Magic Wands - Magic, Love and Dreams

Apart from a few exceptions, I'm not an enthusiastic fan of club indie. So what is it about Magic Wands that is so alluring? Well, I'll tell you, because this is a review and I have to.

On my first listen, Magic Wands were teeth gratingly bad. Hell, even before that I took a look at the album title and recoiled and twitched. Magic, Love and Dreams sounds like a Californian self help programme or a cult on Valium. The corny Phil Collins disco drum pads and the hormone induced subject matter; everything about them seemed cheap, shallow and manufactured. But sometimes my guard against marketed music can be overzealous. It's only fair to give every band a chance and, lo' and behold, my opinion changed weeks later.

Described as 'slick and sexy' and 'dreamy pop', behind the glam and glitz are just two kids, Chris and Dexy, and their relationship founded on poetry, art and music - and (cough) myspace. This artistic/romantic bond is what gives their record its vitality and energy. They often sing in unison (used to effect on the track Starships), their image is handmade, moody and mysterious. Watch their music videos and you'll see what I mean.

The duo are at their best on tracks like Black Magic and Warrior. These catchy, swirling, upbeat electro-shakers are their two defining releases. In Kiss Me Dead, a guitar hook ignites a beautiful tragedy, but misses poignancy by inches, which is frustrating. Teenage Love is their worst. Stay away from it. This one attempts to be naughty and sensual - "Meet me down by the soda machine / show me now what our love means" - but fails miserably, like receiving a come on from a barely legal hooker. Thanks, but NO THANKS.

I think I like Magic Wands because, like most of my generation, I haven't really grown up. Their audience is one that refuses to charge forward into adulthood. I still like eating sweets, drinking coke and watching John Hughes films but what I've learned, in response to my insecure teenage years, is to glorify honest expression and to champion the freaky and weird. Spooky and minutely dangerous, Magic Wands set scenes of stone circles, candle light and kinky clubs. All your wiccan-geek friends may love it, but you might also be caught in its spell.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Jonquil, House of Brothers - The Borderline 13/06/09

It was 7pm and already Soho was wired and buzzing on a neon pill. Having never been to the Borderline before, I decided to head over early and gather intel on the local festivities. There was electricity in the air. The evening heat brought the hipsters, rockers, punks, drag queens, retro kings; every kind of oddly dressed weirdo out of the bars and pubs and on to the streets. This was my kind of scene. I felt included but inconspicuous; just another clown in some crazy circus.

But while the streets were vibrant and unpredictable, the Borderline was dark and lifeless. It was not the epicentre of Soho's Saturday reverberations but rather a musical retreat from the madness outside.

Using all the indie tricks in the book, House of Brothers opened to a slowly growing audience. The frontman was an emotional, swishy haired sort of chap of considerable ability, a strong posture and an honest voice. Despite missing a guitarist, they were tight and well controlled (although the harmonies were occasionally off). Not so much Jeff Buckley, more Pete Doherty fronting Wheat. It was all very reserved - too controlled perhaps - and every song ended abruptly.

The Outside Royalty, all the way from Pittsburgh, took it up a notch with their hunky dory, 'yeehaah' appeal. Their singer shuffled onto the stage on crutches gaining sympathy and locked attention from the crowd. They were a sort of orchestral Rock, like Arcade Fire or Broken Social Scene, making use of an odd array of instrumentation and hymn-like choruses. An electronic cello (always a plus in my eyes) added a folky element. Some tracks gave off a pipe tobacco whiff of Irish reels or jigs. Worth noting was their upbeat, post punk cover of 'Eleanor Rigby'. Tremendous whiskey drinking fun.

But every evening reaches its peak and, in retrospect, this probably happened sometime before Jonquil took the stage. Both Jonquil and I reside in Oxford and I've made an effort in the past to go and see them. What I remembered was their unbridled energy and confidence. It was definitely the Jonquil I knew at The Borderline - fragments of DIY Math Rock and textured melodies topped with a charming sense of good humour - but, avoiding any improvisation, they kept to safe territory. Though technically accomplished, it felt hollow somehow, like they were simply going through the motions. It would be foolish however to write them off. These boys won’t be dropping off the map any time soon. Compared with older nuggets such as 'Parasol' from their first EP this selection was underwhelming.

For me, the current Rock scene has always felt exclusive, like some big party I have to gate crash to be involved in. Just before the end at The Borderline, I took one last look around me; at all the trendy London kids and wondered what the rest of Soho was doing.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Here We Go Magic and the new Big Pink Single

HERE WE GO MAGIC - HERE WE GO MAGIC
If there is one thing that unites New York musicians, it's their strong and residing sense of confidence. They all display an ease that seems to be inherent, thanks to the dense and diverse history NY has for fostering the progressive and avant-garde. The city breathes with music and, unlike the hyper-aware, demographic-based market in Britain, NY incubates its sub culture, letting it grow on its own instead of exploiting it.

