Sunday, November 02, 2008
THE CORNER
There is such an air of collective camaraderie and positivity among the mingling crowd tonight that it’s hard not to think the impression is at least partly due to the band that people are here to see. Even an hour after the curtains swing shut, people are still in animated conversation and mingling in a warm, friendly and unpretentious way that can’t help but remind you of the music and the community that birthed it.
Over the last year Skipping Girl Vinegar have gone from a band with a catchy – but not annoying - song on JJJ (One Chance), into quietly turning down six-figure advances from major labels, putting an astonishing level of attention to detail into their inescapable merchandising, and slowly but surely acquiring a fanbase who seem as excited as SGV’s Mark Lang does about tonight’s show.
‘I’ve had four years of holding onto it,’ he says clearly elated. ‘I’ve got to let it out.’ And let it out he does. We get stories, explanations, insights into his darker times as well as the rousing, driving indie-country anthems that the band seem to write in their sleep. Interestingly, we get the mid-gig confession from his bass-playing sister Sare that sleepless nights were had over the thickness of the drawstring of the library bag that houses the Sift The Noise CD we’re seeing launched tonight. ‘It’s great!’ shouts someone reassuringly. ‘It is now!’ he replies.
After screening the two gorgeously animated videos for One Chance and new release Sift The Noise (which neatly join to tell a story), the band walk on to the ivy-clad stage and take their places side by side along the front, amidst paper owls and before the projected visuals of a moon hovering over a windowsill. It’s a damn impressive sight. Kicking off with Wandered, a highlight of the Sift The Noise album, the band instantly fall into their effortless easy style, one that betrays tight-knit and long-standing friendships, giving the songs an extra glow, much like the light in drummer Chris Helm’s bass drum.
Bringing in The Ramblin’ Hobos (horn section, second keyboard, violin and banjo) to help out on Sift The Noise and Sinking creates a sound as full as the venue and a wave it’s hard not to be swept up in. The arrangements work brilliantly, for the delicate I Drove For Miles and set-closing eulogy The Passing especially. Though not quite silencing the chattering in the crowds, they cast a spell that in another venue would be followed with deep exhalations. Wasted, a song about getting drunk and seeing bands at The Corner gets the requisite big whoop of approval and shows that, when they want to, this band can ‘do’ rock. That they choose to close with quieter, more intimate songs is telling. If the badges, tote bags, library-cards in the CDs with the signatures of those involved listed (which the owner is to add their name to), posters and music is anything to go by, Skipping Girl Vinegar may use the same instruments as other bands, but they’re in a carefully created and alluring league of their own.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Live Review: KALIMAA, THE HAZELMAN BROTHERS
Sunday, November 02, 2008
WESLEY ANNE
While most folk performers ply their trade with earnest musings and loosely strummed open chords to largely empty pubs, tonight’s packed and humid Wesley Anne sees a show of a different kind. The sheer unadulterated joy in playing and storytelling is alive for all to see at a Kalimaa show. She is a relatively new face on the circuit and tonight, launching her debut EP, and there is a refreshing and cleansing quality to spending time with her, perhaps coming from seeing someone do this folk-music thing right; with unpretentiousness, originality and love.
Before the launch of Kalimaa’s set comes an ever-recommendable performance by The Hazelman Brothers. This fraternal three-piece seem to go from strength to strength with new songs shining. Most notable is the closing Something’s Written that spirals off in unexpected directions with new-plunged depths and striking originality, while the opening Put You In A Song and the Biblical Doomsday stun with their rich and faultless harmonies. What also impresses is the level of guitar arrangements, or guitarmonies if you will. There are 18 strings on stage and, during their newer songs especially, each one stands out. It’s not hard to see The Hazelmans as being a fitting support for Fleet Foxes; their dry and distinctly Australian sounds sound effortlessly original in this most populated of genres.
The effortless confidence that exudes from Kalimaa, aka Karlee Baker, is the first thing that impresses. That she soon informs us of her day job as a teacher may go someway to explaining this. The idea of ‘gig as a diary’ is perhaps an old one but Kalimaa renders it in a new light. As with most good folk music, you get such a clear vision of the person you’re watching that how much you like them on a personal level plays a big part in your ability to connect with their music. That Kalimaa doesn’t attempt to render events in her life in obtuse imagery or make her feelings elusive and malleable is part of her strength. As such humour and sincerity flow and each song is a story. Her aside of ‘I live my life collecting stories to tell on the other side,’ perfectly encapsulates her mission. This gig shows a compendium of such stories, concisely told and beautifully rendered, or, sometimes more of the ‘put it in a song and get over it’ variety.
‘Therapeutic’ songs can be horribly boring and pointless (James Blunt), happily Kalimaa offers no such awkwardness. Somewhat endearing are her efforts to write songs that aren’t about herself but which still seem to concern boys meeting strong-willed girls and them running away together. Her band of violin, bass, drums, cello and guitar flesh out her songs well, never overpower (quite a feat given the sound problems that seem to plague this PA) and only help her to win over the room with her sincerity and likeability.
WESLEY ANNE
While most folk performers ply their trade with earnest musings and loosely strummed open chords to largely empty pubs, tonight’s packed and humid Wesley Anne sees a show of a different kind. The sheer unadulterated joy in playing and storytelling is alive for all to see at a Kalimaa show. She is a relatively new face on the circuit and tonight, launching her debut EP, and there is a refreshing and cleansing quality to spending time with her, perhaps coming from seeing someone do this folk-music thing right; with unpretentiousness, originality and love.
Before the launch of Kalimaa’s set comes an ever-recommendable performance by The Hazelman Brothers. This fraternal three-piece seem to go from strength to strength with new songs shining. Most notable is the closing Something’s Written that spirals off in unexpected directions with new-plunged depths and striking originality, while the opening Put You In A Song and the Biblical Doomsday stun with their rich and faultless harmonies. What also impresses is the level of guitar arrangements, or guitarmonies if you will. There are 18 strings on stage and, during their newer songs especially, each one stands out. It’s not hard to see The Hazelmans as being a fitting support for Fleet Foxes; their dry and distinctly Australian sounds sound effortlessly original in this most populated of genres.
The effortless confidence that exudes from Kalimaa, aka Karlee Baker, is the first thing that impresses. That she soon informs us of her day job as a teacher may go someway to explaining this. The idea of ‘gig as a diary’ is perhaps an old one but Kalimaa renders it in a new light. As with most good folk music, you get such a clear vision of the person you’re watching that how much you like them on a personal level plays a big part in your ability to connect with their music. That Kalimaa doesn’t attempt to render events in her life in obtuse imagery or make her feelings elusive and malleable is part of her strength. As such humour and sincerity flow and each song is a story. Her aside of ‘I live my life collecting stories to tell on the other side,’ perfectly encapsulates her mission. This gig shows a compendium of such stories, concisely told and beautifully rendered, or, sometimes more of the ‘put it in a song and get over it’ variety.
‘Therapeutic’ songs can be horribly boring and pointless (James Blunt), happily Kalimaa offers no such awkwardness. Somewhat endearing are her efforts to write songs that aren’t about herself but which still seem to concern boys meeting strong-willed girls and them running away together. Her band of violin, bass, drums, cello and guitar flesh out her songs well, never overpower (quite a feat given the sound problems that seem to plague this PA) and only help her to win over the room with her sincerity and likeability.
Baseball interview for SPIN Magazine
Friday, October 31, 2008
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pTeZBGFa02k
My video interview for SPIN Magazine. With Cameron Potts of Baseball
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pTeZBGFa02k
My video interview for SPIN Magazine. With Cameron Potts of Baseball
RITUAL DE LO HABITUAL: An interview with TIC TOC TOKYO
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Three years spent plugging away on the local scene is beginning to pay off for rhythm-focused rockers Tic Toc Tokyo, as SIMON GIBBS and ADRIAN VECINO explain to ANDY HAZEL on the eve of the release of EP Ritual.
“Basically we just started recording demos as a tool to get gigs,“ explains Tic Toc Tokyo bassist Adrian Vecino. Vecino, along with percussionist/vocalist Nic Oogjes is also responsible for the artwork that adorns TTT’s five EPs, including their latest, Ritual.
“The artwork we wanted to be strong, like the music,” continues Vecino. “We’re conscious of a sense of space and intentional silence is a part of what we make, but a lot of our simplicity is through necessity - none of us are that good at our instruments,” he deadpans. Though many listeners would beg to differ, there is instrumental interplay rather than layering, a quality many bands have without being conscious of it. This, explains singer and percussionist Simon Gibbs in his southern English brogue, is born from writing songs as a band. “This is the first major band for everyone, and as we get better at our instruments the way we write and the sounds we use change. Marty [Umanski, guitarist] will bring in textures and atmospheres more than riffs, say, so a lot of the focus will fall on the percussion.”
The band’s use of percussion is one thing that immediately sets them apart both visually and sonically. While having two upright drummers who both sing may seem like a cool gimmick, it was a development that, like everything else that seems to come from the band, arrived naturally and, as Vecino explains “we worked as we thought we should. When we started we had no idea what it would come to be and it’s evolved very much into it’s own sound”.
“We all wanted to do music at the point we met each other and I still find it quite mindblowing that we’re doing what we’re doing; music is such a powerful thing.” While allowing the band a greater deal of freedom, the way they approach their instruments is an intriguing mix of hours spent rehearsing and hours spent working with pedal settings and thinking of sound as separate from the instruments themselves. Vocals are more clipped, bellowed syllables, songs are intricately twisted with the focus shifting from instrument to instrument, and the line between live and recorded versions of the songs intentionally thin, an attribute underscored by the fact that their live mixer is producing their forthcoming album.
“It’s really an ongoing process, us playing live influences the way we record and then, while recording, we’ll get ideas to add to the songs live,” explains Vecino before detailing the remix the previous EP’s producer Casey Rice did for the band. “It was more a sonic companion piece. Casey heard a dub influence in the song Colour of Place while he was recording it and kept all the sounds organic; all from the original recording. We liked it so we included it on Ritual.” The EP also features two live tracks as well as the titular single, whose filmclip the band shot over a day at La Mama Theatre.
The attention to detail that governs their songwriting extends to the EP artwork and sequencing of the songs. Each of their first three EPs was individually handmade and bound; again the learning-as-you-go method that has served many bands so well also served TTT here. “It’s another means of expression,” says Vecino, “It’s exciting to be involved in all of it, we have a vested interest in every step and we’re really conscious of quality.” As such the band are fairly insular and the quality of their output (both material and sonic) is testament to this. “The sequencing of the album is something we’re planning already,” says Gibbs, referring to the next project, always looking to keep the learning curve steep. “The Snowman album is one that has distinctive sounds and a real sense of flowing like an actual album. That’s something we’d like, to get away from the CD-as-single mentality.” A band this smart is unlikely to fail.
Live Review: JOAN AS POLICE WOMAN, ADRIAN DEUTSCH
Saturday, October 25, 2008
EAST BRUNSWICK CLUB
In 2006 Joan As Police Woman delivered one of the gigs of the year, alone with a grand piano, a guitar and a 40-watt amp at a nearly full Northcote Social Club. Since then her Real Life album has been passed around, and hot on the heels of her new album To Survive, comes the first of two sold-out shows and a very different looking Joan Wasser.
