The Last Shadow Puppets - Live

The Last Shadow Puppets
Hammersmith Apollo, London
Sunday 26th October 2008

In the week when rock stars play at making grown up music at the Electric Proms, Alex Turner bids a bombastic farewell to his own triumphant pet project. However, The Last Shadow Puppets work regardless of Turner's standing, not because of it and it shows tonight. He's the draw, the face that most faces are facing, but is happy to be a part of this victorious venture rather than its sole focus.

The stage is filled with a 16-piece orchestra, a keyboardist, bassist, drummer and Turner's songwriting partner, Miles Kane. Any ideas this isn't a joint enterprise are soon extinguished by a thundering open rendition of In My Room. Kane is to the fore, a tour de force of snarling vitriol, as rough as Turner is smooth. By the time it gets to his own showcase, Separate And Ever Deadly, Kane's cutting delivery bites as sharp as the searing strings that underpin it.

Before this, there is the small matter of the year's most unfeasible sing-along. Album title track The Age Of The Understatement is aired second and its blazing backing and riff heralds a change in backdrop and a statement of towering intent. Its convoluted rhythms and pernickety rhyming aren't built to be a conventional rabble-rouser but manage it anyway. The duo trade lines while the orchestra caresses beneath, creating a masterful tapestry that is never quite lost regardless of the raucous reaction it triggers.

In slower moments, the strum of Turner's acoustic guitar and flow of his mellow drawl can be spellbinding, particularly on My Mistakes Were Made For You. While Kane's guitar reminds of his psychedelic day job in the Rascals, Turner croons with masterful nonchalance, his suited features nailing the line between smugness and incredulity at the surreal situation he has manoeuvred himself into. Arctic Monkeys fans stand silent as Leonard Cohen tracks air, nodding knowingly. When two blokes behind who couldn't string a sentence together without numerous profanities join in the chorus to Lee Hazlewood and Nancy Sinatra's Paris Summer, which supporting band Ipso Facto's singer Rosie returns to provide a sultry vocal for, it's clear to see the impact the band is having.

The influences that went into making the album are apparent as more covers fill the set. The Beatles' I Want You (She's So Heavy) is delivered with flair, Bowie's In The Heat of The Morning with swagger and style. But it's the gall of Cohen's Memories that steals the show. They're in full Rat Pack mode as jokes regarding some biscuits thrown onstage ensue and this continues as Kane swings the mic around and parades a bra tossed his way from the audience.

The sheer comfort in which they present themselves and their seemingly fanciful musical ideas is refreshing. Turner's success provides a platform from which to elaborate and experiment, but the gig is a resounding success because the songs are as well crafted as they are indulgent. Attention turns to Turner's next move with the Monkeys now, but the ringing applause that greets closer Standing Next To Me's climax suggests a revisit for the Last Shadow Puppets could prove just as popular in the future.

Comebacks and Cantaloupes - The Spinto Band

Comebacks and Cantaloupes - The Spinto Band

After a successful debut, many bands spend the time between albums picking up addictions, model girlfriends and each others faults in the studio. The Spinto Band went back to their Delaware hometown and found employment on a market.

"When I'm not in the band I work on a vegetable stand," says Joey, one of the band's guitarists. "It's (the band's other guitarist) Jon's girlfriend's uncle's. It's real nice, it's good to work outside. I know how to check a tomato and I pick a good cantaloupe." It's pretty clear that the trappings of rock and roll excess haven't exactly consumed the Spinto Band.

Over two years ago, the infectious youthfulness of Nice and Nicely Done announced them as the carefree surprise stars of the summer, attracting admirers with their loose mix of inverted lyrics and bouncy pop. However, label problems led to a lengthy delay before new album Moonwink was able to be released. Recorded a year ago, it is now finally coming out. While singer Nick struggles with his mobile phone's reception in the well-known coffee chain we find ourselves in, Joey and Thomas, the group's co-frontman/bassist, seem a little nervous about the reception the record might receive. "I was kind of worried, because lots of people told us we waited too long to release our second record," Thomas admits. "Which we did," interjects Joey. Thomas explains: "Music trends tend to be fickle, there's always a new hot sound. Bands get hyped up and knocked down; of course we're worried about that. I do feel a little uneasy about the reception to this album."

Nevertheless, their UK tour has been well-received. Joey puts a philosophical slant on their situation. "Some people, some critics are not going to like us now, but there's not much we can do about it. Without hype, people who might enjoy our music will never get to hear it, so we accept it's part of it." Still, venues have been filled with folk recalling the old numbers and appearing receptive to the new ones. Their colourful personalities and songs about tractors seem to have endeared them to the British. "People have been coming out and remembering who we are," nods Thomas. "English venues have that certain smell, kind of damp, which is nice. I feel less awkward playing to English audiences. We're in tune with the British landscape now. We keep seeing people we knew a few years ago, it's like 'hey, I forget you existed, but now that you're here, that's great'."

For the welcome back to be prolonged though, they need some dazzling new songs, of the calibre of old favourites Oh Mandy and Late. In lead single Summer Grof they have a ditzy whirlwind of a comeback track, a front to guide people into the new album. "The songs are much better now than when we recorded them," insists Joey. "We've become more aware that we're a six person band. On the first record there wasn't as much going on, arrangement-wise. Now there's always something that catches the ear. It wasn't a conscious decision, but we're glad it's happened that way." In the past, it has often seemed some of the band are redundant amongst the simple melodies they create, especially the three guitarists. But on the likes of Later On there is the sense of full involvement from all, without sacrificing the band's simplistic core in search of complexity. Fun is the band's main attraction for fans as well as their central inspiration for making music.

This was clear last time they plied the UK festival circuit, showering the crowd with Party Rings biscuits at Leeds Festival. "Party Rings? The little pink things?" Thomas questions. "Ah yes. They were gifts and as we were at a festival, I worried that people were hungry. Usually we have Hob Nobs – but if you throw them, they kinda hurt. Remember that." Advice on hurling biscuits noted, Gigwise decides to venture into the often-sour world of bands and record labels. Having been dropped, the Spinto Band are prime candidates to vent their anger about the world of corporate corruptness. According to Thomas, this is way off the mark. "Look, our label was in trouble financially. The music business is in a strange state right now, people are freaking out." Joey adds: "We don't take it personal. Our team was really great, we don't hate them. We're not bitter. Now Fierce Panda want to put out this record, so, hey, that's all fine with us."

The sheer friendliness of the band is the overwhelming impression they give, which comes across onstage too. It's easy to buy into the frivolous music they produce, from the kazoos that feature on Brown Boxes to the twisted humour the group shares. On illegal downloading, Thomas states he would "rather not piss people off, it can be a good thing". On other bands, Joey has nothing but praise. It is possible their new record could get swallowed by a crowded market, especially with its sunshine sound coming in winter, or it may become another creeper hit. Regardless, the group won't be overawed either way. After all, there are tomatoes to be checked, and cantaloupes don't pick themselves.

Albert Hammond Jr - Live

Albert Hammond Jr
Scala, London
Sunday, 5th October

"Who the fuck is Julian?" shouts one particularly idiotic member of the audience as Albert Hammond Jr stands nonchalantly centre-stage. As one of two guitarists in this generation's finest musical renovators, Albert is a stylish cog in The Strokes' seamless machine of indie cool, happily decorating the band's crowded tapestry with chugging rhythms for Casablancas' drawl to clamber over. Solo, he's the star, but takes to the job with the same inconspicuous charisma. Different songs, altered hair and a dissimilar attitude make it absolutely clear from the offset that this is Albert's show, without ever straining to prove that's the point.

He looks anything but understated, a flaming red shirt peeking out of a snow white suit, looking every inch the rock star with supermodel girlfriend. Yet his inflection betrays a relaxation unbecoming of someone really seeking a frontman ego-trip. He never chases lines or flares into solos, just hitting notes and fitting into songs, such as on opener Everyone Gets A Star. Its three twiddling guitars and vacant lyricism sets the tone, before The Boss Americana introduces Albert's five-piece band as a force equally worthy of attention. Uninspiring on record, it's morphed into a vociferous, lengthy burn through Television, featuring a sliding riff that is forced to jostle for attention with the thunderous rhythm section. It's as charged, as good and admittedly as Strokes-like as it gets.

