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The Work of Art in the Age of Digital Distribution

2012-01-30T02:25:00.000-08:00

Much as Walter Benjamin's seminalMarxist text explored the radical changes that were being exerted onthe value of creative practice in the advent of mechanicalreproduction, developments in technology in our time can undeniablybe seen to imply similar paradigm - shifts with our own relationshipto art, music and film. When last week, the FBI and other legalbodies coordinated a global policing effect to shut down MegaUploadand enacted the arrest of its bizarre proprietor Kim Dotcom, thereason was read out as being simple and straightforward enough toaccept uncritically: Despite high profile endorsements from the likesof Will.I.Am, Kanye West, P Diddy, Alicia Keys and such, the site wasresponsible for allowing numerous infringements of copyright and haddone little by way of removing these copyrighted works. But it wouldbe reticent of audiences to simply accept this logic at face valueand renege on the promise of new technology. Constant reevaluation ofa society's structures and values are healthy standards in a moderndemocracy, and our society should not shy away from raising thedifficult, perhaps even earth-shattering questions.

Arguably, these days of litigation andignorantly one-sided file-sharing condemnation and praise have beencoming for the past decade: A frivolous, decadent utopia for some, anightmarish 'end of days' for others, a generation of 'entitled' P2Pusers, and an entire industry clamouring for continued relevance andprofit margins. What, in light of digital distribution and anincreasingly transient notion of 'album as product', does it mean tobe a recording artist in 2012? Equally, how can audiences bestexpress their love, respect and gratitude for creative works? Howdoes digital reproduction and distribution affect our perception ofwhat an artistic product might be?

The problem with the industry.

It has long beenargued that record publishing companies do little to serve theirartists' interests, only following the capitalist model of 'sellingunits'. Little interest is afforded by the larger labels to anartist's longevity or even integrity, yet these things seem of hugeimportance to an artist's fanbase. A record label's primary concernis the monetary return on their initial investment (or ‘advance’),but an artist's main passion throughout any negotiations is thequality of the music they can produce and their ability to keepmaking it. That is, of course, if they even get signed - with suchlow returns on investments, record labels are much less inclined totake risks on emerging talent, instead pumping their funds intoeither established or more malleable artists, whom they canfast-track to the spotlight through a process of characterisation andbranding (cough, Lana Del... Oh, I can't be bothered). All the while,record sales are decreasing year on year, and the price point foraudience consumption of these creative works, albums and such,remains at the same, fixed rate.

How is the record industryresponding to these trends, declining record sales, their diminishingnecessity? By changing the way they write record contracts. Intraditional agreements- labels recouped their investment throughrecord sales, leaving band’s earnings to be made from touring,merchandise and sponsorship. Now, 360-degree deals are the norm.Warner won’t sign anyone now unless it’s this kind of a deal- apackage which is more akin to a management deal, whereby the labelwill take a cut from any future sponsorship, seeding, franchising,use of material, touring and merchandise. And while this may removethe need for an ‘immediate hit’, in real terms it means thatbands will earn even less, and have less control over their image,presentation and rights. Labels traditionally made money from theprocess in which they were involved – namely recording anddistributing records. Is it coincidence that now that recorded musicsales are significantly declining, they change their business model?What gives them the right to impede on touring, merchandise,sponsorship or the use of music in films or adverts? How does thisbenefit either the artist or the audience?

Arguably a moresuccessful model for the record industry to consider would be tofocus on the quality of the product they deliver in the first place.For while it's telling that CD sales are dropping significantly, andno doubt digital has had an impact here- vinyl sales have risensteadily. The inherent audio quality to this format renders theslightly higher price point more acceptable, as does the generallybeautiful artwork that can adorn such large format boxes. Indeed,notions of 'special edition' and such are becoming more dominant inthe marketplace, and frequently albums will come packaged with smalltokens of appreciation, or further means beyond the recorded work bywhich the artist expresses themselves. I think of the Montreal labelConstellation, home to Godspeed You! Black Emperor and a host ofother DIY ethic bands- whose 12 inch LPs are some of the mostlovingly constructed objects I own. Hand printed, designed by friendsof the label- there is a crucial emphasis on personality and quality,an ethos that defines the labels work, and ferments a sense offondness and loyalty between the label and their audience. Crucially,they put out good product, so an audience can respect that and trustit.

A socialcontract.

In the wake ofthe Napster trials at the beginning of the last decade, there wasarguably a moment for radical change in the relationships betweenaudience and artist. Though instead of a significant paradigm-shift,record companies met with copyright agencies, and the biggest winnerto emerge from this short lived era of entrepreneurial optimism wasApple. The iTunes store has singlehandedly catapulted Apple to theposition of capitalist royalty, entitling the company 50p from every£1 you spend there. That, to a company which has had no part in thecreative or production process, and doesn't even have to offset theoutlay for actual, physical record shops in your town centres. Noteven the former behemoths in this trade, the HMVs and VirginMegastores, took a cut that large. Spotify is often touted as a moreethical means to access copyrighted music, without grand expenditureon the audience's part, and only suffering the ignominy of beingadvertised at every 15 minutes during your favourite concept album.But, when the ethical arguments against downloading copyrightedmaterial from sources like MegaUpload rest on the artist's lack ofreimbursement, how do these services compare, in terms of ethics andvalue? In truth, they're pretty shameful.

Services likeSpotify and the iTunes store can be seen as cynical, but ultimatelysuccessful attempts to revive the status quo for a digital age.Further models where companies that have nothing to do with thecreation of music can get rich off the back of that very creativity,and seemingly, audiences globally are perfectly happy about thisarrangement. In a statement released this week, the Vice President ofthe RIAA, Joshua P Freidlander, stated

“Theevidence strongly suggests that the shutdown of illegal sites helpscreate a thriving and diverse digital marketplace. It encouragesusers to go to legitimate sites, and enables great new services to belaunched - like Spotify, which launched in the US last year andquickly signed up millions of new users. It's always reassuring whenthe data we see in the market reflects what we thought was justcommon sense."

Butwhilst taking down a site like MegaUpload can be seen broadly as astraightforward protection of copyright issue, how is the alternativeany more ethical or common sense? It was in light of these issuesthat Hackney-based rapper Akira The Don began tweeting his Spotifyrevenue for the last few months. Akira was formerly signed to majorlabel Interscope before being dropped after only a year- and hassince carved out a solid niche for himself through home production, aconstantly updated website and a series of dynamic mixtapes andalbums that, alongside his self-designed merchandise, afford him aliving. In October, his songs were listened to on Spotify 643 times,for which he earned £14.42- and only because he is the rightsholder. Artists with record deals would receive but a fraction ofthis. Is that to be considered a fair recompense, in comparison withpreviously controlled models of record sales and physicaldistribution? I don't know. It is up to us, as a society, to decidehow much we value creative works, and in this instance, a musician'sability to survive from making music.

Thecommodification of music.

Therecording studio enacted the most significant change on music, takingit from being a folk tradition, experienced when performed live tocommodifying it and enabling audiences to hold in their hand themusic, to play whenever they pleased. Perhaps the new technologies ofdigital distribution, instead of being used to reify and prop-up analready unfair business model, could be used to imply and forcechange on it- to bring about a more ethical relationship betweenartist and audience, and dramatically change our notions of 'art ascommodity'.

Theindustry cites 'millions lost' as a critique of illegal filesharingon the presumption that those are films or albums that people wouldhave bought anyway- whereas recent studies have shown that people whodownload music illegally are likely to spend over 50% more on musicannually than those who claim not to. But to take this argument evenfurther, into somewhat zany philosophical territory: why shouldsomeone's experience of and access to culture (music, film etc) berestricted by their economic circumstances? Society decides thatalbums and such are to be perceived as seminal, as artefacts ofquality, that they can enrich your life through knowledge andexperience- and yet to have access to these enriching works, you needto fork out a fixed cost, equal across all of society's socialclasses. I am perhaps playing a small advocacy on Lucifer's behalf,here- but on it's broadest level, I believe there is some merit, somebeauty even, in this idea- that access to culture should be, by verynecessity, free. However, this idea does not recognise the musician'saspirations to pay their rent, or indeed any cost incurred throughproduction. We live in a world where everyone involved in production:musicians, tour managers, engineers - need to make a living.

Letus then explore this notion of music as valid commodity. MegaUploadand the like offered a flawed service, in that there was norelationship whatsoever between music consumed by the audience andreimbursement to the artists. Similarly, existing record contractmodels offer little more by way of ethics and direct connectionbetween audience and musician. I would like to ask the question as towhether it can ever be moral or ethical to set a fixed price on acreative work, to question whether music, film or art can ever bevalid commodities.

Onthe one hand, the post-structuralists among us would argue that theimportance and value of any work is defined by the audience member.Whether you consider a particular album better than another one, andhow you can express that value monetarily. You might consider anartists' latest record their finest, a towering achievement and themasterful realisation of their career- I might regard it asderivative, soulless and tired. And yet we've both forked out thesame £11. How then to overcome this disparity? I can recall themodel that Radiohead employed when distributing In Rainbows, thefamed 'pay what you want' tactic that resulted in the band earningfar more than they ever would have from a traditional record labelrelease. Arguably this was only possible thanks to the band'spre-established success, a large and committed fanbase that was builtup while the band was on a standard record contract. In any case,this account of the creative work's value is derived only from it'sinterpretive or aesthetic value to a listener- and does not factor inany of the production cost incurred by the band or the record label'sadvance. Studio time, session musicians, audio engineers, masteringand cost of instruments are valid costs that artists incur throughproduction, and like with any other industry product, are included inthe cost of the final product.

Thequestion then, is whether music (or indeed film) has an acquiredvalue borne of its production cost, or an inherent value in and ofitself by means of it being a creative, artistic work. Or indeed,does cost and artistic value have nothing to do, at all, with whatthe copyright owner deigns fit to charge for a product? The economicsof whether the thing would sell, whether a successful career wouldmaterialise, are the price-setters' own concern: supply and demand,always. If we as audiences decide that reimbursing production costsis a valid and ethical thing to aspire to, then can the cost of analbum or single not therefore be seen as a kind of faux-compensation?Here again, the model can be explored and alternatives reached. UKrock band Mansun recorded their last album release throughcrowdfunding the production costs- a tactic that, as with Radiohead,could only be realised through a pre-established fanbase. Conversely,this method can often bring humorous results- as with the 2011online crowdfunding campaign that targeted disaffected Weezer fans,resulting in a giant whip-round to pay the band $10 million to splitup.

Reimaginings.

Whatis most interesting about the MegaUpload arrests, is not that afilesharing website has been taken offline- but the announcements byKim DotCom prior to his arrest. In December, Mr DotCom outlined thathis company would be launching a music download service to rivaliTunes, but where artists would receive 90% of earnings. MegaBox hadbeta listed partners in 7Digital, Gracenote, Rovi and Amazon, hadfully designed software, and apparently had been tested on over amillion users. So far so good, you hear- another entrance into a verysaturated market of online digital distributors- but where DotCom'sservice altered radically from the pack was that the service itselfwas, to its users, entirely free. "We have a solution called theMegakeythat will allow artists to earn income from users who download musicfor free," Dotcom explained. "We will pay artists even forfree downloads.” Quite how this is possible has not been fullyexplained, but for the presumption that Megakey enabled a targetedadvertising system that therein paid for the artists' revenue.

Whilstthe conspiracy theorists might look at the timing of the arrests inlight of these venture announcements, it is also worth stating that;as Megakey had “exclusive deals with artists who are eager todepart from outdated business models”, then it was an essentiallylegal service. The same cannot justifiably be argued for MegaUpload.Like Radiohead's 'pay what you want', does the success of Megaboxrely on a pre-established audience created by Megaupload?

Perhapswe'll never find out. What is interesting about this developmentthough, is that it represents a drastic re-imagining of therelationship between artist and audience- using digital technologiesto distribute content in a way that cuts out exploitative recordcompanies and to an extent, retailers. And whilst this offers noinsight to the argument of how music as a commodity should be valued-individually set or with fixed price, art as meaningful commodity orproduction cost solely, it does seem to represent a more justifiablemeans for an artist to be reimbursed and rewarded by their audiencethan either illegally downloading music gratis or accessing it viaSpotify and the iTunes store.

Theeconomist and later music theorist Jacques Attali offers, in hisseminal text Noise, four stages of music as it has existed and couldexist. The age of mechanical reproduction is cited in his thirdstage, the epoch we find ourselves in though perhaps leaving:Repetition.

Thisis characterised by the emergence of sound recording technology atthe end of the 19^thcentury. Prior to this moment, music was experienced only live and asa spectacle. Under the mode of repetition, music becomes an objectand its experience turns private. The initial intended use ofrecording- the preservation of performances- rapidly vanishes, sothat "the live performance is only successful as a simulacrum ofthe record". Attali's fourth stage, Composition, ischaracterised by a return to the immediacy of music in its formerstages and is brought about through the cultural crisis ofoverproduction and over-repetition. Furthermore, it is throughdemocratising advances in technology that we are allowed to seebeyond the 'top down' approach to discovering music, and thealienating nature of making it. Home studios enable artists to recordprofessional quality music at a fraction of the cost of studio time,and software like Ableton and Reason empower even the most untrainedto become musicians. In Attali's fourth stage, music is created byindividuals and communities for immediate use- art which attempts tocreate and address a community, without mediation between artist andaudience- such a dichotomy would be consigned to Repetition.

Empowerment.

Thevision of a society of free access to and creation of culture is anundeniably utopian one, and one not without it's drawbacks withregard to the cost incurred by those involved in production. Buthere, I'm reminded of the American comic Doug Stanhope, and hisroutine about employment. For while we all have to get by and pay therent, shouldn't a civilised society be aspiring for more, and notless, unemployment? He waxes about robots performing all thenecessary tasks and such, somewhat self depreciatingly- but the ideaholds weight. There is much campaigning for a 'living wage', whichcan be described as an above-adequate amount of money given to everycitizen of a society in order to sustain their existence. And stillthis would leave room for capitalist endeavour, if you wanted to sellyour records, repair shoes or drive taxis, of course youcould-but this notion of a society where noone hasto work is attractive. Thealternative to work here is but creation of culture itself, free fromthe compromises of having to be paid, or indeed having to pay for it.

Thisconversation is by no means over, despite the willingness ofgovernments to set in place global digital copyright accords. Theonus is on societies, that is you and I and everyone we know, toengage in debate about how we value our own creativity as well asthat of others in an age of digital distribution and production. Theinjustices and disparity of wealth seen under 21^stcentury capitalism are not things that the music industry has beenimmune from, indeed companies have profited extraordinarily from abusiness model that exploits artists and audiences alike. Newtechnologies offer an opportunity to reimagine our world, ourrelationship to artists and audiences, and the potential of our owncreativities. Whether such potential will be realised, is entirely upto us.

This article appeared in the405

Sandro Perri - Impossible Spaces album review

2011-10-24T08:40:00.000-07:00

Throughout the myriad works ofToronto-based musician Sandro Perri, theexploration of melodics have been a constant. This new album,Impossible Spaces, picks up on the minimalism ofhis solo debut- but frequently has more in common with Perri's 2005release, the 28 minute electro cover of Arthur Russell's 'Kiss MeAgain'. And while initial listens may find you put off by somemelodic imprecision, multiple spins reveal Impossible Spaces to be analbum rich with composition and nuance, one that draws from Perri'sdance-past as much as his avant-folk leanings. The result is asmashed palette of an album, one that zips and collects as it doesso.

After a four year compositionand recording process, Impossible Spaces is byfar Sandro Perri's most technically accomplished work. Whereasprevious albums under the Glissandro70 or Polmo Polpo monickers havebeen interesting, rounded wholes- their aesthetics (the reinventionof disco and a meditation on drawn-out melody respectively) seemsmaller than the statements laid out here. This is an album that ismusically and thematically broad, contradictory, abundant withvarying voices and styles that over the records seven tracks find aunifying sense of itself. The album title hints at somethingconflicted and a call/response structure to many of the song duos andtransitions between play off the sense of dichotomy very well. Albumopener 'Changes' exemplifies this dualistic structure, its first halfcomprising ambling song, the second relenting to dance-prog noodlingsthat build and build. The album is sequenced wonderfully, asdemonstrated by the pained and awkward musings of 'How Will I?' - thekind of track that Flaming Lips might have used to end an album, hereused to round off the first epoch before moving into the beautifulsimplicity of 'Futuractive Kid Part 1'.

That's a phrase I keep comingback to, for while the composition is rich with detail- theinstrumentation and recording is just sublime in its simplicity. Alimited scope of three or four base instruments are accentuated bythe subtlest and most precise of studio effects. ImpossibleSpaces sounds low-fi and high-tech all at once, andbeneath the albums semantics there are some stunning pieces ofmusicianship here. There's a lot to take in, a broad scope for stylesacross the record's 38 minutes- fans of Hot Chip and Nick Drake'sBryter Layter may find a lot to enjoy distinctly here, but those arebut approximations. Impossible Spaces is thesound of an artist making his most crucial statement yet. For thosewho have followed Perri from his days inaugering Constellation, thisalbum feels like the artist stepping beyond his own back catalogue.For newcomers, this marks an ideal point of entry, but there's awealth of recordings that have led the artist to this veryaccomplished moment.

8/10

First published in the405

Esmerine (live at Electrowerkz) live review

2011-10-24T08:37:00.000-07:00

Esmerinewould play their first London gig at Electrowerkz, an idiosyncraticvenue renowned for its goth nights and clubbing. Given their hiatus,it was perhaps a wonder that the band were here at all- but Esmerineenjoyed the breath of new life in 2011 when expanding from a duo to afive piece. Here, perhaps suitably, the material found an appropriateembellishment in the fuller ensemble. The tour came on the back of anew record, the excellent and indeed surprising LaLechuza- an album which became a personal favourite thisyear. Drawing from chamber music as much as ballad and folk, therecord moved Esmerine's sound beyond the 'post rock lite' and into amore rounded whole. Lyric and vocal contributions (including aperformance from the late Lhasa De Sela, for whom the record isdedicated) tinged La Lechuza with bittersweet,knowing memories, a sense of time and place and loss. If the recordis sad, then it is also profoundly beautiful.

We'd gathered in the dark secondchamber and were sat cross legged on the floor before Esmerine walkedthrough us from the venue's rear and took their instruments. Therewas no 'backstage' area to speak of, and it was lovely to meet thegroup before the gig, hustled by the merch stall. I've long been ofthe belief that a band should never employ roadies, that in doing soyou kiss goodbye to any punk rock sense of authenticity, and therewas a similarly unpretentious atmosphere here. Between songs, cellistBeckie Foon (also of Godspeed You! Black Emperor,formerly of A Silver Mt Zion) would speak to uswithout a microphone, and in truth the stage setting seemed more of aformality than a theatrical necessity.

Esmerine played for just under an hour,a set comprised of numbers taken mostly from LaLechuza but the group pleasingly paid dues to their strongback catalogue too. Indeed, their debut album If Only ASweet Surrender To The Nights To Come Be True wasrepresented well, the stunning drawn out beauty of 'There Were NoFootprints In The Dust Behind Them' given an early recital in thebilling. But it was the material from La Lechuzathat resonated strongest, in particular the absolutely joyous'Trampolin'. A jangly ditty; centred around harmonised marimba andharp notes and underpinned by rising, trembling cello chords-'Trampolin' is by far the most uplifting moment on LaLechuza and it lost none of its power in the live setting.Elsewhere, harpist Sarah Page gave an excellent sung performance onthe Lhasa De Sela cover 'Fish On Land'.

Throughout the concert, Esmerine seemedperfectly enthused to be here touring, and delighted with the warmresponses their performances would elicit from the crowd. Smilesabounded, and although the stage was small and the band hustled inbetween each other- there remained a closeness between the musiciansthat was evident in the reflected expressions between them onstage.For such meditative music, Esmerine made for a charming spectacle asa band. This visual impact was accentuated by the work of visualartist Clea Minaker, who resided side stage broadcasting livegraphics and images on the rear stage canopy. These deserve a specialmention, as they were performed live and with good grace. An overheadprojector made for a canvas as Minaker blew leaves and feathersacross the light, or patchwork translucents- all making for abeautiful real-time animation that would adorn the music. A livereaction to it, then- painted in colour and mood, occasionallyawkward but endearing throughout and a lovely element to accompanythe band on tour.

Esmerine left once, but quicklyreturned- an unending torrent of applause humbling the band intoperforming two encore pieces. A sense of humour and eccentricitypervaded their stories throughout, Sarah and Beckie frequentlyintroducing the lengthy chamber pieces as 'pop songs'- but it was theconcert closer that perhaps played the biggest double-bluff of thenight. Entitled 'Glock Rock', it was perhaps exactly that- anotherwise out-of-character foray into high-tempo glockenspiel action,ramped to eleven and accompanied by some frenetic drumming. If you'venever heard glockenspiels used as rock instruments before then you'remissing out. This was Esmerine's first UK tour, and for many in thecrowd it marked an opportunity to see a beloved band- this much wasclear from the response and by the number of people who hung aroundafterward to converse with the group, who were clearly taken aback bythe warmth in the crowd.

First published in the405

Esmerine / Beckie Foon interview

2011-10-24T08:35:00.001-07:00

Esmerine played their first Europeantour recently, performing material from their acclaimed third albumLa Lechuza. The 405 was afforded the opportunity to speak withfounding member Beckie Foon and we jumped at the chance. As a memberof Godspeed You Black Emperor, Set Fire To Flames and A Silver MtZion- Beckie Foon has been at the centre of some of my favouritemusic and has consistently upheld a recording and publication ethicthat puts localism and creativity above profit making and careerism.It was a real pleasure to sit with her and have this conversationbefore Esmerine played at the Electrowerkz venue in London.

Amir Adhamy/the 405: Evening Beckie.It's lovely to meet with you.

Beckie Foon: You too. Hope you enjoythe show tonight!

405: I'm looking forward to it a greatdeal. Esmerine has gone from being a duo to now incorporating manymembers. How has that evolution been?

BF: Bruce and I were very interested inexploring the world of melodic percussion and cello when we started,especially based with our groups, our punk rock groups and alsobecause we were in loud bands. And so it was nice to think aboutstripping it down and really thinking collaboratively about usingthese wooden beautiful instruments that we might not have got tofully explore their potential in our loud rock bands, so initially itwas borne out of that- we wanted to try something different. And sothat's kind of how Esmerine was born. For this album, well- we werenever actually planning on recording a third record. Not that we'weren't planning' a third record, we just hadn't thought through it,or were too busy with everything else going on in our lives- eventhough we'd always stayed vaguely active, doing performances inMontreal.

405: And jamming yourselves, as well?

BF: Yeah. But we would actually do alot of shows in Montreal, we just never took Esmerine on tour before.It was all Silver Mt Zion or Godspeed, the other commitments. So whathappened was that we'd started playing live with Lhasa De Sela, she'dasked us to open up for her as a duo in Montreal. So we did thatshow, and we met her band and we all really connected. And fromthere, Bruce and I became more and more interested in the some of theinstrumentation that she had in her band, drums and harp for example.We all got on, so we just started playing together. We played a showand Lhasa sang with us- it became this very natural evolution. It's alittle difficult for Bruce, I mean- we still play duo shows- becausefor us, it's kindof this whole new world to have harp and drums andthese extra musicians, because certainly on record, Bruce has alwaysoverdubbed the marimba and drums, playing them both. So now we canhave all of those parts live.

405: It's interesting to hear that youstill play duo shows. When I think of how A Silver Mt Zion has grownand grown over the years, I wonder if it would be nice to take thatback to a three-piece, and play some shows as the first album hadbeen recorded.

BF: Yeah, I totally agree.

405: I guess you have that withdifferent incarnations of bands though, right. And Mt Zion isn't yourthing anymore! Have the extra members here influenced or changed theway you write songs?

BF: Yeah, it's definitely more of aband thing now, we're more collaborative. It can be a bit morecomplicated at times writing music with more people, or easier whenthings evolve naturally. There's different people, more minds, moreenergy and opinion to deal with.

405: How did this album come aboutthen? You mentioned that it wasn't planned, but not not plannedeither.

BF: There were some Esmerime songs thatwe'd reworked together, after a show in Montreal we played as a fourpiece. And as we reworked the songs, Sarah and Andrew also had someideas, sketches of songs, that they brought to us, and weincorporated those into the set. And then when Lhasa passed away, wewanted to write a special lullaby for her as she'd brought us alltogether- so the entire composition really came about veryorganically.

405: You really breathed new life intothe band with the album.

BF: Yeah, and it's fun to do that,shake it up and grow as musicians and people.

405: So your first two records, put outon Resonant and Madrona respectively...

BF: Yeah, Madrona was the label Bruceand I started.

405: I think I bought the Aurora vinyldirect from the Madrona mail order. How did working again withConstellation come about?

BF: I guess we have a long term historywith Constellation. We gave them the record and they were amazed byit. Bruce and I had retired Madrona! We were very happy to work withConstellation.

405: It's led to collaborations withlabel artists like Colin Stetson (http://vimeo.com/29119122)

BF: Yeah, that was from our openingshow in Montreal. And Clea Minaker, who did the projections, will bewith us tonight.

405: How does this LP compare to thefirst two?

BF: This record has a completelydifferent meaning behind it, due to where we are with our lives andthe history we have together, and so there's a different element init. There's a lot of symbolism in it for us, and musically where weare now is so different to where we were five or ten years ago. We'reolder, we have kids. We've grown as artists and as human beings. Thefirst two Esmerine records are still very close to my heart though.

405: It's nice when you get to a stageand think, well they could only have made this record with a certainlevel of experience and maturity, at a certain point in their career.

BF: Yeah, I agree- it's a very strangething, but also quite a beautiful feeling.

405: How does it feel to be part ofsuch a now-noted and successful community of musicians?

BF:I learn a lot from the musicians around me and am very happy to be apart of this community. I've had the pleasure of playing music aroundthe world, and that's something I can never take for granted.

405: What does the future hold for youas a group, or indeed as an individual?

BF: For Esmerine, this is our firstEuropean tour and we were excited about trying this out. I also don'tplay in Silver Mt Zion anymore and I'm excited to see where thisgoes, and I'm also working on a solo record built from looped celloand singing. I've just finished that record. It's totally differentto everything I've done so far, it has electronic percussion! Thatmaybe should be out, hopefully in the Spring, but we'll see.

405: I have to ask, will we ever seeanother Set Fire To Flames record?

BF: (laughs) Who knows, man. We workedon a soundtrack for a short animation film, and that was the lastthing we did. I would love to, but there's 13 people in that group!

405: And I imagine you all have to bein a similar, very particular mindset while recording.

BF: Exactly! But thats how Bruce and Imet, and how Esmerine came about initially.

405: Thankyou so much for your time,Beckie.

Evangelista - In Animal Tongue album review

2011-10-24T08:34:00.000-07:00

Some people live and breathe theirmusic, as if they could be recast against any environment, anycolouring particulars- the only constant their necessity forcompelling music's making. Carla Bozulich is one such artist, hercareer having spanned 3 decades now and reincarnated in upwards ofseven bands. Whilst her back catalogue is as diverse as it is long(dig out some Ethyl Meatplow if you can find it), it was pleasing tosee her picked up by Montreal-based label Constellation in 2005.After flirting with success after covering Willie Nelson's Red HeaderStranger in it's entirely, Bozulich largely fell off the radar until,quite out of the blue, she announced her new project on an entirelynew label. Better known for it's work with the city's then-blossomingavant-garde scene, 2005 saw Constellation move beyond both its citywall and the genres it had pioneered. Carla, from Los Angeles,represented a canny move: In Animal Tongue is her fifth album for thelabel, her fourth under the Evangelista banner that has allowed yetanother artistic and critical reinvention, as well as offeringBozulich a creative renewal.

The Evangelista band, comprisingbassist Tara Barnes (formerly of the excellent thrash-nihilistDuchesses) and sound-artist Dominic Cramp, was itself borne of theroad. Having released her debut for the label, also titledEvangelista, a touring band was formed. Herein, Barnes and Bozulichset upon a creative unity that would last to today and bear itsincreasing influence on the music. Gone are the dream-set, ominoussamples that would mark her Constellation debut with an unrulytension- throughout this band's existence, their has almost been aninsistence on it resonating exactly as such: a band. People in aroom, playing instruments through amplifiers.

On album opener 'Artificial Lamb', youcan hear the crackle of guitar leads and electricity. Cleanrecordings and few (if any) overdubs- the track's timidinstrumentation gently imposes itself whilst Bozulich moans withdesperation- it's final lines delivered with a cracked, aching highpitch. Its a telling introduction to what is a very restrained and attimes sombre album. 'Black Jesus' barely awakens, the vocal deliverypasses off like a spoken word against which the music, the repeatedriff, picked from a sea of reverb. On the title track, as the trackreaches a climactic moment with chorus and thumped drums, repeatedcalls of “she sung in animal tongue” are delivered at once withpride and sadness.

This is not an album for mornings orshining July days, and it is appropriate that Constellation haschosen to release the album in the midst of Autumn. Everything heresounds live, and is cast against the kind of very loud silence thatis only present in the very late hours at night. Frequentlyperformative, sung seemingly ad-lib- there's a creeping feeling thatpervades In Animal Tongue, only increasing as the record reaches thenostalgia-psychosis of 'Tunnel to the Stars' and the schizophrenia ofclosing number 'Hatching'. There's an inexplicable beauty to themaddening frequencies and drumming that abounds here, and this is howI feel about the entire record. It is deeply focused, recorded andperformed with care- but it sounds like it was recorded in the woodcabin from Lars Von Trier's Antichrist. This album is certainly notfor everyone, but unlike that film- In Animal Tongue is, you get theimpression, entirely for real, serious and committed to the notion ofextraordinary listening spaces. That's enough, for me. Whilst itmight not have the strike out value of Hello Voyager (which was,let's face it, largely a pop album)- In Animal Tongue is a profoundlyinteresting album that I'll treasure in my collection. It's weirdedme out frequently and significantly enough to merit the 7 stars I'mgiving it, though newcomers to Carla Bozulich might want to startelsewhere.

First published in the405

Clap Your Hands Say Yeah - Hysterical album review

2011-10-24T08:32:00.000-07:00

It's hard to know where to begin withClap Your Hands Say Yeah's third album. The conventional narrative upuntil now reads that the band sprung out of internet fame, a DIYaesthetic almost synonymous with their debut- and seemingly everyonewas an overnight fan. The jangly, retro-infused, charming anddefiant songs of their eponymous start united the entire indie scenein appraisal, much in the same way a Tumblr-borne artist like TheWeeknd aims for now. But in 2005, weren't we all that bit more naïve?The band seemingly second-guessed the audience backlash with theirfollow up record, the 'difficult second album' monicker being moreappropriate of an audience expectation than the band's composition.Some Loud Thunder was to some, unlistenable- but this reviewer foundit to be a rewarding album of hidden depths and studio trickery.Yeah, that bass was consistently fuzzing, the drums were awkwardlypanned and as far as I can tell, the vinyl and CD have differentversions of the title track- but can't some mistakes be deliberate?That it came wrapped in so many interviews, vocalist Alex Ounsworthtelling half-believable yarns that he never listened to musicproduced after 1980, that vinyl was his mantra- the album might havemade you work for it, infinitely more than their debut (a recordwhich dared you not to like it)- but it was overwhelmingly composed,its confusing studio mix clearly deliberate.

If Some Loud Thunder led some of theirfanbase up the garden path, then Hysterical could be considered aneven more disturbing WTF moment. From the moment it starts spinning,you are made aware of something different here. Namely, it soundsfantastic. Not in a compelling, interesting, sucks you in and can'tget it out of your head way, but rather in studio sound. Everythingis well mixed, well recorded- this is the sound of the professionalrecording industry, of money and 'maximising' technique behind eachnote- it could be a Kings of Leon record for chrissakes. This is alldown to the hiring of St Vincent producer John Congleton- but franklyit comes across in an instant like a disavowal of everything the bandhave stood for. So their first record was marked by whimsey andcharm, and the second was criticised for being too esoteric andbloody minded- but to my mind, the manner in which to respond to suchcriticisms is not by becoming the most arena-rock sounding,mainstream version of yourselves that you can be. It's like they'renegating all that made them unique in the first place, and in doingso- you're left wondering whether you only ever liked them for theirquirkiness, or whether the songs held true.

