God's Little Eskimo - In Play in Borely Rectory

Multi instrumentalism is a powerful tool to many a lonely composer, but it is still a tool and may or may not be put to good use. Would anyone in this age of plenty know, or care, whether a burst of brass for example was the result of a fifty piece band or a heavily edited keyboard patch? Does hard work, sweat and blood really matter?

God’s Little Eskimo (or God’s Little Inuit, if you’re being politically correct) is a solo project of the illusive Jonny Eskimo, a self declared ‘one manned band’ as well as a keen illustrator.

So yeah, he’s multi talented, blah blah what’s in it for us? Well, you selfish, superficial jackass, nothing for the impatient or mass consumptive. If the record were to take physical form, it would be a laboured piece of arts and crafts; like a wicker basket, or a knitted sweater. It has a scratched, everyman charm that unites the bedroom studio ethic of Wavves with the folksong expression of Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy. Steve Reich once said that the true folk music of our time was being made in the bedrooms and garages of ordinary people. Reich was right about a lot of things.

The clunky and grainy nature, an experiment in Gypsy Folk sensibilities, strays from the genuinely unsettling to the mournful and sad. Featuring a zither (yay), ‘Who’s That Calling Your Name’ begins cloaked in deceptive and enticing beauty only to crash into jarring dissonance. His finest track, ‘At The Base of Her Spine’ is also his most aggressive, shouting “Sink your teeth into my soul” in unreserved passion. Jonny sings in a high, minstrel style – like Jon Boden from Bellowhead on a comedown – and the music is wide awake, intimate and lovingly put together.

At Play In Borely Rectory rests directly on a thin line dividing brilliance and stupidity, sort of like Eddie Izzards ‘Circle of Cool’ gag. It teeters between the two, like an eccentric, pleasantly drunk trapeze artist. In this position, it’s a cult folk classic in hibernation. A record of such sincere strangeness will always find someone, somewhere to inspire. Who knows where it could go from there.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Sennen - Destroy Us

In fear of falling into repetitive, zombified writing, I had made up my mind to quit reviewing any more ‘nugaze’ for a while. It lasted a couple seconds. We all have our addictions and Sennen from Norwich might have been my next love affair. But it wasn’t to be. They tick all the boxes but still leave a little to be desired. It’s awful when you discover that love isn’t blind.

The problem is that they lack a noticeable shade of colour to separate them from the prism of other rising dream pop acts. Destroy Us is more of the same post rock guitar layering and huffing and puffing, unable to move mountains as intended. Case in point: ‘The Distance from A to B’ climbs and climbs only to fall on an anti climax. It’s bathetic or, to lower the tone, like interrupted sex. If you want EPIC guitar crescendos then you’d be better off turning to the unsigned Dezerett, a Florida based trio that call down some biblical, God-like climaxes.

By track three the EP finds its feet. The earnest and well executed ‘Bizarre Love Triangle’ is enough to rescue it from being forgotten in the caverns of itunes. Here, the drummer, James Brown, whose role is otherwise functional in the band, pulls his finger out and moulds the rhythms into more daring shapes. Pseudo-religious pop archaisms like “Every time I see you falling, I get down on my knees and pray” are nearly poetic when supported by the strong melody and Interpol style guitars. It’s then taken way too far on ‘Figurene’: a soupy, sad bastard that sounds identical to Christian pop (shudder).

During its better moments, Destroy Us displays amiable song crafting suggestive of The Chameleons and soft, creamy vocal harmonies that would complete a milkshake. Not lacking in emotion by any means, their ethos is untouchable. What brings them down is their manifestation of those deep thoughts. This problem could be mine however, as I just can’t shake off the pessimism that’s been shadowing me lately. It’s like Sennen say: “Is there anything left for us to destroy?”

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Sleep Whale – Houseboat

It didn’t take long to be swept up the bellowing zephyr that is Sleep Whale’s Houseboat and I don’t think I’ve come down yet. Whoever said beauty is fleeting hadn’t stayed alive long enough to hear this record.

Along with Explosions in the Sky, of which they share some post rock similarities, Sleep Whale emerge from Texas, at polar opposite musically from the local hardcore scene. The open space and grand majesty of the Southern American landscape is clearly a fundamental influence on their creative consciousness. Their mesh of collected sounds paired with colourful and melodic instrumentation feels as natural and invigorating as pissing off a cliff. The small, rhythmless passages, such as the mid album vignette ‘Dissolved’, remind me of Animal Collective’s album Feels (2006) - particularly the free, harp-like strumming in the guitars.

They’ve also cranked up their production on this one, compared to their sparse early work, and it’s put it to great benefit employing everything from coffee rich cellos (provided by the talented Bruce Blay), to pan pipes and guitar harmonics, to toy box bells and cricket chirping; all bubbling and fizzing and bursting with life. Lyrics such as “The rain came down in pouring puddles, there’s magic in everything” from ‘We Were Dripping’; though simple, when put to a pretty acoustic guitar and a wash of watery effects, it projects a kaleidoscope of images in your mind.

Being prone to tendencies of hyperbole and melodrama, it may be difficult to believe me when I say that Houseboat is the tenderest, most beautiful and masterful release I’ve heard this year. No exaggeration, it sets a new standard for acoustic recording and it was love at first sight; like the first time I heard the ornamental sampling of Four Tet’s Rounds (2003). The secret ingredient must be liquid sunshine or concentrated joy or something. It’s a stirring celebration of nature and life and is certain to please, unless you don’t like music or trees, in which case you have no soul. Sorry, but the truth hurts.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

The Clientele - Bonfires on the Heath

Red wine, curling smoke trails, brown anoraks, orange leafed trees; these are a handful of the images that The Clientele zoetrope through your brain on their newest release. Bonfires on the Heath, their sixth outing, feels husky and weather worn, as if each track was hung over the fire for a smokey flavour. But enough about salmon, because wandering romanticism and long scarfs are back in. Whoopie! Let’s not kid ourselves now, they never went out of style in the first place.

Through Classical training and years of recording experience, The Clientele have tended and grown a level of pop songwriting and musicianship that feels good and right to envy. Their simple but effective arrangements, assimilated from just a typical selection of instruments, is further evidence of their ability. Bonfires on the Heath strolls on safely down the same path.

The record poses a dreamy, autumnal mood and evokes the season’s particular poignancy and sadness. It combines twinkling guitar lines (drunken sliding on the album title track), jazzy chordal structures and soft brass with the silky vocal harmonies of those two 60’s bums Chad and Jeremy (‘Jennifer and Julia’ being a near forgery). Their luscious ganja-pop, reminiscent of The Zombies, The Turtles, Love and The Small Faces, is offset by a funky, off beat guitar showing later influences, perhaps closer to Orange Juice.

Yes, it has it’s patchy moments and compositional sleep walking (‘I know I will see your Face’ oddly breaks into sub par flamenco during the chorus, scrabbling for some kind of variation.) Even so, after ending with two beauties: ‘Graven Wood’ and ‘Walking in the Park’, the resounding silence is a reflective one. Despite being only mild escapism, the literary equivalent of a holiday read, Bonfires on the Heath is so calm and relaxed (groovy even) that, as long it’s spinning, someone could be yelling bile directly in your face and you’d just sit there, smiling to yourself, in a dribbling coma, like a lobotomised Labrador. Has that convinced you?

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

The Brothers Movement – The Brothers Movement

Ten years ago, before that preening leather jacket wearing cock Richard Ashcroft helped bury Brit Pop, there was a band called The Verve whose cool mix of cloud parting power chords and psychedelic dabbling defined an age. The Brothers Movement recall the optimism of the time providing feel-good Rock complete with mournful slide guitar.

Doubtless some of you are rolling your eyes but I liked The Verve back in the day and, to be fair, The Brothers Movement don’t exactly hijack their entire career. There are relations to another 90’s classic Supergrass, as well as some free wheeling Americana. In 2008, they were fortunate enough to support Black Rebel Motorcycle Club’s tour which must have given them some indie credibility and exposed them to the right people.

Aside from one or two throwaways, such as the dull and directionless ‘The Salute’, each track stands out on its own without deviating from the collective flow. One of the best tracks (if not the best) is ‘Someday’, a genuinely moving ballad that builds to an emotional finale. The close of ‘War and Peace’ approaches symphonic homophony in its guitar muli-layering and their June ‘09 single, ‘Sister’, boosted by a warm church organ, takes a shot at the Rock religious experience.

Their debut may not be ground breaking, but the head bobbing confidence that it bestows is hard to dislike. As good as the LA scene can be, The Brothers Movement manage to steer clear of its acid fascination in favour of some harsh British reality. They also avoid The Verve’s habit for needlessly long jams. Most of all, their next release must evolve further still if they hope to achieve “ushering in a new era of Brit Pop” as opposed to rehashing the original one.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

We Fell to Earth and The Big Pink at The Electric Ballroom 22/10/09

My aversion to hype is now so refined that each time The Big Pink popped up on that TV advert, or an album review came into vision, I ignored it, childishly sticking my fingers in my ears and going “la la la la la”. Thanks largely to a blitzkrieg of promotion and the release of A Brief History of Love (an adequate debut album sporting an overused theme) the quality of the gig was being decided for me, before it had even started. So I kept my head down, avoiding every outside influence as best I could.

