65 Days of Static/ Chris Clark/ the Mirimar Disaster@ the Opera House, Bournemouth

Originally posted at http://www.the-mag.me.uk/?ArticleId=1040

Due to the recent closure of popular Bournemouth venue Mr Smiths, tonight`s bands find themselves performing at the intimidatingly-named Opera House situated less than a stone`s throw away. If it wasn`t for the two guys at the car park who knew where they were going I would never have found it; the entrance comprises of an alleyway that you need a wristband in order to pass through and a metal staircase that leads to a side-entrance. All the glitz and glamour of the opera I do not think.

Regardless, once I`m in its pretty cool; ominously lit with minimal glows of deep red on the stage and behind the bar. When I enter the stage is being defiled by a delightfully evil-sounding thrash band called The Mirimar Disaster who introduce the vocal-less theme of the night, which surprises me as I`m sure singing is present on the only track of theirs that I have previous heard ("Ten Fifty"). Not that it`s much to fret about, in fact the lack of singing allows for a completely unique live experience. The music acts as an accompaniment for the macabre black and white images of torture shown on the two big screens behind the stage. I start to ponder the legality of these videos before my thoughts are interrupted by one of the many cut-throat riffs that frequent each stomping monster of a tune at this band`s disposal. Note to self; keep your guard.

Although I`m unsure about the horror flicks I know what should definitely be outlawed; the amount of people who have turned out early enough to catch TMD. The band members themselves don`t seem to mind however, nutting thin air in perfect unison and thrashing around in such a way that transforms this `empty room` into an `exclusive performance`, something that we`re all lucky to be experiencing. Between songs the front man speaks in a timid Sheffield accent that puts a comedic slant on things when compared to the ferociousness of the performance; it doesn`t matter how tough they could pretend to be, there`s no hiding how chuffed they are to be playing for us tonight.

After I order a drink and almost accidentally walk into the women`s toilets (no Freudian theories please) the between band music and visuals alter slightly so that Chris Clark can seamlessly take the reins. His forte is electronica and his mascot seems to be a small blue alien thing that visionaries, The Media Lounge, manipulate for him. Effort has been put into making this live show more entertaining, but it doesn`t serve to rid my niggling doubts about live DJ sets.

Imagine a club where nobody danced, everybody just stood staring at the mixing desk and clapping in between tunes. It`s a great art form in the wrong context; the fact that there are gaps between each song bothers me too. There are roars of approval (and deservedly so, the tunes are great) but the atmosphere just isn`t there. If this type of music was played at more commercial clubs I think would go clubbing more often and in the same vein if people were dancing tonight I would have enjoyed it a lot more. Great music, just not a live gig act. It does serve a purpose though; the lack of watchable musicianship makes the anticipation before 65 Days of Static that bit more heightened.

As 65 take to the stage it is obvious from the crowd`s reaction that tonight is a big deal for a lot of people and having only heard them on CD I can not relate, only anticipate. However, nothing can prepare me for the reality of 65 DOS` live show. In terms of soul and musical belonging, the stage is their home. They aren`t everybody`s cup of tea on CD but that is probably because in order to `get` what they do you have to experience them in the flesh. As they pound through familiar sections of madness, chaos replaces ambiance and vice versa, a beautiful combination of brutality and tenderness that is driven by live drums and samples combined, filling the room with frantic beats that you can`t help but twitch to. During the second tune a guitarist knocks over his microphone stand that he won`t be using and a roadie rushes on to put it up again. The guitarist laughs. Somebody hasn`t been doing their homework.