Fortunately, I firmly believe in thelatter. I only have to remember old numbers like 'Tidal Wave of YoungBlood' and 'Yankee Go Home' and I'm smiling giddily. Even thestronger moments from this record, like 'Ketamine and Ecstasy' or'The Witness' Dull Surprise' find themselves drowned out in a sea ofmediocrity. It's as if the album's sonic mastery undoes thepossibility of anything truly becoming memorable here. It all bleedstogether, and the band sound as if they're going through the motions.And I realise that it's unfair to review an album by comparing it toprevious works, that an album should be reviewed on its own strengthsand weaknesses- but Hysterical sounds so 'post' its preceding works,so conscious of the (unfair) criticisms that followed Some LoudThunder, that it rarely has opportunity to exist in its own space.

For me, the biggest question is why weended up here. Clap Your Hands took a five year hiatus, asoul-searching mission, and this album was preceded with theinevitable PR that the band had discovered themselves, found theirsound, etc. But if this is the sound of the band being true tothemselves, then the album makes it abundantly clear what a dull anddisappointing prospect that is.

4/10

First published in the405

Standon Calling: review

2011-08-25T06:49:00.000-07:00

FRIDAY

2011 marked Standon Calling's seventh year of public operation and the three day event promised much by way of bands and festive silliness. Friday morning: after we took one of the festival's easily-arranged taxis from our London flat, a trip that lasted no more than an hour, we arrived in blistering heat around lunchtime and began in good spirits: expedient tent-circle establishment and the drinking of an inaugural ale. Line ups consulted, fancy dress at the ready, the 405 had arrived in style and in this fashion intended to continue.

Friday's line up began mid-way through the afternoon- I have a soft spot for the half-day bills that coax you into the spirit of the weekend. And it began for us in the Twisted Licks tent, Standon's smaller tented venue, with Dananananaykroyd's mid afternoon billing. The impetuous Glasgow six-piece were tearing through an energetic set when we happened upon them, a large crowd bouncing enthusiastically in sync with the band's over the top performance style. Power pop at it's finest, this reviewer will admit to not being the group's most ardent devotee- but still, despite even my inherent cynicism, it was hard not to be convinced. Firstly, Dananananaykroyd have such a good time on stage. If they don't, then they're fantastic actors. It all looks like a dream come true for them, but if youthful innocence is their calling card- then ignore their musicianship at your peril. Whilst Calum Gunn and John Baillie Jr marauded the stage, leaping from amplifiers, stage diving, and scissor-kicking as if educated at Richard Linklater's School of Rock- the band on stage carved out a tight as you like punk-rock. Ended each performance with a congratulatory, ironic chorus of “We did it! We did it all together! Yessssssssssssssssssss!” (the way we all did when we were kids, the glee at 'whatever' being accomplished)- the band were enjoyable, ridiculous, professional, and absolutely hilarious.

Errors performed on the Main Stage, and their electronic post-rock grooves found a home in that field. An encore was denied, which seemed a shame as the gig improved exponentially as it went on. A slow start picked up pace as the crowd caught wind of what Errors were about, and danced in approval. Glitchy synth stabs and a cutting bass gave emphasis to the exemplary work that drummer James Hamilton was doing underneath; a frenetic, beaming, dervish of energy throughout, I've rarely seem drummers hit drums with such vigour. Simon Ward's intersong banter is a particular memory: dry awkwardness came with each reminder of “We're Errors”- not only getting funnier each time- but goodness that man could read a shopping list with that accent and I would listen intently.

London's Chrome Hoof next, the large avant-garde ensemble having descended on Standon Calling with tweets earlier that week warning of a space monster in the festival vicinity. Musically, the band no know limits- an eclectic mix of funk, space rock, doom, hip-hop- all conveyed with trademark complexity. But that's somewhat misleading, for like Mr Bungle at their best, all Chrome Hoof's disparate elements add up to a compelling, easily enjoyable sound. Clad in metallic robes head to toe, the band's members would come and go throughout the set as their revolving line up accommodated different songs and styles. A heady futuristic performance in the vein of Janelle Monae or perhaps more fittingly, Grace Jones- the gig was in need of a centrepiece moment, an event of theatricality to mirror their cosmic songwriting- and this came midway through, as the prophecised space monster invaded the stage, threatened everyone and was decapitated by a backing singer. We caught the (rather soggy) brain after it had been ripped from the monster's head and flung to the crowd.

A brief sojourn back to the 2nd stage, where hipster band du jour Washed Out were serenading a packed out tent. Really, the vibe was tangible and the smoke heavy in the air as the band performed a short set plucked from their debut LP- but this reviewer was unconvinced by the elitist attitude of the crowd, and the gig fell a little flat for me. The band never really broke out of a mindset of playing 'at' the crowd, and I can't blame them: half the audience was chattering, smoking, having a banter- or seemingly 'there' just to be seen there. If gigs are a marriage of mindsets between band and audience, then here both parties here failed to turn up. Washed Out played well, but without great enthusiasm for the moment.

Similar disappointments became of Friday's headliner, Battles. I'd been looking forward to this gig especially, given that it was my first opportunity of seeing the group perform as a three piece. They are like a new band, I had heard- and I was open minded, being a lover of their second album Gloss Drop. Opening with the chaotic pop of Sweetie & Shag, the band were clearly enjoying themselves on stage, if the overall effect was a little lost on Standon's gathered masses. One of the difficulties of releasing an album featuring guest vocalists is in the live re-performance: here, Battles enlisted a dual video screen with a custom-filmed projection of each singer performing their lines. This was synced up with the studio-mixed vocal, which was played as an overdub over the live music. Except, it wasn't always in time. Firstly, Sweetie & Shag's precision was lost under a hive of choral synths- there seemed a chasm-sized aural distance between the live music being played and the vocal overhead. Second, at times (as in Gary Numan's post-lyrical My Machines) the vocal overdub just wasn't in sync with the video. I appreciate it's hard.

The 'Will they? Won't they?' over the potential performance of Atlas was answered quickly enough- Tyundai Braxton's iconic vocal lines here re-sung (fittingly) by children. Closing their set with Gloss Drop highlight Futura, it became ever obvious just how compromised the band are by playing as a three piece. And this is no reflection on their ability to make compelling music, but rather in how it was being performed. I have always thought of Battles as a cyborg band- a perfect union between man, instrument and computer. Modulated effects, looped segments- it's hard to tell at moments what is being played live, and what is being manipulated. But whilst this has always been the case, Battles have arguably made the spectacle more interesting in the past. Here, it was obvious that riffs were being pre-recorded well in advance, only to be tapped into being played when needed. Very little, besides the synth stabs that perforated the band's riffs, and the compelling spectacle that is drummer John Stanier, was live. And this is no criticism, I have no gripe with this methodology (nor overdubbing guest vocalists)- but rather it's an acknowledgement of how much harder Battles have to work during a gig as a three piece.

I enjoyed their hour-long main set. It was difficult to follow in places but frequently inspiring- both musically and as a performance. Atlas won the undecideds over, Futura had done it for me. But when Battles returned for an encore, I'm not sure anyone could quite have predicted just how spectacularly it would fail. A ten minute build up comprised of looped and modulated guitar notes, dub synths passing left to right- eventually, cohesion coming out of this- Gloss Drop closer Sundome (by this point, half the crowd had left in search of pastures more enriching). It was an underwhelming outro, better suited perhaps for a crowd of ardent fans than a festival audience.

SATURDAY

Saturday morning at Standon Calling brought firstly a swim in the wonderful on-site pool. The sun was relentless, beautifully so, and a quick dip clearly seemed everyone's activity of choice- the pool was full but well rationed. It became a quite beautiful introduction to the day's events; the invigorating waters casting away any cramp or discomfort from the last night's adventuring.

Then came an unexpected delight whilst moseying back, an enormous guitar cacophony erupting from within the Twisted Licks tent- north London's Teeth Of The Sea inside. I only caught the last 20 minutes of what seemed a momentous performance; the band not letting their early billing get in the way of a towering, deafening rock sound. Strung out, violent and consumed by their noise-making, the band carved an impressive slot that pulled in those queuing for coffees, lulling about their mornings.

I had some coffee myself, and made my way down toward the festival's quieter end- its elysian fields. Here, the lovely vibe out bars one finds tucked away, the kind to serve you a warm chai and goad the night's frenzy with some soft folk, antiquated and proverbial, endlessly sweet, acoustically performed. There now was the draw of sock-wrestling, which I had happened upon the previous year quite by chance. The rules were simple, contestants drawn from the gathered crowd and wearing of two socks- must wrestle each other until a sock is removed, therein the remover being crowned champion over the bout's two sock-oriented legs. Rollicking good fun then, made all the more so by the troupe of enthusiastically dressed participants. For Saturday was Standon Calling's dress-up day, and festival-goers had clearly given in to inspiration for the weekend's Gods and Monsters theme. My comrades in arms that weekend, lovely folk from the London based 'music friendship' charity The Note Well, had indulged it a detached cool- dressed between them as characters from the Kanye West 'Monster' video. I had come robed in Panda God costume (What? Pandas make legitimate deities. Google it already) and was attempting to stay in character where possible, responding only with the grunts and roars I presumed Panda Bears to have.

A walk back up to the festival site proper, and a beautiful wail drew me into the Main Stage fields. There, quite unexpectedly, the festival's largest crowd thus far, bouncing and beaming to the Raghu Dixit Project. A large and ever-changing troupe led by group's namesake, the band had the crowd in their palms of their hands. The sun was bright and warm, flags danced in the crowd- a euphoric state took over. Ostensibly a collective endeavour, Raghu Dixit produced the group's debut album as a means of collating musicians into a cohesive platform for shared expression. Electric guitar thrashed in a manner that recalled Kula Shaker at their best, whilst Dixit's voice was a breathtaking thing. The control uttered over sky-arcing melodies seemed impossible, but Raghu was caught in effortless, joyful release. The gig was a pleasure, and certainly the festival's high point thus far.

Later that evening and after The 405 had enjoyed a sit-down chat with him, Saul Williams would take to the main stage. Clearly excitement was peaking and a few devotees in the crowd were anticipating the rare opportunity to catch Williams entertain a festival audience. His four piece band in place, he bounded onstage and stood at his mic in silence before launching into a venomous a'capella performance of old-school rhyme Coded Language. Vivid, clear and impassioned Williams catapulted this existentialist rap high into the fields. Its central motif a cry “to lift up the consciousness of the entire fucking world”, sent shivers arcing down my spine. Applause followed, and the band had launched into List Of Demands, its punk rock shimmy provoking mass breakout amongst the crowds. From here, the hour long set came thick and fast- some meandering in the middle borne of the artist's melodically oriented material. But it was relentless throughout, and Saul was a man born to recite from a stage. Second To Think was anguished, overall it was a lively, often awe-inspiring set from an artist with a back catalogue of riches.

By this point in the evening, the crowd looked just ridiculous. A comedy dragon built of many participants, the cast of Monsters Inc, sea creatures, beasties, Michael Jackson, John Terry- at one point Saul took note of the theatrics and taking into account the recent rioting across the country, noted how despite all this, creativity and human imagination has flourished.

I have often thought that Lamb, who headlined the Main Stage on the Saturday, are best suited to a festival audience. This was my third such Lamb gig, the first having been their quite genuinely tear-jerking farewell gig at Glastonbury in 2003 and the latter being a reunion gig at the Leveller's annual Beautiful Days festival in Devon. Here, the band were in a similarly splendid setting. A large crowd had amassed, and I think this is testament to the band's continued following. People seem to have a large amount of affection for their music, borne of the same era and location that saw Massive Attack and Portishead become internationally renowned. Lamb performed tracks from their early, pre-hiatus, albums- and kept newer material to a minimum, humbly introducing each new song as such. Lamb have a new album out, though the group were keen to appease the festival audience with well-known numbers like Gabriel, which seemed to stop even the air. An acoustic performance of a new song was touching, if for it's impromptu recital: the electronics board and Macbooks had given up the ghost temporarily, and so Standon Calling was treated to a perfectly cohesive, entirely unplanned bass and live drums rendition. As headliners, Lamb did not disappoint.

SUNDAY

Sunday firstly saw the much-anticipated Rockaoke, this year in the Twisted Licks tent. A four piece band, tight as you like, with a songlist as long as your arm and the invitation for onlookers and passers by to rock the mic with a live-ass band behind. It was all good fun, a bombastic version of pub-karaoke favourite Mustang Sally inciting a crowd singalong in the chorus, a good humoured and out of key rendition of Amy Winehouse's Valerie cover, and this reviewer couldn't let the opportunity pass by without hopping onstage for an outing of Rage Against The Machine's Killing In The Name. A theatrical song, frequently co-opted by anyone with a vaguely dissenting voice, too often used as a 'fuck you Mum and Dad' anthem- it's original meaning borne of the LA riots lost under the weight of dumb audience expectation. Frankly, I can understand why Zach De La Rocha left Rage. Anyway, I dedicated it to “all the muppets who woke up with a new flatscreen TV or pair of Nikes last week”, and enjoyed myself thoroughly. Apparently there is video evidence, which I am reluctant to embed anywhere near this article.

Next up was the afternoon billing for the inspired rap of Katie Tempest, fronting her Sound Of Rum three piece. A warm and affectionate reception was given, and in truth Tempest was a force. An unstoppable flow of wry social observations and delicately phrased rhetorical questioning, her rap skills are breathtaking- perhaps demonstrated best on the number where she decries an old 'open mic' freestyler for wearing all the bling and having no bars to back it up. “It's all about the content, it's not about your image” she barks, knowingly, self-depreciatingly. There's such little bravado about her, so few pretensions. She speaks between songs at once humbly and with confidence, there was little distance between the crowd and the stage. An a'capella poem recited in lieu of the recent social problems across the country, Katie offered a profound and touching perspective that through rap and rhyme became impossible to ignore. Her verses were staggeringly good, her mind dextrose and nimble in a way you wouldn't think possible for someone so young- she's only 24 and Scroobius Pip has called her “annoyingly good”. It's apt, but not annoying- you get the impression that hip-hop, and especially UK hip-hop needs voices like this at the moment- if only to offset the celebratarian faux-bling aspirations of the pop/grime scene- where content has been forgotten and image rules all (if anyone can tell me what Tinie Tempah is rapping 'about', in any one of his songs- I will bestow a worthy prize). Musically, the three piece shirked around electronic patterns and slight guitar riffing, drummer Ferry Lawrenson afforded an impressive solo at the gig's climax. An altogether accomplished unit, Sound of Rum ended the set with a spot of crowd participation. Katie couldn't help herself, “This is so much fun for me” she observed, as half the crowd chanted “Sound of” to the other's “Rum”, and she was spitting verses overhead using the crowd's voice as percussion. Sound of Rum's performance absolutely marked the high point of the festival, without a doubt. The band left to huge applause, and had seemingly made friends of everyone in that field.

And there, sadly- our Standon Calling came to an end. It was a splendid weekend in the sun, one that delivered favourite bands amidst newfound treats. A few of our favourite (and more random) memories then, to round up:

The horse-drawn carriage stage (which much to my surprise, boasted my old friend Lewis from The House Of Trouser on drumming duties). This toured the site all weekend, a troupe of guys and girls doing their finest horse impressions.

The space hopper tent. We indulged this many times over the weekend, going for space hopper races, space hopper wrestling, space hopper hopping competitions.

Great to see so much quality food onsite, add to that the delicious 'back of the van' coffee.

Spying other Pandas, and quickly becoming Panda friends.

The amount of bands that would play their gig and then be seen chilling around the festival, putting up their tents for the weekend. I can think of no greater testament to Standon Calling's loveliness than the willingness of artists to hang out with their fans afterward and not just 'do one' down the M25 to the next gig.

On Sunday, we caught up with friends of Alex Trenchard (the landowner whose birthday party inspired Standon Calling, who is now incarcerated in a well documented case of 'Robin Hood'), who were touring the site inviting everyone to write postcards to the missing birthday boy. This was a lovely gesture. I remember seeing Alex painting onstage last year during Buena Vista Social Club and I think that everyone at the festival holds him in warm regard. Also of note: seeing his parents travel around the site and meet people. Wonderful.

See you next year, Standon Calling!

First published in the405

Saul Williams interview

2011-08-25T06:45:00.000-07:00

Of all the artists to play this year's Standon Calling, I was perhaps looking forward to seeing Saul Willliams the most. The enigmatic rapper/poet/actor had toured his fourth album, Volcanic Sunlight, earlier in the year and despite best arrangements, I had lived to regret missing it. Here then was a rare chance to see Saul entertain a festival audience, and it was a pleasure to meet with him earlier that afternoon. Saul Williams has been an outspoken figure, demonstrating a political self-awareness throughout his work across music, poetry and film. Given the context of what had been a tumultuous week in British politics/civic order, to say the very least, this seemed the perfect opportunity to converse at length.

405: Good afternoon Saul. How are you?

SW: I'm good, thank you. Woke up in Paris this morning, now I'm here in this beautiful field.

Glad to hear it. First up, could you talk us through your latest record. Is there a concept to the record, an overarching message?

The goal of the album was to create a record that sounded exactly like the title, Volcanic Sunlight. Besides that, I can't say that there's a common themality except for in my approach to it. And that approach was simple: I didn't feel like writing any songs borne out of anger. And anyone who is familiar with my previous albums will know that, well, anger and I have been pretty tight!

I think of your early work, which was almost driven by that very directed, pointed form of anger.

Yeah, we've had an intimate relationship in the past, a healthy one. But this time, I wanted to do something different.

I wanted to talk about this anger briefly, in reference to previous releases like the Not In My Name EP, or songs like Act 3 Scene 2. This politically motivated anger often found inspiration, if I can call it that, in the policies of the Bush presidency. How do you feel about Obama, and is this record a reflection of your changed attitudes?

How I feel about Obama is how I now feel about politics in general. I'm a bit further down the road now, and I see that for what they are politics, politicians, governments play their part. They do as much as they can do. I don't believe in the idea of martyrs or individuals having more power than the people themselves, I believe politicians are there inherently to reflect us. Obama, symbolically, holds his ground well. Nonetheless, I understand the dissatisfaction from, for example, the left- who often seem like they'd prefer him to be a dictator for the left, for socialist egalitarian policies- in the same way perhaps as some might interpret Bush's actions as him being a dictator for the right. I do think the more sage response would be less of a dictator and more of a balance between the two, but that would be and is very upsetting to the left. And not satisfying to the right either.

Is it a question of whether the end, in this case policy, justifies the means, i.e. totalitarianism?

Partly. It's also a question of time, how much time does it take to pull out of Iraq, for example? Policy takes time. All these bullshit equations we wake up and find ourselves in, no different than you or I born into a family that has a religion, or that has a socio-political background. Man, we're born into that and we're raised to believe it until we come of age and question “Do I have to perpetuate the ideals of my father and mother?” In the same way, I think a president is born into a situation and has to navigate their own growth. Thus, I think the more interesting Obama would be in his second term.

Regardless of policy, I think a lot of people are hoping Sarah Palin runs against him- if only for the broadcast television debates and subsequent YouTube-worthy moments.

Haha, yeah. On the whole, there are so many issues in American politics which sadden me, that surprise me, that stop me and make me take notice. Are we still dealing with that? There's an actual frontrunner in the Republican ticket whose husband thinks you can teach gay people how not to be gay. You know? This is the 21^st century, the world over, and we're still just there? It's a fucking shame. And it's for those reasons I say “politics plays its part” because people and ideas are evolving at a quicker rate than politicians can possibly keep up with.

The discourse catches up with itself eventually, as an idea gains in popularity. Perhaps it's ironic then that our so-called leaders do little at a time like this but 'respond'. That's a good link to my next question actually, on the recent UK news. I wanted to ask if you'd seen much of the country's rioting and the Government's subsequent response.

Yes, of course. To me, it's not even a matter of opinion. The facts are there. It's obvious to all that there is this unspoken tension in the younger generations and it's come out like, yeah, what the fuck. Otherwise, if it wasn't there, that wouldn't be the response.

There seems to be a willingness in this country not to acknowledge our shared responsibility towards that underclass, to not understand but rather to now punish and condemn. Many people have been reminded of the Martin Luther King quotes about the riots being the voice of the unheard.

And it is, essentially that. And it remains that. Anyone who says there isn't a class system in England would be foolish. It's evident through history. We all just celebrated a wedding, a national wedding of royal blood.

And we all paid for it, too.

Yeah, exactly. And of course, so there's going to be people who just look at that and think, “Ok, so now what about us? What about these streets?” So yes, voices have to be heard. And if people are slow in moving, slow in responding then more voices will need to be heard, and they will go about it in ways we can't control, using whatever means they have available to them. And sometimes it might seem easier to burn the first car you see in front of you than to get on the phone with your local congressman. Do you guys have congressmen?

MPs. We have MPs. And I think you can email them.

Yeah, right. Email them. Of course you can.

I wanted to ask you about beat poetry and hip-hop in general. How do you see those two disciplines interconnecting, or rather, where does one end and the other begin?

Well, to tell you the truth, I started out as an MC in New York. My relationship to poetry came through rapping primarily, and then through studying theatre. When you're reading a play closely, you dissect the language and of course when you listen to hip-hop, you use a similar form of deconstruction. So many playwrights were rhythmic, in their metre and stanza, line for line. And so, I grew like this: hip-hop and classical theatre. I wrote songs before I wrote poems, but I became known in the public eye through poetry. That gave me the opportunity to make music, which was my first love. Of course my first first love, before all that, was acting, was theatre. In all of these cases I feel like someone who happened upon something, I didn't grow up saying I wanted to be a poet or an actor, I just grew up reading poetry. I quit rapping when I was 16 because I wanted to be the youngest rapper alive- when I got to 16, I was all “Fuck it, it didn't happen”.

When you perform onstage to a crowd, is that an extension of theatrical performance?

Of course.

And how do you, if at all, separate the notions of art and entertainment?

I'm an entertainer. But it's like, I believe, I was entertained when I was growing up, I was heavily entertained by Public Enemy, I was entertained by playwrights like Amiri Baraka, I was entertained by South African playwrights like Athol Fugart. These were things that had serious political weight, but the end-point of Public Enemy was to make you dance. As they say, “Make you jump along, make you dance along to your education”. I never thought I had to be false or commit to a stupid idea to enjoy myself at a party. So when you close your eyes and you dance, and you hear 'Poker Face' or whatever, you could just as easily contextualise that as something profound, something driven and serious, like Rage Against The Machine you know- which is just as entertaining.

That post-structuralist Death Of The Author idea, then.

Yeah, I can totally accept that. Hahah.

Great. Thanks for spending time with us today Saul. Looking forward to your gig later.

Me too. Catch you then.

First published in the405

Standon Calling: Literary line up announced (news)

2011-07-26T05:06:00.000-07:00

Let it not be said that next month's Standon Calling does not cater for the academically minded festival punter. Besides one of the most eclectic and widely-informed line ups to be seen gracing a (probably muddy) field this summer, the festival has just announced the full billing for its Under Cover Literary Lounge.

It's a diverse smorgasbord of raw literary talent, creatively minded thesps and noteworthy personalities: poet and editor Tim Wells, known for his own iambic work as well as collaborations with East London reggae soundsystem Tighten Up- will be performing a spoken word set. Meta-critic James Bridle, who describes himself modestly as a “writer, publisher, editor, coder, designer, consultant, producer and cook” will take his audience on a journey down the recesses of internet fiction, a talk which will touch on Star Trek, Harry Potter and (catering for all tastes) Top Gear. Though probably not how any of us are imagining it.

Acclaimed novelist and comedienne Lana Citron (who infamously undertook her hour-long slot on Antony Gormley's 'One and Other' project by blowing kisses to passers-by from atop the fourth plinth) will surely offer up an entertaining, intellectual and engaging debate around notions of 'kissing'. But perhaps the biggest draw, certainly the act with the biggest star-power, is reformed drug-dealer turned professional talker Howard Marks. Anyone who has read Mr Nice or seen Howard in conversation before will know what to expect, a rollicking anecdotal rediscovering of what now seems a wholly alien past-life (at his peak, Marks was said to be controlling 10% of the world's hashish trade). Audience members will enjoy the chance to engage with Marks on the festival's chosen Gods and Monsters theme, and on the inherent ridiculousness of using a career as a wanted drugs smuggler as a springboard to becoming a public speaker. Alternatively, questions about pressing cannabis resin or rolling L's will also be welcome. Saturday night sees the world-renowned Literary Death Match descend upon Standon's Under Cover tent- a wild and frenetic fight to the very end using only the raw, undeniable power of semiotics. Sunday afternoon will see an irreverent interpretation of Shakespeare's Measure For Measure- performed by Roar Theatre. Festival goers are also promised a cavalcade of board games, giant twister (wink wink) and to close each night, a carnival sound system. Quite plush escapism, I hope you will agree.

Published on the405

Esmerine - La Lachuza: review

2011-07-10T11:46:00.000-07:00

As I write this review, a sudden downpour has begun it's onslaught outside and the sky has turned grey. Esmerine's record has become, effortlessly, one of my favourite albums of recent memory- and the weather seems appropriate. The album is tinged with nostalgia, filled with gentle, sombre moments of reflection that sit well with gazing longingly from one's window. In this moment, the rain makes for a touching accompaniment.

Comprising another fine project from Montreal's avant-garde community, loosely composed around the Godspeed arc of the last decade- La Lachuza represents Esmerine's first record in six years, after a strong debut release on Alien8 and a self-released follow-up. This is the group's first album for Constellation and there's an element of homecoming about this body of work. Dedicated to the memory of renowned Montreal singer Lhasa de Sela, a dear friend of the band, La Lachuza is by turns emotive and powerful, delicately wrought and stunningly beautiful.

Previous Esmerine albums have been wholly instrumental works, focused around the lyrical cello lines of Becky Foon and Bruce Cawdron's marimba and glockenspiel. This is still largely the case, with fine interplay between drawn-out strings and staccato percussion- but La Lachuza has given opportunity for Esmerine to expand to a four-piece outfit, incorporating harp and additional percussion. These elements round Esmerine's sound into a more inviting dynamic, and allow a complexity of rhythm and melody as evidenced on the majestic 'Trampolin', a flurry of hyperactive notes that recalls Sigur Ros' experimental work. Elsewhere, 'Sprouts' employs restrained instrumentation to it's credit- a slow build giving way to frenetic choral moments, rich with colour.

Marking a departure from previous work, Esmerine here involve vocal duties on a few of the album tracks. This seemingly bold move had me worried- their instrumental sound has been evocative enough, and there's always an implication with vocal lines that they lead the song, detracting from the instrumentation beneath. Not so here, as 'Last Waltz'- the first of the album's vocal tracks, demonstrates. Calling on the services of Arcade Fire and Bell Orchestre member Sarah Page, the track is arced around the ominous refrain “words are waiting to be said”- but the music is balanced throughout. In the spaces between verses, Neufield sings in chords, utelising her voice as another instrument to build sound with. Bathed in reverb, and set against the cello, harp and marimba- the effect is one of simple, longing beauty.

As with so many wonderful records, I have trouble pinning down exactly what this album is. La Lecuza has sounded different and perfectly appropriate in so many moments- at 4am sharp and angular, on a sunlit morning it is revelatory and awakening, and now- as the rain comes down in torrents, it seems nostalgic and affective. In so far as their own canon is concerned, this record must stand as a towering achievement, perhaps their most accomplished album to date. The recording standard is outstanding, the mix complementing the nature of the instruments and allowing space in between them- apparently much of the album was recorded live. I can't recommend this album highly enough- as someone who has followed the group from album one, it has pleased me greatly to hear such a wonderful record, one that exceeded my (already high) expectations so vastly. It is a rare pleasure, from start to finish.

Disappears / The Oscillation - Live at The Borderline, 31/05/11

2011-06-02T04:29:00.001-07:00

I'd discovered Chicago's Disappears fairly recently, and as with any recent acquisition to my list of 'new favourite bands', my excitement at seeing the group live was at a peak. On a night when Thurston Moore was entertaining another of my housemates at one of the city's larger venues, Sonic Youth drummer Steve Shelley was lined up to regale a gathered few with his new outfit in the small, utterly charming enclave that is Soho's Borderline club.

We arrived early on and with enough time to witness the opening band, The Oscillation. Hailing from Walthamstow, the four piece shimmied through a humble set of post-punk numbers, tight and restrained as they were. All told, the group held a tight groove and boasted a warm sound. Held together by keyboard drones and a shirking bass, their songs clearly held a power and this seemed to come to a crescendo as their brief set closed up. Indeed, their bandcamp page has provided much in the way of good listens a day after.

And then, to a small but eager crowd, Disappears gathered their equipment and launched headfirst into opening number 'Magics', from their debut LP 'Lux'. Released on the continually brilliant label Kranky, Disappears debut is an unashamedly raw 30 minutes of rock music, the kind you could jam to at 4 am with friends. Here, detail is insignificant- drowned out almost by a wave of chainsaw-esq guitars and pounded drums. On vocals, Brian Case barked in calls and yelps, unrepeatable expressions and croons- his voice beautifully obscured with echo and reverb. The overall effect is one of driven imprecision, intoxicated and seductive. Disappears beseech you not to enjoy it. To those friends who I have played their album in recent weeks and who remarked that the band 'aren't doing anything new'- this motion misses the point entirely. If Disappears's music is an indulgence, then so be it- some things can be unpretentious and still artful. And few bands these days seem capable of merely playing for joy, I recall seeing Fang Island some months ago and remarking what a rare opportunity for crowd high fiving it was. Similarly, and perhaps more appropriately, New York's Oneida seem inflicted with the sheer thrill of making sound, loud, rhythmic, crass and punk rock.

In the course of the 40 minutes the band spent on stage with us, Disappears tore through numbers from their two albums with pace and vigour - the songs taking on a real power in the room, as the reverb and feedback from the end of one piece became the beginning of the next track. The band were tight and controlled, allowing the strength of their songs to drive the concert's momentum. And whilst I could reflect on how the band could easily have performed in a larger venue, to more people - it is a treat to witness a group like this playing to a crowd there deliberately. If and when they do revisit these shores, it will be to a larger audience- and they'll probably play in exactly the same manner. Bold, assured, meditative and engrossed in their own music making. It seems completely marvelous to me.

First published in the405.

Akira The Don - The Life Equation: review

2011-06-02T04:27:00.000-07:00

Children of the 80's and 90's, how fondly will you look back on those formative years? Mid-90's, I could be found perched by the radio deck every Sunday evening as the charts wound down the full gamut of that week's pop offerings. That era marked the birth of 'the wholly manufactured' pop act, and the top tens reflected the saccharine tones of these groups mashing it alongside the blooming and yet-to-be Blairised Britpop scene. Indie has always prided itself on authenticity- but even the pop might have seemed more sincere. Were songs less cynical then? If so, could it be a time-specific triumph of now-retro production and an industry still figuring out just how profitable it could be? 2011, and naivety of that era has truly passed. Songs of innocence then, and of experience now.

It's not that I had intended to start the review like this, but some records genuinely throw you. I wasn't expecting this. Akira The Don's second album proper- The Life Equation is a lovingly composed pastiche of such moments, circumnavigating nostalgia for its own sake in lieu of an almost forgotten songwriting form, cast off, disassembled, and herein restored.

Coming off the back of a series of increasingly spectacular rap mixtapes (now up to 25 and all available gratis via his website), lovers of raw loop work and rhythm play may feel underwhelmed by this LP- but whilst it couldn't be described as conventional hip-hop, Akira's rap dexterity is tested thoroughly across this record's 10 tracks. This is a pop album foremost, an record of songs and meaning communicated. The heartbreakingly sincere 'We Won't Be Broke Forever, Baby' orates reassurances to a lover, promises of solace from dark days. Elsewhere, the first song proper 'Video Highway' comes across as the kind of song Blur might have penned if they'd done speed and not coke. It's frenetic- and reminded me of the anime films I used to watch in the 90s when I had days off from school with the flu. High speed chase scenes, bright colours and newsreaders, swirling text, impossible energy without limit- all chaotically transfused within the prism of my fevers. As an album opener, it's relentless - a real slap upside the head.

The sun-clasped 'shake n bake' of 'All The Right Things' follows, the lulled jangle in it's verses taking me right back to Jurassic 5's good moments. The chorus is all horns and jump-ups, Akira calling the world as he sees it: his inimitable worldview a fusion of heady optimism, infectious enthusiasm and all-encompassing bricolage.

