Chimpomatic

Jeffrey Lewis

12 Crass Songs

It’s been a good week for record label PR and a bad one for Chimp research, following from Muxloe’s Young Marble Giants admission, I had penned the following review based upon the first few listens of Jeffrey Lewis’ 12 Crass Songs:

Jeffrey Lewis began life as a beatnik, or at least his parents were, a lifestyle choice that deemed comic books and blues records more suitable entertainment than that old Hippy’s foe: Television. Lewis took that early absence in his life personally it seems, as TV is one of several targets in the sights of his nasally-voiced shotgun on new album 12 Crass Songs. 

Before becoming a musician and a member of New York’s anti-folk movement (the power and anger of punk via acoustic guitar) Lewis drew (aha) on his upbringing to become an underground comic book artist. The sparse/direct style of comic books runs through 12 Crass Songs; it’s a wall-to-wall bunch of blunt, angry self-effacement - delivered like a crude black and white sketch through minimal music and Lewis’ talking/singing.

12 Crass Songs doesn’t let up. Nothing is spared as various tones of grey are added to the bleak portrait of the western world today. The human race is the first in the firing line on End Result “I’m part of the race that kills for possessions, part of the race that’s wiping itself out” On I Ain’t Thick, Lewis has his daggers drawn for that old villain 'The Man' who uses TV/Sarah Jessica Parker, consumerism and even history books, to keep the masses downtrodden, but Lewis ain’t having that y’all.

Systematic Death plays out like a comic book story, etching a sketch of Mr and Mrs Average America doomed to a life of misery, oppression and downright idiocy under the SYSTEM SYSTEM SYSTEM!

If he’s pissed at Sarah Jessica Parker, then imagine the ire Lewis reserves for Bush (I bet even Sarah Jessica Parker is pissed at him) and Mr. President’s policies, particularly his idea of defence, come under the penlike scalpel of Lewis. Even punk itself isn’t safe. Punk is Dead laments that the movement that once inspired Lewis and his contempories sold itself out “Punk is Dead. Punk is Dead. Just another cheap product for the consumer’s head”.

I would disagree however, what is punk other than getting a personal message out there by the most direct means possible (or is that DHL? (Corporate Fascists)). It’s easy to roll the eyes at another New York artist bitching about conspiracies and the like, but that’s exactly the fuel that feeds 12 Crass Songs. The world in 2007 is a mixed-up place of complacency and terror, artists that stick their head out, stare you in the eyes and point that out should be saluted. However, it surely wouldn’t detract from the message to add a splash of colour now and again, if only musically….

Then, like a tardy Colombo, I discovered that I had overlooked a vital piece of evidence; 12 Crass Songs is exactly that; 12 cover versions from late 70s/Early 80s English Anarchists Crass.  It’s depressing to think that 30 year old messages of protest and opposition still ring true and clear today, and strangely all of my thoughts were still valid - even though I refuse to believe that Sarah Jessica Parker was a key instrument in Thatcher’s oppression of Britain’s working classes.

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#chimpovich

3rd Sep 2007 - 1 comments - Add Comment - Tweet

Devastations

Yes, U

Beggars

Devastations are three Berlin based Australians whose last album, “Coal”, was well received far and wide. Now they’re back with their third full length offering - “YES, U”.
 
The album is a sparse, sinister affair full of dark corners and bad moods. Vocalist/bassist Conrad Standish, guitarist/vocalist Tom Carlyon, and drummer Hugo Cran prove skilful in building up moody and broody songs, all the while maintaining an intensity without it ever boiling over – I refer the reader to exhibits a and b: “The Saddest Sound” and “The Pest”.
 
The best bits are when they layer on feedback and white noise over their slow beats and drawled vocals - such as on ‘Oh My, Oh Me’ and ‘Misericordia’. However, I’ll have to confess that I lost interest on a couple of numbers when they take us back to the 80s with some slowed down bontempi organ beats (‘Black Ice’ and ‘As Sparks Fly Upwards’).
 
There are obvious comparisons that can be made with Nick Cave, which is no bad thing. I saw a live performance from the big man a couple years back. He blew me away with a depth and intensity that’s never seemed captured on the recordings I’ve heard. I’ve a feeling the same might be said for the Devastations.
 
While not suited to all moods or occasions (I’m thinking family parties, sunny days or gittin’ it on with a lover), on the whole this is a good album that’s a bit of a ‘grower’ (if you know what I mean, which I’m sure you all do).

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#Locochimpo

23rd Aug 2007 - Add Comment - Tweet

Shearwater

Palo Santo (Expanded Edition)

Matador Records

For those slackers who missed 2006's dazzling fourth album by Shearwater, Matador are here to save your bacon with a pimped-up re-release consisting of 2 discs and new deluxe packaging featuring some stunning artwork. Palo Santo is the bands first album where Jonathan Meiburg assumes full vocal duties and the result is a grander, more rounded sound that sees them rise like a phoenix from the thick melancholy that engulfed their earlier work. This isn't to suggest that this isn't melancholy. The record is inspired by the life of Warhol muse Nico so it isn't going to be a bag of laughs but while they keep to the icy chill that has become their trademark Palo Santo serves up many moments of awesome grandeur only hinted at on previous records.

Formed in 2001 by Meiburg and Will Sheff, Shearwater was meant to be a vehicle for the quieter songs penned by the two musicians while working on their principle collaboration, Okkervile River. But after the addition of new multi-instrumentalists Shearwater soon grew way beyond initial intentions and Palo Santo is their crowning glory.

La Dame Et La Licorne opens the album and actually mirrors the career of this band quite nicely. It creeps into view with Meiburg's frail, quivering voice barely audible but gradually swells to thumping piano and howling declarations. And this sets us up for Red Sea, Black Sea, one of the albums many highlights. This takes no time to pound with all its heart on the galloping rhythm that dominates this song. It's these moments of real muscle that make this record pull away from the bands back catalogue and race forward with renewed energy and confidence. Seen again in White Waves' gritty electric guitar and Seventy Four, Seventy Five's pounding piano. Having said that, there's still plenty of room for the feather-light delicacy of the title track and the achingly beautiful Failed Queen where hollow landscapes are created with sparse acoustic guitar and the frail musings of Meiburg.

This element is explored in more depth on the second disc where we get demo versions of four of the original tracks. These are drastically stripped down renditions showing the extent to which this vocalist can vary his delivery. Having seen the heat of this voice on the first CD we now get the drifting whisper like a feint trail of smoke from a newly extinguished flame. There are also 4 new songs on this bonus disc including a cover of Skip James' Special Rider Blues.

This is an expansive album from a band who started from humble beginnings but are now evolving into a great rock outfit. Shearwater have always fitted into a tradition of songwriting that seems to capture the great American landscape in all its sparse, lonely beauty but with Palo Santo they have started to evoke the power and strength of this landscape and this refurbishment only serves to enhance that.

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#BC

20th Aug 2007 - Add Comment - Tweet

Thee More Shallows

Book Of Bad Breaks

Anticon

The third album sees this San Francisco trio up their game from shoegazing atmospherics to damn near post-rock genius. This shift in approach has led them to the hallowed grounds of the Anticon arena in which they are free to roam anywhere they please. And roam they do, but the success of this album lies both in the distance from which this band strays from the post-rock centre and the trail they leave behind allowing a route home at all times. This route may not be easy to find but it's always there and knowing this enables the listener to trust these guys to take them where they will.

Created in a similar spirit to Anticon favorites Why? or Fog, Thee More Shallows tread a fine line between coherency and shambles threatening to fall apart at any moment. Conventional song structure is turned on its arse with many songs masquerading as lo-fi, throwaway ditties then exploding into grand moments of majesty like on the epic Night At The Night School. Starting out all soft and warm the drums soon pick up to a running pace and reach heights you never thought possible at the beginning. Or sometimes doing the opposite as in The Dutch Fist. Here Dee Kesler's vocals are fed through a synthesizer and slowly build to glorious melodies then collapse in a dirty heap of drums and fuzz.

Songs are divided up and flow together masterfully with great use of instrumental interludes. Int.1 is a blissful string section that leads you into false security before it slides into a pummeling onslaught of hard-as-hell guitars. This leads into the awesome Proud Turkeys that continues this punk barrage until Int.2 which reunites us with the strings and tricks us into thinking it's all one song.

Towards the end of the record we get The White Mask, a song which really does mirror this album as a whole. It plods along for the first 4 minutes then dwindles into virtually nothing. Then just as it seems to be hanging on by a thread it pulls it all back together and launches itself in a cloud of fuzz and drums skyward for a final crashing finale.

This is an expertly crafted album that often tries to trick us into thinking it's a lo-fi waste of time. But on reaching the end you aren't sure what you've just been listening to but you'd quite like to start again and find out. It's a brave step forward for this band and now sees them in the kind of musical area where they have earned the right to do anything they please. Highly recommended.

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#BC

7th Aug 2007 - Add Comment - Tweet

O'Death

Head Home

City Slang

What do you get if you cross a wailing voice, a banjo and a fiddle? This isn't a joke. Country music right? Well normally yes but in a parallel, and slightly perverse, universe the outcome is O'Death.

Listening to O'Death I'm reminded of the scene from the Blues Brothers where the band reform and secure a gig at Bob's Country Bunker. 'What kind of music do you usually have here?' asks Elwood and the response is "we have both kinds; country and western" whereupon the band are forced to launch into Stand by your Man and the theme from Rawhide before a riot ensues. To me this has always summed up country music. As an outsider it has always seemed to be something of a closed shop existing in a vacuum that fails to acknowledge or incorporate any other form of music. Those on the inside appear to know the ropes and stick to the formula - it's either plaintive songs of heartbreak of the 'stand by your man' ilk or sing-along hoe downs from the Rawhide vein.

