Evolving from page to stage to screen, War Horse’s tale of a boy and a horse thrown into the horrors of World War I is already well known. And who better to take a sprawling epic to the big screen than Spielberg?

From a surprise cavalry attack to a blast of mustard gas to the terror of going over the top, Spielberg masterfully visualises some of Europe’s darkest days.

Unfortunately this potentially excellent war film is compromised by a nauseating excess of equine sentimentality and some very dubious German accents, leaving an enjoyable film that falls short of expectations.

6/10

BEN HOPKINS

WAR HORSE
DIRECTOR STEVEN SPIELBERG
RELEASED JANUARY 13th
CERT 12A
WALT DISNEY

Right. Let’s all please forget politics and just treat Phyllipa Lloyd’s biopic of Margaret Thatcher as a movie. Or even an epic collection of vignettes, hitting so many heights yet failing to soar.

So much is fantastic - Streep, naturally. She defines Thatcher’s character, with maternal grandeur, single-mindedness, tyrannical inclinations and startling softness. Afterwards we wonder if Maggie wasn’t indeed playing Meryl all along, in an uglier world. Sets, lighting and dress, all are sublime from these craftspeople who’ve shone in stellar years for British movies.

We glimpse at vicarious tales. An old lady woefully ignores her daughter (Olivia Colman, beautifully sincere) while struggling to let go of her dead husband; he encapsulated the power she no longer has. A hero conquers a sexist institution, reducing second-rate patronisers to sycophants. An unhinged dictator creates her own downfall.

Most are excellent. Few ever connect. It’s tragic; just when we’re captivated, just when they have us, a whirlwind of history, predictable news footage and hysterical music, blows us away. Had we just one of these as a feature, it would surely be a masterpiece. Instead we have a chain of deeply affecting trailers, to films we’ll never get to see.

7/10

Words by COLM FIELD

THE IRON LADY
DIRECTOR PHYLLIDA LLOYD
RELEASED JANUARY 6th
CERT 12A PATHÉ

This London four-piece arrive as members of the dependably decent Domino Records offshoot, Double Six, and don’t let the side down. Distortion, fuzz and more than a little Kevin Shields homage are where things are headed here, with a rather delicate twee-pop sound chiming away beneath all of the production effects: think The xx after a few drinks. Having released a critically lauded single in 2009 - ‘Candy Girl’, presented today in more muscular form - the band have taken their time to get from there to here and, while they still don’t quite seem to be the finished article, there’s plenty of promise.

7/10

Words by GARETH JAMES

There’s a late night ache that flows through the eleven songs on this debut full-length from London four-piece Tribes. While its title suggests birth and beginnings, in fact, ‘Baby’ is more concerned with death and endings, its eleven subdued anthems reflecting on the present in terms of a long-gone past. “Oh no, stranger, you’re just like me,” croons Johnny Lloyd on the slacker swagger of Bolan-esque lead single ‘We Were Children’, “these things happen, we were children in the mid-’90s.”

Looking back is abundant on this album - a wistful melancholia that’s in inherent in Lloyd’s impassioned, sad rasp, but which is propelled by the jangly, soaring guitars of Dan White. Much of it was inspired by the death of Lloyd’s childhood friend, Ou Est Le Swimming Pool’s Charlie Haddon, but these songs aren’t about him per se; that said, his loss - alongside the loss of innocence, of youth, of love - permeates this record, from the direct mention of his death in ‘Corner Of An English Field’ through to ‘Halfway Home’’s romantic, rose-tinted ruminations on lost childhood and the sigh-filled existential angst of ‘Nightdriving’.

There’s a hint of Suede here, minus the urban decay, in the music’s soaring poignancy, though the comparisons that have been made with Nirvana aren’t really apparent - these song are neither heavy nor nihilistic enough. But who cares when you have the glorious, youthful abandon of ‘When My Day Comes’ and the strained regret of closer ‘Bad Apple’? An impressive debut.

7/10

Words by MISCHA PEARLMAN

2011 feels like a year for growing up. Where Los Campesinos! finally blossomed beyond just sickeningly enthusiastic youth, Casiokids are following suit. After a rag-tag singles collection and some equally haphazardly energetic live shows, ‘Aabenbaringen Over Aaskammen’ is their mark of maturity. But flicking between the cool offbeat skitter of ‘Kaskaden’ and playful percussion of ‘Olympiske Leker’ to the synth-kissed ‘London Zoo’ it’s all suitably unhurried but also unfocused. It’s a band comfortable with the idea of growing up but like kids trying on their parent’s clothes, the ideas behind ‘Aabenbaringen Over Aaskammen’ are a little oversized but not by much.

6/10

Words by REEF YOUNIS

It was two years ago that ‘Dominos’ - the ubiquitous single from The Big Pink - ingrained the London-based duo into public consciousness. They’ve lost none of that infectious capacity on this second full-length, which, while offering more of the same, nevertheless does it with sparkle and verve. Opener ‘Stay Gold’’s robotic gyrations shimmer with joie de vivre, setting the uplifting road this album follows. ‘Hit The Ground(Superman)’ chugs with a dissociative unease, while ‘Jump Music’ is an impetuous tune akin to a less nihilistic Depeche Mode. Closer ‘77’ is the highlight, though, demonstrating how, when the band get it right, they really get it right.

