Five albums in, medications malady and with only mild commercial success to date, it would be a reasonable assessment to describe Rufus Wainwright’s dramatic, theatrical pop as something of an acquired taste. For many, he over eggs the pudding , and then some. But whilst bold ambition may be a deterrent to some, his loyal fans will rejoice at this offering. This is classic Rufus, and whilst it wont be winning him many new fans, this simply doesn’t matter. This is a record to admire, it may even be his most satisfying work to date.
As expected, Wainwright offers up his usual mix of epic and restrained throughout the 13 songs, and there are a number of gems. Striking orchestration and characteristically high in the mix Rufus vocals lead us into opener Do I Dissapoint You. It is a brilliant opening song to set the tone for what is to follow. The diversity of instruments employed here alone is staggering, and like many songs throughout the album the arrangement is gloriously ambitious. The recurring operatic theme, present throughout all his previous work has been thankfully maintained.
First Single Going To A Town (which was B listed by Radio 2) follows. Its mournful tones echoing latter day Beatles balladry (think Fool On The Hill) and it features the albums most engaging lyrics. Amidst numerous misforgivings with his homeland, Wainwright again finds himself lost in the confusion of love and religion (another recurring theme here), “Tell me, do you really think you go to hell for having loved?” he pleads. For all the record’s grandiose, it is these moments of human insecurity that really strike a chord. It is also one of a number of outstanding vocals on the record.
The pace doesn’t let up throughout the opening half – Nobody’s Off The Hook, Between My Legs and Tiergarten sit easily amongst the artists best work. But, it cannot quite be maintained throughout the second half – a better focus on sequencing next time perhaps. But this is a minor gripe. With each listen, hidden depths are revealed, suggesting that this is a record that will endure also. It is a joy.
Troubles! That’s exactly what the Concretes got into during the last year. One of the three founding members and nonetheless the lead vocalist of the band decided to quit to start her solo project Taken by Trees. If that was not enough the destiny decided to punish them furthermore and as a result they had all their equipment stolen during the U.S. tour. Quite a difficult time for a band, sildenafil isn’t it? However, The Concretes decided to look ahead and continue their career as a seven piece band, giving Maria Erikkson the difficult task to substitute the charismatic and easily recognisable voice of Victoria Bergsman.
This story has definitely something in common with that of another band that I always considered in some way similar to the Swedish one; the departure of one of the founding member of the Concretes is very similar to the loss of Mary Hansen for Stereolab. Such a change is always reflected in the future work of a group, especially if it is not a one man band but a sort of democratic collective that works together in order to create the soft and tender melodies that Concretes‘ fans are used to. Anyway the Swedish guys made it and here they are with a new release on Licking Fingers. The main problem of this 12 track cd is certainly the already discussed new lead vocalist, however, if we consider the work in its context, what we have is a quite enjoyable, typically northern European pop record. Simple and direct lyrics are mixed with a light pop approach to composition. It is definitely easy- listening music that in some of its shapes can be compared with Peter Bjorn and John, another very fashionable Swedish project.
Probably my favourite track has to be considered the positive Firewatch with its guitar arpeggio that together with constant background drums and lyrics like “If you promise to be here I’ll do the same” certainly gives no real surprise to the listener but goes straight to the point: just plain and sophisticated pop.
The album’s start is slow and not very catchy, however the tracklist is well organized and creates a sort of work in progress that leads to songs like the more rocking Oh Boy or Keep Yours, an almost danceable track where Maria Erikkson’s ‘out of tune’ vocals seem really to be in the right place. With If We’re Lucky We Don’t Get There On Time we are introduced into a dreamy atmosphere; in this case the lead vocalist is supported by a second male voice and there are soft beats reminiscent of the Velvet Underground.
It is as if The Concretes were trying to give us a pause, a break from the pretty plain music stream of the album. Then, Are you Prepared takes you directly to some eighties light-hearted pop with the singer constantly repeating “Are you prepared to wake up with me?”. Oh No, on the other hand, is probably the little treasure of this album: the band really seem to work collectively again building an epic wall of sound.
The overall result is not the best achievement by the Swedish band, but still it manages to be delicate and not boring. It’s simple and there is nothing unexpected. All the songs start as you want them and finish exactly when you would say it’s the proper time to stop. Nonetheless they are enriched with a very quality instrumental texture that makes you listen to the album again and again.