O'Death are the outsiders who don't play by the rules, they've left the country bunker and discovered a whole other world out there. Now there is another suffix to add after country; it's not just 'and western' because to the musical lexicon O'Death have introduced 'country and gothic punk'. Based in New York, these are rural boys embracing the attitude of the big city. Theirs' is a sound not so much for barn dances on Walton mountain but mosh pits with the characters from Deliverance on the Texas Chainsaw Massacre farm. This is the riot at Bob's Country Bunker in musical form.

It is an edgy and at moments slightly disturbing journey but O'Death is a travelling carnival of infectious energy. Their relentless refusal to charm is charming in itself and if you get it then it rocks! Melody is certainly not sacrificed.  Most tunes being of the foot stomping variety rest on beats that recall Iggy and the Stooges. These songs could've been penned by Tom Waits imagining them being delivered by a voice that at times could belong to either Frank Black, Jack White or Neil Young. At the end of this barn dance you can imagine that someone has spilt volatile moonshine over a hay bale. A stray cigarette thrown away by the fiddler has caused a fire and the band have to make a sharp exit on the back of a pick up truck. The locals elders are up in arms bemoaning the trail of destruction but the kids have had their eyes opened and will never be the same again.

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#Muxloe

23rd Jul 2007 - Add Comment - Tweet

Latitude Festival

Henham Park, Southwold, Suffolk

I have always been of the opinion that dysentery is a disease best avoided.  After attending the Latitude Festival however, which took place last weekend in Henham Park, Suffolk, I realise that there may be many of you who are not so fastidious.

By all accounts last year’s festival, the first ever Latitude, was a grand affair; 10,000 people, families welcome (encouraged even), beautiful country park and good music.  Seduced by this proposal I followed a group of friends up the A12 and spent four days in an authentic, if slightly more squalid recreation of an earthquake refugee camp.

I have reached a respectable age and had thus far managed to avoid ever attending a music festival.  As someone who is mildly agoraphobic and plagued by an autistic need to bathe myself once a day, it may not have been a good idea to change the habit of a lifetime. 

With a gleeful wringing of hands the organisers announced on the eve of kick-off that all tickets had been sold.  20,000 people this year but apparently no proportionate increase in the facilities or the size of the arenas.  An excrement mountain due to an inadequate number of toilets; a complete collapse of water pressure and thus showers and overcrowding in several venues was the result.  The heavens took pity and, apart from a couple of heavy showers, blessed the reeking campers with sunshine and merry weather.

Day one; It was all about Wilco.  Two Gallants, Midlake, The Fields, began slowly cranking up the afternoon, but I was already worried that the weekend’s line-up which had looked so promising, might have been a bit heavy on whining and men sincerely frowning over their guitars.  Now Wilco are ostensibly a band of men who frown sincerely over their guitars, but they are also schizophrenic and utterly compelling. 

Before they got on stage I was bored; bored by the many children running around, bored by not being able to bring your own booze into the arena, bored by the crowds packed solidly into the comedy arena sheltering from quite a few boring performances.  The Magic Numbers had bounced the audience around a bit, but I just can’t take the whole beard and siblings thing.  It’s all a bit creepy, inspite of the smiley faces.

Then Wilco walked out and with a great white burn of lights, a heave of the crowd and a wall of guitars, they gave a performance to wake everybody up.  I had seen them in May at Shepherd’s Bush Empire and the hour-long set they played at Latitude shared all the highlights from that night but seemed even more determined.  New album ‘Sky Blue Sky’ got a good outing with storming renditions of ‘Walken’ and ‘Shake it off’.  Albums ‘Yankee Hotel Foxtrot’ and ‘A Ghost Is Born’ also got their hits out; teasing the audience with their gentle melodies before snapping into trademark guitar tsunamis and feedback.  Inspired.

Like a musical dose of Valium, Damien Rice must have been back-stage anxiously waiting to numb the crowd from their Wilco-induced high.  His presence in this otherwise exhilarating line-up was inexplicable and who in the world stayed to listen to him I couldn’t stay - but boy, the rapturous noise they made when he’d finished echoed across the campsite. Most disturbing.

Day two;  Bit of a slow builder again.  Herman Dune and Bat for Lashes on the main stage competed for ‘Sound-alike of the day’.  The Cretin who compared the former ‘to the likes of Bob Dylan’ should be strung up with guitar wire; this blatant Jonathan Richman tribute band are within a Nordic-facial-hair’s breadth of copyright infringement.  As for ‘Bat for lashes’, again the literature describes her as having been ‘compared to Bjork, Cat Power and Tori Amos’.  ‘Derivative of’ might be more accurate. 

Prize for most enthusiastic performance of the festival goes to The Hold Steady’.  They run on stage like a bunch of college jocks and front man Craig Finn, announces, ‘We’re the Hold Steady and we’re here to have a good time!’  It’s the last day of their tour and they are clearly over-excited. ‘Stuck between stations’, ‘Massive Night’, ‘Party Pit’ all provoke a lot of finger pointing form the crowd of forty-something-blokes enjoying some healthy man-rock and working themselves up to a belching coronary.  The band strings out every guitar crescendo and look like they never want to leave.  As Craig says, ‘When we started out it was so we could all meet a couple of nights a week and drink some beer.  This is beyond our wildest dreams’.

If Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, who followed, had had a modicum of The Hold Steady’s energy they would have avoided my nomination for Biggest Disappointment of the weekend.  As it was, my own hands were reluctant to celebrate contrived, gurney, vocals and a dull performance.  If they’d played the CD’s of their two albums I’d have had a great time. 

And so it was that CSS brought their balloons onto the stage of the Obelisk arena and revived a sagging day.  The crowd needed relief and their vacuous dance-pop perked it up like effervescent vitamin C.   ‘Let’s make love (and listen to death from above)’ closed the set.  With helium in her lungs Lovefoxxx squealed out her appreciation to the audience after an hour of cat suited carnival.

The Good the Bad and the Queen had to headline I guess, but it was another strange change of tempo when they ambled on. ‘History Song’ and ‘Herculean’ are unexpectedly ballsy, in no small part due to the contributions of Clash Bassist, Paul Simonon.  He takes control of the stage with loping strides and a brooding presence, plucking at his guitar and sending his deep bass across the crowd like a defibrillator.  A Dickensian London backdrop and a top hat for Mr Albarn seem to court great Blakean comparisons; Songs of Innocence and Experience.  And although he’s a very clever boy, Damon’s a right annoying twat with it.  ‘Soldier’s Tale’ comes with a sanctimonious nod to the ‘Soldier I met who was going to Iraq’ and when he brings on MC Eslam Jawaad for the encore I’m squirming at the smug self-consciousness of it all. 

When the band plays ‘80’s life’ I can’t help but think of the last Blur album, and clearly I’m not the only one musing on this.  In the audience there are a lot of girls grinning.  Occasionally I hear one of them shouting, ‘I want to fuck you Damon’… which suggests that something less than raging Anti-war sentiments were rousing the crowd’s passions.

Day three; My limbs are crippled, caked with filth resulting from the lack of shower facilities.  An internal build up of noxious fumes as I attempt to avoid going to the toilet and asphyxiation by medieval stench when I finally do, have all left me in a bad way.  So far this whole Festival bollocks is proving no substitute for a good three-hour gig at the Brixton Academy.

But that’s ok because today’s line up is looking good.  I was annoyed to miss most of the Andrew Bird set after collapsing with exhaustion from my third toilet trip of the day.  All this hovering above the chasm and straining is traumatizing me.  What I eventually do hear sounds bewitching in the summer afternoon.  The drummer, Dosh (accomplished electro-musician himself), gives fine support to Bird who provides vocals, looping violins, guitars, glockenspiel and goddam fine whistling.

Next up The National, whom I’ve been anticipating like a child waits for Christmas.  But Oh No! What’s this?…. there appears to be confusion on stage.  Look, there are Messrs Dessner, Dessner, Devendorf and Devendorf, but what are they doing spending so long tinkering with their instruments and sticking tape onto everything?  It transpires that The National arrived at Henham Park ten minutes ago and came empty handed.  None of their instruments deigned to suffer the stench of Latitude so they’re having to borrow everything off the Cold War Kids and Andrew Bird.

It shows.  The band look ravaged and uneasy with their purloined Orchestra.  There are great songs in there somewhere; ‘Mistaken for Strangers’ (from their latest album ‘Boxer’), ‘Karen’ (off of ‘Songs for Dirty Lovers’) and ‘Mr November’ (from ‘Alligator’) but there is no subtlety to the sound.  Lyrical contributions from keyboards and violins that make the albums so symphonic and full are totally swamped by the guitars.  Lines like ‘I used to be carried in the arms of a cheerleader’ or ‘The English are coming!’ should by rights swell this audience to a festival frenzy and the lead singer is trying hard.  He rasps ‘I won’t fuck us over!’ with a kind of tortured mania that seems ironically relevant to the shitty day they’re having but it feels like a bit of a lost cause.  Two songs from the end of this too-short set they kick into ‘Fake Empire’ and it’s almost like they get their conviction back.  I get goose bumps with the rhythmic build and the crowd responds, maybe they’ve just warmed up?!  Well they have, but now they’ve got to get off; ‘Thank you very much! I’m glad we got here because half an hour ago it looked like we wouldn’t make it’.  I feel cheated.

The Cold War Kids do well next and The Rapture, like CSS last night, provide a poptastic interlude which the crowds devour.  I sense that a lot of people are getting a bit tired of some of the slightly dour singer-song writing going on and want a sugar rush.  ‘Get myself into it’ and ‘Whoo!  Alright-Yeah… Uh’ do the job and you have to hand it to them, Matt Safer and Luke Jenner know how to handle their audience.  They tease us by walking on and off stage, bounce off each other vocally and insist on being resiliently up beat. 