7/10

Words by MISCHA PEARLMAN

When the Pistols split in 1978, punk was still rising, so when Rotten reverted to Lydon and formed PiL, the world wasn’t ready. The eponymous debut single suggested a minor departure from his previous manifestation, yet when the album arrived, it was clear that post punk was born.

That debut single expressed Lydon’s frustrations with Malcolm McLaren and the album was a release of an unrestricted creativity. Under-appreciated at the time, it now stands as a pivotal masterwork which drove the genre into a new generation. Lydon’s affinity with reggae brought an infusion of dub and a wider influence from world music. There was greater emphasis on the music resulting from the partnership with bassist Jah Wobble.

By the time ‘Flowers...’ arrived, Wobble had departed and the band left bass out of the majority of the album. The result is a barren, meandering experience, yet it was Lydon’s most inventive writing and has gained wider appreciation through time. It led to the band donning a more commercial apparel into the ’80s, creating a chameleon back catalogue that has influenced a multitude of bands since.

'First Issue' 9/10
'The Flowers Of Romance' 7/10

Words by TC

Wiley’s latest cobbling together is infuriatingly irresistible. Asteroids-playing beats are knocked out in lunchbreaks, rhymes do as they damned well please (even that title sounds muddled) and there are concepts that are complete non-starters. But Eskiboys will be Eskiboys. When Wiley does get his head down he’s hard to stop, a start-middle-ending conciseness to most infused with some weird black magic thing that nags you into going back for more. And you do. Whether it’s promoting bedroom dancing or going for another Roll Deep crossover, like the football team that doesn’t play well but still gets results, ‘Evolve Or Be Extinct’ is the sign of a champion, like it or not.

6/10

Words by MATT OLIVER

It’s an urban myth that bands are not nurtured by record labels anymore. People point to now-household names like Bruce Springsteen and say, ‘What if he’d been dropped after his second album due to low sales?’ Then they’ll bemoan the wasted promise of Twisted Wheel and accuse the record companies of not believing in their artists. Well, if you’re as shit as Twisted Wheel, nobody is going to believe in you. If you’re The Maccabees, however, and you’re on a label that prides itself on cultivating their acts, you’ll find there’s plenty of time to grow and improve, and, by the time you reach your third album, it will be the best thing you’ve ever done.

Yes, two years after the dark yet incisive ‘Wall Of Arms’, the South London five-piece have not only developed their intoxicating soundscapes into majestic pools of sound so deep you just want to dive in, they have, quite possibly, delivered the album that will send them stratospheric. It’s their ‘Born To Run’.

At times epic, and at others beautifully tender, ‘Given To The Wild’ is an album of sparkling profundity. ‘Child’ rolls you in gently; singer Orlando Weeks is soaked in reverb atop a dreamy, chiming score, which three minutes in suddenly crashes into a feverish rhythm - it’s a journey designed to surprise and delight. ‘Ayla’ is carried by a scintillating piano, with fuzzy choruses that reach like spires into swirling skies. ‘Glimmer’ is an aptly-titled underwater swim, while ‘Forever I’ve Known’ soothes with whale-song guitars before biting like a shark attack - “Nothing stays forever,” Orlando mourns, but you kinda wish this song could.

An obvious first single, ‘Pelican’ is the most accessible and lucid track here - persistent guitars and a frantic pace leaves you breathless; the breakneck staccato stabs and slices, while Orlando’s words cut deeper: “We’re all getting older / And before you know it / We’re pushing up the daisies”. The programmed beats that usher in ‘Go’ are eerily desolate, but they deftly underpin a glorious mountain of strings and a piercing guitar solo. If your heart isn’t already slightly bruised by the time you get to ‘Slowly One’, then prepare to be crushed - “Every little loving word / Said out of love / Going cold / Little by little,” Weeks softly breathes, as sympathetic strings build to a towering cushion of dissonant guitars and warm chorals. ‘Grow Up At Midnight’, like a lingering kiss, starts slow and soft, builds into a passionate embrace, then pulls away suddenly yet sweetly, leaving you begging for more as the album fades away.

‘Given To The Wild’ will penetrate your soul. A band that makes something this poignant and evocative deserve to be heard. Given the time to explore and expand, this quintet have proven themselves to be something very special. I have seen the future of dreamy pop, and its name is The Maccabees.

9/10

Words by Simon Harper

Edinburgh may have been taking the headlines due to Primal Scream’s NYE gig the following night, but here, at Glasgow’s Barrowlands, this gig feels like a homecoming party. As one happy reveller puts it as we queue to get in (alongside Scream collaborator and kindred spirit, Irvine Welsh): “There is no better band, no better venue, and no better city. This is the best place to be on the planet tonight.” Ok, that might well have been alcohol fuelled hyperbole, but in a sense, he’s right. No wonder it sold out in minutes when hastily announced last month.

