Live Review: KINGS OF CONVENIENCE, REAL ESTATE

Hamer Hall, Southbank, Melbourne

‘It’s lovely to be in a room like this, all together with each other,” says Real Estate singer and guitarist Martin Courtney gently, in a way that sets the scene for the careful subtleties tonight’s music will expound. Songs about floating on inner tubes and ‘careless lifestyles’ were written to be played on days like today and heard in rooms like this one. Tonight’s show is almost like watching an album, the sound is so immaculate, the band’s playing so precise, and the music so sharp. It’s rare to see restraint so consistently used in music but both of tonight’s bands are experts at it. Beach Comber, Out of Tune, Green Aisles and It’s Real all sound like they’re presented to us on velvet, their instrumental sections full of chiming guitars and entwining melodies, like a less adventurous Feelies. Closing with the trance-like rock of All the Same and its protracted, slowing conclusion, the five-piece and their most gentle of surf-rock leave the stage with broad smiles, as the audience move to mingle in the well-upholstered halls outside.

Live Review: LANEWAY FESTIVAL

Footscray Community Arts Centre

Returning to its spiritual home of Melbourne, this year's Laneway comes blazing a trail of success. With other festivals rebranding and reorganising, Laneway has selected a lineup heavy on blog-love and therefore, in many cases, music made, mixed and reviewed in small rooms, that sounds great on headphones. Which raises the questions: can these acts cut it live? And, with festivals more a rite of summer for Triple J listeners than a gathering of fans of particular bands, does it matter?

Opening the day at the Dean Turner Stage are Kings of Convenience, a band made for small rooms if ever there was one. The gentleness of the music clashes beautifully with the loud, beery fun-lovers who have just poured in off the train. Held almost immediate silence by the lilting Norwegian harmonies of Erlend Øye and Eirik Glambek Bøe, this is the first of many marvels Laneway unleashes today. Beginning as a duo, Mrs Cold and 24/25 captivate. Soon, a backing band is brought on for a rousing take of I Could Never Belong to You and the brilliant I’d Rather Dance With You, guaranteeing KoC to be the discovery of the day for many. Disco-folk shouldn't: a) exist or b) sound this good. 

While Twerps are on typically blazing form, at the Eat Your Own Ears stage Brooklyn-based quartet The Men take churning garage rock, remove any gaps, overlay the results with endless guitar solos and punish it through Marshall stacks. Their wild, semi-naked drummer could be beamed in from Sunbury (suburb or festival) and is a total asset, occasionally pushing a Motorik rhythm beneath their non-stop southern-boogie, it's glorious, life-affirming stuff. Their set ends suddenly with a guitarist looking at his watch, taking off his guitar and leaving the stage, the others immediately following suit.

On the auspiciously named Future Classic stage, Julia Holter is building strange bubbling atmospheres with synth, drums, cello and a swimming pool's worth of reverb. The music is intriguing and is composed and arranged rather than felt, her talent enhanced not hidden by the filters and echoes. Despite this precision, many subtleties don't make it through the chattering crowd, most of whom are clustered beneath shady trees and talking over her bewitching tunes.

As the heat increases and shady spots become highly prized, the River Stage sees Perfume Genius suffer a similar fate; his music never reaching the heights it does on headphones. His weak voice is a cloudy, vaguely inert instrument, the reverb rendering his lyrics indecipherable and his symphonic electric piano and synth playing reduced to moody noodling. Though his backing band provides some energy, it all seems confused, and undoubtedly better in a small, dark venue. 

Real Estate benefit from bringing dispositions to match the weather, and their bright chiming riffs and breezy harmonies go down nicely. Though they're not about to surprise you with distortion or anything, smartly made, tightly played songs like Suburban Dogs, Fake Blues and the crowd-rallying It's Real remind you why they're here, and why a large number of people are willing to be badly sunburned to see them. 

Recasting memories of Real Estate as a mid-paced snoozefest, Cloud Nothings pull off one of the most relentless and intense sets of the day. Opening with a blistering Fall In, the pace never drops. Dylan Baldi’s harsh, ripped vocals wail atop bludgeoning bass and a drummer who rarely stops playing a fill. As their set plays out though, long, forceful yet indulgent instrumental sections in songs like Wasted Days and Separation eat up much of the set. Instead of playing pithy strokes of genius like Cut You and Stay Useless - which it sounds like it took five minutes to write – Baldi seems infatuated with the sound of chaos, which is face-meltingly awesome, it’s just not showing what the band can really do. 

Nite Jewel (aka Ramona Gonzalez) shows exactly how to take the DIY tropes of 80s pop (cool reverb, shimmering guitars and spacey keyboards) and make it sound immediate, catchy and fresh. Gonzalez’s arresting stage presence helps songs like One Second of Love and She’s Always Watching You feel strange, engaging and genuinely new.

