The Cockpit, Leeds - 29/1/12
Kick-ass the Americans would say. BOOM! maybe. The opening salvo of Janet Weiss's bass drum is like thunder in the heart, a precursor to the kind of energy and noise that seize the senses. Four renowned musicians united as Wild Flag, a kind of super-group but more a coming together of hitherto left-field names with a love of visceral, faintly shambolic and shouty rock and roll.
The crowd is an odd mix of young girls and a older men, nobody in between as far as I can make out. Whatever the demographic, Wild Flag take it by the balls and don't let go for 70 utterly thrilling minutes. Chainsaw Buzzcocks guitars, those thumping drums - they have the confidence and stage craft to play to type without fear of irony, and the high kicks and axe poses work because the playing is so defiantly in your face. So when Carrie Brownstein straddles her guitar a la Hendrix you know it's only the intrusive health and safety legislation that deters her from setting it alight.
The songs race by as band leader Weiss just keeps on counting them in. There is the occasional indulgent proggy digression ('Glass Tambourine) which has a few in the crowd shuffling on their feet but this band love their endings and each is executed with panache and vigour.
The final two songs - 'Racehorse' and 'Romance' - finally get the timid Leeds crowd in the kind of groove they clearly regard as the norm. A frenetic encore of The Ramones' 'Do You Wanna Dance' (two false starts - 'is this in "B", no it's in "E") puts a satisfying full stop to the set.
Breathless, frantic and seriously impressive.
Monday 30 January 2012
Wednesday 25 January 2012
Nat Baldwin
Brudenell Social Club, Leeds - 24/1/12
A last minute recommendation from a reliable Twitter pal and I was down for this free gig just as Baldwin was readying himself to take to the stage - one man and his double bass, an instrument that has seen a resurgence in these incongruously analogue times. His other instrument is an incredible voice - a floating, gossamer-like thing which seems to be just an extension of his breathing. The contrast between the instrument and the vocals lends a detached yet very moving quality to the total sound - I've never quite noticed the double bass operate as percussion before but that was the startling effect created.
Baldwin is the bass player with New York scenesters The Dirty Projectors whose Bitte Orca album I adore for its daring, subtle meolodies. As a solo artist he straddles the octaves effortlessly, maintaining an impressive control of the bass that at one point seems to be coming from another sound source - the thud of the instrument is at odds with the gentle winding of the voice, he makes it look effortless.
The crowd is attentive and, in my case, aghast. It's quieter than most fee-paying events and I'm guessing most are here on spec, spotting a cheap night opportunity. We are privileged indeed to see such a rare and individual talent. When I get home my Twitter feed is full of excited chat about this gig and his first UK appearance in London the previous night. His banter has been warm and generous - his unbelievable talent, hitherto largely hidden as an ensemble player, now brought into the light to marvel at. Privileged indeed.
Here he is at the Cargo, London (23/1/12) thanks to Liz on Twitter.
A last minute recommendation from a reliable Twitter pal and I was down for this free gig just as Baldwin was readying himself to take to the stage - one man and his double bass, an instrument that has seen a resurgence in these incongruously analogue times. His other instrument is an incredible voice - a floating, gossamer-like thing which seems to be just an extension of his breathing. The contrast between the instrument and the vocals lends a detached yet very moving quality to the total sound - I've never quite noticed the double bass operate as percussion before but that was the startling effect created.
Baldwin is the bass player with New York scenesters The Dirty Projectors whose Bitte Orca album I adore for its daring, subtle meolodies. As a solo artist he straddles the octaves effortlessly, maintaining an impressive control of the bass that at one point seems to be coming from another sound source - the thud of the instrument is at odds with the gentle winding of the voice, he makes it look effortless.
The crowd is attentive and, in my case, aghast. It's quieter than most fee-paying events and I'm guessing most are here on spec, spotting a cheap night opportunity. We are privileged indeed to see such a rare and individual talent. When I get home my Twitter feed is full of excited chat about this gig and his first UK appearance in London the previous night. His banter has been warm and generous - his unbelievable talent, hitherto largely hidden as an ensemble player, now brought into the light to marvel at. Privileged indeed.
Here he is at the Cargo, London (23/1/12) thanks to Liz on Twitter.