Jarvis Cocker is on stage next as the sun begins to sink and if you haven’t been able to make it to the Comedy tent, Jarvis provides plenty of star cabaret.  Again, however, there is the sense that everyone would probably rather be watching Pulp, just as last night they would have much preferred Blur to the drones of Damon and his crew.  But Jarvis encapsulated his previous band more singularly than Damon ever did, so if you close your eyes you can almost daydream that…

‘I stand astride these two monitors like the Rock Colossus that I am’, claims the lanky one as he bemuses the crowd with surreal commentaries on the weather.  He then gains our instant favour by empathising with the epic efforts required to have got this far into the Festival.  ‘The world is still run by cunts’, brings his set to an end and those of us who weren’t expecting much are impressed by a run of songs which have never been less than engaging.  Just as I finish clapping and start to, mentally prepare myself for the festival finale with the Arcade Fire, Jarvis reappears;

‘We were going to end there but I just want to play you one more song which I promise this band will never play again’. 

‘What?  A golden slice of Pulp!’, the crowd wonders eagerly, ‘Common People’, ‘Disco 2000’?!…

‘It’s called, the Eye of the Tiger’.

‘What?’

And so off they go.  Jarvis and his band play themselves out with a sparkling cover of Eye of the Tiger and the exhausted crowd smile and cheer their appreciation.

If day one had been all about Wilco, then I guess the whole festival was really about the Sunday night headliners.  I’m sure that anyone reading this would probably take the credit for introducing their friends to the Arcade Fire, probably the most exciting band in the world at present.  But to find yourself in a field with 20,000 people equally convinced that the band are their own private discovery, throws you a little.

The scene is set with a great red velvet backdrop, several oversized Victorian camera props onto which are projected surreal faces in black and white and a lot of red neon.  Tantalizingly the stage is covered with all manner or paraphernalia; hurdy-gurdies, cymbals and the pipes of a great organ.  In the hands of an army of musicians each gets its moment in the limelight during a performance which just keeps getting better.

The husband and wife pairing of Win Butler and Regine Chassagne take it in turns to lead the way on a comprehensive journey through their two albums, Neon Bible and Funeral.  From the pounding urgency of ‘No cars go’ to the swelling Mariachi trumpets of ‘Ocean of Noise’ there is no escaping the band’s persistent inventiveness and passion.  Highlights were aplenty but the Bruce Springsteen coloured tracks ‘Antichrist Television Blues’ and ‘Keep the car running’ were blistering.  Projected onto the backdrop was footage taken from a camera apparently embedded in the snare drum.  Watching a giant drummer beating the rhythm out so relentlessly was mesmerising as the music continued to build, crescendoing in the ‘Power out’ and as a finale, ‘Rebellion (Lies)’.  As the performance came to a close fireworks showered over the back of the audience and someone lit a series of paper lanterns that billowed softly up into the night sky.  The band seemed just as entranced by the moment as they looked out over 20,000 arms clapping in time to the music; ‘Every time you close your eyes’ they sang but we didn’t dare.

If I’m honest I’d have to say that Butler’s voice repeatedly got lost in the roar of the music and I found myself anxious that he was straining to meet the range which his songs demanded in a live performance.  Perhaps I was just distracted by the tuneless moron next to me who insisted on droning loudly and inanely along with the music: and there are a lot of opportunities to accompany the songs of the Arcade Fire with a choice bit of off-key humming. 

Latitude 2007 will be the first and last festival I ever attend.  Three days of crowds, camping and mountains of faeces, book ended by two fantastic performances by Wilco and the genius of Arcade Fire.  If anything it has convinced me to spend a lot more time in the Shepherd’s Bush Empire enjoying whole-hearted performances by some of the great bands who were compromised by poor organisation and shorter sets.  To my mind learning that may have made the whole experience worth it.

Overall experience - 2
Music in general - 3.5
Arcade fire and Wilco - 4.

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#Gig
#LG

19th Jul 2007 - 2 comments - Add Comment - Tweet

The White Stripes

Icky Thump

XL Recordings

After the success of Jack White's near-permanent side-project of last year took off, the rumours flew that The White Stripes were to be no more. Only a fool would fall for that gag though, especially from a band that has a history of telling fibs and only needs a few days to record a new album. They spent a whopping 3 weeks recording this one, and it shows.

Lead single Icky Thump follows the method we've seen before of a banging radio friendly single that's track one on the album, but if I'm honest it hasn't had as much impact on me as either Seven Nation Army or Blue Orchid did. However, where those two tracks seemed like the only track on each album of that ilk, Icky Thump does sit in with things here more harmoniously.

Judging by the suits on the cover there's more than a nod to Gram Parsons and Emmylou going on here. You Don't Know What Love Is sees Jack White taking his lessons from The Raconteurs and creating an FM friendly 80's rock track.... with a touch of country. It's straightforward, but immediately engaging, oozing with personality. The production quality is definitely up on their previous efforts, which has a always been a bug-bear of mine. I never understood why using vintage equipment shouldn't result in such basics as a consistent volume level.... The Beatles and The BEach Boys always managed OK.

While the production quality may be up, the inconsistency is present in the style of the songwriting which seems to never offer the same idea twice. There seems to be few common threads running through the themes of the songs, and it very much sounds like a compilation album. 300 M.P.H. Torrential Outpour Blues is a heavy-handed down beat number, with vaguely obnoxious guitars. Conquest is a cover of Corky Robbins, complete with Mexican trumpets. Prickly Thorn makes an impression with it's infusion of bagpipes, although it leads into St. Andrew (This Battle Is In The Air), which unfortunately hides Meg's vocal contribution in cut-up tape tricks. Great title though.

Things sound tired with Little Cream Soda's rambling jam with chat. The focus seems to have been lost and the stop/start dynamic of this track and Rag and Bone in particular is already sounding a little tired - although Jack's line about "doghouse, outhouse and ...." show that he's obviously a Tommy Lee Jones fan.

I'm Slowly Turning Into You and A Martyr For My Love For You form a great centerpiece to the album - finally something a bit more serious, sitting somewhere between the outstanding musical edge of the The White Stripes and the more straightforward style of The Raconteurs. They seem much more thought out and complete than a lot of the album, and give the ever present glimpse of what a great album the band could make if they cut their output level by three and harnessed more of their live brilliance on their records.

#Music
#CSF

23rd Jun 2007 - Add Comment - Tweet

Pissed Jeans

Hope For Men

Sub Pop

Pissed Jeans is the bare chested alter ego of white collar worker Matt Korvette, who sheds the skin of his day job in Allentown (known to me only through the Billy Joel track I'm afraid) and strips off to the waist to lead his band through sweaty all-ages punk shows.

With this second album, the band have been signed up to Sub Pop - and you probably couldn't imagine a better home (er, except maybe SST or Dischord). In these days of Zach Braff co-opting the Sub Pop rosta for his feel-good movies, it's good to hear a band throwing down the kind of sludge rock sound that got the label started.

People Person could not be a more ironic title for the album opener - a relatively fast punk number that has a similar effect to being mugged. With the brutal vocal force of Black Flag-era Rollins, vocalist Matt Korvette's lyrics are hard to pin down for sure, but it's either "I am a people person", or "I'm not a people person". I'm guessing it's the latter as Pissed Jeans are definitely not here to be your friend, but if you relax and go with the flow you might just have some fun.

The album generally works at a slower, pounding pace than the opener - whether its the heavy swing of A Bad Wind or the feedback drenched atmosphere of The Jogger. Things almost seem like they might break-out of the weight of this album on the amusing anecdote I’ve Still Got You (Ice Cream) or drum led Caught Licking Leather, but fear not. Much less post-modern sounding than recent punk-sludge from the likes of The Bronx, this is coming from the genuine roots of lifelong garage banders - who are clearly fans of Black Flag or sick-coloured vinyl specialists Flipper.

If you can withstand the bettering your ears will take, you will see through the wall of noise and expose the story-telling side of this album, stretching out tales of white collar workers in the "Straight World". It's a tall order that will certainly not be to many people's tastes - but for many pre-Nirvana post-punkers it will be a breath of fresh air.

#Music
#CSF

11th Jun 2007 - Add Comment - Tweet

New Young Pony Club

Fantastic Playroom

Modular

The sickly cocktail of spiky electro-pop being all too rampant on the air waves recently and this bands repeated adornment of NME covers not to mention their multi remixed advert friendly singles hasn't done these London newcomers any favors in my narrow-minded over 30 opinion but it's a good job I actually listen to some these records before attempting to review them as this debut is rather good. They may be wet behind the ears and tick all the right fashion boxes but Fantastic Playroom shows a surprising oblivion to all this.

Kicking off with gangly guitars and oozing with bass Get Lucky introduces this bands sound wonderfully.Tahita Bulmer's slightly out of tune vocal style is strangely reminiscent of Seelenluft's surprise hit Manila and backed with their blend of booming beats and percussion driven texture, seen most notably on Hiding On The Staircase, Fantastic Playroom welcomes in fond memories of the much missed Luscious Jackson.

Anyone who's switched on a tv recently will be all too familiar with this bands leading track Ice Cream. But don't let the fact that it features on an Intel advert put you off this pitch perfect piece of electro pop. In fact you probably saw the advert and made a mental note to source out this sound that was forcing your toes to tap against their anti-capitalist will, because very occasionally advert tunes are picked for their clear-cut ability to captivate an audience rather than their tendency to barge into your head uninvited and set up camp indefinitely.

Their intention is quite clear throughout this album and for the most part their desire to create no-frills danceable pop tunes works perfectly. There is very little pretension here, the lyrics are intelligent yet simple, the beats are deep and crystal clear and all the surrounding synths and effects make the whole thing utterly absorbing and very hard to resist. Grey's admission "It's alright, as long as it's black or white," goes some way to describe the simplicity of this sound but as the last notes of the fantastic closer Tight Fight ring out you can almost hear the Queen Of Pop herself illuminate a light bulb above her head having found the sound to her next album.

