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.