Interview: GRAND ATLANTIC - Making Waves

Sunday, June 17, 2007 

With Brisbane currently seeming to challenge Melbourne as THE music city of this great brown land, that the latest hype from there is a band more in common with the articulate psych-pop of The Zombies and the epic rock of Muse than Wolf-anything should set eyebrows even further aloft. Grand Atlantic, would, as their name suggests not be too interested in understatement, though beneath the ISC songwriting awards and burgeoning press hyperbole accompanying their brand new This Is Grand Atlantic release, there beats four very human hearts in the form of Phil Usher (Guitar / Vocals), Nigel Smith (Guitar), Sean Bower (Bass) and Scott Mullane (Drums), the former of whom is currently wresting with stage (and not industry) props for their Brisbane album launch; building a giant letter G and an A to be exact. 'I have these crazy ideas then I feel I like I have to go through with them, they'll have light bulbs and glitter on them'.

This launch also sees the addition of a timpani player, brass, and string quartet which gives you some ideas of the canvas which Grand Atlantic work. Melbourne shows will see the songs stripped back somewhat, which will go some way to proving these songs of Usher's are as strong as judging panels say.
"Winning the awards hasn't really changed anything, I mean it [the ISC] is quite a prestigious competition and the judges are amazing, but like most competitions it's a bit of a wank. There are so many people out there doing music you do anything you can to get noticed, and I'm pouring my living self into what I'm doing and I want people to hear it. We're not the best band in the world, or the best looking guys in the world but we're doing our best, and when you see other things out there that you deem to be not as good as what you're doing then you think: 'Fuck it, I deserve to be heard as well'. In the industry I think people do take notice of the awards, but bands you play with and listeners don't give a shit. I mean, if you can't rock then what does it matter?"

Where great songs come from is a timeless question that few have the answer to, Usher though, has his own theories. "Man, I'm obsessed! I think that songwriting is like trying to tickle yourself. When I try to write a song I'm trying to send shivers down my spine. Ultimately you're trying to please yourself first, because to be honest I want to write music that I'm proud of. I usually do a demo of the song, play it to the guys and then we start from scratch again."

This is where that canvas comes in. Grand Atlantic's production brings to life the '60s influences wrapped up with a modern sound' which describes their debut CD This Is Grand Atlantic and has been turning heads since last year's lauded EP Smoke And Mirrors.
"There were no rules when it came to the studio. Even if the ideas sounded crazy we wanted to try it. When we were recording we were always thinking 'how can we best serve the song?'. We were able to take our time because our drummer Scott ran the studio we used, even though we had to work around other projects we could go back and re-record things until they were right so it took longer than we wanted it to but we're really proud of the results. It comes back to what I was saying about being obsessed with the songs. I don't sit down to write a rock song, you go with where the inspiration comes and if you can fit a variety of songs within a framework - which I think we've done - then it's a wonderful thing."

Live Review: SLOAN

Monday, June 11, 2007 

The Corner

Following The Pictures support slot (which coaxes a concise and dispassionate review from Ben Butler - 'Teh Pictures suxor'), several minutes of football terrace chanting of the headliner's name elicits an eager bunch of Nova Scotians from stage left, raring to play the last gig of their Australian tour. Straight away energy levels are sky high and the three-song-no-break introduction of Flying High Again, Who Taught You To Live Like That? and Ill Placed Trust assure us that tonight will belong to them alone. The three-part harmonies are spot on, rhythms rock solid and the guitars have the right amount of punk and pop to not be pop punk but injected with energy and melody. Sloan seem to have quietly built a solid fanbase here and it is quite incredible to see the number of nodding heads mouthing words, hands aloft and even a Nova Scotian flag showing the passion for this rarely-mentioned band. That most seem to be in their early 30s indicates perhaps the late 90s were Sloan's heyday and maybe there are just a few songs bringing the punter out, though tonight shows the quality of their songwriting hasn't dropped and many songs come from last year's 29-song Never Hear The End Of It album.

Given that each member is a songwriter, personalities soon become pronounced; bassist Chris Murphy likes to write songs in which he can throw a high kick (All Used Up), Jay Ferguson is a master of melody and orchestrating harmonies (Who Taught You To Live Like That?), Patrick Pentland loves to squeeze in a metal solo (Losing California) and drummer Andy Scott writes, sings and plays guitar the way he drums, with truckloads of energy and volume (I Can't Sleep). It's tracks like the double-shot from 1998's Navy Blues album Money City Maniacs and C'mon C'mon (We're Gonna Get It Started) or I Hate My Generation where all these elements get to shine and they really prove their stuff. It's these songs that rouse the audience the most and have proved that nine years hasn't dulled them one bit. Murphy and Pentland have the unintentionally hilarious habit of pushing their glasses up their nose whenever playing an open string or holding a note during their guitar solo respectively, and it is this sort of (probably Nova Scotian) lack of pretentiousness that works so well with their songs, which more involve you than sweep you away. Judging by Sloan's new material, they're not toying with a winning formula, an example being the closing song for their new album and the gig, Another Way I Could Do It which allows Murphy to act the showman again, something he loves as much as the crowd does. After more football-type chanting, the encore sees The Wellingtons' Kate Goldby join the band for a tender rendition of I Can Feel It which precedes into a scorching singalong closer of If It Feels Good, Do It. Sloan are all about the songs and the showmanship and tonight had both in spades.

Interview: ZULYA AND THE CHILDREN OF THE UNDERGROUND - Cream of Tartar

Monday, June 04, 2007 

"I have a hard time explaining the type of music we play; acoustic, folk, jazz; 'world music' is not seen as quite so dismissive in Europe," laughs vocalist extraordinaire Zulya Kamalova, speaking from the road during a tour of regional Victoria, her first with her infant daughter. "This tour has been really well received, but there's not a lot of time for sleep." she says, her voice still sparkling. Making music her life has seen Zulya play everywhere from Stawell to Siberia. "It's very different to playing in Russia where I add more of the Tartar songs. I don't want to be seen as a representative of traditional Tartar music though, I used to be more that person who would, you know 'take traditional Tartar music and do whatever with it' but now it's more of a band thing." Well known in Tartarstan, she says her music garners mixed responses. "Some people there don't really get me. They want me to be this pop star who's trying to get on Eurovision you know, that's how they see overseas success. Since we get invited to play these festivals there I guess they see me as being this representative of Tartar to the world, but it's more about my experiences and the band's music now."

Though sometimes unfairly dismissed as 'circus' or 'gypsy' music by the inattentive casual listener, most who stumble across (music this unusual is something few actively search for) this band are amazed firstly at the wonder that is the voice of Zulya, and that this music can originate here and now in Melbourne. Adding a very necessary and desirable cultural edge to the Australian music scene, Zulya, a native here for over 15 years, has been steadily and unceremoniously forging a place for herself, and recently her accompanying Children Of The Revolution.

