JAY REATARD - WATCH ME FALL

read the article on Gigwise here...

Jay Lindsey of deep-south American town Memphis, TN is a proper punk rock hero. He writes from the heart, no pretence, straight from the heart. He doesn’t believe in himself, but he believes in punk rock. Not punk rock music as such – Watch Me Fall is more pop punk or even power pop than it is punk rock – but more punk rock: the mentality. Do loads, work with cool people, be in unsuccessful bands, get referenced by really famous people… make the NME Cool List. Yep.

For a man who has been involved in over 23 album releases and loads of singles and things on top of that. A man who released records for Sonic Youth and Deerhunter, and who averages 150 live shows a year to often bewildered crowds. For a man used to being ignored by the mainstream, releasing his first record on a ‘major’ must be a difficult step. Will people hate me for it? Have I sold out? Is this the beginning of the end? Watch Me Fall.

But Jay doesn’t fall. Watch Me Fall is his debut album proper, on Matador – a respectable berth for anyone – and has twelve good songs on it. The album opens with 'It Ain’t Gonna Save Me' – a barefaced ode to what once was, and a fearful glance at what is to come: “All is lost, there is no hope, all is lost, you can’t go home, all is lost there is no hope for me.”

He continues in this fashion, chugging guitars and solid tinny drum noises hint at some underlying triumphalism. The second track Before I Was Caught is optimistic, but the title gives away its regretfullness – This is old optimism from before he was caught, now he’s not so sure. Reatard believes an album should work together; that iTunes is ruining the album, and so it’s no surprise that Watch Me Fall develops thematically and smoothly.

From 'Can’t Do It Anymore' and 'Faking It' his anger at himself spread out to the rest of us – the final three songs on the record: 'My Reality', 'Hang Them All' and 'There Is No Sun' have stopped blaming himself, and started to bemoan the world. This is not a depressing record, this is a depressed man fighting to be hold on and be heard.

There is much to be learned from this man.

CONDO FUCKS - FUCKBOOK

read the article on Gigwise here...

Six albums down the line Condo Fucks are still blazing out rock ‘n’ roll grimery with heterosexual abandon. Whether new album Fuckbook is actually a nod to a new fad that’s sweeping The USA of America called Facebook remains to be seen. But if it’s anything like as visceral and all-conquering as the Fucks themselves then the UK has something to look forward to.

If you haven’t heard of the CFs before then worry not because you may still recognise some tracks here. They’ve ripped through an album of covers for their Fuckbook, grabbing songs from across the ages and giving them the Condo treatment. They’ve taken everything from the Beach Boys to Richard Hell and pulled no punches.

They feature all three current members of the band Yo La Tengo.

Hang on… that means they ARE Yo La Tengo.

But Yo La Tengo do nice songs, and dreamy songs. Yeh, they are punk rock, they sure ain’t Condo Fucks. But they are.

Condo Fucks is the side project/alter-ego/schizophrenic realisation of Yo La Tengo’s James McNew, Georgia Hubley (known here as Georgia Condo) and Ira Kaplan (here as Kid Condo) where they indulge their love of the cover, and combine it with a clear desire for the dirty.

Fuckbook rocks. It’s gritty and skronky in the extreme. It sounds like they’ve come up with the tracklist at breakfast, recorded it over lunch (using breaks between singing duty to guzzle some petrol and hammers), thought about mastering it at teatime, but instead just released it, and it’s great for it.

Some tracks are brilliantly recognisable – Ira’s and James’ take on the Beach Boys’ Shut Down takes the sheen of the original in cracking style, then Georgia takes lead on a rendition of The Troggs’ With A Girl Like You that makes you want to get up and ‘ba ba ba’ along like it hasn’t gone out of fashion.

In the immortal (who knows whether they actually wrote them, but who cares!) words of The Hartford Advocate, The Condo Fucks are “one of the best bands Connecticut has to offer.” Fact.

ART BRUT - ART BRUT vs. SATAN

read the article on Gigwise here...

Eddie Argos and co. are back in our ears after last year’s ‘amicable’ split from EMI, soon after the major label released the song Pump Up The Volume as a download without their say so. Art Brut vs. Satan is released on Cooking Vinyl, the home of The Prodigy, Heaven 17, Camper Van Beethoven, and now Art Brut. It’s a proud record label championing pioneers and poets like the Pixies and Billy Bragg, but whether Art Brut fit in there remains to be seen.

Eddie Argos is a poet though, isn’t he? - a modern day troubadour, telling us of his woes, his loves and his losses, with simple, pure, pop-punk verses? Like a Greater London Weezer Art Brut have won the hearts of a dedicated few while completely passing by the contented masses. Perhaps that’s why the split with EMI was so amicable – the imprint wanted world-beaters, Art Brut just wanted to write love songs.

So, have they still got it? Well, Art Brut vs. Satan opener Alcoholics Unanimous would say yes. It’s a balls out of the bath rant about a hangover. “Bring me tea, bring me coffee” bellows Argos with his typical snarl-less endearment.

The album is produced by Frank Black, of The Pixies and Frank Black fame, and is better for it. On The Passenger - a funny nod to Iggy and the Stooges that is literally about public transport - loose guitar noise gives way to Kim Deal-esque backing vox before in comes Argos to claim it back. Then on What A Rush more of Frank’s geetar whining squeals through the speakers. But this is a good thing, mos def.

