Last night, I ventured far from Dalston. My quest for musical gratification took me all the way to a mythical place they call South London.
I heard tell of some minstrels converging in Peckham Rye.
‘Peckham Rye? No way!’ I said.
‘Yes Way!’ they replied.
My journey left me fatigued and I spent much of the evening in the courtyard replenishing my energy with a beverage they called ‘Red Stripe’.
Behold! I bring you some images from the event:
There’s nothing like a festival to induce an existential crisis:
1) I’ve spent fifty quid and I’m not even drunk.
2) I’m too old for dubstep.
3) All my friends have pissed off to see bands I don’t want to see.
4) There’s an ageing raver trying to tell me how fucking awesome this is,
‘Look at the rainbow man. It’s a sign from the gods.’ Whatever.
5) The bands are like tiny specks on the horizon.
6) I can’t hear the vocals.
7) It’s raining.
Then I see Factory Floor. They blow my mind. I realise that there is a point and the point is music. AB
Last night I went on a quest. Riding towards the gherkin on the search for a ground breaking sound, an energetic riff, a heartbreaking melody, a decent idea, a kissable lyric. An unnamed guide on my quest, informed me my quest would be most heartily fulfilled if I turned up at Camp Basement at a reasonable hour. I did. At 8.53.
First off, Colours took the stage. If there was one thing I found in them, it was energy throughout. You can’t beat energy, it’s essential. The mic had the shoe gaze disease- however without the quiet melody to accompany delicate lyrics. So without naming other bands too heavily, Colours sounded vaguely like Sonic Youth towards the end with a touch of the Longpigs in the middle. With a shoe gaze vocal sound.
The night progressed with some speculative standing around. A lot of standing around, changing weight from one foot to the other.
Then, Fair Ohs. The cover star threesome. A threesome who note Paul Simon as one of their key influences, as well as African stuff and some thrash. An exciting theoretical cocktail. Resisting the urge to play Pantera riffs, embarrass their friends and fuck around on stage, they did finally put something together. It seemed to please someone, a few people in fact. But maybe not me. Essentially Fair Ohs went about stripping it all down. Stripping away the thrilling intricacy of their recent record, with it’s woven layers. Perhaps there was too much energy on application, a little too much chutzpah and not enough space for a girl on a quest to get into anything. Buy the record, my final verdict.
The crowd seemed happy, there were smiles and exchanges of conversation. People met other people, and it seemed to be all ticking along. Then, then someone played Oasis. What would you have done? Option 1. Embrace and throw hands in the air. Option 2. Cover mouth and hide reflex. Option 3. Go outside for a cigarette with disgrace all over your pout.
The headlining act, Warm Brains were ok. I guess maybe I was imagining something more structured for the attention the four piece have been receiving. There were pieces of brilliance, however it was buried in something so formulaic I can’t remember where one song ended and another began. Again, the push was absolutely there, but the dexterity to control it into something marvellous was on vacation.
It leaves me remaining on said quest. The quest to find a garage band who are brave enough to show their true lyrical colours, without the need of vocal effects. A band with an idea. An idea to break that sound, a sound that is fast becoming derivative. Furthermore, a band who can curtail all that punk energy into something truly thrilling.
Send it in, if you think you’ve got it.
BB
Words: BB
Pics: AB
When I first saw Warm Brains perform back in February, I clocked my friend from the corner of my eye, giving me a thumbs down. I remember getting annoyed at the time. I knew they were in their embryonic stages but I could feel something brilliant bubbling under the surface. I like being right about things and six month later Warm Brains have met and exceeded my expectations.
On Thursday at The Garage something had markedly changed. It was clear that Rory Attwell was brimming with new found confidence in his material and with good reason. The album Old Volcanoes is a patchwork of the best influences. I can hear Creation Records and Brit Pop as well as flashes of The Gun Club. While Painting 2ft Tall Lines sounds like something straight out of Steve Albini school of production.
Check out Warm Brains for yourself at the album launch Camp Basement, 3rd Aug. AB
A wise man once said,
‘Ambience is very important.’
What the folks at The Victoria perhaps don’t understand is that you’ve got to put people in the mood. Soft lighting, candles, incense. You know what I’m talking about. Ambience, baby. It’s crucial.
It takes a special kind of awesomeness to stand alone on a blindingly bright stage in a foreign city and make strange sounds with your voice, a guitar and effects pedals. On Tuesday night, under The Victoria’s glaring lights, Dirty Beaches aka Alex Zhang Hungtai had nothing to hide behind. Luckily, he is a special kind of awesome.
There is a fine line between genius and insanity and Dirty Beaches manages to stay just on the right side of that line at all times. Standing alone on stage howling and yelping there’s a danger he might look demented but instead he looks like the definition of cool.
