At a time when alternative music seems so often preoccupied with fitting in rather than standing out, it’s refreshing to hear such a wilfully individual sound. With roots in the melodic world of the mainstream, ‘Teenage Blood’ is an instantly endearing proposition, although repeated listens unveil the twisted, writhing soul at its heart. The dextrous band ooze and explode thrillingly with each emotional turn, while Williams’ sung-spoken vocals are perhaps the band’s trademark, variously murmuring, bellowing and spitting out lyrical delights such as “My sister was a referee / Reffing Sunday morning leagues / South of Sheffield at a park / Showing yellow cards to rapists and thieves.”

8/10

Words by GARETH JAMES

When of Montreal first invented themselves as an all-out, electro party band, many gushed at their feet. ‘Hissing Fauna, Are You The Destroyer?’ was a perfect parcel of lead singer Kevin Barnes' breakdowns, fallouts and eccentricity. Coupled with multi-layered synths, wacky guitar solos and deeply personal lyrics it became the album to equally elevate and destroy a mood.

Joined by an elaborate stage show which involved nakedness, huge theatrical performances and costumes influenced by Bowie and Prince, of Montreal were like a sickly sweet breakdown on LSD. But now five years on from ‘Hissing Fauna’ their latest album, ‘Paralytic Stalks’, has become awash with jarring synths and bizarre vocals, taking the group further into obscurity.

And if appearances are anything to go by then of Montreal have definitely let themselves go. Once a sex icon – lead singer Kevin Barnes is now accompanied by a wash of matted hair on one side, while guitarist Bryan Poole’s sideburns are so big he’s in danger of outshining Anton Newcombe in Dig! Enlarged by an eight strong ensemble each band member is packed onto the tiny stage resembling a ‘70s living room. This could either be disastrous or something uniquely unbelievable.

Bursting with bright projections, Barnes and co rattle through ‘Paralytic Stalks’ with unbalanced synth rhythms and loud piano melodies. With layer upon layer of amplified bass, each song fails to start, with Barnes instead hiding behind a piano and dark, spoken lyrics. Of Montreal were always a band with theatrics – yet for the first time they look vulnerable onstage. Barnes’ unique showmanship has been squandered in a bid for extra members that do little but dilute the group’s sound. It’s clear the band’s dynamic has shifted. Many songs are unrecognisable until Barnes’ trademark vocals appear, with instruments chopped and changed from the original recordings.

But he is still aware of what an audience wants. Quickly moving onto ‘Skeletal Lamping’ and ‘Hissing Fauna’, we’re taken aback as he struts like Prince, soaring into high pitched, almost a capella vocals. ‘Bunny Ain't No Kind of Rider’ oozes with pop-bass funk while ‘Cato As A Pun’ brings back the sexy dazzling disco that became the group’s signature sound.

As the stage is taken over by dancers (dressed as batman wearing false boobs) ‘She’s A Rejector’ turns the room into a whirlwind of glitz and chaos as we’re engulfed by balloons and confetti. Suddenly leaping into life, Barnes transforms the crowd into a house party for ‘Suffer For Fashion’ followed by disco-pop ‘The Party’s Crashing Us’.

Despite the band’s output waning of late, it’s heart-warming to know of Montreal’s spectacular live show hasn’t suffered. As two men dressed as pigs cajole the audience into cheering while they wrestle, it’s clear they’re as bonkers and as wonderful as ever.

Words by Ruth Offord

Here was Clash, patiently waiting for the summer to see Detroit’s palest son, when Mr. White decided to make everyone’s heart skip a beat and announce an intimate gig to celebrate the release of solo effort ‘Blunderbuss’ a week before said event – that minx. Golden ticket clutched to breast we make our way to the front to be treated by truly staggering support from Smoke Fairies, a brooding country coated noise that on any average day would be at risk of overshadowing the headliner. This, however, is no average concert; tonight marks Jack’s first UK solo show, no sister/wife candy colored theatrics here, just one of popular music’s most enduring figures finally stepping up to the plate.

Backed by six elegantly dressed ladies (aka The Peacocks) a black-clad Jack storms out and erupts into Stripes classic ‘Dead Leaves and The Dirty Ground’ without hesitation, he clearly wants to make an impact. For all his showmanship and punk rocker energy there are subtle gestures that – despite his fame and towering stature – he’s nervous about this new chapter in his career. When the often clichéd question “Want to hear some new material?” is asked the Forum roars in approval and he smiles in relief.

Luckily for everyone involved, said new material is rather good. Acoustic -led ‘Love Interruption’ has already been memorised by ninety percent of the audience, ‘Hypocritical Kiss’ gets fists in the air and the following ‘Weep Themselves To Sleep’ rids anyone of any pesky longing for a White Stripes reformation. This new use of a more layered sound and backing singers often strengthens already great numbers, case and point is sixth-form strum-along ‘Hotel Yorba’. The simple ditty is transformed into a barnstorming sonic attack, fiddle, steel guitar and some jazzier drumming combined to jaw dropping effect.

White’s other projects don’t get ignored either, ‘Top Yourself’ from The Raconteurs’ second LP emerges, ‘Two Against One’ from last year’s ‘Rome’ project is a surprise appearance and The Dead Weather’s gothic ‘Blue Blood Blues’ proves a sure winner. It’s ‘Ball and Biscuit’ that claims the night though, audience, star and band all lost in an almost semi-religious, voodoo daze as White shreds his guitar as if under demonic possession. All who witness will never forget.

