The Ninja Bastard from Jersey

8am, St Malo, France. My girlfriend, an old friend from university and I desperately needed coffee and a place to zone out in peace. We had two hours to kill before we were to board a ferry back to the dump that is Portsmouth. Rising early to catch a bus into town, I was feeling childish and stupid on a lack of sleep. However, spirits were soaring. We had just spent the weekend camping at La Route Du Rock, a slapdash music festival in Brittany which boasted a superb line-up including Aphex Twin, Fleet Foxes, Mogwai, the remainder of Battles and a few new surprises like Blonde Redhead, Sebadoh and Electrelane. The music was flawless. With regards to the festival organisation however there was much to complain about, in true English fashion. It seemed the whole thing had been set up to squeeze as much cash from us as possible. Typically confusing and complex, there was only one admittance allowed into the main arena and we puzzled over the methodology behind buying ‘jetons’ (tokens) in which to procure drinks. Help was extracted with great difficulty but far easier then it would have been with my friend James’ ability with the language. One drunken Frenchman put it sarcastically:
“You are English, no? This should be simple for you.”
Huh. Quite.

Anyway, victorious over the French shrug, rain and some ridiculous rules, we unloaded our backpacks and tents we settled down at the back of a café in the ferry terminal. We passed two gentlemen occupying a table, each with a pint of piss coloured larger. They looked in a far worse state then we were. One was leaning over his drink, nursing a sore eye and the other, wearing a denim jacket, a studded belt and his left arm in a sling, peered out from behind his aviator shades scoping James out. You could sense that something was going to happen.
“I’ll bet I fucked more girls this weekend than you mate”.
I thought, “Who is this abrasive hipster?” getting myself ready in case something kicked off.
“I’m not surprised with a ‘tache like that.” James quipped back and he wasn’t wrong. It was a magnificent moustache, bushy and curling at the tips as well as being an excellent beer-foam sieve. This exchange had finished even before my brain even had the chance to grasp what was happening. It is precisely why I have James around. You can always rely on Londoners for some quick fire banter when needed. The West Country grass has obviously dulled my mind these last few years.
Having judged the sort of people we were, the guy eased back in his seat with a broad grin and soon we were all rattling away in a conversation embellished with his repeated requests for ‘ciggies’ despite the fact we’d already smoked everything we had and had to keep reminding him. When he staggered back inside in search for some, we asked his accomplice if he was always like this.
“Yeah.” He sighed. “He’s from Jersey. They’re all like that.”
The guy then revealed the story behind his bruised eye. Apparently, a few pay-by-day security guards at the festival took this poor guy aside to search him. Out of sight from the crowd, they happily proceeded to beat the shit of him and take his money. Mr. Moustache, once he returned from harassing the lady running the bar, had his own story to tell. While attempting to breach backstage, he punctured his bicep on the spike of one of those vicious looking metal fences. Hanging by his arm, it took several grown men to unhook him and bring him back to earth. I figured that having my only pair of trousers soaked wet during the downpour of the previous day was an easy ride in comparison.
Two French dockworkers joined us and the Jersey man slurred out some broken French with them. A couple seagulls swooped in and set all of our teeth on edge with their evil cawing. Their appearance sent him into a display of rage and he lashed out at them.
“Fuckin’ seagulls! Fuckin’ dinosaurs, man! Je déteste! Je déteste!”
It was justified anger but the dockworkers, assessing the intensity and possible danger of the early morning situation, quickened the enjoyment of their lattés and went out where they came in.
This encounter produced more than just a moment of rougish entertainment. Turns out this shambling loony was a singer in a band a few years back. Its name? Robot Ninja Dinosaur Bastards. I checked their MySpace page on my return to England, listening to their mental music and watching a video of them pissing about the National Museum. Each track, only about a minute in length, is a sharp slap in the face that leaves you blinking like a twat. Mixing 8 bit video game sounds and thrash guitar, they make a kind of bleep-core that our man in question screams poetically coupled words like “Mush Puke Kill Kid” over the top. It’s hard to describe but I’d say it all sounds like something the Minutemen would play on amphetamines, space invaders and post traumatic stress.
On the back deck of the ferry, we sat on a few plastic chairs, drank the last of our beer and watched him chain-smoke his way through a pack of cigarettes he was thrilled to have acquired. It was then we learned of the sad news: his band recently split due to the guitarist picking up sticks and moving to Japan (the mind boggles). I sensed bitterness and a feeling of betrayal but also hope. This here Jersey man had blagged his way into a signed band as a drummer and was being flown out to meet them. As long as they don’t find out he can’t play drums, its clear sailing.
So, a tip of the hat to another of the chosen among us. As I gaze out my window, wistful and high, it gives me comfort to know that he’s out there somewhere, frightening good society and causing much needed grievance. Thank Christ that even in this fragmenting, boredom ridden reality we live in now, the weight of the world isn’t enough to hold some of us down.