By using samples from artists such as Johnny Cash and Françoise Hardy, Dirty Beaches manages to appeal to my infatuation with the past while simultaneously sailing head first into the future. There’s an intangible sense of nostalgia running through his music. I hear Iggy Pop and Alan Vega but I also hear something new and all of his own.
Tuesday was his first ever London gig. I felt honoured to be present. AB
Dear Shacklewell Arms,
We’ve had some good times together recently. Our Brown Brogues and Milk Maid date on Thursday was fun. I enjoyed Brown Brogues’ energetic sounds and the guitarist’s strange hip swivelling dance moves. I think Milk Maid sound better recorded than live but maybe they were having a sleepy day, so I’ll give them another shot when they’re back in town.
Mini Radfest was majorly rad. First of all Eagulls.
‘Wow! They were surprisingly good!’ said the ladies in the very dark bathroom.
I like to be surprised. If you cover Mystery by The Wipers you’d better make damn sure you don’t fuck it up and they didn’t.
Later Ganglians. Lovely hair. Lovely harmonies. Uplifting sunshine pop which was too lovely for the dingy backroom. Please can we go see them in a park in California?
Dam Mantle, he made some crazy good sounds but at this point it gets a bit hazy. I can’t actually remember much of Abe Vigoda but I know I was there because I have photographic evidence.
So anyway Shacklewell, I think we have had a bit too much fun together recently and life is not all about fun. I think we need to see a bit less of each other for a while.
In the meantime, take care of yourself you crazy little pub,
Amanda. X
Inca Gold
Last night Inca Gold were rocking tie-dye, pastel colours and some fine tambourine. They recall the very best OK Computer era Radiohead but with a psychedelic twist and a splash of Chris Isaac (in a good way, I promise). Dreamy, evocative and lyrically gifted. Inca gold is the sound of beach sunsets and condors in flight. A real beauty!
If you’re panning for musical gold then direct your search engine to:
http://incagold.bandcamp.com/
You can download Inca Gold’s new EP Inca Gold II for free. A treasure if ever I heard one!
The Flamingods
The tribal look is so hot right now. The Incas – they’re hot. The Aztecs – they’re hot. The Native Americans – they’re so hot they’re on fire. I know this because on Monday I almost blew twenty bucks on a rainbow coloured feather necklace in Urban Outfitters and if Urban Outfitters says it’s hot – it’s hot.
I didn’t buy the necklace though. Instead, last night, I was channelling some kind of half-assed cowgirl vibe and wow did I have outfit envy when I clapped eyes on support band The Flamingods. The poncho, the tom tom, the Aztec print, the feather. They were rocking them all with style and I thought to myself,
if these dudes play as well as they dress they’re gonna be awesome.
And stone me, they actually played better than they dressed. Like the best most catchy incarnations of Animal Collective (Purple Bottle, We Tigers, Summertime Clothes) but with more youth and more vigour and better outfits. The mic was fucked and the keyboard broke just as we were really getting in the swing but it didn’t matter because I saw what I needed to see to know these guys are awesome. I would love to see them play at a warehouse, a rave or a club. The Flamingods are The Klaxons for a new generation who are through with neon and down with beads.
Josh Kumra
First on was Josh Kumra who reminded me of Paolo Nutini. Youthful, adorable, great voice. One for the teenage girls to swoon over but still a little learning to do. He did a cover of Thirteen which he introduced as a song by Wilco. Oops!
Overall, an awesome night. I left the house grouchy and came home smiling. A good result. AB
How much should you know about a band to be a credible music blogger/journalist. Tonight, in my own kitchen of all places, the question arose. I was playing Warpaint and eating Turkish.
‘Who are they’
‘Warpaint’ I replied
‘What are they classified as?’ my friend said
‘Psychedelic Grunge from New York’ I replied.
‘How many cats do their Grandma’s have?’
‘Erm, 20′ I replied, scratching my nose
‘Combined or each’
‘Each’
‘Their Grandma’s have 20 cats each?’
‘Yep’
‘What was their brothers favourite tree’
‘Mr Tree’ I replied
All lies. They are from LA- their Grandma’s don’t even like cats and who the hell has a tree called Mr Tree. But, perhaps I should have known, and inspired by this interchange- I will find out the truth about Warpaint and it won’t just be the shit from Wikipedia or my mind.
Watch this space.
BB
Mortality. That’s what I’ve been thinking about. Some heavy-ass shit. That’s for sure. What’s triggered this? Well on Monday I saw the Meat Puppets; famously covered by Kurt Cobain in Unplugged in New York. On Tuesday I saw Half Japanese; when they found Cobain’s body he was wearing a Half Japanese t-shirt.
