Glastonbury 2003

There are three things I’’d expected never to do in 2003. Number One was to experience Richard Thompson playing “Shoot Out The Lights” in full majestic electric flight. Number two was to experience Yes playing “Seen All Good People” live on a Sunday afternoon. And Number Three was to hear The Damned playing “Neat Neat Neat” in a full-on adrenaline rush at midnight. And guess what, I did all three within twenty-four hours at this year’’s Glastonbury Festival.
I’’ll be frank. I wasn’t really looking forward to the 2003 event, mainly because all the headliners had already played Glastonbury in recent years, some several times: David Gray, Manic Street Preachers, REM, Doves, etc., etc. It seems that the organisers, in the knowledge that they sell all 120,000 tickets within hours anyway, have become complacent about their booking policy. Either that or there aren’’t any superstars around any more. What? Radiohead? Yes, they were there too, but I don’t go to festivals to get depressed.
So strolling round the smaller stages was a deliberate policy this year, and how rewarding it turned out to be. On Sunday, the Acoustic Stage saw not only the return of Cerys Matthews, but also the birth of a new one in the form of Welsh chanteuse Amy Wadge. Neither of them are a patch on the the old Catatonia, unfortunately. Brilliant New York ex-punk Jesse Malin rocked himself a UK profile in the “New Tent” with a wild and wonderful performance which included a real Glastonbury Moment in the form of  “What’s So Funny ‘’Bout Peace, Love and Understanding”. I nearly cried. On the “Other Stage”, The excellently funky The Rapture were joined onstage by the Happy Mondays’’ Bez, looking disturbingly like Roger Daltrey. Shortly before, Arthur Lee with Love, all looking suitably baffled, had played the whole of  “Forever Changes”. Chuck Prophet, on the “One World” stage, wowed his devotees in the pouring rain, while remaining sprightly and dapper in a dogtooth jacket. He splattered mean and dirty guitar lines around like shrapnel and climaxed with a singalong version of the Clash’’s “Bank Robber”. This was just one of hundreds of Strummer tributes which movingly punctuated the weekend, this having been Joe’’s favourite stamping ground. The New Stage also featured a real tip for big future things in the form of intelligent Mancunian Gallagher lookalikes I Am Kloot. Up at the Acoustic Stage, I finally got the reason why Kathleen Edwards has so impressed North America. First, it’’s the upfront sexual chemistry between her and guitarist boyfriend Colin Cripps, and second, everyone likes a nice spot of Neil Young.
Meanwhile, on the bigger stages, we found all those American bands which play a variation on prog-rock with high-pitched vocals, multiple time signature changes, sumptuous keyboards and soaring melodies. Well, that’’s Yes, isn’t it? It’’s also the Polyphonic Spree (whose impact was diminished in direct relation to their desire to please), the Flaming Lips (who grabbed all this year’’s festival headlines on account of being themselves, but now more people have belatedly discovered their beauty and charm) and, of course, California’’s Grandaddy. This last band, having so comprehensively failed at SxSW, had pulled themselves together to the extent that their performance was rated by them, and the audience, as their best ever. Emotion hung heavily in the air as even that awkward old sod Jason Lytle allowed himself a few smiles. And Christ, were they loud. To think that this band used to be famous for their quietness. Main stage next year, beyond a doubt, and deservedly so.
REM were REM, David Gray was David Gray and Radiohead (so I understand) were Radiohead.
Really bad things: Do you know, there weren’’t any really bad things about Glastonbury 2003. Apart from Alison Moyet, who has completely lost it.
Really good things: The charming inability of any Americans to pronounce “Glastonbury”. To a person (Wayne Coyne, Michael Stipe, even Macy Gray), they invented a new form of fruit called a “Glastonberry”; Mogwai, genuinely playing “Happy Songs For Happy People” – who would have thought that?; David Gray’’s magnificent observation that, “It doesn’’t matter where you are, it always makes you feel better if you say ‘Fuck Tony Blair’”; Captain Sensible’’s equally magnificent observation: “Fuck Radiohead”; The Waterboys‘ “Whole Of The Moon”, live in all its glory on a sunny afternoon; and the fact that, when Yes’’s bassist John Squire brought out his triple-headed guitar, the entire audience, instead of whispering “far out, man”, simply screamed with laughter.
See you next year, 6 pm at the Cider Bus.

From Amplifier magazine

Read More

Live reviews published in Record Collector 2004 0nwards (small selection)

Kilkenny Roots

1 – 4 May 2015

Kilkenny, Ireland

View: Craic-ed up

The “friendliest little festival in the world” got off to a sensational start with a searing performance from John Murry. Looking and acting increasingly like a baddie in some deranged silent movie, Murry with his pick-up band killed Pavement’s Shady Lane before debuting new songs that indicate that his next album might even outdo the award-winning Graceless Age. Nominal Kilkenny bill-toppers were Calexico, whose panoramic and super-slick show at the plush Set Theatre ended up in mass partying. Male / female folk duos slugged it out in the form of London’s The Rails and Saskatoon’s Kacy And Clayton, both vying for the title of the new Fairports. In terms of commercial appeal, the highly-accessible Sons Of Bill seem set for mainstream success, but the band that Kilkenny clasped closest to its bosom was Montreal’s Barr Brothers. Their category-defying world / folk / blues virtuosity proved that there really is room for a harp in rock and roll.


South By South West Festival

Austin, Texas

17 – 22 March 2015

View: Dampish

After last year’s overcrowding and huge headliners, it felt like a conscious move back towards the original spirit of sxsw. With the help of some rain, it was quiet enough to return to the core task of seeking out hot new bands. American Aquarium, a Springsteenesque outfit from North Carolina, drew attention, as did Virginia’s classic rockers Sons Of Bill. On the country front, Andrew Combs looks set for stardom. At Hotel San Jose, a slightly damp showcase symbolised the genre-bending line-ups that make sxsw so special: Carl Barât, Gang Of Four and cool new band Houndmouth mixed it with The Zombies. Who’d have thought that the voice of the festival would be that of 70 year old Colin Blunstone? The best live band in the world right now is Chuck Prophet And The Mission Express, who were stalked by RC as they did nine shows in three days. Imminent breathroughs included Australia’s Courtney Barnett and Germany’s super-accessible Milky Chance, but only one outfit demonstrated the clear power to conquer the States. The ridiculously frantic energy levels and in-your-face enthusiasm of the Pogues-ish Skinny Lister mean that a Mumford-style triumph is inevitable. And you haven’t lived until you’ve been crowd-surfed over by someone playing a double bass.


Sleaford Mods

Joiners, Southampton


View: Behind a six foot seven man

If this is the future of rock, forget it. Not because they aren’t any good, but simply because of the audience’s demographic: forties and fifties. If Sleaford Mods revive the spirit of punk (which they sort of do), it’s not an introduction of punk to a new generation, it’s old punks reliving their youth. Sleaford Mods are a lot of entertaining fun. There’s Jason Williamson with a severe case of Tourettes, who jogs round in circles, gobs on the stage and wiggles his tongue, shouting like a cross between Eminem and John Cooper Clarke. Arguably even more entertaining is Andrew Fearn, whose role is to swig Corona, check his phone, do a mild grandad dance and, every ninety seconds, press a button on his laptop, like a grinning, emaciated John Shuttleworth. Williamson’s profane lyrics are actually very clever, with nifty wordplay, relevant themes and caring attitudes, rewarding repeated listening on the vinyl which, interestingly, at least a quarter of the audience walked away with. They ain’t here for the long haul (there aren’t enough real tunes for that), but go see them while they last. They sure are different, and in a bland musical environment, that counts for a lot.


Judith Owen

The Cellars, Southsea


View: Hunched on a stool

This was a strange show. Why has a flame-haired Welsh songstress recorded an album of her songs with some of the finest session musicians America has to offer? And what enables her to bring those very musicians to a cosy back street pub in Southsea? There’s legendary drummer Russ Kunkel and dreamy bassist Lee Sklar, although advertised guitarist Waddy Wachtel is inexplicably absent. It may possibly be to do with Judith’s husband, none other than Spinal Tap’s Derek Smalls (Harry Shearer). The band is promoting Judith’s new album Ebb And Flow and the show contains not only some of the rambling songs of Laurel Canyon philosophy it contains, but also some reworkings of songs by artists they originally worked with, such as Carole King’s “It Might As Well Rain Until September” and James Taylor’s “Hey Mister, That’s Me Up On The Jukebox”. More bizarrely still, Judith likes to completely rework some popular classics, in this case Mungo Jerry’s “In The Summertime” and David Dundas’ “Jeans On”. The musicians, despite barely breaking into a sweat, are sublime, but the question is, is the world ready for a cross between Tori Amos and Lyndsey De Paul? Maybe. “This is just the start of something much bigger”, says Judith, confidently. We shall see.



Salisbury City Hall


View: Air-conditioned

Desperately eager to please, it would be hard to imagine a less suitable Eels support act then toothsome duo Daughters of Davis. It was probably a typical bit of ghoulish E-style humour paving the way for a long series of what the dapper Everett called “soft rock bummers” – two minute laments such as “Parallels” from new album The Cautionary Tales Of Mark Oliver Everett, culminating in the saddest song ever written, “It’s A Motherfucker”. There was a valedictory feel to this last date of a 53-date tour (“nursing 52 hangovers”, as E put it). Bookended by two tear-jerking standards, “When You Wish Upon A Star” and “Can’t Help Falling In Love”, were energetic re-workings of Eels favourites “Fresh Feeling” And “I Like Birds”. Not since Chuck Berry has an artist been so adept at recycling his own songs while still retaining the affection of his audience. We’ll forgive him anything.