Gratefully, the supporting band set these anticipations aside giving me something else to think about. We Fell to Earth were a moping and moody Post Rock quartet with Math elements, stalked in the shadows by a droning, unsettling bass. Even though the bald singer sang (badly) like Phil Collins on the verge of a breakdown, they had clearly given their compositions ample thought and attentive care. And although not as well known, they proved themselves The Big Pink’s equals (seriously, check them out). Soon enough, on walked the headline dressed in their cyber Lou Reed chic. London was their last spot on the UK tour, a return to home.

I wanted to see The Big Pink because of ‘Velvet’. ‘Velvet’ is such an achingly good track and so unusual, like the product of some divine inspiration. It blows all the other tracks out of the water and their performance of it was a joy. The album title track was also well played proving they do have the odd reflective mood. Like being submerged in warm water or floating about in a Mark Rothko painting, each track blurred into the next preserving the hazy sensation. Their recent Radio 1 friendly single ‘Domino’s’ was what got the crowd bouncing and chanting in a sing-a-long. If you ask me, to close on their most popular single was a bit cheap, but I was the only one not ecstatically shouting along, so what do I know?

Without directly meaning to, The Big Pink bring shoegaze and noise art to the masses by adopting catchy refrains and by making the typical image of the oddball shoegazer much more sociable. Their textured hymns, made up of singing synths, electro beats and monster guitar distortion, transferred without blemish to the live setting. It took me a few days to work out that, aside from that generic crowd pleasing conclusion, their Electric Ballroom finale was strangely modest, short and razor sharp – possibly a reaction to their heavy exposure? I predicted much more improvisation and showing off but these cats appear to be shrugging off their rising fame. Once you brush all that hype away all that remains is the memory of a damn good evening.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Twinkranes - Spektrumtheatresnakes

From the dizzying highs of acid to the chemical overdrive of speed, Spektrumtheatresnakes emulates in music a wider drug variety than Hunter S Thompson’s briefcase, and even the good doctor didn’t take it all at once.

Like a sadistic fairground ride in primary colours, ‘The Market of the Bizarre’ spirals and loops around marching percussion and a hypnotic vocal line. ‘Fizz Nor Feedback’ subjects any acid heads that were letting their minds wander in the previous tracks to dense, pill-charged club rhythms - a bastardisation of Pink Floyd and The Prodigy. The heavy and psychotic, bass dominated nature also brings to mind the club antics of Primal Scream, particularly ‘Xtrmntr’.

Razor sharp synths and off key organs pierce through the haze like metal under fingernails, setting teeth on edge, frightening women and children, refusing any attempts to gasp for air. There’s no chance for a rest, the hunt must go on, but before fading into the mad, moonless night, ‘Spores’ combines Stoner Metal drones and some nods to German prog-lords Can.

For all their more modern influences such as Krautrock and dance music, Twinkranes are really anchored in late 60’s psychedelia, in the paranoia that only civil unrest and meaningless war can grant (an era which grows somewhat familiar). Harbouring more than a few blood chilling sights along the way, Twinkranes heady jams are the classic work of creative exploration and drug nightmares - the cocktail is highly addictive.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Dixon – Temporary Secretary Compilation

The promotion accompanying this record rants on in huge detail of how the internet is destroying the mix tape; that track streaming and quick availability cheapens the ‘art’. But what they forget is that the mix tape’s purpose is not to glorify the DJ but to showcase the bands.

The Temporary Secretary Compilation mixed by Dixon is like Warp Records transported back to happy 70’s disco and the CD cover cloaks it in sparse and functional Factory Records chic. As mixes go, it’s pretty stylish.

The flow is very much like a dream, of a club night long ago. Tracks spill over into each other, blending seamlessly together like oil rainbows, forming a single, extended event. It sets its aim for the subconscious; there are moments that spark your attention, but for the most part the mix is best enjoyed while your mind is off doing something else. Given its chilled pace, Dixon makes no qualms about this.

As you’d expect from any compilation, there are better features than others, unless that compilation happens to be ‘Rn’B anthems 2009’ or something, in which case it’ll all be shit. Dixon’s inclusion of international artists displays an excellent ear and ranges from the beautiful, pulsing opener ‘Ongou’ by Icasol, the siren calls of Fever Ray from Sweden, the Netherlands stoner rock trio The Machine and ending with Tokyo Black Star, a union of NY and Tokyo electronics. Under the professional hand of Dixon, it welds together for a timeless, placeless feel.

Ideally, a good mix tape is about the shared love of music and Temporary Secretary Compilation unearths a few artists worth investigating further. The record balances Dixon’s “distinct mark” with a sense of curiosity and discovery. Without the later, a mix tape is merely two dimensional and no amount of promotional bullshitting will elevate a DJ’s position. As always: the music comes first and egos come second.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Hazy Recollections and Eardrum Torture

When attending a gig, we like to feel that we’re in control of what we hear and that the artists are performing for us. Of course, not all bands intend to simply entertain. Some invite you to experience something unusual, unexpected and some push your patience even further, subjecting you to some seriously uncomfortable shit. I’ve been to gigs where it’s all out war between the band and the crowd over who will buckle first. Damn right. They just don’t know what’s good for them. Sometimes you need to be offended to be educated.

I recall an evening at the Bullingdon in Oxford, at the beginning of this empty and pointless decade (it was when the pub supported acts of all kinds rather than targeting the blues and folk audience to compete with the nearby Ex-Zodiac O2 Academy). On this memorable night a few local artists were touting their wears. The venue got busier and we, two friends from my halls of residence, got drunker. Snake Bite, the students drink of choice, was being consumed at a fatal rate. It’s the drink you grow to hate and, by the end of the first year, just looking at a pint of its swirling purple madness makes you gag. Ugh! Terrible stuff, but such was University; the days when the future was inviting. Optimism ruled and everything felt on an upward trajectory. It couldn’t last.

Nearing closing time, the pack was getting restless. A combination of sugary alcohol and low key music was boiling their blood. I imagine they were impatient for the cheesy, late night club disco. The fragility of the atmosphere was practically moist in its lusting for what was to come, a band called Holiday Stabbings.

And this was it: two guys with long, greasy hair crouching on the floor like Homo Sapiens fed an electric guitar and a mic'ed cymbal through a vast array of pedals and sound manipulators. By layering drones and whirling sounds from these two instruments, their improvisations were long, painful and, of course, highly pretentious. Tip-toeing around the pedals as best they could, they paced back and forth, tweaking a knob here, adjusting a control there – almost as if they were obeying the whim of a super machine, its anatomy gruesomely sprawled out on the stage.
I was hooked but it seemed I was the only one. “This is fucking awful” said one guy in front, sneering with arrogance. He was the kind of unimaginative twat who gathers all his stylistic accessories from The Matrix.
A few dirty posh girls behind him grimaced in agreement but kept silent. They knew deep down that to raise a fuss would be to fuck with the wrong scene. They were listening to pure mortality being pumped into their ears and no amount of sobbing under the covers in the early hours would make it all go away.

Someone else from the crowd placed a bit of paper on the stage with something written on it and one of the band held it to his face deep under his hair. Disgusted by words to this day I’ll never know, he threw it hilariously away like an angry child would an unwanted toy. So far so weird. Maybe we were being punished for our complacency; we shouldn’t have left our guard down. It reminded me of the headache inducing, now legendary Jesus and The Mary Chain gigs of the 80’s. Holiday Stabbings over-serious, misanthropic bravado was laughable though strangely captivating. Presumably be known to them at the time, this droning, mechanically distorted, tonal death-bringing style was being simultaneously cultivated by many other groups: Sunn O))), OM and Euthedral who is also from Oxford. It’s pretty safe to say that Holiday Stabbings did not go down well. The general public would once again learn to accept being tortured.

Several months later I would set up my own band with the two friends who joined me for the evening. I can’t speak directly for them but the evening inspired me. I realised that in order to make real music you have to ignore the masses, take risks and make enemies. Do it for yourself. With their myspace deleted and no trace of articles or contacts anywhere, I guess Holiday Stabbings were doomed to be despised and lost behind the sofa of history. When you think of the thousands, millions of bands who have fallen victim to the same fate, it’s hard not to feel a sense of melancholy. But yeah yeah, such is life and even the almighty Internet cannot preserve everything. Nothing ever lasts forever.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

N.A.M.B. – BMAN

Hailing from Italy, N.A.M.B. have been deliberately cryptic online about the meaning behind their initials. Is this to enforce open interpretation on us or is it simply a dastardly promotional tool? Yeah, I know: yawn! Let’s get down to how they sound.

