Subscribe
Home Blog Page 1189

Park Psychosis

Uncut
-
0

Guilfest STOKE PARK, GUILDFORD FRIDAY, JULY 4 TO SUNDAY, JULY 6, 2003 Guilfest's reputation for bills seemingly selected by an unhip blind man with a pin, plus a sedate family atmosphere, is partially dented this year by an Uncut stage heavy on abrasive, thoughtful singer-songwriters. But the charm of music offered in ignorance of niche marketing or snobbery, on a sunny weekend on the edge of a leafy small town, where under-fives and over-50s dance with equal abandon, is anyway hard not to applaud. Thea Gilmore is on Uncut's stage as I arrive, striving to shift a crowd stretched on the grass, beers in hand, with an amped-up, bluesy set. It's when the heavy strum of "Juliet" makes four disparate strangers?a sexy young nu-metal couple, teenage hippie boy and middle-aged professional man?form a ragged line, skipping and swirling to their own private beats, that I start to like it here. Wandering towards the Main Stage, I stumble on Love's whip-lean, inscrutably amused Arthur Lee, dragging bouncing fans into Forever Changes' dark lyrical maze and soaring sound. Back with Uncut, Cosmic Rough Riders' sweet Scottish harmonies make more sense as the sun gently sinks than on record, before darkness fittingly falls for Alice Cooper's Detroit-rocking Main Stage finale. Hip Slinky's vacantly amiable Britpop pleases Saturday's early Uncut crowd, but for US troubadour Peter Case, an undeserved hell awaits. Defiantly out of place in green jacket, old-fashioned glasses and hat, the lazing audience's indifference makes him worry at his lonely quietness and his street-singer stories and jokes fall flat into the field's silence. Perhaps six people are listening, but he's thrilling anyway, punching volume from his acoustic guitar, screaming harmonica and half-hillbilly voice, which sings whirling epics of disenfranchised America. Marc Carroll follows the fleeing Case to a still emptier field but, saying nothing at first, instead letting his songs picture storm-lashed apocalypse and drug-drained romance, the Irishman's attacking presence ignores the crowd's somnolence, burning through it. By the time Jackie Leven arrives, the field is filling and wide awake. Sitting in faded shorts, legs splayed under his big belly, the veteran Scottish maverick is over-relaxed today. But on songs like "Classic Northern Diversions", as imagined landscapes of slush and rain blur through his head, shame and his dead mother haunting him, his guitar clattering and his voice a force of nature, he casts a spell. "Hey you, don't watch that, watch this!" Madness advise, climaxing Saturday's Main Stage bill, but Richard Thompson still fills the Uncut field with fans of his own brand of Englishness. If he's a little too practised, and the crowd too indulgent, "Bright Lights Tonight" remains a good-time anthem/autopsy without equal, and "Tear-Stained Letter" is an Anglo-American hoedown that sends us grinning into the dark. There's a morning-after feel as Wales' Songdog start Sunday, seemingly risking Peter Case Syndrome. But as Lyndon Morgans twists on the mic like his mouth's fish-hooked, and his keening voice obsesses over oral sex and slashing violence while innocent toddlers gambol in the grass, the absurd modern detail of his voyeuristic reveries, like his band's sonic swells, are too oddly specific to ignore. By new song "The Republic Of Howlin' Wolf" (another panoramic snapshot of careering, doomed love), the crowd is theirs. The crowd are Jesse Malin's from the start, and he's likeable enough, but his broken-hearted early Springsteen borrowings seem pointless to me. Ex-Dream Syndicater Steve Wynn is something else. Sharp-suited but bashful between songs, when he's in the middle of a prismatic, disgusted American requiem like "Carry A Torch", or other songs of useless hard-gained wisdom, you can get lost in them. When he's interrupted by an inexplicable befezzed marching band, leading women and children to an unknown fate, you know you've found the spirit of Guilfest, and it's time to leave.

Guilfest

STOKE PARK, GUILDFORD

FRIDAY, JULY 4 TO SUNDAY, JULY 6, 2003

Guilfest’s reputation for bills seemingly selected by an unhip blind man with a pin, plus a sedate family atmosphere, is partially dented this year by an Uncut stage heavy on abrasive, thoughtful singer-songwriters. But the charm of music offered in ignorance of niche marketing or snobbery, on a sunny weekend on the edge of a leafy small town, where under-fives and over-50s dance with equal abandon, is anyway hard not to applaud.

Thea Gilmore is on Uncut’s stage as I arrive, striving to shift a crowd stretched on the grass, beers in hand, with an amped-up, bluesy set. It’s when the heavy strum of “Juliet” makes four disparate strangers?a sexy young nu-metal couple, teenage hippie boy and middle-aged professional man?form a ragged line, skipping and swirling to their own private beats, that I start to like it here. Wandering towards the Main Stage, I stumble on Love’s whip-lean, inscrutably amused Arthur Lee, dragging bouncing fans into Forever Changes’ dark lyrical maze and soaring sound. Back with Uncut, Cosmic Rough Riders’ sweet Scottish harmonies make more sense as the sun gently sinks than on record, before darkness fittingly falls for Alice Cooper’s Detroit-rocking Main Stage finale.