(© Copyright 2011 Brendan Morgan)

Rise China! The Maybe Mars Revolution

While staying in Beijing for five days, I was especially eager to get a taster of what people listened to. Of course, like every nation welcoming in consumerism (China however has become a strange Capitalist and Communist hybrid), it has its own mainstream pop, or Mandopop as it’s known, as well as importing in plenty of western pop hits and club anthems. Hearing Lady Gaga pounding over the clay roof tops of the muggy streets is only a tiny part of the weirdness a trip to The People’s Republic of China yields.

With its various tones and accents, the Chinese language prevented me finding out much of anything. Eventually, due perhaps to all those gifts I laid out throughout my many visits to Buddhist temples, I was granted some good luck. The night before I was due to leave the city to catch a plane to Tokyo, I boarded Beijing’s swish tube network and zoomed up to the University district in the North West where I found club D-22. Since opening in 2006, only a year before the label Maybe Mars was set up, the club has a reputation for being the epicentre of upcoming music in Beijing. Little did I realise how important the venue is to the city’s student counterculture. Almost every home grown Chinese band worth mentioning has graced its small, smoky stage. Like living legends, their group pictures decorate its walls.

Before I go any further, it might help to put the label into context. Among a population 1.4 billion and rising, Maybe Mars is born out of an increasing desire for free expression, after it was ruthlessly suppressed under the dictatorship of Chairman Mao Zedong and his successors. It is a deep and complex history of violence and fear generated by a strangling state control and an uncompromising bid to modernise the country. As a way of banishing the demons of the past and in a desperate bit to be the great Nation it always dreamed of, China is currently absorbed in an almighty superiority complex. Its bloody history is a touchy subject, often swept under the carpet altogether as social problems and criticism simply get in the way. State TV blares out repackaged history and successful economic figures, the sports channels play their victories over and over.

These days, China’s collective of artists and musicians have been given more space in which to exercise and explore their talents, provided of course they don’t go too far. It explains why most Chinese keep out of politics, if they are aware of it at all. Though none of the bands signed to Maybe Mars latch on to any overt political activity or statement, its culmination shows the new desire to carve out artistic freedom from the ground up.

The internet is playing its part to help knock down old borders. A music movement in China might just be the last swing of the hammer. The Maybe Mars website offers live videos, streamable music, press coverage and a free compilation ready to download. Each of the twenty nine bands currently signed to the label make up a broad mix and don't worry, not everything is sung in Chinese. While incorporating many familiar western style and genres, they all hold on to a strong sense of individuality and respect for their musical origins. My favourite would have to be the outstandingly awesome Carsick Cars. Likened to the Postpunk guitar mashing sounds of Pavement and Sonic Youth (even touring alongside them back in 2007), the band dive headlong into dense, sometimes painful guitar textures inspired by the experimentations of Glenn Branca. ‘Guang Chang’ starts on feedback atmospheres and builds up, giving way to epic chords. Tracks like ‘Zhi Yuan De Ren’, with its king-sized riff and ‘Zhong Nan Hai’ (named after a Chinese brand of cigarettes) with its searing distortion drones, remind you how glorious and affirming Rock can still be.

