Live at Leeds reached the grand old age of six this weekend, bands and music fans came from miles around to take over Leeds and check out acts from every angle of the musical spectrum. The conundrum for the Live at Leeds festival goers is that there are great bands in great venues all over the city, the punter has to learn not to be greedy, or alternatively put the trainers on and run from place to place, in order to get everything in.

Leeds solo act Soul Mates Never Die AKA Josh Lewis, broke in the downstairs of matchbox bar Milo with just his guitar, voice, and black rimmed spectacles to hide behind. The audience slipped into the relaxed atmosphere of minimal chatter and polite participation. Josh's songs were perfect to start the rapport with the sleepy audience, they laughed at his humorous love tales and showered him with applause.

After waking up with Soul Mates Never Die, there was a mission to even get a glimpse of the next band. The queue for Leeds act Dancing Years trailed down the stairs of The Cockpit. The band's unique selling point was that no one else was playing at the same time as them. They stunned the bunker style room to silence as they mystified the audience with their beautiful catnip for goose-bump-inducing music. Lead singer David Henshaw's voice burst above the powerful folk songs, and even filled the room without aid of a microphone during one song.

The Holy Trinity was one of the most memorable venues on the Live at Leeds map, the church welcomed those acts whose haunting voices bounced around the eaves of the building and kept the audience permanently glued to their seats - much to the disgusted queue of people out the door who couldn't get in. Rae Morris captivated audience with her sweet silky vocals. As she pressed each key on her keyboard, her voluptuous hair bounced along and she smiled coyly at the audience which just added to her appeal.

One of the bigger names that may have caught the eye was Ladyhawke, the thirty-two-year-old New Zealand indie pop artist filled the O2 Academy. Her eighties edged music slid across the room and although the lights dizzily danced across the room, she remained disappointingly static.

In order to catch the next act Hawk Eyes, a sharpish exit was needed after a couple of songs in order to get to The Well. A buzz surrounded the performance and the rapidly filling room showed that the audience were armed with high expectations. As soon as one word left lead singer Paul Astick's mouth, there was an onslaught of windmills, moshing and crowd surfing. The band threw themselves full throttle into the performance, though their style is harsh and abrasive their musicianship was immaculate and well-rehearsed. Hawk Eyes were keen to reward their audience and when they placed the mic in the middle of the crowd, it paid dividends.

Another act on the bill causing a buzz, Alt- J, the quartet who have just signed to Infectious Records, left a huge row of people in the cold outside Holy Trinity after security couldn't let anyone else in. The band breezed through their set with precision and a calm disposition, and the rare appearance of a slight grin. Their set was greeted by rapturous applause, especially during singles, ‘Matilda’ and ‘Breezeblocks’.

Wrapping up the day at the Brudenell Social Club was Ghostpoet, minus his signature trilby, but he brought his distraught expression with him, due to his beloved Liverpool losing the FA Cup final hours before. He quickly picked himself up and kicked off the set, each song hypnotising the audience until they eventually began to sway. Finishing the day with a bang, a stage invasion had half the crowd dancing on stage with him, giving them a priceless stage invasion story and a new claim to fame.

Words by Cat Marr
Photo by Danny Payne

Click here for a photo gallery of the festival, including Alt-J, Bastille, Black Moth, Ghostpoet, Hawk Eyes, I Like Trains, Ladyhawke, Lianne La Havas and Rae Morris.

Bank holiday weekend dawns and it’s off to a Baltic Dalston for the optimistically-named Land of Kings festival. First stop on our stumble through the grimy kingdom of cool is the cavernous Magnolia for some fortifying Desperados, trippy projections and experimental electronica from the Public Information DJs. From thence we make our way back down Kingsland Road to the Eastern Curve Garden where Clash has decided to sock one in the eye to the British weather and hold a May day fete and reggae party, temperature be damned. We’ve sadly missed the maypole dancing, but we do arrive in time for the Four Aces BBQ held in honour of that legendary Dalston Lane bastion of black music. With Mr Mafro spinning sun-shine infused reggae and with our beer jackets on, we can almost believe we’re in Jamaica.

Power of the mind not quite overcoming our frozen fingers, we stop off for some fortifying Turkish grub courtesy of Stone Cave, then head off to the Servant Jazz Quarters where some folk gems are nestling amongst the electronic-heavy line up. First up is All the Queens Ravens who are fetchingly bedecked in matching, opulent vintage, and play Hispanic-inspired, psych-folk. It’s an intriguing mix and we’re soon nodding and clapping our hands in a vaguely Spanish fashion. They’re followed by Hall of Mirrors whose lead singer, Jessica Winter, bears an uncanny resemblance to a young Kate Bush, and sounds a lot like her too. Their quirky, classically-inspired dream folk owes not a little to Bush but is original enough to avoid out-and-out plagiarism. Beautiful and mesmerising.

Folk fix fulfilled, we swing by The Alibi for tequila and former Golden Silvers frontman, Gwilym Gold, who’s playing deep, ambient house and hip hop. From being almost deserted, the club soon fills up and we start to get our groove on. Suitably motivated/inebriated, we leg it to the Vortex Jazz Club for the inimitable Speech Debelle, probably the biggest name on tonight’s line up. Thankfully we arrive early because the space is soon maxed out, leaving us on intimate terms with the people on either side and wondering why this isn’t in a bigger venue. A crafty clamber onto a window ledge and we can actually see Ms Debelle who, frankly, kills it. She blends a dizzying range of styles into the live set, from a funk-inspired, bass-led ‘Live for the Message’ to the almost Rage Against the Machine guitar riffs on ‘Elephant in the Living Room’, which she dedicates to Tupac. Telling a devoted crowd, “There ain’t no amateurs on this stage right now, these are real fucking musicians,” she delivers a blinding performance and cements her position as the Queen of UK rap.

Lamenting our inability to be in two places at once and thus missing Factory Floor, we console ourselves by heading down to the Dalston Boys Club for some general merriment and hula hoop twirling. Like a retro, magical cave of curios and trinkets, the Boys Club reverberates with the sounds of Boss Terror and Comadisco while we quaff beer with random strangers on the roof terrace and all agree that Dalston truly is the Land of Kings.