Hip Slinky’s vacantly amiable Britpop pleases Saturday’s early Uncut crowd, but for US troubadour Peter Case, an undeserved hell awaits. Defiantly out of place in green jacket, old-fashioned glasses and hat, the lazing audience’s indifference makes him worry at his lonely quietness and his street-singer stories and jokes fall flat into the field’s silence. Perhaps six people are listening, but he’s thrilling anyway, punching volume from his acoustic guitar, screaming harmonica and half-hillbilly voice, which sings whirling epics of disenfranchised America. Marc Carroll follows the fleeing Case to a still emptier field but, saying nothing at first, instead letting his songs picture storm-lashed apocalypse and drug-drained romance, the Irishman’s attacking presence ignores the crowd’s somnolence, burning through it.

By the time Jackie Leven arrives, the field is filling and wide awake. Sitting in faded shorts, legs splayed under his big belly, the veteran Scottish maverick is over-relaxed today. But on songs like “Classic Northern Diversions”, as imagined landscapes of slush and rain blur through his head, shame and his dead mother haunting him, his guitar clattering and his voice a force of nature, he casts a spell.

“Hey you, don’t watch that, watch this!” Madness advise, climaxing Saturday’s Main Stage bill, but Richard Thompson still fills the Uncut field with fans of his own brand of Englishness. If he’s a little too practised, and the crowd too indulgent, “Bright Lights Tonight” remains a good-time anthem/autopsy without equal, and “Tear-Stained Letter” is an Anglo-American hoedown that sends us grinning into the dark.

There’s a morning-after feel as Wales’ Songdog start Sunday, seemingly risking Peter Case Syndrome. But as Lyndon Morgans twists on the mic like his mouth’s fish-hooked, and his keening voice obsesses over oral sex and slashing violence while innocent toddlers gambol in the grass, the absurd modern detail of his voyeuristic reveries, like his band’s sonic swells, are too oddly specific to ignore. By new song “The Republic Of Howlin’ Wolf” (another panoramic snapshot of careering, doomed love), the crowd is theirs.

The crowd are Jesse Malin’s from the start, and he’s likeable enough, but his broken-hearted early Springsteen borrowings seem pointless to me. Ex-Dream Syndicater Steve Wynn is something else. Sharp-suited but bashful between songs, when he’s in the middle of a prismatic, disgusted American requiem like “Carry A Torch”, or other songs of useless hard-gained wisdom, you can get lost in them. When he’s interrupted by an inexplicable befezzed marching band, leading women and children to an unknown fate, you know you’ve found the spirit of Guilfest, and it’s time to leave.

Racing At The Speed Of Light

Uncut
-
0

R.E.M. BRIXTON ACADEMY, LONDON TUESDAY, JUNE 24, 2003 Michael Stipe bounds on stage with big smile, outsize cowboy hat and see-through black chemise. His gauche, larger-than-life presence is a suitable intro to R.E.M.'s new face-the-future-or-prepare-to-die incarnation. The stage set spells out L.U.V in gaudy red neon and the faces of your friendly CEOs Stipe, Buck and Mills look down from the backdrop. Acknowledging the audience demographic, the merchandise stall sells baby grows and, when the group hit a communal connection, those in the crowd not busy texting photos of Michael's flamboyant performance hold their mobiles aloft. In such a setting, Stipe's impenetrable old Enigma Of A Generation pose simply will not wash. Thankfully, tonight he's ready to fly his freak flag and take on all comers. This could be the start of a tour where R.E.M. restate their credentials following disappointing sales and Buck's court appearance. Or else it's where the last great American band of the '80s squeeze all the juice out of their back catalogue before heading off into the sunset and the retirement home. They certainly come out fighting. "Get Up" and "The Wake Up Bomb" deliver a devastating intro. Buck throws shapes with gleeful abandon, a Keith Richards impersonation here, a Pete Townshend power chord there. Vying with the drummer's testosterone beat, second guitarist, careering keyboards and Mills' rolling thunder, the group summon a gargantuan sound, a curdled parody of American excess. The theme reaches a clarion call climax with "Imitation Of Life". The churning fury is mere scene setting for "Animal", a new song due for inclusion on this autumn's In Time collection. Stipe wails and Mills cuts across his "racing at the speed of light" hook line. With Buck firing off salvoes that would melt his Rickenbacker licks of yesteryear, the music is intense and exacting, levelling all in its path. "Drive", with its ominous atmosphere and surly rebuke to the modern day automaton lifestyle, cools the pace and allows Stipe to assert a humanity which risked being steamrollered out of existence in the opening onslaught. Then it's a masterful body swerve into a three-in-a-row selection from Fables Of The Reconstruction (recorded in north London in winter '85). Around 80 songs have been rehearsed for the tour, and the clattering punk sneer of "Driver 8" provides a joyous detour into the past, where the cult R.E.M. could ignore, rather than embrace the zeitgeist. As the end looms, the onus increasingly falls on Stipe to deliver the show's emotional thrust. He recounts previous Academy visits?as film producer for Velvet Goldmine, as a Smiths fan copping moves off Morrissey. He delivers his mission statement "to work to the full extent of my ability" with the earnestness of a boy scout. But he seems happiest when he camps it up, leering as he flashes his nipples, or wryly responding to a heckler, "You take yours out and I'll think about it." Spreading love and happiness is his goal, and he hits the back of the net with the euphoric "Man On The Moon". Of course, the shadow of the war and what it means to be an American post-Iraq cannot be avoided. So Stipe does an oath-of-allegiance pisstake and Buck delivers a Hendrix-alike guitar burn on the national anthem. They take a half-baked lunge at Patti Smith's "People Have The Power", but it's delaying the inevitable?"It's The End Of The World As We Know It" is a song tailor-made for these perilous times and it offers a joyful deliverance. Stipe throws the mic to the crowd and, before Buck carries him off stage, he stands miming while the fans sing the chorus. All that acclaim and a little art joke on the side? No wonder he's smiling?on this showing, the retirement home is still a long way off.

