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

Live Review - Shuggie Otis

SHUGGIE OTIS
London Jazz Cafe

November 20 2012

So, another day, another one of "those" gigs then. Where would we be without the occasional reclusive legend to appear out of nowhere and jolt us to our senses by the very dint of their continued existence? Well, at home in the warm, for one thing. But I digress...

Shuggie Otis, for those not in the know, is the definition of a cult (stop sniggering, I said CULT!). Son of R'n'B peer Johnny Otis, he apprenticed with his dad's band, then made (between 1969 and 1974) three of the finest albums of funk-rock/psych soul ever released, wrote hits for a few other people, played with Zappa and the Mothers for a bit, and then promptly disappeared off the very face of the earth. 

When I worked at Flashback Records in the early 00s, and the tintraweb was still in its relative infancy, we were all convinced he was dead. How wrong we were. Not only that, but he's only 59. In today's terms, considering that the band I saw the previous night featured two septagenarians on lead vocals, that makes him a positive youngster. And, despite some greying strands and a slightly more sallow, drawn physiog, doesn't he look it too? Actually, more than that- with his jodphurs, frock coat, white blouse and frilled trousers, he's an utter dandy, resembling more than anything else a mixed-race Peter Wyngarde. Except with exemplary guitar playing talent and slightly less moustache.

That is, when he eventually appears. From my vantage point, I'd actually spotted him up in the balcony some time back, but I was beginning to think he'd never get onstage. Then again, a man who hasn't been out front live in almost 40 years is bound to require a little warming up before getting up there to do his 'thang', and, true to form, the first thing he does after striding down the stairs to rapt applause and plugging in his axe (itself suffering some amplification issues) is bump his head on the microphone and become entangled in his own backline. Todd Rundgren was right two years ago - this stage is too bloody small. As the Shugster (as he was never known by anyone until now) finally gets under way with 'Comin' Home Baby' and, cue another tumultuous roar of awe, 'Inspiration Information', there's a touch of hesitation not only from the audience (will he? won't he? Is that really him?) but the man himself - as is only to be expected given how much he's shied away for many years from public performance, and he does seem genuinely uncomfortable to be onstage and so close to so many adoring people.

Slowly but surely, and backed by the perfect polyrhythms of jazzmeister Marvin 'Smitty' Smith, he begins to find himself. The high notes beginning to rise with more confidence on 'Island Letter' and new number 'Trying To Get Close To You', a preview from the forthcoming album (third roar!) which, I can happily report, doesn't suck, does sound like proper vintage Shuggie, and hasn't 'gone all Mark Ronson' on us. Thank fuck for small mercies. Why, then, he chooses to follow this with a slow, plodding blues that causes the audience's attention to wander (except during the instrumental breaks) is beyond me, but by now I'm beginning to realise that part of the Otis enigma is this very deliberate awakwardness, and an unwillingness to pander to expectations. Which explains the lack of a followup to such a well-regarded album as Inspiration Information for almost 40 years. The misdemeanour is quickly forgotten - 'Sparkle City' brings us back up to speed, and 'Aht Uh Mi Hed', still possibly his most scintillating composition, shimmers in the way it should, eliciting several aaahs and oohs from those assembled. Timing is everything, and placing these two together is a masterstroke - theoretically speaking of course.

In truth, however, the latter lacks the motorised electronic beat or the chilling strings of the original, and he's still singing slightly flat. Yet, by the time we get to an almost Leonard Cohen-like acoustic section (which literally makes us feel we're atop some lofty peak in far off Texas watching the tumbleweed blow past the coyotes) and 'Wings Of Love', another track from the upcoming album, I've decided to overlook this and just remember that I like him very much. Not only is his guitar playing matchless in this sub-genre, but the woodwind and horn solos (from Albert Wing and Michael Turre in particular) are also outstanding, deploying the sort of wooded textures heard and loved everywhere from Neil Ardley's Kaleidoscope Of Rainbows to the incidental music from The Good Life. And now, at last, the Shug looks happy to be onstage.