They were a band famous for their drug fuelled lifestyle as much as their music, but having grown up, grown old(er), and left the narcotics behind them, they’ve come out the other side revitalised, reinvigorated, and by the looks of things, reenergised.

Over 20 years since the release of their seminal album, ‘Screamamdelica’, the band take to the stage in triumphant fashion to the opening bars of classic single, ‘Movin’ On Up’, and despite having seen them play it many times over the years, it still sounds as fresh and exciting as the first time. From there, the atmosphere builds as they take us on a pumped up tour of other memorable tracks like ‘Slip Inside This House’, ‘Don’t Fight It, Feel It’ (which becomes an elongated blues jam that is a sign of things to come), as well as an airing of the tender ballad, ‘Damaged’.

‘Higher Than The Sun’, quite brilliantly, morphs into a free form jazz funk, before an epic version of ‘Come Together’ gives Bobby Gillespie another chance to lead his band, and the entire venue, into delirium, with that ubiquitous silver shirt providing a focal point for all eyes in the house.

But the funny thing is that ‘Screamadelica’ isn’t even their finest work. You need to look at the trajectory of ‘Vanishing Point’, ‘EXTRMNTR’ and ‘Evil Heat’ for that. Was it coincidence that this was around the time that Mani became part of The Scream Team? Who knows, but when songs like the politically charged ‘Swastika Eyes’ get an airing in the latter part of the set, this band are a ferocious, dark and snarling beast, and one that rocks harder and heavier than most bands you are likely to have seen all year.

At one point, Bobby urges the crowd to say goodbye to Mani, who is about to sign off with The Scream and go on duty with The Stone Roses, and the entire place responds with a chorus of cheers. When the bassist walks up to the mic and dedicates the next song to Celtic manager Neil Lennon, half of those cheers turn to jeers in typically Glasgow fashion. But these imaginary divisions are blown away by sheer force of this performance, a performance that confirms Primal Scream as one of the finest live bands in the world right now.

Words by Mark Millar
Photo by Dave Taylor

For a photo gallery of the gig, click HERE.

A candelabra replete with pig trotters, perched on the box office offers our first glimpse of the common thread running through this evening’s swine drenched entertainment.

A dozen or so tables are placed around a hay-strewn floor laden with menus outlining a 3-course pig-out, and napkins stamped with Matthew Herbert’s ‘One Pig’ logo. We are celebrating the final installment in the ‘One’ trilogy, an album created to represent the birth, life and death of a pig on a Hackney farm.

By documenting the stages and sampling the sounds in its life and its habitat Herbert is hoping to provide insight and provoke debate on the facts about the food chain that we seldom see or hear. Tonight’s show is designed to reinforce this. We’ll start by talking about the album’s true meaning, we’ll then witness it played live in its entirety, and then we will eat a three course meal, largely made up of the evening’s subject matter.

Food writers Tim Hayward and Matthew Fort are joined by Irish food blogger Naimh Shields and of course Mr. Herbert to discuss how food is consumed and perceived in the UK, and how through music messages on other art-forms can be delivered.

It has often been said that Herbert’s chat is as beguiling as his music, and he doesn’t let us down in tackling the UK’s culinary madness, talking of the ubiquity of pigs in everyday products (lipstick, margarine, paper, bullets and so on) and the horrible life each leads before squealing and bleeding its last for our satisfaction, and to our general ignorance. The ability to separate ourselves from our own actions is capitalism’s most perfect trick. Ignorance is indeed bliss in his eyes.

He slays ready meal culture, berates the lies we are told about where food is grown and packaged and manages to juxtapose homegrown food culture and DIY catering with the ethos of punk and acid house. By now we are eager to hear how this demonstrated.

Tonight’s musical set-up is centered on what looks like a hay lined boxing ring, with four corners wrapped in three layers of musical strings. The ‘Sty-harp’ is operated by its inventor Yann Seznec, tapping and playing some strings, pulling and twisting others to create swirling, echoing effects on top of pig samples of blood drips, innards, bone crunches and guttural grunts. He looks lost in machine-love as the evening unfolds, a mad-cap pig in shit, orchestrating a castration.

The music is not coffee table fodder, it is at awkward and obtuse, and some sounds are unpleasant, but Herbert’s composition and transition towards a head-nodding crescendo is captivating and pulsating.

His four-strong band, each introduced “on pig” all wear white lab coats, a neat nod at the food processing world, while Seznec documents the passing of tracks by changing into one adorned with each month of the pig’s life on the back, until he finally pulls on one in red, to signify its echo-chamber drawn-out passing.

Tonight’s chef Rosie Sykes takes to the stage to cook at this point, cutting, cooking and of course sampling her three course meat-filled offering, which is what the audience dive into after the show’s climactic deep space swine filled finale.

