With six studio albums and millions of record sales worldwide, Placebo hardly need an introduction. Since seducing our aural senses back in the mid ‘90s and bringing their special brand of erogenous, emo-glam to the grunge era they have gone on to become part of Britain’s elite rock royalty and prove that teenage angst can still resonate through older bones.

After nearly a year’s break Placebo are here tonight as part of the Sundance Film and Music Festival, of which Brian Molko had to say: “We’re excited to return to The O2 to perform at this event. As a band, we follow our own philosophy of making the music we want to make, putting faith in our songs and records. The Sundance Film Festival has been championing similarly like-minded people for over thirty years and encouraging them to put faith in their own talent.”

Tonight’s gig is sold out and there is an excited buzz in the air, the crowd, though mixed in gender and age, evidently share the same stylist and tonight's directive must have simply said “Black.” We now feel quite daring rocking up in red and white. This is soon forgotten as the lights dim and the cords of ‘Leeloo’ drift out across the stage, the building anticipation is so heavy you can feel it weighing on you. Then a roar goes up and it begins, Placebo take to the stage launching straight into ‘For What It’s Worth'.

It goes without saying that this band play well, they ooze self-assured charisma and have the whole crowd in the palm of their hands, who are shouting, singing and undulating to the tempo, from the entrancing dulcet beats of 'Soulmates' to the more frenetic paced 'Every You Every Me'. It's all gelling together well and the first rate lighting rig supports and bulks out the already huge sound, giving the proceedings a feeling of completeness, stadium quality in a more intimate environment.

Half way through and the show comes to an abrupt halt, it would seem some mosh-pit revellers are getting a bit over excited and a fight has broken out. However, they soon incur a scornful telling off from Brian: “If you cannot behave like adults you can get the fuck out. No one gets hurt at a Placebo show.” Situation in hand they go on to play a rather aptly titled ‘Teenage Angst’ and within seconds it's all back to business as usual.

They finish the set and go off the stage after 'The Bitter End', but thankfully it's not the end they go on to play five more songs, including a hauntingly beautiful rendition of Kate Bush's 'Running Up That Hill'. They close the night with 'Taste In Men' arguably one of their biggest hits and definitely their biggest response. Playing songs from all their albums has made tonight a beautiful insight into the world of Placebo, a harden fans wet dream and an education for new disciples. There has been mention of an imminent new album in 2012. We can only hope this is true.

Words by Vanessa Higgins
Photo by Al de Perez

Click here for a photo gallery of the gig.

Nick Talbot's Gravenhurst project exists in the shadows. His doomy urban folk songs inhabit darkened underpasses and trolley-filled canals you really don't want to linger by for too long. Where previous records have flirted with psych and indie, this returns to the finger-picked sound of his first two albums. It doesn’t feel like a backwards step though - instead, ‘The Ghost In Daylight’ is suffused with hiss, drone and ambient noise. At its most pronounced, the glacial ‘Islands’, it sounds like My Bloody Valentine produced by Burial, while ‘The Prize’ ends on a blossoming climax of strings. His best work since ‘Black Holes In The Sand’.

8/10

Words by Will Salmon

Riding the wave of UK bass mutation ever since raved-to-death house workout ‘Rollercoasters Of The heart’ last year, Ralph Cumbers is back on Peverelist’s Punch Drunk imprint, this time with an LP. If said opus wasn’t warning enough, ‘Reeling Skullways’ offers more to Detroit techno and Chi-town heads than his purist dubstep followers, but what it lacks in grit, it makes up with fluidity. ‘Hackney - Chicago - Jupiter’ wears its epistemology on its sleeve with its pitch-bent hook and meaty 4/4; ‘Embrace Disaster’ exhibits enough melodic nous to make Omar S envious, while ‘Electricity Comes From Other Planets’ could be Monolake save for the sub-bass seething underneath. An intense, heady listen nudging the continuum that little bit further.

8/10

Words by Adam Saville

A lot of time and effort has been put into making cinema a more visceral, more immersive experience, whether through 3D and IMAX. Art collective 85A’s Chernozem: Kino goes way beyond that - although, technically it’s silent and black and white - by expanding the nature of cinema itself, going back to its roots in the cinema of attractions from the side show and the carny.

The film itself is, as mentioned, silent and monochrome, in the grand German expressionist style, shot on antique video cameras, most of which died during the shooting. This is a film, however, where the nature of the viewing experience is as important as the film itself.