"I have felt outside of the Australian music scene of course, but once I arrived here it did seem to be a place I could make music and find an audience; that early music feels like it was by someone entirely different now. In the beginning it was more an expression of my culture, now I've got this wonderful band and 3 Nights is more an expression of us than me. The band (Andrew Tanner - double bass and jews harp, Justin Marshall - percussion and drums, Lucas Michailidis - guitar and Anthony Schulz - accordion) have been a fixture for several years now. "Sometimes they need to be kept in check," she laughs, "particularly on songs they write, but we have a sound now and everyone knows where they fit in to that." This sound sees them as fluid and able to translate as vast a range of feeling as Zulya's voice. The CD was mainly recorded live, and live the band really shine.

"We used to get an older, more 'ABC' crowd," she laughs. "But lately there have been a lot more young people coming to the shows." For escapist reasons perhaps? "Well I never thought of it that. I guess since I listen to a lot of music in other languages I don't feel transported to their country, but I do love the way that I will put all of these feelings into a song and tell a story and someone gets something totally different out of it."

With 3 Nights following it's predecessor into the European World Music Top 10 this week, there is clearly a broad audience for whatever sort of music it is that Zulya And The Children Of The Revolution play. Expect that audience to expand at this Saturday's CD launch.

CD Review: THE RAYLENES - Let The Wild Rumpus Start (Half A Cow)

Monday, June 04, 2007 

The barely contained thrill within a track like Fallen Down off The Raylenes' debut album is something you rarely stumble across; that dry vocal and pitch-perfect melody, tumbling drums and mad descending rush from the guitars, all over in two and a half minutes - gold. That this discovery is from a little known but up and coming local band only adds to the excitement. The Raylenes live somewhere between 60s London, 80s Dunedin and right now, so these transmissions, under the title Let The Wild Rumpus Start, should be only increasing the profile of these cats. As befits an album named after a quote from Maurice Sendak, there is a playfulness and hint of vast imagination at work here. Songs like airplay-friendly Something Monsterous and the Withnail-referencing Never Play The Dane give away their influences but these are melded together in such a fun and carefree way (yet with spot-on arrangements and harmonies that could never be accidental) you can hardly believe that it's still got the garage band backing that got your attention in the first place.

Dave Rogers described The Raylenes as "soul music for the over-educated" and, in the spirit of much of the New Zealand scene that 4/5ths of the band hail from, there were probably tens of thousands of cumulative rainy days indoors that fostered the aforementioned imagination and daydreams that are realised with this release. It's no surprise that Half A Cow snapped these guys up and they should be thrilled with this opening effort. John Palmer's wordsmithery - with characters such as frustrated thespian Hilary "six years on where is she now? / she works the calls but just inbound" from Never Play The Dane as effective as any Murdoch creation. The clincher being the way the soundscape of the music reinforces the story being told in a clever yet obvious way. Priceless drumming from Jamie Power urge the tracks forward (must have been hard for The Brunettes to replace him) and really comes into it's own on songs like Fallen Down and Getting Young. Mexico let's co-vocalist Katie Jacobs and Palmer play with the Nancy and Lee comparisons to great effect. There are many influences you can spot, and none detract from the way they've been assembled and arranged which is with an wholly original hand (and crystalline production), ensuring the result doesn't disappoint.

Live Review: THE BEDROOM PHILOSOPHER, JOSH EARL, MATT KELLY

Monday, June 04, 2007 
Wesley Anne

All of tonight's performers are known for their punchlines more than their guitar lines, so it was intriguing that the lineup sees a gradual shift away from comedic acousticary to well-written songs that just happen to be funny. Without exception, each performer's newer songs were an improvement on an already impressive repetoire and there is nothing quite like a song as an extension of a performer's personality to get people involved. Tonight shows a start in comedy can lead to on-stage confidence that conventional musicians often lack.

A warmly bucolic Wesley Anne is full of ruddy-cheeked Northcote-types who divide their attention between each other and the stage, upon which the exceedingly handsome Matt Kelly plays his first gig standing. His short, daft and poignant (sometimes alternately, often simultaneously) songs are helped immeasurably by his wonderful voice and disarming manner that let you forgive his under-rehearsal. Whether musing on the blood pressure of a giraffe or slipping a lyric like 'If I've got anything left to give you, it's this and it's yours' into a song entitled You Shook Me All Afternoon, Kelly does prove to have a keen ear for relationship dynamics, many examples of which involve revered girls, faulting boys and alcohol. It's these songs which pack a bigger punch and it will be interesting to see where his path takes him.

Soon enough the totally engaging and bafflingly cool Josh Earl is regaling us with 'font humour' and a truckload of fantastic new songs. Stupid Jokes sees him siding with his girlfriend about his unfortunate habit of joking about things that upset her, The Dali Museum indicates a move away from going for laughs and brings out Earl's knack for relevant irreverent details, while a venue-hushing new song What Ifs, is nothing short of flooring in it's accuracy of phrase, rendered all the more powerful for coming between the jaunty and hilarious Fitted Sheets and Julian Nation-referencing Indie Anne.

After the languid pace of Earl, The shoeless and emerald-shirted Bedroom Philosopher AKA Justin Heazelwood comes across like a hurricane of inspiration and witticisms. Flailing at his guitar with scant regard for mic technique Heazelwood occasionally extends his songs into the physical comedy realm (Medium Ted, perfect example) and gets big laughs. It's lucky for us that his musical chops are strong enough for him to leave behind the go-for-the-gags hilarity and move into the more observational folk rock as proved by songs like What Am I Supposed To Be Doing, For The Love I Have for You and The Happiest Boy. The revelation of the evening is his resurrection of his first ever song, an instrumental called Angel Skin that would have John Butler wide-eyed. The final two songs I'm So Postmodern and I'm So Over Girls both implode into farcical improvisations which end with him crawling backward off stage in an ultimate exhibition of regressive infantilism. Thankfully the laugh factor and songwriting skills see the therapeutic effects extend to the audience and judging by this show, his forthcoming album will be a corker.

DISCLAIMER: Andy Hazel is a sometime musical associate of The Bedroom Philosopher.

Live Review: POP LEVI, MERCY MAY, THE FALLS

Monday, June 04, 2007 

Northcote Social Club

The Falls, fronted by a rhythm guitarist Simon Rudston-Brown (usually preoccupied with backing Missy Higgins) tonight welcomes early-comers to a classier than usual No So. Two singers, two guitarists, faultless harmonies and tasty lead guitar work are the hallmark of The Falls and though their songs are competent enough, it's a tough crowd to be impressing tonight. Despite their arena-ready deafening volume, a factor that actually works against the intimacy of the songs, there is a noticeable absence of people around the merch desk mailing list following their set. Perhaps songs like [It's Not What You Know It's] Who You Know leave people cold. Closing Please however, is a glorious song in any setting. Very Sydney and very unlikely to be in an opening slot by the year's end.