As everyone sits down to eat Herbert comes over, lamenting his malfunctioning laptop, but loving the reaction of the audience. Clash quickly asks what message would he want tonight to ultimately have, to which he wrote on our carefully stamped ‘One Pig’ napkins: “Think More Carefully.” Food for thought?

Photos by Marc Sethi

For a photo gallery of the performance click HERE, and click HERE to find out why we gave Matthew Herbert’s album, ‘One Pig’, 10/10.

Can there be any other band that would try and pull off something as wildly ambitious as there own version of a Christmas pantomime (or Phantomime, if you want to get it right), and involve some of the best live bands in the city, national radio DJs and a mega talented arts collective? Ok, maybe there are some that would attempt it, but there are none that could pull it off with such warped style and bravado as The Phantom Band.

Clash turns up unfashionably late due to shite public transport, but we’re immediately struck by what’s happened to the venue, which is usually a cavernous cave with walls of bare concrete. The entire place is decked out like a Victorian theatre, courtesy of Glasgow arts collective 85A. Onstage are Jacob Yates and The Pearly Gate Lock Pickers, dressed mostly as ghoulish police officers, and playing a kind of gothic rockabilly that resonates with the crowd. They finish with a garish tribute to the area of Glasgow known as ‘Maryhill’, and make us curse our own late coming to what already feels like the perfect Christmas party. And just like a real pantomime, we even manage to get hit right in the eye socket by a flying boiled sweet.

With the zombie caretaker on high, shaking his fist and abusing the crowd with dark insults, the compere appears as the master of ceremonies, taking the insults up a notch and welcoming the chorus of mock hatred from the cheap seats as he introduces us to the fabulously named Take A Worm For a Walk Week. If Fucked Up had grown up reading the Viz, and had somehow acquired a dry, twisted sense of humour as well as their distortion pedals, it might somehow sound vaguely like these Glasgow stalwarts, who have already gained an enviable reputation thanks to their unforgiving and often hilarious live shows.

After a brief interval, the evil half-man/half bastard rabbit compere returns to the stage (who knew it was BBC Radio DJ Vic Galloway?), then thanks everyone who helped make the event happen, before introducing ‘this next bunch of utter cunts’ and our hosts for the evening’s festivities, The Phantom Band.

Quite simply, The Phantom Band are nutty geniuses, unafraid to shift and twist from song to song, forever surprising and always delighting the listener with their gift for melody and imagination. Their difficult-for-some second album, The Wants, is a thing of beauty, a Scottish masterpiece that should, and does, sit beside all of the great and influential records that this country’s surprisingly healthy alternative music scene has ever produced.

Onstage, they are a juggernaut of aural delight, a dark and beautiful wall of noise that is punctuated by feverous electronics and twinkling percussion; beguiling, hypnotic and downright thrilling. Shamefully, this is the first time I’ve seen them live, and thankfully, they are as good as I wanted them to be. A brilliant live band.

And as a special Christmas present for all of you lovely people, let us end on another performance by Glasgow’s very own purveyors of …oh, I dunno…let your own ears decide…

Happy Christmas you lovely bunch of bastards!

Words by Mark Millar
Photo by Gemma Burke

“For me, the dream collaboration would be a toss-up between Marilyn Manson and Tom Waits,” says Kate Mullins, after breezing through an evening of feel-good classics for an audience of tea-swigging swing devotees. Well there’s a turn-up.

The Puppini Sisters – also comprising Stephanie O’Brien and Marcella Puppini – are a modern equivalent of wartime boogie-woogie combo the Andrews Sisters, with a twist: they’ve been described as ‘swing punk’ and have included indie classics like ‘Panic’ by The Smiths in their re-interpretive repertoire. But then they have also been working closely with Michael Buble recently. Are they ok to like? A guilty pleasure? Or an experience to be avoided at all costs?

You can’t help but be impressed by the talent, to be honest. The classically-trained trio have voices like angels – best observed on their earnest run-through of ‘Oh Holy Night’, the only carol of this Christmas show. They’re also gifted musicians, O’Brien sawing furiously on the violin, Puppini wheezing away at the accordion and Mullins providing both witty asides and some useful instrumental breaks with her blow-organ - the melodica - and plinky-plonk percussion (“I think I need to be taken more seriously for my glockenspiel playing.”)

This being a festive special they mix up the tunes, throwing in classics from various eras (a string-laden version of Wham’s ‘Last Christmas’, Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want for Christmas’ and your old-school ‘Winter Wonderland’) to less seasonal material. There’s an undeniably moving version of ‘Moon River’ – from their upcoming ‘Hollywood’ LP – and a frenetic swing stab at Beyonce’s ‘Crazy in Love.’

But are they cool? Well, much of the straightforward old-school stuff is done with a definite wink – on the gay Christmas wish-list they’re up there with Kylie and KY Jelly – and have an edgier past. As Mullins reminds me after the gig, they did a lot of work with retro electronica chap The Real Tuesday Weld years ago, while she personally is currently “collaborating with the people I was in a metal band with,” which would undoubtedly surprise her more sedate fans. What’s her contribution there? “I hate to say that it’s ‘ethereal’ vocals, that makes me sound like Evanescence, and I’m NOT a fan of Evanescence.”