Words by Theresa Heath

“The Camden Crawl is the one time you will see middle class families shopping, surrounded by teenagers racing around on amphetamines!” quips a fringe comedian on Saturday afternoon. And so goes the old adage that this early summer showcase is a fare of oddities and juxtapositions.

First up is the dense, reverb-laced drone of Echo Lake. Clearly aware of the importance of such a showcase they deliver a performance fully justifying the attention currently surrounding them. The first queue of the night is negotiated upon entry to The Barfly to see the “shambling” indie jangle of Veronica Falls. Though criticised in some quarters for having a derivative sound, they are the first act of the weekend to conjure the sort of dirty underground vibe Camden is synonymous with and it goes down a treat with the sweaty, leather-clad throng.

A change of pace follows as strings are traded in for the mixing decks of The Cuban. The main draw being the exceptional Actress whose latest offering ‘R.I.P.’ has dropped to critical and mainstream acclaim alike. Arriving ten minutes before Actress is due on there is initial confusion followed by the gradual realisation he is completing the last moments of his set and handing over to the night’s closing DJs. There is disappointment across many faces and a distinct shadow is cast across what was hoped to be the highlight of the evening. Hopes are high that day two will have better things in store…

Nursing heavy hangovers Saturday’s disappointment soon leads to optimism as a quick glance at the schedule discloses an extensive and impressive assortment of acts to guide the way through to the close.

A brief muse at Fiction in the Purple Turtle precedes a dash up to Dingwalls for the orchestral techno of Brandt Brauer Frick. The German three-piece huddling behind an array of electronic inputs creating classical timbres more often associated with Mozart than Krautrock. These they craft into pulsating beats and stomping rhythms guaranteed to move even the most steadfast of techno ravers. If hunting out the little gem is what you are after, these guys are arguably the find of the festival.

And so how to finish? The mainstream money is on The Cribs but this reviewer takes the controversial decision to check out Belfast quartet And So I Watch You From Afar. A happy decision it is too as they thrash out a consistently epic hour long set of angular math rock riffs intertwined with ambient, shimmering breakdowns and crushingly ferocious drops. It is the first time all weekend a band have been so in touch with their audience with no preening or posturing, just a no frills focus on the music. At a festival sometimes derided for pretention it is a timely and welcome reminder of how gigs should be.

There is no avoiding the fact the Camden Crawl is an odd beast of a festival: the only thing you can ever guarantee is an inconsistent experience. But this downfall is equally its great asset. It is a place that you leave with your expectations in tatters, and yet your desires are still fulfilled and if approached in the right way, this festival will reveal its many secret treasures. On that basis this year’s Crawl has delivered with aplomb.

Words by Chris Wash
Photo by Chris Todd

Click here for a photo gallery of the festival, featuring Echo Falls, TOY, Spector and more.

With the London indie scene gradually moving eastwards toward Stoke Newington, Old Street and Whoreditch, the idea of a crawl around Camden is starting to feel a little antiquated. That doesn’t necessarily mean that the festival’s days are numbered, granted attendance seems a little down on previous years and the line-up didn’t have any killer “I HAVE to go and see that” acts playing; a Florence, a Mobile Disco, a SBTRK even. Actress were this year’s hot ticket but with set times being switched and many gigs not on at the time advertised it became harder to keep ahead of what was going on, the overly complicated design of the event guide didn’t help matters either, but who were the acts of note you ask? Well...

Fiction, The Roundhouse – Saturday
With trippy visuals suggesting a bunch of psychedelic hooha alchemists, London six piece Fiction injected an element of lysergic energy into a set which revealed a love of alt-pop, the kind of left of centre screwball pop served up by Gruff Rhys and Diagrams.

With tracks on recent Kitsune compilations and support gigs to the likes of Klaxons and Metronomy, Fiction are one of those contrary acts who are too dancey to be rock and too jagged to be electronica, a couple of their tracks would settle nicely in amongst the company of The Maccabees whilst others have that same understated anthemic quality Arcade Fire are so good at, greatness looms.

Keep Shelley in Athens, The Barfly – Saturday
With a heaving crowd indicating a possible move into the mainstream thanks to heavy hype within the blogosphere, the audience at The Barfly was treated to a mesmerizing performance by this Greek four piece whose hazy chillwave is worthy of every sentence of hype thrown at them.

Their kind of down tempo dreampop is indebted to Cocteau Twins and Everything but the Girl with the drama of Bjork’s early solo material, their shoegaze sheen is given a warm glow representative of the country of their origin and lead singer Sarah P is the type of lead singer you can’t take your eyes away from. The music may be of an ethereal indie nature but the beating heart is the kind of sun-drenched chilled house beats played in every beach café from Athens up to Thessalonika, a highlight of the weekend.

Ghetts, Electric Ballroom – Sunday
Formally a grime artist, Ghetts on this performance is not only full with indignant rage but backed with a band who rock in the hardest way possible. How hard? Well when Ghetts announces “We’re gonna slow it down for this one,” then plays the grungiest Sepultura sounding track ever, you expect your ears are going to get a pounding, Ghetts deliver this. Live his music moves away from the hip hop/grime sound and goes for a harder sound reminiscent of Dub War or Bodycount… Good move.

Spector, Koko – Sunday
Britpop revivalists Spector may have the haircuts and smart suits down to a tee and from time to time manage a decent tune despite it definitely being influenced by ‘Hot Fuss’ era Killers but it’s the charming banter of lead singer Fred Macpherson that holds the set together.

At one point he announces that Glasvegas have pulled out therefore they’ll be singing forty-five minutes of their own songs and then forty-five minutes of Glasvegas’ direct from the lyric sheet, he quickly retracts this after stern words from one of the Glaswegian miserabilists representatives. Musically stuck in 1994, this kind of behavior can only last one album before they have to have a rethink but right now, their geeky brylcreemed charm is the kind of dumb fun missing from the UK indie scene.

TOY, Purple Turtle - Sunday
With UK indie in need of a major shake-up, it needs just one act to come along to plant the seeds of the next lot of bands. It happened with The Libertines and Arctic Monkeys and with TOY we have our first true post Horrors act. Three fifths of TOY are seasoned pros with experience in Joe Lean & The Jing Jang Jong with lead singer Tom Dougall also being the brother of Rose Dougall ex of The Pipettes.