Backing out of the increasingly raucous pit I lean on the bar and lose myself in the abstract visuals on the big screens. This is my perfect 65 DOS experience and everybody else in the room is enjoying theirs. This is when I realise the real appeal of this band, they put absolutely no demands on us as the audience. They simply provide us with a barrage of sensory indulgence and allow us to pick our favourite parts and formulate our own individual perfect night. Mine involves sipping a pint and forgetting what day it is while the heavy metal nut at the front`s is more of an energetic punchy affair. The 65 Days of Static saying is "never go home" and it is pretty easy to see where this came from. Despite the lack of a singer they somehow reel you in and keep you gagging for more throughout. Joking aside, I would be perfectly happy for them to play until the sun comes up. Who needs sleep anyway?

But alas, all good things must come to an end and as tonight`s show closes, so does the tour. To mark this occasion a montage of pictures and snippets of tour banter is played throughout the last song, a tune led by a heart-wrenching (truly) delicate piano accompaniment. Apparently their coach averaged 8 miles per gallon. Now that`s rock and roll.

This is easily the best, most original live act I have seen so far this year. If you haven`t already seen them I hope for your sake that the front man`s claim that they may not be playing live for much longer is either an in-joke or a point blank lie.

Death Cab for Cutie/ John Vanderslice @ Portsmouth Pyramids

Originally published at http://www.the-mag.me.uk/?BandId=751

Due to my recent habit of being fashionably late for gigs I unfortunately missed the usual frenzied fracas of queuing in the big stone walkway leading up to the Pyramids` music hall/venue. Oh how I miss stepping on discarded bags of chips and drained beer cans, shuffling round the stone wall corner to be presented with yet another run of slightly-uphill sloped pathway. Thinking about this takes me back to my college years when nu-metal was rife and the only cure was Oasis (they weren`t pretty times). This isn`t then though. This is now and we have much more to live for.

The opening songs of John Vanderslice`s set sound pretty good from the box office foyer where I spend about ten minutes with our photographer negotiating entry. Once we are granted admittance my guest and I stroll into an extremely brightly lit room (in gig terms anyway). Lighting plays an often under-rated part in event atmosphere and tonight is no exception.

John Vanderslice project a feeling of comfort, massaging us with their electronic indie grooves at a volume that seems to invite chatter between audience members. It`s like a dinner party for the under 18s (I am definitely above the average age here tonight), with the only absent element being cheese and pineapple on sticks served by some youth in a penguin suit. I`m unsure as to whether the smell of burnt hair is part of the ambience; all I know is that I don`t like it.

Vanderslice`s set-up is nice and symmetrical (standing, sitting, sitting, standing), with the organist and drummer taking to the centre of the stage. These actually turn out to be the main driving instruments of their sound, with solid beats complimented by main riffs and hooks performed by the key/synthesiser player. Most verses are akin to soothing background music (minus the pan pipes) and the chorus` attempts to `explode` in fits of happiness and clappiness, although the absence of dynamics and general low volume takes away from the impact between sections.

The front man is extremely chatty in a very American `I love your quaint little town` sort of way and he sounds to me like a more lyrically safe version of Colin Meloy of the Decemberists.

As they finish their set I notice that the lights and general level of crowd noise stays exactly the same. I don`t think half the audience even noticed the band playing.

What these rapscallions are really here for is Death Cab for Cutie; album veterans and major label newcomers with a venue upgrade and 246,723 myspace fans to call their own (makes my 24 `friends` look pretty pathetic). The lights go down (hooray!) and the stage and ceiling areas are illuminated in sea blues and bright sunshine yellowy reds, a stage show that would put most `travel light` bands from overseas to shame.

The singer`s voice makes me think of that `California` song from the O.C. and the rest of the band`s sound does nothing to change this impression. I can almost feel the sand between my toes. Oh no, that`s a cigarette butt.

The upgrade from the Wedgewood Rooms would intimidate a lot of groups but for a band with Death Cab`s huge musical sound, this venue suits them down to the ground. Epicness is what is needed to fill this huge room, a quality that DCFC produce in spades. Every song nails the dynamics that Vanderslice lacked, with each tune elongating the build to its crescendo and creating a hanging sense of euphoria that is reflected in a physical form by the die-hard fans belting out the lyrics whilst staring up at the ceiling with eyes glazed over.