I had a bad feeling about tonight. When a band is booked to play a large venue outside their main fan base, store it usually ends in disaster. The idiosyncrasies of Deerhoof’s sound, medicine no wave rock ‘n’ roll with a harrowing simplicity both lyrically and aurally, just isn’t suited to the cavernous blood red walls of a venue like Camden’s Koko.
Their oddball setup: guitarist John Dietrich lurking at the back, drummer Greg Saunier and his tiny kit perched front right, and the miniscule Satomi Matsuzaki front left seemed forced and overly ‘kooky’. While Dietrich pored over his guitar, Saunier pounded the snare with such enthusiasm it left the beautiful voice of Matsuzaki drowned in a sea of ‘prap prap prap prap’.
The seven minute opener, a mix of tracks from albums Apple O’ and Reveille was surprisingly bold for the trio, whose tendencies to shy away publicly, add to their intrigue musically. But it somehow didn’t fit the occasion. An overwhelming need to fill the space with as much noise as possible, blending songs seamlessly into a maelstrom of gaudy, cartoonish bestiary felt beyond them.
But the gig did pay much needed homage to the sheer mass of material the band have accumulated in their ten-year existence. Featuring some of the beautifully experimental tracks from Holdy Paws and combining it with their later, more playful work. But that was precisely their downfall. Music from Friend Opportunity, their latest release, was few and far between.
For a tour originally designed to promote the album, it seemed more like a ‘Best Of’. Call it a lack of confidence, or the unfamiliarity of playing abroad, but they seemed frightened at the prospect of playing new material live.
For a band that carves beauty out of a prog-rock style setup, they should be applauded above their current left field status. Listen to any number of tracks from their catalogue and you’ll find Dietrich, Saunier and Matsuzaki constantly testing the limits of their sound. Unfortunately, the Koko gig was a test too far.
Living in London isn’t all that bad. Back in my hometown a concert by A Hawk and a Hacksaw would probably never have happened and in case it did take place, adiposity there would just be a bunch of intellectuals judging the band from behind their heavy glasses. On the contrary, the amount of people living in this metropolis makes you expect this event to be sold out even in a fairly big venue. So, no surprise a queue of fans looking for a ticket awaited me at the Uxbridge Road entrance.
Why should you consider this band something special? First of all try to concentrate on the name: how would you ever imagine to choose such a weird name for your band? Then, the music: getting interested in eastern European gipsy folk is not that common especially for a band that originated in the U.S. and whose founder is the ex drummer of the indie project Neutral Milk Hotel.
Despite of all this, Jeremy Barnes and Heather Trost succeeded in recreating the magical atmospheres of the Balkan world through the release of various albums capable of mixing Klezmer, Estern European Folk, Gipsy songs and many more influences with contemporary and avant-garde music.
The London gig, part of the Contemporary Music Network Tour, takes place at the lovely Bush Hall and in this case they’re supported by a special guest band of incredibly talented musicians coming from Budapest: The Hun Hangár Ensemble. They enter the stage after being introduced by the two members of the Hawk and a Hacksaw playing the accordion and the violin. They walk through the public wearing masks and giving people that sense of participation that is probably the most important feature of the folk tradition where music is almost considered as a right.
The number of instruments on stage is impressive: Hungarian bagpipes, clarinet, alto saxophone, taragoto, viola, upright bass, accordion, trumpet, violin and cimbalom. The presence of the ensemble creates a distance from the unexpected cuts and pastes you’ve got used to while listening to a Hawk and a Hacksaw album. The show is closer to the traditional harmonies of Hungarian folk and there is little space left for vocals while the attention focuses on instant composition and the band playing as a whole to create the beauty and strength of music. It’s a stream of sound that pretends to be danced, however there is no happiness in the air and melancholy together with a shadow of spectral desperation pervade the work of these musicians.
It’s always nice seeing people playing and enjoying themselves, and on Thursday that definitely happened: mixing old repertoire of A Hawk And A Hacksaw with the re-elaboration of songs coming directly from the folk tradition, the concert seemed unstoppable. The band played for more than 2 hours leaving me absolutely breathless.
For anyone that missed this concert, Leaf Label just released the beautiful A Hawk And A Hacksaw And The Hun Hangár Ensemble EP; something I felt was just necessary to be bought.
