Bow ties, top hats and a plethora of impressively coiffured dainties with big bows on their shiny shoes made the ideal crowd for the exhibition of illustration at La Viande 3 Charlotte Rd, EC2. Whimsical and witty, the lengthy titled “an exhibition of juvenile, idiosyncratic witticisms from 4 nice people….” by artists and illustrators Ryan Todd, Jess Wilson, Chris Jones and Rob Flowers was playful to the core.

On our arrival (early) at La Viande we were pleased to discover that we were by no means the first to arrive, (although definitely the scruffiest!) and within a short time the gallery and street were packed. The colourful audience and the mood were fittingly light and jovial for the work on the walls.

Traditional ideas of love and romance were cheered, jeered, poked about a bit and eventually applauded by this exhibition from talents Todd, Wilson, Jones and Flowers . A refreshing combination of biro drawing, painting, sculpture and print were on display and neatly filled the small but welcoming gallery space. As I meandered around the gallery I was impressed by not only the high quality of the work but by the overall coherency of the exhibition. The artists, working across a range of disciplines maintained a strong sense of unity despite differing styles of application.

When I walked into the room, the first work to draw my attention was the Disney-eyed sculpture of Rob Flowers. Round, black, furry heads in stacks or clusters reminded me of the oversized stuffed toys found in rich children’s bedrooms in 1970’s films (in technicolour). Seemingly friendly but seriously creepy, these toy-like sculptures would have been the thing of nightmares to a small child, especially when given a tiny, plastic human nose and a tall clowns hat….eek. His work was centrally situated on the first and basement floor and created a bold presence beside the more subtle drawings on the walls.

I had difficulty suppressing a smile at Jess Wilson’s series of prints based on two little grannies sitting together on a bench found downstairs in the gallery. From “ I love you” to insults, the evolution of love, intimacy and relationship was summed up in a cute and clever way. “Every night my cat falls in love” was one of the endearing phrases drawn in biro in Wilson’s series of pine panel drawings. I was instantly drawn to the scratchy and immediate blue biro line, friendly and familiar, reminding me of childhood drawing sessions on my bed head before getting told off for vandalism. It was interesting to see the often throw-away biro drawing given the physical weight of the wooden surface- instilling a sense of permanence and preciousness.

I was really excited to see that painting was well represented in the exhibition thanks to Cris Jones. His striking pieces reminded me of panel paintings in technique and were heart wrenchingly funny . A little naked lady, falling to her doom from a burst heart balloon while her joy-of-sex lover desperately clings to the edge of the basket entitled “don’t leave me”. It killed me. The downstairs wall was a salon hang of fantastic paper works by Ryan Todd. The impressive array of small drawings in biro, felt tip and ink drawings hung in a colourful cluster across the wall. Imagery mashed together ranged from headless skeletons to strange faces with love heart eyes and spooky grins. ¬¬Each image felt as though it were part of a narrative that had been broken into pieces and reformed on the wall and in a strange way, I felt that Todd’s work really summed up the exhibition. It was light but clever and ultimately endearing.

The exhibition was fun and sweet but definitely meaty enough for La Viande. To find out more about the artists check out
www.jesswilson.co.uk,
www.ryantodd.co.uk,
www.robflowers.co.uk,
www.myspace.com/jonesmr

Here at Amelia’s Magazine we tend to grace scruffy east London galleries in the company of a trendy gathering with our presence. The private view of Andy Hill’s West End exhibition was somewhat out of our comfort zone; there was no gathering of young scruffy trendies at The Coningsby Gallery but rather a lot of middle aged, well dressed business folk. No sign of cheap beer and coke here, instead a selection of fine wines!

Andy Hill has been working in design and advertising for the last 25 years and is now, in his first exhibition named “If I couldn’t draw”, showing off his other creative talents of drawing and painting. He insists drawing and painting keeps him sane in his cutthroat day job.

All three storeys of the gallery were used to exhibit Hill’s work. On the ground floor hung large painted canvases entitled ‘Elements of the Universe’, inspired by climate change issues. These apparent poetic justice of nature are inspired by the lack of care for the environment and are suppose to make us think twice. These were skilled paintings showing powerful stormy seas and skies, however not powerful enough to make me think about them, let alone think twice. And to be frank, I wouldn’t really look twice at them either. Does anybody actually read this? These paintings were oddly accompanied by framed charcoal nudes, which reminded me of life drawing classes at art foundation; amateur and unimpressive.

A pleasant exhibition yet nothing special. Hill obviously has the ability to be draw, as most creatives do, but maybe not the strength to be an artist. One expects to come away from an exhibition impressed, excited and inspired but I left Hill’s preview night feeling none of these, although I was slightly impressed with the gallery’s personalised toilet seat.