Spectators are welcomed into the cavernous expanse of the Glue Factory, a disused warehouse in one of Glasgow’s less salubrious districts, put into booths and programmed with a story and characters, like at the beginning of a video game. This is all something of a red herring though, as soon you will have forgotten the complex storyline (something about a man with a factory for a head, and an Industrial God) and bizarre characters as you’re lurched into their world, chased, threatened and forced to enjoy yourself by eating popcorn, amongst other things.

To give away any more would be unfair, as this is a supreme exercise in sensory and spatial dislocation. It’s utterly thrilling, and feels completely new, in a way that cinema very rarely feels like anymore, something like being on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, but in a Guy Maddin film. Although Chernozem posseses it’s own unique steampunk vision. The program lists it as 45 minutes. When I came out of it, I felt as if had lasted 15 minutes. However long you feel it lasts, whatever you think that you have seen, you won’t feel shortchanged.

Words by Brian Beadie

Brixton Academy is packed, the cheers start and Mark Foster excitedly leads his band into the first song of their performance, ‘Houdini’. Taking to the keyboard, he blasts out the song in his wonderfully smooth voice while fellow band members give it all, shaking tambourines and smashing out great drum beats.

The Los Angeles trio have grown in popularity since releasing last year’s summer hit ‘Pumped up Kicks’. Last year they had just announced dates at Shepherd’s Bush Empire and a year later they’re gracing the big stage at Brixton Academy, not just once but three times. Both ticket and album sales are huge and the fact that they’re just real nice guys makes it seem well deserved.

The charming Mark Foster gets the crowd going jumping about the stage, switching from playing keyboards to assisting on the drums then back to taking centre stage singing. It almost seems like his daily workout, star jumping across the stage and strutting about with his hands in the air to ‘Miss You’.

‘Don’t Stop’ gets the whole crowd whistling, something which I doubt Brixton gets very much, and ‘Call It What You Want’ prompts a mass sing-along with arms in the air thanks to its plays on Radio One.

There’s something quite shy about Foster who used to work making jingles. He only speaks once to the crowd to say “Hello London. Beautiful London.” The rest of the night is left for the songs to do the talking.

As if there wasn’t a big enough party atmosphere, foam bubbles shower the crowd showing the band really do mean business.

Songs such as ‘Waste’ aren’t as well recognised by the audience, but that doesn’t change the fact that they are great pop songs with meaningful lyrics. ‘Waste’ documents the complications of loving someone who is suffering. Speaking of meaningful lyrics it’s time for the end of the set.

And of course there’s no other way to end the night than the hit that put them where they are today. As soon as the intro starts, the cameras are out, the crowd are cheering and everyone’s heads are bopping. It’s hard to remember that this is a song about a kid plotting revenge.

Halfway through, the song turns into a clubbing mix with Mark Foster putting his nerdy dancing into action to keep the momentum going before jumping into the audience pleasing some of the hardcore fans on the front row. The end nears and the crowd are showered with gold tickertape. The band say their final goodbye and the night draws to a close.

Retrospectively, the night was a great pop show by and band who are really passionate about what they do, but it seems that their touring schedule has outgrown their material. Hopefully after their appearances at some of the biggest summer festivals they’ll be back in the studio ready to make some more great pop tunes. And of course we’ll be waiting.

Words and photo by Sophie Williams

One of the later additions to the U k’s current-ish wave of ‘credible’ female pop-stars, Marina rocked up in early 2010 with her debut album ‘The Family Jewels’. And of course, we all knew it wouldn’t be long until one of them slipped up, whether it be La Roux or Little Boots or whoever else is bothering the dizzy heights of thirty these days; a femme-fatality. ‘Electra heart’ is an ingloriously languid statement of Marina’s demise, the final stamp of disapproval on her flailing excuse of a musical career. There is actually a song called ‘Bubblegum Bitch’ on this album. ’nuff said.

1/10

Words by George Boorman

The dancing fountains of light and chords laid by workshop elves are on overtime from Lone’s ‘Emerald Fantasy Tracks’ and ‘Echolocations’. Matt Cutler dreamily waving a baton at space cabaret and alien chintz (‘Dream Girl/Sky Surfer’), is the carrying over of an education listening to ‘Pacific State’ on infinite repeat, showing both the lustrous aesthetics but also that Lone’s no couch potato. Machinedrum waltzes in and hands over extra energy, before Cutler changes the definition of dreamscape and starts raving with the hardcore scoundrel ‘Crystal Caverns 1991’. The maker and breaker of neon daisy chains, ‘Galaxy Garden’ is a fantasia that’s as lush as a chain of soap shops.

