to fit even one of their egos, let alone a drum kit. When they jumble into view, forced to perform in a straight line due the delightfully cramped setup, it’s clear they’re as enthusiastic as the opening aural fling of ‘Mansard Roof’ suggests. The lyrical quirkiness charges fragmented rhythms in a strolling idiosyncratic salute.

The difference of this beginning is misleading though. Despite their billing as composers of thrilling, new musical ideas, Vampire Weekend are really just another indie band, who happen to throw in some world influences to compliment the angular riffs. This doesn’t decrease their attraction though, as new single ‘A-Punk’ shows. It’s infectious melody and buzzing bass are brimming with a frazzled energy that disperses into an already vivacious audience. It’s unadulterated playfulness, with enough “whoa” chants to engage and not too many to annoy.

The set careens past, a blur of communicable vim. Themes of unswerving simplicity in ‘Campus’ and ‘M79’ increase the hurtling pace of the show, with cheery exuberance favoured over showy dramatics or complexity. The former showcases the loveable naivety of the group as they reminisce: “In the afternoon you‘re out on the stolen grass/And I‘m sleeping on the balcony after class.” They look startlingly young, and suitably untroubled. ‘Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa’, with its calypso attitude and clinking melody, is a calming respite, less frenetic but equally jubilant.

The closing couplet of ‘Oxford Comma’ and Walcott’ raise smiles and spirits further. Ezra’s sardonic drawl of “All your diction dripping with disdain,” in their knowing ode to grammatical accuracy proves a glowing highlight. The tempo changes, vocal gimmickry and clever stylistic blending characterise the band’s tongue-in-cheek astuteness and overriding aim to entertain.

‘Walcott’ is a plain old sing-along, containing about four lines, but enough spark to make the crowd desperately want to visit the mysterious Cape the song’s protagonist wants to get out of. The drumming is basic and overwhelmingly loud, the tune is easy to follow, the hook itching to be yelled. This is timeless sunshine music, but equally effective at warming a Brighton basement in February. Vampire Weekend are far too fun to be revolutionary, and all the better for it.

Los Campesinos! Interview

Los Campesinos! have admitted they “really aren’t that bothered” by unlawful downloads of their new album.

“I have downloaded music illegally in the past,” Ellen, the band’s bassist, told Gigwise. “And if I really like it I’ll buy a tangible copy. We’re not that driven by money anyway, with seven of us in the band.”

Their debut record, ‘Hold On Now, Youngster’, is released on Monday, but was leaked on the internet a month ago.

“We’re excited that it’s finally coming out, but it’s almost an anti-climax because we recorded it so long ago and it’s been leaked.”

New single, ‘Death To Los Campesinos!’ came out this week, and Ellen explained the idea behind its rather colourful video, which sees the band ‘killed’ by the likes of flowers, feathers and unicorns.

“Making videos can be a long and boring process, but we were all incredibly excited to be surrounded by kittens,” she said.

“We always get associated with the word twee, so it was nice to be murdered by twee things.”
Los Campesinos! are currently on a UK tour, with dates still to come in Kingston tonight (February 22nd) and Portsmouth on Saturday.

They then head off to Europe for a series of dates in such glamorous locations as Paris, Berlin and Milan, but Ellen insists she favours the homeliness of Britain.

“I prefer touring in England. It’s a lot colder in Europe. The food’s amazing, and the sights and stuff, but I like the routine and familiarity of the UK.”

The Cardiff collective will be doing the rounds at festivals this summer, with All Tomorrows Parties and South By Southwest already confirmed.

However, thoughts are already turning to the next album. “We’ve got lots of songs left over, and will be recording over the summer whenever we get chance.”

The Best Love Songs Ever

20. Blur – ‘Tender’ Graham Coxon shuffles about uncomfortably, Damon Albarn is all gawky certainty, and Blur have never been so powerful. Backed by a gospel choir, recalling the imagery of Fitzgerald and Keats, it had altogether loftier ambitions than Blur’s earlier records. However, its charm is the devastating simplicity of both words and music, combining to make a song full of affection.

19. The Stranglers – ‘Golden Brown’ A love song about heroin, it waltzes past, seemingly propping itself up on a merry-go-round rhythm that bobs along constantly. Full of contradictions and a tickling vocal, it sounds peculiarly English, a strange vagueness mixing with a stately delivery to get that bubbling affection creeping through.

