The ID, Relentless Garage, Highbury, 16th March 2012

It’s the night before St. Patrick’s Day and I’m upstairs at the Relentless Garage, Highbury, to see little-touted band The ID. I’m not sure what to expect, so when they open up the set with a sonic kick to the head that sounds like a night out for the Sex Pistols, the Killers and pre-Joshua Tree U2 I quickly get pretty excited. Guitarist Kevin’s ambient plucked-delayed sounds complement the wall-of-sound distorted colours that he also sculpts for contrast. Drummer Roddy is a faultless powerhouse slamming the groove home with Sean, whose epic, pounding bass riffs could alone fill the venue. A photographer complained to me afterwards that she couldn’t get a decent shot of Sean because he wouldn’t stand still – yeah, seriously dude, you need to work on that…

Competent pop-punk power trios are a dime a dozen at the moment, but these guys have a secret weapon: vocally a cross between Bono and Jeff Buckley – dressed like Pelle Almqvist and with Mick Hucknall’s hair – the surprise in this band is singer Leo. He’s fantastic! His full vocal cries over the top of the band, intensifying the rush that they thrust on the captive crowd. All of the band give 100%. And in case you were wondering, despite occupying a similar age bracket and niche in the market, the ID shit on the Vaccines, leaving their sorry major-label peers whining pathetically in the corner. The ID kick ass.

Enter Shikari, 17th January 2012

Enter Shikari’s new album, A Flash Flood of Colour, is excellent – great lyrics, massive production, and the energy of the band comes across like an out-of-control freight-train hurtling towards a nuclear facility in a Bond movie. So I’m pretty hyped about going to see them live – St. Albans’ finest metal/dub-step/hip-hop band – the perfect antidote to my recent long hours of book editing. I look forward to being pummelled by the riffs-of-Metallica-meets-British-Immortal-Technique in a small local venue on a Tuesday. Bring it on!

But the gig is crap.

I arrive at Kingston Hippodrome after a 90-minute schlep from work to find that the ticket I’d paid for last week is not there; I have to buy another, but am not granted a receipt. The gig is billed to finish at 11, so I am surprised to find as I enter the hall that the band is in full flow at only 9.15 – although if they really do plan on playing for 2 hours, all the better! The sound is a bit thin as I wander around trying to find a spot (I’m wearing my glasses, so don’t much fancy the mosh-pit, and anyway, the audience members all look about half my age and I would just feel ridiculous). I settle for a pitch behind the pit, out of harm’s way, nice and close to the sound desk, but the band still sounds dreadful. I can’t hear the snare drum, so everything is rootless and wishy-washy. A few songs in I realise it’s not the sound, but the band – they’re not playing well at all. Yes, they are shouting angrily in the faux, white, middle-class cross-with-the-world way I expected, and they engage the mosh-pit in some reciprocal chanting. But with all the between-songs, self-congratulatory school-boy banter about how well they’re doing these days, they grow increasingly irritating. And with each tune the drummer gets sloppier – all that great, powerful, butt-kicking riffery on the album now sounds limp and half-arsed. It’s like the band is playing a mate’s 16th birthday party and they’re too high on the sugar in their drinks to pay attention to the music. Pissed off, I head for the bar. But what the hell?! The bar is closed!! Unless I want lemonade – which I absolutely do not. If the band are going to be that mediocre, there’s no way I can stand there stone-cold sober, letting Enter Shikari’s apathy and arrogance ruin any more of my soiled Tuesday. I head for home, stopping en route for a consolatory pint in a quiet pub in Richmond. A rubbish night. Thanks, guys.

Enter Shikari: sort it out.

Saint Saviour, 21st December 2011

It’s 21st December, Greek Street, with Soho’s Christmas spirit in full swing. The gig is at the Chapel of St. Barnabus, doubling for one night only as the Church of Saint Saviour – AKA Becky Jones – who has something of a cult following. She’s cool and quirky, has a phenomenal voice, a penchant for the odd, and a natural, irresistible style that’s all hers (think Alison Goldfrapp and Björk, but more chic). The small-but-perfectly-formed 18th-century stone chapel is warmly lit with candles, the band are set up ready to play in the centre, and the audience take our seats on cushions arranged behind pillars in the four corners, the performers all but hidden from view. We wait, talking eagerly in hushed tones. Saint Saviour sits down to play piano and says she hopes we like the mystery of the arrangement. The music begins with ‘Carol of the Bells’, sung a-capella in four-parts, leaving the audience tingling with delight. For the next 45 minutes, Saint Saviour’s ethereal vocals float around the church interior, supported sympathetically by singers Rachael Travers and Lauren Johnson. The ensemble runs through a delectable Christmas play-list that includes ‘A Child is Born’, ‘Blue Christmas’, ‘O Holy Night’ and ‘Silent Night’, before playing a selection of Saint Saviour originals including ‘Red Sun’, ‘Reasons’, ‘Fallen Trees’, ‘Some Things Change’ and the crowd-pleasing ‘Liberty’. Each song ends too soon and the chapel’s natural reverb fades after each tune into silence, before the musicians again transport us with alacrity to another sphere. The band is a wonderful Yuletide blend of piano, percussion, two winds and harp – the latter played by Jharda Walker who at one point accompanies herself for a solo vocal rendition of ‘Santa Baby’ which brings a smile to every face. This is a very special event. It is not the full-scale Saint Saviour electronica extravaganza, but is all the more delightful for its boutique charm. We are on musical hallowed ground. Magic.