R.E.M.

BRIXTON ACADEMY, LONDON

TUESDAY, JUNE 24, 2003

Michael Stipe bounds on stage with big smile, outsize cowboy hat and see-through black chemise. His gauche, larger-than-life presence is a suitable intro to R.E.M.’s new face-the-future-or-prepare-to-die incarnation.

The stage set spells out L.U.V in gaudy red neon and the faces of your friendly CEOs Stipe, Buck and Mills look down from the backdrop. Acknowledging the audience demographic, the merchandise stall sells baby grows and, when the group hit a communal connection, those in the crowd not busy texting photos of Michael’s flamboyant performance hold their mobiles aloft.

In such a setting, Stipe’s impenetrable old Enigma Of A Generation pose simply will not wash. Thankfully, tonight he’s ready to fly his freak flag and take on all comers. This could be the start of a tour where R.E.M. restate their credentials following disappointing sales and Buck’s court appearance. Or else it’s where the last great American band of the ’80s squeeze all the juice out of their back catalogue before heading off into the sunset and the retirement home.

They certainly come out fighting. “Get Up” and “The Wake Up Bomb” deliver a devastating intro. Buck throws shapes with gleeful abandon, a Keith Richards impersonation here, a Pete Townshend power chord there. Vying with the drummer’s testosterone beat, second guitarist, careering keyboards and Mills’ rolling thunder, the group summon a gargantuan sound, a curdled parody of American excess. The theme reaches a clarion call climax with “Imitation Of Life”.

The churning fury is mere scene setting for “Animal”, a new song due for inclusion on this autumn’s In Time collection. Stipe wails and Mills cuts across his “racing at the speed of light” hook line. With Buck firing off salvoes that would melt his Rickenbacker licks of yesteryear, the music is intense and exacting, levelling all in its path.

“Drive”, with its ominous atmosphere and surly rebuke to the modern day automaton lifestyle, cools the pace and allows Stipe to assert a humanity which risked being steamrollered out of existence in the opening onslaught. Then it’s a masterful body swerve into a three-in-a-row selection from Fables Of The Reconstruction (recorded in north London in winter ’85). Around 80 songs have been rehearsed for the tour, and the clattering punk sneer of “Driver 8” provides a joyous detour into the past, where the cult R.E.M. could ignore, rather than embrace the zeitgeist.

As the end looms, the onus increasingly falls on Stipe to deliver the show’s emotional thrust. He recounts previous Academy visits?as film producer for Velvet Goldmine, as a Smiths fan copping moves off Morrissey. He delivers his mission statement “to work to the full extent of my ability” with the earnestness of a boy scout.

But he seems happiest when he camps it up, leering as he flashes his nipples, or wryly responding to a heckler, “You take yours out and I’ll think about it.” Spreading love and happiness is his goal, and he hits the back of the net with the euphoric “Man On The Moon”. Of course, the shadow of the war and what it means to be an American post-Iraq cannot be avoided. So Stipe does an oath-of-allegiance pisstake and Buck delivers a Hendrix-alike guitar burn on the national anthem. They take a half-baked lunge at Patti Smith’s “People Have The Power”, but it’s delaying the inevitable?”It’s The End Of The World As We Know It” is a song tailor-made for these perilous times and it offers a joyful deliverance. Stipe throws the mic to the crowd and, before Buck carries him off stage, he stands miming while the fans sing the chorus. All that acclaim and a little art joke on the side? No wonder he’s smiling?on this showing, the retirement home is still a long way off.