Supporting her is the odd choice of singer and guitarist from Sydney’s Red Riders, Adrian Deutsch. Moody, gently atmospheric, smartly dressed, humble and nerdy in a Ben Folds way, Deutsch spreads his spacious Stratocaster chords through an intense but gentle set. Leave Love, Split The Difference, and closing track The Partisan are highlights, and show he has a career likely to extend beyond or away from Red Riders’.
Arriving adorned in a tight sparkly silver dress, blonde shoulder length hair, heavy glittered eyelashes and bronze moon boots Wasser proceeds to gently blow our minds. Seamlessly switching from endearing and humorous banter and astonishingly tender and beautiful songs, Wasser and her band (brilliant drummer and singer Parker Kindred and bassist Rainy Orteca) kick off with a smoky rendition of Honor Wishes with vocals as delicately balanced as the glass of tea on her amp. “This is a song I wrote for Whitney Houston,” she explains to a warmly burbling audience. “I think we should all pray for Whitney,” she says before playing the opening chords to The Ride, which lifts the gig into a higher echelon.
The next song, To Be Lonely, is so slow, empty and tender that even the bartenders hush a little. Stories about the raptures of flourless chocolate cake, her fascination with koalas and dissatisfaction with her government pepper the remainder of the set via her brisk version of new single Holiday, a take on Jimi Hendrix’s Fire that can only be described as smouldering, a solo version of To Survive that drips with aching sincerity, her face twisting with feeling, finally satisfying a reckless heckler with a delicate and exuberant Anyone before an incredible version of Eternal Flame.
Returning for the encore Wasser meticulously thanks everyone involved with her tour before berating Kindred for his slack pace in kicking off To America it’s themes spelled out with the slowly consuming sound effects of buildings cashing and fireworks exploding; an oddly accurate way to depict her dual effects on our psyches. Remarkable.
EAST BRUNSWICK CLUB
In 2006 Joan As Police Woman delivered one of the gigs of the year, alone with a grand piano, a guitar and a 40-watt amp at a nearly full Northcote Social Club. Since then her Real Life album has been passed around, and hot on the heels of her new album To Survive, comes the first of two sold-out shows and a very different looking Joan Wasser.
Supporting her is the odd choice of singer and guitarist from Sydney’s Red Riders, Adrian Deutsch. Moody, gently atmospheric, smartly dressed, humble and nerdy in a Ben Folds way, Deutsch spreads his spacious Stratocaster chords through an intense but gentle set. Leave Love, Split The Difference, and closing track The Partisan are highlights, and show he has a career likely to extend beyond or away from Red Riders’.
Arriving adorned in a tight sparkly silver dress, blonde shoulder length hair, heavy glittered eyelashes and bronze moon boots Wasser proceeds to gently blow our minds. Seamlessly switching from endearing and humorous banter and astonishingly tender and beautiful songs, Wasser and her band (brilliant drummer and singer Parker Kindred and bassist Rainy Orteca) kick off with a smoky rendition of Honor Wishes with vocals as delicately balanced as the glass of tea on her amp. “This is a song I wrote for Whitney Houston,” she explains to a warmly burbling audience. “I think we should all pray for Whitney,” she says before playing the opening chords to The Ride, which lifts the gig into a higher echelon.
The next song, To Be Lonely, is so slow, empty and tender that even the bartenders hush a little. Stories about the raptures of flourless chocolate cake, her fascination with koalas and dissatisfaction with her government pepper the remainder of the set via her brisk version of new single Holiday, a take on Jimi Hendrix’s Fire that can only be described as smouldering, a solo version of To Survive that drips with aching sincerity, her face twisting with feeling, finally satisfying a reckless heckler with a delicate and exuberant Anyone before an incredible version of Eternal Flame.
Returning for the encore Wasser meticulously thanks everyone involved with her tour before berating Kindred for his slack pace in kicking off To America it’s themes spelled out with the slowly consuming sound effects of buildings cashing and fireworks exploding; an oddly accurate way to depict her dual effects on our psyches. Remarkable.
Live Review: THE BANGLES, MONIQUE BRUMBY
Saturday, October 25, 2008
THE PALMS
Who knew there were still serious Bangles fans? Fans who still know the words to album tracks from 1985, wear the t-shirts, bring immaculately preserved mid-80s TV Hits posters to be signed and happily part with $100 to meander through the maze of Crown Casino for the honour of seeing them. Even The Bangles (well the three-quarters of the band performing tonight) seemed surprised and overjoyed at the response in the room to the set tonight, and, as Vicki Petersen points out, ‘We’ve come a long way, and I don’t mean geographically.’
Monique Brumby sets the scene in with her oddball charisma. Veering between Wendy Rule-banshee-bug-eyed-possession (Sweet Chilli) and searing heartfelt intimacy (the ever-brilliant The Change In Me), she is a great choice for support. Her band are stylish and restrained in the way that a rock band at The Palms should be, but inject blood into the mix when they need to, and rarely has a closing song been so ecstatically dedicated to the headline band.
With devotees lining the barrier and the band (the three original members and three guys helping out on bass, keys and percussion) there is an irresistible vibe of fun. Everyone is smiling and glad to be there, then comes the music – the set is identical to the Sydney show, signed setlists of which are available at the merch desk for $25. Kicking off with Hazy Shade of Winter, Manic Monday, If She Knew What She Wants and some songs of their 2005 album Doll Revolution that they admit “isn’t available in your fine country,” the band are clearly having a blast, and it’s very infectious. Susanna Hoffs, gently strumming her ‘Susanna Hoffs Limited Edition’ Rickenbacker can hardly stop smiling, only occasionally pulling her ‘sideways glance’ that always made those Bangles filmclips extra-memorable. A cover of Big Star’s September Gurls is a mid-gig highlight, before the inevitable arm-waving classic Eternal Flame gives the punters what they want – a brief bathe in the fountain of youth. Ride The Ride, In Your Room and the set-closing Hero Takes A Fall all go to show that when you take their hits away, they were always a hot power pop band, each song full of effortless harmonies and Vicki Peterson’s buzzing guitar lines.
Debbi Peterson steps out from behind the drumkit for their first single Going Back To Liverpool and the inevitable encore of Walk Like An Egyptian. The band clearly don’t take themselves too seriously and this blessing gives the set a sense of fun abandon that pushes their music to the stuffy back of the room (once you get back a few meters from the barrier the audience is very much of the folded-arm variety). Vicki, once seeing the TV Hits poster admits ‘hideous’ is the only word to describe their appearance during that period of their success, Debbi is all peace signs and big smiles, Susanna is surely one of the few women approaching 50 who can wear a little black dress and make teenagers drool, even if she rocks out like she’s in a Decorè commercial...a great show.
THE PALMS
Who knew there were still serious Bangles fans? Fans who still know the words to album tracks from 1985, wear the t-shirts, bring immaculately preserved mid-80s TV Hits posters to be signed and happily part with $100 to meander through the maze of Crown Casino for the honour of seeing them. Even The Bangles (well the three-quarters of the band performing tonight) seemed surprised and overjoyed at the response in the room to the set tonight, and, as Vicki Petersen points out, ‘We’ve come a long way, and I don’t mean geographically.’
Monique Brumby sets the scene in with her oddball charisma. Veering between Wendy Rule-banshee-bug-eyed-possession (Sweet Chilli) and searing heartfelt intimacy (the ever-brilliant The Change In Me), she is a great choice for support. Her band are stylish and restrained in the way that a rock band at The Palms should be, but inject blood into the mix when they need to, and rarely has a closing song been so ecstatically dedicated to the headline band.
With devotees lining the barrier and the band (the three original members and three guys helping out on bass, keys and percussion) there is an irresistible vibe of fun. Everyone is smiling and glad to be there, then comes the music – the set is identical to the Sydney show, signed setlists of which are available at the merch desk for $25. Kicking off with Hazy Shade of Winter, Manic Monday, If She Knew What She Wants and some songs of their 2005 album Doll Revolution that they admit “isn’t available in your fine country,” the band are clearly having a blast, and it’s very infectious. Susanna Hoffs, gently strumming her ‘Susanna Hoffs Limited Edition’ Rickenbacker can hardly stop smiling, only occasionally pulling her ‘sideways glance’ that always made those Bangles filmclips extra-memorable. A cover of Big Star’s September Gurls is a mid-gig highlight, before the inevitable arm-waving classic Eternal Flame gives the punters what they want – a brief bathe in the fountain of youth. Ride The Ride, In Your Room and the set-closing Hero Takes A Fall all go to show that when you take their hits away, they were always a hot power pop band, each song full of effortless harmonies and Vicki Peterson’s buzzing guitar lines.
Debbi Peterson steps out from behind the drumkit for their first single Going Back To Liverpool and the inevitable encore of Walk Like An Egyptian. The band clearly don’t take themselves too seriously and this blessing gives the set a sense of fun abandon that pushes their music to the stuffy back of the room (once you get back a few meters from the barrier the audience is very much of the folded-arm variety). Vicki, once seeing the TV Hits poster admits ‘hideous’ is the only word to describe their appearance during that period of their success, Debbi is all peace signs and big smiles, Susanna is surely one of the few women approaching 50 who can wear a little black dress and make teenagers drool, even if she rocks out like she’s in a Decorè commercial...a great show.
Live Review: LEGENDS OF MOTORSPORT, THE SAND PEBBLES, FAMOUS CRIMES
Monday, October 06, 2008
THE NORTHCOTE SOCIAL CLUB
Famous Crimes take the theory that showmanship and wickedly big riffs are essential parts of any good gig. A theory they treat as if it were a giant inflatable hammer with which to bludgeon the slowly assembling crowd. Singer Yanti Turang brings exuberant charisma to the stage but is nearly outdone by hyperactive show-off bassist Andrew Simpson who balances accidental cool with extravagant rock gesturing. Closing track Running Away perfectly encapsulates this five-piece with it’s piercing vocal, brooding breakdowns and fearsome riff-tastic energy. Ace.
Sand Pebbles, still coasting from the buzz surrounding their recent launch of their album Ceduna (another release, another round of glowing reviews), are a band that build majestic multifaceted creations from a lead and pedal littered stage. Lyrics full of ‘lifting wings’ and elegant things sit atop beams of sustained guitar and a refreshingly unpretentious approach to psychedelia. Reverb settings are switched with each lyric, chord changes come at a rate of My Bloody Valentine releases, and the whole thing is a incandescent soporific splendour. Rarely has a rock band achieved so much with so few notes. Future Proofed is another song that sounds culled from a mythical surf movie, one from the perspective of the sea perhaps. Ladies and gentlemen, the reviews are right.
