'now'

A lazy afternoon in the gleaming sun feeds slow and soft into the dragging journey back to the stupid fucking palace. Scotty and Lewie are locked in place for archers of loaf having been stunned into sweet submission by thee oh sees. Old buddy Charlie, on a a day off from his totally sweet day job, meets up and lets us know that tommy Stinson is here. My jaw dutifully and duly drops. In fact he's just over there. I look. Yep. I watch him watch archers of loaf for 40 minutes which is a strange slice of voyeurism partnered with a beautiful and ramshackle soundtrack. I think of what I'll say to him. I'm going to go and shake his hand and stick to the 30 second rule... I don't do it. I leave the room where we find Canadian will (he has a band called shirtlifter which is all you need to know) absolutely fuckhammered to high heaven. He proves tremendous company particularly when hugging bemused strangers and telling a dude in a Russian circles tee that the band are 'fucking shiiiiiiiiiieeet'. A moment of wonder.  I see tommy again, walk behind him into the hall and stand right next to him. We make eye contact and I know I won't be able to say anything. The replacements are too big of a deal to me to be able to cope with any potential disappointment... Sad sad sad. Yuck 'play' and it's their usual disgusting mix of grunge rock tribute act bullshit, third hand riffs poorly played and half hearted melodies stolen from the great and good of alt rock. They make me absolutely fucking sick to my stomach. 'you should be ashamed of yourselves' I scream at them in a quiet moment. We leave the hall, shaking our heads as they do a shit impression of a band that means something.  I've been wanting to see the make up for a long time. I've always been interested in the furious gospel fire of nation of Ulysses and their ilk and I'm expecting a fireball set from the Washington polito-poets. Sadly they trot out a cabaret act of posturing, impact-free slop-songs and fluffed poetry. It's embarrassing and we leave the room disappointed.  Afghan Whigs are one of the best live bands of the last thirty years. I feel I can vouch for that with a level of confidence. Their shows of the mid to late 90s were intense, sometimes horribly drunken, often wonderfully indulgent epic slabs of soulful, perverted fuck-grunge. Greg dulli crossing elvis with bukowski was always a joy to behold. And oh Jesus did they blow off the roofs with that hefty, jarring sound. 12 years on I've rarely been as excited to see a band play. Especially in a reunion situation- more potential for disappointment than usual.  The stage is decked in red velvet, the crowd bays, the afghan Whigs play. They play 'I'm her slave' they play '66' they play 'faded' they play 'summers kiss' they play the outro from purple rain. I have rarely lost my shit in such a prolonged and heartfelt manner. The room is loud as hell, throats crack with screamed lyrics, dulli's voice absolutely fucking soars. If anything, shorn of the drugs and booze and fucking around, they are better than they were first time around. Lean, lythe, absolutely explosive, as straight damn sexy as ever and that black hard heart in dulli's chest still beats like a fucking metronome. When they play 'miles iz dead' im done and gone once more - existing somewhere between the mid 90s and the present day, a beautiful if temporary limbo. I suddenly remember every time I saw them, every situation, every nuance, where I was and who I was with every time I heard a new record from them.  Bands sure can fill yr life.  Xm

slayer, faster, codeine, slower, mogwai, more

slayer night was, like slayer themselves, equal parts excellent, hilarious, silly and a bit of hard work. as it was the biggest band atp has ever booked they used the main hall - which means melvins and sleep got to play to thousands of dedicated metallers. despite the fact that almost the entire crowd was made up of rulebreaking slayer tee wearing hardcore thrash fans these bands were given a good deal of respect and melvins in particular shone...sleep? i honestly didnt love it - like lewie peckham (london hardcore legend) said - 'underwhelming'.

wolves in the throne room? now this is a band im excited about seeing more of in the next couple of weeks. they scared the shit out of me and got me in the locked-trance by the close of the set. genuinely excellent.