Five minute break taken and it’s time for a five-song encore undertaken at break neck speed. The instant classic ‘Sixteen Saltines’ is soon followed by a euphoric ‘My Doorbell’ and the Dylan-esque ‘Carolina Drama’. ‘Seven Nation Army’ raises things to fever pitch before all are gently brought back to earth with Leadbelly’s ‘Goodnight Irene’. Strolling the stage and letting the crowd sing the oldie White beams from ear to ear, a few tears rolling down his pale, pale cheek. The transformation to awkward sounding “solo” artist has been a success and with a few rushed words the Willy Wonka of music runs backstage still overcome with emotion. Clash leaves on cloud nine and Jack being Jack we’re handed a surprise free poster as we leave – nice chap.

Words by Sam Walker-Smart

Over recent years there’s been many an indie frontman with obvious raw talent. But their god-like attitude and super inflated egos just make you want to kick them in the nuts, take a pair of pliers to their coke-addled nostrils, and kick them right back into their mummy's womb, where they truly belong.

Miles Kane is a different matter entirely. Yes he’s got the swagger jagger, yes he’s got the bravado, and yes he’s got one of those stereotypical Quadrophenia style haircuts (no offence Miles). But there’s something more to him than all of his predecessors; you get the distinct impression that he genuinely loves his audience and is hell-bent on giving them a good time. While playing at Barrowland Ballroom, Glasgow, this is exactly what he does.

The Wirral-born former frontman of The Rascals, The Little Flames and current co-frontman of The Last Shadow Puppets, showcases the very best from his debut solo album ‘Colour of the Trap’. Miles starts off the night with the incredibly contagious ‘Rearrange’ which has the crowd jumping and drinks being strewn from the outset. Like most of his songs, this one has a sixties Beatles edge to it, but the electric guitar riff makes your hair stand on end and skin tingle with excitement – it isn’t anything like you’ve ever heard before. He sings “Let it out, let it out, let it all out”, and that’s exactly what this song makes you feel like doing; letting everything go in one fell swoop.

Next is ‘Counting Down the Days’ and it’s evident from this song that Miles has a connection with the Arctic Monkeys. Arctic’s frontman Alex Turner is Kane’s other half in The Last Shadow Puppets and has co-written some songs for his new album. Although, there is a guitar section which sounds slightly familiar to Madness’s version of ‘It Must be Love’ and complements the overall indie influence of the song.

Miles treats the audience to his new single ‘The First of My Kind’, which is undeniably catchy. With his Lennon-style voice and crumbling lyrics, this song is, overall, forceful and serious. There’s an upbeat chorus and chilling guitar riff, which builds up near the end into a powerful explosion. His cockiness prevails when he sings “All in good time you’ll find, that I’m the first of my kind”. Normally this would be a turn off, but his stage presence is mesmerising, maybe he is the first of his kind.

Another favourite is ‘My Fantasy’ which he dedicates to the females in the audience, and he’s got them eating out the palm of his hand, they’re all loving this uncontrollable flirt. The song is romantically trippy, slow paced and violin infused; the crowd could listen to it for hours.

The final song is ‘Come Closer’, with Miles playing an interlude guitar sequence at the beginning which he builds up into an absolute Hendrix-style frenzy. You can tell he wants to play on the stage forever, he doesn’t want this moment to end. The crowd are going wild, crowd surfing and chanting “Whoa, Ahhh” – the lyrics to the song.

All in all, most of Miles’s songs centre on lust, jealousy and angst. His lyrics capture the scenes perfectly; he makes you feel like you’re living every moment with him. The end result of this night is “Please sir, may we have some more?”

Words by Morven MacNeil
Photo by Euan Robertson

Click here for a photo gallery of the gig.

In all Blur’s dormant years, it’s Graham Coxon who has remained true to the group. Failing to start up a cheese farm, run for MP or create an opera, Coxon is the only member who has continued creating music in the same vein for independent, alternative music fans.

And when looking at Blur’s back catalogue it’s no surprise. Coxon’s print is firmly pressed on every song they produced. From ‘Coffee and TV’ to ‘Beetlebum’ and ‘Song 2’ – each track highlights that distorted, scuzzy guitar that made Blur, Blur.

However, Graham is mainly a musician for the background. After accusations of bullying in Blur, Coxon became the sympathetic guitarist who escaped his monstrous superstar surroundings and quickly carved out an underground scene of his own. But now with eight albums under his belt he still remains unconvincing as a frontman in his own right.

With rave reviews, the guitarist’s latest offering ‘A+E’ has surpassed his previous output, creating a fresh, gritty noise of a record – but tonight it becomes of multi-layered mess.

As the band sneak onstage with barely a flicker of enthusiasm the room instantly fills with thumping bass and layers of distortion. Backed up by ‘A+E’, 'Advice' is a thrash punk mix over crackling vocals and heavy riffs, while other tracks appear with a soft jolt and drowning distortion, minimising the impact.

As the band bursts into another intro each chord is note perfect but the crowd look like they're in a long queue. There's no audience interaction whatsoever, with Coxon barely even smiling towards the crowd. Instead we're treated to over-long solos and repetitive rhythms.

It’s not until the encore when Coxon truly relaxes onstage. ‘All Over Me’ becomes a touching interlude as the female backing vocals complement Coxon’s unruly yelps perfectly, while ‘What’ll It Take’ provides an apt chorus line “What’ll it take to make you people dance.”