In a burst of volume, inflatable guitars and with a more bass distortion than physics has hitherto allowed The Legends take to the stage and belt out We Are The Legends of Motorsport. Vocalist and organ-player Richard ‘Lightbulb’ Fyshwick’s voice is a phenomenon, part Jon-Spencer desperation part-early-Elvis swagger it’s a thing of wonder and would doubtless be a smooth delight were it garnering another form of music say, country. Pushin’ The Envelope is great example of the band’s approach to beats (big), riffs (bigger) and their own measure of trademark bogan angst (huge). Finding melodrama in the mundane, from the succinct Wake Up Fuck to the thought-provoking newbie Cockroaches, the band address subjects others shy away from and should rightfully be totally fucking huge. Taking a ride in a taxi with them becomes a trip through the cosmos. New drummer Hertz Van Rental is a find, while 2Stroke and Jean Claude Vangelis are mind-warpingly huge in their riffage. Bookending the gig with We Were The Legends of Motorsport, the stage is invaded by girls with inflatable guitars beating the band, crashing into the drum kit and spelling the debauched end to a massive gig, the band’s last till late 2009. Fitting.
THE NORTHCOTE SOCIAL CLUB
Famous Crimes take the theory that showmanship and wickedly big riffs are essential parts of any good gig. A theory they treat as if it were a giant inflatable hammer with which to bludgeon the slowly assembling crowd. Singer Yanti Turang brings exuberant charisma to the stage but is nearly outdone by hyperactive show-off bassist Andrew Simpson who balances accidental cool with extravagant rock gesturing. Closing track Running Away perfectly encapsulates this five-piece with it’s piercing vocal, brooding breakdowns and fearsome riff-tastic energy. Ace.
Sand Pebbles, still coasting from the buzz surrounding their recent launch of their album Ceduna (another release, another round of glowing reviews), are a band that build majestic multifaceted creations from a lead and pedal littered stage. Lyrics full of ‘lifting wings’ and elegant things sit atop beams of sustained guitar and a refreshingly unpretentious approach to psychedelia. Reverb settings are switched with each lyric, chord changes come at a rate of My Bloody Valentine releases, and the whole thing is a incandescent soporific splendour. Rarely has a rock band achieved so much with so few notes. Future Proofed is another song that sounds culled from a mythical surf movie, one from the perspective of the sea perhaps. Ladies and gentlemen, the reviews are right.
In a burst of volume, inflatable guitars and with a more bass distortion than physics has hitherto allowed The Legends take to the stage and belt out We Are The Legends of Motorsport. Vocalist and organ-player Richard ‘Lightbulb’ Fyshwick’s voice is a phenomenon, part Jon-Spencer desperation part-early-Elvis swagger it’s a thing of wonder and would doubtless be a smooth delight were it garnering another form of music say, country. Pushin’ The Envelope is great example of the band’s approach to beats (big), riffs (bigger) and their own measure of trademark bogan angst (huge). Finding melodrama in the mundane, from the succinct Wake Up Fuck to the thought-provoking newbie Cockroaches, the band address subjects others shy away from and should rightfully be totally fucking huge. Taking a ride in a taxi with them becomes a trip through the cosmos. New drummer Hertz Van Rental is a find, while 2Stroke and Jean Claude Vangelis are mind-warpingly huge in their riffage. Bookending the gig with We Were The Legends of Motorsport, the stage is invaded by girls with inflatable guitars beating the band, crashing into the drum kit and spelling the debauched end to a massive gig, the band’s last till late 2009. Fitting.
HIGH SPIRITS: An interview with Reuben Stanton and Jacob Pearce of Because of Ghosts
Friday, October 03, 2008
UNPHASED BY WORKING WITH THEIR HEROES ON THEIR NEW ALBUM, BECAUSE OF GHOSTS’ REUBEN STANTON AND JACOB PEARCE TELL ANDY HAZEL ‘IT’S GOOD TO BE BACK’
“We had our first rehearsal a month ago,” explains drummer Jacob Pearce, “and it felt a little bit strange, we were all a bit nervous. We recorded an album and straight away went our different ways; [half-brother] Reuben went to Japan and me to Sweden. We finished the album completely in Canada so it felt strange holding onto it and just playing it to friends.”
After a year studying in Sweden, Pearce confesses to finding the place dull. “They have great systems of government but I think it’s romanticized by people here. Sure the students study for free and get $20 000 a year to live on, but it’s a very predictable kind of lifestyle and I did get bored there. It shows in the language; everything is pleasant and moderate…all the cheese in Sweden is ‘mild’! The only time I played drums for the whole year was when I was in St Petersburg, I joined a grindcore band for some jam sessions; really lovely Russian guys. The bald-headed singer was telling my Russian-speaking girlfriend: ‘tell him that I want to share my music with him. This next song is called Fucking Shithole it’s about death to shit.’ He handed me the lyric sheet and asked me to correct his lyrics which were like ‘I want to kill your fuck / but all I am is in fucking shet’ it was all about death and destruction but with really bad spelling mistakes,” he laughs.
Pearce’s half-brother and BoG guitarist Reuben Stanton continues “It was interesting coming back and playing the songs again though. I’d been playing and writing a bit of stuff - Japanese pop, not related to anything at all. Writing pretty straight pop songs,” he laughs, “really different to Because of Ghosts. Coming back and playing loud instrumental music was nice change. I think we did pretty well for not having played for a year.”
Before recording their album the band embarked on a track-tightening Canadian tour. “In a way it felt like going back to Bar Open,” says Pearce. “It was fun, but it was tiring driving to different cities and on the right hand side of the road. From our perspective it was really badly organised, but in the end I actually thought it was cool; we’re not known over there, we haven’t had a release - nobody knows who we are. We still had people coming and buying our CDs, people who’d found us through Myspace and were excited we came. The recording session was good because we’d been playing the same set 12 nights in a row and we knew exactly how we wanted them to sound.”
Recording their new album This Culture of Background Noise in Montreal’s legendary Hotel2Tango Studios with Arcade Fire producer and Funeral drummer Howard Billeman was an exciting and productive experience. Despite admitting that with more money and time they could have worked harder and improved the album, the band describe the album as “our most ideal sounding” and one they thought through a lot harder than any before.
“We had to work pretty hard,” says Stanton. “We only had one week in the studio to mix and master. We got in there on Monday, spent two days recording and a day and a half mastering. Silver Mount Zion were recording next door and Leonard Cohen was in the building - Howard was chatting with Leonard Cohen in kitchen while we were setting up. He came back in and was like: ‘ohmygodohmygodohmygod I just talked to Leonard Cohen!’
Howard Billeman, explains Pearce “was really easy to work with. Efram Melick the lead guy from Godspeed [You Black Emperor!] and Silver Mount Zion emailed us two weeks before and asked if he could help out with the session, and we said ‘yeah that was very fine with us’. In the beginning Efram was a little bit reticent, testing the waters to see what was going on. By the afternoon we’d already set up everything and done two takes and they could see we weren’t there just to bow at their knees, we were there to record an album. We had a good relationship after that. Efrim ended up coming along every single day as the second producer, he would sit in the back of the studio listening to take after take doing Sudoku puzzles and giving advice. He would say things like ‘you can do better than that. You worked up to the crescendo too quickly on the drums didn’t you?’ And he was right.”
Stanton encapsulates “as with our earlier recordings, it does capture that moment in time of what we were doing then. It’s not something that’s been constructed over a long period, it might not be exactly what we sound like now, but it’s a very good picture of what we sounded like in Canada.”
“By the time we recorded the album we were at our peak of being competent with those songs,” Pearce carries on. “Then we left it. Because it was recorded at that time of playing together really well, it was exciting to get back into it.” Getting back into it has been a surprisingly smooth affair. Perhaps helped by the familiarity borne from spending your whole life as both friends and family.
“I have a great time playing the songs again,” Pearce enthuses. “It was really invigorating to write songs we’re happy with, record them in a way we’re really happy with and then a year later be able to play them again. It was so good to feel energy in my forearms again and think: ‘yeah, yeah! This is fun! The last track on the album is my favourite song and I think the take was just 110%; it was exactly what it was supposed to sound like. Now it sounds wrong to play it any differently; we listen back to it and say ‘what was it about those two minutes that made it much better than the last time?’ let’s recreate it.”
While not rejecting the ‘post-rock’ tag, the band has often been described as being far more than just that. “None of us are post-rockers in the sense that’s all we play and listen to – I never listen to instrumental music,” says Stanton. Pearce concludes, “I think it’s more interesting to sit in a grindcore rehearsal and say ‘wow, how different is this!’ Maybe our difference comes from us being very diverse people who go to different countries, listen to different things and then come back to the same room a year later and are excited about creating something new.”
UNPHASED BY WORKING WITH THEIR HEROES ON THEIR NEW ALBUM, BECAUSE OF GHOSTS’ REUBEN STANTON AND JACOB PEARCE TELL ANDY HAZEL ‘IT’S GOOD TO BE BACK’
“We had our first rehearsal a month ago,” explains drummer Jacob Pearce, “and it felt a little bit strange, we were all a bit nervous. We recorded an album and straight away went our different ways; [half-brother] Reuben went to Japan and me to Sweden. We finished the album completely in Canada so it felt strange holding onto it and just playing it to friends.”
After a year studying in Sweden, Pearce confesses to finding the place dull. “They have great systems of government but I think it’s romanticized by people here. Sure the students study for free and get $20 000 a year to live on, but it’s a very predictable kind of lifestyle and I did get bored there. It shows in the language; everything is pleasant and moderate…all the cheese in Sweden is ‘mild’! The only time I played drums for the whole year was when I was in St Petersburg, I joined a grindcore band for some jam sessions; really lovely Russian guys. The bald-headed singer was telling my Russian-speaking girlfriend: ‘tell him that I want to share my music with him. This next song is called Fucking Shithole it’s about death to shit.’ He handed me the lyric sheet and asked me to correct his lyrics which were like ‘I want to kill your fuck / but all I am is in fucking shet’ it was all about death and destruction but with really bad spelling mistakes,” he laughs.
Pearce’s half-brother and BoG guitarist Reuben Stanton continues “It was interesting coming back and playing the songs again though. I’d been playing and writing a bit of stuff - Japanese pop, not related to anything at all. Writing pretty straight pop songs,” he laughs, “really different to Because of Ghosts. Coming back and playing loud instrumental music was nice change. I think we did pretty well for not having played for a year.”
Before recording their album the band embarked on a track-tightening Canadian tour. “In a way it felt like going back to Bar Open,” says Pearce. “It was fun, but it was tiring driving to different cities and on the right hand side of the road. From our perspective it was really badly organised, but in the end I actually thought it was cool; we’re not known over there, we haven’t had a release - nobody knows who we are. We still had people coming and buying our CDs, people who’d found us through Myspace and were excited we came. The recording session was good because we’d been playing the same set 12 nights in a row and we knew exactly how we wanted them to sound.”
Recording their new album This Culture of Background Noise in Montreal’s legendary Hotel2Tango Studios with Arcade Fire producer and Funeral drummer Howard Billeman was an exciting and productive experience. Despite admitting that with more money and time they could have worked harder and improved the album, the band describe the album as “our most ideal sounding” and one they thought through a lot harder than any before.
“We had to work pretty hard,” says Stanton. “We only had one week in the studio to mix and master. We got in there on Monday, spent two days recording and a day and a half mastering. Silver Mount Zion were recording next door and Leonard Cohen was in the building - Howard was chatting with Leonard Cohen in kitchen while we were setting up. He came back in and was like: ‘ohmygodohmygodohmygod I just talked to Leonard Cohen!’