Sadly, the album peters out. Argos continues to moan like a fifteen year old losing Emily Kane, but it starts to grate. DC Comics and Chocolate Milkshakes is great – probably the best track on the album (and I prefer Marvel and Strawberry) but by the time you get to Summer Job, via Am I Normal and (Chaka Demus & Pliers tribute) Twist & Shout to the painful Mysterious Bruises, it’s too much. 

It’s out of date. On Demon’s Out he’s shouting about pop music, the record buying public and reality TV. Come on Eddie, we’ve done that, the public don’t buy records any more. 

Slap Dash For No Cash is a raucous respite where he champions real, raw music; music where you can here their parents saying “turn it down, turn it down, TURN IT DOWN!” but it’s not enough to save the album. Despite some inspired moments, the record middling too often.

RED LIGHT COMPANY - FINE FASCINATION

They formed in 2007, come from lots of places, have released four singles, and are now releasing their debut album; Fine Fascination on indie imprint Lavolta. They sound a bit like The Editors, a touch like White Lies and a lot like U2. They sound a tad like The Arcade Fire, a smidge like Figurines and a portion like The Flaming Lips. They’re anthemic and pop sensible while being gloomy and gothic – but they’re not Morrissey or The Cure. They’re a lot of things.

 

There’re five of them and they came together through internet shenanigans (not like that!). Bassist Shawn Day answered an ad placed by singer Richard Frenneaux on the Tuesday, and the band had their first gig on the Friday. This wouldn’t be so special but for the fact that Day answered the ad from Wyoming, and hopped on the plane the next day. A few immigration issues and a bunch of ‘best of British’ bandmates (James from Bridgend, Chris from Maidenhead and Paul from Motherwell) and Red Light Company was born.

 

A few months later and their first album is here. Their sound is grandiose posturing, the sort of epic tenacity made tawdry by the likes of terminal do-gooders U2 and Coldplay, but then reclaimed by genuine believers like the Arcade Fire and Annuals. At times on Fine Fascination you could be forgiven for wondering why Win Butler is putting on an English drawl.

 

Fine fascination flits from upwardly promising to genuinely catchy, but then drops all too easily into dullness and filler. Early promise comes in the form of ‘hit single’ Scheme Eugene with it’s reprise about playing Broken Social Scene with the Eugene of the title. You can imagine yourself pumping a fist in the air: a similar thrill to that which came with the first listen of The Kissaway Trail’s last album.

 

But, like the Kissaway Trail, Red Light Company ultimately leave you wanting. There are too many insincere ‘U2’ moments (incidentally the album is proudly produced by Adrian Bushby, who’s worked with the U2). The brooding First We Land floats around in the background like Where The Streets have No Name era, and never quite hits its stride, and When Everyone Is Everybody Else has Bono written all over it.

 

Perhaps the album’s finest moment is when Frenneaux’s voice sounds most like Christian Hjelm of Danish indie-rock band Figurines on With Lights Out and album closer The Alamo. These are the pop moments that you can believe in. Sadly there is just too much insincerity to fall for these guys.

NASA - THE SPIRIT OF APOLLO

Read the article on Gigwise here...

N.A.S.A is two sparkly LA scenesters called Squeak E. Clean and DJ Zegon (of course they’re not actually CALLED these names, they’re pseudonyms like – they’re CALLED Sam Spiegel and Zé Gonzales respectively). Squeak, or Spiegel, is Spike Jonze’s brother and Zegon, or Zé is a pro skater. Yessir, these guys are some talented guys AND they’ve got some friends too…

The Spirit of Apollo boasts “over 40 guest artists”. You might expect this to be all kinds of too-kool-for-skool unheard of LA DJs and MCs – and there are some of those – but for the most part these are some really BIG names. There’s everyone from the getting-big (Lykke Li, Santogold and the Cool Kids) via the pretty-darn-big (Karen O, David Byrne and John Frusciante) to the shitting-huge (Sizzla, Chuck D and Tom Waits!). Nigh on every song has at least two guest stars on it bleating away to differing degrees of success.

Ok, so there’s Eff-loads of stars there, but does it work? Well, sometimes. The album veers so massively from one song to the next, as you’d expect if you get forty egos flying around, that it’s difficult to feel it as a coherent album.

They do successfully bring the party and you can bust some moves. Karen O’s seductive mantra over Ol’ Dirty Bastard’s and Fatlip’s gruntings on 'Strange Enough' cannot fail to get your arms bouncing. Equally, the combo of MIA and Santogold’s booty shakin’ riddims, Nick Zinner’s (Karen O’s bandmate in Yeah Yeah Yeahs) geetar and Spank Rock’s crazy scat shouting, makes the song’s name 'Whatchadoin’?' the right question to ask anyone who isn’t bouncing.  

So what’s wrong with it? Well, it’s N.A.S.A. They pipe on about unity and equality, and these grand ambitions about new world order on the 'Intro', but then proceed to fall on their own sword. With a roster this Phat you just have to do more. The stars strut their thing, but there’s no sense of anyone taking control. There’s no Bob Geldof to organise this rap version of Live Aid. And, in this case, we need a Bob Geldof.

THE PAINS OF BEING PURE AT HEART - S/T

Read the article on Gigwise here...