It`s like a hazy trip, but a clean, healthy, all bran type trip on a Florida beach with no hangover. Speaking of hangovers, I have absolutely no problems getting a drink when I want one tonight due to the fact that the majority of the crowd are either currently or pre-pubescent. I enjoy watching young teenagers fumble with fake I.D.s whilst trying their best to act 18. Ah the memories.

Anyway, back to the music. Although their rise in popularity has been very recent, Death Cab have actually released seven albums stretching back to 1997; evidence of which is on show tonight. It`s easy to tell which songs aren`t on 2006`s Plans album by the looks on faces during the opening bars of each tune. Despite a lot of tonight`s set being totally new to most of the crowd everything is fantastically well received; no doubt several old albums will rise in the charts in the aftermath of this tour. On the strength of the performance tonight this would be fully deserved; confident performances and epic ballads like this belong in stadiums as big as the conga line of drunken emo kids I saw emerging from the men`s toilets. Rest assured, it was very big (although I think they got the conga song wrong, but I wasn`t certain enough to correct them).

I leave tonight`s gig with the impression that Death Cab for Cutie are deserving of all the hype they`re getting after all and for a cranky old-timer such as myself this is quite an occurrence. I`ve made a lot of the age thing in this review haven`t I? For the record, I`m 22.

Fickle Public- Just Like I Got Used To Saying Courteney Cox Arquette CD

Originally published at http://www.the-mag.me.uk/?ArticleId=1017

Fickle Public- 'Just Like I Got Used To Saying Courteney Cox Arquette' single review.

The-Mag`s most recent run-in with Fickle Public came when Andy R saw them rock out at the Glasgow Barfly in January, "jerking and bouncing throughout" a set that seemed to please our own member of the fickle public. That night they finished with this single, "Just Like I Got Used To Saying Courteney Cox Arquette" (that`s boosted my word count) for which they received a "rapturous send off" from their home crowd. So what`s all the fuss about then?

Rather refreshingly there is only the one track on this CD; they seem to have gone for the concentrated quality option of which I approve whole-heartedly.

We begin with some faded in guitar distortion (as all good songs should) and quickly rip into the tune`s main hook; an infectious foot-stomping riff in some bizarre off-beat time signature that ruins any attempt at competent foot-tapping. Then another nice surprise arrives in the form of a singer who can (wait for it...) actually sing. It`s a minor gripe of mine that the recent bout of 80s-influenced tat has polluted the current scene with shouty, talky, off-key `singers` more concerned by warding off deep-vein thrombosis due to the tightness of their jeans than sounding halfway decent in front of a microphone. No danger of that here though.

The singing also has a nice rhythm and melody to it, interlinking with that behemoth of a riff in a sort of `question and answer` fashion before polishing each verse off with a terrifying scream that seems as natural as a big pine tree in an area of untouched Caledonian woodland - which is pretty natural I suspect. Our monster riff then mutates into a modern twist on the age-old solo, jerking and restarting like a knackered Chevy, before flowing into the final verse that chugs towards the end of our 2 minutes 29 seconds sounding a lot more menacing than it did the first time round. One final hit of the riff that will now forever be imprinted in my brain finishes us off and suddenly I don`t like one-track CDs quite so much anymore.

Pleasant Sounds, 17/02/2006, Southampton Joiners

Originally published at http://www.the-mag.me.uk/?ArticleId=1010

Pleasant Sounds, 17/02/2006, Southampton Joiners

Turning up at tonight's five-band show ever so slightly late I just manage to catch the end of the Tulips' set. There are only two of them, a cute blonde female strumming an acoustic whilst exercising her vocal chords and some long-haired bloke helping her out in ways that seem unnecessary with an electric guitar. She makes the odd mistake that every male in the audience forgives her for, a stark contrast to the totally irrelevant distortion sound emanating from her backing band's amplifier. If I were her I'd ditch that zero and get myself a hero, to coin a phrase.