Centre stage seemed to have been inevitable for Dougall, if you look at any picture of Joe Lean et al, it’s his hollow-eyed look and razor sharp cheekbones that your eyes are drawn upon, now he’s flanked by an equally as striking band, one which not only look great but also sound amazing.

Crashing drums attack metronomic guitar riffs to breathtaking effect, each member thrashing their head and considerable amount of hair along to the beat causing a classic 1991 shoegaze effect. Despite holding their influences very close to their chest, fucked up Hawkwind tracks mixed in with Neu! with additional production by Creation acts Medicine and My Bloody Valentine; TOY might not be fully formed as yet but on this performance it’s safe to say when they are, they will be absolutely incredible.

Words and photo by Chris Todd

Click here for a photo gallery of the festival, featuring Ghetts, TOY, Spector and more.

This cold, rainy Saturday sees Camden’s very British take on SXSW: The Camden Crawl. It’s also the FA Cup final so pubs are teeming with rowdy, beer-swilling supporters. Huddled upstairs, on a tiny stage in The Enterprise, are Melodica, Melody and Me. The room is full and bustling with chirpy punters. It’s one in, one out. Downstairs, the final fifteen minutes of the match play out and momentary cheers disrupt the peaceful refuge. Thankfully as the band begins to play, their soothing folk-reggae sound dispels thoughts of the rabble beneath.

Playing with only four (though billed as a six-piece), Melodica, Melody and Me have a simplicity that makes them wholly watchable. Greta Eacott beats a humble rhythm with brushes whilst singer, Huw Williams warbles. His vibrato quality is reminiscent of an old record. The performance is decorated with a taste of Latin America, as Rudi Schmitt switches from the band’s namesake Melodica to the Charango – a ten-stringed ukulele-sized instrument – on which he plays a captivating solo.

‘Ode To Victor’ has a juxtaposition of influences. It has the structure of an old folk song with a repetitive two-line chorus: “His song was gentle, his song was strong.” Williams sings this with an affected Irish accent. The middle eight, however, is once more Andean and then the reggae beat emerges: a fusion of styles which is hearty and pleasant.

Indeed, ‘Pleasant’ is the perfect way to describe ‘Melodica, Melody and Me’. Their gentle sound is pleasing and yet they lack a certain pizazz. After several songs of a similar tempo, the call of the bar is too tempting and it’s time to crawl on.

In contrast, Sunday’s highlight is Niki and the Dove – a Swedish collective with their feet firmly planted in electro-pop, and an abundance of zing. They are first on the bill at KOKO, which is relatively empty when they begin their set. The stage is awash with neon pink light as front woman Malin Dahlstöm takes her place in an equally pink t-shirt and matching rave paint. She strikes a pose with hands crossed like the wings of a dove. Dahlstöm is joined by a trio of blonde bearded men: two drummers and co-founder of the band, Gustaf Karlöf, with his bank of keyboards and synths.

It is immediately clear that Niki and the Dove is another band adhering to the current musical fad of “retro” 1980s sounds. Dahlstöm’s voice switches between a shrill Kate Bush tone and a silkier Madonna sound. Fever Ray is a notable influence too. Occasionally Dahlstöm samples and loops her vocal, layering it and squealing over the top. She beckons the audience to clap along, arms held high, as though this were a stadium gig.

Karlöf rings out catchy electronic keyboard hooks. He looks focussed as he pushes buttons and moves seamlessly between keyboards. The first drummer provides copious bass whilst the second jumps about, pounding a set of floor toms. The dance floor fills quickly and it is impossible not to move with the beat.

Niki and the Dove build the final song to a powerful climax, sampling and layering their electronic sound until the wall of noise is all-encompassing. Eventually all sound cuts out, save the echo of the last dregs of keyboard, and the audience showers them with applause. Dahlstöm summons her band mates to the front. They hold hands and bow – a theatrical gesture to compliment the extravagance of their performance – though a little pretentious considering they are first on the bill.

The beauty of the Camden Crawl lies within its arbitrary nature. The ability to stroll between venues and take in such a broad spectrum of music is wonderful. The fact that each venue is a pub or a club does mean a lot of alcohol consumption and with the FA Cup thrown in the atmosphere isn’t always idyllic, but hidden gems like Niki and The Dove make it all worthwhile.

Words by Becci Ride

Click here for a photo gallery of the festival, featuring TOY, Echo Lake, Spector and more.

From the opening distorted scuzz of ‘Only Shallow’, it is clear this album was going to break ground. The debut, ‘Isn’t Anything’, showed a clear intention to register a sound very different to the developing indie scene.

Kevin Shields was the mastermind and reluctant frontman to the band and, whilst receiving significant critical acclaim at the time, it was only in later years that the intensity, dexterity and influence gained full recognition. ‘Loveless’ was the band’s second and final album; it took almost two years to complete via a total of nineteen recording studios and came close to bankrupting Creation Records.

Had any of those things not occurred, one wonders how far short of the complete article the album might have been! Experimenting with the whole sound process, from controlled feedback to vocals buried deep in the mix, yet with a delicate precision that creates an absorbing record; one which not only stands the test of time, but transcends it. Songs like ‘When You Sleep’ sound as inventive now and would outshine much of the crop of young pretenders.

A travesty perhaps then that Shields never felt the compulsion to produce a further opus, even beyond the band, preferring to step behind the limelight. Conversely, it is difficult to imagine him being able to surpass what remains an archetypal classic.

9/10

Words by TC

If you’re unfamiliar with the alchemist John Dee, mathematician, astronomer, advisor to the Virgin Queen and supposed inspiration for both Shakespeare’s Prospero and Marlowe’s Faustus, you’ll learn little of his life from this album. But that’s not really a criticism; Albarn never set out to write a conventional operatic libretto. ‘Dr Dee’ is instead a magical mood piece, a celebratory yet plaintive Elizabethan masque about a spectacular fall from favour and grace.

It incorporates the structures of 16th century polyphony utilising lutes and dulcimers, the African kora and contemporary orchestration courtesy of the BBC Philharmonic. Punctuated with Albarn on guitar and harmonium and the infinitely adaptable talents of Afrobeat drummer Tony Allen, this is a genuine, audacious musical experiment.

