New video from The See See

Longtime Shindig! favourites The See See mark their debut US single on Sundazed Records, 'The Rain and The Snow', by releasing this promotional video. Their psych-folk pop still hits the spot, and this song hits the streets on coloured 7" vinyl on January 26. Click, watch and enjoy!

The See See on Sundazed Records

Focus live in High Wycombe

FOCUS
SATURDAY JANUARY 26 2013
@ THE ARTS4EVERY1 CENTRE, DESBOROUGH RD, HIGH WYCOMBE, BUCKS HP11 2PU

The first of the 'big gigs' at the Wycombe Arts centre will launch not only the new venue but 2013 itself in spectacular style, as the one and only Focus - Thijs Van Leer, Pierre Van Der Linden, Bobby Jacobs and Menno Gootjes- bring their annual dose of progressive neo-classical rock and roll mayhem all the way from Die Nederlands to South Bucks.

Expect probably the most riotous show ever performed by an all-instrumental band (bar the yodelling of course) featuring such joys as 'Focus 1, 2, 3 and 4', 'House Of The King', 'Sylvia', 'Black Beauty' and the inevitable 'Hocus Pocus'. The first of hopefully many touring shows to be performed in the Greater Hall of the Arts4every1 Centre (the former St John's Church). They've done 'gigs' before, but this is a true event! 

Tickets are £17 in advance from Wegottickets, Ticketweb, Stargreen, Counter Culture and Ruby Moon.

Live Review - John Mayall

JOHN MAYALL
Leicester Square Theatre, London

December 17 2012

This was a hard choice to make - to see Thin Lizzy's "farewell" gig, or to see a man who's partially responsible for the existence of half the rock music in the world as we know it, who I'd never previously witnessed in the flesh. As you'll no doubt be aware by now, I plumped for the latter. Which is probably just as well, really, as I predict the Irish rockers' (or at least two of them's) soon-come rebirth as Black Star Riders or whatever they're called will last approximately five minutes before the agents realise they can't sell it and start baying for a return to the old brandname. It's also a wise choice because you wonder, at 79, how many more chances you'll get to see him. But also because at 79 he's still incredible. Quite extraordinarily so.

In some respects, there are few surprises to be gleaned from tonight's performance: the man plays the blues, or at least a galvanised, powerful brand of blues-rock, and that's exactly what you get. However, other things are definitely different: for one, despite their undoubted ability, not one of the bandmembers onstage with JM tonight are what one would consider 'virtuosi'. Nor are they, with the possible exception of bassist Greg Rzab (who wears his high slung axe with a certain insouciant cool) in any way particularly fascinating to look at, and secondly, (probably for that very reason) the focus is now very much on the leader himself rather than his sidemen.

Some would venture "about time too", and they may be right: perhaps it's been this way for a while, and, having not witnessed the live spectacle before, I just didn't realise. But, being honest, isn't Mayall the one artist in the history of rock music always destined to be better known for the people he nurtured, tutored and set on the road to stardom (in particular, Eric Clapton, Peter Green and the other founding members of Fleetwood Mac, and Mick Taylor) than his own, often incredible, achievements? Therefore, even if nobody of note has played with him for decades, you expect him to be surrounded by stars in the making. The fact that he clearly isn't, even if little more than a minor culture shock, is still enough to make you pause and reflect. That their pedigree is impeccable is without question - guitarist Rocky Athas is the former jamming partner of Stevie Ray Vaughan and an acknowledged influence on both Scott Gorham and Brian May, Rzab's resume includes stints with the Black Crowes, Gov't Mule and the Allmans as well as time spent in the band of practically every US blues legend still alive and performing between 1980 and the present day, and drummer Jay Davenport is a veteran of the Chicago scene of some 30 years standing. But for all that, they could be literally anyone up there. Their solos, while accomplished and technically flawless, ring with the smooth professionalism of the very circuits they belong to, but are decidedly lacking in personality or individuality. At least that's how they appeared to me tonight: maybe a few more days on the road in their sonic company might present a different picture, but for now, I have to call it as I see it. Sorry, chaps, and don't take it personally - I said the same about Johnny Winter's band three years ago. And at least none of you wore a baseball cap backwards...

What holds it all together, therefore, is the man whose name is printed on the ticket, a man who, as the promoter is keen to point out afterwards, is probably the only rock musician of almost 80 still doing this. You know what though - age be buggered. Mayall is stunning in any context: as either blues or rock singer, he's easily the equal of a Plant, Rodgers or Rod in their heyday, and deserves to be better known for it. Then again, maybe he was always too busy drumming inspiration into the minds of musicians to promote himself as the great entertainer he clearly is. Several vocalists of better renown now display half the range they once had, but Mayall's seems to have actually grown: on 'Help Me Baby' and that ironic paean to the teetotal lifestyle 'Give Me One More Day', his voice is amazing, while on the little-aired 'Heartache' from his debut album it simply demolishes, wringing the notes into submission. His reputation as raconteur and storyteller par excellence is also well deserved, with almost every number prefaced by one fascinating anecdote or another, told in the same laconic Mancunian drawl that could win over any audience of non-converts.