As a drunken man shouts “What’s this?” to a member of the audience while pointing at the stage, it’s clear Coxon hasn’t got the presence to capture the whole room. Even as he thrashes through ‘Freaking Out’ he fails to sing with any authority, contradicting his post-punk rhythms with an attitude that’s, well, just too nice.

The majority of the audience are here through some Blur connection and while Coxon may be the most likeable of the group, for someone who’s spent twenty-three years onstage, he’s still uncomfortable in the spotlight. ‘A+E’ may have provided a breakthrough but Coxon still hasn’t gained the confidence to shine.

Words by Ruth Offord
Photos by Jamie Boynton

Click here for a photo gallery of the gig.

Hoxton Square Bar and Kitchen is a modest music venue. Contrary to its trendy East London location it comes without bells and whistles, and sandwiched between the burger room and the bogs, is the black box where bands play. Sea of Bees, are equally unassuming. Julie Ann Baenziger (Bee) is casually dressed in jeans, shirt and tank top as she saunters onstage and introduces herself. It soon becomes clear that tonight’s offering will be simplistic and refreshingly gimmick-free.

The venue is packed to the rafters with a swarm of fans who greet Bee and backing vocalist, Amber Padgett, with warmth and adulation. Opening with ‘Skinnybone’, Bee’s vocal fills the room and all excited chatter ceases. The audience are captivated. Her voice is unusual: high-pitched like Joanna Newsom and yet softer and more choral. Padgett introduces a delicate harmony that bubbles under the surface and gives a subtle weight to the song.

Bee’s bassist and drummer join her, quietly taking their places as she greets them with a simple “Hi.” Her patter is witty and endearing, and as she introduces ‘Gnomes’ she instructs those that aren’t familiar with the song to “move (their) hips a little bit” whilst giving a demonstrative wiggle. ‘Take’, which begins with simple guitar picking, slowly builds with bass drum to a powerful and emotive chorus. Bee later tells us in her gentle Californian drawl: “I am proud of this new album. I’m happy about it and I’m pleased to be here to share it with you”.

The addition of bass and drums serves to embellish the simple melodies with a fuller sound, which is pleasant, and yet somehow the power of the vocal is lost. Bee’s voice is perhaps the most interesting facet of Sea of Bees and one can’t help but crave to hear its richness without other instruments watering it down.

‘Leaving’ is Bee’s own take on John Denver’s ‘Leaving On A Jetplane’, which she prefixes with a story about finding love and what being loved means to her. As Bee talks openly to her audience, audible gulps and sighs can be heard from those so touched by her honesty. Her rendition is slower and slightly sorrowful. It has a truthful beauty that captures the meaning of the song in a way that Denver’s version never could. Lyrically, Bee’s own songs are crafted to perfection and each is written from the heart. Bee tells us that ‘Give’ is about “being different, being tossed out to sea and being saved” and her explanation gives the performance an emotional edge.

Sea of Bees end with ‘Sidepain’, and as Bee sings “You’re the sweetest pain in my side”, her band fades to silence. The audience are left with her glorious voice, which resonates as she skilfully bends notes, hypnotising and weaving magic with every word she delivers. Her performance is well received, and calls for an encore resulting in Bee’s return to the stage alone. She plays ‘The Woods’ acoustically and the result is magnificent. To look around the audience one can witness several people openly weeping, others have their eyes closed. Everyone is lost in the performance and all else is forgotten for those perfect moments. The end of the song is met with rapturous applause and a room full of people so grateful for what they just witnessed.

It seems that in an age where multi-instrumental bands embroider their shows with gimmicks and gadgets, much of the purity of good music is lost amongst the décor. When all is stripped back, it serves to show there is no substitute for a genuine talent, where an acoustic guitar and vocals are all that is needed. Sea of Bees certainly have this talent: an ocean of it.

Words by Becci Ride

Producer/remixer Guy Connelly has spent that last couple of years refining his self-styled ‘chop-pop’ sound. Now beefed up to a four-piece, his Clock Opera project’s debut album is a pulsing swirl of baroque synths and shape-shifting drum patterns, while Connelly’s versatile vocal style can take the glorious ‘Belongings’ from its pitter-patter ballad opening to a surging, frothing finale. The detailing is exquisite; ‘A Piece of String’ leaps and lurches without losing any emotive power, while the magnificent ‘The Lost Buoys’ tips a nod to prime-time Billy Mckenzie. ‘Ways To Forget’ is a bar-raiser - an album of intelligent synth-pop bubbling with humanity.

8/10

Words by John Freeman

Did you like the fuzzed up, warbly synths on Toro Y Moi’s ‘Underneath The Pine’? Have some more! And then some...

This compilation of early recordings, previously only available as a tour CDR, strips back the gloss of production, leaving ten tracks of lo-fi, angular, weirdly melodic noise pop. On the one hand, it demonstrates Bundick’s clear ability to write oddly catchy pop with primitive gear. On the other, it occasionally sounds like a shopping trolley falling down stairs. Pick of the bunch are ‘Take The L To Leave’ (Boards of Canada doing indie rock!) and the rubber bass of ‘Drive South’. Good, but for completists.