Another band that put Maybe Mars in the spotlight are P.K.14. They join up a new-wave, Television like sound with the assertive poetry of their headman Yang Haisong (the guy also responsible for recording most of the label's bands). With real flare and a dedicated fan base, Demerit and Joyside represent the label’s hot-blooded, foot-to-the-floor punk groups. Ourself Beside Me, three cool Beijing ladies, play a different kind of sneering, eccentric, off-key punk inspired by the sleazy sounds of The Velvet Underground and The Fall. Using bicycle bells and plucked guitar harmonics over a lazy beat, their brilliant track ‘Sunday Girl’ shows Beijing’s sinister side.

The label has also just signed Duck Fight Goose. Sounding like a cross between Battles and These New Puritans, they are China’s answer to the math-rock scene. The band members give themselves animal alias’ (Duck, Goose, Panda, Dragon) and “refuse all kinds of sadness and play funny games with their instruments”. At D-22, I managed to see the duo called 10 (now renamed (((10))) after the recent earthquake in Japan) perform their characteristically long and ever-evolving sonic wizardry. Drinking Tsing Tao beer in the gallery up above, I got a bird’s eye view of the array of machinery bellow. Pedals, keyboards and iPads combined together to fill up the club, until it felt like the whole place was about to burst.

Maybe Mars breaks away from the production line method of imitation that we in the West came to associate with China. It’s a huge leap ahead of the music endeavours of the past and has attracted much attention and support from New York and London musos. According to one of the promoters I’d met in D-22, Maybe Mars is China’s only independent record label and as far as I know, the label focuses its sights mainly on Beijing and Shanghai. In this vast and varied country there must be plenty of others just waiting to get going.

For the present, Maybe Mars is on the front line of a musical revolution. The label takes upon itself the monumental task of nurturing a rising alternative scene and providing a voice for the country’s disillusioned youth. Like it or not, China is set to become a powerful force over the century. Few countries need a subversive Punk and Art Rock movement more. Put aside the China-phobic sentiments that are blowing about and clasp hands with the guys who are on the verge of making history.

(© Copyright 2011 Brendan Morgan)

The Slaves - Grey Angel (Paradigms Recordings)

For centuries Christian rule had instilled in its followers a powerful emphasis on penitence derived from guilt, as well as the constant reminder that death and judgement are just around the corner. Based in Portland, Oregon, The Slaves make the kind of music that Polar Bear might if he was brought up hardcore catholic and with an unshakable fear of God. Layered in ambient synths and shrouded in a dark celestial presence, the duo’s debut Grey Angel drives home an old-school gothic affair of chants and drones by candlelight.

From what I’ve said it’s not surprising then that their music is missing some life and energy to it. Their quasi religious meditations become electronic funeral music in which you can almost hear the howling of bored ghosts. Ponderous and moody, each track structure does little else besides drift idly on modal key signatures in a grey and empty sea.

Actually I’m being a bit mean there. Having once lived in the North West of America I’m all too familiar with the Atlantic Ocean, where its silent, cold waters meet the forest covered shores near Portland. Understandably, it would have had an influence on The Slaves prayerful drones; the sense of peace and humility you might feel as you stare out at an ocean’s ancient horizon.

‘You Can Save Me’ sets the scene right from the start. Reeaaalllyyy sssllloooww drawn out chords block out any bit of light seeping in from the cracks, filling the stereo space and building up towering sonic cathedrals that glare down at you. Soaked in reverb, Barbara Kinzle’s voice groans away in a low register. ‘Visions’, two tracks later, employs a cavernously deep and muffled drumbeat with stain glass synths that hints towards Vangelis. At the exact point I grew weary of the ominous tone dragging its way through the album, halfway through ‘Angel’, the last track, everything resolves effortlessly like a kind of divine forgiveness. It’s this superb finish, as well as the sonorous harmonies and atmosphere that rescues Grey Angel from being one long downer.