Mull Historical Society – Zodiac, Oxford

Uncut
-
0

On the intro tape, Johnny Cash's austerely remorseless "The Man Comes Around" sets the mood, then Colin MacIntyre's men come pounding out of the traps. For this mini tour, the school choir, feather boa and inflatable sheep of previous expeditions have been packed away, in favour of frill-free punk aggression. But the eccentric, ambivalent, freshly subversive attitude to society animating both Mull albums, Loss and Us, fights through to the surface anyway. "Barcode Bypass" and "The Supermarket Strikes Back" introduce one of the typically perverse arenas in which MacIntyre's obsession with control and freedom plays out?Scottish small-town supermarkets. Hallucinatory neon islands of zombie consumerism one minute, and of late-night aisle-wandering hedonism the next, Maclntyre's songs see both sides, showing the rebel potential in pushing a trolley, more than illegal chemicals, just so long as you don't conform, as he defiantly sings: "My friends are getting stoned, but I want you to know, I'm staying at the supermarket." A blue spotlight on Maclntyre signals more personal concerns, as "Oh Mother" and "I Tried" address the death of his father and its aftermath. But the overwhelming emotion from the stage tonight is one of release. Like the contrary characters of his songs, Maclntyre in private is a neat-haired, polite young man, an ex-call centre worker who understands the buttoned-down life, who when he plays taps into a violent joyousness, an anarchic side you'd never suspect. "Watching Xanadu" ("about an unmanageable obsession"?with Olivia Newton-John) brings the night's lone special effect?needle-fine laser beams which threateningly slash my throat. But the true, simpler point of Maclntyre and Mull is once again made apparent near the finish. Singing "Strangeways Inside"?with its subtext of blessed Scots island isolation from "normality"?Maclntyre stands on the monitors to clap his supporters, like he's a footballer saluting his fans. The music, appropriately, has a terrace chant stomp, and a Dexys echo. Finally comes "Mull Historical Society" itself, that open challenge and invitation: "Come and join us, if you can." There are worse places to belong.

On the intro tape, Johnny Cash’s austerely remorseless “The Man Comes Around” sets the mood, then Colin MacIntyre’s men come pounding out of the traps. For this mini tour, the school choir, feather boa and inflatable sheep of previous expeditions have been packed away, in favour of frill-free punk aggression. But the eccentric, ambivalent, freshly subversive attitude to society animating both Mull albums, Loss and Us, fights through to the surface anyway.

“Barcode Bypass” and “The Supermarket Strikes Back” introduce one of the typically perverse arenas in which MacIntyre’s obsession with control and freedom plays out?Scottish small-town supermarkets. Hallucinatory neon islands of zombie consumerism one minute, and of late-night aisle-wandering hedonism the next, Maclntyre’s songs see both sides, showing the rebel potential in pushing a trolley, more than illegal chemicals, just so long as you don’t conform, as he defiantly sings: “My friends are getting stoned, but I want you to know, I’m staying at the supermarket.”

A blue spotlight on Maclntyre signals more personal concerns, as “Oh Mother” and “I Tried” address the death of his father and its aftermath. But the overwhelming emotion from the stage tonight is one of release. Like the contrary characters of his songs, Maclntyre in private is a neat-haired, polite young man, an ex-call centre worker who understands the buttoned-down life, who when he plays taps into a violent joyousness, an anarchic side you’d never suspect.

“Watching Xanadu” (“about an unmanageable obsession”?with Olivia Newton-John) brings the night’s lone special effect?needle-fine laser beams which threateningly slash my throat. But the true, simpler point of Maclntyre and Mull is once again made apparent near the finish. Singing “Strangeways Inside”?with its subtext of blessed Scots island isolation from “normality”?Maclntyre stands on the monitors to clap his supporters, like he’s a footballer saluting his fans. The music, appropriately, has a terrace chant stomp, and a Dexys echo. Finally comes “Mull Historical Society” itself, that open challenge and invitation: “Come and join us, if you can.” There are worse places to belong.

Soledad Brothers – Voice Of Treason

Uncut
-
0
It would be easy to expect far too much of the Soledad Brothers?named after a cause c...

It would be easy to expect far too much of the Soledad Brothers?named after a cause c

Apollo 440 – Dude Descending A Staircase

Uncut
-
0

Kudos to Apollo 440 for the title and sleeve here, wry references to Marcel Duchamp which may sail over the heads of some. It's a juicy electric foray into retro-futurist funk, the cheesy, strobe-lit spirit of which is captured on titles like "Disco Sucks" and "Escape To Beyond The Planet Of The Super Apes", featuring guest appearances that include a shouty turn from Pete Wylie. The second disc is more of a laid-back, trippy affair?most enticing of the tracks on offer being "Something's Got To Give". Nice, though a few more moments of splashdown wouldn't go amiss.