The Life Equation can be seen as a fervent call to arms, an existential cold shower- it's introduction calling for greater unity, less emphasis on the individual- and similarly, the spoken word samples that pop up in the epic album version of 'The Life Equation' itself, seek to reaffirm this message. If the album can seem lovingly devoted to notions of quintessentially 80's and 90's British music, then it is also a forward-thinking record of positivity and realised potential. Akira is a noted home-producer, and his series of mixtapes and 'Doncasts' testify that the bedroom recording aesthetic of constant production and meta-creativity is one that seems especially pertinent here. Co-produced by Stephen Hague, famed for his work on Pet Shop Boys, New Order, Peter Gabriel and, somewhat adorably, Mel C- the album bears tints of bygone pop, but the instrumentation choice and use of the studio suggest this is a record that could only have been made 'now'. The Life Equation's Sonic choices could be conceptual, a reading of the text which I'm transplanting through association- at its core, this is an album of some very strong material and a worthy addition to Akira's ever expending musical repertoire.

First published on the405.

Standon Calling 2011: Festival Preview

2011-05-26T08:07:00.001-07:00

Besides one of the most exciting line-ups a UK festival can boast this year, Standon Calling is set to unleash all manner of nightmarish visions and epic mythologies upon festivalgoers this summer.

This little gem of a festival, tucked away in Hertfordshire, is one of a growing number of independently run 'boutique' festivals which promise a more authentic, responsible and engaging weekend experience than the corporate festival behemoths which have come to dominate the UK summer circuit- and has fast become one of our favourite occasions on the calendar.

What started inauspiciously with a birthday barbecue between friends some nine years ago quickly became defined by the organisers' desire to hold the best party they could, or so the story goes. A stage appeared, but even when bands of some considerable repute began making the journey to play at the gathering, it hadn’t occurred to organisers that they were putting together anything more significant than a cracking house party. But since 2001, a seismic shift has polarised festival goers between those happy to pay over the odds and engage in the ‘theme park experience’ of the mainstream festivals and that more discerning crowd: people desiring something more engaging and authentic- and Standon Calling has found it's audience and blossomed in the years since.

At no point is the festival spirit compromised by a necessity to advertise, do things by half-measures or pander to corporate demands. As such, a lucid and immersing space is maintained, a place for imagination to run riot and creativity to flourish. And more than catering for a superficially ad-free experience, the ethos runs into the Standon Calling's approach towards the on-site food and bars, which offer a diverse range of quality nourishment sold by people you can have conversations with, through the festival's décor and visual aesthetics, and through each festival's unique fictionalised sub-story and dress-up theme.

Like Bestival and Secret Garden Party, this 5,000 capacity festival- staged entirely in the grounds of a 16th Century manor house (with it's own swimming pool) incorporates all the whimsy of dressing up with an annual theme- and a carnival atmosphere prevails across the weekend. But more than merely requesting it’s willing punters to don a bit of vintage or home-spun costume, Standon Calling’s fantasy world is immersive and fully realised.

We visited the festival last year and were taken aback by it's unique and welcoming atmosphere. This is a site where attention to detail has been paid, where care for your experience has been considered and where anything is likely to happen. Taking the dress-up theme fantastically further than any other festival troupe would, Standon Calling enlists the services of The Heritage Arts Company in entwining a themed narrative throughout the weekend experience. Last year this involved an art theft and murder mystery- a real 'whodunnit' that was elucidated over the weekend with flyers, newspapers and actors immersed in their surroundings. At one point, a 'police officer' enlisted us to join a search party, to report clues back to the local constabulary: a pop-up 1930s police store centred in the festival's faux-vintage high street. This year the chosen theme is Gods and Monsters, a title which invites classicism and fantasy in equal measure. However it unfurls, it seems implausible that a festival manifest such an aesthetic in any less than 'epic' circumstance. And so it seems, from the Garden of Healing to a Zombie Marketplace- Standon Calling is embracing it's theme with vigour: rumours of black magick midnight rituals abound.

And this is without mentioning the extraordinary music that Standon has quickly becoming associated with. An eclecticism pervades the line-up choices, and you're likely to see many bands here that just don't play at other UK festivals. Last year saw Fucked Up, Liars and Pantha Du Prince play one after another, comprising possibly the finest 3 hours of music I experienced in 2010. This season, a similarly impressive collection of high quality independent artists dominates the scheduling. Friday's main stage headline slot goes to art-rock impresarios Battles, who will be touring second album 'Gloss Drop'- whilst the Saturday headline slot belongs to UK festival favourite Spiritualised, in what promises to be a memorable performance. The festival is closed by a headline slot from house-maestros Hercules and Love Affair, whose uplifting, super-hip house stylings will guarantee a warm, enthused end to the festival. Elsewhere, a rare UK date for invigorating NY rap-poet Saul Williams catches the eye and will surely be a highlight. Hackney swing-favourites The Correspondents make an appearance- and are at their best when regaling a festival audience, never failing to win the hearts of their crowds with their jangly remixing of vintage swing numbers, broken and transfused to dubstep and house beats.

It's a line up which surprises as much as it does excite- we came away last year having made many discoveries, plenty of 'new favourite band' moments amidst actually seeing our existing favourite bands. There's a philosophy which carries through all the line-up choices, an aesthetic which binds them. Further, the festival is known for having 'an eye' to catching emerging artists before they break: Florence and the Machine and Mumford & Sons are both remembered for having played breakthrough gigs in this festival's intimate and inspired environment.

And though we enjoyed so many musical moments at Standon Calling, it is the attention to detail in every other aspect of the festival that won us over and captured our hearts- whether it be the quality of the food (organic throughout, fair trade where possible) or the beautiful and well-thought out décor that adorned the space. We spent the weekend collecting moments: from the immerse art-stalls and narrative that unfolded across the weekend, to the impromptu sock-wrestling that saw priests fight ninjas, pirates fight strong-men. The delightful ladies from The Note Well who provided us with “guerilla” cake, the festival's on-site live-band karaoke, the Australian dude who'd carted his biodegradable toilets around the world, the decadence and noir of the 4am cinema, all the beautiful, happy, smiling, drunk, staggered, interesting, interested, psychic and special people we met along the way and the friends we made of them, oh- the unimaginable luxury of having a swimming pool on site! Standon Calling is a unique and special place, one we are very fond of.

Standon Calling runs from 11th to the 14th of August. Full weekend tickets cost £120.

Full details can be found at: www.standon-calling.com or you can follow the festival's (highly amusing) tweets here: www.twitter.com/standoncallin

First published in The405

Anni Rossi - Heavy Meadow: review

2011-05-19T04:26:00.000-07:00

I first heard Anni Rossi back in 2005. The Chicago based violist was with Carla Bozulich's then band as it toured Evangelista across Europe, and I caught an impromptu gig at Barden's Boudoir only a night after Bozulich had supported A Silver Mt Zion at Koko. The night afforded a twenty minute set to Rossi, who captivated the early birds with a rousing solo performance of shirking, playful vocals, fierce string manoeuvring and her impassioned tap and foot-stomping. Anni Rossi was a force, her talent and passion belying a tender age. In the years since this modest introduction, it has been pleasing to see her signed to forward-thinking indie label 4AD. Though previous homemade EP releases had been made through her “I'll play anywhere” attitude to global touring, Rossi enjoyed the privilege of recording her debut album proper, 2009's Rockwell with Albini, famously recording all the tracks and their arrangements in a day.

That record was a progression from her earlier, more stripped down sound. Here, viola and vocals called in drumkit and occasionally, synth chords. Whilst Rossi's solo live shows can be enchanting in their performative nature, here was an album that recognised the potential that a studio recording can offer. Arrangements were used modestly, only to complement her unique viola style; chords stabbed at and strung-out, her instrument assaulted and embraced. Inevitable comparisons with nu-folk's other 'weird string instrument' wunderkind, Joanna Newsom, inevitably followed- but Rossi's voice was unmistakably her own. Whilst Newsom may be content to reside upon an austere folk seriousness, a promise of authenticity- Rossi's work is more playful, less self-aware.

On Heavy Meadow- Rossi takes these studio elements further, expanding her songwriting repertoire with collection of highly focused songs. Whilst we are unlikely to see Rossi perform with 8 piece bands and such, these songs explore a range of instrumentation with simplicity. Flashes of guitar used as utterances in verses, 80s pastiche synths in the choruses of Crushing Limbs- a modesty pervades these recordings, but a maturity too in their arrangements. These are post-punk lullabies, highly professional sweetheart songs- stories that move far beyond the endearing nu-folk that marked her early releases. The album can move from twee to heavy in instants, there's a control in the record's mood throughout. A reverb heavy clean guitar slides a draining chord progression in the left channel of Hatchet's chorus, and the songs mood shifts in degrees.

Lyrically too, the album sees Anni Rossi moving beyond conventions of her past into a more lucid, compelling storytelling. Biography and retelling gives way to wholly formed narratives The Fight and pained stabs at resolution in Frame Me Right, a song which reveals an honesty and vulnerability not seen before. If this song is open, torn, at wit's end- then The Fight is the mood formed of conviction. It's irresistible beat is almost neu-disco, the driven shimmy and mirroring synths lending her vocals a defiant, aggressive quality. Elsewhere, Candyland is a toying call and answer verse that leads to nostalgia-tearing chorus. “Play it cool”, she recalls- before the reassurance only learnt in retrospect- “love is the only rule”.

The album closes with a song I first heard back at that gig in '05. Safety of Objects is a majestic and upbeat pop-number, it's strings picked as if her viola were standing in for a 90's grunge band. The song was first recorded for one of those 'hand out at gigs' cds, an acoustic viola performance rich with glee. This version loses none of that original's curiosity or verve, a chirpy drumpad sequence and oceanic synth here complementing lyrics which affirm the physical nature of things. The album's final song might well be it's most revealing, symbolic as it is of the record's whole process. Though her songwriting aesthetic might have matured and grown in confidence, her voice is still remarkably, and pleasingly, her own.

First published on the405

Kode9 and Spaceape - Black Sun: review

2011-04-18T03:03:00.000-07:00

Whether through the exercising of a Western totalitarianism’s might in North Africa, the ongoing witch hunt America is indulging over Wikileaks or the continuing nuclear crisis in Japan- apocalypse haunts us daily, and governments profit just as regularly from exploiting these fears. That science-fiction can offer us more uncomfortable truths about our existence than realist prose is well-documented and largely down to it’s creative license and our willingness to suspend disbelief. The latter example holds special pertinence; Japan has processed it’s own nuclear apocalypse through metaphor and storytelling ever since the bombs were dropped, and there’s a crushing familiarity to the scenes being played out on 24 hour rolling news, of fact and fiction overlapping with a painful deja-vu. If this proves anything, it may be that our world is becoming tragically unmistakable from the paranoid, visionary fantasies of Ballard and the like: that the dystopic futures predicted in science fiction are seeming increasingly like self-fulfilling prophecies.

‘Black Sun’, the new LP from Hyperdub founder Kode9 and longtime collaborator Spaceape resonates along these lines, expanding the mythos of dystopia into a lucid whole comprising both a cohesive narrative and an appropriately unnerving aural palette. Lush cover art inspired by Japanese woodblock prints and an expansive graphic strip included in the liner notes elucidate detail onthe record’s concept. Standout track ‘The Cure’ draws on Spaceape’s own experiences with illness, manipulating it into a vague but compelling exposition of fear and post-humanism. There is a surrealism and unreality which pervades these themes, and perhaps fear is only natural- insofar as anything in cyborg consciousness can be. Many artists employ populist narrative themes to enhance their work, or imbue it with a borrowed relevance, and sci-fi holds a special appeal- Nine Inch Nail’s simplistic Year Zero comes to mind, as does Janelle Monae’s engaging Archandroid and Method Man’s Bobby Digital alter-ego. But ‘Black Sun’ adeptly negotiates the pitfalls of co-opting a sci-fi aesthetic- never painting it’s imagined future with a preaching morality or a deliverance of answers- this is music content with it’s curiosity of overlapping realities.

And if it sounds dystopian, a product of the broken future- then this is most probably the case- ‘Black Sun’ is carved from frequencies and tones designed with the record’s semantic content in mind. A lecturer in philosophy, Kode9’s recently published thesis ‘Sonic Warfare: Sound, Affect, and the Ecology of Fear’ describes the idea that sound can evoke effect, be transportative- and explores the way that sound is used to reposition the listening subject. Famously, guests enjoying the facilities at Guantanamo Bay have been treated to prolonged exposure to the Barney theme tune as part of their psychological conditioning- and generally speaking, its a philosophy which finds much in common with the pervasiveness of sound in Ballard’s writing. If sound has an important role to play in the construction or repositioning of subjectivity then ‘Black Sun’ uses these taut, alternating frequencies to strengthen and reaffirm it’s imagined nightmares and to project them with sonic certainty.

The album title is evocative in multiplicities; of contorted celestial bodies, sin and complicity, society’s death, manifest corruption, the occult- suitable themes for dystopia then- and the album turns on it’s title track, itself a retelling of an earlier story. ‘Black Sun’ was first released a single in 2009 and that version’s angular beat-work is here replaced with subtlety and a slow-build, it’s jarring synths softened, nuanced frequency work set around the shifting chords. Indeed much of this record has been collated over years- tracks undergoing frequent edits, lyrics transmuted between songs. This hypertext approach to composition is itself the product of cyborg mentality, and the artists use tropes of post-humanism throughout the lyrics- utilising their central narrative as means of tying these disparate recordings together with a thematic commonality. This is a world of nuclear fallout and transient identity, where taking the prescribed cure for Earth’s radiation will inevitably mutate you. This jarring predicament calls into question notions of identity and home, their inexorable connectivity.

‘Black Sun’ is a compelling record- that rare kind of concept album that offers an experience both sonically and aesthetically engaging. Perfectly suited to the late night headphone experience and urban navigation, I found myself repositioned through having this on- human interactions became software requests, at every turn I was interfacing with an external reality suddenly taking on qualities inherent to unreality. Perhaps that is the key element of a successful science fiction: that it forces re-perception upon you- brutal truths, abject nightmares and all.

First published in Notion.

We Love Japan, Akira the Don and Adam Ant: review

2011-04-18T03:02:00.000-07:00

The bill for Saturday’s We Love Japan benefit at the (cough) “Relentless” Garage had been put together hurredly but with vigour, as is usually the case for such rapidly-announced charity gigs. All credit to the organisers of the night, who not only secured a plethora of bourgeois swag for the evening’s inevitable raffle but who had also coaxed out a rare solo gig out of, and I hasten to repeat the words, 70′s glam legend Adam Ant. I wouldn’t want to be glib, or offer too ready an embrace of kitsch- but gods! I’d come to check out Akira the Don, who had initially been booked to headline- but now I’m seeing an Adam Ant gig! Potential for rock star anecdotes to tell my dad just went through the roof!

Anyway, we’d not come to see the Ant- or that guy from E4 cast as the night’s awkward compere (how do you strike the right tone between recognition of utter tragedy and the desire to have a good night out?)- tonight promised only the opportunity of a rare live outing for the Hackney-based rap-tastic Akira The Don.

This gig, albeit a benefit slot, came at a good time for The Don- shortly after the release of the 25th free mixtape via his website, and before the release of his second proper album, The Life Equation. That mixtape, ATD25- is a phenomenally enjoyable thing- a unstoppable barrage of rapid verses, stupidly good sampling (their remix of Marina and The Diamonds ‘I am not a robot’ is a work of breathtaking alchemy), complementary guest verses and taut production smacking of professionalism and potential. Such sonic results demonstrate well why Akira was initially booked for the night’s main slot. That being said, and making do- a half hour set was more than enough for this enigmatic hip-hop artist to bring his particular ruckus to an audience left tender by the ear-shattering heavy metal band that had preceded (note: that’s not a criticism per se: I think ‘ear-shattering’ is firmly in the mandate for heavy metal bands- central to their raison d’etre, if you will).

Donned in an authentically ‘back in the day’ Wu Tang jumper (from the Iron Flag tour, OG auditers- but besides, what’s with everyone hating on Iron Flag anyway? Ok, it’s not traditional Wu- but it’s got some solid tunes! Akira knows…) and with the help of DJ friend Jack Nimble (who was given his props, no doubt) Akira tore through a set that reflected much of his back catalogue at it’s finest. Old school number “Living in the Future’ was performed with it’s trademark innocence remixed and Akira bouncing around the stage with a glee that was infectious. The beautifully summer ready ‘Oh! What a glorious day!’ gave opportunity for some bona fide sentimentalism, a sing-along in the chorus bracketing odes to cycling down the Kingsland Road in the sun. Pausing between numbers to orate in his uniquely enthused manner (after climbing up a side-stage ladder, noting to himself with excitement ‘Ok, wow- that’s a good climbing ladder..’)- there’s something that’s plain irresistible about the kind of hip-hop Akira the Don is making and all his swagger is ultimately endearing. Calling onstage a troupe of “hip-hop superfriends” (Pixel, Littles, Big Narstie, Marvin the Martian) for the closing number ‘Big Iron’, a standout track from ATD25- the song had the feel of a special moment. The track bounces and jangles like something the RZA might have produced on an upbeat day- and along the finest teachings of the Wu, each verse is magnificent, each rapper’s tone and flow complementing as well as drawing distinction from those around it. And that was that- the support slot feeling all too brief, all too enjoyable.

An intermission, E4 guy doing his level best, and the crowd’s dynamic manifestly altered: the front rows of hipster boys and lolita-inspired harajuku girls replaced by a row of 80s rockers who had taken to reliving their youth in dusted-off leather jackets, and their wives. I was under no illusion what to expect; this was a solo gig from Adam Ant, whatever that meant, and the signs around me were telling their own story. I was open minded enough, and thought I was prepared for this gig to speak for itself. But then, how do you prepare for a performance so underwhelming it merely confuses? Adam Ant bounded onstage dressed up like November 5th had come early. His guitar fed back throughout. He dedicated a song to Elizabeth Taylor (at a Japan benefit, I’d like to remind dear readers). He covered Wild Thing, stripping it of all it’s sex, and seemingly left in a small tissy after failing to rouse the crowd into a singalong with his broken voice. Seriously, some of those high notes? Were meant to be higher. Look, many people applauded him throughout- and he did well playing solo and keeping the crowd engaged enough- staring down audience members and offering perfectly contorted facial expressions on demand and in cue with the showmanship on the fretwork- but I didn’t get it and I’m confused about it to this day.

First published in Notion

King Creosote and Jon Hopkins - Diamond Mine: review

2011-03-31T02:10:00.000-07:00

Both Kenny Anderson and the Fife-based collective he represents and manages under the Fence Records label have enjoyed popularity in the folk community, regularly contributing line-ups to the old Green Man bill- but of late it’s seemed that many journalists and commentators in the mainstream have taken note of this rather special community, and in particular it’s flagship artist. I can remember going to Green Man 2003 and seeing Fife based artist after artist, collaborations between so many musicians. Kenny Anderson, better known as King Creosote, must have played upwards of 20 gigs that weekend, including a rare show with his brother Gordon’s Lone Pigeon live band.

Kenny’s spun an inspiring career, founded on DIY ethics and communal spirit. His first two albums proper were home-recorded and are lovely affairs. These were surrounded by numerous CD releases, collections of demos- loose, frequently beautiful. Here was an artist who was baring all, remaining humble, in embrace of music’s creation and its release to an audience. The entire Fife scene had a romanticism about it- and in the years since I first discovered of it, King Creosote has gone on to record proper studio albums, to mixed success. I’d fallen in love with the home recorded sound, the imperfections, tape hiss and lovingly recorded dictaphone sounds. Whilst I respected the notion of this homemade artist recording in ‘proper’ studios and garnering the adoration of the mainstream press, I’ve increasingly found myself alienated in these tightened recordings. How lovely then that I find this collaborative record between King Creosote and electronic guru Jon Hopkins, seemingly low-fi, delicately, comfortably.

Diamond Mine comprises 7 tracks of simply rendered folk songs. Acoustic fingerpicking set against some very subtle electronic arrangements and foundsound. I say ‘subtle’, for the synth work here has the modesty of Kieran Hebden’s collaborations with Steve Reid- never assuming or overbearing, but providing the slightest complement to the song at hand. This is foremostly a King Creosote record, and the songs here wouldn’t seem out of place in the artist’s early work. That may seem dismissive, but I found this record just so unpretentiously lovely. And that comfort with itself is far more prevalent on records like ‘Kenny and Beths’ Musakal Boatrides’ than the Domino-released ‘Flick the Vs’. Indeed, an old song ‘Bubbles’, is here reimagined- casting off acoustic guitars for Autechre-esq microbeats. Again, modesty pervades and songwriting is only ever supported by the electronic work underneath.

Elsewhere, the bittersweet ‘Running on Fumes’ offers King Creosote’s lulled guitar work at its best. Kenny’s accordion enjoys an obligatory blast on the rising ‘John Taylor’s Month Away’, but the album saves its finest moment for last. ‘First Watch’ is a delicate piano-led coda, whilst sourced recordings mutter overhead. People speak, things are arranged- the world goes by its business, as chords fall. ‘Diamond Mine’ is a strange record, but perhaps just what it’s title suggests- early acoustic numbers are roughened gems, raw from discovery- but later tracks like ‘Bats in the Attic’ are more composed and polished. It’s a mixed bag sonically, but is frequently beautiful and performed with a gentility and ease that has been missing in King Creosote’s recent work. Diamond Mine is a record which sets the past against the present, and goes some way to finding a common ground between King Creosote’s earlier, looser recordings and the more recent pop-inflicted sounds he’s embraced. As such, it sits firmly at ease in his catalogue, and represents my favourite record of his in many years.

First published on The405.

Janelle Monae - live at the Roundhouse, London: review

2011-03-10T01:49:00.000-08:00

You know when you book a gig months in advance, as soon as the thing goes on sale? You have a moment of excitement, but it passes. Other, more present exciting stuff gets in the way. Months pass, and then your calendar says that you’re seeing Janelle Monáe next week. So it was for me. I’d missed her debut UK gig at the Hoxton Bar and Grill a year ago. Not learning my lesson, I’d missed her return gig at the ‘slightly larger venue’ Koko. But here she was, on a Tuesday night, at the beautiful and rather large Roundhouse theatre. And here I was, ticket in hand...

Monáe’s meteoric rise to stardom over the past year can be represented through the size in venues she’s been playing, but everything about her music and work-rate has merited it. She’s toured tirelessly, offered performances to any TV music show that would have her, and collaborated with some established stars. One could argue that there’s been a carefully orchestrated PR campaign behind her since day one, but still - that a new artist could release a debut album like The Archandroid remains staggering. Her sci-fi concept and high art/pop culture referencing painted a full and rounded characterisation, which Monáe has unfailingly lived up to or explored critically in interviews and broadcast performances. I’d always considered, a little perversely, that there’s a similarity (and a crucial difference) in her bold embrace of hi-concept and Lady Gaga’s. That both artists careers could be seen as self-fulfilling prophecies - Gaga needed money behind her to reach a vision or level of artistry, and similarly - Monáe has benefited in this way, in her ability to form a coherent and articulate concept across a variety of media. That doesn’t come cheap. But whereas Gaga offers little but excess and irony, used to mask an emptiness of content - Monáe’s created world is a parable for our own, an imagined reality where philosophical debates can be had. Intelligent language, engaging and relevant discussions around identity, transhumanism and the nature of love - articulated through the matrix of pop music.

Inside the Roundhouse, 20 minutes of afro-beat interlude gave way to a wonderful combination of pre-gig songs: The Jackson Five’s I Want You Back followed by Stevie Wonder’s Higher Ground. The impressively diverse audience bobbed their heads automatically, most people got their groove on. It was hard not to look around and smile, and made for an enjoyable aperitif. Then, as Stevie played out, the lights dimmed and the orchestral hum of 'Suite II' began. A master of ceremonies gave a brief speech, clad in trademark tuxedo, rousing the crowd into a pantomime frenzy, before a brief film orated by Monae’s fictional alter-ego Cindi Mayweather. We were warned against false choices and told that Janelle Monáe had been sent back in time to guide us towards epiphanies. And then, in an instant, the stage was full of movement, colour and spark- Monáe’s ten piece band bursting into life. Starting as the album does, with the 3-pronged attack of ‘Dance or Die’, ‘Faster’ and ‘Locked Inside’ - the performance didn’t give anyone, least of all Janelle Monáe, a chance to catch their breath. And under the dizzying light show, numerous dancers, and energetic band performance - the effect was a little lost under a terrible audio mix. Booming bass drum was about all you could hear of it - but after the closing bars of ‘Locked Inside’ had sounded and the audience given a chance to applaud, the mix seemed to have been resolved. A quietened stage was dimmed and the band stripped down to guitar, bass and drums - a rousing rock indulgence occurred briefly, but gave way to enigmatic six-stringer Kellindo Parker enjoying a moment of prog-soliloquy. Truly exceptional soloing later, and Monáe returned to the fore- the two figures enjoying a languid, drawn out, beautifully rendered version of the Charlie Chaplin standard ‘Smile’, here recreated as a foil for Monáe’s staggeringly malleable voice.

This was the concert breathing, and Monáe’s chance to introduce herself. From a frustrating start to a moment of undeniable beauty, and her band returned. ‘Wondaland’ followed, and was sheer euphoria - the studio recording’s cold, precise synths replaced by New Orleans brass. This, for me, was the turning point. Everything she and the band did afterward was made of magic. During the proggy ‘Mushrooms and Roses’, Monáe was given an easel and cape, painting lucid abstractions as dancers clad in black arced uneasy patterns, marauding the stage. The finale was supreme; the anthemic ‘Cold War’ transgressed ‘radio friendly’ to become stadium filling - it’s sky-shattering guitar solo rippling the air as Monáe poured herself into the song’s epic, wailing close. And without so much as a breath, ‘Tightrope’ was set loose- it’s insistent beat of foot-stomps and finger-clicks jangling against Monáe’s sassy spoken word verses. Here again, the live brass was central to the song’s effect - but for me, it was the early EP cut ‘Many Moons’ which provided the highlight, its skiffle beat collating backing and lead vocals into a whirlwind. On previous tours, the band have employed synth horns and even an overdubbed brass recording - I guess two successful low-key tours does give you license to hire a couple of horn players, and these guys could shimmy. It amplified the sound, gave it a real bounce and sexiness. Making the performance that much more visually engaging too, the horn section swayed and pogo-ed from side to side in unison at points, marking each rise and fall with appropriate choreography. It didn’t end there - Kellindo was a force, looking like Andre 3000’s younger, even- crazier brother - he was in full ‘rock’ mode throughout, all jumps and behind-the-head solo-ing. The drummer twirled his sticks between snare hits. Her entire band was next level, both in technique and performance - each musician made for a compelling watch, and the spectacle was in total, overwhelming.

I’ve heard criticisms of Janelle Monáe’s live show that it’s not a real concert as such, and true - this didn’t feel like a moment of communion with the audience. Which needn’t imply that we were being played ‘at’, rather that this experience, and Monáe’s public persona as a whole - is to be taken as a performance. Would I have it any other way? That she had broken character and engaged the audience with a sweet but ultimately facile “how are you London, nice to be here”? No - Monáe is proof that compromises needn’t be made in the relationship between high art and mass culture, that intelligent discussions can be had whilst having ridiculously good fun. During the closing number ‘Come Alive’, the riff was extended to a call and answer with the audience before Monáe and band fell to the floor, dead, urging the audience to do the same. The odd naysayer refused, standing ground in a sea of people sitting. Monáe simply sung back ‘I’m not getting up til you get down’ - and inevitably, the miserable fools relented. Such ego is intolerable here, this is community territory - as evident by the collective bows that took place when the band and accompanying Wondaland Arts Society returned to the stage ten minutes after finishing their encore. Monae introduced each musician by name, and thanked us for sharing. It was a moment that reinforced the theatrical dynamic, but one that gladly lent an air of humanity and sincerity to the show. Monáe raises the bar for ‘artists’ the world over: It’s no longer enough just to write concept songs or allude to literary references for their own sake- The Archandroid tour is a complete vision, meticulously crafted, and stupidly enjoyable.

First published in the405

Radiohead - The King of Limbs: review

2011-02-20T12:48:00.001-08:00

It almost feels premature to review what in essence is a band-sanctioned leak, I treasure a record’s artwork and box as intrinsic to the overall effect. And Radiohead’s albums are usually beautifully designed pieces, the fold out Kid A landscapes in particular, offering an evocative complement to the album’s musical content. But while I wait for the King Of Limbs double vinyl (the promised 625 pieces of artwork intrigues me), the world woke on Friday to a fervor, the kind the internet is so good at. This manifested in an early-morning live blog on the Guardian, where we waited for confirmation emails and download links to arrive in our inboxes- this entire process was made to look ridiculous and overdone, the equivalent of an email saying you’d received an email. Twitter too, made fools of us all- people suddenly feeling compelled to offer an immediate track-by-track review, as the album unfurled. This in particular griped at me, not merely for it’s making Twitter practically unusable all day. Some things reveal themselves over time, after the event- some music make sense only within it’s context. So I found with Lotus Flower, the now-parodied video having been Youtube’d that morning. It underwhelmed on first and second listen, but within the context of the album- is a masterful moment.

My thoughts, then. The King Of Limbs strikes me as a smaller statement, akin to novella-sized disc that accompanied the In Rainbows box set- but infinitely more refined. There’s a modesty throughout the arrangements, I hasten to use the word ‘ease’, but a striking unpretension abounds throughout these 8 pieces. Conventional Radiohead numbers ‘Little By Little’ and the reworked ‘Morning Mr Magpie’ (which first appeared as an acoustic number on The Most Gigantic Lying Mouth DVD) are comfortable and enjoyable beats- quite happy to ride a small groove- but these open the record up. ‘Feral’ is a particular favourite, calling to mind the experimentalism of the Amnesiac b-sides (which make a great 8 track record in their own right). And whilst I keep hoping for an album built solely of sounds like that- The King Of Limbs is the closest thing the band have thus far released as an album, that expresses their more downbeat, at ease, less song-oriented side. If there’s one gripe to be had, it’s in the sentimental ‘Give up the ghost’, a track which I’m sure many will find affecting, but sticks out with an unnecessary earnestness towards the album’s end. Especially when set against the stunningly beautiful ‘Codex’, a song which evokes a similarly sombre atmosphere, but to much more powerful effect.

The attention to detail and quality of both production and arrangement is superb throughout, from the microbeats made of Thom’s breath to the layers of modulated piano on ‘Codex’. And whilst I await the double vinyl box set, I find that ‘The King of Limbs’ has slid effortlessly into my consciousness, as if it were always there, and were meant to be so. Perhaps this is crucial, this is music made from a happiness to be making it, a comfort in oneself. I joked midweek that this contentment perhaps only manifests truly with middle-age, but regardless- in a week where PJ Harvey released another fine record, I am struck by the endearing notion that we enjoy the privileged position of watching these talented bands grow old and continue to make compelling, frequently beautiful, consistently intelligent music. Which in truth, more than makes up for daft live blogs and not being to use Twitter for a day.

Tim Hecker - Ravedeath 1972: Review

2011-02-15T06:18:00.000-08:00

I first began listening to electronic musician Tim Hecker in 2003, through a general appreciation of all things Montreal. The city has a well documented avant garde music scene, bands like Fly Pan Am, Set Fire to Flames, and Shalabi Effect deconstructing various forms of song aesthetic and reprocessing the conveyance of meaning and mood- and ambient recording in particular has an even great potential for evoking these intangible feelings, for being transportative.

Hecker is known for his consistently interesting recordings, and the way in which repeated listens to these nuanced soundscapes will present new rewards, hidden levels of intricacy and affliction- but if 2009’s An Imaginary Country was a pastoral evocation, a thing of rich beauty- then Ravedeath, 1972 is a taut return to the dark, claustrophobic sounds which permeated his earlier work. That said, a lot of what’s been laid out here is more precise, more insistent than anything he’s produced before.

The album was recorded with Hecker’s longtime friend and composer Ben Frost, in an Rekjavik church. Arrangements here were recorded live- and that sense of place, of time, is infused through every moment of building sound. The album utilises an organ as a frequent `common denominator, lending a grandiose foreboding as well as offering a clearer path through the sound than Hecker may have previously offered a listener. Similarly, on the album’s stunning centrepiece ‘Hatred of Music’ parts one and two, chord changes and a wailing piano are set against hazy, manipulated vocals in a manner which suggests a genuine measure of structure and composition. When a bass guitar thuds into momentary rhythm, it’s a moment that recalls the groove-inflicted prog of the early Pink Floyd, tracks like Careful With That Axe Eugene offering similar sonics, if not subtlety. As soon as the moment is grasped, it dissipates- transitional melodies build and give way, but there’s definite structure here, harmonies and, dare I say it, “music”.