This inbuilt Manhattan poise is evident in Luke Temple's solo endeavour: Here We Go Magic. So too is NY's multiculturalism, shown in the range of world influences he includes (also a feature of Talking Head's Remain in Light). After opening with complex twelve-beat African rhythms played on tuneful drums, the album never falls from dreamy impressionism and soft, folky harmonies.

Apparently "developed over a two month stream-of-consciousness" the overall structure is interspersed with rich soundscapes under a canopy of improvisation. Each track crescendos and decrescendos like the evolving shapes behind your eyelids.

NY is also the home to Minimalism. The track I Just Want To See You Underwater borrows from Steve Reich's phasing and is used as a backdrop or ostinato in the piece. Tunnel Vision quickly became my favourite with its humid acoustic guitar drone accentuated by an unsettling note of B, sustained from start to finish. For the finale, Luke sings "Everything's clean/ Everything's new", like a sarcastic Kinks cover of a stupid French Chanson. A duff end to an otherwise unskippable album.

Here We Go Magic is not just a picture book of NY sensibilities, but a promising release that could see Luke Temple break from his simplistic compositional layering. The carefree mood is wonderful for a first but won’t carry any future releases. As it is, it's a natural and subtle album - as light as a leaf gliding in the wind.

*****

THE BIG PINK - STOP THE WORLD SINGLE
Whenever Radio 1 bestows its unwanted support, it's usually another hyped up mistake. Remember The Big Pink however, because everyone else will later forget them.

The Stop The World single drills home their particular style: a full and epic mix of huge, processed guitar fuzz and earnest vocal harmonies. It’s shoe gaze gone glam (a bastardisation of the rehashed genre had to happen sooner or later), and the chorus is belted out in such bombastic force they must be afraid we'll miss it somehow.

Crushed Water is a downbeat companion to the main. It starts out on a shadowy urban landscape; a glimmering guitar solo provides a small beam of light before it fades with schizophrenic (French!) chattering.

For all the noise, musically as well as in the press, this single's a bit dull - especially when put neck to neck with Velvet, their first. The eventual album will hopefully dispel all worries.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

Cinnamon Chasers - A Million Miles From Home

A couple months ago, some fuck told me that Disco was back. 'Lies!' I exclaimed, but to my horror he was right. The genre of tack and it's happy catchy attitude has crept back to our clubs, in various forms and disguises. Cinnamon Chasers is one of the guilty.

The debut album, A Million Miles From Home, is sci-fi disco with a hyper active, space travel narrative - the sort of music you'd play if you were a manga character, shooting across a nebula, on a quest to rescue some doe-eyed moon princess. Russ Davies, the brains behind it all, inspired by childhood fantasies like The Never Ending Story or Flight of the Navigator, aims for the serotonin levels. In his own words: "I try to create music that gives me the vibe those classic films gave me as a kid"

The album is very well produced, bright and polished. Several tracks brush on the bass led familiarities of trance; the rest are structured around simple electric guitar riffs and soft and breathy male vocals, found in Air or M83. Every synth in A Million Miles From Home loves being a synth - loves it! - and on tracks such as Modern Love and Adored they sparkle in 16 beat rhythms, imitating twinkling constellations.

That's the good anyway. The bad is that there's not much below the surface. Davies keeps his nostalgic electronica away from prentension but, aside from one or two tracks, the record has a limited lifespan. To build a continuous play count, you'd have to either be 14 years old, or massively loved up on ecstasy, to the point where the colourful beams of lasers and the music are 'one', you know? And I'm neither. Cinnamon Chasers is just a bit too saccharine and predictable to be much more than your average electro.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

It's A Lunken - It Is A Lunken

To enter the fucked-up world of It's A Lunken is to subject yourself to 1 hour and 8 minutes of grating noise and ear gouging tonal violence. Not for the delicate, the album becomes a serious test of endurance, one I hadn’t prepared myself for. Before their album dropped through my door, I was enjoying the soothing summer sounds of Nick Drake. I'm going to now need a few days to recover. That's got to be some kind of an achievement for them, surely?

In the apocalyptic vision of God Speed You! Black Emperor, the angry expressionist vein of The Big Black, and the screeching guitar experimentalism of Glenn Branca, It's A Lunken injects a potent dose of contemporary industrial noise, perhaps to the point of an OD. A painful record, brilliantly loud and offensive. They've found a good home with Sound Devastation Records and other stoned-but-serious 'ROCK' acts such as Sleep or OM.