The 286: A Victory for Battalion 286

This EP is exciting, accessible, and very cool. The opening track, ‘Suite: Beyond the World’ has an intro as worthy of Foxtrot-era Genesis as the title suggests. As for the rest of the song, if the Beatles, Nashville Pussy, Neil Young and Pink Floyd jammed Ziggy Stardust covers together they’d probably sound just like this. Classic rock riffs meet sweet vocal harmonies in something that does what wheat beer might do if it were a mastering pre-set; it all sounds a bit fuzzy and cloudy, but is somehow all the more satisfying and unexpectedly refreshing for it. Everything and nothing is front-and-centre – drums, bass, guitar, ‘cello, violin, vocals, and Tom Waits’ piano.

The second song ‘Sophie Sands’ is something that John Lennon might have recorded if he’d lived to hear Ben Folds. The boogie section at the end is late-era Zeppelin throw-away fun, leading into the catchy ‘Hello’ which is early Beatles all over, right down to the momentum of the bass guitar. The drummer hits things much harder than Ringo, though, and it sounds like the strings were muted and recorded in a large, tiled bathroom, Chess-Records-style. Love it. ‘Battalion 286: Monmouth Minuet’ is the most intriguing and original cut here – the vocalist’s plaintive tones draw you in, underscored by the insistent melodrama of the bowed strings. An odd but entirely welcome, extended quasi-Egyptian folk interlude takes the place of a regular middle 8, before the band reprises the chorus. The final offering is an alternative mix of ‘Sophie Sands’, stripped back to the nakedness of piano and vocals until the rest of the band rejoins with a more lo-fi ambience for this pass at the tune. Attractive in its simplicity, this is the song where the band seems to sound most distinctly like itself.

Lyrically this album does nothing that hasn’t been done before, and I’m still not sure what the whole thing is actually about – the American civil war battle scene artwork remains confusing. However, I love the madness and Mersey-glam-prog homage that is the main flavour here. It’s unique, and the band is right: this EP is a Victory for Battalion 286.

Mount Carmel, 22nd July 2011

The Machine Shop in Flint, Michigan. There are Harley-Davidsons and a trailer park outside, and on the inside is a kind of air-conditioned faux-trashiness with an undertone of mean that might be real. Beer is cheap, but then it’s also not very good. I drink 2 pints of Badass, not realizing that it is Kid Rock’s brand. Is this cool? I dunno. There is a bar-tender-cum-waitress walking around in sneakers, panties, a vest, tattoos and a lop-sided Mohawk. About half the male members of the audience are heavy, probably quite strong, and wearing baseball caps backwards. The headlining band tonight will be stoner rock kings The Sword, and I assume that their support will be some third-rate metal band that only sounds aggressive when you look the other way. I could not be more wrong.

Mount Carmel turn out to be the best blues-rock band I have ever seen. They are the quintessence of the power trio, taking it right back to Cream and the Jimi Hendrix Experience. These guys really play. There is lead guitar, lead bass, and lead drums. The guitarist/singer has a decent voice. His Telecaster cuts like an aggravated Jimmy Vaughn gifted the dexterity of Gary Moore, with a lazy-looseness to his licks right out of the Jimmy Page book of style. The bassist spends most of the set exploring the middle of the neck, John Paul Jones-fashion, propelling the blues juggernaut home with agility; he is a mellifluous glue, and the platform for the riser-less drummer sitting centre-stage channelling Ginger Baker, Mitch Mitchell, John Bonham and Michael Shrieve all at once. This is one hell of a gig. An audience member yells ‘you are the best band ever’. Maybe.

