Amanda Palmer/Zen Zen Zo/The Indelicates

The Edge @ HMV Picture House
22 August 2009

Another gig another new venue. My first time in the HMV Picture House. Sadly, also another big ugly boxy sound. Is this an east-coast thing, like putting that brown slime on your chips? Unfortuante for the audience, but also for The Indelicates who are currently playing their hearts out up there. And it looks like great fun. The bits making it through are interesting. But, the sound is killing whatever is going on. So, they get added to the list of see-next time bands. Which I suppose is a positive thing that at least enough comes through for me to be thinking Carter USM Vs The Wannadies and to be cheesed of at not getting the full thing. Bah.

As we arrive at the venue, there are signs warning us of “partial nudity” as part of Zen Zen Zo‘s perfomance. So, how many people saw that and demanded their money back? In the spirit of burlesque, they turn out to be a physical theatre company who send on some painted blokes in loinclothes to prance about with blankets. They’re then joined with the shocking semi-naked ladies and they do another distinctly unsensual routine. I’m sure their show is amazing. Out of context it’s just slightly amusing. They don’t outstay their welcome.

The Dresden Dolls were always one of those bands I’ve meant to go see on the reputation of an stounding live show, but never go round to. What I heard of their recorded ouvre made decide to wait for when I did see them live. My interest in frontwoman Amanda Palmer was piqued a couple of months back when the internet was rife with her email about how she’d utilised social media to not only create unique and interesting happenings, but also to make more money than her last major label album had earned her – and in a much shoerter time. The blog and Twitter accounts were followed and by the time this gig came round I was ready to fight for the review ticket. But, I come to this as a novice to her music.

From the back of the room a N’orleans style marching band (some festival buskers co-opted through the week) start up and begin making their way through the crowd. Ms Palmer descend the staircase in the Picture House like the ginger daughter of Lili Von Shtupp and takes up the procession lead onto the stage. TBH, the entrance is worth having come here already. She then does a couple of songs at the piano backed by the brass-guys. I don’t know what the songs are, but they knock last year’s Tom Waits’ gig into a cocked-hat.

Then we are left alone with her. Sat at the piano (and swigging red wine) we are treated to a series of glorious 21st century cabaret songs. There’s one about Googling your new beau. It’s hilarious and deeply touching. As her seemless co-opting of Momus‘ I Love You But I Don’t Need You is wonderful (which is huge praise coming from me). We get a tune with the uke (what burlesque show hasn’t?) and it’s smashing. But, it’s behind the piano that she seems at home. And, I begin to noticejust how great she is on the ivories. Like a dramatic Chico Marx. She can really uses all them keys.

There’s a reading from the book she wrote with current squeeze Neil Gaiman. And, I can’t make out a word of it. Thank you big cavernous venue. He then reads another shorter piece which is fantastic. He then reads a shorter piece, which is awesome. Why aren’t all the mics so good.

Back to the music. By this point I’m moving from one side of the venue (where I can see) to the other (where I can hear). She’s joined by her sister on vocals, a drummer’s coaxed out. Then the brass band retake the stage. Followed by The Indelicates for a full pick-up band extraveganza. It is quite staggering.

And, then it’s all over. A fantastic night of entertainment. Amanda Palmer is a goddam STAR!

The Smittens/The Just Joans

Split ep
Weepop

This latest release from the Weepop stable is a classic indie split/cover 7″. And, very nice it is to see one again

Vermont’s The Smittens take The Just Joans‘ best song What Do We Do Now? and kick all the pathos out of it then feed it up on cola bottles. Leaving us with a not-unpleasant fizzy confection that pops and ba-bah’s along at a fair clip. The result seems to bypass any semblence of meaning or content, but hey, it’s fun enough to let them off. In fact, it’s nearly fune enough to let them off with the not only unnecessary, but somewhat misguided, gender realignment of one of the protagonists. Their own song Summer Sunshine does away with any such concerns. It’s handclaps and cares away; mixtapes on the beach. And, as enjoyably disposable. As every modern lover knows, you don’t have to be deep to be profound.

The return leg from Lanarkshire’s finest kinda has them doing the exact opposite. They take a pretty blatant lift of the Go-Gos Vacation and manage to imbue it with a portent that makes it sound like the most heartborken and world weary drunkards lament. The translation seems to sit abit better. This is either due to the boozy theme or the fact that, to be honest, there’s barely a whisp of lyric there in the first place – leaving it wid open to interpretation. It also sees me losing the JJs Pointless-And-Annoying-Sample Sweep as I never thought they’d sink to Abagail’s Party. Wrong again.

For their own song, the Joans have taken another step towards piecing together the great lost debut and re-recorded I Hear Your The Man Now, John. A fittingly sly choice as it becomes apparent that it exists as some sort of comapnaion piece to What Do We Do Now?. Whereas in the latter there’s a sense of whistfulness in the narrator looking at all he’s grown distant from, John is a spiteful and nasty snarl from the point of view of the left behind. We all know most anger comes from hurt, so do a lot of the best songs.