Which is not to say that the album belies what is arguably Hecker’s finest quality, namely his ability to create entire worlds, lucid and compelling, out of sheer sound. His albums are deeply evocative, and despite this record’s more articulated quality, the sound is nothing if not rich with imagery. Such moments of definitive structure are masked with an unswerving patience for their evocation, hidden behind layers and layers of gradual, slow blossoming. As such, it’s perhaps Hecker’s most affecting record to date, and offers some profoundly beautiful moments of precision and subtlety.

Though she with giants fights

2011-02-01T08:47:00.000-08:00

The ships that are coming know where she lives
Transferring to high schools, she's just seventeen
Anica's beginning to understand
The giants are coming to reclaim Japan

Scientists, doctorates, tremble and mutter
This girl in Biology might be a leader
But Anica doesn't yet understand
Her pathway is chosen, already in hand

The giants are scared of her, ministers hope
Abductions occurrences frequently now
Anica's love for her boyfriend depletes
The tales of abduction left tender and meek

And noone believes her that they come in the night
With TR3Bs and corridors of light:
Anica's terrified.

Elfin Saddle - Wurld: review

2010-11-29T02:41:00.001-08:00

Elfin Saddle’s second record for Montreal based label Constellation is a curious thing, comprising a limited edition run of a musical recording and an accompanying short film. In line with the label’s continuing aesthetic towards lovingly rendered packages, the boxed set is a beautiful thing- screenprinted artwork and postcards complementing the media.

It is perhaps fair to judge the film and music both individually and collectively, as the soundtrack music to the film more than stands up on it’s own. Included in the disc are two bonus recordings, another 14 minutes of wonderfully recorded music, and on the dvd, a whole plethora of noteworthy supplements.

Having opened at the Vienna International Film Festival, Wurld represents Elfin Saddle’s devotion to performance art and installation pieces. Both Jordan McKenzie and Emi Honda, the artists behind the project, are devout inventors, instrumentalists with an eye to DIY and the ad-hoc.

Wurld, the film, can be loosely surmised as a narrative retelling of a society’s evolution and fall- filmed in stop-motion, rendered in a quaint archaic style that captivates your inner child’s imagination. Opening with television static, this gives way to muddy voids, from which horizons form, green shoots and the beginnings of what you might call civilisation. What is interesting about the composition here is how technological development is animated much in a similar fashion to the natural evolution. As plants stutter and arc toward the sky, so too do the beginnings of infrastructure- timid building blocks dancing across the screen, positioning themselves into a semblance of civil order.

Just as form materialises, so too does it disperse. The film is broken into numerous sections, each transitioned with a knowing fade to black. These epochs allow for a passing of time, a skipping of centuries, as the diorama’s structures take on greater development. This is a film about nature and culture, how both are subject to evolutionary spurts and moments of waning, recession- the inexorable linking of these two oppositional modes. As pre-industrial mining and monarchic theocracies give way to highly technologised societies, does Wurld imagine these existences any differently? One development gets layered over another and evolution’s rebuilding, it’s process of continual renewal, is revealed as one of fairly arbitrary determinism, a causality without thought or pre-consideration, only impetus for change.

Elfin Saddle similarly have constructed a soundtrack that befits this narrative exposition, a layered sound recording that is foreboding and enchanting in equal measure. Sourced from an array of acoustic instruments, found sound and assembled kit, the soundtrack to this short film is a lovely piece of music, the kind of avant-garde instrumental folk that is as progressive as it is timeless. The two extra recordings on the LP are similarly interesting pieces of music, crafted from choral chanting, evocative chord progressions and intricate homemade percussion. Their music is enveloping and hugely beautiful, but so unconcerned with notions of grandeur- even when reciting such a grand meta-narrative as a history of society’s evolution.

Accompanying the short film on Wurld’s DVD is a full concert recording as well as a selection of outtakes from the edit. Lovingly put together and fully realised as a conceptual work, Wurld is a small, assured statement of artistry and example by one of Constellations most intriguing new bands.

Why sign a record contract?

2010-11-22T02:56:00.000-08:00

I remember with little affection the years pre-Napster et al, growing up in a naïve age of music superstars, inspirational icons made for kids to imitate and wannabe musicians to emulate. Such face-value celebrity has arguably ended, and will never return. To many, this was a golden age, late 80’s onwards- where Michael Jackson could hawk Pepsi Cola and have his integrity undiminished, a formative time between industries that would see the record industry, advertisers, filmmakers and musicians collaborating or syndicating their content out on cross-platform endeavours. From this, the celebrity endorsement reached an apex, and the Hollywood blockbuster emerged- star names, released to hype every Summer to get bums on seats, with a sure-to-be-Number-One soundtrack launched simultaneously. To those who worked in the recording industry, you’d never had it so good.

In the business of marketing super-stardom, record labels enjoyed a near-monopoly. I remember the fervent clamour with which young bands chased recording contracts, and the romanticised retellings of this narrative through such Generation X films as Wayne’s World or Bill & Ted. If the process was hard, it was also inevitably rewarding- this was the message the industry gave off- that really, it was a case of filtration, and once you’d signed your first contract- the number one’s, obliging lady friends, suitcases full of cash- would come rolling in.

This, of course, is a bygone era- and you would perhaps forgive those more closely involved with record production and promotion if they regarded it with rose-tinted spectacles, staying awake late at night wistfully remembering how it used to be. As compared, of course, to how it is. For whilst they attempt to claw back some of their relevance, to re-establish themselves as crucial, essential players in the process dividing band and audience- it’s becoming increasingly difficult to articulate how ‘what they do’ could possibly be in anyone’s interest, besides their own.

In 2000, the highest selling album shifted 9.9 million units (N’Sync) and in 2006, a mere 3.9 million (High School Musical). With these statistics indicating a continuing trend, the likelihood that a band will get burdened with a major label’s expenses is more realistic than ever. Why? A record label's main concern is the monetary return on their initial investment (or ‘advance’), but an artist's main passion throughout any negotiations is the quality of the music being produced, and their ability to keep making it- regardless of financial minutae. That is, of course, if you even get signed- with such low returns on investments, record labels are much less inclined to take risks on emerging talent, instead pumping their funds into either established artists (with a proven track record of selling records, playing theatres) or more malleable artists, whom they can fast-track to the spotlight through a process of characterisation and branding.

In this environment, competition for places is paramount; a sense of limited resources being fought over by bands desperate for what spotlight is available. Artists are already forced to compete for the interest of fans; they shouldn't have to compete for that attention within their own record label. As such, unprofitable artists may get dropped at a whim after failing to live up to the record label’s short-term expectations, or have their releases pushed back to accommodate marketing a label’s other, more prioritised releases. How is the record industry responding to these trends, their diminishing necessity? By changing the way they write record contracts.
A 2010 survey found that those who download music illegally spend an average of £77/year on music (including concerts and merchandise) - £33/year more than those who claim they never download music dishonestly. This indicates quite clearly that the emotional value of music remains there for listeners, even if the economic value of the recorded product (album, singles etc) has diminished- and arguably remains a good model for bands to operate under. If you can generate a strong fan base through the quality of your music, then there’s every likelihood that by playing out and connecting with your audience directly, a band can see generate a decent amount of income. On the basis that you can print a t-shirt for less than £2, if you sell 500 of them over the course of a tour at £10 each, that’s a return of £4000 on your outlay.

In traditional agreements- labels recouped their investment through record sales, leaving band’s earnings to be made from touring, merchandise and sponsorship. Now, 360-degree deals are the norm. Warner won’t sign anyone now unless it’s a 360 deal- a package which is more akin to a management deal, whereby the label will take a cut from any future sponsorship, seeding, use of material, touring and merchandise. And while this may remove the need for an ‘immediate hit’, in real terms it means that bands will earn even less, and have less control over their image, presentation and rights. Labels traditionally made money from the process in which they were involved – ie/ recording and distributing records. Is it coincidence that now that recorded music sales are significantly declining, they change their business model? What gives them the right to impede on touring, merchandise, sponsorship or the use of music in films or adverts? How does this benefit either the artist or the audience?

This isn’t the 1980s anymore though, and record labels shouldn’t presume they can operate with such impunity. Similarly, it is the responsibility of artists to challenge this, and exist on a self-sustainable model that is more edifying to both audience and their own career. The benefits of doing so speak for themselves.

1. Maintaining ownership of rights over any/all your produced material and image- In an age of 360 licensing deals, you may have little control over how your material is used, and see little return on that use. Maintaining ownership here can be both artistically intelligent (as you define your public identity) and prudent (as you will own all funds generated by use).

2. Control of cash flow- Rather than being the last to be imbursed (after retailers, distributors, promoters and rights-owners), the band can enjoy a direct relationship with their paying audience and cut out all these middlemen.

3. Success or failure on your own terms - There are lots of ways you can clash creatively with a label, and depending on what kind of deal you have, sometimes the label will win. When you're the one putting out the music, you release the music you want, and only the music you want, when you want to release it. The marketing, the touring - all of the decision will be made by you, so there will be none of the typical conflicts.

These things in mind- we must turn our attention to the third and perhaps most vital part of media reception process, that is to say audience. What motivates an audience to part with their hard-earned cash in respect of recorded music? What generates the notion of fandom, or devotion to a particular cause/band/independent label?
In many respects, the record industry today is like the bottled water industry. You have a product that is widely available for free, and yet remains a market for people who want to pay for it. The question is: what motivates them to pay for something they can easily get for free?

1. Quality- Just as bottled water may come from volcanic riverbeds, or mountain glaciers- so too does a successful album release come at a higher quality that a peer-to-peer downloaded MP3 can allow (ie/ vinyl or a digital download in a lossless format, like FLAC) or it comes in a beautifully crafted box with stunning artwork, as opposed to the overtly mass produced plastic jewel cases. Vinyl sales have reliably shot up nearly 20% year on year for the past 5 years- and this trend shows no signs of abating. Special, limited editions are becoming an increasing norm as well- packaged with exclusive art, remix CDs, full size posters or other exclusive content- engaging the audience with a feeling of privilege, and removing the ‘album’ from this notion of being a mass-produced, faceless product- reeled off with the sole purpose of being sold.

2. Convenience- 2010 is the year that digital record sales equalled with physical formats, after years of increase and decline in either sector. Of these digital sales, over 70% of that will come from iTunes. The iTunes model has proved a success, unlike p2p networks, or the failed digital models set up by labels directly, because it is convenient- providing liner notes, digital artwork, website information, links to tour info and the digital file is trustworthy and easy to transfer between media devices.

3. Ethics- Using conventional, historically prevalent music publishing models- one could argue that there is little in the way of a moral obligation involved in the purchase of music. Labels, having bought up the artists, promoted and distributed the records- were then rewarded for having brought the artist to your attention, rather than for the content of the record. In fact, it’s something of a backhand step: That most people presume a record purchase will further the career of the artist, whereas in truth this is something of a convoluted argument. Whilst notes will be made in that artists’ sales, therefore will encouraging the label to invest further resources in them- the artist receives little or nothing directly as a result of this. As mentioned previously, old arrangements (pre-360) afforded musicians their bread and butter through touring and merchandise. Now, it’s even worse- artists enrolling in what nearly amounts to slavery in exchange for little more than the privilege to record and publish. In this model- can there be any ethical obligation to buying the recordings?

And yet, our notion of moral responsibility prevails. If we are to ascribe emotional value to recordings, do we not also feel obliged to offer financial reward in exchange? The imperative is direction: that the correct source finds themselves rewarded, in this case the artist(s). When musicians can demonstrate a direct causality between this artist creativity and audience response, audiences are much more inclined to part with their cash, and feel justified in doing so.

Production, publication and distribution are no longer elitist industries that record companies have monopolies on. Simply put, they need the bands more than the bands need them: the rise and democratisation of home recording suites, use of communications and social-media technologies allowing for bands to operate on an entirely self-sustainable promotions model, without need for the recording industry conglomerate’s “expertise” or input.

The405's album of the year: Deerhunter - Halycon Digest

2010-11-15T10:22:00.001-08:00

As I have never professed to being Deerhunter's most ardent devotee, I was surprised this year to grow so fond of their most recent recording, Halycon Digest. It has slowly grown in my affections through modesty, nuance and sheer undeniable brilliance. It recalls an entire understanding of music culture, of what an album could or should be, stripping this mandate down to a common aesthetic in a fine collection of songs- wrought from moments recounted, noticed, imparted.

Each recording here is ripe with character, subtle arrangements and a studio-mastery that makes for an engaging listen both on stereos and headphones. The collection is beautifully arranged- some of the segueing, as between Revival and Sailing, just seems natural- as though those songs had always followed each other. And therein lies the beauty of a successful album, records like Kid A or Liar's Drum's Not Dead manifesting as collective wholes- cinematic, literate. Listening to the entire work is the essence of it.

Halycon Digest is a record it's hard not to enjoy as a whole- the sonic turns between tracks allowing for an enjoyable, rewarding 45 minutes- an expectancy and eagerness drives your ears throughout. It's a record I keep coming back to, quietly persistent, without quite understanding exactly what precisely is motivating that. And honestly, I didn't expect that. I didn't throw a listening party when it came out, I can't even really remember for how long I've felt this way about it, but it's crept up. Being so gently surprised is nice, especially in an age when over-hyped releases like Arcade Fire disappointed me and my unreasonably high expectations of Jonsi's work led to inevitable dissatisfaction. Pleasant then, that such a modest release stole my heart. And it lingers, like all great records do.

First published in the405.

Red Sparowes - Scala, 10/10/10

2010-10-19T09:12:00.000-07:00

So last Sunday came to pass, and seemed a fine day in this reviewer’s calendar, what with the Red Sparowes traipsing amiably into town and putting on a show at fine London venue, the Scala. Cool, I thought. Excellent venue, just the right size to appreciate a band on stage, with a good enough sound system. Decent Californian ‘post-rock’ (wait, I thought post-rock was over?) with a tendency for indulging the grandiose, what could go wrong?

Red Sparowes hit the stage just past nine, after a soundcheck in which the filling theatre had been made to endure a terribly rendered ‘waiting room’ image cast upon a projection screen behind the stage. In one corner was that most iconic of marble statues, Aristotle, crumbling. From this was blended tree leaves, branches, and in the left-most corner, a sparrow (I’m guessing it was a sparrow, I mean- I’ve really let my ornithological knowledge slide recently, but if it wasn’t then either they’ve missed a trick or it’s a cruel double bluff). Towering over this grand ambiguous portmanteau, proudly lay emblazoned their band name, layered crudely in a font which evoked the gothic myopia of Camden’s seedier fashion outlets or the kind of Olde English Storye Bookes that get written by folk writers enamoured with Wiccan lore and similarly vague mysticism, tongue in cheek. As fervent roadies swarmed over arranged kit, tugging cables in earnest and working quietly toward a shared enterprise or collective will larger than themselves, band members briefly soundchecked on that expectant stage (a stage whose solitary raison d’etre was found to be the accommodation of live music, by process of naming accordingly and justifying thus). All the while, this projected image, appropriating classicist imagery, evocative of nature’s Autumnal wane, reminiscent of cheese-inflicted Goth yarns, grew more and more ridiculous, resonating distinctly as if it had previously enjoyed a life being knocked up in a ‘five-minute MS Paint challenge’ set half in jest to a class of accident recovery students, who by no small coincidence had all lost use of their mouse-wielding palms, and who had to struggle defiantly in their task, and would endeavour unflinchingly. For a small second, you began to feel pity, judging such matters on the gravity of context and the sweeping egalitarianism of merit.

So, Red Sparowes hit the stage just past name, and the now filled theatre was treated to an opening salvo cast lucidly off their most recent LP ‘The fear is excruciating, but therein lies the answer’ (an album title to which the only appropriate response can be ‘well, what then was the question?’)- their large ensemble of six musicians, spread out across the wide Scala stage with an appropriate amount of spacing between. Stage right, Bryant Clifford Meyer (also of wondrous doom mongers Isis) riffed. A wood-crafted slide guitar rested between him and bassist Greg Burns, a well shaven and respectable looking man who cut a striking silhouette, occupied centre stage and would shirk to the audience- one foot astride a monitor speaker, bass aloft. Adrift and tucked distantly in the bosom of the far left, guitarist Emma Ruth Rundle arced at the heavens with her reverb/echo drenched finger picking, a process mimicking the ethereal cawing of an e-bow used correctly. Hers was to carve the melody lines amidst the upper register, as grungy men took to burying themselves within the weighty sludge of eternal riffing. Such gravitas, such disparity. And sludgy it was- for unseen hands deigned the bass to seem irritatingly quiet, within eyesight but forever, tantalisingly, ever and ever, out of reach. And low, was the delicacy of individual notes at points compromised by the dopamine-addled wall of sound, a wall so impervious to being assessed on it’s construction as to bely the noteworthy musicians I didst see before me. On drums, David Clifford afforded both the kind of middle parting bowl-cut not seen since certain mid-90s boybands, and a kind of puritanical rhythmic certainty to proceedings: Ample servicing of beat-identification and meagre pickings of inspired fills, nothing by way of impassioned drum thumping. I suppose one could admire his professionalism- but the band sorely needed a fitting visual centre point, a talismanic figure who could draw the captured eye from the otherwise dull movements and introverted musicianship the band were engaged in, headbanging slowly, fret-staring madly with eyes of a focused intensity. Which perhaps explains to no small degree why Sparowes opted to employ the service of a giant mystical video screen, fittingly accorded to a projector mounted high at the very rear of the room, which would aim, through declared manifests, to provide inspired accompaniment by way of animated visual imagery throughout.

And oh, how we lowly audience members didst stare in wonder at this giant mystical video screen, and how we didst wait in reverie and nervous harmony for it to reveal it’s many secrets! Considered as a form, the onstage video screen has mind-blowing potential, perhaps especially so when complementing such purportedly psychedelic, out-there, progressive rock. Remind yourself of the onstage theatrics Pink Floyd’s The Wall tour, or the way a good Godspeed You! Black Emperor show can have you enrapt by the intricacy of the edited ‘found’ video being. Here, an alternating pattern quickly emerged, set carved in stone, tacit, glorified, muted tongues: shots of birds in flight and mathematical equations, of bombs exploding, Google Maps sourced images on a quick ‘zoom out’, more bombs, the words “There will always be conspiracy theorists” shortly before the modest use of 9/11 newspaper cuttings, the golden BAFTA heads usually associated with over-rated Hollywood fodder like Kiera Knightly and industry types circle-jerking at gala events- what had this to say to, or transmute to the Sparowes music? Perhaps most furiatingly- a CGI ‘demonstration’ of brain synapses in work, poorly imagined synaptic nodes and conduits as if created using the very best Commodore 64 their collective will could muster- good grief. This repeated over an over, a pattern of electricity cruising over a membrane, to the next, the next, repeating and repeating. And after your eyes had lulled, an incomprehensible cut to some birds, or a low res photo of a naturally occurring spiral formation. It was staggeringly obvious that Sparowes had not filmed any of this material, nor had it been made on their behalf, bespoke to their shows or music- it was sourced imagery, scavenged and harvested coldly after a few hours armed only with a search engine and an unregistered copy of Movie Maker. Visual cliché after visual cliché, and edited together with an absolute disregard for the apparent need to ‘make any sense whatsoever’, it defied you not to believe that it was really happening. As an exercise in reality testing, it was a magnificent success.

There’s a reason bands use video screens, and a methodology to their use: When I saw Sigur Ros some years ago, their video screens dulled between songs- each vignette had been designed and moved in accordance with the specific musical performance. It gave nuance to each piece. Red Sparowes video continued on an eternal loop, as if once the Gods had given colloquial thumb of approval to the play button, there seemed no going back-and indeed, was none to be found. Furthermore, when GY!BE uses such technology to provide countenance and complement to their music – the imagery is fitting to their music, style and ethic: They enlist local artist Jem Cohen in collaborating on appropriate film. Red Sparowes utelised a hodge podge of alternative lifestyle clichés, from ambiguous Golden Spiral references, UFO shots, 9/11 conspiracies, the Earth’s magnetism, shamanism- arbitrarily included for reasons of kitsch or perceived subcultural appropriation. And whiles noone should take issue with discussing these individual theories and perspectives, they at least merit a proper deconstruction, rather than their glib inclusion in a rock band’s onstage video montage- Red Sparowes seemingly threw all these elements up in the air and caught the falling debris, catching few raindrops on the fingers, watching as the water trickled along their fingers and onto the ground, paying no heed to the multitude of dismal raindrops to have slipped through their clawing fingers, nor to the now fading vapour trails where moisture collided with skin, exacting wetness where dryness once was.

And breath.

If this review has seemed indulgent, overblown, arrogant in places – then I confess, I have only been following where Red Sparowes led. From their preposterously long song titles and album names to the profound seriousness with which they perform on stage- (not saying a word, not so much as a ‘hello’ to the poor beggars in the crowd) to their half-assed use of video tech that only served to undermine their effort. They genuinely seem caught between the allure of the rural avant-garde and the embrace of celebretarian ‘rock star’ musicianship- trademark Spinal Tap poses at the ready, entirely unfitting of the occasion. When all your imagery and literarature sets out this very particular oppositional ‘doomed’ worldview, at least come out on stage and be nice to people. Dude, when A Silver Mt Zion play out they have real conversations with the people in the audience, that’s how it should be. Red Sparowes posturing onstage can only serve to reify that flimsy divide, us and them, band and audience. Fuck that.

This concert represented so much that is wrong with the continuing post-rock scene. Sparowes seemingly tick all the now clichéd boxes that have come to define such bands- extravagant linguistics, post-apocalyptic worldview, inflicted naivity, a musical aesthetic that seems stuck forever on ‘slow/fast, quiet/loud’ dynamics. Yeah we all know it had its time and all but it keeps on keeping on, bands like Red Sparowes writing 9 minute instrumental jams and calling them names with like 20 freaking words, man, which evoke all this real-deep ‘end of the world’ classicism, yeah we get it, truly- but they don’t back it up with anything like the necessary attention or depth.

Being preposterous, archaic, overblown, indulgent, classicist, dramatic, apocalyptic and so on and so forth is easy if you don’t back your pretensions up with depth, authenticity, the due attention those subjects deserve- and much like this review, Red Sparowes really didn’t do that. It’s a shame because a lot of their recorded output has really got a groove, especially on their 2006 LP “Every red heart…” (I’m not typing the rest of the title, sorry). Live, they were beyond disappointing.

Themselves - Crownsdown&company review

2010-09-27T09:33:00.000-07:00

Remix albums are by their nature, inherently fraught. In the event they’re successful, one can cite the collaborative effort between band and remix DJ as something approaching a meeting of minds, subversion or a coercion of the original’s material into the remixer’s aesthetic. Should the remix album flop, invariably it’s the band that get the blame, having commissioned, edited, sequenced the LP.

Themselves dodge this argument by opening Crownsdown&company, their second remix album, with the self-mixed Back II Burn- an intensely rhythmic number featuring distorted vocals and in-vogue glitchy synth stabs which replace the original’s orchestral hits. Besides the creative angle of remixing your own work, it is an astute move to open the record this way- but one that seemingly sets the stage for open floodgates of remixes.

The remixes are sourced entirely from the 2009 album Crownsdown: Crownsdown&company seeks to take Themselves’ avant-garde material and repackage it for dancefloors and warehouse parties worldwide. So where paranoid multitracking and disorientation were calling cards of the original material, here the effect is unmistakable. Similarly avant-enamoured hip hop artists Dalek take on Oversleeping, producing a relentless scattershot sound- a style which is repeated across the record. Gangster Of Disbelief is assimilated by Alias to more melodic effect, but again the drumbeats are intimidatingly huge. A feeling of taught pressure exudes from the record, the notion that playing it at home just doesn’t do the material justice: this are remixes with one context in mind.

It’s fair to say the album gets more melodic as it unfurls -the more straightforward melody of You Ain’t It (Lazer Sword rmx) could almost be the hook to a pop song, but for the playful insistence on glitch and arpeggiated synth chords.There’s a consistent sound throughout though, despite the many producers and remix artists on board. That’s to the record’s credit, that at no moment does the sound feel out of place or too disparate. Crownsdown&company will probably appeal more to the partisan audience than new listeners searching for an entrance point into Themselves’ canon, but it represents a fine addition to that collection, and will no doubt give fans and club-goers many moments of happiness, curiosity and dancing.

Fang Island - Madame Jojo's 07/09/10 review

2010-09-11T02:50:00.000-07:00

There was palpable excitement inside the cramped but beautifully designed Soho venue that was to beckon Fang Island to the stage on Tuesday night. Embarking on their first UK tour proper since humbling SXSQW and releasing their fantastic eponymous debut, Fang Island were greeted by a crowd of devotees, who had snapped up the tickets for this intimate concert. Madame Jojo’s is an interesting venue for concerts, having it’s history entwined with Soho’s fondness for cabaret and performance. While it still addresses this audience, club night White Heat does a marvellous job of bringing up and coming US bands to it’s raised platform stage.

It’s rare that for a debut album to sound both so musically accomplished, carefree and confident of itself- but this is what Fang Island acheived, labelling their music as ‘for people who like music’. Blanket statements aside, that’s not far off the mark. Their sound traverses technical musicality and indie-pop accessibility, and in truth it’s hard to refuse their infectious melodies. The opening salvo ‘Dream of dreams’ and ‘Careful Crossers’ sets the tone, a cascading wall of arpeggiated fretwork building to a rousing choral chant, before descending into a power-riffing and headbanging. These moments took in all the joyous elements of classic rock, reperformed with elation. The shared vocal duties of ‘Daisy’’s lyrical ambiguity brought all four guitarists to the fore, whipping the crowd into a joyous frenzy with it’s indecipherable ‘ooh’s and ‘woah’s.

Fang Island’s appeal is simple: it’s enjoyable music, both to listen to, to watch, and seemingly to play. The band smile gleefully throughout, bassist Michael Jacober frequently pogoing as the guitarists in the band headbang through colourful, starry hoodies. Epic, impatient number ‘Sideswiper’ closes the set, it’s juggernaut riffing and harmonised solo-work giving way to a touching vocal line over a reverb-drenched four-chord round. And then the song’s coda, a euphoric piece of music that elicits smiles all round, a playful guitar line darting over a strummed rhythm. It’s a majestic moment and a towering feeling of warmth and love spreads through the crowd. We look at each other, beaming. The band leave the stage to a rapturous applause, only to come back for a real, proper encore. Initially, the band seemed to tune up- but this bled through to the opening bars of a song that seemed familiar, but it couldn’t be, could it? And in hindsight, an indulgent retelling of Mariah Carey’s ‘Always be my baby’ was perhaps the perfect way to end this concert. It had the crowd with lighters in the air, arms waving high, everyone in the room singing along. Fang Island seem rather good at effecting that kind of atmosphere, and this deeply enjoyable concert was strewn with such moments of connectivity between band and audience. It’ll almost be a shame when the band inevitably gain their deserved recognition and start playing the larger venues, because seeing them at the height of their powers in an intimate and close venue like this was a real treat.

First published in The405.

Neon Indian - Cargo 02/09/10 review

2010-09-06T02:47:00.000-07:00

On the back of a summer’s transatlantic touring, Neon Indian brought their sundrenched chillwave to London’s Cargo venue on Thursday evening. Named one of Rolling Stone’s best bands of 2010, the project represents a new direction for one man outfit Alan Palomo, who here recruits three friends for a backing band. The result is transformative, as the hazy and lackadaisical songs from their debut LP Psychic Chasms are performed with insistence and vigour.

Neon Indian seem at times as much enamoured with nostalgia as they are with progression- their array of modern synthesisers and technologically astute production lending their album a contradictorily, but enjoyable, 1980’s feel. It’s as if the music is half dreamt, or struggling against two decade’s of wear and tape-decay to get out. But it’s more than a gimmick, songs like 6669 and Ephemeral Artery displaying memorable hooks. It’s a shame that often the band are overtly referenced by the aesthetic in which they operate, rather than judged on the merits of their songwriting and performance.

In a live context, Neon Indian shine. The tape-warped, tonal bending aspect of their music is lost in lieu of a pressing instrumentation.The live drums of Jason Faries replace drum machine, guitarist Ronald Gierhart shreds picked riffs before slamming power chords, keyboardist Leanne Macomber jumps, wails and dances and enigmatic singer Alan Palomo is a spectacle. Surrounded by an array of pedals, synthesisers, samplers and pleasingly, a theremin- Palomo seems caught between enacting menace via his tools or embracing rapture through his staccato dancing. It’s in this setting that the strength of the music is allowed to shine, against a backdrop of brightly coloured psychadelic visuals, and with a consistent soundbed of arpeggiated noise throughout. Neon Indian perform for just under an hour, playing nearly all of Psychic Chasms and a couple of unknown numbers. They leave, giving warm regards to a beaming crowd. A thoroughly enjoyable gig, and one that showcases the difference between studio LPs and live performances. Neon Indian appear to be masters of both, articulating both contexts distinctly and with confidence.

First published in Sound Screen.

The Flaming Lips, Green Man Festival: Review

2010-08-27T08:30:00.000-07:00

Those who had filled the Green Man’s lush main stage field in anticipation of The Flaming Lips’ Saturday headline concert had done so under duress of some significant rainfall. Not the kind to relent after a mere day either, since festival goers had been allowed on site to pitch tents on Thursday, the rain had bucketed down. But by Saturday evening, the drenched attendees of this charming little festival were afforded some respite, as the downpour eased to a soft, lulling drizzle. It is worth noting the staggering beauty of Green Man’s main stage- set against the towering, endlessly rolling hills of the Brecon Beacons in the middle of a valley. The stage, placed at the foot of an ancient outdoor ampitheatre, lined ridges carved into a hill- providing a breathtaking view of the stage and surroundings.

What better setting for The Flaming Lips majestic live show? Surrealism doesn’t begin to describe it. Over the last ten years or so, or since Yoshimi Battled The Pink Robots brought them to proper European attention, the Lips have gained a reputation for staggering, bizarre, carnivalesque gigs- but of recent years many have argued that the necessity to fire a confetti cannon has superceded the need to play songs. 2006’s At War With Mystics suffered from that

The Flaming Lips

outside perception, but 2009’s Embryonic was something of a rebirth- the band were raw, impassioned, and rediscovered the basic tenets of psychadelic rock with authenticity. It’s at this point in their career that The Flaming Lips are more than worthy of headlining a festival- and they don’t disappoint.

The gig began with a vision of a naked woman, radiating solar energy all around her. As she lay down, a bright ball of cosmic light pulsed from between her legs- and from this, the band emerged, all smiles and friendly waves to the crowd, who at this point had just lost it completely. Whilst lights and smoke enveloped the stage, the band rocked out to an instrumental jam as enigmatic singer Wayne Coyne stepped inside his inflatable ‘space-ball’ (think: hamsters) and rolled it toward the crowd. He made it from the stage to the sound desk, the crowd rolling him as he went, and back again to jump on stage for the opening number proper, ‘Silver Trembling Hands’, a bass led Embryonic number that riffed like a heavy duty machine as guitarist Steven Drozd scaled the heavens with shrieking stabs at his guitar.

Back in the day hit She Don’t Use Jelly went down spectacularly, spurring a huge singalong- but it was the double header of See The Leaves, a tragic paean to futility and strife, and it’s following number I Can Be A Frog, that encapsulated the gig’s inclusive, celebratory mood. At each respective call the entire audience responded in turn, “She said I can be a bear!/helicopter!/tornado!/monkey!” each line letting us act out those sounds- a memorable, transcendental moment that had us all acting like children. It was truly beautiful, especially having followed such a (wonderful) thrashy, minor key rock song.

"More confetti?"

Playing Do You Realize? as an encore was a masterstroke- it’s such a perfect pop song, at once uplifting, sad, both specific and open-ended. It’s euphoric chorus perpetually rising til a climactic, joyous crescendo as Coyne sang of a philosophy of kindness, love- with a crucial knowledge that ultimately, all of these precious moments are transient. And as the crowds departed the field, the rain began to fall.

None of really describes just how spectacular an experience a Flaming Lips concert is, let alone one in such an idyllic location. A stage full of dancers in gorilla costumes and orange jump-suits dancing blissfully throughout. Coyne’s giant hands, which eminated the most breathtaking laser-light show. The cerebral, friendly nature of the between-song banter, which had us all at one point coo-ing to the moon to beckon it from behind some ominous rain clouds. The blinding array of lights, smoke, confetti, cannons. The continual insistence on beauty, hanging out, freaking out. The Flaming Lips seem intent on assaulting every one of your senses and it’s a mindblowing experience- one that leaves you feeling invigorated, never more alive than in that moment. They offer a performance that elevates their records to near-religiosity; these are songs that scrape the sky and scream at the heavens, played in a way that celebrates humanity and togetherness. I can’t think of a finer way to conduct a festival headline set, and as the crowds dispersed late into the night, that feeling seemed universal.

