The Pattern Theory - The Pattern Theory (Album)

Although, as a Newcastle resident, I feel enormously spoilt by our selection of bands, I must confess that I’ve always been just a tiny bit jealous of gig-going folk in Leeds, a city which seems to spawn another outrageously creative band every three days. Take The Pattern Theory for example, a band who are now Berlin-based, but whose roots are unmistakably Leodensian. Sound-wise, their closest kin would probably be the likes of Explosions in the Sky (or, if you’ll permit me to carry on the Leeds motif, maybe Vessels). While they don’t employ the world-endingly noisy crescendos of those two, the record is brimming with familiarly undulating swells of melodic build-up. The band build hypnotic little patterns of melody and deconstruct and rebuild them at their leisure, with Framed Fields the best example of this, starting off all plaintive and achy before it almost imperceptibly picks up the pace and turns into something more urgent. The overall result is an enormously listenable and beautifully eloquent instrumental album with an impact that is undeniably softer than that of its forebears, but which is no less enriching for that. One of the best debut records that will emerge this year.

4/5

MySpace Hop - May 2011 (Feature)

Echo Lake

http://www.myspace.com/echolakeandthestrangeera

Echo Lake are by far my favourite new band this year. Their Young Silence EP is a proper dream-pop head-fuck; a hazy, cloying cloud of warmth that swamps your brain in the most gorgeous way. It’s disorienting and soothing all at once, with the lush vocals counterbalancing the uneasy ambience that drifts under the surface. I’m expecting a pretty trippy dawdle across MySpace based on my starting point...

Banjo or Freakout

http://www.myspace.com/banjoorfreakout

I’ve struggled with Banjo or Freakout for a few months, I must concede. I think it’s this ‘British Deerhunter’ thing that sets my suspicions a-tingling. The parallels are really obvious though, so it’s hard to escape the nagging feeling that it’s all a little contrived. If you can somehow manage to get past that (and if so, you’re more forgiving than this old curmudgeon), you’re in for some perfectly competent reverb-heavy pop. I’d still rather listen to Bradford Cox though.

Walls

http://www.myspace.com/walls_band

Oooh, now this IS good. This lot proudly publicise 9/10 and 4/5 album reviews aplenty on their page, so I’m moderately embarrassed to have missed this. It’s beautifully considered ponderous techno, ideal for languid summer evenings in the garden. Burnt Sienna is about the pinnacle of the loveliness, but A Wirus Waits is pretty interesting too. The ingredients might be quite minimal here, but there’s still a hell of a lot going on. A lovely find.

Allez-Allez

http://www.myspace.com/allezallez

Man, it took some effort to click off Walls’ page. Dancey London twosome Allez-Allez, to be honest, aren’t quite as enticing a prospect. Their sound is much more souped up than that of Walls, but it’s also far less imaginative, with each dreary beat-heavy cut bleeding into the last. Even their Fever Ray remix sounds exactly bloody like one of their own tracks, with not even Karen Dreijer Andersson’s infrequent ghostly mewlings managing to kick-start the thing.

It’s a Fine Line

http://www.myspace.com/itsafineline

The final stop of a fair less sleepy hop than I had anticipated is at the door of nutso London pair It’s a Fine Line, who should maybe double date with Allez-Allez to discuss how to be interesting. Their rubber-limbed electro-pop is an enjoyably mental diversion from the daily cut-n-thrust, although I’m not sure I’d have the endurance to sit through an entire album of it. Their remixes are a bit more palatable, as they breathe a bit of life into The XX and sex up Au Revoir Simone a treat.

The Futureheads - Cluny - 20/04/11 (Gig)

If The Futureheads had got their heads together before tonight’s Japanese Tsunami Relief Benefit show and attempted to sketch out the ideal set of circumstances in which to extract optimum charitable goodwill, they would probably have struggled to come up with a better scenario than that which we actually encounter tonight. The seemingly endless supply of bank holidays stretched languidly in front of us has dovetailed beautifully with the unexpected delight of the first proper sunshine of the year, making Ouseburn Valley a pretty fucking happy place. Throw in a stellar supporting cast of some of the North East’s finest musicians, and you’ve got practically the perfect recipe to tease hands into pockets.

Because we’ve got five sets to accommodate tonight, the running order is squeezed about as tightly as can be, and it commences with Michael Littlefield who steps onstage in front of basically no-one, although thankfully a smattering of people drizzle in as his set progresses. Littlefield unassumingly informs us that he plans to play some Blues songs, which turn out to be absolutely immaculately observed. If his renditions of the likes of Robert Johnson and Muddy Waters seem just a little like hero-worship, then it’s forgivable because his voice is so authentic and his guitar work so accomplished.

Littlefield is followed by The Lake Poets, aka Martin Longstaff, a (mostly) solo artist who is currently doing a pretty decent job of hauling himself up the North East gigging hierarchy. These days it’s treacherously easy for acoustic singer-songwriters to tumble irredeemably into the ever-expanding sea of non-descript one-man/woman projects who forget to write actual songs, but so far Longstaff’s work has kept him a safe distance from the ocean of drips. The combination of his timorous, vulnerable vocal and his gently soaring songs, the scale of which become more apparent when he is joined late in the set by his backing band, illustrate pretty succinctly just why his popularity is increasing so steadily.

Speaking of growing repute, Grandfather Birds aren’t doing too badly on that front either, now that their grizzled charm is spawning impressive singles and propelling them around the country. They’re up against it a little tonight, because the malfunctioning microphone demons that occasionally tease Littlefield and The Lake Poets decide they’re going to well and truly bully Grandfather Birds, which isn’t really fair because their poor old singer is already battling a sore throat as it is. In spite of the fates’ concerted efforts to throw them off course, though, they’re brilliant, overcoming the odds triumphantly with a collection of intricately-fabricated songs, tinged with the odd intriguing splash of darkness.

The final support act of the evening is billed simply as Adam James Cooper, but, as Cooper himself acknowledges, that’s a bit of a disservice to the six other musicians who join him on stage, because we’re not talking about a solo artist with interchangeable backing musos here, this feels like a proper band in the fullest sense of the word. Their raucous, booze-soaked pub-folk is the nicest surprise of the night. It’s absolutely infectious, and it augments the already boisterous air of good cheer which pervades the Cluny.

By the time The Futureheads make their way out, the venue is, unsurprisingly (and gratifyingly) rammed. It was always going to be, of course, because the band have been selling out much bigger rooms than the Cluny for years, so it’s a pretty special feeling to have them back in the best small venue in the North East of England. It’s not just the Cluny that makes their appearance feel like a one-off though, it’s also the fact that tonight is a departure from your traditional breakneck Futureheads rock show, it’s a gig which sees them discard all instrumentation save for Barry’s acoustic guitar, meaning that Jaff, Ross and Dave find themselves exclusively on vocal duties. It’s clearly an alien position for them to be in, but the act of casting aside the fetters of traditional instrumental structures brings the band’s interplay (always a hugely endearing feature of their gigs) even more tangibly to the surface. Tonight’s set up lends itself to banter, and after a decade together, The Futureheads are masters of the art.

