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)

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 Black Angels - Phosphene Dream

God bless the Acid Rock scene. Coming back in small waves since its 60’s heyday, it gave punk wings, fuelled the club era and gave countless bands inspiration and scope along the way. Its problem, like any bygone scene, is that it has a way of digging itself into a hole. Following the success of The Brian Jonestown Massacre, a flavour of bands have been touting the same neo-psychedelic trip for years now.

But there is something different about The Black Angels music: its wild spirit, sinister atmosphere, now driven by a will to seek new horizons. Their new album released tomorrow is an altogether more flowery affair, with bright rhythm and riff changes vaguely reminiscent of early Floyd, though their hallmark droning blues is clearly here to stay.

‘Bad Vibrations’ kicks it off with pounding drums and pulsing organ, throbbing like a memory murdering hangover. Already their familiar droning, evil-eye guitar riffs and foot stomping Rock settles in like a heavy mist. Then suddenly, three minutes into the track, a scream blows it away and we find ourselves running for our lives. Even the catchy ‘Yellow Elevator’ ending with a slow jam and a mystical effect on Alex Maas’ voice doesn’t allow the mood to settle for long. ‘True Believers’ begins like a Jefferson Aeroplane jam, falls into stoned reverie and takes off again with the punchy Kinks-come-The Doors ‘Telephone’.

Behind these tinted fragments of a revered counter-culture, danger also lurks in the echoing lyrics: “He takes his pill so he can kill, praise the Bible” This mixture of religion and violence represents a nasty side of contemporary America. It's almost as if The Black Angels are carefully decoding American mythology. In Passover it was the popular myths: The Road Trip, The Vietnam War; this time it’s the oldest and most powerful hypocracy in God’s Country.

With better song crafting and a superb production from Blue Horizon Records The Black Angels are working hard and pushing on. Phosphene Dream displays increasing energy and a widening direction for them. Drawing material from nearly every psychedelic band of the 60’s The Black Angels were never hugely original or even ‘far out’ in its truest sense of the phrase. But these days there are few that will come close to this kind of Californian freak Rock and hypnotic cool. A word to the wise.

(© 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)

The Brothers Movement – The Brothers Movement

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

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

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

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

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Twinkranes - Spektrumtheatresnakes

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

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

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

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

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Sleepy Sun - "Embrace"

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

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

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

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)