Kudos to Apollo 440 for the title and sleeve here, wry references to Marcel Duchamp which may sail over the heads of some. It’s a juicy electric foray into retro-futurist funk, the cheesy, strobe-lit spirit of which is captured on titles like “Disco Sucks” and “Escape To Beyond The Planet Of The Super Apes”, featuring guest appearances that include a shouty turn from Pete Wylie.

The second disc is more of a laid-back, trippy affair?most enticing of the tracks on offer being “Something’s Got To Give”. Nice, though a few more moments of splashdown wouldn’t go amiss.

Client

Uncut
-
0

Known as Client A and Client B, this female electro-pop duo deliver deadpan anthems in undiluted Northern accents. It's as if the backing singers in The Human League have locked Phil in a cupboard and taken over the machinery. The title track is the most effective, on which they come on like robotic call girls whose superior services you might regret using. But despite some inventive electronic tinkering, the pose wears a bit thin through repetition.

Known as Client A and Client B, this female electro-pop duo deliver deadpan anthems in undiluted Northern accents. It’s as if the backing singers in The Human League have locked Phil in a cupboard and taken over the machinery. The title track is the most effective, on which they come on like robotic call girls whose superior services you might regret using. But despite some inventive electronic tinkering, the pose wears a bit thin through repetition.

Vega 4 – Satellites

Uncut
-
0

With members hailing from Ireland, England, New Zealand and Canada, one might expect Vega 4's first album to be a cross-section of diverse musical heritages. How disappointing to discover that Satellites eschews originality in favour of the kind of universal sentiments and trad-rock guitar schtick that makes corporate indie rock so dreary. That's not to say Satellites is without merit; "Love Breaks Down" has an irresistibly lighters-in-air vibe. But the sneaky feeling Vega 4 have just written the new soundtrack for smug couples can't be shaken.

With members hailing from Ireland, England, New Zealand and Canada, one might expect Vega 4’s first album to be a cross-section of diverse musical heritages. How disappointing to discover that Satellites eschews originality in favour of the kind of universal sentiments and trad-rock guitar schtick that makes corporate indie rock so dreary. That’s not to say Satellites is without merit; “Love Breaks Down” has an irresistibly lighters-in-air vibe. But the sneaky feeling Vega 4 have just written the new soundtrack for smug couples can’t be shaken.

Jetscreamer – Starhead

Uncut
-
0

The latest back-to-basics US rock"n" rollers to enchant the UK press, Texan band Jetscreamer recorded this turbulent debut without overdubs, Pro Tools or any such new-fangled technological gubbins. The result is a good ol' punk-blues racket, though their greasy slide-guitar thrash is nothing new. The Flamin' Groovies mastered this back in the '70s, as did The Janitors (remember them?) in the '80s. And when they opt for crash'n' burn improvisations, Jetscreamer become nothing more than Sonic Youth by numbers. More Boeing 747 than Concorde, then, but entertaining in its raw power.

The latest back-to-basics US rock”n” rollers to enchant the UK press, Texan band Jetscreamer recorded this turbulent debut without overdubs, Pro Tools or any such new-fangled technological gubbins. The result is a good ol’ punk-blues racket, though their greasy slide-guitar thrash is nothing new. The Flamin’ Groovies mastered this back in the ’70s, as did The Janitors (remember them?) in the ’80s. And when they opt for crash’n’ burn improvisations, Jetscreamer become nothing more than Sonic Youth by numbers. More Boeing 747 than Concorde, then, but entertaining in its raw power.

David Sylvian – Blemish

Uncut
-
0

This was unexpected. On this album, Sylvian essentially improvises eight songs as he goes along, and is mostly alone, emotionally naked. Throughout, a grievous if unspecified sense of loss is expressed (encapsulated in the 14-minute title track). Astonishingly and brilliantly, three tracks find him working with improv guitar god Derek Bailey, whose gnarled pluckings are given a startling new environment in which to flourish ("The Good Son"). "Late Night Shopping" is a blissful ode to non-existence, while Sylvian's musings on life, love and death are beautifully resolved by the coda "A Fire In The Forest", where Christian Fennesz' electronics encourage Sylvian to reconnect with the world. An extremely moving and potentially radical record.

This was unexpected. On this album, Sylvian essentially improvises eight songs as he goes along, and is mostly alone, emotionally naked. Throughout, a grievous if unspecified sense of loss is expressed (encapsulated in the 14-minute title track). Astonishingly and brilliantly, three tracks find him working with improv guitar god Derek Bailey, whose gnarled pluckings are given a startling new environment in which to flourish (“The Good Son”). “Late Night Shopping” is a blissful ode to non-existence, while Sylvian’s musings on life, love and death are beautifully resolved by the coda “A Fire In The Forest”, where Christian Fennesz’ electronics encourage Sylvian to reconnect with the world. An extremely moving and potentially radical record.