#Music
#BC

6th Jun 2007 - Add Comment - Tweet

Arctic Monkeys

Favourite Worst Nightmare

Domino

Last month in the sweaty temple of music known as the London Astoria I worshiped at the altar of the Arctic Monkeys. Their performance was a revelation that mugged me of my considerable cynicism regarding the copius plaudits given to these whipper-snappers from Sheffield. My account of that experience was the review equivalent of Belushi back flipping down the aisles when the Rev. James Brown asked of the Blues Brothers congregation 'do you see the light?' Yes, I saw the light. And like all new converts I felt an evangelical duty to spread the word. The word was that the Arctic Monkeys are the real deal. So it was with some trepidation with which I approached listening to 'Favourite Worst Nightmare.' Having become such a public zealot would I now be left with a considerable amount of egg on my face? Thankfully the answer is no. Like any belief that is successfully put to the test my faith has been affirmed and strengthened. Though this may not be their masterpiece I stand by my assertion that the Arctic Monkeys are the real deal and, so long as they remain so, it is my mission to convert every Doubting Thomas.

The difficult second album. Many a lauded and applauded act has struggled with this one. A variety of approaches have been taken in pursuit of delivering the second coming. The Gallagher approach was to give an airing to the left overs deemed not quite good enough for the debut album. Some, such as the Strokes, take a laissez faire 'if it aint broke, don't fix it' approach. The Squire and Brown tactic was to take previous success as a license for self indulgence. Others, thinking of the La's, just wilt from the pressure. Luckily, the Arctic Monkey's have avoided the pit falls that litter the paths taken by these forerunners. Their sound maintains an energy and freshness which dispels fears they may have rested on their laurels. This is a collection that varies the pace and tone to suggest that they are more than just a one trick pony while the retention of economical 3 minute songs has guarded against any over indulgence.

Just in case the listener is in any doubt about the Arctic Monkey's musical direction they deliver hellos and goodbyes which make their own intentions absolutely clear. Album opener Brianstorm offers reassurance that they won't entirely turn their backs on the floor filling anthems with which the myspace kids first fell in love. Also reassuring is the proof that their heads haven't been turned by fame; preferring to mock boys in 't-shirts and ties combinations' and girls in jacuzzis who 'lay it on a plate' rather than deigning to join them. 505, the final song of the set, however leaves the listener with a reminder that the band intend to let their sound evolve even if outright revolution isn't on the cards. The signs point to the emergence of a more measured less frantic approach. Less brash and more sophisticated. Less about bravado but more confessional. All without discarding what made them special in the first place.

Where 'Whatever You Say I Am' was all about the possibilities of the night ahead, the soundtrack to an evening of escapades on dance-floors, Favourite Worst Nightmare is the journey home. Stepping off the nightbus the streets are empty except for neon reflections in dirty puddles and the rattling sound of the kebab shop shutters being pulled down. There is an air of menace that permeates throughout. It is an album that forces you to look over the shoulder to find you're being followed by edgy riffs, eerie organs, frantic drums, aggressive bass and tales of jealous boyfriends, daggers drawn and noses broken.

The strength of the Arctic Monkey's is that there is no evident bandmaster. They are a collective or gang who back each other up and allow all members a moment in the limelight. All have a chance to shine and impress. Alex Turner is a great chronicler of our times and certainly knows how to deliver a tune but that doesn't mean the rest are his backing band - far from it. The band was famously formed after they were given guitars for Christmas and surely Santa must have also delivered a bumper book of rock n roll riffs too. The versatility of the guitar parts is dizzying; ranging from Jack White-esque axe-smithery to delicate moments like riding the surf with the Beach Boys. The rhythm section play their part too. The bass veers from bullying on 'Teddy Picker' to bouncy on 'Flourescent Adolescent' and everything is held together by drumming alternating from powerhouse to shuffling in a manner which even Remi would be proud. Fortunately when they all raise their game simultaneously such as on 'Balaclava' there is no sign of too many cooks spoiling the broth, on the contrary the mixture of ingredients is magic.

I'm not preaching here in hope of convincing you to pay alms to the Chimpomatic church only to find that I shall later misappropriate these funds for a new life in Rio. It is not an album completely immune from criticisms, though in truth this is knit-picking in order to demonstrate that I'm not just pretending that the Emperor is wearing clothes. Very occasionally as on 'If You Were There, Beware' or 'Do Me A Favour' it is easy to predict the 'here comes the rock out' bit that characterises 6th form bands. Maybe sometimes the band have taken this commission too seriously. The likes of 'The Bad Thing' and 'Flourescent Adolescent' offer a too rare glimpse into the fun that it's possible to have when you're young and in a top rock n roll act. Expectations are high and perhaps Turner over-extends himself when he ventures beyond story telling to message giving. He doesn't need to try to be the spokesman for a generation, he can afford to leave that to someone else. But seriously, that is just knit picking.

So will the Arctic Monkey's prove themselves to the doubters with Favourite Worst Nightmare? Perhaps. Is this a great album? Maybe, though not definitely. Only time can hand out such accolades but respect and kudos needs to be awarded for giving it a valiant try. Are the Arctic Monkey's a great band? Again only time will tell but Favourite Worst Nightmare at least proves that they have the nous, talent and balls to one day deserve to be heralded as such.

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#Muxloe

14th May 2007 - Add Comment - Tweet

The Kissaway Trail

The Kissaway Trail

Bella Union

It is a phenomenon of the music business that for every great band they discover music lovers have to suffer a wave of mediocrity trailing in their hero's wake. For every Stone Roses there is a Flowered Up, for every Oasis there follows a Northern Uproar, for every Blur there is a Menswear swimming in the slipstream, for every Nirvana a Stone Temple Pilots, for every Kylie in the spotlight there lurks a Lisa Scott Lee in the shadows…. you get the picture. Is it that these bands strive to replicate a formula that is proven to bring success and acclaim or just that record companies actively seek out sound-a-likes of the big buzz band of the moment? I’m not sure, but we can all recall the process; the NME big up this new band and mates pass on a copy of the album like pushers of illegal substances. ‘Go on, you loved Nirvana/Oasis so you’ll definitely love these lot, go on give it a try, go on.’ You’re initially willing to believe that these new lot will be the bona fide real deal before the excitement of the scene dies down and time confirms that they are little more than cheap tribute acts. To the pantheon of such acts can now be added the name of the Danish group The Kissaway Trail. This is a band that will be pushed to you on the basis that ‘if you loved Arcade Fire, you’ll love this lot, go on give it a try, go on….’

Except here’s the thing, The Kissaway Trail are not Arcade Fire. That’s all well and dandy of course, lots of good acts aren’t but the problem lies in the fact that though they may sound similar to the Canadian maestros of the moment, the album they’ve produced is just not particularly good. The Kissaway Trail certainly check all the right boxes. Urgent percussion, tick. Lush strings, tick. Soaring choruses, tick. But they don’t work together in a way that one would expect. It is like mixing ingredients in a bowl and expecting to pull a nicely risen wholemeal farmhouse loaf from the oven only to find that it is actually white Nan bread. Maybe for a debut album comparisons with established acts are harsh but as the Kissaway Trail are trading on them it is only fair to make a few. Tracy with its premature climax lacks the stamina and passion of Arcade Fire, Smother+Evil=Hurt fails to reach the dizzying heights of euphoria the Polyphonic Spree are tuned into and La La Song could do with an extra sprinkling of the Flaming Lips genuine, rather than expedient, eccentricity. This collection of songs all feels just a little too contrived and frankly boring.

Word is that the Kissaway Trail rock on stage, and they certainly have a few tricks up their sleeve offering some promise of a bright future if only they can find their own distinct sound. They certainly aren’t as lame as Menswear or desperate as Lisa Scott Lee but though the NME might currently tell you differently the fear remains that the Kissaway Trail could end up being remembered in the same bracket as Northern Uproar, Stone Temple Pilots and the like.

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#Muxloe

27th Apr 2007 - Add Comment - Tweet

Patti Smith

Twelve

Columbia

2005's Meltdown: Songs of Experience should have provided a few clues, but Patti Smith's highly rated Horses show at the same festival suggested she still had game.

The New York avant-garde punker returns here with a 12 track covers album, inventively called "Twelve", showing both the roots and modern tastes of the musical legend. Sadly, it's a depressingly familiar affair, with un-inventive renditions of predictable tunes such as White Rabbit, Are You Experienced?, Gimme Shelter or Soul Kitchen.

Helpless is the closest thing to vaguely interesting, mainly because it's such a simple song it seems hard for a good voice like Patti's to drop the ball. Dylan's Changing Of The Guards is passable, mainly as I'm not so familiar with that song. Smells Like Teen Spirit is totally out of touch, while Gangsta's Paradise is just embarrassing.

Unless you like listening to passable karaoke stay well clear.

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#CSF

16th Apr 2007 - 3 comments - Add Comment - Tweet

Busdriver

RoadKillOvercoat

Epitaph

The problem with being the hip hop reviewer for a white, middle class indie rock website is that you don't tend to get much work. Sure, I get paid the same as the other chimps, but you can often find me in the canteen here at Chimp Towers sippin' on a 40' with my feet up - waiting for a beep on my pager from CSF to tell me he's got something for me. Long days amble by and the odd thugged-out dick rap record comes and goes but in the words of Ice T " I don't play that shit." I took this job for the cause. Hip Hop has the potential to be the most exciting and creatively diverse genres of them all - it doesn't have the boundaries that others suffer from, it goes where it pleases or at least it should.

So one lazy afternoon after finishing my fourth brewski, I was thinking of popping out for some more cigar papers to escape the accusing glares of the dinner ladies (I had just been crunking furiously while shouting " Errr' body in the club gettin' tipsy,")  when my pager goes buck-wild. "Busdriver, WTF?" was all it said. At first I thought it was my editor wanting me to drive the Chimpmobile on another day trip - but then remembered the new album RoadKillOvercoat by the LA tongue twisting lyricist. Finally a real job. Busdriver's previous albums for Big Dada were like no other. He's the gatling gun of the hip hop world, delivering intricately constructed raps with rapid-fire dexterity. This was gonna be good - something proper to get my teeth into, but damn, I was hella' drunk.