we watched slayer do their thing (the only band of the weekend so far to bring their own backdrop - but also the only band of the weekend to charge 25 for a tee, 55 for a hoodie. yes, that says '55') from half way back - like ian owen said (yeah he arrived eventually) 'they look exactly the same as they did when we loved them as kids....as long as you watch from the back'. couldn't have put it better.
it took hours to get back to SE (well, two of them) but arriving back to lucysureoffoot (italian art hound)'s place and watching cm punk vs daniel bryan from last week's ppv was a great capper to the night. bannon and amy and i sat out the back telling unspeakable 'jokes' and offending one another until the wee small hours. nicely.

saturday morning found me, happily, filled with unease and dread. despite the beautiful gleam of the day i'm all kinds of anxious and finding that two pieces of work i really wanted set before i left for spain will, for reasons entirely out of my hands, not be done in time, put me, quite frankly, in a cunt of a mood. missing harvey milk didnt help. neither did getting lost on the way to the show.

chavez settle my soul a little. better than i've ever seen them, more impactful, more soaring, sadder and more beautiful - a great set with a truly enthusiastic response. the heat and chatter of the outside pen gets to me and i'm hiding in the bathroom. classy.

codeine do something special on the west hall stage. they do something so achingly touching, so powerful and empowering, simultaneously heavy as fists, gentle as leaves they play their first show in 16 years to a crowd who repay them with an overwhelmingly loving response. you know when you've seen something genuinely important, actually special - and this was one of those times. while scotty (scottish cyclist and lager enthusiast) details how exactly he came to lose his phone and his jeans (jeans) in the slayer mosh pit i'm still kinds entranced by the slow burn of codeine. it buoys me for a while, thats for sure.

aidan moffat pulls me to the panorama room for the first time (panorama room be fucked - it's the cloak room normally) and he then pulls a blinder - unbearably sad, jazzy sinatra meets bukowski numbers with sucker punch payoff lines and a neat line in throwaway, pitch black humour. 'i'd rather be across the way watching mudhoney' he deadpans. well, we fucking wouldn't. when a tiny child toddles in just in tiome for moffat to deliver the line 'kiss my cock goodbye' the set is made, set in amber, drenched in moffat's endless little bottles o' stella. a proper legend.

i have a mini-breakdown of anxiety and stress and heat and general downbeat bullshit through dirty three so i appreciate them not. a chat with my old schoolfriend dafydd (journo-man) lightens me and later while he and i and ian watch mogwai together i remember us doing the same thing, maybe not for mogwai but ya know, similar, nearly twenty years ago. it's a little moment of reflection and i revel in it briefly.

mogwai, no matter how many times you see them, over how many years, never get old. they are alchemists dealing in turning sound into deep-delving sonic glory. as the strobes hit, the guitars cry and my arms reach out to the ornate ally pally ceiling we are transported, transformed, made wondrous. mogwaid.

as they soar into rano pano any doubts as to why we're here (and i mean that in the most pretentious sense imaginable) are crushed. life is about passing, beautiful moments that you can reach for as high as you like but o' course, ya can't grab time. this is perfection, however fleeting and it's heart-filling.

now, let's get some fuckin' whigs on the stereo, yo.

xm

Slow build?

So of course the idea is to build slow from the front - take it easy in sheer volume of bands, maybe even on sheer volume by hugging the back wall. I wonder if mine and Ian Owen (welsh hero)'s plan will actually play out that way? As he's the only music athlete willing to do all 3 weekends I feel like he and I setting the tone is key - and this begins in about 20 minutes at the park inn, wood green... Man, trying to review this j mascis record on the train on the way was an error... Also I'm dressed completely in black for some reason... It is slayer tonight sure but oh jeez am I slightly warm... And there's my first spotted sonic youth goo t shirt... And it was on an adult. I already won the festival and haven't even gone through the door yet. A further question- why am I listening to Ben kweller and... Why is everyone late?!