Jesse Malin

Dingwalls, London


View: Crouching

It’s been four years since Jesse Malin played in the UK and the audience was psyched up after a strong introductory set from Hollis Brown. The interim has been spent writing and recording a new album, which on first live hearing sounds to be stuffed with characteristically affecting songs. The diminutive New York road warrior exudes rock and roll charm and comes with the band that helped him record the new material, featuring guitarist Mike Montali and extremely dapper bassist Don DiLego. Apart from a confusing incident when too much instrument swopping went wrong and they lost their way, this made for a storming show with some moments of pure beauty, such as when the whole audience sat down, hippie-style, for the gorgeous “Bar Life”. Jesse has a great way with an anecdote and charmed the midweek audience with his fury at press accusations of being “alt-country”. New songs like “Addicted” and “Year I was Born” vied for attention with old favourites “Wendy” and “Hotel Columbia”. Let’s hope this marks the start of a Malin revival.


End Of The Road Festival


29 August – 21 September 2014

View: Bucolic

Considering that half the bands here have been influenced by Pavement, it was a joy to hear Stephen Malkmus, master of the contorted guitar, in action. By contrast, Jenny Lewis was as poppy as this festival gets, as the chill wind blew around her. The first exclusive was the cumbersomely-named Gene Clark – No Other Band (featuring Robin Pecknold of Fleet Foxes and the often sadly overlooked Iain Matthews, plus a Vegas-style compère). There were some truly beautiful voices here and a blockbusting encore of Eight Miles High.

New names making breakthroughs included Montreal’s Barr Brothers, cementing the role of the harp in rock and roll and sounding uncannily like The Low Anthem in so doing. Andrew Combs also charmed, as did the fragile but bewitching Tiny Ruins. Forthcoming plaudits for young Benjamin Booker as the new indie Hendrix are inevitable – and deserved. One exciting and unexpected show was the blazing psychedelia of Sean Lennon’s new band The Ghost Of A Saber Tooth Tiger, almost giving the Flaming Lips a run for their money.

Talking of whom … It was a joyful enough festival anyway, but Wayne Coyne and gang ratcheted up the happiness meter to the level of ecstasy. With their skill at turning a potential shambles into a technological multi-media masterpiece, they amazed and thrilled everyone from kids to grandparents. The organisers of this brilliant festival will have to go some to top this next year.


Oliver Gray

Wickham Festival


14 – 17 August 2014

View: “VIP”

From Bellowhead to James Blunt, Wickham Festival 2014 enhanced its reputation for relaxed musical randomness. Equally reviled and adored, Blunt boosted attendance figures to the extent that camping chairs were banned – controversial. The energetic skanking of Neville Staple (close your eyes and it’s the Specials) interrupted the general drowsiness of Friday afternoon. Hazel O’Connor is still playing Breaking Glass songs but now in a quite charming cabaret trio format. An almost unchanged Hugh Cornwell played some Stranglers numbers (close your eyes and it’s definitely not the Stranglers) and embarrassingly got an enthusiastic response when asking how many audience members read the Daily Mail. Among the enormous sub bill, two new acts stood out – Tankus The Henge and Connecticut’s Caravan Of Thieves – so good they were asked to play twice. They covered Bohemian Rhapsody and lived to tell the tale. It was left to a genial Steve Earle to be crowned as the highlight by delivering a crowd-pleasing set of hits. Wickham’s Boomers wear their bus passes with pride, and have a lot of fun on the way.


Truck Festival

Steventon, Oxford

17 -19 July 2014

View: Hobgolinned

In past years, Truck has endured travails such as floods and insolvency. Not this time, though. Happiness was the keynote of the weekend, as a sell-out crowd escaped the corporate nature of bigger festivals and concentrated on the music. The main stage paid host to a stream of slightly dated synth-based indie rock from the likes of White Lies and The Twilight Sad, all of them dwarfed by a dramatic set from local heroes Stornoway. Slow Club’s performance was frustrating, starting off enthusiastically and fizzling out in a bunch of mediocre songs, before Roots Manuva got things moving again. Of the main headliners, The Cribs were the most polished, while riotous duo Deap Vally caused the most controversy and a discreet veil needs to be drawn over the latest version of Gang Of Four. Continung the cheerful eclecticism, British soul-rockers Danny And The Champions Of The World brought the house down – twice, while musical joy could be found in adventurous sets from lesser-known (but very Truckish) acts like Chris T-T, Co-Pilgrim and the twinkling Steven James Adams (ex of the Broken Family Band). Pure fun in the sun.


The Delines

The Art Bar, Oxford

14 June 2014

View: Comfy

The vibe is that of a smoky nightclub as the Delines hit the fourth show of their debut UK tour. Intended originally as a side project from Richmond Fontaine, this band has taken off in an unexpected way, with sell-out notices every night. Amy Boone’s voice has been compared to Dusty Springfield – the ultimate accolade, and what is striking is that Willy Vlautin has written his most affecting set of songs ever. There’s a satisfyingly organic vibe to songs like Colfax Avenue and I Won’t Slip Up, country soul that grabs your heart, but the variety is clever too – from the almost trip-hop of Flight 31 to a brace of drinking songs, one of them a cover of What One Bottle Can Do by Al James of Dolorean. Bassist Freddy Trujillo chips in with his own Freddy Fender while pianist Cory Gray adds colour to some of the songs with virtuoso trumpet. You get the feeling this is a story that’s only just beginning.



Salisbury City Hall


View: Unimpeded

The significant looks when a mistake is made, the relieved grins at the end of each song – such are the tell-tale signs of the first night of a tour. Mind you, it’s forgivable when your benchmark track is the 23-minute long “Nine Feet Underground”, written in 1971 by the absent David Sinclair. Indeed, only the statuesque Pye Hastings remains from the original line-up, although stalwarts like Geoff Richardson and Jan Schelhaas have been around for a long while. Caravan have a new album called Paradise Filter and it’s not very proggy. Many of the new songs which formed the bulk of the set, including I’ll Be There For You and the title track, are actually quite conventional rock / pop tunes, played mainly with great competence by the multi-instrumentalist Richardson. Among the small selection of oldies was a rather inappropriately funked-up version of Golf Girl. Back in the day, there was much swopping of members between Caravan and Camel. Now, in the battle of the unlikely prog comebacks, Camel are winning hands down.



The Barbican, London


View: Unimpeded

When a show starts with a standing ovation before a note has been played, something special is going on. “It’s good to be here”, said Andy Latimer. “At my age, it’s good to be anywhere”. Knowing his recent history of severe health problems, there was hardly a dry eye in the house; most of the audience had thought they’d never see this day. What’s more, as sole original member, Andy is on tip-top form, his guitar playing as rich as ever in tone and melody, and tough and gritty when required. The historic run-through of The Snow Goose (the first since the mid seventies) took up the first half, the musicianship precise, the atmosphere joyful. Nothing could replace the silken Hammond of Peter Bardens, but keyboardists Jason Hart and Guy LeBlanc do a grand job. This is one band for which “prog” never meant ”pretentious”. Part two saw an eclectic selection of Camel classics, some less successful than others. An acoustic intro to Never Let Go was scrappy and Fox Hill was ill-chosen, but For Today was reminiscent of Gary Moore at his best and by the time an ecstatic audience was being entranced by their biggest “hit” Lady Fantasy, it looked, sounded and felt as if Camel is back for good.


The Hoax

The Railway, Winchester


View: Squashed

An amazing fifteen years since their last studio album, the audience thought they were witnessing a miracle as the original Hoax line-up reconvened to present their new crowd-funded effort “Big City Blues”. This was the first date and the capacity blues addict audience was pleasingly tolerant of support act Well Hung Heart, featuring Hoax bassist Robin Davey and his wife Greta, sporting – yes – a lampshade, as she covered Radiohead’s “Creep”. You had to be there to appreciate the fun. With great courage, The Hoax blasted out the whole of the new album, which consists of snappy, grunge-bluesy two minuters like “Hipslicker” and “Let It Shine”, each with the kind of attention-grabbing hooks that got people joining in even though they had never heard them before. This is a new, leaner Hoax with the guitar battles between Jon Amor and Jesse Davey now heavily edited and all the more impressive for it. The band is, amazingly, hotter than it’s ever been before.


Wickham Festival

1 – 4 August

View: Among the picnic chairs

Wickham has discovered a lucrative way to attract festival-goers: Combine a trad folk fest with a bunch of retro pop and rock acts and pull in a crossover audience. It worked, as it was a sellout. A laidback crowd of mellow grandparents enjoyed the likes of Seth Lakeman, who could use some new creative input, and Show of Hands, whose eclectic approach and super-smooth professionalism mean they are always entertaining. The Waterboys impressed on their comeback and a version of 10CC hit the nostalgia button, while Dexys riled the audience by ignoring their hits. The seemingly never-ending supply of hoedown specialists (don’t mention the Peatbog Faeries’ bagpipes please) gave way on the final day to some classic and much-loved rockers. Wilko Johnson stormed through a high-energy set and even joined the Blockheads later. Not much in the way of new bands here, it’s not that sort of festival, but Public Service Broadcasting shone like a beacon of innovation and Southampton’s Sean McGowan triumphed against some leaking sound from the dire covers band in the next-door tent.



The Palmeira, Hove


View: Trampled underfoot

You may think that a festival of UK Americana and folk would be a laid-back affair but not in this case. By the time Danny George Wilson was leading his eight-piece Champions Of The World towards the late-night climax, the Palmeira pub had been turned into a massive, sweaty, pogoing moshpit, consisting largely of artists who’d previously been on stage and were now letting their hair down. Peter Bruntnell and his electric band had just finished a set of psychedelic rock of such power that the audience, after a day of hard drinking, was almost hysterical with joy. Two stages alternated throughout the day, with acoustic sets from gruff-voiced Jack Day and Radio Two’s favourite Liverpudlian Robert Vincent. But things took off with Welsh scallywags The Caves, sounding like a cross between The Hollies and Ash, and then the beautiful, wafting songs of Devon’s Small Town Jones, accompanied by guitarist of the day, the extraordinarily gifted Dave Little. Oxford’s Dreaming Spires added an indie touch before the Champs almost literally brought the house (well, the chandelier) down. Wild stuff.