9/10

Words by Matt Oliver

In 2009 Brooklyn-based indie band The Antlers self-released ‘Hospice’: a drastic departure from frontman Peter Silberman’s earlier albums under the same moniker. Critical acclaim soon followed with strong sales and stronger support from indie-kid bible Pitchfork Media, that saw The Antlers’ magnum opus usurp the title of Bon Iver’s ‘For Emma, Forever Ago’ as the most heart wrenching beardy bedroom album of the decade.

A deal with fellow New Yorkers Frenchkiss Records (new home of Bloc Party) and their second album as a trio, ‘Burst Apart’, led to ever increasing crowds culminating in their biggest UK headline show to date at London’s Shepherd’s Bush Empire. Expectations and buzz were high, and fans waited for the doors to open with baited breath.

Still riding the increasingly long modern promotional rollercoaster, The Antlers presented a set relying heavily on their latest offering ‘Burst Apart’. Opener, ‘No Windows’ showed a lack of presence and intent, in a move that would foreshadow the overall mood of the evening. Frontman, Peter Silberman’s trademark falsetto was strong but missed the subtlety and fragility conveyed on record. ‘Hospice’ era, ‘Atrophy’ was presented in a way that was almost Dylanesque: even the most devout of their fanbase would need to listen carefully to identify a song treated with the same sonic ambient backdrop reminiscent more of ‘Burst Apart’ than of the infinitely more accomplished ‘Hospice’. Taking the opportunity to road-test new material both the band and the audience were given welcomed relief from the tour lethargy emitting from the stage. Despite the increased interest from the band, it appeared, sadly, that live is not always the best way to see The Antlers, this was a huge contrast to their intimate and moving shows at Islington’s Screen on the Green last year and ‘Latitude’ festival. New songs were marred by the same sonic backdrop rendering them unremarkable.

‘Parenthesis’ showed great potential initially evoking control and structure before devolving into an over indulgent jam (perhaps a hangover from their recent tour with Texan post-rockers Explosions in the Sky), showing what seemed to be a complete misunderstanding of the genre. ‘Kettering’ followed, somewhat slower than the studio recording, further lacking subtly with drummer Michael Lerner accenting Peter Silberman’s melodic variations with crashes of the symbols leaving the frontman’s literate and original phrasing sounding merely clichéd and underwhelming.

‘Burst Apart’’s ‘Rolled Together’ brought the set to an unemphatic conclusion, before the band returned to the stage for the encore. The energy of the evening was elevated considerably by fan favourite, ‘Two’, without doubt the finest performance of the evening. With this simple song and consistent drum beat The Antlers proved themselves a band infused with brilliance that had appeared only spasmodically during the main set.

Despite The Antlers’ lack of delivery and intimacy, they remain one of today’s most relevant and innovative bands. ‘Hospice’ is without doubt one of the most accomplished albums of the last ten years, what this live performance lacked was the intimacy shown possible by the stellar performances of indie royalty Jeff Mangum and alt-country-rocker Ryan Adams.

Words by Kate O’Sullivan
Photo by Shervin Lainez

Poliça is the first project to emerge from the Gayngs stable and, rather unsurprisingly, doesn’t disappoint. Ryan Olsen delivers a lesson in production by hammering out synth driven layers, held together by the completely diametrically opposed Channy Leanagh - who imparts an altered vocal so soft and somehow natural that you wonder how the effect can be this integrated. It shouldn’t work: Olsen and Leanagh are from different musical planets. Yet it does. Take Poliça out of the Gayngs context and allow the album the space it deserves on its own merit. This record is an exploration into the synergy of reengineering technology and humanity. Let yourself be taken on the journey.

8/10

Words by Samuel Ballard

For any band talented (and fortunate) enough to make it to a fourth album the pressure is on to deliver a career-high tour de force. Their sonic DNA has been already been revealed, blueprints have been established and the bar of expectation has been raised to a vertiginous high. Some bands revel in such pressure - ‘The Queen Is Dead’ and ‘Elephant’ were fourth albums that showcased The Smiths and The White Stripes on scintillating form. This month’s Beach House release is a similar beast - the sound of a band, hopefully, ramping up their quality.

So, Mystery Jets fourth long-player ‘Radlands’ is a significant moment. After 2010’s marvellous ‘Serotonin’, the five-piece decided to leave London to seek their inspiration. Recorded mainly in a ramshackle house on the banks of the Colorado River in Austin, Texas, the eleven tracks that make up ‘Radlands’ are nigh on magnificent. From the exuberant rattle of the opening title-track, to the ‘campfire and whisky’ balladry of the closing ‘Luminescence’, both the songwriting and musicianship on display surge with confidence.