There’s a new set of horses vying for your dollar out of the New York stable. They come with knitted sweaters on, eyes wide as starships and records full to bursting with C86 jangle. They are Vivian Girls, they are Crystal Stilts, and they are The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart. Washed out, shoegaze indie is due its turn to try winning back the aching hearts of another generation of struggling, side-lined youthful lovers. The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart are four cute-as-koalas twenty-somethings from New York, led by the impossible combo of Kip and Peggy. Feeling a bit sick yet? Get this – they formed for Peggy’s birthday at a Brooklyn warehouse AND they refer to their upcoming tourmates The Wedding Present – a combination so made in heaven it hurts – as “The Weddoes”.

Swill the sickly sweet taste (or should that be the sweetly sick taste) from your mouth, you can engage your ears. Their self-titled debut album takes a wide-eyed walk through the late eighties shoegaze scene, taking in big slices of early Cure, Belle and Sebastian and The Cure. There’s even a big hint of The Stone Roses on 'The Tenure Itch': one of the album’s highlights. With their choice of influence comes a great burden of responsibility. These are bands that inspire obsession – fans would throw themselves in front of bullets to preserve this music.

The reason TPOBPAH can survive with this on their shoulders? They ARE those fans, they have pored through every note these bands have ever written. It pours out of the record, not as theft, but as homage – obsession. They know these bands better than they know themselves. 'Come Saturday 'is like their answer to Robert Smith’s 'Friday I’m In Love'. Friday’s done and now we’re free to spend Saturday whirling around our bedroom, arms by our sides, head lifted to the sky, eyes closed, like Audrey in Twin Peaks.

It’s all over in under 35 minutes and you’re free to remember where you are again. You’re left with the taste of Jesus & Mary Chain’s 'Just Like Honey' in your mouth from album closer 'Gentle Sons'. But it’s definitely over. But just maybe you’re a better lover for it.

ANTONY & THE JOHNSONS - THE CRYING LIGHT

Read the article on Gigwise here...

Antony aches for everything, so much so  it’s difficult to keep up with; his voices just drips with it as if he’s permanently on the edge of tears. He’s captured that fleeting moment when a child falls over and its face turns from confusion to horror: just before the pain takes hold, and turned it into a voice.

He quivered his way through a brutally honest and yet beautifully poignant battle with gender stereotyping and how he could show his true self on 2005’s I Am A Bird Now – and as if as recognition of his personal victory, we gave him a Mercury. With that safely stowed on his mantle he’s turned his righteous crusade out onto the world around him – first on last year’s simmering Another World EP and now on this, his third album, The Crying Light. 

He chose to tackle himself on his own, but for the world he has brought in Philip Glass protégé and sometime Bjork collaborator Nico Muhly on arrangement duty. Muhly helps give Antony’s previously stark vox and piano a new, depth swooping from the rich, grandiosity of Kiss My Name to the brittle, bleakness of Dust And Water. The effect of Muhly’s influence is similar to that of Van Dyke Parks on Joanna Newsom’s most recent record Ys – as Joanna proved she isn’t just a kooky girl with a harp, so Antony now proves he isn’t just a confused ‘man’ with a piano. 

The Crying Light is racked with the common guilt for us ruining the world around us. Opener Her Eyes Are Underneath The Ground serves as a confession to mother nature for stealing a flower from her garden when he was a kid. And later he cries for a new day on Daylight And The Sun, as if we will never see another dawn if we continue as we are. Perhaps we should listen to him, we’re bad people after all. Ahem. 

This mournful misery is not alone though: there is hope and even a touch of optimism. Stand out track Aeon holds the album’s most powerful and heart-rending moment when Antony’s usual falsetto gives way to an almost-manly bellow: “Without him I wouldn’t exist, hold the man that I love so much.”  Then on One Dove there is a hint of forgiveness in the smooth saxophone as the starlight brings mercy.

The Crying Light is a truly beautiful record. It’s initial impact is not like that of his previous two albums, but this allows his genuine talent to begin to blossom. There is more to come from Antony.

PIT ER PAT - HIGH TIME

Read this article on Gigwise here...

You get the feeling that Pit Er Pat are being wilfully awkward with this, their new album 'High Time', but then again they are dubbed a ‘nu jazz’ outfit, and nu jazz is all about being awkward isn’t it? It’s a shame because the Pat’s previous records have been at times glorious and beautiful. 

The band formed in Illinois in 2004 and have been putting out records on the Thrill Jockey  imprint since 2005. They have avoided any real critical acclaim, preferring to hang on in the background, touring sporadically and gathering a hardcore following of a few. 

'High Time' is more experimental than their previous album 'Pyramids', and the interim 'Covers EP'. The wilful awkwardness begins with the track names – with their opener called… well… something, the typing of which fails me. The song itself meanders along at a medium pace letting ideas drip in and out before becoming 'Evacuation Days' (the more familiarly titled second track) which threatens to become a song in its own right with a prominent injection of Fay Davis-Jeffers beautifully cute voice.

The album then thins out through some more experimental songs and some more lightweight jingles. The moments of promise are tender and evoke other attractive free-jazzers like Karate with drum lines stumbling over horns and keyboards - but when they float too freely they risk losing their grip and the listener with it. 

Fay’s voice shows up far too scarcely, replaced in 'Copper Pennies' by a ridiculous laughter and then the less appealing tones of bassist Rob Doran. 'The Cairo Shuffle' is a return to the mathematical niceties of Pyramids with Butchy Fuego doing his stuff on a cowbell but all too soon we’re back to the throwaway nothingness of 'Creation Stepper'.