A great grating vocal line on last single Gfc's choruses keeps the tempo high, before the humpty dumpty melody of Call An Ambulance brings a wonderfully playful element to the set. In Transit is ruined slightly by a fat ageing man throwing a punch at a pair of obnoxious buffoons whose only purpose in life appears to be to shout "Albert!" interminably. But he's unflustered by it, gazing distantly before ripping into the stinging Victory at Montery, complete with a snaking bassline pulsating but nonchalant enough to diffuse the nonsense.

His guitar work is impeccable and the thrill of his Townsend-aping circular strumming and distinctive high hold is enough to satisfy most, yet he fills the stage with other impressive players, happy to allow extravagance from his band-mates while he concentrate on acting gloriously unfocused. However, there isn't that feeling that this could all implode, regardless of the ban-flouting cigarette he casually smokes. It's tight and utterly controlled, Albert looking far too content to be reckless. The set switches between the more continuous tone of new album Como Te Llama and debut Yours To Keep's bursts of balladry and rock, with the weightiness of the latter just winning out. Back To The 101 brings uncomplicated catchiness and first encore track Blue Skies keenly captures his mellow sensibilities.

The range of songwriting, from touching to throwaway, gives the show scope to build into a rounded shape, but the crescendo of a blistering finish never really arrives. The group remaining unmoved by requests for fan favourite Hard To Live In The City, instead opting for another new song. This is Albert's only UK date so far to promote his album and it's understandable. It also fits, not allowing for a show-stopping finale or other indulgences. With a solid collection of songs, top level musicianship and, well, a Stroke, there's no need to overplay anything. The set simply glides down before the band slips off and the crowd drifts out, thoroughly satisfied, but still in no doubt as to who Julian is.

Bloc Party - Live

Bloc Party
Kentish Town Forum
Tuesday 30th September 2008-10-03

There are few less enjoyable ways to start a gig than being told by a host to scream as loud as you can, because Keane's fans were loud the previous night and it would be very uncool to be quieter. There are also a minute number of propositions more annoying than being told by giant advertising screens to tune into a radio station to relive the show you have yet to live. Yet this is how Bloc Party enter the stage. From then on, the only infuriating thing is how fast the time passes.

Before there's really chance to settle down, it's over. Two encores, one extremely long and another tremendously memorable, sail past. It's all in the timing. The band have, unlike on their last two albums, captured the live knack of structuring a set so that it never settles on a theme or a mood other than progression. This is done through specifics, such as playing new track/old track/older track, but is more noticeable in the subtleties of numbers. Song For Clay has been twisted into a behemoth of an anthem, Kele revelling in having it's bookish intro boomed back at him, before an ear-singeing riff finds itself in unaccustomed surroundings, having been crafted with stadiums in mind. But before its resonance can settle, it revolves into Banquet, a frenzy of clashing simplicity that makes up for lack of freshness through sheer tactless immediacy.

It’s the slower songs that insist on awareness though, no longer sounding buried in between Prayers and Positive Tensions, allowed to build and roam as intended. The gig sold out in five minutes, it's full of super-fans and if the group feel like playing an extended sitar solo it would probably go down a storm. This allows bassist Gordon, back in the fold after missing the summer's festivals, to settle on a xylophone for a while and Russell to toss about with his guitar pedals like a kid in Toys R Us without removing any element of enjoyment or purpose from the set. Signs' delivery is affecting, not cringe-worthy in the flesh, and This Modern Love another strident stroll of emotive relief, setting the tone for So Here We Are. Still a breathless moment, the ode to nothing thrills and cajoles, its measured release far more exhilarating than the more direct delectation of Mercury and Hunting For Witches.

Still playful despite the edginess their sound creates and demands, Matt is animated and shirtless on drums, while Kele even allows his audience to choose the final song – Skeletons – by throwing the mic into the crowd. The house lights are already up when they play the cult favourite, but it works nonetheless. Beforehand, Helicopter closes the first encore, almost an afterthought now. They still do indie guitar hits better than most of the charts, but appear past noticing. Splitting the attention between reflex reaction songs to bounce about to and acute moments to cling to, minutes ebb and flow with conclusions brilliantly unresolved. Maybe if, as the big screens still beseech, the gig is listened back to on the radio, a completely different reaction from the same set could be garnered. It's easy to take whatever you want from this, which is affirmation that Bloc Party can take this wherever they want.

Nail The Cross Festival - Live

Nail The Cross
Various Venues, New Cross
Saturday 27th September 2008


Pub crawls are a peculiar tradition that involve large groups of people walking, swaggering, swaying, staggering and finally falling from bar to bar, with the manner of transport correlating to the level of drunkenness. Nail The Cross is pretty much this, with added bands. What starts of as a rather well turned out crowd listening to rock music of the utmost calibre slowly turns into average night out fare, then becomes interestingly weird, before ending up a rather glorious mess. This, though not really a festival, makes for a decent night out. Maybe more pub crawls should be like it.


Upon arrival at New Cross' hallowed high street, The Hobgoblin is the first port of call and is alive with youthful activity, gig-goers spilling into the canopied garden to pick up passes and strangers, glasses toppling off tables already. A swift turn around the corner and the renowned Goldsmiths Student Union is filling with eager-eyed youngsters – it is the end of Fresher's Week here – awaiting the Archie Bronson Outfit's much-travelled rock fare. Despite being quite a modest crowd for one of the festival's biggest acts, the band brings the evening to an early peak it never quite repeats. This isn't a criticism, the Archie Bronson Outfit just happen to put in a stunning shift, looking utterly out of place in lumberjack shirts, exuding bearded gruffness. Songs crash past, their southern rock aided by the exploits of their particularly dishevelled looking one-man sax section, who plays two instruments at once to summon an eerily epic tone. Cherry Lips is loud and wonderfully coarse, but it’s the almost-cheap progression of Dart For My Sweetheart that is truly memorable. Left to brew until the chorus, counting verses build with internal rhyme, while a nagging riff underpins it all. It sounds simply huge in the shapeless confines of a student bar, keeping people away from the dirt cheap drinks for a full five minutes.

Clinic are up next, with their patented juxtaposition of serious musical exploration and cheesy dress-up draw childishness. Arriving onstage in trademark surgical masks, with matching Hawaii shirts more worthy of mockery than mystique, there's a lot not to like on first look. Luckily, they're an accomplished act who effortlessly switch between sub-genres, with clever chord changes leaving them as adept at delivering keys-driven mid-tempo as high-voltage marauding. Monkey Off My Back is a stomping centre to the set, and despite sometimes veering dangerously close to band-playing-in-the-background-in-an-OC-scene territory, they're worthy headliners. The nature of these one-nighters means that everyone is off elsewhere before they even leave the stage, with many skipping across to the Walpole Arms for Jay Jay Pistolet's acoustic set. The loveable muddle these affairs can be is illustrated as he's just finishing upon arrival, the schedule planner being about as accurate as its spelling of Conor Oberst (Osbert). However, the affable atmosphere prevails as the Amersham Arms is a hop across the road and Micachu & The Shapes are on.

Looking like they could only ever exist in London, Micachu loiters behind the mic, attitude and cheeky contempt fortifying her position of control. Their brand of quirky laptop-laden indie is well-received, the crowd taking note of the venue's motto to be "quiet during the quiet bits and loud during the loud bits". It's too one-dimensional after a while, despite some maverick drumming and Micachu's inevitable summoning of a hoover. As the DJs, more of a state than most, begin spinning Mark Morrison, the band aren't done. Playing one more song, Micachu sticks the vacuum to her face, distorts the mic and gets the desired reaction of intrigue and enthusiasm, despite the cleaning instrument having very little musical effect.