Hot on the heels of sell out shows in Bush Hall and Union Chapel (venues now almost compulsory on the list of any up-coming band worth their salt) comes the second full length release from Fireworks Night – the London based quirky, information pills psych folk outfit fronted by James Lesslie (The Mules). Touted as a ‘giant stride forwards’ from their rather unconventially recorded debut album, As Fools We Are nevertheless remains faithful to the sextets rough around the edges, unpolished approach.
From the outset, the strikingly coarse, nasal tones of singer Lesslie punctuate the songs in a rather unpleasant way. This ensures a challenging listen. Unfortunately, for the most part the challenge is not an enjoyable one, and whilst it would be unfair to attribute the blame solely with Lesslie, the unpleasantness of his voice is inescapable. At its most bearable, a poor mans Nick Cave is an appropriate description.
A large proportion of the tracks follow the same pattern – scratchy, sketchy openings that build into something far more substantial – often these climactic passages will feature a wealth of unusual instruments, but more often than not this results in a crescendo of noise rather than melody.
There are further problems. Large chunks of the songs throughout are dull and disengaging, meaning that the record tends to drift by. There are fleeting moments of interest – snippets of brilliance. Unexpected guitar lines or snappy lyrics, but whilst these instances provide some enjoyment, they also serve to simply remind what could have been. Nevertheless, at least there is some potential, all is not lost.
This potential is best realized in slow burner Favours For Favours, which kicks around pleasantly enough for two minutes before it abruptly changes key and veers off into a wonderfully descending melody. The albums most poignant moment comes in The Beasts and the Bugs, which is both dark and brooding, mysterious even, without being dour. It is within these two tracks where the bands future surely lies. Melodic originality for sure, but in such small doses it simply doesn’t suffice.
Swedish teen twins Miriam and Johanna Eriksson Berhans seem to posses a talent and knowingness beyond their years. At the basis of their act are their amazing voices. Layered and rich, treatment swaying further towards folk than indie and full of raw emotion with the faintest hint of a rough edge. The music itself is beautiful and incredibly listenable but perhaps lacking a fully formed sound of its own, store their debut EP suggesting this will inevitably come in time.
All I Think Of is probably the most accomplished track on the EP. Extremely simple: just vocals, purchase the odd strum of the guitar and the sound of tapping feet. It takes it’s time, languid and unhurried, but with an immediate impact thanks mainly to those beautiful voices and the quirky intonation of some rather lovely lyrics “You started to spit ink on all the papers, swept away, spider web between all my fingers…” The sister thing aside, there’s a touch of CocoRosie about these two: Heartfelt love songs with a playfulness and inventive quality that sets them apart, encapsulated by this promising beginning. Moving onto Belle, which offers something a little more piano heavy this time but strays however into generic folk territory, is probably only saved by the sweet, well-executed harmonies. To Hide This Way picks things up. A Myspace favourite, melodically it really hits the spot. The opening lyrics “Put us back to the cradle again, our eardrums are hurting our heads are getting weak” sets up a melancholic tale of the safety and comfort of childhood. Water and Heart stroll along nicely but once again there’s a certain heard it before feel, a little too saccharine heavy with both lacking the direction of the impressive opener. Thankfully we’re left with something quite brilliant to remember them by with final track Mary, which just screams for a more detailed production but nevertheless is an impressive example of both their songwriting talents and their ability to tell a story with just the highs and lows of their vocals. All in all an impressive if slightly flawed debut which hints at big things for these Scandinavian sisters.
The cavity of mid winter appears to be filling… And I’m out A LOT more! Mother Bar – not my usual haunt let me tell you – seem to be doing half price booze till ten. Give the bargirl a wink (and don’t, sickness like I did, purchase attempt to co-op an umbrella wielding musician into turning off the air con while sitting on your shoulders) and they may let you drink on cheaply even later…
I’m getting very excited about Susan Collis‘ forthcoming show at Seventeen Gallery. Her brand of super refined subtle installation art plays tricks with the mind – begging to the viewer some compelling questions regarding what exactly is it that is recognisable in an art object? Look out for paint drips, more about rawl plugs, screws and nails – the everyday ephemera of the gallery and the practitioner – all transmuted to appear as anything other than what they at first appear to be…
Christian Marclay’s show at White Cube quite literally blew me away (now on my third visit and counting). Four screens divide a pitch-black mega-room, each occupying a side of the squared (cubed?) space. In concurrent synchronised waves the screens explode in discharged gunfire. The aggressors are cinematic, each shot or round being the violent effluence of an armed and dangerous character in a film. Some like De Niro or Pam Grier are instantly recognisable pistol in hand, others are just achingly cool – cue scene as an elfin like Manga-femme strides confidently across screen offloading calm pot-shots at an invisible target (perhaps the viewer?). Not only is this show good, it cuts right to the heart of the current hysteria regarding gun culture – demonstrating the undeniable omnipotence of guns while also never denying their caustic danger…
On another note (a culinary one) I’ve been over indulging in beigels. I can’t get enough of them. Why are they so smooth? Why so doughy? It’s not right – someone do something! NOW!