three weekends, three countries, three festivals, one idiot

on this fine and bright and inevitably sweaty early summer london afternoon our little adventure begins. it begins with atp's i'll be your mirror at alexandra palace - a truly rubbish venue that's miles away from what i deem to be civilisation (the fox) and really awkward to get to/escape from. on the plus side slayer, mogwai and the afghan whigs, one of the most knock-out stone cold cool, hot and burning bands of all time are playing. also there's the ongoing idea that atp never really drop the ball  tooooooo badly so they'll somehow shape what has the potential to be an endurance test into into a wild and trembling three day party of sound.

when that's done we fly straight out to barcelona to get stuck in to primavera, the spanish sun (same as the other country's sun but lovelier) and the musical delights of wilco, jeff mangum, the cure and My Favourite Band (sometimes) shellac - for perhaps the hundred thousandth time. they still excite me. the festival is my favourite in the world and im banking big hopes, yet again, on this being a life enhancing experience. no pressure, y'all.

from there we're across to porto for optimus primavera to catch suede, japandroids, asap rocky and what have ya... i feel like the rooftop pool we've been promised will come into play pretty strongly as we sweat out a couple of weeks of very very late nights. extremely loud bands and an endless stream of what i believe cunts call 'banter'.

i've decided to update here as much as possible over the next couple of weeks to tell you about some bands, let you know my opinion on the fests (not that it matters of course) and perhaps get a little insight, when it's all said and done into why exactly i do these things... and why i let atp do these things to me (they have a stage at both porto and barcelona too of course).

im not writing any of this for a magazine or a website (mainly cos i dont think any of them were that interested i  what i had to say about it - poor me, ha), it's just for me and you darling. this is legit - no guest list, no freebies, no networking, no coked up industry scum talking loud at the back over the acoustic set just words about music and being A Fan. it'll also be about my friends who are kind enough to come to these things with me - beauties that they are and apologies for invading their privacy. fuck it no-one reads this shit anyway.

also my facebook isnt working on my iphone so.... i figured this would do for keeping in touch?

speak soon

xm

ps listen to sun kil moon.

Low, Royal Festival Hall, 3rd March 2012

Low, Royal Festival Hall, London, 3^rd April 2012

It comes along, rare as bloody steak, once in a very long while and most of the time doesn’t last, marking it as an even more precious jewel to savour with the senses. Low, from Utah, are that grain of gold dust on a beach of sand, a group so specifically themselves, so readily identifiable as to be a one-band self-made genre. That they were described, alongside great bands like Red House Painters and the long-forgotten Idaho as ‘slow-core’ on their emergence, even eyed suspiciously for married bandleaders’ Alan Sparhawk and Mimi Parker’s Mormon beliefs, means little when we reflect on the consistency and purity of sound and vision this band has pursued over the last two decades.

Tonight, advantage is taken of the luxurious Royal Festival Hall’s space and perfect acoustic composition as these interlopers from the far side of sorrow combine the most affecting, anthemic and alternately uplifting and pitch black of their repertoire with weightless, ageless projected imagery of everything from a circus ringmaster to an elk bathing in a stream to daredevil airborne stuntmen and unrecognizable blue sky views dotted with only the occasional visual anchor to let you know you are still earthbound.

Once the triptych of vast screens that serve as backdrop have marked their countdown down to zero there is a pregnant pause before darkness, illuminated only by glowing string lights arced above the stage, gives way to a powerful run through some of the highlights of their most recent and possibly best album ‘C’Mon’, augmented by an additional 4^th member on keys/organ for the night; the repetitive, droning and delicate ‘Nothing But Heart’ rolls into starlit, dread-tinged single ‘Try To Sleep’ and the grinding grace of the humorously skin-crawling ‘Witches’. Fan favourite ‘Sunflower’, another tune drenched in blood but bursting with hope is received adoringly while the Velvet Underground simplicity and poise of ‘Hand So Small’ gets a rare outing too.

As we move from these more accessible, cleanly structured offerings into selections from ‘The Great Destroyer’ (including the ever stunning ‘Silver Rider’), the visuals lean toward the more obtuse (a shot of part of a trainer stepping on a guitar pedal seems to dominate for a very long time indeed) , as do the songs – particularly the shredding grind of ‘Pissing’ and the genuinely tragic Neil Young-isms of ‘In The Drugs’, new bassist Steve Garrington slotting into his role perfectly no matter which era of the band the songs are drawn from.