Speaking of which, CocknBull Kid are on next. Exciting in appearance and stage presence, their music drifts past without doing very much. On record, spiky arrangements and biting lyrics stand out, but live both are lost and unless glancing towards the stage it may as well be DJs back on. It is pretty quickly, with the place seemingly busier now the bands are finished and certainly livelier. Casper C continues in the Amersham, but such is the nature of these festival crawls, a shamble back to Goldsmiths for the Count, him of many monikers, is called for as he spins until the even earlier hours. There's a fair few people preferring this to any guitar-based offerings the evening has offered, though it's questionable if many more can hear by now. There's a variety to the night and venues that allows attendees to dip into everything, but it never completely satisfies on any front. The novelty of these events has certainly worn off and outstanding line-ups are required to make them more than trips to the pub with entertainment laid on. Still, it's another admirable attempt and is well-executed enough to survive the winter. For the majority though, it's back to the non-band bar crawls until next year.

The Spinto Band - Live

The Spinto Band
The Borderline
Thursday, 25th September 2008


The Spinto Band are back in England, which can only mean one thing - the kazoos are here too. Over two years since they arrived in the UK, carried by a frenzy of hearsay and hype, the Delaware six-piece could have returned to London with a new attitude and mature approach. To the delight of everyone present, they haven't, they still sound exactly the same. That's not to say it's an identical show, with unheard tracks from their upcoming album packing the set. But newcomers to the band, plenty of whom are present here tonight, would be hard-pressed to tell the difference between new and old.

To their credit, the new songs don't include kazoos. Brown Boxes does, however, and is aired early on. Its cupid/stupid lyrics and bouncy, bubbly nature is painfully infectious, bringing bobbing heads onstage and off. Worries the giddy joy of this old favourite will be isolated prove unheralded though, as new number Later On brings similar toe-tapping tomfoolery. There's cleanliness to their sound, the six instruments managing to fit together without sounding too jumbled or complicated. It's all terribly simple, with joint frontmen Nick and Thomas naturally switching singing duties.

Crack The Whip is slightly more refined, bass-driven and sung with blithe understatement by Nick, the humour and slickness of the delivery drawing the crowd in. Old favourites slip into the cracks between cuts from new record Moonwink, papering over any hesitancy from the audience. Current single Summer Grof is already a beloved fixture in the show, its circular rhythm and cute refrains of two-faced honesty as punchy as they are playful. Lapping it up, the band repeatedly thanks their audience, to the point where it would be annoying if their music wasn't so inanely endearing.

Nothing is challenging though, it's a gig for all ages and faces. It's difficult to care what has been played and what hasn't, let alone keep track, as each oldie and newbie contains the same all-encompassing goofiness. Being so undemanding takes talent though, a knack for nagging melodies persistently allowing the audience to connect with whatever the band cajoles them with next; there's always certainty the safety net that some Beach Boys harmonies will arrive before the final chorus. Technical proficiency is buried beneath the bouncing, the keys never plodding and each member's contribution knitting neatly into the sound. Three guitars sometimes seem a tad unwarranted, especially on the keyboard-led Pumpkins and Paisley. Nevertheless, the clear camaraderie in the band justifies the stage being so crowded.

Oh Mandy validates turning up. Its glowing vocals and effortless exquisiteness are irresistible, standing up above and beyond the rest of the set's fun but dispensable fodder. Returning for an encore, it's another past hit, Late, that brings the jolliness to a conclusion. Containing the rare quality of songs with verses more catchy than their choruses, it heralds an unconventional sing-along. Most new tracks seem destined to slot sweetly into the Spinto catalogue but lack the pithy immediacy of Nice and Nicely Done, yet there's little hint of future glories. It's all a bit too enjoyable to care about things like that though, pass that kazoo…

We're Already Dead – The Dodos

We're Already Dead – The Dodos

"Why are we called The Dodos? We're already dead. The only place you can go from there is to come back to life, start over." A band seeking to reinvent itself even as the embers of its beginning still burn, The Dodos have no wish to look back. Despite this, their music meanders into the past at every turn, and then hurls itself forward in the crash of a trash can, the personality of a tempo change. They don't sound like right now either, not really fitting into a handy nook, regardless of their folk sensibilities and stylishly dishevelled looks. In their early twenties, they're a throwback to something nobody can remember remembering, so they end up sounding impossibly new.

At V Festival last month, they sounded plain awful. With just 27 people watching, in the midst of that glorified advertisement, they played without any hint of the subtleties they are capable of. "It was so sponsored, so spread out and huge that we were just stuck with nobody watching us," bemoans Meric Long, the band's nonchalant mouthpiece. "We did see Amy Winehouse, but it was hard to have any fun at that monstrosity." Back in the UK for their own tour, at considerably smaller venues than the buzz about them in their native US is allowing them to perform, they appear at home. Logan Kroeber, a tight, persistently driving presence on drums, is far more chipper offstage, exuding the cavalier exuberance of a man used to hitting things with sticks for a living. "This tour is better than V Fest," he laughs. "So much better. We go home tomorrow, so we're celebrating tonight."

The concept of home is far from straightforward for a band getting used to the cross-country necessity of incessant touring. "Home is wherever I can relax," Logan offers. For Meric, it's more convoluted. "It's a crazy cycle every night, it's groundhog day. I forget what happened the night before every morning. Going into each show, there's that sense of anxiety, nervousness, excitement. After the show, it feels like I've taken a huge dump and I feel so much better. Sorry…" He trails off but there's more; pauses are a fixture of his rhetoric, slipping from eloquence to crassness as his tracks move from delicacy to coarseness. "I don't feel like when we visit places we have really visited them. You only see cities at night, and then only the venues, the bars. Home is in the head. It has to be."

So could this displacement from any physical sense of belonging be behind the band's second, breakthrough album, Visiter? Spelt incorrectly on purpose after a child's drawing the band was given, songs on the record such as Park Song and Walking touch upon the dislocation from regularity visitors can feel, even in ordinary settings. "To be honest, I like to leave songs to individual interpretations," Meric explains. "The song is this big cloud, that I don't really understand, or have a good grasp on, I just sense it. I infuse it with things from my personal life, but it would be half-assed to say they're completely personal."

Larger-scale influences than the undemanding unrequited love of Undeclared are often present though, with the possible political upheaval happening back in his physical residence, the US, dominating Meric's thoughts as much as it is the newspapers. The subject of elections is a marked one, bringing a guarded enthusiasm from the band. Even Joe, the group's multi-instrumentalist who is as at home hitting a dustbin as tapping a xylophone, looks animated at the subject despite offering little but politeness and swigs of his beer during the conversation. "It's at that point where there's something new every day, it's a pretty exciting time right now, something is going on that hasn't happened in a long time," states Meric.

The theory that political upheaval could underpin changes to the artistic community divides the band though. Logan isn't convinced. "I can't see it," he frowns. "Of course, it depends what happens, but I really can't imagine any creative spark being influenced by who gets elected or anything." Meric, meanwhile, claims his songwriting is on "the same shit" it always has been, but readily acknowledges the impact November's election result could have on the band. "It will be big, both ways. People are going to be so stoked, or think everything is so lame, depending on the result. That's got to have an effect, there's got to be a change."

Transformation is also happening within a band whose songs seem to be growing increasingly into balanced, meticulously planned affairs, developing to a level beyond the organic playfulness of early material. With new single Fools getting airplay on Radio One, could the leap to the big time come too soon? "We wanna get huge!" exclaims a pokerfaced Logan. "We're going to try to blow their brains out." Meric is keen to join in with such droll facetiousness. "You see that Rolling Stones film? That's peanuts to what we'll be." Logan again: "Ever been to the moon? That big." But how, Gigwise wonders? "Trampoline," they deadpan in unison, in-jokes abound.

But the smirks mask an ambition that rears up in their technical acumen onstage, their bursts of passion off it. They want success, they're human after all.
"It's baby steps," says Joe. "We're just creating an impression that we couldn't get big. We could go there right now, but we want some kind of story to tell when we get there." A few more catchy singles to compliment their skin-itching slow-burners and they may just get their wish. There's a lot of life in the Dodos, for a band that's dead already.

The Dodos - Live

ULU, London
Tuesday 16th September 2008

The Dodos were last seen playing to a gathering of 27 people seeking refuge from the shiny crassness of V Festival in Chelmsford, looking apologetically bored and sounding understandingly uninspired.