6/10

Words by Will Salmon

Finland’s Zebra And Snake come bearing synths. ‘Healing Music’ sounds a bit like Interpol covering The Human League and is as interesting - and uneven - as you might expect from that. The big tunes here - ‘Now And Forever’, ‘Empty Love Song’ and ‘Burden’ are brilliant, but there are moments where singer Tapio veers into histrionics. But mostly this is a strong opening volley, all glittering synths, post-punk grit and a gentle optimism. ‘Healing Music’ closes the album with a throbbing disco pulse. More like this please!

7/10

Words by Will Salmon

Having rounded out the first phase of his career with a lavish boxset, Wainwright turned to Mark Ronson to smooth down the flamboyant edges and ensnare the music-buying masses. The result is a surprisingly effective 21st century take on the Seventies singer-songwriter album, with tight band performances from the likes of the Dap-Kings and sympathetic production from the king of the trumpets. ‘Perfect Man’ is a pure pop gem, the feel of which Wainwright has never previously achieved and it is this lesson in restraint which Ronson brings to the table. Although, quite how the bagpipes which wailingly close the album slipped through, is anyone’s guess.

8/10

Words by Gareth James

Hidden away in London’s bustling Soho district is a newly opened exotic idyll. Tonight on Charing Cross Road, Sailor Jerry’s launch Hotel Street - their first UK venue, it's a tranquil hula hub inspired by the heady atmosphere of Hotel Street District where Norman Collins made his name, housing spiced cocktails and iconic American tattoos, plus exciting rock’n’roll acts.

The fluorescent Hawaiian shirts worn by opening act King Salami & The Cumberland 3 set the tone for this evening perfectly. Frontman Salami’s tongue-in-cheek twisting and jiving is a sight to behold – shaking maracas more vigorously than Bez on a bad trip to every beat of the rockabilly rhythms. An infectious retro energy grips the crowd who begin to boogie.

After a short beverage break anticipation heightens for King Khan And The Shrines. Khan’s reputation for anachronistic anarchy precedes him. A Berlin-based funk freak, he’s a flamboyant showman with bizarre on-stage attire to match. Eight members of The Shrines struggle to fit on an incommodious stage – they include percussionist Ron Streeter, a formed band-mate of Curtis Mayfield and Stevie Wonder.

The funk-soul concoction begins with sumptuous brass layers building before Khan appears – lavishly adorned in a glittering outfit, shrouded by a golden cape and topped with a head-dress which makes PJ Harvey’s seem like a tawdry knock-off. He wastes no time transferring fervent energy to onlookers – jumping into the audience while emitting a vintage James Brown scream. Anyone in the way is hugged, serenaded, and danced into submission by the unpredictable frontman.

“Where are the freaks?” Khan demands before a rambunctious organ solo paves the way for ‘Land Of The Freaks’, a bullet-speed song causing a melee of uninhibited floor-moving. The pace is unrelenting as ‘Pickin’ Up The Trash’ hits next – a raucous horn fuelled number sounding like Otis Redding being sped up to 140 bpm. Not taking themselves too seriously, entertaining is key priority. It’s clear The Shrines are enjoying themselves too – guitars, trumpets, and saxophones are passionately hurled around. A wooden organ is even held aloft in appreciation as fans cheer towards the end of ‘Stone Soup’.

Khan, an Indo-Canadian, could rival Frederick Bulsara in terms of stage presence. He goads everyone to chant “My baby’s fat and ugly but I love her,” during the comical ‘Took My Baby To Dinner’, and ‘I Wanna Be A Girl’ sounds like a rock’n’roll parody of Iggy Pop’s ‘I Wanna Be Your Dog’. The good-humour continues when the group return for an encore.

Khan makes yet another spectacular entrance. As the band play Suicide’s ‘Ghost Rider’ he re-emerges – this time wearing nothing but a pair of glittering trunks and a helmet. Best described as a rotund gent, his outfit change is brazen, but the room is already completely rapt by the erratic frontman. As the set comes to a close the final song descends into a Trout Mask Replica style spontaneous jazz outburst with saxophonists and trumpeters circling the venue. As for the frontman, he’s opposite the stage, at the bar, wearing only trunks, drinking Sailor Jerry.

Words: Simon Butcher

Rich in darkly comic humour and Catholic guilt, a very precise element of Irish culture resonates throughout Misterman. Written by Hunger / Disco Pigs screenwriter and playwright Enda Walsh and performed by current Clash cover star Cillian Murphy, it recalls Pat Shortt’s hilarious and tragic role in 2007’s oddball comedy Garage, or an otherworldly Father Ted in which Dougal slowly loses his mind as Ted and Jack decompose on the sofa.

Unburdened by the nine-hundred souls who will glare relentlessly at him over the next ninety minutes, Murphy wastes no time in marking his territory over the sprawling, quasi-industrial wasteland of a stage. As Thomas Magill, a rambling misfit who casts his fierce judgement over each of his town’s low-moral inhabitants, Murphy skirmishes around with a lunatic disregard for his own health with bold enthusiasm for boisterous physical comedy. Interacting with an array of recorded voices and other creative sound tricks, the role also calls for Murphy to mimic the spoken nuances of many of the other villagers. It’s a hugely impressive embodiment of a God-fearing spirit, not least because of Magill’s increasingly erratic state of mind.

Such a performance can only flourish in the presence of suitably compelling material. Although there’s no doubt that Walsh’s script won’t be to everyone’s tastes, it certainly demonstrates an immense command of language. From simple wordplay and catty dismals to absurd, demonic moments of black humour wrapped up in misplaced beatitudes, it’s a fascinating feast of dexterous linguistics.