Such self-belief allows ‘Radlands’ to stray into the dreamy funk of ‘The Hale Bop’ and namedrop their favourite albums on the Kinks-like ‘Greatest Hits’, while Blaine Harrison duets with Sophie Rose on the spell-binding ‘Take Me Where The Roses Grow’. Refreshingly, ‘Radlands’ is gimmick-free - it is simply a superb collection of beautifully captured moments and suggests that Mystery Jets are going to be making great music for a very long time.

8/10

Words by JOHN FREEMAN

Progressing from wonky and sick-hop beats to more heavily realised electro, Lazer Sword have come a long way from their debut on Numbers. Antaeus Roy (AKA Lando Kal) and Bryant Rutledge (AKA Low Limit) now inhabit different continents and have sacked off their jobs at trendy dance blog XLR8R. But you’d never know, such is the lysergic meat that hangs from the jacking bones found on ‘Memory’ - hurling in B-Boy attitude, sizzling electro, the sprit of dancehall, Chicago’s footwork scene and more Detroit hues - it’s about as modern an electronic record as you can get. It’d pretty much safe to say that ‘Memory’ won’t be fading for a while.

7/10

Words by MATTHEW BENNETT

Since releasing her 2008 debut, New Zealander Ladyhawke (AKA Pip Brown) seemed to disappear off the radar along with acts such as La Roux. Unlike other acts, however, Brown has come back with a strong sophomore album, of which she played all of her new tracks along with old favourites at Gloucester Guildhall.

As the lights went down, Brown walked on stage with her head down, dressed in an oversized shirt and plain jeans towards her fairy light covered microphone to open the show. Initially she took a few songs to begin interaction with the audience (at one point an audience member shouted “Talk more!”). Even when doing so she seemed nervous about the new material, possibly due to her second album ‘Anxiety’ being pushed back to a late May release when it was expected to be out in March. Her apprehension proved to be part of her charm; it felt more intimate as the cheers from the audience eased Brown’s nervousness.

Although the crowd couldn’t join in with new songs at the tentative start, older songs ‘Professional Suicide’ and ‘Paris Is Burning’ received a strong reaction and got the audience more involved with people moving and singing along. She also showed much more confidence; her vocals became less overpowered by the drums and melodies whilst performing the older material. That’s not to say, however, that Brown’s previously unheard tracks were weak; ‘Girl like Me’, ‘Vaccine’ and ‘The Quick & The Dead’ showed a slight change in musical direction. Gone were the electronic elements to make way for a rockier edge with huge indie guitar riffs and dirtier vocals. In slower songs, Brown also showed her vocal ability as she delivered smooth and heartfelt lyrics, always with her eyes closed, as everyone felt her vulnerability.

There was no choreography, no gimmicks in the show, the focus was purely on the strength of the new material, everyone in the room captivated by the power of the guitar, bass and vocals. Many in the room seemed as if they had never heard of Ladyhawke at all, but by the end as Brown played possibly her most well-known hit, ‘My Delirium’, with the lights down and the fairy lights illuminating her, the crowd were shouting and jumping, the spring-loaded floor was bouncing and everyone was fully enjoying the song with smiles on their faces as it came to a close. Brown slowly exited looking satisfied as the claps and cheers continued for a few minutes. The crowd were won over with the quality of songs from ‘Anxiety’ and it seemed that Brown had improved greatly since her debut.

Words by Megan Collier

Gravenhurst isn’t a name plucked from the ether, snatched from the forces of chance.

Nick Talbot knew what he was doing when he adopted the moniker. Listening to recent album ‘The Ghost In Daylight’ you’re struck by how apt the whole persona, the name really is – it’s a stark, sometimes desolate collection of songs (‘grave’) filtered through a profoundly English consciousness (‘hurst’).

So it’s perhaps appropriate that Talbot has decided to launch his latest opus in St Pancras Church. An immaculate conception, the show opens with a solo set from Sonic Cathedral associate Fairewell.

Armed with only an acoustic guitar, the stripped down set allows Fairewell to present a humble, human side. Tunings are accomplished at the great length, with the strings winding down alongside some rambling yet engaging anecdotes.

Arriving onstage, Gravenhurst is an oddly unassuming proposition. Clutching his acoustic guitar, Nick Talbot is joined by guest vocalist Rachel Lancaster – two thirds of his new Gravenhurst assemble.

Beautifully produced, the material from ‘The Ghost In Daylight’ dominates the show. The setting fits the music, with Nick Talbot’s quiet, unassuming nature allowing his songcraft to really take centre stage.