Which is certainly a plus point. Has she ever pushed the Puppinis in a heavier direction?

“We did do a cover of ‘Welcome to the Jungle’,” she recalls, “and it nearly worked.” The problem for The Puppinis – who generally come up with radical new arrangements – is that the Guns ‘n’ Roses original was already pretty jazzy. “Listen to it, it’s kind of got an element of swing to it, so it didn’t actually sound that different from the original. So we thought ‘oh bugger that, let’s do something else.’”

And Buble? Sadly he’s no secret rock ‘n’ roll animal by the sound of it. Indeed, all the female attention is proving a bit bloody awkward.

“He was telling us the other day, ‘as soon as I got married, having this ring on my finger, it’s just making it worse’ – girls have been throwing themselves at him even more. He’s become unattainable.”

Metal-fan Mullins must find his stuff a bit wet though, surely? “I’m full of admiration for him, he’s like the modern day Bing Crosby, to be absolutely nailing what he’s doing,” she insists. “He doesn’t care if people like him or not. He’s having so much fun.”

And so, clearly, are The Puppinis. All power to their elbows.

Words by Si Hawkins

Artists returning to the stage after a prolonged break are often received with a slight air of cynicism. Whether it’s a band reformation or an old pop star, each live show has to be treated with the utmost care.

Many remember Adam Ant as the overnight success who, after releasing a handful of albums, disappeared in an air of mystery and rumours. Over the years he’s spoken candidly about his mental health issues and has had numerous musical comebacks.

Now Ant’s full UK tour could either be seen as desperate or a return to form. With rumours of a long overdue new album, it’s hard to imagine the pop star moving on from his trade mark ‘80s costume and make up.

But tonight, the tattooed, bespectacled Ant is barely recognisable, thrusting bizarrely onstage. Joined by The Good, The Mad and The Lovely Posse, they power through faint hits, echoing the same sentiments on stage.

Ant cuts a strange figure dressed in a feathered pirate hat and all his regalia. Yet it’s as if his attire constitutes all his effort for the show, conveying very little back to his audience. ‘Stand And Deliver’ should be a huge call to arms, a big pop song backed with punk riffs and charging drums. Yet it’s dampened by Ant’s attitude as he throws his mic stand to the floor and aggressively gestures towards the crowd. This brashness continues to alter during the night, but leaves the audience bewildered over his dedication.

His band also provides little support. Joined by Georgina Baillie (of that Brand and Ross scandal) she provides the eye candy but very little else as ‘Lady’ limps with poor lyrics and weak instrumentation.

Ant also remains extremely aggressive towards the audience. After promptly shouting at a couple for having a conversation there’s an air of tension as a heckler is quickly given his marching orders. It’s not until ‘Antmusic’ that the mood begins to mellow a little. ‘Goody Two Shoes’ is the highlight of the night while 'Viva Le Rock' shows off the punk highlights of Ant's personality.

After victimising his audience, a lacklustre encore fails to reignite Ant’s fanbase with ‘Prince Charming’ falling on deaf ears. It's not until the show is stripped back and Ant removes his glasses that we see a hint of that famous cheekbone and a flash of the cockney accent. But somewhere Ant has lost his musical drive, leaving behind a disinterested flailing pop star. When an artist returns it should be for the love of performing, yet Ant is left going through the motions and it distinctly shows.

Words by Ruth Offord
Photos by Jamie Boynton

It’s been a long time since most of us last saw Death in Vegas. September’s Fabric show was the band’s first appearance in seven years and much has changed in that time. Richard Fearless has effectively gone solo and this year saw the release of new album ‘Trans-Love Energies’, which has received widespread praise. So it is anyone’s guess what tonight will have in store and there is a sense of anticipation as the predominantly middle-aged crowd tries to work out which Death in Vegas they will be seeing. Will this be a new start or a triumphant return for the pioneers that were once so important to the intersection of electronica and rock music?

Opening with the first single from the new album - ‘Your Loft My Acid’ - it is immediately clear that we are not attending a reunion gig. The synthesizers are minimal and spacious, the bass is tight and the sample of Katie Stelmanis’ haunting vocal complements these to striking and sublime effect. The band members are new, youthful and note perfect. It is unmistakably Death in Vegas, but not as we’ve seen or heard them before.

This is juxtaposed by the seamless flow into the familiar opening chords of ‘Dirge’. The crowd is audibly pleased to be hearing an old classic so soon. Still the sound is subtly different: a new band with a different take on the song and you know what? It sounds better for it. It is a clever start and one that sets the agenda perfectly, announcing that there will be new ideas, whilst simultaneously easing the fears of the die-hard fans that have come to hear the songs they know and love.