The set list is as relaxed as the chatter, meandering aimlessly through all four records, and including a pleasantly surprising outing for ‘Thursday’, a riotous singalong encore of ‘Heartbeat Song’ and the traditional crowd-war japes of ‘Hounds of Love’. There’s also room for more outlandish propositions too, like ‘The Keeper’, a 17th Century hunting song (which is at odds with the band’s 50% veggie population), and traditional drinking song ‘The Old Dun Cow’, which features a creditable shouting and stamping cameo from the entire crowd. It’s all enormously fun stuff which, in a strange way reminds us of why this gig is being put on in the first place. Because, in spite of the obvious solemnity of the cause, tonight is a life-affirming celebration of the power of music to be able to do something wonderful – no matter how small in the scale of Japan’s devastation – to help people.

Roddy Woomble - Cluny 2 - 02/04/11 (Gig)

Roddy Woomble looks and sounds pretty weather-beaten these days. Perhaps it’s down to those rough Scottish winters (or maybe even Scottish summers, come to think of it), but it means he can play the part of fully-fledged grizzly folkster pretty convincingly now. If latter day Idlewild felt a little forced and cumbersome, then it seems like the freedom of going solo has done him good, because tonight he is relaxed and amiable, and his homespun folk songs come across as entirely authentic, giving us a heartwarming insight into his love affair with Scotland. The lovely enveloping cosiness of a full Cluny 2 helps augment this feeling of warmth and goodwill to all men, providing an intimacy which is lacking only a campfire. He works beautifully with his backing trio, weaving through his two solo records, with highlights including the unashamed MOR bounce of ‘Roll Along’ and the unfussy elegance of ‘I Came in From the Mountain’. So strong is the set that I’d almost forgotten about Idlewild by the time ‘You Held the World in Your Arms’ is dropped into the encore, but it’s a nice surprise, and speaks volumes about a man completely at ease with both his past and present.

Hunx and His Punx - Too Young to be in Love (Album)

Neither Hunx nor any of his Punx seem to give a flying fuck that the year is 2011. As technology barges us ever more forcefully to the inevitable point where music will be downloaded from tiny little hard drives installed in molecules of oxygen straight onto our actual brains (for a reasonable monthly fee payable to Apple, of course), Hunx and His Punx are cheerfully ensconced in the 1960s. Their brand of bubblegum girl-band pop-n-roll yearns for a simpler time, a time when Phil Spector was merely an eccentric genius with a tendency to use firearms as a motivational prop rather than a murderous lunatic with an increasingly erratic taste in hairpieces. A time, even, when David Cameron didn’t even exist! Imagine!

The band look back on those days with rose-tinted spectacles, of course, but anybody who enjoys well-built pop music will find it difficult not to be swayed by the arguments in favour of bygone days which Too Young to be in Love presents. So impressive is the execution of the album, in fact, that it’s easy to overlook the fact that it represents Hunx and His Punx’ first proper foray into long-players, following on from 2009’s Gay Singles, a round-up of early 7” singles. Basically, they’ve completely and utterly nailed it, and I’d question whether they should even bother trying to follow it up, because it’s difficult to imagine them managing to better capture the essence of what they do than they have here.

On first glance, Too Young to be in Love appears to be a pretty simple prospect. Indeed, Hunx himself might happily have you believe that it is a one-dimensional collection of Wall of Sound-inspired pop songs about boyz, but any air of naivete conjured up is a mere affectation, presumably designed to augment the authenticity of the homage. Every Punx harmony, or Hunx whimper about making “my momma cry” is accompanied by a raised eyebrow and a knowing smirk. (Let’s not forget, the little boy lost singing here is also the chap who made an enormously NSFW appearance in Girls’ video for ‘Lust For Life’). The whole thing is very deliberately and very impressively assembled, something which makes it all the more impressive. Hunx takes the convincing part of the sweet lovelorn boy, while his Punx add bite to proceedings, most notably on ‘The Curse of Being Young'.

While Too Young to be in Love may be hugely impressive, it’s certainly not going to be for everybody though. For a start, I’d suggest staying clear of it if you find yourself in any way irritated by the world at large, because there’s a danger that Hunx’s nasal croon or the proudly retrogressive nature of the songs might push you over the edge. If, however, you feel inclined to indulge yourself with a sugary pop treat, then few albums released in this or any other year will be more effective.

The Pains of Being Pure at Heart - Belong (Album)

I don’t think I’m being too harsh on The Pains of Being Pure at Heart when I say that when they released their first album two years ago, they weren’t exactly weighed down by the burden of an expectant public. Flash forward to 2011, though, and the gradual but significant impact of the debut means that Belong represents one of the most significant indie releases of the early part of the year. It’s testament to both the simple endearing quality of the aforementioned debut, as well as the ever increasing power of blog-trotters the world over, that the band find themselves in such a position, but it also means that, for the first time, there’s a pressure on them to produce the goods.

Things start promisingly with the album’s title track, a pleasingly meaty chunk of guitar distortion, emerging more from the My Bloody Valentine extreme of the band’s oeuvre than the Field Mice one, which would appear to suggest that a couple of years of heavy touring have galvanised their sound. As it turns out, this proves to be a bit of a red herring because a few seconds into second song ‘Heaven’s Gonna Happen Now’, the fog clears and the band revert to chiming, melodic type, remaining in that mode for the bulk of the rest of the record. Nobody should be particularly surprised by this, because even at this early stage in their career, The Pains have always been the sort of band who gave the impression of being happily ensconced in their C86-shaped niche. This, by the way, is no criticism, either. As it happens, I absolutely loved The Pains of Being Pure at Heart, but let’s not beat about the bush: if you found that record too derivative, too twee or too cloying, then Belong certainly won’t change your perception of the band

As you would expect, then, the things that Belong does well are exactly the same as those that The Pains of Being Pure at Heart did well. It’s liberally strewn with sharp pop hooks which, as before, rely heavily on the interplay between the shoegaze-with-a-small-s guitars and Kip Berman’s breathy vocals. The weariness in Berman’s voice again provides an interesting counterpoint to the youthful exuberance of the musical backing, and ‘My Terrible Friend’ is probably the most effective example of this that the band have yet produced. Other particularly satisfying highlights of the record include the aforementioned title track, and the beautifully direct, twinkling pop of ‘The Body’ and ‘Girl of 1000 Dreams’.

Belong, unquestionably, find its mark more often than it misses it, and on those occasions, the songs are every bit as strong as those on The Pains of Being Pure at Heart. It’s all the more frustrating, then, that there are a couple of moments on the record which make it feel like hard work, namely the disappointingly dreary ‘Anne with an E’, and closing song ‘Strange’, which sees the band aim for a big finale without even getting close to the sort of grandeur they seem to think they’re attaining. It’s a shame that the album ends on such an underwhelming note, because there’s a danger that the listener will be left with the false impression that Belong is a disappointing record, which it really is not. It might be a stretch to say that it surpasses what went before it, but given the what the band where up against, there’s aboslutely no shame in that at all. All things considered, The Pains have quite neatly circumnavigated their unenviable task, adding some real gems to their back catalogue in the process.