If all that weren't enough, his own guitar playing has now almost improved to soloist level, while his keyboard playing remains exemplary: not only in a technical sense, but also in his choice of textures. 'California', from my second favourite Mayall platter The Turning Point is given a subtle, jazz-inflected treatment that more than respects the album version while refusing to regurgitate, sporting velvety vibraphone tones worthy of Milt Jackson, while 'Nature's Disappearing' (from my very favourite, USA Union) now re-emerges with a heavy-rocking, organ-drenched approach. True, the violin of Sugarcane Harris can never be replaced, but I wasn't expecting it to be: trust me, I've seen many a 'legend' ruin their back catalogue with unnecessary instrumentation, and at no point tonight does Mayall do this. Until the climax of the show anyway, when, after allowing us the deep breath of faultless, traditional blues that is 'They Call It Stormy Monday', we are dragged kicking and screaming into the fray with a frenetic rendition of another Turning Point highspot, 'Room To Move'. For three minutes, Athas' guitar twangs like it was still 1969, the rhythm section (nonexistent on the original) provides a suitable flurry of scattercushion funk, and Mayall's own harmonica playing - frenetic, earthy and warm - is a wonder to behold. As is his loose-limbed, very Northern, laconic onstage persona, egging his charges on with enthusiastic cries of participation. Truly inspirational. Then, just when they've got us in the palm of their hand, they ruin it. Well, almost. All it takes is one meander down the wrong path of indulgent show-off drum soloing, one slap bass line too many (actually, unless you're Stanley Clarke or Colin Hodgkinson, one is ALWAYS too many) or the tiniest inkling toward the more 'chartered accountant' end of widdly for a blues band to blow it - and JM and his crew somehow manage to do all in the space of five minutes, losing the entire song somewhere in the resulting melange.

Don't misunderstand me, I love self-aggrandising, pompous, widdly prog soloing, and I've been listening to it for years, but you don't expect to see John Mayall do it, especially when the rest of the show has existed quite happily without it up to this point. Then again, he did say it was the 'grand finale' piece, and once the melody returns it does end on a suitable high note, but a little more restraint wouldn't have gone amiss. Thankfully, it's a minor blip and by the time the band return - first to swop instruments, then to threaten each other jokingly with them whilst fighting over who's going to get to introduce their leader and mentor, and finally to bow out gracefully with, what else but a swinging run through Freddie King's 'Hideaway'. All is forgiven, if not necessarily forgotten. Especially when you consider how, after BB King, who similarly seems to show no interest in stopping anytime soon, Mayall is almost definitely (let me know if you know otherwise) the next oldest man alive still playing in the genre, which is why you MUST see him if possible. White and British he may be, but, naysayers, that shouldn't rob him of his place in the pantheon - and for that very reason, I feel inclined to correct a line in my second paragraph. The man doesn't play the blues, nor has he got the blues: he IS the blues.

DARIUS DREWE SHIMON

Live Review - The Fall

THE FALL
Islington Assembly Hall
London, December 6 2012

In a way, it's surprising to see The Fall play in the Assembly Hall's grandiose environs: not because they can't fill it (this is the second of two sold out nights, and for once, there isn't even a new album to plug) but because in its architecture, location and appearance, it's probably everything Mark E Smith is diametrically opposed to. Posh, plush, surrounded by yuppie bars and simply dripping with Southernness, it's Olde London through and through (much like most of the adjoining streets) and would never be found in Salford or Manchester. But IS it? On second glance, its red carpeted halls and wooden floor bear all the hallmarks of an ancient Lancastrian gin palace or pier theatre beloved of the variety business- so, in many ways, for Smith- the gurning, grimacing Frank Randle of rock'n'roll- it's his ideal home.

It also has an incredible PA, which, from the top row of the balcony, sounds as dense, brain-smashingly heavy and yet crystal clear as such complex, multi-layered music requires. Smith, with increasing support from keyboard-playing, occasional lead vocal-taking wife Elena, has a reputation (one of many!) for drilling his young musicians to near-crack precision, something which has earned him the nickname more than once of the 'indie Zappa', and the current line-up are no exception. Faceless they may be to look at (although, when they start the show with a 5-minute instrumental prefacing their leader's faux-disinterested entry, you have to) but they are enthralling to listen to. According to Wikipedia their names are Dave Spurr, Peter Greenway (no, not the filmmaker) and Keiron Melling, but this, or the matter of which is which, is largely unimportant as he'll have sacked the lot of them by the time there's an new album out anyway. The guitarist's bloody good though.

It also makes no difference whatsoever that half the material tonight is either extremely recent or, more than likely, brand new (MES spends half the night sat behind the bassist's monitor in a leather armchair, reading what are obviously freshly written lyrics from reams of foolscap). It still comes on like Beefheart being fellated by members of the Amon Duul collective while Link Wray plays along in the background (like all their best material does) and bodes well for their next release. So that's alright then. Whether this looks as good, though, from downstairs is a moot point: they probably can't see him, but then again it's so rammed down there that many of them still couldn't if he was standing up. Is he pissed? Probably, but in fine shape, bellowing incomprehensible lyrics (not because of any drunken slurring, but because they hint at an intellect and mindset most people can't even begin to grasp), strutting and lurching all at once, and belligerently leering his snook at an entire audience which he appreciates the devotion of whilst simultaneously holding their every floppy haired or shaven headed, studenty post-punk cliche in utter contempt, before heading off home to sit in an armchair listening to Peter Hammill and Joe Meek and watching Nigel Kneale plays. That's fine, it's exactly what I do. Mind you, he'll probably kick my head in for writing this as well - if not for attempting to understand him, then at the very least because I have long 70s hair, come from Essex and live in Buckinghamshire.