18. Oasis – ‘Wonderwall’ One of the most recognisable riffs in music gives way to a brooding vocal, part-sneer, part-croon, and millions of people recall millions of moments this song has soundtracked. The faint strings bring depth, lyrics effortless togetherness. A track so universal it makes rabbles of drunken lads show signs of emotion on a daily basis.

17. Buzzcocks –‘Ever Fallen In Love (With Someone You Shouldn’t Have)’ Buzzcocks masterpiece of hormonal adulation pits a confused Pete Shelley against his confusing lover and produces a rollicking two and a half minutes of unadulterated punk revelry. The repetition of ‘Ever fallen in love’ gives the song its heart and a quality that ensures reminiscence on every listen.

16. Donna Summer – ‘I Feel Love’ A trance-inducing loll through romance, ‘I Feel Love’ contains a synthesized backing so hypnotic it takes on an ardent glow. This lays the platform for Summer to sing piercingly pure vocals that bring an elated atmosphere to the track that revolutionised disco.

15. David Bowie – ‘Be My Wife’ “Sometimes you get so lonely/Sometimes you get nowhere.” Bowie is both playful and heated in this particularly frank plea for love. The key is the unconventional alteration of the repeated set of lyrics, changing slightly each verse and tapping into the desperation of Bowie’s appeal.

14. PJ Harvey – ‘This Is Love’ “I can’t believe life's so complex/When I just wanna' sit here and watch you undress.” PJ Harvey wastes no time in this rumbling blast of authoritative infatuation. It is unswerving in its intentions, as direct as it is commanding. The lack of complexity adds to the raw passion of a song of lustful pleasure.

13. The Smashing Pumpkins – ‘Tonight’ “The indescribable moments of your life tonight/The impossible is possible tonight/Believe in me as I believe in you, tonight.” Could be a bit cheesy, that. But sung in Billy Corgan’s unmistakable croak, it’s an empowering rollercoaster of a track, with grandiose strings ensuring an altogether affecting song.

12. Super Furry Animals – ‘Fire In My Heart’ A track of warmth and tenderness, it sees the Welsh scamps build up an exquisite but plain beginning. It evolves into a strong assertion of dedication, which clashes euphoric delivery with the underlining feeling the song should just collapse at any moment. Brilliantly different.

11. The Cure – ‘Friday I’m In Love’ Robert Smith penned this jovial ode to joy with a knowing simplicity that ensures it is as catchy as it is sincere. He uses the hook of days of the week eight years before Craig David made it annoying, and sings with enough jubilant abandon to lay claim to the title of happiest Goth of all time.

10. Led Zeppelin – ‘Thank You’ The first song that Robert Plant ever wrote for Led Zeppelin pays homage to his beloved wife Maureen; it features such heartrending lines as: “If the sun refused to shine / I would still be loving you /Mountains crumble to the sea / There will still be you and me.” Lovely.

9. Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin – ‘Je T’aime (Moi Non Plus)’ Few love songs have been officially denounced by The Vatican, but Serge Gainsbourg managed it with this sensual saga. It was deemed outrageous and explicit, with hushed French vocals and a deliciously suggestive style, but is also delicately delivered. Gainsbourg’s then-girlfriend Brigitte Bardot asked him to write 'the most romantic song that you could imagine', which is a fairly apt description.

8. The La’s – ‘There She Goes’ The lyrically sparse, wandering spirit of ‘There She Goes’ sounds as fresh and free today as on its release. The liberating, uncomplicated nature of the song may be at odds with interpretations it is actually about heroin, but, regardless, it remains a startlingly loveable tale of adoration.

7. The Beatles – ‘Something’ A majestic, swirling, and unashamedly sentimental track written at the stage when The Beatles seemed to have left this type of balladic tune behind, the song showcased the genius of George Harrison. He claims to have had Ray Charles in mind when writing it, and captures a sentiment of both openness and elusiveness.

6. Lou Reed – ‘Perfect Day’ The former Velvet Underground man showcased sensitivity on this release from acclaimed solo album ‘Transformer.’ The track is a subtle trip down a seemingly conventional romance, and is stark in its honesty, with lines such as “You make me forget myself/I thought I was someone else/Someone good.” Of course, it could all be about heroin again, but it’s cute nonetheless.