Jeniferever - Silesia (Album)

I’ve always had a massive soft spot for Jeniferever. Right from the misleading Smashing Pumpkins reference of their name, to the incredible grandeur of their debut record Choose a Bright Morning (and, to a slightly lesser extent, its follow-up Spring Tides), they’ve always been right up my street. I’m sure, then, you can imagine my delight to be tasked with the duty of reporting that Silesia is an absolute fucking triumph, and the main reason for its success is that, crucially, there is absolutely no attempt to replicate the Sigur Rós-esque beauty of their snails-pace elegies of yore. Yes, Silesia is still stunningly pretty in places, but it is also imbued with a brand new sense of urgency, playfulness even, which is gratifying in a whole different way. Take Deception Pass for example; it’s a thumping, booming slice of unsettling weirdness with a rhythm that your ear can never seem to quite catch up with, casually placed slap-bang in the middle of the record. This is telling of a band who are refreshingly willing to take risks when they could have quite easily knocked out BBC ident soundtracks ‘til the IKEA trucks came home. You need Jeniferever in your life.

5/5

Times New Viking - Dancer Equired (Album)

Times New Viking’s sense of timing here is pretty serendipitous, given how the much-ballyhooed return of The Pains of Being Pure at Heart has put fuzzy mumble-pop back on the public’s agenda again. In an enormously over-crowded genre littered by saminess, Dancer Equired makes a decent fist of standing out from its contemporaries, but then you’d expect that from old hands like TNV for whom this represents their fifth full-lengther. By their own scratchy standards, they’ve softened a little, with Dancer Equired lacking the abrasive trebly scree of much of their earlier work, which has, I guess, robbed them of one of their most satisfying ingredients, but which has also undoubtedly made them a more listenable prospect. Don’t worry though, they still sound grubby as fuck, to the point where you actually start to wonder if the likes of Ways to Go and Downward Eastern Bloc are a willful attempt to wind up the audiophile zealots to whom the mere mention of 192kbps is akin to cheerfully shitting in their shoes. All in all, Dancer Equired is nothing we weren’t really expecting from Times New Viking, but it's good murky fun all the same.

3.5/5

Elbow - Sheffield Motorpoint Arena - 19/03/2011 (Gig)

Arena Gigs. A scourge of ‘proper music’ symptomatic of the soulless lucre-driven market in which we wallow, or a necessary evil which we must all occasionally abide to enjoy certain bands at the more popular end of the scale? Well, now that Elbow are officially ‘A Big Band’, then it would appear that the only way that it is now possible to enjoy their enduring meat-n-potatoes charm in the live setting is for us to drag ourselves to the identi-hangars which punctuate the outskirts of our major cities.

As a far from frequent visitor to Britain’s overgrown tin sheds it is with a sense of uneasiness that I step into Sheffield’s ridiculously-monikered Motorpoint Arena tonight, a sentiment which isn’t helped when I’m greeted by idiotically-priced beer and snacks, as well as toilet queues more reminiscent of a football ground than a gig venue. (Although, I’ll concede that part of my discomfort may stem from being torn briefly from my beloved NewcastleGateshead). Fortunately, my sense of dépaysement disippates completely the second Elbow emerge on stage, as the reassuringly familiar sight and sound of the band soothe my jangling nerves.

Anybody with any kind of experience of Elbow as a band can probably predict with a fair degree of accuracy what their live shows are like, as they blend the ground-shaking anthemics that have carried them to the enormodromes with moments of disarming intimacy with an enviable ease. The absence of any real element of surprise (an ill-fated attempt at on-stage cocktail mixing notwithstanding) however, takes absolutely nothing away from just what a genuine pleasure the show is. Guy’s personality fills the place just as formidably as his wounded bear vocal, and you get the impression that, in spite of the bizarre Bieber walkway down which he frequently prowls into the crowd, he would treat this show the same whether it was at the Motorpoint, or the function room of a working men’s club. His relaxed and spontaneous chit-chat between songs renders him impossible to dislike, and it surely strips away any questions that any remaining hard-hearted folk may have about just why so many people feel such warmth towards Elbow.

The set list is pretty heavy on the last two records, with absolutely nothing from Asleep in the Back or Cast of Thousands being featured, and only a handful of songs from Leaders of the Free World making an appearance. Whether the band’s surroundings have influenced them to make a conscious concession to their biggest unit shifters, or whether they’re just a bit sick of playing songs that have been around for a decade or more is unclear. Either way, while it might be a bit disappointing that the likes of ‘Red’, ‘New Born’ and ‘Grace Under Pressure’ are absent, it’s a minor gripe, because the material we are treated to is pretty fucking special.

Even though it’s only been a fortnight since the release of Build a Rocket Boys!, its songs already sit in impressively comfortable fashion alongside their forebears like age-old compatriots. In particular, the stirring set opener ‘The Birds’, ‘Open Arms’ and ‘Neat Little Rows’ sound fantastic tonight, as do a bracing version of ‘Grounds For Divorce’, a typically gorgeous ‘One Day Like This’ and ‘The Fix’ which sees a popular homecoming cameo from Richard Hawley. ‘Station Approach’, too, sounds wonderful, a classic slice of Elbow triumphalism which beautifully eulogises the joy of returning home after a period away.

At the moment, Elbow would appear to be right at the peak of their creative and commercial powers, and it would take a pretty harsh critic to begrudge them their current position. Their rise in popularity has been a gradual but inevitable one, centring around the admirable paragons of hard work and good old-fashioned songwriting. Tonight’s show makes it abundantly plain that all five of them feel privileged to be where they are, and it would be enormously surprised if they started slacking any time soon. Enjoy your success, lads, you’ve earned it.

Iron and Wine - Gateshead Sage 16/03/11 (Gig)

I’m just going to say it. There are far too many singer-songwriter types. The main consequence of this surfeit is that we’re completely and utterly inundated with bland fuckwits who seem to think that the purchase of an acoustic guitar comes with carte blanche to bleat dully about girls’n’shit to any unsuspecting suckers who happen to be in earshot. Step forward opening act Daniel Martin Moore, then, a man so stereotypically boring I don’t intend to waste any more of my word count on him. Based on the recorded evidence, Iron and Wine’s Sam Beam could certainly teach him a few lessons about how to maintain a balance between good ole-fashioned songcraft and actually being interesting. Things start off promisingly tonight, with Beam appearing relaxed and chatty,and his seven accompanists injecting songs from both ends of the discography with real gusto. But gradually, and almost imperceptibly, a change begins to permeate the set. What started off initially as satisfyingly full arrangements of the songs descend into interminable free-jazz wank-outs during which all eight musicians appear blissfully unaware of the presence of the crowd. It’s a fucking massive shame that the night takes this turn, because it takes more than a little bit of the shine off the wonderful songs and Beam’s impossibly warm vocal which is even more affecting when teamed up with the Sage’s space-age acoustics. An enormously frustrating night then, but hey, even a flawed Iron and Wine performance is preferable to what preceded it.