Whether fiddling with equipment or unfurling a humorous story, Talabot is never less than engaging. Switching to an electric guitar for ‘The Prize’ the Bristol based artist is able to raise the volume a little, but never at the expense of his delicately assembled songwriting.

Surrounded by religious paraphernalia, Gravenhurst seems to bring out both the absurdity and beauty of the situation. Bumbling yet effective, the performance ends with Talbot drowned out by the ringing of church bells. It’s all so pleasingly English.

Along the way to Heaven there are a number of slogans sprayed onto the pavements of Embankment promoting the new Santigold album, ‘Master Of My Make-Believe’. Tonight is, after all, a very big deal. Aside from a few inner-city festival appearances, she hasn't played her own headlining show in the capital for some time and all the tickets were snapped up many weeks ago. It's one of those shows that could certainly stake a claim to being one of the hottest tickets in London.

The venue is packed as Santi White appears onstage flanked by two “bad-ass dancers” as she calls them, as well as a three-piece backing band. She's obviously raring to go after such a long absence and manages to rattle through a pretty extensive set that gets through a lot of her popular singles and album cuts from both LPs. You'd be hard pressed to find someone whose favourite song isn’t played.

Santigold herself has an incredibly charming stage presence. Unlike a few of her pop contemporaries she comes across as down-to-earth and spends a lot of the gig grinning like the Cheshire Cat, always checking to see if people are enjoying themselves and cracking jokes with audience members. The way she addresses certain members of the crowd near the front is almost as if she’s nattering away with friends.

In terms of how her music sounds on stage, the bass remains key as it rumbles through the venue just as much as it does on record, though the synths, guitars and drums aren’t forgotten about. Her backing band lurks behind in the shadows but they perform their roles solidly and, to their credit, without a miss-step for a whole hour.

They also come out of the starting blocks with a bang. The military marching of 'GO' then makes way for a trio of first album cuts – 'L.E.S. Artistes', 'Lights Out' and 'Say Aha', all of which send the audience in raptures. When the heavenly synths of 'God from the Machine' blares out it threatens to bring the gig down. Thankfully, the rest of the show is a bit more balanced and her new songs fit in well. 'The Keepers' and 'Fame' sound like tunes we've known for years rather than a week, whilst 'Freak Like Me' is good fun. Lead single 'Disparate Youth', which prompts someone to raise their umbrella in sync with the dancers, is just as well-received by the crowd as 'You'll Find A Way'.

Surrounding all of this noise is a string of other surprises. For a start, the dancers are mightily impressive and just as watchable as Santigold herself. There's a bizarre routine before a cover of Major Lazer's 'Hold the Line' and, all of a sudden, you hear a neigh. That's because her band have strolled onto the stage dressed up as a pantomime horse. It's very silly but also quite entertaining. Other highlights include the stage invasion before 'Creator' and one or two costume changes. Put simply, they work very hard to make this a show to remember.

It's refreshing, though, that amidst all the choreography and the pantomime horses, it's the music that stands out more than anything else. Tonight is as much about the songs as it is about the spectacle and Santigold has more than enough good tunes to warrant a great night out. The music world is a better place for her presence.

Words by Max Raymond

In an interview with Clash back in January, The Magnetic Fields frontman Stephin Merritt promised there would be kazoos on the upcoming tour for new release ‘Love At The Bottom of The Sea’ – he wasn’t lying. In the subdued and respectful surroundings of the Southbank’s Royal Festival Hall the five piece Fields combined piano, cello, guitar and, at times, kazoo to bring Merritt’s hilarious and heart-breaking tales to life. The most un-rock ‘n’ roll looking group on the planet, the band cheerfully whizz through a huge catalogue of songs (setlist and lyrics professionally placed on music stands) to create an emotive and spellbinding night for all.

Some twenty years into their career The Fields are one of the best bands “no one” has heard of. Like many cult groups a very dedicated fan base has insured the bands longevity, not to mention a 2010 documentary with the likes of acclaimed author Neil Gaiman fawning over Merritt’s lyrical genius. It is certainly the bookish types that have come to catch the band tonight; the audience is a sea of jumpers, brogues and overpriced red wine. Still, this does not stop them from jumping with joy when witty wordplay or rarities appear. When the heartfelt songs about lost lovers contains lyrics such as “Come back from San Francisco and kiss me, I’ve quit smoking” the night is a delightful mix of laughs and laments.