Following a crowd swell come Mercy May. Already signed to Inertia, there has been steady hype about this band and within the brief soundcheck it's clear why. Frontman Dan's voice stops conversations and turns heads. The only thing biting harder than the cold outside tonight is the sheer amount of treble coming from the stage. Lead-guitarist Chris's lines and that Lennon-impersonates-Lydon helium-fueled alto clean out any sundry earwax and impresses in a way that four static guys in their early 20s dressing like Tom Waits doesn't. Once your attention has been wrested and song follows song, it's hard to remain intrigued. By-the-numbers riff-based blues bashing is nothing new, and much of the material is frankly tedious. Songs like You Got Me and Now Now Now indicate there are ideas and these will doubtless bloom with time, but for now, showmanship is what we've come to see.

The nice-coat-and-sculptured-hair crowd are out in force tonight, and when roadies bring out glasses of scotch on the rocks for the band, there is no doubting classiness is order of the evening. Even with this prelude, jaws fall at the arrival of the band. Looking like renegades from Slytherin; black waistcoats, new-romantic shirts, and wearing expressions of keen disinterest, Levi's backing band Woman are a thing of wonder; to say nothing of Levi himself. Like a cross between Kenny Loggins and Jack Sparrow and dressed like The Karate Kid, he is the most shameless showman to grace a stage in this town for a long time, and, he has the tunes to back it up. Kicking off with Sugar Assault Me Now the band instantly lock into their trademark taut grooves; Bo Diddley via Neu. Song titles are irrelevant (by here are some if you want them: Pick Me Up Uppercut, Blue Honey, LA Morning Light, A Style Called Chicken) as everything is a variation on 'Groove In E Major', and like Jerry Lee Lewis said about Bo Diddley (who's titular song gets an a sample amidst LA Morning Light): "If he ever gets outta the chord of E, he might be dangerous". Their music is however, incredibly exciting, as is the way their three-minute thrill rides on record get stretched to eight minutes of tightly-leashed workout. Though the same five notes are used for every guitar solo, it's the excitement of Levi as a performer and the stylish force of the band that make the show work, and ensures no one leaves disappointed.

REASSESSING THE CLASSICS: Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band - The Beatles

Monday, May 28, 2007

Each issue Tog CD reviewer Andy Hazel will take a look at a so-called 'classic' album and, with the benefit of hindsight, draw your attention to some overlooked aspects. This issue, it's The Beatles 'Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band'...


Ah. "The best". According to most modern rock historians this is the greatest album ever released (give or take the odd Pet Sounds, Dark Side Of The Moon, or, if last year's BBC poll is to be believed, Oasis's Definitely Maybe). Genre-redefining, archetypal, seminal, analysed to death and hyped to maniacal lengths by fans and writers; anybody who wonders where modern rock begins is told to start here. Sgt. Peppers has been long-heralded as the last example of the band working like a team, as the pinnacle of The Beatles' musical talents, song-writing abilities and the last example of unclouded communication between the members. It's the supreme model of analogue recording by pioneering producer / genius / fifth member George Martin and an album still mined by bands claiming to be representative of today's youth - if you want to be a musical success, start studying here. This is it, the first and best 'concept album' and the greatest collection of songs ever committed to vinyl or etched into disc, end of story.

Bollocks.

This overblown testament to pomposity and slackly-edited grandiosity is a mockery of music and self-indulgence almost without exception. With George Martin at your side, a record label kowtowing to any whim, tens of millions of people agreeing with every grunt and suggestion you make and Abbey Road at your disposal, how could you blow it? Even The Beatles themselves realised how far up their own arses they had crawled by going back to basics for their following, untitled and infinitely superior album (later called The White Album). Take, for example, the ridiculously egotistical cover in which they place themselves amongst and ahead of Albert Einstein, Aldous Huxley, Karlheinz Stockhausen and Marlon Brando in some visual assessment of the 20th Century they had to be talked into doing (McCartney preferring an acid-drenched picture by Dutch art collective The Fool). It wasn't for nothing that one of their manager's last requests was "brown paper bags for Seargent Peppers".

Let's look at the music. A Day In The Life ("one of the most ambitious, influential, and groundbreaking works in music history" according to biographer Allen W. Pollack) is sub-Larkin free-form poetry and it's "genius" is an idea any idiot who's been stoned in India could have come up with: "I know," *inhales* "Let's get, like...an orchestra right, *exhales* and just get them to go mad for a bit, then...then, right...*inhales* we get some grand pianos and five guys to play E-major at the same time!" *exhales* "That would be like...totally amazing." *falls into fit of giggles*.
The only thing The Beatles have over that guy is the tenacity, money, and leverage to actually DO it. Not only that, but then record themselves saying "there will never be another" backwards and putting it on the run-out groove of the record. Man, Lennon is probably still laughing at how we all fell for it.

She's Leaving Home aside, misogyny lingers through this album in a way only The Troggs and The Stones can match. Lovely Rita is a Carry-On ode to a working woman who may or may not be up for some hot threesome action after dinner; "I got the bill, Rita paid it / Took her home, I nearly made it / Sitting on the sofa with a sister or two...give us a wink and make me think of you" is clearly some harmless fun, and her character not worth developing any further. Only four woman make it to the album cover of 70-odd people (Diana Dors, Marilyn Monroe, Shirley Temple and Mae West - hardly inspirational feminist material) and it's not until now, when harp player Sheila Bromberg is used, that we see a female involved with a Beatles record at all. With girls such a regular subject and even previously used for point-of-view songs, it's ironic. the irony too of Lennon expecting us to believe "Every summer we can rent a cottage in the Isle Of Wight - if it's not too dear / We shall scrimp and save", seems to have been lost on people at the time.

What the Beatles fans were given was one giant fabrication of blinding colours and "more is more" theory. Only She's Leaving Home and Harrison's much-maligned Within You And Without You are in possession of any humanity or warmth. The rest is, at best, an exercise in excess and trickery, and at worst, an act of thinly-disguised disdain for an audience who would shortly be given a more obvious picture of the bollocks of John Lennon on the cover of the Two Virgins album.
This was the first album to be termed a 'concept album' (i.e: the album is unified by a theme, in this case playing the part of a club band), no singles (making any listener have to purchase the album if they liked a song), and marks the beginning of bands avoiding contact with their audience and making music for a loftier intent than several minutes of fun. One of Sgt. Peppers' more notable achievements is to almost single-handedly be responsible for legitimising unbridled egotism in artists, patronising and expensive 'event' performances and gargantuan recording budgets that effectively ruined popular music for the following decade, until punk grabbed it by it's over-sized lapels and brought it back to earth with a Glasgow kiss.
While it's true the Beatles couldn't be blamed for who followed through the door they opened, they can be seen as the instigators of record companies handing over huge amounts of money to artists and (more often than not) managers using arguments along the lines of "well the Beatles needed 129 days and 10 times the usual budget to make a number one record, so do we." The nadir of 1970s self-indulgence was, in fact, a misguided reinterpretation of this album in film and soundtrack form featuring The Bee Gees, Peter Frampton and, mysteriously, George Martin. This was, deservedly, an unmitigated flop.

