Erland And The Carnival – Erland And The Carnival:

I think it’s safe to say this record is exactly what comes from a bunch of middle class guys “making a folk album”, unable to keep their wrists from jangling out an Arctic Monkeys’esque riff every minute or so. Ultimately, Erland and The Carnival are no more folk than Bob Dylan is. But who cares? Not me. A single play revealed only a small portion of its charms. Later on, it changed into something very different: an anatomical splicing of NY Jazz’ swinging body to 13th Floor Elevator’s head full of acid.

If any of you get off on literary references, my advice is not to listen to this record in public to avoid embarrassment. The band salute an assortment of frightfully British Britons, such as William Blake and Vaughan Williams, and use their artistic licence to adapt the high brow material. Tricks like this generally appeal to the kind of dicks who congratulate and fondle themselves while reading poetry at a Costa and want to be seen doing it. There’s none of that here. Erland and The Carnival’s loving inclusion of the old world is seamless, effective and very unpretentious.

Without the support of Simon Tong (the busybody ex-guitarist from The Verve, now following closely in Damon Albarn’s shadow) and the superior drumming talents of David Nock, this lounge indie concoction might be easily shelved and forgotten. This is not to say that Mr. Erland Cooper, a baritone songwriter with his own tale, would be unable stand up on his own. I mean that without them, the record would be missing a huge chunk of its allure. ‘My Name Is Carnival’, with its stumbling rhythms, trippy guitar slides topped with Cooper’s lazy jazz crooning, is a personal favourite – as is the impossibly catchy ‘One Morning Fair’.

The rest of the album is on more of an even plateau and slips into the background. The atmosphere that’s left behind, of familiar Romanticism crossed with modern London, is none-the-less enticing. Erland and The Carnival is Britain’s answer to the hipster Folk of Fleet Foxes; only smarter, more daring, rougher, denser, better. Its breezy and cool headed effortlessness could only be the work of true professionals.

(© Copyright 2010 Brendan Morgan)

The Black Angels (and Wolfmother) at Brixton Academy: 21/01/10

So how do you accurately recreate that 60’s vibe in an anal and corporate controlled society? Answer: You can’t. Even the hypnotic life affirming experience that is The Black Angels was not enough to shake off the cold and inhuman atmosphere of a gig in Hitler’s crows nest.

To get in and out of the O2 run Brixton Academy, even for a smoke, you have to get through a chain of SS goons, or ‘stewards’ as they call themselves. And they’re everywhere you turn, standing around like the miserable voyeurs they are; at every door, along the balconies, looking over your shoulder while you take a piss. The entire building is locked down like a military installation and with good reason, because Brixton is a tough side of town. Why not? Scrutinise and intimidate the kids until they feel low down and criminal. None of us can be trusted.

As press, I was given a pass to the VIP bar (a clever gimmick) reserved for the bands and their friends. Their plan: to coax the journalists into it and away from where all the real action is. From way up there with your four pound bottle of beer, looking out through the wide plastic windows, you can see just about everything and it transforms the gig into a spectator sport. The arena was packed and the floor bobbed and waved in a sea of human heads. There was beer flying overhead and baying for the headline, for Wolfmother’s arrival. I wasn’t fussed. I was there for The Black Angels after all.

On tour with the matriarch, all the way from Austin, Texas, The Black Angels caught my ear with their powerful 2006 album Passover. Pitchfork deemed the release “for the nostalgic […] and the monumentally stoned” which was apt, because at the time, I was both. An unholy union between Black Sabbath and The Velvet Underground, the band’s reverberating drones and mysticism are anchored to earth by the terrific weight of foot stomping Americana and echoing doom: “We can’t live, but we’re too afraid to die”.

On this evening, The Black Angels’ impenetrable sense of dread was shattered by a temperate reaction. The poor and heavily distorted mix didn’t help matters, being unable to give their layered style much needed space. Worst hit, were tracks such as ‘The First Vietnamese War’, a salute to time past and a parallel of our own hopeless war. What I gathered from overheard and one on one conversation displayed a similar frustration, though the residing opinion was one of nodding respect and interest and their subdued performance only heightened the intrigue. They had made an impression.

The O2 does controlled and organised fun like no one else. Its commodification of music seems to be in direct contradiction to Rock’s free spirit and left me with an empty gig experience. Irritably drunk, I left just as Wolfmother’s grip on the crowd was beginning to wane. I will be seeing The Black Angels again, most definitely, just not at any O2 arena. Among many other things we’ve lost, Brixton Academy should be returned to the people.

(© Copyright 2010 Brendan Morgan)

Loaf Record's 'Domestic Pop' compilation

Like any newcomer anxious to separate themselves from a daunting universe of internet spun studios, Loaf Records from London have selected and released this little compilation promoting their most valued assets. The record is certainly a weird one and they’re just a little too conscious of how weird it is. Sometimes it’s just downright annoying.

‘Fax Me’ by Supertalented, the second to last track is one such musical mistake. This bit of obnoxious twee sets a new standard for empty headedness; all I have to do is state a line from the lyrics and sit back down: “Text me, why don’t you text me”. Powerful stuff guys. Fortunately, this is the lowest point in the release but made worse by occurring right at the end. In fact, the whole compilation has little or no arrangement, jarring and without flow, a run of Nickelodeon cartoons back to back.

A sub label of Lo Records, Loaf Records is proud of its own style of garage electronics. Their music is a soundtrack for a generation raised on video games and PC lifestyle – a sort of Bleep Pop employing cute robotics, stripped down Autechre oddity coupled with your standard twee vocals.

Two bands worthy of note introduce Domestic Pop: Câlvin’s cheeky electronic mocking in ‘Money Poney’ and Cursor Miner’s ‘Never Been Seen’ which, in technique, borrows its punchy, sliced guitar sampling from Beck. Going further artistically, the lengthy, stream-of-consciousness structure of Oen Sujet’s ‘Bird and Binocular’ lurches forward as if under influence of black coffee and hash. The rest of the compilation starts to loose its mind, and not in the Van Gogh genius sort of way but the awkward, cringe inducing kind of way. Despite the record’s good humour and ambitions for individuality, their claim “We’ve grown up” doesn’t ring true. Not yet at least.

(© Copyright 2010 Brendan Morgan)