EDITION 016
JAN 2005 LIVE REVIEWS
GoJonnyGoGoGoGo5
@ Josephs Well
Saturday - It’s only fitting that a mini-festival receives a mini-review, but with twenty-five bands on board (count ‘em!) it’s understandably going to be a whistle stop tour. Let’s not waste time then.
The underground music scene of Leeds has, for a while now, been twinned with that of Sheffield, which is reflected here: Three excellent bands hail from just down the road. The first two up are Chuck and Champion Kickboxer - both first-rate bands greatly anticipated but unfortunately missed due to a misunderstanding on the website. ¡Forward Russia! suffered the same fate.
Seemingly Downdime had dropped out and we were straight on to The Electroluvs, the first and probably the best electronic duo. The winsome two, both unassuming Scots, created melodic delights on synths and guitar which soared and crashed against our eager ears.
At this point (or maybe later) it was discovered that Downdime were actually here (probably found drinking quietly but heavily in the corner, one of the common pastimes around these parts). They were shoved onstage and we gasped as the lead singer fought violently with his guitar which happened to create a lot of pleasant indiepop noise, despite the fact that the guitar seemed to be winning.
The Boyfriends were, unsurprisingly, all boys. Fairly middle of the line guitar-based indie here although the lyrics sounded as though they would be wry and witty if we could hear them properly.
The Exteriors, featuring faces familiar to anyone who has kept their eyes open at a few local indiepop events, buzzed and hummed and then sung and strummed their tunes onto repeating memories leaving all but the tone deaf with catches that were still causing our feet to tap involuntarily half an hour later at the bar. Another very successful specimen of “normal” instruments and synthetic noodlings in unison.
Despite many having heard The Starlets before, no one seemed ready to hear a man sing quite so high, so a few minutes were necessary for the simpering to settle down. When it did that ultra-soft soprano, lushly accompanied by a stage full of guitars, violins and trumpets magically wove fey but infectiously optimistic pop into the air.
This gentle sugar-coated breeze was mechanically thrusted out of our minds by the libido-driven Schmoof. For a band that seemed so promising (Spectrum visualizations on a video screen, a military complement of synths and matching PVC outfits) this duo, again boy/girl, rapidly became dull. Once the novelty of a PVC miniskirt had worn off the young men in the crowd rapidly followed their girlfriends to the bar. It may however be unfair to condemn them with “style but no substance” when quite clearly style was supposed to be the essence of things.
The next band were apparently called That Fucking Tank- “apparently” because they sounded not so much like a band but two self-indulgent boys on guitar and drums respectively making lots and lots of noise. Band? No. Bands make music.
Finally, The Long Blondes. These self-professed New Wavers chopped and pounded and did it well. Nothing particularly new but the attitude and the catches were all there.
For the heavies, three more riotous bands put forward their creations. Many apologies to Hooker, Trademark and Bilge Pump who were effectively headlining tonight’s shindig, but this particular observer opted for home in order to recoup for the next day’s side of the story.
Sunday - Learning from Saturday’s mistake and arriving at 2.00pm, we were in for a treat; a short sit out in the cold only whet our appetites for Benjamin Wetherill. A modern day Nick Drake, Mr. Wetherill went beyond simply being an excellent simulation by branching out into American folk music, bringing to it his own classically English eccentricity. Tenderly manipulated guitar and a wavering, whisper of a voice drifted across a small audience. Tea and coffee were the orders of the afternoon, in an atmosphere so intimate it felt necessary to ask his permission before using a flash. A perfectly peaceful start to Day II.
James Green perhaps suffered from following this- being purely instrumental and not as tragically confident as Benjamin, but after a while a different penny dropped. With a harsher, discordant overall sound and delay loops being bravely recorded and used then and there, the concentrated frown on his face suggested we weren’t necessarily supposed to feel comfortable all the way through.
After this softened introduction, it was time to plug the guitars back in. The Lust Puppies, despite having a totally uninspiring name, were far more innovative than expected. Mentally preparing for a so-so indiepunk band we were confronted with a suited, emotionally detached singer and someone looking like a well-studied 80’s nerd, thrashing the living daylights out of a battered guitar. The suit sang like you’d expect the other to sing- nasally and nastily, with equally cheap and salacious lyrics. Kind of fun.