‘Murderer’ and ‘From Your Place On Sunset’, two wildly different extracts from their often overlooked ‘Drums & Guns’ record make a wonderful, spare and spectral close to the main set. It’s like having watched skeletons dance perfectly and with meaning for ninety minutes.

‘Dinosaur Act’s pounding, driving gothica and ‘$20’ close the encore perfectly – “My love is for free, my love” chants Sparhawk, Parker matching him note for note in a prime example of the most beauteous harmonies modern music has to offer. These songs are all slow, their performance considered. When they hit they hit with the weight of a falling piano and when they scare they keep you shivering, crawling images projected on the inside of your eyelids or underneath your bed. When they are tender they hold you more closely than you imagine music could, whispering to you, and when they are sparse they are more empty and void of hope than you can stand. Low are among the best bands to come out of America in the last twenty years and tonight they give a performance that should stand tall as a huge part of their legacy. A fine, dark jewel indeed.

Breton - Blanket Rule EP

Out of nowhere this lands in the inbox and i figure i best get on it swift - breton not being the kind of band to wait around, future-pushing post-steppers and south london's supreme. there's a ton of legit hype for next month's full-length debut long player 'other people's problems' but as a little winter warmer january taster we've got this slammed out four-tracker (plus a fan fave tagged onfor good measure) to whet the appetite. this is pretty much the best kind of surprise you can get on a sunny but cold tuesday afternoon.
opener 'ordnance survey' dabbles in sparse, metronomic beats, robot-mad handclaps and of course that mournful, yearning vocal stretching over epic washes of guitar, evolving into a chanting outro that lands maybe in the ocean...maybe on a motorway? either way it's sweetly addictive.
'certain little facts' cracks on with an unmistakable (unless i'm mistaken) patrick lyons (americanlondon poet) sample and straight in with those head nodding cool, soothing bretonian keys and spider-nimble bass runs. this is a space-bound instrumental brought home to land with the closing spoken word, again from lyons - 'it doesn't take a genius to put two and two together when you know certain little facts'. it's a statement as cool, as knowing and as twinkle-charming as the track itself.
'how can they tell' is a warped, vocal driven diamond - anthemic as hell, achingly lost and beautiful, its electronic judders frail and fragile but feisty. the piano refrain, reminiscent of an old hal hartley movie soundtrack, is the clincher and we have a breton instant classic. just wait for that drop down to the guitar and vocals - and more importantly, where they go from there.
we close on the jerking disco of 'sandpaper', a psycho little track leaping from 8-bit sampling to mashed vocals, vaulting walls of buzzing keys, somehow maintaining its strange course, somehow making sense despite the disparity of its constituent parts.
bonus track 'the well' we all know and know well and i'm guessing, love. if not yet, then you will soon.
hell, it's a great little record from the band of 2012 (no doubt) - and it's free, and it's HERE:

http://soundcloud.com/bretonlabs/sets/blanket-rule-ep

atp nightmare before christmas, butlin's, minehaed 9-12/12/11

from the farthest-from-the-motorway corner of london we emerge, lacking a brake light and an mot admittedly (so the finely beard-trimmed copper says as he hands down a 60 quid penalty), but wide eyed and open to a potential weekend of atp delights.

i break from the pack to catch les savy fav's early set at reds and while my compadres recharge, the fav break the twilight with thundering jabs of hardcore and the bejewelled body of professional rabble rouser tim harrington. he's hitting himself with an alarm clock. he's pouring a kettle of water in your mouth. he's hanging from inside the ceiling. an uncontrollable master of raucous racket and an adhd kid that found just the right niche.

up at centre stage marnie stern is running a three-piece, frantic, fith-talking, minutemen-loving show of alternately cute and ferocious jerk-pop that perks up a disoriented crowd. boy, that band love to talk about vaginas - i mean l.o.v.e.