However I am not her, and neither are Young Lust. In fact I have my doubts as to whether or not Young Lust know who they are, as they seem to have gotten slightly confused at some point in their history. The first line of the first song goes 'take me down to the banks of the river', in much the same style as the G 'n' R tune that begins with almost the exact same line. Do they think nobody will notice or do they not really care so long as they get to strut their sleazy stuff for half an hour? The lead guitarist (who is immensely talented) is totally deluded into thinking that he is Slash to the point where I am convinced that he believes this is Wembley Stadium and I am 50,000 adoring fans (which, by the way, I am not). I laugh quite a lot during their set, and then even more at a mate's 'going for a Slash' pun. Give that guy a job at the Sun.

Two down, three to go. Next up are Benny Hill (sorry, Benhill), an acoustically tinged rock band with a fair amount of cheeky banter attached. These guys have 'pub rock' tattooed on their foreheads (not literally) and they play up to this particular section of the crowd which just so happens to be rife tonight. Lucy on flute gives an extra dimension to the usual rock set-up, providing an occasional Zeppelin-esque extra dimension that demonstrates each individual member's musical capabilities. Judging by the number of people crammed up front and the collection of Bez impersonators circling the crowd Benhill are an unprecedented hit tonight and are cheered until they reach the bar after their set. A hard act to follow.

Regardless, Temper Fire do follow, not only chronologically but also in their musical style. More inoffensive lite-rock but now in a more poppy style that incorporates the same dual vocals practiced by the irritatingly catchy Maroon 5; perhaps you can guess that this is not my cup of tea. It's all a bit too 'happy go lucky' for my own personal taste, but the rest of the crowd warm to the Geordie boys up until the point where a fight breaks out by the front of the stage. I miss the initial bust-up but manage to get back from the bar in time to try and split up the fight in my drunken idiocy. It spills outside along with most people's attention, leaving Temper Fire to cheese it up to the remaining half of the crowd. Fun, but almost instantly forgettable.

So it's down to the Pleasant Sounds to restore order following the recent impromptu schoolyard scrap, and with a name like that they sound like just the ticket to calm things down. Thankfully most of the crowd return for this spectacle and the blues-funk sound is well received by the tipsy Friday night audience. With their waistcoat, bellbottoms and classic rock jams they harness the 70s spirit in much the same way as Led Zep or Cream, feeding off the crowd's hippy-inspired freak outs with their own seemingly improvised grooves that reek unashamedly of their influences. The front man looks like Noddy Holder and sounds like David Coverdale, demonstrating how the Darkness could have shadowed their idols whilst actually retaining their dignity.

All in all this is an enjoyable night in which to let your hair down, only to be topped off by the celebrity appearance of local lass Lydia from the current series of Brat Camp. I leave with so much adrenaline I follow it up with poker and whiskey until four in the morning. How's that for classic rock spirit?

Matt S.

Dead Dead Dead! 11/02/06. Southampton Joiners

Originally published at http://www.the-mag.me.uk/?ArticleId=1014

Dead Dead Dead! 11/02/06. Southampton Joiners

Tonights gig is one that I have been looking forward to for quite some time; Dead Dead Dead! Are one of those bands that I hear a lot about but never actually get around to checking out. Judging by the amount of support bands (there are three) as well as spectators gulping down the drink at the Joiners tonight the good word has spread further afield than my humble home, and it's also worth noting that this is not the usual gig night crowd; the majority of the crowd would look more at home in their local cheering on Pompey or the Saints in a drunken stupor. Not that I'm one to judge of course.

Around half of the crowd arrange themselves in front of the stage to see Dumb Founded struggle with a canvas banner sporting the band name and a menacing pair of black and white squinty eyes, a humorous event that could have been avoided if it had been hung more than half an hour before they are due to take the stage. When they finally do strike a chord I am relieved to discover that their musical prowess if far more impressive than their banner-hanging skills.