At it’s best 'High Time' touches on what Pit Er Pat are capable of but it’s feeling of laziness leaves you put out to say the least. Must try harder.

SIGUR ROS, WESTMINSTER CENTRAL HALL

Read the article on gigwise here...

Read it on music world here...

Icelandic musical alchemists Sigur Ros hit the capital on the back of their long awaited new album ‘Meo Suo í Eyrum Vio Spilum Endalaust’ for one night only at the Central Hall in Westminster, just metres from the seat of government.

These fey thirty-somethings carry an air of excitement and expectation with them wherever they go and tonight's crowd are not disappointed.

There were five vast glowing orbs at the back of the Central Hall and a stage full of instruments in the middle. While the venue filled up, singer-songwriter (and trombonist in Sigur Ros) Helgi Jonsson took to the stage and strummed a few mediocre numbers with a fey frame and shy eyes, the best song being the penultimate one Dry Run taken from his Aska EP.

The lights dropped and the four lithe Skandinavian figures of Sigur Ros strode onto the stage – drummer Orri sporting a novelty crown and frontman Jonsi, a black tuxedo jacket with red-piping and tassles.

They opened with 'Svefn-G-Englar' - the first (real) song from their second album Agaetis Byrjun – and the crowd was rapt, Jonsi’s vocals soaring through the space effortlessly.

For the second song they were joined on stage by a strong quartet of Icelandic maidens, and then, as the music inevitable climbed, out walked a marching brass band, all dressed in pure white band uniforms.

Before Gigwise had rubbed our eyes they were gone again. The brass band returned a couple of songs later, just in time for ‘that one from the advert’ (Hoppipolla) during which they let loose tubes of ticker tape into the audience to up the epic ante.

Jonsi, Georg, Orri and Kjartan switched instruments effortlessly throughout the gig Jonsi seeming happiest when he was bowing his guitar, and creating the volcanic climaxes they are so famous for.

Before long they had played 14 indecipherabley named songs and decided to get the crowd involved, “We want you to clap” said Jonsi, and clap we did as the whole ensemble took to the stage beating drums, singing ‘las’ and tonking xylophones. Two giant electric fans launched streams of ticker tape into the vast Central Hall, not stopping until the air was full of music AND paper.

After the finale the crowd whooped and hollered so that they couldn’t not come back. They did, and played two more glorious songs before leaving again. The crowd, though tired and emotionally drained after two hours of beauty, continued to whoop and holler.

They came back on again to play one last beautiful, soaring song, before throwing their arms round each other, bowing a low bow and leaving once more.

LACKTHEREOF - YOUR ANCHOR

Lackthereof is Danny Seim, drummer in Portland, Oregon’s indie starlets Menomena. It’s a different listening experience when you pick up a solo album by a supporting member of a band you know and like - different to a straight up album that is. And if you’ve only ‘heard of’ that band; there’s still a certain stigma attached. Even if you’ve never heard or ‘heard of’ that band, knowing they exist can send you wondering what they might be like. Of course you might not care to find out. But that’s your call.

But Lackthereof predate Menomena, and so it is in fact Menomena that is the side-project. Hell, Seim has released 8 previous Lackthereof albums dating back as far as 1998 (the first six of which were home recordings, but still, 8!).

 

Seim plays everything you hear on Your Anchor, which is no mean feat: there’s a lot going on here. He sings too, in a sort of Aidan Moffat of Scotch-indie miserablist marvels Arab Strap drawl, but with a more nasal American twang. He harmonises himself as well which lends the album a very 3 Eps era Beta Band flavour – vocal mantras build and fall without ‘kicking off’ or ‘rocking out’. 

 

Your Anchor could easily be a full band’s album, and to play it live Seim would have to employ the services of some other musicians - if only he had two friends who thought in a similar way and could play instruments as well as he can… wait!? This could very well be Menomena. Sure it’s less playful, the voice is less varied – it is all the same one you know – and some of the avenues explored veer from the Menomena course. Ask Permission has a sweetly understated beatbox set over slide guitar and basslines that would have Stuart Braithwaite of Mogwai nodding his approval.

 

But too much has been made of the Menomena connection. Your Anchor is a controlled and beautiful record, shot through with knowing confidence. It is carefully organised to guide you emotionally through the album like when the echoed chanting of Choir Practice builds to the albums most up beat moment and is then followed by the aforementioned lull of Ask Permission. Seim even chooses to end with a stark cover of The National’s Fake Empire.

 

It’s the project’s most high profile release to date gaining US release on Barsuk whose other artists include… err… Menomena. At this rate it won’t be long before he is calling those two friends to help him get on stage… or maybe just Geddy Lee!

SANTOGOLD - ALBUM REVIEW


Read the article on gigwise here...

Santi White AKA Santogold is all over it. She is in all the right magazines, on all the right websites, on the lips of all the right people, doing tunes with all right cats and getting all the right cats to do over her tunes – she is all over it. If it weren’t for the fact that she’s just dropped one of the most pole-position pop records of the new millennium Gigwise just might have something to say on that, but she has, so we’ll back up.

Ms. White’s much documented history reads like a music A-Z. She came up in Philly before heading off to study Music at college in Connecticut. She then stumbled comfortably into an A & R role at Epic Records, the home of rock behemoth REO Speedwagon (who will have no further relevance to this article).