So it is surprising that after such an intelligent opening that the next three songs are fairly uneventful. We hear the familiar clipped arpeggios and lush waves of synthesizer, and Fearless’s vocals (on ‘Coum’ in particular) are impressive, but something is missing. This is reflected in the crowd’s movement with pockets of dancing in view but no single consciousness of movement yet perceptible. It is not helped by the fact that the songs are slow (it’s as if someone has turned the BPM down on the sequencers) and Fearless seems uncomfortable at points in his new multi-instrumentalist and vocalist role. There appears to be a craving in the room for the more organic and intense kraut flavoured energy associated with the past and one can’t help but feel that the gig is drifting away.

Just in time, the situation is remedied with the arrival of ‘Flying’. The crowd’s relief is noticeable and the room instantaneously acquires the energy that has been so severely lacking for the last few minutes. Then we finally get what we’ve been waiting for and all hell breaks loose with the eruption of ‘Death Threat’, which sounds fuller and more ferocious than ever before. It is an awesome show of raw brute power and there is no turning back.

From here on in, we are propelled over the tipping point and every track is muscular and full of fire. ‘Aisha’ is unrecognisable from its previous incarnation, with only the original sample remaining over the top of a thundering decimated bass riff. This hardly matters, as the song has lost none of its guts whatsoever. To add to this the encore break is framed with songs that display a dynamism that the early part of the set was deficient in. After a pitch perfect ‘Hands Around My Throat’ the band closes with ‘Rekkit' (again, almost unrecognisable from its original manifestation) culminating in a barrage of sound and a strobe lighting display that would be capable of hospitalising even the most hardened of gig veterans.

And with that it’s all over before we’ve even realised what has hit us. Tonight we doubtlessly witnessed a new band showcasing new material - material that has teething problems and needs space to refine and grow. More importantly though, we witnessed a band demonstrating that not only do they have the ability to do justice to what Death in Vegas always were but that they are capable of realising it in a more authoritative and organic way than ever before. Far from being strangled by the weight of the past they are breathing new life into it and proving that Death in Vegas are not just back but that they are still as important as ever.

Words by Chris Wash
Photos by Matt Wash

Kasabian are one of the few bands from the burst of indie rock and roll guitar music in 2004 that are still around and on top form today. They’ve grown from the academy sized gigs of their self titled debut album to a fully fledged arena and even stadium band.

Tonight it’s the last night of their UK tour and the final leg of their two sold out appearances at The O2 before they return to the arena for a New Year’s Eve party with Chase & Status and Zane Lowe. The stage set resembles what can only be described as a spaceship crash-landed in an underground techno club full of lasers, flashing lights and a hell of a lot of smoke.

The floor is rammed full of a rowdy crowd peppered with Serge look-alikes. The band take to the stage earlier than expected with some seats still empty. Ten minutes later and there isn’t a spare seat in sight. The band start to play the beginning of ‘Days Are Forgotten’ and Tom Meighan appears. His swagger says he’s rearing to go, looking the definition of cool in his Ray Bans, skinny jeans and bright white jacket.

We’re treated to a few songs from their recent number one album ‘Velociraptor!’ but now it’s really time to get going with a set list of hit singles.

Before going into ‘Underdog’ Serge tells the crowd: “London, this is going off. This is going to be pandemonium.” He’s right. There isn’t a static person in sight and that’s the effect that Kasabian have throughout the whole night.

The older songs get a better reception than the newer, with a couple of the songs such as ‘La Fee Verte’ almost slowing down the set completely. No need to worry though, as it’s followed by ‘Empire’ – one of the better songs off their second album. There’s a festival feel to the crowd tonight. Everyone’s here to see the band of the moment and to get treated to the hits in a Kasabian style rave.

As it is December, Tom wishes the crowd a “Merry fucking Christmas” before they start to play their own rendition of ‘Jingle Bells’. There’s a cheer as they finish and the rock and roll show can continue.

New single ‘Re-Wired’ sounds brilliant live and the crowd singing along really brings it to life. During ‘Goodbye Kiss’, the band get the whole audience to make love heart signs with their hands – not your stereotypical Kasabian move, and somewhat reminiscent of Jay Z’s diamond. Some of the crowd look puzzled, but join in anyway.

Tom and Serge both have complete control of the crowd; they’ve got them in the palms of their hands. During ‘Fire’ Tom commands the arena: “Sit down everybody, trust me. Sit down.” And they do. Creating a massive carpet of people on their knees, the chorus starts and everybody jumps into the air yelling “I’m on fire!” It’s an incredible sight to watch as the arena becomes a sea of hands and the band finish off what has been a brilliant show.

As the night draws to a close and everyone slowly makes their way home, you can still hear the mass sing-alongs of ‘Fire’ and ‘L.S.F.’

Words by Sophie Williams
Photos by Stephen Fourie

To see a photo gallery of the performance, click HERE.

A full, and importantly free, venue was complimented by a full, and importantly free, bar and immediately I knew Lee Jeans were a brand I could hold close to my heart. All we needed now was subtle purple mood lighting and some music, which came from opening DJ: Jake McGowan aka Feeding Time. His grooves were smoother than clotted cream, massaging the early birds right on their beaks with lost pop amidst a soulfully wholesome set. He managed to allure to Christmas without ever dropping Shakin’ Stevens and tossing his cap in the air.