We awaken to a golden dawn of birdsong followed by bucolic ballad ‘Apple Carts’, a fragile folky lament; ‘Oh Spirit’ is by contrast a brittle, hermetic liturgy. Albarn’s songs punctuate a traditional chorus constructed of characters from Dee’s life, a curious mix of Peter Greenaway soundtrack and Ray Davies at his most pastoral. Government minister Walsingham’s baritone is deep with gravitas and the counter tenor of the despicable medium Kelley, Dee’s ultimate downfall, is unsettling but sublimely beautiful. From Royal advisor and man of letters to communing with angels and consorting with devils, we are party to it all.

Whereas the staged opera was able to unify these disparate stylistic elements the recording isn’t quite so successful. Overblown yet elegant and intimate, this is a bold undertaking; arcane, abstract, absolutely remarkable.

7/10

Words by ANNA WILSON

Originally second division players in the indie league, The Cribs have managed to raise their game consistently and the last two albums showed true progression. Disappointing to report then that this latest offering doesn’t continue that trend. It all feels a little weary and, whilst there’s clear commitment and execution, the material suddenly sounds oh so dated. The songs generally lack a killer punch or hook and drift past with little impact. Some sterling guitar work does rescue things to a certain extent, although, with indie struggling to maintain status, there’s far too little substance here to encourage anything like rejuvenation.

5/10

Words by TC

After the spacious soundscapes of 2009’s ‘Truelove’s Gutter’, the Sheffield-drenched psychedelia found here may surprise but, thirty years from now, crate diggers of the world will seize upon this album in rapture. ‘She Brings The Sunlight’ is a stellar statement of intent, slowly building to a euphoric squall of droning guitars and sugary harmonies, while ‘Down In The Woods’ buries an echoey vocal at the heart of a bluesy rattle. Even when ‘Don’t Stare At The Sun’ initially evokes memories of tunes gone by, upon reaching the three-minute mark it soars in muscular fashion, the easy emotive colouring of strings left untouched. An unconventional masterpiece.

9/10

Words by Gareth James

Professor Green attracted quite the cross-section of people on the last night of his ‘At Your Inconvenience Tour’. The O2 Academy, Brixton, was packed with tracksuit-clad teenage boys; perfectly primped girls in their early twenties in addition to an older generation of audience members, all keen for the Hackney-bred boy to appear.

Following an audience sing-along of ‘Ray Charles’ led by Chiddy Bang during his opening set, we were treated to some party tracks from DJ IQ and Felix Billionaire who filled their ten-minute warm-up with guaranteed crowd pleasers like DMX’s ‘Lose My Mind’, Jay-Z & Kanye West’s ‘Ni**as In Paris’ and Azealia Banks’ ‘212’, the latter of which, the crowd devoured.

The calculated build-up eventually culminated with a dramatic curtain drop, revealing a full band, sun-bright lights and finally, Professor Green. Dressed in a fire engine red jacket, Green leaned into the tempered performance of a showman who had done this before and was pacing himself through familiar tracks such as ‘At Your Inconvenience’ and ‘Oh My God’.

As the band moved into ‘D.P.M.O’, Green’s swagger shifted into a higher gear and he was visibly energized by the beat and proceeded to bounce around stage with more freedom and share some tour diary anecdotes: “I fucked up my ankle in Leicester, I scratched myself up Blackpool and had to get a tetanus shot. Quiet down darling,” he politely told a young girl near the front of the stage, “they’re trying to listen to me.”

After playing the INXS sampled ‘I Need You Tonight’ and vocal-heavy ‘Remedy’ Green rounded up friends and tour comrades onto centre stage for a joint Jack Daniel’s toast to the last night of tour. It was an unquestionable party atmosphere for Green and his flawless band, which featured two very impressive backing vocalists.

The calming chords of ‘Astronaut’ prompted the upper circle to sit down as the lights twinkled and Green performed with a nostalgic quality – he worked the room with confidence and rapped with the performance of an intelligent man who is successfully balancing mainstream accessibility and the required grit of his chosen genre.

Not one to be selfish, Green highlighted his collaborators and shared the spotlight with vocal powerhouse, Haydon during ‘Forever Falling’ before launching into ‘How Many Moons’ with the explosive Dream McLean who stepped on the stage with the ferocity of a hurricane.

After disappearing backstage in order to reappear for the requisite encore, Green served dessert in the form of ‘Jungle’ and his first number-one single ‘Read All About It’ before spitting twelve bars of a new track, which referenced Simon Cowell, weddings and IOUs.

As he launched into ‘Goodnight’, Green, ever the bad boy, told a girl in the crowd to get back on her boyfriend’s shoulders even though security was visibly disagreeing with him. A savvy professional to the end, Professor Green emerged as a talented man with great skill and a keen awareness of where he sits in the mind of his audiences.

Words by Natalie Reiss

At first glance it looks as though José González might be dwarfed by the stage at Shepherd’s Bush Empire. He’s one man with a guitar and the noisy crowd are packed in like the proverbial sardines. Luckily things calm down about four songs in, which is just as well since González, with his inspired combination of classical Spanish and folk guitar, is a quiet revelation. Unostentatious to the nth degree, the subtly catchy hooks of ‘Cycling Trivialities’ compliment a mellow, perfectly modulated vocal, and hush finally descends.

By the cover of Massive Attack’s ‘Teardrop’ it’s clear how skilful a man González is when re-imagining already ubiquitous material. In his hands, this ‘90s tripped-out classic transforms into something resembling early Neil Young (think ‘Old Man’), while Kylie’s ‘Hand on Your Heart’ suddenly throws up hidden depths. For all her later pop brilliance, this was one track that desperately needed a make-over, and González draws meaning from what is pretty vacuous, plastic pop. With a set drawn from his solo back catalogue, we can only pray to the gods of loveliness that new material will soon be forthcoming.

Accustomed to traversing the vastness of the Malian desert, Tinariwen, by contrast, are utterly unfazed by the space. In their brightly coloured, flowing desert robes, they occupy the stage as if they’d been gigging in West End venues their whole lives. Sadly, civil chaos in Mali means that lead singer, Ibrahim Ag Alhabib and guitarist/singer Elaga Ag Hamid are unable to make the journey, but the ensemble nature of the group means that their roles are fulfilled amply by other members. There’s something heart-warming about a desert-robed Touareg wielding an electric guitar with such skill, and Tinariwen are a visual delight – the white swathed female vocalist undulates as she sings and claps while other members dance ecstatically across the front of the stage.