Howard Billeman, explains Pearce “was really easy to work with. Efram Melick the lead guy from Godspeed [You Black Emperor!] and Silver Mount Zion emailed us two weeks before and asked if he could help out with the session, and we said ‘yeah that was very fine with us’. In the beginning Efram was a little bit reticent, testing the waters to see what was going on. By the afternoon we’d already set up everything and done two takes and they could see we weren’t there just to bow at their knees, we were there to record an album. We had a good relationship after that. Efrim ended up coming along every single day as the second producer, he would sit in the back of the studio listening to take after take doing Sudoku puzzles and giving advice. He would say things like ‘you can do better than that. You worked up to the crescendo too quickly on the drums didn’t you?’ And he was right.”
Stanton encapsulates “as with our earlier recordings, it does capture that moment in time of what we were doing then. It’s not something that’s been constructed over a long period, it might not be exactly what we sound like now, but it’s a very good picture of what we sounded like in Canada.”
“By the time we recorded the album we were at our peak of being competent with those songs,” Pearce carries on. “Then we left it. Because it was recorded at that time of playing together really well, it was exciting to get back into it.” Getting back into it has been a surprisingly smooth affair. Perhaps helped by the familiarity borne from spending your whole life as both friends and family.
“I have a great time playing the songs again,” Pearce enthuses. “It was really invigorating to write songs we’re happy with, record them in a way we’re really happy with and then a year later be able to play them again. It was so good to feel energy in my forearms again and think: ‘yeah, yeah! This is fun! The last track on the album is my favourite song and I think the take was just 110%; it was exactly what it was supposed to sound like. Now it sounds wrong to play it any differently; we listen back to it and say ‘what was it about those two minutes that made it much better than the last time?’ let’s recreate it.”
While not rejecting the ‘post-rock’ tag, the band has often been described as being far more than just that. “None of us are post-rockers in the sense that’s all we play and listen to – I never listen to instrumental music,” says Stanton. Pearce concludes, “I think it’s more interesting to sit in a grindcore rehearsal and say ‘wow, how different is this!’ Maybe our difference comes from us being very diverse people who go to different countries, listen to different things and then come back to the same room a year later and are excited about creating something new.”
Live Review: BLACK FRANCIS, VIOLENT SOHO
Friday, October 03, 2008
THE FORUM
Occasionally you come across a band so excruciatingly mediocre and so unjustly hyped that the urge to call ‘Hate On!’ is almost irrepressible. That this band (whose only possible link to Black Francis is the virtual plagiarism of the chord progression from Where Is My Mind for a good third of their set) should be opening for such a legend indicates that this match was made far up the organisational chain. They don’t even look at all happy to be support for one of their heroes.
Not only do Violent Soho rehash all that was dire about the grunge movement (cultivated nihilism, grunge ‘fashion’, disdain for the audience, lumbering around the stage like Cousin Itt looking for a contact lens) while shouting wilfully incomprehensible lyrics over clumsy riffs, but the band have so little musical talent that the able drumming of Michael Richards comes across like Keith Moon. Already the words ‘zero charisma’ spring to mind but then, insult to injury, they think they can resurrect the genius of God’s My Pal and sell it back to us (the song's five-note riff being the most action any guitar – a Fender Jaguar of course) sees tonight. This only serves to throw into sharp relief their absence of ideas or any concept of melody or songwriting. The title of their new album is We Don’t Belong Here.
It’s Black Francis we’re here to see and the audible sigh of relief becomes a whoop of joy as the ‘tubby roadie who could’ takes to the stage, soon speeding us into Test Pilot Blues. “Most of the songs tonight were written by a Dutch guy named Herman Brood,” he says referring to last year’s Bluefinger album of which Brood was inspiration. “This is the big city. If you want to hear a Pixies song you have to go somewhere less sophisticated, like Perth, or Fremantle or whatever the fuck that place is. Or Adelaide,” he deadpans.
This being the case we get most of the album and several of Brood’s own songs. Threshold Apprehension is a behemoth, causing Francis to break sweat, a muscle-bound and hell-bent Tight Black Rubber similarly impresses. The title track smoulders and the lyrics shoot you straight to the lovingly depicted scene.
Bassist Dan Schmid helps Francis’ evocations by being syringe-thin, 6’5’ and looking like a Dutch heroin addict. Francis’ choice to close with Angels Come To Comfort You, his eulogy to Brood’s suicide off the roof of the Amsterdam Hilton (“Good enough for John and Yoko / Now you got the key to 902”), is unerringly committed. The acapella reading of Larry Norman’s damnation-on-Earth Six Sixty Six – a swig of Corona between verses – is perfectly timed and glorious, as it always is to hear Francis sing a Pixies song; a stark rendering of Velouria. Though Francis lives up to his “unfussy” nature, the unadorned delivery suits the songs and their subject perfectly, if most of the audience didn’t know the set, big deal.
THE FORUM
Occasionally you come across a band so excruciatingly mediocre and so unjustly hyped that the urge to call ‘Hate On!’ is almost irrepressible. That this band (whose only possible link to Black Francis is the virtual plagiarism of the chord progression from Where Is My Mind for a good third of their set) should be opening for such a legend indicates that this match was made far up the organisational chain. They don’t even look at all happy to be support for one of their heroes.
Not only do Violent Soho rehash all that was dire about the grunge movement (cultivated nihilism, grunge ‘fashion’, disdain for the audience, lumbering around the stage like Cousin Itt looking for a contact lens) while shouting wilfully incomprehensible lyrics over clumsy riffs, but the band have so little musical talent that the able drumming of Michael Richards comes across like Keith Moon. Already the words ‘zero charisma’ spring to mind but then, insult to injury, they think they can resurrect the genius of God’s My Pal and sell it back to us (the song's five-note riff being the most action any guitar – a Fender Jaguar of course) sees tonight. This only serves to throw into sharp relief their absence of ideas or any concept of melody or songwriting. The title of their new album is We Don’t Belong Here.
It’s Black Francis we’re here to see and the audible sigh of relief becomes a whoop of joy as the ‘tubby roadie who could’ takes to the stage, soon speeding us into Test Pilot Blues. “Most of the songs tonight were written by a Dutch guy named Herman Brood,” he says referring to last year’s Bluefinger album of which Brood was inspiration. “This is the big city. If you want to hear a Pixies song you have to go somewhere less sophisticated, like Perth, or Fremantle or whatever the fuck that place is. Or Adelaide,” he deadpans.
This being the case we get most of the album and several of Brood’s own songs. Threshold Apprehension is a behemoth, causing Francis to break sweat, a muscle-bound and hell-bent Tight Black Rubber similarly impresses. The title track smoulders and the lyrics shoot you straight to the lovingly depicted scene.
Bassist Dan Schmid helps Francis’ evocations by being syringe-thin, 6’5’ and looking like a Dutch heroin addict. Francis’ choice to close with Angels Come To Comfort You, his eulogy to Brood’s suicide off the roof of the Amsterdam Hilton (“Good enough for John and Yoko / Now you got the key to 902”), is unerringly committed. The acapella reading of Larry Norman’s damnation-on-Earth Six Sixty Six – a swig of Corona between verses – is perfectly timed and glorious, as it always is to hear Francis sing a Pixies song; a stark rendering of Velouria. Though Francis lives up to his “unfussy” nature, the unadorned delivery suits the songs and their subject perfectly, if most of the audience didn’t know the set, big deal.
Live Review: GOLDFRAPP
Friday, October 03, 2008
The Palais
It was always going to take more than the soundtrack to The Wicker Man being played before the show to settle the crowd for the more sedate sounds of her recent album. The giraffe masks and the ivy-strung antlers adorning the heads of some fans showed Alison and co that the amount of love in Melbourne for them would be pretty substantial and they were going to let her know.
Though far from sold out, The Palais are raucous in their reception of Miss Goldfrapp, resplendent in a peach batwing muumuu and eager to get down to business with her seven-piece band. Kicking off with Brown Paper Bag she then aborts an introduction of A&E seeming to tell the band off and unsettling us for a little while, something she does a little later by calling some members of the crowd “fuckers” for their impassioned heckling.
A divine reading of Utopia dismisses this, and it’s the only time she really lets go in jaw-dropping operatic mode. “A bit of a funny start to the whole thing wasn’t it?” she says drily. Still we know we’re only moments away from being dazzled again, a job the psychedelic projections do marvellously during Satin Chic, Clowns and Road To Somewhere. The attention to detail about the instrumentation (harp is wonderfully used, and the Theremin only scarcely yet effectively) and the set (ivy-hung antlers atop a Grecian pillar) go a long way to making this an unmistakeable product of Alison and Will, despite being on a smaller scale than their European shows.
Following on from Little Bird Alison berates us for sitting. We stand. And then we dance. Despite best intentions and a much of the new folksier and warmer, more homely album suffers under the titanic glam stomp of some of her earlier work, and that seem to be what people want to hear. Train dazzles with its busy rhythmic brilliance, Ooh La La gives us stadium disco pop on a grand scale, the encore of Strict Machine totally overrides the snooze-worthy set-closer Some People. Goldfrapp’s voice, despite being tempered by some jetlag she confesses to, is still a wondrous thing in all its multi-tracked glory. The biggest moment of the night is her humble statement of: “we haven’t played this one in a while” that precedes a beautiful version of Black Cherry, heavy on the harp and acoustic guitar. Many fans nearly drown out it’s opening section in celebration, a move that is politely tolerated on stage. A similarly sensitive Monster Love follows and likewise goes down a storm.
It’s odd getting used to gigs finishing by 10:40 at The Palais and it seems like a short set, though one few fans could have had complaints with, only Crystalline Green seemed overlooked. Seventh Tree almost needs a tour of it’s own to bring out its subtleties and nuances. In lieu of that, this appearance won’t be leaving the memory in a hurry, for its hissy fits or greatest hits.
The Palais
It was always going to take more than the soundtrack to The Wicker Man being played before the show to settle the crowd for the more sedate sounds of her recent album. The giraffe masks and the ivy-strung antlers adorning the heads of some fans showed Alison and co that the amount of love in Melbourne for them would be pretty substantial and they were going to let her know.
Though far from sold out, The Palais are raucous in their reception of Miss Goldfrapp, resplendent in a peach batwing muumuu and eager to get down to business with her seven-piece band. Kicking off with Brown Paper Bag she then aborts an introduction of A&E seeming to tell the band off and unsettling us for a little while, something she does a little later by calling some members of the crowd “fuckers” for their impassioned heckling.
A divine reading of Utopia dismisses this, and it’s the only time she really lets go in jaw-dropping operatic mode. “A bit of a funny start to the whole thing wasn’t it?” she says drily. Still we know we’re only moments away from being dazzled again, a job the psychedelic projections do marvellously during Satin Chic, Clowns and Road To Somewhere. The attention to detail about the instrumentation (harp is wonderfully used, and the Theremin only scarcely yet effectively) and the set (ivy-hung antlers atop a Grecian pillar) go a long way to making this an unmistakeable product of Alison and Will, despite being on a smaller scale than their European shows.