As with so many bands on the current scene Dumb Founded sound like Maximo Park, Franz Ferdinand, and Bloc Party squashed into fashionable togs minus the instrument cohesion. Although these guys don't differ in the influence stakes, they are certainly more polished than the usual copycat affair. To their credit the singer is an imposing front man, chatting away between songs with the sort of confidence that seems impervious to stagefright. Ironically it is his slightly shouty and tuneless vocals that let the overall sound down, transforming the otherwise catchy tune Secrets and Lies into a wingey mess of mismatched melodies. Flawed but one of the better Southampton-based bands I've seen in a while.

If there's anything that throws a pessimistic reviewer off balance it's a drastic change of genre, and this is surely the most drastic that could possibly occur. No tight jeans or Converse All-stars here, just unadulterated Dad-Rock in the shape of the age-defying Accrington Stanley. Imagine your English teacher crooning in a medieval manner and jumping around like Michael Stipe after whipping off his jumper in a wild bid to 'feel free man'. Got it? Now imagine that the music is actually very catchy and faultlessly performed by four guys who have been playing longer than most teenagers have been alive. I might be selling it badly but trust me, it's so safe and inoffensive you can't help but enjoy it and neither can the crowd, most of whom are now jostling for standing space in front of the stage.

Perhaps it's the lack of 'scene' that unites tonight's audience in some good old fashioned Saturday night fun, or perhaps it's the well crafted tunes in the style of REM and the Rembrants that lets us all forgive the attempted acrobatics of the energetic lead singer (who actually is an English teacher). Whatever it is spills over into Rotating Leslie's set, carrying an enthusiasm that drives a drunken gang or middle-aged women to spontaneously seduce a mate of mine mere feet from his girlfriend. With so many wild and crazy females around it's hard to comply with the government's anti-drive driving policy, but I suppress my urges and stick to the coke.

The first thing that strikes me about Rotating Leslie is the singer's fantastic voice. In the current wave of 80s-inspired groups genuine vocal talents are rare, so to find one accompanied by such incredible songwriting is a rare treat. Balls-out riffage is mixed with moments of atmospheric unease that pulls me in and holds me there for the entire set, occasionally revisiting reality woken by the rapturous applause from the eager crowd. They have their own soundman who executes the various effects on the singer's voice, a tiny effect that proves the icing on the cake for this genuinely enthralling half hour of music. Highlight Fire Fire is supplied on a 3-track CD that the band sells after their set, a bargain that unsurprisingly sells out rather quickly. If there's any justice they'll be huge this time next year.

Now for what I came for. Dead Dead Dead! Initially strike me as a contemporary jazz band due to both their setup and the sound of the opening track. This soon gives way to a more raw bluesy sound, mainly down to the singer's Black Keys-esque guitar distortion effect which is awesome to behold but often overpowers the backing grooves and seems a touch out of place. The progressive style is akin to the Mars Volta but less well fused together, with new section after section being performed with little relevance. This gives the illusion of spontaneous jamming which is occasionally enthralling to witness, enhanced by the lead guitarist's energetic display that covers all available areas of the stage.

By the end of DDD's set I am won over. They are not an easy band to 'get', but once they get their claws into your skull I guarantee you'll want to go out, but youself an electric guitar and whack the amp up to eleven. The front man splices the tunes with Partridge quotes and conversations about 'fucking fat people walking', subjects that seem to tune in with tonight's sell-out crowd whom sing along with several seemingly disjointed sections of music.

Tonight is like a mini-festival, all singing all dancing and completely messed-up genre wise. I wouldn't advise anyone against seeing any of tonight bands, in fact quite the opposite. Everybody had a grand time tonight, even a knackered old grump such as myself.

Matt S.