Tonight, they find themselves in the convivial confines of ULU, so welcoming that there's a student swimming pool next to the dressing room and as much tea and raisins as growing boys could need. By the time they enter the low lit stage, the atmosphere is more mystical than hysterical, full of fans eager to see if Meric Long and co. can deliver, but genial enough to clap anyway if they don't.

Thankfully, this is an on night. From the opening strums of Meric's guitar, the mesmeric quality of the music is all-encompassing. Songs drift past in fuzzy hazes, the juddering percussion adding an element of drive to the singular, painstakingly accurate guitar subtleties. Soon a third member joins the fray, crashing about as he hits a dustbin, a xylophone and whatever else is handy.

There is an air of chaotic, organic creativity to many songs that sounds so ludicrously free-flowing that it can't possibly be unprepared. As it turns out, it isn't. Looping vocals are added with a tap of Meric's feet, while a tambourine backing track appears from nowhere at one point. However, the technical aptitude to play so unreservedly and yet plan so acutely is startling, making for truly thrilling tracks like Jodi. Beginning inauspiciously, it builds into a hypnotic curve, seeping tension, resolutely gripping but never quite allowing the audience to grasp it.

Contrasting styles and a reignited joy in playing – this is the last night of their UK tour and the promise of a return to the US is clearly a motivator for their performance – make for an engaging sight on stage. While Meric sits crookedly, playing the coy anti-frontman side-stage, the others either rock under the table or bang their sticks. Joe is a structure of solidity on drums, motivating rhythms onwards with skilful, penetrative kit work. It's a peculiar sensation they conjure, the audience helplessly twitching in nods of approval as the plundering catchiness of Fools begins. It is almost an anthem despite itself, provoking a chorused response.

The considered gracefulness of Ashley stands out, stripped of the stomping drive of other numbers but maintaining an irresistible aural coercion. An encore of Undeclared, a lullaby-like reflection of quaintness, plus the blues faux-mess of closer Paint the Rust, nails the challenges and attractions of this developing band. Brimful of talent, their ideas can sometimes run amok and leave the crowd behind, still waiting for a beat straight enough to tap to. But there is ability ever present, converting cynics to sympathisers in split seconds and convincing that the Dodos aren't just another silly name.

London Airwaves Festival - Review

Airwaves London Festival 2008
Friday 19th September
Various Venues, East London


"Is anybody else coming to Iceland then?" the Young Knives enquire. "No? Just us then. We'll send you a fucking postcard." Yes, most of the bands at Airwaves London are here because a trip to the far more alluring surroundings of Reykjavík is part of the package. Most of the crowd are here because it's Friday night in east London and this is what you do on Friday night in east London. It seems there have been more one day festivals popping up this summer than there have been hot days, with most sinking under the radar. Thanks to the association of this one with its big Icelandic brother, plus a slightly less indie-only feel than many others, it's crept into the consciousness of a fair few gathered in Shoreditch tonight.

Having tracked down a pub to pick up some passes, a wander around to take in the atmosphere of the event seems in order. Generally, it feels like Brick Lane often does at night; vibrant, dirty and filled with people rushing around with little purpose other than to look lover-ly and get to the next bar. There are burlesque dancers lining the streets and hordes of kids drinking nonchalantly on the street, but not much sign of a festival going on until inside the various pubs acting as venues.

Thankfully the wristband-based queuing nightmares of the likes of Camden Crawl are avoided here and it's refreshingly straightforward, bar a power-crazed bouncer, to get into Vibe. It soon becomes clear that the main reason for the lack of a backlog is that nobody is bothering to go out until the small hours. These New Puritans are on stage, churning out their surprisingly fashionable electro-by-numbers. Blessed with a charismatic singer in Jack Barnett, complete with a chain mail outfit, they entertain those here early – 10.30pm – with a brisk set of laptop driven rock. It's catchy, but all a bit harmless. When talk in the crowd turns to admiration for the singer's trainers (remember the ones you had at primary school that flash red when you walk? You got a free pair of shinpads with them signed by Alan Hansen sometimes) it is clear apathy is setting in.

The Young Knives are on next though; probably the festival's biggest draw in terms of profile. As irreverent and sweaty as ever, they take to the stage and promptly declare it, flippantly, the House of Lords' favourite haunt. Soon the darting, driving rhythm of Terra Firma is thrilling the considerably swelled audience, with the gap between stage and crowd disappearing. However, it still feels a bit half-hearted. This isn't the Young Knives' arena and they know it. When they make a remark about it being "a bad night to wear a woollen suit" because of the heat, they peer back at a crowd that would undoubtedly wear a dozen layers if they thought it looked good, regardless of temperature considerations. Nevertheless, they air a new track that doesn't quite sound finished and is all the better for it and entertain in their idiosyncratic way.

A wander across to 93 Feet East beckons, where the numbers really are noticeable. A barbecue outside is attracting attention, but in the back room Cazals have already begun. Their two-pronged guitar attack is abrasive and the likes of Somebody Somewhere are jaunty affairs, sung with the passion to be expected for a home turf gig like this. However, it gets tired quickly, as does the crowd, already thinking of the manic treat that lies ahead.

Sooner than expected, Digitalism take to the DJ booth. Having been fixtures of the electro scene for some time, it's a finely-honed act, ebbing and flowing with heavy beats in the right places, getting the texture between stylish licks and cheesy guffaws just about right. Not that it really matters when there's foam piping sailing across the crowd, people dancing on every table and sweat dripping off their faces. Everyone in here would dance to anything right now, Digitalism's reputation preceding them, making whether they're any good or not rather immaterial. Regardless, it's a fine set, provoking a prolonged stage invasion that never really disperses for the rest of the evening.

Upon leaving around three, the music is still raging, there's all manner of lewd acts going on in the toilet and people are still waiting to get inside. There's even a car park rave continuing as people paw around the street searching for naughtiness and night buses. For a one day festival in London, with all the problems that entails, Airwaves doesn't do too badly. It still just feels like wandering from a typical gig into another decent show. But that's good enough for the rest of the year, so as long as your expectations aren't too high, it's alright here too. But yes, Young Knives, we'd prefer to be in Iceland as well.

London Airwaves - Preview

What Is It?

An attempt to bring the undoubted appeal of Iceland Airwaves to the decidedly less picturesque surroundings of east London. The appeal of a musical jaunt in lovely Reykjavik is clear, as is the distinctive allure of a day falling out of Shoreditch's seediest bars. London Airwaves seeks to combine the two in one day of music, culture and late-night revelry.

When And Where?
Pubs, bars and even an old warehouse in east London will play host to bands, with 93 Feet East, Cargo, Bar Music Hall, Vibe Bar, The Macbeth, Hoxton Bar & Kitchen, Old Blue Last and the Hearn Street car park all joining the fun.

Five To Watch

The Young Knives
Often better value comically than musically, they nonetheless always entertain and are seasoned pros at wooing festival crowds with riffs as cutting as the House of Lords' quips.

Florence and the Machine
Simplistic folky fun from Florence, whose quirky songs can turn into irresistible pocket gems when witnessed live.

The Teenagers
Posing aplenty from the youthful Parisians, whose style over substance sound and energetic show is sure to get the crowds going in east London's favourite haunts.
Metronomy
The kooky – as in eccentric, not like Luke Pritchard, thank goodness – indie charmers look set to thrill Airwaves audiences with their distinctive take on experimental pop, having been a mainstay of the festival season.
Crookers
For those still standing, a late-night set from Crookers could bring the curtain down on the festival in startling style, with a set of house-influenced, hip hop dance ready to confuse and amuse anybody not already lost on the night bus.

One To Miss

Wild Beasts
Critical darlings for being different, they also manage to be an utterly dull live prospect, with a myriad of musical ideas combining all at once to make aa monotonous, annoyingly sung, mess.

Playing A Rare Festival Date

Sam Isaac
Ok, so he's played lots of festivals, but not usually the boutique kind. His pop delectation could be a disastrous booking, or may add an extra dimension. Worth finding out, either way.

Inside Tip

The Whip
Despite being billed exactly the same as every other new rave latecomers in the past few years, The Whip are actually a pretty fine crossover band with fewer gimmicks and more tunes than your average glowstick-wielders.

Be At London Airwaves If You Like
The sound of Iceland Airwaves but haven't got the time/money/disposition to trek across the continent, especially when there's a decent line-up just down the road.