5. Marvin Gaye – ‘Let’s Get It On’ With more “ooh ooh”s, primal cries and “baby”s than most singers manage in a career, Marvin Gaye was at his most persuasive on this classic groove of charismatic seduction. A laid-back slice of soulful perfection, thousands of bad karaoke renditions haven’t tainted the pure smoothness of this expressive perfection.

4. Sebastien Tellier – ‘La Ritournelle’ The almost unbearable lushness of ‘La Ritournelle’ is tantalisingly visceral, a song that breezily drifts away aches and pains. It’s stylish, but oozes a soft vulnerability that only adds to the aching beauty of this crafted composition. The kind of song so gorgeous it should be annoying.

3. The Beach Boys – ‘God Only Knows’ From the French horns of the introduction to the airy vocals of Carl Wilson, reluctantly allowed to sing the song by his brother Brian, ‘God Only Knows’ is a twinkling composition as gorgeous as it is complex. The understated harmonies and emotional lyricism complete a delightful pop moment.

2. Joy Division – ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’ The delineation of destructive love, Ian Curtis’s tortured vocals are tormented by pulsating drums and a tainted melody, giving the song a prodigious power. The well-documented context in which the song was created adds a spectral quality to the sound, but it is the lyrics of isolation and devotion that make this an essential song of love and pain.


1. The Smiths – ‘There Is A Light That Never Goes Out’ Undoubtedly the most beautiful music ever to include lyrics about getting hit by a bus, this manages to be a touching love song despite, or perhaps because of, its ambiguous lyrics of isolation and death. Morrissey at his most poetic.

The Worst Love Songs Ever

20. Robbie Williams – ‘Angels’ After he left Take That, they soon fell by the wayside, and everybody assumed it wouldn’t be too long before the chubby one from Stoke did the same. But no, he released this behemoth of sentimental pap and it went and saved his career. So we still have to look at his smug face in the paper every day.

19. Lionel Ritchie – ‘Hello’ Does anyone else get ever so slightly scared by the video? How is the blind love interest’s sculpture so worryingly accurate? Is Lionel Ritchie really that creepy? He shouts hello with such exclamation, and so many times, you can’t even just ignore the song, you’re stuck listening to the repeated greetings of a gibbering idiot.

18. Bryan Adams – ‘Everything I Do, I Do It For You’ This Robin Hood soundtrack song was Number One in the UK for 16 weeks. 16 consecutive weeks! Who was still buying it? After four whole months of Bryan Adams telling you to “look into my eyes,” you’d have thought there was nothing left to see. But no, people kept buying it, the result being fits of cold sweats every time we see a bow and arrow. (This isn’t that often, admittedly.)

17. Eric Clapton – ‘Wonderful Tonight’ Didn’t he used to, erm, play rock music and stuff? Quite handy with a guitar, if we recall. The former Yardbirds and Cream member went all slushy with this tribute to his other half, Pattie Boyd, taking ages to get ready for a party. It’s frustrating when that happens, sure, but there’s no need for a syrupy four minute track to immortalise it.

16. Celine Dion – ‘My Heart Will Go On’ Sure, Titanic was a tragedy. But the real disaster was having this song unleashed on an unsuspecting public. Unlike the ship in the film this song soundtracked, it just wouldn’t sink. It was everywhere, winning Oscars and Grammys, while ingraining Celine Dion’s irritating, exasperating warble on a world not quite ready to realise it was absolute drivel.

15. Keane – ‘Somewhere Only We Know’ Back in the days before Keane singer Tom Chaplin was a plump, pompous, infuriating rehab-attendee, he was still plump, pompous and infuriating. This kicked it all off, the high vocals, plonking keys and empty sound adding up to a hollow track of stabbing irritation.



14. The Bangles – ‘Eternal Flame’ So awful it was deemed fit to be covered by Atomic Kitten. “I watch you when you are sleeping/You belong with me,” was apparently romantic, but in The Bangles’ sharp voices it sounds more like the behaviour of a deranged stalker. Naturally, it was a tasteless hit worldwide.

13. Sherman Brothers – ‘You’re Sixteen’ The question is, how old were the Sherman Brothers? Sure, sure, 16 is legal. But the age of consent is 12 in the Philippines – that doesn’t make it right. Regardless of that, the song is just plain, cheap, nasty, throwaway, boring music. Ringo Starr did a cover version. Hmmm…

12. Westlife – ‘Flying Without Wings’ Westlife release a song, it gets to Number One, it becomes increasingly difficult to believe the nation has a soul. The Irish crooners have been belting out slight variations of this formula for years now, but never more excruciatingly than on this 1999 hit. It all comes to a head at the chord change, when even if you’re hearing the song on the radio, you can picture them getting out of their stools, fists clenched, faces punchable.