While Misterman has its flaws – the searing atmosphere established by the final scene is undersold by a reasonably predictable conclusion, while some of the lengthier soliloquies result in momentarily flagging attention spans – it burns with an intensity born from writer and performer alike.

Misterman is playing until May 28th. Booking details HERE

Words by BEN HOPKINS

You wanna hear what the burning skies of LA’s decaying empire sounds like? Sign your soul over to Death Grips and climb inside their charred ribcage for a journey straight down into sonic hell.

As a trio MC Ride, drummer Zach Hill and Flatlander on production have scorched a raw document with which to chart the end of western civilisation.

Where many of their contemporaries are chasing TV campaigns, branded YouTube clicks or the cocaine lifestyle that’s been thrust down our throats for the last fifteen years, Death Grips are screaming about the real life injustice that threatens to drag us from our whilst ripping of the bandages from our startled eyes.

Thirteen unlucky, distorted but bleeding raw tracks joyride over our ear drums. The jump-up booty bass highlight of ‘I’ve Seen Footage’ slams the CCTV voyeurism that pervades our life on corrupted disk whilst ‘Lost Boys’ derides the continuation of homelessness.

These are but two decipherable entry points from dozens on gravelly offer as Death Grips hurl many a modern debased reference into their crucible. It’s the sound of domestic attack, the sonic of fear and smouldering confusion, of televisions exploding, of flesh being atomised, of shattered glass entering skin.

Musically it seethes under drones, sirens, disturbing pulses, synth stabs and fractured production. The pivotal track ‘System Blower’ is exactly that; expect it to pop your cortex with its crunky rhythms that are more like a dystopian call to arms for bass obsessed punks. Its fragmented production sounds like Germany’s Soundhack doing dubstep, or at least a couple of Croyden’s low-end lads having a wank into a bassbin.

‘The Money Store’ is a modern, breathing nightmare. It’s hyper real hip-hop made just in time for the end of the world.

9/10

Words by MATTHEW BENNETT

Fanatically assembling emotions and mental inductions that range from psychotropic industrialism to claustrophobic astral ascents; we once again face an Actress audio communion. Darren Cunningham’s patient obsession has crafted a paranoid, neurotic electronic journey that thrives on momentum. This, his third LP, takes us even further towards a mercurial melting point. neo-industrial grooves are offset by blistered melodic fissures which crackle alone at the furthest reaches of modern influence. If the mechanised loops of the album references Carl Craig, Georgio Moroder, Basic Channel or Fritz Lang then the sizzling detail and caustic surfaces are Cunningham’s alone.

This music is insular; we are treated as voyeurs, merely privy to a man’s nocturnal compulsion. ‘Marble Plexus’ is corroded in texture and cast from the endless rotation of warehouse era techno. Equally ‘Shadow From Tartarus’ is a narcotic slab of sound which may never be imitated such is the depth of its Actress's mutation.

The pervasion of corrupted spaces and vast spectrums are further exacerbated by Cunningham’s adoption of themes from Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost’ and Jamie James’s ‘The Music of The Spheres’. Yet it’s equally as forward thinking as some dystopian space tragedy no-one but the producer has thought to daub on the walls of his South London studio.

‘R.I.P.’ is both an update on the bass explorations of restless Britain and perhaps a timeless thesaurus of blistered tones and ideas that younger producers will beg, borrow and steal from for years to come. Long live ‘R.I.P.’

9/10

Words by MATTHEW BENNETT

That Jack white has never yet disappointed with any of his musical ventures, it stands to reason that at some point he is bound to trip up. But, this being an artist who revels in surprising at every turn, maybe he never will. Maybe Jack White is unassailable, incapable of floundering. It would seem, judging by the strength of his most anticipated release since the demise of The White Stripes, that this man’s purple patch is plentiful and fragrant.

‘Blunderbuss’, following directly in the wake of The Dead Weather (and The Raconteurs before them), sounds like a band effort; it’s thick, full, and heavy, with enough layers and bombshells to suggest he’s left the minimalism of his former duo far behind.

The foreboding ‘Missing Pieces’ sets the scene: an uneasy rhythm disarms you, before Jack enters with a scratchy guitar and singing about nose bleeds in the shower, fingers in the icebox, and legs that are long gone. It’s a warning about people who take what they can get from you - in this case, body parts.

Second single ‘Sixteen Saltines’ is delightfully reminiscent of ‘White Blood Cells’ era Jack, its stop/start rhythms, fuzz guitar and searing solos all thrilling, and he’s delightfully creepy throughout: “She doesn’t know but when she’s gone I drink her perfume,” he sneers. The tone of vengeance continues into ‘Freedom At 21’ where his diatribe towards a female antagonist intensifies (could this be his divorce album? Is ‘Blunderbuss’ Jack White’s ‘Blood on The Tracks’?): “She don’t care what kinds of wounds she’s inflicted on me / She don’t care what colour bruises that she’s leaving on me,” he rails.

Talking of bruises, ‘Love Interruption’ is clearly a song written by someone who’s known the painful side of passion - brutal images of infliction paint the story of a battered heart. It’s the gentlest song so far, but it’s still as deftly potent. It’s followed by the similarly deceiving country waltz title track, replete with darkly romantic undertones.