Avoid If You Hate
Kids who are far too cool to even consider having fun, trying out new bands and venues that were last decorated before any of the acts playing were conceived.

Festival Tactics
Choose your pubs early and wisely. The biggest acts are sure to pack out these wonderfully intimate venues to capacity, leaving many moodily mooching to see bands they don't want to, regardless of wristbands.

Fashionsta Or Folky?
Oh, it will be so fashionable that entry may be judged upon haircuts alone. Not really, but the punters certainly won't be dressed for an average night down the pub.

Alcohol Of Choice
The Old Blue Last has been known to do an evil cocktail, but generally weak beer in old pubs is the order of the day.

Take Your Mum Score
1/10 – If your mum knew what east London was really like she may not let you go again, so best leave her at home. Besides, if you haven't heard of half of the bands, there's no way she has.

Cold War Kids - Live

Cold War Kids
Bloomsbury Ballroom, London
Monday 11th August 2008

When a sizeable group returns from a lengthy break it can take time to readjust and even longer for crowds to engage with unknown songs, but old hits can be relied on to see shows through. Not here: the new sounds not only fresh but filthy, the old sounds timely and timeless and the band sounds hungrier than ever.

Nevertheless, it starts in typical cobweb-blowing lethargy. After a bumbling blues blowout, ‘We Used To Vacation’ is dispatched early, a castaway of their strongest track that thuds around without ever really connecting, as if they’re aware the crowd won’t care when they know what’s coming. The rhythm’s stagnated, never flowing free, as Nathan Willett sounds restrained, tight. Guitarist Jonnie Russell’s mistimed bouncing doesn’t ring true, failing to ignite any relation. They’re building though, waking up.

Tonight is about new songs. Cold War Kids don’t merely debut them in the hope the watching hordes will approve; they bludgeon them with cut after cut of astonishingly stark but meaty music, ferocious in their relentlessness if not their demeanour. Not that Willett isn’t frightening. “I keep my anger on the end of a string that’s wrapped around my fist,” he barks, scraping under the surface. A broodier Josh Homme, he emanates masculinity without ever approaching aggressiveness, an all-American mystery. If you cut him he would bleed stars and stripes, but he’d probably get you first.

He’s beyond being the focal point, more a nucleus around which the other players’ electrons collide. Matt Maust’s eager eyes never avert far from Willett’s movements, his instrument often inches from the singer’s skull as ‘Mexican Dogs’ charging rock doesn’t get feet moving as much as legs stomping. Tempo alters in an instant, a stuttering piano twinkle twisting into a rollicking blues staple in the shake of a head, the twist of a string.

They play with a pained freedom, like it’s cost them something to be this joyfully reckless. Fan favourite ‘Hang Me Up To Dry’ illustrates this, managing to be utterly shambolic but completely gripping. Willett’s piano playing is far worse than amateur but thoughtlessly fitting, while a bottomless bass line reverberates around a song in no need of a hook but giving one anyway.

Character rings through in two flashes of lucid songsmithery, the beautifully coarse ‘Hospital Beds’ and self-proclaimed love song ‘Every Man I Fall For’. They’re silent moments, sweetly delivered without a hint of pity or indulgence, still sounding raw enough to break. The newbie is all vocal delivery, a deftly-controlled performance amidst the momentary calm.

Soon menace returns as the lights disappear and are replaced by torches glaring out from the stage. It’s time to be raucous, ‘Rubidoux’ a frantic snarl, new single ‘Something Is Not Right With Me’ adding a touch of pop to the growling rock of it’s predecessor and ‘Saint John’ a triumphant closer. Their second record, Loyalty To Loyalty, is out next month and if the first album’s filler is banished in favour of tonight’s grit and style, it won’t just be already-devoted fans buying it.

Bloc Party Interview

Bloc Party: Reading and waiting

Having been away for 18 months, Bloc Party coincided the launch of their new album with a few timely festival appearances.

Virtual Festivals caught up with Russell Lissack, the band's lead guitarist, at Reading Festival to find out why...

Virtual Festivals: Was the album always intended to come out now?
Russel Lissack: "No, it's just ended up that way, we've been working on it for ages. It was always going to be ready when it was ready. We were intending to play new songs at these festivals, but the album just happened to get done in time too."

VF: You're headlining Hydro Connect but you're also back at Reading and Leeds. You always seem to play there, how come?
RL: "They just keep asking us to come back. Plus Reading is a bit of a homecoming for us, so we love doing it."

VF: You're not quite bill-toppers at the biggest festivals yet, but are on the brink. Does it annoy you being in slots below the likes of The Killers?
RL: "We always end up playing with the same bands at festivals so you get to know them a bit, you get used to being below the Killers or whoever, it doesn't bother us. We've played a lot of festivals and the line-ups are often quite similar."

VF: What are festivals all about for you personally?
RL: "I don't do the camping thing, but the whole atmosphere of festivals is great. For me, festivals are a chance to watch bands I wouldn't get chance to elsewhere. We have support bands on tour, but that's usually the same every night. At festivals you get a bit of time to see who you want."

VF: So who are you looking forward to seeing here at Reading?
RL: "I just saw Santogold and really enjoyed it. I'm looking forward to Mystery Jets and Foals too. I really want to see Justice but they're on at the same time as us, so that isn't very likely."

VF: Speaking of electro acts, is it fair to say the new album has taken that direction?
RL: "People can make their own opinions about the album, it's out, judge for yourself. We wrote more in the studio than we ever have before, that was the main difference, but I think it's got lots of different elements – it's essentially a Bloc Party album."

VF: How will you feel if the album is a huge commercial hit and you became a lot more high-profile, personally?
RL: "I'll be chuffed if we got even bigger. But the type of band we are, we're never going to be pop stars."


VF: Standing here now though, you aren't being bothered by anybody and you're quite anonymous despite the fact in a few hours thousands of these same people will be watching you. How would you feel if that changed?
RL: "It would be a bit lame if everyone recognised me and was crowding round, but fortunately I don't think that's ever going to happen. I can still stand around and watch bands. I'm not the singer though, Kele maybe has to deal with that more, it's just frontman syndrome."

VF: How different is it playing festivals now compared to when you started? Are you tired of it?
RL: "It's not getting tired of playing the festival circuit, I still love doing it. I probably wouldn't go any more if we weren't playing, but we are and I'm enjoying being here."

VF: So are you intending to have a full-on assault on next summer's festivals as well as the few you're doing this year?
RL: "It's always exciting playing at festivals, you get such great reactions, I don't think I can't imagine not doing them."

VF: Can we expect new sets and a new show for next summer then?
RL: "There will be a mix, you know, the old songs still excite me too, as most of them get great receptions, but of course it's fun doing the new ones and seeing how they go."

VF: Will you be around before then, touring the UK?
RL: "We're touring the US and Canada pretty soon, but we won't be playing in England until the end of the year or next year probably, except the odd thing."

The odd thing turns out to be a gig at Kentish Town Forum on September 30th, while expect the band back for a full tour in the new year.

Reading Festival 2008 - NME/Radio One Tent

Reading Festival is quite rightly renowned for its rich rock heritage and rough and ready reputation. But located just a bottle's throw from the main stage lies the NME/Radio One tent, not just an area of corporate endorsement overkill, but a haven for all things supposedly indie, trendy and so-right-now that both your auntie has heard of and your cool older brother hasn't disowned yet. This spacious canopy becomes home for three days of inspired shows, wired cameos, sound frustration, sleep deprivation, and every now and then, pure elation.

The fashionable tag is belittled slightly by Be Your Own Pet almost instantly. A buzz band a few years back, their ravenous, scuzzy punk sound and frontwoman Jemina Pearl's crazed onstage antics still draw a crowd, but they're aware it's over. Barely out of their teens, the moment has passed, Adventure seems flat and Damn Damn Leash dated. "I'm drunk. I'm so drunk," slurs the bassist. "I'm bored," moans a girl nearby. A cruel mistress, this tent.