Those Dancing Days - Daydreams and Nightmares (Album)

The subject of pop for pop’s sake has inspired some reasonably heated debate on these pages in recent weeks, igniting a slightly indier incarnation of the decades old beef between pop lovers and ‘serious’ music fans. Well, if you’ll indulge me my soap box for just a moment, I’ve always believed pretty fucking strongly that there is no purer musical thrill than a song which inspires in one the uncontrollable urge to dance and sing. And at a time when insipid, lifeless pop bands are tiresomely numerous, genuinely good ones deserve to be cherished just as much as the most creative of avant-garde pioneers

Slink forward Those Dancing Days, then. Having captured the twee zeitgeist in 2008 with their debut record In Our Space Hero Suits, its follow-up Daydreams and Nightmares sees them in an altogether more insistent frame of mind. It’s a bit of a stretch to say they have found a harder edge, but they’ve certainly developed an unmistakable fresh sense of urgency. As well as having attained a new level of vitality, the band also appear to have well and truly nailed the art of the chorus too, as evidenced by the almost instantly memorable mid-sections of ‘Dream About Me’ and ‘Reaching Forwards’

The strongest overall examples of the admirable pop nous of Daydreams and Nightmares can be found in its central one-two of ‘Can’t Find Entrance’ and ‘Fuckarias’, which are without doubt two of 2011’s catchiest singles so far. The breakneck pace of both songs and the snotty attitude of the latter are characteristic of the evolution of the band’s sound. Mind, you, I’m not sure the subject of ‘Fuckarias’ will feel too threatened by the barbs which are being levelled at them: “You’re an uninvited clown... You’re in my space, get out of my face”. Those Dancing Days might be able to convincingly beef up their sound, but, endearingly, their cuddlier core is still pretty plain for all to see.

Throughout Daydreams and Nightmares, in fact, there are numerous reminders that the band haven’t entirely ditched discarded the unfettered tweeness that characterised their first record, and there’s still plenty here for sensitive souls to fall for here. ‘I’ll Be Yours’ and ‘Help Me Close My Eyes’, for instance, are appropriately big-hearted, as is the closing track ‘One Day Forever’ (once you get over the bizarre resemblance between its opening few seconds and those of Grizzly Bear’s ‘Two Weeks’, that is). There’s plenty more evidence of the saccharine in the lyrical content too, or even from a cursory glance at the song titles, illustrating that Daydreams and Nightmares is still, at heart, a collection of sweet pop songs. You’ll just have to circumnavigate the extra layers of polish and synths to find it. Presumably the influence of Patrik Berger, latterly Robyn’s producer, has had a big part to play in all this. Hell, it’s not too much of a stretch to imagine one or two of these songs being recorded by Robyn, most notably ‘Help Me Close My Eyes’.

All in all, the progression Those Dancing Days have shown here is pretty damn impressive by anybody’s standards. Whether this will be acknowledged by either our little world, or the wider public, I wouldn’t like to say. What I can say with some safety, though, is that Daydreams and Nightmares is a better record than In Our Space Hero Suits. A fellow DiS scribe at that time may have decried the band’s lack of anything memorable, but that is no longer an accusation which may be levelled at them with any kind of fairness.

7/10

Singles Round-Up - W/C 28/2/11 (Single)

And so, it is that time of the week again. The time when we realise to our massive chagrin that the fleeting ecstasy of the weekend is once again fizzling out and in a matter of hours we will be back out into the grey misery of Monday morning for another week of toil and drudge. But fear not! Because although God might take our weekend every Monday with his left hand, at the same time he gives us new singles with his right hand! And butter my arse, there’s some real crackers this week.

Manic Street Preachers
Postcards From a Young Man

I expend on average about a thousand words a year telling Muso’s Guide readers exactly why Manic Street Preachers are the most important band ever, so let me warn you, you shouldn’t expect balance from me on this subject. Postcards is one of the highlights of the album of the same name, and it’s a glorious throwback to the late 1990s when the band shifted records by the shitload. It’s a swaying, swooning slice of enormous guitar pop, on which James Dean Bradfield sounds more energised than he has in years, in spite of (or perhaps because of) the slightly bitter nostalgic bent of the Wire’s lyrics. It’s quite obviously single of the week, but then I would say that, wouldn’t I?

Elbow
Neat Little Rows

Everyone likes Elbow these days don’t they? They’re like a band of Dave Grohls, a bunch of proper decent pub blokes, who also happen to make brilliant records. Neat Little Rows sounds pretty much exactly how you would expect an Elbow lead single to sound. It doesn’t start off like that, though, because for the first minute you’re a bit concerned that they couldn’t come up with their own song and instead have decided to completely plagiarise Zebra by Beach House, but then the piano starts twinkling and Garvey’s whiskied howl cranks up a gear and you’re back in the safe and comforting heartland of classic Elbow. Neat Little Rows may not be in any way surprising, but its predictability takes nothing away from how nice it is to have Elbow back.

Crocodiles
Mirrors

Sleep Forever was, for me, one of 2010’s finest albums but it never quite seemed to get the universal adulation that it deserved. Exactly why Crocodiles feel the need to release opening track Mirrors now eludes me, but screw it, it’s a brilliant song which calls to mind the best moments of The Secret Machines’ early career. It’s about the pinnacle of Crocodiles’ noise-gaze endeavours, easing its way in gently with a hypnotic, snaking melody ushering in the crunching chords which carry off the rest of the song into a sea of beautiful echoey confusion. Massively enjoyable stuff.

Belle and Sebastian
I Want the World to Stop

In exactly the same way that you know exactly what to expect from an Elbow single, B&S have long since ceased to surprise us when they knock out a lovely single. They are are one of indieland’s great comforting constants, and unless you’re made of granite, their deftness with an upbeat melody should be sufficient to lift you out of a miserable Monday mood. Typically, I Want the World to Stop is a beautifully crafted sliver of chirpy pop, which sees Stuart pondering “sheets of milky winter disorder” and a “grey adorable city by the docks”, and still making the whole thing sound utterly idyllic.

Dutch Uncles
Face In

I’ll be honest, this is my first experience of Dutch Uncles. It’s pretty nice, all told. I won’t pretend not to be a smidge disturbed by the chap in the wedding dress in the video, but hey, his guests seem to be enjoying themselves by the end. The song is another bit of sugary indie pop fun, and although this particular week there’s a danger of it being overshadowed by the titans of the genre, the nagging catchiness of the chorus sees it alright. Face In is a great example the type of pop music that is one of the few things we Englishers do better than anybody else in the world.