Bruce Springsteen

Hamden Park
14 July 2009

It’s a strange thing to get a text message asking if you want to go see Bruce Springsteen; well it was for me. I realised I’d never really considered the prospect. So, about half an hour after the the instinctual response of GOODGODNO! it began to dawn on my that actually, yes, I did want to see The Boss. Thankfully the ticket was still on offer and a Tuesday night had an interesting alternative to the norm on offer. So, off to the national stadium with us.

The unprofessional git was twenty minutes late taking the stage. Not what I’d been left to expect from the hardest working man in showbiz. (All of which is irrelevant if your still not cheesed off about missing the last bus and having to wait hours for a cab, getting you home at 2:30am.)

When it comes to the rest of it, though, it was pretty much exactly as you would expect. Seriously, the image you have in your head of a Bruce gig is exactly what it’s like. Yes, it’s completely entertaining. But no, the scales didn’t fall from my eyes and it all suddenly clicked into place that he is the greatest performer of all time and the poet-laureate of the working schmo.

Highly polished. A bit too much. He does this thing where the audience make signs requesting songs and he’ll grab the signs and chose some to do. While the E Street Band are very obviously a finely honed machine, this bit at least felt like it had a bit of spontaneity. He did Incident On 57th St which at least had some subtlety to it (unlike the version of The River they did). Then a surprisingly enjoyable Pink Cadillac. And, Cover Me which although pish as a single was as close as we were getting to punk rock tonight. It had some rough edges to it, and was all the more welcome for it.

It’s kinda like getting repeatedly bludgeoned by a precision bar-room band.

Born To Run was, of course, great fun (if a bit lacklustre in the beginning). And, a rather good Thunder Road. Did some (obviously recent) song that Shane McGowan must be suing him over. A surprisingly enjoyable Dancing In The Dark (which after Pink Cadillac, got me thinking it might have been brilliant if he’d just stuck to the pop tunes – a little less earnest gurning). Finished with an interminable cover of Twist & Shout.

All-in; good to have seen. Not really gonna be rushing back.

The Just Joans

Love & Other Hideous Accidents
Wee Pop!

In due time for Valentines Day (even if this review isn’t) comes yet another candidate for one of the best records you’re gonna hear for some time, from the finest band in the UK. more… “The Just Joans”

The Starlets

Out Into The Days From Here
Stereotone

Has anyone come up with the genre post-pop yet? Can I commandeer it? Because, seriously, trying to pin this down has been difficult. The Starlets third long player takes all the dreamy ethereality(?) of post-rock and underpins it with stonking pop songs. Imagine Sigur Ros with a fine line in toe tapping sing along numbers. Now, imagine it’s better than that sounds.

From the opening title track with it’s tripped out wish-upon-a-star stylings you know we’re in for something unique here. Then we’re onto Running Out Of Saturday Night a tragically wistful tale of careering round looking for the heart of the night only to find yourself watching the sunrise from the gutter. Or something. Maybe should’ve read the lyric sheet, but it’s so not needed here.

What The Starlets do here is create beautiful abstract collages with sumptuous arrangements that just drag you in and along with them. It’s lush and effortless (pay attention Broken Records). Not to suggest that it’s all floaty gorgeousness like In Excelcis Grace or the monumental (and wonderfully titled) Crashing Down The Hurry Slope. No, there’s a bunch of power-pop stompers in here. Delivered in a wash of fuzzed-out guitars.

So, dreamy glam metal string action…erm… Just get it and play it really bloody LOUD (always a good thing). It’s immersive and spectacular.

It may be as far removed from the current neo-folk thing that’s doing the rounds just now as dubstep, but, surely, being unable to pigeon-hole something is a trait we should be celebrating? Out Into The Days From Here is a fine addition to a roll-call of excellent Scottish albums so far this year that suggests there’s something interesting going on up here again.

The Starlets - Out Into the Days from Here Download via iTunes

Nick Harper

ABC
12 April 2009

While it seems like only yesterday that he was last here, three months have actually passed since Harpic graced the stage in Glasgow. But, such is the joy of someone so hard working as this man. If you miss him one time he will be back around pretty soon. As has been the case for myself the last couple of times he’s played ‘proper’ gigs. The result being that I’ve only caught him the last couple of times as part of some bigger event. And, while these occasions are magnificent enough in themselves, it is on his own turf and in front of his people that Harper truly soars.