Far better to come out on the attack, wearing a gold sequin dress and singing songs that appear to have been dragged by the hair through the already-appearing mud and held onstage just long enough for the band to thrash them into existence. This is the Duke Spirit approach, all guts and drive, not a lot of variety but full of unquenchable enthusiasm. Cuts Across The Land is particularly biting and Liela Moss consistently beguiling.

As MGMT spiritedly launch into the meaningful pop ecstasy of Electric Bloom, it is apparent this is another buzz band anomaly - having accidentally tapped into the mindset of a musical fellowship they don't really belong in, they're stuck in a halfway house between more catchy jingles and a natural leaning towards experimentation. Time To Pretend and Kids are lapped up eagerly as the crowds revel in the thrilling escapism of it all. But in the lulls between singles, the band comes alive while the audience waits patiently for another pop tart. The phrases "musical differences" and "pursuing other interests" spring to mind.

Vampire Weekend are far more comfortable pop fodder. In fact, they exclusively write this fare, but dress it up in the calypso rhythms of opener Mansard Roof and the jerky irony of Oxford Comma, so it's hard to recognise. In a perfect afternoon slot, they excel, before vacating for less reliable fun in the shape of Babyshambles.

When morbid curiosity is the main motivation for attending a gig, uncertainty is an accepted part of the attraction, which may explain the enduring appeal of Pete Doherty despite countless letdowns. So, thousands pack into the tent to witness Babyshambles headline set and are soon pleasantly surprised at Pete's chipper demeanour and the band's eager reaction to their leader's fine fettle. The Foundations' Build Me Up Buttercup is sung on a whim, before Delivery and Pipedown provide pogoing aplenty. It's the tenderness of What Katie Did and Albion that are memorable though, sung with earnestness and wit, underpinning the ensuing chaos of Fuck Forever with a poignant point and providing hope that this won't prove a high for Pete, but another starting point.


For many of those making it to the day after last night, the throwaway indie of Joe Lean and the Jing Jang Jong begins Saturday, but Santogold's crossover showmanship is more beguiling, if less accessible, drawing the likes of Bloc Party to witness her perform a dynamic set packed with tracks from her eponymous debut album. L.E.S Artistes pulls a big reaction, while she patrols the stage with menace and control.

Mystery Jets are a considerably more laid back delight, making it to Reading after a series of cancellations due to singer Blaine's ongoing illness. They stick to new record Twenty One's love-soaked melodies, Two Doors Down garnering a raucous response and the melodious craft of Flakes noticeable amongst a set oozing with ease and tenderness. We Are Scientists' singer Keith Murray joins them on backing vocals as their jocular angle is highlighted, but Behind The Bunhouse brings meaty material to compliment the general warmth of the gig.

Seasick Steve effortlessly continues this as he drafts his son in on percussion to play songs from his upcoming album as well as ramshackle oldies such as Doghouse Blues and Cut My Wings. The amiable bluesman even grabs a girl onstage to serenade as the mood in the tent shifts from light-hearted to hungry in anticipation for the twin assault of Foals and Justice.

It's rejuvenated bill-toppers the Manic Street Preachers that steal the limelight though, frontman James Dean Bradfield's vocals as cutting for this, their fifth Reading appearance, as they were for the first. Recent album Send Away The Tigers features prominently, while classics Motorcycle Emptiness and A Design For Life satisfy the overwhelmingly male hordes with their convoluted yet anthemic nature. They're no longer challenging, Nicky Wire's histrionics more a detraction from noise than an addition, but they still play with venom, provoking dedication and adulation.

While Yeasayer suffer technical difficulties as they open Sunday, most people are suffering similar problems with their consciousness. Nevertheless, the New Yorkers manage four songs full of magnetism and guile, including the absorbing 2080, before Adam Green's cabaret tomfoolery provides a wake-up call. The Big Apple's clown prince sings about sex with legless girls and drug epidemics, cavorting around in an army helmet, "British, 1950, honestly," and proclaiming a Reading Chinese takeaway as "the best restaurant in the UK". Utterly irreverent and equally irrelevant, it’s different nonetheless.

Lightpeed Champion no longer possesses this commodity, having travelled this summer's circuit so extensively rumours that festivals don't make a sound unless Dev Hynes is present are circulating. His charming alt-folk, including an extended Midnight Surprise that begins with the Star Wars theme and ends with the singer's guitar smashing an amp, is a complimenting precursor to the arrival of Conor Oberst.

Joined by the Mystic River Band instead of his usual incarnation Bright Eyes, Oberst is unfettered by the shackles of expectation his unshakeable tag of songwriting's great white hope bring, leaving him free to mess around a little, even throw in a Dylan-inspired version of Corrina, Corrina. Drinking throughout, he looks relaxed, but still shines in balladry rather than the upbeat shenanigans of I Don't Want To Die.















Alex Turner seems to triumph in anything he chances his arm on. The Last Shadow Puppets, backed by an orchestra, storm the tent regardless of more sound struggles. Opener Calm Like You has to be restarted, while later the duo's lack of practice – it's only their fourth gig ever – result in more mistakes. However, this just provides content and texture to the overall engaging soundscape they conjure. With loftier ambitions than day job bands The Rascals and even Arctic Monkeys, Miles Kane and Turner revel in the audacity of crooning The Meeting Place and making an unlikely sing-along of The Age of Understatement's disjoined rhyming patterns.

If the scope of the support was impressive, the directness of The Cribs' festival-closing show is all-consuming. Joined by illustrious new permanent member Johnny Marr, dryly introduced as "this is Jonathon, our new guitarist," they blast through tracks from all three albums. Hey!Scenesters is manic, while Marr adds depth to Moving Pictures' catchiness. Sonic Youth's Lee Ranaldo makes a big screen appearance for Be Safe, while there's crowd surfing aplenty from the Jarman Brothers. As I'm A Realist ends Reading in rollicking, frenzied fashion, it feels like a proper gig, in the manner this still manages to feel like a proper festival.

V Festival – Main Stage

Chelmsford – Main Stage
V Festival
16-17th July 2008

With the second stage looking like Smash Hits came back from the dead and threw up on it, the main stage has a lot of pressure on it this weekend. Luckily, V spends more on their line-ups every year than an average country does on food. This guarantees a stellar - if top-heavy - line up, brimming with potential headliners throughout the bill and aging rockers tempted out of retirement by one more shot at big crowds and bigger paychecks.

It’s a band that has recently rejected the arguable merits of corporate endorsement, not entirely through choice, that kick-starts the main stage on Saturday. The Futureheads look to have a hunger back following the release of third album ‘This Is Not The World’ and manage to provoke an impressive amount of crowd interaction considering the early hour. Predictably, ‘Hounds of Love’ is the main thrill for most, with singer Barry Hyde stating “we’re gonna drag this out for 15 minutes”, self-deprecatingly noting the disproportionate reaction the song receives. Still, new tracks like ‘The Beginning of the Twist’ are delivered with verve and it’s never less than solid.

Alanis Morissette is a less obvious billing, but draws a large crowd for her crass set of sun-kissed nostalgia. Her voice is pretty remarkable, almost as notable as the shaggy mane of hair she carries around with her as she writhes around like a stoned Bon Jovi fan circa 1986. It’s rather dull, besides the hair-shaking, with ‘You Oughta Know’ coming across corny rather than potent and even ‘Ironic’ sounding dated rather than defiant. Her backdrop of a dove and clenched fists behind a barbed wire fence says it all – it’s supposed to rouse protest and togetherness, but ends up just looking a little bit silly.

Of course, much of the audience laps it up, as is the case as major-league indie returns with two bands suffering from second album syndrome up next. Maximo Park save themselves the indignity of a patchy set by sticking to first album tracks and the odd choice cut from ‘Our Earthly Pleasures’. They throw in a new song, ‘The Kids Are Sick Again’, maintaining their energetic, jerky blueprint. With Paul Smith oozing outsider charm, encouraging the crowd to make V signs and referencing Curb Your Enthusiasm, it’s harmlessly entertaining.

The Kooks are simply dull. Despite every person in Chelmsford seemingly knowing the words to every song, the novelty of ‘Ooh La’ has gone, the allure of ‘Naïve’ seems juvenile and the new songs sound plain tripe. Even a guest appearance from Kinks legend Ray Davies on ‘Victoria’ can’t save them (especially as most of the audience don’t know who he is) and the inevitable massive sing-alongs acquire an emptiness that isn’t solely down to the need for a trip to one of V’s hundreds of food vendors.

