Monthly Archive

For those of you who missed it, I recently had a public beef with London venue Scala.  It was originally about a queue outside a gig there, but escalated, as these things always do, to include rough security, drinks prices, the trade in ivory, and their indefensible position with regard to the Israel/Palestine conflict.  They apologised for at least one of the above, can’t remember which, and invited me back, which was nice of them.  On my return for this Twisted Folk Festival concert, I was greeted with a non-existent queue, which pleased me greatly.  Still some unnecessary bum groping by security on the way in, but some of you may enjoy that kind of thing.  My research has yet to uncover any news on the current situation on the Middle East.

First on were a few members of Nina’s backing band, who are one of several groups calling themselves The Cape May (or so my typically cursory fact-checking tells me).  Firmly on a Will Oldham/Neil Young axis, only Canadian (note to self: check where Oldham/Young are from, you would look a fool if one of those two were Canadian), which meant checked shirts, untended beards, and songs about trees and the like.  In between a couple of songs early on, they sparked briefly into a Six Organs of Admittance style detour, via a flash of polyrhythmic drumming and some drone guitar, before I realised they were just tuning up, and got myself calmed right back down again.

Ex-Moldy Peach Jeffrey Lewis and band came on like a folk-rock Husker Du without the heroin issues, leaping around, making as much noise as they could, and singing each other’s vocal parts; trying too hard was my snap assessment.  I was quite wrong, not unusually.  Second song “East River” (boy meets girl, girl dumps boy, boy throws himself in river, boy becomes river scum) was hilarious.  His illustrated potted history of Rough Trade records was hilarious.  His track about the Creeping Brain that grew by eating lizards and became some sort of world leader was hilarious.

Lewis generously gave up part of his set to allow an unscheduled but welcome appearance by the reformed Scritti Politti playing new track “Robin Hood” which, if nothing else, gives me a chance to plug band member Rhodri’s very fine blog.

Nina Nastasia’s set showcased much of excellent new album On Leaving, and her gorgeous voice.  The cello, fingerpicked guitar, and piano played with such tenderness, help evoked her lyrical ghosts, as well as on occasion the musical one of Nick Drake.  From the early set one-two comprising “Counting Up Your Bones” and the dirgelike “I Say I Will Go”, the crowd were spellbound at her fingertips; idle bar chit-chat was verboten.

Shouting “I LOVE YOU!” repeatedly was tolerated, however, if somewhat tiresome and at times a bit creepy.  I’ve always had a problem with singers giving it all that “I love you all!” nonsense (hello Madonna, Wacko, etc), and the inevitable invitation to confusion in the minds of those susceptible to such befuddlement.  That way lies the stalking, and I don’t always have quite the degree of sympathy for such singers that many others probably do when it happens.  None of that is the case here, obviously.  Nina Nastasia is not Beyonce, and gushes forth only about her talented band and touring colleagues.  The unrequited proclamations of love clearly made her a little uncomfortable, and me too. 

A couple of shouted requests (same twat; his show it seemed) did mean we got to hear the unscheduled “Treehouse Song” and got a bonus solo encore.  It may not be quite enough to save him when the great cull comes.  Nina and band did more than enough to earn their pass.  Even the Scala staff and management are off my list for now.  Don’t say I’m not fair in my selection processes.

This pretty box of a church has watched with silent suspicion the towers of the Barbican sprout up around it, and was probably regarding the electronic equipment within its walls, installed for the artists performing as part of the increasingly essential Atlantic Waves festival, in a similar manner.  On approach, I could hear the rumble of the church’s air conditioning through its ancient walls.  How odd, I thought. 

Of course, I was running late.  Upon entering, I realised that the industrial howl was the bitter fruit of the collaboration between American John Duncan and Portuguese Alfredo Costa Monteiro.  Stepping into the pitch black, I could just about make out sound artist Monteiro, delicately probing his equipment with lengthy springs, elastic bands and tuning forks, as if in a real life version of a David Lynch film of the game Operation.  Duncan would allow the sound to grate and grind, before repacking it amongst a cacophony of sine waves and sending it swooping bat-like round the rafters.

