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Within seconds of mounting the stage a pair of female pants has been launched onto the stage. On cue they are greeted with “These haven’t been worn!” This might have been funny if it hadn’t been so obviously staged. Another pair are flung later so M&S must be having a sale on. Still the pants being thrown at an old wrinkly does add credence to the view that the rather sleazy looking frontman, Dick Valentine is a poor man’s Tom Jones. His deep moist voice has that richness of the fake tanned ‘boy’ from the Valleys but with the physical appearance of Rigsby from Rising Damp. It’s not all pants though, new single Gay Bar is a high powered punk yomp and the keyboardist’s Sideshow Bob style gravity defying hairdo keeps me entertained for a few minutes. In the long run though the regulars at the Pig and Whistle can look forward to their boys returning to their normal Sunday lunchtime slot soon because the novelty will soon wear off with the student population elsewhere. Reviewed
by Paul M |
| Electric Six (Concorde 2, Brighton) | |
It would be daft to pretend to know the names of the songs – nobody here does. But a few snatched lyrics might give you some idea: "I was born to excite her/ She could never be whiter!" shrieks the lead singer during the first song. "Everybody's doing it in the middle of the street - IMPROPER DANCING!" he barks a bit later, while fist-rubbing his groin. And then there’s my personal favourite and rumoured to be the next single: "I wanna take you to a gay bar, gay bar, GAY BAR!" It’s all sex, glamour, fire and brimstone – but most of all it’s fun. Yet this shouldn’t detract from the music. Disco-punk-funk-glam-rock is not easy to say - it’s even harder to do. Electric Six might come across like escapees from an am-dram musical gone horribly wrong, but these boys have got the kernel of a good idea. It probably won’t last, but it’ll be fun while it does. Reviewed by Patrick M |
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| The Music (Brixton Academy, London) | |
To
coin a phrase, it does exactly what it says on the tin. Anybody heading of to see a The
Music gig should be under any illusions about what they are going to experience. Got the
album – that’s what you’ll hear for the next 90 minutes. Don’t pin
your hopes on hearing anything different or diverse from this 20 something 4 piece because
you will be sorely disappointed. It’s
hard to pin down the influences apart from the obvious psychedelia of the sixties and
seventies. Vocals are perpetually drowned in an unnecessary amount of reverb to a point
where you really have no idea of whether he can sing or not, in a bizarre Karaoke on a
grand scale sort of way. On stage dynamics are reserved for the singers flailing arms and
spinning dervish activities which have been reported on in countless reviews all ready.
Maybe it’s me, but it all comes across as a bit of an act to distract the audience
away from the fact that the other 3 don’t actually do anything other than play their
instruments whilst on stage. There’s
no doubt that they are muso’s though, and playing the music properly is more
important to them than putting on a performance. If this is the case, well fair enough,
but then they shouldn’t be playing large venues that demand a band grab the event by
the scruff of the neck and demand that the audience take notice, they’d be much
better suited to playing 3 nights at the Forum for example where they would certainly get
a much better reception. It
seems like The Music are going to be around for a while, and that’s no bad thing in a
world of 4 chords and attitude, but they need to broaden their musical horizons to really
make an impression on the scene, but then again if you dig the album, then you’d
probably love them live. However, at the moment it seems a little bit like listening to
paint dry. Exactly what it says on the tin? Review by Micky K
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| The Futureheads / A-Lines / The Quickies (Arts Café, London) | |
The A-Lines are an all-girl four piece though to call them girls is pushing it as they have all been quaffing from the cup of life for some time. A couple of the tracks are Cramps style stompers (one’s an Electric Eels cover) but it’s mostly girly punk – Liliput meets the Mo-dettes meets the GoGos. They are cheeky and fun, and in their eccentric frontwoman they have an entertaining bouncy goggle eyed focal point. Imagine Anneka Rice after a bellyful of Mexican jumping beans with wires pulling parts of her face in every direction.
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| Rezillos / Goldblade (Astoria 2, London) | |
Half the appeal of seeing original old punk bands like these is of course seeing the old fans converge on a venue and arthritis and dodgy back permitting, mosh. There was plenty of that tonight and there will have been a fair few tired old limbs and hungover old balding heads the morning afterwards. Journo John Robb’s band Goldblade kicked things off with an entertaining glam punk set, part Sweet part Subs.