Despite the festival selling out, moving between stages is easy though keeping a spot in the shade less so. Back at Future Classic Stage mix-maestro Holy Other is pushing a womb-like mix of woolly bass, warm pulses, exhausted beats and snatches of vocal; if Burial has a wife and she were pregnant, this is probably what that zygote is bugging out to. It’s envelopes but never betrays pressure which is rare, as is a set that travels perfectly from dark club to sunny day; a fantastic atmospheric discovery. 

Despite the unusual lineup of two drummers, a bassist, a lot of pedal-operated programming and a hyperkinetic jazz singer, Polica are surprisingly unremarkable. Though initially arresting, primarily due to Channy Leaneagh’s powerful voice, there is little variation in sounds, tempo or dynamics throughout their set. Opener The Maker, I See My Mother and single Dark Star are punchier, but their reliance on the same effects and sounds wears thin, and anyway, Of Monsters and Men are exerting some serious gravitational force.

Sounding about as Icelandic as a Big Mac, the biggest crowd pullers by some measure today are plying a trade in songs that sound a lot like but not exactly like some song by Edwin Sharpe, Mumford and Sons or a dozen other bands. The septet play a tight, rousing set; they know when to pull a trumpet out to drive a melody home, when to let the crowd take over and how to shout ‘hey!’. Mountain Sound and Little Talks get the biggest singalongs so far today, though the band have surprisingly weak vocals for such strong melodies. 

As the (recyclable) rubbish piles up, the queues for the toilets and phone chargers grow, and sunburns become the norm, crowds surge toward the Eat Your Own Ears stage. Canadian duo Japandroids explode onto it in a flurry of volume and charisma and pretty much embody everything that's been missing so far today; brevity, showmanship, great songs and energy. The duo rarely let up in their quest for killer riffs and emphatic ‘whoah-oh’ choruses. Boasting more guitar amps than could be concievably feasible, every watt is used for opener Adrenaline Nightshift the gargantuan Night of Wine and Roses and ‘hit’ The House That Heaven Built.  Here is a band whose New Jersey/Springsteen-style rock suits the backdrop of towering dockyard cranes and passing cargo trains and they make a powerful, triumphant sight.

Sacrificing Alt-J for Jessie Ware we are immediately rewarded with some hilarious banter, made even funnier for its incongruous setting between some sparkling neo-soul songs. Speaking in a strong Adele-like South London accent, Ware launches into the spellbinding title track from her Devotion LP. Her young, three-piece backing band wait while she tells us of St Kilda’s lobster rolls, bands we should see and apologises for her clumsy keyboard playing: ‘’onestly, these fingers o’ mine are like fuckin’ chipolatas today,’ she cackles before casting another glittering spell on us. Night Light, 110% and Wildest Moments are all glittering highlights of the day.

The taut, edgy rock of Divine Fits is fitting for music made from Spoon’s Britt Daniels and Dan Boeckner of Wolf Parade. Though the guitar spirals and smears more than chops, deceptive simplicity is still their greatest asset. Winning over the crowd, the band’s 50s-rock in a post-punk framework proves surprisingly flexible, especially for a take on Rowland S Howard’s near-sacred Shivers, which they pull off nicely; all calamitous guitars and huge dynamic shifts.

The bizarre mixing skills of Nicholas Jaar gives audiences the only time they genuinely don't know what's going to happen next; genre, sound, rhythm, anything. A saxophone/pianist and guitarist flank Jaar, dressed in a cape, looming over a laptop issuing skinny pulses, occasional trouser-flapping basslines and meandering Rhodes chords. Completely unhurried, he teases and taunts us, forcing our attention on the textures and surprises that epitomize his journey, only occasionally hinting at a big beat payoff. It’s masterful.

Unable to stop smiling for her entire set, Natasha Khan (aka Bat for Lashes) seems happier than anyone to be here. Resplendent in a multi-coloured sparkly gypsy dress, she dances, swoons, laughs, claps and emotes her way through her rich trove of songs. With cello, Cocteau Twins-style guitar and busy electronic percussion and drums, Khan holds our attention almost as well as her striking album cover. Laura gets a predictably huge response, but later songs, the synth-driven dynamics of Marilyn and the closing Daniel allow her to stretch from epic longing to intimate revelations. It’s her smiling face, beaming down from the big screens that we see before turning to go, as the happily chattering masses surge through the streets to the station.

Live Review: BOHJASS UPAS MILITIA, PATAPHYSICS, SPENCER P JONES AND THE ESCAPE COMMITTEE

Northcote Social Club

With a torrential downpour outside, scant few make it to an early, deft set from the almighty Spencer P Jones and his Escape Committee. The wry swagger, wiry guitar work and wily attitude that sets him apart from other garage rockers Melbourne is renown for breeding is on show in force tonight. Jones, one of the key evolutionaries seems to exist as a fuse back to the 60s garage rock explosion; at times it seems the sound was born from his melodious hacking. The band, bathed in luminous geometric projections, also boast the brilliance of Dave Nicholls’ drumming and bassist Helen Cattanach's vocals. A cameo from Evan Dando on The Rain Came is wonderful, but the languid She Walks Between the Raindrops and brief rush of Make em Cry are the highlights.