Pianos feature heavily on ‘hypocritical kiss’ and ‘Weep Themselves To Sleep’, the former another hateful tirade with melodic tinkles, the latter scarred with stabbing theatrical flourishes. ‘I’m Shaking’ is something of a relief; Little Willie John’s bluesy rockabilly classic that namechecks Bo Diddley, it’s crying out for an accompanying video which sees White dancing. Please.

From Bo Diddley to Jerry Lee Lewis, the alliterative ‘Trash Tongue Talker’ (guess what she’s done now?) kicks into a wicked honky-tonk solo twice, while ‘hip (Eponymous) Poor Boy’ is similarly rollicking, with a spirited banjo accompaniment, with the spit ‘n’ sawdust blowing next into the country lament ‘I Guess I Should Go To Sleep’.

The reflective ‘on And on And on’ sees the anger from throughout finally turn into self-pity (“God only knows just where I am going”) and frustration (“The people around me won’t let me become what I need to / They want me the same”) on a soft, deep burning musical backdrop.

Final track ‘Take Me With You When You Go’ turns from a pleading waltz to a fuzz blitz where helium vocals and machine-gun riffs suggest that a fairy tale ending is not forthcoming for ‘Blunderbuss’. not that we were expecting one.

It’s a powerful album - in sonic force and pure emotion - and not necessarily one you want to listen to in a good mood. Driven by demons and fired by fury, ‘Blunderbuss’ is a turbulent insight into one man’s wrath - but it rocks. hard. Sorry Jack, but your pain is ultimately our gain.

8/10

Words by Simon Harper

Straight away, the members of Sleep Party People disarm you. They appear in white bunny masks, a nice sensation when you are amidst the darkness and boudoir reds of the Buffalo Bar. This gives off an ambience of rock ‘n’ roll expectation, but the ambience that we’re about to be enveloped in is actually a fantastical surprise; a luxurious, sumptuous feeling. Yet, these bunnies are robed in black hoodies. Bunnies in hoodies? Some sort of statement being made here? Rumours have spread that they hide themselves because they’re shy – we’re sceptical about that. But it turns out when they begin their introductory song, ‘A Dark God Heart’, the relation between the music and their masks is revealed. When they then play the second song of the night, ‘Chin’, raucous, dirgey, dirty, and brilliant, the reasoning seems appropriate.

Heading straight into ‘10 Feet Up’ and not missing a beat, these bunny men are demonstrating their exceptional talent. They are tight as hell, producing heavenly sounds, like a lullaby before bedtime. Aching melodies lying alongside fragile piano absorb you, and then at once you are struck by a heavenly storm of guitar, keys, and crashing cymbals. The crowd, and it is indeed a crowd here tonight, move closer and closer to the band. They want to get intimate and their appreciation is clear, with furious applause after each and every song.

Further into the set and the high female like vocals sound as if these women have been hurt beyond belief, tainted with some inexorable injustice. Words are indiscernible, but it doesn’t matter, you understand. The music is always interesting, as it constantly draws the audience in further and further with atmospheric pop.

Sleep Party People play and manipulate their machines so well, as if they created them. Deconstruction, then construction, deconstruction, construction again. The crowd are being taken down a Steve Reich shaped rabbit hole and on a Tangerine Dream mind bending trip.

At the end of their set, after the track ‘I’m Not Human At All’, Sleep Party People, the rabbit men, remove their masks. Are they human? They certainly are not shy. The band have taken the audience on their designated trip and now it’s over. We have landed, woken, and have come back down. The disguises served their purpose but this band is not the type to drum up stage antics. There’s no need.

They are human, but with a magical touch, and what is revealed are four smiling musicians. Thanking the crowd, London, the bar, it’s clear they’re elated and it is oh so clear that the audience are too.

Words by Libby Moné
Photo by Helen F. Kennedy

Click here for a photo gallery of the gig.

Having enjoyed Simone (silent e) Felice’s work with his younger siblings - appropriately recorded as The Felice Brothers - and his acclaimed albums with folk-soul outfit, The Duke & The King, Clash are eager to see his self-titled solo debut performed live. We aren’t, however, expecting a thigh-slapping, foot-stomping affair.

As Felice and his four-piece take the stage the audience make themselves heard. There is a definite no-nonsense, if not leery, edge to the welcome. The band look great - a right hodge-podge. The ladies take drums and violin; the gents take keys and guitar, played on the lap for slide. Despite looking sinewy, strong and sturdy, Felice has an immediate air of fragility to him.

He takes a stool at centre stage and after acknowledging the audience with a shy smile launches into ‘New York Times’. Each song is prefaced by Felice with a brief explanation of where it came from and why he wrote it. Dedicating the second song to his baby daughter, Felice confides, “My daughter Pearl saved my life, she’s my Joan of Arc, my guardian angel… She’s, she’s a, she’s a…

“Pearl” comes the deadpan nugget from a gruff manc accent.

A smile flashes and Felice shouts “hit it mutherfucker!” Prince style and they launch into ‘You and I Belong’, a hand-clapping, fingerpicking, ivory thumping thing of beauty.

It’s a rare moment of simple joy as the bulk of these songs are mournful and haunting tales of lost souls.

As he explains the genesis of each track before playing it, those unaware of Felice’s backstory get a rough-hewn and generally bleak picture conjured up. Formative years spent in the Catskill Mountains up-state New York are populated by a series of dispossessed and tragic characters with seriously shit luck. Death lingers malignantly and we learn of Felice’s own scrapes with the grim reaper. He was pronounced clinically dead at twelve years old after a brain aneurysm, and he knocked on death’s door once more in the summer of 2010 when he was forced to undergo open-heart surgery after a childhood congenital defect threatened an unjustly early exit.