An early appearance of the Sonics 'Strychnine' roars and rages like a lion with its nads caught in a large metal thingy, soon followed by Elena taking strident lead vox on 'I've Been Duped'. While the missus takes centre stage, hubby meanders 'twixt amps and cabs, twisting a little here, turning a little there, fiddling with knob after dial after lead after knob in the manner only he and Gibby Haynes fully understand. But, never one to settle into comfortable routine, he's recently taken to doing it with his own amp too, often whilst singing. Perhaps the arch-sadist of garage punk has a masochistic side after all. It certainly isn't because he's run out of ideas: while there may be a definite lull in the centre of the set, leading some to head towards either bar or bog, it's only in terms of pace, with the fuzz-laden doom of one (again seemingly brand new) track soon followed by another steeped in Lamonte Young-esque concrete drone and non-percussive yet rhythmic looping. He's back on the chair for these, then he's up again for what seems the closest you'll get from such a cantankerous and deliberately obtuse musician to a 'hits section', with 'Weather Report', 'Container Drivers', 'Reformation" (only six years old and already an old favourite), 'Mr Pharmacist' and 'Blindness' thrudded out in rapidfire succession, during which 25-minute time period Smith manages to not only destroy his own mikestand but entangle the rest of the group's leads in it. The old devil. This doesn't prevent Elena from squatting haunch-down on the floor and bellowing into it to commence the encore: yes, the most awkward band in the world even do them sometimes as well. Her shrill cry of "IS ANYBODY THERE?" can only mean 'Psycick Dancehall', a trip into the murky 79-80 vintage even I didn't expect, followed by a blunt, heads down 'What About Us' before, 80 minutes after it all started, it's all ended.

What did you expect, a ballad and an acoustic number? If you did, you were clearly at the wrong gig, although I find it very hard to believe that anyone here harbours such ideas. A friend of mine once told me he chooses to tell 'the story' at the dinner table during Passover each year in the hope that one day he'll remember it properly and get it right: in much the same way, we come to see The Fall year in year out in the hope that eventually, we'll work out why we like them. I'm still fathoming it myself- in one respect, they're the most predictable band ever, who still sound, 35 years on, like the combined ouput of the pre-punk era's most aggressive psych or prog bands all played at once on several rusty car stereos with occasional interference from low-frequency C&W, rockabilly and oldies stations. Their jarring, scraping backbeats suggesting a dozen possible directions yet always returning to point of departure, overlaid with the barked vocals of a meths drinker from a nearby bus station who looks a bit like Bill Maynard if he hadn't eaten for a fortnight. That much we know, and that much we come to see on a yearly basis. That much we wouldn't have any other way. Where the mystery lies is in how they'll do it, how long they'll do it for, whether you'll recognise it when they do, exactly what it's all about, and in what strange new key, beknownst only unto Mark E Smith himself, they'll do it in. And in that respect they will remain perpetually rock's most fascinating puzzle, in which the pieces will never fit and were deliberately not designed to.

Rarely in the last ten years have they sounded mightier.

DARIUS DREWE SHIMON

Live Review - Matthews Southern Comfort

MATTHEWS SOUTHERN COMFORT
The Borderline, London, December 1 2012


Grim, cold, miserable evenings such as this, that involve dragging one's carcass from your Home counties retreat into central Londinium, deserve to be rewarded with warm, soothing yet eerie and haunting music that puts a fireside glow into your heart. Thank God, then, for Iain Matthews and the new lineup of Southern Comfort.


I just wish more people agreed with me: sadly, despite being the only former member of Fairport Convention to have ever achieved anything in his solo career resembling a hit single (actually, let's not be coy, it was a UK No 1!!) Ian's concerts in the capital have often been poorly attended, and tonight's turnout is still decidedly thin. The lack of members from the original line-up may not have helped matters either.


Either as a singer-songwriter or a skilful selector of covers, Matthews has always seemed like the man who missed out. When he was on the brink of becoming one of Britain's premier introspective singer-songwriters, Al Stewart trounced him - twice. As a harmony vocalist and rhythm guitarist extraordinaire, he dwelt forever in the shadow of Graham Nash. In selling himself as Britain's very own Robbie Robertson, he was pipped to the post by early Elton John. For skilful interpretations of other, lesser-known writers' material, we already had pre-'Sailing' era Rod Stewart, and that song itself had been penned by the Sutherland Brothers, the Scots outfit who, whether subconsciously or not, seemed more adept at turning the template laid down by Matthews' own band Plainsong into hard cash than they did themselves. I can't think of many more musicians, particularly of such calibre, that have suffered such abysmal luck, yet refused to let it bother them. From the moment he strides casually onstage, picks up his guitar and approaches the microphone, the first impression you get is of a man, nearing 70 but not looking a day over 50, who clearly lives for the enjoyment engendered by being up there. 


Around him he has also assembled a crack team of fine (predominantly Dutch) musicians: they don't resemble the old Southern Comfort in any way, particularly as they don't include a pedal steel (an instrument Iain himself explains his disdain for later on, although it has to be said I completely disagree with him) but their skill and virtuosity is flawless. Acoustic guitarist/vocalist Terri Binion, a red-haired vision not unlike a young Sandy with lungs to match  provides the perfect foil for Matthews' gravellier, earthier tones, effective as much on newer, more unfamiliar songs like 'Perfect Love' (which she also composed) and 'O Donnell Street' as the much older 'Darcy Farrow', which the enthusiastic audience bayed fervently for and were eventually rewarded with. Yet, as much as I know both this track and the sublime, wistful 'And Me', I have to admit that I am also unfamiliar with most other Southern Comfort material, being more a collector of Matthews' material from If You Saw Thru My Eyes onwards. What I thus admire is that even now, with the name technically functioning as a collective term for whatever loose aggregation of musicians he assembles around himself, the Lincolnshire wordsmith chooses not the easy route of providing us with a selection of cross-career 'faves', but sticks to those three albums and newly-written works, which it has to be said could have easily come from any of that triumvirate. In fact, the moody, defiant 'Letting The Mad Dogs Lie' is so pointedly good it could have come from any of his best works up as far as my personal favourite, 1974's Some Days You Eat The Bear. 