Following on from Little Bird Alison berates us for sitting. We stand. And then we dance. Despite best intentions and a much of the new folksier and warmer, more homely album suffers under the titanic glam stomp of some of her earlier work, and that seem to be what people want to hear. Train dazzles with its busy rhythmic brilliance, Ooh La La gives us stadium disco pop on a grand scale, the encore of Strict Machine totally overrides the snooze-worthy set-closer Some People. Goldfrapp’s voice, despite being tempered by some jetlag she confesses to, is still a wondrous thing in all its multi-tracked glory. The biggest moment of the night is her humble statement of: “we haven’t played this one in a while” that precedes a beautiful version of Black Cherry, heavy on the harp and acoustic guitar. Many fans nearly drown out it’s opening section in celebration, a move that is politely tolerated on stage. A similarly sensitive Monster Love follows and likewise goes down a storm.
It’s odd getting used to gigs finishing by 10:40 at The Palais and it seems like a short set, though one few fans could have had complaints with, only Crystalline Green seemed overlooked. Seventh Tree almost needs a tour of it’s own to bring out its subtleties and nuances. In lieu of that, this appearance won’t be leaving the memory in a hurry, for its hissy fits or greatest hits.
Live Review: THE GALLANT TREES
Friday, October 03, 2008
Open Studio
Joel Stibbard (aka The Gallant Trees), a recent arrival from Adelaide, seems totally unconcerned about being cool or trying to be anything at all. He’s a man with a guitar, an appealingly bashful delivery, some great tunes and a streak of self-determination that would leave most singer/songwriters back in Music Industry Studies 101.
Clem Bastow discussed in last week’s Greatest Hit column a concept of cool as ‘skinny jeans…asymmetrical haircuts and raging coke habits’, which neatly defines a culture as far removed from the world of Joel Stibbard as any major label is likely to be throughout his career. And make no mistake; this man is doing this for life, you can tell. Despite an initial Daniel Johnson-like nervousness he is a born performer with hardwired sincerity and an Aussie-ness so strong it threatens to make Redgum look like Lynyrd Skynard. That the gig was to five people on a Wednesday night seemed unfairly fitting for someone this unusual, though there was mention of previous albums and a forthcoming EP, so clearly he’s no newcomer.
With a setlist that overwhelmingly concerns birds (Roy The Renegade Seagull, Jabiru, the rousing sing-along of Pigeons are the Best Headbangers) and nature (Wild Beauty) Stibbard may risk being seen as yet another hippy singer/songwriter, but he is far from that. He is more a cross between Grant McLennon and John Williamson; observational and totally without shame in his passions. There are no vague metaphors, surf related imagery or songs about ex-girlfriends here. Instead we get a refreshing lack of seriousness and constant feedback with the audience - often interrupting a song to pursue a train of thought. The inherent strength of individuality is something that comes along so rarely in a performer and is so much a part of Stibbard’s approach that it’s nearly breathtaking. Who else is going to pen lyrics like “Birds with fangs / funnel-webs beware / you have competition,” or “The passive place you hold is actually aggressive... and not submissive / so why do you ask for permission? / It is a drowning of your spirit”. No one.
And for the blessed relief that there is someone new singing about something new Joel Stibbard is an important performer, and, like most of those who play not out of a need to boost ego, isn’t going to be glamorous about doing it. But he is going to be genuine.
Open Studio
Joel Stibbard (aka The Gallant Trees), a recent arrival from Adelaide, seems totally unconcerned about being cool or trying to be anything at all. He’s a man with a guitar, an appealingly bashful delivery, some great tunes and a streak of self-determination that would leave most singer/songwriters back in Music Industry Studies 101.
Clem Bastow discussed in last week’s Greatest Hit column a concept of cool as ‘skinny jeans…asymmetrical haircuts and raging coke habits’, which neatly defines a culture as far removed from the world of Joel Stibbard as any major label is likely to be throughout his career. And make no mistake; this man is doing this for life, you can tell. Despite an initial Daniel Johnson-like nervousness he is a born performer with hardwired sincerity and an Aussie-ness so strong it threatens to make Redgum look like Lynyrd Skynard. That the gig was to five people on a Wednesday night seemed unfairly fitting for someone this unusual, though there was mention of previous albums and a forthcoming EP, so clearly he’s no newcomer.
With a setlist that overwhelmingly concerns birds (Roy The Renegade Seagull, Jabiru, the rousing sing-along of Pigeons are the Best Headbangers) and nature (Wild Beauty) Stibbard may risk being seen as yet another hippy singer/songwriter, but he is far from that. He is more a cross between Grant McLennon and John Williamson; observational and totally without shame in his passions. There are no vague metaphors, surf related imagery or songs about ex-girlfriends here. Instead we get a refreshing lack of seriousness and constant feedback with the audience - often interrupting a song to pursue a train of thought. The inherent strength of individuality is something that comes along so rarely in a performer and is so much a part of Stibbard’s approach that it’s nearly breathtaking. Who else is going to pen lyrics like “Birds with fangs / funnel-webs beware / you have competition,” or “The passive place you hold is actually aggressive... and not submissive / so why do you ask for permission? / It is a drowning of your spirit”. No one.
And for the blessed relief that there is someone new singing about something new Joel Stibbard is an important performer, and, like most of those who play not out of a need to boost ego, isn’t going to be glamorous about doing it. But he is going to be genuine.
Album Review: METRO STATION – METRO STATION (Columbia/Sony BMG)
First up, the entertainment value of this, the latest musical offering from the latest musical offspring of Bill Ray Cyrus, is pretty inarguable. Metro Station is a sunny and no-doubt honest account of being really horny and cooler than everyone else, which a brief flip through the lyric booklet tells you occupies much of Bad Boy™ Trace Cyrus's time. Lyrics like "Tonight we'll touch / and they won't know / I know you're dying to take off your clothes / just trust in me" / "I'll never run away" / you kiss my lips / and taste my pain / and while I'm pushing and moving / somehow you manage to say / I wish we were older ' (Wish We Were Older) and titles such as Seventeen Forever indicate that life is pretty damn grand for these guys.
While it is easy to wet yourself laughing at Metro Station (and indeed, Metro Station), the album does have an oddly unpretentious production and the band certainly aren't hiding their feelings or trying to be anyone they're not. Every song is about or for a girl (or uses the Only Ones' drug-as-girl metaphor – Metro Station like to keep some things ambiguous), a girl who they love (or desire) despite her drug problems (Tell Me What To Do), depression (Disco), infidelities (Now That We're Done), who won't put out (Kelsey), who will (Control) or who they want to run away with to California 'while the radio collides to the sound of our heartbeats' (California).
Though Metro Station is likely to be soundtracking some LA pool party as you read this and has been in the Billboard charts for months, you can't help but wonder if any of this success stops Billy Ray from thinking 'what the fuck is this homo shit? You ain't even got a real drummer'. That this album is so blatantly electro pop and Cyrus a skinny, heavily tattooed guy who looks someone kicked out of LA Guns for drug use, is only the first curiosity about this band. They're a weird mix of bedroom strummer Mason Musso, electro-nerd Blake Healy (neither of whom will be bothering Cyrus for number of personal Myspace love devotions anytime soon), and newbie drummer Anthony Improgo, all driven over by the production team of S*A*M and Sluggo. The lack of guitars and absence of real drums works for and against Metro Station; it's shiny, it's light, it's fresh, but it's also tinny, weak and sounds best on cheap speakers. Whether anyone actually cares enough about the music to get past the intense styling this band have been given or the 'OMG Trace yr so shmexi!!!!'-vibe is doubtful, as is the likelihood of any purchaser being over the age of 18.
With ten songs and none over 3:40 no one can accuse them of outstaying their welcome. That is, if you'd like to be welcomed into their world of Christian sex (where the copulation never quite happens and the tension is never explored), the first thrills of drug-taking and declarations of transient love, where the lingering smell of copious hair product never fades and everyone's clothes are in artful disarray. Plenty do.
While it is easy to wet yourself laughing at Metro Station (and indeed, Metro Station), the album does have an oddly unpretentious production and the band certainly aren't hiding their feelings or trying to be anyone they're not. Every song is about or for a girl (or uses the Only Ones' drug-as-girl metaphor – Metro Station like to keep some things ambiguous), a girl who they love (or desire) despite her drug problems (Tell Me What To Do), depression (Disco), infidelities (Now That We're Done), who won't put out (Kelsey), who will (Control) or who they want to run away with to California 'while the radio collides to the sound of our heartbeats' (California).
Though Metro Station is likely to be soundtracking some LA pool party as you read this and has been in the Billboard charts for months, you can't help but wonder if any of this success stops Billy Ray from thinking 'what the fuck is this homo shit? You ain't even got a real drummer'. That this album is so blatantly electro pop and Cyrus a skinny, heavily tattooed guy who looks someone kicked out of LA Guns for drug use, is only the first curiosity about this band. They're a weird mix of bedroom strummer Mason Musso, electro-nerd Blake Healy (neither of whom will be bothering Cyrus for number of personal Myspace love devotions anytime soon), and newbie drummer Anthony Improgo, all driven over by the production team of S*A*M and Sluggo. The lack of guitars and absence of real drums works for and against Metro Station; it's shiny, it's light, it's fresh, but it's also tinny, weak and sounds best on cheap speakers. Whether anyone actually cares enough about the music to get past the intense styling this band have been given or the 'OMG Trace yr so shmexi!!!!'-vibe is doubtful, as is the likelihood of any purchaser being over the age of 18.
With ten songs and none over 3:40 no one can accuse them of outstaying their welcome. That is, if you'd like to be welcomed into their world of Christian sex (where the copulation never quite happens and the tension is never explored), the first thrills of drug-taking and declarations of transient love, where the lingering smell of copious hair product never fades and everyone's clothes are in artful disarray. Plenty do.
Live Review: SPIDER VOMIT, NINETYNINE, ZOND, HAND HELL
Monday, September 22, 2008
The Evelyn
Seemingly on a roll with presenting decent gigs, The Evelyn finds its walls ringing with the kind of noisy glee that befits the venue's original state in the early 90s.
Winning the nostalgia stakes this evening are Hand Hell whose set could easily have been beamed through some eddy in the space-time continuum from 1992. It's terrific stuff; bristling beats underpin crunching guitar lines, forced over each other as the seemingly ageless Kirsty Stegwazi lends the faintest hint of melody to her voice. Unlikely to be branded as cool by whoever it is that decides these things, and less likely to care, Hand Hell certainly set the bar high.
Dragging it back to appropriately subterranean levels are Zond, a band who aren't so much interested in songs as sound and repetition. Here, repetition isn't numbing or hypnotically enthralling, it's more punishing. Surprisingly the most impressive thing about them isn't guitarist Marney MacLeod's original Mouth t-shirt, but the sheer milage they gain from simple ingredients. Other bands offer melody, dynamics, charisma, diversity…Zond give you three bass notes, two chords, one beat and a Sunn-load of volume. Make of it what you will. They do.