John Murry

Bush Hall, London


View: Comfy

John Murry and his band Dark Matter’s show benefited the from the intimacy of what is surely London’s most atmospheric venue outside the Union Chapel. Murry was onstage during the support, duetting with Peter Bruntnell on the lovely Handful Of Stars. Starting the set dressed in a soon-abandoned flat cap, Murry had the audience transfixed as he revisited tracks from his extraordinary Graceless Age album. The music is squally rock, not the fey “Americana” with which he has been lazily tagged and Murry’s stage presence defies description, wavering between super rockstar confidence, nervous diffidence, wry humour, baffled innocence and twitchy edginess. He also plays a mean Telecaster, entwined with the potent lead guitar of Sean Coleman. But in the end, it’s all about the songs and the story of salvation from drug addiction. While the album is lushly produced, beautiful songs like California and Southern Sky take on harsh new dimensions, with the tour de force Little Colored Balloons being one of the world’s great live music experiences. Murry gives it absolutely everything every night and the audience simply melts. How does he do it?


World Party

Wedgewood Rooms, Portsmouth


View: Among friends

A rotund but chipper figure, Kark Wallinger shared the stage with a stripped down World Party consisting of the Blockheads’ Jon Turnbull on guitar and regular violinist David Duffy. The big mystery was how such a canon of genius songs can’t even fill a little venue like this. The avuncular Wallinger, seemingly a picture of contentment, took charge of every song from his substantial back catalogue, and out they tumbled. An interlude at the piano featured a celebratory “She’s The One”, while Duffy switched to mandolin for “Is It Like Today”. There wasn’t a person in the house not bellowing out the uniquely irresistible choruses of “Put The Message In The Box” and “Ship Of Fools”. The band were clearly relishing every moment and by the time they were encoring with Way Down Now, the audience was consumed with a wave of emotion, shouting out their love for Wallinger. “Don’t be silly now” was all the self-deprecating star would say, as the audience continued to bellow the Stonesian “whoo whoos” out into the night.


Ray Davies

Southampton Guildhall


View: Installed in the stalls

Why does Ray Davies keep running off stage every few minutes? Speculation was rife. Surely not drugs at his age? A weak bladder, maybe? Suddenly, someone spotted it: “Look, he’s changed his shoes!” This was a fun, nostalgic evening of hits, but the workmanlike band made it a long way away from the excitement of the Kinks. You definitely had the feeling of a job being done the same way as every night, with singalongs encouraged and compliments paid to the wonderful Southampton crowd (same as any other). The most poignant moments came not with the throwaway versions of the hit singles but rather with the beautiful and still tear-jerking “Celluloid Heroes” and a lovely acapella version of “Days”. Ray almost met his match in the form of support act Small Town Jones, drafted in at the last minute to melt the audience’s hearts and empty their pockets at the merch stand.


Alabama Shakes
Birmingham HMV Institute
11 May 2012
View: Squashed

Alabama Shakes must be feeling strange right now. Just months after their UK debut in a London pub, here they found their show being upgraded from the Institute’’s smallest room to its largest. With just the one Boys And Girls album and less than an hour’’s worth of music to play, they faced a rowdy and inattentive Friday night audience and, frankly, didn’’t deliver. The number of people complaining about their neighbours chatting loudly through all the (many) quiet sections must reveal something about the band’’s ability to grip an audience. The most common comment in the room was “”Give it six months and Brittany Howard will be a solo artist”” and the most noticeable thing about the band was the complete absence of any interpersonal communication or indeed enthusiasm. Which is a real shame, because Howard is an undisputed talent. She uses that extraordinary voice in clever and subtle ways (perhaps too clever for this goodtime crowd, who only seemed to recognize “Hold On”) and her underrated guitar playing is particularly impressive. The band? Well, remember the expression Sleeperblokes? They’’re back, folks. Those expecting Adele-style rapture were deeply disappointed.


Richmond Fontaine / Richard Buckner / Peter Bruntnell
Cecil Sharp House, London
View: Reverential

The folkies of Cecil Sharp House had never heard the like. Guitarist Dan Eccles was on all fours as a good five minutes of controlled feedback provided the coda to an extraordinary re-working by Richard Buckner of The Cars’’ Candy-O. This was the climax of a show which reinvented the package tour, as Buckner, designated driver Peter Bruntnell and the Richmond Fontaine duo of Eccles and Willy Vlautin first did their own sets and then linked up for the finale. Bruntnell’’s invariably excellent songwriting went down well (new songs included London Clay and Caroline). Using all manner of guitar trickery, Richard Buckner presented a career-spanning set in the form of clusters of five or six songs, merging into each other in mesmerising fashion. As for Richmond Fontaine, there’’s a uniqueness in the way their gripping songs of death and disappointment are presented in an atmosphere of the utmost good humour. This rainy London evening provided fantastic value for the sold-out crowd.

Kathleen Edwards
Islington Academy
View: Plush balcony

It was one of those never-to-be-forgotten moments. Alone on stage, battling to articulate the meaning of her song “House Full Of Empty Rooms”, Kathleen Edwards gives up. “”Shit, fuck”,” she spits, and the tears begin to flow both from her and the audience. Such a sassy, confident, stomping stage performer and yet so vulnerable to pent-up emotion. Something about London seems to bring out the best in her, as she seemed truly emotional about the audience’’s reaction to her performance. Starting with a cool double whammy from the new Bon Iver-produced Voyageur album (Empty Threat and Chameleon / Comedian), Kathleen satisfied all wishes with a chunk of new songs and a ready scattering of favourites such as Asking For Flowers and a truly storming Back To Me. She sure knows how to pick a band too. Long-standing bassist John Dinsmore is joined by drummer Lyle Molzan, Daniel Ledwell on keys (causing hysterics on stage and in the audience with emergency mid-song repairs) and a stunning replacement for Colin Cripps in the form of long tall guitarist Gord Tough. Cool and calm, his soloing nevertheless elicited several outbursts of mid-song applause. Kathleen has a beautiful voice, intriguing onstage manner, gorgeous songs and she bows a mean violin too. It was quite a night.

Windmill, Brixton
View: Slightly damp

Taylor Goldsmith has got the frontman thing down to a tee. Unbroken eye contact with the front row and others behind ensures that the ladies in the audience gently melt (almost literally, as the heat means that droplets of warm rain are falling on their heads). Then, as he throws out the very precise and tuneful guitar solos which pepper each song, the musos are entranced as well. Add in an entire album’s worth of killer songs and you have a band whose future is secure. Goldsmith has a happy knack of pronouncing all his lyrics in such a way that you can hear every word – – very unusual in rock and roll. No wonder Dawes’ fans and collaborators include Glen Dampbell and Jackson Browne. Playing pretty much the whole of their aptly-titled “Nothing Is Wrong” album (although not necessarily in the right order) means that one melodic gem after the other tumbles out, accompanied by an audience which knows them all by heart. Not even a recalcitrant Wurlitzer can ruin the general joy, with drummer (and brother) Griffin Goldsmith providing vital extra vocal muscle and a languid backbeat worthy of Mercury Rev. Following a truly majestic “So Well”, the climax is reached with the lyrically surreal “Time Spent In Los Angeles”. One of those “”I was there”” gigs.

Mark Eitzel / Richard Buckner
Buffalo Bar, Cardiff
View: Over a Buffalo Burger

A triple bill of extraordinary quality was kicked of by Sacri Cuori, an Italian minimalist instrumental trio with strong Calexico connections. Next up, the brilliant Mark Eitzel. Currently between albums, Mark here displayed his torch singing ability with classics like “I Left My Heart In San Francisco” and favourites such as “Gravity Talks” and “Nothing Changes”. If he sings anything new, he says, it’’s leaked on the internet within hours.
Performing his first UK shows in eight years, Richard Buckner was worried about following Eitzel, but it worked out fine. Backed with sympathetic precision by Sacri Cuori, the big man’’s downbeat, laconic melodies as displayed on his new album “Our Blood” were an understated treat.
A certain awkwardness about addressing the audience was summed up by an incident involving an injured finger and a snack in the front row. “”I’’m bleeding over your nuts”, observed Buckner wryly. “I bet you don’’t hear that every day”.

Truck Festival
Steventon, Oxford
22 – 24 July 2011
View: Sun-kissed

Big names were absent from the expanded Truck, unless you count Graham Coxon or St Etienne. Instead, the voguish Americana mode was embraced, making for a pleasant, low-key event. The over-clever Bellowhead contrasted with a triumphant set by the folk-soul of The Duke And The King, arguably band of the festival. Flop of the weekend was Philip Selway, who managed to empty the tent of people who were not angry, just bored. Following on, John Grant showed his accolades are deserved. There was an exciting breakthrough by the innovative Sea Of Bees and a life-affirming set from a hearteningly sprightly Edwyn Collins with his great session band. Caitlin Rose and Richmond Fontaine had acoustic fun in the sun, while, on the pop front, Young Knives revealed a debt to Blur. Interesting new acts included Oxford’s Spring Offensive and young Danes Treefight For Sunlight (although they should have refrained from destroying “Wuthering Heights”). Not a bad way to spend a weekend at all.

The Flaming Lips
Eden Project, Cornwall
30 June 2011

Free admission to the domes and an all-day programme featuring the likes the excellent OK Go (full marks for the multicoloured outfits) made this a grand value day out. And what more appropriate setting could be imagined for Wayne Coyne’’s traditional audience excursion in his very own geometric dome? The balloons, confetti and general bonhomie ensure that the audience is up and in a state of hysteria before the show is three minutes old. Among the newer material they resurrect “She Don’’t Use Jelly”, allowing some breathing space before a storming “Yoshimi” and encores of the ever-stunning “Race For The Prize” and “Do You Realize?” bring us back to fever pitch (not to mention a tear to the eye). Still endearing is the falsetto “”Thank You”” that Steven Drodz uses to acknowledge the adulation. He is the evil genius behind it all, after all. Meanwhile, they’’ll still be picking up the confetti from the Cornwall countryside this time next year.