*first minor complaint: don't play neutral milk hotel over the p.a as a little reminder of the postponed mangum weekend ok atp? thanks.*

still at centre, surfer blood are being a great 50s guitar pop band, fusing their american diner sound with rivers cuomo delivery and pixies power they chug through a set of mostly new and much more fully realised material punctuated with pop gems like 'swim' - which is still a candied treat. has the singer's voice broken since we saw them last?

the stoner rock mariachi of the budos band is bringing the party atmosphere to reds for the first time this weekend and while their glenn (danzig) miller sound is a compelling one they serve only as an amouse bouche for the much-loved madly-anticipated wild flag...

who are a cool classic rock band. in bursts of stone roses riffery and kiss anthemism they show off a liberal love for all manner of exciting, arms in the air arena rock while still keeping the schmindie kids happy by, y'know, being ladies. they shred solos, they do rock out, they rule, nicely.

bouncing across to oxes at reds and getting sucker-punched right in the gut as soon as you walk through the door. their glass and bricks hammering of doom is smothering, savage and supremely exciting. brilliant thugs.

archers of loaf cause a scene of joy at centre. plenty of years away, many the fan that never thought they'd see them live, many the raised arm and screamed lyric. they own the place with shrugs of subtle tunes, tightly wound overwhelming power-rock, spiteful digs of soaring 90s indie and of course The Two Hits. which are immaculate, frothing milkshake blessings. fucking fantastic.

no age burn through bursts of two-man hardcore in brusque fashion, grab crowd members for black flag covers and hammer thoroughly through a swift assault of a set.

hot snakes can give out a few lessons in hard, savage music though. they are brutal and beautiful, speedo's rhythm guitar teasing out the most genuinely gorgeous tunes from the stoniest and bloodiest of places. they explode and continue exploding, relentless and face-close intense for the whole hour. stunning.

les savy fav bring us full circle with a centre stage headline set that runs long and drenched in silver glitter, balloons, gimp suits and moments of genuine glory. triumphant, good-hearted and entirely celebratory they send me to bed with a slap on the ass and a smile.

*minor complaint 2 - obviously this shoulda been on the pavillion stage - the largest potential space at the whole complex shouldnt be used as a sparsely attended chill-out area - pavillion stage gives atp it's sense of occasion - please don't forget that next time*

saturday told me this: minehead doesnt have a mobile phone shop or anywhere you can get your car repaired after midday on a saturday. it does have a lot of charity shops and a vast wetherspoons i hoped was called the duke of ellington but disappointed me with it's additional 'w'.

battles tell me they are hung over and have been sick before going on stage but play a pounding, bubbling, maybe even occasionally purring set of great tunes as only battles can. proof that when their tech is working they can be a superb, invigorating live proposition.

an air hockey tournament finds me wanting and then walls over at reds are just monumentally boring. a dull, fairly lifeless set that increases the urge to go to the quiet pub on the other side of the site. let's do that.

*minor complaint 3 - when walls played there was nothing else on at all. the crazy horse was closed, no other bands performing and even the cinema closed. if you are gonna put something as dull as walls on, atp, please give us a fallback*

finally back to reds where the field are instantly involving - rich, deep sounds that resonate long and luxurious but clash with gary numan at centre.

errrr. gary numan is doing an impression of trent reznor and has started a very poor industrial metal band. why? it's awful. oh no it's not he's playing 'cars'. or, it seems, limp bizkit are playing 'cars'. and he's miming too? can we leave the old man alone with his new (nu) metal friends now? nu-metal. hah! rubbish.

thank you play at crazy horse. it's their last gig and yet they seem to have a ton of intros and no songs. maybe why they're giving up.

psychic paramount put the stoppers on a bad run with some massive, crunching swans-like awesomeness. they absolutely crush the minds of all in attendance at reds with one of the most forceful, fierce, clenched teeth and fists sets of the whole weekend. a dark, desperate trip.

flying lotus drops the bass bomb at centre with a set of the most danceable beats, booming tunes and seemingly a genuine enthusiasm for both being here and his interactions with the crowd. he does not stop smiling and neither does anyone else as inventive, inspired technical mastery delivers hot, soulful dance.