Rough Ramblers, Ronnie Scott’s, 9th July 2011

The three serious, unemotional men faced one another uncertainly in a tight triangle – insular, and disconnected from the audience. Simon Golding (guitar) mumbled about ‘me’ and ‘my’ (never ‘our’) music, and insisted on wiping himself thoroughly with a towel after every song like he was playing an arena rock show. Julian Jackson marked time on bass, head in chart, and Simon Pearson on drums was distinctly nondescript, except for over-thin crash cymbals that sounded like he was breaking them every time he so much as tapped one. ‘Lots of notes but no music’: this refrain recurred in my head over and over, although I tried not to let it – it’s pretty rude. But there it was. One very earnest and studied guitarist (with chorus pedal), leading his passenger bassist and drummer through a selection of medium-tempo identikit funk tunes with all the charisma of the matched grey suits they were wearing. Each cut had a meandering head played by Golding, with lacklustre accompaniment from the two hired guns who, I’m sure, didn’t know the tunes well. The guitar solos became so predictable by the fourth song that I was getting annoyed: guitar plays semiquaver for a chorus; a second chorus of semiquavers, louder; third chorus is sweep-picking and bodily swaying; fourth chorus, quaver six-string strumming, to fade before restating head. Yawn. If Metheny or Frisell had played these songs, it might have been a great gig – passion and endless variety from the one, bluesy, soulful angularity from the other. But alas, it was just boring. Maybe it’s unkind to compare Rough Ramblers to modern jazz all-stars, but I don’t think so – this was Ronnie Scott’s. Quite the disappointment.

Taylor Swift, Heinz Field, Pittsburgh, 18th June 2011

I am late as I make my way to Pittsburgh’s Heinz Field to join 52000 other Taylor Swift fans. I rush through a legion of cowboy-booted, denim-shorted, blonde-curled tweens, and there is a high-pitched roar from inside the stadium. The first song kicks in and I’m still wrangling with the ticket guy over a pink entry-bracelet (can you believe they didn’t have enough?). As I enter the temple of Taylor, the collective euphoria is palpable and makes me grin.

The show is pretty great. It’s a series of meticulously staged pop videos, replete with dancers and trapeze artists. Swift is picture-perfect throughout on the big screens that flank the stage, and never once steps out of character. She smiles a lot, mostly with her eyes. She plays a little banjo, some grand piano, and a collection of guitars, the last of these being insanely sparkly. She has a new outfit for almost every song, disappearing behind or under the scenery between numbers to re-emerge powdered and refreshed. Her facial expressions and demeanour are deployed with accuracy – the doe-eyes, the measured gratitude and humility (‘thank you so much, thank you… so… much’): this is (was) her home state, after all. The band, too, remain carefully crafted – ‘punky’ guitarist, ‘folksy’ fiddler (and hidden drummer).

Aspects of the show seem overly contrived, and I find myself laughing at the earnestness with which Swift and co repeatedly strike massive pretend bells in melodramatic ‘Haunted’. In the finale, ‘Love Story’, she is floated out across the venue in a balcony-basket and it’s weird how the crowd goes nuts since it seems rather banal compared to stand-out vocal and ensemble moments such as ‘Dear John’ and ‘Better Than Revenge’, which are played with utter conviction. The highlight is when Swift runs from the stage, hugging and high-five-ing fans, to a raised platform mid-stadium where she sits on a bench under a purple-lit tree, revolving slowly and accompanying herself sensitively on guitar to ‘Last Kiss’, ‘Fifteen’ and ‘Fearless’.

On the drive to my Youngstown motel I listen to one-and-a-half Taylor Swift albums with fresh ears and a renewed sense of joy.

Wisaal, Michigan State University, 20th June 2011

Cajon, hand drums and percussion; double bass; oud; clarinet; acoustic guitar. Only the subtle oud is amplified. Five young men – mostly undergraduate students at MSU – nimbly deliver an engaging fifty-minute set of tunes drawn from and deftly fusing an eclectic mix of styles. These sounds born of deeply shared musical values caress the listener’s ear with an ethereal blend of beautifully arranged traditional pieces and hand-crafted originals. The clarinettist nimbly displays his dexterity and his klezmer heritage, while the oudist touches the soul with exotic, mellifluous and throaty strains, complemented by the feather-lightness of the tiny folk guitar. The bass and percussion provide the rock, the gently undulating foundation. Wisaal cunningly and passionately combine Lebanese, American folk, Jewish and jazz musics with alacrity. Their brand of fusion is not contrived, but convivial and contagious. The setting of the wooden-walled Auditorium in the Kellogg Convention Center suits them, for theirs is a natural, earthy and human music. Gladly, tonight’s audience is receptive, and open to the magic.