(© Copyright 2011 Brendan Morgan)

Washed Out - Within and Without (Sub Pop Records)

It wasn’t all that long ago that Life of Leisure EP blazed through the blogsphere taking its creator Ernest Greene out of his bedroom and on a multi-country tour. Like many who’d heard the record or the single ‘Feel It All Around’, I was captivated by the euphoric and dreamy mood constructed from sun kissed synths and a slow pounding club beat – everything sounding as if it was fed through the warm hiss of cassette tape. It was a staggeringly beautiful record and rescued me from the tedium of a hot summer spent at work. I recommended it to anything with ears.

Reacting to the chorus of praise from the internet, a career was kicked into gear swifter than a Tesco’s going up in Bristol. But I’ll tell you now, Within and Without rises to the challenge. It may lack the sublime impact the debut had but on hearing the same lazy pop-tronics, the same rich wave of light and colour, the same veiled vocal harmonies of soothing sibilance; it ticks all the right boxes. In no time, his loved-up party tunes could easy eclipse bigger acts like Calvin Harris.

Of course, Life of Leisure wasn’t a perfect debut. ‘Soft’ and ‘Far Away’ make up a vacant and watery interlude that rehashes some of the same mistakes. But I’ve heard it said that as long as the opening and ending are good people don’t worry about the middle. ‘Before’ brings the sun back out with its big beat and cool voice sample hook. At 2:27 into the title track, a familiar song structure dematerialises into a pool of twinkling synthesizers. This fades into ‘A Dedication’ where a simple piano tune and Greene’s singing on top (the only time his voice shines clear in the mix) closes the album on an intimate note.

I ended my first review uncertain whether Washed Out could survive the nihilistic frenzy of internet hype. It was stupid to feel so protective and it will be great to see how deep into sensation and psychedelic disco he’ll go. Take it with you to this summers festivals or road trips. Memories await a soundtrack.

(© Copyright 2011 Brendan Morgan)

Panda Su - I Begin (Peter Panda Records)

By releasing a gentle lull of a record which delights in its beautiful simplicity, Panda Su embarks on her recording career with astounding poise and sensitivity. Rising out from an over abundance of singer-songwriter acts, it might just be worth your time.

Having grown up in the Scottish Highlands, the Folk scene of the rugged north has clearly influenced her melancholy acoustic attitude. Her voice, conventional at first, later reveals a personal tone crucial to any serious minded poet. She relays dreamy and nostalgic tales of lazy days spent deep in thought: ‘I am younger then I was then’. Unlike a lot of solo artists of a similar nature, she also provides the words with the respect they deserve (I have a particular hatred for singers who force in ‘woooaaahs’, ‘ooohhs’ and other ad-lib filler clogging up the mix with self love.)

The producer, Robin Sutherland has taken special care to allow Panda Su’s guitar to shape to the song structure instead of dominating it. It leaves space for a desk-drawer collection of incidental sounds (a glockenspiel, feedback drenched waves, scratching percussion) to quietly gleam away in the background. No single element takes precedence over another and as a result, each of the four songs on I Begin feels complete, full of life and pleasantly tuneful.

‘The Bee’, along with its theme of innocence lost, samples as its opening rhythm a clock ticking and being wound back up. Gazing inwards, the EP’s title track contains a haunting guitar riff dripping like summer rain. Panda Su is Twee with backbone; wisely produced and satisfying Folk-pop perfection.

(© Copyright 2011 Brendan Morgan)

The Kilimanjaro Darkjazz Ensemble - From The Stairwell (Denovali Records)

The infinite spiral staircase on the album cover, spiralling upwards into pitch black shadow rises out of the very core of The Kilimanjaro Darkjazz Ensemble’s newest release. Sinister and yet somehow inviting, like the music inside, it recalls the noir atmosphere of art house cinema: dark Paris streets, the smell of rotten wood, empty rooms in the dilapidated parts of the sprawl.