dead rider at crazy horse are playing to no-one. playing angular, faux-sexy, half-cabaret mindfuck jazzpop to no-one. groups arrive and leave in quick succession a little alienated by the purposely obtuse and somehow eerie presence of this all-kinds-of-wrong tom waits fucking show. liked it.

back at reds bitch magnet slam out some heavy, tuneful beauties on a post hardcore tip and the recently reformed cult legends delight old-school fans and nodding teens alike. their triple set of re-issues is all winning by the way.

stuart off of that mogwi djs a stunning and properly 'up' set at the irish bar that manages to run me out of the last of my saturday fuel.

*minor complaint 4 - the battles late set - if you have a couple of the guest vocalists there in person - perhaps actually use them instead of the screens for a change?*

sunday gives me bowling, a roast, an emo ta tha bone beach, basketball, floods in the streets, arcades and fluffy toys yanked from the evil clutches of the grabbing teddy machines. bastards. i beat you didnt i? ha.

caribou are totally ok at centre. they are fine. they play their caribou songs with their caribou instruments and people like them quite a lot or like them just enough and that's about that really. no matter how many people they have onstage or how many drumkits they utilise i'm still just not getting them and walk away from a festival set of theirs once more...

they're playing cash's version of 'i see a darkness' in the irish bar, there's a storm outside, the place is empty and we've got a wwe yo-yo from the toyshop. let's go and see pharoah sanders.

sanders is a proper real-life legend and shuffles through a set of rolling, languid afternoon jazz that only strikes the wrong note when he's attempting to get hipster atheists to sing along with songs about god. meh, he's cool as fuck, he can sing about what he likes. finger-clicking good. (sorry).

connan mockasin, a favourite of, for whatever reason, crowded house, sends out floating waves of new zealand dreampop back at centre, the whole afternoon now becoming a womb-like relaxation session punctuated only by roasts and the pings of distant air hockey matches.

power-nap, berocca, coffee, slice of pizza - the show must go on before the show turns into a chalet full of idiots sleeping the festival away.

orchestra of spheres are the Worst Thing Of The Weekend. their below-pub-band capabilities are only highlighted by their absolute lack of any songs, loads of dodgy warblinga shaky sense of rhythm and stupid, stupid hats. fuck off. dick bands like that give the music i love and the festivals i like to attend a very bad name indeed so they should be damned in the strongest possible terms. damn them!

sun ra arkestra are frog-box mentalists dropping semi-experimental jazz all over the shop like the jazz was some hot potatoes and they didnt have their potato handling gloves on or something. anyway they are old, dressed like egyptian pharoahs, improv a genuinely scary nightmare before christmas theme song and let us all know that we can travel into space should we so choose. via egypt im guessing.

roll the dice are an electro duo that deal mainly in repitition and dark, bleak soundscapes - the polar opposite of the mentalist karaoke of omar souleyman - a party-starting set of weird surreality here from a man and his clanging, high-pitched backing tape. hey, people are wasted, they like it. good times.

as the fest fades a little (a lot of people asleep on various floors at this point) but is brought up sharp by factory floor - as usual a snapping set of savagery that, for the first time personally, engage with the heart as much as the head and finally click into place as a band not just showing off but being very good.

theo parrish djs warm, honey-soaked soul at crazy horse and the zombified dancers treat him as a hero - rightly so. his set garners more and more attention from passers by including the lovely, immensely patient tim of fav fame and sends the night off into the ether with some gentle but madly positive tunes that turn sunday night into monday a.m.
*minor complaint 5 - would be cool not to have the sun and moon AND the sports bar close early on sunday evening - along with the cinema that was closed from 4 til 10pm! on a sunday! c'mon.*

dj rashad & dj spinn give the night it's cap with a fully exhausting power-house of a set at reds and suddenly, what? it's hometime? no more bj and the bear? no more hot dog smell? well, not til march i guess...and this time the rides AND the archery best be open mufuggas...

                                                        (me watching psychic paramount)