His survival has imbued him with love, gratitude and retrospection, and now openhearted is a fitting way to describe the songs he writes and the way he sings them.

As Felice resurrects the ghosts of his past it’s strikingly apparent just how much he is investing of himself in doing this. In ‘Dawn Brady’s Son’ we get images of his childhood friends’ dad “dancing all wrong” after hanging himself upon returning from Vietnam. And we learn of how the friend used to climb into his window at night while his mum was forced to be a “loose woman” in order to get them by.

The silence from the audience is intense, just shifting the weight on your feet causes a floorboard creek and an immediate sense of violating the reverent hush.

The crowd have been utterly absorbed throughout, disarmed by this raw honesty and empathy. He closes the set with ‘Radio Song’ revealing that his family surrounded his bedside and sang it to him while he was at the brink of death. Its joyous chorus chant of “please don’t you ever die, you ever die, you ever die - you moved me all of my life, all of my life, all my life” was a rousing way to end. After heartfelt thanks they leave the stage to rapturous applause, but there’s no way they can get away without coming back to bestow a few more songs on this crowd.

Felice returns alone and takes the stool once more to pull off a stunning cover of the Pink Floyd classic ‘Wish You Were Here’. He continues with ‘One More American Song’, and it is truly epic balladry - as deserving of a place in that canon of untouchable, timeless songs as the previous one, and the one that follows it. As the band rejoin him, Felice introduces the final song of the night by saying he doesn’t usually cover Dylan, and that he “didn’t truly appreciate these lyrics until I found myself half way down Jacob’s ladder… or maybe that should be up,” and asks us all to join in. Now, a bunch of Mancs and Salfordians singing ‘Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door’ has the potential to be either spine-crackingly cringeworthy or a well spirited piss-take. It transpires to be neither. Felice has long since endeared himself to all present and there isn’t a person in the house who isn’t unashamedly singing back to the man who’s just spent the last 90 minutes laying bare his soul.

Words and photo by Nick Rice

Click here for a photo gallery of the gig.

Tucked away in the remotest of locations, Aldrei Fór Ég Suður is a rock festival in Ísafjörður. The name, translated as “I Never Went South”, reflects the dwindling population of this small fishing town tucked away in the West Fjords of Iceland.

Somewhere along the fjord, on the way into the old town stands a grey box, an engineering workshop that, once a year, is cleared out of machines to become a festival venue. There are big ideas behind this small grey façade. The festival is free, the line up is not announced in advance, and each band has a strict twenty-minute time limit on stage. A family affair, dreamt up by local musician Mugison and his father Mugipapa, no one is a headliner, no one gets a sound-check and everyone is eating from the same pot of plokkfisk (a fish dish made by locals that’s sold in the beer tent).

Friday promised a beautiful beginning with Orphic Oxtra and most certainly it proved funky, fresh and fun. The main show to turn up for, however, was clearly Mr. Ísafjörður himself, Mugison, the co-founder of the festival, winner of five Icelandic Music Awards this year and general good guy. Inevitably the man made magic on stage and the festival was ordained with his love. Waxing lyrical between the gruff and the sublime, the experimental and catchy, there wasn’t a corner left untouched and not a face left unsmiling.

With compelling drive Skálmöld, a folk metal band that has a fiercely loyal fan-base stood out with a great set. The real treat of the night came in a purple package, Agnes, the lead singer of Sykur. She was a breath of fresh air amongst an overwhelmingly male line up.

The weather was surprisingly good this year, so with enthusiasm parents turned up on Saturday, after a heavy night of drinking, with their children in toe to see a festival high-light. Pollapönk are something of an enigma in any country, a good children’s punk-rock band. Four men dressed in brightly coloured shell suits sending out messages like “Only real boys wear pink”, kicked the day off to an entertaining start.

After a slow start, and lots of hot-dogs, Iceland’s Bon Iver, Snorri Helgason cured hangovers and mended broken hearts with a voice that stroked the soul. A much needed remedy to cope with Muck, an extreme, hardcore punk metal quartet that set pacemakers off into the next fjord.

The rest of the evening was no less of a musical rollercoaster with vintage feminist rock chicks Dúkkulísur being followed by cult heavy metal band Ham and the disco elevator sounds of Þórunn Antonia. The stand out party of the night had to begin with ironically named Reykjavík! (they’re from Ísafjörður), a screaming hardcore rock band that makes you want to crowd surf and, apparantly, get married. There wasn’t a dry-eyed drunk in the house when a guy proposed to his gal on stage in the middle of Reykjavík!’s set.

Retro Stefson rounded off the festival in style with their melodic dance music. Up-beat rhythms, funky synthesizers and catchy one liners had the crowd contently winding down for a short walk into town.

The night didn’t end there, we could then be found at Krúsinn, a strange underground club with peeling dark red paint and a mirrored bar. Tunes were chosen by a local Icelandic woman with a laptop and a good time was had. For a moment there the irony of the festival’s title was lost, and it felt like none of us had ever been south of Ísafjörður, we could all live there, make ironic statements, play music and party forever.

Words and photo by Álfrún Gísladóttir

Click here for a photo gallery of the festival.