Those Dancing Days
Can’t Find Entrance

Well, we might as well finish off with more twee pop since that’s the route the singles schedulers seem to be taking us this week. Those Dancing Days have become consummate pros in the field, and I can give you a sneaky exclusive that their new album is excellent. Can’t Find Entrance is pretty representative of the breakneck speed at which the whole thing proceeds, rattling by in a blur of guitar, organ and little-girl lost vocals. In another week, this might have been single of the week, but, well, I’d already given that to the Manics before I’d even seen what other singles were out.

Efterklang - The Sage - 26/2/11 (Gig)

Sometimes a gig is more than just a band standing on a stage playing songs to a room full of people who like their records. Very occasionally, there are instances where band, venue and crowd come together in a beautiful and poetic unison and it’s suddenly about more than mere music, it’s about an experience in the fullest sense of the word. Tonight, (unexpectedly to me, I must concede), Efterklang provide one of those magical gigs.

Having never previously been inducted into the Efterklang live experience, for all I know this could represent a fairly standard show for them, in which case that would make them they greatest live band in the entire world. I have to admit that I wasn’t the biggest fan of Magic Chairs, which felt a little flat compared to the lunatic majesty of Parades, but the sheer unadulterated enthusiasm of the band’s performance tonight levels the playing field, and the songs from Magic Chairs stand with their heads held high, fit to share a setlist with their forebears. It seems such an obvious point, but for me the key difference between a genuinely enjoyable performance and just a decent gig is the amount of joy the band show in delivering their songs, and with Efterklang their constant grins make it abundantly plain; they are fucking loving being here tonight.

Aside from the enthusiasm with which the band ply their trade, it also helps matters that they can play a bit too. The extended seven-piece version of Efterklang are able to instill a massive orchestral grace to songs which already sounded pretty full to start with. From the understated elegaic groove of Rasmus Stolberg’s bass to Peter Broderick’s furious violin wig-outs, the musicality of the band is extraordinary. The lines between the duties of each individual musician become blurred throughout, with drummer Thomas Husmer also playing the trumpet, keyboardist Heather Woods Broderick moonlighting on the flute, and singer Casper Clausen constantly banging something with a drumstick, whether it is a drum, a cymbal or the Sage’s conveniently placed (and surprisingly tuneful) pipes.

One of the key things which makes tonight’s show so wonderful is the way Efterklang are able to bring into such sharp relief that magical little niche they have created between the pure and unsullied beauty of Sigur Rós and the unfettered joyousness of Arcade Fire. More than once, the show descends into a collective singalong where the divide between band and audience ceases to exist (particularly when one enthusiastic couple hug Casper near the end, and it feels completely and utterly acceptable.) By the time the band reach the culmination of final song ‘The Modern Drift’, all seven of them find themselves stood on the edge of the sage leading us into a cathartic acapella clapping session (the impact of which is no doubt aided by the Sage’s expensive space-age acoustics).

When Efterklang depart the stage for the final time, I don’t think I am the only person left standing on the floor bemused by what I have just witnessed. It genuinely takes me a few minutes to get my breath and my bearings back. Fortunately, the band seem to like the Sage, which bodes well for our prospects of getting them back here in the near future. I have just one littler pointer for Casper to remember for the band’s next visit though: Try and remember you’re in Gateshead, not Newcastle. A lesser band would have been lynched for such a heinous crime...

Vessels - Helioscope (Album)

It’s lovely to have Vessels back. It feels like way too long since they unleashed the post-mathrock colossus of their debut album White Fields and Open Devices upon the British public. Sadly, as it turns out, the ungrateful bastards who inhabit these shores were paying no attention whatsoever, abandoning White Fields to a horribly undeserved fate as an overlooked classic. Alas, providence has given us the chance to right that wrong with the release of Helioscope, because Vessels have, very magnanimously, delivered another stunning record. Much of what characterised White Fields is still present; the lunatic creativity, the staggering musical proficiency, the sudden and delightful swells of volume and swerves of tempo. Hell, parts of Helioscope (‘Recur’ and ‘Art/Choke’ in particular) could have been lifted right off White Fields. But Helioscope also shows that Vessels have developed a new brand of subtlety, something neatly illustrated by the moody beauty of ‘Meatman, Piano Tuner, Prostitute’ or the paranoid brilliance of ‘The Trap’. I’ve always had difficulty imagining a record more ambitious than White Fields and Devices, but if such a thing could be said to exist, then Helioscope is it. Vessels are a fucking marvel, and hopefully they haven’t finished surprising me yet.

5/5

Radiohead - The King of Limbs

The King of Limbs definitely represents new ground for Radiohead in its cohesiveness and its unnerving, stifling mood. For these reasons alone, it is a good album. Problem is, though, all has gone before means that something merely ‘good’ represents failure for Radiohead. I’m six listens in and it’s yet to fully reveal the intangible wonders of a Radiohead record, but fingers crossed it’s just a matter of time.

7/10

Bright Eyes - The People's Key (Album)

The four years since the release of the last Bright Eyes album Cassadaga have found Conor Oberst in a curious sort of critical limbo. For a number of reasons (the most frequently cited one being its propensity to the overblown), Cassadaga proved to be one of the most poorly-received albums of Oberst’s career. For what it’s worth, the criticisms weren’t entirely fair, because, firstly, it contained some of Conor’s best songs in ‘Hot Knives’, ‘Lime Tree’ and ‘Cleanse Song’, and, secondly, it’s hardly as if Digital Ash in a Digital Urn and I’m Wide Awake It’s Morning were particularly low-fi recordings, and history seems to have been kind enough to them.

Ever since Cassadaga, though, every release to which Oberst’s name has been tagged has been greeted warily, almost to the point of apprehension. Sure, there were the odd isolated pockets of praise for the two Mystic Valley Band records and Monsters of Folk album, but utimately neither set critics a-quivering with anything even approaching the fervour inspired by Fevers and Mirrors or Lifted. Again, the less than enthusiastic reception of these records felt harsh, but that’s a debate which we will have to set aside for another day lest we find ourselves two thousand words deep without even broaching the subject at hand. One fact has become plain from all this prevaricating though, and it is that since 2007, any album recorded by Conor Oberst is more likely to inspire trepidation than unequivocal excitement.

Well, there’s a very strong chance that The People’s Key will be remembered as the point when the wind changed again, and suspicion ceased to be a feature of a Conor Oberst pre-release campaign. To put it succinctly, it is a brilliant album. And, crucially, a large part of its brilliance stems from the fact that it is completely unlike any previous Bright Eyes album. There’s no cynical attempt to rehash past glories and there is no experimenting aimlessly for experimenting aimlessly’s sake. All we have here is the sound of Oberst, Mogis, Walcott and co sounding completely fresh, pushing Bright Eyes forward into a new space, with inspired results.