From the outset the signs were all there that this was going to be a treat. Casting Agents And Cowgirls sees Busdriver fit his rhymes expertly round a a tight beat which prepares us well for the machine gun onslaught of Less Yes's, More No's. Rhyming "Soccer Moms" with " Carpet Bombs," this track is about lyrical muscle flexing, as is the next installment where we're told, "Recreational paranoia is the sport of now so kill your employer." You can almost imagine the speed of the little ball bouncing over these words at the bottom of a Karaoke screen.

And so it continues, but once you reach mid point you are thrilled but starting to map out the rest of the record. This is where this album becomes a great hip hop record. With Sun Shower, Busdriver plays his hip hop ace card - he reaches into his inside pocket and pulls out a fully credible license to do what the fuck he wants. All hip hop cats have this license, but few know it. After dazzling us with lyrical acrobatics the dude starts singing. Yes singing. His floaty vocals drift effortlessly over a minimal, deep techno beat and if you thought this was just an interlude, the next track sees Busdriver duet with Coco Rosie's Bianca Cassidy. My editors pager words echoed in my head "Busdriver, What The Fuck?" indeed. The Troglodyte Wins restores the hip hop factory settings but they sound fresher now. The beats are gloriously tight, the rhymes even more thrilling and they see us through to the end where we get yet more of that singing stuff, and there's even an acoustic guitar on blissful closer Dream Catcher's Mitt.

This kind of thing makes my days in the canteen gettin' tipsy worthwhile. It's clever, but not anally so and Busdriver has cultivated a refreshing blend of fiercely intelligent poetry with the playful humour of his earlier work. Since the demise of Blackalicious the cause needs rhymes of this agility - and Busdriver carries the torch to new heights, skillfully avoiding the pitfall of cliche with a style such as his. RoadKillOvercoat is an album that delights the same way anything by Buck 65 or Dose One would and it does what hip hop set out to do. What ever the fuck it wants.

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#HHG

1st Mar 2007 - 1 comments - Add Comment - Tweet

Various Artists

Paris Calling

Bonus Tracks Records

'Allo Allo. This is Paris Calling.' It turns out 2003 was an important year for French music, with The White Stripes, The Strokes and The Libertines all touring new material; and whilst this tight-trousered triumvirate may not be obviously Gaelic in origin, their musical charms crossed various seas and passed into the ears of a bunch of young friends in Paris, who picked up guitars, formed a number of bands and let rip unto the world their take on Jack, Julian and one man crime wave Pete's rock n roll philosophy.

And if that paragraph felt like it was struggling for breath, well screw you old man - these kids aren't hanging around with their cocksure energy and sexy French cool dammit! Such is the adoration of the above music, the compilation could well be called 'Paris Calling: the state of UK guitar music today.' Most of the songs are sung in English and at times the music is a note for note sound alike of some of Britain's finest. Special mention to the Hellboys and Les Shades (great name - sound like a new wave oldboy down at the Royal Variety) who stick to singing in French, which gives them a bit more attitude and the four girls of Plasticines, who sound like Sleater-Kinney meets Gang of Four and are definitely due further research.

So if you are tired of the exposure of The Kooks, The (Arctic) Monkeys, The Razorlights etc but still get a kick from the tunes, then this is a safe bet to play on a Friday night, before wrapping on a long scarf, sucking on a non-filter and heading out into the streets with your crew, looking every inch the two-page fashion shoot.

Listen to the whole album here:

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#chimpovich

1st Feb 2007 - Add Comment - Tweet

Pop Levi

The Return To Form Black Magick Party

Counter

Ninja Tune have always been a label full of surprises. It has stretched and flexed to accomodate the ever increasing and varied tastes of its creators, but with Pop Levi they seem to have met their match. So they created a spin-off label just for him and give us the debut offering The Return To Form Black Magick Party. Only an artist of shameless arrogance could describe their debut as a return to form - and that's exactly what we have here. Born in London, Pop laid his early musical roots in Liverpool then moved to LA in pursuit of the 'magick' that he sees at the very heart of great music. Making up one third of free-thinking, post rock trio and fellow Ninja's Super Numeri, then playing bass for Ladytron Pop decided to go it alone and released his first EP "Blue Honey" on Counter Records in September last year. Then hot on its heals he gives us this. Mark Bolan is an instant point of recognition in Pop's sound but throughout this album we see glimpses of Prince, Dylan, Hendrix and even Jack White. But as with all quality music these influences, don't in any way confuse the sound that Pop has crafted for himself. That sound isn't easily explained as it keeps on changing. There's a very hand crafted feel to it with layers of acoustic and electric guitars punctuating washes of percussion, but this all often fed through some sort of machine and the Pop Levi sound is churned out the other side.

From the opening single, 'Sugar Assault Me Now,' it's quite clear that this is the doorway to a world far removed from our own. A world of astral energy where reality and disbelief are suspended and anything is possible. The first two tracks get things started at break-neck speed with a cacophony of stabbing guitars, fuzzy bass and more than enough hand claps. Things are taken down a notch with '(A Style Called) Cryin' Chic' with its folk blues meanderings over textured percussion. 'Skip Ghetto' shows Pop's sensitive side with a beautiful dreamy, acoustic little number only to be bitch slapped once again by the most Bolan of songs 'Dollar Bill Rock'.

The whole album follows this up and down formation, painting a very rich picture of this mans talents. It's contemplative and at the same time immensely uplifting. It's relaxing and floaty then foot tappingly addictive. It can appear to be conforming to every current fashion then rejecting it all in an instant. 'The Return To Form's' listening experience is just as up and down. On the first few plays it is thrilling and refreshing but I have to admit that the constant use of repetition in the lyrics does give it an air of emptiness. But hey it's pop music and not every moment has to move you to tears. There are plenty of moving moments here but most of them are on a level totally their own. The album makes you move and it makes you want to tell people about it. It oozes so much arrogance and confidence that it can only have been conceived by an artist with a very unique outlook on making music. It was a wise move for Ninja Tune to create an environment for this man to shine - as he has a lot to say and if this debut is anything to go by he has a myriad of ways to say it.

#Music
#BC

29th Jan 2007 - Add Comment - Tweet

Benjy Ferree

Leaving The Nest

Domino

As 2006 drew to a close the music scene typically turned in on itself and pumped out endless retrospective compilations to distract us while the new release section of the record stores were replaced with 'Best Of 2006' rundowns. I have never understood the January blues syndrome as this month welcomes the return to form of new music and late December's creative droubt comes to an end. After such thirsty times any relief is welcomed but it is all the more rare when it tastes as sweet as 'Leaving The Nest.' This is the debut album by Domino's new boy Benjy Ferree and it's sure to be a quiet classic.

Ferree's biography reads like any cv and has very little to do with music making. After pursuing a passion for cinema he moved to California and ended up being a nanny to various Hollywood big hitters including David Lynch. The acting thing never seemed to happen and after many sing-song sessions with the kids he realized he possessed a certain talent for song writing. Encouraged by Fugazi's Brendan Canty, Benjee set about compiling his debut work.

This potted history is important when you hear the album. It oozes class but also humility. The songs seem almost improvised and sound like work produced from the innocent mind of someone who never intended to be doing this. 'In The Countryside' starts things off on a refreshingly upbeat note as the lyric "So happy hands all in the air" is repeated with a jaunty swagger. You would be forgiven for assuming that such sugary sweet lyrics could only be the work of a musician hell bent on bogus, loved-up, pop stardom (two words: Magic Numbers,) but that's the great thing about this album. It is happy music, if I can be so sweeping, but not overwhelmingly so, and it's genuine. The compositions are simple and lo-fi and having established these loose perameters Ferree allows his sound to go where it pleases. 'The Desert' is classic Ben Folds with its light melody, 'Private Honeymoon' evokes the hollow, emptyness of Jeff Buckley and 'Leaving The Nest' recalls the mighty Jack White.

While these comparisons - and a good few others - will inevitably spring to mind, Ferree's sound remains his own. 'Leaving The Nest' is a culmination of natural talent, experience and a totally honest love of music. I predict great things for this guy and thank him sincerely for starting 2007 off on such a high.

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#BC

18th Jan 2007 - 1 comments - Add Comment - Tweet

Dan Sartain

Join Dan Sartain

One Little Indian

This is the second full length from the Alabama based musician and at 24 Sartain has managed to create a timeless piece of work that oozes bitterness but is delivered with an upbeat confidence. Recorded partly with a mariachi band and partly with The White Stripes producer Liam Watson, Join Dan Sartain is a lighthearted and refreshingly honest example of one man doing what the hell he feels like.

The great success of this record lies in it's subtle air of defiance. The 15 songs here represent a polite two fingers up to just about everyone in Sartain's life. As the last notes of the closing track Love Is Black ring off you can imagine Dan Sartain, with the arrogance of a young Johnny Cash, throwing his guitar at the mixing desk and storming out of the building mumbling "fucking record that, see if I care." The music isn't at all aggressive and it's hard to pin down just where this defiance comes from, but the effortlessness with which Sartain delivers his short little ditties is a good place to start. The furious pace of the opening track Drama Queens set's Sartain's agenda from the outset. At one and a half minutes it's a tightly packed bundle of forked tongue bitterness and it hooks you in good and proper. And talking of tongues, Sartain's seems firmly in his cheek as he skips through many different genres from the dirty grunge of I Wanted It So to the spanish love song Besame Mucho, originally recorded by Elvis. The warmth of the mariachi accompaniment of Flight Of The Finch is contrasted nicely by the fierce musings of two of the albums highlights, Gun Vs Knife and Hangers On.

It's great to hear an album that obviously comes from a rich tapestry of sources and though many of them will instantly spring to mind they will be wiped clean just as quickly and the lasting impression will be be a work very much its own. The arrogance of the music is reflected in the title of the album and if this is Dan's raleigh call to join him then I for one am in. I say that but at the same time get the impression that you can pledge allegiance as much as you like but the final decision lies with Dan himself and after hearing this record I am left with the immortal words of Eddie Murphy ringing in my ears, "This is my house, if you don't like it, get the fuck out."