After seeing this Arkansas trio perform the same live set for over two years now, it’s disappointing to hear Beth Ditto informing us that they will not be playing new material when she strolls out to three levels full of expectant faces in a packed-to-bursting Shepherd’s Bush Empire. The iconic vocalist looks as striking as ever tonight in a combination of figure-hugging, shimmering green dress, huge bouffant hair with dangling crimped ringlets and dramatic black eye make-up – an outfit conjuring up the spirit of Hairspray’s Tracy Turnblad. She hitches the frock up completely during blistering opener ‘Eyes Open’ before the band treat us to fiery versions of ‘Yr Mangled Heart’, ‘Coal To Diamonds’, ‘Yesterday’s News’ and ‘Fire/Sign’.

Gossip have toured their essential breakthrough fourth album to death - so it’s no surprise that on occasion these songs have less energy than when they first unleashed them on a hungry UK audience in 2006 - but what makes this act so special is that even when they’re not firing on all four cylinders, they still knock the socks off their peers performance-wise. Ditto roars, shrieks and shakes along manically to drummer Hannah Blilie’s thundering rhythms and engages in witty banter between songs while fashionably speccy guitarist Brace Paine gives the frequently-photographed frontwoman a run for her money in the stage-owning stakes, creeping, crouching and hopping from one foot to the other while dishing out bluesy, attacking riffs and squalling solos. The outfit also pay tribute to some of music’s most influential females as Ditto sings snatches of X-Ray Specs songs and quotes Nina Simone before unleashing their famously sultry version of Aaliyah’s ‘Are You That Somebody?’.

Photograph by Tamsin Green

These references seem to be lost on the audience, however, the majority of whom are only interested in hearing that Skins song, an advertising campaign responsible for transforming Gossip from a cult act into a mainstream proposition last year. In fact, they barely pay attention to the first airing of infectious electronic-tinged newie ‘Eighth Wonder’ - complete with pulsing beats and samplers - and dance half-heartedly to the first encore of ‘Listen Up’, before the familiar opening thrash of ‘Standing In The Way Of Control’ kicks in, its pulsing bassline sending shivers down spines and sending the Empire into a frenzy. Suddenly Ditto is nowhere to be seen, enveloped by the crowd as she pulls hundreds of people over the barrier to dance with the band. They swarm the stage and flail around wildly, providing a spectacular visual finale to a show which, despite its intermittent failings, still packs a well-placed punch in the belly of modern music.

After a guestlist mix-up that had me convinced I’d be attempting to review this gig from outside the venue, we finally get the green light and find the perfect perching spot for first support act Youthmovies as a heaving throng of expectant early arrivees go wild for this Oxford fivesome’s thrillingly complex riff attacks. They are also very keen on next act Esser and rightfully so, as the pint-sized ex-Ladyfuzz drummer kicks off an energetic and compelling performance by dramatically thrashing at a cymbal and snare. Along with frYars and Micachu, the quirky chap is currently one of the capital’s most innovative young songwriters as he caters in everything from dark, off-kilter pop to shimmering electronics, stripped-down hip-hop and frantic thrash, throwing in maracas, creepy piano samples, strings and cowbells along the way. 'I Love You' and ‘Headlock’ sound like hits in the making and as Esser tumbles off at the end of a thundering finale, kicking over drums and microphone stands in his path, he leaves us gagging for more.

However, it’s headliners Foals that really bring the house down tonight, rather unsurprisingly as before they are even on stage a real party atmosphere pervades the Astoria with pissed-up punters chanting the band’s name and excitedly lobbing glowsticks into the air. The extremely talented quintet commence an intense and perfectly executed set of tracks from debut ‘Antidotes’ with a brief warm-up as smoke fills the stage, blinding us with red and blue flashing lights before ‘The French Open’ surges into action, all discordant horns, juddering guitars and clattering percussion. Gone is the tight circle formation of old, replaced by an increasingly confident live outfit unafraid to own all of the space they are entitled to – Jimmy Smith manically thrashes at his guitar while Yannis Philippakis pirouettes, hops and skips around the stage gesticulating wildly from behind his microphone and even launching himself into the front row at one point to dance with the crowd.

‘Cassius’, ‘Balloons’, ‘Heavy Water’, ‘Hummer’, ‘Two Steps, Twice’ and ‘Electric Bloom’ all incite screams and hysterical flailing from audience members, however, it is nothing compared to the encore of ‘Mathletics’ which sees people grabbing at the frontman and guitarist, pulling them into the pit and hugging them, as growling basslines, twittering riffs and rhythms at breakneck speed erupt around the venue. Anyone worried that a move to stages of this size would detract from the power of the Foals live show should leave tonight feeling appeased. The band are now more adept at putting on awe-inspiring performances than they ever were…

You can tell Armen Eloyan lives in Zurich. With claustrophobic cabin interiors, sparse, snowy landscapes and a cast of animal – human hybrids: wolves, dogs and black cats, his paintings seem like stills from a half-remembered Mitteleuropean fairytale. Take 'Man Dressed as Wolf': a figure in a stove-pipe hat and a vulpine smile stalks amid the fir trees, on the way, you can only imagine, to eating someone’s grandma.

