Purling Hiss - Weirdon (Drag City)

Opening with a squeal of feedback, Purling Hiss' new release marks a change of direction for the band; from low-down Acid Rock sludge to high-flying Indie. Brought to centre stage, founding member Mike Polizze's bedroom song writing fuses a great many styles from the American alternative scene: the skuzzy guitar pop of Dinosaur Jr, the heavy, moody grunge of Nirvana and Mudhoney - even flashes of those upbeat college rockers Husker Du.

While I hesitate to say it, Weirdon could be described as 'more accessible', a phrase often met with disdain and, in worse cases, can result in the severing of an original and dedicated fan base. Stoned rockers and headbangers can rest at ease though, the band haven't abandoned their dishevelled class and love of face melting jams. Instead, they've found a satisfying balance between the structured and the loose, the familiar and the uneasy that will only be guilty of picking up more attention.

Tracks like 'Sundance Saloon Boogie' and 'Learning Slowly' slam through verse, chorus, verse, chorus, only to shift gears and take off into psychedelic trips of soaring guitar melodies over steady beats. They are what all jams should be: sweet and colourful and mixed thick and sticky. Sadly, the second half doesn't quite maintain this trajectory. After cooling down with the smoky Kinks-like 'Reptili-A-Gena' and the kicking 'Where's Sweetboy', it begins to deflate and sag. By the time 'I Don't Wanna Be A...' arrives, moping about not making the track selection for Nirvana's Nevermind, I lost interest. Fortunately 'Six Ways To Sunday', a baked ballad with a blinding guitar solo, brings the mood back and dispels all doubts that Weirdon is a truly fantastic ride.

In this algorithmic age of ambition, achievement and perfection, it's unsurprising the slacker ethos never really went away. Through music, Purling Hiss capture that old wisdom behind lazy resistance. If boredom is the catalyst of creativity, then let it all go. We're all just winging it. Weirder is better. Play it loud. Play it cool.

(© Copyright 2014 Brendan Morgan)

Famous Villains, The Darlingtons and DJ Howla @ The Live Room, Taunton

At 7pm I strolled through the doorway of The Live Room expecting something downright bloody spectacular. I slapped down my fiver, procured a pint of cider and sat down to observe the wildlife flutter in and socialise. The bar staff were tense but visibly exited. A few photographers were doing the little dance they do, trying to get a feel for the right angles and best shots. The chemical smell of fresh paint filled the air. Everything was ready. The Live Room's opening night was underway.

Back before The Live Room, before The Perfect 5th, before the smoking ban, was Mambas Cafe and I can recall (with difficulty) a few nights of drunken bliss, sweaty moshing and loud music. Once an ideal stop for bands on their way up and down the South West, the building had a firm tradition for live music. When it closed down in 2010 it became just another empty facade on the high street, soon to be forgotten. It seemed for a while like that was it and I don't think I was alone in my relief when, two months ago, I heard it was going to be reopened by new ownership. The old layout, a bar and lounge area upstairs and a standing room in front of the stage downstairs, had been retained. The refit was swift and the design kept simple leaving more focus to the lighting and sound, the centre point of the venue. Now all that's left is the overwhelming task of reinstating its original reputation. No pressure.

Famous Villains had the honour of kicking off the night with a suitably energetic set. Travelling from Doncaster and looking a bit like Mumford and Son's rougish siblings, their upbeat Folk Rock songs, ringing chords and whiskey sodden sing-a-longs went down pretty well. After a while, they were "interrupted" as they jokingly declared, or rather swept aside by the almighty, messianic figure of Brian May as part of the promotion for the venue's opening. It's the sort of thing that Joe Strummer would have lent his support to years ago. Still, Brian will do. Cheers Brian.

For me, the real highlight of the evening was The Darlingtons, a local four piece who belted out a tight mix of sparkling guitar melodies reminiscent of The Foals coupled with the kind of melancholy you'd hear in The Editors, only with a lot more angst. At first glance, they have 'indie' oozing from every crack but their performance definitely outweighs their image. With towering distortion and warm textures, offset skilfully by some gentler moments, it was solid stuff and although their grand sound may deserve a slightly bigger venue, it would be great to have them back at some point.

After a short set of brilliant solo beatboxing from Dom Beatbox, we witnessed the return of a local DJ and legend Howla. His oldschool blend of familiar tunes with some nasty dubstep has definitely fermented well up in Bristol. Having been at the decks for years now (probably since birth) the guy knows how to throw a late night party. I left The Live Room seething with punters, doubtful that the opening night could have gone any better.