González is brought on for ‘Tenere Taqqim Tossam’, the only song with a chorus in English, for what is a highlight of the set. He adds a softer element to their now familiar, laid back, desert rock and demonstrates how collapsible genres of music really are – which is surely the point of Tinariwen. If the first half of the set is a mellow, head-nodding meditation on the Touareg way of life that drives the material, then the second half is pure Malian party. Comprised of some of their more drum and vocal-driven, rather than guitar-driven, numbers, hands are clapped enthusiastically on stage and off, and joy permeates the room.

There’s a surreal moment at the end when Jon Snow takes to the stage to present the band with the Songlines award for best group, 2012, thus cementing Tinariwen’s superstar status. There sadly may be chaos in their homeland, but with the likes of Tinariwen, Toumani Diabate and Fatoumata Diawara it’s good to see that Malian music is going from strength to strength.

Words by Theresa Heath
Photo by Olivia Ford

Click here for a photo gallery of the gig.

Do you like rock music? Do you like ROCK music? Really like ROCK music? Then you should make the effort to see Blood Red Shoes live. Indie metal rock seems to be their signature these days. It’s no wonder they’re grabbing headlines.

The incessant power chords and distortion, combined with the clamorous drumming, and the occasional use of bass drum in doubles relays the style of hard rock. But to look at the two, they wear the mask of indie-ness to the max (factor) with her red lipstick and stripy top and his clean cut good looks and a stage set of retro TVs and movie set lights. The contrasting figure of a couple of huge Marshall stacks against this backdrop proves that yet again the disparate tribes of metal headbangers and indie kids can find a common ground twenty years after grunge.

This could be said about Laura-Mary Carter as well. The mightiness of her limited sonic adventures on guitar, and swooning vocals, set the audience a-sail on a wave of loudness. Yes – for a two-piece they are very, very loud. Instructions have been clearly delivered to their sound guy to turn everything up to eleven. Yet her singing is in a pitch that wreaks femininity and establishes her as an alluring female figure in the current rock scene.

Steven Ansell’s drumming is dead tight and they both know their chops. Three albums in and the tautness of their playing seems to push and pull at the centre of the songs. The contrast of the music and identity also exists within the relationship of the band. She’s broody, lovelorn? Staring out at the baying crowd like those female icons of early Hollywood once did – icy, untouchable. Her body language is actually quite robotic, even non-existent at times. He’s the joker, the talker, the drinker. His body language is loud and boisterous – he’s clearly having a great time.

There are swells of energy that aren’t exposed at first, perhaps the audience is still coming to terms with the new songs, but from the first note of ‘Light It Up’, there’s an explosion, and the crowd ignites into a fist pumping mass. When Laura-Mary gets hit in the face with something thrown from the crowd, it surprises her and she flinches a bit, but her stance and industrial playing isn’t affected, she simply beckons to the crowd with an expletive and a smirk.

Where Blood Red Shoes go from here is difficult to predict. They seem to have deliberately moved the goalposts of their career from their sceney beginnings to the sweaty masses, and with a headlining show at Shepherds Bush Empire this autumn to look forward to, the trick seems to have worked. Only time will tell if their early edginess is lost in the process.

The Pixies once sang that “in Heaven everything is fine”. Tonight, for Blood Red Shoes and a thousand fans, it’s more than that. It’s a celebration.

Words by Libby Moné
Photo by Helen F. Kennedy

Click here for a photo gallery of the gig.

We had no idea what to expect from Newton Faulkner’s sold out performance. On approaching the doors, there was a vast audience; ranging from the age of fourteen to fifty. Even though Newton Faulkner may have been out of the public eye for a while, it was clear that he still has a strong following.

The lights dimmed and the whole crowd fell silent as the support, Emily in the Woods, stepped quietly onto the stage and began to sing a capella to the audience. Her gentle presence took the crowd by surprise, causing everyone to momentarily stop what they were doing.

As her first song ended the crowd cheered loudly, many intent on hearing more of what she had to offer. There is something extremely personal about watching one girl with her guitar and this performance in particular seemed to have a very close feel to it. Emily’s soft voice seemed to touch the hearts of those watching as she played through her set list with ease. As she finished her last song and took her guitar from around her neck, it was clear that she had created an effect and there was still so much more to come.

You could really sense the excitement in the room as the crowd rushed to the bar to grab their last drinks. Fifteen minutes later, the guitar slapping, dreadlocked man, Newton Faulkner, took to the stage opening with legendary ‘Badman’. The night had officially kicked off.

As well as playing some well-loved classics such as ‘People Should Smile More’ and ‘UFO’, there were tracks from the upcoming album and newly-released EP, including ‘Pick Up Your Broken Heart’, ‘Brick by Brick’ and ‘Clouds’. When speaking to Newton earlier Clash found that he had been slightly worried about playing new songs on stage: “I wasn’t really sure how people would react by me coming on stage and playing a load of new songs, but people loved it and I was amazed with the positive response.”

After seeing him preform, it was unsurprising why; this man didn’t just play new tracks, but taught them to his fans. Clash watched in shock as he managed to split the crowd into three, all getting them to sing in time with each other. There was lots of audience interaction and as the gig went on, it was clear that this artist really cares about his fans.

Newton’s good-humoured nature gave the gig real entertainment value and helped give a relaxed atmosphere to the packed room. His informal attitude towards music and heartfelt songs made the crowd roar with laughter and well with tears within the space of minutes.

It was coming to the end of the gig and after announcing that there were only two songs left on the set list, people were still demanding more. Newton finished with the fan favourite ‘Dream Catch Me’ and a surprising choice of the last song from his soon-to-be-released album ‘Write it on Your Skin’.

There was a real sense of not only playing to the crowd, but communicating with them. Both acts seemed to do something many music fans dream of; breaking down the boundaries between the stage and crowd. Whether it is a typical trait of acoustic nights or just one of both acts, people left the venue feeling like they’d gained so much more than simply hearing songs from an album. Not often do you see someone so successful carry such a humble attitude.

Newton Faulkner is not just an artist, but an entertainer, and someone definitely worth seeing live.