Though not exactly fulfilling, The Stereophonics then put in an exemplary display of festival know-how. Expertly pacing their set, the Welsh band intersperse a few new songs that continue their signature stadium sound into a solid 70 minute show. Tracks from classic album Performances and Cocktails are scattered throughout, with ‘Just Looking’ heralding a particularly rowdy response, drowning out Kelly Jones’ vocals. His strained, scathing voice is utilised best on more mellow moments such as ‘Maybe Tomorrow’, but it’s ‘Dakota’ that prepares people for the onslaught Muse are preparing backstage.

Armed with more eye-catching onstage paraphernalia than the entire bill put together, including six gigantic satellites that bring a Dalek-like sense of chilling campness to the gig, the intergalactic agitators take to the stage. Ripping through a marathon set including ‘Bliss’, ‘New Born’ and ‘Starlight’, their back catalogue is raided as they dredge every inch of enthusiasm from the rapt audience. Rumours of collaborations and UFOs fail to take off, but the likes of ‘Plug In Baby’ and ‘Knights of Cydonia’ contain riffs bigger than any set-piece and the show is an identikit of how to headline a festival.

The Stranglers are equally adept at their own role the next day. Heavy-eyed boys and girls blunder their way past the all-engulfing advertising that overwhelms on the walk to the main stage, only to find the punk veterans are not going to allow them a lazy lounge in the sun. The filthy blast of ‘Peaches’ is a wake-up call, ‘Golden Brown’ a darling, morose lullaby that seeps with intensity and ‘Whatever Happened To Leon Trotsky’ a cracking blast of stripped rock.

They show that reformed bands, despite bad clothes and worse teeth, can be worthwhile. Squeeze display why they should be outlawed, along with the fake tan that is plastered like war paint on almost every girl present, both band and beauty product looking embarrassingly novice and past their sell-by-date.

Mentioning fake tan may arguably be more apt as Girls Aloud strut onstage, but they actually look rather good, certainly interesting enough to have men sprinting from their stations at bars for a clearer viewpoint. Though aural delights are less frequent than visual ones, it’s flashy and fun, with the five black-clad ladies prancing their way through favourites like ‘Love Machine’ and ‘Biology’. The painful sound of Cheryl Cole rapping as they butcher Salt n Peppa and Run DMC verges on unbearable, but the many youngsters in the audience lap it up and Girls Aloud justify their festival stature with ease.

Lenny Kravitz does likewise, so cheesy he’s cool as he blasts through ‘Fly Away’ and ‘American Woman’. Garnering considerable affection for his cliché-ridden act, complete with Flying V guitar and the Fonz dress sense, he takes the opportunity to preach for world peace when all the crowd wants to do is hear ‘Are You Gonna Go My Way’. It’s worth the wait when they get their wish though, as the US rocker nails himself the right side of the novel/drivel divide.

Bridging the void with a display of real class is not expected to occur next as Amy Winehouse totters into view. Then, contrary to all expectations, she produces a show as tight as it is incident-free. A few expected rambles about her husband aside, she tackles the sizeable task of filling an hour without making a tit out of herself almost admirably, sounding in control and comfortable as ‘Back To Black’ and ‘Rehab’ resonate. Unpredictable in its professionalism, with her stunning roaming range intact, it hints at hope of a return to permanent form.

There is nothing capricious about Kings of Leon’ set. They walk on, say ‘We’re Kings of Leon’ a lot and leave as the highlight of the weekend, without an attitude or a satellite in sight. It’s ‘Knocked Up’ that connects tonight, its marauding refrain of ‘Oh, wooah wooah, woah oh’ reverberating around the blustery air long after the song ends as the Followills perform a masterful collection of blues-soaked rock. New single ‘Sex on Fire’ sounds a behemoth in waiting, while ‘On Call’ and ‘Four Kicks’ spit with rage and satisfaction. Their unfussiness, barnstorming self-confidence and sheer musical nous leaves them untouchable at present. As they thank the UK for “making them the kings” and celebrate “with a little drink and a little fun”, they cement their standing as rock’s premier performers.

The Verve have to follow that, plus it’s started raining, so they sharply slip in a colossal croon through ‘Sonnet’ to instantly appease a crowd getting soaked for the first time all weekend. Starting strongly, Richard Ashcroft sounds roguish but commanding and the band appears together despite reported unrest. With a new album on the way, fresh songs such as the revved up ‘This Is Music’ and an Isaac Hayes-dedicated ‘Rolling People’ are up-tempo and possess a certain drive. However, this tenacity is lacking in the main, with ‘History’ and ‘Life’s An Ocean’ sounding languid and lifeless.

After an unsatisfying half-hour, the cavalry arrives in the form of ‘The Drugs Don’t Work’ and ‘Lucky Man’. Both are melodic colossuses, digging into the band’s brooding undercurrent and recapturing past glories. ‘Bittersweet Symphony’ follows to scenes of united exaltation across the field, but it’s almost backwards in its dominance. Though the new stuff sounds listenable, it mines much-travelled avenues and the reliance on Urban Hymns’ majesty to get them through makes for a disjointed set.

Though not a disaster, it’s not a festival-defining performance. Still, V is more about glossy excitement than revelatory affirmation, which is just as well. Little means much here, but this allows genres to intersperse and diversity to flourish. If that dilutes the impact somewhat, most people are having too much fun to notice, let alone care.

Peggy Sue, Slow Club, Scroobius Pip - Live

Peggy Sue, Slow Club, Scroobius Pip
The Windmill, Brixton
Thursday, August 7th.

When you turn up to a gig expecting to be on the guest list, only to find you’re name isn’t down, the bouncers generally look at you as if you just asked to borrow their wallet. Or their wife.

At the Windmill, the staff run around trying to sort the problem out while you prop up the bar. It’s all ridiculously friendly, which fits with the atmosphere of tonight’s show. Peggy Sue decided the best way to promote their new EP was to play four gigs on consecutive nights in London’s four compass points, tonight being the southern section of said mini-tour. With musical friends joining the fun, it feels so much like an indie birthday party you half expect organic cake to be handed out.

Scroobius Pop is the evening’s first big draw with a short set of spoken word showcasing the lyrical prowess that is sometimes lost when he teams up with Dan Le Sac’s backing beats. ‘The Physical Embodiment of Music Part Two’ proves a highlight, mingling couplets of menacing bile with snippets of chortle-inducing drollness.

With lines about beatboxing with Jacques Chirac sharply following meanderings regarding the criminal activity of the Post Office, he’s as irreverent as he is charming. Ending on album title-track ‘Angles’, complete with glasses, ties and caps for props, the acute appeal of this talented wordsmith shines through the gimmicks and the beard, revealing social perception deserving of a far grander soapbox. Perhaps, though, it’s flourishing because it isn’t yet receiving the attention it warrants.

Next, Slow Club are far less challenging. A boy, a girl and a smattering of smiley songs, they’re more twee than a lumberjack with a speech impediment. The tag has been a sticking point with many bands, but their Tilly and the Wall-esque tales of quirky quarrels and incidental incidents almost define the term.

Beautifully stripped melodies and relaxed personas add to the appeal of ‘When I Go’, with chuckles as regular as missed notes and neither detracting from the overall effect of vacant loveliness. The watching hordes, hand holding aplenty, are gently cajoled into approval by sneakily catchy choruses and an overall carefree sense of fun. They sound one hook away from being memorably good, but tonight settle for being quietly impressive.

Peggy Sue move swiftly into their giggly, giddy set, commanding attention with an array of tinkling, swaying ditties. Their pop sensibilities override, but intertwine with mild eccentricity, the overriding sensation of onstage enjoyment diffusing into the crowd situated just inches away.








‘Superman’ manages to be almost poignant despite being an ode to a comic book character who only wishes “to have the right to wear my pants underneath my tights”. Ok, it’s verging on silly, but there’s a sensitivity seeping through too, underpinned by Rosa Rex and Katy Klaw’s secret self-awareness that they are talented. A solemn take on ‘Escargot’ from the Body Parts EP adds depth, but soon the duo are joined by more members of their revolving backing line-up and celebratory mood returns.