Pataphysics, a supremely talented three-piece specializing in jazzy hip-hop are, it’s blindingly obvious, on the up. Days away from winning a truckload of new fans with a set at Laneway, tonight’s set sees them plugging a smooth Ben Harper-esque soul; playful with the melodies, heavy on the rhythm. If you ever wanted to seduce Lisa Bonet or one of Bob Marley’s grandsons, this is your soundtrack. Always pushing a positive message via some rock solid arrangements, Pataphysics are an excellent choice for this varied lineup.

Despite there being only fifty-odd people in the audience by the time Bohjass Upas Militia (BUM) take to the stage, excitement courses through the venue.  This seventeen-piece explorchestra of jazz-funk-psych minimalism match the low-fi cosmic projections beautifully. Opening with some brassy, noir-ish toning and spectral percussion, the band show an astonishing level of restraint and silence, leaving the tension of what ‘could’ suddenly explode from the crowded stage lingering through their quieter movements. The band leap from killer blaxploitation funk and delicate minimalism to Sun Ra freakouts in the tight constraints of a song-length piece, with a mere raising of bandleader Timothy Pledger hand. At times BUM’s rhythm section sound like a programmed backing as it’s so unusual to see and hear such intricate combination of sounds. Swimming Pool is a blast of exuberant space funk and highlights the fluidity of the guitars and insistence of the brass; the music never feels as crowded as the stage looks. Launching their album Beneath the Lightless Sky tonight, this is a fascinating, unique band and a blast of a show.

Live Review: THE WATERBOYS, OH MERCY

Hamer Hall
A good portion of the audience choose to nurse drinks and chat in the carpet-walled corridors outside the auditorium rather than watch Oh Mercy’s set, and it does seem an incongruous location for their show. To a half-full room a painfully sibilant mix does not help Alex Gow’s coruscating take on folk rock. Despite inventive harmonies and imaginative songwriting, the audience seems largely unmoved. Gow’s deadpan humour is a winning addition, and songs like Making Me Pay show an acerbic wit at work. Closing with a raucous take on Leonard Cohen’s Memories does however win the audience round and they earn their warm applause.

Playing their first Australian show, Waterboys ringleader Mike Scott wastes no time in cranking the volume and letting the beautifully phrased vitriol fly. Opening with Don’t Bang the Drum, Scott is held, hacking at his guitar in a warm spotlight while the rest of the band lingers in cold blue. He appears ageless in a broad black hat, large glasses, high-collared coat, framed by copious flowing hair. The audience seems physically restrained by the plush chairs and submits to rhythmic nodding despite musical urgings to turn the theatre into an Irish pub. Admitting he’s spent a week in Melbourne and become an addict of Miss Phryne Fisher mysteries, Scott soon makes true on his promise to play ‘songs from all eras of the Waterboys’; When Ye Go Away, flows into their first ever single, the honky-tonk stomp of A Girl Called Johnny.

Scott’s has never shied away from spiritualism, so his recent album interpreting the poems of W.B. Yeats wasn’t a huge surprise. Highlights of this come as the stunning White Birds, featuring further violin pyrotechnics from long-time Waterboy Steve Wickham, and Scott’s chilling reading of The Second Coming while wearing a mask of three faces won’t leave the memory soon: ‘And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?’ he shouts, slamming shut a book and briefly leaving the stage.

Returning, the five-piece tear through The Thrill is Gone, the redemptive riposte of She Tried to Hold Me and Raggle Taggle Gypsy, one of the few songs that escapes the ‘epic’ touch he usually brings. The Waterboys’ sound is that of folk music being ripped wide open and made huge. Natural highlights of this are their biggest hits The Whole of the Moon, a song you can only breathe ‘wow!’ at after hearing, set-closer The Pan Within and their oddly perfect encore of Prince’s Purple Rain.

'I know what it's like here at the Hamer Hall,” says Scott to a now-rapt audience. “I do. They don't let you dance, you stand up and they get awful freaked out,” he grins before snapping into a fearsome Be My Enemy that elicits a dozen dancers into the aisles, and once-vigilant, now-shrugging ushers. Their second encore of Fisherman’s Blues and A Man Is in Love sees everyone standing, aisles full of dancers and a broadly grinning band. ‘See you all at Mario’s, Brunswick St, 2PM tomorrow!’ shouts Scott.

Live Review: ELVIS COSTELLO, JOE CAMILLERI

Palais Theatre

Filing in with the chattering masses, it’s clear Costello is going all-out in his vaudevillian theme. A third of the stage is occupied by his Spinning Wheel of Song (aka ‘the showbiz marvel of our age’) there is a small ‘society bar’, a trompe-l'œil backdrop and the ‘Hostage to a Fortune Go-Go Cage’ a dancing ‘cage’ with strings of beads for bars.