Wednesday 18 January 2012
Guided By Voices - Let's Go Eat The Factory
It must have been 1998 when I first stumbled across Guided By Voices. Once I had I was completely 'in', discovering a whole new world of lo-fi nurdlings, pulsing power pop and noise excursions. Their trademark is to drop a melodic hook that departs as soon as it arrives. Not only are most of their songs quite short but they really, really dislike repetition. If you're lucky, you might get a chorus twice (if you don't I suppose it's just a verse).
This dislike of conformity has kept them under the radar but even so they occupy probably the biggest niche in modern pop music, revered by peers and fans alike. In 2004 they split up after many rotations of band members, the only constant being Robert Pollard - former athlete, teacher, beer drinker extraordinaire and a songwriting conveyor belt who continued to put out solo records and collaborations at a fearsome rate. He makes records faster than I can listen to them.
Now, the classic GBV line-up has reformed and released 'Let's Go Eat The Factory', a 21 song, 42 minute LP. In keeping with Pollard's profligacy, a second album is due in the spring with some live shows later in the year. What makes this a GBV album rather than a Pollard solo record is the presence of Tobin Sprout - a major chord foil to Pollard's love of distortion and half-finished snippets of works in progress.
The album starts with the guitar clang of 'Laundry and Lasers - its power chords gradually giving way to a fuzzy accumulation of distortion. At 2.38 this is quite a long song. 'Spiderfighter' is underpinned by a churning riff that is eventually overtaken by a single piano note that then introduces a song segment which echoes The Who's 'Behind Blue Eyes'. At 3.35 this is a very long song.
The conventional melodic ear of Pollard is evident all over the place, from the Lennon-aping of 'Hang Mr Kite' to the Daltrey-esque delivery of 'The Unsinkable Fats Domino'. But nothing sticks, nothing hangs around for long - fragments of malformed songs seemingly taped as soon as they entered and left the head ('How I Met My Mother', 'Go Rolling Home'). 'The Big Hat And Toy Show' sees Pollard improvising lyrics into a 4 track machine against a minor chord guitar melee. It's a tough listen.
'Waves', on the other hand, is a masterpiece - a pastiche of early REM era guitar pop and Big Star harmonies underpinned by a confluence of guitars and keyboards that just motors towards the ocean. It seems effortless and almost throwaway, understated yet profound in its simplicity.
'Chocolate Boy' is 1.31 of wall to wall melody - a song most writers would look at developing into a radio-friendly pension banker. Here Pollard is happy to see it end, gloriously, without a hint of selfishness. I played it over and over about twelve times and its subtleties are still escaping me.
'We Won't Apologise For The Human Race' closes the album in a vague glam stomp - it reminds me of Ziggy-era Bowie. The clouds regularly part to let four or five melodies come and go, with backing harmonies seemingly an afterthought as Pollard gets serious, adopting a baritone to suit the message of the song. At 4.01 it's an epic, GBV's 'Freebird'.
For all it's varied production values 'Let's Go Eat The Factory' is a fully formed, deceptively complex album by instinctively gifted songwriters and musicians. It won't win them any new fans but that's not the point. The band went through a period of chasing the hits in the late 90s which, in hindsight, didn't deliver their best work. This 'classic' line-up remains true to their ethos of doing what comes naturally. Occasionally this will result in a song that makes the soul leap, more often it will produce a vignette or idea which intrigues rather than grips. This is a band that demands effort - the more you put in the more you get out - a bit like life itself.
This dislike of conformity has kept them under the radar but even so they occupy probably the biggest niche in modern pop music, revered by peers and fans alike. In 2004 they split up after many rotations of band members, the only constant being Robert Pollard - former athlete, teacher, beer drinker extraordinaire and a songwriting conveyor belt who continued to put out solo records and collaborations at a fearsome rate. He makes records faster than I can listen to them.
Now, the classic GBV line-up has reformed and released 'Let's Go Eat The Factory', a 21 song, 42 minute LP. In keeping with Pollard's profligacy, a second album is due in the spring with some live shows later in the year. What makes this a GBV album rather than a Pollard solo record is the presence of Tobin Sprout - a major chord foil to Pollard's love of distortion and half-finished snippets of works in progress.