11. Goo Goo Dolls – ‘Iris’ Songwriter Johnny Rzeznik is rumoured to have ended a long spell of sobriety when he penned this cult favourite. If Alcoholics Anonymous needs any help convincing people of the dangers of drink, that’s as good an incentive as any. You can still catch them peddling this at festivals, if you’re unlucky.

10. Savage Garden – ‘Truly Madly Deeply’ Darren Hayes reels off lines supposed to be of life-altering importance and earth-shattering beauty as if he’s reading a shopping list. Some kind of twiddly nonsense is going on in the background, and it ends with him squealing rather pathetically. But at least it knocked Elton John off the top of the charts.



9. Mariah Carey – ‘Hero’ She’s obviously pretty demanding, a bit detached from reality and more than a little unhinged. But she (or her management) knows how to sell records. Now, she’s shifting millions of sub-R&B; in 1993, schmaltzy, tear-jerking ballads about looking inside yourself were all the rage. Naturally, Mariah out- schmaltzed and out-cried all the competition.

8. Paul Anka – ‘You’re Having My Baby’ “You’re a woman in love/And I love what's going through you.” Or: “Whoa, the seed inside you/Baby, do you feel it growing.” Or even: “Having my baby/What a lovely way of saying/What you’re thinking of me.” Shameful sexism, vulgar imagery and downright shoddy lyricism combine in one of the most shockingly ghastly moments in music history.

7. Phil Collins – ‘Groovy Kinda Love’ The problem here is all in the lyrics. You can’t get much cheesier than “When I’m feeling blue, all I have to do/Is take a look at you, then I’m not so blue.” The worst part is that this is a cover! Collins took a truly atrocious song and somehow managed to make it so trashy it would be even more popular with middle England. Nothing groovy about that.

6. Nilson Harry – ‘I Can’t Live If Living Is Without You’ Agonising power-pop of the highest order, Nilson Harry stretches the boundaries of taste in this churning epic. None of the notes sound right, the lyrics are cobbled together and the whole thing relies on an enormous chorus that is just sickeningly needy. More depressing than romantic.

5. Barry Manilow – ‘Mandy’ Just edging Westlife’s version of the same song in terms of drippiness, this poppy ballad is utterly soaked in maudlin affection. That Barry Manilow’s ‘Mandy’ manages to gather up such an abundance of tackiness into just one song is its main achievement.4. Chris DeBurgh – ‘Lady In Red’ Bill Bailey has him very high up his patented ‘Scales of Evil,’ chiefly for infecting music with this tribute to a woman (maybe his wife, maybe Princess Diana) wearing a bright dress. Ending with the inspired lyrics of “Lady in red/lady in red/lady in red/I love you,” it is destined to grate on you at weddings forever more.

3. Donny Osmond – ‘Puppy Love’ He’s presenting some horrendous quiz show on daytime television now, but even that isn’t as nauseating as this memorably juvenile take on love. It could be deemed as cute and innocent, but is produced with such a layer of sheen you feel it is plastered onto you. Being fourteen is no excuse, this is plain rubbish.

2. Billy Rae Cyrus – ‘Achy Breaky Heart’ Country music, mullets and broken hearts don’t seem essential ingredients for an enormous crossover hit, but that’s all Billy Rae Cyrus had to work with. To make matters worse, it led to line dancing, the refuge of the elderly and the insane. Breaky isn’t even a word.

1. James Blunt – ‘You’re Beautiful’ He sits on the edge of a cliff for the entire length of the video. If they’d known what they do now, surely somebody would have pushed him before he jumped, wouldn’t they? The ultimate pitiful singer-songwriter’s definitive song, it’s painstakingly bad. “But I won’t lose no sleep on that/’Cause I’ve got a plan/You’re beautiful.” That’s not a plan, is it, now leave us alone.

Milan Misadventures

Giorgio Armani and me, we don’t often cross paths. Tina Turner sends him a panther every Christmas; I watch Peterborough Panthers speedway team occasionally. He’s got an estimated fortune of £4 billion; until recently I spent Friday nights sitting on a Tesco till. As he sat in his mansion, I was hunting down my £13.50-per-night hostel.