After viewing several hype-ridden flyers, The Holy Terror were less terrifying than advertised and sounded a lot more like an all girl garage band trying to kick ass without losing their cool. Still, Riot Grrrl is as Riot Grrrl does and they could have done a lot worse.
It’s hard to see which audience Robochrist thought he was playing to, but that didn’t stop him. A one man Ministry, eyes blazing, silver make-up glistening, it said psycho, industrial and techno on the tin but it also said “pop” and “cheese”- the first three definitely, the last two were presumably a joke. Samples of children’s fairground rides made this metallic ball of energy sound particularly irreverent.
Printed Circuit was a girl and her machines. Laptop, keyboard and GameBoy to be precise. She knew how to use all of them very well, but after the second song the bleeps and bloops started to lose their charm. Looked smart though.
Zombina and the Skeletones, much loved underground darlings, were expectedly worth the price of the day ticket alone. Gothic yet pop, indiepunk yet rock’n’roll and tongue in cheek but fierce as hell, this relatively young band know how to give you a good time. Singing about zombies, ghoulies and all things Halloween, they throw in a cappella choruses and church organ introductions until everyone is dancing like the dead. Did I mention the horror costumes?
Misty’s Big Adventure were also a highlight, again providing ample visual aid. This time it came in the form of a dancing creature by the name of “Erotic Volvo” in an all-in-one suit covered in blue rubber hands. Hopefully the crowd weren’t too distracted as Mistys provided jazz infused gems that went from the sublime to the ridiculous though often encompassed both. Creatively, Mistys are one of the most original and enjoyable groups around and did not fail to leave a stupid grin on everyone’s faces.
Some may have left the weekend on this high note, some did. But those that didn’t were treated to yet more disco punk trash (a technical term, apparently), from yet another duo- Motormark. Yes, yes, the girl has a crazy haircut. In fact they both do, and the instruments they’re playing are pretty darn funky too. It’s not like the rhythm courtesy of an old drum-machine is a negative point either, but after the feast of innovation served up by the previous two bands, you do have to question the need to finish with such an overly-stylised pair.
We will, however, forgive them. Not because, if we’re being truthful, they did sort of make you want to dance ‘til you drop, but because this is what GoJonnyGoGoGoGo is all about. Look here, it’s right there in the front of the programme. “Adventure… escapism, entertainment…”. So whether it’s PVC suits, antique drum machines or (as it has been in the past) a bearded ventriloquist with a casio keyboard and a foul-mouthed monkey, we love it. Every drop. Why weren’t you there?
words and pics: Tom Pettinger
The Bad Plus
@ The Wardrobe
I’d just like to make it very clear indeed that The Bad Plus are quite definitely a jazz trio, OK? Acoustic piano, bass and drums – the classic jazz combo configuration, OK? Rhythmic, harmonic and melodic complexities translated by flawless technique into music that makes your heart soar and sob. That’s it, jazz, OK? So, the fact that The Bad Plus do covers of songs by Nirvana, Black Sabbath, Pixies, Aphex Twin and (gulp!) Blondie should in no way lead you to think that The Bad Plus are anything other than a jazz trio, OK?!?!?
Well, given the rammed room and the ecstatic reception the band get, you’d think they almost were a pop or rock band. And the age range of the audience, from the grizzled usual Leeds Jazz suspects to half of the Music College’s fresh faced fraternity, suggests the band are appealing across a range of previously staunchly defended boundaries and pointing to something new in the not too distant future.
Essentially the band make consummately inventive music that is absolutely rooted in the jazz tradition but that at the same time pokes and prods its conventions and tropes in odd directions. The tunes evolve in an almost organic way rather than follow any verse-chorus-verse type, and it’s the inner propulsion of the music that gives it much of its shape. And, although I’m loath to mention it, this is where the rock influence comes in.
Doing a raft of rock covers could raise suspicions that the band were just after some cheap publicity. But look at it this way – messing with cover versions has fuelled the creative spark in most jazz musicians since it started, and, being good post modern genre hopping music nuts, why shouldn’t The Bad Plus use some of their favourite rock songs to fuel their own creativity. It works too – their version of Queen’s “We Are The Champions” lasted five minutes plus but was virtually unrecognisable until the melodramatic flurry of the chorus at the end. But just remember, The Bad Plus are a jazz trio, OK.