The Nectarine No. 9 – Society Is A Carnivorous Flower

Uncut
-
0

Making things difficult, or at least obtuse, has been a code of honour to Davey Henderson for longer than is decent to mention. Penetrate the multiple misspellings of "Carnivorous" on the sleeve, ignore the faulty track listing and there's plenty, as ever, to stimulate among the six remixes of "Pong Fat Six", originally co-written with The Pop Group's Gareth Sager. The estimable Future Pilot AKA and various other Henderson peers dismantle the evidently toxic original in different ways, though steam-powered electro and cosmic jazz remain the vague constants. Best-in-show rosette, though, goes to Bill Wells and Norman Blake, who salvage something skittish, glitchy and implausibly delicate out of the carnage.

Making things difficult, or at least obtuse, has been a code of honour to Davey Henderson for longer than is decent to mention. Penetrate the multiple misspellings of “Carnivorous” on the sleeve, ignore the faulty track listing and there’s plenty, as ever, to stimulate among the six remixes of “Pong Fat Six”, originally co-written with The Pop Group’s Gareth Sager.

The estimable Future Pilot AKA and various other Henderson peers dismantle the evidently toxic original in different ways, though steam-powered electro and cosmic jazz remain the vague constants. Best-in-show rosette, though, goes to Bill Wells and Norman Blake, who salvage something skittish, glitchy and implausibly delicate out of the carnage.

Fluke – Puppy

Uncut
-
0

Their music's been all over the soundtracks of the preposterously piss-poor movies Matrix Reloaded and Tomb Raider, but we won't hold that against them. Now consisting of just Jon Fugler and Mike Bryant, Fluke return with Puppy?four years in the making, and a more muscular take on the band's customarily linear techno-groove. "Another Kind Of Blues", with its swoops and vistas, is especially pulsating, while "YKK" is the fragment of a soundtrack to some unmade film distinctly better than those to which Fluke have actually lent their work.

Their music’s been all over the soundtracks of the preposterously piss-poor movies Matrix Reloaded and Tomb Raider, but we won’t hold that against them. Now consisting of just Jon Fugler and Mike Bryant, Fluke return with Puppy?four years in the making, and a more muscular take on the band’s customarily linear techno-groove. “Another Kind Of Blues”, with its swoops and vistas, is especially pulsating, while “YKK” is the fragment of a soundtrack to some unmade film distinctly better than those to which Fluke have actually lent their work.

This Month In Americana

Uncut
-
0

"Bastard child of a randy AM radio and an insatiable eight-track cassette player," explain The Slaughter Rule directors Andrew and Alex Smith in the sleevenotes, "this soundtrack was conceived on a Montana two-lane blacktop, in the back seat of a faded red '74 Valiant." While the US twins scouted for their movie's soul via road trips to west Texas, Uncle Tupelo/Son Volt founder Jay Farrar's music acted as constant companion and stoker of imaginations. Commissioning him for the score seemed sensible. Anyone familiar with Farrar's elegiac recent release Terroir Blues (reviewed in the last Uncut) will be heartened to know his contributions here tap into the same spirit: mood-setting country-blues instrumentals and sombre meditations. Like Ry Cooder's work on Paris, Texas, he manages to define terrain both emotional and physical via economical use of notes and accents. In between, there are superb moments from Vic Chesnutt ("Rank Stranger"), Malcolm Holcombe ("Killing The Blues") and Freakwater ("When I Stop Dreaming"), alongside the more familiar (Ryan Adams' "To Be Young") and the obscure (Uncle Tupelo's 1993 reading of Gram Parsons' "Blue Eyes"). And while The Pernice Brothers' closing version of "Will There Be Any Stars In My Crown?" nearly makes off with the silverware, it's Farrar's intricate acoustic picking and occasional smotherings of distortion that lace up the spine.

“Bastard child of a randy AM radio and an insatiable eight-track cassette player,” explain The Slaughter Rule directors Andrew and Alex Smith in the sleevenotes, “this soundtrack was conceived on a Montana two-lane blacktop, in the back seat of a faded red ’74 Valiant.” While the US twins scouted for their movie’s soul via road trips to west Texas, Uncle Tupelo/Son Volt founder Jay Farrar’s music acted as constant companion and stoker of imaginations. Commissioning him for the score seemed sensible.