Standon Calling, Sunday: Review

2010-08-24T08:29:00.000-07:00

Standon Calling’s final day was uplifting; a day of glorious sunshine and inspired bands gracing the festival’s stages. We began with a morning swim in the on-site swimming pool, backed by a breezy hip-hop DJ set. This was clearly a popular idea, as by 11am a large contingent of the festival population had amassed with their swimmers and towels. It made for a relaxing start, the day’s music was scheduled to start until just after lunch so we made the most of the opportunity and soaked up some rays next to the pool.

When time did draw for bands and artists’ performances, we set off to the Main Stage, where Sound Of Rum were about to engage the audience with a set of politically astute hip-hop jams. Their music was broadly influenced and humble: whilst their drummer Ferry Lawrenson played inventive beats, guitarist Archie March spun a collection of ragged folk numbers and electronically influenced riffs. He was lost in his instrument at times, eyes shut and head bobbing as he looped hooks for vocalist Kate Tempest to rap over. And how remarkable she was. An incessant flow of wry social observations and personal epiphanies came forth in waves, belying her slender 20 years of age. The band were visually less spectacular than previous main stage offerings, a young three piece- but as soon as they played it became clear they more than merited their billing. Tempest’s rap skills are staggering, her mind quick and dextrous in a way you wouldn’t think possible. Scroobius Pip has referred to her as ‘annoyingly good’, and you can see what he means- this group are attracting attention from all the right people in the London hip-hop scene. Between songs, she joked with the audience with self-depreciating Britishness and displayed a maturity that serves both her and band well. The main stage field may have been sleepy and rather horizontal, but Tempest coaxed the crowd into dancing and it certainly wasn’t regretted.

We camped in front of the Main Stage and awaited the afternoon’s next act. Gabby Young and Other Animals are an 8 piece vintage swing band that have been touring relentlessly and building up quite a head of steam along the way. There’s a lot of vintage revival going on in East London at the moment, and with all popularised scenes you get the impression that a few are merely along for the ride, bearing false pretenses. But Gabby Young is the real deal; her involvement with = fashion, young designers and similar creatives enabling her band to perform with a joyful air of authenticity. Indeed, so enamoured are the festival organisers with her, they allowed Gabby her very own shop in the festival’s faux high street. The Gabberdashery was an emporium of beautifully crafted vintage mash-ups, garments beholden to a post-apocalyptic past. It all reminded me of steampunk; a fascinating aesthetic which draws from Victorian histories re-perceived through postmodern, technological eyes. And so as her band took to the stage, clad in matching waistcoats, they were joined by the effervescent Gabby Young- boasting an elaborate multi-layered beige dress that tousled endlessly and would move in ripples with every dance she made.

Gabby Young And Other Animals

Their music is a lovingly crafted combination of swing, jazz and ballad. The instrumentation lent a fantastic presence, double bass, horns, accordion and violin combining to evocative effect. Over this, Gabby’s voice was a thing of ethereal beauty. She glided from the upper register to bassier notes with ease, offering delicate vibrato one moment before crying out boldly the next. Having cut her teeth singing jazz standards in professional outfits, she boasts a powerful voice that is capable of staggering things and is used intelligently, modestly even, throughout- as if it were another instrument to dampen at moments, building crescendos where appropriate. The set was a real joy.

Up next was a band from that revelled in party atmospheres. New York’s Phenomenal Handclap Band have toured pretty consistently since their eponymous debut record’s release last year- taking their nostalgic indulgence of 60s psychedelia and classic rock motifs to audiences across the world and building a reputation for incendiary live shows. Their set at Standon Calling was to prove no different, as the lulled, sun-kissed intro of ‘The Journey to Sella Estrada’ erupted into a funk. Numbers like ‘Disappear’ and ‘15-20’ showcased similarly minded

The Phenomenal Handclap Band

perspectives and allowed good opportunity for the audience to shake dat tang, but it was the tender motown ballad ‘Baby’ that stood out. A crooning ode to a girl’s beauty sung over uncomplicated descending chords, you could argue the tune borders on cheese, a throwback too far- but it doesn’t come across as insincere, or parodic. Throughout their set, Phenomenal Handclap Band demonstrate a profound love for that era of popular American song, reperforming in style with invention. As such, it’s hard to fault them. A couple of new songs trialled at the gig were slower numbers, and it’ll be an interesting 2nd record for them when it does come out.

After running off in search of sustenance, we returned for the evening set on the Main Stage, a lovely blend of archaic instrumentation set against digital micro-pops and a revelatory sense of the grandiose. Efterklang are not a band inclined for modest statements, although their epic songwriting structures are performed with real modesty at times as climaxes build from austere roots and are never dragged out ad infinitum. Their 10 onstage performers craft an indie-pop that is broadly influenced, yet whose sound will be quintessentially familiar to anyone well-versed in Scandinavian pop; cooing harmonies glide in the background, strings reverberate as processed beats carve precise, uptempo drum patterns. Efterklang’s performance got stronger and stronger with each song, cuts from debut album Tripper appeasing a cult of fans at the crowd’s front, later numbers from major label debut Magic Chairs offering more accessible material for newcomers. They performed with a collective joy and enjoyed smiling interplay on stage that was as infectious as it was pleasurable to watch. Simultaneously though, a seriousness about their craft came across- an utmost professionalism with regard to songwriting and performance that was admirable, and something lost on so many performers. Efterklang seem taken with the ethereal, yet able to capture it’s majesty through tight orchestration. They give a wonderful performance, as epic as it is modest, and leave the stage to rapturous applause.

And so Standon Calling sadly came to an end. Sound Screen had seen an array of fantastic bands this weekend and spent the time with wonderful friends, new and old. The overall impression of the festival is that it is a remarkable thing, and quite unique in this regard. Both the size of the festival and the number of participants entail a close-knit feel, a community spirit of likeminded folk. Similarly, where other festivals attempt the spectacular with their line-up, Standon Calling boasts a number of bands that you just can’t see anywhere else- there is a real sense here that every band or musician on show will be someone’s favourite- merely ‘liking’ the band deemed not enough. And long may all this continue; festival organiser Alex Trenchard is onto something very special here and it’ll be interesting to see how long they can keep it up without bowing to commercial pressure or licensing folly. At the moment, they’re punching well above their weight- and that’s largely down to the kind of bands the festival attracts, and the kind of person inclined to attend.

Standon Calling, Saturday: Review

2010-08-14T06:41:00.000-07:00

Standon Calling’s 2nd day was an overcast affair; thunderclouds menaced and we woke in a tent which was considerably damper than when we retired the previous eve. But Sound Screen wasn’t about to let a little rain get in the way of a good time, and Saturday’s line up promised fine things.

After witnessing a kidnapping carried out by the theatrics of the Heritage Arts Company, we lost some of our troupe to involvement in the festival’s ongoing murder narrative. Our friends would soon return, having been recruited for the Standon Calling Constabulary, waxing on about finding the kidnapped Bingham and getting to the bottom of this nefarious mystery.

We caught an afternoon set from Steve Mason, formerly of Beta Band fame. He played through new solo album ‘Boys Outside’, backed by three session musicians. Opener ‘Lost and Found’ was a highlight, but the crowd’s appreciation was tested by an almighty downpour during the set’s midpoint. Using a backing track for synth, drum pattern and piano overlays, Mason gave studio-perfect renditions of the album tracks. Mason swayed with the music, but in truth it was a performance of little emotion. Spotting an old school friend in the crowd, Mason struck up conversation that ended when said friend humourously requested “Dry the rain” (a reference to the Beta Band’s breakthrough hit). Mason dismissed the opportunity. The band soon departed and Mason did stick around to play a Beta Band song, an acoustic rendition of fan-favourite Dr Baker, which was sung in calls to the sky whilst the guitar strummed a repeated chord. The band returned for the finale of ‘Walk the Earth’, a track gleaned from Mason’s immediate post-Beta Band EP ‘King Biscuit Time’. Slow burning electro, the song bears a catchy chorus but was dragged out and out with repeated bridges. There was an awfully choreographed moment where the music cut outs, leaving a solitary drum track- and the band fell to the ground like puppets whose strings had been cut.

We headed inside the Crooked House tent and hung around whilst The Sparks indulged the crowd’s desires with some live karaoke. This was a neat idea, pick a song and then yell it while a 3-piece band rock out behind you. A tuneful-enough ‘Ride Sally Ride’ had the room in fine voice, a faux-theatrical singalong of the hook becoming funnier with each repetition.

Hotly tipped London based duo Joe Gideon and the Shark were up next, and a sizeable crowd was drawn in from the rain by their jangly blues-inspired garage rock. Joe Gideon slashed at guitars and basses whilst younger sister Viva (aka The Shark) assaulted her drum kit in acrobatic fashion, together carving out a messianic racket.

Joe Gideon and the Shark

But that wasn’t it, as she would later play a drum-mounted piano and employ a wonderfully vintage 8-track recorder, hooked to an array of pedals- providing atmosphere and resonance for Joe’s whiskey-drawl. It was otherworldly, a perfect symbiosis between the two players, and the crowd duly noted. They’ve cut their teeth in bands previous and had albums recorded by Steve Albini, but it’s in this current incarnation that things are really beginning to pick up for them, and justifiably so.

As the evening drew in, we headed to the main stage for the promising double-bill of Casiokids and Etienne De Crecy, our best dancing shoes most definitely on. Casiokids came out to a rapturous response. Their eternally bouncy music struck a chord with the audience, who after a day of being rained on, were in dire need of cheering up. Casiokids didn’t disappoint, their euphoric indie-pop lifting the spirits of all as the sun set behind the stage and the rain began to relent. Glorious 8-bit chords resonated across the Main Stage valley as glitchy drum patterns cut with precision: the set comprised mostly tracks from breakthrough LP ‘Topp stemning på lokal bar’, a wonderful collection of rousing pop numbers performed with kitsch instrumentation.

Saturday’s headliner was something of an enigma. After years spent making music under one pseudonym or another, Etienne De Crecy is going by his own name, and had brought a 20 foot high light box with him. Comprising nine individual cubes stacked 3×3, the apparatus was reportedly so big that festival organisers had to hire a larger stage simply to accommodate him. This was to be money well spent though, as De Crecy offered up a scintillating light and laser show as backdrop for his electro-house hits.

Etienne De Crecy, photo by Alexander McNamara

Now releasing tracks via the Pixadelic label, De Crecy’s music draws influence from Daft Punk, Ratatat et al- but the sheer spectacle of his performance made it an unmissable draw. The audience danced, but with eyes transfixed on the enormity of the light show as 3d cubes spiralled over our heads and patterns danced in impossible fashion. It was a wonderful headline gig from an artist that not too many of the festival goers had heard of but with his lights and magic, he will surely have enthused a few. When the lights went up and he was revealed in the central cube, laptops and mixing desk, looking a little sheepish- it was to an almighty cheer, from an audience that had been blown away. And then De Crecy too, elicited a smile.

Standon Calling, Friday: Review

2010-08-12T06:53:00.001-07:00

A charming weekend in the hills, Standon Calling provided the perfect small party; it’s fine display of progressive music sitting with ease alongside an immersive murder mystery theme. Sound Screen arrived on Friday lunchtime: We noted the enticing outdoor swimming pool adjacent to the Crooked House stage (with mocked-up vintage library, study, bedroom..), the secret cinema, the wonderful ‘Gabberdashery’, and the faux-high street set along one of the festival’s walkways- complete with art gallery, police station, town hall- all these locations would gain in import as the weekend’s murder narrative unfurled around us. After a tour of the small but perfectly formed site, we were ready for an excellent opening day’s line up.

We first caught a mid-afternoon set from Bo Ningen, whose almighty racket from inside the Twisted Licks tent was drawing quite a crowd. Hailing from Japan, although now based in London and signed to Stolen Recordings- their four members elicit a triumphant cacophony from their guitars and drums, a masterclass in math-rock.
Bo Ningen

As vocalist Taigen shrieked, guitarists Yuki and Kohhei traded power-riffing with sky-scraping wails- they made for an engrossing sound. The band unassumingly demanded your attention throughout their short set, their awkward movements giving way to a rapturous implosion at their eventual end: a 15 minute long jam imploding under oceans of feedback, and thunderous crashes as the guitars were thrown around and the drummer exhausted himself. But this wasn’t some rock-parody, it was an exorcism that worked on every level and made for a fantastic opening concert.

After catching a Thai dinner from one of the festival’s hand-picked foot outlets (discreet, reasonable and delicious)- we journeyed over to the main stage, where Spanish DJ El Guincho was performing with band. Fans will understand that theirs is the kind of music which would benefit from sunlight, an aural smattering of carnival beats and tropicalia- but some could have told the Hertfordshire weather. As skies greyed and the first raindrops fell, a small crowd fought the immediate conditions to enjoy an alternate reality where sun was plentiful and the mojito’s kept coming. It was an interesting set of jangly-looped numbers, eventually coming around to the songs they’re most known for- and the crowd were largely appreciative of the effort and sympathetic for the weather.

At the gig’s end, the rain was pouring but fortunately our next appointment was to back inside the Twisted Licks tent. One of the subtle beauties of Standon Calling is the scheduling; when one band finishes, another starts, and so you can move between stages without missing a great deal. Unsuspecting festival goers strolled in to escape the rain. An excited throng packed the immediate front of stage, whilst Fucked Up sound-checked their own instruments. And then it happened, the band tearing through the opening numbers as the crowd immediately went ballistic.

Classics from recent LP The Chemistry of Common Life were belted out with an utter passion, and vocalist Damian Abraham (Pink Eyes) soon found himself shirtless, amongst the crowd, jumping with us. As the band performed immaculately on stage, the audience began to resemble a riot-scene, security guards hoisting the microphone cable over people’s heads. There was a feeling of sheer euphoria amongst the crowd, and it made for a joyous occasion- an outpouring of jumping and headbanging married to a collective spirit of good-will. When someone fell down, they were picked up with immediacy. Fucked Up were electric, spurred on by the crowd’s enthusiasm- it truly seems that wherever this band go, whichever corner of the Earth they play in- the results are the same; a staggeringly good performance and blissfully riotous crowd reaction.

By this point, the sun had set and the crowds were making their way to the Main Stage for the Friday headliner. Sound Screen was particularly curious as to how Liars would go down in a headline slot- for all their critical acclaim, they (sadly) remain a fairly niche outfit. These fears were to be proved groundless though, as the New York by Berlin alt-rock band tore through a set which took in their entire back catalogue. Opener ‘I can still see an outside world’ was a slow burning prophecy of what was about to happen, soon after this quiet paranoia had been replaced with the outright schizophrenic shredding of ‘Scarecrows on a killer slant’ and it was becoming clear that Liars had come here to be uncompromising. After five albums honing their unique craft, the band have accumulated an enviably strong repertoire and they performed with a passion, reinventing ‘The garden was crowded and outside’ as a fiery confessional, devoid of all pretense. Vocalist Angus Andrew was in fine mood, heckling the crowd and stalking the stage doing his best bird-dance.

Cuts from seminal LP ‘Drums not Dead’ were a percussive interlude from the manic rock indulgences of their eponymous record, but where ‘Freak Out’ and ‘Sailing to Byzantium’ offered stadium-rock sized behemoths (in an alternate reality, where stadium rock is good), it was the austere ‘The other side of Mt Heart Attack’ that really captured the moment, arriving at the set’s midpoint. It’s gentle refrain of ‘I can always be found’ resonating around Standon’s hills and trees, drenching the audience in a warm reassurance. Their encore was less comforting, a triad of percussive jams that took in two numbers from their ‘difficult’ 2nd album. Liars fans in the audience were unabashed- as the set finale ‘Broken Witch’ enticed an eerie chant amongst the front few rows of ‘We are the army you see through the red haze of blood, blood, blood, blood…”- it was fantastically chilling, and made for a fitting end to a set which was as uncompromising as it was inspired. Any doubts about Liars suitability for a headline slot cast aside, they had come to Standon Calling, had been unequivocally themselves- had utterly triumphed for it.

The night was seen in with a 1am DJ set from German electronic music producer Pantha Du Prince (real name, Hendrik Weber). Granted it was late and on the first night, but a small crowd had massed to witness his otherworldly beat work; a blend of gliding strings and textures over precise drum patterns, clicks and pops.

Weber seemed on fine form, mixing cuts from his last two records with ease, providing a lulled dreamscape of perpetual motion. For whatever reason though, the Twisted Licks PA didn’t seem loud enough, and a low warble of people’s conversation was audible over what could have been an engrossing gig. Perhaps the crowd didn’t take to it- but they hung around and were dancing.

At the set’s end, Weber nodded to a few in the crowd who had paid him their complete attention- it was clear that he’d enjoyed the set but felt it could have gone better- quite why he was so quiet was inexplicable especially considering the sheer volume of the drum and bass that was emanating from the Alcatraz dance stage not 40 feet away. All this considered though, Pantha Du Prince put in an enjoyable shift that highlighted his many strengths as a DJ and producer. Musically faultless but sullied by an at times indifferent crowd.

Wu Tang Clan, Brixton Academy: Review

2010-08-12T06:52:00.000-07:00

There was a palpable sense of excitement outside the Brixton Academy last night, as fans with baited breath queued in line for the last night of the Wu Tang Clan’s European tour. The legendary Staten Island crew are notably famed for how rare it is to accumulate their full roster in the same venue at the same time, and despite the assurances on the billing (“Full reunion!”) this show was to prove no different. Although Method Man was sadly still in the states filming his CSI episode, the crowd was in no mood to feel downbeat: some of hip-hop’s finest were about to bless the stage, and that fact alone was enough to swell the audience into near hysterics.

Opening the bill were Chicago’s Hypnotic Brass Ensemble, a 9-piece horn section of brothers that riffed through a 30 minute set of funk-inspired numbers that took lines from New Orleans swing. It was a fantastic spectacle, the band lined up and bouncing in unison as souxaphone riffs set the bass, and a lively effort on the drums cemented the sound in hip-hop tradition. The horn players took turns MCing, gleefully ratcheting up the vibe over brass crescendos. Highlight of the gig was by far the rousing ‘Kryptonite’, a jangly bass riff underpinning the Motown trumpet calls as two of the group’s MCs offered tight verses and a memorable chorus (“That’s that kryptonite, baby that’s that kryptonite”) that took in the audience’s full attention. Elsewhere in the set, the dual burdens of the opening slot and the famed (for all the wrong reasons) Brixton sound system conspiring to dim the carnival atmosphere: these were party songs, but this was lost to a 8pm audience here only to see one thing- their music in all likelihood far better suited to an after-party environment.
The Hypnotic Brass Ensemble

The Hypnotic Brass Ensemble

Next up was Mista Jam- a London DJ known for his late-night Radio 1 slots. Hard to pin down the quality of his performance; he gave a run through for 90s New York hip-hop that referenced Biggie, Nas and Jay Z’s seminal records, and it’s hard to fault those LPs. Frequent calls from the mic that “if you don’t know this record, you aren’t a real hip-hop fan” did little to assuage the notion that Jam was merely going through the motions, playing a selection of records that picked themselves, to an audience (again) that was only after one thing.

After what seemed an interminably long set and prolonged periods of Wu chanting, Mista Jam relented the stage to ironic applause- fair enough, he came what he did to do and did exactly as he said he would, but this audience hadn’t come here to be schooled in rap authenticity.

As the stage lights dimmed, so the LED backdrop revealed the Wu icon, to a mass of cheers. And then they took to the stage, one by one, introducing each other to a rapturous response. Ghostface Killah is in the house. Oh look, Raekwon is in the house. We got the GZA Genius in the house. Where’s my man the RZA? Oh shit, the RZA is in the house. One of the most alluring things about the Wu Tang is their breadth of individual stars and styles; over their 18 year career accomodating numerous fine solo efforts. When these distinctive characters come together, their styles become greater than the sum of their parts, a collective flow that is engaging and hard to pin down.

Their set focused mainly on debut LP ‘36 Chambers’, and soon in the set they had the crowd pumping to early hits like ‘Wu Tang Clan Ain’t Nothin To Fuck With’ and the anthemic ‘Bring Da Ruckus’. From there, the GZA took centre stage as the set took in four jams from his classic LP ‘Liquid Swords’. Duel of the Iron Mic displaying the kind of sound that has become synomymous with the Wu Tang Clan’s output: a heady concoction of a looped soul riff, marshal-arts film samples and fearless microphone work.

If the crowd were missing Method Man, they weren’t showing it- the spectacle of the touring Clan proving more than enough: Raekwon huddled at the back of the stage, overseeing the performance like a kingpin, Ghostface and U-God trading verses and high-fiving with an enjoyable interplay, whilst master of ceremonies GZA marauded the stage, ramping up the crowd. It was an energetic set that sadly only lasted an hour, without encore- a fact which seems staggering considering the sheer volume of the band’s recorded output, and that DJ Mista Jam’s had been afforded a trying hour and a half on the stage.
Wu Tang Clan

Similarly, (and this applies to all the performers on the bill)- the sound system at Brixton did noone any favours- and rendered sonically rich numbers like ‘One Blood’ to little more than a thumping bass hit and a shrieking top- there was just no subtlety nor middle in the EQ- reducing good pieces of music to just their drum beat and vocal lines. As an aside, this is something that the Brixton Academy needs to sort out as a matter of priority- this reviewer has witnessed far too many great bands and paying audiences suffering under the weight of that sound system, and this gig was no different.

All these things considered though, and it’s hard to pick too many faults with the gig- merely witnessing the spectacle was perhaps enough.

Secret Garden Party Saturday/Sunday: Review

2010-08-12T06:50:00.000-07:00

As the weekend unfurled, so too did the sunshine- Secret Garden Party’s Saturday morning was an incredibly warm affair. We woke in our tents, which by 10 am bore closer resemblance to a greenhouse than a rudimentary shelter. Dragging ourselves up and out, we started the day the only way we knew how: a quick sojourn down lakeside for a nip in the alluring Secret Garden Lake. And we weren’t the only ones who’d had this bright idea, an eager queue of bleary eyed Gardeners had formed. Swims aside, and our day was already looking promising.

Walking back from the lake, we passed the Jungle Fever tent and were caught up in an impromptu ball-fight started notably by those already inside the ball pool (no gardener was hurt in the production of this article- Ed). Chaos ensued, kids joined in and rest assured, Sound Screen gave as good as it got.

Exhausted, and in need of some more cerebral stimuli, we set off towards the Guerrilla Science tent- not entirely prepared for what we were about to witness: An eye-popping lecture on post-humanism and body-modification that at times proved hard to watch; surface piercings and self-harming only paving the way for the main event- a display of ‘body hooking’, where ringlets were cast into the skin and a person then suspended using giant ‘meat industry-esq’ metal hooks. Each to their own, we noted, (and how!)- but perhaps it was a good thing that we hadn’t had our breakfast yet.

Returning to the relative normalcy of the festival line up, we took in a jovial gig from Afrik Bananta, who djembe’d through a set of lively funk numbers backed by an impressive brass band. Moving out of the tents and ‘into the light’, we caught the surprising I Blame Coco on the festival’s main stage. Coco Sumner impressed as a natural frontwoman, displaying a kind of endearing awkwardness whilst simultaneously appearing very natural. She gave a rousing performance, backed by a solid and energetic band that looked like it had been found wandering the streets of Hoxton in need of gigs. Essentially, this half hour was probably the height of trendmonger indie-cool at the weekend- Sumner donning a vintage gentleman’s smoking jacket as her band blasted their way through songs which were immediate and enjoyable, if sounding a little similar to The Police at times (come on- sparse bass riffs, cascading vocal harmonies, ska-punk?!). But still, the kids seemed to love it and it was nice to see Coco and band stick around to experience the festival after their gig had ended.

As the evening drew in, we happened across rapper Dizraeli and the Small Gods, a backing band of folk musicians, horn players, and The Boxettes’ own Bellatrix on double bass and beatbox. There is an ingrained skepticism whenever a white boy takes to the mic to spit, but Dizraeli silenced these latent doubts within moments. His was a fast but precise flow, each syllable delivered clearly as he lamented the state of England and implored at his audience to bomb Tesco. Yeah he had beats and a plan, but Dizraeli is not the sort of politically-motivated artist that would allow ideology to usurp the communal experience of a gig- he smiled broadly, spoke fondly when introducing his band, and came across as modest and funny- despite his obvious talents. And a talent is what he is; both lyrically and in deliverance, this is a rapper to pay attention to- his flow cascading over itself in a style reminiscent of Eminem; running down a particular flow before doubling back on itself and arguing back against the beat. It’s an engaging style that rewards those who pay attention, highlighted during the a-capello recital mid-set that recounted an impromptu rap jam amidst the myriad aisles of a supermarket.

It was then that we heard the fireworks, and hurredly made our way back lakeside for the annual burning of the Garden centerpiece. The Secret Garden Party organisers are openly influenced by American festival/temporary-community Burning Man, where similarly, a burning pyre is used as a communal ritual in bringing people together. Here, it was a spectacular event, fireworks scraping the sky as the blimp-ship that many of us had swam to and partied on not 24 hours previous was set ablaze, lighting up the night sky.

All of which gave us ample time to make it back to the Chai Wallah tent for what would prove our festival highlight, Hackney’s own The Correspondents. The electro swing two-piece had clearly built up a degree of expectation following last year’s extended set on the Secret Garden main stage, and the tent was filled to the rafters in anticipation. And then they appeared: effervescent vocalist Mr Bruce in trademark two-tone brogues, lyotard tights, shirt and waistcoat, hair slicked back with an immaculate swagger. The lights were dimmed but you could see a beaming Mr Chuckles tucked behind a desk of laptops and turntables. And for an hour, that room bounced and danced like it had never before.

The Correspondents

They performed in the best traditions of British cabaret, their vintage caricatures full and fleshed out. Coming across like a 1930s high-society lothario, Mr Bruce was master of the stage as the band tore through renditions of older material like ‘Washington Square’ alongside the overtly more club-ready songs that will comprise their debut LP proper. Mr Chuckles span track after track of swing-sampling, drum n bass influenced grime- Mr Bruce shimmed and hopped across the stage, his relentless onslaught of hip-hop verses and skat-influenced MCing that sent the audience into a frenzy.Rarely have I witnessed a room quite so taken with a band’s performance: they could have played all night and we would have followed them anywhere. Sheer euphoria as the set closed, and those present departed knowing that they’d witnessed something truly extraordinary.

You will excuse us if we admitted to waking on Sunday morning feeling slightly more feeble than we’d prefer to admit- but a game of ‘keepey ups’ sucked us, and a few passing strangers, in. A shared goal bound us together as we tried to keep 10 keepey ups, up. Then 25. And then 50. After no small celebration, we resolved that ‘starting the day’ properly might be an idea.

And so we made our way towards the main stage, although not to it. By this point in the festival proceedings, we’d become quite accustomed to mere meandering.

The inspired Lewis Floyd Henry

Through a wooded glade, and after bumping into friends not seen in years (how does that always happen at festivals?), we’d stumbled across a small crowd, huddled on the side of a path which itself hugged a stream. At it’s centre, afro’d and donning a sharp grey Armani suit, Lewis Floyd Henry sat with a 30 watt amplifier, custom drum kit (operated by his feet) and a mean electric guitar- screaming through a vintage microphone over the thrashiest punk jams. It was inspired. Henry was on fire, a captive audience of no more than twenty of us huddled round- someone started head banging, Henry responded in turn.

Onwards, and we’re overtaken by a rabble of folk carrying a long tarpaulin. Someone runs past with soapy water- we see where this is going. A Secret Garden Sunday is famed for it’s indulgence of whimsy, it’s sheer ludicrousness, it’s inviting silliness- we were beginning to understand. From the centre of the Colisillyum (a 10 foot high coliseum made from hay bales- DJs just didn’t stop in that place, ever)- hawks and shrieks rang out, so we investigated. Where once a dancefloor had been, now was a hollowed mess, dug into the earth: mud wrestling was afoot. Further on, in the ‘dance-off’ ring- a 9 year old boy was body popping and breakdancing to rapturous applause. The poor chap he was up against didn’t stand a chance- we’d never seen anything like it, this kid flowed like liquid- he moved in ways we didn’t think possible. Then we met his mother, sat watching her son from the hillside- “He’s been practicing for months.”- we couldn’t think of enough compliments.

On the main stage and by this point the evening was drawing in: Horace Andy entertaining a full field of gardeners getting their dance on. Reggae classic after reggae classic as the sun set behind the stage, Andy showing no sign of tiring with age and proving his oft-unsung credentials. His band were tight, the vibe was easy and I don’t think any other performer could have imbued that field with such good feelings.

As the night faded away we found ourselves stumbling neither to nor fro, in search of chai, or coffee- our legs did take us to the Never Ever Land Theatre where the Tax Deductable Theatre Company had taken residence. Upon entry a bearded man took the stage to solemnly announce: “It is ten minutes until Ruckus O’ Clock”. Confused, enticed- we waited. And then the lights dimmed, a classical score blared from the PA- an arcane voice orated the history of Ruckus, as zombiefied folk appeared as if from nowhere in the crowd and made their way to the stage, arching their backs, walking stunted. And then they erupted- the place a blur of movement, hard to make out people- flour being thrown everywhere, party poppers. Until the compere announced that today was no ordinary day, for it was someone’s birthday. Cue the entire room, of near 200 people, singing happy birthday, at a rather bemused actress. A cake appeared, enormous and creamy- and was thrown over her. Ruckus continued, before the birthday games- a carnivalesque round of ‘pass the parcel’, with a good 15 odd layers, each holding different prizes- ranging from the sublime (novels) to the grotesque (a box of dead fishing maggots)- Sound Screen got lucky and won a luminous yellow jacket. Before long ruckus ensued once more, and in the blink of an eye the room had turned red, Santa Claus was right there, right there in the room, snow began to fall, and for 20 minutes we celebrated Christmas. We hugged and danced, kissed under the mistletoe, had snowball fights and sung along to all those cheesy, but wonderful Christmas anthems.

Secret Garden Party Thursday/Friday: Review

2010-07-31T02:39:00.000-07:00

Secret Garden Party has come and gone then, for another year. Sound Screen went, saw and conquered all. Forgive us our indiscretions but as Secret Garden Party aspires to be a festival like no other, we felt it appropriate to, rather than give individual reviews of bands or musicians per se, offer a more lucid account of our weekend’s gardening.

We arrived around Thursday lunchtime and after a brief fumble with our tent, began a once-over of the festival site. First impressions left us wide eyed with wonder: rolling hills and sparse woodland clung around a magnificent lake at the site’s epicenter. A tour of the site only perked our curiosity further. At seemingly every turn, it was noticeably that immense care and consideration had gone into transforming this private estate into an alternate reality. In every nook and cranny was tucked some small beauty, from the matchstick house that adorned the inside of one tree, to the cryptic signposts (“you are now entering a reality-testing area”)that were strewn throughout the site. The overall impression was one of immense vibrancy, the glorious July sun providing the perfect foil for this beautiful place to blossom.

Whilst the festival proper would start the next day, our Thursday was not spent in any state of anticipation. Stumbling upon a museum of curiosities aboard a disused train carriage, we were invited by two dashing chaps in Victorian get-up to bear witness to the shocking power of electric cucumbers. We moved around the site, and happened across the Guerilla Science tent where a seminar on lucid dreaming was happening. The lecturer offered insights into how we can raise our awareness during dream-states, and testimonies from the audience of fellow gardeners attested to the power of the human subconscious. It was noticeable that whilst music hadn’t started on the main stages, a lot of the tents and independently –run venues at the festival were putting on music that begun that evening. On a recommendation, we caught a set from one of London’s most interesting outfits. The Boxettes are a five-piece a-capella girl group, ostensibly led by Female World Beatbox Champion Bellatrix Ehresmann. Theirs was a finely honed set, delivered with precision. It was short, but held the audience captive. Boxettes have an unconventional a capella sound, with tight beatbox work set against dreamy, sundrenched harmonics as each of the girls took turns narrating through melody over the top. Lyrically, their work seemed to focus on classic themes of love and lust, but were retold with a omniscient sense of distance. These were yarns to recount, folk tales of love lost and of self-empowerment, made for recital in a soulful hip-hop. By it’s end, the tent was full and bouncing to every beat and scratch.