The album starts with the guitar clang of 'Laundry and Lasers - its power chords gradually giving way to a fuzzy accumulation of distortion. At 2.38 this is quite a long song. 'Spiderfighter' is underpinned by a churning riff that is eventually overtaken by a single piano note that then introduces a song segment which echoes The Who's 'Behind Blue Eyes'. At 3.35 this is a very long song.
The conventional melodic ear of Pollard is evident all over the place, from the Lennon-aping of 'Hang Mr Kite' to the Daltrey-esque delivery of 'The Unsinkable Fats Domino'. But nothing sticks, nothing hangs around for long - fragments of malformed songs seemingly taped as soon as they entered and left the head ('How I Met My Mother', 'Go Rolling Home'). 'The Big Hat And Toy Show' sees Pollard improvising lyrics into a 4 track machine against a minor chord guitar melee. It's a tough listen.
'Waves', on the other hand, is a masterpiece - a pastiche of early REM era guitar pop and Big Star harmonies underpinned by a confluence of guitars and keyboards that just motors towards the ocean. It seems effortless and almost throwaway, understated yet profound in its simplicity.
'Chocolate Boy' is 1.31 of wall to wall melody - a song most writers would look at developing into a radio-friendly pension banker. Here Pollard is happy to see it end, gloriously, without a hint of selfishness. I played it over and over about twelve times and its subtleties are still escaping me.
'We Won't Apologise For The Human Race' closes the album in a vague glam stomp - it reminds me of Ziggy-era Bowie. The clouds regularly part to let four or five melodies come and go, with backing harmonies seemingly an afterthought as Pollard gets serious, adopting a baritone to suit the message of the song. At 4.01 it's an epic, GBV's 'Freebird'.
For all it's varied production values 'Let's Go Eat The Factory' is a fully formed, deceptively complex album by instinctively gifted songwriters and musicians. It won't win them any new fans but that's not the point. The band went through a period of chasing the hits in the late 90s which, in hindsight, didn't deliver their best work. This 'classic' line-up remains true to their ethos of doing what comes naturally. Occasionally this will result in a song that makes the soul leap, more often it will produce a vignette or idea which intrigues rather than grips. This is a band that demands effort - the more you put in the more you get out - a bit like life itself.
Monday 9 January 2012
Cymbals Eat Guitars/ Milagres/ The Spills
Brudenell Social Club, Leeds - 6/01/12
The first gig of the New Year at my favourite venue and I’m eager for some live noise. Label mates and fellow New Yorkers Milagres and Cymbals Eat Guitars are here - both bands hotly tipped and with new records making a stir.
Wakefield band The Spills bring up the rear and their lively indie – pop seems vaguely disconnected from the smallish audience who have come prepared for minor chords, distortion and mayhem from the main bands.
You can tell Milagres are a brainy bunch by their loucheness and the style of their tightly fitting shirts. Attention to image at such an early stage in their career is impressive and is, for the most part, backed up by their confident art rock. They sound like SO many other groups though – the stabbing 80s synths recall Grizzly Bear and the singer’s voice is a dead ringer for Wild Beasts’ aerated falsetto - not quite the hydrogenated range of a Jimmy Somerville but an instrument in itself. Too many songs start and then seem to lose direction and their spatial elegance begins to meander down over-rehearsed cul-de-sacs. I want to shout ‘GET ON WITH IT!' but don’t, of course.
Cymbals Eat Guitars, on the other hand, seem to have no pretensions. Their muscular work ethic is reflected in singer Joseph D’Agostino’s massive arms. He is a compelling front man, capable of guttural snarls and sweet-voiced cooing. The drums are massive but deceptively sophisticated.
Many of the songs seem to move between differently-paced movements – it is dynamic and a little bit dangerous – there is a frisson about the body language of this band which adds an unspoken dimension, propulsive yet wonderfully free-form and indulgent.
Many of the songs seem to move between differently-paced movements – it is dynamic and a little bit dangerous – there is a frisson about the body language of this band which adds an unspoken dimension, propulsive yet wonderfully free-form and indulgent.
All told I’ve preferred the rough edges of Cymbals to the unruffled ease of Milagres. It’s always been that way – heart over head. Maybe it’s the time of year and the need to blow away those cobwebs in readiness for a packed year of live music ahead.
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