It's all too often that we recognise the value of something only when we lose it. Last year or two saw a cultural nose dive in the South West and the general public mood came down along with it. Time and time again I hear the phrase "there's nothing to do in Taunton" and I'd certainly count myself as one of the guilty. But I've come to realise that this attitude is unproductive and defeatist. We can't just sit around and expect to have it all sorted out for us. It's important for us to take charge of our local scene, now more than ever. If there aren't any decent bands around then stop complaining and start your own. We have to work hard for the things we love. Even Cheryl knows this.

Based on the variety of the line-up, The Live Room's management appear open to all styles and genres. Even its name steers clear of any particular implication and this open and diverse approach should be kept at the heart of the venue. It would be great to eventually see stand-up comedy, a poetry slam or even some kind of weird theatre production but for now, live music will do just fine. The real danger is that down the road, a lack of interest or a change of direction could turn it into just another generic club playing Radio 1's playlist on repeat for airbrushed posers all night. Like every small, sleepy town across this ailing country, Taunton needs a real venue that differs from the rest of the clubs, where the town's musicians, artists, fashionistas, poets, comedians, general eccentrics, freaks and weirdos can mix together, swap ideas, give each other support and perform their art. The Live Room will need our help to keep it this way.

So, I'll see you there.

(© Copyright 2013 Brendan Morgan)

Thought Forms - Ghost Mountain (Invada Records)

In a time when culture is collapsing, threatening the future of the arts all across The Isles, Bristol exists as a gravitational centre for any contemporary music project in the surrounding area. It seems that almost every upcoming band is ditching the rusted circuit in their local town and heading towards the bright lights and expansive gig venues. And why not? It might just be the only place left in The South West with a fortified music scene. I've been living in Taunton, Somerset for the last year and I can tell you there's nothing going on, much more than The Three B's: bingo, bars and brawling. There's a shortage of live venues to play at and very little interest or investment. Due to the present situation and particularly this kind of travesty, I feel like, down here, it might as well be some wild west ghost town with tumble weeds blowing.

So what's going on in Bristol? Yes, please tell us. We're dying for entertainment. Well, thanks to the wonders of promotion I recently discovered something. Building a reputation from their raw, powerful gigs, Thought Forms are a truly impressive kind of rock group, growing in all the right ways. Despite only three members, their sound is big, versitile and very engaging. Their second album, Ghost Mountain, retains the sonic variation of their gigs and I'll warn you now, it's not a jolly ride. Some deeply primal current runs through the record, a sort of black magic.

Ten years ago I would have thrown in the term Post Rock to describe their style but these days the phrase is peculiar, even obsolete. And the whole Doom Metal thing seems so long ago. However, you may still hear influences from Godspeed You! Black Emperor, OM and Mogwai in there. Tracks such as 'Ghost Mountain You and Me' and 'Only Hollow' (posted above), harmonious guitar riffs and melodies also recall the American Alternative scene. Their jam-based sets build up walls of distortion around the listener using a wide range of the electric guitar's experimental repertoire.

I'll admit that sometimes the droning, mystical atmospheres may turn a tad soporific but these kind of tracks never feel out of place within the whole structure. Their music is black, mournful, grand and they follow a great tradition for down-right crippling gloom. Even Portishead, the old Bristolian masters of bleakness have given their blessing. Yet a sense of tearful promise rising from the ashes was what really caught me about Thought Forms. When the record draws to a close, you can visualise those looming high rises being toppled over leaving a cloud of dust from which to begin again.

Thought Forms' Ghost Mountain is released tomorrow, 25th of Febuary on Invada Recordings.

(© Copyright 2013 Brendan Morgan)

The Mars Volta get lost in space and Dog Bite digs its teeth in...

Like a phenomenal dying galaxy, the legendary Prog Rock band The Mars Volta have imploded. Announced a few days ago by the lead singer Cedric Bixler-Zavala, he blamed his long-time musical partner, the band's lead guitarist Omar Rodriquez-Lopez, for loosing interest in the project. Their collapse came as no real surprise. The last few albums were starting to show the cracks in their set and it's been grinding downwards ever since. Their gigs lost their edge as did their creative direction but if you were to cast your mind back to their early days, you might remember why so much fuss was made about them in the first place.
Once in a while, there's music that comes along and changes you forever. The moment I first heard De-Loused in The Comatorium, their first full album released back in 2003, and when I took a bus to see them at The Brixton Academy a year later, it was all unforgettable. Never had I heard music like it; so insane, so alive, wasted, twisted, frightening, energetic, frantic. These guys were on a serious fucking trip, full of contrast that spelt danger for the faint of heart. Sometimes it would drift into ambient, atmospheric and groove driven planes, other times it was like been jerked out of a coma with an injection of Adrenalin.

