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.

Standon Calling, Sunday: Review

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Secret Garden Party: Preview

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

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

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.

Capitalism, A Love Story: Review

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.

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

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.