Premiering new material that snugly fits besides near classics like The Process and Polar Angle Ninetynine are still demonstrating their excellence and we're still, mostly, not listening. Laura McFarlane might be getting more school ma'am-like with her demeanour with each show but it's a yin to (recent survivor of Hurricane Gustav) Cameron Potts yang. He may drown out her vocals by drumming like a rabid octopus while Iain McIntyre and Meg Butler hold the fort, but there is so much here other bands could learn from. Like how to write a song that ricochets with energy while still finding room for compelling melodies for starters. Tonight they show they're vital as ever.
Blasting any sense of pop clean out of the room, the menacing force of Spider Vomit celebrate one of the best sound mixes they've had by raising hell. Propelled on a beam of Gill Tucker's piercing guitar that sounds like the product of an unholy ritual between Angus Young and the Large Hadron Collider, the band's twin vocal attack has rarely been better. The guttural spew of Evil Bloody Long-Haired Woman and the fearsome Hades send some weak-willed witnesses out into the mild evening, but those that remain see some of the more grotesque twists of song this place has ever seen, which is saying something.
Seemingly on a roll with presenting decent gigs, The Evelyn finds its walls ringing with the kind of noisy glee that befits the venue's original state in the early 90s.
Winning the nostalgia stakes this evening are Hand Hell whose set could easily have been beamed through some eddy in the space-time continuum from 1992. It's terrific stuff; bristling beats underpin crunching guitar lines, forced over each other as the seemingly ageless Kirsty Stegwazi lends the faintest hint of melody to her voice. Unlikely to be branded as cool by whoever it is that decides these things, and less likely to care, Hand Hell certainly set the bar high.
Dragging it back to appropriately subterranean levels are Zond, a band who aren't so much interested in songs as sound and repetition. Here, repetition isn't numbing or hypnotically enthralling, it's more punishing. Surprisingly the most impressive thing about them isn't guitarist Marney MacLeod's original Mouth t-shirt, but the sheer milage they gain from simple ingredients. Other bands offer melody, dynamics, charisma, diversity…Zond give you three bass notes, two chords, one beat and a Sunn-load of volume. Make of it what you will. They do.
Premiering new material that snugly fits besides near classics like The Process and Polar Angle Ninetynine are still demonstrating their excellence and we're still, mostly, not listening. Laura McFarlane might be getting more school ma'am-like with her demeanour with each show but it's a yin to (recent survivor of Hurricane Gustav) Cameron Potts yang. He may drown out her vocals by drumming like a rabid octopus while Iain McIntyre and Meg Butler hold the fort, but there is so much here other bands could learn from. Like how to write a song that ricochets with energy while still finding room for compelling melodies for starters. Tonight they show they're vital as ever.
Blasting any sense of pop clean out of the room, the menacing force of Spider Vomit celebrate one of the best sound mixes they've had by raising hell. Propelled on a beam of Gill Tucker's piercing guitar that sounds like the product of an unholy ritual between Angus Young and the Large Hadron Collider, the band's twin vocal attack has rarely been better. The guttural spew of Evil Bloody Long-Haired Woman and the fearsome Hades send some weak-willed witnesses out into the mild evening, but those that remain see some of the more grotesque twists of song this place has ever seen, which is saying something.
CD Review: BRIAN WILSON - THAT LUCKY OLD SUN (Capitol / EMI)
Monday, September 22, 2008
The sun burns a hole in the 6AM haze / Turns up the volume and shows off its rays / Another dodger blue sky is crowning L.A / The city of angels is blessed every day / That lucky old sun smiles on me – Morning Beat
It's safe to say those living in South Central won't recognise Wilson's version of L.A, but That Lucky Old Sun, a song-cycle written with Van Dyke Parks with whom Wilson was responsible for many of the finest songs of the late sixties, is essentially an examination of self and place. If Smile, released in 2004, cleared out Wilson's writers block, this album see him reverting even deeper into his past recalling his first love and inspiration from the city that has clearly given him so much. If Smile was for pleasing the fans, this is an album for himself.
While by no means as complex as Smile, That Lucky Old Sun veers between wincingly corny and the odd flash of genius that most of us will recognise. Unlike his contemporaries the inherent childlike sincerity to his worldview means Wilson never flirts with a smugness that could come from an album about a troubled but successful individual's relationship with L.A while reliving their sun-kissed youth. Instead the thematic link of this day-as-an-album is one of a contentedness and a happy reflection on childhood. Forever She'll Be My Surfer Girl openly apes his early 60s trademark concerns while the closing three tracks are possibly his best work since 1977's The Beach Boys' Love You album.
The four narratives penned by Van Dyke Parks concern a searching for the heartbeat of L.A, which is partly what moves this album along, Wilson's awkward but appealing phrasing aside. Like the 1940's hit song that gives it's title to this album (also recurring four times throughout the cycle), it depicts a hard-working man and a lazy old sun, this is also a dissection of Wilson's search for his original motivation and as deep a look into his state of mind as we're like to get.
The backing band is adequate. They do manage to hit the high notes he no longer can with an at-times eerie likeness to Brian's brothers, but there is a lot of calculation and aiming to recreate which serves the sense of nostalgia well but does keep the original brilliance at the forefront of our mind. Midnight's Another Day is a sweet and dramatic ascension into Wilson's history "chapters missing, pages torn". It's one of the few tracks that can exist as both a connection to his best work examining solitude and self-doubt, and as a wonderful song in it's own right. Like the album as a whole, it shows that even with most of his vocal range gone, he can still pen a tune that makes it dusty in here.
It's safe to say those living in South Central won't recognise Wilson's version of L.A, but That Lucky Old Sun, a song-cycle written with Van Dyke Parks with whom Wilson was responsible for many of the finest songs of the late sixties, is essentially an examination of self and place. If Smile, released in 2004, cleared out Wilson's writers block, this album see him reverting even deeper into his past recalling his first love and inspiration from the city that has clearly given him so much. If Smile was for pleasing the fans, this is an album for himself.
While by no means as complex as Smile, That Lucky Old Sun veers between wincingly corny and the odd flash of genius that most of us will recognise. Unlike his contemporaries the inherent childlike sincerity to his worldview means Wilson never flirts with a smugness that could come from an album about a troubled but successful individual's relationship with L.A while reliving their sun-kissed youth. Instead the thematic link of this day-as-an-album is one of a contentedness and a happy reflection on childhood. Forever She'll Be My Surfer Girl openly apes his early 60s trademark concerns while the closing three tracks are possibly his best work since 1977's The Beach Boys' Love You album.
The four narratives penned by Van Dyke Parks concern a searching for the heartbeat of L.A, which is partly what moves this album along, Wilson's awkward but appealing phrasing aside. Like the 1940's hit song that gives it's title to this album (also recurring four times throughout the cycle), it depicts a hard-working man and a lazy old sun, this is also a dissection of Wilson's search for his original motivation and as deep a look into his state of mind as we're like to get.
The backing band is adequate. They do manage to hit the high notes he no longer can with an at-times eerie likeness to Brian's brothers, but there is a lot of calculation and aiming to recreate which serves the sense of nostalgia well but does keep the original brilliance at the forefront of our mind. Midnight's Another Day is a sweet and dramatic ascension into Wilson's history "chapters missing, pages torn". It's one of the few tracks that can exist as both a connection to his best work examining solitude and self-doubt, and as a wonderful song in it's own right. Like the album as a whole, it shows that even with most of his vocal range gone, he can still pen a tune that makes it dusty in here.
BLACKER THAN MIDNIGHT ON A MOONLESS NIGHT, an interview with Black Francis
Friday, September 19, 2008
Being obsessed with Dutch madmen, bringing your kids to work and having a back catalogue most musicians would kill for, it's another day at the office for BLACK FRANCIS as ANDY HAZEL discovers.
Throughout his various monikers and music projects there has been a constant sense of unlikely success and a well-constructed fervour about Black Francis, a man for whom integrity is hardwired and any sense of selling out laughable, at least, when you're not playing with The Pixies.
Recent years have seen priorities shift and kids, a constant source of bucolic burbling in the background of our conversation, are a factor he must consider in his life as a musician. "It's totally challenging," Francis confesses of the balance he now aims to strike. "You just fucking do it. Just do whatever you got to do. We walk into a studio with a whole bunch of kids with us and well…we do what we can. This includes subjecting them to cruelty," he adds with an audibly Nicholson-esque smile. "The older ones we'll bring in on the act: 'Just hit that snare drum until we tell you to stop hitting that snare drum.' They get it. They want to be in show biz. They want their own TV show and yeah, I'm totally OK about that. I mean, what else do I have to offer them? I can teach them to be their own boss or do what they want to do, but what can I actually teach them about? I can teach them about how to make a record and to be in a band."
That he can, and of course they'd be learning from one of the finest. A veteran of The Pixies as well as several of his own eponymous projects, Francis is his own man in a way few other musicians can be. In stark contrast to his domestic life, he recently completed Bluefinger, an album about legendary Dutch iconoclast Herman Brood. Renown for his overt hard-drug use as much as his painting, acting, singing and songwriting before his suicide in 2001, Brood was, interestingly enough, a Pixies fan.
"I'd heard about him in the background of my life," explains Francis. "I knew enough about him to do a Youtube search and there he was, there began my obsession. I'd never been inspired about a single subject matter before and he's a charismatic guy; an all-out sex-crazed drug addict and alcoholic, hooked on speed, totally obsessed with sex, drinking and drugging all the time, hanging out in whorehouses - on some level that looks like fun. I'm not saying that's what I want to do or the way I want to live my life but I'm not judgemental about it. I have a very clear idea in my own mind of what he was about and what he was dealing with. I wasn't trying to put myself in his shoes when I was writing songs, I don't feel like I could literally be in his shoes and I don't have a background of being a heroin addict, but it isn't all about that either. It's about his charisma and unapologetic attitude - even his drug-related songs are cautionary tales; drugs are great and they're bad also."
His recent EP Svn Fngrs sees Francis warming to the idea of writing about single subjects, this one exploring the legend of Ulster hero Cúchulainn.
Despite having few lifestyle habits in common with Brood or heroes from Ancient Gaelic literature, it's not hard to see the appeal of the raw confidence and honesty fans see as synonymous with Francis as a performer and a songwriter. Fitting in with an approach to music writing, recording and performance he describes as 'more of the Neil Young and Bob Dylan way– a snapshot of where I was at on that particular day,' Francis is clearly far from precious about how he comes across, a quality you can imagine Brood could identify with. "It's fucking rock music man. If you get too fussy about it it's too much for me. I'm not fussy. If you look at The Pixies records or shows or any recording you'll see I'm not that fussy. I can get tedious, I can really get into it but at the same time it runs the gamut. Sometimes it's real loose, sometimes it's real tight, sometimes I've got a cold, sometimes I'm pretty like a little angel, that's just way it is. I don't feel like I've got to be what the image dictates, I realise there are some actors and artists who will proceed with rules and certain sets of parameters; 'if I can't present myself like this I won't be presented'. I'm not going to say 'I'm overweight so I'm not going to be in the video', or 'I'm sick so I'm not going to sing'. I'm not going to cancel the fucking show because I've got a cold." He says before narrating in detail a bad case of sinusitis remedied with a neti pot and naturopathy.