Way back in 2002, The Flaming Lips made a compilation of their first three studio albums called ‘Finally The Punk Rockers Are Taking Acid’. Interestingly, N.A.M.B have been compared to The Flaming Lips (debatable in my opinion) but in context, a more accurate version of that title would be 'Finally The Punk Rockers Have Gotten Into The Beatles'. N.A.M.B. are what would ensue if the band from Liverpool rose out of the 80’s instead of Chuck Barry Rock n’ Roll. A dangerous statement I am aware but the two are similar only in creative approach. Perhaps a link to Supergrass or suggestions of psychedelic Punk would be safer to claim.

BMAN is an ambitious, Rock-of-all-types record with intentions of international recognition - an eighteen track labour of love chocked full of driving guitar, unusual changes in mood and structure, echoing textures and surprising effects, contrast and unity. What remains consistent throughout is their humour and ‘throw it all in’ ethic. Earning his position at the front, Davide Tomat (guitar/vocals) has a rich tone and a powerful delivery achieving David Bowie style singing acrobatics. Some tracks of note are the uncannily drunk ‘Musichetta In Pausa Sigaretta’ and the cloud gazing ‘Hate My Telephone’.

So, despite my premature reservations, N.A.M.B are not wise guys, banishing abbreviations and trying to be clever. This, their Big Second Album, is a push forward for them, a proud accomplishment; but let it roll around in your head for a few days and the record becomes more like a prog misadventure by Feeder. So much for The Beatles. Still, with this much crammed in, it’s bound to appeal to a great many tastes.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Edward Williams - Life On Earth Soundtrack

Initially aired in 1979, the soundtrack to the David Attenburough nature programme Life On Earth has taken this long to be brought out of the dusty BBC archives. The seasoned composer Edward Williams (1921) paints, through music, the alien beauty and magic of our natural world. Let me tell you, they don’t make art music like this anymore, even under the Classical title. Contemporary TV composers aim towards film bombasity ignoring the smaller, delicate ensemble. William’s eccentricity and instrumental range is impressive and it’s emergence into general distribution is artistic justice in action.

There are many familiarities in the record and like most soundtracks, it attempts to evoke mood – in this case, our curiosity and wonderment with nature. It’s the type of earth worship and eerie atmosphere Igor Stravinsky presented in Rite of Spring at the first half of the 20th Century. William’s meandering melody lines also reference the modulation techniques of Prokofiev. A hazy embellishing of harp and flute adds a dreamy Debussy Impressionism while particular atonal textures suggest influences from Varese, Ligheti or Stockhausen. These incidental passages predict William’s later trials in electronic music. In swings and glides, hops and gallops his music pays a thoughtful homage to our planets weird and colourful eco system.

Calling William’s music “jolly good” (all the words you need), Attenburough also helped towards the release of the record. In addition, for those of you overwhelmed by the vast history of Classical music and uncertain as to where to begin, this release is an accessible doorway past the elitist guardians who so often ruin the simple, universal enjoyment of the genre. What’s that? You don’t like Classical music? Listen, I had to resurrect the rotting corpse of my Classical training for this review! Stop being a pussy and download some Beethoven or something.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Curly Hair - The Ivy League

Putting on a Curly Hair song has the same rejuvenating effect as taking a midday walk in the park. There’s no disturbances, no irritating twats hurling their egotistical chants at you, just time allocated to wandering about and collecting your thoughts. The duo’s first release, a six track EP entitled The Ivy League, has some organic, flowery illustrations on its cover and is refreshingly real and honest.

The twee, sing a’ long nature of their music belies the confidence and serious intent underneath. Curly Hair are not to be underestimated. Having set up their own label in Brighton, Toy Soldiers (which has incidentally signed Jonquil), recording their own songs and designing CD covers, they seem keen to keep control over their art. As a first for Curly Hair, the record avoids making a bathetic entrance or flogging a pointless statement; it’s satisfied in its handmade process, in the pleasure of playing and recording.

Comparisons to Belle and Sebastian have already been drawn in the press, as is typical with this kind of light song writing. After a short opening, we hear the first of two standout tracks: “Let’s Get Cleany”, a smiling ode to rough living that slows to a gradual halt and, to finish, “The Bus Song”, an upbeat affair which provokes me to use the ‘infectious’ adjective… regrettably. Some minor problems include “Hully Gully” - an out of place acapella vignette. The duo’s voice doubling displays a strong musical bond, but in the mix it’s muddy and cluttered.

Even with synth organ, glockenspiel and trumpet, The Ivy League is unlikely to give you anything unpredictable. Its play count might also be short lived, or at least infrequent. None-the-less, Curly Hair set a resonant tone for themselves and their prospective label. If you see them busking somewhere around the country be sure to buy them a cup of tea and a sandwich.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

The Smittens / The Just Loans Split Single

In just cause, Twee Pop and DIY ethics promote an inspiring idea that anyone can pick up an instrument and write songs. Nobody said however that all this music will be ‘good’. This release from WeePOP! is a prime example; it means well but fails to convey anything beyond the simple joy of being in a band. Seriously guys, it’s time to grow up and let Belle and Sebastian go.

You may get two bands for the price of one (two tracks by each) but like Tesco or an unfamiliar drug dealer, it pushes something of dubious quality. About halfway through The Smittens’ ‘Summer Sunshine’ you realise you’ve been burned. Lines like “cause we’re bands and we’re fans / and we like to have fun and we like making friends” don’t do much for me; neither does the irritatingly jolly backing band and tired clichés of mix tapes and cute musings. Beat Happening made an art form out of being sad and child-like; few get close to replicating it.

The Just Loans are more accomplished musically – “I hear you’re the man now, John” is a bitter and jangly bit of folk with a grumpy accordion – but again the lyrics let them down. Both bands need a dramatic change of subject matter and musical prospects – maybe a turn to The Mouldy Peaches’ sarcasm for inspiration? The rest of you keep away, there’s better stuff coming from Scotland.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Fryars - Dark Young Hearts

Our interest in the past is getting pretty obsessive isn’t it? Think of some classic old band and there’ll be a contemporary equivalent for sure. Shit, the band you’re thinking of is probably imminently reforming due to their own retro addiction, an obsession with their own past. Fryars, a solo project by one Ben Garrett, has a specific intention: 80’s art electro. It achieves it too, spot on, but don’t worry. Dark Young Hearts is fortunately more than just market filler.

Straight off, Ben’s voice style is a dead ringer for Franz Ferdinand’s Alex Kapranos. Certain tracks, such as “The Ides” with its club indie rhythm, even sound like the group too. Ben is 19, self taught and has a fascination with the subconscious and the fictional. “A Last Result” feels very Syd Barrett with its silly song structure, particular English insanity and surreal, Louis Carroll-like imagery. No arguments, “when the mind is a mushroom, but the words come easily” is a damn good line and the track is definitely Ben’s best.

We have the masterful Steven Hague (producer of The Pet Shop Boys and New Order) to blame for its electro-glam tendencies. “Lakehouse” and “Visitors” sees Hague slap on the emotion: Casio synthesiser leads over rolling electro drum pads. Trouble is, it reeks of sweaty shoulder pads, pot noodle and Tears For Fears. The cracks do give way thankfully, and we catch glimpses of substance behind the yuppie disco fest. The final track “Morning” is a warm and sumptuous, symphonic anthem that leaves you on a reassuring farewell.

While on the support circuit, Ben had received seductive winks from the top labels. Yes, the big guys in the big suits had got down from their big, spinney chairs to extend him a hand. Don’t do it Ben! Give the Music Industry the finger and stay independent. Admittedly, this is all too easy to say and, like so many others before him, it’ll be hard to hold against them forever. Fryars’ catchy, naturally cool idiom and breezy energy could see the dark ones returning again and again.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

New Singles: Black Moth Super Rainbow's The Sticky and Randan Discotheque's Daily Record and Time To Waste

BLACK MOTH SUPER RAINBOW - THE STICKY
Come, come let The Black Moth Super Rainbow screw about with your childhood memories. The BBC workshop synths and vocoder rambling may evoke a carefree response but instead of transporting you back to the comforting days of long summers and peanut butter sandwiches, its affect simulates being trapped in a creepy kids TV show.

Very few of us would be able to keep a grip on their sanity while inescapably stuck in the world of The Magic Roundabout. This is precisely the reason why we don't give children acid. For sure, the reoccurring phrase "you and me, we're going to melt away like apples in the ground" holds anything but Disney schmaltz. The humid, electronic psychedelia suggests Lemon Jelly or Caribou, putting on masks made of wax and acting out German Fairytales.

At just over two minutes long, it's a short and simplistic release containing nothing overtly new (in fact, dangerously close to their classic 'Sun Lips'). Ideally, their newest album Eating Us where this record is plucked from will expose them to a wider audience. It is now that Black Moth Super Rainbow can begin to test their fans patience and drive their unique Halloween road show to more sublime destinations.