Conor has recently spoken about how he went into the studio to record The People’s Key armed only with the lyrics, preferring to allow the instrumentation develop organically during the recording process with Mike and Nate. This spontaneity has resulted in an album which is bristling with vitality, and which, in an entirely different way to Cassadaga, boasts a luxuriously full-sounding cast of instrumentation. The songs are adorned with any number of new and unexpected little flourishes, like the rattle and clamour that heralds the beginning of ‘Jejune Stars’, the strange chugging guitar sound which carries ‘Haile Selassie’ along or the stuttering halt which concludes ‘A Machine Spiritual’, all of which combine to make The People’s Key a living, breathing thing. Oberst has been at pains to suggest that it is a ‘rocking’ album, and there’s no denying that it is, but it’s also utterly beyond the constraints that are implied by that description; it is forward-thinking and progressive too.

There are some things about The People’s Key, though, that are comfortingly familiar. For starters, it wouldn’t feel like a proper Bright Eyes album without a meandering spoken word intro, supplied this time by Refried Ice Cream’s Denny Brewer, who reappears on a few more occasions throughout the record to provide a dignified gravitas akin to the last Gil Scott-Heron album. At first it’s difficult to reconcile his grizzled, vaguely existential monologues to a Bright Eyes recording, but the more the album sinks in, the more integral they begin to feel to the whole tapestry. When you detach yourself from the engulfing embrace of the record (easier said than done, by the way), the resigned philosophy of Brewer’s contributions is actually a perfectly logical counterpart to Oberst’s ruminations on humanity and the universe at large, which are becoming increasingly outward-looking as he gets older.

As the album reaches it’s conclusion, we see two more flashes of ‘old’ Bright Eyes, the first being the aching piano-led ‘The Ladder Song’, which is as beautiful as any of Oberst’s greatest ballads. Aside from showing that he can still gently crush you with the sadness of his voice, ‘The Ladder Song’ also provides encouragement that even in the midst of the swollen sea of instrumentation, he still knows when to keep things minimal. The other glimpse of the Bright Eyes of bygone years comes in the form of the meditative closing song ‘One For You, One For Me’, which bobs along gently, in the process discreetly creating the same sense of low-key stateliness which made Lifted such a stunning album.

The final word on The People’s Key is left to Brewer, allowing him to sign off what he started with a neat symmetry, as he leaves us with a sermon on the importance of forgiveness, mercy and the importance of moving on. Whether the finality of his words will prove to a prophetic final chapter in the Bright Eyes story is, for now unclear, because Conor is about as reliable as James Murphy when it comes to giving definitive answers on the future of his band (and long may he keep us guessing). Either way, The People’s Key is fit to stand toe to toe with any record that will be released in 2011, and serves as a timely reminder of the distinction between form and class.

Medium 21 - Killings From the Dial (Album)

Some time around 2003, Fierce Panda and Island got their heads together to form Temptation Records. You’d be forgiven for having difficulty in recalling this, because by the time we rung in 2004, Temptation was already lost to the history books. However, before it shuffled meekly off into the good night, it was able to create at least some kind of a legacy in the form of a clutch of singles and an album each from The Rain Band and Medium 21. I won’t pretend to have ever heard a note from the former, but the latter ended up spending much of the last decade as unexpectedly dogged companions in my travels along life’s dusty highways (well, Gateshead’s potholed highways to be precise).

The band’s arrival into my life came under unusual circumstances, with an envelope (addressed to me) containing promo posters, flyers and a promo copy of the ‘By My Side’ single dropping completely unheralded one morning onto the doormat of my second year Uni dwelling. To this day, I have absolutely no idea to whom I had given my name and address in order to warrant such a despatch, but my studently love of any kind of freebie as well as my pleasant surprise at the music contained on the disc outweighed any bemusement at the presumptuousness of whomever had sent it. (Who knows, if The Rain Band had been similarly brazen, you could very possibly be reading their eulogy right now, rather than that of their erstwhile labelmates).

Aside from a fleeting snatch of support from Mark and Lard, the songs from Killings From the Dial received practically no airplay (Perhaps I should have done a little more with those flyers than just giving a handful to each of my three flatmates). While this, of course, is true of the majority of albums, most aren’t able to straddle the fine line between musical richness and radio crossover potential quite as assuredly as Killings From the Dial did. ‘Black and White Summer’ and ‘Albert Ross’ in particular possessed a panoramic sense of wistfulness which could have quite easily made them genuinely big singles. In the end, they wouldn’t get the chance to achieve such lofty heights, because ‘By My Side’, only the second single from the album, would prove to be Medium 21’s last release.

Perhaps the only thing which might have limited any potential mainstream appeal would have been singer Jon Clough’s voice, a peculiarly throaty drawl which could have polarised sections of the wider record-buying public. For me, though, he’s the perfect example of the (enormously cliched, but still accurate) premise that you needn’t be a great singer to be a great singer. His vocals were always an interesting counterpoint to Medium 21’s more melodic moments (the likes of ‘The Plight of Losing Out’ and ‘Poisoned Postcards’) and they added real character and a genuine sense of urgency to the more agitated sections of the album like ‘Acting Like a Mirror’ and ‘Daybreak vs Pride’.

One of the most impressive things about Killings From the Dial, and the thing which would elevate it above most of its more successful contemporaries was the way the band were able to so convincingly blend gorgeous sun-dappled acoustic pop, off-kilter wanderings and occasional bursts of paranoid darkness. Their skill in making the sometimes disparate elements of the record sit so comfortably together, sometimes even in the same song (see ‘Catalyst R.U.N.’), resulted in an album of enviable depth and intriguing complexity.

Ultimately, Medium 21 would never recover from the demise of Temptation, and in spite of a number of attempts on Clough and co’s part to rekindle the band in various guises, Killings From the Dial would prove to be the only album they would ever produce. It’s an enormous shame that the band never got to stretch their legs properly and attempt to build on their debut, because even though you wouldn’t envy them the task of following it up, you get the impression that the creative range they possessed could have taken them to untold places. If nothing else though, at least their fleeting tenure left us with a more fulfilling record than most bands can muster in a full career, and in these grim and desperate times, that’s something for which we should be grateful.

The Joy Formidable - The Big Roar (Album)

I have been waiting for The Joy Formidable’s debut album for about three years. Well, actually, that isn’t strictly accurate. As it turns out, I’ve been waiting for around half of The Joy Formidable’s debut album for about three years. You see, a sizeable proportion of The Big Roar’s songs have been kicking around for a good while now, with four of them reappearing after originally featuring on mini-album A Balloon Called Moaning a couple of years ago. But hey, let’s not get too precious about the band’s decision to recycle old work, because I guess the usual purpose of a debut album is to represent a compilation of an artist’s best work from their inception to the record’s production. A more relevant query is just exactly why it has taken so long for the album to arrive when The Joy Formidable have been featuring on ‘Ones to Watch’ lists since 2008.