It would be a crime not to give credit to their synth/keyboardist Isaiah Ikey Owens for his fundamental additions to the elaborate textures and their original drummer Jon Theadore who provided some of the most electrifying drumming I'd ever seen. For me, his departure from the band in 2006 signalled the beginning of their demise. Overall, The Mars Volta's epic mixture of wild guitar solos, visionary lyrics and complex Latin rhythms was so masterful and completely unique, it'll be a heavy task for any upcoming band to fill their shoes. Take a bow guys. Thanks the ride.

A powerful combination of the death of one of my all time favourite bands and a new musical discovery broke a lengthy holiday I was taking away from Slugs Hate Music. As one musical beast passes away, so another rises. Ahh, the circle of life... but enough bullshit, lets get on with it.
Cruising the wave of chill of Washed Out's touring success, keyboardist Phil Jones has been drawing up his own plans on the side. Pulling together a group and calling themselves Dog Bite, their particular Dream Pop style, a sort of scuzzy DIY Cocteau Twins, may come as nothing massively new but there's just something inescapably more-ish about those shimmering guitar riffs, echoing vocals and hazy synths sliced in two by a few punchy beats.
Right from the whoosh of the first few seconds and the proud emergence of their characteristic jangly guitar, 'Forever, Until' drops you into a bright, sun-kissed world. A few tracks later, 'Prettiest Pills' displays a grungy, more street level view as well as the band's more upbeat side. The excellent 'Native America' breaths new life into the second half and from then on it all seems to grow ever upwards towards the sun. The last few tracks complete the album with a underlying touch of sadness, as though the light burning so strongly through the record fades into the dark. This final glimmer is 'My Mary' and it recalls those slow, two chord riffs and low register vocals that Jesus And The Mary Chain do so well.
Velvet Changes contains eleven beautiful songs, all with the right ingredients to take its creators forwards. There's no reason that they can't stand aside other popular bands from the local Washington DC scene (Cloud Nothings to name one). It's a startling record, definitely worth a listen at the least, even though I know we're all "so busy" doing "really important" shit.

Velvet Changes is released on Carpark Records, 5th of February.

(© Copyright 2013 Brendan Morgan)

Crippled Black Pheonix - (Mankind) The Crafty Ape (Mascot)

“Use your anger to creatively destroy your oppressors.” These are the opening words from Crippled Black Pheonix’s newest album, a call to arms announced by a vocoder voice that sets the mood of the rest of the record. Led by Justin Greaves, the band is the unification of a hand full of seasoned musicians with a taste for serious minded Rock.

But what’s the real deal here? Are CBP using the rising dissident to further their own gain or are they providing musical sustenance to the global protest movement? This is the danger with the term ‘political band’ and I’m hesitant to use it on CBP. Bands like U2 and The Manic Street Preachers were once awarded it and now, after achieving fame and success, these swaggering tycoons jet around the world, selling their antiestablishment egotism. We’ve developed automatic scepticism of musicians that attach themselves to social struggle; perhaps finally realising that almost anything can be exploited for profit and that the Rock Star lifestyle, as much as any other modern hypocrisy, is very much apart of the problem.

But if CBP are not a ‘political band’ then they are at the very least politically inclined and this is a far more free and effective position to be in. Despite it all: job cuts, privatisation and rioting, there are not many artists around who can turn anxiety into the language of resistance.

Whatever their motivations, CBP make some excellent music. Their fifth release, (Mankind) The Crafty Ape is a rich and diverse record that matches the disgruntled lyrics perfectly. While their previous records were more atmospherically based, this one takes a step past despair and further into rebellion. Cross breeding Pink Floyd’s inventive structure with Radiohead’s gloominess and dissatisfaction, their music is a well-devised and heavyweight Prog Rock with the kind of inherent quality that can only derive from solid musicianship and intensive gigging.