RANDAN DISCOTHEQUE - DAILY RECORD MAY 18TH 1993 and TIME TO WASTE
I wouldn't be the first of Bearded's writers to notice that there's something going on up in the cold and crazy Scottish hills. Randan Discotheque, the baby of songsmith Craig Coulthard, belt out two marvellous tunes on this double sided single and make a name for themselves.

In the catchy electro vein of the early 90's, 'Daily Record' is a window into one day in the Daily Record paper. Frankly, it's a cheap attempt to revive the by-gone era (also particularly strange when Craig says in a perky voice "a friend's legs were blown off by an IRA bomb") But despite this behaviour, it manages to come through after a couple of listens.

'Time To Waste' begins like a long lost Television track. A groovy bass riff punctuated by scratchy guitar frets. Damn cool. I'd bet you've always wondered what Jefferson Airplane would sound like if they came from a New York art school? Of course you have - Craig's echoing vocals over rolling blues answer your question.

Incorporating all sorts of ideas, Randan Discotheque's range may be broad but it still presents them with the problem of what exactly to rest on. It would be easy to label them as purveyors of Scottish indie charm but I doubt that would go down too well.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Posthuman - Monsters and Vortices EP

Setting is clearly very important to Posthuman. Having performed at a mixture of strange locations (namely a prison and an iron mine) it's clear their intention is to impose a sense of place on the listener. Their music is a sort of theatrical electronica - by layering eerie effects over a throbbing dubstep bass, it's an aggressive mechanical ballet.

Monsters and Vortices is their third EP among an extensive list of albums and singles. Though completely club friendly, there is a deep and subversive message behind the music. London's towering disillusion and self-fulfilment is exposed; truth hides in the grimy back alleyways and subterranean mazes. The residing urban dread is hard to shake off, even after 'The Karman Vortices', a comparatively down-tempo finale that could be seamlessly edited into Boards of Canada's 'Geogaddi', their most sinister of albums.

The EP opens on 'Krill' with a pounding kick drum that overflows onto the rest of the record. A pure evil bass line in 'Callisto' slowly and mercilessly crushes the spiralling, free loving synths in a death grip. A rhythmically cut female voice sample initially provides a small human element; ultimately the heroine is smothered by the smog spewing from steam burst percussion. 'Monsters Exist' takes the tone deeper into paranoia - it's like being stalked by some predatory creature.

The EP should come with a prescription warning: Not to be taken by technophobes or schizophrenics. An extremely unsettling record, totally vacant of anything human, Monsters and Vortices is a fearful drum and bass achievement. Directing their eyes to the horizon while keeping a foot in the club, they are right to be beckoned into the circle of the electronic dark arts.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Windmill - Epcot Starfields

The second album release from London's singer songwriter Windmill sees his themes of alienation and displacement launched into cold, dark space to explore the empty stratosphere that engulfs our insignificant little blue planet.

Windmill, known to his bloods as Mathew Thomas Dillon, has a peculiarly characteristic voice. Cartoon-like yet on the verge of tears, it's a shot away from Wayne Coyne or Bright Eyes. The attraction is its weakness and trembling insecurity.

Each song is unassumingly simple and built firmly around the piano - an excellent instrument to convey intimate sadness and isolation (so long as you stay clear of Elton John and that sonofabitch Chris Martin). Dillon often sings in unison with a deliberately off key backing ensemble sounding like a sing-a-long in a school play. A few standout tracks such as 'Sony Metropolis Stars', 'Big Boom' and my favourite 'Photo Hemispheres' decorate the album with uplifting hymns.

One of the most thoughtful lines comes from 'Imax Raceway':

"We want our parents to live for always / they won't, they don't want us to be sad"

(pronounced 'seead' by Dillon in his pseudo American accent) These melancholy truisms remind me of the bite-sized philosophies of The Flaming Lips or Mercury Rev. In a sense, we define our lives by these brief reflections, but unlike the grand, collective unity behind The Flaming Lips, Dillon keeps us at a distance. His detachment is key to his creative individuality.

Epcot Starfields, designed around a childhood trip to EPCOT in Florida, is a beacon of hope. Hope that a future existence will have meaning - not just made up of brand names or technological faff - and that his unique voice will be heard a million light years away. There's a lot to like about Windmill. Scared, anxious, lost and disillusioned, he's one of us:

"I find it compelling that even when armed with the knowledge of our mortality, people's ideas are limitless"

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Telekinesis! - Telekinesis!

I remember Seattle as a solemn place when I lived there years ago, with two types of weather: rainy and overcast. Not the sort of picture painted in Telekinesis!'s debut album. If anything, it's the exact opposite, and the only possible thing they have in common with grunge is a fondness for straight-up bar chords. In any case, this just might be the happiest album you've heard this year.

Fear not. Telekinesis! isn't teenage indie, although you'd be forgiven for thinking so. Through the imagery of childhood, nature walks and picnics, cheek kissing, cherry cola and trips to Tokyo, they communicate some honest observations. The line "I want the simple life" from the brief 'We Talk Thru Satellites' aptly sums up their happy-go-lucky philosophy. Quite recently, America's obsession with quirky kook - an ubiquitous feature of 'Juno' and Wes Anderson films - has gone mainstream. Telekinesis! and their fashionable exclamation mark nudge in on it.

The record also enlists a little help from Death Cab For Cutie's guitarist, Chris Walla. His polished pop production gives it a bright and shiny feel. But therein lies the problem. No matter how hard I try to separate them, they remain too close to Death Cab for comfort.

It's hard to criticise Telekinesis! when they are clearly having so much fun. It would be like scolding a laughing child in a playground, and I'm just not that much of a bastard. But take note: If you're expecting the electro nuances of Postal Service then turn away now. But if you like the upbeat guitar based romanticism of The Decemberists or The Shins (and yes, Death Cab For Cutie) then Telekinesis!!!!111111 is worth every scrimped and saved pound.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

New single's: Grum's Sound Reaction, Gliss' Morning Light and Gold Panda

GRUM - SOUND REACTION
With support from Pete Tong and the ever obnoxious ego of Zane Lowe, a debut album and a gig at Fabric on the way, Grum appears to be on the verge of breaking into the club elite: "[...] only a route that artists such as Daft Punk, The Chemical Brothers and The Prodigy are familiar with". Coming across as desperate for popularity, I've not read a more naff and needlessly hyped promotion than the one accompanying Sound Reaction.

The record gives the public what they want: An 'infectious' funk bass riff, pulsing volume and evolving beats. Like a coiled spring, the tension before the drop is expertly handled, even though the repeated vocal sample is totally meaningless. Included are two bonus remixes which show it's versatility and transport the track into different atmospheres.

The earnesty behind the promotion is unnecessary and clouds the main concern: Is it good to dance to? Sound Reaction, released in time for summer, has all the right euro disco ingredients to delight all you happy ravers. For me, however, it's just another disposable commodity - played once and then thrown out.



GLISS - MORNING LIGHT
My first listen of Morning Light was complimented by the tap tap of warm rain, resulting in a sort of druggy afternoon poetry. This paradox gained them an early advantage.

Yet another shoegaze band, Gliss take the genre back to its early post punk days: the beautiful noise of Jesus and the Mary Chain. Remember that simple, echoing beat at the beginning of Just like Honey? Well, it starts off Morning Light too. Original? Perhaps not, but what is these days?

If the dream pop of Asobi Seksu or the Raveonettes makes you wet, then Gliss is a necessity. There are few records that convey burning sadness as well as this one - it's almost heartbreaking. The fuzz of their stormy distortion mirrors a purifying explosion of water. At just three minutes and a half, it's over too soon.



GOLD PANDA - GOLD PANDA
The Electronic music culture has ever been made up of the hobbyist and the obsessive hoarder. As a collector turned creator, Gold Panda's triple track release is a product of the extreme archiving provided by the Internet. For some artists, the overwhelming variety is a heavy blow to their narcassism (boo hoo). For Gold Panda, it's an inspiration and a way into composition.

'Quitter's Raga', a triumphant opening of Hindi hip hop, makes full, if excessive use of the time stretch edit tool, one of Four Tet's trademarks. It's a glitchy, stuttering effect as well as beautifully imperfect. 'Fifth Ave' uses sparse sampling over a dirty viynl drone and is the serene call before the storm. Arguably, 'Police' could be a comment on the recent G20 violence. It's scuzzy, siren synths and sandpaper beats reveal a love for IDM acid and simulate a chaotic, seething riot.

More than anything else, Gold Panda's release has more in common with folktronica - The Books or Dosh - but all three tracks consistently avoid easy categorisation. The genre eugenics heard here might be strong evidence towards an era of Internet enlightenment, though I sense struggle at work. At the record's end, we are left alone, down the Internet rabbit hole, paranoid and displaced from human reality. There's trouble in paradise.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Stanley - (Truly) Nothing To Say

The Stanley Experience is a little like watching a romantic comedy. Everything aims to please and falls where you expect. Self released through Porcupine Records, their EP couldn't be more aptly named. How anyone missed the irony beggars belief.