For the most part (and I’m genuinely pleased to say this, having developed a growing soft spot for the band with each single release that has gone by), The Big Roar has been worth the wait. It is an impressive showcase of the twin cores of The Joy Formidable’s sound, blending urgent ballsy rock-outs with dreamy grunge blissfests. This is illustrated very neatly indeed by the opening one-two of ‘The Everchanging Spectrum of a Lie’ and ‘The Magnifying Glass’, with the former showering us in wave after wave of ecstatic guitar fuzz, and the latter pulling off a wonderful Nirvana-esque directness of the kind that Feeder used to think they were good at.

One of The Joy Formidable’s strongest assets has always been frontwoman Ritzy Bryan’s voice. It’s something which they have utilised to its fullest potential here, safe in the knowledge that it is strong enough to hold out even under the pressure of the heaviest squall of guitars they can muster. Her seductive, throaty (and exceedingly Welsh) vocals work interact beautifully with the noisiness, never more than on ‘A Heavy Abacus’ or ‘Cradle’. Indeed, so beguiling can Ritzy’s vocals be that it’s slightly jarring when she briefly secedes control of the mic to bassist Rhydian Daffydd on ‘Llaw=Wall’. He’s perfectly capable, and his cameo perhaps offers a little breathing space from Ritzy’s voice, but it’s kind of like when James Hanna sings on Asobi Seksu songs, they just don’t sound like quite the same band.

The Big Roar may not be perfect (Whirring wanders away into guitar-mashing rambling for about two minutes longer than it has to, and Maruyama isn’t entirely necessary), but there’s a hell of a lot about it to admire. There’s little indication that the songs have been written across of period in excess of three years, because the oldies sit perfectly comfortably alongside the newer songs, with the big positive of the lengthy gestation period being that it allows the band to display more progression than is usually possible in the span of one record. As time has gone on, they have sharply honed their sound, developing it into something which not many bands are doing right now, (certainly not this well anyway). Yes, their shoegaze/grunge influences are displayed fairly nakedly, but what they are doing is still entirely their own. However, probably the most impressive thing the band have managed with The Big Roar is to have struck up a convincing blend of proper arse-kicking rock and something which is enriching and engaging. It’s a really strong debut album which shows room to grow, and give us good cause to be excited about what the future holds for The Joy Formidable.

Conquering Animal Sound - Kammerspiel (Album)

I have long been of the opinion (and I suspect that I’m far from alone on these pages in thinking this) that the best record labels are those which are able to bring together bands with some kind of aesthetic similarity. Certainly the records released by my favourite labels over the years have, on the whole, tended to have a common thread which distinguishes them instantly as a product of their particular imprint. In recent years, one such label to have emerged to fit in with this particular penchant has been Leeds’ Gizeh Records, home to the likes of Glissando, Sleepingdog and Fieldhead. When a Gizeh release lands on your doormat you know that you’re reasonably likely to encounter something chilly and unearthly, but also something which more often than not will be a beautiful and enriching piece of work.

And so it is with Glasgow-based duo Anneke Kampman and James Scott who comprise Conquering Animal Sound. Their debut album Kammerspiel is a ghostly collection of minimalistic beats, loops and fragile ambience, overlaid with Kampman’s beatifully frail vocal. Its delicateness and woozy air mean that it is a record which is best absorbed late at night, preferably at the point last thing when your brain is at its sleepiest. In this context it becomes almost lullaby-esque, with Kampman’s soft burr tailor-made for soothing away the mental aches of the daily cut and thrust

Too often records made up of minimal components are misinterpreted as being gloomy, but this is unlikely to be a fate which befalls Kammerspiel, given the sunlit glow which bathes its sounds. Take opening song ‘Maschines’ for example, as it begins with a twinkling melody and builds gently like the breaking of the day, culminating in Kampman softly cooing “You are home”. As the album progresses, you come to realise that the template of ‘Maschines’ is in fact the blueprint for much of Conquering Animal Sound’s work. Frequently their songs begin in timorous fashion, gradually layering more and more sounds on top as they build. Let’s be clear though, this isn’t to say that Kammerspiel is in any way guilty of being formulaic, because the band display a boundless creativity with the finer details throughout, a little snippet of tape hiss here, a dissonant hint of cello or a snatch of thickly-distorted vocal sample there, meaning you’re never really fully aware of where they’re taking you at any point.

In spite of its predilection for abstract noise, Kammerspiel is still at heart an album of songs and melodies which frequently follows the verse/chorus structure. Clearly, Conquering Animal Sound are more than just aimless experimentalists, because throughout there is a strong feeling that while you might not know what they are going to do next, they most certainly do. Probably the most naked song on the album is final track ‘Ira’, which dispenses with much of the effects, leaving the beauty and the melody of the song unabashed. It’s an interesting taster of what Conquering Animal Sound might be like were they a little more conventional, and while ‘Ira’ might be sufficiently pretty to stand on its own two feet, the contrast between it and much of the rest of the album illustrates the importance of the flourishes of the noises and samples.

With Kammerspiel, Conquering Animal Sound have simultaneously managed to capture on record the full depth of their creativity and imagination, as well as the inherent beauty of their sound. It is a wonderful piece of work which deseves to be cherished, and gives us far more than we might reasonably expect from anyone’s debut album.

9/10

Band of Horses - Newcastle O2 Academy 26/01/2011 (Gig)

When the fuck did Band of Horses became big enough to be packing out the Academy’s main room? I’d suggest it might be something to do with Twilight, but the ratio of males to females here tonight gives lie to that little theory. Whatever it was that brought about their popularity, the band, making their return to the live arena after a few months off the road, are for the most part in awesome form tonight. They emphatically cast aside the limpness that has latterly started to creep into their recorded output, playing with a pleasantly surprising vitality and transforming their sun-dappled Americana into bona fide arena-razing anthems, accompanying the whole thing with some beautiful backdrops (Seriously, why don’t more bands make an effort with the visual side of their shows?) Given the highs of the set, it's a shame that there are odd occasions when it can sag, which may have something to do with the general flatness of the possibly-vampire-enhanced crowd. Thankfully though, even this sorry bunch come to life during The Funeral and Is There a Ghost?, two songs which perfectly encapsulate all that is good about Band of Horses’ gorgeously warm songcraft.

Hannah Peel - The Broken Wave (Album)

The route Hannah Peel has taken on the way to her day job as a solo recording artist has been quite a circuitous one, taking in various projects both musical and otherwise, but the arrival of her debut record finds her cast into an unenviably competitive scene replete with artists both male and female making similarly quirky folk music. In such a saturated market, particularly one encompassing so much ethereality, it can be difficult for an artist to separate themselves from their contemporaries or break free from the cliches of what folk music represents.

Unquestionably, Peel’s work comes more from Newsom’s end of the scale than Marling’s, carrying with it more than a hint of the otherworldly which stems in part from the ghostly, frail quality of her voice, which at times can be spellbinding here. It’s clearly one of her strongest assets, but it’s nice just how sparingly she exercises it, keeping it for the most part reined in rather than letting it overshadow the songcraft, an economy which is truly crucial in the album’s success. Because there is little doubt here, The Broken Wave is a hugely impressive piece of work, which showcases Peel’s adroitness with a melody quite beautifully, with the simple, elegant swells of ‘You Call This Your Home’ and ‘Song For the Sea’ being wonderful cases in point.

