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)

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)

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)

Shadows of the Colossus: A landmark in Art Gaming

It begins in an ageless, mythical time with our protagonist on horseback, carrying with him the body of his dead love. Presumably after a long journey, he arrives to an ancient land and proceeds across a mile-long bridge to a Babel-like temple lifting towards the heavens. He is here to restore her to life but to do this he must defeat sixteen huge and terrifying giants hidden across the land. Only then will she awaken.



The story is somewhat cryptic and the game, structured by a series of boss battles, is much harder to solve. There’s a lot to figure out as you play and even when you put the controller down for the last time some there are things left unexplained. It was designed and released in 2005 by Fumito Ueda and Kenji Kaido and despite being now five years old, the look of the game is one of the initial appealing aspects: the hazy colours, motion blurring as well as the frightening enormity of colossi themselves. Here, the PS2’s graphical power is used to perfection. The map is vast with plenty of space to explore and gladly loose yourself in. Some parts are bleached in bright sun, others drenched in fog and everywhere remnants of a lost civilisation dot the countryside. It’s a game that allows your imagination to wander as much as the hero and, as such, can be played again and again.

Ueda and Kaido’s first game Ico, released in 2001, set the tone for Shadow of the Collosus. The white robed girl you to take by the hand and lead through the game is very much like the bond that the nameless wanderer of Shadow has with his horse Agro. He is brought to life by superb animation and a sweet personality which entices you into treating him respectfully. The feel of riding him is very unique. He’s not just any mode of transport after all. Occasionally, he’ll nip off for a drink or wander about but whenever you whistle for him he’ll come galloping at full pace ready to help.

Aside from loneliness, a melancholy sense of helplessness and inevitability shrouds the game. After each colossus is grounded, falling sadly and slowly to earth, neon black-green tendrils leap out of its body slicing whip-crack through the air to strike our hero down. The first time this happens it’s a real shock. I mean, what game kills you off after completing an important task? And even versed in the knowledge of your reoccurring fate, knowing full well you cannot escape it; you still try, running with all your might and desperately shouting for Agro to come to your aid. So here we have a moral: Death is and always will be, no matter what. But our will to survive is inherent. Our hero’s lot of repeated self-sacrifice for love is what every epic quest is made of. Rarely does anything so hauntingly affecting and poignant appear in a videogame.

The trick is to make the player actually care what happens. It sounds simple but so many games lull you into a mindless pattern in their attempt to keep you focused on the cool graphics and on playing it for as long as possible. Generally, their characters are nothing more than pixel rendered representations of movie stereotypes and you’re not expected to feel any sympathy or association with them. In Shadow, the hero is human, a bit crap like all of us, an everyman. He has no ass kicking super powers, no sharp wit or masculine soaked style. All he has is a battered sword and bow, a faithful companion in his horse and tremendous courage for love’s sake. His tasks seem utterly impossible, so daunting you earnestly want him to succeed.

Another trick is to cut out needless chit chat and dialogue which serves no purpose other than to keep you abreast of the plot. Shadow ignores this giving you the credit of working out what’s going on for yourself. The sounds of nature are the dominant sounds: the lonely cries of the eagles flying over head, the worried panic of the horse when the dark figure of a colossus looms above, the sad song of the wind on the open plains. In fact the game is very pro nature, much like many Miyazaki films. It verges on pantheistic and suggests a link to Celtic mythology, particularly in the hero’s relationship with his horse. The godlike voice that introduces the tasks for our hero speaks in riddle translated from a strange concocted language. The musical score, which only appears in cut scenes and during battles, is beautifully well composed. After a little while, I found solace in putting it on mute and adopting my own soundtrack. Bands that already contain a visual landscape like Sigur Rós, Godspeed You! Black Emperor and Explosions in the Sky accompany the game play perfectly. For me, Shadow was always a good way of getting into unusual music. All-nighters were made for this kind of thing.



In the end, once every giant is slain, the dark powers ever present throughout the game envelop him and turn him into a ghostly black monster which the player can control, smashing all around him. A tragic twist? Not exactly because he is altered again, into a horned baby (oh yes) and carried by his awakened love to the top of the gigantic temple, to an idyllic secret garden. It is then that you realise that this baby will grow to be the protagonist of Ico, and that Shadow of the Colossus is actually a prequel.

Frankly, it laughs in the face of anyone who doesn’t think videogames have any artistic value or merit. Compared to the latest contrived Hollywood blockbuster, tacky reality TV show, even smug and pretentious ‘art’ films and literary adaptations; in achievement and imagination, Shadows of the Colossus is a God damn masterpiece. I’m convinced that if game designers were to take its unusual experimentations further we could see a rise of far-out gaming. It proves that the medium has the ability and scope to tackle Big Themes, to become a serious art form with sublime and lasting experiences.

There has been speculation of an eventual film based on the game and it will be interesting to see where this could take its two creators. It will bring Shadow to a wider audience for sure but it has no hope in replicating the immersive feel of the game. The player’s involvement in the dramatic events, the memorable and wonderful escapism that Shadow of the Colossus grants – basically everything I’ve been talking about, is something that only videogames can give you. Please, please, please… I want all videogames to be this daring and this good.