I couldn’t help imagining what an old Kurt Cobain would look like and wondering whether I would love him as much. And you know what I decided? Even if his hair fell out, even if he never made another good album, even if took to the stage in loose pants and comfortable shoes, I would still love him. In fact, I would probably love him even more. It takes balls to get old. It takes balls to haul your heroin addled ass on stage. It takes balls to get up there and rock like a motherfucker.
The Meat Puppets are proof that you don’t have to fade away. Yes Curt Kirkwood has paunch. Yes Kris Kirkwood looks sallow and sunken like Chet Baker in Let’s Get Lost. Yes they move weirdly, like animatronic versions of their younger selves but they were still fucking brilliant.
The drummer Shandon Sahm walked on stage in his underpants. Not in a sexy way. Just in a, I’m old. I’m gonna sweat. Fuck it. I’ll wear my pants kind of way.
They played all the crowd pleasers. Lake of Fire, Plateau and Oh Me. Plus two kickass covers. My Baby’s Gone and Sloop John B. They played with so much vigour and energy that it was hard to believe that between them they’d been through prison, obesity, rehab and bullet wounds. They definitely showed their support bands a thing or two.
The first support band of the evening was the Zebedy Rays. The lead singer ran into the crowd shirtless and banging a drum with the kind testosterone fuelled exuberance only twenty-three old man could pull off. Except he didn’t quite pull it off. While The Dandies made an adorable stab at Southern rock. They were cute and if I was a 17 year old girl I’d probably be drawing hearts around their initials in my notepad but they were boys, not men.
There is something brutal and magical about experience. Wrinkles and battle scars. They’re awesome. Surviving the tough stuff. That’s awesome. The Meat Puppets. They are awesome.
And Half Japanese? They seem to have managed to hold on to an infectious boyishness in spite of their advancing years. Almost as if their souls have been stored in formaldehyde. Their show at Scala was simply joyous.
Yes, the old dudes can still show the kids a thing or two. Boyish support band, Let’s Wrestle, articulated it best when they sang,
You’re all grown up but I’ve still got my dick in my zipper.
Here’s to growing up! AB
p.s. Check out support band The Lovely Eggs because they were lovely:
http://www.myspace.com/thelovelyeggs
IMBOGODOM (Alexander Tucker) at Servants Jazz Quarters and The Carnivores at Shaklewell Arms
When you see a long-haired, tattooed man in Black Sabbath t-shirt wheeling around a floral rainbow suitcase you’re bound to pass comment.
‘Hey Olly! Nice suitcase!’ I drunkenly snigger. Then it transpires that the suitcase contains Alexander Tucker’s equipment and that he’s just rounding the corner.
‘My suitcase is broken. It’s my sister’s.’ Says Tucker defensively.
Then I feel like a naughty kid because he just put on an awesome show and he deserves to be treated with reverence, even if his suitcase is ridiculous.
IMBOGODOM is a collaboration between Alexander Tucker and New Zealander Daniel Beban. Using reel-to-reel tape machines the duo created experimental compositions using an array of instruments and objects. At the Servants Jazz Quarters on Thursday Tucker performed these compositions. A haunting sound collage where melodies peep through and then disappear into a frenzied cacophony. Evocative and emotive like a tapestry of memories and sensations. Tucker’s performance was energetic and engaging. A true pioneer (with a ridiculous suitcase).
On Friday I went to scope out the newly colonized Shacklewell Arms and see how things were progressing under its new rule. We surmised that decor-wise everything was pretty much the same including the ten year old bottle of Campari and the seven litre bottle of Martell. However, the staff had miraculously transformed into aloof, sexy, cut-off denim clad young things and there wasn’t a single member of the clientele who didn’t read Pitchfork.
Anyways, I didn’t even realise that The Carnivores, who were playing in the backroom that evening, were any cop until the music savvy local celebrity bartender pointed out that they had just toured with The Black Lips and supported Thee Oh Sees. Somehow all that had managed to pass me by.
So I had a gander and sure enough they were awesome. Particularly keyboardist Caitlin Lang who was wearing some kind of crochet brown jumper thing in a kind of fuck you I’m not gonna be sexy way but which had the converse effect of being totally overwhelmingly sexy and awesome.
I used to sit next to a dude at work who made bold statements like,
‘Basically, I only want to listen to the B52.’ Anyway, on Friday morning I watched Rock Lobster on Youtube again and I was like ,
‘Damn, maybe Matt was right. I wish there were more bands like the B52s.’
And sure enough, that evening, my wish was granted because The Carnivores were a bit like The B52s. Great keyboards, great energy. Great fucking garage. AB