Review by Paul M
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| James Yorkston / Bis /
Mountain Goats / Pink Grease (Mean Fiddler, London) |
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When it
comes to bands at a gig less can often be more, as was amply demonstrated by Pink
Grease tonight. A bunch of made up
Sheffield show offs who bought into the “lack of talent need be no impediment”
end of the punk ethos. How to sum them up -big chinned bleach blonde 80’s reject
vocalist or the ginger afro’d machine-gun-shaped-guitarist, who resembled nothing
more than a Robot Wars contestant on a bender. You’ll
like them if you think leaping around shouting ”I want to fucking die for you, I want
to die fucking you” is big and clever. So most
of the audience breathed a sigh of relief to see the Mountain Goats
– a geeky pair of bowl-headed North Americans. Their
recent Tallahassee album proves they do have some good gentle college-folk songs, but
unfortunately the night was skewed towards the less impressive, more quirky efforts. Still they dredged up a couple of goodies once
joined by a drummer, and a failing throat took the squeaky college edge off the vocal to
good effect. Then, as
if by magic, Bis appeared. And it was like the last ten years never
happened. This bunch of Glaswegians ran
through a bunch of sample driven songs that called to mind nothing so much as Jesus Jones
meets Mano Negra – which is at least fun. Of
course any band responsible for the Powerpuff Girls theme can’t be all bad, and the
football shirt clad blokes are obviously more St Mirren than Old Firm, but I can’t
help but feel a bit worried seeing nostalgia being pedalled to people younger than me. As soon as Bis finished, the Dick Bruna/Hello Kitty girls drifted away to be replaced by earnest blokes waiting for James Yorkston. And the only disappointment was that the brevity of his set reinforced how much time had been wasted at the outset of the evening. After a patently lying “It’s good to be in London” he ran through 4 or 5 of the gems from Moving up Country (Rough Trades’ album of 2002), before testing patience a little with a long folky rendition of the hard to get hold of Lang Toun (only a wate given how short a time he had). Yorkston’s voice is not the strongest, but the songs are great – somehow managing to wring lovely tunes from the potentially ropey, but sparingly used, combination of accordion, harmonica and double bass – as well as guitar and tambour. And his turn of phrase was only enhanced by proximity to the plonking efforts of Pink Grease and trying too hard cleverness of the Mountain Goats. He spins lovely tales of everyday life and relationships with a dose of humour (“the girl on the train wasn’t giving me the eye – she was just frightened I’d steal her bags”) to go with the songs. We’re promised a good deal more than 40 minutes when he hits London again in April – which will be well worth the trip. Review by Matthew H
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| Herman Düne / Woodchuck (London, Water Rats) |
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Any pretence of a
setlist goes out of the window as David Herman Düne readily responds to requests from the
floor and we get brilliant versions of With A Tankful of Gas and Shakespeare and
North Hoyne and whatever else the crowd wants to hear. The new songs, to be
featured later in the spring on their Track and Field album, sound as good as, or perhaps
even better than, the best of their previous albums. Red Blue Eyes is a
lovely, mournful tune with a melody line like a turned-down mouth while the set closer Show
Me The Roof (‘encore’ is far too conventional for Herman Düne) is another
brilliant piece of understated power with Neman playing a saw as well as his
drumkit. It’s hard to describe why it works so well. David and
Andre have very different and atypical rock voices, ranging from junkie Lou Reed croak to
Neil Young at his most keening. But when they sing together it melds perfectly, like
the sun and rain can make a fecking rainbow. Add Neman’s unobtrusive though
essential drums and new recruit Laura’s powerful backing vocals and double flute
playing and you’re on the road marked genius. Genius is a misunderstood and
misabused word but maybe it’s apt tonight, when the familiar suddenly becomes
transcendental. Review by Ged M
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| Falling Spikes (On the Rocks Club) | |
This young three piece reside in Basingstoke, apart from
the drummer who is a northerner living in London. They consist of Steve, a John Squire-esq
bass player, Oli, a young angst ridden singer, and a highly competent drummer Terry.
Oli’s last band supported the Strokes when they were first over here and Terry
has a few sessions with Noel Gallagher under his belt, Steve was with Lorca a
Basingstoke based band that split up a couple of years ago. The Spikes play original songs, a couple are a little too
long but that’s what the young people like - I’m told - all lyrics are by Oli
with varied references to drugs and hospitals. Review by Nancy M
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Detroit’s Electric Six must be
frankly bewildered by their sudden success in surely the twilight of their musical
careers.
All in all not an unsatisfying warm-up but in all likelihood only
one band will be remembered from the night in a few months time and that’s the
astonishing Futureheads.
The
Rezillos took up the baton with a patchy performance.
A beautiful man greets us at the
door of on the rocks and we feel chilled (i.e. freezing), in this darkened space with only
a glitter ball for light, and a dubious looking porn type pole in the middle of the venue.