Anyone familiar with Farrar’s elegiac recent release Terroir Blues (reviewed in the last Uncut) will be heartened to know his contributions here tap into the same spirit: mood-setting country-blues instrumentals and sombre meditations. Like Ry Cooder’s work on Paris, Texas, he manages to define terrain both emotional and physical via economical use of notes and accents. In between, there are superb moments from Vic Chesnutt (“Rank Stranger”), Malcolm Holcombe (“Killing The Blues”) and Freakwater (“When I Stop Dreaming”), alongside the more familiar (Ryan Adams’ “To Be Young”) and the obscure (Uncle Tupelo’s 1993 reading of Gram Parsons’ “Blue Eyes”). And while The Pernice Brothers’ closing version of “Will There Be Any Stars In My Crown?” nearly makes off with the silverware, it’s Farrar’s intricate acoustic picking and occasional smotherings of distortion that lace up the spine.

Johnny Dowd – Wire Flowers

Uncut
-
0

From the same '96 sessions that produced Dowd's startling debut Wrong Side Of Memphis, these four-track recordings are the overspill. You'll find (slightly) more sanitised versions of some on Pictures From Life's Other Side (1999) and last year's The Pawnbroker's Wife, but these?in JD speak?are "the original bad seeds". It's mostly slow-stealth swamp blues, rendered fearsome and moving by his scowling delivery, sounding forever snagged on a barbed wire fence. The additional vocals of (regular staple) Kim Sherwood-Caso add to the wracked creepiness of the title track, while on "Rolling And Tumbling Trilogy" Dowd comes on like the bastard spawn of Aleister Crowley.

From the same ’96 sessions that produced Dowd’s startling debut Wrong Side Of Memphis, these four-track recordings are the overspill. You’ll find (slightly) more sanitised versions of some on Pictures From Life’s Other Side (1999) and last year’s The Pawnbroker’s Wife, but these?in JD speak?are “the original bad seeds”. It’s mostly slow-stealth swamp blues, rendered fearsome and moving by his scowling delivery, sounding forever snagged on a barbed wire fence. The additional vocals of (regular staple) Kim Sherwood-Caso add to the wracked creepiness of the title track, while on “Rolling And Tumbling Trilogy” Dowd comes on like the bastard spawn of Aleister Crowley.

Rock This Joint

Uncut
-
0
Arguably (though there's no debate among the voices in this listener's head) the best album of 2001, Asleep In The Back must have been a tough (and tender) act to follow. Partly because the Lancashire-based band had around 10 years to write, record and re-record that debut, navigating a route throug...

Arguably (though there’s no debate among the voices in this listener’s head) the best album of 2001, Asleep In The Back must have been a tough (and tender) act to follow. Partly because the Lancashire-based band had around 10 years to write, record and re-record that debut, navigating a route through various music biz mazes. Required to deliver a follow-up with unaccustomed haste after gold discs, rave reviews and sold-out US tours, Elbow initially froze. “It was like rolling a boulder up a hill”, Guy Garvey’s said. They took a break, reflected, reconvened. Then they got it so very right.

Produced by Ben Hillier, demoed in a church on the Isle Of Mull then recorded in Liverpool, Cast Of Thousands is as challenging and emotionally turbulent as its predecessor, yet faithful to its foundation feel. It’ll make you cry, laugh and freak in the same parts of your body. It’s human where Radiohead are impenetrable, but complex where Coldplay are banal. Somehow my notes include the phrases Kes, Kafka, Hendrix and WB Yeats. One of us is on something, and lo, their something is honest and good.

“Ribcage” sets the tone(s), matching “Newborn” for ambition. The incredibly twisty melody shouldn’t stay in your brain but does, Garvey warring against clich

Laura Cantrell – Not The Tremblin’ Kind

Uncut
-
0

The reissue of Cantrell's 2000 debut is timely following the critical success of last year's When The Roses Bloom Again, and a major US tour with Elvis Costello. John Peel deemed this his "favourite record of the last 10 years and possibly my life", while Costello describes her sound as "if Kitty Wells made Rubber Soul". Nashville-bred, NYC-based Cantrell is steeped in country and bluegrass, but brings a strident grace all her own. Set atop guitars both acoustic and twangy?and soft squeals of steel?her voice is cut-glass pure. Like Wells and the McGarrigle sisters before her, she forgoes the traditional hick-in-throat approach for a sound like crushed ice slowly melting.

The reissue of Cantrell’s 2000 debut is timely following the critical success of last year’s When The Roses Bloom Again, and a major US tour with Elvis Costello. John Peel deemed this his “favourite record of the last 10 years and possibly my life”, while Costello describes her sound as “if Kitty Wells made Rubber Soul”. Nashville-bred, NYC-based Cantrell is steeped in country and bluegrass, but brings a strident grace all her own. Set atop guitars both acoustic and twangy?and soft squeals of steel?her voice is cut-glass pure. Like Wells and the McGarrigle sisters before her, she forgoes the traditional hick-in-throat approach for a sound like crushed ice slowly melting.

Cranes – Live In Italy

Uncut
-
0
Finding themselves in implausible possession of a Billboard Top 30 hit with a "Submarine" remix, Cranes continue their single-minded, 13-year-long quest for those resolutely uncommercial, abstractly beautiful and inexplicably affecting chords, patterns and sighs they do so splendidly. Recorded in t...