What it did entail was an army of musicians seeing it for what it was and going back to the grassroots. The Band, country music and folk all experienced a resurgence, and many great albums were brought to people's attention once they tired of empty psychedelia or formed part of the masses who 'just said no'.
Finally, the record industry as we know it - the multi-armed conglomerate record label - was born with their Apple Corps company, set up by them and much-sued manager Allen Klein in the wake of Sgt. Peppers' success. Even now there are still arguments over to how to more exploit us listeners when this album eventually becomes available for download. No, really, thanks guys.

Next month, Radiohead's OK Computer.

Interview: TODD HUNTER - CHAMELEON DRAGON

Monday, May 28, 2007 

Not too many people have had 35 years in the heady world of rock and roll and survived with as many brain cells intact as Todd Hunter. Founding member of Dragon (these days made up of singer Mark Williams, guitarist Bruce Reid, drummer Pete Drummond and Todd back on bass and vocals), he's a man who's done everything from write the soundtrack to Heartbreak High, 1990's APRA Song Of The Year Age Of Reason as well as AM radio staples. Hunter is a remarkably warm-hearted gent who has outlasted more than his fair share of untimely deaths and label changes. This week also sees him playing Melbourne for the first time in a decade.

"We've been getting such a great reaction from the crowds so far on this tour, we've just finished a theatre tour of New Zealand and people were just so into it, it was wonderful" he says of this new acoustic approach; another incarnation of Dragon and one that certainly isn't out to replace his vocalist brother Marc who died in 1998. Supporting the album Sunshine To Rain which reinterprets classic Dragon songs, Hunter clearly doesn't see this as an excuse to relive old memories. "We came to these songs as if we'd never heard them before. We've worked hard to avoid the whole nostalgia thing so we wouldn't end up hating ourselves. If you want a life in music in Australia you have to reinvent every five years. If you can keep a beginners mind, you never lose that spark." I suggest it's this attitude that has allowed Hunter's career to be something that could be likened to a constant comeback given the trials he's faced, "I guess you're right," he laughs, "it does seem like that. There were just so many deaths and tragedies, it kept me on the straight and narrow...so in a way I'm back where I started now, it's all about the music once again. No one gives a fuck about Dragon and that brings complete freedom." Does this make him miss Marc more, I wonder, "I left the band in the mid nineties. If Marc hadn't become ill the band would have kept going and by now I would have re-joined. So here I am. Instead of Marc being in the car or on stage, somehow he's everywhere now."

Hunter left Dragon in 1995 to work on soundtracks, during which time he thought "to hell with Dragon, it's all meaningless crap" in a healthy, cleansing way it seems. It was after this he was able to see the band and the songs afresh. "A lot of the earlier more melodic songs were written by Paul (Hewson, ex-keyboard player), so it was nice to strip them back, and being a producer means that I have to be so analytical about music, so it's great to be just playing the bass and singing again."

Consistent evolution. Sounds tricky. "I never had a 'music should be...' attitude, so I've been able to weather a lot of changes, even during the crazy times," like the time in 1978 they were supporting Johnny Winters in Austin, Texas and Marc shouted "all Texans are faggots" say? He laughs"yeah that was crazy, we were terrified at the time," the Johnny Winters Band were taking bets as to who in the audience was going to shoot Marc first, "It was all a bit intense." How does that compare to now? "I'm loving playing these little venues and hearing new stuff along the way. There are so many great bands and projects around now - my son is a DJ and I'm hearing the greatest stuff through him. I'm loving The Ghosts and Howling Bells at the moment." Maybe he'd be up for someone remixing the new Dragon song Find My Way Home? "Sure! I'd be up for that. I love the thing of recording new songs and sticking them on our website." Start taking notes would-be's, this is longevity in action.

Live Review: CLAP YOUR HANDS SAY YEAH, NEW ESTATE

Monday, May 28, 2007 

The Hi-Fi Bar

To a rapidly filling and largely disinterested Hi-Fi Bar, New Estate play a typically blazing and impassioned set. One of the few bands who can make mistakes sound spot on, it's a minor act of justice that sees them garner a surely highly contested support slot for CYHSY's east coast tour dates. Playing half of their new album Is It Real? New Estate have technical problems that briefly hold things up, and - despite a static performance - the momentum of the songs more than made up for it. Eschewing future classics like Out Of Control for currently overlooked gems like the glorious Herge and throbbing menace of Last Train To Belgrave, there is more than an off-kilter falsetto linking this band and the headliners and hopefully the overexcited CYHSY fans noticed these jagged guitar-set heartfelt paenes to suburban living and sharehouse etiquette.

The large red LED clock sitting stage right ticks over to 10PM, at precisely this moment is the arrival of our favourite American nerds and a squealing sea of smiling, clear-skinned bookish youth greet them and carries over the opening bars of Some Loud Thunder a perfect you-know-what-you're-getting-and-here-it-is opening track.
Looking as if five undergraduate chemisty students fell over in an op shop bargain bin, CYHSY seem for the most part as if they actually are conducting a chemistry experiment. So precisely are the songs played out, and to the second is their set timed, that we could be excused for thinking we were lab mice. It falls to the hyperactive keyboard/guitar/percussion-ist Robbie Guertin (wearing an Architecture in Helsinki t-shirt) to inject some "yeah!" into the clapping hands with his ecstatic face and frequent buoyancy. Singer Alec Ounsworth, quite clearly the ringleader here, and more talkative than reputation would suggest (frequently telling us this is the first time they've made it to Australia as if reminding himself) resembles a punked-up Rodriguez with his frantically strummed steel-string guitar, lack of eye contact with the audience, blues riffing between each song and wary pacing of the stage. Despite a surprisingly poor sound mix the crowd love every second, Over And Over Again, Satan Said Dance and Gimme Some Salt fill out the first part of the set and indicate a reliance on their first album over their more complex and harder-to-replicate-live second album. This is great news for the hyped-up crowd and every song is greeted with gales of cheers. Though In This Home On Ice is excitingly rousing, the highlight is, predictably enough, The Skin Of My Yellow Country Teeth, eliciting possibly the gentlest moshing the Hi-Fi has ever seen, a piercing garble of a chorus singalong and even a wry smile from the frantically pacing Ounsworth as he peels off the killer two-note guitar hook.

Even a three minute technical hitch doesn't stop the gig from being one hour to the minute, preceding a five minute break and a 25 minute encore - oh those geeks. Coming back with the the sea shanty megaphone-aided Clap Your Hands people can't keep from smiling and joyous cheer fills the room, though not the stage it seems. Heavy Metal is the closing frantic burst of indie-rock that is bestowed upon us, and despite calls for more, the lads clearly have some sort of meta-analysis to formulate and further refining to do.

CD Review: SILVERCHAIR - YOUNG MODERN (Eleven:A Music Company / Virgin)

Wednesday, May 23, 2007 

It's a strange many-coloured beast this album. Covering so many bases, genres and never settling for one guitar track when 5 xylophones and a theremin will do. Home to magnificently over-arched song-structures and instrumentation, from it's odd modernist, Mondrian-like cover to it's frankly balmy Van Dyke Park arrangements (straight from his gloriously understated work with Joanna Newsom on her Ys album) this is unlike any album of recent years. Straight Lines has already brought home how successfully they've evolved from the grunge wonders who packed out Hobart Town Hall supporting You Am I in 1995, and it's once you get past this obvious single that things get strange (though not quite as strange as the image of Molly Meldrum on Sunrise, holding up a copy of Seargent Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band and Young Modern claiming there was no difference in importance between the two). Dementia aside, this is an significant release and one which may well reveal greater depths with repeated listens, but after a dozen, Young Modern only serves to show how Johns' has effectively become Silverchair with an orchestral abandon of horrorshow proportions.