Some of the recent tunes are reworkings, of course, but doen in such a fresh way that they sound brand new whilst simultaneously retaining the majesty of old. When other songwriters do this it normally indicates that they've run out of ideas, but not Iain Matthews: if anything, he's on a mission, as he has been for most of his career, to do it right while he still can. Producers and arrangements may have occasionally softened his edges but nothing, it seems, can blunt his razorsharp instinct, as the lyrics seem to portend. Talking of which, I now have a new favourite: "Was she thinking of you or of me, when she said 'the old man and the sea' ?" I have no idea what it means or who it refers to, but I shall probably spend the next few weeks pondering it.


Yet, even if every harmony sounds like a chorus of West Coast monks on their slow procession to some dimly-lit freethinking church atop Big Sur, it isn't just about the vocals, or the words - or even just about Iain himself. Co-writer/guitarist Richard Kennedy, guitarist/mandolinist Bart-Jan Baartmans and keyboardist Mike Roelofs are the sort of tasteful, free-improvising yet tight virtuosi that would be just at home in an ECM jazz trio, or a jam-band ensemble ala Little Feat or SCI, as they obviously seem in a folk-rock combo. Furthermore, it's their flourishes and flurries of piano, Rhodes and instruments of both 6 and 12 strings that elevate the band above the usual strictures of said genre (and indeed, the painfully polite way in which it's now played even by its pioneers). Close your eyes and find yourself transported to a variety of decades. Sometimes it's 1969 - at other times, the whole ensemble sound uncannily like the Cowboy Junkies or Union Station. But that's hardly surprising in itself considering how both those bands grew up on old Fairport and Southern Comfort records: if anything, it shows that the circle truly does remain unbroken.


Bassist Leon Bartels, while not present for the entire show for some reason, still makes an invaluable contribution upon his arrival, providing the missing piece of the rhythmic jigsaw formerly laid bare by the absence of a drummer: like many of his contemporaries, Matthews is often found playing without a full complement of musicians for budgetary reasons, but rather than let that hold him back, this is treated as yet another opportunity for interpretation and interpolation. If only everyone in such situations had such creative fervour. For this reason, the evergreen 'Woodstock', again reworked so that it bears scant relation to MSC's own vintage, let alone Joni's original or CSNY's rockier take, differs also from the version recorded by this lineup: it now has a propulsive, percussive base that leads the audience as much as the band to the swell-deserved climax. Providing, yet again, more evidence of Matthews' steadfast refusal to be bracketed, tagged with one song or made to stand still. As if to further underline this strategy, rather than end here, a short encore follows, but even if it hadn't, Matthews Southern Comfort had by now already made their point, and the long, cold, windy journey back to Zone Ridiculous felt a lot warmer than it had done on the way in. I'll see him the same time next year, and do you know what, I wager that even though his aged-in oak voice may remain constant, musically he'll sound almost completely different. Not that I'd want everyone to do that, but THAT's an artist for you. 


DARIUS DREWE SHIMON

Record Review - Head South By Weaving & Alison O'Donnell

HEAD SOUTH BY WEAVING & ALISON O’DONNELL

The Execution Of Frederick Baker

Ritual Echo LP

Following on from their 2008 single covering Nico and Nick Drake, cult prog-folk icon Alison O’Donnell (formerly of Mellow Candle) and Hampshire’s Head South By Weaving reunite for a full album.

Marking O’Donnell out from many of her generation is her willingness to experiment with a range of current musicians, including the experimental Irish free-folk collective United Bible Studies and the glassy brilliance of The Owl Service. Here, she and HSBW are generally in measured mood – the overall musical feel is of gentle folk-rock, but the music is awarded complexity through some striking lyrical themes.

Throughout her career, O’Donnell has always bitten and scratched her material with her voice. Songs like ‘Fleeing Limbus’ continue this tradition, mixing some violent and chaotic imagery with a stinging vocal delivery, all underpinned by a mellower musical base. Elsewhere, such as on ‘Bird In A Cage’, O’Donnell and HSBW interact with folk tradition, coming up with a Trees-esque beast of epic ambition.

Jeanette Leech

Record Review - Mondo Jet Set

MONDO JET SET

Provincial Drama Club

Pink Hedgehog CD

Double albums, eh? Isn’t the traditional reviewer response to say ‘well, this could have made a great single album’, and lambast the self-indulgence of the creators? Indie duo Mondo Jet Set seems like the least self-indulgent band going. Provincial Drama Club does offer 23 tracks, yet none top four minutes, and most come in under two. Boredom isn’t really an option with this particular double album.

Firmly in the C86 tradition of shambolic cuteness, the melodies are joyous, and the vocals are extremely appealing; the sweetheart male voice stays the right side of wet even when the music itself gets a little too cloying (notably on ‘We Are Having A Pyjama Party’). There’s also room for more strident songs, like the great ‘Moth Attack’ which recalls something from the late ’90s on the Kill Rock Stars label, and the rhythmic ‘Cadaver In Motion’, its New York post-punk aesthetic charmingly filtered through polite English delivery.