Musically I’m bored of people talking about Neon Bible (yawn). It’s all about Smog (again). Though in line with nomenclatorial (I can’t believe that’s a word!) accuracy and his recent name reversal – one should now refer to him as Bill Callahan. Fine by me, Bill.
A packed out Boxing Hall in East London held an eager bunch of rain-drenched fashion fans for this years St. Martins Graduate Show. With 40 designers showing, ask first up was Oden Wilson, cheap who achieved the seemingly impossible – creating a relatively wearable fitted dress out of baby pink PVC – and impressive it was too. Some nice ‘puffa’ style jackets were transformed into dressy top layers and surprisingly the appearance of slightly generic oriental prints did nothing to take away from a solid collection.
Third place winner, Theo Anastasato, lightened the mood with some clever menswear; all done with humour and a touch of Grecian prep wear. The helmet with built in ears and striking older model in a heavyweight smock and white sock/sandal combo were good fun.
Monica Larkin really hit the spot with a collection that pleased the Margaret Howell fan in me. I guess it could be called ‘casual tailoring’ although that makes a beautifully compiled, brilliantly simple collection sound dull. Although not massively original – what she did, she did really well. Stripes, shorts, straw boaters, oversized cotton tops and interesting proportions. Jae Hwan Kim took a similar root with a quirky twist; heavy knits, mismatch brogues, and baby-faced models licking giant lollies; lots of cheeky schoolboy stuff but all very wearable.
Heavy work boots for men and women were a popular accessory. Kate Greenwood used them well in her tartan/neon, top hat and braces based collection, while Michael Furlonger’s models speed stomped down the catwalk to the sounds of heavy techno in theirs – in a dark, aggressive, gothic inspired collection with rave and club-culture very much at its heart. A little too boombox for me…
Dresses were very much the order of the day. I particularly liked Kyoko Fukui’s pastel skin-tight wool numbers and Emma Payne’s 40s tea dresses with the structured hair, swing music and bright red lipstick to match. A standout example was (ex- McQueen assistant) Katy Reiss‘ striking blue velvet figure hugging number but it must be said that the ghost of Christopher Kane was very much present in a couple of the collections, (second prize winner) David Komakhidze in particular.
Ambrita Shamami took things in a different direction with some sparkly, sequinned clad, tailored work wear, presented to the sounds of Dolly Parton‘s 9 to 5. While Olga Kazakova took a risk with her all white ‘paper’ shift dresses, hung almost as if constructed on frames – geometric in shape; it paid off.
With so many collections to show, the organisers did a good job in keeping things flowing at a speedy rate. Some brilliant choices in music helped too. After Maki Ichikawa’s theatrical closing collection things were swiftly wrapped up with the awards ceremony hosted by Grayson Perry (wearing a dress designed by graduate Hyun A.Lee) and Gareth Pugh.
First prize went to Jack Isenberg. His puffy, lace dresses weren’t my cup of tea, but seemed to be a popular choice with his fellow graduates.
Overall, in terms of depth and innovation those CSM kids were on target again, proving that London really does deserve its reputation as a breeding ground for innovative design talent.
So that’s what took them so long to set up. After a ferocious intro with Setting Sun, thumb accompanied by vermillion and orange strobes, medicine the aliens finally arrive, with a light display that doesn’t disappoint. A few songs in and I am wondering whether this bunch of apparently ordinary blokes have actually got any tricks up their sleeves bar the fabulous light show – for now the aliens moniker seems hardly suited at all, but then the singer inexplicably requests a towel with which to wipe his patch, and whilst he doesn’t immediately engage in some breakdancing (although a little bit of body-popping makes an appearance later) he does take a turn for the strange – coming over all Mr C out of the Shamen on us.