Every song is absorbed in complete silence; one does not dare to move as Merritt stands solemnly over his harmonium and begins. “This is a song about some poultry that met an unfortunate end” and with this ‘Chicken with its Head Cut Off’ unfolds, a favourite from career highpoint ‘69 Love Songs’. The latter album makes many appearances over the night much to the joy of the crowd. Lil ditties such as ‘Boa Constrictor’ sit next to bittersweet tale of old age ‘Time Enough For Rocking When You’re Old’ with ease.

Of course there is a new album to promote, revenge tale ‘Your Girlfriend’s Face’ gets a quick intro before extracting giggles from anyone with an ex. ‘The Horrible Party’ perfectly encapsulates its namesake, being stuck in a social world full of people you simply can’t stand. Live it is clear that part of the band’s success is Merritt not undertaking all vocal duties himself, a good half or more the tracks sung by lifelong friend Claudia Gonson and Shirley Simms. The vocal stylings of each suiting different material, be it the girl next door approach of Gonson or the more country-tinged (read heart-breaking) of Simms. For such a stripped back setup the variety of genres and musical approaches tackled is simply brilliant.

A career spanning hour an half done and the band retire with ginger tea in hand before returning for a sleek two song encore. Arms above his head Merritt, in the deepest of music’s voices, bellows “Just remember all those you despise, will one day die” and, escorted by laughs rather than roars, quietly leaves the stage.

Words by Sam Walker-Smart
Photo by Rachel Lipsitz

Click here for a photo gallery of the gig.

Ignore the tag “stoner rock” and forget the comparisons to “Queens of the Stone Age”, because Tracer kicked off their UK tour with a blinding set of original, undiluted, hard, guitar-driven rock at the O2 Academy, Islington.

Since the release of their debut album ‘Spaces in Between’ they’ve gone from strength to strength. The single ‘Too much’ from the same album received extended play on classic rock stations around the UK. The two brothers Michael Brown (guitar & vocals), Leigh Brown (bass guitar & vocals) and Andre Wise (drums) grew up on a healthy diet of Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple and AC/DC. No wonder their mixed musical styles include classic rock, thicker stoner rock and grunge. Their sound is both retro ‘70s rock and contemporary, with loads of riffs and clever beat changes.

They started their set with ‘The Bitch’, a heavy blues-rock stomper of a song, which must have rattled the teeth fillings of a few of the older folk in the audience. We certainly witnessed a band with attitude and it’s understandable why they were voted third in the “Best New Band” poll at Planet Rock radio last year. As they delivered one sledgehammer song after the other, the jam-packed venue showed their appreciation with raised fists and rocking heads. Leigh was fast working himself into a frenzy as he and Andre stoked the fire in Tracer's engine room. By the time they reached the fourth song ‘Louder than This’ sweat was pouring off all three members of the band. Michael's voice by then had turned to a low growl as he spat into the microphone: "Lay on your back little baby, throw your toes to the roof.”

In a three-piece line-up like this, there's no hiding, but Tracer kept it tight throughout. Michael managed to produce a big guitar sound with killer riffs. However, it's Leigh's bass work that really impressed on the night. He kept everything together by rocking and occupying the stage, allowing his brother to crunch out ear splitting solos. They left their most popular song ‘Too much’ for the encore. By this time, Michael had his shirt off and turned the volume on the Gibson up a notch or two. Who says rock ‘n’ roll isn't hard work?

Tracer came to conquer the Europe this summer. They've fired the first tracers and made a huge hit at the O2 Academy, Islington. There's nothing more exciting than high voltage rock played with attitude and commitment. Tracer is it!

Words and photo by Stephen Fourie

Seeing a band for the first time, off the back of record hearings and hype, is a little like taking an online relationship from cyberspace to “meatspace”. The nerves and expectation built through private, imaginary wonderings, jostling with thoughts of the will-be public experience, tempting the lover-listener not to risk it after all.

It's hard, then, not to worry how the meticulous production of Clock Opera's debut full-length, 'Ways to Forget', with all those layered and neatly pulsing under-scapes, will translate to the stage. Still, after a forty-minute delay the opening tracks are promisingly distinct, showing off jangling light industrial electronics with a distinctly Battles-esque edge, if forced inside a form far closer to pure pop. Not much is lost, it seems, and through the hot fug of a more than appreciative audience you can even make out, on tracks like 'A Piece of String', the systemic influence and undulations of something like Eno's 'Day of Radiance'.

It's a theme of the entire performance: smart sounds neatly and accessibly packaged, like high-end cheese spread. Such contradictions seem very much in vogue at the minute - one thinks of Spector's thinking-man's lad rock, or Brighton's more sensitively anthemic Cave Painting. Similarly, tonight when in full flow, there is hint of a Talking Heads-style eccentricity cutting through Clock Opera's clever pippity pop, as if David Byrne had suffered an accidental enema from a Game Boy.