Native of the Jazz-mad Netherlands and originally banded to write music ‘for existing and non-existing films’, TKDE’s emphasis on ‘the mood’ as they call it is achieved by a dense layering of sound and by creepy, jarring changes (‘All Is One’ begins on a windy, rugged plane before moving into a seedy and shadowy bar where an unnerving bastardisation of lounge Jazz is being crooned.) Seamlessly blending techniques and styles plucked from many genres, it flickers from Bonobo, Jagga Jazzist, Massive Attack and the grandiose approach of A Silver Mount Zion Memorial Orchestra. Is it Post Rock? Is it futuristic Jazz? Is it IDM?

Even though these days the term has been pretty well worn thin, From The Stairwell is very much a concept album taking the listener on a surreal trip up that staircase on the cover. But the story they’ve attached to the album doesn’t necessarily define it. Records like this remind you that categories are ultimately pointless. TKDE’s music has always been perfectly happy to melt into the background and play out as a backdrop to the musings of the interpreter.

At first, ‘Godard Delusion’ calls us in with a troop of gypsy violinists over breezy and expressive drums. Then, gradually, it opens out into a watery guitar melody. ‘Giallo’ slithers along with its low saxophone while ‘Celladoor’ (yes, Donnie Darko does come to mind) builds from a drifting and dangerous atmosphere into an air of dark romance.

These four tracks I streamed from their record label’s website were enough to certify a few things: From The Stairwell retains the recognisable down-tempo tone and instrumental structure of their previous work (echoing trumpets, slow drones and brushes on cymbals) but it also sees the band pulling the mix back and refining their improvisational style for a more acoustic flavour. A stunning mixture of musicianship and late night, candle lit cool, this is music to smoke clove cigarettes and read Beat poetry to.

(© Copyright 2011 Brendan Morgan)

Labasheeda - The Twlight State (Presto Chango Records)

As far as I could tell from two visits, the average punter in Amsterdam prefers 90’s cheese, euro dance and hammer metal to the more experimental or down to earth projects. But like any city, it had to have its underground somewhere and, as usual, I had to return to the UK to find it. Labasheeda is a doorway to its gritty basement scene, one that reflects a local, more clued in angle. In a way, Amsterdam’s subculture found me.

Labasheeda formed in 2004 and since then have been recording consistently. Under a seriously driven work ethic, they’ve released nearly a record every year. Their newest, The Twilight State is warmly produced, runs beautifully from track to track and hits every goddam mark.

You can hear it all in there: Pavement’s lyrical grunge, Fugazi’s bass lines and tight acoustic punk (circa The Argument); the singer, Saskia van der Giessen, moans like Karen O, pronouncing a strange, sometimes funny version of English (for any other band, this would be a defect but for Labasheeda, it only gives them character).

Overall, the main source is extracted from Sonic Youth’s expansive exploration of guitar screams, tonality and inventive riff changes. They’ve even selected painted cover artwork suggestive of The Eternal as well as incorporating a small amount of a Kim Gordon sophistication that puts to shame most current “girl punk” attitude (the comparatively tame and superficial Paramore for example). There’s no posing, no acting, no dressing up, no falsity, no frills or flashing lights, no tactical target marketing (unless its so tactical I can’t tell) – simply rock music, with guts and realism, made by approachable people who don’t wear tight black. People you could actually enjoy a conversation with.

After an intense opening to clear your head, ‘Headquarter’, an unsettling ballad shoots ripples down the spine by building guitar harmonies over a repeated note of ‘B’. It seems to point an accusing finger: “There’s liars in this room” sings van der Giessen. ‘From You Too Me’ interweaves downcast chords with kicking rhythms and ‘White Leather’, a neat package of all their hooks, tops their myspace at the moment (trust me however, they save the best stuff for the records).

The grumpily wasted ‘Way Out’ leads into the evil, drooling instrumental epic that is ‘My First Choice’ and then to close with imprinted force from ‘Duplicated’. Playing sweet three note melodies, van der Giessen’s violin is the band’s most unique feature. It’s too bad that it appears so rarely and so timidly in the album’s mix.