Stephan Mathieu and Paulo Raposo set us flying round the same rafters amongst a flock of birds.  Sounds were layered until they were coming out of speakers hidden in the church walls, and coming out of speakers that may only have existed in my head.  Suitably hymnal organ and submerged choral parts stood in contrast to Duncan and Monteiro’s nightmarish imagery, sending me into warm and blissful reverie.  So much so in fact that I momentarily nodded off; a state of affairs which should not in this instance be taken as a slight on the joyful noise filling this crypt-like gloom with light.  I think I remember seeing one of the two, the tartan-trousered Mathieu as opposed to the behatted Raposo I think, stepping back either to admire his creation or to wonder what on earth he could possibly do to improve it (not much, I thought).

Touch label artist Oren Ambarchi had been paired for his hands-across-the-water-moment with improvisational double bass player Margarida Garcia, and from my position near the back looked amusingly like fair-trade-making Chris Martin hunched over his piano.  His music was wildly dissimilar, sounding like bombs being detonated around bee hives, with the bees escaping but flying blindly into corrugated iron.  The crunch of Ambarchi’s guitar jarred against some brushed and bowed bass which sounded like terrified and frozen breath.  All too soon it fell apart, probably much to the relief of this charming old church, but much to my confusion; a state of mind only heightened by my attempts to pick my way back out through the Barbican.

The new album from Berliner Jan Jelinek Tierbeobachtungen, translating to “Animal Obersvations”, would make good listening for those amongst you planning a holiday to the jungle.  Perhaps not for the actual holiday, when you would probably need a few choice wits about you, but just for reading PDF holiday descriptions of trips to orang-utan sanctuaries and bat caves. 

Opening track “A Concert For Television” takes us straight into the electric rainforest, all impressionistically simulated animal noises intermingled jungle-wise; monkeys, birds, and insectoid buzz.  Looped snatches of backwards guitar in album highlight “The Ballad Of Soap” build with tribal intensity before decomposing into forest floor mulch.
Elsewhere, Jelinek’s trademark repetition enables campers to discern shapes in the foliage that may or may not be there; discerning between elements intentionally added between iterations and those where your brain joins the dots unbidded is neither simple, or entirely fruitful.  As with much of Jelinek’s work, this is an album to be entirely immersed in, and over-analysis may destroy some of its undeniable power.

Tierbeobachtungen at times brings to mind Herzog-era Popol Vuh, or Black Dice’s enjoyable Creature Comforts effort.  For his part, Jelinek opts to forego the Klaus Kinski-gone-quite-berserk and men-in-monkey-suit foolishnesses of those; ignoring the song titles, this is a more serious contribution to the disappointingly narrow popular canon of animal-related electronics.

Download “A Concert For Television” here
Buy it at Boomkat here

I couldn’t help but be amused that on the day a couple of friends went to Norway to play a gig, it seemed as if the whole of Norway was coming the other way.  This was a showcase for the great Rune Grammofon label, somehow shoe-horned into the London Jazz Festival, featuring Susanna and the Magical Orchestra and In The Country – both recently reviewed here in some form – as well as the mighty improvisation of Supersilent.

SATMO’s set was similar to that they played at The Spitz recently – doing all the covers, the only original being the much-requested encore “Believer”.  Hoxton was shushed temporarily by opener “Enjoy The Silence”, although chatter rose during mid-set lull, before all were a-gawpy at Susanna’s feet as her voice leapt over “Hallelujah” like a horse round Aintree.  Morten Qvenild bantered sweetly; even going as far as too apologise for being in two thirds of the evening’s acts. 