Finding themselves in implausible possession of a Billboard Top 30 hit with a “Submarine” remix, Cranes continue their single-minded, 13-year-long quest for those resolutely uncommercial, abstractly beautiful and inexplicably affecting chords, patterns and sighs they do so splendidly.

Recorded in those well-known Italian cities of Rome, Ancona, er, Amsterdam, Vienna, and, um, Portsmouth, Live In Italy begins with chilly suggestion and climaxes in white-hot emoting. Atmospheres which make your hair stand on end and your spine turn to the shape of that snazzy Guggenheim building in Bilb

The Raveonettes – Chain Gang Of Love

Uncut
-
0

How quaint. The Raveonettes recall that crepuscular time in the mid-'80s when The Jesus & Mary Chain and their disciples relocated rock'n' roll classicism and girl-group pop into a shower of feedback. It remains a seductive formula, though one that pales very quickly. For all their grasp of the iconography, Sune Rose Wagner and Sharin Foo's tales of leather gangs and boys called Johnny are sexless. And while Chain Gang Of Love only lasts 33 minutes (not much longer than January's mini album), it still outstays its welcome.

How quaint. The Raveonettes recall that crepuscular time in the mid-’80s when The Jesus & Mary Chain and their disciples relocated rock’n’ roll classicism and girl-group pop into a shower of feedback. It remains a seductive formula, though one that pales very quickly. For all their grasp of the iconography, Sune Rose Wagner and Sharin Foo’s tales of leather gangs and boys called Johnny are sexless. And while Chain Gang Of Love only lasts 33 minutes (not much longer than January’s mini album), it still outstays its welcome.

Lisa Marie Presley – To Whom It May Concern

Uncut
-
0

Stalked by onehelluva shadow, at least LMP's trying to dodge it her own way. Initially offered a deal in her teens, the ex-Mrs Jacko has waited til 35 to make her debut. The pedigree's not bad?Eric (Tori Amos) Rosse and Capitol Records president Andrew Slater produce?but too much end product is lame. If power ballads, mid-tempo rawk and Joan Jett/Cher tonsils pull your chain, this is for you. Though she deserves credit for down-playing the King's Daughter card, there's little to get excited about here.

Stalked by onehelluva shadow, at least LMP’s trying to dodge it her own way. Initially offered a deal in her teens, the ex-Mrs Jacko has waited til 35 to make her debut. The pedigree’s not bad?Eric (Tori Amos) Rosse and Capitol Records president Andrew Slater produce?but too much end product is lame. If power ballads, mid-tempo rawk and Joan Jett/Cher tonsils pull your chain, this is for you. Though she deserves credit for down-playing the King’s Daughter card, there’s little to get excited about here.

Uncut
-
0

Too many young bands come out of their bedrooms before they're ready. No such accusation can be levelled at Nottingham quartet Finlay. It's three years since their first single, and since then they've been crafting a debut of clever, spiky lo-fi post-rock on which the influence of late period Damon Albarn, early Mogwai, Lou Barlow and Pavement is clear. Yes, Finlay, you can come out now. It sounds like you're just about ready.

Too many young bands come out of their bedrooms before they’re ready. No such accusation can be levelled at Nottingham quartet Finlay. It’s three years since their first single, and since then they’ve been crafting a debut of clever, spiky lo-fi post-rock on which the influence of late period Damon Albarn, early Mogwai, Lou Barlow and Pavement is clear. Yes, Finlay, you can come out now. It sounds like you’re just about ready.

Bell X1 – Music In Mouth

Uncut
-
0

Taking their name from the first aircraft to break the sound barrier, Paul Noonan's band construct literate love songs that are the polar opposites of stadium rock. They've also retained their Celtic personality without paying lip service to the new Irish movement. Noonan's imagery takes nursery ideas and spins them into adult problems on "Snakes And Snakes" and "Alphabet Soup". Elsewhere there are developed sensual ideas at play. "West Of Her Spine" and "I'll See Your Heart And Raise You Mine" match strong melody to a level of intrigue befitting inhabitants of Joyce's Dublin.

Taking their name from the first aircraft to break the sound barrier, Paul Noonan’s band construct literate love songs that are the polar opposites of stadium rock. They’ve also retained their Celtic personality without paying lip service to the new Irish movement. Noonan’s imagery takes nursery ideas and spins them into adult problems on “Snakes And Snakes” and “Alphabet Soup”. Elsewhere there are developed sensual ideas at play. “West Of Her Spine” and “I’ll See Your Heart And Raise You Mine” match strong melody to a level of intrigue befitting inhabitants of Joyce’s Dublin.

1...1,1881,1891,190...1,269Page 1,189 of 1,269

SHOP UNCUT