Everything about this record groans with boredom. From the white walled, minimal decor of the room on the cover, to the empty subject matter, pace and tuneful placidity of all five songs. This is music by musicians who've given up taking risks and have settled into what they know and what feels safe - a creative suicide.

With melodic country/folk guitars, casual drumming and a light dusting of brass, Stanley's five-piece group have been ambitiously compared to Belle and Sebastian. Hazel's vocals are smooth and relaxed but are of an all too familiar style: Norah Jones, Macey Grey, Eva Cassidy, Katie Melua - the list can go on.

After the dull first two tracks, it picks up a little. Three Words has a smiling, wistful rolling rhythm, but this is about engaging as it gets and the last track, California Boy, concludes on cliche Americana.

More happens in Waiting For Godot. Nothing To Say leaves you feeling neither happy nor sad, nor any particular mood at all, just... nothing. It lulls the listener into a state of comatose, into apathy. Stanley are a painfully accessible, celebration of mediocrity and as the EP draws to a close you sense a desperate need to check your pulse. Maybe their next release will be Something To Say?

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

The Thing - Bag It!

For about a decade, Norway has been producing some seriously innovative instrumental Jazz and if this is news to you, then sweet Jesus where have you been? A Cave?

A few bands, like Jagga Jazzist, have relied on the wizards at Ninja Tune to assist them in their Scandinavian blend of Jazz electronics. The label has also culled The Cinematic Orchestra and Bonobo from Britain. All joyfully kick sand at the rules of traditional Jazz, throwing everything and anything into the mix.

I expected The Thing to follow suit seeing as they're from Norway. I was wrong. Approaching downright preposterous, they are on a different drug altogether and live up to what their name suggests - an indescribable creature if there ever was one.

Signed to Crazy Wisdom and produced by Steve Albini, their album, Bag It!, is an assertive fusion of Jazzpunk. It combines a hardcore, alternative ethic (the blurry photos on the sleeve recall the iconic grunge shots of Mudhoney) with a rhythmless, harmonic freedom. While covering other artists - Duke Ellington and 54 Nude Honeys for example - they also drop in two tracks of their own.

All of the searing instrumental work is attributed to the band themselves. Albini's industrial/distortion expertise gives a boost where it's needed but mainly serves as a frame for their art. The drummer, Paal Nilssen-Love, breaches the abstract with psychotic vigour. Mats Gustafsson, the saxophonist, imitates a punk singer by expelling a range of flesh ripping tones, expressions, whines and squeals.

The Thing are true free Jazz, so free that they've ran from structure and order, into the jungle and gone guerrilla. For some, they will be alienating and unbearable; for others, nihilistic improvisation at its most playful. Bag It! will divide opinion and no amount of blabber from the press will describe them accurately to you. Ingenious or daft, The Thing demand your own reaction.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Magic Wands - Magic, Love and Dreams

Apart from a few exceptions, I'm not an enthusiastic fan of club indie. So what is it about Magic Wands that is so alluring? Well, I'll tell you, because this is a review and I have to.

On my first listen, Magic Wands were teeth gratingly bad. Hell, even before that I took a look at the album title and recoiled and twitched. Magic, Love and Dreams sounds like a Californian self help programme or a cult on Valium. The corny Phil Collins disco drum pads and the hormone induced subject matter; everything about them seemed cheap, shallow and manufactured. But sometimes my guard against marketed music can be overzealous. It's only fair to give every band a chance and, lo' and behold, my opinion changed weeks later.

Described as 'slick and sexy' and 'dreamy pop', behind the glam and glitz are just two kids, Chris and Dexy, and their relationship founded on poetry, art and music - and (cough) myspace. This artistic/romantic bond is what gives their record its vitality and energy. They often sing in unison (used to effect on the track Starships), their image is handmade, moody and mysterious. Watch their music videos and you'll see what I mean.

The duo are at their best on tracks like Black Magic and Warrior. These catchy, swirling, upbeat electro-shakers are their two defining releases. In Kiss Me Dead, a guitar hook ignites a beautiful tragedy, but misses poignancy by inches, which is frustrating. Teenage Love is their worst. Stay away from it. This one attempts to be naughty and sensual - "Meet me down by the soda machine / show me now what our love means" - but fails miserably, like receiving a come on from a barely legal hooker. Thanks, but NO THANKS.

I think I like Magic Wands because, like most of my generation, I haven't really grown up. Their audience is one that refuses to charge forward into adulthood. I still like eating sweets, drinking coke and watching John Hughes films but what I've learned, in response to my insecure teenage years, is to glorify honest expression and to champion the freaky and weird. Spooky and minutely dangerous, Magic Wands set scenes of stone circles, candle light and kinky clubs. All your wiccan-geek friends may love it, but you might also be caught in its spell.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Jonquil, House of Brothers - The Borderline 13/06/09

It was 7pm and already Soho was wired and buzzing on a neon pill. Having never been to the Borderline before, I decided to head over early and gather intel on the local festivities. There was electricity in the air. The evening heat brought the hipsters, rockers, punks, drag queens, retro kings; every kind of oddly dressed weirdo out of the bars and pubs and on to the streets. This was my kind of scene. I felt included but inconspicuous; just another clown in some crazy circus.

But while the streets were vibrant and unpredictable, the Borderline was dark and lifeless. It was not the epicentre of Soho's Saturday reverberations but rather a musical retreat from the madness outside.

Using all the indie tricks in the book, House of Brothers opened to a slowly growing audience. The frontman was an emotional, swishy haired sort of chap of considerable ability, a strong posture and an honest voice. Despite missing a guitarist, they were tight and well controlled (although the harmonies were occasionally off). Not so much Jeff Buckley, more Pete Doherty fronting Wheat. It was all very reserved - too controlled perhaps - and every song ended abruptly.

The Outside Royalty, all the way from Pittsburgh, took it up a notch with their hunky dory, 'yeehaah' appeal. Their singer shuffled onto the stage on crutches gaining sympathy and locked attention from the crowd. They were a sort of orchestral Rock, like Arcade Fire or Broken Social Scene, making use of an odd array of instrumentation and hymn-like choruses. An electronic cello (always a plus in my eyes) added a folky element. Some tracks gave off a pipe tobacco whiff of Irish reels or jigs. Worth noting was their upbeat, post punk cover of 'Eleanor Rigby'. Tremendous whiskey drinking fun.

But every evening reaches its peak and, in retrospect, this probably happened sometime before Jonquil took the stage. Both Jonquil and I reside in Oxford and I've made an effort in the past to go and see them. What I remembered was their unbridled energy and confidence. It was definitely the Jonquil I knew at The Borderline - fragments of DIY Math Rock and textured melodies topped with a charming sense of good humour - but, avoiding any improvisation, they kept to safe territory. Though technically accomplished, it felt hollow somehow, like they were simply going through the motions. It would be foolish however to write them off. These boys won’t be dropping off the map any time soon. Compared with older nuggets such as 'Parasol' from their first EP this selection was underwhelming.

For me, the current Rock scene has always felt exclusive, like some big party I have to gate crash to be involved in. Just before the end at The Borderline, I took one last look around me; at all the trendy London kids and wondered what the rest of Soho was doing.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Here We Go Magic and the new Big Pink Single

HERE WE GO MAGIC - HERE WE GO MAGIC
If there is one thing that unites New York musicians, it's their strong and residing sense of confidence. They all display an ease that seems to be inherent, thanks to the dense and diverse history NY has for fostering the progressive and avant-garde. The city breathes with music and, unlike the hyper-aware, demographic-based market in Britain, NY incubates its sub culture, letting it grow on its own instead of exploiting it.

This inbuilt Manhattan poise is evident in Luke Temple's solo endeavour: Here We Go Magic. So too is NY's multiculturalism, shown in the range of world influences he includes (also a feature of Talking Head's Remain in Light). After opening with complex twelve-beat African rhythms played on tuneful drums, the album never falls from dreamy impressionism and soft, folky harmonies.

Apparently "developed over a two month stream-of-consciousness" the overall structure is interspersed with rich soundscapes under a canopy of improvisation. Each track crescendos and decrescendos like the evolving shapes behind your eyelids.

NY is also the home to Minimalism. The track I Just Want To See You Underwater borrows from Steve Reich's phasing and is used as a backdrop or ostinato in the piece. Tunnel Vision quickly became my favourite with its humid acoustic guitar drone accentuated by an unsettling note of B, sustained from start to finish. For the finale, Luke sings "Everything's clean/ Everything's new", like a sarcastic Kinks cover of a stupid French Chanson. A duff end to an otherwise unskippable album.

Here We Go Magic is not just a picture book of NY sensibilities, but a promising release that could see Luke Temple break from his simplistic compositional layering. The carefree mood is wonderful for a first but won’t carry any future releases. As it is, it's a natural and subtle album - as light as a leaf gliding in the wind.

*****

THE BIG PINK - STOP THE WORLD SINGLE
Whenever Radio 1 bestows its unwanted support, it's usually another hyped up mistake. Remember The Big Pink however, because everyone else will later forget them.