He needn’t have apologised – SATMO and In The Country showed off different sides to his talent, from the understated backdrop to that helluva voice of the former, to the Bleyish piano of the latter.  In The Country played the highlights of thoroughly decent new album Losing Stones, Collecting Bones.  Unfortunately, this included the singing – the drunken man’s post-chucking-out shout-to-the-sky of “Everyone Live Their Life” – but mercifully, “Torch Fishing” was stripped of Marc Ribot’s guitar excesses, and was all the better for it.  Drummer Paal Hausken proved to be the star; tinking on bells and thumping on towels with deftness and sensitive ear.

Supersilent were on ferocious form, riffing ridiculously on the scorched warzone rhythms of last release 7.  They played four pieces, each (I’m guessing) around the fifteen minute mark; time did seem to lose all relevance for much of the performance.  Each would start like a giant and presumably quite dangerous machine cranking into life after several years of inoperation; cogs tentatively meshing together with some degree of metallic grinding, before breaking free from its moorings and thundering deafeningly with unfathomable mechanics.

The first three pieces (I’ll call them “x.1”, “x.2” and “x.3”) were powered up by Arve Henrikssen and Stale Storlokken on trumpet and keyboards respectively.  Drummer Jarle Vespestad would find a route in, Arve would switch to drums, and then with two drummers - and Helge Sten battering away at his electronics - we were inevitably heading down some angry spasmodic routes towards the kind of riotous conclusions heard on 7.1 and 7.2.  The difference was that this time the journey there seemed of less importance; there was little chance of stopping off at viewpoints on the way, more a Vanishing Point style pedal-to-the-floor rush.  A couple of snatched blurry glimpses from the window on the way:  Helge bowing at some sort of electronic stringed instrument and piling on layers to points uncharted by shoegaze on x.2; Arve scat-singing (“jazzzzzzzzzzzzzz” he kept saying; an amusing commentary on their place in the LJF) and encouraging bottle-kicking crowd accompaniment on x.3.

The encore, x.4 obviously, was a different and mischievous creature.  Out of Deathprod crackle escaped an entirely unexpected and regular 4/4, and I found myself in inside-out hard house.  Add to that some of Arve’s throat singing, and some more of Helge’s bowed electronics (sounding by now like a 10,000 strong didgeridoo orchestra), and we were dancing our way to the door with our heads dizzy and ears ringing with the awesome jazzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz improvised mutant robotic funk of one of the greatest gigs of the year.

In The Country were my favourite new discovery last year.  This Was The Pace Of My Heartbeat was a fascinating subtle update of the piano trio format; soaked in a tradition reaching back to Bill Evans, yet somehow still capable of catching fire in a fashion discernibly influenced by modern electronic music.

Losing Stones, Collecting Bones had much to live up to.  If I were them, my approach to doing so probably wouldn’t have involved some singing and an electric guitar.  My first reaction to the album was to recoil at the way these elements stood out from their monochrome backgrounds with a vulgar luminosity.

Something else about those vocals stood out though.  “Everyone’s going to die…”, In The Country told me quite correctly.  “Everyone live their lives”, they ordered us, and I looked around, and everyone appeared to be doing just that. “Hang on..”, I thought, “if they got those two right, are you really sure they haven’t got the guitar and singing things right too?”.  After some rumination, I decided I couldn’t be entirely sure, so I gave them the benefit of the doubt, and persevered.

I was right to do so, for very much like its predecessor, this is a record that rewards repeat repeat repeat listening.  The Bleyish piano of Morten Qvenild (Susanna and the Magical Orchestra, Jaga Jazzist) is slow to give up its secrets; half a dozen listens to “My Best Friend Is A Dancer” later, and I’m still picking out new melodies en route to its dramatic conclusion. The drums of Paal Hausken skip around rhythms, on occasions even deigning to play them; underpinning those vocals on “Everyone Live Their Lives” are some terrific skittery tinks and bonks, and there is some great out stuff on “The Bear”.  And continuing on an onomatopeic tip, the thwonking double bass all over this album is untouchable; such a satisfying sound.