Jesse Sykes and the Sweet Hereafter
Monto Water Rats, London
21 April 2011
View: Close

It was one of those classic London gig scenarios featuring noise leaking in from next door and endless support bands from hell, but nothing could faze these seasoned Seattle pros. Boldly easing themselves in with a lengthy instrumental (Weight Of Cancer), they had the audience entranced from the off. Playing almost all of their new album Marble Son (which deserves success of at least Fleet Foxian proportions), guitarist Phil Wandscher is very much to the fore with brilliantly broody, effect-laden soling. On the proggy Pleasuring The Divine he sounds much like the criminally under-rated Andrew Latimer of Camel. Between all this come Jesse’’s atmospheric close harmony songs such as Be It Me Or Be It None and the Sykes classic The Air Is Thin. A picture of concentration, she warms the audience’’s collective heart with her ethereal presence and her other-worldly voice. It’s only a matter of time.

The Low Anthem
Queen Elizabeth Hall, London
11 / 4 / 11
View: Closer than expected

Talk about snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. The most charming and memorable section of the Low Anthem’’s set came when they descended into the audience for fifteen minutes of acoustic songs while frazzled engineers battled with an imploding sound system. “Don’’t go back”, pleaded the audience, recognizing the obvious truth that this wonderful band simply doesn’’t require amplification. They accepted it themselves too: “We don’’t need any of this gear”, admitted Ben Knox Miller, promptly ceding the stage to a clarinet trio that could have come straight from a school assembly. A venue like this suits the band’’s intimacy but not their loud interludes, which they really should consider dropping. Completely at one with their audience (who dutifully accompanied This God Damn House with their mobile phones), they remained low-key after the interruption, climaxing with the brilliant Oh My God Charlie Darwin and Cohen’’s Bird On a Wire. How reassuring that such original, calm, understated music commands such a large following.

The Duke And The King
Electric Ballroom, London
27 / 10 / 10
View: Cosy

When people ask what The Duke And The King are like, the nearest I can get is a cross between Neil Young and Marvin Gaye. Certainly, their jaw-droppingly soulful singalong finale of Young’’s “Helpless” is one of current music’’s unique moments. This London show was slightly muted on account of a family bereavement in the band, but it felt like a breakthrough show for them nonetheless.
The musical pot-pourri of indie-cool Simone Felice, violin-toting soul diva Simi Stone, mountain minstrel Bobby Bird and yearning funk drummer Nowell Haskins (he’’s the son of P/Funk co-founder Clarence “”Fuzzy” Haskins) starts with what seems for a moment to be a standard alt-country strumalong with “If You Ever Get Famous”, then flattens the audience when Nowell’’s vocals kick in and you realize you’’re at a soul concert. It’’s spine-tingling, and it continues for over an hour, with all four members taking lead vocals and harmonizing barber-shop style.
And afterwards, of course, the band are all out socializing with their audience. It’’s a unique relationship, destined to be a long-lasting one.

C.W. Stoneking
Mr Kyps, Poole

View: Safely away from the talkers
Experiencing C.W. Stoneking is a bit like watching The Wire: for the first half you don’’t understand a word but by the end, you’’ve adjusted and relaxed into it. The Buster Keaton lookalike and ex-ventriloquist (he hardly opens his mouth throughout) has tales to tell as he delivers his “jungle blues” with the help of a battered tenor banjo, a National steel and a Dixieland brass section of cornet, trombone and tuba. Handyman Blues storms along, while Jungle Lullaby nearly morphs, Paolo Nutini-style, into I Wanna Be Like You. Even incorporating Jimmie Rogers-style yodelling into the spuriously explained jungle concept, it’s no wonder the folks of New Orleans were baffled by the arrival of the Australian bluesman and could only offer him a job in a hoodoo shop.
It’’s all charmingly entertaining but probably, in the great scheme of things, more of a novelty than a great work of art.


Southampton University

9 / 3 / 05

It’s lovely for the folk of Southampton to have a band to champion at last. Previously, they had to pretend to be proud of Craig David. Warmed up by the gorgeous retro chic of Winchester’’s Scarlet Soho, the crowd felt like one big family as the appropriate intro music of the Stones’ “We Love You” wafted out. Like a cross between the Four Seasons and the Small Faces, these guys are so tiny that they are almost obscured behind the bouncers standing a metre lower than them. “You And Me”, the first track on the new album (which the audience mysteriously already knows by heart) demonstrates Greg Gilbert’’s falsetto in all its glory. This is classic pop summed up in three minutes, and with two albums under their belts, they have an array of glittering tunes to choose from. New single “Valentine” breezes along like Odyssey-era Zombies. Behind the faded glamour there’’s real craftsmanship at work; they know their way round a hook, but they can rock out and charm an audience as well. Little blokes with bouffants rule, yes?


Royal Festival Hall, London

23 / 5 / 05

Since Eels concerts have been known to feature fist fights because of E’’s insistence on a seated, silent audience, the RFH must be his ideal venue. And the “special guests” turn out to be a Russian animated children’’s film. Eels’ unpredictability is almost becoming predictable. To be fair, he couldn’’t turn up at some rock dive with this Butch-less (i.e. drummer-less, not really Eels at all) band, complete with nubile string quartet. Hardly a song on “Blinking Lights” is more than two minutes long, so there’’s very much a “classical” feel, with each brief “movement” being politely applauded. With his crumpled Charlie Chaplin suit, cane and ever-present cigarette, it’s purely the E Show, although something that is new and works brilliantly is the blending of strings, pedal steel and saw. Apologizing for maybe disappointing us (he even disguised “Bus Stop Boxer”, “Birds” and “Dog Faced Boy” as requests for the Queen), E really needs to learn that he can actually do what he likes and we WON’’T MIND!

The Hollies

Basingstoke Anvil

20 / 10 / 05

View: From the Bus Stop (only kidding, folks)

Stylish threads, snappy guitars, cracking tunes and cool haircuts: … it could only be Franz Ferdinand. Or, indeed, the Hollies. With a new deal, their first original album in two decades due in February, and offical endorsement from the likes of My Morning Jacket and Fountains of Wayne, the Hollies are on quite a roll. Peter Howarth might have been born to front the Hollies, so perfectly does he fill the role. In among all the hits (many now expanded from three to four part harmonies), he unexpectedly inserts solo acoustic adaptations of “Here I Go Again” and Springsteen’’s “Sandy” which contend with any of today’s singer-songwriters and knock spots off James Blunt (ironic, in view of the fact that their best new song is called “So Damn Beautiful”). Both Bobby Elliott and Tony Hicks have drunk from the fountain of youth, and the new young Hollies members have rejuvenated the band. To be chucking in vital-sounding new songs and reinterpreting most of the old ones is pretty energetic stuff after 42 years on the road. And as Hicks launches into a spectacular Lynyrd Skynyrd style coda on “Look Through Any Window”, you wonder why they’’ve never been treated with the respect they deserve. Michael Eavis, put them on the Pyramid Stage on Sunday afternoon at Glastonbury 2007. Imagine that lot singing along with “He Ain’’t Heavy, He’’s My Brother”.

Cerys Matthews

Wedgewood Rooms, Portsmouth

21 / 7 / 06

Cerys claimed that she’’d been the first band member to reach the hotel lobby, so keen was she to get onstage after a six-year absence. How pleasing it is to report that what seemed to be one of the UK’’s lost treasures is back in style, beauty, good health and fine voice. A small frisson passed over the crowd as, three songs in, Cerys and her crack band of long-haired instrument-swopping Nashville musos treated us to “Lost Cat”, but it was the only reference to either her Catatonia past or her more recent country dabblings. Clutching a guitar for most of the hour-long set, and with the occasional false start and nervous glance revealing that this was the start of a new project, she proved she certainly hasn’’t lost her way with a tune. With both the little girl lost falsetto and the Rhondda Roar fully intact (albeit with an accent which combines Tennessee and Swansea), a good-humoured Cerys gave notice that her new “Never Said Goodbye” album is going to be a cracker and that her new career is going to be as exciting as the old one. Who’’d have thought it?

End Of The Road Festival

Dorset, UK

17 / 9 / 06

View: Scrumpy-addled

Just when we thought there was no gimmick left to plunder, we realize we’’d overlooked tap dancing. The unfairly pulchritudinous Tilly On The Wall are certainly the first band since Mungo Jerry to feature miked-up stomping boards. It would scream “short-lived gimmick” were it not for some super Abba-style tunes and harmonies. Howe Gelb can be either slick or shambolic. Today (sans moustache and gospel choir), he was in semi-shambolic mode, but that’’s when he is at his most endearing. His version of PJ Harvey’s “The Desperate Kingdom Of Love” squared the circle between Arizona and Dorset. Despite (or probably because of) Ryan Adams’ “drumming”, Jolie Holland was a major disappointment, but Richard Hawley’’s modern-day crooning cheered things up a lot, as did the harmony pop of Jim Noir, by no means as bleak as his name might imply. Plus, he had stolen Howe Gelb’’s moustache. As Ryan Adams’ carpet techs hit the stage (don’’t ask), the word was that he was “being “an arse”” backstage, but this turned out to be a measured and incident-free performance. Neal Casal has brought equilibrium with him and traded extended licks with the main man on “Cold Roses” and on numerous examples of what Adams terms his “”new jams””. Inspiring stuff, and a great coup for a new festival which, in the words of Chris T-T, is “run by human beings and not a beer company”.