Just as well too, showtime's nearly over. 'Doin It Right', followed by the inevitable 'Strawberry Letter 23' (still a classic, but again, maybe galling to a man who has to take stock of the fact that after all these years, his best known tune is by somebody else) and 'Ice Cold Daydream' bring a troubled but eventually triumphant set to a close, with everybody who was once afraid of moving now firmly grooving: if Otis can keep up this particular impetus (I hear UK dates are already being pencilled in, for 2013, in larger venues) and marshall his strengths, this comeback could effectively, like that of Bill Fay, run, run and run. Plus, we need a new name in the soul frame now Terry Callier has bitten the dust, so why not one that just happens to be a god among guitarists? Shuggie Otis, despite his inevitable feet of clay as a cult idol, and with his earlier indulgences behind him, is still an inspiration and a source of information to many.

Surveying his victory (or should that be triumph over adversity?) he nods, shakes hands (including mine) and dashes back upstairs, leaving us to ponder what, where or when next: but at the end of the day, only he can make that decision. Oh, and what is it with McEnery brothers lookalikes this week? First a Peter at Gong, and now, in this audience, a John- bellowing away to his heart's content. Stop following me already!!!

Darius Drewe Shimon

Live Review - Gong

GONG
London Shepherds Bush Empire
November 19 2012

Sometimes, after a while in this job, you realise how much emphasis on "industry" and "business" the music industry really places - as opposed to the creation of something beautiful and altruistic for the sake of beautiful altruism itself. There I go, sounding like a hippie. But then again, I am at a Gong concert. And if you can't be a hippie here, where can you? Other progressive and psychedelic rock giants may attract increasingly "Clive"-like audiences these days, computer programmers to a man, but the Gong gang is much more esoteric in nature, with dreadlocks, strange tribal outfits and what would have once been called "bizarre garb" aplenty, right down to the bloke in the dishevelled white dinner-jacket who looked the spitting image of Peter McEnery and asked me if I'd got any mushrooms. Like, maaan.

The other immediately noticeable difference is that the audience is now sadly smaller than it was, even a couple of years ago. And this is what I'm on about. Three years ago, at the time of the superb 2032 album, Daevid Allen and Gilli Smyth were rejoined ably by Steve Hillage, Miquette Giraudy and Mike Howlett, with Soft Machine man Theo Travis on reeds, thus revitalising a six-strong frontline which drew audiences en masse to some of their most high profile shows in over a decade. Sadly, as with all such concepts, the need for financial remonstration seems to have outweighed the desire to work together, possibly due to promoters refusing to pay the large fees required, and one by one, all the above named have drifted off, leaving founders Allen (aged 74) and Smyth (aged 79) once more as the solitary keepers of the flame, backed by a 'new generation' lineup (including Allen's son Orlando on drums) who, whilst they bring fresh enthusiasm and power to the table, don't pull in the punters. For this reason, several fans have voted with their feet by staying away in droves, which means that the venues again lose money, and next year, the tour will be on an even smaller scale, meaning...oh, you get the picture. The volatile nature of business...

None of the above, though, will EVER stop me from loving Gong's music on a very fundamental level indeed. Quite the opposite; the smaller, more intimate gathering actually makes us feel like a band of renegade brothers, inspiring much camaraderie in the process. But that's irrelevant anyway, as the sound made by the new line-up is nothing short of stupendous. Or at least it would be, if the sound wasn't, as per usual for the Empire, woefully toppy and muffled at the same time. However do they manage it? Various knock on effects of this oversight include Smyth's delicate space whisper (already at half power due to a recent cold, I'm told, and nothing to do with her age whatsoever) being drowned out on practically everything, bar 'I Am Your Pussy' (nice impromptu meowing from the audience though) and 'Dynamite/I Am Your Animal', and totally inaudible during the mid-section of 'Tropical Fish/Selene', while far too much bass drum during 'Escape Control Delete' robs the song of its inherent Kraut-mongous thrust. But any such letdowns are more than made up for by the heightened commitment of the band members themselves.