Johnny Ersatz-Culture
Jackie-O Motherfucker / Ashtray Navigations / VibraCathedralOrchestra
@ Holy Trinity Church
Tonight’s The Night, Neil Young’s seminal 1975 album of hurt and heartache, is playing over the PA system, and tonight’s the night Vibracathedral Orchestra become Pink Floyd. Albeit the Pink Floyd of Ummagumma.
The five-piece set up camp below a billowing canvas of white material on to which several different still and moving images are projected, flanked by a huge Christmas tree to their right and the Holy Trinity Church’s pulpit to their left. All that’s missing is the giant inflatable bovine…
For this evening’s incarnation of Ashtray Navigations, the band’s one constant – Phil Todd – is augmented by Ben Reynolds (of The Wow) on acoustic guitar and Mel Delaney (of Sculptress) on clarinet. They play a brief set consisting of one 20 minute elongated improvisation. Todd hunches over his electric guitar and sampler, as electronic clicks permeate the static hiss already emanating from his foil-covered amp. The noise builds as first Reynolds and then Delaney add to the heaving sonic tapestry; rabidly plucked acoustic battling against freely squawked clarinet amidst the miasma.
Last, but certainly not least, come Jackie-O Motherfucker. Tonight the American six-piece present a more traditional use of instrumentation than when I caught their sublime set at this year’s All Tomorrow’s Parties. They share the drumkit with Vibra which adds a more rocking element to their sound, bolstered by some ringing guitar chords and throbbing basslines. A newly shorn Tom Greenwood provides vocals and scratchy guitar, while a female band member does a fair impression of Patty Waters on vocals and piano.
This was a wonderful evening of challenging music in a beautiful setting. Praise the Lord!
Jamie Stephenson
Cardiacs / The Scaramanga Six
@ The Astoria Theatre, London
Like it or not, when a band of legendary status chooses to play its first major gig in a blue moon, it invariably chooses London. As vibrant as our local scene is, there is frankly no competing with the capital when it comes down the sheer choice of venues to suit any band’s ambience.
As one of the few surviving spit-level theatre-style venues you couldn’t pick a more appropriate venue for tonight’s showcase of all that is gloriously over-the-top than the Astoria. Much like this evening’s headlining tenants it’s a bit old, slightly shabby and somewhat past it’s best aesthetically speaking; but it still sparkles with majesty, magic and with a penchant for extravagant grandeur and charming, if slightly out-of-vogue pomposity. Some how this wouldn’t seem quite the same in, say, Leeds University Refectory.
All very well; but why, you might wonder, are you reading about this in a Leeds periodical designed to enlighten and inform about all that is good (and occasionally bad) about the West Yorkshire music scene?
Well, there are two reasons principally. Firstly, be it directly or indirectly Cardiacs have never been more relevant to Leeds’ musicians. The angular avant-garde experimentalism juxtaposed with moments of full-on power and delicately crafted soundscapes can be heard in local acts as diverse as Forward Russia, The Somatics and This Etal (whether they realise it or not).
However, far less tangentially, tonight also happens to be the biggest night of their careers for another West-Yorkshire band and arguably the most Cardiacs-inspired of the lot. For tonight Matthew, our very own Scaramanga Six will be supporting their heroes.
It is for this reason that Sandman; armed with train fare, passport, dictionary of English to Cock-er-neee / Cock-er-neee to English and approval on a small Endowment mortgage just in case it’s Sandman’s round; has headed off Daaahn Saaarf to lend our rather partisan support and see what all the fuss is about.
Dressed in a rather dapper, if garishly blue Scaramanga Six T-shirt it is hard not to feel like an away fan at a football match as Sandman and guest hurry through the slightly over-efficient security staff on the door and into the mêlée of the clad-in-black faithful of the people’s republic of Cardiacland.
It is difficult to work out whether Sandman has just stumbled into the inner sanctum of some borderline-unhinged religious cult, or perhaps the annual convention of alien abductees. Milling around as far as the eye can see are the types of people that frankly you just never seem to see in real life. A kind of weird mix of old punks, young punks, Hells Angels, geography teachers, kids, granddads, drag-queens and people that look a bit like Ron Mael from Sparks.
Fortunately for us, before anyone has had a chance to say “ScaraWho?” an almighty chord thunders from the stage to signal the arrival of the five who are The Six.
Of all the songs in the Scaramanga cannon, none set out the agenda quite as plainly as Soul Destroyer: A sweeping statement of intent that takes us from the chiming, emotionally charged opening to the triumphant, surging, power-packed conclusion with a little help of some Phil Spector-esque “Woo’s” along the way.