I like it, I like it.

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#BC

30th Nov 2006 - Add Comment - Tweet

Chin Up Chin Up

This Harness Can't Ride Anything

This is the second album from Chicago's Chin Up Chin Up and sees them make slight yet important improvements on their previous LP. 2004's brilliantly titled We Should Have Never Lived Like We Were Skyscrapers was a great piece of understated indie bliss and The Harness Can't Hide Anything is a similar story only singer Jeremy Bolen has brought his vocals more to the foreground changing his hushed tones to a more raw, unpolished delivery. As a result their sound has become a lot less polite.

From the outset you can feel the sound being more in-focus as the title track gets things off to a good pace with it's driving guitars and fast drumming. Although most of the songs tend to employ a repeated vocal and guitar rhythm as their home straight the sound never becomes repetitive.

I Need A Friend With A Boat is probably the best song on the album. It chimes in with Cure-like guitars and steadily builds to a fantastic crest of driving bass lines, piano and violin. Blankets Like Beavers follows similar suit until half way through spews out a glorious synth drive that takes the song off to new heights of rhyhthmical Spoon territory. Landlocked Lifeguards shows it's teeth a bit more finishing off with a din of screeching guitars and crashing cymbals which sets up the beautiful Stolen Mountains. This is the most delicate song on the album revisiting the hushed vocals of their previous work. It has a gentle, plodding rhythm as its structure but nicely turns into a drum/string medley with a bit of glockenspiel thrown in as well.

The Harness Can't Hide Anything is a similar story to White Whale's WW1 in that it is all really solid but as a result doesn't have any obvious highlights - but also has no low points either. On the final song Trophies For Hire Bolan sums up the album very well when he says, "These lakes are not oceans, these trees are not forests," but in his defense, sometimes the grand, dramatic landscapes which he hints at are not always what is needed and Chin Up Chin Up haven't aimed for that but have produced a quality piece of indie rock, what more could we want?

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#BC

22nd Nov 2006 - Add Comment - Tweet

Don Caballero

Scirroco, Madrid

9 Reasons why this gig ruled hard.

1. Three excellent musicians, concerned more with the tightness of sound rather than the tightness of denim.

2. No singer. Led instead by one of the best drummers I have seen.

3. High Riff percentage - was like the best bits of Slayer and Slint.

4. Even when they broke it down and went light on our ass, they still rocked.

5. The support band was Spanish and didn't suck.

6. They are called Don Caballero (pronounced Cabayero) - a cool name anyway, when translated it reads 'Mr Gentleman'.

7. The small venue was so crowded that a lot of people just gave up trying to see and sat on the stairs just getting into the music.

8. Their pre-gig rider appeared to consist of Twixes, Kit-Kats and Coca-Cola.

9. Hard Riffs + incredible drummer(squared) - singer x 1 1/2 hours = Awesome performance.

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#Gig
#chimpovich

22nd Nov 2006 - 1 comments - Add Comment - Tweet

Subtle

For Hero: For Fool

Anticon

I haven't heard a hip hop album this original since the last Subtle album. Formed in 2001 by Anticon's Jel (Jeffrey Logan) and Doseone (Adam Drucker) Subtle took their time getting started. After a few singles and 2 EP's, Summer and Autumn, they finally got around to their debut full length in 2004. A New White was a multi layered musical masterpiece that vaguely clung to the fringes of hip hop fusing programmed and live beats, with electronics, strings and Dose's expertly delivered vocals. Their stage show was equally magnificent with a white top hat and tails clad Dose springing around the band like a court jester possessed. While on tour in 2005 their bus skidded off the road paralyzing keyboardist Dax Pierson from the chest down. It seems a small miracle this album was ever made due to the seriousness of Pierson's injuries not to mention the fact that much of the harmonica and backing vocals come from Dax himself.

But thankfully it was made - as it's yet another forward thinking piece of Anticon splendor. Since the demise of cLOUDDEAD and Themselves, and with Deep Puddle Dynamics being less than productive Subtle has become the main vehicle for Doseone to flex his outstanding lyrical muscle and with Jel on beats, Marty Dowers on woodwind, Jordan Dalrymple on guitar, Alex Kort on cello and the afore mentioned Pierson, Subtle's sound is textured to say the least. The key to their success is their grasp of contrast, light and dark, blur and focus, chiaroscuro if you will. Their multi layering of samples, instruments and sometimes indecipherable spoken and sung vocals create a pea soup like fog of sound that is then punctuated by its opposite. Sharp beats and Doseone's acutely pronounced prose spring from this fog at a thrilling pace but never become formulaic, quite the opposite. Much of Subtle's music is confusing and can often make the listener feel as if he is involved in a private conversation of which he knows nothing about, the music never goes where you think it will and although the theme of human pointlessness and the general decay of society is graspable the delivery is often in the form of surreal word play that moves on quicker than you can keep up.

As a whole For Hero: For Fool adopts the same contrasting form that each song does. A Tale Of Apes I & II usher in the fog with the use of post rock mush, Boards Of Canada style nostalgia-synth and Kraftwerk electro pop while Middleclass Stomp swamps you with it's glorious power-cord pop. The three main points of sharp focus are the hip hop extravaganza of Midas Gutz, the unashamedly danceable The Mercury Gaze and the jaw dropping Return Of The Gaze. Here Jel lays down the most complex beat of clicks, scratches and stabs with Doseone's rapping coming in softly at a pace that defies comprehension, he never misses a beat, he doesn't even breathe. His nasal delivery seems to take on the same properties as the electronic, stop-start beat and an accompaniment of gentle acoustic guitar and brushed cymbals culminating in wailing guitar and crashing drums makes this the finest moment on the album. Vocal dexterity is Dose's forte and when put with Jel's masterful grasp of the textured beat the result is an aural delight.

Hip Hop was born from the deconstruction and reassembling of other genres and for that reason remains one of the most versatile music forms. It's creative perimeters are huge. There is nothing it can't borrow, steal or sample. This scope is expressed perfectly in the music of Subtle who seem to see no limits to how far they can stretch this genre. In the hazy, surreal fog of For Hero: For Fool boundaries and classifications are simply not visible.

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#HHG

27th Oct 2006 - Add Comment - Tweet

Brakes

The Beatific Visions

After 2004's Give Blood, Brighton's Brakes are back with their second album The Beatific Visions - and the bets are on. Where Give Blood was an eclectic and electrifying collection of tracks, it certainly wasn't without it's problems. It showed great promise however and the threat of a more permenent band (The Electric Soft Parade is another band featuring two of the Brakes) spending more time focusing on a new Brakes album was a tasty prospect.

Opening track Hold Me In The River fulfills the early promise right fom the start. The playing is sharp and focused, with the song quickly shifting up through the gears. The guitars are high on the priority list, with a sliding screech like a muscle car burning rubber. Although the song is more focused tha some of the more comedy elements of Give Blood, there's still plenty of room for wit - with Scarlett Johansson being amongst this song's topic of fun.

There's no drop as we move on with Margarita and the album's already sounding like an old favourite. The country-punk element of their sound is one of the band's strong points - making for taught and engaging songs without the constraints of sounding like everyone else at the moment. This aspect to the Brakes sound has evolved and matured with this album - no doubt helped by the fact that the album was recorded in Nashville with a who's who from all over the record industry. Recorded by Stuart Sikes (Cat Power, White Stripes) at The House of David studio (as used by Elvis amongst others) and featuring David Briggs (of Muscle Shoals, and Elvis' 70's band). If I Should Die Tonight showcases all of these elements to full effect, creating a superb modern country sound layered with guitars and piano under a simple but engaging lyric.

My main gripe with Give Blood was always the under-developed feeling of some of the songs, which seemed to end just as they got started. That has been addressed on several songs here, but unfortunately Mobile Communication, No Return and title track Beatific Visions are the least successful songs this time round. The songs seem to flatten out into a far more conventional sound and structure, robbing the band of much of their originality. It's a small niggle however, and things pick up again with Cease and Desist and the excellent Porcupine Or Pineapple? - distilling recent wars to a few simple words. Spikey, spikey, spikey. At 1.04 it's the shortest track on the album, which still only clocks in at 28 minutes for 11 songs.

The balance seems a bit lost on the album, which could possibly be rectified different sequencing... although I think from now on I'm just going to shut up and keep my opinions to myself, as if this is any evidence to go by Brakes can do a good job of moving things on by themselves. There are some fantastic songs on this record and it just adds further evidence that the band are heading in the right direction, making great music along the way.

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#CSF

24th Oct 2006 - 2 comments - Add Comment - Tweet

The Raconteurs

Brixton Academy, London

I could've sworn The Raconteurs have only made one album. After last nights show I felt I should go home and Google these guys to see if Broken Boy Soldiers wasn't their fifth due to the rapturous reception they got from the adoring Brixton crowd. And no one went home disappointed. Although opening with Intimate Secretary, the albums weakest track, Brendan Benson and Jack White's band put on one hell of a show making a sound so loud that if it wasn't for White's shriek the vocals would have been all but lost.

As on the album Benson is a solid performer but tends to assume the role of the straight guy when put next to the charisma and on/off mic antics of White. Whether he's being a Raconteur or a White Stripe, Jack White is electrifying to watch. Holding the guitar like it's an extension of his arm and with frequent visits to the front of the stage, guitar held aloft this concert was on the verge of becoming the Jack White show.

With only 10 songs to their name and each one getting aired, the order of the night was guitars - with each song being extended in length, volume and intensity. Forthcoming single Broken Boy Soldiers was, as anticipated, the standout moment - with White retreating to the back of the stage to shout the repeated line "The boy never gets older" into a voice distorting mic but the funky-as-hell Level and the gut punching, sonic boom of Store Bought Bones came in a close second. They even threw in a few covers - Gram Parsons and a mammoth rock opera loosely based around Nancy Sinatra's Bang Bang.