Bored with that she decided to write and produce, picking up the debut album of little known R&B artist Shareese Renee Ballard AKA Res. Still not content to sit still Santi then turned her tongue to punk-rock, fronting Philly-band Stiffed who released a couple of albums before she was picked up to… ‘go solo’.

A few singles, a typhoon of good press and some tidy timing brings us to now, and to this album: self-titled and all. Santi is keen to shout down anyone looking to drop an R&B tag next to her name, fair enough, this isn’t R&B.

Santogold (the album) is a hell of a lot of different things – from the grimy reggae bounce of Unstoppable to the bouncy reggae grime of Shove It: “We think you’re a joke, shove your hope where it don’t shine” – but they all shine together. You may know the singles – Strokes-esque album-opener LES Artistes and the squeal laden mash-up Creator have graced our ears from the small screen on beer and hair adverts for a while now.

Perhaps this is Santi’s commercial knowse coming through, or maybe she just wants to get the tunes out there. Despite getting them out there, and with much more gay abandon than her stablemates, she is still bathed in credibility by the alt news sheets.

This brings us back to those damn fine tunes again. Those pimped out singles make way on the album for a good breadth of coverage. I’m A Lady sounds like The Pixies fronted by a girl, but doesn’t sound like the Breeders – and it lives up to that canon brilliantly. Say A-Ha on the other hand, sounds like it could be Girls Aloud if Nicola had a gruff sister.

There is not a song under four minutes here, and not a filler in sight, just like pop should be. Well done Santi, well done.

A. HUMAN - THIRD HAND PROPHECY

Read the original article on gigwise here...

Five humans make up goth-disco champions A.Human all with the handy surname Human to underline this fact (although we suspect this is less Jackson 5 and more The Ramones). There’s Mellay, C More, K, BE, J and Dave which translates to four lads and a gal. They hail from as far afield as Denmark but they came together over a common-disillusion-with-modernity pint in a Clerkenwell drinking den.

They release 'Third Hand Prophecy' in the wake of a couple of tidy singles – 'Horse With No Name' (a cover of a country song by America, given a beat and blip overhaul) and 'Black Moon' – and some canny touring with the likes of label mates Art Brut and dancefloor megalith Shy Child. This is the first album, and a fine collection of sounds it is too.

Dave Human’s voice has a religious quality; deep and booming yet clean and clear. It hits you like Ian Curtis when he first opened his mouth on Granada Reports, or like the chap from 80s Matchbox B-Line Disaster (remember them? Goth-punk-noiseniks with a liking for tasty motors) when he wasn’t yelling. He’s got a way with words too that Dave Human – weaving tales of drear and disrepute in songs like 'Bedsit On Fire' and 'Golden Mile', or the tale of a man called Tony’s untimely death at the hands of a reality TV star’s estranged wife in 'Black Moon'.

The other four Human’s set about creating layers of synth-heavy, bassy krautrock for Dave to sing over and the result is pretty confusingly positive. Far from flooring you with misery, A.Human get the feet moving and the crowd jumping. This stinging wash of dance-friendly beat and shoegazy guitars is thanks in part to producer Tim Holmes: the man responsible for some of Spiritualised and Primal Scream’s best work – and helps keep 'Third Hand Prophecy' radio-friendly.

Amid all the misery, there is a rallying message and a knowing, black-comic smile. There’s light at the end of the tunnel: The Post Post Modern Anxiety Blues' are not something to wallow in, they’re a catalyst for change; the epic,11 minute album finisher reminds that the 'Sun Will Rise'; and in the title track Dave Human proudly announces that 'Third Hand Prophecy' will “light up the room.” It just might you know!

MIT - CODA

read the article on gigwise here...

JA! MIT are German. They play electronic music. They sound like Neu! And Kraftwerk. Of course they do: they’re German and they play electronic music. Their name must have something more symbolic to it than being simply the German for WITH but I don’t want to know it. Their lyrics must have some English translation but they sounds so shitting good in German that who could possibly give a horse’s cock what they mean either.

This isn’t music for understanding. This is marching music. This is dark marching music. Dark dancing music. Dancing in the dark music. We want to learn German if only to sing along, chant along and fall into line. “Sie heisen mir Herr Bombastisch, sehr fantastisch, herr liebhaber, liebhaber!”

MIT’s tunes unashamedly reference their German predecessors, wallowing in the filth left behind by their older stablemates. But they grab from elsewhere too, to keep things fresh, and to be there own man (-machine). Opener ‘Beispeil’ comes on with some of the tribal fury Liars have chosen to inject into their recent efforts, and Holy Fuck have claimed for their own.

Elsewhere the mash of glitch and vocal manipulations has more in common with Boards of Canada like on ‘Gibt Es Denn Keine Anderen Grund’ where whispering cries and snips of incongruous sound mix with endless repetition. Perhaps the most pertinent reference point is Suicide – electronic punk rock, words as weapons. ‘Merz’ has the beat to get you moving, and move you must, but MIT don’t make it easy – rejecting catchy hooks in favour of mantra-like repetition, doom-laden builds and damning cries.

The finest moment here comes after a good 35 minutes when ‘Rauch’ pipes up with a textbook example of how to get the body going. The Drums bounce off each other, the synths swirl, the bass pulses and the keynotes skip across the top with effortless taste.

While not for the faint-hearted Coda is an intense and rewarding trip. Wunderbar!