Friday came, and with it the first full day of music. We started our day, however, with a swim in the lake. A quick hop off the custom-made ‘wibbly-wobbly’ bridge, and the cooling lake waters provided the perfect start to our day. Onto the music , then! It all started with a dreamy set from Leeds’ Submotion Orchestra. A tight mix of dub-influenced bass and live electronics overhead, it was a relaxed and emotive introduction to the day’s bill. Following their set, the six members of Tin Roots took to the stage and the tempo was raised. Vocalist Ruby Taylor gliding soulfully over her bands’ genre mashing, a style that took in reggae, soul and contemporary blues against an everpresent metronome of hip-hop beats. The lively set went down a treat, and was topped by an inspired cover of Miike Snow’s recent hit single ‘Animal’, here reinvented with trumpets and sax as a bouncy ska number.

On the main stage, pop starlet Marina was entertaining the kids with all of her Diamonds, a rabble of tweens forming a pseudo-pit in front of the stage and gleefully singing along with her. Frankly, this reviewer doesn’t see quite what the fuss was about, but the inclusion of a couple of token pop acts on an otherwise musically sound bill shouldn’t detract from what was an altogether fantastic line up. It’s hard to say whether punters attend Secret Garden Party in any way for the music on show, but the line up didn’t relent in providing wonderfully summery tunes, immaculately performed.

Steve Mason followed, performing tracks from recent solo album ‘Boys Outside’. This reviewer has always had a soft spot for Mason’s introspecting crooning, throughout his career with Beta Band and that affection continues. For me, this set could have lasted forever. Mason was warm, conversational, inflicted with the mood of the occasion. Although his songwriting has never been that musically complicated, this simple craft allows for an enormous outpouring of emotional weight. Closing the set with the rare ep track ‘Walk the Earth’, it was a euphoric ending to a set that many people seemed to genuinely appreciate.

And so we made our way back to the Chai Wallah tent, where accomplished Bristol act Yes Sir Boss were preparing for by far the day’s heaviest set. A fine group of musicians, YSB seem able to draw from a multitude of influences whilst rounding these into an impressively cohesive whole. Their five members, including a two piece horn section, gallivanted through a rousing set which opened with the stomping ‘Christian Soldier’- a ska-influenced rock number that had the entire room pogo’ing. The band were clearly in their stride and enjoying every moment; the interplay between guitarist Luke Potter and bassist Josh Stopford was a fine thing to see, and the audience reciprocated with an outpouring of love. Arguably, though, it was vocalist Matt Sellors who captured the hearts of this captive audience; growling in hisses and fits at the microphone, thrashing at a disheveled guitar, at once both coy and brazen. It was an enthralling set, closed with a monster rendition of their eponymous single- it’s juggernaut riff sending the audience into a frenzy.

This moment was only topped by what was about to occur. After a short break, they returned, promising a very special guest, and they did not disappoint: R&B singer Joss Stone appearing, clearly beaming, to a rapturous response. Stone and the band (with help from Smerin’s Anti Social Club) whipped through a electric performance o f ’Come Together’, an explosion caught somewhere between the Beatles’ croon and Michael Jackson’s showmanship. This was a fitting end, a euphoric opportunity to ramp guitar amps to eleven- Stone was impeccable, from the moment her mouth opened and that first note resonated around tent. It is a sad irony that in her, we probably have one of a generation’s finest voices, but that too often not been self-evident. Here she was in her element, set against a proper band of rock musicians, making the kind of noise that makes R&B sound like elevator music. This was a ‘festival moment’, there was no doubt about it, the kind of gig that confounded expectations and raised the bar for the rest of the weekend.

Big Boi: Sir Lucious Leftfoot, the son of Chico Dusty: Review

2010-07-19T01:59:00.000-07:00

It’s refreshing to encounter such an effortlessly forward thinking hip-hop record as Sir Lucious Leftfoot:The Son of Chico Dusty. Big Boi has made a masterful album of perfectly crafted and hugely inventive pop songs, whilst showing off the full extent of his microphone repertoire. It’s an assured example of what commercial hip-hop should sound like in 2010.

: Mm hmmm.

Commercially oriented hip-hop, which is to say- music which embraces the mainstream, has always tread a precarious tightrope of authenticity, from it's knowingly pandering to audience expectation, to confounding it and pushing the culture forward. But whilst the stage has never been better set for rap artists to get their fifteen minutes- too often, the ones that make it have fallen into the former category, only for their original fans to cry "sell out" (read: Dizzy Rascal). Prominent artists have been reduced to bit-part raps on a chart-topping middle-eight (Clipse on Justin Timbalake’s Like I Love You), or the parodic re-performance of nihilistic street-hustling, real or imaginary. That posteuring and game-playing could’ve become an inherent part of the lexicon- of course some swagger is perfectly valid, but not for it’s own sake.

Whilst no serious hip-hop fan could doubt Antwon ‘Big Boi’ Patton’s mic credentials, it’s been a shame that he’s had to live in Outkast compadre Andre 3000’s effervescent shadow. A new audience of casual hip-hop listeners bought the Outkast double album, but only ever spun 'The Love Below', dismissing 'Big Boi's offering as juvenile thug-talk, therein irrelevant to their existences. Rather than comparing the records on merit, Patton was ignored on the basis of an incorrect presumption. But were it not for his bandmate releasing 'Hey Ya!', Big Boi would have been sitting on single of the year for 'I Like The Way u Move'. But with his debut solo album for Def Jam, Big Boi should dispell any of those comparisons. This is his moment, and he knows it.

The record is enamored with the grandiose, but whereas similarly pop-inclined rapper Lil Wayne’s Tha Carter III was a triumph of style over substance, watching it's central performer became more fascinating than listening to his records- Sir Lucious Leftfoot is a collection of wonderful songs, delivered with a flawless consistency- it’s central character only a conduit for the craft.

It’s refreshing that whilst he's no philosopher, Big Boi avoids the trappings of gangsta-nostalgia. Yes, he pays it lip service- but only by indulging it with irony. Predomionantely, it's a relentless flow of puns, aphorisms and word-play. Even on songs like Be Still, where after a minute’s music you can’t really fathom how Patton is gonna find space to rap between the avant-garde beat work- it’s an unwarranted fear. As soon as he opens his mouth, the music instantly twists to his voice, as though there isn’t a beat in the world he couldn’t rap over. His is a dextrose and malleable voice, able to shift and turn in a microsecond. On the carnivalesque Night Night, he seems to invent new ways of rhyming in metre, putting syllables where they just didn’t fit before. Pay attention, and your jaw drops. His flow is playful, unpredictable but engrossing, flirting with rhythm- never staying in a groove for too long. One moment arguing against beats, only to then conspire with them.

: "Lucious. Loo-shus. Yeah, that's right!"

Over the record’s 57 minutes, there’s a staggering amount of ideas fighting for competition. Rather than establishing a globe-trotting style akin to Mos Def’s fine recent work The Ecstatic, Patton crafts these into a cohesive whole. The first listen might seem daunting- at any single moment there’s just so much happening. On opening track Daddy Fat Sax, dreamy 80s synths compete with military drums, vocoder samples are twisted, and casiotone glitches fly in the stratosphere. The effect is powerful if completely uncategorisable- it’s ability to effect a feeling of both serenity and momentum at once.

Similarly, after Tangerine’s fuzzed guitar has lulled you into a driven haze, a wild electric lead trades places with a reverb-heavy jazz piano- taking turns to enforce a change on the track’s mood. It’s forever inventive, a trick carried over the 16 tracks, employing both respect for loops and full mastery of both studio and songwriting. The results are dynamic, transformative, joyful songs. Patton just makes it sound easy, an impression that betrays the 3 years plus that went into the record’s production.

You put it on for the tunes; numbers like Shutterbugg and Tangerine showing off the grace of quality instrumentation and bright arrangement- but you stick around for the rhymes. Describing the record as his ‘Luke Skywalker becoming a Jedi moment’, it’s the sound of an enormously talented rapper with years of experience on his peers, knowing that when you’re good- go with it.

Secret Garden Party: Preview

2010-06-02T14:26:00.000-07:00

As the sunshine becomes an evermore regular fixture in our days, the true meaning of Summer awakens memory and perks excitement in the British public. Yes, festival season approaches fast on the horizon. One might wonder how we got here, from the relative novelty and obscurity of British music festivals a decade ago, to the now seeming ubiquity of the scene. Over five hundred music festivals will grace the fields of Albion this summer, from the mainstream and corporate to the obscure and fiercely independent. A ready-for-use formula of bars, campsites and arenas has rendered the majority of these gatherings fairly homogeneous. That so many of these festivals, as with our clubs and concert halls, are now owned by large entertainments corporations (Mean Fiddler and Live Nation come to mind) only affirms the fear that what was once a unique opportunity for a gathering of communities and artistry, now resembles little more than a weekender experience, flat-packed for the SMS generation. A rotating cast of super-bands embarking on annual global festival tours does little to assuage this creeping feeling; and it's fair to say that many festival goers have been experiencing a kind of existential crisis.

But a growing number of festivals here in our very own United Kingdom are seeking (to coin a recent election phrase) "to do things differently". Of this small but increasing number, The Secret Garden Party is by far the most exciting, rewarding and plain 'out-there'. Imagine a festival where punters were treated not as cattle to be herded in and out of the arenas, but as individual members of a temporary society. A festival where the bands on show are just as excited to be there as you. A festival where the non-music activities didn't feel so 'corporate experience'. A festival where your bars are staffed by bartenders, your beer's a freshly poured one, the food is organic and restaurant standard. I'm barely scratching the surface of this unique, beautiful, often staggering festival.

Since it's inaugural year in 2004, where some 1000 people attended that first and now mythologised weekend- The Secret Garden Party has attracted a cult following. Devotees from previous years return with wide-eyed wonder and eager anticipation. You will know someone who can tell you a Secret Garden Party yarn, usually with glee, recounting the absurd and amazing things they have seen and done in previous years. A previous festival indulged itself by constructing an enormous ship on the lake which makes up the ground's centrepiece. After bands had finished performing on it, at the end of the weekend- it was blown apart in an explosion celebrating the carnivalesque, acknowledging creation and destruction. This ethos of participation in, towards and becoming 'grander events' is central to the Secret Garden Party ethos. Like America's infamous Burning Man festival- an event from which SGP's organisers draw huge inspiration, emphasis is on utter freedom and community-binding acts that bring out the best in people as well as inspiring awe.

And so Secret Garden Party is something of an enigma in the British Festival circuit; for whilst other festivals may entice through the location itself or the quality of the line-up, SGP places the emphasis firmly on those who attend. In their own words "We provide the Garden and plant the seeds, but you nurture its life and allow it to blossom. It is your party – your creative participation allows the festival to rejuvenate & regenerate." Would you ever hear those words eminating from a festival-behemoth like Mean Fiddler? Is it even possible to consider Reading festival 'a garden'? This commendable focus on you the festival goer, you the individual, collectively entails that a sense of pleasant freedom and community is native. An impossibly long list of activities (don't think Butlins), including Giant African Land Snail racing, life drawing, a scientific experiments area and academic lecture theatre- ensure that you are never bored, never drifting off, never thinking about 'heading back to the tents for a lie down'. In fact, if you're that kind of person- Secret Garden Party probably isn't for you. The Rejuvination Field is on hand to cure what ails ye: with a multitude of global massage techniques on hand, reflexology, yoga, even a giant-sized version of the classic board game 'Operation', for when you're feeling yourself again. A conspiracy camp explores debate and conjecture between peers. This year's festival falls on a full moon, so gardeners (as festival goers are lovingly referred) are invited to spend a while howling at the moon, rediscovering our inner wolves. Restuarants with such delicacies as free range guinea fowl and sweet potato dauphinoise. Oh, and lest I forget- if one requires quick but essentially bourgeois transportation across the site- there is of course, the fully working steam train with carriages. And one of the carriages is a club. But when you have eventually tired of the all-night roller discos and you do retire to your tent, a samba band will parade the festival every morning at 10am sharp, ensuring all gardeners are awake and atttentive, excited about the coming day.

With some much going on to become involved and lose yourself in, it's almost forgotten that a large number of very good bands happen to be playing the many stages at Secret Garden Party. Previous line ups have included Phoenix and Jarvis Cocker, and this year's can stand tall: From well-known names such as Mercury Rev and Eliza Doolittle, to upcoming indie star Darwin Deez and the delightful Belleruche. Across 14 stages, all colourfully named (from the Great Stage, the Remix Bubble, to the Where the Wild Things Are stage- where performers play from a wooden tree house)- Secret Garden Party's line up is designed to both please and surprise. "Favourite new band" discoveries are common here; the organisers hand-picked artists who will both fit into and appreciate the festival's aesthetic.

Every year, the Secret Garden Party is themed- and this year is no exception. Previous themes have included the myths of 'Babylon and Eden', 'Past Present and Future' and 'Revolutions'- mandates open to interpretation in one's decor, but promising a host of thematic and unexpected events throughout the weekend. In 2010, the festival will seek "prize open the chinks in man’s most carefully constructed edifice: Reality. The Garden will be exploring the illusions, visions, theories, fantasies, mysteries and legends that have created a rich world between Fact and Fiction." A hugely enticing brief, no doubt- calling to mind postmodernism, solipsism, nihilism, the art of Escher and Dali, Homeric thinking, construction of fictions, retelling of Histories. This year's Secret Garden Party promises a festival dedicated to wonderment, imagination and the impossible. It might be a secret now, but probably not for much longer. It's festivals like this that reaffirm your belief in the central premise: fields, music, people. That simple formula so often spoilt by unthinking corporate swipes, misunderstood by the global festival machine- enacted, for one weekend in Cambridgeshire, to within a whisker of utter perfection.

Secret Garden Party runs from 22nd to 25th July 2010.
Tickets are priced at 142.00 and are available from seetickets.co.uk and secretgardenparty.com
Boutique camping (of which yurts, tipis, centrally heated wooden huts, your own butler, door-men and other luxuries are available) starts at 350.00

4321: Review

2010-05-29T06:10:00.000-07:00

Following the release of 2006's Kidulthood, cinema mythology recounts that writer, director, actor and all-round thesp Noel Clarke was summoned to a meeting where it was put to him that his female characters were 'unrealistic' and 'very negative'. Granted, it was hard to find many positive representations of indeed anyone in that grimy street-yarn, but Clarke was incensed all the same. Compelled into 'speaking to women', Clarke scripted an ambitious and heavily stylised adventure-thriller focusing on the individual and collective misadventures of four young, aggressively empowered female friends. It's a whirlwind ride, flitting between London and New York as the girls get caught in the midst of an international diamond heist. The pace is relentless from the off and an expressive edit maintains this dirvish- but 4321 is ultimately a triumph of style over an appalling lack of substance.

Throughout each of their three days, our four leads experience all manners of impediments: back-story sourced from family issues, self-esteem, boyfriends and depression. Explication is a slow burn- due to the film's 'split-narrative' structure: four simultaneous accounts of each girl's story. As such, 4321 is content for ambiguity to enshrine it's character's motivations until it's narrative climax rounds these distinct threads together. Cassandra (Tamsin Egerton), a glamorous and suitably wealthy pianist, flies to the Big Apple in search of both entrance to a prestigious musical academy and (of far greater import) a mystery internet boyfriend. Shannon, portrayed by the smouldering Ophelia Lovibond, is a exercise in perpetual indie-angst, bearing the brunt of her parent's divorce. Kerrys (newcomer Shanika Warren-Markland) is a feisty and empowered sapphic with street-smarts and guile, but an overbearing family. Finally, Joanne (Emma Roberts) is a unassuming but 'take no shit' American ex-pat forced to begrudgingly wile her life away behind the tills in a convenience store co-managed by Tee (Clarke). You might have guessed: Clarke indulging that same 'sup blud?' line in British "Boyz N the hood" gangsta that he seemingly revels in.

Besides the seeming improbability of these four girls from totally disparate backgrounds and cultures finding common ground and striking up close bonds, there's more than a hint of unrealism both in the construction of their characters and in their respective portrayals. With exception of Lovibond (who could teach Twilight's Kristen Stewart a thing or two about pent-up trauma), the acting on display is deeply inexpressive. But Egerton looks fantastic as Cassandra and makes no bones in getting her kit off for a wonderfully voyeuristic camera (at the same time, masterfully, as the film offers a critique of voyeurism). Indeed, 4321 resonates with sex appeal- the pumping soundtrack and heavy edit complement both the casting and cinematography. Perhaps the whirlwind pace of the film's edit contributes, but little time is allowed for resonance to set in. In one particularly troublesome scene, Cassandra comes-to after being drugged in New York, her possessions stolen- and there is the briefest of instants between her tears welling up and her embarking for vengeance. Other films may portray similar scenarios with more sensitivity and grace; in 4321, Cassandra 'deals' by tying her tormentors to a post and kicking them between the legs. It's a literal kind of empowerment at best, most adeptly served through physical retribution. When characters falter, it's simply down to their naivity. And after overcoming adversity, it's all high fives for the girls.

If 4321 is Clarke's attempt at writing for women, it's a profoundly masculine perspective. From its glib recounting of secret abortions (used merely as a plot device) to steamy lesbian sex scenes (made for the DVD 'skip scene' button), there is a real danger that these four girls are merely caricatures spurred on by single moments which are, in Clarke's view, inherent to 'The Female Condition'. To pick out one example, it's a mystery how Shannon goes from one scene in which she very beautifully graffitis a touching ode to her aborted child, to then unthinkingly chasing the affections of a noteworthy playa (think N-Dubz Dappy). These two moments, frankly, just don't add up- and sadly leave each character feeling disappointingly one-dimensional. There's enough detail inherent in these characters to merit more reflective portrayals, yet 4321 skims the surface. "Oh, damn- you had an abortion? Riiiight, I get it now".

Similarly, whilst the narrative arcs around an ambitious format (that four-strain overlapping narrative split) and attempts to carry it through with well-edited montages which recount each girl's 3 days before moving on to the next- it's a fairly damp squib when one considers the implausibility of the plot itself. This narrative style, if nothing else, is a way of drawing intrigue into a story where little exists. However, rather than offering the kind of postmodern storytelling made hip by Christopher Nolan's Memento, Noel Clarke here provides nonlinearity for the Hollyoaks generation. It's not that Clarke holds back story elements for the sake of plot, rather that the film's narrative technique justifies itself by holding these facts back. This is a catch 22 situation where insistence on editing style has acheived greater prominence than finding the best way of telling a story: sadly reminiscent of Kiera Knightley's post-production wetdream Domino. Whereas classic nonlinear films like The Usual Suspects hold out it's big reveal after asking an initial question (who is Kaiser Soze?) and offer limitless re-viewing potential (embedded clues!), 4321 merely exhausts you by it's conclusion.

4321 is then, a quite remarkable film, despite- perhaps because of- it's vapid unremarkable-ness. Aspiring to create a stylish and zeitgeisty piece of contemporary British cinema, Clarke has instead created the polar opposite: a tragically missed opportunity for him to write compelling female leads. A patronisingly comic storyline with worryingly lifeless caricatures- the whole thing carried forward by insistence on style for style's sake, the director seemingly convinced of both the film's authenticity to it's subject and it's relevance and importance in a wider cultural context. 4321 deals with serious issues with all the profundity of a Skins episode. Whilst it may provide light entertainment, a few giggles (the rolling news graphic that Chelsea FC had been liquidated) and keep your interest up much in the same way sitting in front of E4 on a Sunday morning would- it's an ultimately tiring journey that doesn't go anywhere you hadn't been before.

Bad Lieutenant Port of Call New Orleans: Review

2010-05-16T07:01:00.000-07:00

With his latest foray into dramatic storytelling, Werner Herzog seems intent on both insulting tradition and confounding expectation. Port of Call is, in essence, a narrative refranchising of the cult 1991 Abel Ferrara movie Bad Lieutenant; a guilt-trip in which Harvey Keitel's morally bankrupt policeman indulges most of the film by destroying his own humanity against a backdrop of Catholic imagery. Herzog's reimagining has irked many- Ferrara included, exclaiming that "It's like when you get robbed. It's just a horrible feeling and I don't understand why they would do it" - but perceived intellectual piracy aside, there is a great deal that is original and distinct about Port of Call.

This is a reimagining, rather than retelling- in the vein that one James Bond film does not replace a previous- instead, you take that central character and immerse them in new situations. With a degree of arrogance, Herzog claims not to have even seen the original. But rather than merely shifting the incidentals (Port of Call is set in a Katrina-stricken New Orleans, rather than Ferrara's New York) Herzog offers a tonally distinct Bad Lieutenant- and whilst the 1991 original can be considered a somewhat morbid portrayal of moral denigration, Herzog presents here a black comedy of some considerable whimsy.

In the role of our bad lieutenant, Terrence McDonagh- Nicolas Cage is a revelation. Following his award winning turn in 2002's Adaptation, you could argue that Cage made some bad decisions and was thrown into thesp's wilderness. The abysmal Wicker Man remake compounded the perception of Cage as a cult joke: comically overacting and doomed to be typecast in 2nd rate thrillers. But Cage is back and more himself than ever; last year's criminally underrated sci-fi opus Knowing and his star turn in surprise-film-of-the-year candidate Kick-Ass proudly showing off all that make Cage an uniquely engrossing force. Port of Call is a foil upon which his neurosis are allowed to shine, a script seemingly deigned for his rendition. McDonagh is one corrupt murder po-lice; hopelessly addicted to gambling, drugs, sex and violence: It's hard to imagine anyone else filling this role so adeptly.

Port of Call ambles through it's 2 hours with pace and intensity, never losing momentum or direction. It's comic overtones are reminiscent of the Coen brothers work, but rather than derive humour from plot- Herzog here employs character as the focus. Like much of Herzog's dramatic work, Port of Call works through the exposition of character. This is especially evident in the director's infamous and fraught collaborations with actor Klaus Kinski; a relationship that Cage is quick to allude to. As Herzog instilled in Cage throughout shooting, McDonagh exists through and revels in 'the bliss of evil'. The relationship between director and actor is never more apparent than in the scenes where Cage is given reign to fly off the handle and improvise. In one scene (no doubt to be revered in the expanding Herzog mythology), Cage unexpectedly pulls a gun on two elderly women and treats them to an ad-libbed shower of expletives. They were genuinely frightened.

It's this taught relationship between comedy and repulsion along which the central performance is posited. Although the film is overtly comedic in places, dialogue and situation combining to revel in the absurd (a masterfully surreal scene in which a whacked-out McDonagh hallucinates crooning iguanas at a crime scene comes to mind) - Cage was careful not to fetishise or glamourise the protagonist's indulgences. Extensive research into addict's tics (lip smacking, fast talking, poor attention spans, slurred speech) empowered Cage to portray the ugliness of rampant smack, coke and crack addictions- but this is in no way a treatise on drug-use. McDonagh is a maverick, a grotesque joker that, whether you like him or not, gets results. The pervasive horror of his descent is instilled as much to round his character with a sense of realism as it is to provide by-turns comedy. Much in the same way that Chris Morris' Four Lions employs absurdity to hack at the truth of the matter, Cage's over-the-top performance works in favour of a profound realism.

I found it hard to hold any firm expectations before seeing Port of Call. The combination of cult director, enigmatic lead, the controversy surrounding the 1991 original, the choice of politically 'in-vogue' New Orleans as location- all seemed to contribute towards a sense that 'this is going to be great'. And, in truth- Port of Call doesn't disappoint. It's a deeply engrossing character-led film that shirks the moral quest of Ferrara's original in place of a realist black-humour that is as relentless as it is shocking, as impressive as it is pitiful. And while it's directed with all the grace and humanity that one would commonly associate with Werner Herzog, it is perhaps Nicolas Cage's finest hour.

Rainbow Arabia - Kabukimono: Review

2010-04-15T12:32:00.000-07:00

It's always warming to discover another band formed of marriage, isn't it? Especially when the group consists only of the married couple, unlike indie mainstays Yo La Tengo or Arcade Fire. In both those groups, extra band members must feel at times like musical gooseberries. But however sweet the back-story may be, making decent music goes a lot further. Like Sonny and Cher (in the happier moments), LA couple Danny and Tiffany Prestons enjoy a natural interplay. Their second EP 'Kabukimono' was recorded in the cracks of a relentless touring schedule, at one point opening for the in-vogue Gang Gang Dance across Europe, and it's a wide-eyed wonder of a recrd- a triumph of technology and worldview. Kabukimono clearly draws influence from subculture- dub, italo and post-punk to name a few- but rather than sounding derivative, Rainbow Arabia artfully weave these elements into a sound which is unmistakably their own.

It's a euphoric and refreshing journey across this record's five original recordings and two remixes. Sharpened drumbeats overlap and clash wonderfully, the deep hits conflicting with staccato beats on top. Tiffany Preston's delivery is inflicted with playfulness and soaked in a controlled reverb. Her melodies are less a narrative focal point for the music and rather a kind of avant-garde complement to it. It's a similar style to Ponytail's caustic frontwoman Molly Siegel- though whilst Siegels rasps are shrill and feral, the vocals here are intoxicated and heady. Preston is clearly mouthing words, but it's hard to tell what they are. Maybe even she doesn't know. Maybe it doesn't matter. The cavernous production on the vocals contrasts with a precise drum sound, spiking guitar work and ever so slightly fuzzed synths in a style which calls to mind the work of Warp stalwarts Broadcast- but Rainbow Arabia 's agenda is more cosmopolitan. The steel drums on 'Harlem Sunrise' provide an easy context, but the record is frequently tinged with globalism. Kabukimono is an intriguing record, representing a real statement of promise. Rainbow Arabia have created a psychadelic and hedonistic dream world rich in colour, depth and most importantly, sound- and it's thoroughly enjoyable.

Tru Thoughts Funk: Review

2010-03-28T12:29:00.000-07:00

Genre spanning Brighton label Tru Thoughts has enjoyed a fantastic eleven years, putting on some of the area's most essential club nights, hosting a killer radio show and of course, putting out records. But whilst a great deal of their roster have left in recent years, signing for American labels like Ninjatune or the larger British label, Warp- Tru Thoughts have kept going, building a formidable catalogue of releases and artists. This is clearly demonstrated on this Tru Thoughts Funk, which pulls in 18 tracks from the label's funk-inflicted artists. There's always a danger of record label retrospective compilations being both self-congratulatory and an irrelevance. Anyone who owns the albums from which these tracks are pulled will find little they couldn't knock up with a playlist, save an out-of-print recording and the almost mandatory 'two original tracks'. But the partisan audience isn't this record's preferred audience; it's raison d'etre instead is to educate the uninformed listener on all that crazy funk thats been happening in Brighton for the past decade. And in this light, Tru Thoughts Funk gives a very decent account.

Production is impeccable (and you'd suspect, digital) throughout. As an aside, it may be that the genre constantly references an age when music was digested on vinyl, I do feel that the polished sound of contemporary recordings does the musicianship a disservice. This is especially evident on some of the record's instrumental pieces- where the urgency of the groove is lost under the weight of 'clean' digital sound aesthetics. Perhaps I just miss the vinyl hiss. But such moments are rare. Opening with the 70s-inspired strumming of the Quantic Soul Orchestra before giving the platform to brightly-voiced soul diva Alice Russel- guesting with The Bamboos, the record shirks instrumental jams between lyrical numbers. Kyle Auldist's 'It's On' is frank, sun-drenched and everso horny. It's one of the best songs on the comp, delivered with insistence and guile. The backing band playing like they mean it, everyone smiles. In moments like this, it's impossible not to start moving, or smiling with them. Tru Thoughts Funk is a hugely enjoyable start-to-finish listen, perfect DJ fodder and a fine testament to the continued success of this Brighton record label.

NCL Freestyle cruising: Review

2010-03-15T06:34:00.000-07:00

In the midst of a rather wintery Spring, Handbag.com escaped it all and went cruising around the strait of Gibraltar with NCL. With sunglasses and suntan lotion packed, we were ready to set sail!

NCL is famed for it's 'freestyle' concept, which allows you the freedom to enjoy your cruise as you will. Unlike other cruise operators, there's no enforced dress code, nor are meals and activities at set times. Being on your own schedule is crucial, allowing you to relax and explore the Norwegian Jade's 15 decks of bars, restaurants, nightclubs, pools and spas at your own pace. At first, we have to admit, we found the size of the ship a little daunting- but a little exploring and it soon began to feel like a home from home. Our stateroom came with a fantastic balcony and outdoor chairs. Overlooking the side of the vessel, it made for a beautiful view both whilst at sea and when pulling into port. What better way to relax than cruising in the gorgeous sun off the Mediterranean?

Onboard

Whilst sailing from Barcelona to our first stop in Morocco, we enjoyed the rare luxury of an entire day at sea. And though land was nowhere to be seen, there's simply so much to do onboard that boredom rarely sets in. From the basketball and tennis courts to the video arcades and casino, there's something for all ages to enjoy- and we found ourselves quickly sampling a little of everything. The on-ship theatre offers a range of shows performed at regular intervals and there's even a fitness centre and gym to help you stay in shape. Of course, for those with a slightly less adventurous spirit; the poolside bars and loungers offer a perfect place to escape and soak up the rays with a book and a cocktail. After all this, wind down with a pampering spa treatment in the Jade's luxurious onboard spa and beauty lounge. For the evening's sailing, the Spinnaker Lounge overlooking the rear of the ship offers drink and dancing til the early hours- it quickly became a regular haunt of ours as we danced the nights away to live bands and disco.

The Food

The Norwegian Jade offers 3 food lounges for complementary eating, but also offers a number of specialist restaurants whose chefs offer fine dining and authentic tastes of the world. The French bistro, with it's magnificent original Van Goth, is a sultry and romantic venue with an enticing gourmet menu of grilled escargot, cheeses and the obligatory seafood. Papa's, the Norwegian Jade's Italian- has an atmosphere like no other; the aroma of herbs and antipasti hitting you as soon as you enter. From there it's the Italian tradition of having at least four courses- harder than it sounds! Up a deck, and the Teppanyaki restaurant is an experience we won't be forgetting in a while! Our very own chef prepared an array of mouth-watering oriental meat and vegetable dishes with a skillful acrobatic display in front of our tables. Elsewhere, Cagney's- with it's law-enforcement themed decor (inspired by 80s cop shop 'Cagney and Lacey') is the place to be for an all-American feast. With a steak menu that runs an entire page, ribs, giant shrimp and the most heavenly chips (fried with oyster!) - Cagney's uncomplicated but deeply satisfying menu quickly became a favourite.

Casablanca

After our relaxing 'sea day', we were about ready to hop on land and explore Morocco's second largest city, the romantic Casablanca. Following a five minute drive to the city centre, we were let loose upon this inviting, but disparate city. It's a melting pot of ethnicities and is one of the more tourist friendly parts of the country. Moseying through the narrow streets of markets and cafes, we were immediately struck by the number of cats that live wild there. Nursed and loved by all the locals and fed fish from the evening's catch- cats enjoy the freedom of the city and it's a charming sight if like us, you are an avowed feline-lover. Overlooking the coast is the Hassan II Mosque, the largest in Morocco and third largest in the world, a beautiful and ornate building with wide-open spaces and stunning Islamic patterns adorning every wall and pillar. It's a grand spectacle regardless of your religious persuasion; a magnificent building and space to be in. When visiting the Mosque, as with all ethnic or religious spaces- it's a good idea to respect the local customs, in this case, covering your hair with a veil. But don't feel stifled, this is a great summer look anyway and you wouldn't want to miss out on the majesty of this building.

From there, it's only a ten minute walk to probably the best-known bar in all of Africa: Rick's Place. Lovingly restored to an exact pastiche of the establishment made famous in the 1942 Humphrey Bogard / Ingrid Bergmann film 'Casablanca'- it's a tourist friendly environment to enjoy a bloody Mary and note how Bogard's character never actually said "Play it again, Sam".

Agadir, Taroudant and Tiout

So after sailing again overnight, we docked in the port of Agadir and set off on one of the Norwegian Jade's many 'Shore Excursions' - packaged adventures, if you like. This involved a driven tour of the area with a local guide. Agadir is a popular town with tourists and surfers; it's vast beach and good waves contributing to a chilled-out vibe. Our driver took us first to a mountaintop overlooking the city, with splendid views and the opportunity for camel riding. Then a drive through Morocco's vast countryside, through fields of crops and stopping to see how the local produce of Argan oil is carefully extracted. The Argan trees are everywhere in Morocco, and we stop again to see for ourselves that most mythical of Moroccan sights: goats in trees. Whilst we had heard rumours, we had quietly disbelieved them: however, the sight of a local goatforaging in an Argan tree to get at the fruit toward it's top is an endearing one.