Eloyan inhabits much the same territory as the notoriously grim Chapman Brothers, but while their demented cartoon characters are drawn with a twee neatness that underlines their menace, Eloyan’s visions are smeared onto the canvas with splenetic vigour. Cartoon imagery is removed from the flat safety of the printed page; in 'Bear and Dog' a speech bubble emerges, filled with frenzied, illegible writing, while in '(Bunch of a Story) Tea Table', the viscous substance oozing from the pot doesn’t look much like tea. Random details surface from the swirling depths of the paint: although you can’t quite work out what infests the outer reaches of the canvas, you can bet your life it’s nothing friendly.

It’s well known that modern anxieties about childhood and the American film industry have excised the darker content from children’s stories and folklore. In Eloyan’s nightmare-world, these dark and haunting subtexts burst through to the surface, creating queasy juxtapositions between the painterly, expressionist backdrops and the goofy-eyed figures therein. In short, Bookstore Cure celebrates the triumph of the macabre.

After having met Chris - Yeasayer’s front man - the other week, he extended an invitation to watch the band's final London gig at the ICA last night. So with a note to himself written as a reminder to submit my name, we parted ways with a sincere promise of a catch up on the following Monday.

I’d heard nothing but good reviews from an eclectic selection of people, so I was anticipating whether Yeasayer would live up to my expectations. Rolling up to the venue early in the hopes of catching one of the super sized fig rolls that the ICA has to offer, we were met with “We’re still waiting for their guest list.” Man, all I wanted was one of those fig rolls, could I wait in the café? No. So I was relegated to the lobby to await the royal list.

Not only were we at the mercy of the bureaucracy that comes with guest lists, but also the sticky red tape of being at the ICA. In my frustration I wanted to shout at someone, to para-phrase CSS, to 'suck my art', bizzatch!! Despite being amused an hour earlier to observe the ‘art crowd’. But some dim sum and a lot of phone calls later, we skidded in just in time for the lights to come up on the four piece that is Yeasayer.

I wondered how Yeasayer were going to translate onto a live stage; as they were the kind of band that I imagined to have a raggle taggle but Slick Rick type gypsy orchestra backing them up. So when the sound swelled (the sound at the ICA is amaaaaaazing darling...but not up toooo loud, it's all very civilised up in there) I thought that it was all too good to be true. And then I realised, and was initially surprised, at how electronic and backed up they were. I was skeptical for about a minute, when it all began to make sense to me. Recorded, and on a romantic level, Yeasayer are a seemingly untamed wilderness of exotic sound; a whirling dervish of drums, vocals chanting with abandon and organic handclaps. Often, images of bare feet kicking up dust as they stomp and dance cross my mind when I listen to Yeasayer. But of course, on an intellectual level, I know that every sample, every wail and every drum stroke has been carefully executed with the pride and precision of a military operation. And on observing the live version of proceedings, it was clear that it was almost a Wizard of Oz type procedure, with live mixing as well as live instrumentation.

I was hanging out to hear Sunrise and they didn’t disappoint me, I was appeased. Yeasayer lived up to my expectations, and were well worth the trouble that I, and everyone on either side of me on the food chain, had to go through to get me there. I got what I went for: the urge to gyrate, throw my hands up, dance in a fashion that would clear a wide circle around me and, despite one of my pet hates being anyone who thinks that going barefoot is a cool idea (vagrants), I also felt like I wanted to chuck my shoes off for a stomping jamboree with Yeasayer. Fantastic.

The Glasgow School of Art undergraduate fashion show has been an annual affair since the 1940s, so it’s no surprise it has established a reputation for being dynamic and innovative. This year proved to be no different, with 40 students from second and third year showing 108 outfits.

The theme for this year’s show was ‘Avant-Garde’ and the students aimed to challenge mass-produced fashion to create exciting and daring one-off pieces.

The show opened with work from the second students, who showed one garment each, followed by the third year students who specialise in one of four areas of textile design – knit, weave, embroidery and print – to create a three garment collection.
Featuring fluorescent colours on neutral backgrounds, jewel bright colours from opposing ends of the colour wheel, layered tones and rich hues, this was a show saturated in colour. The voluminous shapes and intricate folding, tucking, draping and pleating showed guest lecturer Julian Roberts influence.

The designers cite inspiration from architecture, industrialism, Optical art and the glamour of 1940s screen sirens. One minute cubic shapes in knits and print evoked city skylines, and the next Surrealism and Romanticism took over as the models were transformed into Cottingley-esque fairies in light chiffons and appliquéd flowers.
Using a toned down palate of coffee tones in gold and cream, Natalie Graham created a collection of juxtapositions. Masculine tailoring challenged ideas of femininity while her choice of tough woven tweeds patterned with mechanical shapes was classic and sophisticated.