How a whole album of material would hold up remains a mystery; the balance between stylish songwriting and throwaway pleasure is nailed at this welcoming pub, but is untested on a larger scale. Nevertheless, while they remain on their current level, such uncomplicated loveliness is easy to embrace.

Field Day

Field Day
Victoria Park, London
Saturday 9th July

Being in Britain and at a festival, you’d think rain would be a given. But after sunshine at most of this summer’s musical gatherings, the sight of precipitation streaming down the cheeks of cold looking faces is about as welcome the cancellations that hampered this year’s event.

Yes, Mystery Jets pulled out due to singer Blaine’s ongoing illness, Dan Deacon cancelled after having his passport stolen, and the weather is more miserable than this review so far. But that’s as far as the negativity goes. Field Day, if not an indubitable success, is an amiable achievement, managing to keep thousands of indie kids entertained for, oh, a good ten hours. OK, there is a bit more pessimism, but if we’re talking about the weather we may as well embrace another infuriating English trait.

Noah and the Whale, current implausible chart darlings, begin the day on the main stage as an eager crowd waits to hear ‘Five Years Time’ and nod along to Charlie and the gang’s laudable lullabies. Sadly, ‘Shape of my Heart’ is struck by sound issues and the set never really recovers despite solid instrumentation and a heartfelt voice. It isn’t really their fault; it’s early and people are milling around on mobiles trying to find friends or gawp at Noel Fielding, but even the aforementioned single lacks a spark and this is an opportunity missed.

Howling Bells grasped what should have been their shot at the big time a couple of years back with a stylish, layered record and sultry live shows – but nobody really noticed. Now back with a new album to plug, the brooding, colourful melodrama of ‘Setting Sun’ and the ‘Broken Bones’ has been replaced with synths and attempts to find a hook the radio will play. This may diminish from the overall impact of Juanita and co, but the songs burn slowly, suggesting future promise.

This is all that many people are left with by mid-afternoon, as a lull in proceedings and a further downpour dampen spirits and leave many seeking shelter in tents playing electro and jolly disco thoroughly unsuitable for 3pm. Solace is found in the form of the British Legion playing shaky brass band covers of ABBA tracks on a bandstand under a tree. The feeling they are here every Saturday and the festival was merely placed around them brings a warming glow and before you know it we’ve won a coconut.

Suddenly, we’re back at a festival: the fact a few bands were mediocre is an irrelevance, there’s a man wearing a bin bag losing to a girl wearing a smile in a consuming carrot-consuming contest. Following this vegetable eating virtuosity, it’s back to the business of watching bands.


Laura Marling doesn’t disappoint. Beginning with ‘Ghosts’, the sound problems that haunted last year’s event return and Laura’s ephemeral spurts of lyrical prowess are lost in wind and bass. Nevertheless, she plays with such quiet disregard for crowd reaction that any response is irrelevant and ‘My Manic and I’ plunders into ‘Cross Your Fingers’ with delicate power. There are lots of pretty young things who can hold a tune, but Marling sounds like she needs to sing, a few evocative moments lingering in the drizzle long enough to make the lulls immaterial.

Then it’s time to race around the site as the thought of the day disappearing becomes perceptible. Tunng thrill with a gangly version of ‘Bullets’, all arms and ahs, sound effects aplenty. Then Of Montreal fail to translate to a muddy field, despite theatrical stage-play, so it’s back to the tents for the Mai Shi to bemuse but delight with a contorted set of strangely engaging noise. The guitarist loops around the stage, the singer takes to repetition and attempts to obliterate rhythm, but, secretly, there’s melody in there, chuckling as it hides behind squawking guitars and Jack Black poses.

Lightspeed Champion is pretty definitive of this place. Thoroughly engaging, quite amusing, ostensibly confusing and pretty unsure of exactly what he wants to be, this is the only festival even verging on being as indie as him. So it’s only right he’s bumped up the bill to replace the Mystery Jets, noting their absence with apologies and a short cover of ‘Alas Agnes’. He’s soon spurred into extended versions of album cuts ‘Dry Lips’ and ‘Tell Me What It’s Worth’, the longer time slot giving him chance to arse around a bit with extended guitar solos. However, the core spirit of Hoxton Americana remains, gashing guitars and bittersweet melodies competing for attention. It’s all very loveable, with a Star Wars introduction into epic closer ‘Midnight Surprise’ characterising the niche appeal of this congenial chap.

Sometimes festivals dip for an hour or so, but there’s always adventure lurking for those inclined. Here, as evening creeps into darkness, there doesn’t really seem to be. Confined into mass huddles in cramped tents, toilet queues and, in many cases, exits for early trains home, the appeal of this well-intentioned affair dwindles as nothing truly attention-grabbing leaves hordes just hanging around for headliners or kicks. The sack racing antics of the afternoon feel a daydream as a skip in the step becomes a trudge and murmurs of discontent flood the field.

A show-stopping headline performance is required to salvage the evening. Foals await, not the most likely candidate considering their tendency to ignore regardless of how much they are adored. However, this stand-offish style bubbles into a potent truce between band and fans, the jerky music mixing with reflexive audience reactions and brewing into an atmosphere of tangible tension.

Guitars held high, drums tight and choruses now known, Foals look solid; they’re more comfortable with their position as an act people want to see but still calculatingly deprecating of the whole sham. Yannis looks positively menacing during ‘Cassius’, while dropping other singles ‘Balloons’ and ‘Hummer’ early smacks of buoyant self-belief. By the time the marauding, glazed attack of ‘Mathletics’ bleeps by, everyone present is converted to Foals’ mantra, even if they want you to think they don’t want you to be.

Field Day could be brilliant: better scheduling; reliable sound systems; more toilets - we aren’t asking for The Beatles. Nonetheless, a few eccentric little twists and choice performances from artists make it a satisfactory if not unforgettable day. With better weather it could easily move from one to the other, but then what would we have to moan about?

Simian Mobile Disco - Sample and Hold

Simian Mobile Disco
Sample and Hold – Remix Album


Remix albums. Usually, the only people who buy them are obsessive about the band in question to the point of knowing the bass player’s pet rabbit’s middle name, and are going to love whatever drivel they stick an extra trumpet loop on.

Mostly, they’re little more than the bits that fell on the floor while the proper music was made, then got scooped up and stuck together when the act became profitable. Generally, they’re ego trips where every whim an artist thought was a good idea, but was actually as relevant as U2, gets brought back because all remix record songs must last 8 minutes and it’s hard to fill that time when you only have one musical idea.

By and large, they’re remixed by a bunch of superstar DJs you think you should know but won’t ever get round to checking out because you’re too busy listening to the National. Sometimes, though, they’re quite good. Well, if they’re not good, they at least include a purpose at no extra charge. Maybe even sound a bit purposeful.














Simian Mobile Disco’s Sample and Hold does, admittedly, include intentions, ideas, even innovation. ‘Wooden’, remixed by Danton Eaprom, is a stylistic take on the original; minimal but attention holding, tickling synths and uninterested bass hold together a quiet, mellow stroll through the song.

‘It’s The Beat’ is all a bit crass and reeks of trying very hard, with lyrics like “one for the treble, two for the bass” veering the cheesy side of chic on this version. The record has its moments though, it ebbs and flows with flaws and showy flourishes of excitement, notably on old single ‘Hustler’, complete with a wonderfully needless eight second orchestral intro.

It all goes on too long though. You soon realise you’re not in a seedy club at 4am, where this should be heard, and concentration dips. This can reach the extent when you perk up, intrigued that a bonus track is sampling ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’, before realising the album has finished and Simon & Garfunkel comes after Simian Mobile Disco on your iPod.

Whenever this duo has altered other people’s tracks, notably Klaxon’s ‘Magick’ and The Rapture’s ‘Whoo! Alright, Yeah...Uh Huh’, it’s gave it an edge, a difference. Here, while allowing some musical contemporaries to tamper with their own tracks, it is unclear whether the songs simply aren’t strong enough or the DJs brought in are not inspired enough. Either way, it’s another one for super-fans only.