Words by Sophie Sparham

When you sign up for a life in rock n roll, touring obligations are a given. Expenses-paid international travel, complementary booze, nubile groupies and adoring audiences: how hard can it be? Well, temper that with countless hours lost in airports, developing Big Mac-fatigue and waking up every morning in the claustrophobic confines of a fetid tour bus, precisely three inches away from your drummer’s buzzsaw-snoring (with a mouth drier than Gandhi’s flip-flop). As the ‘Tap taught us, touring can break a band in more ways than one.

Having spent the past two months diligently plugging excellent third album ‘Milk Famous’ in venues from Philadelphia to Brussels, it’s understandable that White Rabbits seem somewhat demob happy at XOYO, on the final night of their tour. And if not understandable, then forgivable that they “lose” a guitar on stage, mid-set, only to discover it again, on stage… Presumably where they left it.

It appears cabin fever’s conducive to mustering up an impressive racket too, because, man, are they LOUD. Weeks of pent-up frustration are pummeled out tirelessly by two percussionists. Glimmering in the green light, singer Stephen Patterson hammers his keyboard, spitting out lyrics like, “An eye for an eye,” while malevolently eyeballing the audience. Two guitarists slash viciously at their strings in a haze of distortion. Bubbling, post-punk bass notes bounce off the concrete walls of this bomb-shelter-come-venue, ricocheting down through the onlookers’ bowels.

Perhaps it’s that the Missouri-formed, Brooklyn-based sextet are a long, long way from home; band members are now surrogate brothers and - as with any larger-than-average family - in the competition for attention, whoever makes the most noise wins. Sometimes it almost feels a little too loud, vocals getting smothered in the maelstrom.

It’s nothing a decent soundman couldn’t sort though, because live these Rabbits are tighter than George Osborne’s purse strings. Fan favourites are supercharged, including a searing rendition of ‘The Salesman’, an incendiary ‘Percussion Gun’ and a much welcome outing for ‘Kid On My Shoulders’, which shimmers along in a daze of demented piano arpeggios and tambourines.

New material is equally strong, perhaps thanks to being thoroughly road-tested prior to being committed to tape. The reversed, piano loops in gig-opener ‘Heavy Metal’ sound even more thrilling tonight than they did on the first spin of ‘Milk Famous’. They’re not scared to venture off-script too. On record, latest single ‘Temporary’ dispatches succinct sonic gratification; tonight it takes time kick in, emerging out of an extended fug of FX pedal mayhem, and sounding all the tauter for it.

As the final notes of ‘Kid On My Shoulders’ ring out, the lads grin from ear-to-ear, perhaps contemplating their long overdue homecomings. Though the smiles are reciprocated, we’re loathe to let them go because, live, White Rabbits are a revelation. Hurry back soon boys.

Words by Gemma Samways
Photo by Rachel Lipsitz

Click here for a photo gallery of the gig.

Icelanders do things differently.

A redoubtable nation on the fringe of the Arctic circle, the island has developed an outsider mentality where idiosyncrasies are common currency. Yet Of Monsters And Men are – dare we say it – almost entirely straight forward in their intentions.

Containing the same rabble-rousing streak which fuels Arcade Fire, the band’s relentless, anthemic approach has already caused waves in the United States. Booked to play the confines of the Hoxton Bar & Kitchen, tickets flew out the door with the ‘sold out’ signs blinking onto ticket sites within four hours.

Yet they’re an unassuming bunch. Lining up across the stage, Of Monsters And Men retain a bashful, almost awkward nature. Which is, of course, soon dispelled by the music.

Drawing heavily on their debut album, the Icelanders have a confidence which is rare in a new group. The highlights are, predictably in a live setting, the more nostril flaring, blood quickening elements of their output with ‘Little Talks’ bursting into life at the intimate London venue. Yet there’s subtlety here too, with their more introspective moments – step forward ‘Dirty Paws’, we’re looking at you ‘Love Love Love’ - notably pulling at the heartstrings.

Sure, it’s not quite the polished, relentless touring machine it will no doubt become but tonight’s show is all about promise and character. Ending with a slow, mournful take on The Cure’s ‘Close To Me’ Of Monsters And Men are clearly capable of taking great risks, but they never lose their will to connect, to share something with the audience. Shambling offstage, it’s doubtful if a London crowd will be lucky enough to catch the Icelandic group in such intimate confines – but with a show like this, it would be churlish in the extreme to begrudge them their success.

It’s quite a crowd tonight. You have your pick of movers and shakers – from indie kids to older country types, from leather clad rockers to the suited and booted, dapper dans to gothy vamps. There’s an array of beards, from outrageously long to odd double conical. There’s even a few clean shaven faces. Mainly the women. And there’s no telling who’s on tonight from the style in evidence. What the crowd is about to witness is not revealed by superficial means at any length. What is found later is that this is, as it turns out, indicative of Arbouretum’s sound, and therefore, their appeal.

The band’s sound takes the audience on a tour of the lush interiors of Neil Young’s home in Laurel Canyon, where there’s a different record from his collection playing in each room. From the first song, ‘When Delivery Comes’, a warm melodic number with American country tinged vocals, it’s an impressive introduction to their alt folk/psyche prog thang. Combined with their physical presence you’re expecting a regulation tour of grooves and moves from a Baltimore band who’ve clearly visited Portland, Oregon, sat amongst the trees, smoked the grass, and then digested the collected works of CS&N and Cream.

But that assumption is eradicated – removed completely, never to return, as the band continue their tour of Mr Young’s sonic mansion, each door opening onto another multiple layered sonic landscape that eventually becomes their own refuge of sound.

Into their third song, ‘Waxing Crescents’ and the crowd is accosted with male Grace Slick vocals – so vicious! – and heart throbbing guitar and drums. Then the light show kicks in. A venue known primarily for club nights delivers a visual bombardment that proves strangely impressive. ‘Song Of The Nile’ follows with a dark brooding swagger of guttural bass, vibrating and repeating the same note over and over and over until you can feel the hum scraping against your teeth. The drone, mixed with psyche stabbings of the keys and explosions of effects is reminiscent of the roots of an early Spiritualized track.

The track ‘St. Anthony’s Fire’ is a feature as it’s on their split LP ‘Aureola’ with Hush Arbors and displays various textures; from intimate, blissed out, lingering, drunken vocals to howls from the singer, the guitar, and the rest of the band - they all wail with shamanic fortitude.