It’s when the plodding beats of the dad rock that is the basis of The Aliens sound turns all space age disco synth rave that something special happens – when their bedraggled singer starts to kick a football around as he engages in a beautious 5 part harmony that harks back to the days of the Beta Band “love isn’t love til it’s gone” Mind you, that doesn’t stop the blokes next to me commenting on his apparently sozzled state “he’s absoluetly pissed” which might explain why I can’t understand a bloody word that he mumbles. And why is the drummer (who looks cute from the balcony) wearing a smart shirt and tie? Which is soaked incredibly unattractively in sweat? Wear a lose beater my man – it would look better in the long run! It occurs to me amid the disco balls and pink swirls that being a rock star is now an acceptable grown man’s profession – it’s perfectly okay to get trashed and go on tour well into your nether years these days. “ain’t it great to feel alive” asks the singer as they exit their best known tune and gig highlight, the quasi new rave anthem Robot Man. complete with rave keyboards to rival the best that youngsters of new rave have yet to throw at us. And the thing is, you know that the Aliens were there the first time around. Mr C, synths…. these indie rockers were out there popping es with the best of them.
After a speedy rush through the bitter cold of a Tuesday night down towards the State of Play exhibition, medications and then trudging up another four flights of steep stairs, viagra order I was more than happy to be greeted with a friendly smile at the entrance of the pocket-sized private viewing.
The bi-annual glossy climbs upon the pedestal of political awareness, pill back lashing at political leaders’ failure to engage the population, and offers a new way of perceiving such cultural antics through art. The exhibition itself displayed a series of works featured in the first ever two issues of the publication, and the collection certainly didn’t shy away from adopting the shock factor. With a weeping baby clutching a machine gun, with the words ‘War Cry’, scratched and sketched by artist Rourke Van Dal, and a confused looking guinea pig with a missile for a jet pack, courtesy of Lora, the desire to cause a stir was clearly prevalent; but there was something missing. More importantly, there were real live ones (children, that is) that were playing amongst the legs of wine-sipping visitors, which was sweet irony against the adulterated artwork. Patronising as I may sound, surely the children didn’t give a cat’s whiskers about the political issues of the artwork?
Private viewings are a celebration with friends, family, and members of the industry, and the evening in this context was a success. And as the crowds started gathering, I had a little inkling that it wasn’t the art they were talking about, but their weekends. As skilled and poetic as the artists were, I couldn’t help but feel the final magazine was used and abused as a porthole to get such work into the public eye, with or without the political rant. Don’t get me wrong, art and politics are a match made in heaven, but there is a sort of injustice when such fine talent is flattened into a 2D print form destined for the coffee table. For a magazine so predominantly founded on delivering political issues, I found myself just appreciating the art in its simplest form, as art.
I say leave the art on the walls for our beady little eyes to pounce upon, because the magazine with it’s political connotations just doesn’t quite seem to cut it.
Makin Jan Ma
Who knew that cocks and ropes could look so good? Chickens, stomach I mean, as we all know how good cocks can look. Makin Jan Ma has reinvented the barnyard favourite by printing it in sky blue and plastering it all over his collared shirts and t-shirts, making it appear almost abstract from a distance. The other most prolific print in this collection is the twirled rope, both in an enlarged worm-like print and a teeny twisted print that makes delicate reference to the now waning gold-chain trend. Jan Ma trained in graphic design at CSM and, in some strange but great turn of events, moved to fashion to create this super-quirky line. The cuts are really sharp and clean, obviously the graphic influence. Very cool.
Back with a punch that I couldn’t resist, the label’s collection of colourful shirts screams cuteness. CUTE CUTE CUTE! They are preppy, indeed, but with the mix of stripes, stars and hearts in an array of bright and pastel colours they are more like candy.
Scotch & Soda
Okay boyfriends, these are the clothes that will get you in our good fashion books. Well, mine at least, so I hope he is reading this. And if you aren’t going to take the initiative to go and check out this line for yourself you can rest assured that it will show up under the tree at Christmas. I think most girls will agree with me that it is too bad there is no ladies line, but hey, we can wait. It is all about the prints in this collection. Some of my favourites were cable-knit print, the scarf-print and the sky/cloud print. But the best by far was the garishly printed zip-up with a team-style logo on the back. Yes, fantastically unfashionable, making it super-cool.