While I can understand the tempering of a set towards a festival crowd, wherein there will be people there unfamiliar with the artist, I reckon in doing so Harper sells himself short. I can’t see even the most cursory attendee not being charmed an enthralled by his own songs. And, tonight there is a fine selection on show. Be that the Dylanesque The Field of The Cloth Of Gold, which I’m ashamed to say is new to me. But, could be a new favourite. Or, the completely rockin’ old favourite By My Rocket Comes Fire. We also get the wonderful Aeroplane (dedicated to “my old man – the professor of altered states”)

With the space to be himself we get the usual banter. Harper does a great line in self-deprecating personableness. Regaling us with tales of playing the highest (altitude) rock ‘n’ roll gig in the world (in the Himalayas for a cancer charity) to Fast Show impressions to show us just how black he blues can get. It’s intimate, relaxed and thoroughly beguiling.

And, there’s that guitar playing. As someone usually put off whenever someone refers to a great player, I find it hard to laud his playing. But, we must. Were Harper a so-so writer and a miserable git, his would still be worth the price of entry for the incendiary way he beats the crap out that guitar. Sometimes it’s difficult to tell where he stops and the instrument starts. Yeah, I know that sounds naff, but he is THAT GOOD.

And, he throws in a, frankly, insane cover of The Prodigy’s Breathe. Heavily augmented by string changing. That also is amazing to watch.

Frankly stunning, as ever. I wish someone’d give him a residency, I can’t imagine ever getting bored of the Nick Harper live experience.

We Rock Like Girls Don’t/Ruth Martin/Miss The Occupier/Scragfight

Nice and Sleazy
12 March 2009

Due to the tendency towards tea-time gigs in this city, we arrive at the venue to the sounds of a awfully ramshackle reading of Rockaway Beach. This is courtesy of Scragfight, a local punker trio enjoying their first live foray. And, boy, does it show.

But, among the false starts and bum notes, there’s definitely something interesting going on. There’s a song called War Crimes for which the drummer takes the lead vocal, lending it a smashing shouty-pop sensibility. But then, there’s a cover of Tiffany‘s I Think We’re Alone Now, which they fail to really bring anything new to the original, or even the (not that hilariously ironic even 20 years ago) Snuff version. Closer Zombie Girl (I think) is fantastic. Definitely suggesting a band that will warrant further attention in the future.

So, as rough and ragged as a poachers breeks, but there’s some thing about Scragfight that is ultimately rather charming. However, I suspect this is pretty much as far from their intentions as you can get.

Miss The Occupier are fantastic. It’s as simple as that. Even the somewhat lacklustre sound (which almost makes us suspect maybe Scragfight weren’t so shaky) can’t detract from that.

With the smashing debut album Recovery Position finally under their belt, we get yet another set of effortless edgy pop. Punk. Rock. Pop. It’s hard to pinpoint them. This is half the joy of the band. The other being you don’t really want to. Sop thinking about it and just go with the flow.

Guitarist Magnus Hughson is on crackling form. He’s definitely shaping up to be one of the most interesting and original musicians in Glasgow. Managing to be both angular and soaring at almost the same time. Great stuff.

All that and a particularly spirited version of Girlfriend Go Crazy (a personal favourite), what more do ou need? Someone should give them tons of money, so we can all start bitching about them.

Next a solo set from Ruth Martin, lead singer with Scragfight. Which you wouldn’t believe were it not for the fact hat she’s very obviously the same person. And, well, she’s a singer songwriter type with an acoustic guitar. About the most interesting thing she does is highlight that fact that when covering certain songs, changing the odd pronoun can tip the balance o near murdering them. It’s sadly all very dull. Sadly, because there’s some cracking songs in there. Just the delivery is so pedestrian, familiar. She should shove a rocket up them and give them to the band. That might be something to see.

Vas Antoniadou, drummer with We Rock Like Girls Don’t is a rock behemoth. An open handed demi-godess of the skins. Seriously, she picks up her sticks and Thor slopes off. Yet, with an astounding subtlty. She adds more flourish and flair to one roll than most thumpers manage in a lifetimes work. Frankly breathtaking. And worth the price of entry alone.

And brilliantly, that’s not even the half of it. Up front we have Roz Cairney. Yeah. In the beginning there was the riff; then there was Roz. I have no idea hat the hell she’s playing through, but the guitar is like a wall. You know when scientists do that stuff where you can listen to glaziers or mountains. This is what you expect to be the results. If the soundman’s been slacking tonight, he can’t help but wake up now. And, with a voice like a not-annoying PJ, she can be both terrifying and deeply vulnerable. And, even, at the same time.

There’s the rumbling groove of Queen Of Heavy Metal. The careering don’t-try-this-at-home holler of I Just Wanna Stick My Head In The Bass Drum. The exhilarating pogo like a loon ramalama of Rock ‘n Roll Freak. It’s irresistible. As in ‘resistance is futile’. Over the next few weeks people will be paying stupid money to see anemic boy bands (like Metallica and AC/DC) peddle their watery brand of (guaranteed over-extended) rock. These people are idiots.

Tonight is the launch of stunning debut album How Did It Get To This?. There’s party poppers, treats, drinks laid on and a raffle. Puny bands of Glasgow take note! And quake.