As reassuring as that sentiment is, some fans were a little bemused at a recent offering that saw Francis team up with Nashville music legends Steve Cropper and Spooner Oldham for 2005's Honeycomb, a well-reviewed album despite the rumblings of some fans. "I always consider the response, and to be fair to the criticism I do listen back to those sessions and…you know, some of them were recorded straight after a gig, but I stand by them. I was really tired at that time so I guess if it seems a little lacklustre to a fan of mine I can understand why they may feel that way. In general I really like the recordings, but would I change certain things about them? Of course, but I got to experience something different and different levels of playing and I really appreciated it. A few people appreciated the direction, but most of my fans didn't and that's OK, that's fine. I learned a lot and I'd do it again. Hanging out with people like Steve Cropper etcetera you're hanging out with people with a lot of mojo, they have as much mojo as a Rolling Stone – a band many of them have played with! From a musician's point of view, stuff like the criticism doesn't matter: 'you know what? You're not a musician, you don't understand what it's like sitting down with Levon Helm, sorry, you don't get it.' I don't care if we sit down and sing Happy Birthday we're going to do this fucking thing. These people are legendary and these recording sessions are going to outlive both of us."
Perhaps one day it will be his life we'll hear recounted on an album. As long as that artist captures a belligerent will, a fearsome level of creativity and unequivocal candour, it should be worth a listen.
CD Review: SEMIFINALISTS - 2 (V2 / Shock)
Monday, September 15, 2008
Regardless of genre or fashion, Semifinalists are a band resolutely out for themselves with a burning desire to do musical good. In this case it involves living life like 1984 and its ensuing years never happened. Far from being some retro throwback the band just seem to dwell in the land of chorus-affected guitars, almost imperceptible bass, exuberant synth melodies, chunky samples and Casios at every turn.
On paper it should be brilliant. They should be at the forefront of this decade's obsession with that decade, riding MGMT's wave, touring with Hot Chip or opening for Cut Copy with whom they share a love of New Order, but something here doesn't sit quite right. Perhaps it's a case of Casioverdose; the little sounds processed to be big, the tinny drum machine and lack of rhythmic or tempo changes. If you have fond memories of Belouis Some or thought the last Hot Chip album was ace you might find something here, but the ideas, though interesting and executed with integrity, seem a little forced.
Singer and one-third of Semifinalists Adriana Alba left the band shortly after recording this with the remaining members touring with Lightspeed Champion recently. You can hear the similar wistfulness and occasional manic distorted guitar breakouts cropping up here, only with Dev Hynes the setting is not so constrained and the sense of fun more pronounced. You don't have to get Lightspeed Champion.
Weak vocals work beautifully for Neil Tennant of Pet Shop Boys. The songs suited his delivery and the raging tempests of synths and beats were countered by his Englishness and restraint to massive success. This isn't the case here. Semifinalists are more a twee pop band trapped in a jammed time machine and though some songs are fun and would be perhaps better live (Odd Situation, Last Pretending and Loud Hearts are clear high points), it's a case of too little stretched too far despite the good intentions and pop sensibility. Still, if the kids got it, it would be wonderful.
On paper it should be brilliant. They should be at the forefront of this decade's obsession with that decade, riding MGMT's wave, touring with Hot Chip or opening for Cut Copy with whom they share a love of New Order, but something here doesn't sit quite right. Perhaps it's a case of Casioverdose; the little sounds processed to be big, the tinny drum machine and lack of rhythmic or tempo changes. If you have fond memories of Belouis Some or thought the last Hot Chip album was ace you might find something here, but the ideas, though interesting and executed with integrity, seem a little forced.
Singer and one-third of Semifinalists Adriana Alba left the band shortly after recording this with the remaining members touring with Lightspeed Champion recently. You can hear the similar wistfulness and occasional manic distorted guitar breakouts cropping up here, only with Dev Hynes the setting is not so constrained and the sense of fun more pronounced. You don't have to get Lightspeed Champion.
Weak vocals work beautifully for Neil Tennant of Pet Shop Boys. The songs suited his delivery and the raging tempests of synths and beats were countered by his Englishness and restraint to massive success. This isn't the case here. Semifinalists are more a twee pop band trapped in a jammed time machine and though some songs are fun and would be perhaps better live (Odd Situation, Last Pretending and Loud Hearts are clear high points), it's a case of too little stretched too far despite the good intentions and pop sensibility. Still, if the kids got it, it would be wonderful.
CD Review: BECAUSE OF GHOSTS - THIS CULTURE OF BACKGROUND NOISE (Feral Media / Fuse)
Monday, September 15, 2008
It's been a long time between sips form the always-refreshing BoG cup, and this album revives like no other before it. This Culture of Background Noise is the band's first overseas production and, as befitting music of this scale, they've gone straight to the top. With Howard Bilerman (ex-member and producer of Arcade Fire, The Dears, Broken Social Scene etc.) at the controls and Godspeed You! Black Emperor's mainstay Efrim Menuck as assistant producer, the bar was set pretty high. And, in a performance worthy of a Bruce McAvaney voiceover, it's a bloody triumph. From the spacious lyricism of "…in 2050 when we know we'll all be dead anyway" to the heavy and hypnotic highlight Dreaming Is Essential, the fraternal bonds bring forth the goods with nary bum note or false sentiment.
Though likely to be pointlessly branded as post-rock, this album has an across-the-board appeal equalling the likes of their often-compared influences Dirty 3 and Godspeed You! Black Emperor. There is a warmth and freedom here that few bands in this broad category have. Perfect for driving or strolling cities at night, or for turning a trip to the shops into an epic journey through the Olgas, This Culture… is an unmistakably Australian album that it seems fitting was recorded in another vast, mostly empty country celebrated herein by the song Canadia.
The album is littered with examples of the band riding inspiration both improvisational and meticulously determined in a near-impossible balance. The seamless rhythm and mood changes in The Battle of Mont Royal and the use of violin and cello both here and in Canadia are beautiful and sharply judged. The album's centrepiece The Content Is Irrelevant / Life's Little Victories is a journey with such careful variations of mood it's hard to think of another band that could pull it off. Sometimes you wish for guitarist Reuben Stanton to let the chords ring just a little longer, to let the atmospheres he creates linger just a little, but the band, maybe mindful of the cost of two-inch tape (audibly unspooling at the end of Tape-Recursion) or without time to relax with their new company (the album was recorded in several days) don't leave as much space as you may expect. This is a minor quibble though, especially as these songs could clearly be different with each rendition. Seeing them return to these songs at the album's forthcoming launch should be a fascinating, compelling and loud experience.
It's been a long time between sips form the always-refreshing BoG cup, and this album revives like no other before it. This Culture of Background Noise is the band's first overseas production and, as befitting music of this scale, they've gone straight to the top. With Howard Bilerman (ex-member and producer of Arcade Fire, The Dears, Broken Social Scene etc.) at the controls and Godspeed You! Black Emperor's mainstay Efrim Menuck as assistant producer, the bar was set pretty high. And, in a performance worthy of a Bruce McAvaney voiceover, it's a bloody triumph. From the spacious lyricism of "…in 2050 when we know we'll all be dead anyway" to the heavy and hypnotic highlight Dreaming Is Essential, the fraternal bonds bring forth the goods with nary bum note or false sentiment.
Though likely to be pointlessly branded as post-rock, this album has an across-the-board appeal equalling the likes of their often-compared influences Dirty 3 and Godspeed You! Black Emperor. There is a warmth and freedom here that few bands in this broad category have. Perfect for driving or strolling cities at night, or for turning a trip to the shops into an epic journey through the Olgas, This Culture… is an unmistakably Australian album that it seems fitting was recorded in another vast, mostly empty country celebrated herein by the song Canadia.
The album is littered with examples of the band riding inspiration both improvisational and meticulously determined in a near-impossible balance. The seamless rhythm and mood changes in The Battle of Mont Royal and the use of violin and cello both here and in Canadia are beautiful and sharply judged. The album's centrepiece The Content Is Irrelevant / Life's Little Victories is a journey with such careful variations of mood it's hard to think of another band that could pull it off. Sometimes you wish for guitarist Reuben Stanton to let the chords ring just a little longer, to let the atmospheres he creates linger just a little, but the band, maybe mindful of the cost of two-inch tape (audibly unspooling at the end of Tape-Recursion) or without time to relax with their new company (the album was recorded in several days) don't leave as much space as you may expect. This is a minor quibble though, especially as these songs could clearly be different with each rendition. Seeing them return to these songs at the album's forthcoming launch should be a fascinating, compelling and loud experience.
CD Review: EMILIANA TORRINI – ME AND ARMINI (Rough Trade / Remote Control)
Monday, September 15, 2008
While the musical and lyrical shift isn't seismic from her much-loved Fisherman's Woman album, there is a sense that Emiliana Torrini (not Emmalina Torrini as seems more commonly known) is growing quickly. Me And Armini sees her experimenting a lot with simple yet unusual rhythms, indicates how little in common Icelandic musicians can have with each other and what a unique prospect she really is. From the stark cover shot (gone are the flaxen tresses adorning Fisherman's Woman) to the stripped-back sounds within, Me And Armini has to be her most considered and honest depiction of her craft thus far.
Producer Dan Carey's 'no demo, one take' approach richly rewards Torrini's subject matter. Like Bjork's domestic retreat in Vespertine, this is a record you feel you could know the artist through; understand their outlook on life, how they approach its challenges and how they form their will. There is also an effectively restrained use of electronic melodies and electric guitar so don't file this under folk because of the lyrical content and subtlety. Torrini did, after all, pen one of Kylie's best efforts, Slow.
Big Jumps sees Torrini riding a skipping beat, daring you to break some bones and take some risks as she so clearly has done. The title track is ska-flecked ode to an obsessive fan's love, Jungle Drums is a glimpse inside a love-wrung heart of someone who knows theirs before giving it away. There are repeated references to losing the tie of the telephone and instead jumping down the throat of life. One track likely to garner attention is Gun, a stark, Harvey-esque (PJ or Mick), reverb-drenched ode sung from the perspective of a rifle and recorded in an ice cave. A song that menaces all the more for it's positioning between sweeter ballads. It's quieter tracks like those, the closing song Bleeder for example, that chill with their tender lyrics and sparse string arrangements - the aim so shorn and true that it's hard to imagine how anyone could not be moved.
Likely to secure established fans and reward the curious, Me And Armini is not music made with a silent agenda to wind up in TV dramas or indie flicks. Though her gorgeously concise lyrics and the songs' dry sounds will resonate with people and fictional characters far and wide and are likely to age well, this is Torrini's voyage alone and one thoroughly worth taking.
While the musical and lyrical shift isn't seismic from her much-loved Fisherman's Woman album, there is a sense that Emiliana Torrini (not Emmalina Torrini as seems more commonly known) is growing quickly. Me And Armini sees her experimenting a lot with simple yet unusual rhythms, indicates how little in common Icelandic musicians can have with each other and what a unique prospect she really is. From the stark cover shot (gone are the flaxen tresses adorning Fisherman's Woman) to the stripped-back sounds within, Me And Armini has to be her most considered and honest depiction of her craft thus far.