And though the commitment to somewhat safe song writing threatens to become a little tiring, for most people it seems a fairly euphoric atmosphere, a happily forced festive swagger pervading the room. Clearly come the summer some lovers will be out there, taking a risk for this. For now, though, it seems perhaps more festival fun than true romance.

Words by Marcus Hall
Photo by Andy Sturmey

Click here for a photo gallery of the gig.

Luke Haines is an extraordinary sort of artist, a creator, a narrator, who has a seemingly endless cache of ideas. He’s a cultural swimmer in deep pools of thought that he draws from and can portray to the outsider, in a manner that is thought provoking, humorous, and always pop.

Upon entering The Lexington there is an arresting diagram of images splayed out that covers the entire backdrop of the stage. These somewhat grotesque images are displayed in a Warhol like manner, but seem to have a quality of Lucian Freud about them. Art and pop.

A masked man in a cape bounds onto the stage and greets the audience with a bow. He’s carrying a couple of foil-topped trays, along with two accompanying beers, and a tabloid paper. He sets himself up in the corner and opens both beer and paper. This masked, caped crusader is the introduction for Luke Haines, who strolls on with an acoustic guitar, a mini Casio, and a glass of red wine, all the while in his black and white suit, adorned with a black fedora, and a paperback cradled in his pocket, nestled there as though it was its home. Haines begins by revealing the man behind him as Kendo Nagasaki - Nagasaki politely bows to him and the crowd again, then gets comfortable and nurses his beers during the first part of the set.

Haines’ adornment of the suit and fedora, as well as his gifted narration and depiction of characters, makes him come across like an eccentric southern gentleman, a British Tom Wolfe. But just as another American colossus of culture Andy Warhol was enthralled by the low life, those who were on the fringes of socially accepted lifestyles in the USA, Luke Haines is also enthralled and inspired by such characters and eccentrics, as seen in his cast of ‘70s wrestlers. Haines seems to take on the role of the wrestling manager who has witnessed scenes, some intimate, some acted out publicly and on TV. He’s the narrator who depicts these scenes in song, captures the wrestlers and shows the creativity behind their images, their alter egos, in order to celebrate them.

Then, as we all get drawn into the ‘70s child’s life during the song for ‘Liver Sausage’, Nagasaki unwraps the trays and passes around the contents amongst the audience – of course, liver sausage sandwiches. The entire crowd gets involved and when Haines comes to the end of ‘Haystack’s In Heaven’ he commands them to sing the song’s refrain after he calls out the names of all the wrestlers.

During the entire set, Haines is humorous and provokes laughter from the crowd. But the audience are unusually respectful and quiet. They need to hear each and every word. During part two the crowd remain so, and rather than a trip to the bar in what has become a stifling venue, stand transfixed as Haines reads from ‘Post Everything: Outsider Rock and Roll’, his second book, focusing on the chapter on ‘Pop Strike’ his maverick plan of 2001 to destabilise the music industry and status quo. A glorious failure, of course.

Part three of the show is a cornucopia of songs that are witty, esoteric, tragic, colourful, pop gems - his classics from a time when Haines’ bands The Auteurs and Black Box Recorder rubbed up uncomfortably with the industry that once granted him two record contracts at once. Haines warned the audience explicitly in the beginning of the show, that “you never unmask a masked man.” How many men can one man be? How many masks can a man wear? How many has Luke Haines worn tonight? Lots. And how many scenes has he depicted and revealed of others? Too many to count.

Words by Libby Moné

It’s been a staggering seventeen years since Gaz Coombes first ambushed the UK music scene with indie outfit Supergrass. 1995 to be precise. A time when pub smoking bans were an incomprehensible joke and the best game on your mobile phone was Snake. We’ve come a long way since then, and tonight at his debut solo show, Mr. Coombes proves he is no different. Rising from the ashes of a band as familiar as Supergrass could have been tricky, but Coombes makes it looks as easy as gate-crashing the girl in your class’ 16th birthday party and emptying her mum and dad’s drinks cabinet.

The Camden Barfly provides a modest backdrop to the evening and after a lush, drifty intro - that seems more than a little boozy itself - Coombes launches into debut single ‘Hot Fruit’, a moody, high tempo little rascal with hazy twisted verses and a real punch-in-the-face of a chorus. Kinda like what Black Rebel Motorcycle Club might sound like if Tame Impala lent them their instruments. Coombes’ knack for melody is still obvious and the build-up at the end of the opener has the crowd shaken into action. Onwards then, and straight into new free download tune, ‘Sub-Divider’. More weird and sneaky than its predecessor, but no less infectious. As Coombes purrs, “I’m insane, wandering round this town,” you immediately imagine him doing just that. And that’s the power of the man and his music - gently tempting you in before slamming the door behind you.