The crowd favorite Steady, As She Goes came soon after the encore and was so huge I was sure this would be the finale. But Blue Veins was to close this rock extravaganza and although I questioned this rather downbeat choice, it was given the same amped up treatment as the rest with White and Benson playing the blues something special. This was the final moment for Jack to show his masterful grasp of his instrument as his guitar gently wept and all over Brixton dogs pricked up their ears and cocked their heads.

I fear this performance may have ruined the album for a lot of people as the beefed up power of the live songs leaves the originals sounding positively anorexic. The only complaint would be the 'one album' thing and the drowned-in-sound quality you sometimes get at The Academy but apart from that this was an electrifying show of two musicians in complete control of their instruments and really loving their side project. You would have been forgiven for thinking that this was Led Zeppelin's farewell tour as the band bowed, arm in arm, at the front of the stage to a deafening applause that continued long after they had departed.

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21st Oct 2006 - Add Comment - Tweet

The Blood Arm

Lie Lover Lie

They're a confident bunch, The Blood Arm. One would suppose you don't get nominated for Best New Band in LA (2004) through modesty and reticence. "I told you before, when I was young and obscure, it takes more than an ocean, to keep me ashore" proclaims singer Nathanial Fregoso, on album opener 'Stay Put!' a White Stripesy number, that has forceful pianos accompanying Fregoso, before being joined by crashing cymbals and distorted guitars.

Confidence, doesn't necessarily mean substance though. The piano hammers and cascades, driving all the songs along at a brisk tempo, so that as a whole, the album sounds like a collection of Show Tunes; 'Blood Arm: The Musical' if you will. Here's our hero proudly announcing that "I like all the girls and all the girls like me." 'Suspicious Characters'. Here's the chorus-line, linking arms and belting out an ode to the Road Trip 'Going to Arizona'. Like its theatrical cousins from the West End, 'Lie Lover Lie' isn't going to change the world, but for those times when you just want to get drunk, forget about thinking and have a good time, this could be what you need.

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20th Oct 2006 - Add Comment - Tweet

The Black Keys

Le Trabendo, Paris

October 5th 2006

In a postmodern world where everyone sounds like someone else, The Black Keys are pretty easy to pigeonhole. Sitting somewhere between The White Stripes and Wolfmother, they take heavy blues and run with it. And thats about it. "I woke up this morning" nah, nah, nah, "Tied up my shoes" nah, nah, nah. They don't have the inventiveness of The White Stripes to make only being a two piece their selling point, and they don't have the punishing power and speed change fun of Wolfmother - preferring the slower heavier, sound.

None the less, it was an entertaining show. Although there is little variation between their songs, and there was little stage chat or interruption, that one hour long smoky-blues-jam that they played was a good one. They obviously love what they are doing, and they do it well. There was power and passion and the venue was electric with the enthusiastic, well behaved, civilized Parisian crowd. Hats off to opening band and Black Mountain side project Blood Meridian too. They warmed things up nicely with their own band of bluesy rock ...and they spoke a bit of French.

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6th Oct 2006 - 4 comments - Add Comment - Tweet

White Whale

WW1

Like the great ocean herself White Whale have managed to create an album of immeasurable depth that can at times rise to majestic swells of dazzling proportions, drowning you in its drama and carrying you off to far flung places but it can also be a bit wet. I use the ocean as metaphor here as this is the principle theme that punctuates most of WW1. Tales of sea faring voyages, grand ships and intrepid admirals are delivered in style by the breathy vocals of front man Matt Suggs. Drawing comparisons to label mates Spoon, Suggs writes music that is as grand as it is delicate and tells his tales with expertly crafted and slightly surreal lyrical compositions.

Nine Good Fingers opens with the line "Wont you lay your nine good fingers on me but keep that long one wrapped in gauze," and features lots of lyrics about finger finding melodies and toes tapping in time. And tapping is exactly what your toes will do through most of this album especially on O'William, O'Sarah where the anthemic chorus gives way to a long rhythmical interlude where a fantastically raw drumbeat creeps in as if being played in their garage and takes the song past the 7 minute mark. This leads on nicely to the album highlight of The Admiral, a sea faring story from days of old, told with epic grandeur and at times ferocious passion. It's an impeccably crafted gem that is unfortunately followed by the albums lowest point. I Love Lovely Chinese Gal is an ill considered low-fi ditty about East and West and is full of uncharacteristically obvious lyrics. But it's not worth dwelling on as normal proceedings are resumed straight away as the record finds its wave again and sails off into the glorious sunset with many a high point including We're Just Temporary Ma'am and Forgive The Forgiven.

WW1 is a wonderfully rich album combining live instruments with drumbeat and synth to great effect. It's great to see a debut album with its sights set so high and a band not afraid to attempt the epic and the grand. Their devotion is heard on the all-guns-blazing finale of One Prayer where Suggs exclaims, "It's our duty to go down with this ship." Hopefully that won't be necessary and if their maiden voyage is anything to go by this ship is destined for great things.

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26th Sep 2006 - Add Comment - Tweet

Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby

(dir. Adam McKay)

Highlander may have been the "Oscar winner for most awesomest movie ever," but Will Ferrell's latest movie Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby is here to put up a fight.

NASCAR driver Ricky Bobby was brought up a winner ("If you ain't first, you're last!"), so his life is town apart when Frenchman Jean Girard (Staines' own Sacha Baron Cohen) arrives and knocks him off the top spot. His life implodes, to the point that even lifelong "Shake 'n Bake" sidekick John C. Reilly turns his back on him, morphing instead in to "The Magician". Luckily Ricky's long lost drunk of a dad comes back into his life and leads him to salvation - through some ingenious use of a cougar.

There is some vague political subtext, with the rivalry between the backwards Americans and prententious French sophisticates - but let's not kid anyone. If you seen any movie with Ferrell, or the Wilson brother's, or Vince Vaughn for that matter then you probably have a pretty clear idea of what to expect here. It's dumb and drawn out, like a series of disconnected sketches from an unfinished TV pilot. There's never any doubt how it's going to end, but there are plenty of laughs along the way.

It doesn't have the clever sub-text and emotional depth of cinematic classic Old School, but there are some genius More Cowbell moments from Ferrell. Those, plus a great red-neck soundtrack (and the fact that John C. Reilly's favourite Jesus has white wings and is backed on stage by Lynyrd Skynyrd, while he is drunk in the front row) are almost worth the future DVD rental price alone.

THAT JUST HAPPENED!

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11th Aug 2006 - 2 comments - Add Comment - Tweet

The National

Koko, Camden

"The English are waiting and I don't know what to do." Sings Matt Berninger of The National at Koko last night. This line seemed all too true for the charismatic lead singer who looked visibly stunned and overwhelmed at the rapturous applause that greeted him and his band. While cracking open a bottle of champagne he admitted, "this is the first time we have played to this many people who have just come to see us." I too was quite surprised at the frenzied response to every song and the general hysteria that resided in the hall that night. And it was well deserved.

Opening with the glorious Secret Meeting and just about playing every song they know, as well as a few new ones, this soon evolved into a truly stunning and memorable gig. It's such a treat these days to see a front man with a personality, who is genuinely reacting to the passion and emotion of the songs - rather than assuming an act. On songs such as Daughters Of The Soho Riots, Berninger whispers into the mic as if he was holding his lover, his hands gently yet firmly clasping the neck whilst he pours his heart out as if they were the only two in the room. In between verses and songs he would pace around nervously, biting his nails like a troubled man waiting outside his lovers door, rehearsing the devastating words he is about to utter. After screeching the repeated mantra 'My mind's not right' on Abel, Beringer looked genuinely shaken at the power of his own voice.

As is often the case at great gigs, the crowd is treated to revamped and reworked versions of familiar favourites. The achingly beautiful Wasp Nest smouldered like the cigarette permanently burning between Berninger's clasped fingers, then gradually rose to a mighty crescendo that morphed into the awesome Murder Me Rachel. The highlight of the set, and the moment that brought this gig into four-star territory, was the mighty Mr November. If much of the night saw Berringer straining to keep his emotions under wraps, this was the point where he lost the fight. Clearly feeding off the crowds unified and deafening chant of "I'm the new blue blood, I'm the great white hope," the front man gave it all he had, screaming over and over "I wont fuck us over, I'm Mr. November." Fantastic. And all this while being flanked by two twin hobbits from Lost's Driveshaft.

Click here for more pictures, and here for a review of November 2005's gig at ULU.

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1st Jun 2006 - 1 comments - Add Comment - Tweet

United Sounds of ATP

Camber Sands Holiday Centre, Sussex

Before going to the All Tomorrow's Parties music festival (at Pontin's Holiday Camp) I wasn't sure what to expect - and leaving a few days later I'm still not sure what I made of it all. Staying in a chalet as opposed to a tent had it's obvious benefits, especially as the rain was fairly relentless the entire weekend - making those swimming trunks I packed optimistic at best. But the constant grey skies and rundown look to the place gave it an Apocalypse Now feel - a surrealness not lightened by having to negotiate 'Funland' to get to the bar (my funland). The winner of ATP however, is that it truly is all about the music. Each headlining act allowed to choose their favourite bands to play bill - so the opportunities to discover something new were high.