Stephanie Parr drew inspiration from dilapidated buildings, and used thermals with laser cut fluorescent fabrics. The layered train of one dress, lifted and lowered by the model like fabulous neon parrots tail, created endless shapes and movements.
Nautical stripes were toughened up in Ian Porters capes in which striped panels and red rubber panels seemed more like an apocalyptic day by the sea.
This was a bold and self-assured show that once again cemented Glasgow School of Arts reputation as the place to look for new talent.

A worryingly bright room with the stench of fresh white paint known as the Nog Gallery was illustrator Marcus Oakley’s chosen venue for the launch of his new book.

Framed art and canvases, none much larger than A4, were hung tightly together in a line around the room. This was a collection of work that made the book that we were there to drink our beers to.

A colourful collection of trendy, childlike illustrations were bought to life by Oakley and his fat marker pen, HB pencil and a selection of coloured papers and paints. His work involved a mixture of typography, pattern making, still-lifes, houses and numerous quirky characters and animals such as the creepy bear (above).

Oakley’s work also involved portraits of more familiar (yet still rather creepy looking) characters including Fleetwood Mac, Simon and Garfunkel and Neil young. There was definitely a 1970’s air around the exhibition: bygone architecture, retro pot plants and large collared fashion. Oakley appears to be influenced by the aesthetic beauty of the decade’s architecture, fashion, graphics and typography. The subject matter and his taste in music may be a little old but his style of illustration is definitely contemporary.

Though the Spice of Life played host to the forerunners of the 60’s and 70’s folk scene, and some of punk’s leading lights, nowadays its anodyne basement – reminiscent of the dining area in the Linton Travel Tavern – makes for a dispiriting live venue.

Oh well. Kudos to O Titus! for holding the attention of an initially apathetic crowd throughout their early set. True, their beery, occasionally ramshackle nature would better suit a grotty backroom nearer Camden than Soho. But part of the whole being in a band thing is about trying to produce the goods when the context’s working against you, and these guys took an admirable stab at it.

Once I’d successfully averted my gaze first from the drummer’s demonic glare and then from the guitarist’s eye-popping trousers, the O Titus! formula for live success dawned upon me: essentially, layer an almost punky energy on top of bluesy, prominent bass lines. Not rocket science then, but effective nonetheless.

The memorable riff underpinning “Seagulls” could propel the band towards radio airplay, though there was more fun to be had with the fuzzy, stop-start “Stephenson’s Rocket”, and the laconic “Polka”. Throughout, there was an underlying (beneficial) tension between the music itself – upfront, straightforward and arresting – and the lyrics, which take in obscure pop culture references and include the odd unexpected linguistic diversion (I don’t think I’d ever heard someone sing “syncopated” before).

If they can tighten up their sound a bit without losing the suggestion of amateurism that makes them appealing in the first place, O Titus! could be on to something. Just not round here.

Vanessa Billy's subtle interventions and artworks in her new exhibition 'Flexible Values' needed a bare, tranquil space to breathe. As the gallery filled up throughout the evening, I saw a couple of people trip up over her unassuming sculptural piece ‘Four Times Weathered’ and duck under the acrylic arch of the work ‘Fluids’. This interactivity, whether intentional or not, seemed a nice touch as so much of the exhibition seemed hinged on the relationships between the individual artworks and how the viewer moves around them.
'Dry Stamina', a slope of sand that ran across the floor of the gallery, was dispersing and mutating as the evening progressed, again alluding to the fluidity of the experience of the exhibition, and to the journey of the viewer in the space.

The curation of the show seemed as important as the works; sculptures such as 'Suns neither Rise Nor Set', two circular glass objects mounted on the walls, could seem too simplistic without its interaction with the other artworks. Instead, the piece resonates with some kind of otherworldly meteorological or astronomical idea, the more I moved around the space the more it seemed I was looking at some kind of fragile model of a solar system. Everything was placed in a very considered way; Billy created an unearthly mood very succinctly. This is necessary to the show’s success: the materials that kept appearing - pale pastel coloured tissues, transparent acrylic and glass – needed a strong sense of placement to anchor them in the exhibition. Not that the work seemed flimsy or insubstantial, just that Billy’s handling of materials, even in the case of concrete plinths as in ‘Four Times Weathered’, seemed naturalistic and feminine. This feeling managed to transform the gallery into a delicate, atmospheric space.

After a hard day's work and a delightful dinner of dim sum, Team Amelia headed to Dolce Night Club for the presentation of Couture Clubbing. The press release informed me that this post-Fashion Week presentation was the, and I quote, “debit” collection designed by Central Saint Martins alumni Amy Winters and Kseniya Zagorodnyuk.

The invitation promised a Paradise Lost extravaganza including poisoned apples, flutes of champagne and electric violin. I’m sure John Milton was turning in his grave at the very thought of his epic legacy being bastardised by some art school idiots.

The compare sounded like she was strung out, but she was nothing in comparison to the cabaret style performer who provided pre-show entertainment. Ms Cabaret looked like a mash-up of Jodie Harsh and Miss Havisham and her skit involved twirling a silver baton whilst singing a memorable little ditty which went something along the lines of: “I am swallow, flying high over the sea, swallowing swords.” And, yes, she flapped about onstage as she sang.