Enhanced by the raw clarity of the production, the group explore both a range of tones and their own ability achieving the execution. ‘The Heart of Every Country’ feels very Floyd indeed (circa Animals) with its grand composition of sailing guitar solos and thick piano chords. With stomping tom percussion and burning guitar lines, ‘Laying Traps’ is a driving piece of work and the video sees the band don gas masks and anarchic attire for a performance interspersed with scenes of protest. ‘Release The Clowns’, while swaggering like The Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, gives a final warning before the close: “Gather your belongings ‘cause the revolution’s coming”.

Though sounding completely different, (Mankind) The Crafty Ape follows PJ Harvey’s Let England Shake for an appraisal of this country’s decent into mismanagement and irrelevance. Some may be put off by the band’s consciously dark focus but it must be taken it for what it is. While more and more bands appear to be drifting into escapism and nostalgia, there are still some on the other side, drawing their inspiration from realism and suggesting that maybe, just maybe, things aren’t going too well and we might need to do something about it. Otherwise, as CBP say, “Just keep on complaining, and someone will hear you”.

(© Copyright 2012 Brendan Morgan)

Applescal – rtfkt 01

Overshadowed by a host of club demigods like Deadmau5, Mouse on Mars and the mainstream domination of Skrillex, Applescal has long been throwing stones at giants. Crafting his own electronic sound since art school and taking it around the venues of Amsterdam, his sets are less demanding of your attention, yet totally absorbing, classy and full of variation, evolving sometimes gradually, sometimes dramatically but always toying with your expectations.

‘El Diablo’ begins with calm and phasing synths when suddenly, the whole track winds down like a cathedral sinking down a wormhole, allowing the leading element, a fuzzy, off key melody to take over. Dropping the temperature a little to a more soothing and disconnected groove, ‘Mr Cold’ is the most likely to continue past a casual listen. The third and final track, the ironically named ‘No Offence’, is the weakest by far. It appears at first to be a sort of satirical take on a filthy dubstep anthem but looses its punch to become not so much offensive, just plain irritating.

Still, it’s this kind of experimentation that will pay off in time. Applescal has grown adept at blending up different club styles as well as proving that the dance music staple, a simple layering of a tune over a few rolling beats still has plenty to offer. At just under twelve minutes long, the new EP is less of a bold new direction, more of a bold taster release from RTFKT. It’s solid stuff, considering it’s completely free to download, but seeing as his true talents reveal themselves on his remixes and lengthy live sets, I’m holding on for an album.

(© Copyright 2012 Brendan Morgan)

Heroin In Tahiti - Death Surf (Boring Machines)

Mixing sluggish surf melodies with spacey Art Rock drones, this debut project from Heroin in Tahiti has caused a bit of a stir, undoubtedly effected by the way these two seasoned musicians from east Rome kept their identity a secret until its release. The blogosphere has been eager to attach labels such as Kroutrock to their sound, but Heroin In Tahiti seem to be at odds over outside comparisons preferring to cite Ennio Morricone’s music from the old Spaghetti Westerns as their main influence. The cool, unforgiving edge of these cult films, their rough characters and barren desert setting which lies on Heroin In Tahiti’s very doorstep, eek their way out of the EP. The whole record radiates with heat, dread, isolation and stoned paralysis.

The fact that they focus on their country’s cultural history during this age of global connection is worth noting but as always, there are some external influences going on; namely Surf Rock, an American export. It brings to mind the cinema of Tarantino and Rodriguez, who were in turn influenced by the Spaghetti Westerns and have been partly responsible for Surf Rock’s revival.

A relentlessly sinister mood sets in right from the start. The title track introduces their characteristic arrangement: minimal guitars, awash with distortion and massive reverb drift over a shimmering pool of sound effects and unusual percussion. It’s followed by ‘Spaghetti Wasteland’, trotting solemnly along and layering up on itself to make for a rich mix. Side B however is where they really prove themselves. Carefully building tension, ‘Ex-Giants on Dope’ is like a Mexican standoff where some serious shit is about to kick off and ‘Sartana’, with its ghostly wa-wa guitar and death bell tolling underneath, rides like a wild chase into the night.

Death Surf is an engrossing and hypnotic record, visual and vibrant with a definitive style. It holds you in its grip, right up to its unsettling conclusion. But I’d say the EP still feels chained by a film context. Some tracks, soaked in dense atmosphere and lacking a sense of narrative, can be stagnant and weighed down. Composed during times of disgruntled social unrest that continues to boil, Death Surf is still an intriguing example of Rome’s brooding underground scene.

(© Copyright 2012 Brendan Morgan)

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)