The rest of the gig proves to be a straight-up exhibition of the new album - and it’s slick stuff. New tracks range from drifty little acoustic numbers to booming sub-bass dance beats - there are touches of indie but always with enough zeal to keep things modern and interesting. No mean feat after nearly twenty years of song writing, but Coombes seems refreshed and lively, and while there are shades of Supergrass, he’s most certainly stepped out of their shadow.

A full UK tour and festival appearances are to follow, so whether you were a fan of the band back in the day, or this is the first you’ve heard of the whole affair, get involved. Coombes hasn’t aged a day since the ‘Alright’ video appeared on the ol’ picture box back in the mid ‘90s, still retaining his monkeyish charm and kid-like enthusiasm.

He keeps banter with the crowd light and warmly sarcastic, and never tries too hard, explaining sincerely at the show’s finale: “Thank you very much, that’s the album.” Bosh. See you later. So in turn let us finish by firmly suggesting that come May 21st you whack ‘Here Come The Bombs’ on your iPod and go for a wander - and maybe even dust off the ol’ Nokia for a cheeky game of Snake.

Words by Luke Holloway

“We’re an exceptionally lucky bunch of bastards, that we can still get away with this shit after fifteen years” chimes Tom Gray to a surge of cheers from the mosh pit. Indeed, Gomez have been making music since 1997 and with a long string of hits and a Mercury Music Prize under their belt, they show no sign of stopping. Neither do they seem to tire of performing for their ever-faithful fan base, even though when announcing one’s attendance at a Gomez gig, the usual response from friends is “Ahh, I used to love them.” Tonight, Koko, with its dirty carpets and dingy interiors, will play host to this indie rock blast from the past.

The band are all smiles as they enter the stage and take in the sight of the multi-tiered auditorium, bursting with bodies all jostling for prime position. They begin with the familiar acoustic riff of ‘Revolutionary Kind’. As the gentle drumbeat starts and Ben Ottewell’s husky voice fills our ears, we are transported away into a world of nostalgia. The song is pleasantly mellow until midway through when the drums come in full, giving even the most hardened indie fan that back-of-the-neck tingle.

‘Hamoa Beach’ sees Gray playing a melodica, thus giving the track an enjoyable texture that the recording does not have. Certainly, Gomez are a multi-talented five-piece. They continually swap between instruments and with Gray, Ottewell and Ian Ball sharing lead vocals, their songs consistently vary in style and sound, making each one individual and interesting.

The opening bass line of ‘Get Myself Arrested’ sends the crowd wild and with arms aloft, they bounce and boogie. It’s impossible not to sing very loudly, each lyric streaming from the recess of one’s memory, where it was stored nearly a decade ago. Olly Peacock, sits atop his sizeable drum kit and when the song is nearing its end he beats his cymbal; slowly at first, but building in tempo. The band quickens with him, as do the crowd who move faster and faster until the song climaxes and they are spent.

Following this frenzy of excitement, the band plays ‘The Place And The People’ and ‘I Will Take You There’ from their 2011 album. There is a real dip in energy; the newer material doesn’t come off well when contrasted with the old hits. Attempts at audience participation are slightly cringe-worthy as Gray encourages his crowd to clap a fast beat (think the Grease Lightening middle eight), which is met with less enthusiasm by the more burly punters, who stay still instead.

Thankfully, things don’t remain static for long. The crowd is delivered a further dose of reminiscence with ‘Rhythm And Blues Alibi’, ‘Tijuana Lady’ and ‘Devil Will Ride’ before the set draws to a close and the place erupts with applause. Gomez play two encores, which feature ‘Whippin Piccadilly’ with its jolly rhythm and distinctive synths, and finally ‘Make No Sound’ where the entire audience sings the first verse before Ottewell can get a word in.

Gomez’s more current work lacks much of the rawness and the soul of their earlier songs. Part of the band’s original charm came with the fact that their songs were about being wild and boisterous; getting arrested and tearing it up. Instead, their recent work has the maturity that comes with being thirty-something. The youthful, raucousness of ‘Bring It On’ has been replaced by kids and a mortgage. However, despite the evolution of their music, Gomez demonstrate that age is not a factor where live performance is concerned because for the majority of this gig they play like it’s 1997 all over again.

Words by Becci Ride