The clothes were meant to resemble a character from each episode of Paradise Lost. Interesting concept, and maybe if Satan was to let loose and kick up his heels he would invest in a selection of sexy platforms, flirty dresses and tailored jackets.

As the presentation ended, we flocked to the bar to numb the pain with the aforementioned free flutes of champagne. No such luck, as we were fobbed off with a diluted cocktail, and herded back to watch the electric violin display. Sadly, the hippidy-hop DJ was in full flow, and the strings were drowned out by Beyonce, Jay-Z and Rihanna. In the words of The Four Seasons – Oh, What a Night.

There is nothing particularly enigmatic about the Mystery Jets' new album, but in terms of creating an almost perfect collection of charmingly melodious pop, it's a winner. The ominous opening sound of a second world war air raid siren precedes an onslaught of off-kilter romances and narratives of domestic abuse that are verging on the sinister, with lyrics that should probably be disturbing – but are nonetheless unashamedly amusing. These arise prominently in Behind The Bunhouse, with the obscure accusation "you knocked me o'er the head with a rolling pin / And then you got down and you kicked me in the ribs." Funny 'cause it's not true. Throughout the album allegoric narratives abound, and this is what ties the album together, as on a musical level it seems quite disparate. But there are some harmonic diamonds in Twenty One in the form of the new single Young Love, Two Doors Down and Flakes, the former a wistful reflection on a missed opportunity of the heart, which despite its sentiments cleverly avoids being vomit-inducingly quaint. I did become less enthused by this initially great track after it clung to my brain and repeated itself on a relentless loop against my will for several days; but therein lies the strength of its catchiness. Flakes combines a poignant story with a beautifully dischordant tune, while Two Doors Down, with its sprightly resonances of eighties Norwegian pop icons Aha, is the epitome of accessible, uplifting pop. Always better than a kick in the ribs.

Using photography to document style subcultures is nothing new, but the difference with the Exactitudes exhibition is that most of its subjects certainly wouldn't recognize themselves as members of any fashion tribe. In the murkier depths of Selfridges (down the escalators, via the decidedly unhip luggage department) photographer Ari Versluis and stylist Ellie Uyttenbroek make like crazed zoologists intent on documenting the distinctive markings of each subspecies. In their images, carefully numbered and categorized according to city and date, Versluis’ models are pinned out like exotic beetles under glass.

Some species are instantly recognizable: Formers - Rotterdam 2005, for instance, is a series of serious-looking female curators in black Yohji robes and ethnic jewellery who would be equally at home in a gallery in Shoreditch or Williamsburg. Likewise, the ranks of Gallic Johnny Borrell-a-likes in Zazous - Bordeaux Lac 2006 in their leather jackets are, apparently, a universal phenomena. And if nothing else, this exhibition has taught me that the German for Goth is ‘Ghoullie’ which is, I think, something definitely worth knowing.

Very much a work in progress, Exactitudes charts the rise and fall of trends over the past ten years. The grungy Chillers of 1999 have been replaced by equally sullen if more sharply dressed Emos of 2006 while the views of 1997’s environmentally aware Young Activists have gone mainstream; perhaps they’re making government policy now. Meanwhile, Versluis and Uttenbroek are updating the collection with the aid of a crack team of students from all the best acronyms - Central Saint Martins, London College of Fashion and London College of Communication - to identify the archetypal denizens of London circa 2008 and lure them down to the gallery-cum-studio. The resulting works will be unveiled on 6th April. The team won’t be drawn on their chosen groups but when I went along a neon haired lesbian couple and a pretty Japanese girl with a designer handbag were posing for the cameras.

Playing 'Spot the Stereotype' is, of course, excellent fun, but does it really qualify as art? What I think this exhibition is ultimately about is the failure individuals to conform to simplistic generalizations: glimpses of personality still shine though. After all, the angelic little girls dressed up for their First Communion in Little Brides - Maastricht 2006 may well resurface in a few years as, god help us, Emos - Maastricht 2015!

It's Friday night at the Water Rats Theatre and its ladies night...or so it would seem. Packed throughout the venue, it is a struggle to even get near the stage where a bevy of beauties, local faces and mandatory scene kids were awaiting east end band The Cazals.
Long tipped for big things, I was simultaneously apprehensive as well as looking forward to see what the Cazals now had to offer. Early demos and their 2006 XFM session had left me eager to hear an album but that was two years ago and I had since been disheartened by a mobile phone advert (yes I’m a purist).

Arriving on stage the band (or at least two thirds of them) launch into an opening track that immediately reignited my faith and interest in them. Joined mid song by the other members (who were allegedly propping up the bar), the band stormed through their opening song and into a set that included all their classic hits in the making as well as new tunes that make up their up and coming album What Of Our Future. Its songs like Poor Innocent Boys and new single Life Is Boring with their infectious sing along choruses that hold the key to the bands future success. The Cazals sound as fresh as when I had first heard them and yet nothing like I was expecting. Analogue synths and guitar tones that would make Pink Floyd proud, the Cazals have clearly realised a musical direction that is evident in them signing to French dance/electronic label Kitsuné.