I’ve even made peace with the singing. It is only on a couple of tracks, after all.  However, the guitar daubed over “Torch Fishing”…the great Marc Ribot or not, I still can’t make it work in this context.  Too showboaty in a band who seem at times almost ashamed of their own talent, burying it deep within the record’s grooves.   Patient investigation of it will prove a highly rewarding experience.

Listen to a reasonably-sized chunk of the album here: mp3s of Kung Fu Boys, Can I Come Home Now, Everyone Live Their Life and Torch - Fishing, all from www.inthecountry.no

Imagine a 2 dimensional graph.  An x-axis running from drone on the left (-10) to melodic on the right (10).  A y-axis from acoustic at the bottom (-10) to electronic at the top (10).  Plot these:

The record charges in like a hellish Glenn Branca guitar symphony with “La Guerre de Sept Ans” (-9,5).  Roused from this nightmare, Piolard tumbles out of bed, picks up a guitar, strums it while looking out the open window; sounds of the outside drift through on “Together and Down (0,-5). 

After coffee, perks up with the likes of “Ext Leslie Park” (5, -5), “Sous Le Plage” (7, -6) and “Triggering Back” (7, -7).  Tunes busked on a windy beach in winter.  Jaunty strumming betrays cold fingers squeaking on strings.  Between songs, pause, reflect, alone.  In “Moth wings” (-3, 2), Basinki-like piano memories struggle to make themselves heard over a rising tide.

Precis is the debut album from 20 year old with a guitar and a box of magic noise.  Like Khonnor’s effort from last year, this weaves folk with shoegaze with hints of the treated guitar excursions of Fennesz and labelmate Tim Hecker.  If the graph had a z-axis from ignore at -10, to CHECK THIS OUT NOW at 10, I’d be consistently plotting this at the upper positive end. 

Listen to mp3s of Triggering Back, Alan and Dawn and Patter courtesy of Brainwashed and Kranky

10 reasons why Mogwai are a perfect choice for soundtracking the new Zidane movie:

1: Both are a bit serious.  Mogwai’s music has managed to take an arguably ephemeral subject and paint it with high art pretensions.  Zidane just doesn’t smile much.

2: Both have ethnic roots in climactically inhospitable, oil-dependent nations which have engaged in wars against their respective colonising nations. Zidane from Algeria,  Mogwai from, er, Scotland.

3: Both are rather precise.  Mogwai score in this instance with deliberate, circular, fingerpicked guitar figures.  Zidane caresses the ball underfoot like he was stroking a guinea pig with his feet whilst wearing furry slippers.

4: Mogwai’s first album was called Mogwai Young Team.  Zidane began his career in the US Saint-Henri youth team.

5: Both are a bit one paced.  The soundtrack doesn’t get much above walking pace.  Neither does Zidane these days.  Arguably, when they are on top form, neither need to.

6: Both retaliate viciously when insulted.  Zidane stuck the head in Marco Materazzi after him saying something a bit rude about Zidane’s sister had offended him greatly.  Similarly, Mogwai donned “Blur are shite” t-shirts, after Blur’s shiteness had offended them greatly.

7: Both know when to keep their party tricks in the locker.  Pretty as it is, Zidane doesn’t do his jump and turn roulade in every game.  Here, Mogwai resist the urge to drop the volume really low, and then turn and jump on their pedals, blistering the walls with deafening noise and feedback.

8: Both have considerably less hair than they used to.

9: Both have the ability to drift away, then reappear forcefully when and where you would least expect it.  Just when you think “Black Spider 2″ has faded out, it comes buzzing menacingly back in.  See also Zidane’s headed goals in the 1998 World Cup final.

10: Neither Zinedine Zidane nor Mogwai are likely to play for their countries in the next World Cup.

Listen to an mp3 of “Black Spider” here.
Listen to more tracks at Mogwai’s Myspace page here
Buy the album from Boomkat here