Day 1
So heading to stage 2 (downstairs) on the Friday and lifted by the news that Guinness was coming in at a reasonable £2.70 a pint, The Magik Markers were a good place to kick things off. I'd read a bit about this Hungarian/American three piece and was definitely loving the fact they only played two songs in their 40 minute set (I preferred track 1) allowing me to catch up with mates, whilst dipping in and out of their (at-times) fairly rocking jam sessions. I was told however, that Dead Meadow upstairs (stage 1 of 2) were awesome, with a particularly excellent drummer -a vital ingredient for any self-respecting rock band. So upstairs we went -happy with the fact you could walk to a fairly good spec in the crowd relatively hassle free. Broken Social Scene were excellent -the surprise package of the weekend. I'd heard the name, but didn't really know their sound - they reminded me a bit of Mercury Rev - how they would allow a euphoric brass section to creep up and get you grinning by the end of each song. Also, it's the sign of a great band when you are thinking 'There's no way they can top that tune' then halfway through the next you've already forgotten the previous one (if you know what I mean). We were also treated to an early glimpse of Friday's curator J. Mascis - with long grey hair, shades and adidas shell suit. The man is a hero. He came out for a bit of a guitar duel with Broken Social Scene. Odds were stacked heavily against BSS though, as J's guitar sounded like it was turned up to 14, drowning out allcomers. Still, that whetted the appetite for Dinosaur Jr. later. Next up, indie stalwarts Teenage Fanclub. Although they opened up with personal favourite 'Mudhoney' I thought I'd go and check out The Brian Jonestown Massacre instead. Shouldn't have bothered. I liked their music in Dig!, but they were a bit boring really. I guess I was as guilty as many others, down there for the 'Car Crash' effect - waiting to see if Anton Newcombe was going to crack and kick anyone in the head (he didn't). I was told that Teenage Fanclub were great though - fair play to those lads.

A drum kit flanked by 10 Marshall Stacks; Dinosaur Jr made their intentions clear from the off. They were extremely loud, but equally awesome. What happened to Lou Barlow? From nerdy Sebadoh boy, to some sort of pumped up uber-bassist - he easily promoted himself to Lead Bass in my fantasy super group. A fairly healthy split between Lou's and J's songs - with all the 'hits' in there, they are certainly a band I'd make every effort to see whenever they are in town. A blinding set to round off day one.

Day 2
The day started with a hair of the dog in the pub at twelve and ended 17 hours later being kicked out of the ATP disco. As a result, my memories of Saturday's bands are sketchy at best. The Fiery Furnaces were pretty good. Spoon reminded me of Wilco, but didn't really do enough to lift me out of my stuper. Main act Sleater Kinney were really good though (I think). They certainly rocked the house, with some powerful drumming being a prominent recollection. Worth checking out more of their stuff to plug those holes. Highlight of the day though has to be R Kelly's bizarre Hip-Hopera 'Trapped in the Closet' - showing on the ATP TV Channel (each headliner also gets to create a days schedule of TV). A 40 minute epic with R. Kelly lending his golden tones to the story of various dudes getting caught with each other's girlfriends and threatening to blow everyone away and shit. Was it for real? Who knows - but he did rhyme Bridget with Midget (the midget in question, was uncovered hiding in a cupboard by a policeman returning home early to his wife - bizarre indeed, but try and check it out).

Day 3
With the rain still coming down and the hangover a large one Sunday was always going to be about re-grouping. So, finding a spot on the back wall to nurse some beers was the order of the day (although this is obviously much more pleasant on a sunny last day of an outdoors festival, as opposed to an airtight bingo hall after a three day rock festival). To be fair to the bands, it was going to take something special to rouse me from that position. Aussie band The Drones had a good stab with their better than average pub-rock. The Decemberists were clearly a crowd favourite, reminding me a bit The Levellers, Placebo and the Polyphonic Spree - but not at all as bad as that sounds. They did manage to get the whole crowd to sit down for a quiet number (no problems for me) then getting them back up for a rousing finale. The lead singer of 70's style rock Dungen also played a flute. Then the highlight of the weekend, The Black Keys. Two songs in and I was up off my ass and into the crowd. The drum and guitar two piece played heavy blues and once again made me wonder what all the fuss is with the White Stripes. Following them was going to be extremely tough and so it proved for biggest disappointments The Shins. The band I was most looking forward to seeing, as I'm a great fan of both their albums, were let down by a number of circumstances. Following Black Keys, early sound troubles, being shy and too quiet. They almost lifted it a couple of times but not enough. Maybe I hit a wall, but I never thought I'd be walking out of The Shins early. That was that - some serious drinking and some damn fine bands. The music-first policy is clearly a winner, could do with a bit of sunshine though.

Probably worth a 4, but the rain and my own laziness in not checking out other bands knocks it down a half.

Top 5
1. The Black Keys
2. Dinosaur Jr.
3. Broken Social Scene
4. R. Kelley
5. The Chappelle Show

Bottom 5
1. Rain
2. Hangover
3. Eating too many crisps
4. The smell of the main room Sunday night
5. The disappointing Shins.

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26th May 2006 - 1 comments - Add Comment - Tweet

Them / Themselves

Them

This is underground hip hop at it’s finest. One of the strongest offerings on the ever expanding and boundary breaking Anticon label, Them is Doseone of cLOUDDEAD fame and the mighty Jel on the beats. This is a faultless combination and one that has been tried and tested many times, the most recent being Subtle’s awesome album A New White.

Anticon was started by Sole (Tim Holland) and Pedestrian (James Brandon Best) in 1998 and was born out of a love of poetry and the more traditional side of Hip Hop. Since then these lonesome travellers have stopped for any hitchhiking art school dropout or beatnik poet they deemed suitable for the Anticon belief system. Two of the first to join were Jel (Jeffrey Logan) and Dose (Adam Drucker.) Their first collaboration was on the 1998 self titled album Deep Puddle Dynamics. This was basically every one from the early days of this label and this is how they intended to proceed, with every one contributing to eachothers work. And so they did and have fast become one of the most prolific producers of challenging and inspired poetry driven Hip Hop around today.

I can't think of a single release not worth a listen and this semi-self-titled album released from 2000 is one of the strongest. It nods towards the more traditional hip hop more than most of the labels' albums, by this I mean it has beats. But they are intelligent and deep, organic beats that never over do it. Dose's vocals are as always pure, surreal and totally screwed-up genius. In one of the strongest tracks Death O A Thespian, Dose admits, "I don’t believe in Zeus but I’m scared stiff of clowns," and if you hadn’t seen him his voice would conjure up similar disturbing clown related images or even gnarled, jaded pixies that lurk in dark nightmarish places muttering incomprehensible words of wisdom. The clown theme is continued in another fantastic example of this partnership, Another Part Of The Clown.

The final track ends with the words, "You know when energy is flowing, teach yourself to write and let Them buy the album." This seems to be the exact thing this bunch of modern-day visionaries did, and my gratitude pours forth.

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12th May 2006 - Add Comment - Tweet

The Raconteurs

Broken Boy Soldiers

Broken Boy Soldiers sees Jack White team up with fellow Detroit buddy Brendan Benson and finally get a chance to play with the boys. And don’t those boys have some fun. Following typical ‘side project’ form, the agenda is a lot lighter here compared to the Led Zeppelin’s lofty direction. Level is another highlight with suitably grimy and screeching guitar action.

As you may notice, all the highlights picked out above feature White on lead vocals. I feel the album loses its immediacy when Brendan Benson steps up. His songs follow a well-trodden Beatles/Harrison path and lack the grit that White brings to the mix. When these two vocalists are put side by side it is all too evident how unique and powerful White’s voice really is. The best Benson songs are when Jack is backing him up. Intimate Secretary, is a prime example of this. The jury is out on this track as it has very questionable lyrics. “I’ve got a rabbit who likes to hop, I’ve got a girl who likes to shop, I’ve got a pen but I lost the top,’ You could be forgiven for mistaking this for an extract from Wayne Rooney’s secret diary ...although he’s the one doing the hopping now.

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4th May 2006 - Add Comment - Tweet

Red Hot Chili Peppers

Stadium Arcadium

While Blood Sugar Sex Magic had some (I'd say 3) great songs, it's funky-monk overtones make it sound dated, recorded as John Frusciante say's "back when we were assholes". The Dave Navarro version of the band obviously sucked, but after Frusciante kicked his drug habit and crawled back to the Red Hot Chili Peppers things really started to take off. Californication had some great tracks, but was quickly overshadowed by version 2.0 - By The Way. Frusciante had found his sound, releasing the awesome solo albums To Record Only Water For Ten Days and Shadows Collide With People and clearly shaping the direction of the revitalised Chili Peppers. After another 6(!) solo albums from Frusciante last year - all peppered with great tracks - the promise of a new full-spec double RHCP album was good.

Things kick off well with single Dani California. Using all the best elements of the RHCP signature sound - catchy, stripped down, funky bass, roaring guitar solo - it sets the pace.... and the rest of the album carries on from there. All the same. Every song is good, most contain a bit of all of their styles and all are in the 3-5 minutes / 3.5-4.5 star range - and that is where the problem lies. While the album is apparently 'based' on the planets (Disc 1 Jupiter, Disc 2 Mars) there is no obvious theme or progression over the album and not much difference between the two discs. It becomes totally homogenized and just seems like a collection of 28 randomly sequenced good songs.

Torture Me is not one of the best, but it stands out for merely being a bit more punky. Strip My Mind threatens to be like a Frusciante solo track - but ends up being not as brave and falling back into line. Even the bass-funk workout tracks pull their socks up to be not nearly as bad as some of the 90's era stuff. The excellent Desecretion Smile and Animal Bar have so far floated to the top of the pile, although I'm sure more will grow on me if I give it time. 28 tracks is a lot of time though, and in the age of CD a double album is more like 120 minutes than The White Album's 90. The lyrics also take the score down a notch, as the band have never been that deep, and that doesn't change here. There's plenty of lyrics of the horny-coyotes-prowling-around-michigan variety.

Time will tell whether this becomes a sprawling masterpiece or self-indulgant monolith, but for a band who should have been at the peak of their powers it currently seems that they are on more of a plateau.

UPDATE: As of August 9th '06 I'm updating this to a 4. It's 80% genius, and the finale of Snow (Hey Oh) and Frusciante's scream at the end of Wet Sand are worth the price alone. It's only losing points for the length and lack of sequence, but is undoubtedly the closest thing to their masterpiece (to date).

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4th May 2006 - 2 comments - Add Comment - Tweet