I have always found Tata Naka’s shows at London Fashion Week a little lacklustre, lacking in punch, and with a tendency to drag on for longer than they should. And I have always found that the clothes are layered and stacked like they have been pulled out of the dress-up box, not in a good way. But seeing the collection up close for the first time kinda won me over. The rhythmic gymnast prints reminded me of something off an oversized sweatshirt I wore in the 80s, and the mini bodybuilder portraits, scattered over a yellow background, were irresistibly hilarious. And Tata Naka’s collection of garish costume jewellery was straight from the dress-up box in the right way.
I love everything this label does, but most appealing this time round was the black satin bra and underwear set, trimmed in white lace. Totally impractical for any breast size, the loose satin looked like it would hang off your boobs no matter what, offering no support or giving no option to actually wear something on top of it (it would definitely look awkward under anything but a chunky cable knit sweater). However, all this impracticality is the delightful appeal of sexy knickers! I think they would make me feel like a 20s pin up girl, lounging around with nothing to do but lay around, and that sounds like a reasonable expectation for underwear.
Appealing to the utmost in girlish delights Manish Arora’s clothes are like a walk through wonderland. They are embellished with sequins, rainbows, hearts, wild tropical beasts, petals, birds, and fabrics of every sort. I have always loved his catwalk shows as they are the most colourful and spectacular of London Fashion Week. I could only imagine how wonderful it would feel to wear one of his tiered sequined skirts to a party… the prettiest girl in the room!
Have you ever seen a Japanese dude with a foot long pony-tail, viagra approved a trucker cap and a pulled up hoody dictate the rhythmical proceedings of two unrelentingly brilliant drummers whilst simultaneously creating dark, electronic sound-scapes from his Apple Mac? No? You is well out of the loop mate.
“This might be a mistake, but let’s just have fun yeah?” Not my words, the words of Brighton based DJ Scotch Egg (real name Shigeru Ishihara) – Nintendo Gameboy annihilating electro-hardcore whiz-kid – and uttered because of the new creative direction this gig suggested he was taking.
Stepping away from his previous album KFC core (an ode to the fast food he loves) – an ear-drum melting treat, brimming with beefed up Gameboy game themes, brutal vocals and an onslaught of time-signatures swift enough to bring on a gabba inflicted seizure – and instead moving into realms of drum heavy, ambient sparsity.
Anyone with a love of the recent Drum’s Not Dead from the excellent Liars, or anything similar, would have thrown affection in Scotch Eggs direction, as the tribal poundings of the two stick men took over the thin corridor of Bardens Boudoir in Stoke Newington. ‘Trance-like’ probably describes it best – but intelligent, innovative and enthralling also spring to mind.
The only let down was the set length. Half an hour tops with the drummers, then an extra ten, fifteen minutes or so where Mr Egg pleased those baying for ‘Scotch Forest’ or ‘Scotch Attack’ (his hits), by pumping out the Worms theme tune in roughly three different styles…his novelty value still remains then, but make no mistake, this man has talent, a genius probably. He does things with game consoles that you would never think possible.
A brief chat afterward and I established that he was playing again that night at Electrowerkz in Angel at half past two; and it would be there, solo once more, where the Gameboy magic would be produced.
I tried my hardest to attend but getting to Angel at half twelve at night, in the pissing rain, with very little money and a lack of bus knowledge proved a task too many… Good luck senor Egg, you are a shining star of subversive interest in a puddle of dull, corporate indie mud… And I love you for that.
Beirut didn’t show for this, treat or more specifically Zach Condon didn’t, for reasons unbeknown to me. One can assume that some brand of misfortune became him, after Jeremy Barnes, once of Neutral Milk Hotel and leader of promoted-to-headliners A Hawk And A Hacksaw, urged a raising of glasses to toast the missing front-man’s health…my disappointment is irrelevant, and I wish him well indeed.
Barnes could be a one man band; donning the stage as he does, firstly, with an accordion. Secondly, two songs in, he puts on a hat that is lined around the rim with bells, and has a drumstick poking out of one side – used, naturally, to crash into a cymbal when necessary. Thirdly, he sporadically sits on his DIY drum kit at the back of the stage, using his feet (obviously) to bring two different drums into the sonic arena. An impressive individual indeed. He also has an amazing, almost handlebar moustache, so you can forgive me right now, post-gig, for believing him to be the best man in the world.
He is, however, not a one man band. He plays with Heather Trost, a stunning individual on the violin. Who the hawk is and who the hacksaw, I can only leave y’all to speculate, but she certainly provides an outline of serene beauty to the picture, providing as she does the often sad, sometimes-triumphant stringed accompaniment to Barnes finger, head and foot-work.