Their guitar work is unusual and varied and sets them apart from your generic doom metal or screamcore (An example would be the track MK12 that opens with imitation church bell tolls). Melodies attempt to crawl their way out of the atonal surge only to be destroyed by a blast of distortion. The rhythm stumbles behind, wounded but still dangerous and the lead singer skilfully manipulates his voice into primal cries, howls and cult chanting, right to the very edge of its breaking point.

For a debut, it doesn't get more daring than this, but Christ knows where they can next turn. Another album of the same would spell a quick death. The raging tone of the record becomes comically macho and cheesy after too long. It’s all so very serious, someone should buy them all a Happy Meal.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

iTAL tEK - Massive Error EP

The merger of technology and sex was a brilliantly conceived, if nightmarish, prediction from the late J G Ballard, and there is something strangely Ballardian about iTAL tEK. When listening, we are passengers, consumed by a death wish, zooming over highways of blurred lights, propelling through curved and concrete terminals where machines rule. A cold taste of twisted, violated metal resonates throughout the music. The sensation of speed and desire is fed by an underlying sexual thrill realised in the pulsing, throbbing bass – a standard of dub step. With a decent subwoofer you can feel your loins shift in sync. It's disturbing, but addictive and compelling, like a scary movie when you were a kid.

iTAL tEK's new EP is not as creepy or dirty as his earlier material but is a more atmospheric approach divided into Side A and Side B, like ye old demo cassette or LP. Press play and the title track drops you immediately into a mind fuck of ruthless grime: hissing, industrial beats and 90mph synths. Snowburst features a tuneful sort of LFO bleeptronica ignoring every road sign on the journey. Side B displays a change of colour. Octa kicks off again with an off beat funk bass duelling with a nervous trip-hop drum track. The sheer amount of cave-like reverb in Ghost Cloud nearly approaches spiritual.

Massive Error is full of sinister ambiance and technological fetishism. Overall, it may be more of the same, but iTAL tEK's style is far from exhausted. Possessed by feverish lust, you can't quite bring yourself to unbuckle the seat belt from his relentlessly accelerating drive.

(© 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)

Yppah - "They Know What Ghost Know"

Successfully separating himself from other Ninja Tune artists (Amon Tobin, Bonobo, Mr Scruff), Joe Corrales (aka Yppah) grinds his own blend of folktronica from an eclectic mix of influences. From light-headed hip-hop and 60's psychedelia, to ear ringing shoegaze; the result is a seasonal release just short of perfection. The tracks are a little thrown together but the warm and hazy tone ultimately melts it into unity. Alien birds call to each other in the distance. Scratchy, insect-like distortion buzzes triumphantly. Echoing guitar melodies stroll through long grass. All of which would spin out of control if not for some precision broken beats to keep it in earth's orbit.

There are some beautiful moments. Halfway through the title track, someone opens a window to let in a refreshing breeze of rock organ, reminiscent of The Doors or The Misunderstood. It even goes a bit Aphex Twin in the middle of The Tingling. Besides variation, this feeling of reflection and deja vu is Corrales initial attraction. He pits a harmonic balance between what we know and recognise, against an education of compelling sonic oddity. The promotional review calls it "music which is epic and intimate all at once". I call it stealth experimentation with enough variation to occupy the shortest of attention spans. They Know What Ghost Know is an organic album that grows with each listen and is an essential for the summer.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)

William Orbit - "My Oracle Lives Uptown"

Yep, everyone's favourite producer is back. William Orbit was the guy who could turn shit into hit and, in some cases, grant profitable career turns for a few plastic egos. His classical background and open attitudes to experimentation seemed to continually give him the edge. By allowing a glimmering originality to emanate through anything he touched, he came to define 90's ambient groove.

But a lot has happened in electronic music since his withdraw from the mainstream and Orbit is stuck in the last decade - on one big ecstasy comedown. Granted, it would be unfair to expect him, or any artist, to adjust to a contemporary sound. A true reclusive composer is unlikely to be a la mode. What is expected, however, is a bold leap into the unknown; because if anyone could make it, Orbit could.

Eighth notch down on the solo bedpost, My Oracle Lives Uptown is nothing more than well crafted, focusing on the head rather than the soul. The anticipation of something exotic is being caged in by a worn out pop song structure. It starts well - offbeat pulses and modal harmony unravel and reform creating a colourful hypnosis - but eventually loses its way. His signature use of Casio keyboard is tired and out of place among the otherwise lush landscapes. We eventually find him flogging old tricks: melodrama and stoned pontification.

The album leaves where it came in. Minimal textures wave a goodbye and phase into nothingness. Somehow, I get the feeling Orbit’s keeping his greatest creations from us.

(© Copyright 2009 Brendan Morgan)