We arrived in the busy market town of Taroudant; it's 16th Century clay walls enshrouding a busy hub of commerce. Taroudant is a fantastic place to shop for authentic Moroccan fabrics and other products- it's winding indoor lanes bustle with activity and we could literally have spent all day there, admiring clothes and adorning ourselves with traditional Berber jewellery.

Another short drive away was the Berber village of Tiout. Berbers are the indigenous people of this region and have their own customs, but like so many indigenous peoples now rely largely on tourism. Tiout is tucked away between mountains and oasis, basking in sunlight and jungle. We were treated to a magnificent Tajine feast before being taken on a bumpy but thoroughly enjoyably donkey ride through the oasis, past ancient ruins and around the mountains- before saying our goodbyes and driving back toward the Norwegian Jade. It's worth mentioning that whilst a great number of Moroccan peoples may offer to help you, take a photograph or offer something- that these people rely on tourism for their livelihood and in Morocco, precious little comes for free. But this in mind, the tourist shots of us riding donkeys and camels were well worth it, after a little haggling down.

Las Palmas De Gran Canaria

Last stop on our jaunt across the Mediterranean was Gran Canaria. Without doubt, the most tourist friendly and 'westernised' of the locations we had visited- Gran Canaria is, at it's core, a resort; and while the island's 800,000 residents live are spread across the now dormant volcanic island in colourful but poor urban housing- the city centre is much like any other. Although the shopping districts allured, we taxi'd past them in lieu of the 'Old Town'- a charming sub-section of the city where traditional architecture and history have stood the test of time. Here, we explored beautiful cathedrals and turning a corner, stumbled across Christopher Columbus' home- now a museum dedicated to his legacy. Once we'd escaped the hubub, our day in Las Palmas was a relaxing one spent strolling around in the sun, helping ourselves to iced creams when the opportunity took us. And as the sun set and the evening drew in, our adventures in the Strait of Gibraltar were coming to an end. Cruising with NCL had offered an intense few days, packed with adventure we'll not be forgetting in a hurry. A few hours flight later, we'd were returned to a country in deep freeze, with only our newly acquired tan as evidence.

Twin Peaks: Season 3?

2010-03-15T03:01:00.000-07:00

Twin Peaks was originally intended to run forever like a soap, but producers brought it to an end in series two with a tantalising cliffhanger. Fansites have speculated and a graphic novel was briefly planned but it's unlikely anything will materialise. Still, audiences are pondering: what would happen in a third series? We've been scratching our heads and come up with a few ideas.

Last time we saw Agent Cooper, he wasn't looking so good. He escaped the Black Lodge but is possessed by Bob. With the murder case seemingly closed, Cooper/Bob returns to FBI headquarters and begins committing more atrocities. As noone in Washington would believe in the supernatural, Twin Peaks' vigilante group 'The Bookhouse Boys', led by Sheriff Truman- must discovery the White Lodge (the spiritual realm of 'good') to defeat the demon inside Cooper.

In Twin Peaks' final episode, a reborn Ben Horne admits an affair with Donna Hayward's mother, hinting that Donna is his daughter. It's ambiguous whether Audrey Horne survived the Mill fire, but actress Sherilyn Fenn has stated in interviews that Audrey lived. Rumours abound that David Lynch's 2001 film 'Mulholland Drive' was originally intended to be about Audrey's future, having gone to Hollywood to live her dream as an actress. Donna and Audrey become close friends and, disillusioned with Ben, decide to leave Twin Peaks together. Their paths cross with Donna's ex, James Hurley, along the way.

Local thug Leo Johnson was left trapped with a cage of tarantulas over his head. Feeling guilt for how they had treated him, Bobby Briggs and girlfriend Shelley Johnson rescue him, only for Leo to enact his revenge on them..

And, of course- Deputy Andy Brennan marries receptionist Lucy Moran in the sweetest of happy endings.

Twin Peaks: A history

2010-03-15T02:57:00.000-07:00

Years before TV audiences were exposed to murderous vigilante Dexter or the gruesome comedy of Six Feet Under- there was Twin Peaks. David Lynch's award winning drama spanned two series, spawned a feature length prequel and inspired many novels. Revered by it's cult following, it continues to draw in new generations of devotees- but why the enduring fascination with this sleepy town and it's seemingly ordinary inhabitants?

"It's brilliant!" exclaimed Homer Simpson when asked about the show, "But I have absolutely no idea what's going on!". In many ways, it's astounding that Twin Peaks was ever broadcast- this was 1990 and Lynch was attempting avant-garde 'dream sequences'. Dealing with uncomfortable subjects like incest, drugs and murder with a macabre wit and genial tone, Twin Peaks flits between horror and humour with a surrealism that has become the director's calling card. It is far from 'easy viewing', but approach with an open mind and you'll uncover one of the most rewarding series of recent time. Everyone has secrets and even the most pleasant of locales can hide the very darkest of truths.

Twin Peaks doesn't have a central figure or storyline as such, but it underpins it's multitude of characters and plots through a thrilling murder mystery. The intro sequence lulls you into pleasant thoughts: forests, shots of birds in trees, a lumber mill, Angelo Badalamenti's dreamy soundtrack- but not a minute into the pilot episode and high-school kid Laura Palmer (Sheryl Lee)'s naked corpse is discovered floating down a river, wrapped in plastic. Immediately, the cosy veneer is shattered and excusing recent dramas Lost and The Wire, no other TV series was ever so instantly engrossing. The 'whodunnit' moves backwards, allowing us into the lives of all the town's residents as they speculate, gossip and grieve- revealing a web of hedonism, violence and evil.

There's Laura's peers- a group rapt in melodrama and lovesickness. The icy Donna Hayward (Lara Flynn Boyle) and confused boyfriend James Hurley (James Marshall). Laura's ex, Bobby Briggs (Dana Ashbrook) a coke peddling wise-cracker. And the iconic Audrey Horne (Sherilyn Fenn)- a coy but manipulative 'rich girl'. Family lives are explored, as are the business relationships of entrepreneurs Ben Horne (Richard Beymer) and Leland Palmer (Ray Wise), Japanese gansgters and the seedy underworld of casino/brothel 'One Eyed Jacks', run by the shady Renault brothers. But it's FBI Agent Dale Cooper (Kyle MacLachlin)- a quirky, polite but brilliant detective assigned to solving the murder who is the real star of the show. Cooper experiences the world through curiosity and wonder, and is the vehicle through which Lynch can speak his mind.

If these residents of Twin Peaks seem normal enough, there are a wealth of eccentrics and crazies. Deputy Detective Andy Brennan (Harry Goaz) is an endearing simpleton, lumberjack Pete Martell (Jack Nanse) is the softest of old fools, the bizarre Margaret Lanterman (Catherine E Coulson), known as the "Log Lady" for her insistence on carrying a block of lumber in the belief that it talks to her. But for these characters' comic relief- there is a horrifying evil in equal measure. Apparitions terrify through dreams and demons lurk in the recesses of the subconscious. The sight of Bob, a lank-haired demon, hiding behind the Palmer's sofa, is one of the show's most affecting images. As the mystery unravels, Cooper is led to a hellish alter-realm, 'The Black Lodge', a place where demons thrive. It's the stuff of nightmares.

But for it's dark theme and scenes of violence and horror, Twin Peaks maintains a charm throughout. Although it was was cancelled midway through it's second series (forcing the writers to 'wrap it up'), the show was originally intended to play on like a soap. But a third series never materialised and the show ended on the grandest of cliffhangers, leading audiences to ask: what would happen next?

The Knife - Tomorrow, in a year: Review

2010-01-31T14:24:00.000-08:00

Dispell your expectations now because Silent Shout 2, this ain't. Tomorrow in a Year couldn't be further from that seminal record, nor could The Knife have sought to alienate their casual fanbase any further with this highly avant-garde offering: a 2cd opera foray into the history of evolution. Commissioned by a Danish performance group with a mandate so enticing no artist could turn it down, Karin and Olaf Dreijer have pushed the boat out so far that the shore is no longer visible and indulged the subject matter with a staggering depth and precision- asking only "does life have a sound?" before attempting to recreate it. Tomorrow in a Year seems destined to walk a tightrope between expectancies of 'music' and demands of art's indulgence- is it an 'enjoyable' record or is it a work of such precise art as to merit deconstruction?

It begins with minimalism, much in the way life on this planet did- the faintest chirps and buzzes reverberating and coalescing. As the first disc blossoms, the music begins to take on a more tangible quality. Modulated vocal lines (delivered not by Karin, but by mezzo soprano Kristina Wahlin Mommes, actress Laerke Winther and pop artist Jonathon Johansson) sweep over buzzing synths that do little more, initially, than offer grounding. Field recordings and foundsound contribute to a sense of unfurling. It sounds at once alien and everso familiar; Olaf Dreijer's recce's to the Amazon providing context for the slow build of these compositions. Time itself is the crucial element as sound finds a life of itself: Beat structures, when they do appear, mirror human heartbeats. Rhythm is composed in line with animal influence- at one point harmonising the chorus of poison dart frogs. Elsewhere, sound boxes are utilised to duplicate and affect samples in line with Richard Dawkins' theory of gene trees. Absolute attention to miniscule detail permeates every moment of these records.

The second disc is more immediate- nuance and minimalism giving way to increased detail and structure, much as evolutionary patterns refine over a period of time. Karin Dreijer finally offers a vocal take on the 11 minute opus The Colouring of Pigeons- the very essence of fragility. As the album draws to a close, it's as if nature has led us from the ether to a place where beats, lyrics and structures can coexist in a meaningful sense. Tomorrow in a Year is as much a document of it's own evolution as it is a retelling of nature's laws and entwined mythologies. But how succesful is it? One suspects that the live opera, touring Europe in late Feb- will afford an audience a more fulfilling experience than this studio re-performance.

Belleruche - The Liberty EP: Review

2010-01-31T13:00:00.000-08:00

North London's Belleruche have been busy since forming in 2005, self-releasing numerous 7 inches and touring the world over. Now signed to influential Brighton-based label Tru Thoughts, 'The Liberty EP' represents little more than a stop-gap between albums. Rather than making a 'novella' esq statement, Belleruche include a collection of remixes and acoustic reworkings to accompany the two original tracks that open the EP. As such, it's hard to pin down exactly what this record is about.

Openers "56% proof" and "Gold Rush" offer a soulful blend of guitar riff and minimal beats, while singer Kathrin deBoer croons lustfully in call and response in a manner which recalls both Lamb and Portishead's upbeat moments. The riffs overlap with ease and DJ Modest's beat-work is just that: modest, throughout. Never allowing excess, the music is constantly restrained . It's ample fodder for post-dinner party swaying- not enthralling enough to hold course being spun by DJs and not cerebral enough to entertain the home listener. It's crying out for just a little more 'punch' and would certainly benefit from being performed live. Elsewhere the acoustic reworkings are bluesy and competant enough, but the same critique applies. The five remixes which close the EP are varied in their reworkings- but there's a sense to which they've been bandied on to this EP, having nowhere else to live. All of this contributes to a rather thin whole. Belleruche are clearly talented and thoughtful, but would do well to make more assured, individual statements.

Ponyo: Review

2010-01-31T11:41:00.000-08:00

It's an interesting crossroads for Hiyao Miyazaki. His films have charmed audiences worldwide and garnered critical acclaim- and in this case, earnt the distribution services of no less than Walt Disney. You could argue that Disney's been going through a kind of existential crisis post-Lion King, so jumping in bed with the world's "in vogue" animator is a by-numbers move. With previous films, notably Spirited Away and Princess Mononoke, Miyazaki has addressed a Japanese audience's history and tradition but with Ponyo, the themes are more universal.

We're introduced to Sosuke, an smart kid with a heart of gold. He lives with his (quite delectable- is it wrong to fancy cartoons?) mother, voiced by the infamous Tina Fey, in a town by the sea. Elsewhere, deep under the sea- a paranoid scientist is custodian to the oceans. His daughter, a magic-endowed fishgirl by the name of Ponyo, escapes in search of adventure only to be discovered and treasured by Sosuke. Therein follows a wonderful love story, full of innocence and charm. The film is visually beautiful, using a palette of simple watercolours. Similarly, the Western dub is spot on (and I didn't think I'd be saying that) with Liam Neeson providing real internal conflict as Fujimoto, and Cate Blanchett offering typically otherwordly tones as the Goddess of the sea.

This wouldn't be a Miyazaki film without the obligatory backdrop of mythology and 'end of the world' fable- however those expecting a subplot as profound as Princess Mononoke or Nausicaa: Valley of Winds may be disappointed: Ponyo is by design a light film, intended primarily for children. But even cast in this light, Ponyo offers a subtle politic, as ocean pollution and fishing-to-extinction are discussed in passing. A youthful audience may leave with a newfound appreciation for nature, without the film having been dogmatic or preachy. Ponyo is a beautifully simple kid's film, the kind anyone could appreciate- it's heart utterly in the right place.

Capitalism, A Love Story: Review

2010-01-18T14:24:00.000-08:00

It's hard not to feel a little sorry for Michael Moore. Cue disquiet and confused stares. For all his earnestness, he's become the poster boy for an amorphous protest movement that is quick with relish but short on the detail. Moore finds himself a minor celebrity- a position which must sit uncomfortably with the supposedly egalitarian politics he espouses, but also of no surprise: Throughout his recent filmmaking, Moore has sought to put himself in the front line. These aren't one's 'conventional documentary'- where the filmmaker is but an invisible hand; Moore's films so consciously allow him a presence as to render his household name status something of a planned career aim. Perhaps that's cynical, but for better or worse his films have become common knowledge: even if one hasn't seen 'Bowling For Columbine', you'd be hard pressed to find someone who couldn't tell you which on side of the political fence Moore sits. This has arguably had it's benefits (publicising an oft-marginalised political discourse) but equally has not come without significant cost. Audiences will dismiss a Michael Moore film without a second thought due to the very notion of being so overtly preached at, coupled with the perceived factual inaccuracies of previous efforts. Moore's well-documented (no pun intended) selective myopia with regards to 'the facts' has even spurned a 'retort documentary', the cleverly titled 'Manufacturing Dissent' (Persistence of Vision Produtions, 2007)- a film which, ironically, was littered with as many errors as it accused Moore of.

With 'Capitalism: A Love Story', Moore is taking his broadest shot yet. Whereas previous films have aimed with specificity, 'Capitalism'- well, you can infer it's subject from the title. A brave move: Economics is hardly the world's most invigorating of conversation starters and yet 'Capitalism' is by some distancehis most affecting film of recent history. Previous endeavours have focused on dividing the audience along partisan lines but here, the inescapable truth is that the financial crisis hasn't discriminated. Recent events have so ordained that we're all affected (whether we know the difference between GDP and GNP or not). Irregardless of racial, ethnic, political or religious groupings, whether you supported Iraq or stood against it, if you believed in earnest that some gothy entertainer invoked Columbine- recent economics hasn't taken such trivialities into consideration. It's this very sense of far-reaching, bipartisan injustice that drives Moore's latest. For once, it's as if he's speaking for people rather than at them.

Opening with the philosophical preponderance: "What defines us?"- then seeking to demystify the myths of capitalism throughout both historical and contemporary example, it's a more basic approach than has been undertaken with earlier work but is no less polemical for it. We have the standard cocktail of investigative journalism, archive footage, interview material and stunt- Moore seeking throughout to play 'how things should be' against 'how they are'. There's the standard trope of letting a specific person act as telling of the whole (a journalistic practise made infamous by The Simpsons episode in which Bart gets his own news show entitled "Bart's People") - Moore continues to let his interviewees cry first before getting into the depth of the argument but regardless- the film's most successful moments should make you livid. We meet a former employee of Walmart, who left in acrimonious circumstance when his former employer cashed a secret life insurance cheque after the death of his co-worker wife, a sufferer of asthma. This shocking practice, referred to openly (if not affectionately) as 'dead peasant insurance policies' is apparently not uncommon these days.

Equally, the leaked memo from banking conglomerate Citigroup which states that the US can now be considered a 'plutonomy' (a society in which the majority of wealth is generated and consumed by the top 1%) displays an unsurprisingly elitist, and contentedly so, world-view. Moore uses these and other powerful examples to expose the fallacies in the free-market dogma that all shall benefit from competition, that such economic systems benefit society as a whole. But the most harrowing moments of the film come from his scrutiny of the $700 billion bailout orchestrated by perennial blame-figure Dubya, and former Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson. Through interviews with members of Congress and impassioned footage from the chamber itself, the entire act is presented as a financial coup d'etat, the biggest in history- an argument given credence when Moore asks the senator in charge of accounting for the bailout where she believes the money has gone. After some pause, she admits not knowing. A staggering moment for sure, but one only compounded when you read in the fine print that no accountability was demanded by Congress and review by a judiciary expressly prohibited. Furthermore, in drafting the legislation- Paulson (himself a former Goldman Sachs CEO) makes explicit his exemption from possibility of prosecution.

But while these moments may (perhaps should) evoke some small protest spirit within the audience, the film is equally riddled with flaws. In many regards, 'good documentary' (like a blog you return to) happens when the topics are specific. There is the realised fear in 'Capitalism: A Love Story" that Moore has bitten off more than he can chew- or more than could be dealt with reasonably in the film's already-overlong 127 minutes. The narrative is scattershot and flits between the bail-out, the wages of airline pilots, the marginalisation of unions, world economics, George Bush (he gives Obama the easiest of rides), 'good honest folk' being evicted, the ever widening disparity between rich and poor, advocating socialism and, of course (it wouldn't be a Michael Moore film without a trip to) Flint, Michigan.

Yet again, Moore strives to paint Flint as some microcosm for America's economic woes: he visits the former site of General Motors- articulating Flint's decline as endemic. Similarly, the moments where Moore takes centre stage prove the most trying, both in their placement and execution. After the exasperating details of the bailout are just settling in, the film cuts to a tongue-in-cheek action scene in which Moore is seen driving a security van to the banks, cornering them off with police 'crime scene' tape and, with a megaphone, somewhat impotently asking for 'our money back'. It's an unnecessary visual gag- the point of injustice having already been made. But Moore's earnestness, or ambition, necessitates that he indulges in the grandiose and entirely set-up faux-theatre performances. I would argue that there's a decent argument to be had about the legitimacy of sourcing protest movements as entertainment, or rather providing entertainment through protesting- but the overriding tone of this film is one that is deeply unfunny. Indeed, Moore forgoes the cartoons of previous films-and if there are jokes in this film, they're financial, and they're on us.

Early in the film, Moore narrates that when asked as a child, he stated that he wanted to grow up and get into the church, become a priest. Not for the fancy garb, he says, but for the community role they play. Conversely, a preacher is exactly what Michael Moore is. For even when the weight and substance of his arguments are irrefutable, Moore still allows room for theatrical showboating, for reminding the audience just who is making the case. Sadly, this- not the manipulative tone he takes in presenting said arguments (he never claimed to be objective), is his biggest and most valid criticism. Which is a shame, because by rights, this film should be a call to arms. We've been collectively duped, yet Moore can't just let the facts speak for themselves.

Capitalism: A Love Story is out Feb 26th via Overture Films

Review: Them Crooked Vultures, Sweethead - London Hammersmith Apollo, 18th December.

2009-12-21T10:44:00.000-08:00

Oh, the rock supergroup. Throughout recent history, this coming together of celebrated musicians towards a singular endeavour has given ample opportunity both for expectations to be raised to dizzying, impossible heights and for that same lofty conjecture to be dashed with a dose of crushing realism. Troupes such as the cynically titled Audioslave come to mind, as does Dave Grohl's own ego-foray into collaborating with every metal vocalist of note, under the Probot umbrella. However for every Velvet Revolver there is a Travelling Wilbury's to inspire hope and provide counterweight. Whilst other genres enjoy collaboration freely (and I'm thinking here in particular of electronica's inbred remix culture and of hip-hop's willingness to cross-reference and intertextualise), for whatever reason (though I'd suspect ego plays no small part) rock and metal have embraced this concept with mixed results.

Tonight's gig, the second of two nights at London's Hammersmith Apollo theatre was arguably the hottest ticket in town last week. There is something in this unlikely trio which has captured the collective imagination. For most people, the very chance to witness Dave Grohl undertaking what many consider to be his true calling: playing, sorry, hitting the drums VERY HARD- would be reason enough to pay notice. And while stoner-rock master Josh Homme fronts the ensemble, it's afforded to the only Englishman on stage tonight to truly capture this partisan crowd's hearts. Yes, we're suckers for patronage when given the company of a bona fide British Rock Legend, and it's John Paul Jones' piano trills and smirking bass solos that receive the warmest applause throughout tonight's show.

Opening for the headliners was Sweethead- the outfit assembled by Troy Van Leeuwen (formerly of A Perfect Circle, now recording with Queens of the Stone Age). At a gig like this, it's hard to say to what extent the support band will even be acknowledged, let alone paid attention to. But the underlying tone of the evening is that it's a very cosy affair and having your friends' band to support you was a decent gesture on the part of Homme. But no token one. Sweethead offer a polished rock music, frequently dipping into moments of grungey distortion while never losing sight of melody. The band comprise a tight four-piece with Van Leeuwen grinding his axe to the left and marauding vocalist Serrina Sims stalking the stage. She's an enthralling spectacle, growling and hissing over doomy, thobbing riffs. By the end of their set, the sizeable audience has certainly been convinced.

And so, after the shortest of breaks- John Paul Jones walks onstage and collects his bass guitar from an clearly beaming roadie. Suffice to say, the immediate audience reaction to this sight was one of overwhelming, deafening approval. Grohl strolls out towards the kit, hands aloft, sticks high. Homme saunters casually towards the microphone and is joined by live member Alain Johannes. They don't launch into a track, there is no glitzy introduction. Them Crooked Vultures seem keen to dispell any preconceived notions of expectancy. "We're here to have a good time", extolls Homme, waiting for Grohl's count-in. Album opener "No One Loves Me & Neither Do I" is performed with a swagger, it's easy-blues giving way before long to a juggernaut riff that shakes the entire room. Homme sways as he croons, Jones bounces without ever breaking a sweat and Grohl, my god, is a sight to behold. Staring the audience down, teeth bared, arms and hair flailing- it's an entrancing sight, every beat pronounced with venom, every cascading roll performed with fire.

The first half-hour of their set was an utter joy- songs performed back to back, no respite offered. But, soon after this point- the concert begins to lose it's way, much in the same vein from which the album suffers. With specific regard to their songwriting, TCV have been accused of penning a fairly average record- and although it's certainly a great deal more convincing in a live context, the shortcomings of a limited set soon become evident. I'd personally argue that the album's flaws come from it's dependance toward Josh Homme's songwriting or vocal style. He's got a very particular sound and style, at once coy and bullish. His riffs and melodies are instantly recognisable, and while this is perhaps a decent trait to bear of yourself, a lot of Them Crooked Vultures set plays like Queens of the Stone Age b-sides; an outcome which you feel sells all involved a little short. The band play out the entire debut record and then indulge an 15 minute rendition of new song 'Warsaw' which I enjoyed immensely. Less a piece of articulate songwriting and more one of those jams you might have with all your bandmates at 2am, the track rolls and punches, builds and falls- the improvised nature of the parts bringing the band together onstage, their silent communication clearly evident in nods, smiles and interplay.

On many levels, the very existence of this band is a indulgence; the boyhood dream of playing with an idol, shared by Grohl and Homme. But regardless of justification or cause, the members seem to be enjoying themselves and a large proportion of the crowd leaves believing they've witnessed a special moment in history. Whether or not Them Crooked Vultures's music truly lives up to it's billing seems almost an irrelevance by the end of the show. Yes, half the songs are naff. Yes, Josh Homme has a tendency to overbear. But take it with the whimsy with which it's delivered: when they're good, they're very, very good.

Album of the Year: Charles Spearin - Happiness Project

2009-12-21T10:32:00.000-08:00

It is perhaps a disservice to the merit of my chosen album that I should begin extolling it's virtues with a disclaimer, but there's something about 'end of year' lists that doesn't sit particularly easy with me. Subjective responses delivered with the assumption of authority- such declarations of conclusion can seemingly never please everyone, and accusations of bias, clique-ism, or narrow-mindedness usually follow such posts. Arguably, the format serves to inspire debate as much as to cement an album's place in the 'canon of whatever year'. So, it is with these concerns in mind that my choice for Album of 2009 doesn't aim to be the last word on the year's music, nor to allude to the objective 'best'. I've settled on a record which has not garnered mainstream press and is in itself the smallest of statements.

Having cut his teeth in some of Canada's finest (Do Make Say Think, Broken Social Scene, Valley of the Giants) Charles Spearin's solo debut album of sorts is a perfectly formed album of revelatory moments and life-affirming sentiment. Furthermore, you are unlikely to hear an album composed in this style ever again. It started as an experiment: to record audio interviews with the neighbours on his street regarding their perceptions of happiness. Having acheived this, Spearin listened to the recordings over and over- identifying interesting moments of cadence, turns of phrase, incidents where meaning of sentence and musicality of voice uplifted each other. Instrumentation was inspired directly from the inflections in voice that gave it 'a sing song quality'. And so came about eight pieces of music that wove interview and songcraft together with staggering success.

Spearin presses a small cross-section of society on the subject. Schoolchildren, the elderly, a women who has only recently had surgery to correct her deafness, a lady who works with the mentally ill- all give fascinating and articulate accounts, entirely subjective and borne of experience- that each provide small revelatory meditations on one of life's most involving philosophical questions. What is happiness? How does one attain or hold onto it?

The recording was pure chance, and must have been a deeply humbling and engaging process for Spearin and his neighbours. This record was the very antithesis of superstardom, it's composer merely facilitating the creative process. Furthermore, the album pertained to write itself or play out by serendipity. Spearin was a party to the album's compositional unfurling, and had no way of foreseeing how successful, if at all, the project would be. What struck me about this record more than any other released this year is that it sought, perhaps without knowing it, to rearticulate the creative process. What does it mean to be a recording artist in 2009? Whereas certain aspects of culture have only grown more gargantuan, allowing artists to speak to us from pedestals of spectacle and multi-media, the democratisation of recording technology has also allowed for an unprecedented return to music's more community-based roots, music as social glue, as 'event'. What's most lacking in our societies these days is community, and Spearin's album has reflected both the merits of brave experimentation and of talking to your neighbours.

Best track on album: Mrs Morris (reprise).

Opening and closing the record, Mrs Morris wonderful summation of love, happiness and gratitude is here set against dreamy guitars awash with reverb, an underlying beat and a playful Saxophone solo. Simplicity in itself and an utter joy.

Any improvements that could have been made:

Arguably, the album's most succesful moments are those in which the relationship between spoken word and musical turn of phrase are most evident. And certainly, the album is a real curio- released on a small independant and in no way seeking the mainstream approval. As with the artist's recording history- it will reward those who take time to discover it.

Best of the rest:

The XX:

A masterclass in simplicity and 'mood' - something far too many albums seem to have forgotten these days. And it's an excellent album, lyrically beautiful, addictive and unique.

Raekwon - Only Built for Cuban Linx II:

Proper 1995-sounding hip-hop like they don't make anymore. A truly refreshing reminder of class in a genre dominated by Floridas and Lil Waynes.

Lady Gaga - The Fame Monster

Having spent half the year criticising her out of hand, I had something of a Damascus moment. We're now agreed: Alluring, shameless, dirty, self-aware, ironic, disgusting, indulgent, a disgrace and reflection of part of society, art in it's truest sense and truly postmodern pop.

First published in the Sound Screen end of year review.

Débruit - Spatio Temporel EP: Review

2009-11-23T15:20:00.000-08:00

The EP is a beautiful thing. Self-contained and precise, it allows for an artist to experiment more broadly than they would across a full-length and offers listeners a small morsel of reprieve in the midst of waiting between albums. Far too often the EP has been offered as little more than a single with a few sub-par b-sides thrown in. On Débruit's first release for UK label Civil Music, we are treated to the very definition of what an EP should be. With an album in preparation, 'Spatio Temporel' is a superb stop-gap: it's four tracks providing adequate taste of things to come and ample beat fodder for the discerning club-goer.

Opening with 'KO Debout' and perfectly setting the tone with an imprecise jangle, dreamily pitch-shifted vocals lull you into a false sense of security. A shimmering bassline moves to underpin the creative expression of samples above but to it's credit, the track never lurches into hedonism. 'Persian Funk' appropriates an eastern trill against octaved 8-bits; again the track is restless, but exercises restraint. Closer 'Nigeria What?' sees an African guitar-riff shirk around booming two-step, yet unlike Esau Mwamwaya and Radioclit's 2008 collaboration it refuses to descend into the carnivalesque. Production is astounding throughout as synths, decks, computers, guitars, glitch and live drums collide in a superbly clean mix. Débruit's music is instinctively curious, it's agenda truly cosmopolitan. One might raise slight concern that Xavier Thomas is globe-trotting- an act of aural tourism, as it were. But 'Spatio Temporel's influences, however obvious, are used so modestly that it's hard to find criticism. We await that full-length.

Happiness Project, Years, Do Make Say Think: Live Review

2009-10-27T05:46:00.000-07:00

On the back of their 8th record 'Other Truths' (released this week), Toronto jazz-rock ensemble Do Make Say Think bring their accomplished craft to the Scala, one of London's most intimate 'larger' venues. Quite the anti-genre in itself, it could be argued that 'post-rock' has sadly become a parody of itself. There's a horde of bland instrumental guitar bands doing the rounds, each employing string sections and dystopic paranoia to spectacularly dull effect. Do Make Say Think have done well to avoid these trappings over their 15 year career: the band's recent output alluding to our shared warmth of character and community rather than preaching the apocalypse. Musically too, they've discovered and stuck to a sound which is both lifting and dramatic without veering into sinister or mournful overtones.

On any given occasion the band are a formidable proposition, but tonight their core six members are joined by a revolving cast of guests. All ten musicians appear across the evening, providing instrumentation and support for both the support bands here. Charles Spearin's Happiness Project and Ohad Benchitrit's Years; in essence, side-projects from the full time labour of the headliners. However, there's a genuine sense amongst the crowd that this isn't a typical 'headline + support' concert as such, but rather a collective of musicians who happen to perform under various guises, and are doing so tonight.

First, we're treated to The Happiness Project. Not your typical band in any sense, their melodies sourced not from conventional songwriting but from interpretations of recorded interviews with Spearin's neighbours loosely centred on the subject of happiness. Taking the cadence in these sampled voices as a basis, the band weave accompaniments, at times soft, at others more pressing, that synchronise wonderfully with the spoken words. Across the set's music and interview samples, we're given a broad understanding of what happiness is, from the profound (Vanessa, born deaf and after 30 years, undergoing groundbreaking surgery, gives a revelatory account of experiencing sound for the first time) to the seemingly trite (schoolgirl Vittoria, as she bemoans art lessons at school). Despite their early billing, the venue was already packed- some faces clearly knowing what to expect, but others undergoing a kind of conversion during the succinct 30 minute set. By it's end, happiness had seemingly been imbued on the crowd.

After a short break, Ohad Benchitrit appears on the stage and informs us that this is his debut performance. He's clearly a bit nervous as he begins the first of two long acoustic guitar pieces surrounded by the abandoned instruments of hisband-mates. But the jitters are quickly shed as his delicate and quite accomplished finger-picking style lulls the crowd into an attentive trance. Closing his set with accompaniment from the rest of the ensemble, Benchitrit leads with a rousing electric number, seemingly a never-ending crescendo. But it's a set of two halves, as the full-band material becomes gigantic and perhaps a tad indulgent compared with the stripped down austerity of his cyclical acoustic compositions.

After the briefest of interludes, Do Make Say Think emerge, taking up the entire stage, at launch into new-album-opener 'Do', a jovial epic which bounces along nicely on record, but is given a raucous energy in this setting. Elsewhere, the setlist conspires to remind just how strong their back catalogue is. Crowd favourite 'L'auberge de moutin noir' is augmented by performances of lesser tracks from early record 'Goodbye Enemy Airship'- a rawer record than any they've since recorded, and clearly an enjoyable moment for impossibly skinny guitarist Justin Small. Styled more appropriately for a 1980s punk rock band, Small, who cuts his teeth in garage-punk 2-piece Lullabye Arkestra, was the very figure of rock and roll on the night: headbanging through the crescendos of 'The Universe!' and using 'motherfuckers' as a term of endearment. Returning for an encore as the four-piece line-up that started the band, they indulge their own history with a performance of debut album track 'If I Only...'- a rare treat for an audience which enjoyed an evening of very rare treats.

First published in Sound Screen.

