RACKET FROM THE PIT: March 2010
Our roving musical reporter Backbone gives us the news from mosh pits around the country…
We kicked off our touring year with a weekend of shows accompanied by London punk soul brothers THE DISSOCIATES – a lovely bunch of misfits with a simmering undercurrent of inter-band animosity that was most amusing from the outside. First stop, Southampton, was a gloriously bristling sweatathon with the added benefits of punk rock shoutiness from new punks on the tower block, ROOFTOPS (Goblets, 15 Jan). We even managed to shoe in a couple of our special New Year’s Eve covers, much to everyone’s delight.
Next stop London, where The Dissociates truly shone (Hope & Anchor, 16 Jan). They manage to embalm the corpse of Washington DC mini-legends Bluetip in a soulful Dexys swagger that results in amazing songs like ‘Under Heavy Manners’, where clever rhythms rub up against unbridled expression. Top dollar. Before them, Welsh warblers, LONGKNIVES (not to be confused with The Long Knives) were a euphoric hybrid of Muse, Coldplay, Chillis with a touch of their own magic. Were they really? Of course not. But that’s how they describe themselves on their Myspace. In reality, they were but a tiny fraction better than the sort of choff you see every week at your local ‘premier live music venue’. Still, not as bad as GIDEON’S DEMISE. They brought most of their extended family along which, roughly translated, made for the worst kind of sycophancy and the most miserably plain pub rock imaginable.
Last stop, Brighton (Prince Albert, 17 Jan), where ex-Capdown trio, THIS CONTRAST KILLS, were busy trying to reinvent themselves with neo-rock sophistication and sampled synth hooks. All very ‘90s. Not very promising. Homeboys, THE FALLTHROUGH, were excruciating in their desperate need to be accepted as a genuine hardcore unit. Unfortunately, they haven’t got the power, poise, precision or personality of the Strike Anywheres of this world, no matter how hard they pump the air with fists and ersatz rabble-rousing.
At the other end of the talent scale, BARONESS are a bunch whose effortless command of their chosen niche is something of a minor revelation and a major inspiration (Underworld, London, 19 Jan). I pity other ensembles that plough any kind of Southern groove while this Georgia quartet are doing the rounds. What’s not to love? The sexualized rhythmic stomp, the dazzling guitar overlays and the ‘70s folk-jam interludes are mesmerising enough but when iconic frontman, John Baizley, locks his molten stare and unhinges his jaw to bellow the powerful refrain to ‘A Horse Called Golgotha’, you could feel the hero-worship dripping down the walls.
Staying with guitar legends, everyone knows that our Vince Lee has the muso Midas touch, in the sense that whatever he touches turns to solid gold sound. And so it goes with THE WILDCARDS: a marriage made in veritable swing-blues heaven (White Rabbit, Plymouth, 22 Jan). The band are undeniably awesome, underpinning and weaving ‘40s/’50s rhythms around Vince’s gnarly fret acrobatics, but his voice and that guitar are the stuff of modern-goes-vintage rock’n’roll legend, at least to those lucky enough to have experienced it. If you haven’t, where the fuck have you been?
THE ROOFTOP GAMBLER‘s EP launch (out on onec/UPR now) proved that the seductive trio are as perfectly honed as any intelligent indie contender you care to mention (White Rabbit, Plymouth, 29 Jan). Every beat, chord and hookline was imbued with a sense of purpose, without resorting to noisy squall or sentimental indulgence. Brilliant. Also ploughing his own unique furrow, PATRICK JAMES PEARSON’s electric piano hooks and silky vocal frolics were bang on the money, bolstered by foot-operated kick-drum thuds and tambourine that added just enough to punctuate his imaginatively forceful anti-pop vignettes.
You could count the amount of DJs reviewed in this column on Abu Hamza’s right hand but, for some reason or another, we found ourselves frugging gently to the squelching breaks of Radio One’s uber-streetsmart spinnerette, MARY ANNE HOBBS (White Rabbit, Plymouth, 30 Jan). She played some great dub-step and hip-hop that was typically marred by incessant and artless MCs who seemed to have no concept of the word restraint. B-boys will be b-boys.
Everybody and their internal haemorrhoid knows how highly I rate BANGERS (who were typically ace tonight) so I’ll focus instead on Falmouth’s CROCUS (Live Bar, Truro, 4 Feb). It’s not everyday you encounter a raging fireball of sinewy intensity draped in situationist sloganeering, armed with a crypto-hardcore sensibility that makes mincemeat of all those pedestrian thrashers whom kids flock to like hungry yet pathetic ants. So when you do, the only option is to let it flow through you and marvel at the progressive art-brut spectacle. But then, of course, the band will argue that the ‘spectacle’ is everything they are against and that they ‘represent the rejection of fragmentary opposition and the yielding of détournement subversif’. Brains, brawn and belligerence? By the fucking bucketload. See-ya bye.
Backbone (johnsycash@yahoo.co.uk)