When ‘White Bird’ kicks in the audience’s reaction is rapturous applause. No wonder as the fuzzy guitar and distortion is infectious. The drums rival those of The Creatures or Levon Helm’s more unhinged moments. The combination of the keys, drums and vocals clambering to the heavy heights evokes the psych rock of the Roundhouse in the late ‘60s. I’m guessing.

From the verdant folk to the freak-out, Arbouretum integrate musical styles and improvisation to produce an atypical sound and modern performance that at times could feature on both a Sonic Cathedral compilation and a more obscure compendium of classic ‘70s Rock. It’s all resplendent and all their own.

Words by Libby Moné
Photo by Elinor Jones

Click here for a photo gallery of the gig.

The stage is sparsely arranged with a solitary chair dead centre, a few microphones at sitting and standing height, and a piano in the dark corner of far stage left. Finally the house lights dim and the only pool of light rests on that empty central chair. It’s utterly silent now, until the footsteps in the dark suddenly reveal the dishevelled star of the show and the room erupts into raucous applause. The North Carolina native takes his tri-coloured acoustic guitar, mutters good evening and opens with the loving ode to his hometown, ‘Oh my Sweet Carolina’. Complete silence from the audience again.

Adams’ voice is note perfect and clear as a bell despite the emotional delicacy. Originally a duet with Emmylou Harris from the 2000 debut album ‘Heartbreaker’, it’s a compelling opener and is greeted with a deafening reception.

He follows with the title track from his latest album, ‘Ashes and Fire’. The eleven years of prolific music making between the penning of the first two songs may have resulted in diminished hearing, but Adams’ talent as a singer songwriter remains gloriously intact. It’s another deftly crafted classic, vivid with touching imagery and lifted with poignant harmonica.

The several thousand people present make their appreciation unequivocal and Adams takes a moment to acknowledge it. “Thanks for coming out to hear a bunch of sad bastard songs”

The third song continues in the fragile and vulnerable vein with ‘If I Am A Stranger’, from 2005’s ‘Cold Roses’ - Adams’ first album with The Cardinals. This is followed by another new song from the current album, the instant classic ‘Dirty Rain’. Having described the song as “being about ladies metaphorically”, it’s a typically soulful gem, as catchy as it is heartrending. Then again we revert back to his debut album and a song of equal beauty, feted by none other than Bob Dylan, the magnificent ‘My Winding Wheel’.

Apart from the occasional fast number such as ‘Firecracker’ and ‘New York, New York’, and a dubious comedy moment where he sings a song called ‘Mr. Cat’, the concert doesn’t stray from impassioned renditions of some of Adams’ finest balladry. He shares the occasional joke with the audience, and that contact seems to be appreciated. He even goes so far as sing an entire song about one audience member.

Ryan Adams has a staggering work ethic. As well as producing other artists and finding time to publish three books of poetry and short stories, he makes a huge amount of music. He now has his own record label called PAX-AM on which he continues to release his own material following the fulfillment of his contractual obligations with Lost Highway in 2008. To call him prolific is an understatement.

Adams is like a musical Wurzel Gummidge - able to change his head whenever he chooses to assume a new identity and talents. There’s the bloke-rock bluster of his ‘Rock N Roll’ album, the five alt-country albums as Ryan Adams & The Cardinals, the ‘Orion’ heavy metal album he made in 2010, plus the more extreme black metal material recorded as Werewolph and the hard rock tracks made as Sleazy Handshake. There was even a confounding detour into hip hop in 2006. But tonight we are privileged to watch the “bummer king” do what he does best. Even the most ardent detractors would have had a job remaining untouched as he graced the hall with eat-your-heart-out ballads and songs which don’t gently pull your heartstrings, but wallop them in submission.

Words by Nick Rice

Hanne Hukkelberg has been quietly producing brilliant music for some time, but it was only with this year’s critically acclaimed ‘Featherbrain’ that she finally broke onto the British music scene. Tonight at The Lexington she expresses surprise that so many people have turned up, and then gets on with surely the most innovative, mesmerising and disquieting set this venue has seen in a while.

Given Hukkelberg’s penchant for using found and everyday objects, it was always going to be interesting to see how this would be recreated on stage. Alas, there’s no sewing machine or whistling kettle, but there is an enormous fleet of guitar pedals covering the floor, percussion and keyboards. These combine for a particularly surreal version of ‘Featherbrain’, beginning as strands of disparate sounds that are gradually caught and held loosely together like cotton on the wind. On next song, ‘Noah’, we get the first real glimpse of the diversity and range of Hukkelberg’s vocal, which is as elusive and difficult to pin down as the deathly lyrics: “We are sinking down below/Everything’s sour in rain drowns all away now/Ice and ears and swollen heads…”

This sense of unknown menace permeates ‘The Time and I and What We Make’, which is full of the discordant arrangements that make Hukkelberg’s sound so distinctive. She and band mate, Mai Elise Solberg, scream like harpies calling ships to the rocks, while a guitar quietly screams. The live effect is unsettling and utterly compelling. Considering that Hukkelberg is sporting a headdress made from evergreens and is dressed like a 1960s department store Christmas elf, it’s also pretty disconcerting. Like the Andrex puppy suddenly going feral.

Hukkelberg now turns to her back catalogue, giving us the woozily beautiful ‘Midnight Sun Dream’ from 2009’s ‘Blood from a Stone’. More accessible and less discordant, it’s possible to see the origins of her later work in the theatrical washes and soundscapes. ‘Bandy Riddles’ lays bare other influences, revealing the jazz quality to her vocal and a surprising 90s aesthetic with some grungy guitars. There are echoes of the Pixies and even Hole, but it’s unlikely these bands ever recorded a song in a 7/8 time signature.

On ‘Crack’ there’s a hint of spoken word performance recalling that other Norwegian purveyor of avant-garde folk, Jenny Hval, while ‘I Sing You’ is David-Lynch-sinister – it could be a love song or something far more threatening and obsessive. This Pinter-esque feeling of unnamed fear reaches its zenith in ‘Too Good To Be True’ as Hukkelberg sings, “Do you want my eyes?/…. I’d rather not know, not see/What I see, it frightens me.” It climaxes with a visceral crescendo that sees her crying out like a banshee before frenetically clapping her hands together, as if words and then vocals have failed her. ‘All My Devils’ is therefore a fitting conclusion – a piano-led epiphany in which Hukkelberg resigns herself to her demons, and we along with her, after what has been a journey through the underworld of her mind.