With a recent resurgence in dance/electronic influenced music touted as New Rave coupled with the Cazals mobile phone advert I cant help but wonder if this is a jump on the bandwagon or a natural progression. What ever it is, I have decided it irrelevant, the Cazals are back, and back in force.

So it’s Friday night again and, its fair to say that I'm looking forward to a beer or two. Tonight’s main attraction, aside from the alcohol, is Ghost School at the Macbeth with Naïve New Beaters.

Having sunk a few beers we are greeted by the arrival on stage of the first band, Grand Pocket Orchestra, who, over the next 60 minutes, played a plethora of squawky, offbeat songs with equal measures of distortion and quirky melody that managed to very much divide opinion amongst my group of friends. Vocally, Paddy sounds like a cross between Steve Bays of Hot Hot Heat fame and a child having a tantrum. Not an entirely unpleasant combination by any means, as the rest of the band proceed to twang away at their instruments with varying degrees of gusto (Bronwyn, the band’s only female member makes Meg White look positively animated). At that point, my group of friends were fairly critical of GPO and agreed only with the vocal sound alike references. Personally, I quite enjoyed them. They have a laziness not dislike Pavement and something in common with Modest Mouse , although I'm not quite sure what! It’s all a bit kooky, wonky and a bit out-of tune; but upon listening to the songs recorded they seem to have the balance about right. Mid-set their singer appeared to have a bit of a hissy-fit that looked like he couldn't quite overcome the reality that, although perhaps looking vaguely cool in a very cliché fashion, if he throws his guitar on the floor too hard, he may then actually break it and have to buy a new one. Despite this comedy Grand Pocket Orchestra a worth a listen.

By the time Naïve New Beaters arrived, the venue had really filled up and despite being more or less at the front; the obligatory tall guy appeared and stood in front of me. Between people’s heads I could see guys wearing splendid jumpers as the set began with sparklers being lit, then pierced through said jumper of the brave keyboard player. NNB proceeded to storm through their next three songs with increasing attention from the growing crowd. Finally, the evening really got going and it started to feel like a party.

NNB are an interesting band really, because it would be all too easy to write them off as yet another ‘of the moment’ electro/indie type bands who we’ll forget about in a month's time. This may well be the case in the fickle world of music, but on Friday night at the Macbeth they really shone and everyone genuinely seemed to be having fun. All the songs are suitably upbeat and title track from the current EP, Live Good is so popular that it got played twice. So an evening of dancing commences and everyone I speak to is suitably enamoured with NNB.

I stayed on after the bands to drink some more and by this stage the Macbeth was heaving. The upstairs smoking gallery provided the perfect opportunity to get into bizarre drunken conversations with group of people that is actually pretty friendly. By this point I kinda feel like I’m at a house party - granted, I spent way more money than I would have at a house party. And despite the crowd’s attempts to prevent me from getting anywhere near the bar, Ghost School was well worth a visit and NNBS were a fitting accompaniment.

A dark figure half-submerged in a phosphorescent black sea set the mood of the private view of Faith; a series of paintings, drawings and video installation by a group of eleven artists, set in the intimate location of the Primo Alonso gallery in London's east end. The artists' collective exploration and questioning of the meaning of 'faith' is palpably evident in the exhibition, an ecclesiastical undercurrent emitting from every beautifully considered piece of work, but each takes a unique approach. Simon Burton's dark, faceless figure rising from anonymous watery depths is reminiscent of a Francis Bacon or Peter Doig but swathed in a foreboding blackness, a dimly unsettling vision of a dystopian future.
The sublimely talented David Hancock's most recent work appeared; small, intricately painted portraits of three apostolic figures, their wide eyes averted to the heavens. Neon pinks, yellows and greens emerge spasmodically beneath the flesh of the figures and the distorted walls they lean against. Influenced by the Pre-Raphaelite and Romantic movements, Hancock's work draws on the religious symbolism of this era but relocates them into an urban, contemporary context. Every piece of work left me stunned and enraptured – a remarkable show of remarkably talented individuals.

The show runs until 13th April.

According to experts, caffeine is good for cellulite. No, not the liquid form that we throw down our necks, quite the contrary, but the lycra form that we pull up our legs. I mean tights. Skinkiss kindly sent us a pack of Revolutionary Caffeine Slimming tights “It has been shown that wearing them on a daily basis can reduce thigh measurements by up to 2 cm” the packaging read. Despite this promise there was barely a fight amongst the Team Amelia’s girls over who tried them out. Eventually the garments were designated to three reluctant testers; we were in need of some new tights anyway.

I’ve heard of caffeine in cosmetic products but never in a pair of tights, so I was inevitably curious. The mild hint of coffee released from the foil fresh packaging enclosing the tights came as no surprise to me. It was a surprise however, that they appeared perfectly normal; no Bridget Jones waistband, bizarre gusset or divided buttock panelling.