Then, along came Theme Park, with their faces all bald and gleaming, clad in fresh denim. A five piece that clearly sack off sex appeal for an undeniable need to be mothered. Each one: young, adorable and with the expression of bemused abandon that suggests they may have misplaced their packed lunches. Yet, at a point in their fledgling adulthood where they should still be sounding raw, untamed and essentially unorganised, they’re managing shrewd and measured tropical pop numbers that never despair too much to achieve their desires.

A cartoon pink elephant stood in the corner of the room, with the phrase “they sound like Talking Heads” daubed across it’s side in thick black paint. But so what? Few dislike Talking Heads. In fact, many who have heard no more than thirty seconds of Tom Jones’ and The Cardigans’ take on ‘Burning Down The House’, will often profess themselves as Talking Heads fans. People like the idea of being Talking Heads fans. Ergo, Theme Park are destined for success.

It isn’t all due to derivation, it’s hugely down to the pleasantly addictive nature of their own balmy funk-rock sound. The set built around the peak of their Luv Luv Luv released single ‘Milk’, but that wasn’t to say the surrounding numbers lacked. ‘Jamaica’ is as charmingly Caribbean as it suggests, complimented visually by the synchronised swing of the three guitarists, and the jangling melody of ‘Two Hours’ was potent. A short but sweet performance closed at the thirty minute mark, a set that never overstayed it’s welcome, and was never in danger of doing so.

Mim of Black Cab Sessions arrived stage left, as Theme Park departed stage right, to begin the DJ set that would close the party, and drain the bar. Known nationwide now, for setting up iconic acoustic sessions in the back of a London cab with artists as unobtainable as The Flaming Lips and Feist, it was immediately clear that his song selection wouldn’t be lacking. One timely blast of Azealia Banks’ ‘212’ later, and our wishes were his Traktor-enabled command. It’s a common truth; Joe Public doesn’t dance at instores. Tonight at Lee Jeans, suggested he doesn’t mind showrooms.

Words by Luke Wharf
Photo by Marc Sethi

View a full photo gallery from the gig HERE.

Pharoah Sanders, legendary tenor sax player kept the good vibes going in Reds on Sunday. He and his band (including one of the hardest working drummers in a festival full of hard working drummers) brought ATP’s hangovers to their knees. Jazz cures all.

Toro Y Moi graced the Centre Stage three hours earlier than planned and we pity anyone who didn’t get the message. For a 24 year old, Chaz Bundick has produced some of the most effecting electronica in recent years. Any concerns we had of the wistful, sun flecked songs from Causers of This being lost on an intensely cold and wet Sunday were dispelled instantly. Reworking a lot of his songs, Toro Y Moi was joined on stage by a drummer and a bassist, giving the show a hell of a lot more edge. To add to this, someone sweet-talked Caribou into letting the band borrow their lighting rig, which made the mental journey to South Carolina on the good ship Electronica all the more spectacular.

Orchestra of Spheres played Reds immediately after Toro Y Moi. Maybe the wind & rain had dampened the mood, but the best we can say is that they were basically fine. A New Zealand four piece, decorated in glow sticks and playing home made instruments. They’ve definitely got a fan base out there but really, once you’ve seen one sphere, you’ve pretty much seen them all. No need for an orchestra. The drummer spent most of the second song picking his nose.

Thankfully, Sun Ra Arkestra ladled some more jazz soup onto Centre Stage in the early evening. Fifteen(ish) middle aged to elderly men in sequin robes flitting between romantic melody, chaotic shouting, breakdancing, laughing, and telling tales of how they arrived from a far off planet to perform. Sample lyric: “Saturn’s rings, the rings of Saturn. Saturn is where discipline is from.” What’s not to love about Sun Ra Arkestra?

Tucked away in the Crazy Horse bar were Silver Apples, one of the greatest and most criminally unknown acts in world. Simeon was on fine form, right from the off when his first oscillator twist nearly blew out the speakers. Simeon looked genuinely touched by the warmth of those that love his work and those that had just discovered him.

Caribou closed the weekend with their Vibration Ensemble. An epic end to an epic weekend. Joined on stage by Four Tet and members of the Sun Ra Arkestra amongst others, the group worked through Caribou’s songs with zeal, complexity and enormous volume leaving our ears ringing. Sunday best indeed.

With that, ATP’s Nightmare Before Christmas was over for another year; Santa Hogan had delivered again. Any ATP doubts we may have had were soon dispelled. The news that the summer ATPs would be no more, the fact that only two stages were in use and that they had not sold out this weekend were all concerns, but don’t believe it. ATP is in as rude a health as it ever has been, even Bill Murray came along.

Words by Simon Lea
Photos by Elinor Jones

For more on ATP’s Nightmare Before Christmas, check out our Friday and Saturday reviews.