The Stop The World single drills home their particular style: a full and epic mix of huge, processed guitar fuzz and earnest vocal harmonies. It’s shoe gaze gone glam (a bastardisation of the rehashed genre had to happen sooner or later), and the chorus is belted out in such bombastic force they must be afraid we'll miss it somehow.

Crushed Water is a downbeat companion to the main. It starts out on a shadowy urban landscape; a glimmering guitar solo provides a small beam of light before it fades with schizophrenic (French!) chattering.

For all the noise, musically as well as in the press, this single's a bit dull - especially when put neck to neck with Velvet, their first. The eventual album will hopefully dispel all worries.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Cinnamon Chasers - A Million Miles From Home

A couple months ago, some fuck told me that Disco was back. 'Lies!' I exclaimed, but to my horror he was right. The genre of tack and it's happy catchy attitude has crept back to our clubs, in various forms and disguises. Cinnamon Chasers is one of the guilty.

The debut album, A Million Miles From Home, is sci-fi disco with a hyper active, space travel narrative - the sort of music you'd play if you were a manga character, shooting across a nebula, on a quest to rescue some doe-eyed moon princess. Russ Davies, the brains behind it all, inspired by childhood fantasies like The Never Ending Story or Flight of the Navigator, aims for the serotonin levels. In his own words: "I try to create music that gives me the vibe those classic films gave me as a kid"

The album is very well produced, bright and polished. Several tracks brush on the bass led familiarities of trance; the rest are structured around simple electric guitar riffs and soft and breathy male vocals, found in Air or M83. Every synth in A Million Miles From Home loves being a synth - loves it! - and on tracks such as Modern Love and Adored they sparkle in 16 beat rhythms, imitating twinkling constellations.

That's the good anyway. The bad is that there's not much below the surface. Davies keeps his nostalgic electronica away from prentension but, aside from one or two tracks, the record has a limited lifespan. To build a continuous play count, you'd have to either be 14 years old, or massively loved up on ecstasy, to the point where the colourful beams of lasers and the music are 'one', you know? And I'm neither. Cinnamon Chasers is just a bit too saccharine and predictable to be much more than your average electro.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

It's A Lunken - It Is A Lunken

To enter the fucked-up world of It's A Lunken is to subject yourself to 1 hour and 8 minutes of grating noise and ear gouging tonal violence. Not for the delicate, the album becomes a serious test of endurance, one I hadn’t prepared myself for. Before their album dropped through my door, I was enjoying the soothing summer sounds of Nick Drake. I'm going to now need a few days to recover. That's got to be some kind of an achievement for them, surely?

In the apocalyptic vision of God Speed You! Black Emperor, the angry expressionist vein of The Big Black, and the screeching guitar experimentalism of Glenn Branca, It's A Lunken injects a potent dose of contemporary industrial noise, perhaps to the point of an OD. A painful record, brilliantly loud and offensive. They've found a good home with Sound Devastation Records and other stoned-but-serious 'ROCK' acts such as Sleep or OM.

Their guitar work is unusual and varied and sets them apart from your generic doom metal or screamcore (An example would be the track MK12 that opens with imitation church bell tolls). Melodies attempt to crawl their way out of the atonal surge only to be destroyed by a blast of distortion. The rhythm stumbles behind, wounded but still dangerous and the lead singer skilfully manipulates his voice into primal cries, howls and cult chanting, right to the very edge of its breaking point.

For a debut, it doesn't get more daring than this, but Christ knows where they can next turn. Another album of the same would spell a quick death. The raging tone of the record becomes comically macho and cheesy after too long. It’s all so very serious, someone should buy them all a Happy Meal.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

iTAL tEK - Massive Error EP

The merger of technology and sex was a brilliantly conceived, if nightmarish, prediction from the late J G Ballard, and there is something strangely Ballardian about iTAL tEK. When listening, we are passengers, consumed by a death wish, zooming over highways of blurred lights, propelling through curved and concrete terminals where machines rule. A cold taste of twisted, violated metal resonates throughout the music. The sensation of speed and desire is fed by an underlying sexual thrill realised in the pulsing, throbbing bass – a standard of dub step. With a decent subwoofer you can feel your loins shift in sync. It's disturbing, but addictive and compelling, like a scary movie when you were a kid.

iTAL tEK's new EP is not as creepy or dirty as his earlier material but is a more atmospheric approach divided into Side A and Side B, like ye old demo cassette or LP. Press play and the title track drops you immediately into a mind fuck of ruthless grime: hissing, industrial beats and 90mph synths. Snowburst features a tuneful sort of LFO bleeptronica ignoring every road sign on the journey. Side B displays a change of colour. Octa kicks off again with an off beat funk bass duelling with a nervous trip-hop drum track. The sheer amount of cave-like reverb in Ghost Cloud nearly approaches spiritual.

Massive Error is full of sinister ambiance and technological fetishism. Overall, it may be more of the same, but iTAL tEK's style is far from exhausted. Possessed by feverish lust, you can't quite bring yourself to unbuckle the seat belt from his relentlessly accelerating drive.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

The Oxford Punt - 13/05/09 (unedited version)

Hardly projecting bands to instant stardom, The Oxford Punt's purpose is one of mutual support and camaraderie among the city's independent scene. Nearly five years of living in Oxford and I've only just managed to drag my disorganised ass to this.

With a bit of initiative, you can get your hands on 'The Punt Pass'. It grants the holder the freedom to stagger from pub to pub and witness as much, or as little, as desired. Very few would pass up the chance to wave a bit of laminated card in a bouncers face and tell them to fuck off.

But before this moment of justice, cast a dubious eye over the double page spread in May's Nighshift - the infamously opinionated, local music 'zine - and you'd be forgiven in thinking that no pub would survive an invasion of calculator wielding boffins. Throughout the feature, like a stutter, the word 'math' occurs over and over; but not without some justification of genre. Recently, Foals, The Young Knives and A Silent Film have come to define the sound of this ancient city brimming with technically intricate, smarter-than-the-average rock. Perhaps something uncontrollable would break through the fog of indie pop in the most pretentious city in the country?

Mini rockers Hearts in Pencil were the first. It was club indie, dangerously close to the Kooks, but rescued by an adventurous guitarist and a powerful bassist; who, for the sake of trendy style, kept stroking his fringe. Musically mature beyond their years, they ended with a track not too dissimilar from Fugazi's echoing dub-punk. A sturdy set, short enough to prevent the front-man's off key swagger from pissing me off.

One drink downed, and at a different venue, Mary's Garden displayed a more sombre tone. They have been playing in Oxford for four to five years in various forms. Think a more daring and distorted version of The Editors lead by an infinitely cooler, New Romantic Gwen Stefani (in sound not appearance). We were also tortured with a corporate presentation from A Response Collective, complete with bogus philosophy and shitty MS graphics projected on a large screen. This is what Nighshift calls electronic music? More like confused prog with lazy sampling. "Thank you for coming out instead of staying in and watching reality TV" said the guitarist. I spluttered in disgust and nearly sprayed cider out my nose.

This band/insult provoked my escape and I found musical sanity from a band called From Light In Sound at the next venue. With tremendous energy and fervour, it was clear that shoegaze was the collective theme of the evening because... adding bricks to this wall-of-distortion, Spiral 25 were also well received. Similar to the psychedelia of The Black Angels, they flooded the room in a dense fog, put on black sunglasses and drew forth waves of mystic, textured Rock.

A small diversion took me to see how Oxford favourites The Winchell Riots were holding up next door. Their cascading melodies and gripping stage presence have sustained their popularity; but I find them affected, contrived and in need of a sobering slap to awaken them from wistful delusions of grandeur.

Ending the night and appealing not only to the drunk half of the audience, The Original Rabbit Foot Spasm Band were well loved. They clearly struck an old school chord with their ram-shackled, thirties gangster jazz. Rest assured, The Oxford Punt had secured its reputation for another year.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Sleepy Sun - "Embrace"

The country still drives on; only now, perhaps, with nervous caution. Maybe it's time we sunk back into dreamy escapism or, better yet, some self confidence. The debut album Embrace by Sleepy Sun invites us do just that. It oozes Americana cool from every pore conjuring images of dusty plains and roads disappearing over the horizon. In Britain, this is the USA we love.

Originating from Santa Cruz and then onto San Francisco, they pay homage to a wild, strange and eccentric part of America with a vibrant history. Rachael Williams and Bret Constantino’s swaggering voices demand your attention. They growl and moan with expressive breaths over some of the filthiest blues-rock and herb induced jams around. I continually have to remind myself that this is their debut. The opener, New Age, blasts like a motorbike exhaust; it's then you realise the road trip has started. Lord is an expertly handled lazy rock ballad and, later on, the early days of black metal rip through the moshingly good White Dove.