MALCOLM MIDDLETON - SLEIGHT OF HEART

read the article on gigwise here...

“This is shit, and that is shit, and being shit is great.” Good to see that Malc is his usual cheery, fun-packed self. After years playing with Aidan Moffat in Scotch indie miserablist-heroes Arab Strap Middleton has now released four albums, that is if you include this one? The nine-songs here were conceived during the recording of MalMid’s last album 'A Brighter Beat', and while that smacks of a cash-in, it’s only when you take into account the unlikelihood of MaMi selling enough records to break even that you realise that this record is more than likely pure of aim.

Following on from the (slightly) lifted mood of his last record MM’s tunes here are sung with a valium smile; real hope is for idiots after all. He is showing no sign of ditching the melancholy altogether, it’s too much a part of what he’s about, but the self-consciousness of previous efforts has been replaced by measured contentment or at least acceptance that things are getting better.

“It’s easy hating yourself, it’s hard making it rhyme,” he reasons in deceptively chirpy opener ‘The Week’. He’s got a point. It’s easy to me miserable, but it’s fooking hard to do it well. It’s the audacity of releasing an album of songs taken from the sessions of another record, complete with three Malcolmised covers that cements this new-found confidence. He knows that he can do miserable well and he’s showing off by being less miserable.

Sleight Of Heart has drinking anger: ‘Blue Plastic Bags’, love anger: ‘Love Comes In Waves’, and even Madonna anger: ‘Stay’. He claims King Creosote’s ‘Marguerita Red’ and Jackson C. Frank’s ‘Just Like Anything’ for his own and there is still enough time to slip in a few numbers aching with Jenny Reeve’s crying violin.

You get the feeling he could knock these songs out in his sleep, but therein lies the charm of this record. It has none of the care of his previous records but somehow sounds more genuine for it.

BLACK KIDS INTERVIEW

See the original article, as published on gigwise, here...

Unless you have been living under a rock for the past few months, you can’t help but have heard of Black Kids. Unlike some other tips for 2008 who are just vacuous hype and hot air (no mention, Adele), Black Kids have the tunes and the talent to match the plaudits. In fact, we’re willing to hedge a bet that they could develop into something very special indeed. Gigwise duly caught up with Kevin and Reggie from the band at London’s ULU at the tail end of their recent UK promotional stint to discuss all.

“In the beginning it was awkward, especially for those of us who weren’t black,” says drummer Kevin Snow with a cautious smile creeping across his lips. “There were times when real black kids would ask us what our band name was and Owen and I would just avoid the question and say ‘oh, you won’t have heard of us’.”

Incredibly, ‘In the beginning’ was only six months ago, when soaring, doo-wop-pop rockers Black Kids were content playing local indie discos in their hometown Jacksonville. Back then few people would have heard of them but now it’s all changed - they’re managed by Scott Rodger (He of Arcade Fire fame), signed to Almost Gold Records (an indie spin-off of major label Mercury), touring with the likes of Sons & Daughters and Kate Nash. And all this before going in to the studio next month to record they’re debut album with Bernard Butler. A lot can happen in six months.

Explaining their roots, charismatic frontman Reggie reveals the band started out at Sunday School; “I think the first time I noticed those guys was when we all had to bow our heads for prayer and I was there just head up, looking around, and I saw one kid over there, head up, looking around, and we just thought, let’s start a band.”

Reflecting upon their fellow Florida bands, including Limp Bizkit, Reggie affirms “It’s a very diverse scene. There’s this really dirty rap duo called Heavy Flow. They’re just the filthiest girls I’ve ever met; they have a song called ‘a blowjob is still a job, and I’m gonna work my ass off’!” (you heard it here first Gigwise readers).

“Also there’s a group called Buffalo Star and they’re really great: it’s kind of a small scene of four people and we’re all in these bands really,” he continues, cutting a sideways glance at Kevin that suggests they could be making it all up.

After too long playing the backing tracks on an iPod, Reggie got his little sister Ali to join, and with her came best friend Dawn. “It’s cool in a way, because I don’t think we would hang around otherwise,” says Reggie, glancing over at his sister. “I was aware that my sister was more talented than I was and I thought, how can I use that to my advantage? So we brought her into the fold, discovered her friend was a pianist and basically manipulated that situation to our advantage.”

Indeed, they’ve done well with manipulating things. When good friend and local gig promoter Brendan needed a band to play the local Athens Pop Fest (not to be confused with AthFest) he knew who to turn to. “We went to it and played about two o’clock in the afternoon, and it was a tiny venue: really low-key,” says Kevin, carefully squeezing any glamour out of the affair.

It turns out that in among the hundred or so people who turned out were a couple of prominent Uni bloggers. “They raved about our live performance and they said the recording was shit, and so everyone was like ‘oh, these guys must be badass live!’” says Reggie with a nostalgic smile, “and then we played at CMJ and everyone was like, ‘the recording was good but live they’re shit!”

The hype has spiralled from there. “I think we’re just too provincial to recognise that we should feel pressure,” smiles Reggie, shrinking a little at the suggestion that they are even under pressure. “It’s daydreams all of it, we’re just like ‘fucking eh! We’re doing it’. I just can’t see us failing… oh man, it’s gonna be such a hard blow when it happens.”