Producer Dan Carey's 'no demo, one take' approach richly rewards Torrini's subject matter. Like Bjork's domestic retreat in Vespertine, this is a record you feel you could know the artist through; understand their outlook on life, how they approach its challenges and how they form their will. There is also an effectively restrained use of electronic melodies and electric guitar so don't file this under folk because of the lyrical content and subtlety. Torrini did, after all, pen one of Kylie's best efforts, Slow.
Big Jumps sees Torrini riding a skipping beat, daring you to break some bones and take some risks as she so clearly has done. The title track is ska-flecked ode to an obsessive fan's love, Jungle Drums is a glimpse inside a love-wrung heart of someone who knows theirs before giving it away. There are repeated references to losing the tie of the telephone and instead jumping down the throat of life. One track likely to garner attention is Gun, a stark, Harvey-esque (PJ or Mick), reverb-drenched ode sung from the perspective of a rifle and recorded in an ice cave. A song that menaces all the more for it's positioning between sweeter ballads. It's quieter tracks like those, the closing song Bleeder for example, that chill with their tender lyrics and sparse string arrangements - the aim so shorn and true that it's hard to imagine how anyone could not be moved.
Likely to secure established fans and reward the curious, Me And Armini is not music made with a silent agenda to wind up in TV dramas or indie flicks. Though her gorgeously concise lyrics and the songs' dry sounds will resonate with people and fictional characters far and wide and are likely to age well, this is Torrini's voyage alone and one thoroughly worth taking.
FUTURE PERFECT: An interview with NED COLLETTE
Monday, September 15, 2008
Taking a chainsaw to the high table of the Australian music industry, NED COLLETTE has no fear of where the chips may lie when the dust settles. ANDY HAZEL takes a few steps back.
It doesn't take long for Ned Collette to distance himself from the fairly broad field of similar-styled singer/songwriters. It takes about twenty minutes in fact, for Collette to get to the core of what is driving his approach to making music in the ever-shifting state of industry and what fires him up. "I understand that a lot of music industry people are being freaked out by these changes that are happening; goodbye music industry, good riddance. There are so many positives you can take out of it," he says, reaching a cruising altitude of conversation. "This friend of mine Byron, who mastered the new record, was talking about how the recorded music industry didn't exist 100 years ago. Now we can go back to how music was before, when it was the domain of musicians. The artists never made money anyway so all we're losing is a bunch of people who weren't actually making the art and whose jobs didn't exist a hundred years ago. So really, the artist is in exactly the same position they've always been, except now they have better means to get their work out there."
Getting his work out there is something Collette has, since his 2004 début release Test Patterns, taken to with aplomb. Film clips, an EP, two critically lauded albums last year's Future Suture and 2006's Jokes and Trials and ceaseless gigging has seen his profile lift steadily via a surge of peer respect and hard work. Currently pulling everything together in a nerve-wracking final few weeks before leaving the country for an extensive European tour, Collette, bassist Ben Bourke, drummer Joe Talia and filmmaker Nat Van den Dungen are the latest in a long line of Australians who, via friends and contacts, piece together tours from grant money, late night emailing, favours and luck.
"People there treat you so much differently to here," he says of last year's European tour born from an impressed Joanna Newsom who took him from weekends at Wesley Anne to playing to 1400 people at La Cigale in Paris. "I've not got a lot of contacts through the previous tour, they were really big shows, this time it's all our own shows. Playing fairly small venues really suits me. I have no idea what the audiences will be like; if forty people show up I'll be stoked. Does the exoticism of Australia kick in? I don't know how this works." He says crinkling his forehead. "When we tour country Australia you think the locals would show up just because there's something on, but they don't. I don't know if that's the same over there. My experience was pretty strange, and that's all been very well documented. For us it's all about the future now - the future of music and finding new ways around the old model."
And it's true, the future is on the mind of Mr Collette a great deal these days, and as with anyone involved in music, concern about our music is heading. "There is such a lack of acknowledged music in Australia, or music in general with passion or risk in writing and production," he says opening up about what he believes is an under-reported talking point. "Someone like Kes is a real rarity. Last week at a gig he went into a 12-bar blues breakdown in the middle of a song and did this amazing, screaming solo. I mean...who does stuff like that anymore? There is a real risk in doing something like that. An institution like Triple J is missing a whole movement, and they're absolutely not paying attention to what we'll view as important in 20 years time. They're scared of their demographic and always the last to the party. Musicians who I consider in the generation before me; Cat Power, Dirty 3, Smog, Slint, there was nothing flashy about them. They seemed so much more about honest artistic expression. Their reputation is safe and that's really attractive to me. They never fell into the game of 'You'll do what for me?' 'You'll fly me where?' 'I have to wear what sneakers?' Even at my level you're always being offered things you wouldn't normally do, always being pulled away from the reasons you started making music in the first place."
The music that Collette does create is unassuming, personal, quiet, absolutely a product of his time and place and by virtue, exotic. "I feel a sort of folk pressure. Because I play quiet songs I've found people kind of expect me to be a folk musician and it's take me a while to realise I can do whatever I want, I can write whatever I want. Or I could stop writing. I was a teacher a while ago and one day I was just sitting there and decided that I hated it and I didn't have to do it. It's easy to get caught up in the momentum of doing something and you forget that you don't have to do anything or what your making doesn't have to be anything," expounds Collette, echoing an increasing wave of creative Melbournians who simply release a record and rely on the music to do the work in it's own time, "I made the first EP based on the advice of: 'just get the thing out there. Just put out a record, it doesn't matter who listens, it doesn't matter about money or airplay or publicity'."
While admitting to a fear of the unintentional yet corrupting power of Pitchfork and similar sites, there is another place Collette admits to being intrigued by. "I find sites like last.fm fascinating because there's no editorial. You find your own way around there. I've had guys write to me from New York who've found me because my music is apparently similar to Michael Rother (of Neu and Kraftwerk)! I like him, but I don't know how that worked," he replies bemused.
Liking Ned Collette is, it seems, a contagious state. With Future Suture still gathering fans, a new album in the can and foreign audiences about to get an insight into Collette's Australiana, it's unsurprising that there will be some reciprocal inspiration. 'We've got a gig in Geneva then a couple of days off before we play in Vienna and we've been talking about going the long way down through the north of Italy. I want to go to Milan and pretend I'm in a Visconti movie or something, see if I can find any remnants of that stuff from Rocco and his Brothers. I'm a huge fan of that whole time and place.' Wonder if they'll be fans of his?
Live Review: SUMMER CATS, THE HARPOONS, MONNONE ALONE
Monday, September 01, 2008
Public Bar
Perhaps it is the history of the place - it’s long-standing punk credentials and shamelessly grimy interior - that make the bands stand out a little more than they might have were they playing elsewhere. More likely it was the sheer energy and unique takes on the pop music that lift each act into the truly memorable territory and again gives reason to be grateful for living in Melbourne.
Mark Monnone, though considering his erroneously-titled Monnone Alone gig a side-project of little significance, could make this a full-time job should he want to such is his charisma, smart lyricism and if the warm reception he receives. His hilarious rap/folk song Business World is a highlight as is the new Lucksmiths song Undersea that he premières. It’s his effortlessness on stage and total unpretentiousness that allow you so close to his writing and playing which is an endlessly rewarding experience.
Having known very little about The Harpoons, the audience take about five seconds to be totally won over by the raw soul and pop of this brand new young band, replete with intricate three-part harmonies, driving rock songwriting nous and easygoing charisma. It’s almost like another band is channelled while they play; between songs it’s all bashful smiles and brief explanations but as soon as they count in it’s a powerhouse of clean guitar chops, trebly melodic bass and Hal Blaine drum stomping. It’s impossible to deny the appeal and soon-to-be upward mobility of this band; songs Faith, Tonight, Tonight and Hey Girl seem almost impossibly good. Triple J will be slavering like dogs at an abattoir with the release of their first recordings. See them before they get too slick from overplaying.
‘I really do think we’ve trademarked shabby,’ intones Summer Cats singer Scott Stevens, partway into their set, ‘a good shabby’. And they have. Despite the odd stuff-up and endearing mistake, there is no missing the message with the Summer Cats. Each song sizzles and highlights come thick and fast. The charging lead guitar on the barely-a-minute new single Let’s Go! and other seven-inch release Lonely Planet that tonight’s gig celebrates burns brightly. What really dazzles though, is the songwriting skill, the innate sense of melody and the intimacy they generate. It’s thrilling stuff, particularly when in the form of their newer songs that possibly even exceed the appeal of tracks form their Scratching Post EP, Paperweight in particularly is a dazzler. Tellingly, as with many great Australian bands, it’s overseas that is cottoning on to Summer Cats first with all three of tonight’s releases being on European or American labels. Don’t let their unprepossessing demeanour dissuade you; this is fantastic stuff.
Perhaps it is the history of the place - it’s long-standing punk credentials and shamelessly grimy interior - that make the bands stand out a little more than they might have were they playing elsewhere. More likely it was the sheer energy and unique takes on the pop music that lift each act into the truly memorable territory and again gives reason to be grateful for living in Melbourne.
Mark Monnone, though considering his erroneously-titled Monnone Alone gig a side-project of little significance, could make this a full-time job should he want to such is his charisma, smart lyricism and if the warm reception he receives. His hilarious rap/folk song Business World is a highlight as is the new Lucksmiths song Undersea that he premières. It’s his effortlessness on stage and total unpretentiousness that allow you so close to his writing and playing which is an endlessly rewarding experience.
Having known very little about The Harpoons, the audience take about five seconds to be totally won over by the raw soul and pop of this brand new young band, replete with intricate three-part harmonies, driving rock songwriting nous and easygoing charisma. It’s almost like another band is channelled while they play; between songs it’s all bashful smiles and brief explanations but as soon as they count in it’s a powerhouse of clean guitar chops, trebly melodic bass and Hal Blaine drum stomping. It’s impossible to deny the appeal and soon-to-be upward mobility of this band; songs Faith, Tonight, Tonight and Hey Girl seem almost impossibly good. Triple J will be slavering like dogs at an abattoir with the release of their first recordings. See them before they get too slick from overplaying.
‘I really do think we’ve trademarked shabby,’ intones Summer Cats singer Scott Stevens, partway into their set, ‘a good shabby’. And they have. Despite the odd stuff-up and endearing mistake, there is no missing the message with the Summer Cats. Each song sizzles and highlights come thick and fast. The charging lead guitar on the barely-a-minute new single Let’s Go! and other seven-inch release Lonely Planet that tonight’s gig celebrates burns brightly. What really dazzles though, is the songwriting skill, the innate sense of melody and the intimacy they generate. It’s thrilling stuff, particularly when in the form of their newer songs that possibly even exceed the appeal of tracks form their Scratching Post EP, Paperweight in particularly is a dazzler. Tellingly, as with many great Australian bands, it’s overseas that is cottoning on to Summer Cats first with all three of tonight’s releases being on European or American labels. Don’t let their unprepossessing demeanour dissuade you; this is fantastic stuff.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)