Looking surprisingly at home, Joe Camilleri (whose song So Young Costello covered in 1987) brings one-time JoJo Zep and Black Sorrow members George Butrumlis and Jeff Burstin on accordion and guitar to flesh out his tunes. Camilleri’s own compositions sound right at home next to some choice covers, though it’s the set-closing cover of Willy DeVille’s No Such Pain as Love that highlight’s Camilleri’s Van Morrison-esque delivery and the trio’s musical chops.

With minimal fuss, The Imposters (a four-piece including original Attractions keyboardist Steve Nieve and drummer Pete Thomas) and go-go dancer Miss Kelly (aka ‘the former Mother Superior of Our Lady of Perpetual Torment’) unleash a seamless burst of I Hope You’re Happy Now, Nick Lowe’s Heart of the City, Uncomplicated and Radio Radio, before stopping to say hello. Donning a top hat and grabbing a cane, Costello introduces himself as Napoleon Dynamite (a character he invented in the early 80s) and draws the first audience member up who spins the wheel, selects Oliver’s Army and is seated on stage with a drink. Nieve’s complex keyboard playing is a genuine marvel and it’s rare for a talent this big to be given the freedom he is to pluck motifs from songs and reinvent whole sections of others, almost teasing our memories.

Next audience member up is Sam who spins All Time Doll and chooses to go-go dance in the ‘cage’ in a manner that causes Costello’s rich, expressive voice to drift off-mic and crack. With Sam happily back in the crowd, couple Erin and Michael spin up The River in Reverse and I Want You, both showcasing Costello’s penchant for slipping better-known songs into his own (in this case Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood, and a later segue from Angels Want to Wear My Red Shoes into Purple Rain is a genuine laugh-out-loud moment). For an artist renown for well-constructed songs that reward close attention, placing them in a setting designed to offer as many distractions as possible is odd, as is engaging with that most unpredictable of variables; the public. Soon, an extremely starstruck Belle spins Alison, and Costello uses wit and a genteel disposition to avoid Morrissey-like scenes of mawkish adoration.

Though due for a brief encore, the set is barely 2/3rds done as a brace of classics follow; Chelsea, High Fidelity a cover of the Stones’ Out of Time, Watching the Detectives, Pump it Up and a closing What’s So Funny ‘bout Peace Love and Understanding? Though Costello sometimes fumbles with the guitar parts and plays with lyrics in an offhand way, his wry wit and deft charm fuels the show. He appears to be having as much fun as we are, which really isn’t that hard.

CD Review: m b v - MY BLOODY VALENTINE

(Independent)

Twenty-one years. Yes, it really has been that long since we last heard from My Bloody Valentine. With even more rumours than The Avalanches surrounding the existence or otherwise of this long-awaited album, is the summation of lost albums, million dollar home studios that ‘weren’t right’, tapes of 60 hours of psychedelic jamming, dozens of missed release dates and unexpected reformations any good? Yes, very.

Expecting a band to resemble itself after this long a break is a big ask, but this album is a grandiose example of the militant perfectionism front-man Kevin Shields is known for; like it or not, this is the album he wanted to make, the way he wanted to make it, released as he wanted to release it (website crashing aside).

For a band whose music assuages any sense of pressure, there is a huge weight of expectation around m b v, and it was always going to be a fascinating listen.

Renown for making guitars sound like you’re underwater in a ferociously bubbling hot spring, the opening seconds of first song she found now lets you know nothing has changed on that front. It is glorious, time-bending music the likes of which they pioneered and no one in the intervening years managed to replicate, despite Billy Corgan spending thousands of dollars and hiring Loveless producer Alan Moulder to try and guitarists the world over pouring over rare interviews with Shields to get his ‘glide guitar’ technique down; this sound is theirs alone. Resisting temptation to put that first song on repeat, the album sprawls forth, and as expected, is as much about sound as song. Previous releases found their sonic experiments hewn into pointedly pop songs or explored emotions that found resonance in the layers of sound and cyclical rhythms the band produced. Here, few influences of the last twenty years have crept in, with only the rhythms of drum and bass making their much-vaunted impact on the final two tracks. Drums may be slightly more martial and feature less of the twists and turns drummer Colm Ó Cíosóig brought to the pioneering album Isn’t Anything.

Some sections sound as though they were recorded in the 1990s and the band’s recommendation to download their album using ‘an Ethernet cable’ reflects the time warp that Shields and co. may be living in. Like the colour silver, this is dated yet futuristic music. Tracks nothing is and the closing wonder 2 have set blogs alight with the more forceful and vicious sounds they channelled on their earliest EPs. Churning drums patterns and cyclical guitar parts burn white hot, suggesting there is nothing in the My Bloody Valentine DNA that suggests ageing gracefully. new you is the only song yet to be played live, sung by bassist Blinda Butcher it is the most reminiscent of the band as we left them; Butcher’s dulcet melody to the fore and a sharp pop song flayed wide open with copious tremeloed guitars. Mbv is as varied and as monumental as could have been hoped for. May this is the beginning of a new season for this most incredible and surprising of bands. It’s hard to believe, but expectations for their first Australian tour since 1992 have just been raised even higher.