(© Copyright 2010 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)

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)

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.

Viva la album; or how I stopped worrying and learned to love the electric generation

About four years ago I felt as though the popular album was under threat. With the rise of itunes and the ever greater use of torrent sites or downloads by the public it seemed that more ephesis was being placed on the individial track rather than the album as a whole. The structure of the album, a musical form that survived for so long appeared to be loosing its grip, and its respect along with it. For a while, this really bothered me. I noticed that people were ignoring entire albums in their addictive search for maybe some gooey ballad they heard on the O.C. I even feared that it would affect my own views of the classic flow. Thankfully, this was not to be the case. In fact, the internet would give birth too many things that carried it on, simultaniously allowing the form to evolve in provoking ways.

You cannot understand my joy when itunes introduced a zero second track change in an update. No one wants an irritating gap inbetween tracks on The Darkside of the Moon or Another Green World or Francis the Mute or F# A# Infinity or any other god damn album for that matter. Freedom has a strange affect on music, but always a good one. Communication and expression should always be free, as long as we hope to all be human. We all grew up having the album forced on us by medium and the internet had always promoted a sort of communist attitude; power to the people and all that. Over the last few years we could collecively say "fuck off" to the oppressive nature of record companies and embrace the loving lips of free music. Smooooch, free music, a concept that every ethical artist stands by. I don't need to tell you that everything has become much more expensive (maybe someone could tell Brown for me). Well, the internet single handedly saved our ability to keep collecting music of any variety despite our class or income level. And the album kept up. If you got ahold of a single track, whether it be by legal/illegal downloads, from a friends hard-drive or some pirate website, you might have been tempted to locate where the track came from. Perhaps occationally buying an actual CD from an actual shop if you loved it enough, although that was generally a last choice. Musicians, bands and web creators heard your cry and responded with some excellent answers. Last.fm is an enormously populated music website allowing the member to see graphically what music he or she had been listening to. You can go to bands profiles and view their releases, see which album people prefer. The cover art of each is accessable and the download-able programme that burrows itself into your toolbar gives you information about where the track you are enjoying originates from. Sweet Jesus! Look to the right of my blog, THERE'S MUSIC EVERYWHERE!!! Honestly, its adictive.

Radiohead have been called musical innovators for some time and, with the release of In Rainbows, were crowned internet lords over its early and complete release on the internet. Although they were certainly in the position to do so, they made it also possible to get it all for free, if that's what you thought it was worth (there-by posing a difficult question of morals). It's a shorter total time than many other albums, perhaps to make it easier to download, but the structure is still alive and pulsing. Each track compliments each other and the after-taste sticks around. Bands are still using the album structure; maybe more than ever as the apparent ease is making the expression from the music and artwork more instant and genuine. The only problem is keeping up with it all, and that is much more of a worry. No no no, I just need to chill the fuck out. Besides, music now seems to find you before you can find it.

17th of January 2008- The fight turns personal in the American Election

The one policy that each candidate stands for, the one policy for me that currently presides over the rest, is foreign affairs. And it seemes at first, certainly during few months before Michigan, the only candidate out of this crazy, over-stimulated, drugged up rat race is Obama. Rare, in most politicians, is his ability to put forward this issue in near honesty and with planned efficiency. The time has come for America to reconcider their role in the world arena, Iraq being one on a very long list included. Pakistan and Kenya to name a few others. How long can the civilised world hold the torch of democracy?
What I lean on now is which candidate had the best selection of music soundtracking their happy-clappy rallys (no pink prizes for Hilary here, it was office staff party music and god awful). This will seem intelligent enough when I remind you that the US is a country that houses citizens who choose their next president, the chump who sits on the most powerful country in the world, by the style of their tie. What's unbelievably worse is watching the American media (CNN in particular) question the public, during the lulls in between poll counting, about who they concider the most "attractive" candidate. These morons they bother to interview are exactly the kind of idiotic attention seekers of whose opinion we clearly don't give a shit about. Surely I'm not the only one who thinks the US presidential election should be focused on politics dealing over the delicate future of our world, not entertainment? You think? It's like the chapter from Johnathan Swift's "Gullivers Travels" where the next King of Laputa the floating island, jumps a fucking stick. Jesus Christ, it's so close, it's creepy. Speaking of creepy, lets have a moment of silence for John Edwards...
that's enough...
What I'm looking forward to see alot more of is continued debate between the candidates (sure, as if it's presently not enough) Both Hilary and Huckabee have been putting some, lets face it, amusing punches. This campain is personal this time round, politicans perform so much better under pressure.