Steve Winwood

Wedgewood Rooms, Portsmouth

25 / 4 / 2007

The warm atmosphere and the billing of this three-hour show as “An Evening With Steve Winwood” revealed Steve as a man comfortable with all stages of his career. In no particular order, we were treated to Spencer Davis hits (a throwaway “Somebody Help Me” and a monstrous “Gimme Some Loving”), Traffic classics from early (“Medicated Goo”) to later (“Light Up Or Leave Me Alone”) via Blind Faith (“Can’’t Find My Way Home”). Landing at the Winwood solo years, his most commercially successful period (“Higher Love” etc.) now sounds his artistically weakest, while the latest album shows an artist at the peak of his powers (his cover of Timmy Thomas’’ “Why Can’t We Live Together” being an unexpected highlight of a set with may highs). The evergreen Winwood can afford to surround himself with the cream of sessioners, and by any standards, saxist Paul Booth and stand-in guitarist Tim Cansfield are sensationally funky. From the very first note, the silken Hammond, the glorious work on the bass pedals and that voice – seemingly unchanged since he was sixteen – caused the audience to pinch itself at being so close to a legend. Dear Mr Fantasy indeed.

Spencer Davis Group

100 Club, London

3 / 2 / 07

View: Very close

The current version of the Spencer Davis Group has been together far longer than the original one, and contains such great musicians that it’’s a mystery why their profile isn’’t higher. The answer is, of course, No Winwood, but Eddie Hardin remains as excellent a replacement as he was in 1967, teasing out the huge Hammond sound to accompany the towering guitar of the evergreen and ever-dexterous Miller Anderson. The genial Colin Hodgkinson on bass gels nicely with the newest member, drummer Stef Porzel, while Spencer … well, he remains Spencer, the catalyst figure, still addicted to life on the road when he could well have been forgiven for slipping into a comfortable retirement. Warmed up by a fantastic London mod trio called The Turn, SDG’s act is the hits and more, of course, with my favourite being Hardin’’s reflective interlude “Deep In My Despair”. As they blasted out “Gimme Some Lovin’’”, the sweaty R & B atmosphere was probably much as it was when they were playing such subterranean London clubs in the Sixties. How nice to know that some things never change.

The Twang

Joiners Arms, Southampton

March 28 2007

View: Unimpeded

This should have been a lot better. The Twang is the new buzz band – (front of the NME after just one single, for goodness’’ sake) – but there was a surprisingly low-key atmosphere among the mostly male and -– whisper it – – largely middle-aged audience. The sparse instrumentation and Brum-accented spoken vocals attempt to give a 2-Tone feel but the effect is more The Streets played by Duran Duran. Yes, the dated guitar effects are pure eighties and laughable if we were’’t convinced that these are cool dudes. They aren’’t even convinced themselves, with front man Phil Etheridge only waking up two songs before the end and the guitarist and bassist looking terrified throughout. The audience only recognized one song, unsurprisingly the single “Wide Awake”, and there wasn’’t much in the set of similar quality. One doesn’’t like to be pessimistic, but a long and successful career seems unlikely.

Isle of Wight Festival 2007

The festival started with a tenth-rate Supertramp (The Feeling) and some music for TV ads (Groove Armada). Snow Patrol’’s anthems were too squeaky-clean for their headlining slot. Saturday featured the original IOW troubadour, Donovan. The mass singalong to “Sunshine Superman” suited the mood perfectly. The impressive funk and ska of the charming Amy Winehouse had the whole field jumping. Total fun, as were Wolfmother, who brazenly usurped the approach of the island’s honorary patron saint, Jimi Hendrix. Ash blew it by trying out new material on an inappropriate occasion, while Kasabian came close to stealing the show with a set of deceptive subtlety. Sadly, this competed directly with the island’’s own brilliant Bees. Muse’’s preposterous pomp-rock triumphed because of its sheer bravado, the Persil-white Matt Bellamy being second only to Jagger in the showmanship stakes. The plan was to blow the audience away, and it worked. Sunday was a delightful mish-mash of contrasts. Country Joe followed by Melanie C, anyone? The distressingly bland James Morrison caused mass dozing, but more exciting was cheery Scotsman Paolo Nutini, with his sideways approach, cool image, daft demeanour and willingness to rock. The frantic Fratellis seem to be in a career cul-de-sac like the similar (but better) Supergrass. Keane’’s huge singalongs and undeniable quality made them a perfect warm-up for the rock and roll maelstrom that was to follow (see this page). Wonderful music, great organisation, nice environment; this was one damn good festival.

End Of The Road Festival

Dorset, England

14 – 16 September 2007

Voted Best New Festival of 2006, this year’’s End Of The Road reaped the reward with a hugely increased audience and fine weather conditions. Being entirely about music, there are no big stars or egos, as artists jam with each other and pop up for impromptu sessions all over the place. The setting, in the beautiful Larmer Tree Gardens, is surely one of the loveliest festival sites in the world, and the line-up of mainly Americana, indie and folk artists was adventurous and clever. The most exciting things about EOTR this year were the unexpected surprises. Here are some of the highlights: Jeffrey Lewis’’ multi-media show featured wall-to-wall covers of songs by Crass. Dawn Landes concluded her set with a joyful duet with the unbilled Josh Ritter. The good-natured genuineness of blues plucker Charlie Parr succeeded in trumping the less subtle excursions of flavour-of-the-moment Seasick Steve. On a noisier note, the three-piece Charlie Bronson Outfit almost equalled the mad eclecticism of Yo La Tengo, who rampaged between the quietly melodic and the sonically insane. Howe Gelb curated the first day, guesting with every artist he presented, including the crazy but sensational Albini-prouced Scout Niblett, PJ Harvey collaborator John Parish and the magnificently atmospheric Jesse Sykes and the Sweet Hereafter, arguably the best band of the weekend. Howe Gelb’’s own set on the main stage featured gorgeous lounge piano excursions. The grooviest, most danceable band of the festival was undoubtedly the Isle of Wight’’s Bees, whilst new discoveries included My Brightest Diamond, a Drugstore for the 21st century, the Flaming Lips-lite of Sweden’s I’’m From Barcelona (beaten in the quirkiness stakes by Misty’’s Big Adventure), the Proclaimers-like harmony anthems of King Creosote and the ethereal beauty of Midlake, all the way from Denton, Texas. That’’s just for starters, and all of them put the bigger names like Super Furry Animals and British Sea Power, both of whom seemed to be over-egging the “professionalism”, in the shade. EOTR 2007 was a non-stop feast of music with no pretensions and no airs or graces. What a privilege to have been there.

Richard Thompson Band

The Brook, Southampton

9 / 8 / 07

“”What a band!” enthuses Richard Thompson at the end of the first song. “”What? A band?”” adds double-bassist Danny Thompson, sardonically. Yes, it’’s rare for RT to tour with a band nowadays, so this sold-out performance was a thrilling way for the Brook to announce that it’’s back in business. All the real and would-be guitarists in the audience were in ecstasy, and it’s true that there can’’t be a guitar player in the world to match Thompson today, playing all those extraordinary sequences of notes which shouldn’’t work, yet are somehow perfect. The emphasis was very much on the new album “Sweet Warrior”, standouts being the Iraq war song “Daddy’’s Gonna Kill Me” and the less serious but equally engaging “Too Late To Come Fishing”. There’’s something for fans of all aspects of Thomson’s career, from the acoustic whimsy of “Al Bowlly’’s In Heaven” to perennial favourite “Vincent Black Lightening 1952”, but he’’s always at his best on the twisted electric guitar ballads like “I Still Dream”. The evening climaxed with the irresistible sing-along of “Tear Stained Letter” which turned into a Pete Zorn saxophone wig-out. Thompson is a national treasure and never lets us down.

Joseph Arthur

Talking Heads, Southampton

22 November 2007

Panicking about a PA buzz and adding a six-song encore are all part of the show for Joseph Arthur, whose live performances go on sale in CD form at the end of each gig. A DVD might have been a better idea on this tour though, as his band consists largely of enthusiastic supermodel rock chicks (one of them pricelessly called Sybil), who contrast dramatically with the downbeat, greasy-haired, trilby-hatted image of the man himself. Looking like a younger Richard Ashcroft and sounding like a mixture of Jesse Malin and David Gray, Arthur’’s voice is certainly striking, even if the lyrics and some of the song structures are disturbingly AOR in style. The most enjoyable moments, apart from the Stonesy “Diamond Ring” and “Let’s Just Be”, were his solo acoustic efforts and when, for a momentary relief from the onslaught of echo and extended codas, he handed over the vocals to guitarist Kraig Jarret Johnson. The response to the show from the assembled Arthur fans was surprisingly muted, almost as if the intended spirit hadn’’t made the journey from stage to audience in the way his solo performances can.

Andy Burrows

Union Chapel, London

28 May 2008

Razorlight drummer Andy Burrows’’ charming new charity album “The Colour Of My Dreams” is a charity record in aid of children’’s hospice Naomi House. The full-scale launch of this initially low-key idea came out of left field, elevating Johnny Borrell’’s co-writer to a pre-eminent position, yet it is typical that the project is altruistic, self-effacing and unpretentious. It’’s a measure of Andy’’s popularity among his peers that the Union Chapel’’s stage was occupied by the likes of Fyfe Dangerfield (Guillemots), Dom Howard (Muse), Tom Smith (Editors) and the Bluetones’’ Mark Morris, whilst the hot dogs were served by Jamie Oliver. Harmonizing with each of the guests, Andy’’s songs came across as concise vignettes with little to do with rock and roll and everything to do with empathy and humanity. He displayed unexpected guitar skills and a voice which makes comparisons with the late Elliott Smith not as unlikely as they may seem. In the “secret” Razorlight finale, even the unfairly maligned Johnny Borrell seemed perfectly content to be playing second fiddle to his mate (and the raffle). In short, a magic evening.

Johnny Flynn

Railway Inn, Winchester

13 / 5 / 08

Frank Turner, Andy Burrows and now Johnny Flynn: Respectable young gentlemen from Winchester are the cool new thing; – who would have thought it? Whoever decided to invest in the young charmer with the folksy vibe, the Prince William good looks and the already faithful following has made a wise move. The age of the multi-instrumentalist is back (Johnny displays skills in guitar, banjo, mandolin, violin and some pretty spectacular trumpet, while sister Lillie looks after flute). Johnny’’s songs are wry and lyrically unconventional and he has a pleasingly un-showbiz manner, the only current problem being an over-busy drummer turning almost every song into a shuffle. When he moves to keyboards and the cellist tackles the drums (are you following this?), more possibilities immediately open up. If you thought “new folk” was a passing fad, the imminent success of Johnny will extend its currency.