Live Review: ALABAMA SHAKES, BOB LOG III

The Forum
“This is our first show in town ever ever ever,” says Alabama Shakes singer Brittany Howard. “It's the other side of the world y'know?” she continues, almost to herself.

It’s hard to separate the band from their long line of influences, in particular singer and guitarist Howard. While they allow the boisterous audience in a sold out Forum the appeal of connecting with them as an amalgam of familiar rock tropes, it also means the band struggle to be more than that. For a group few people in the room had heard of a year ago, they can’t be blamed for being a little overwhelmed, or for leaning heavily on the past.

The less said about Bob Log III’s gig-as-gimmick support slot the better. While a sparkly jumpsuit, chrome mask and some helium balloons may work well at a party, these distractions from simplistic slide guitar, inaudible vocals and some basic blues widdling is not enough to make you forget this was the same shtick that he was pulling in 2007 and it was an irritating diversion then too. However, the crowd, most of who have never seen him before, is won over by the novelty.

From the outset the five-piece band is incredibly tight, but remain defiantly in the background of Howard. In fact, Bono would be defiantly in the background of Howard were he to appear on stage. Hang Loose showcases her jaw-dropping talents, and playing their ‘hit’ Hold On this early is a bold move. Following with their contribution to the soundtrack for the film Silver Linings Playbook, Always Alright is a rip-roaring ride through the Deep South that allows her a Chuck Berry impersonation. Bassist Zac Cockrell in overalls, nodding trucker cap, voluminous beard and physical stoicism looks hilariously cartoonish, other members stand stock-still as Howard absorbs attention. Cutting an Odetta-like figure with her semi-acoustic tucked under her arm, her wildly expressive voice and nerdy glasses, she roams the stage, never letting the intensity drop. The joy in watching someone do what they were born to is almost overwhelming. I Found You is another batch of roots rock straight out of the deep fryer, as is the ensuing Rise To The Sun. “We’re from the south,” says Howard, wiping her face with a towel before fixing us with a stare. “But ya’ll are super southern!” she says cracking up and launching into a blistering take of new song Making Me Itch.

There’s an argument to be had about whether soul music should be note perfect, but here isn’t the place for it. Here is the place to talk about how drummer Steve Johnson’s cymbals burst briefly into flame at the start of final song Heavy Chevy, a feat that causes the hundreds to scream with delight and frantically video the song. On exiting, the crowd is rife with dodgy takes on the band’s southern accent. All agree the house was rocked and, regardless of who Alabama Shakes remind you of, that’s what they came to do.

Live Review: ANIMAL COLLECTIVE, AFRICA HITECH

Palace Theatre

Though audience numbers seem lower than those of their last visit, and the mood more respectful that jubilant, it’s clear Animal Collective command a loyal following. Few of who are intrigued enough to arrive early for support act Africa HiTech; a duo working a laptop, turntables, a mixer and a small synth. Starting out by meshing soundscapes and soulful singing over some Kompakt style minimalist techno, we’re soon treated to a journey through 90s dance music, complete with 80s new wave sampling. Beats become more complex as bubbling synth lines and squelchy sine waves ride heavily compressed beats and occasional looped raps. It’s oddly nostalgic and incredibly infectious.

The crowd packs in as 9:45 approaches. Lights dim, chatter is replaced with cheers as radio samples ricochet and flickering saturated projections light the stage, lined with large inflatable glowing teeth and arching tentacles. The four members emerge to a rise in cheers and immediately begin tweaking dials, pushing buttons and gently drumming. Easing into Rosie Oh, the projections move from being vibrant patterns to cut-up nature documentaries and clips from bucolic animated films. Drummer Noah Lennox takes the lead vocals and his voice is unusually strong and clear. Keyboardist Avey Tare leads us through almost every other song in the set, from the ensuing Today’s Supernatural on; his vocals style tends more toward manic passion than guitarist Josh Dibb’s more grounded delivery and Lennox’s more varied expressiveness.

Recent single Honeycomb and most of latest album Centipede Hz get an airing, and though the crowd responds vocally, there is little physical involvement. Animal Collective show a near pathological fear of silence as songs segue into and out of each other, and disappear into patches of sprawling atonal and percussive chaos. These are gleefully disorientating at times, but just as often suffocating and meandering, a superfluity of ideas and their clumsy merging betrays a lack of editing that seems oddly appropriate for this age of three-hour movies. It’s a lack of rigour apparent in the songwriting too; many songs sound more like four people exploring a vague theme rather than a band fleshing out a song. Passages of fantastic loping polyrhythms underscore many of the newer songs (like Moonjock and Monkey Riches) but, unlike their finer moments, there seems to be no strong personality or theme, though the colour scheme of saturated red and fluro pink and green is bold and original. The appearance of older track Lion in a Coma wakes the crowd and its space, vocal harmonies and simpler rhythms stand in stark contrast. The same is true for 2009’s Brother Sport, which triggers an explosion of glee in the crowd, a feeling capitalized on by its extended rave-like outro and merge into set-closing thrill of Peacebone. Returning for an encore that features a new unnamed song, a boisterous take on My Girls and the Centipede Hz track Amanita the band leave us sated for another year and, it seems, another album.