Words by Theresa Heath
Photo by Helen F. Kennedy

Click here for a photo gallery of the gig.

There are many things that make Britain iconic, from its magnificent Victorian architecture to its dominance as an empire of production, but as characteristics they’re ones that now only seem to reside on the cracked pages of school history books. And it’s sad to know a history so lucrative in creativity is being lost to the empire of technology. It’s perhaps most welcome then, that a band so iconic to Britain’s indie youth finds themselves coming home to the magnificent Alexandra Palace, the place they passed as teenagers with big dreams a few years back. For Bombay Bicycle Club are coming home, and they’re head over heels grateful.

They play to one of the biggest audiences of their careers, watching as a sea of ten thousand people jitter in the husky blue glow of stage lights, dancing to the riffs that only three years ago existed as sketchy demos on a Myspace page.

This is the moment that every artist longs to cherish, it matters not what exists as stats in some corporate label boardroom, but the realisation that there’s an audience out there that cares for every note that passes from your guitar. An audience who want to share the moment of being in the same environment together, driven by your energy time and time again.

For Jack Steadman, this moment is the boiling down of years of hard work and emotional breakdowns, and to do this night after night just seems some ridiculous daydream imagined by the naive mind of a teenager with wild ambitions. “You might think I say this every night, but I don’t. We’ve missed you,” Jack says down the mic, mid-set.

There are moments this evening that feel as though we’re watching Bombay Bicycle Club at the pinnacle of their career (which bares the question, where next?) but at times, and although probably by no intention, they feel like a band bothered by the routine of constant touring. The last few years have raced by insanely quickly, and the trouble with releasing three records in as many years, touring off the back of all of them is that it can lead to noticeable strains. There’s still a sense of enjoyment that shines on the faces of all the band members, but every fan here tonight has probably seen Bombay a number of times in the past, and they know the routine. The set’s a predictable affair, and yes, it is full of every tune you’d expect to hear. But it’s the moments that capture the imagination that stay as the most memorable – the off the cuff remixes, the smooth slips between acoustic melancholy and all out electronic, and the pound of unpredictable samplers.

Bombay are a band far too dear to ever fall out with, but the question now is how do they slip the indie boy routine that phases the likes of Foals, and co, and grow into the regenerates of the fine age of British music. Arctic Monkeys managed the step up, and Alexandra Palace only proves that it’s Bombay Bicycle Club’s turn. But we can’t say we won’t miss the days of the bedroom recorded Jackson C Frank tributes, and the acoustic church tours. Damn you Bombay, Alexandra Palace was to be a wet goodbye for the fans of old. Because it’s your bloody brilliance that means you’ll only get bigger and less intimate from this point onwards.

Words by Robbie Wojciechowski

In one of those alarming musical landmarks that reminds you that you might be getting on a bit, it’s now seventeen years since the release of ‘Maxinquaye’, Tricky’s debut album. The genre-defining monument to trip-hop and outlet for all that seethes in the dark Bristolian heart was Mercury Prize nominated when it came out in 1995 – but it lost out to trip-hop’s other creative peak, Portishead’s ‘Dummy’. Despite being denied the accolade, the album’s intoxicating reputation, and the mercurial presence of its creator Tricky, is enough to draw a capacity crowd to the Manchester Academy on a wet and windy Saturday night to hear it being aired live once again on this three-date tour.

Still as Jack Sprat slender as he was at the album’s release, Tricky takes the stage launching without ceremony into ‘Ponderosa’, acknowledging the crowd with a raised beer glass. The volume of appreciation ramps up for Martina Topley-Bird, tonight resplendent in the most spectacular pair of glittery boots this side of glam rock, and whose honey-smooth vocals on ‘Maxinquaye’ framed Tricky’s malevolent improvisational style. As the gig proceeds, it increasingly becomes the Martina Topley-Bird show, with the singer providing the only reliable musical seam throughout, in contrast to an erratic and seemingly disengaged Tricky.

To be fair, it might be the sound issues that trigger him off. Initially he’s inaudible compared to Topley-Bird, a couple of intros begin but are then halted as Tricky consults the band as a restless audience looks on. Someone in the crowd shouts for him to “be happy”. Tricky replies, “I’m very happy, I have a good life,” but it’s unconvincing. He seems to be in a petulant mood and he’s all over the place. The insistent rabble rousing of ‘Black Steel’ eventually kicks in, giving everyone a lift and the band diffuse some tension and relax into their stride.

The momentum is short-lived, though. Tricky had well documented discomfort with the scale of ‘Maxinquaye’’s success and the fame that followed; it’s still palpable in the incessant tick that sees him grab and pull at his shirt throughout the entire gig – it seems to be like an adult security blanket and he can’t leave it alone. It’s a peculiar obsession but not the only odd behaviour we see. Some tracks begin and Tricky disappears from the stage for extended periods, or saunters over to chat to the ever-growing crowd at stage rear (Friends? Family? Babysitters?), leaving Topley-Bird to her own devices - which thankfully turns out to be liquid beautiful renditions of ‘Overcome’ and the ethereal ‘Aftermath’.

The music has lost none of its charged danger and the crowd willingly surrenders to its smouldering darkness and promise of kinky eroticism. With Tricky’s vocal thankfully restored to full recording volume on ‘Hell Is Round the Corner’ the recreation of the album’s addictive edge is in full effect. The audience undulates in appreciation, revelling in the crooked tour of Tricky’s internal dystopia.

Had it been consistent throughout, it could have been a classic. As it is, it’s difficult to shake the feeling that we’ve been at a full dress rehearsal for some other far more important event. With tickets at twenty-five quid a pop, fans could rightfully go home feeling a tad short-changed. The evening concludes as it began - with a stage invasion from the crowd deliberately orchestrated by Tricky, though this time he clambers down from the stage and over the crowd barriers to take a place in the front row, staying there to cheer on the fans that are in his place, gleefully goony dancing with the band. It may be an extended metaphor for something – though we’ve no idea what. The best Clash can say is that it was an experience much in the manner of the man himself, compellingly strange.

Words and photo by Nick Rice

Click here for a photo gallery of the gig.