A Hawk And A Hacksaw play what I would call fantasy music. They transport you to another land, in this case Eastern Europe, the Balkans; it makes you want to get in a caravan, buy some leather boots, steal a horse and travel, with anyone who’s willing, to the nearest Romanian gypsy commune. Them, Beirut and to a degree, Gogol Bordello, are leading the charge for bringing accentuated faux gypsy-folk music to the masses; and they’re doing it brilliantly.
Naturally the desire to be a gypsy wears off, but the potency of the music is remarkable. Although the Hacksaw do paint pictures to momentarily and extravagantly lose yourself in, there is a distinctly sad edge to their music. Whereas Gogol Bordello battle diligently to keep the gypsy party pumping all night long, Barnes and Trost are a more soulful, wistful affair.
Vocals are rare in Hacksaw songs and when they do appear, they are very much a part, and not the main focus, of a song. Apart, that is, from one song – Portlandtown – almost certainly their most accessible song, and undoubtedly their most poignant. It is a cover of an old anti-war song and it’s heartbreaking. The lyrics are sung over a repetitive accordion riff and a slow tear-tinged violin – it is astonishingly powerful. The words are as follows:
“I was born in Portland Town, yes I was/I was married in Portland Town, yes I was/I had children one, two, three, yes I did/Jimmy and John and Frank make three, yes they did/Send my children off to war, yes they did/Killed my children one, two, three, yes they did/Murdered my children one, two three, yes they did/Ain’t gonna have no kids no more, no I’m not.”
Later the duo were joined on stage by present members of Beirut for some full band renditions of Hacksaw songs and one Beirut number. It rarely shows that the Hacksaw are only a two-piece, so the addition of a full drummer, an oboe and a guitar takes them to orchestral levels. Following this is a declaration that they were a “band of the people” and the second encore is played in and amongst their spell-bound public. The London Luminaire brims with adoration and love.
This scene that is developing from Albuquerque in New Mexico is clearly not just about bands, but also about community. One of their kind was down, and they all mucked in to help him out. This show was for Zach and it was almost certainly the best no show from a headliner, that I’ll ever witness.
I was supposed to be seeing Amy Winehouse at Koko in Camden on Wednesday. But a mix-up of dates on my part meant that I got to see Jarvis Cocker, store instead. I was never a massive fan of Pulp, viagra approved and to be honest I hadn’t heard much of Jarvis’ new stuff. But hey-ho, here we go. I’m always up for opening my mind to something new. First, though, I had to get through the support act.
Go-Kart Mozart is the solo project of Lawrence Hayward who apparently was the Felt frontman – Felt being an ‘atmospheric guitar pop band’, from the 70s – according to their MySpace site, anyway. He’s obviously still going all these years later and teamed his act up with a very energetic keyboardist (who perhaps should have spent more time playing his instrument than jumping up and down around it), as well as a drummer, guitarist and bassist.
Lawrence remained almost motionless the whole time he was on stage. Perhaps that was the look he was going for. He certainly seemed ‘down with the kids’ in a pair of aviators and what looked like a baseball cap from the 70s. Not.
Okay, so musically, Go-Kart Mozart isn’t appalling. Very kitschy 80s, but they had a decent sound, and they even got some heads nodding on the song Summer Is Here, generating some luke-warm enthusiasm from a crowd impatient to see Jarvis Cocker.
However, they left the stage with almost no applause. Tough world.
Jarvis Cocker walked on stage to mass-applause. As I admitted before, I’m a bit clueless on the whole Jarvis front and had no idea what to expect, but I was pleasantly surprised to find that I was quite enjoying myself – well, as much as you can enjoy yourself when you’re at a gig on your own. Performing from his debut album, the crowd was loving what was his first gig as a solo act. Pulp fans would have enjoyed what was a partial Pulp reunion, with Pulp bassist Steve Mackey joining Jarvis on stage, and Pulp keyboardist Candida Doyle also jumping in for one track.
I was really looking forward to hearing the one track that I did know about – Running The World that contains that dreadful ‘c’ word, but sadly I had to make my way back to the South to sort out my housemate’s ex-boyfriend, who decided it would be a great idea to turn up at our house after three drinks too many, declare his undying love for her and then refuse to leave. Seeing as I am the only one who can handle him in this state, I was summoned to sort the mess out. By the time I’d arrived home, he’d left. Typical.
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