There is a shallow, needless complexity to songs that seems almost entirely pretentious and overblown. With garbled nonsense like: "Such seductive silent wine hop scotch trigger / If you keep losing sleep over other lovers / If you keep losing me are you gonna be / If you're up chimney sweep under rubble covers" it seems the emo audience is being courted now their grunge and Oz-rock credentials are assured. It's incredibly unlikely Johns thinks this way, but it is unusual how the 'chair's canvas keep getting bigger and bigger, with the 80-piece Czech Philharmonic Orchestra pushed to their avant-garde limit to facilitate his and Parks' uncontrolled abandon. One can see Johns listening to My Chemical Romance and being impressed with the sheer pomposity, and without a trace of humbleness or a sense of humour deciding to aim for the same target in the way the emo bands (most straddling 30) find timeless appeal in an endless stream of sad, moneyed teenagers.

Constantly bordering on confusion of the most self-indulgent and ugly kind, it's more conventional tracks like Waiting All Day, Reflections Of A Sound, Mind Reader and Straight Lines that remind you why they are one of the most loved bands of recent decades and when they stay out of Prague, can still write decent tunes. At the very least they don't sound like anyone else, which is far more than you can say about any other successful Australian band at the moment.

CD Review: MISSY HIGGINS - ON A CLEAR NIGHT (Eleven:A Music Company)

Monday, May 21, 2007 

With this, her sophomore release, Australia's favourite youth-MOR songstress seems to take all the lessons learned from the platinum-hemorrhaging The Sound of White and built another tower of gentle tinkling and big-themed-ballads which will no doubt thrill those who already hold a soft spot for her. Who exactly these people are I'm yet to know, but they seem to number in the hundreds of thousands and have enough money to buy her CDs.
On A Clear Night sees her working with producer Mitchell Froom (Crowded House, Paul McCartney and ex-wife Suzanne Vega) his everything-but-the-kitchen-sink style is thankfully bypassed, instead Missy and a breezy sense of freedom is pushed to the fore. With one eye on the US market you can see the country-ish aspect of her tightly-written songs are embraced by the subtle arrangements and occasional dip into intimate low-fi textures of the Blasko/New Buffalo/Bowditch/Cloher variety. Another influence that you can notice wasn't there on the last record is the broad-vowelled Oz-country sounds which are all over the non-single tracks like Angela, Going North and The Wrong Girl, probably helped by the fact that she apparently wrote this album during a seclusion in Broome. This is wonderfully suited to her voice and she is without a doubt a talent, but it's what she does with this that renders it so forgettable. Oddly asexual in her depiction of people and relationships, Higgins record is full of lyrics as sincere as any emo band's; "So move aside she has arrived / With her baby neck and sleepy eyes / She has heels that walk all over you / She's a danger you're addicted to" or her cod-gospel lyrics to Forgive Me; "Oh my God how you make it hard / Not to pick the apple / Pick the apple, and Lord I long to give it back". In the hands of Amy Winehouse we could be on our knees at this sentiment, it's just hard to feel any impact when she seems so detached and passionless about her subjects.

Steer is the most effective of the tracks here and has a melody and dynamic no other track echoes; many of these sound like they could have come from an evening jamming with The Audreys, and it's surprising they survived the LA recording session and Froom's intimidating resume in their resolute ockerness. These Oz-country influences paint themselves across the blank canvas that Higgins' was accused of being on her last album, which is remarkable given the experience she's had in the industry (first JJJ airplay in 2001), still the industry does love malleability. Until then, this could be the release that eases it's way into the US mainstream with its great production and easy-going feel, one decent Dixiechicks support slot should see to that, assuming they can remember the songs after pressing stop.

Live Review: JAMIE T, THE HOLIDAYS

Tuesday, May 15, 2007 

Ding Dong Lounge

When the queue of ticketless exceeds those with tickets, the gig is at Ding Dong, the performer is a British artist with little airplay, no hits and only an acoustic bass guitar for company, something is on the rise.

To the opening chimes of The Holidays' set, the very sold out Ding Dong is already a cesspit of cool. It's a 10-minute wait for a drink, teenagers rush from group to group in neatly tucked-out shirts and easily-excitable girls in skirts hold bottles and jump up and down laughing. On stage the bottleneck jeans and messy hair complement the British indie-rock perfectly. Clearly a band who've not been around for long, they do have the moves, the great drummer, the looks and the pop hooks to get a much bigger following, they also seem like friendly folk, comfortable with the show and genuinely humbled to be playing with Mr T. Ice Cream Cone, Plains and the closing song Nothing were all good examples of their chugging tunes with simple lead-lines and catchy choruses. Expect an album, a signing and a promoter to leap on board before 2008.

A surge later and Jamie T is up there with the (mainly female) crowd all cheering mouths and clapping hands. Jamie, sickly pale, with dental problems as marked any other Londoner and a McGowen-esque charm to boot, suddenly seems like he's playing one of his first ever gigs, before a demo tape, before the band, before the hype, and it's a privilege. Fittingly his first Australian tour is as a solo performer, as apparently he's due back with band before the end of the year, and you can safely bet that tonight's crowd will have multiplied by then and those here will be glad for this warm up.

Opening with Calm Down Dearest, a fantastic version of Billy Bragg's A New England, and amid confessions of jet lag, a request for sambuca, and several swigs of Stella, Jamie is clearly on form. Often consulting his setlist (taped upside-down to the front of his shirt pocket), Jamie walks in circles on the stage before spilling his raps; perhaps missing the interaction of a band. Livin' With Betty, Back in The Game and Ike & Tina all survive transition back to being acutely observed and often funny spoken word pieces with a suggestion of acoustic bass incredibly well - helped along by an well-up-for-it and knowledgeable crowd. Given the boisterous pom contingent (and no doubt Australians who discovered him while in the UK) there is a big response to the song Northern Line ("Norr-ven line"), which is a step outside his lauded Panic Prevention album almost all of which gets an airing tonight. Though the gig falls under an hour in length, no one seems the slightest bit disappointed, and it's no surprise that by the second last song there is a row of sambuca shot-glasses to Jamie's left, bought and carefully brought by various fans. Closing song and current single Sheila gets a huge reception, as it should because it's killer. His appearance, genuine humbleness, quick wit (working lyrics about his jet lag into Livin' With Betty) and the Bragg cover betray his roots as being very different to those of Mikey Skinner and Lily Allen - you can't see him leaving SW14 (AKA Wimbledon, AKA his home turf) and slagging off celebs. These slices of London life aren't trying to prove anything beyond telling their story, and they have a masterful teller. Wicked.