Live Review: THE MORNING AFTER GIRLS

Ding Dong Lounge

In the five years since the Morning After Girls (aka the MAGs) left these shores for New York, economies have crumbled, styles have risen and fallen, yet the band have remained untouched. Though lineups have shifted, the core duo of Sacha Lucashenko and Marty Sleeman ensure the aesthetic remains the same. Time has, if anything strengthened and honed the band’s sound into one that transcends their oft-touted influences and renders them one of the best rock bands in the country. Ten years on the job will do that, and tonight’s show stands as the most recent proof.

In lieu of a support band the audience (most of whom seem to be ex-MAGs members) check their smart phones, push their hair out of their eyes and sip pints. No one seems under 30 and music, it’s safe to say, is taken very seriously here. Even as the room fills to near capacity, the mood is cautious and chatty.

The gig slides smoothly into action; incense is lit, soundscapes play over the PA and the band arrive to little fanfare. The spacey riff for opening song Corruption pulls attention toward the band and for the rest of the show, it’s hard to look away. The sound is huge; the drums punish, basslines swerve and buckle, the guitar riffs are singed with distortion. So far, so neo-psychedelic, but where the MAGs really show prowess and progress is with the vocal attack. Sleeman and Lucashenko’s voices blend, twist and spar against each other, giving an acrid edge to the warmth of their guitars and the keyboards of vital talent Johnny Livewire. Never sounding this powerful or coruscating, Death Processions, and the 90210-featured Alone render the audience a noisy, cheering mass. Though the band never acknowledge it, a triumphant homecoming is unfolding.

Psych-rock has long been the realm of lazy, effects-reliant guitarists who never need learn a barre chord to sound like the Brian Jonestown Massacre, and its current faddishness is no doubt partly down to this simplicity. Conversely, it’s one of the hardest genres in which to sound individual and inspire affection. However the MAGs are smarter and their songs better constructed than many of their peers, national or international, and there is no such bland chording here. Older songs like Shadows Evolve and The General Public get whoops of recognition while newer ones sound even better; layered, powerful and immediate, they couldn’t be written by anyone else. The encore of a blistering Who is They? and the near-pastoral version of There’s A Taking leave the audience far too happy for a group of people wearing so much black.

Though there’s no danger of the group disappearing into the fresh batch of bands pushing the guitar-chord-as-crashing-wave sound, the MAGs have made their biggest step toward perfecting this oft-abused style and with news of a new album due later this year, it’s good to have them back.

Live Review: ESG, NO ZU, TERRIBLE TRUTHS

HiFi Bar

With the heat sweltering outside, the cavernously empty interior of the HiFi Bar is soon brought down a few degrees by an icy blast of bracing post punk from local trio Terrible Truths. Bereft even of chords, the band’s stripped down sound is filled out with a twin vocal attack, busy drumming and brash attitudes. With the aesthetic of the Raincoats and the accurate simplicity and drive of Love of Diagrams, the band play as if they’re being chased, a fear of silence or slowing down drives every song. It’s a fantastic show and bodes well for future releases.

An equally excellent choice for support and also sounding as though they’re beamed in from 1981, NO ZU are the most kinetic band in town. Each member of the sextet plays accurate and simple motifs that spiral in and out of time in a captivating way, though songs are interchangeable they prove there are still variations on funk in 4/4 left unplayed. Songs often sound like uncontrolled breakdowns, in danger of getting lost but with a whip crack of timbale everything is brought together. This is what tightness looks like.

The buzz about ESG’s live-to-air at RRR yesterday has helped crank the atmosphere in the now-packed room from buoyant to excitably hyperactive. To the sound of Tom Tom Club’s Wordy Rappinghood the band walk out waving happily. ‘How you doin' Melbourne?’ grins singer Renee Scroggins over the near deafening cheers of the crowd, ‘this is a song called Dance’. With powerhouse drummer Valerie and percussionist Marie, the Scroggins’ are one of the most heard and least celebrated bands in history. The music itself is some of the simplest dance music ever released - drums, bass, percussion and minimalist vocals - yet it’s so effective it becomes instructive, and also explains why they were (and are) sampled so widely; they got it right.

Their classic and much-sampled UFO follows and includes the only use of guitar. Percussion drives the songs; dual tambourines, vibraslap and copious use of congas and cowbells are the only sounds to flesh out the massive bass and powerhouse drumming. Every introduction is met with deafening cheers, Time Shift, The Beat, I Feel Tonight and the almighty anthem to leaving bad relationships Closure, all cause such a burst of positivity amongst the crowd that this gig quickly becomes the happiest of all 300 plus gigs this reviewer has been to since writing for this publication. It’s phenomenal just how strong the effect of this music and the sight of these women playing it are. Further testaments to danceable simplicity follow My Love For You, You're No Good and Moody are dispatched with joyous precision. An encore of You Make No Sense elicits a brief stage invasion by dancers and the smiles on the faces of the band as they’re brought out for a second encore seal this as being one of the finest gigs in eons. All this and they didn’t even play their best song.