As notoriously difficult as the Cardiacs’ audience is, the one thing they will never begrudge a band is demonstrating a bit of musical ambition. As such, the epic nature of their opener proves just the thing to win over the initially suspicious crowd.
A quick glance across the stage gives the indication that the magnitude of the occasion may just have crept into the collective subconscious of the band as, just for a split second, the trademark audience-bating threatening personas seem to have been replaced by exhausted smiles of utter relief.
However far from being overawed, it is clear that these songs are built for the big stage and almost immediately its back to business as usual. The band tears through a combination of crowd-pleasing thrash-arounds (The Poison Pen, You Do You Die!), expansive theatricals (Elemental, Unclean) and even a couple of new ones called Baggage (a traditional big-sounding stomach cruncher) and The Throning Room (the Six at their most punky and aggressive).
By the time it gets to new single We Rode The Storm (which has never sounded more appropriate) the crowd are completely tucked-in. So much so, that loosing complete grip of reality Sandman and guest even feel confidentenough to indulge in a spot of synchronised hand clapping over the break- down chorus. 2998 people smile politely.
And so it is left to none-more-fearsome Pincers to close the set, replete with Cardiacs-esque stop-start double-time ending. The crowd whoop accordingly. Mission accomplished.
A mere ten minutes later and the thought dawns that whoever measured the capacity of The Astoria, had done so using multiples of Brett Andersons rather than portly middle-aged punks. This becomes even more apparent when moments later the lights dim and the quite-clearly-capacity crowd start to loose the plot. After what seems to be an eternity of ambient noise and strobe effects a portly middle-aged man wanders on to the stage. The crowd go ballistic. He is followed by an even more portly middle aged man, a suspiciously young looking man with Sideshow Bob hair and a number of ladies in long flowing dresses. Two of whom take up stools near the back and two of whom pick up mallets and proceed to wallop the living daylights out of a variety of big percussion instruments placed neatly at each side of the stage.
The first man (Cardiacs leader Tim Smith) stands centre stage in a long black overcoat and deliberately smug expression while the audience surge forwards before ripping into a ferocious rendition of the early 80’s live staple Tarred and Feathered. This tips the borderline-psychotic crowd over the edge and leads to the strangely surreal spectacle of a crowd engaged in a full-on mosh pit of frightening proportions to what can only be described as avant-garde music-box experimentalism.
Visually it looks like a Thrash metal gig, musically it sounds closer to a Shoenberg recital. However, the crowd aren’t in the mood to let the absence of anything resembling a traditional time-signature spoil their fun as they gleefully push each other around in (occasional) time with the music.
Before anyone notices, Sandman slips upstairs to get a better view and it becomes apparent that despite the lack of accessibility this is a band still at the top of their game and the influence they have had on the current generation of noise-frenzied art-punks is clearly evident.
It’s there in the choppy-aggression of Will Bleed Amen, its there in the choral cyclic-progression finale of Dirty Boy and its very definitely there in the Garage art-rock of Fast Robert.
However, it’s not until the anthemic Is This The Life that the crowd euphoria reaches its peak. Finally with a straight-forward 4/4 rhythm to get their heads around the crowd pogos in unison. There are few big-sounding rock songs that can bring a lump to the throat, but this is one of them. A soaring, majestic hymn that manages to be both dark and yet profoundly uplifting at the same time.
After over an hour and a quarter the band depart only to return twice, firstly for the borderline operatic-prog-rock of The Everso Closely Guarded Line and then finally for the delicate Foundling, presumably to sooth the rather excitable audience mood, before finally letting them out again into the wide-world to disappear for another year or so until the next time.
words: Rob Paul Chapman, pic: Andy Brown
The Longshots / Stuffy & The Fuses / LaRusso / Speak Easy
@ The Vine
It’s always a bit of shock when you turn up to the gig, open the doors and instantly discover that the first band have already started. When this shock was compounded with a horrible attempt at funk, I began to feel that I would have been better off staying at home and watching whatever passes for Friday night comedy these days. Hence, I was introduced to Speak Easy. They took all the stock elements of funk, then tried to play them at a level of difficulty which most of the band (especially the drummer) could not cope with. Still, the singer occasionally put on a nice Tom Waitsy growl, which cheered me up for a minute.