So to answer the big imposing question here- “did they work?” Surprisingly, they didn’t. If the truth were told we didn’t exactly give them a decent trial. The experiment was accompanied with an extreme diet of biscuits and mountains of grated cheese and of course this hasn’t been a fair experiment; you’d actually need some cellulite for it to be fair!

This Parisian trio really are filthy. From clipped beat-driven opener Homecoming onwards, Reality Check is ridden with lewd lyrics and sordid sounds delivered in charming broken English and inspired by an impressive range of influences from Slayer, Nirvana, Weezer
and Dillinger Escape Plan to M83, Jacques Lu Cont, Madonna and Beverly Hills 90210.

This striking first track sets The Teenagers’ impish intentions out perfectly as it paints a humorous picture of an adolescent holiday fling. Like a synth-tinged, mischievous take on Grease’s Summer Nights, the male vocal boasts about “fu*king American c*nt” while the naïve cheerleader in question swoons over her English romance. The band then turn their attentions to seducing someone new as breathy electro pop offering French Kiss finds them in a girl’s bedroom watching Dirty Dancing and offering a “French kiss on your soft lips”.

But this impeccably dressed, easy on the eye bunch are not just here to brag about past conquests and have their wicked way with the ladies; they mix alcohol-soaked anecdotes that would make your elders blush with witty cultural references, tell tales of violence on the streets of their hometown, address everyday teenage issues and bare their souls post-break-up. During string-tinged breezy ballad Wheel Of Fortune, for example, they ask what their lives would be like if they’d been popular at school and whether they would dance in the same way if they’d never seen Michael Jackson, Sunset Beach - their account of being dumped after a one night stand – finds them seething the refrain “this fu*king bitch deserves to die”, End Of The Road is a Cure-esque epic about the end of a love affair and Fuck Nicole was written about a Myspace encounter in the midst of a late night vodka session.

The subject matter on display throughout Reality Check is clever, sexy, romantic and utterly of its time, as is the music which soars and simmers, combining breezy harmonies with blissful, instantly catchy melodies, scratchy riffs and pulsing basslines. It is a glorious triumph of a debut, crammed full of youthful oomph and oodles of ideas and originality that utterly justifies the hype about this band. The Teenagers’ lusty effort also makes many of their British counterparts sound lifeless and stale, but then we shouldn’t really be so surprised - French boys have always been more exciting…

After much self-inflicted blasting of Night Ripper into mine ears upon the bus of 149, I was expecting a paramount performance from mash-up DJ Gregg Gillis, aka Girl Talk of Pennsylvania. However, as I am always told, expectations are the set up of disappointment and with an upset stomach and a screaming, head-splitting, keyboard bashing duo beforehand, the evening was doing a pretty good job of weaning it’s way out of my good books. I had failed to notice a fat 'Boston' logo on the front sign beforehand, so when I realised that all corners of the venue were filled with Americans, I began feeling slightly odd and insignificant. I am still unsure of why it felt so outlandish; it was as if I’d been teleported to a different country of alien species without prior warning, but then again, perhaps Girl Talk was SO brilliant he may just have had an avid Yankee following in London, which can only be a good sign. Maybe.

American sacrilege aside, after the shrieking teenagers had fled the stage, some random greasy-haired technician began setting up laptops, but a closer look assured me it was actually Gregg himself. Disappointed I may have been with his original mundane attire, but after much faffing about for half an hour gaffataping wires, he reappeared with trendy headband, red hoody and dirty grey joggers in tow. After a semi-haughty 'God bless America' speech (the crowd went wild as you’d expect- those crazy ruffians), he finally delivered the goods. His signature style of cut and paste hip-hop beats and rhymes layered on top of indie and old school classics failed to disappoint, and moments in, EVERYONE, including myself, unashamedly ambushed the stage to rave with the sweaty mongrel (who looked like he'd just come from 'The Last Supper' as Amy observed). Arms were up in the air, bottoms were sticking out, a few gun fingers were on show, and wet hair was swishing all over the place - but what made it extra bizarre was Gregg’s eagerness to join in with the crowd; all lines between celebrity and public civilians were lost amidst the revelry. His delirious washing machine moves led to the flinging of his clothes everywhere from top to bottom, but thankfully, I think, his boxers just about stayed on as a rampant fan yanked at one side giving me a perfect snap happy opportunity of half his buttocks. Scroll down to take an exclusive look - you perverts.

It was best that the early curfew of fifteen minutes past midnight was kept in place, as if I’d danced anymore I might have keeled over like one of the drunken frantic girls there who fell off a table three times, each time insisting she get back on her high horse. Electrifying this hairy man was, and I shall certainly be inviting him over to the UK again to DJ at my house sometime; providing he keeps his clothes on, of course.

Music ed's note: Did you scroll down before you read the whole post? You should be ashamed of yourselves!

