Janelle Monae - live at the Roundhouse, London: review

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

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

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

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

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.

Wu Tang Clan, Brixton Academy: Review

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.

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

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.

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

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.