I kept myself going with the knowledge that Stuffy & The Fuses were on soon, first though, it was time to deal with the Stereophonics-isms of LaRusso. Except that they soon proved themselves to be far beyond the above dismissal. They had moments of very standard British rock, but then stuck in a lot of noise, some clever instrumental breaks and a very good understanding of dynamics. At last that funk was out of my mind.
Now, I am, as a rule, a big fan of Wrath Records’ output, so was somewhat disappointed to find that Stuffy did not live up to all the good things that have been said about this man. The fact that he can front a band, while playing the drums, standing up, is an amazing feat. The songs they play are good, they are solid, occasionally punkish indie, which would undoubtedly be called art rock in today’s climate. It’s just hard to escape from feeling that maybe if Stuffy hired a drummer, and stuck to being a frontman, the whole show would get less praise.
Note to self: do not get band names confused. The Longshots (who played tonight) have a very similar name to The Longcuts (who didn’t play tonight). The LongCUTS are an indie band, signed to Deltasonic, who are very good, and do a nicely innovative take on the Deltasonic-scouse-weirdness template. The LongSHOTS are from Leeds, and are hardly what one could call innovative. This is punk rock, this is The Hives, this is (I’m afraid to say) even a little bit Sum 41. It’s noisy, brattish, clichéd, irritating, and I wish I’d stayed home and watched Little Britain.
Tom Goodhand
Therapy? / Winnebago Deal /
Tokyo Dragons
@ Cockpit
The Tokyo Dragons burst onto the stage with their fast rock and roll based on their heroes like AC/DC, Kiss and Thin Lizzy. This London-based band have just released the single ‘Get ‘Em Off’ after two years playing heavy riff-tinged songs like ‘Teenage Screamer’ and ‘High On Hate’. A great start to the evening.
With a set up made famous by the White Stripes, the guitarist and drummer of Winnebago Deal have some real energy between them. The riffs and sounds reminded me a lot of Nirvana; his vocals differed from this except for the growls. They played with Nick Oliveri during his Sheffield support act with Mark Lanagan’s Band. Their new album ‘Dead Gone’ is out now.
Therapy appeared and straight away started a moshpit, dedicating songs to Bush and Blair (‘Live Like a Motherfucker, Die Like a Motherfucker’), Good Charlotte (‘Going Nowhere’) and the first person to broadcast Therapy on UK radio; John peel (‘Die Laughing’), plus tributes to Joey Ramone and Ol’
Dirty Bastard. Choosing to play only a handful of new songs from their new album ‘Never Apologise, Never Explain’, and sticking to the crowd pleasing back catalogue including the Troublegum, Baby Teeth and Pleasure Death albums this gig was a treat for Therapy fans. Having played three times here in the last 12 months (once supporting The Wildhearts) this band are putting a lot of work and sweat (literally) into their tours (bassist Michael McKeegan declared “Don’t trust a band who don’t sweat”). At the end of the gig they thanked the crowd and said they would return next year, so Leeds is definitely a stop on future Therapy tours.
words and pic: Danielle Millea
Mama Scuba
@ Joseph's Well
The mountain of branded boxes that litter Mama Scuba's stage perfectly capture what this band is all about. On the surface? A simple, unassuming package. Get past this, however, and your curiosity will be rewarded.
In The Year of Glamorous Indie Rock N RollTM Mama Scuba might not exactly look the part or
tick the boxes for the coolest influences, but, like their esteemed peers The Electric Soft Parade, they know there is a veritable treasure trove of alternative noise still worth plundering and making your own.
Mama Scuba's strength stems largely from their wilful eclecticism: the mantra of Jennifer Lenz effortlessly juggles the sublime and the frenzied, rumbling towards its crescendo with Elbow-like intensity; Who are, you are? is more than happy to throw any such subtlety to the wind - a dumbass assault of Pixies caterwauling and guitar noise that grabs tonight's rather impassive audience by the throat, shaking them into submission; Squeaky Clean is what might happen if Clinic covered the Kinks - a quirky, jerky grower of a tune.
Tonight however, the band's crowning moment is a song called Snow. This beautiful monster of a tune has it all - a bastard blend of Roxy Music swagger, Velvet Underground minimalism (courtesy of The Shark's driving keyboards), and a heartbreaking sense of yearning on a par with Doves, U2 or Roy Orbison that explodes into a triumphant Spector-esque wall of sound finale that literally shakes the room with its absolute brilliance.