Live Review: SUNN O))), BORIS

Tuesday, May 15, 2007 

The Hi-Fi Bar

Once the straggling stream of punters that coursed down Swanston Street were within the tight confines of the Hi Fi, it was clear just what an inadvertent definition of 'stoner rock' we made. Almost exclusively dressed in black, mid-20s average age, lots of hair and grudging movement (except within a 5 meter radius of the merch desk which was swamped). This is just as well as the noise made by openers Boris give anyone not standing stoutly cause to cower (one girl does actually collapse, though this may have been related to a pre-existing medical condition). Kicking off with gentle arpeggios from the elegant twin-neck guitar fiend Nakata, Atsuo's spatially generous drumming and our first example of the almighty-sustained guitar lines of Wata, one of the more stylish people to ever don a Gibson Les Paul, Red builds on the tension already thick as the dry ice. Watching Boris move this dense fog of ice with their heavy frequencies and Atsuo's formidable drumming and gong-work adds a visual dimension that works brilliantly. This Boris gig sits part way between their experimental and psych-rock tangents, often thrillingly moving from one to the other. Atsuo's shrieks puncture the carefully constructed dronescape which sporadically bursts into thunderous riffage as on Blackout. Much of the gig is made up of tracks off 2006's lauded Pink album, the close with it's opening track Farewell which brings wintry textures to a fiery conclusion over 10 minutes and leaves punters bellowing for more.

More is exactly what Sunn O))) deliver. More volume, more brain-shaking drone, more theatrics, more bass and all in what is more a ceremony than gig. Making a greater and more convincing case for introducing slowness into our lives than Milan Kundera ever did, Sunn O))) and their guests (Attila Csihar from Mayhem on vocals, Atsuo on gong, Oren Ambarchi on guitar and Tos Niewenhuizen on keyboard) are clearly well-versed in sound as sonic weaponry and toy with the brown note all night. After a long wait in which Atsuo's gong is moved stage-right, masks are hung from amps, and presumably the stage is reinforced with concrete several times, hooded figures slowly file out into the dry ice, hemmed in by 6 foot of amps.

The first note played sends seismic pulses through the room and people mouthing "holy FUCK!" at each other. This note is held what seems like minutes before the three guitars are raised and brought down again with an opposing note issuing forth for double damage, allowing the overtones to wreck havoc. This is where the real majesty of Sunn O))) lies; what is within the notes. Only at this level could you really hear what sound is made up of and it's a fascinating and draining experience. This ritualistic slaughter of eardrums (the redundancy of earplugs cannot be overstated when frequencies this low and loud are being played; the body is numbed and senses are simply deadened by this colossal, uninterrupted blast) is aided by Atsuo who comes out, stands with his arm raised, wrist limp and gazing at it for several minutes before picking up a mallet and beating the gong until collapsing. Several half-hearted crowd-surfing attempts later, Attila joins, barking forth a rasping wheeze of a vocal contribution which adds brilliantly to the atmosphere of a dread force. At precisely 1AM the assault ceases, the drained masses cheer, and tinnitus as loud as the gig fills the brain and won't let us leave this gig for days.

As the guy behind me said: "There needs to be more gigs that are just walls of amplifiers". There may be, but few will be as colossal as this.

CD Review: THE FIELD - FROM HERE WE GO TO SUBLIME (Kompakt)

Thursday, May 10, 2007 

This debut release by Swedish electro-artist Axel Willner is a glorious offering of primarily minimalist techno which occasionally broaches into trance territory. While usually a field of music not much analysed given it's preoccupation with eliciting a spiritual dancefloor experience in conjunction with psychotropic drugs, The Field is compelling for many reasons.

To begin with, Willner sets his sights far higher than producing trance fodder, indeed there is more in common with early 90s shoegaze bands such as My Bloody Valentine or Ride than Carl Craig. Song titles and the overall feel of the album concern geography and movement, alluded to by many of the songs heavily compressed pulses of bass beats being just faster than a human heartbeat. Over these Willner completely shirks any sense of build/hold tension/release, preferring to live in the latter state. He drags the sensation of insistance back with washes of reverbed synths or simple samplescapes making it at once perfect music to play while travelling, or crashing on the couch chill-out style.

With a penchant for deft and incredibly minimal samples there is an undeniable human warmth about this record, though not a word is spoken nor an acoustic instrument played. Opening track Over The Ice features unrecognisibly brief snippets of Kate Bush's song Under The Ice to create a hypnotic texture, while following track A Paw In My Face again fuses stuttering samples, this time of Lionel Richie's ultra-cheesy Hello which only resolve in the dying seconds making you re-appraise all you've just heard, a trick he does again on the closing title track. These are deft yet simple devices that help the tracks cohease in a way almost unbelivable for an album partly made up of previously released singles. Willner's way with looping clipped signals and preoccupation with Arctic wilderness is nowhere near as clincal and cold as it sounds like it is; you may be in the Arctic but there is such an intent of purpose and attention to detail you know you're with a sound guide.

Ten-minute centrepiece The Deal is an exercise in how to make a minimalist techno endlessly fascinating in a way that doesn't rely on any hallmarks of the genre, looking more to Phillip Glass or Steve Reich as shapers of the song. Shivering bursts of icy operatic vocal, insistant bass and chugging, sparklingly synth gurgles. Sun And Ice, Everyday and Mobilia are highlights on an album which does the job of taking minimalist techno from the realm of the 12-inch single to a crystalline-coherant CD.

CD Review: BJORK - VOLTA (Universal)

Thursday, May 10, 2007 

There is a considerable case to be made for Björk being the most brilliant and expectation-confounding artist in popular music of the last 20 years. A more prolific and no-less challenging Kate Bush for our times. Fearless in her experimentation and expression and utterly without concession to cultural or industry pressure, Björk has continued to be a proverbial Icelandic geyser of creativity. Even those who don't like her voice must concede she is gifted in choosing collaborators; fashion, filmclip and musical. The resulting gift being that she makes each step uniquely hers whilst giving the freedom each collaborator wishes for, provided they don't threaten her autonomy (just ask Lars Von Trier what happens then).

Volta continues in the same vein. Opening with an army marching through a verdant bower, the album continues with all the force of an alien invasion. Her allied forces vary greatly in their firepower though. Timbaland's productions are as uninspired and repetitive as his recent album (for this Björk must take equal blame being the producer), Antony Hegarty is, as always, himself and he and Björk's voices intertwine to make the hardest hearts swoon, while others including percussionist Chris Corsano, kora virtuoso Toumani Diabaté, Brian Chippendale from Lightning Bolt, African collective Konono No 1, Chinese pipa player Min Xiao-Fen, and a ten-piece Icelandic brass section are hardly given room to shine given the production - more later.