Hop Farm Festival


5 / 7 / 08

Only Rufus Wainwright singing Leonard Cohen’’s “Halleluja” could make you feel warm and cosy during a monsoon in Kent. My Morning Jacket’’s silken amalgamation of Crosby, Stills and Nash with Lynryd Skynryd was well up to following Rufus, and ideal for this audience. Jim James finished the show as a demented, caped falsetto vampire. Flatteringly introduced by Steve Lamacq as “a national institution”, Supergrass (who, like everyone else, sacrificed much of their sound to the wind) were their usual selves: tuneful but unexciting. By this time, a serious chill was setting in, so the cockle-warming rock and roll of the ever-reliable Primal Scream was spot-on. They may be old-school but they’ll be cool forever. Uniquely brilliant and worshipped by all, Neil Young’’s lengthy set included a pleasing number of favourites like “Needle and the Damage Done” and “Heart of Gold”. One moment, he’’s wrenching out astonishing guitar effects, the next he’’s sitting at a pipe organ like a cross between Rick Wakeman and the local parish organist. The jaw-dropping climax consisted of a 25 minute version of “No Hidden Path” with an endless coda that you genuinely didn’’t want to stop, followed by a truly mind-blowing take on the Beatles’’ “A Day In The Life”. Apart from the car parking fiasco (organisational incompetence, basically), this was a great day out.

White Denim / Micah P. Hinson

Borderline, London


In this battle of the Texan titans, it was a points victory for the self-effacing flat-capped romantic over the sonic bully-boys. White Denim certainly are impressive, incredible virtuosos rather wasting their talents on screamed rifferama with few hints of a tune. Guitarist and singer James Patralli is obsessed with wah-wah and double-tracking, making the overall effect a cross between the Jesus and Mary Chain, speeded-up Explosions In The Sky and Motorhead. At the end, you felt satisfied with the short set and generally bludgeoned into submission. The solo Micah, on the other hand, apologized for sounding like Simon and Garfunkel compared to the lush instrumental depth of his “Micah P Hinson and the Red Empire Orchestra” album, but he still held the room spellbound with his quietly emotional songs, sparse yet still full of resonance. It was ironic that, afterwards, his was the performance you remembered.


Wedgewood Rooms, Portsmouth


It seems like no time since Ash were pipsqueak upstart sixth-formers, yet already their audience consists of paunchy middle-aged blokes like me. They can still innovate though, with their schedule of 26 singles in a year. New songs like “Space Shot”, “True Love 1980” and “Return Of White Rabbit” cleverly spruce up the Ash sound without straying too fear from the traditional template, which is basically just a fine way with a tune. You realize what an amazing back catalogue they have when they can launch their set with the killer double whammy of “Walking Barefoot” and “Girl From Mars”, with Tim Wheeler still looking like a teenager and lanky bassist Mark Hamilton, despite illness, doing his admirable double-jointed stick insect impersonation. Masters of the singalong anthem, songs like “Oh Yeah” and “Shining Light” mark Ash down as the ultimate summer band.

Juliette Lewis

Talking Heads, Southampton, UK

19 / 5 / 09

Five dates into a year-long world tour and Juliette Lewis is already looking the worse for wear, not to mention profoundly scary. The disappointing truth is that she doesn’’t sing very well. The last person to perform so consistently flat was Louise Wener of Sleeper, although Louise wouldn’’t even have attempted Juliette’’s Janis Joplin-style blueswailing on “Hard Lovin’’ Woman”. She still puts on an entertaining show, though. With a new band (the New Romantiques) which wouldn’t look or sound out of place in your local pub, she has audience empathy in abundance, leaping into the crowd as often as possible, removing and replacing sunglasses and sparkly veil, leering suggestively and sweating like a waterfall. Featuring a raft of not very tuneful new songs from the Terra Incognita album, it certainly is rock and roll, and the sardine-like crowd does indeed love it.

White Denim

Talking Heads, Southampton

5 / 7 / 09

A pleasingly young audience belied a distinct seventies vibe on this evening, heads shaking and dandruff cascading. Some of us old lags were trying to find a reference point for a noodling power guitar trio like White Denim. Taste? Similar energy but more bluesy. Groundhogs? Similar attitude but a bit more psychedelic. Spirit? That’s more like it. In the figure of bandana-ed guitarist James Petralli there’s even a hint of Randy California. A White Denim show consists of three “medleys”, in which songs from their albums “Workout Holiday” and “Fits” merge into each other in a bewildering series of time signature changes which keep the head shakers on their toes. In great jazz tradition, there’’s strict discipline in the arrangements, leaving room for improvisation between musicians who are impressively attuned to each other. Ugly Betty bassist Steve Terebecki and elaborate drummer Joshua Block are a powerhouse rhythm section very much in the mould of Bruce and Baker, while Petralli yelps enthusiastically in a mix of soul and garage styles. Sounds unlikely? Well, this band sure is different and it makes for exciting viewing and listening. Whether the general public will become so enthused remains to be seen.

Joe Jackson

Shepherds Bush Empire

2 / 3/ 08

Three songs in, the incongruous sound of “Chinatown” with completely inaudible piano and bass led to fears of the show being slaughtered by the soundman. Luckily Jackson (together with the faithful and fantastic rhythm section of Dave Houghton and Graham Maby) remains one of the most thrilling live performers anywhere in the world. His persona – a strange mixture of lanky, lugubrious, serious and convivial – draws in the crowd and the songs are allowed to blossom in the sparse trio setting. Irresistible oldies like the cold war commentary of “The Obvious Song” and “Stranger Than Fiction” (with the brilliant line”“love shows God has a sense of humour”) mingle comfortably with a selection from the new album “Rain”, of which the finest track is the first, “Invisible Man”. An inspired choice of covers (“Knowing Me Knowing You” – – really – – and “Scary Monsters – – honestly), plus the obligatory climax of “Is She Really Going Out With Him?” and the tear-jerking “Slow Song” insured that victory was indeed grasped from the jaws of disaster.

Jason Lytle

Islington Academy

28 / 5 / 09

What a relief it is for Grandaddy followers that Jason Lytle sounds exactly like his ex-band. He’’s on record as saying he was uncomfortable with the sheen of professionalism forced on them by major label status, but with his current band of downbeats, it’s right back to the seat-of-the-pants glory days of early Grandaddy. The only slick item on show was the lengthy and dramatic intro tape, leading into probably one of the lowest-key shows this venue has ever seen. Shoulders hunched, with head down and obscured by the omnipresent cap, Lytle crouches stage right, seemingly joined at the hip with main cohort Rusty Miller. It’s hard to equate the figure with glorious songs like “Yours Truly The Commuter” and “Brand New Sun”, eccentrically glittering gems from his new album. What with the between song backing-track mayhem, the gear all held together with pink gaffa tape, it took a good kicking administered to a recalcitrant synth to finally allow them to splutter into their rapturously-received original greatest hit “AM 180”. Thank goodness there are still a few true rock and roll characters about.

South By South West Festival

Austin, Texas

18 – 22 March 2009

Each year you think sxsw can’t get any better and each year it confounds you. Where else could you wander in the sunshine between the hillbilly folk of Justin Townes Earle and the studded leather jumpsuits of Hot Leg, Justin Hawkins’’ post-Darkness parody? If you wanted, you could queue for Metallica or Kanye West, but as usual, the most fun was to be had stumbling on unannounced gems on the fringes. Here you could find the two drummers of a crazed And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead being outgunned by the five bass guitars of Shout Out Out Out Out in the multiple instrument stakes, or the pomp of the Decemberists being outclassed by the sublime shoegazing of Shearwater. Ah, Shearwater. They made me fear the alcohol had finally taken too much of a toll on me. Having heard their late-night performance at the plushy Hilton Garden Inn, I walked the next morning the hour and a half to the Mean Eyed Cat, to find them in the middle of performing the same (very good) show to a different audience. Talk about Groundhog Day. RC readers are well aware of Toronto’’s Six Shooter Records and their artists. Equally legendary is the Tequila-drenched annual afternoon hootenanny they host at Headhunter’s Club, where their artists, hung-over but still buzzing from their label showcase the night before, play short sets of their favourite songs. The likes of Luke Doucet, Melissa McClelland and NQ Arbuckle spread the fun around. The previous evening, Elliott Brood had issued the audience with baking trays and wooden spoons, creating percussion mayhem. Other oddities were the surreal experience of Bauhaus goth hero Pete Murphy, complete with uncool bald patch and eccentric speechmaking. In a similar vein, the Blue Aeroplanes’’ Gerard Langley was reading his lyrics from a printed crib-sheet, much like a politician with an autocue. Portland’’s Peter Broderick is the first virtuoso of the saw since Mercury Rev’’s Jonathan Donahue. And of course, there were the inevitable disappointments. I walked miles to catch current vogue bands The Soft Pack, Black Lips and Delta Spirit, and all of them were nondescript. Selecting highlights is tough, but here goes. Best new discovery: Copenhagen’’s Asteroids Galaxy Tour, who have charm, beauty, cool pop songs and funky horns. Most exciting moment: nearly being asphyxiated in the moshpit for a gloriously decadent Primal Scream in a venue the size of a matchbox. Most moving music: A massively hung-over Jason Lytle making his post-Grandaddy comeback at the Mohawk Patio at Saturday lunchtime. Best show: A knockout blow by PJ Harvey and John Parish, completely flattening the capacity crowd at Stubbs, previously baffled by a washed-up Razorlight. Now surely sxsw 2010 can’t get any better?