ROFLMAO

2009-10-25T09:55:00.000-07:00

01. Keep smiling it will be worth it in the end
02. Roflmao
03. Evening air
04. I like the water here
05. Dream of swimming

Debut EP: Recorded and mixed at Hawthorne Cottage, Falmouth.
First released March 2004 in a run of 50.

True Blood Season One: Review

2009-10-19T04:59:00.000-07:00

With the second series having ended in America and us Brits playing catch-up, the Golden Globe and Emmy awarded first series of HBO's True Blood is released. Based on Charlaine Harris 'The Southern Vampire Mysteries' novel, True Blood details a present-day America where vampires and humans are, reasonably peacefully, co-existing. The introduction of a blood synthentic from which the show derives it's name means that these vampires- hitherto anonymous and hidden can 'come out of the coffin' and reclaim their place in society. It's an interesting premise for vampire fiction, alluding to the notion that a society is best judged by how it treats those on it's margins. Having legislated for change, the show allows for the obvious social tensions to play out.

Opening with one of most well-edited intro sequences you're likely to see, and set against the dreamy country-sleaze of Jace Everett's 'Bad Things'- the desaturated scenes of lustful depravity in the intro promise a hedonistic cocktail of temptation and dark sexual desires. This is a stylistic trope, a 'dirtiness' that the show would have done well to employ throughout but instead, it's impeccably lit and polished.

Set in deep-south town Bon Temps, True Blood focuses on telepathic barmaid Sookie Stackhouse (Anna Paquin- X-Men: Last Stand, Joan of Arc). Plagued by the constant interruptions of voices in her head, Sookie comes across as a naive but 'good of heart' protagonist. Her life is turned on it's head by the arrival of Bill Compton (Stephen Moyer- 88 Minutes, Empathy) a vampire who has taken up residence nearby. Finding solace that she can't hear his thoughts, Sookie and Bill begin a relationship which is characterised by transgressions and the voices of disapproval from all sides. Sookie in particular is cast excellently- Anna Paquin finding a convincing balance of timidity and strength. Elsewhere, character is evoked to worryingly bad effect.

True Blood employs a large cast and attempts sub-plots in an attempt to construct Bon Temps as a multifaceted and engrossing town. While Bill and Sookie fall in twists and turns, a who-dunnit moves the plot along in the vein of Twin Peaks. So-called 'fang-bangers' (women who sleep with vampires) have been offed by a vigilante: a narrative reminiscent of the racial tensions and prejudices familiar to the history of the region. Throughout the series, the viewer is invited to speculate on possible culprits. But whereas Twin Peaks masterfully posited all it's characters on a level-playing field, like a soap-opera, and genuinely shocked upon it's reveal, True Blood's murder mystery often feels like it's merely going through the motions, without enough ambiguity. In ascribing possible motives without discretion, depth of character is dropped and True Blood forgets to embellish these roles.

Elsewhere, peripheral characters are afforded an equally two-dimensional persona. Sookie's grandmother seems able only to utter long-viewed moralities and wisened summations. One may recognise Detective Bellefleur (Chris Bauer) from The Wire, but whereas Frank Sobotka's character allowed for a virtuoso performance in conflict and internal tension, Bauer's role here merely takes cues from others. Sookie's brother Jason becomes involved in a drug-addled relationship- interesting to note that here, vampire blood is both an aphrodisiac and hallucinogen- but kaleidoscopes of colour and bad CGI are a little embarrassing. The vampires on offer are pop-culture fiends, clad in leathers and capable only of mouthing annoyingly hip vampiric threats, deriving pleasure from their nature, clubbing at vamp-hot spot Fangtasia, posing endlessly.

The most problematic characters are brother and sister Lafayette Reynolds (Nelson Ellis - The Soloist) and Tara Thornton (Rutina Wesley- Numb3rs). True Blood gives these roles huge importance in first series and sets them up with much promise, only to fall back on stereotypes which border on the offensive. In a town populated by hicks, the quick-thinking and witty Lafeyette is presented as the show's most entertaining and subversive character. But as the series develops, his falls back on cliche and convention. Introduced as a chef, he's then a roadie, a drug dealer, and finally- a gay male prostitute. Witticisms are replaced by tired dialogue that almost pertains to write itself- much in the same way Samuel L Jackson is guaranteed to say 'motherfucker' in any given film. The plot involving his sister is of equally bad taste. Tara seeks the approval of her mother, a violent alcoholic who believes that she's possessed by a demon. Mother then undergoes a voodoo exorcism, leading to a patronisingly simplistic mother-daughter reconciliation. The deployment of black stereotypes here, both in Lafeyette's character and in Tara's storyline, seem designed to evoke a kind of unrefined 'Southern Truth'- but are unbelievable as plots and unpalatable as entertainment.

Despite a limited imagination, True Blood has garnered a following both here and in America (where it's been commissioned for a third series) based on it's juxtaposition of vampirism and risque sexuality. Creator Alan Ball has openly admitted that he paid little attention to recent vampire fiction before working on True Blood, and it shows. Comfortable with relying on the progress made by others, True Blood is an entertaining but unremarkable series offering conventional vampires and stereotypes where characters should be.

First published in Sound Screen

Langue

2009-10-10T03:54:00.000-07:00

I am bound to this art
like a sprouting plant
from a muddy red flowerpot
perched delicately,
overlooking.

Tendered and treated,
Such ordered clutter.

Lethal Bizzle - Go Hard: Review

2009-10-09T08:02:00.000-07:00

Riding a wave of indie acceptance comes the third album from Walthamstow's Lethal Bizzle. Since his last record dropped, Bizzle has enjoyed a high ranking on the NME cool list and acquired a host of mainstream rock buddies, some of whom contribute here. One may forgive him for feeling like he's at the top of his game, but on this evidence, all the swagger is misplaced.

The problem with this album is that it's derivative, both musically and lyrically. From start to finish 'Go Hard' sounds content merely to go where others have led. The opening salvo of 'Money Power Respect Fame' and lead-single/title track 'Go Hard' are anthems to the kind of mafioso gangsta lifestyle usually associated with American hip-hop. The messages, however authentic or not, are all-too familiar. When later in the record, Biz claims that "living in London is like living in the Middle East", there's not the sense that anyone, least of all Bizzle, really believes it. Conventions of the genre, maybe- ego and swagger. But when he famously called out David Cameron out last year for making similar remarks without the authenticity of lived experience to back it up, Bizzle took upon himself a certain responsibility.

Musically too, it's a slow start to a record which by it's very name should be entitled to open with a bang. Beats are initially tempered and sonically thin throughout, as is much of the production. A study published recently found that teenagers prefer the sound quality of their mp3 players to vinyl, and 'Go Hard' sounds very much like it was produced with this demographic in mind. 'Crazy Nightmare' was recorded with Fruity Loops, the retro beats software. The vocal mixing isn't much better either, sloppy multitracking of takes giving some verses a lack of clarity. Elsewhere, 'Push it' appropriates Salt'n Pepa's standard for what must be it's millionth reuse, slamming it against a sub-Calvin Harris chorus. The electro-octaving of 'Going out tonight' provides ample foil for Lethal B to tell us that he's, yes, going out tonight. It's a euphoric message for a partisan crowd of ravers, or it's meant to be. Rockstar, a Gallows-powered literal foray into the attractive hedonism of guitar rock merely evokes painful memories of the nu-metal era.

Perhaps this is all a reflection of where Lethal Bizzle is at. Clearly aiming to for the 'crossover' market, the album calls in favours from celebrity superproducer de jour Mark Ronson on 'Lost my mind'. Thankfully, there isn't a horn section anywhere to be heard on the track. Ronson instead evokes the kind of harmonica riff reminiscent of so much American hip-hop history. It's one of 'Go Hard's strong points, and is quite telling of the record itself. A sprawling array of derivative music and forgettable lyrics, it's the sound of an artist who has looked back on his MOBO awards, Never Mind the Buzzcocks guest appearances, controversy-baiting newspaper headlines and thought he could rest on his laurels, let the music 'happen' and watch the money roll in.

First published in Sound Screen.

Thirst: Review

2009-10-07T02:16:00.000-07:00

The vampire is enjoying something of a renaissance of late. One was beginning to feel sorry for this once terrifying figure of the night, made safe and rendered harmless through parody and misrepresentation. Where once aristocratic counts stalked the night in search of virgin blood, now our vampires come in jeans, smoking cigarettes and wearing shades. They’re borderline camp.

But having endured such indignities, it would seem that Nosferatu is rediscovering his bite. Thirst is the latest in a welcome spate of reimaginings that update the vampire concept with contemporary social evils. A new generation of vampire fictions has emerged, with film of the year contender Let the Right One In doing much to dispel the notion of vampirism as something cool, attractive or anything but a deeply horrible, lonely experience. Thirst is very much in this tradition, exploring not outward expressions of violence but internal conflicts.

As such, it is a film of some considerable modesty. Director Park Chan-wook (Old Boy, Sympathy for Lady Vengeance, I’m A Cyborg But That’s OK) has crafted a complex exploration of the self, using the vampire as a foil with which to question certain moralities. The film is loosely based on Emile Zola’s novel Therese Raquin, and our protagonist here is Sang Hyun, played by Song Kang-ho (Sympathy for Lady Vengeance, The Host) – a revered priest and a man of immaculate moral standing who becomes infected while doing the Lord’s work (volunteering in medical trials). Who better to corrupt than a man of God?

Thirst enjoys the ambiguity of its opening half hour. Vampires are never mentioned by name, and when it is finally out in the open, the priest’s conversion has already occurred. It’s a retrospective diagnosis that allows the audience to connect emotionally with him before he can be labelled. As the only one in 500 to survive the medical trials, Sang Hyun develops a reputation for miracles and his church is mobbed by encamped devotees.

But he falls from grace into sin, allowing for a discussion of religiosity that doesn’t employ the traditional iconography: there are no references to holy water, fear of the cross, or other conventions of the genre popular in Western films. Korean horror has long operated along more imaginative, psychological arcs. Dismissing certain aspects of vampire mythology allows for a successful reconstruction of what makes this figure so terrifying and yet alluring.

As Sang Hyun retreats into nihilism and an affair with unappreciated housewife Tae Ju (Kim Ok-vin of Desapo Naughty Girls fame and the very image of temptation) his choices are understandable and his internal conflicts unquestionably real. The casting of Kim Ok-Vin is excellent, subverting the image of an actress who made her name winning a beauty pagaent. Chan-wook gives her a feisty role, which she performs with a maturity that never allows her character merely to play second fiddle to the protagonist’s descent into lust and depravity. Both characters undergo transformations of sorts and both speak convincingly of the human condition. Plot and character are evoked intricately, and the film mirrors this level of detail in its composition. An initial palette of pastels gives way, as the plot unfurls, to stark contrasts and bright colours in a move which mirrors the protagonist’s darkening existence.

Despite the odd nod to the gothic, and a generous smattering of crimson towards the film’s end, Thirst is hardly a horror film at all. Conventional scares are few and far between, but raising the hairs on the back of your neck was never this film’s intention: the overriding tone is light and it’s frequently funny.

Thirst is a typically accomplished film from a director and production team from whom we should expect nothing less. Going a long way towards undoing the damage wrought by the pop culture vamps that America so readily churns out, Thirst is an intelligent and imaginative addition to the canon of vampire films that refuses to descend into parody.

First published in Sound Screen.

Robot Chicken Season 2 DVD: Review

2009-09-29T06:40:00.000-07:00

For anyone that's owned an original Optimus Prime toy or grew up with Saturday morning television in the 80s, Robot Chicken's host of characters will bring forth waves of nostalgia- and perhaps there is something innately amusing about seeing your favourite childhood toys swear and fight their way through sketch after sketch- perhaps. Now being broadcast in it's 4th series on American comedy network Adult Swim, UK fans are treated to the uncensored version of Robot Chicken's second series complete with a Christmas special, deleted scenes and customary audio commentaries. Still a relatively unknown show in the UK, it has garnered a cult following through it's forays into Star Wars parody and by virtue of the long list of celebrities (including Scarlett Johansson, Bruce Campbell, David Hasselhoff and George Lucas) who claim admiration and willingly participate in it's satirical reimaginings.

To the uninitiated, Robot Chicken represents the creation of Seth Green (Austin Powers, Family Guy, Buffy the Vampire Slayer) and Matthew Seinreich (editor of ToyFare, a monthly 'action figure' mag for collectors). 'Chicken' folklore tells it that the two met and 'bonded' over their mutual love of action figures, and therein a successful comedy format was born. Utilising an entire toy-cupboard full of action-figures and lovingly animated with old-school stop-motion, quick unfussy sketches are the modus here- the 20 shows on the DVDs here last a succinct 11 minutes each. The show pertains not to break new comedic ground or to offer anything resembling a deconstruction- it's merely a cipher for a generation drip-fed on pop culture. The humour on offer here is immediate, and Robot Chicken derives it's laughs from a cocktail of satire, slapstick and simple juxtaposition- with varying levels of success. The most relied-upon format here is also the least imaginative- take one well known figure from popular culture, for example Lindsay Lohan, and immerse them in a well-known scenario from another similarly well-known source, ie/ Highlander. The sketch writes itself as Lohan dumbs her way through the film's fantasy scenarios. The humour is obvious. Other sketches are more imaginative, but in a minority- a faux 1930s cinema-flick 'The Five Stages of Acceptance' (starring a giraffe stuck in quicksand) is genuinely clever, and offers a kind of slapstick comedy that could have been employed more widely across the series. Some of the gags fall completely flat, as the 'Fuck Rodgers' parody in which aliens mistake Buck's name, exemplifies. Moments like these are too frequent across the series, far too simplistic, and just not funny enough.

One gets the feeling that Robot Chicken's humour and success have, in some way, been predetermined. There is a whiff of 'insider-ism' to the whole project, as celebrities line up demanding voiceovers on the show. Having it send you up is perceived to be a kind of Hollywood badge of honour. Essentially a show by and for pop-culture geeks, Robot Chicken won't appeal to everyone- and even those who are attracted toward it's indulgent postmodern humour may find themselves wanting it to be 'better', something that will not discourage the makers, who set out it's mandate in the opening sequence: A chicken brought back from the dead by a mad scientist, is forced to watch a multiplex of TV screens, eyes held open, until insanity creeps in. It's a fitting metaphor for pop culture generally, and enforces the notion that noone involved with this show is taking it too seriously.

Robot Chicken Season 2 is released on DVD and Blu-Ray on September 28th via Revolver Entertainment

Review first published in Sound Screen

10 reasons why you should invest in Battlestar Galactica

2009-09-29T05:09:00.000-07:00

First published on Virgin Media

It's sexy
Ok, so Starbuck is a girl (the 1970s version was played by the iconic Dirk Benedict) but she's still a bar-brawling, highly sexed, card-playing fighter pilot. The sexual tension between her and Admiral's son Lee 'Apollo' Adama results in some steamy scenes.

More plot twists than Lost and 24
Our home planet has been obliterated by nasty alien robots. But who is controlling them and where did they come from? Why are they attacking us? Do we even deserve to survive? BSG drops you in at the deep end and will keep you gripped the whole way through.

New = better
Although its based on the original series, the new BSG ditches the painted sets, body suits and toy spaceships in favour of mind blowing CGI. But don't worry if you were a fan of the original – you'll find the plenty of old-school references to keep you happy.

It's sci-fi Jim, but not as we know it
Forget the disappointment of the Star Wars prequels or the never-ending tedium of Star Trek, BSG will remind you why you fell in love with spaceship battles and laser-fights in the first place. Embrace that inner kid.

It'll make you fear your phone
Enjoying your new iPhone? Reading this on a laptop? Perhaps you have a thermostat. Could these things one day contribute to our extinction? You'll never look at the technology around you in the same way again...

Soap-opera emotion
BSG deals with the big issues in much the same way EastEnders does... so you can look forward to plenty of heartbreak, terminal illnesses, alcoholism, attempted murder and assisted suicide!

It's critically acclaimed
Critics have called it 'the most potent series on television'. Impressively, over the last five years it has picked up numerous awards, including four Emmys.

Religion never seemed so cool
Battlestar has more religious references than a Dan Brown novel, but the angels, prophecies and holy books are as gripping as any space dogfight.

It's brave
Tackling controversial issues like prisoner abuse and suicide bombings head on, BSG doesn't shy away from the ugliness of modern life. From elections to insurgencies, the parallels are clear but never preachy.

It will take over your life
With four seasons, a mini series, a feature-length TV movie and a prequel series planned for next year - you might find yourself having less of a social life once you've got your teeth into BSG. Not that that's a bad thing, but don't say we didn’t warn you...

The Foreign Beggars - United Colours of Beggattron: Review

2009-09-16T02:59:00.000-07:00

Ignore if you will the slightly cheesy album title and badly-drawn cover art, there's much more to this album than the tongue-in-cheek concept they suggest. Since 'The Foreign Beggars' debuted in 2003, this crew have been busy- building a collective, collaborating with Bjork and Gorillaz, presenting a regular slot on the BBC Asian network and gigging relentlessly. Point is, they might have been too rushed in that rap game to spend much time on the cover art. Spin 'United Colours of Beggattron', the Beggars' 4th album proper, and it practically sizzles from out your speakers. Eschewing old school 'sample-based' hip-hop in favour of beat programming, glitch and cosmic synths, the production here has more in common with the avant stylings of New York's Anti-Pop Consortium than the more mainstream pop of East London's Dizzee Rascal. Regardless, all the rap here is infused with that irresistable London swagger. For the most part, lyrics are insightful and imaginative- a tight cocktail of bravado, wordplay and storytelling. The MCs and guests here compliment each other well, both in terms of tonality and persona. There's a broad array of music on offer here too, from the soulful 'Move Higher' to the club-ready of 'Keeping the line fat', a track boasting a fantastic synth line straight of a Boards of Canada record. We get taken on a tour of the scene- from dancehall to grime, funk to electro. It's very nearly a start-to-finish LP, but for a few trying moments. The faux-hospital radio skit is insufferable: it's protagonist's Indian accent a cringeworthingly poor decision. Elsewhere the odd line falls flat, the occasional rhyme doesn't quite- but I'm splitting hairs. The masterful 'Seven Figure Swagger' is the sound of a crew at the top of it's game, making beats and rhyme for fun. There's no harm in aiming high, but nobody gets there without working for it. A decree that seems to have rubbed off on The Foreign Beggars.

First published in Notion Magazine, London, October 2009

District 9: Review

2009-09-03T05:42:00.001-07:00

The much anticipated debut feature from Neill Blomkamp, District 9, goes some distance to justifying the quiet hype it has generated. A sci-fi flick that promises to endear itself beyond the genre's partisan crowd, the buzz around it has been cleverly built up through virals, 'human only' signage in city centres and notably, a Peter Jackson endorsement. The movie itself is frequently entertaining and interesting - but is more conventional than it pretends and not as clever as it should be.

District 9 opens with faux-archive footage of an Alien mothership landing over Johannesburg. Rather than nefarious invaders, it's full of refugees who are doled out squalid shanty-town existences and segregated by the South African government- the allusions to apartheid are immediately obvious, but never overstated. There's xenophobic hostility but the aliens- referred to as 'prawns' are generally regarded with pity, despite hints of an formerly advanced civilisation. It's an interesting reversal of the standard UFO axiom- here, aliens have more to fear from us than vice versa. Historical particulars are glossed over- the plot is evoked initially through eye-witness interviews and scatterbrain archive footage- colluding to build a sense of place, rather than of story. As such, District 9's opening 10 minutes are utterly compelling, it's alternate present day rich and involving.

The film eventually focuses on anti-hero Wikus van der Merwe, an awkward security official charged with evicting the residents of District 9 and moving them to concentration camp District 10. Wikus' nervousness contributes to an encounter with an alien liquid, and he undergoes a genetic transformation in scenes reminiscent of The Fly. His own government turns on him, carrying out specious military experiments. Evading his captors with a running commentary of humourous expletives, an unlikely alliance is formed with an alien freedom fighter. This pairing up is conveyed well, but as this story emerges the more interesting narrative structures fall by the wayside in lieu of standard 'action-blockbuster' storytelling. Indeed, with only a single narrative arc, the second half of the film felt very much like a computer game. Go to a location, shoot things, acheive mission targets, next level. Tiring gunfights replace plot dynamic, and the many shots of soldiers blown apart with 'cool' alien weaponry quickly lose their novelty.

District 9 succeeds in establishing a fascinating hyper-reality- which is then compromised by it's linear story. Blomkamp's earlier short film 'Alive in Joberg' (upon which this is based) maintained a tense ambiguity, but District 9 becomes disappointingly conventional and confused about what it's trying to be. Visually, it's a treat- CG is used intelligently, well shot if not entirely 'cinematic' and edited with tightness. Anyone feeling alienated by the genre (groan) won't be convinced, but District 9 is an interesting if not profound addition to the sci-fi canon, full of charm, intrigue and promise.

First published in Planet Notion

The Yes Men Fix the World: Review

2009-08-18T07:56:00.001-07:00

'The Yes Men Fix The World' is the sequel to 2003's 'The Yes Men': documentaries following two anti-corporate activists (Andy Bichlbaum and Mike Bonanno) as they stage a variety of stunts aimed at highlighting global injustice. Their primary weapon in this war is subterfuge- the filmmakers gain the trust of industry and media whilst masquerading as representatives from government or big business. It's a format we've grown accustomed to through the comic-doco style of Michael Moore and the pantomime spoofing of Sacha Baron Cohen's characters. But there's a precarious line between investigative journalism and getting your comedic kicks...

In the first section, the target is Dow Chemical and Union Carbide's refusal to accept responsibility for the Bhopal industrial disaster of 1984 - a tragedy estimated to have killed 25,000. This culminates in a BBC interview with a "Dow representative" promising 12 billion dollars of compensation to those affected. Audacious, yes- but there's little attention paid on the human tragedies of the story. It's used as a tool to rail more generally against the ambiguous 'greed' of 'big corporations'. When the two filmmakers do visit India, it's only to validate their position.

It's a self-congratulatory theme which informs the limp protests against ExxonMobil and Halliburton (soft targets for the protest movement) which are to follow. The film's most succesful argument comes later, and is also it's simplest: Thousands of New Orleans residents have been evicted from their homes in the wake of Katrina. The filmmakers reserve judgement here, letting the subjects speak for themselves- and it makes for convincing footage. But elsewhere, wistful acoustic guitars for background music and stoner-humour do little to validate their arguments, merely establishing that this is a film very much preaching to a partisan audience.

The Yes Men establish their raison d'etre as defenders of justice and the oppressed, patting each other on the back at regular intervals along the way. Whilst their stunts are impressive and their hearts in the right places, the film suffers from nonchalance toward it's subjects and arrogance in it's arguments. It's a tone which is self-defeating and wholly unneccesary when compared with peers of the genre. 'The Czech Dream' (2004) remains humble, whilst longtime comic/activist Mark Thomas is an expert in letting the facts hold centre stage. Occassionally funny but too frequently lightweight, 'The Yes Men Fix the World' raises serious questions, not about fostering social change through comedy, but about the legitimacy of using protest movements as a source of humour and entertainment.

First published in Planet Notion.

DJ Yoda: How to Cut and Paste (30s Edition) : Review

2009-08-17T08:37:00.000-07:00

The '30's edition' is the latest in DJ Yoda's 'How to cut and paste' series; a now-established blueprint from which we've received an 80s mash-up, a country western themed disc and a foray into movie soundtracks. On this mix, Yoda samples a range of 1930s music and 'updates' with an array of beats and scratches.

The cult of the mash-up has enjoyed popularity of late due to the rise in availability of easy to use software. But the basic concept of 'the remix' has it's roots in something far older than Ableton. Historically, folk music relied upon certain pieces which were passed down and reinterpreted. A DJ's role is no different. Scouring an archive, reinterpreting. It's a similarly communal experience, rewardng those who pay attention. Faces on the dancefloor light up as they recognise a sample. From a DJ's perspective, such reappropriation can be a safe bet. And here's where it gets problematic.

The '30s edition' is, no doubt, enjoyable. Who wouldn't care to listen to Cab Calloway croon over 'Minnie the Moocher' or reminiscise for the 'Big Rock Candy Mountain'? And if Louis Armstrong's ode to 'Cheesecake' doesn't elicit a smile on first listen, you're incapable of human joy. The problem with this mix is not the source material, it's in the lack of imagination applied to it. DJ Shadow and Cut Chemist applied a limited scope and acheived maximum results with their 'Product Placement' tour- through juxtaposition of samples. Yoda, however, seems content merely to apply morose beats and spoken word samples. It's a surprisingly lazy effort that would make Kool Herc shudder. Like all you have to do is spin an LP and drop a drum-loop on it.

I kept hoping for something engaging: a Robert Johnson riff against a Raekwon a-capell. Thelonius Monk vs Biggie. Instead, almost-verbatim reperformances. Maybe this mix wasn't intended for these discerning ears- perhaps it's meant for people who can only listen to vintage music once it's been co-opted into a known style. Something that goes against the very premise of being a DJ. If Yoda can craft a career from putting beats on records, fair play. But if kids can't listen to the originals on their own merit, then I despair.

First published in Planet Notion.

Cabaret Whore: Review

2009-08-06T01:56:00.000-07:00

‘What is cabaret without pain?’ implored the knife-wielding French diva 'La Poule Plombee', one of three characters portrayed in Sarah-Louise Young’s 'Cabaret Whore'. A fitting closing statement for a performance which parodied the conventions of the genre with style, if not substance. A cocktail of anecdotal storytelling, music and dance which at times borders on the burlesque, cabaret is enjoying something of a rennaissance in comedy circles. Before travelling to the Edinburgh Free Fringe, the Camden Head was treated to a preview performance.

A foul-mouthed redneck porn star, a snooty librarian who idolises Jordan and an embittered Piaf-a-like paraded their loneliness, regrets and traumas through jovial song, before collapsing in tears under the weight of their pains. Young has a powerful voice capable of carrying her character's idiosyncracies; but whilst you couldn't fault the ability or indeed the effort, there was a feeling that 'the show' sometimes overshadowed the humour. Attempts at audience participation were met with uncomfortable silence. Social observation wasn't as clever as it thought. Though pain was the central premise of Young's charicatures, it was far from a painful experience. More an amusing spectacle that promised much but failed to deliver where it really mattered.

First published in Camden Fringe Voyeur

Benson: The People's Fish

2009-08-05T06:32:00.001-07:00

Anglers are today mourning the death of what is believed to be Britain's biggest carp. Commonly referred to as 'the People's Fish', Benson was introduced into the lakes in 1995, and at the time of his death weighed 64lb. The BBC reported that he had been caught up to 70 times during "his 13 year career". Career?

Anyway. Tony Bridgefoot, owner of Bluebell Lakes on the Cambridgeshire/Northamptonshire border, thought the fact that prospective fishers did not have to join an expensive fishing syndicate but could fish on a day ticket meant the carp was accessible to everyone.

"They sort of adopted it and took it to their hearts, and if you were lucky enough to catch the fish or even see the fish it was perfectly clear what a beautiful creature it was."

Here follows Benson's Best Bits.

Broken Embraces: Review

2009-07-31T02:42:00.001-07:00

Thank the heavens for Broken Embraces. In a summer that has been dominated by dismal Hollywood refranchising (Terminator, Wolverine, Transformers) and arthouse shock tatics and self-indulgence (Antichrist, Synecdoche New York), Pedro Almodovar's 17th film is a breath of fresh air. The trailer's wordless sequences give nothing away and to those not familiar with the director, I doubt it will invite your interest. But dare to be curious and you will be pleasantly surprised. This is a serious piece of filmmaking; it will reward both the cinephile and the casual viewer.

Penelope Cruz is the ostensible 'star' of the film, though the film is reticent to focus on a particular protagonist or narrative. The plot is embellished as the film jumps between 1994 and 2008: a complex web of storytelling that only reveals the particulars at the film's climax. We meet a blind cinematographer who lives under a pseudonym, an aspiring documentary filmmaker seeking to ruin his father's memory, a jealous financier and of course, Penelope Cruz herself- in the role of Magdelena: a typically passionate, but dissatisfied woman upon whom entire film turns. The film refuses to conform to type; allowing for a myriad of complex, often contradictory emotions.

A touch of self-referentialism never hurt anyone, and Broken Embraces boasts a 'film within a film' storyline that ties all the disparate elements together. Whereas other films have attempted this ad naseum (Synecdoche- to it's absolute limit), it never feels laboured or indulgent. Broken Embrace's characters carry heavy burdens- but the light hearted 60s romp 'Girls with suitcases' within the film is used as much to distract as embolden. It's subjects are dark, but the film's tone is brisk.

This is not a typical indie flick. It lacks the pace of genre-staples such as 'Y Tu Mama Tambien' or 'City of God'. But throughout the film are clues: A delicate scene with a television playing an Ingrid Bergmann film in the background. Casting agents instructing Magdelena to wear her hair 'like Hepburn'.This is classic cinematic storytelling, beautifully shot and acted, rooted in the style of 50s Hollywood.

First published in Planet Notion

Compositional aesthetics in children's literature.

2009-07-31T02:39:00.000-07:00

I enjoyed a conversation recently with an as-yet unpublished author of children's stories. Another of my friends is devoted to this craft, though I am no expert on the particulars, the histories and conventions of the genre, nor the difficulties in embellishing it with that dislocated sense of fantasy and reality concurrent. However, certain aspects of the genre draw my interest, and certain aspects in the production can be seen to mirror those of more adult literature. I remain convinced that the subtelties of storytelling are as nuanced no matter your target audience, no matter the particulars of your narrative style or form- all writing is fiction at it's root, all writing strives to entertain, prove and disprove.

We are all condemned to silence unless we create our own relation with the world and try to tie other people into the meaning we thus create. That is what composing is.

Children's stories are embedded in the rich tradition of folklore and fable. The simplistic language used in both mediums is employed to appeal to the widest possible audience. There is an allegorical quality to this storytelling which demands itself to be heard. It's raison d'etre is to interpellate, and so broaching a mass market is entirely in agreement with this. If one is able to reduce any series of words and sentences to it's discursive core, then perhaps one could argue that children's literature is a tool of socialisation much in the way that fables contain moralistic and ethical codes that we are meant to learn from. I was curious though as to the extent an author conciously writes these allegories and subtexts into their character, the extent to which these characters are 'allowed to breath'.

I believe that this is an authorial difficulty which is not exclusive to children's literature. All writers seek to prove something. Perhaps the form of the fable allows for a greater indulgence in political subtext which can come across merely as clumsy storytelling in more contemporary forms. Is it possible to suspend an adult audience's critical disbelief with success throughout an extended fable storytelling format? My mind recalled, in particular, Lars Von Trier's 2003 film Dogville, which structurally is set out in chapter format, is narrated by an omniscient and disembodied male. I think Von Trier is a pretty appropriate example of perhaps the shortcomings of fable format in adult fiction. His biggest shortcoming, throughout his back catalogue of uber-realist and more recently, more artifice laden filmmaking, has been that he forever regards his characters merely as plot devices, political tools to manipulate in order to prove his artistic point. His films are thinly veiled thesis, and he expects an audience to be moved to agreement, or shocked into a reactionary disagreement. Arguably, through allowing his characters no room for human development, he is shutting the door on any significant emotional attachments being drawn between the audience and text. The intended socialisation of his films is more easily dismissed, thanks largely to the arrogance with which he composes his thesis/story and expects you to be passively subjected to it's self-evidence.

The socialisation which occurs in children's literature is, though composed in a blunter fashion (through the language of fable, as discussed), is of a more progressive nature. There are certain edicts, certain established codes of behaviour which are transmitted and naturalised to the child, and it could be argued that these are of unspeakably important value to society, and in the development of that child's character.

I was curious as to how these concerns about characterisation manifested in composition, in the extent to which an author of children's literature knowingly embeds these cultural, moral, ethical codes and resolutions into their characters and narratives. Are characters composed firstly for their political subtexts, or does a story reveal itself (shudder) "naturally" ? Conversation moved on to discussion of Jung's archetypes, and other historically noteworthy examples of a collected embodiment of a particular representation.

Moreover, if the purpose of fable is to interpellate cultural codes, conventions, valuable information otherwise intangible- is then it limited to imparting what has already been quietly agreed upon? Should representations of, say, good and evil, valour and cowardice, integrity and untrustworthiness, neccesarily be conventional? How far can an author attempt to transgress whilst maintaining the culturally-affirmative element of the genre- a stylistic trope which cannot be disregarded for therein lies the convincing aspect of the narrative.

Wonderful conversation- a fragment that I did not want to lose.