After a day spent investigating the Duomo cathedral, I sought some less sophisticated entertainment; there’s only so much refinement you can stand on a Saturday afternoon. Even though Milan is a destination known for fashion, style and elegance, these were far from my mind when entering a pub imaginatively named ‘The Football Bar’ to watch some British sport after a day of continental culture.

With Six Nations rugby on TV, I grabbed the last remaining table. A few lads wandered in, briefcases in tow, fresh from a conference. I offered seats, and was soon explaining the morals behind England fielding a Tonga-born former New Zealand international in a match against Wales, to a Scotsman, an Australian and an Italian. This seemed to go down well, the suits suitably impressed with my passable sporting knowledge.

They were interested enough to keep the drinks coming my way, and convinced me - through the persuasive power of Peroni - to join them for dinner. With only 15 Euros in my wallet, thankfully they were picking up the tab. I felt slightly out of place as champagne and lobster began to be served. Finally, I asked: “So what exactly is it you do?” Turns out I was in the midst of 16 international law firm partners, which came in handy when the bill reached two grand.

I thought it was time to depart, only to find I was on the guest list at “some club or other.” This was Armani Prive, Giorgio’s private nightclub, noted by theworldsfinestclubs.com for its “exclusive, luxurious atmosphere of personal expression.” My personal expression was crazed bewilderment, being the only non-millionaire/supermodel inside, dressed more H&M than D&G.

Realising the best way of fitting in with my newfound friends was a combination of polite nodding and gratuitous leering, I exited at 4am. But, unbeknown to me, the paparazzi were waiting. As they snapped away I considered a Bjork-esque attack on them for daring invade my privacy. Instead, I made my way to the hostel, reminiscing about my night of glamour before reality hit in the form of stale-bread for breakfast.

Cat Power - Live

Cat Power
Shepherds Bush Empire, London
Sunday 27th January

You don’t quite know what to expect from Cat Power. She never seems sure what to expect from herself. Tonight, she is an intoxicating mix of alluring emotion, kooky elusiveness and vocal presence.

The start is pedestrian as she pitter-patters onstage, suitably understated in waistcoat and jeans. Her four-piece band, The Dirty Delta Blues, are restless, a note shy, a foot wrong. ‘Metal Heart’ simmers by, adequate but uninspired; Cat saunters, comfortably subdued. It takes the contiguous charm of ‘Dark End Of The Street’ to pierce the normality of the show, coaxing a quivering croon from Cat and sparking her into newfound theatrical interaction.

Suddenly, the crowd is laughing at her exaggerated cockney impressions, swooning at a stylish take of ‘Naked If I Want To’, gaping at a smoky cascade through ‘New York, New York.’ Cat Power looks like a star, relaxed amid the luxurious sound she is conjuring. Yet a tension remains. She dances with flowers, but stays strangely side on, rarely centre-stage. She seeks refuge in her band, never assured the whole business isn’t a mirage. “I’m so sorry,” she says, sincerely, after merely dropping her mic. “Turn the spotlight off."

It is this self-conscious complexity burrowing within that charges the potential to create striking moments like ‘Lived In Bars.’ In a set heavy with covers, it is the reinterpretations of her own tracks that are most intriguing. The song, underpinned by a melting melody, wrestles with its singers contradictions. Ethereal subtlety becomes anguished howls, passing into joyous release before reconnecting with a lost hopefulness as the drums fade out.

The soulful American retains shards of mystery as she disappears offstage, returning with fresh drinks and a ban-defying cigarette. She’s playful again, pitching paper in baseball fashion into the audience, casually coasting in jazz-tinged renditions of ‘Could We’, and ‘Willie.’ Her tribute to Dylan, ‘Song To Bobby’, is more revealing. An open tenderness amplifies her wounded vocals, spreading warmth. The atmosphere is inclusive - tight but never constricting. Cat feeds on this, drawing you closer with the bashful imagery of ‘The Moon.’

Ultimately though, there is always distance. The adorable sorrow in her voice as she ends with Otis Redding’s ‘I’ve Been Loving You Too Long’ never quite gives way to reckless abandonment; you get the feeling there’s more, she’s subconsciously holding back. This enigmatic nature is undoubtedly part of her attraction, and probably keeps her just about sane. As she departs without encore, scattering petals as she goes, those present appear satisfied to witness as much as she is willing to show.