The Asteroids Galaxy Tour

Luminaire, London

15 / 5 / 09

The likes of Little Boots and Lady Ga Ga had better watch out, because in the pulchritude stakes, they are about to be obliterated by the extraordinary Mette Lindberg. Copenhagen’’s finest ever band have the lot: funky horns providing Stax riffs, some pleasingly catchy and irresistibly danceable songs and the knockout blow of a riveting visual and vocal presence. Mette can warble Bjork-like but doesn’’t over-do it, instead sweetly avoiding Mariah Carey-style woah woahs in favout of brief and punchy ohs and heys. It’’s unique and totally charming. Nominally a duo of Mette and Lars Iversen, live, the band is a nicely analogue six-piece collective with an eccentric dress sense. Among a treasure trove of songs, “Push The Envelope” and the iPod commercial, “Around The Bend” are that rare phenomenon, tunes that you go home singing after just one hearing. This Tour truly is heading for the stars.

PJ Harvey and John Parish

Bridport Arts Centre

12 / 3 / 09

Among family and friends in this quaint converted chapel is the traditional point of departure for all PJ Harvey world tours. Addressing the wardrobe issues caused by her belted shroud with good humour, Polly was on sparkling form, safely surrounded by some of the world’s most outstanding musicians. Sporting more trilbies and mafia suits than a Leonard Cohen convention, John Parish and his colleagues helped Polly to take flight on almost all the new album and, pleasingly, a good chunk of 1996’’s Dance Hall At Louse Point as well. Extraordinary variety was the keynote, from the gentle falsetto of “Leaving California” to the expletive-laden lunacy of “A Woman A Man Walked By” and the genuinely barking “Pig Will Not” (yes, she barks). Particularly exciting was the revival of fantastic older songs like the lugubrious “Rope Bridge Crossing” (one of this duo’’s finest hours) and “Circles Around The Sun”, but most thrilling of all was the confirmation that music of this outstanding quality can still command a large and enthusiastic audience. A satisfying triumph all round.


Chuck Prophet

The Miner’s Arms, Lydney

9 / 8 / 09

Skirting round the Hell’s Angels and into the skittle alley of this Forest of Dean pub, Chuck had caused consternation by demanding the removal of chairs from the venue. A half-and-half compromise having been reached, the solo Chuck hit the stage for a warm evening of conviviality which included a Q and A session (of which the most hilarious section was a convoluted answer to the question “”Why are you here?””). Adapting the rockers from his new “Let Freedom Ring” album to an acoustic environment proved no problem for a virtuoso like Chuck, with simple beauties such as the title track and “Sonny Liston’’s Blues” nestling comfortably alongside back catalogue classics like “You Did” and “Balinese Dancer”. An audience made up of keen fans who had travelled and locals who had never heard of him warmed to a man whose career looks as if it is about to hit a very belated high. He’’ll be back in the UK with his band in the Autumn, but for now, this was a rare and treasured cameo.

Bad Company

Brighton Centre

10 April 2010

View: Centre of the Centre

Most of us have the odd school reunion but with Mott and Bad Company, Mick Ralphs has had two of the highest profile reunions imaginable in the space of six months. Chipper and cheerful, he can’’t quite match the extraordinarily youthful Paul Rodgers in the svelteness stakes, but the chops are still there, aided by Howard Leese of Heart, who fleshes out the harmonies so that arguably this Bad Co is better then the original. The main secret of the power lies with drummer Simon Kirke, still as much of an object lesson in economy and power as when he was blasting out “Fire And Water” with Free forty years ago. It takes confidence to open with your greatest hit, and when the heartbeat intro tape segued into “Can’’t Get Enough” and the neon logo flashed up, the whole place jumped into action and didn’’t let up for an hour and ten minutes of pretty much solid gold. Whether it was ballads like “Seagull” or classics like “Ready For Love”, Rodgers’’ voice and style have not declined in any way. “We love you Paul”, they still shout, and no wonder.


Wedgewood Rooms, Portsmouth

30. 6. 10

View: Crammed in the crowd

This was an evening for serious music lovers. With nary a rock pose in sight, these musicians are all about conveying songs and atmosphere. John Grant of the Czars performed his lyrically intense torch songs to rapt attention (standout being “The Queen Of Denmark”), before the intellectual Texans Midlake charmed the audience with ninety minutes gleaned almost entirely from their last two albums “The Trials Of Van Occupanther” and “The Courage Of Others”. Citing such impeccable influences as early Fairport Convention, Grandaddy and Richard Thompson (to which could be added seventies proggers Camel and Caravan, each equally adept at integrating the sound of the flute), Midlake never patronize their audience. A seven piece band playing essentially quiet music in a loud environment is always going to be a challenge, but Midlake, expressing undying love for Pompey, pulled it off in charmingly understated manner. When will Bella Union go wrong?

Eastleigh Music Festival

Leigh Park Eastleigh

10 – 11/ 7 / 10

The sun shone on Eastleigh’’s two-day music festival at Leigh Park. Friday’’s “Folk Night” featured, for all but the most devout folkies, a slight surfeit of fiddles and squeeze boxes. The likes of Cara Dillon (great when unaccompanied) and Lau (great when slow and majestic) too often allowed things to lapse with the dreaded words “”Now for some jigs and reels””. Saturday daytime featured a host of local bands playing for free. The quality inevitably varied but of particular note were Winchester’’s flamboyant Scarlet Soho and the casual excellence of Our Lost Infantry, a real find from Aldershot. The evening showcase highlighted the super-precision suites of Field Music. The music of the multi-instrumentalist Brewis brothers is ultra-cerebral but manages not to be too clever for its own good. As for Badly Drawn Boy, the disappointment was painful. Accompanied by a band made up of road crew and complete with cheesy drum machine and lyric crib sheet, he sought to blame his hapless performance on the sound crew (who had been impeccable all weekend). Badly Performing Boy, more like. Nothing, however, should take away from the impeccable organization of this hugely enjoyable event, which continued throughout the joyous Mela on the Sunday.


Railway Inn, Winchester

August 1, 2010

View: Nearly suffocating

For a band whose main antecedents are Spirit Of Eden-era Talk Talk, i.e. deadly serious and willfully uncommercial, Austin’’s Shearwater have some enthusiastic and energetic supporters. The band take the most enjoyable elements of prog, namely multiple time changes and incessant swopping of obscure instruments, but leave out the annoying noodling bits. Any band whose singer has a degree in ornithology and whose drummer is an Axl Rose lookalike called Thor, who doubles on oboe, can’’t fail to be interesting. Jonathan Meiburg is the unlikeliest of rock stars but his startling voice range generates enormous intensity. The audience, already stunned (in a nice way) by having German improvisational classical pianist Nils Frahm as support act, vascillated between enthusiastic idiot dancing on songs such as Hidden Lakes and rapt attention during the glockenspiel battle between Thor and bassist Kim Burke on Corridors, both from their latest pastoral epic The Golden Archipelago. It all sounds very unlikely but it adds up to a quite thrilling musical experience.

Read More

Mercury Rev – Bierkeller, Bristol

Isn’t life cruel? No sooner have Grand Drive achieved their long-awaited critical breakthrough with “The Lights In This Town Are Too Many to Count”, than their drummer leaves them seriously in the lurch. They have to cancel their high profile showcases in favour of opening for Mercury Rev as an acoustic trio. Still, they are veterans of adversity and more than capable of bouncing back. With their silken Aussie harmonies and impeccable songwriting, Finn Brothers comparisons are unavoidable, but who better to emulate?
If you like glorious melodies and don’t mind admitting to a penchant for prog, Mercury Rev have the music for you, especially if you prefer your bands to be eye-pleasing. The super-elegance of Jonathan Donahue (the widest smile in rock) and the biker chic of Grasshopper see to that. A slightly altered line-up tried out a raft of new songs from their forthcoming album “The Secret Migration”, some of them more acoustic – poppy, even – than we’ve been used to from Mercury Rev. Fans were also treated to the usual sigh-inducing favourites such as “Spiders and Flies” and “Goddess On A Hiway”. Music doesn’t come any more enchanting than this.

Read More

Jesse Malin / Jeff Klein – Borderline, London

It’s really exciting when the Yanks send over their cool young talent to be discovered first by the UK music press, then the UK public, and then re-exported back to them. Following that, of course, we Brits go over the top in our enthusiasm, the floodgates open and quality control collapses. It’s already happened in the world of handsome and noisy NYC garage bands, next it’ll be the post Ryan Adams / Pete Yorn area of equally handsome but less noisy country-rock singer-songwriters. Meanwhile, let’s just be happy that dear old Jesse Malin is the real rock and roll deal and revel in this classic, media-swamped sweatbath of a showcase.
First up, all the way from Austin, Texas (the place where I wish to wake up after I die) is Jeff Klein. Jeff’s motto is: “No matter how bad things are, everything could probably be worse” – and that’s just how his publicity sheet tries to attract us! With a truly terrifying beard, he looks and sounds like he wishes he was in … Trail Of Dead. Jeff can make a lyric like “Everything’s gonna be all right” sound like a threat. His best song was about being caught mid-wank by his dad, but still we liked him.
And so, as the cellar threatened to turn into a home-made volcano and explode upwards through the pavement, Jesse Malin and his band lived up to the hyperbole. Are they all they should be? Yes sir! Tears started flowing from the off, as the band (dressed, as all alt-punk bands should be, in head-to-toe black) took the stage to the strains of the Clash’s “Bank Robber”.
There’s something reassuringly wholesome about what Jesse does. His presence even brings to mind Ray Davies, while the ecstatically-greeted “Wendy” is a full-scale pop classic. And what a charmer, as he winks to the adoring girls in the front row and tells us tales of Barbra Streisand’s furniture. Call it alt-whatever (it’s youthful, punked-up Neil Young, actually), all the music is crisp, timeless rock and roll with its best, least affected face on. “Death Or Glory” was dedicated to Jesse’s friend Joe Strummer, plus a few choice (sadly probably unheeded) words of advice to G.W. Bush. The almost unbearably poignant “Brooklyn” rapidly turned into a full-scale crowd singalong, and the evening ended with some serious moshing to Nick Lowe’s “(What’s So Funny About) Peace, Love and Understanding?”. In the Borderline! And I joined in! Well, it would have been rude not to.
Go, Jesse! You truly are a King of the Underworld.
(from LOGO magazine) 