Peel’s previous musical meanderings with the likes of The Unthanks and Tunng have proved to be beneficial in the construction of The Broken Wave, because it has meant that she has been able to call on an impressive cast of collaborators, including the latter’s Mike Lindsay who is responsible for a strong production which is equal parts clean and off kilter. Also present is Nitin Sawhney who lends a hand composing the beautiful strings on ‘Don’t Kiss the Broken One’ and ‘Solitude’, resulting in two of the album’s most bewitching moments.

Amid the prettiness of the music, there is a profusion of melancholy in Peel’s stories of love, loss and longing, but in spite of the tone, you can’t help but feel ultimately comforted by the songs because there is such warmth present in the delivery and the music which accompanies it, particularly on those occasions such as ‘Unwound’ or tradition Irish folk song ‘Cailin Deas Cruite Na Mbo’ when she revisits an old music box which was used in much of her earlier work. It’s genuinely surprising to learn that the album was recorded in a mere three weeks, because The Broken Wave is certainly not an album which sounds like it was hurriedly assembled. Indeed, one of its greatest triumphs is how full, and beautifully put together the whole thing sounds.

The release of The Broken Wave heralds the arrival of a genuine creative force in British folk music, and one of the scariest things about it is that you get the impression that Peel hasn’t really even got going fully yet. The record inspires a feeling that as she grows in confidence and experience she will get even better, which is quite a prospect.

8/10

Mogwai - Hardcore Will Never Die, But You Will (Album)

Due to their status as demi-Gods of beard-caressing experimentalism, any new music recorded by Mogwai will inevitably be accompanied by gallons of hyperbolic messageboard bullshit both positive and negative which, if you aren’t careful, could completely distort your perceptions of the music before you even hear a note. Hardcore Will Never Die... has inevitably continued this grim trend, prompting all manner of bitter bollocks about the band having been shit for ten years. Stepping away from the vicious context for a moment, the record is possibly their most direct effort yet, and one of their most upbeat too. Indeed, the propensity for straight-up rock instrumentals like Death Rays and San Pedro comes as a slight surprise after the misleadingly murky pre-release download of Rano Pano. There’s unmistakably less introspection here than normal, with the gorgeous Letters to the Metro representing the only moment where the album skulks into its shell, and even the quiet is shortlived, as the band immediately resume their mission to live out their alt-rock fantasies. It’s all pretty exhilarating stuff, and just because their pant-destroyingly brilliant previous work might still shade it, that doesn’t mean you should believe the naysayers that Mogwai are dead as a creative force.

4/5

Yuck - Tips for 2011

My bit from Muso's Guide's Tips for 2011 article:

Yuck spent much of 2010 tantalising the blogosphere, gradually drizzling songs out on their own blog, in the process slowly whipping fuzz-rock aficionados like me into an ever-intensifying tizzy about how flipping brilliant they are. Then, over the summer, in a move seemingly designed exclusively to peeve anybody with a computer keyboard, they temporarily changed their name to Yu(c)k, and put a brilliant, if slightly baffling, EP of piano-led slow-burners. Not a predictable band, this lot, then...

Nobody is pretending that the brand of distorted guitar pop which constitutes Yuck’s day job is particularly new, but in the same way as we saw with The Pains of Being Pure at Heart two years ago, their music is so captivating that suddenly originality seems a bit over-rated. With songs as strong as ‘Georgia’, and live shows as gloriously scuzzy as Yuck’s are, well, that’s enough, and it really doesn’t matter just how nakedly they display their influences. Having landed a spot in the BBC Sound of 2011 (but please don’t hold that against them), and with their debut album due later in the year, 2011 is pretty much Yuck’s to do with as they see fit.

Kubichek - Not Enough Night (Album)

It’s staggering how quick and easy the Internet has made our access to an utter cavalcade of bands. Obviously this is a bit of a double-edged sword, because while we are now discovering artists we might not necessarily have had access to in years gone by, there is a very real danger that music eventually becomes something we stuff gluttonously and heedlessly into our ears simply because there are three other albums queued in our eMusic download manager which also need listening to this afternoon. If we’re consuming music like this, it is an unavoidable and regrettable side effect that innumerable great bands and albums will slip off the radar, which is pretty depressing if you stop to think about it.

Now, obviously, I’m not suggesting that lost classics are a new phenomenon, but the current industry model has shown us that no matter how wonderful the Internet revolution has been for music, there will always be great records which will be overlooked, it’s just that there are now loads more of them tantalisingly sat at the end of our fingertips. All of which brings me (reasonably) neatly on to our new feature, in which we will regularly focus on exactly that sort of album, a record which is dear to our hearts but for whatever reason isn’t as well known as we feel it ought to be.

If it wasn’t for a happy accident of geography which meant that Kubichek just happened to hail from the same part of England as me, there’s every chance that I might still be completely oblivious to Not Enough Night, and my life would be a tiny bit worse as a result. The band had been mainstays of the Newcastle scene for a good few years, having dissolved their previous incarnation and waded their way through gallons of record label shite before their debut album finally emerged in 2007, sounding far sharper and fresher than it had any right to given the slog they had endured to just get the thing made. Sadly Not Enough Night would prove to be Kubichek’s only album, a tantalising case of what might have been, but, God, what a beautiful corpse to leave.

The most enriching thing about Not Enough Night is the unrelenting pace at which the whole thing is delivered. For the majority of its forty or so minutes, the album is lived out at breakneck speed with both barrels aimed at pretty much everyone, from lairy Bigg Market meatheads (‘Taxi’) to “poetic friends” who “just wanna get their ends away” (‘Stutter’). Then you have ‘Hometown Strategies’ in which some poor small-towner is indignantly berated about being “too clever by half and too stupid to notice”. And don’t even get me started on the near-perfect headrush of album closer ‘Just Shut it Down’...

In less skilled hands the seemingly endless stream of spiky guitars and universal spitefulness could quite conceivably become tiresome, but there’s never really a danger of this occurring with Not Enough Night, simply because the sheer unadulterated energy it transmits is just so fucking primal that you can’t really stop yourself wanting to jump around your room shouting, or slam your foot as hard as you can on the accelerator.

While Not Enough Night’s primary function is unquestionably served as an arse-kicking rock record, there’s another interesting element to the album too, a more wide-eyed sense of feeling which only really rears its head on the odd occasions when singer Alan McDonald drops his snarl and the band gets lost in a gorgeous sea of instrumental bliss as it does on ‘Hope is Impossible’ and ‘Start as We Meant To’. This nod to the band’s very earliest recordings means that Not Enough Night appeals not only to the feet and loins but to the heart and head too. This extra dimension is a big factor in the album’s enduring appeal, to the point that it still finds as regular a home on my stereo as it did three and a bit years ago.