So, no – it shouldn’t have been a single disc. Provincial Drama Club is an album that deserves its running time.

Jeanette Leech

Record Review - Elephant9

ELEPHANT9 WITH REINE FISKE

Atlantis

Rune Grammofon CD/2-LP

Atlantis sees Scandinavian trio Elephant9 tackling their fourth album with the aid of Swedish guitarist Reine Fiske. And it’s a beauty – a steaming full-throttle mash-up of rock and jazz that could strip paint.

Imagine Soft Machine or King Crimson at their dizzily inspired free-form best, with a shot of ’70s Miles Davis thrown in for good measure.

Opening track, 'Black Hole', sounds like it’s about to collapse under the weight of its own momentum, its layers of analogue keyboards sounding deliciously fuzzy and distorted over furious drumming - genuinely exciting stuff.

'A Foot In Both' is gently bucolic, spidery guitar skittering over glasslike keyboard shimmers before 'Psychedelic Backfire' kicks up the dust again with an almost Sabbath-like riff of pile-driving heaviness built over a two-note bass hook. Despite the furious technical chops on display, things never get too cerebral or too clever. This is music which aims for the gut, rather than the head.

Neil Hussey

Record Review - The Lemon Clocks

THE LEMON CLOCKS

Now Is The Time

Jam Records CD

The Lemon Clocks wedge themselves firmly in the lineage of illustrious Liverpudlian psych-pop bands. They’re a trio of multi-instrumentalists who sport their ’60s influences proudly, melding them with a ’90s indie aesthetic so seamlessly that 'Life Is Like A Dream', for example, sounds rather like Teenage Fanclub covering The Beatles.

If that kind of thing appeals, then you’ll like this album a lot. 'The Bright Side' and the title track both have a pleasing Byrdsian jangle, and it’s only the odd squelchy synth sound and the polished production values that locate this record in the present.

'Rainbow Bridge' breaks the spell – its trippily repetitive riffs and rhythms and thickly applied smears and smudges of heavily reverbed guitar recalling ’80s/’90s riff-heavy psychonauts Loop. 'Better World Beyond' has the requisite backwards bits and phasing effects, but the overall quality of the material marks them out as more than clueless pasticheurs.

         

Neil Hussey

Record Review - The Luck Of Eden Hall

THE LUCK OF EDEN HALL

Alligators Eat Gumdrops

Self-released CD

What strikes me about this, the fourth LP from The Luck Of Eden Hall, is how English much of it sounds, despite the band’s roots in deepest Michigan.

Admittedly, the title track combines garage band riffing and self-consciously trippy lyrics into its brief lifespan, and Bangalore mixes up heavy ’70s drums and guitars with spidery sitar embellishments, (“Batgirl does Bollywood” is how the band themselves describe it). 'Ten Meters Over The Ground' though, has a catchy, sax-driven Bowie/Mott style chorus, and 'Amoreena Had Enough Yesterday', with its swathes of cosseting Mellotron, evokes nostalgic reveries of a fabled Englishness that possibly never even existed.

The band have a winning way with a melody: 'A Carney’s Delerium' layers guitars and mellotron in a lovely, evocative soundscape; and 'Summertime Girl' is a pleasingly warm and fuzzy mix of acoustic guitars and organ which generates enough warmth to ease the winter chills outside.

Neil Hussey

Record Review - Lord Fowl

LORD FOWL

Moon Queen

Small Stone CD/LP

Connecticut four-piece Lord Fowl are a stoner-rock act with classic rock leanings and a real eye and ear for quality riffs and melodic songwriting. What I didn’t really get from this album, however, was a sense of anything particularly original or groundbreaking.

The band has clearly mastered the formula on tracks like ‘Woman King’, where the riffs, vocals, powerful rhythm section and mood coalesce into something genuinely incredible. All too often however, the band just seem super-competent and self-assured rather than utterly transcendent.

Perhaps I’m being overly critical here. Chiding a stoner-rock band for unoriginality is like complaining your plate of fish and chips isn’t a bowl of snail porridge. While I would unreservedly recommend this album to any fans of stoner-rock, if you only occasionally dip your toes into the genre then you might want to wait for the next bus to come along.

Austin Matthews

Record Review - The Condors

THE CONDORS

3 Item Combo

Vital Gesture CD

Imagine you and your mates are holidaying in LA and stumble across their equivalent of the Dog & Duck, advertising ‘Live Music Tonite’. After a few sharpeners, you hear the familiar crackle of buzzing amps being switched on and mics being tapped.

“Pretty f***ing good”, you all agree as local boys The Condors race through a set of tight, gruff-ish, powerpop originals. A couple of sherbets further down the line you reckon you’ve discovered the new Fountains Of Wayne and snap up a copy of their new album 3 Item Combo (which sits alongside the first two on the tiny merch stall by the bog – “all complete classics”, according to beefy chap running it).

Next morning, you can’t wait to stick it on, which is when your fuzzy head suddenly realises The Condors remind you of that bloke Derek from Southend and his bluesy, new wave outfit, The ’Triffics, back in the ’80s.

There’s no doubt The Condors can kick ass, it’s just that they sound too uncomfortably close to yet another Feelgood-inspired British pub rock outfit – even with those jen-you-wine American accents.

Chris Twomey

RIP Down In The Grooves

It fills us with great sadness to announce that BBC Radio Leeds' fab Down In The Grooves is grinding to a halt due to further BBC cuts. Grrr. The man behind the show and its presenter James Addyman has his say.