Read More

Athlete – Shepherds Bush Empire

You know that feeling which overwhelms you occasionally, when whatever it is you’re experiencing is so perfect that you are desperate to preserve it in your memory forever? The words that come into your head are: “Oh, this is beautiful, I’ve got to soak it up”.
So when Athlete display the genius to write a song with exactly that chorus, that’s good enough. When they add it to an irrestibly anthemic tune which forces the audience to bellow it en masse, the subject of the song somehow ends up describing itself. It is beautiful and we are soaking it up.
And who can pretend they haven’t identified with the chorus of One Million: “It was just one of those days I needed to deal with”? First, we had to deal with interminable performances by two of the worst support bands ever to sully Shepherds Bush. Good thing nobody knew who they were, I might have had to be cruel about them. Athlete, though, warming up for the V Festival and taking a brief break from recording their second album, were just perfect. Not just “part of the rock scene” (Westside), they tower above all the competition right now, a model of unpretentiousness and letting the music and songs speak for themselves. To follow the Mercury-nominated “Vehicles and Animals” might seem a well-nigh impossible task, but new songs such as “Tourist” bode well. You almost felt like joining in on first hearing, but you were already too hoarse from yelling about the doubtful merits of El Salvador and Dungeness. Not that I would do anything like that, you understand.
A truly knockout set of killer tunes and genius lyrics. You can’t ask for much more.

Read More

The Datsuns, The Polyphonic Spree, Interpol, The Thrills – Portsmouth Pyramids

This years’ NME tour is an entertaining set of contrasts but, with one notable exception, as derivative as hell. It was 2003’s equivalent of a package starring Smokie, Joy Division, The St Winifred’s School Choir and AC / DC. And oooh, how they’ll hate me for saying that.
The Thrills are sadly-misnamed. Battling a disgraceful sound quality on this occasion, they’re a sort of cross between Wilco and Mercury Rev without the charisma or bite of either. Still, it was an undemanding start to the show. “When are they going to play ‘Hotel California’?” asked my neighbour.
Looking like Kraftwerk fronted by Peter Noone of Herman’s Hermits, Interpol were certainly a bit more stimulating, both visually and musically. There’s a disciplined sparsity about their sound which almost makes you forget that Joy Division were doing this stuff two decades ago. But who can blame today’s students for wanting a slice of such action? Style, content, perameters: 10 / 10. Originality? Hmm … They’re not much use if you like any soul in your music, and if that ugly bassist keeps on smoking like that, he won’t live long enough to appreciate his success.
Four things that I like are: friendly people, The Eels Orchestra, Texas (the state, not the band) and the Flaming Lips. As the Polyphonic Spree are all four, I was in heaven as they comprehensively slayed this “cool” audience and elicited mass adulation, despite being a huge gang of berobed hippies. Mind you, they had a cheek expecting us to pay money for all that pretentious droning on their album. Luckily, live, they stick to the tunes. Even the soundman woke up for a while. You can’t help but wonder what kind of salary the members are on. Still, at least there’s no problem if someone leaves – they probably wouldn’t even notice.
And so to the Datsuns. If you like third-rate cock-thrusting seventies heavy metal, this is your band. If not, it isn’t. We need punk, NOW.
From AMPLIFIER magazine

Read More

Jon Amor – Borderline, London

With the strength of interest in guitar rock at the moment, it’s a mystery why Jon Amor seems to have hit a plateau of popularity beyond which the public stubbornly refuses to move. Yet songs are pouring out of him like a jackpot from a fruit machine, and when the UK’s best live act hits the Borderline’s stage with the merciless kick in the balls that is the as-yet unrecorded “Fool Enough”, the already up-for-it audience is slack-jawed with amazement. Not since Led Zeppelin’s “Black Dog” has such a rifftastic creation opened a show in the cellars of London.
Amor fans, horrified at the band’s stated intention of dropping the show-stopping “Hit So Hard” from their set, were threatening physical protests, but the result is a happy one. They’ve pared this brilliant song down to its bare essentials and made it even more dramatic. And what other band could overcome a mid-set amp failure without any loss of momentum? Following the running repairs, they simply pick up the bullet train that is “1999” from where they’ve left off and continue the aural assault. By the time the muliti-orgasmic climax of “Hard Hat” is reached, the entire band has entered orbit, Jon playing in a frenzy of dexterity that is almost superhuman.
What with one thing and another, it’s clear that Jon Amor is a troubled soul. In “Sweep The Room”, he sings about the “words left unspoken of the bones that I’ve broken and the pain that I’ve caused”. There’s nary a hint of a twelve bar, but this is still the blues in the truest sense of the word.

Read More

Athlete – Shepherds Bush Empire, London

You know that feeling which overwhelms you occasionally, when whatever it is you’re experiencing is so perfect that you are desperate to preserve it in your memory forever? The words that come into your head are: “Oh, this is beautiful, I’ve got to soak it up”.
So when Athlete display the genius to write a song with exactly that chorus, that’s good enough. When they add it to an irrestibly anthemic tune which forces the audience to bellow it en masse, the subject of the song somehow ends up describing itself. It is beautiful and we are soaking it up.
And who can pretend they haven’t identified with the chorus of One Million: “It was just one of those days I needed to deal with”? First, we had to deal with interminable performances by two of the worst support bands ever to sully Shepherds Bush. Good thing nobody knew who they were, I might have had to be cruel about them. Athlete, though, warming up for the V Festival and taking a brief break from recording their second album, were just perfect. Not just “part of the rock scene” (Westside), they tower above all the competition right now, a model of unpretentiousness and letting the music and songs speak for themselves. To follow the Mercury-nominated “Vehicles and Animals” might seem a well-nigh impossible task, but new songs such as “Tourist” bode well. You almost felt like joining in on first hearing, but you were already too hoarse from yelling about the doubtful merits of El Salvador and Dungeness. Not that I would do anything like that, you understand.
A truly knockout set of killer tunes and genius lyrics. You can’t ask for much more.

Read More

PJ Harvey – Zodiac, Oxford

What would it be like? No one had any idea. Last time around, touring “Stories From The City”, Polly had assembled a pretty motley band which alienated many of her followers. Then, in Summer 2003, she hit the road with a classic 3-piece which really did the business. But now she’s gone and recorded an album all by herself. Could she come on like John Shuttleworth and do a solo show? Not as daft as it sounds, because nothing is beyond PJ Harvey.
There are scores of concerts planned for PJH this summer. Warm-ups are usually conducted in her home town of Bridport, but this time there is a minor dispute with the locals on account of noisy rehearsals, so the faithful with their ears to the ground have congregated on Cowley Road, Oxford for the world debut of this new line-up. It’s nine o’clock and the mood is teetering on the edge of ugliness, as the crowd has been here since seven and there’s no support act and still no sign of any music. Frantic activity takes place around the rebellious keyboard stack in an attempt to coax it into life. “Sod the keyboards”, shouts someone, “Gerronwithit!”
And so they did. The new band turns out to be a quartet, with faithful (and brilliant) Rob Ellis on drums, a new guitarist called Josh Klinghoffer and the Fall’s bassist Dingo. They love their nicknames round these parts. Rob Ellis used to be called Rabid and long-term sound engineer Dick Bullivan rejoices in the soubriquet of Head.
Head is crucial to the success of this show. “Uh Huh Her” is quite a thin-sounding record and the band’s recent appearance on “Later” was almost tinny, but in the confines of this small venue, the huge volume and the outstanding echo effects make for a gigantic, deep sound which more than does justice to a long trawl through the best new songs and classics from the past, such as the evergreen “Dress” and a nicely lugubrious “Down By The Water”. Of the new songs, the single “The Letter” is a stunner, and “Who The Fuck” makes a lot more sense than on record. Polly herself (continuing her habit of singing without a guitar more often than with) is on ace form, and Klinghoffer is the best sideperson she has found since the much-missed Jeremy Hogg, despite the prevalent habit of continually swopping guitars with little noticeable effect on the sound.
For Polly Harvey and her band, it’s going to be a very long, hot summer, but the start could hardly have been better.

Read More

Grandaddy – Ancienne Belgique, Brussels

The aroma of joss sticks wafts out from the stage over the largely – um – relaxed audience. The set is adorned with stuffed crows sitting atop TV aerials. The weird pile of wheezing keyboards and effects gadgets which form Jason Lytle’s console sports a blackbird and a cat. The surreal backdrop cranks into action and Modesto’s finest take the stage in all their accustomed sartorial inelegance. “We love your drummer”, shouts a lady and Aaron Burtch smiles with a mixture of shyness and pleasure. He may not be a sex symbol but he is the undisputed chain-smoking champion of the world. This tour has been going well and an air of confidence and general joy at how much they are loved pervades the band. Tim Dryden and Kevin Garcia give absolutely nothing away, but both Jason and guitarist Jim Fairchild are visibly emotional, the latter doubtless because this year he has survived being run over by a truck.
“So many songs, so little time”, sighs Jason in response to the audience’s shouted requests, and it’s true, any band which can afford to omit “Hewlett’s Daughter” through insufficient time has one hell of a catalogue. Spanning gems from “Under The Western Freeway” and items from “The Software Slump” and “Sumday”, the albums on which their rural-techno-prog identity was truly established, the biggest cheers are reserved for “Standby”, “The Crystal Lake” and my personal heart-stopper “The Group Who Couldn’t Say”. The place erupts as Jason’s duck decoy signals “Now It’s On” (introduced as “one of the best songs written on the day this song was written”), while the supremely atmospheric “He’s Simple, He’s Dumb, He’s The Pilot”, dedicated to the band’s friend and musical antecedent Elliott Smith, makes a winning coda.
“We’re nobodies from nowhere, thank you for welcoming us to somewhere” is Jason’s self-deprecating comment on the evening. Nobodies? I don’t think so.

Read More