For once she has not just left or begun a relationship (Homogenic - Goldie, Post - Tricky, Vespertine - Matthew Barney), she has not been infatuated with a city's arts scene Debut - London, Medulla - New York) or collecting music from a film (Selmasongs, Drawing Restraint 9). So what will be the inspiration here? As it turns out it's personal and political independance. In an age where we're living the consequence of 80s hedonism, 90s irony and 00s "self-empowerment at all costs"-manifesto as spouted by Stefani/P!nk/Aguelira and co, it's a brassy (literally) meditation on the consequence of this. But far from being a mediation on loneliness, Volta actually sounds like these manifestos should. Individual.
Stripping away the glass harmonicas, choirs, washes of synth and string ensembles or  any reference to earlier work, Björk again charges into new territory with repetative punching beats, electronic bass and meditations on terrorism (Hope), Scandinavian politics (Declare Independence), geographical freedom (Wanderlust) and her children (My Juvenile).

As is the problem with self-production, there is no one around to tell said artist to edit the excess and keep the point of the song the point of the production. So it is that there is an overuse of muscular electronic beats, vocal reverb (her and Antony...are there two finer voices in modern music? Let them shine) and lyrics such as : "What's the lesser of two evils / if a suicide bomber / made to look pregnant / manages to kill her target / or not?" which as noble as anything else she's written, is trite enough to leave you longing for the days of car-parts bottles and cutlery. Perhaps this is work better through a PA system at a club, as indeed her opus to Greenland and the Faroe Islands Declare Independance must. For the first time in 15 years Björk can be accused of being safe and, yes, lazy. With her second child at the terrible-two's stage of infancy her mind could be forgiven for being elsewhere, as much of the memorable moments are not inspired turns-of-phrase, soaring vocalisations and brilliant combinations of instruments, but the filmclips, the guest appearances and the intimate works (My Juvenile, Pneumonia and I See Who You Are) which stand out.

Certainly, it's a good album, but with the pre-release hype saying this is likely to be her biggest seller, a "return to the fun of her earlier releases" and with the hottest producer in hip-hop on board, expectations can be forgiven for being raised to extraordinary levels. With repeated listens it does reveal greater depths, but dancefloor fillers don't work that way, exuberance is there in the opening seconds of the first listen. Instead, looking for profundity and imagistic explorations, maybe we should be happy with that in Björk's world, this is pop music now, and as always follows a release of an artist this willful...what next?

Interview: PIKELET - HOMEMADE COOKING

Wednesday, May 09, 2007 

Instead of sleeping / I'm going to keep going / Instead of counting sheep / I'm going to count how many bugs I eat in my sleep - Bug In Mouth, Pikelet

If a girl had been left a little too long in the nursery-room of a big country house in an outback town, sunlight slanting in long windows, bugs and a goldfish for friends, she may well have wound up making music like Pikelet. A one-girl-band, known to her mum  (who is not alone in admitting to being "in awe" of her daughter's musical abilities), as Evelyn, Pikelet has gradually worked her way up band bills since slipping onto the live scene at the beginning of last year, culminating in next-week's CD launch. Recording with ace producer and engineer Casey Rice (Sea And Cake, Tortoise, Sigur Ros etc.), Pikelet describes this CD as "alot more hi-fi, psychedelic and soundscapy" than her two self-recorded EPs.

"I knew the kind of sounds I wanted, but wasn't particularly good at achieving them myself on the 4-track. Casey was good at interpreting what I was thinking - a lot of times before I had been able to say it - I think he understood what I was trying to get at from mixing me live a few times. Recording with Gus (Franklin, co-producer) was really quite a creative process, we did some ones that were just jams on the loop pedal that we arranged afterwards. Both of them were really great to work with, mildly psychic."

"Making music by myself means I have to think outside the box a fair bit. I've been inspired by stuff like Animal Collective and Ryan McPhun, also some old 60s pop; more heavily reverbed and with a lot more harmonies. The Purple Stripes had a really big influence [too] because that was the first band I played in that had melodic harmonies and I really enjoyed that. Soon after I was playing in that band I started Pikelet." Much of Pikelet's music is based on loops of accordion, guitar and layers of harmonised voices, arrangements that complement her songs as being meditations on behavioural quirks. "There's no point trying to hide the pedal, it's what I do. I kind of think of the loop pedal as another instrument really, or like another band member. Repetition is a big thing in Pikelet."

"Music has always been a guttural thing, not cerebral, which is really why I enjoy it because I'm cerebral most of the time - constantly thinking. That's what I love about music, it gets me outside of myself a bit. I think it's because I avoid wanting to be too wordy, I want everyone to understand, so I'll try and take a sentence, or four words and repeat them."

Another striking thing about Pikelet's songs is her subject matter. "Alot of it is based around things I think about me or my friends which I put into the persona of somebody else so it's not so scary." One example is her song Sewerage Man, ostensibly about a boy who loses a goldfish, never gives up hope that he'll find it and grows up to work in a sewerage plant. "I was actually thinking about how many people I know who have jobs that they hate, and it just sucks that people get bogged down. So I started thinking: why would people get stuck in the shittest jobs they could think of?" And the goldfish? "I guess that's more about friends that I've lost, how you just grow apart from people, that's something I periodically lament."

"I've spent alot of time playing loud music and trying to sing really loud, and other people have said my recordings sound so less intense than the live performance, but that's what I'm going for. I want it to be intimate, and I want to to it as quiet as my performances and not be loud because I have to be." Prepare for captivation.

Live review: SIR, THE CRAYON FIELDS

Wednesday, May 09, 2007 

The Toff in Town

Once past downstairs security, the doorman, the coat-check/ticket seller, the second doorman and your table-service waiter's pleasant introduction, you realise the The Toff  in Town more than lives up to its name. Padded, art-deco motif walls, sparkling bar with curiously-shaped brewery-specific beer glasses and artful barmen; clearly Airborne won't be playing here any time soon. The Crayon Fields wend their way through meticulously scattered tables, to the arch-canopied stage and deliver a fantastic set featuring several songs off earlier EPs as well as highlights from last year's album Animal Bells. Tonight's mix pushes the bass-end of The Fields' sound which makes them more gutsy and warm, though still allows their indie-Morricone arrangements to sparkle. Apparently they're unable to write sad songs, and when hearing tonight's performances of Impossible Things and the recently Pitchfork-lauded Choir Of Tiny Boys, you'd doubt anyone is missing them.

Lengthy-resuméd and sharply dressed guests Raquel Solier, Tim Picone and backup singers Alana and Cara augment the new Sir lineup of Mikey Stabbs on keyboards, Seth Rees on guitar and Mr. Jesse Jackson Shepherd himself out front. Together they deliver a perfectly toned and almost faultless performance, launching the new CD The Brando Room. Opening song, and highlight Men Who Lie saw the atmosphere set at dour sleaze before moving to arrogant sadness, via complicit sadism. "This next song is about friends who make you pay to be their friend." Laughter. "I'm not laughing," he mutters before launching into Spent Time With A Woman. Shepherd cuts a Graney-esque figure, though one more concerned with emotional residue of the past than being hip. His sub-octave vocal range is so subtly suggestive in it's delivery you have to strain to hear his stories of gloriously maudlin love. Your World Is Too Small For Me and When You Pray are both great indicators of the quality of his writing if not the variety of subject matter. Rees' glorious slo-mo ricochets of guitar add a wondrously luminous quality and Stabbs' multi-textured and iridescent keyboard work keeps things firmly rooted in slick electro territory.

