Standon Calling 2011: Festival Preview

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

First published in The405

Anni Rossi - Heavy Meadow: review

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

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

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

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

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

First published on the405

Kode9 and Spaceape - Black Sun: review

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

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


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

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

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

First published in Notion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

First published in Notion

King Creosote and Jon Hopkins - Diamond Mine: review

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

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

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

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

First published on The405.

Janelle Monae - live at the Roundhouse, London: review

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

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

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


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

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

First published in the405

Radiohead - The King of Limbs: review

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

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

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

Tim Hecker - Ravedeath 1972: Review

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

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

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

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

Though she with giants fights

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

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

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

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

Elfin Saddle - Wurld: review

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why sign a record contract?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

First published in the405.

Red Sparowes - Scala, 10/10/10

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

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

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


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

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

And breath.

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

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

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

Themselves - Crownsdown&company review

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


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

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

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

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

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.

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.