CD Review: YO LA TENGO - Fade

Matador

By the time a band release their 13^th album in their 29^th year of existence, there is every reason to think all they wanted to say has been said, and something else is more worthy of your attention. In most cases, you’d be right, in the case of Yo La Tengo, no. Not by a long shot.

Fade is it’s fair to say, one of the best albums of their very lengthy and surprisingly stable career. Though more down-at-heal than their most heralded releases, there are enough moments here like the clattering euphoria of closing Before We Run with its stinging string bursts and Georgia Hubley’s sleep-spoken lyrics, to remind you of how great they can be, and are. Throughout, the careful layering and texturing of songs, hidden in their apparent simplicity, is something wholly their own and even more notable than on their last release, 2009’s Popular Songs.

Seemingly influenced more by the band’s brace of film scores (Shortbus, Old Joy, Adventureland) than the guitar histrionics that epitomised the band’s last show in Melbourne, there is a delicate and sensitive quality to many of the songs. They only cut loose once here, on the 90s-indie rock throwback of Paddle Forward, but it’s a thee-minute Pavement-esque burst of brilliance you want to put on repeat.

In interviews leading up to it’s release lead singer and guitarist Ira Kaplan termed Fade a return to the themes of their two most celebrated albums 1997’s I Can Hear The Heart Beating as One and 2000’s …and Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside Out and of course, he’s right. Their peculiar brand of joyous nostalgia is here glowing like an amp valve, yet neither of these albums had the despondency that threads these ten songs together or its bouts of sparseness. More than anything though, there is a richness that still finds room for spontaneity that hasn’t been present since those records. Asking John McEntire to produce seems an obvious but smart choice (breaking a 19-year relationship with Roger Moutenot), and one that keeps the sprawl under seven minutes.

Opener Ohm is YLT at their Velvets-aping finest, all churning chords spectral harmonies and a percussion-driven rhythm loop. Stupid Things is one of the few songs here that hints at the band fans fell in love with so long ago, and it too reveals hidden complexities on multiple listens. Unlike Superchunk’s critic-uniting blazing return to form in 2011, Fade is more of a humble offering, but one that is richly rewarding.

Live Review: NEW GODS, MONTERO, JESSICA SAYS

Northcote Social Club

Though it’s been a while since the storming World Without Men single, Jessica Says (aka cellist/vocalist/songwriter Jessica Venebles) is such a fascinating artist that a pause for reinvention and rumour of a new album makes you wonder not only where she’ll go next but confident she’ll arrest attention when she does. As it turns out this most compelling of vocalists has moved from the intimate fragility of her work so far and confidently into the world of icy electropop. Now fronting a four-piece made up of singer Emma Russock, brother violinist Nick and synth/laptop operator Aaron Lam, the set is laden with glistening, reverb-soaked paeans to psychological obsession, twisted love and generally being extremely assertive. It’s a stunning set, and songs like Xanax Baby, Queen of the Night and the closing Rock Candy suggest a stellar album in the offing.

Fresh from blowing minds with their video for recent single Adriana, Montero open their set with Clear Sailing/Alpha World City #2, silencing and flummoxing early-comers. A Montero gig is very much dependant on the mood of frontman and songwriter Bjenny Montero and tonight sees him in ‘slightly unhinged’ mode, which means bug eyed stares, strange interactions with an optical fibre lamp and some coruscating vocalising. The synth-pop bounce of Mumbai follows before a bizarrely faithful version of Max Merrit and the Meteors’ Slippin’ Away From Me. These soul-pop musical roots ground the final two songs Ya Gotta Be Alone and You’re Gonna Make a Monkey Out of Me, both of which follow the Montero default move; a tender piano intro, a killer drum fill and some scorching 70s psych pop.

Though the Little Red elephant in the room is never mentioned, it exerts its influence in strange ways. New Gods consist of singer/guitarist Dominic Byrne and guitarist Adrian Beltrame of Little Red, synth player Dale Packard of Ground Components and bassist Richard Bradbeer of Eagle and the Worm, so the band are, unsurprisingly, incredibly well rehearsed. Their songs are big on hooks and tight on harmonies, and the opening few almost perfunctory in their delivery. Byrne is actually apologetic for the few moments that stray from this script; a ‘folk dirge that isn’t depressing’ Wonders of the World is hastily pushed into the past once finished, the brief and mellow 10000 Miles with its harmonica is laughed off as soon as its over, and a saxophone-lead free jazz moment is dismissed as ‘just us fucking around’, but it’s these deviations that are the most interesting moments. Byrne seems far smarter than he is able to express in this context, as the Bill Hicks-dedicated Eyes of Love hints. It’s not until the final few songs (Skipping Stone, Day Off Work and the ‘medley of our hit’ On Your Side) that the guitars cut loose and the clean, choppy, mid-paced fare is left behind and we can see what the band as a true combination of the talent therein. Fronting two bands beloved of our national youth broadcaster is admirable, but I’m betting Byrne’s best is to come.