Of course they don't always get it right. Slow motion drums and comically über-compressed bass nearly topple the effect. Vast, layered guitar solos slip into a kind of navel-gazing competition between one another leaving the listener behind. And duet lyrics such as "Baby don't worry/ don't be silly" are... questionable. Sure, it's not a flawless release, but the short, compact length and blaring confidence mark them tailors among fools. This is drifting and heavy, trippy and twisted, effortlessly cool rock. It gives you the fuel you need to put aviator shades on and take it easy.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Yppah - "They Know What Ghost Know"

Successfully separating himself from other Ninja Tune artists (Amon Tobin, Bonobo, Mr Scruff), Joe Corrales (aka Yppah) grinds his own blend of folktronica from an eclectic mix of influences. From light-headed hip-hop and 60's psychedelia, to ear ringing shoegaze; the result is a seasonal release just short of perfection. The tracks are a little thrown together but the warm and hazy tone ultimately melts it into unity. Alien birds call to each other in the distance. Scratchy, insect-like distortion buzzes triumphantly. Echoing guitar melodies stroll through long grass. All of which would spin out of control if not for some precision broken beats to keep it in earth's orbit.

There are some beautiful moments. Halfway through the title track, someone opens a window to let in a refreshing breeze of rock organ, reminiscent of The Doors or The Misunderstood. It even goes a bit Aphex Twin in the middle of The Tingling. Besides variation, this feeling of reflection and deja vu is Corrales initial attraction. He pits a harmonic balance between what we know and recognise, against an education of compelling sonic oddity. The promotional review calls it "music which is epic and intimate all at once". I call it stealth experimentation with enough variation to occupy the shortest of attention spans. They Know What Ghost Know is an organic album that grows with each listen and is an essential for the summer.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

William Orbit - "My Oracle Lives Uptown"

Yep, everyone's favourite producer is back. William Orbit was the guy who could turn shit into hit and, in some cases, grant profitable career turns for a few plastic egos. His classical background and open attitudes to experimentation seemed to continually give him the edge. By allowing a glimmering originality to emanate through anything he touched, he came to define 90's ambient groove.

But a lot has happened in electronic music since his withdraw from the mainstream and Orbit is stuck in the last decade - on one big ecstasy comedown. Granted, it would be unfair to expect him, or any artist, to adjust to a contemporary sound. A true reclusive composer is unlikely to be a la mode. What is expected, however, is a bold leap into the unknown; because if anyone could make it, Orbit could.

Eighth notch down on the solo bedpost, My Oracle Lives Uptown is nothing more than well crafted, focusing on the head rather than the soul. The anticipation of something exotic is being caged in by a worn out pop song structure. It starts well - offbeat pulses and modal harmony unravel and reform creating a colourful hypnosis - but eventually loses its way. His signature use of Casio keyboard is tired and out of place among the otherwise lush landscapes. We eventually find him flogging old tricks: melodrama and stoned pontification.

The album leaves where it came in. Minimal textures wave a goodbye and phase into nothingness. Somehow, I get the feeling Orbit’s keeping his greatest creations from us.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Sounds of Silence

The substance of art is built around contrast; reflecting between presence and absence. Where there is music, there is silence to give it definition and both need one another to work effectively. This modern world, with its consistant bleeps, honks and screams of mobiles and cars and trains; your next door neighbour's stereo, the alarms, the advertising, the talk talk talk of busy busy TV debate and the endless blibber blabber of irritating bloggers (yep) - we wade through a warzone for the second sense. You could argue that occasional silence, in its empty, medative poise is even now more of a relief than it ever was. I have a lot of sympathy for those Guantamano Bay detainees subjected to a three day assult of Eminem at full volume. There is sanity in silence. It's food for our subconscious.

Silence can be revolutionary, as history has shown. Joseph Haydn, one of the 'big three' of classical music is considered influential in his use of it. His symphonies, particulary The Suprise Symphony, initiates well placed rests before key climax's. They serve as musical jokes, as well as craftingly playing with expectations. Perhaps it was all he could do to keep his over-fed, over-partied upperclass patrons from falling asleep. Beethoven, doubtlessly impressed by Haydn's exciting orchestration, also became well known for taking Haydn's class war techniques further with dramatic use of volume contrasts. His 5th Symphony would have scared the shit out mediocrity, all due to a few bars of rythmically positioned silence in the opening exposition. The space between the chords is just as important. It makes the loud strokes that little bit louder. The audience probably wandered in drunk under the impression they were going to enjoy some quiet afternoon entertainment. The poor fools didn't see it coming.

John Cage's 4'33 (Four mintues and thirty three seconds of silence) is another similar revolutionary moment for music - the day the music died. You know the one; where the performer sits at a piano and does absolutely nothing while the audience slowly realises they've been burned. At first it seems completely daft, maybe even sensationalist, but after learning more about his compositional intentions, the purpose of the work becomes much clearer. Acording to Cage, there is no such thing as complete or perfect silence. Even in an enclosed space a human heart beats, blood flows around the respiretory system, the sounds of mortality follow us everywhere. It is these natural sounds continually around us that he was inviting us to listen to. Was this Cage's way of stripping music down to its finest sediment? Was it a way of giving existential realisation a soundtrack? Or was it only so he could put his ownership to silence and mock the very notion of experimentalism? God knows, the man turned into a mushroom farmer for Christs sake.

Interpretation aside, since its debut performance in 1952, the work has challenged the way we think about music and led a great many musicians to take their own trips into sonic possibilites (Takemitsu and Sonic Youth, for example, have cited him as an influence). The pause is also a big gun in the Punk Rock arsenal. Fugazi's Waiting Room from their album 13 Songs contains a cool, whole bar halt, appearing like the album had to restart, before kicking off again. Would Sigur Ros' Takk have the same poigniancy if the long silences were left out? Would Loveless by My Bloody Valentine be all too much without its breathing space? One of my favourites is how Boards of Canada end their album Geogaddi with a silent track titled Magic Window. Once the swelling synths roll back, you're left with a touching moment to recall the journey.

They say there's no music when you die. Silence can be inhuman and unnerving, but like a lot of things, you appreciate its value when it's not around. Equally, hearing music after a long break is a luxury. A website suggesting that one day of the year (mysteriously they chose the 21st of November) be dedicated to being music free. The subtitle reads "No music day exists for various reasons, you may have one". I can barely kick cigarettes on no-smoking day let alone go a whole 24 hours without my ipod. And maybe that's the problem. Silence is more than just a compositional tool or a way of organising sound. It represents a white canvas in which composers can drag their brush. From nothing, something can be created. It can, in the right circumstance, provoke a powerful and meaningful response. Shhh... listen...

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

25/02/09 - Brooke's Fine Art Fundraiser at The Wheatsheaf

Das Pop, playing at the O2 Arena, held no pull for me. A small indie gig at one of my favourite pubs was more my kind of thing. Wired from weed, several cups of coffee and a pre-listen of the band list on myspace, my photographer and I were ready, if a little uncertain what to expect. For the moment, we were ignorant of what was to come. We were out for a good time after all, and to check back into the local scene.

I had been invited by Graeme Murray, the drummer of the brilliant upcoming Oxford band Youthmovies. He was my contact for the evening and my only link to the social mess we unearthed. A small, soft spoken guy, unassuming in appearance, his ability at the drum-kit is undisputed. Two well known bands, Youthmovies and Jonquil, were to join forces as Vertical Montanas and headline the night; they had attracted quite a crowd.

Our curse as outsiders - my photographer and I never really felt welcome. They seemed to us to be a distant group. The new Indie Oxford wave is a different breed altogether. Fortunately, the music made up for the crowd and their perpetual blank, staring eyes. Navel-gazing and pretentious they stood like dead trees swaying to themselves. I attempted to arouse my photographer into a fighting frenzy, set him loose and see what would happen, all for the sake of bringing some excitement to a sedated atmosphere. Where was the beautiful chaos? If a bomb went off on stage, or one of the band members blew their own head off with a shotgun, these people wouldn't even raise an eyebrow. I was itching for a cattle prod.

The biggest, overall disappointment was missing Lee Riley, or better known as Euthedral, a one man electronic army. Shunned to the early evening slot, no doubt the audience wasn't interested. After hearing a couple tracks on his myspace page I was hooked. Sounding like Kevin Sheilds crossed with Nine Inch Nails while drawing from Sunn O))) and Godspeed You! Black Emperor, Euthedral bellows forth heavy static doom-drones in intriguing variation and colour. Occasionally, out of the overbearing darkness, there appear subtle melodies like lights in a fog. Moments cycle between an orchestra breaking the sound barrier and the primal howling of a god-like machine or mythical beast. I could only hope he offended as many indie kids as was humanly possible.