Mama Scuba then, a local band with great tunes (with AMAZING drumming) and a truly independent streak. Open up the box and take a good look…
Dave Beveridge
This Et Al / Forward Russia! / Mountain Men Anonymous / O Fracas
@ The Vine
I missed O Fracas - blame public transport if you must. However, I did manage to get down to see Mountain Men Anonymous - I knew sod all about them, but a friend insisted. And, on paper, he was probably right to do so, as they're exactly the kind of post-rock nonsense that normally floats my boat. Highly repetitive industrially tinged Mogwai-isms were the order of the day, flavoured with a tinge of faceless techno-bollocks-geek-cool (ice hockey masks - nice). But to be quite honest, it dragged. On, and on, and on, and on… The metallic posturing of the band may be well intentioned, but it just rendered them devoid any charm. Not something you can afford to be pissing away in this genre.
Forward, Russia! did not drag. They're very much a child of the moment, or to be exact, where the kids are looking back to at the moment (Interpol, The Killers, Franz Ferdinand - discuss), but they do it a with passion and lack of self-consciousness that excuses any accusations of bandwagon jumping. Where the art punk/leftfield comparisons this band have collected along the way come from I have no idea - tonight turning communist is far more about what you do with your body than your brain.
This Et Al were, as always, a pleasure. They're less passionate and far more straight up than they've been before, and the ultra-thin veneer of vocals did crack here and there… but what gets you, what you go back to them for, is the expertly engineered wall of noise. The fractured haze of their delivery, coupled with the complete lack of a conscious polish to their sound might give a passer-by the impression that the band aren't quite aware of their own promise. Maybe so. But it also flings them far aware from the scourge of leftfield mediocrity - this isn't an over-analysed and convoluted attempt - and that's its charm.
However, I did manage to get down to see Mountain Men Anonymous - I knew sod all about them, but a friend insisted. And, on paper, he was probably right to do so, as they're exactly the kind of post-rock nonsense that normally floats my boat. Highly repetitive industrially tinged Mogwai-isms were the order of the day, flavoured with a tinge of faceless techno-bollocks-geek-cool (ice hockey masks - nice). But to be quite honest, it dragged. On, and on, and on, and on… The metallic posturing of the band may be well intentioned, but it just rendered them devoid any charm. Not something you can afford to be pissing away in this genre.
Forward, Russia! did not drag. They're very much a child of the moment, or to be exact, where the kids are looking back to at the moment (Interpol, The Killers, Franz Ferdinand - discuss), but they do it a with passion and lack of self-consciousness that excuses any accusations of bandwagon jumping. Where the art punk/leftfield comparisons this band have collected along the way come from I have no idea - tonight turning communist is far more about what you do with your body than your brain.
This Et Al were, as always, a pleasure. They're less passionate and far more straight up than they've been before, and the ultra-thin veneer of vocals did crack here and there… but what gets you, what you go back to them for, is the expertly engineered wall of noise. The fractured haze of their delivery, coupled with the complete lack of a conscious polish to their sound might give a passer-by the impression that the band aren't quite aware of their own promise. Maybe so. But it also flings them far aware from the scourge of leftfield mediocrity - this isn't an over-analysed and convoluted attempt - and that's its charm.
Paul Elam
A Silver Mt.Zion Memorial Orchestra
and Tra-La-La Band
@ Brudenell Social Club
There’s just so much to love about A Silver Mt Zion. There’s their fierce independence and courageous adherence to the DIY aesthetic, which extends to self-financed tours and a record label, Constellation, set up in 1997 to document and support Montreal’s thriving experimental rock scene, which releases uniformly excellent, exquisitely-crafted albums on a practically tri- -monthly basis. There’s the music - sprawling, epic, delightfully nuanced and majestically atmospheric compositions which fuse post-rock dynamism and classical elegance in a way no other band has managed, not even Godspeed You Black Emperor!, of which Zion are, technically, a mere offshoot. Most importantly however, there’s the band themselves.
Tonight, for those lucky enough to be near the front of a venue which is perfectly suited to Zion’s epic yet strangely intimate sound, the sincerity, idealism, passion and simple human warmth which these seven musicians exude is almost overwhelming. It’s in the little looks and half-smiles which they exchange during a stunning, extended take on ‘The Triumph of Our Tired Eyes’ from their 2001 masterwork ‘Born Into Heaven as the Sparks Fly Upward’ that the song’s refrain ‘we will find our way…come on friends, to the barricades again’ transcends what, if mishandled, could have been unbearable triteness and instead becomes the most unassailably heartfelt and inspiring thing that you’ve ever heard.