Go Team Owain...!

Students in the third year of the graphic design course at CSM displayed a vast selection of work in progress for our beady little eyes to admire last night, in a miniature room filled to the brim with people of all sorts. Busy enough to form an orderly queue outside, it was a shame I couldn’t get a better opportunity to see everyone’s work properly, before another person elbowed me in the head. But a packed out venue usually equals a successful evening, so on their behalf it was most probably a good thing.

If I am to be honest, we initially had the ulterior motive of supporting our fellow team member at Amelia’s, Owain Thomas, but his work was enough to impress us in its own right. A dab hand with the paintbrush, he remains one of the more traditional artists whom paint monochromatically with tones, shadow and light, provoking emotions of an eerie and paranormal nature. Not content with showing off his natural flair for drawing, he also composed the projected film animation show reel, revealing a series of short films by the students to accompany their 2D wall illustrations. Owain’s in particular, an advert for Vigorsol chewing gum, exposed the quirkier side of his persona, in contrast to the more sinister undertones of his black and grey paintings. On the other end of the spectrum, Takasuke Yamanda presented child-like ink sketches of story tale characters, bringing me back to the age of innocence with a sweep of his brush. Foo Chi Ip was more comfortable with the simplicity of pen and white paper, and displayed the most delicate, and almost fragile illustrations of Japanese anime inspired mystical characters. The flight of imagination ran throughout other pieces, with Tara Cloak’s ‘King of the Birds 1’ where woodland birds’ heads replaced those of humans, all arranged in some sort of circular dancing-cult ritual.

If all artists of tomorrow showed such exuberance for illustration as these hard-working students did, critics like us would have an extremely hard time scrutinizing them when we get invited to such private openings. I now only have high hopes for the finished goods, as the work I have already had a taste of is only the start of something en route to excellence I am sure.

Bragg's contentious mix of pop and politics has endured for a quarter of a century now but this is his first release proper in 5 years. It follows 2006's Hope Not Hate Campaign which was aimed at raising the awareness of a notoriously apathetic UK electorate to the genuine threat of the British National Party in the impending local elections. When the BNP won a number of seats on Bragg's local council in Barking, Essex the same year it seemed that his campaign had fallen upon deaf ears somewhat. Ever the stalwart though, Bragg tirelessly soldiers on - this time aided by the astute backing of The Blokes. His usual one man band approach shelved in favour of what is a more polished, if inconsistent affair.

Bragg has always been more interesting when he is singing about love and loss, as opposed to peddling his political ideals. This is not to say that his ideologies are without worth – far from it- but they tend to often come across clichéd and trite when consigned to the rigid structural constraints of song lyrics. On Mr Love and Justice the old qualities still shine through, and it would be fair to say this is Bragg’s most complete solo work in years. Promise indeed, then but it’s not great by any means.

The immediacy of opener I Keep Faith provides a welcome opening. It’s whimsical, soulful tones soon make perfect sense of the tailored production Bragg has opted for. What is also strikingly apparent is that Bragg’s voice has barely altered at all throughout his career. Here is it supplemented perfectly by Robert Wyatt’s starry eyed whisperings on a track that has a certain addictive quality.

The Blokes do a great job in keeping things uncomplicated whilst maintaing enough of a presence so as not to become an afterthought . The Morrissey-esque I Almost Killed You which is driven by harmonica, handclaps, layered acoustics and muted woodwind- with the odd burst of anthemic guitar- typifies their approach. Elsewhere the bluster of Something Happened demonstrates an essential versatility. The solo Billy comes to the fore on the genuine If You Ever Leave and there is a nice little ditty in You Make Me Brave.

There are a couple of clunkers and the aforementioned trite political driven numbers are present again in the form of troop withdrawal from Iraq (Sing Their Souls Back Home) and an ‘extraordinary rendition’ (O’ Freedom). But there is a lot here to hold the interest, and so on this evidence, it’s good to have Mr Love and Justice himself back.

Not as impressive as their first output, not as depressive as their comeback, their third album manages to have some really solid hits while they explore their own roots and bring the angular guitars back. Unfortunately, the excessive number of fillers making the experience less pleasant than it should be. You can’t blame them for trying. Their new songs see them trying to sound like their old selves – back when they had enough dancefloor anthems to make Franz Ferdinand jealous, and a major behind after them. After being dropped by their label because of News And Tributes, the second album which lacked the material which made them interesting in the first place, they had no option but to go back and give us their best impression of The Jam playing punk versions of Beach Boys songs. In The Beginning of the Twist, Radio Heart and Broke Up the Time they show that they still have what it takes to create shiny pop-dance songs. So what am I forgetting to mention? Oh, yes, the bad songs on the album. The ones that sound like a pastiche of themselves; soulless use of guitar and drums (as well as their accent - which we all liked) making me wonder where the energetic, meaningful two minutes of punk madness went. It could’ve been their chance to make it via their self made label, but regrettably This is Not the World could only be a good if it was an EP.