Visit http://www.wisaalmusic.com/ 

Chinese Haircut, 30th May 2011

Bar Under Solo, Inverness Street, Camden. The audience of 30-odd musicians and significant others has average age also of around 30. The vibe is friendly, the atmosphere anticipatory. The place is silently buzzing and no one quite manages to hide their excitement about what is going to happen. We have turned up to be wowed by some awesome musicians. The guys in the band are hot players, and the gig will be fantastic. On the menu is a spicy meal of fusion. The plan is pure self-indulgence, for musicians and audience. A girl positions the video camera and moves a sofa to accommodate it. She is relaxed, assured, as are the band when they shuffle on stage with all the panache and charisma of a West–End pit band trying to avoid being noticed. Three of the quartet are in tired-casual theatre blacks, with the drummer boldly sporting a grey t-shirt.

Then it begins. Chinese Haircut calmly and efficiently – yet with tangible energy – despatch two blistering Mahavishnu Orchestra covers. This sets the tone, the audience’s appetite whetted, along with the band’s. Throughout the gig everyone’s playing is faultless, but never sterile. The sheer, unrelenting energy of the rhythm section is electrifying – while they occasionally and tantalisingly simmer, mostly they burn with a fire that Cobham and Laird knew well: that Inner Mounting Flame. Louie Palmer is captivating on drums, and amazingly never seems to break a sweat, despite playing like a hurricane. Jon Harvey on bass maybe just wins the competition for the most complicated pedal-board, although Tommy Emmerton on guitar is a close second. Both strings-smiths wrote complex tunes to which the group give life tonight. The ensemble’s groove is tight and dynamic; the solos come from, and go in, all directions. Emmerton, especially, takes notes, licks and phrases on new wild journeys at every opportunity, and Rob Barron on keys twist and hurls improvised melodies across the keyboard with abandon.

Miles Davis birthed this style of music, and the exploratory spirit that he ignited and fostered is present tonight. This under-stated, under-sold band show us why it’s worth pursuing your art and craft to the highest level – good music like this is inherently wonderful.  The audience members leave the gig feeling better about themselves and the world. I called Emmerton after the show, and he self-deprecatingly said he thought the set needed some work. I think, instead, that the band deserves some work – all the work it can get.

Han Bennink, Vortex Club

The mad Dutch drummer. I’d seen him some years before, and he was clearly nuts – playing a collapsing drum kit with alternating feet (replete with army boots) on the snare drum, and sometimes a drum kit made of cheese. The first part of the Vortex gig had Bennink team up on snare drum with Terry Day in a drum duet. This was fun, if unspectacular. The second set was a different ball game entirely. This was the Bennick Trio, with Simon Toldam on piano and Joachim Badenhorst on winds. Bennick played ‘just’ snare drum, although this does no justice to the man’s incredible array of skill, ideas, and dynamics – he achieved extremes of loud and quiet that I’d thought impossible. For a while he played with green garden sticks – pointing them elfishly at the audience and grinning insanely; he played swing time, no time, frenetically, peacefully, with absolute abandon and complete control. He played the venue’s walls, tables, chairs, and his own mouth. The trio were energetic and noisy as hell – there was no escaping their rage. But the last tune was a distillation of beauty, purveying a purity and intensity that left us all stunned.

Paul Rodgers, Royal Albert Hall

I saw Paul Rodgers the other night at the Royal Albert Hall in London. He was immense. The man can really, really sing! Joe Elliott was on before with the Down n Outz - great band, but seriously, his voice was bad, especially when he failed repeatedly to hit most of the notes in tune. Admirably distracting shoes, though, and a hard-working drummer almost compensated for his shortcomings.

The night began with a very mediocre set from Rodgers' daughter, Jasmine. Her voice was okay, her guitar  playing limited (but not limiting), and her songs pretty shoddy. I mean, the lyrical content was juvenile at worst and predictably simplistic at best. Paul Rodgers sounded all the more awesome because of his support acts.

He came on to thunderous applause and launched into several Free and Bad Company classics. By the second song, Wishing Well, he and the band had hit their stride; and they never left it once. With Jason Bonham on drums, the groove never once faltered, as he channelled the spirits of both his father and Ian Paice as a second-generation God Of Rock. The guitarist, whose name escapes me, was phenomenal, ripping up the solos at every chance and pounding out the riffs and changes flawlessly all night. The bassist was the rock upon which it all rollicked and partied to the sound of one of the definitive voices of Classic Rock.

The encore, unsurprisingly, consisted of ‘All Right Now’ and ‘Can’t Get Enough of Your Love’. Both were stonkers. This man and his band kicked ass for almost two hours. He never stopped or slowed down. He played guitar and piano. He soared, worked the crowd, and in the Royal Albert Hall’s Cathedral of Rock he had us all worshipping at the altar of St. Paul Rodgers. With Ian Gillan and David Coverdale in enforced semi-retirement and Robert Plant singing county songs in his boots, Rodgers leaves them all – and most of the next generation – in the dust.