Over a set which easily transverses the 90 minute mark, the band slowly unveil a selection of material which wisely avoids the slightly underdeveloped ideas of debut album ‘He Has Left Us Alone But Shafts of Light Sometimes Grace the Corner of Our Rooms’ and focuses on the aforementioned ‘Sparks’ and last year’s equally superb ‘This Is Our Punk Rock: Thee Rusted Satellites Gather and Sing’, plus some compelling new compositions which look set to continue the band’s upward ascent on their next full length. Although it may seem hard to believe going by their choice of titles, there is not a whiff of pretension about Zion – nominal frontman Efrim is an engaging and affable presence, alternately joking with the crowd and delivering vocals which are heartbreaking in their fragile intensity. In fact, a group of unassuming and scholarly Canadians may have ironically embodied the punk ideal more effectively than any of the noisier bands you might care to mention – when they cut loose and deliver seven-part, semi-acapella harmonies which strike you as all of humanity’s better instincts given voice, you will believe that there’s hope for us all yet. If only for a little while.
Greg Elliott
The Damned / 4ft Fingers
@ LMUSU
With basic anthems like ‘Drink Driving’ and the sound of Rancid and NOFX, 4ft Fingers tried their hardest to get the crowd going, but obviously these punks were not yet drunk enough to comply. The vocals had good harmonies if sounding a little mumbled but withheld an essence of raw punk. After asking the price of the tickets the singer replied that they were 50p worth of the
£16 ticket. After failing to rally the crowd with songs like ‘American Sound’ and ‘The Life You Choose To Live’, they resorted to a sort of sing a long that went down like a lead balloon (La La, Oi Oi etc). The fast pacy songs were catchy but unfortunately sounded like a million other punk songs.
Now as for the highly anticipated The Damned, starting with a classic like ‘Here’s a love song’ is a good idea if followed by other songs that sound like punk. The stream of cock rock that followed was not what I expected from a veteran punk band. I know they changed their sound after a couple of albums but to me that was a bad move. Also Captain Sensible was trying too much to impress the crowd with half arsed antics. After pissing off the security by pouring beer on their head and complaining about the sound quality, he set on the lighting. I happened to be stood by the venues lighting desk and was told in front of a 500 strong crowd to either put some more white light on him so he could see or his guitar would be meeting my head. My reply; take the sunglasses off. A couple of old punk songs followed but the Marillion / Pink Floyd pap didn’t do anything for me. Stick to playing in America, great grandpas.
words and pics: Danielle Millea
Mark Lanegan / The Black Velvets
@ The Cockpit
There was not an inch of crawlspace. Conditions were somewhat like the ‘Nam, as the sweat dripped down faces in anticipation for the big man, Mark Lanegan.
Openers the Black Velvets did a really fine job. The Liverpool four piece play a traditional style of riff-based rock, but keep their songs free of excess in a modern fashion. I could hear Southern rock, Neil Young harmonies and T Rex stripped of the glam. These older traits duelled with the simpler impulses of punk, and made for a seamless marriage. They were exciting, and critically, the sound was clear and balanced. Not the most original act I’ve seen, but an excellent band that enjoyed being there.
What followed could only have been a colossal joke. Nick Oliveri, of QOTSA fame, strapped on the acoustic and took us into his own version of hell. There was, however, one moment of sublime beauty when Mark strode out and delivered a staggering vocal intervention.
The next part of this review is difficult, as Mark Lanegan is a great talent. For some reason, the sound for the main show was below par. On the faster, grittier songs, it seemed like the instruments were outrunning the vocals. That wonderful voice and melody was drowned out by some very sonically adept lead guitar and thunderous drums. Mark is a compelling performer, but without clarity, his immobility loses its impact. I also felt the raw rock outfit approach was thrilling, but neutered the beautiful subtlety of the song writing, which ranges from blues to a strange landscape of gothic American influences. The slower material, particularly off the album ‘Field Songs’, fared well, with the tone of his dustbowl voice emerging. For me, the show didn’t smoulder as I had expected. Perhaps expectation was my downfall, as the crowd had a great time.
Oliver Foster