Although Amsterdam is riding the 90’s, some at least have taken on the decade’s better side. The Twilight State is an impassioned and pragmatic number five from a superb rock band. Labasheeda do pain and sadness, red rage and subtle sarcasm; and, over the next few months, Labasheeda do England. Get out of your hovels and support them.

(© Copyright 2011 Brendan Morgan)

NLF 3 - Beautiful Is The Way To The Beyond (Prohibited Records)

From across the channel, NLF 3 are another group of orators helping to guide the rock band into a more egalitarian and versatile format. “[…] we like dancing on stage and singing like sorcerers, we like loops and live looping, tribal rhythms and creeping electronics”. Made possible by the ease of software and sampling, their set up recalls the shared free flow of a Jazz ensemble and has become ubiquitous of Nu-Jazz groups such as Polar Bear, Jagga Jazzist and Tortoise.

It’s an aspect that also attaches NLF 3 to the Math Rock scene. With precision guitar engineering, ‘The Lost Racer’ is a dead ringer for Battles’ particular style of Martian army marches (NLF 3 have also supported them in the past and cite them as an influence). In striking contrast to what came before, the track grinds to a halt after four minutes and falls away into the calm of a faded synth sunset and wistful guitar strumming.

It may be their finest moment but their funniest can be found in the track before. ‘Wild Chants’ features kettle drums, a quiet chorus of exotic creatures and a voice effect that resembles a drunken Alvin the Chipmunk slurring his way through a tune. Later in the album, ‘At Full Blast’ plays out as a stripped back dance number while ‘Enneagon’ could happily soundtrack the strobe graphics of the 80’s TV show Crystal Maze.

For all its charms and trinkets, Beautiful Is The Way To The Beyond feels more like a collection of early preparations and loosening jams than a band’s fourth album. “We've been doing this for 20 years and we're not done yet” they stated in an interview, and I’d agree. NLF 3 sound like a milder version of Battles and their new release rarely wavers from its perky and eccentric state of bliss. Ignoring all this however, it’s still a musically tight, colourful and spirited performance that’s sure to put a smile on your face.

(© Copyright 2011 Brendan Morgan)

Soars - Soars (La Société Expéditionnaire)

Out of a thick wash of reverb, lonely guitar lines hang overhead like silver clouds in monotone skies. Harsh mechanical drums conjure up fields of oil derricks chiselling away at decollate frozen ground. Using the local surroundings of Lehigh Valley Pennsylvania as its influence, Soars’ debut is like a union of shoe gaze texturing and Sigur Ros’ sad reflection.

The slowed-down, industrial drum track thudding away underneath may be one of the band’s characteristic features but it seems more like a heavy burden, constrictive of their creative freedom. It would explain the all-to-obvious riff changes and the strict and regimented song structure; the result of a band straining to work with a drum machine. It may have worked for Suicide because they were trying to piss people off but for deeper emotional music such as Soars, it would help to get a drummer, a real one.

The lead singer’s supersensitive, wet, child-like voice is another downer. Sung in falsetto, the lyrics are nothing more than shapes of sound floating in the murk of the overall mix. Never mind deconstructing “lyrical myth” as their press release claims (using the voice as an instrument is nothing radical) – it would give the album an extra layer if we could only hear some poetry.

When they aren’t being all morose and mopey, Soars achieve a feeling of bittersweet longing. Elegantly simple and instantly likable, ‘Throw Yourself Apart’, with its laborious beat and descending, melancholy chord pattern is an ideal single release. Another notable track, ‘Monolith’ concludes the record with a captivating guitar melody but, minutes before the end, it wastes an opportunity to extend and build up the final segment, maybe crashing into complete tonal meltdown or some other grand finish. The rest of the album is just as sedated.

At best, Soars’ debut album provides a tour of one of America’s isolated working towns and embodies some of the current feelings of hopelessness and despondency rippling through the country. Sadly, there are very little surprises among its glum-rock sound and if you’re like me an infuriatingly solemn person already, listening to too much of it would only be indulging in some miserable winter masochism.

(© Copyright 2011 Brendan Morgan)