Live Review: HOT CHIP, WORLD’S END PRESS

Palace Theatre

A smattering of applause greets World’s End Press as they step out to stretch along the front of the stage, packed with a phenomenal amount of equipment. If there is one band in this city playing the long game it’s these guys, and it shows. Singer John Parkinson’s voice is stronger and more expressive than it’s ever been, and his hyperkinetic performance makes them electrifying to watch as well as move to. Newer songs take their Moroder-like chug, add arresting vocal harmonies, some monolithic bass and send it into the stratosphere; every song sounds like a 12” remix of a hit. Echoes of Japan, Human League and Talking Heads may be touchstones but the band are such meticulous musicians and arrangers that their sound is all their own. Final song Someone’s Daddy is the strongest example yet that they’re ready to break out in a huge way, and it’s no surprise they leave to peals of rapturous cheers.

By now all four levels of the Palace are full and the crowd, broad in age range and dress style, are clearly amped. Suddenly, the stage lights die, strobes blast, bursts of percussion erupt and Hot Chip emerge, waving and launching into Shake A Fist. For a bunch of demure British men who would look more at home around a kitchen table playing Dungeons and Dragons than making a crowd of thousands react as if One Direction gatecrashed a slumber party, they know how to bring it. Following up with Boy From School and new single Don’t Deny the Heart, the crowd soon becomes a writhing, flailing mess. Now featuring New Young Pony Club drummer Sarah Jones, there is a fluid accuracy to the band’s playing and the humanity inherent in singer Alex Taylor’s lyrics stops even a hint of mechanisation to what is partially programmed music. Writer of some of the greatest songs about loving fellow men (whether physically or in a more genial ‘matey’ way is enticingly vague), Taylor is a brilliant example of how an intelligent, literate writer and composer can make intelligent and literate pop seem innately appealing to people who hate the term literate being applied to music.

Tonight is their last show of a ten-month tour, so unsurprisingly the set is tighter than Jones’ snare drum. Now five albums into their career, with a ream of modern dance classics to draw from, the newer work segues smoothly into the floor fillers. Flutes, Over and Over, Ready For the Floor (which leads into a cover of Fleetwood Mac’s Everywhere) and the gentle mid-set drift of Look At Where We Are (and it’s hint of Prince’s If I Was Your Girlfriend) are sequenced perfectly.  

Howled back on for a bashful encore, Al Doyle (not only playing five instruments in Hot Chip, but also a recent multi-instrumentalist for LCD Soundsystem) explains how loved we are before airing the rarely-heard Crap Kraft Dinner, a sterling I Feel Better and the anthemic album highlight Let Me Be Him; a thumping finish to a stunning gig. There are few bands attracting so large a crowd with this sort of music, and that they do it entirely on the quality of the songs and an absence of concession to trends makes their success all the more admirable.

CD Review: THE TIGER & ME - The Drifter’s Dawn

 Four | Four

In the endless striving for an open, honest, unaffected and authentic sound, there is a chance to be left by the wayside as dozens of combos ply the folk-rock route so beloved of Australia - a no bullshit approach to getting the creative urge out in a time-honoured tradition. The Tiger & Me, who have impressed a lot of people already, got themselves signed to ABC Music’s indie arm Four|Four before releasing this, their second album, are in no danger of getting lost. Not only do they have genuine live passion, a versatility that sees them suit a rowdy wake or a solemn funeral, but qualities many of these other bands lack; focus, and a work ethic.

Recorded live by Steve Schram, this natural approach is fitting for the sometimes drifting sometimes driving acoustic guitars, propulsive rhythms and deft mingling of the voices of singers Ade Vincent, Jane Hendry and Tobias Selkirk. With a welcome disregard for genre, the sextet play whatever works live, and as so may other bands do, they end up recording what gets a response, It’s when they venture away from that default situation that things get interesting. Songwriting chops are revealed on the gentle, growing lilt of The Door Swung, and ethereal beauty of A Want That You Wouldn’t, both redolent with subtleties that would get overlooked by a crowd ready for the upbeat singalongs. These, like opener Dance With The Devil, Waltz #3 and The Prophet Told Me are where things get a little more Baltic/Gypsy/Open Studio and audience responses tend to get divided. The bouncing pop of single Pantomime bears little resemblance to anything else on the album, but that’s more a demonstration of the breadth of their writing than any misleading gesture.  

With an East Coast full of dudes strumming acoustic guitars and getting free and international with rhythms, it’s refreshing to find an Australian group who know when to rein in the jams, work as a multitalented collective and know how to sift through a sprawling range of styles to come up with a coherent and punchy album.