I’m sad to be writing this because the radio programme has been part of my life for more than eight years,  Down In The Grooves, the show I do for BBC Radio Leeds is to finish at the end of December, along with dozens of other disparate shows across the BBC local radio network, as part of the DQF savings. DQF (Delivering Quality First) is a typical management confection that was basically cooked up as another phrase for cuts, once ex-Director General Mark Thompson had decided that he didn’t want to stick up for the BBC and froze the licence fee for six years – a decision that has had consequences right across the BBC ever since.

For the uninitiated, Down In The Grooves played a mix of garage-punk, psychedelia, R&B, soul, funk, ska/rocksteady, music library, soundtracks – taken mainly from the years 1955-75 but featuring modern acts echoing those eras and their music. When I started the programme in September 2004, I invited all sorts of DJs, producers, artists to come on the show such as Ady Croasdell (Kent Records), John Schroeder, Gary Walker (Walker Bros), Preston Ritter (Electric Prunes), Andy Votel & Dom Thomas (Finders Keepers) and it was great to hear all their tales. All this helped pass the word around about the show.

I got emails from all round the world saying how glad they were to have found a show that played northern soul next to Hungarian psych next to ’50s rockabilly next to German garage beat. These emails arrived from glamorous and not-so-glamorous locations all over the world including a geologist working in the deserts of Yemen who was blasting my show out to some bewildered goats and their herdsmen!! Now, it’s not uncommon for internet radio shows to have playlists as esoteric as mine but I suppose what people appreciated was that there was a BBC show willing to go beyond the bland playlist. That’s what people told me anyway.

I guess I should have known the writing was on the wall when Mark Lamarr was considered persona non grata at Radio 2. The reasons I was given by my manager was money and apparently 6Music cover the same sort of territory (not the last time I looked) but I guess the same manager knows what she’s doing in keeping two hours of Brass Band music on air and a Big Band Show presented by someone who wasn’t invited to be part of a Radio Leeds Big Band event!!

All I can say is that it saddens me that in the current climate, anything a bit unusual is not going to cut the mustard but hopefully there are outlets for the weird and wonderful sounds of the ’50s/60s/70s out there somewhere. Luckily the show enabled me to DJ in places like Barcelona and Berlin, which were unforgettable nights but I’m just wondering who’s gonna turn the next generation of kids onto the wonders of a Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich B-side!!  

Record Reviews - Surf-Age Nuggets

VARIOUS ARTISTS

Surf-Age Nuggets: Trash & Twang Instrumentals 1959-66

Rock Beat 4-CD Box Set

100-odd selections of beachy twangdom are on offer here. There’s enough drum rolls, coiled guitar runs, and doses of maximum treble to fill up both the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. I was delighted to hear so many gems that were new to my ears (the emphasis being on relative unknowns of the genre, thus the “Nuggets” in the title), in addition to old favorites like The Vistas’ ‘Moon Relay’ and The Cherokees’ ‘Uprisin’’.

The 60-page booklet is a treasure that contains images of record covers, gig posters, comic strips, magazine ads, etc. all of a nature in keeping with the sounds on the discs. It’s odd to be listening to a box set of surf music here in November, so for now I’ll suffice with the couple of much-enjoyed spins I’ve given the set, and in the meantime I’ve informed my friends that I’ve got first dibs on the stereo when we meet up for our annual beach vacation next summer.

Brian Greene

Live Review - Greg Lake

GREG LAKE
London Shepherds Bush Empire

November 25 2012


Allegedly, "the three worst things that can happen to you on the road are earache, backache and Greg Lake". So quoth one of his erstwhile bandmembers after his short tenure as frontman for Asia in the early 80s. No, the worst thing that can happen to you is getting stuck in a rain-drenched bus station in Hemel Hempstead on a Sunday night with a knackered mobile phone and a braindead Chavette yelling in your ear en route to a gig, resulting in your arrival some 35 minutes later than planned. Still, at least that means that, although I've sadly missed 'From The Beginning' and '21st Century Schizoid Man', I've also been spared a rendition of 'Heartbreak Hotel'. Our Greg, you see, is revisiting his entire life in words and music, and this not only includes songs wot 'e wrote or recorded, but ones he loved in his formative years. His decision to perform the first Crimson album in almost its entirety therefore makes sense (although none of the songs are technically his) but his hesitant semi-medleying of 'In The Court Of The Crimson King', 'Epitaph' and 'I Talk To The Wind' into each other makes less, especially when the beatific quietude of the last-named is unsuited to the booming tone of his now considerably deepened vocal. Ironically, Lake seems to have inherited the baritone range once possessed by Scott Walker, whereas Scott's voice has stretched further with age into the utter stratospheres. Did they ever meet and do a swap, perchance?

Covering the Beatles' 'You've Got To Hide Your Love Away' seems to be everyone's choice these days, but there is an incredibly self-effacing and humble element to seeing it covered by someone who also once filled Shea Stadium and whose ego was once rumoured to be roughly the same size in area and diameter. There's none of that onstage tonight: just a likeable, warm and immensely talented man (albeit still stood atop a magic carpet, but nowadays, the show wouldn't seem complete without it), supported only by backing tapes, playing the songs he loves on guitar, bass and piano with heartfelt passion and sharing candidly honest stories in a West Country burr undimmed by years resident on the other side of the Atlantic. He even turns the mike on us for awhile, asking for questions: as would be expected, they range from the perceptive to the utterly braindead (like the bloke who asks how Crimson came up with the title 'Larks Tongues In Aspic', a song written three years after he quit the band) but his replies are never less than perceptive, informative and full of revelation - particularly when I ask him about the pre-ELP band that never was with Hendrix and Mitch Mitchell. The "gun on the table" anecdote is priceless in itself, but I'll let him tell it, should he ever come round your way again.