Witnessing it first hand however, it was not to be and we ended up arriving just before the last two bands. I bought a pint and we squeezed to the front. The second-to-last group strolled on. Reminiscent of 65 Days of Static and Minus The Bear, but with half the available instrumentation, they were an impressive trio. Cascading melodies and intricate quick-fire guitar duets, it went down like firey whiskey. Tempo and texture were suficiantly explored but I felt they could have done more with their choppy rhythms - a minor point, it was elegant and promising Smart-Rock.
When they finished, I asked a bystander who the band was. I couldn't recognise them from what I'd heard on myspace. He stumbled over the pronunciation.
"I think they're called he-red-ra? hred-da?"
Ahh Hreda, the name was confusing, common of many new bands. Sure, you can be all flavours of awesome, but creating new words in the English language can be arrogant and alienating to your audience.

My photographer had had his fun with taking pictures and crept to the corner to moan and pout about the clientele. The stage was being reprepared, pedal lights were blinking like a Christmas tree. With two drum kits already set up, this wasn't to be a typical set. By doubling up two bands and the band members, there by making a force of eight, it allowed those performing to relax and concentrate on a minimal, layered approach. Building a slow evolution of sound from one movement to the next, it was easy to loose yourself in the warm-sunlight tone but then be jostled back by jarring cross rhythms. The music took on the feel of a zoetrope, spinning grainy images around and around. They drew attention from Yannis Philippakis, the lead wizard of Foals. He had come possibly for the very same reason we had.
On seeing him, my photographer whispered casually in my ear.
"I want to hurt him" he said and downed the remainder of his drink.

He hates his voice you understand, and my photgrapher is a man who can be driven off the hindge over of the smallest things: boils, dirty socks, the scratching sound of wet sand. It's best to leave him be in these situations, trust me.

Despite the boredom, it was worth attending. For both bands, Vertical Montanas was a side project that displayed their improvisational capabilities as active and prominant musicians. If I had to draw a comparison between each band (difficult due to the overall variation) it would be their similar emotional goal, they were all striving towards the same sense of the 'sublime'. By stretching their materials and avoiding pigeon hole’ing, they are taking ground and putting up a flag for Oxford. My photographer however could not get over the dull, unwelcoming atmosphere. We felt trapped. The chaos we'd longed for earlier on seemed like the last thing we wanted now. Simultaniously, we both made the decision to escape into the medieval ally ways. We ended up talking shit to a chip van man and an attractive social worker girl who seemed far too interested in what we, two drunk and stoned fools, were both up to. Suspicion took hold. Even the usual gauntlet of Big Issue sellers frightened me. "We must get out of town immediately!" I thought, and my photographer and I ran for my house like children avoiding some horned devil.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Let's finally say 'Fuck Off' to self perscribed Retro

Do you ever feel like you're living in reverse, or in a remake of an old film? We live in an age of permanent denial. It's an age of... what? What is it that will define us? Well, I sincerely hope isn't apathy, blissful ignorance and an incredible lust for hyper-reality. It's become increasingly difficult to view music videos or band photos and guess when, in what year or decade, they were produced. I ask you, why listen to a current artist attempting to emulate a specific sound of the past when you can just go and listen to the bands of the past? It's because some poor fools can't let the past be the past. They slouch around wishing it was like it was in the old days, or, if they happen to be younger, feel alienated from the world around them. They see the freedom that once was and seek out music representative of this. The Music Industry is more than happy to respond. Welcome to the world of google-search shopping, databases and advertisements that know you better than your own mother. And if you've got an original idea, there's probably already a niche market and a demographic for it. Enough is enough! I want to feel alive in the unpredictable 'now', in my own god-damn decade and part of my own generation. I refuse to be constantly nostalgic of eras long gone that I didn't grow up in.

In The Guardian today, a live review written by Kitty Empire of a budding pop starlett called La Roux brought all this to my attention. More than often The Guardian is guilty of fanning the flames of hype. Before a music scene has the chance to achieve maturity or greatness the newspaper is all over it like a walrus in a swimming pool. I can't say I've read anything from Ms Empire that exceeds empty drivel. This review, however, topped it. In the opening paragraph she tries to describe the music to the reader but with no success "[La Roux] cites early Eurythmics as guiding lights. She borrows shamelessly from Prince's 'When Doves Cry'". It's boring, and what's worse, completely uninformative. Later on Kitty meanders about appearence, as all morons do, to convay at least something to us. "La Roux's other touchstone is her hair [...] It is a hairdo that speaks a thousand words". So why didn't the hairdo write the article then? At this point, I'd filed La Roux under forget-and-move-on.

In Kitty Empire's own words "the 20-year-old La Roux is perhaps the most obsessed with a decade she is too young to remember". She's not alone in this regard. Like Lily Allen and Adele, these over privilaged, born-into-fame-spawns write music like they live on the moon, looking down on the earth through their hazy telescope. Never thought I'd say it but even Kate Nash is better than this. These icons are given the 'voice of a generation' garland, but they are false prophets.

Instead, give us a new form of Bob Dylan, a down and out, someone who makes mistakes, an everyman with understanding and wisdom. That's the kind of Retro For Recession we need. Not, to quote Kitty, "an Eighties revival so vivid it classes as a re-run". Haven't we already seen plenty of eighties comebacks? If not, someone should tell Sissor Sisters, Interpol or Late of the Pier. I'm sure these artists, and many others, would like to know they'd been screwed. Are we going to be spinning our wheels for eternity? Maybe, because all this has happened before, over and over and over again.

MIA - "Do Something Pretty" Fanzine

The internet has made gigantic nerds of us all. Every single one of us now is plugged in, discussing bandwith, sharing in petty conversation. The stereotype of the computer saddo is gone and has been inverted. Unconnected, you're seen as a fool, backward or a second rate citizen.

A term sounding almost dated today, 'surfing', is in need of a replacement. The word implies purposeless exploration, casually clicking here and there, letting your impulses dictate what you view. These days, we hardly 'surf', no way, we hunt! We stalk the cyber wilderness, red eyed and hungry with intent. We check our bankstatements, we spend hours on wikipedia references, we look intensively on blogs and disographies for unreleased material. It's our livelyhood. We track the rare, unseen beasts and the more we hunt, the better we get and the better we get, the bigger the game we bag. But the cyber forest is also getting older, more dense and perhaps a little darker too. Some creatures go unnoticed and lurk quietly in the shadows. It takes skill or fluke to locate them.

A couple weeks ago I decided to spend a free afternoon racking up as many fanzines and online music magazines as possible. I settled down with a mug of tea, a few vanilla cigarettes and an assorted selection of chocolate bisuits. Simon Reynolds from The Guardian appeared to share in my quest and published an article several days later (Christ! Sometimes these beasts you track are actually tracking you). In it, he discusses the comeback of the traditional, hand made fazine. It was inspiring, but right before I zoomed off to get my crayons and glue stick I discovered something - an example of the fore mentioned fluke. It was an online fanzine called 'Do Something Pretty' that hadn't been updated since the 20th of June 2005. Typical of many fanzines, due to one reason or another, it no longer functions. An internet mystery, now gathering dust in the Lost and Found. I attempted to speak with those involved but it's impossible to contact anyone who ran it due to an unfortunate script error. I can only guess from the live reviews list that the 'zine was centralised around Manchester.

It's a damn shame, but as Echo and the Bunnymen taught us, "Nothing Ever Lasts Forever". Some of the signed and unsigned bands they included are worth listening to. Some of them are still going, some are not. 'Do Something Pretty' claims in its underscore to be "dedicated to all things pretty in alternative, independent music & D.I.Y Culture". According to its own copyright dates, the site was set up in 2001. Therefore, it would have beared witness to a huge evolution in indie culture; the return of everything we loved about music, the movement from our brief flirtation with retro in the early decade to the foundations of our current experimental and arty pop scene. In retrospect, we can also see how the fanzine concluded on what was just starting up at the time: Folktronica. Four Tet's Everything is Elastic was one of the final albums to be reviewed and the other bands featured in 2005 share a similar style. There's a short news alert heralding the Arcade Fire debut Funeral which has become somewhat of a landmark as well as a review of the searing and insane The New Fellas by The Cribs. Even the fanzine title hints towards self impossed naivity and DIY expression, with perhaps with just a pinch of sarcasm. In all this, Beat Happening would be pleased.

'Do Something Prettys' last ever album review is of a band called Super Reverb with the halariously named title 'Avant Garde Is The French Word For Shit'. With swaggering confidence and a highly varied approach, it's quite a find. They balance perfectly between low-fi punk and jingly jangly psychadelia; but this is only the begninning. An extended viewing of the archives brings many other unknown bands into light and a few interviews with The Longcut and The Secret Machines feel very old indeed. There's a pre-mainstream-fame interview with the Kaiser Chiefs sporting a stupidly aimless quote from Ricky Wilson: "...who wants to see a band onstage anymore that think they’re cooler than you?" True words, Ricky. Too bad that attitude didn't stick. Hanging out with Girls Aloud proves they no longer relate to their audience on the level they once did.

Personified, 'Do Something Pretty' is like your best friends little sister, who's a fan of Belle and Sabastian, does arts and crafts and wears colourful querky clothes. Except reading it four years on feels like that little girl has all grown up and moved far away. Left as it is, in silent and untouched charm, it's a small piece of nostalgia.