-More on the US Campain Trail to come-

A New, Buding Universe of Control

It is with great geeky pride that I immediately pronounce to being a gamer. Video games are something that I’ve grown up with, something that’s very much apart of me and apparently to many other people as well. The names Luigi and Mario will be printed in my memory till the day I die. I’ll never be able to forget the happy music of Zelda or the experience of playing Shadows of the Colossus for 48 hours straight without sleeping. Some of these games are so brilliant they are without a doubt a new form of art. Aesthetic and engaging, challenging and thought provoking. Perhaps, exactly what some art tries to achieve. Why, in fuck’s name, is the modern medium still undervalued and sneered upon? To some, gaming culture is almost something they refuse to talk about or accept into culture. It has always been forced into the underground. The “elite” wouldn’t be too pleased to know that, whether they like it or not, video games are finally getting some sadly overdue acknowledgement.
Anyway, on without warning to World of Warcraft, Blizzard’s online “game sensation” that’s been going for a few years now. Simply printing the title sends every mind racing. Normally the category is split two ways: those who think the game is possibly the most well designed, enjoyable, sociable games ever created and those who think it’s mindless, dangerously addictive and a waste of precious time better spent outdoors looking at the orb in the sky which you used to understand as “The Sun”. After playing the game for over a year now, getting a Tauren Druid up to level 62, a Bloodelf mage up to 31 on a friends account, my ultimate opinion is still very much undecided. This is partly due to the games ever changing nature. WOW’s alternate reality supporting its own economy, society, language and slang (lol, ffs etc) will forever fascinate me. Unfortunately, the more I progress in the game the more unsatisfied with it I become. Weird, due to the obsessive steps Blizzard has made to make damn sure this doesn’t happen to everyone. Their financial future clings on to this. It seemed that the further I dived into it the less free it all felt. As I imbibed the social aspect and learned the fine art of choosing talent points and specific gear, I was in fact loosing my own personal nature to the game and becoming an unquestioning civilian. I fucking hate rules, especially in a video game that you have to pay a considerable amount for. For me video games allow me to escape the real world for a few moments, to let my imagination wander around lawless plains miles away from money and government, social conduct and common prejudice. It was as though my initial route into the game and the customisation available had all been in vain. It began to feel like I was loosing my gamer/explorer identity behind a wall of player courtesy and set paths that my character had to take. Once society is introduced to a game, where many people are playing together and at once, laws and control must be obtained to prevent chaos and anarchy. Scarily, this is not at all dissimilar to how western civilisation is structured. The solitude element is gone, destroyed underfoot by a million other players and their politics. WOW yearns for a misanthrope or a revolutionary. For the shear hell of it, I plan to create a new character completely bent on screwing over the game step by step. Stretch limits and test the waters. I will loot chests when I fucking want to, lie about where I actually come from, fish on a sunset lit dock while my guild is off raiding. Push it all as far as it will go. And why? Because none of it, despite what it feels, is real... yet.

Myspace and art? In the same sentence?

Mostly everyone by now has seen and rated myspace; we marvelled at its brilliance and then left it, like alot things, forgotten by the roadside. Thats the internet all over pretty much. It's a world so much more novel and much less sublime. Jesus, Murdoch's got his finger in many tasty pies. Pies, that we the people, surely own by rights as we baked it in the god damn first place.

The current genre of Art Rock, originally defined by bands such as Godspeed You! Black Emperor, Explosions in the Sky and Mogwai, seemed for a while rampant on myspace. They all have one immedietly rekonisable aspect: there are no lyrics, in fact, no singing at all. The human element is dropped leaving behind landscapes, colour and emotional dimentions. What's left behind is the stars. The main trouble with the genre, among only a few problems, is our old ememy repetition. It has the tendancy to sound the same after while. About a year ago I discovered what I now realise is my proudest unknown and unearthed band; unearthed via the internet. Dezerett, a typical three piece band from Florida, have stayed with me a very long time since their discovery. They are the only downloaded band from myspace (I hardly ever download myspace band tracks) that I'll casually put on without any reservations. Some of the best music you own you'll play without overthinking. Maybe, in retrospect, the fact that I was smoking an obscene amount of marijuana at the time had some effect on the forming of this opinion. Nevermind that however, I'll disclose a description. Dezerett's music, it's all about the sonic scape: the melodic and beautifully overdrive'd guitar, the powerful sadness it all provokes, the hazel-eyed offspring of shoe-gaze and art rock. Stunning and blinding. I love also the use of electronica and the minimalist approach to harmonic texture. Raw and subtle, it stands out from all the other arty instrumental rock on the web. It's music that you don't forget so easily through the mediocracy of myspace. Dezerett is a soundtrack of the escape into the inner.
But enough mooning... cick here to listen to their myspace page, write back, say I'm wrong and completely misled.

An Anthem for the inevitable decline

The subject of growing old has long been a subject popular of rock. You cant avoid it, we all get old and die (sorry, its kind of true). It's a fear averyone who considers themselves remotely human experiences, not daily I hope however.
Personally, Radiohead's "Bones" is the song that sums up these impending emotions the most beautifully - Angry with a hint of melancholy, simple but deep, a superb anthem for the motality we all face - "I used to fly like Peter Pan". It seems you still do Thom Yorke; you sadning, mopey, genius bastard. Now I'm truly ready to face the void.
The Bends Live