For a band who named themselves after the baddie in a soft-porn sci-fi movie, Duran Duran haven’t done badly. With 13 studio albums and 39 singles under their slightly widening belts, they’ve sold over 100 million records, helped to create synthpop and invaded America at least once - and they show no sign of stopping now. Or of giving up on glitter-encrusted trousers. Over the years Duran Duran have changed band members more frequently than the prostitute and her proverbial knickers, but they’re back now with the near-classic line up of Le Bon, Nick Rhodes, John Taylor and Roger Taylor (Andy Taylor left for good in 2006).

From our vertiginous perch at the top of the O2 Arena, all that can be said of Duran Duran visually is that they’re down there somewhere. Probably in a different time zone. Lucky, then, that there’s considerable life in the old dogs yet, and ant-sized Simon Le Bon manages the Herculean task of engaging an audience the size of Bristol. They kick off with ‘Before the Rain’ from new album ‘All You Need is Now’, a theatrical piece that wouldn’t sound out of place in Les Miserables. This is just an amuse bouche to the main course, however, and as the synth beats of ‘Planet Earth’ reverberate around the arena, the crowd lumbers to its feet and starts air-punching like the last 20 years never happened. This is followed by ‘View to a Kill’, with appropriate, Bond-themed images gracing the back screens, although oddly, someone has opted not to use the football pitch-sized screens flanking the stage.

In the midst of decade-defining, heavy-weight pop anthems like ‘Notorious’ and ‘The Reflex’, the new material stands up pretty well, possibly because it’s not all that different – Duran Duran have found a formula that’s worked for 30 years, why change it now? The excellent ‘Blame the Machines’ is particularly nostalgic and wouldn’t be out of place on that first, eponymous album, nestled between ‘Is There Something I Should Know’ and ‘The Night Boat’. Equally consistent is Le Bon’s voice, which is as clear as the days when he wore pirate gear and girls thought it was cool.

After waiting for this gig for 7 months (the May shows were cancelled due to ‘vocal problems’ ) you’d expect something a bit extra. This is wheeled on in the form of Mark Ronson, producer of ‘All You Need is Now’ and a man who’s turned guest-starring into a profession. He contributes some rhythm guitar and contemporary celeb appeal to ‘Girl Panic’, basically a latter-day ‘Girls on Film’.

Packed together like this, it’s striking how many hits Duran Duran have had, and how seriously they influenced the musical landscape of the 80’s. They manage to include most of the classics, including a heart-felt rendition of ‘Ordinary World’ (dedicated to “friends who have passed on”) although there’s a couple of disappointing omissions like ‘Girls on Film’, ‘Save a Prayer’ and even ‘Electric Barbarella’ for the really devoted. It’s clear that those sceptics who labelled them as fly by night ‘pretty boys’ were dead wrong. If longevity is the true mark of success, who’s laughing now?

Words by Theresa Heath
Photo by Stephanie Pistel

After White Lies drummer, Jack Brown, claiming that Manchester has the best crowds in the UK, we were expecting White Lies to be particularly charged for this show. With Manchester having such a great musical heritage it’s always a great city to watch great live music, with that comes very passionate crowds who are die-hard fans of the bands they go to see.

The combination of a band who loves to play in Manchester, who won a few awards after their debut album in 2009 including, Best New Band and Breakthrough Artist, and a crowd who is always one of the most energetic and encouraging then it’s clear to see from the start that this night will be something interesting.

Their show, held at Manchester Apollo, looks set to be a good one. White Lies gigs are always electric and exciting and the venue fills up suitably quickly. Packed to the doors with a diverse crowd, from generic indie teenagers to small children and their parents, everyone enjoying the night in equal measure.

White Lies take to the stage around 9.30pm to a patient but eager crowd and it’s clear from the outset that they’ve got a pure connection with their audience, creating an electric energy within the venue. White Lies have a dark sound about them that you only hear from bands sporadically. They’ve been compared to the likes of Joy Division and Editors. There is a vague connection between these bands, but White Lies bring something else. While the verses may seem gloomy and dark, the choruses are quite upbeat and catchy which was evident in the crowd’s movement from the start. There’s a contrast of people standing still and just listening in a calm trance, then dancing around to the catchy riffs particularly during ‘Holy Ghost’. Everyone seems almost hypnotized by the music.

The bands have a sense of seriousness in their stage presence, McVeigh stands poised and proud while not moving around too much except to raise his arms in a God-like stance, or hold his hand to his heart but the crowd eat it up. As the night progresses it’s was clear White Lies create an atmosphere of greatness in their performance with the majority of people in awe of their performance.

White Lies play songs from both ‘To Lose My Life’ and ‘Ritual’ which are both just as well received as each other. They may have had many mixed reviews, some love them and some hate them, and that may come with any band and music taste. However, there seems to be an emphasis on White Lies. Love them or hate them it is undeniable that White Lies put on a great live show with an atmosphere to match. They have a bright future ahead of them.

Words and photos by Cait Maxwell

For a photo gallery of the night, click HERE.