After the release of ‘I Get Wet’ back in 2001 Andrew WK has been a confused soul. Regarded as a novelty character across the pond, he’s made a name for himself through MTV shows and weather reports (over 700,000 views on YouTube!). Yet for many music fans here in the UK he’s an elusive figure who disappeared after a one hit wonder. Unlike many though, WK didn’t fail at the second hurdle, but vanished among lawsuits and rumours. He was seen as a blast from the past – until a string of motivational concerts and a bizarre piano album plucked him from the abyss.

Now ten years on he’s back to perform ‘I Get Wet’ in its entirety. Tonight’s gig has not only sold out but also upgraded venue because of the sheer WK demand. As the room fills with testosterone, a third of the audience brandish blood stained t-shirts – only outshone by a five foot ‘We Get Wet!’ banner.

Sweat fills the air as the drum kick pounds, and each band member pogos onstage like a kids TV show. Then ‘I Get Wet’ becomes forty-five minutes of power-charged novelty, hyper, interactive anarchy.

‘It’s Time To Party’ builds until WK himself jumps onstage, fist pumping so fast his white blur seeps into the manic crowd. Then with the statement, “When it’s time to party we will party hard” the crowd explodes, collectively chanting each riff like their own national anthem. Bodies sprawl as WK darts from left to right – the ringmaster of his own mob.

Each song goes with a flicker – ‘She Is Beautiful’, ‘Party Till You Puke’ and ‘Ready To Die’ – each a slight variation on the last. It’s no secret WK’s repertoire is limited, but does he know how to throw a party. Audience members are invited to get rid of anything “restricting the party” before they’re flung into a world of fist pumping and concussion-induced head banging.

WK himself remains someone endearing and simultaneously terrifying. Grinning manically like an Aphex Twin video extra he pounds out complex piano solos with ease, jumping from the drum kit to pizza shaped guitars with the stamina of a Duracell bunny. His positive outlook also surprisingly never wears thin. “This is the biggest party we’ve had in Manchester for at least the last ten years!” He exclaims before introducing ‘Ready To Die’.

But all parties have to come to an end, and his fans are tested as material from The Wolf turns his heavy honky-tonk anthems into a bizarre rock opera. Yet it’s WK’s energy that keeps us hanging on, as fans burst onto the stage creating a sea of Andrew WK lookalikes dripping with sweat.

Always great for a sound bite WK points to the crowd and with a cold stare states, “You will remember tonight.”

As we’re left smiling, looking up YouTube footage of the gig the next day we can’t help but agree – even if it means waiting another decade to party hard.

Words by Ruth Offord
Photo by Andy Cook

Click here for a photo gallery of the gig.

History is a strange beast. The interpretation of the past and its re-appropriation for the present is an unwieldy science often at the mercy of the shifting whims of fashion. Few understand this better than Los Angeles’s Daedelus. With his name taking inspiration from Greek mythos, his Victorian Dandy fashion sense and reputation as pioneer in the use of cutting edge sequencing and lighting rigs, Daedelus has carefully curated an aesthetic for both his sound and image that is genre transcending and timeless. He comes to these shores rarely and tonight, those in the know are in for a special treat: Daedelus will showcase his unique brand of retro-futuristic electronica in a one-night-only performance at Shoreditch’s Village Underground.

The audience for tonight’s event is modest in size but this hardly seems to matter. The space for people to move freely produces a warm and relaxed ambience and there is an air of restive anticipation coupled with smug satisfaction from those present. It is only his second ever UK performance after all, and those in attendance are all too aware of the reported spectacle that is to come.

The atmosphere turns electric as Daedelus takes to the stage. Wearing a red and black 19th century dinner jacket and bathed in blue lights he begins by looping luxurious synthesized lines over a steady dub beat. It’s a gentle start but before long the speed and intensity builds upwards, ushering the crowd to move with gathering momentum. Like a centrifuge, he dials the velocity up until the beats and samples are oscillating at the limits of celerity and compulsion.

The visual spectacle is as consuming as the music. Backed by his dazzling ‘Archimedes’ rig (a diamond formation of pivoting mirrors), Daedelus cavorts with his sequencers, gyrating his body in robotic movements as he mixes. The overall aesthetic is one of a mad steampunk professor toying insanely with a warped spaceship console. It draws to mind visions of an acid house Doctor Who flying an out of control TARDIS and in that respect, there is a quintessential Englishness to the performance that belies the artist’s American heritage.

Musically, the story is the same. His depth of influence is unrivalled in its eclecticism, incorporating a staggeringly vast array of genres and eras. He veers from electro rave, through the grime of dubstep and into the heart of hip-hop with elements of jazz and everything else mixed in between. The rapid-fire samples are so finely crafted in amongst the heavily layered textures that most pass completely under the radar.

But despite the seeming chaos, Daedelus has everything under complete control. He moulds the sounds and works the audience expertly and by the end of the set the whole crowd are moving in unison. Where many before have strayed too far across the line of avant-garde experimentalism, Daedelus has taken everyone in the room on the journey with him. He has perfectly matched mass immediacy with rebellious individualism and appears as the crazy lost brother of 2ManyDJs, who could not be contained within their rigid pop structures and broke loose to furrow his own way.

The final flourish is exultant and at the close Daedelus appears genuinely moved and humbled by the adulation that is before him. As an artist whose work embraces a genre-rich patchwork of musical chronology, one cannot help feeling that history should reward this by recording him as one of the finest EDM performers of the early 21st century. At the very least the few who were at Village Underground on Friday will certainly attest to the historical significance of what they witnessed.

Words by Chris Wash