He sounds a bit like a Big Brother winner peeping through the doors back in to the real world; all full of belief that the nation has voted for them, but still aware that the bottom could drop out at any moment. “Obviously we want to be around for a while, we’ve got a load of great songs,” says Reggie. Perhaps this is why they’ve signed to Almost Gold records rather than any of the others vying for their names on the dotted line. “They just seemed to get us from the get go: we want to be around for a while and they see that, cos you know, we don’t want to be a flash in the pan.”

They speak with a similar trepidation about their band name. Black Kids is both an innocent nod to a lyric in Reggie’s favourite Hefner song (The Baggage Reclaim Song), and a statement about white folks who avoid the truth. It’s a strong contrast, but then being called Black Kids in a town in deep-south Bible-belt America somehow has deeper connotations than if they were from Totnes.

Kevin explains that when bassist Owen worked for the local Alt Weekly he found an e-mail sent in to the Mayor of Jacksonville’s office. “She was complaining about these kids that were playing basketball and were being kind of loud. She just referred to them as ‘kids who play basketball’ but it was really clear she meant ‘young black males’.” Rather than call themselves ‘kids who play basketball’, “it’s just obviously not a good name,” asserts Reggie, “we thought let’s just call it like it is: ‘Black Kids’.”

Florida is responsible for sports metal pioneers Limp Bizkit, but if the Wizard Of Aaahs EP (their only release to date!) is anything to go by they have chosen not to tread in their peers’ footsteps. The EP drips with lovelorn wonderment and childlike hankering after girls.

When asked what they’re trying to say Kevin jumps in first, “It’s like ‘how Reggie tried to impress the girls and failed part one… part two… part three’,” and then sits back laughing. Reggie takes the bait to defend his libido, “No! hey I don’t want to give the wrong impression, I do [get girls] okay. There are a lot of angry husbands looking for me.”

They’re heading into the studio with ex-Pulper, and thorough Brit, Bernard Butler, “We did our first two singles with him and he’s a real pleasure to work with,” says Pulp fan Kevin. “The album will be good if ten singles makes a good album,” harps Reggie with nervous defiance, “There’s this supposed hype that we have to survive and then we’re gonna be around for a long time.”

SUPER TENNIS/GIANT PAW, LONDON BUFFALO BAR

Read the article on channel 4 music here...

We've often reflected that there isn't enough sport in music, so when we heard about a band called Super Tennis, we thought we had better dispatch our roving reporter Harold Shiel to the field of play to find out the score.

In the sporting corner of London that is Highbury, the first set (WARNING: excessive tennis puns to follow - Ed) of the night comes from Giant Paw: a mind-bending collective of conspiracy theorists who probably spend their spare time searching for the beast of Bodmin Moor.
After littering the stage with terrifying monster masks they proceed to plough a musical furrow somewhere between late eighties no-wave and early nineties rave (Neu Order anyone?). The results are literally astounding, although at times it sounds like three records playing at once, never a good thing.

Bob, Tom and Kev from Super Tennis hardly rule the stage, but their finely-crafted songs float between intricacy and agit-pop fun, replete with claps and cries for the kids to latch onto. The girls are soon swooning and despite over-indulgence on the knob twiddling, the simple pop melodies are 'ace'. (You've been warned - Ed)

Drummer Bob dedicates the gig to The Bill's troubled PC Reg Hollis before serving up opener 'Deuce Love'. After a playful start the song opens up into an epic flourish, rumbling in the stomach and swirling around the room.

A few songs later a Magic Number bustles about the venue smiling at everyone. Perhaps bewildered by the beaming smile, the band realise they don't know how long they're on for, and with no one stepping up to tell them otherwise, they threaten to play ten more songs.

Tonight's standout is 'Super Tennis Theme', which has a marching beat and claps to get the crowd moving and singing like Sir Cliff Richard on Centre Court. "S-U-P-E-R T-E-N-N-I-S T-O-N-I-G-H-T" they cry in unison before thanking each other rather than the crowd, and we file out into a volley of rain full of love. (You're fired - Ed)

NME AWARDS 2007 LAUNCH NIGHT, LONDON INDIGO2

Read the article on channel 4 music here...

With Take That rocking out next door in the mindzone (or whatever it's now called) of the Millennium Dome (or whatever it's now called) there are some jealous glances over the hall as we are forced to head into the little IndigO2 (this IS what it's called) for the launch of the NME Awards. The IndigO2 is not your average venue: housed in one corner of the Dome's enormity, it feels like the room set aside for roller-discos at your local sports centre, writes Harold Shiel.

Joe Lean and the Jing Jang Jong stumble through a quick set that suffers from the lack of character in Joe Lean's voice, but they look pretty cool.

Whispers that something is missing filter through to our ears just at the same time as presenter George Lamb announces that the surprise headliners "might be Babyshambles!" (woop woop, cheer cheer). It turns out the whispers are facts; ol' Dead Eyes Doherty has pulled not a guitar, but a snotty tissue, from his pork-pie hat and cried off sick.

The Wombats take the stage, and the crowd by the scruff of the neck and turn up the pace with wonderful jangle pop. A kind of Busted for the cool kids. Singer Murph leads them through triumphant favourites 'Moving To New York' and 'Kill The Director', and a whirlwind set is extended to include 'Let's Dance To Joy Division'.

The biggest cheer of the night is saved for Jamie. Not heard of him? Jamie is the Babyshambles fan that their long-suffering bassist Drew McConnell dragged out of the crowd to play and sing and great rendition of 'Carry On Up The Morning', in a remarkably accurate Pete voice.