What few must have been predicting was their sudden teleporting to the cabaret scene from Mulholland Drive which occurred as new member Jane Badler (star of TV shows V, Mission Impossible and Falcon Crest) took to the microphone for The Devil He Has My Double. Stunningly beautiful (the likelihood of plastic surgery involvement was a hot topic during her performance), fearlessly confident in a feisty Shirley Bassey way and a sterling match for Shepherd's songs, Badler is clearly at home and sets about making those of us who felt under-dressed for a night at The Toff feel classy by virtue of proximity. Shepherd joins her for I Love Everything and a rollicking version of Everybody's Somebody's Fool which is made into an anthem of redemption. A 24-carat night.

CD Review: THE NATIONAL - BOXER (Beggars Banquet)

Wednesday, May 09, 2007 

For several years now The National have been carving a niche for themselves on the less-hyped end of the indie-rock spectrum, often overshadowed by the bands they are occasionally reminiscent of (and, incidentally, friends with). Not afraid of getting a bit Arcade Fire-theatrical (Fake Empire), Sufjan-self-absorbed or Rapture-rhythmic, they perhaps embody a similar sound to Clap Your Hands Say Yeah though, like Arcade Fire's recent release, the ghost of The Boss looms quietly over Boxer. 

Full of swelling darkly urban strings (both guitar and orchestral) and muscular rhythm sections getting vaguely Albini but without straying into threatening territory, the album has a closet-style intimacy courtesy of producer Peter Katis (Interpol, the Twilight Sad, their first album Alligator, and whose wedding the cover photograph was taken at). Another great contribution comes from Australian violinist Padma Newsome's arrangements which underscore sections of songs and illustrate the band's themes of quiet anxiety, unexpressed grandiose feelings and, as they claim in interviews, serves to facilitate communication between the band members. That the band are a gang of friends (two pairs of two brothers included), all of whom moved to New York from Ohio around the same time adds a sense of warm looseness to the album which is invaluable in preventing many of the songs from disappearing into style-over-substance territory that so much from New York is prone to.

The melodious mumbling of lead vocalist Matt Berninger work well in accentuating the production's strengths, and suits the confessional-style lyrics. It's this intimacy and the lethargic, impassioned delivery that will endear it to some people and make others not care to give the album the time it deserves to reveal it's gifts. The opening track and single Fake Empire is at once humble and profound with a wonderful use of dynamics (which are essential given Berninger's baritone-style) and Racing Like A Pro on which Sufjan Stevens' makes a barely audible guest appearance is genuinely powerful in it's lack of emotion. An interesting and multi-layered release that may well be a sleeper like their debut and a thrill to see rendered live.

CD Review: THE FRATELLIS - COSTELLO MUSIC (Fallout Records)

Wednesday, May 09, 2007 

Through the door kicked opened by the lad-rock of Arctic Monkeys comes the hotly-tipped Glasgow three-piece The Fratellis. Named for the former surname of the bassist and tellingly Italian for 'brothers' they were only one EP old when a recent iPod advertisement featured their track Flathead. The Fratellis have held their position in the limelight with this much-hyped (by the notoriously sedate UK music press) debut. Flathead, whatever way you look at it, does the job incredibly well; infectious, inoffensive, makes people ask: "who's that band from the iPod ad?", and essentially a re-jigging of the same chords and guitar effects The Stones, Supergrass, The Libertines etc. used and used again, and it's ace. It's once you look beyond this (both the song and the songwriting) that this offering begins to lose fizz. Of the same raffish charm school as Small Faces and aforementioned bands, there is a music-hall joviality that some love and others find totally irritating to this album and all that The Fratellis do. While they do have charm and charisma to burn which does go a long way on songs like the opener Henrietta and the single Chelsea Dagger, it is remarkably samey, which is just fine if you're in the mood. On the plus side there is a great use of dynamics thanks to the crafty production of Tony Hoffer, and they are forever stopping and starting songs for a cymbal 'ding' or sharp intake of breath which adds to the urgency thrilling through the album which is no doubt filling indie club floors somewhere as you read this. Chelsea Dagger is already getting airings in UK football stadiums whenever Celtic FC score. While this album does burn with young energy, and is ace for getting drunk to, just like any great idea when you're pissed, it's a bit tedious and lacklustre sober. Still, those who want a party with Glaswegian lads singing along in your face would do well to get this and crank it high. Already winners of BRIT Best Newcomers Award, it seems their star is burning brightly now, let's see who remembers it come Christmas.

Live Review: ACTOR/MODEL, BACHELORETTE

Monday, April 30, 2007 

Exile On Smith Street

This increasingly used and fast-becoming-cool venue was home to a jovial crowd this ANZAC day eve; lining the stairway, balcony and spreading across the floor like warm, pulsing, darkly-striped lichen fed on slants of bracing synth-sunshine. In Bachelorette's words: "Let's celebrate being self-indulgent middle-class kids 'cause our grandfathers fought for this," and so it was, another concise case of sound trans-Tasman relations.

Though battling against a dodgy PA and unable to leave her keyboard, Bachelorette's performance and songs shone through like those aforementioned slants. Incorporating multi-layered vocals, warmth synth chords, jangling guitar, a deft line in affecting (if barely audible) lyrics, obvious songwriting nous and a humble elegance, this was a low-key gig that shone like an oven light. Tracks In The Four and A Lifetime were wonderfully rendered and received in a surprisingly noisy and appreciative way. Seeming unfazed by all that the night threw at her, Bachelorette thanked "My Aussie brothers and sisters" and with a killer version of My Electric Husband, and despite calls for more ("venues closing at 11 o'clock, what's WITH this city?" she cries), she folds her laptop and slips away.

DJ Applejack plays a cracking selection of indie rock classics that the dying PA renders almost unidentifiable, but, given that your mind fills in the parts you can't hear, it's a fun and diverting game.
Beneath a televised loop of The Adventures of Buckaroo Bonzai (don't ask) Actor/Model appear and made the state of the PA perfect for their could-explode-any-second energy. Overdriving everything and smashing cymbals with deafening regularity they thankfully take the guitar/keyboard/drum/shouty vocals to new and exciting places, with Daydream Nation as a road-map. It's a thrilling journey with stop-offs My Agent Says and first set closer Laptop Dancing highlights. Potential indulgent tangents are reigned in and left as potentials thereby strengthening their songs, while main singer Ricky/French galvanises gazes with his onstage presence. A very pregnant Karen/Anson is perhaps one clue for this being their last gig as this lineup which is surely a loss for the Melbourne live scene. One thing for sure is that their songs are good enough, their riffs taut enough and the lyrics memorable enough to make a reconfiguration of Ricky/French's songs worth checking out in whatever form (or indeed, if) they re-emerge. And if not, the CD they were launching tonight, already gathering fans online, is testament to this ace era of Actor/Model.