Hopefully he will, as this was an immensely enjoyable experience, for once assisted (rather than hindered) by the intimacy of turning the Empire into a seated venue for the evening. By contrast, 'Touch And Go' is as big, butch and bellicose as it ever was in the 80s, but a bucolic, acoustic guitar treatment of the first half of 'Trilogy', seguing neatly into 'Still You Turn Me On', is sublime indeed. A cursory glance down the setlist might provide cynics with ample grist to their claim that "he does too many ballads", but to me, that's only a problem if you're expecting a hard rock show, and this was never meant to be that. Sadly that means there's nothing from Manoeuvres on offer, but hearing 'C'Est La Vie', originally released on the underrated second side of the otherwise self-indulgent Works Vol 1 and later a No.1 French hit for Johnny Hallyday, in this setting, stripped of the padding added by Lake and Palmer, reminds the informed listener that Lake's own songs, at their best, have less to do with prog itself, or indeed any kind of rock, and more to do with the genreless standards of Bacharach, Barry and Brel. Something which his association with arena pomp has unfortunately done its best obscure for many years.

If, alternatively, you want reassurance that the Bournemouth boy is still a rock'n'roller at heart, then his bone-snapping treatment of Johnny Kidd's 'Shakin All Over'. Again, an obvious choice to some, but you have to remember how exciting this must have sounded to the teenage Gregory on the radio in 1960, and indeed to everyone of that age, at a time when there was no psych, garage, freakbeat or even beat, just a hitherto sonambulent England finally waking up to the power of the electric guitar. Likewise 'Lucky Man', the best known ELP ballad (and allegedly the very first song Emerson ever used a Moog on) was actually written that long ago, before he even joined a band: a solemnly thankful take on Curtis Mayfield's 'People Get Ready' also reminds us of those days when it was possible to dig rock and soul in equal measures without having to worry about the hems of your suit or the length of one's haircut.

It does, end, of course, on full-out prog thrust, with 'Karn Evil 9 2nd Movement'. A strange choice considering it's actually a song celebrating the start of a show, but there's a wry glint of humour in this that he's as much aware of as we are, as we all know, at this late stage in the life of rock music, that the show will continue as long as those who wish to play it remain. Given the choice, I'd prefer it not to be on a Sunday night when several tube lines are out of service, and to start a little later than 8pm, so I might have some chance of seeing the show "from the beginning", as it were. But ultimately I was thankful to have been there at all, as, while it would be unfair to assume Lake is seeking some closure to his career, it did seem very much like a unique performance from someone who won't offer us such rare pleasures again anytime soon. Those (and there were many) who turned down my offer of a plus one have much to regret.

Darius Drewe Shimon

Live Review - Sad Cafe

SAD CAFE
London Islington Academy

November 22 2012

There's no easy way to say this: this is a terrible turnout for such a great band. Even if you've been away for nearly 30 years, and it's well-known that your original vocalist sadly passed away some time ago, you surely could still expect more than 150 people to come out to see you. In fact, if anything, there should be more people eagerly awaiting your return. But sadly, the Islington Academy, which their agent freely admits to me is aesthetically the wrong venue anyway, is only a quarter full, and it shows.

Not that it's any way going to deter them, though. From the carefree, cheerful and, dare I say it, "rawk n rawl" manner in which long-term members Ian Wilson, Ashley Mulford and Des Tong amble onstage, be-suited, be-hatted (as is new guitarist/vocalist Steve Whalley, who resembles a cross between Sylvain Sylvain and a stray Ozric Tentacle, and at least partially fills late Paul Young's role with confidence) and oozing bonhomie. And once under way, you remember why you're here - because nobody else quite pulls off the heady brew of powerpop chops, pub-rock brawn and polished yacht-rock/harmony soft-rock dexterity that the Cafe do. Not in the UK at least. Sure, in the US, that kind of stuff ruled the airwaves for most of the late 70s, which is presumably why they (and Supertramp, and Sniff And The Tears, and City Boy, and Gerry Rafferty, and....) spent so many years there. But over here it's been sadly airbrushed from history, except in the 'ironic' playlists of Will Ferrell-loving Shoreditch DJs and cheesefest gatherings of clubs like Guilty Pleasures and Prom Night. Needless to say, none of those people have bothered to show their genuine appreciation of the genre tonight by turning up. In the words of Rowan Atkinson's disgruntled vicar, "WHERE WERE ALL YOU BASTARDS THEN?"

But I digress. The true believers that have bothered to show (some of whom have even made their own t shirts) are enraptured and enthralled, and so am I. By the time the opening chords to 'Strange Little Girl' appear suddenly three songs in, I can't stop bouncing. The four-man vocal frontline is also amply aided by keyboardist Sue Quin's feathery tones, and on the likes of 'Fanx Ta-Ra', a nod to the band's proggy origins that I am ever grateful for, she proves herself no slouch on the lead vocal front either. Ashley Mulford, who apparently has flown in from Denmark to rejoin his former bandmates is also a revelation as a guitarist. I mean, I know he sounded this good on record, but to actually witness him is quite incredible. Never before has a man who looks so outwardly humble projected such flawless fretboard fingering, like Salford's very own personal Santana. Though this is not an issue of Classic Rock Presents Prog, so I shall refrain from further indepth technical delineation of his abilities, especially when the whole point of a band like Sad Cafe - or indeed the many unsung contemporaries that existed in that nebulous netherspace 'twixt prog, glam, AOR, pub rock, soul and the onslaught of punk - was that the song was always more important than its constituent parts.