Drew and drummer Adam Ficek bravely played a set that included covers of 'Janie Jones' by The Clash and (Nirvana favourite) 'Molly's Lips' by The Vaselines, joined by Josh Hubbard from the Paddingtons.

We guess this means there'll be no more cancelled 'Shambles gigs now the band have a sub on the bench.

DIGITALISM, LONDON KCLSU


read the article on channel 4 music here...

This 'dance' music resurgence is great, isn't it? Not washed-out, 'love rhymes with dove' dance music - but d-a-n-c-e music - music you can really dance to! Like it or not, nu rave has paved the way for techno and house to brush the dust off their glowsticks and head back to the clubs where they belong. Digitalism are one of the spearheads and these two Germans with an ear for a good riff know how to party.

Tonight's sellout crowd is testament to this; the trendies queue up right down the street in the driving rain, blissfully unaware of the England football team's best efforts to ruin the night for everyone, everywhere (except in Croatia).

The crowd lurch back and forth, index-fingers held aloft and floppy fringes swinging away, as Digitalism deliver a set of modern classics. From behind their hurriedly knocked together 'DJ stand' (it looks like something out of a cooking demo at a village fete) Digitalism hit the ground running playing single 'Pogo' two songs in, closely followed by album title track 'Idealistic'.

Frustratingly, there is very little room to shake your thing. As soon as we secure some space to put our 'moves' into practice the next wave of people hankering for a better view cramp our style.

Something is amiss on stage too. Digitalism give it some, but not all. Jens Moelle, a sort of Gareth-from-The-Office-with-a-smile type announces, in classic broken English, "I have a bit of cold and so you will have to help me to make the party!" but his vocals suffer. His partner Ismail Tuefecki does his best to make up the deficit, batting his drum like a dwarf in a Gunter Grass novel, but it's not quite enough.

After threatening to peak too early they play out with strong album highlights 'Zdarlight' and the euphoric 'Jupiter Room' confirming they have got the tunes. But they are tired and struggle to entertain with their knob twiddling performance. Tonight would have been a fantastic club night, but as a gig it fell some way short.

A. HUMAN, METROCLUB


Read the article on channel 4 music here...

Formed through disillusioned work chat in a Clerkenwell boozer A.Human look every part the 20-something Londoners: four crisp-fringed boys and one cute girl, all dressed in funereal black like some sort of trendy wake.

A broody opener gives way to the instantly catchy, Inspiral Carpets-esque single 'Horse With No Name' and suddenly the band come alive. The blips and beeps that combine with the riffs are given extra spice by frontman Dave Human's Ian Curtis meets Brandon Flowers voice. Dave is a sexy geek. Fact.

His act is pure American preacher: all righteous indignation and fiery eyes. Strangely-named guitarist Mellay Human has a touch of a young Elvis about him and while he sings answers to Dave's sermon an eager crowd begins to move.

"Follow me! Follow me!" yells the sexy geek and judging by the eager eyes watching him you begin to think people would literally follow him up the road if he started walking.

And why not? The goth glitchy disco outfit are playing an assured set and Dave displays a winning sense of humour announcing: "I'm gonna be bigger than Jean Claude Van Damme!"

He then adds: "Soon it'll be Friday, but today is only Monday, and they say that you'll be OK, but they don't realise you've given up anyway." Cue the best song about the frustrations of working 9 to 5 since Dolly Parton plus Dave dancing with the nearest worshipping girl.

All too soon we are played out with a soulful number bemoaning the post-postmodern blues and the night is over. No need for encores, just sit back and let it sink in.

A.Human have got some wind in their black sails at the moment and with an album out in January we think 2008 could be their year.

CARIBOU - ANDORRA

read the article on amelia's here...

Brian Wilson danced gaily on the brink of insanity creating the dream-pop genre before slipping into the abyss and being rightfully branded a genius while there. Dan 'Caribou' Snaith's third record eschews the same sort of floating majesty that Wilson rolled out, chopped up and popped into his pipe.

Snaith completed a Maths PhD when on the road with the Super Furry Animals plugging his second album The Milk of Human Kindness. He traveled the world from the UK to North America and from Eastern Europe to China, soaking up eastern mysticism, Balkan bombast, American surf-pop and British sensibility as he went to produce this carefully constructed gaggle of tunes.

Andorra, the country that serves as the album's namesake, is a tiny state in the Pyrenees firmly lodged between France and Spain. The characters in the album were all dreamed up during Snaith's time there. Desiree, Niobe, Sandy, Eli, Irene, they are all running around Snaith's mind, crystal clear in his imagining, and poured fourth surrounded by carefully textured ambient songscapes.

Snaith is on a quest to cut the bullshit. He just loves lump in your throat pop songs, songs that draw the emotions to the fore, songs you can get lost. But we all love those songs, don't we? Any song that draws a bit of nostalgia up, conjures a wistful sigh - an image of a lover past, just sits nicely in the ear. For me it's Sundialing, but there's a sense that there could be a song here for everyone, a rare feat.

The music swims like Beaches & Canyons era Black Dice, with the mathematic precision of genre stalwarts Boards of Canada. Nothing is surplus to demand, but you just can't imagine how he decided it would work, it just does. The vocal is like the aforementioned Brian Wilson if he met The Beta Band and formed a barbershop quartet. Quite beautiful stuff.