And, verily, that it is: 'Restless', 'Emptiness' and 'My Oh My' all bear the stamp of superior construction, just as you would expect from any band who sprung from 10cc's infamous Strawberry Studios stable, with the bubblegum tinge one would expect from such a background still evident on the uptempo, spiky 'Rat Race' and even that hit single. Yes, 'Everyday Hurts' may be ubiquitous, heard on every FM oldies radio station from Dorking to Dubai, but seeing it in the flesh makes it all the more evident why. Its overlapping harmonies, chord changes and blue notes evocative of the Walker Brothers or the Foundations at their best. It's just a shame that it's still, after 30 odd years, the only song people remember this fine outfit for, when there are so many others equally worthy of attention. Although sadly, two of the greatest, 'Keeping It From The Troops' and 'Run Home Girl' are omitted tonight. And don't get me started on 'Cottage Love'...

There is definitely mileage to be had in Sad Cafe's return to the road, which was always their natural environment, as captured on their seminal live double album from 1980 which I hear they are planning to record a follow-up to. What needs to be addressed is the matter of the correct surroundings, and some kind of angle to interest more than just a smattering of diehards in rediscovering their greatness.

DARIUS DREWE SHIMON

Record Review - Singing Adams

SINGING ADAMS

Moves

Records Records Records CD

Singing Adams is the vehicle for Steven Adams, formerly of The Broken Family Band. This, the group’s second album, is a loosely connected suite of songs related to modern life in London: not the most original concept, one might reasonably claim.

However, Adams finds something fresh in Britain’s over-exposed capital city. He does this by being what could be termed ‘old-fashioned contemporary’. His subjects are up-to-date, and include two mediations on the 2010 riots (‘Black Cloud’ and ‘London Trocadero’), yet his tart-but-humane songwriting style has a long lineage. Adams, rather than sitting easily with the current crop of indie troubadours, has more in common with the generation before him: the latest albums by The Weather Prophets’ Pete Astor and Gene’s former frontman Martin Rossiter are its bedfellows.

The jangle is solidly played, and it’s not solely serious reflection; in fact, Moves is at its best when it allows itself a certain cuteness, notably on the Belle & Sebastian-ish ‘Theme From Moves’.

Jeanette Leech

New Fanzine - Start!

This is the start of Start! We don't see that many printed magazines and fanzines arrive in this day and digital age, and we think anyone who launches one deserves our support.

The launch issue has just been released of the mod, soul, ska, and scootering-focused publication. This one has pieces on The Moons, The Questions, John Hellier and London International Ska Festival.

It's editor is one Emma Goodman. Cost of this first issue is just £1 plus postage of £1.40 via this PayPal email.

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Record Review - Desert Ships

DESERT SHIPS
Control/We Write The Sound
self-released D/L


Londonʼs dream-pop three-piece Desert Ships have that 80s/90s psychedelic indie sound just right. I suspect this is partially achieved by their producer, one Mark Gardener (Ride). Decamping to record ʻControlʼ and the rest of a forthcoming debut album Doll Skin Flag in an Oxford farmhouse with him sounds like a hoot, and this confident-sounding single should win them even more deserved fans.

ʻControlʼ is all cinematic swirling guitars, equally light and heavy - a true sonic cathedral of noise allied within a three-minute pop song. The strings are tasteful enough to come in only towards the end. The drum sound is very much in the Ride vein, carrying the song forward without ever overwhelming. Everything just sounds right. Close your eyes and it’s 1991, the sun is out, and your new beau hasn’t yet deemed to dump you, but the signs are already there.

B-side ʻWe Write The Soundʼ is different. An angry bass riff is drowned out by star-sailing warm guitars and that immense drummer again and his life-affirming beats. It’s got that early Mercury Rev feeling, which I’m glad to hear back in my life. The hypnotic, repetitive vocal line is irrepressible and a tasty as a summer wine.

It will take you mere seconds to downloads this excellent single - go do it, now.

Phil Istine

Record Review - Le Kid & Les Marinellis

LE KID & LES MARINELLIS
Les Jolies Filles
P Trash LP/DL

These Montréal, Canada super-rock indie-garage kids have released their sophomore effort. Singing in their native French is admirable, but my GCSE level understanding means I have no clue if they're singing about revolution, sex or their supermarche shopping list.

The songs are mostly a rather innocent take on the classic, infancy period of rock’n’roll. My favourite songs are the Elvis at Sun meets The Coral rumble of ‘Dis-Moi’ and the 60s harmony folk-punk of ‘Je Ne Grandirai Pas’. Elsewhere are touches of Bolan/Bowie (‘Personne Ne Dit’), rockabilly(‘Homme Soixante’), Ramones-style punk (‘Les Jolies Filles’), Libertines-y gypsy skiffle (‘20 Ans’), and Strokes-indebted new wave-garage (‘Gina’).

The playing from everybody is excellent, but the songs aren’t finished in a way I haven’t heard before. A lot. I like that they can be accomplished with many styles, but where you sit on the diversity versus lack-of-focus side of the fence will decide whether you want to delve into this fun-packed smorgasbord. In conclusion: you should go have a listen, for you’re likely to find something that tickles your fancy.

Phil Istine