Guitarist Fabio Golfetti and bassist Dave Sturt are a tight yet freeform, locked-in yet always on-the-out rhythm section, as metal-inflected as they are jazz-tinged, and they handle the thrust and parry of 'Master Builder', 'Can't Kill Me' and the mesmeric, 11-minute thrash of 'Opium For The People' as easily as the more intricate, multi-layered, time-signature-challenging mode of 'Zero The Hero And The Witch's Spell'. Ian East, introduced as "the East Wind", is easily the most charismatic of the new bloods, even if he does look like a Trustafarian stereotype in that hat and robe combo, and makes suitable mincemeat of 'Flute Salad', which, rather than just being an intro, is now a show-stopping number in its own right. It still segues, undeniably, into 'Oily Way', with complete audience participation vocal, but the identities are no longer completely merged: ditto the following mantric tantric double-shot of 'Inner Temple' and 'Outer Temple', now just as much of a highlight as its chronological predecessor. If Richard Attenborough in 10 Rillington Place imbued the idea of being offered a cup of dried leaves in boiling water with a terrible, sinister, sickly overtone, then Gong achieved the opposite, the repeated chant of "have a cuppa tea, luvverly cuppa tea" (improvised lyrics this time include ruminations on whether certain mushroom brands are better than Twinings) almost an anthem for the turned on, tuned in, dropped-out free-festival generation. And in case you're wondering just how turned on and genuinely psychotropic Gong 2012 are, can I just point out that I hadn't imbibed anything stronger than 3 pints of bitter that night, and I was still tripping, amply aided and abetted by the cascade of swirling, twisting visuals.

Yet, unquestionably and indefatigably, the star of the show remains Daevid Allen, the Divided Alien, aka Bert Camembert, Zero The Hero, or whatever name he chooses to be known by this week. Slim, dapper (OK, maybe not when dressed as a wizard or a giant pixie, and NO, I'm not making this up- he really still does both those things), recently chopped of several inches of barnet, eloquent, theatrical, and full of boundless energy at 74 which puts me and my generation to shame, he is never so joyful as when onstage, championing the band he truly loves, and the "planet", which has been his home on and off since 1969. To this seminal, important, yet humble Aussie man - a pioneer whose contribution to the very existence of psychedelia stretches far beyond music and is as essential as that of Leary, Gysin, Owsley or Burroughs - Gong is not just a band anyway, it's a crusade, a never-ending quest to bring beauty into sharper focus and destroy the drab greyness which infects everyday existence.

Some of it is, unfortunately, misguided- while a longstanding Ozrics lover, I've never espoused travelling or communal lifestyles myself, seeing both as problematic as the very urban existence they negate- and obviously, even in the artists' utopia which they envisage, there will always be quibbles and squabbles about money, but as long as "Radio Gnome" continues to transmit, invisibly or otherwise, across the astral airwaves, the essential message will beam into the eyes and ears of all who are there to hear it. And, if all that wasn't enough to convince you in itself, how many other bands can you name who actually bibble themselves onstage? (Er, Caravan - Ed). Surely, that says everything you'll ever need to know about why Gong are still essential in your life.

Darius Drewe Shimon

Record Review - Little Annie & Baby Dee

LITTLE ANNIE & BABY DEE
‘State of Grace’
Tin Angel Records


Singer, painter and actress Little Annie (Annie Bandez) is cult stardom personified. Nearly 32 years after releasing her first single on Crass Records, the New Yorker is still, ahem, a well kept secret. Yet her fans and ‘celeb’ collaborators such as Kid Congo Powers and Marc Almond regard her as a legend who’s always pushing boundaries.

As various times the New Yorker has dabbled in punk, reggae, electronic, industrial – and other experimental musical forms. Now, though, Little Annie has teamed with composer Baby Dee, a transsexual who’s also a classically trained harpist and circus sideshow veteran, to create this collection of songs which sound as though they were nicked from a weird fringe show. Guests include Bonnie ’Prince’ Billy who duets with Annie on the title track, his singing providing welcome contrast to her theatrical EarthKitt-ish vocal style. It shouldn'’t come as any surprise that the pair are mutual admirers: they’re kindred spirits intent on finding back routes that will keep them well away from the big crowds hovering just around the corner.

Chris Twomey

Live Review - Sonny Rollins

SONNY ROLLINS
Barbican, London, November 16 2012


Screw genres, a legend is a legend. My own personal campaign for more jazz on here notwithstanding, there are very few recording artists who command the same respect as Sonny Rollins. And at 82, I should bloody well think so too. With the exception of Wayne Shorter and Yusef Lateef (the latter of whom is 92 and largely retired from public performance) he remains possibly the ONLY great tenorman left from the pre-freeform era (please get in touch if you can think of any others). With only Phil Woods and Lee Konitz remaining on alto, and Charlie Davis on baritone: whispers have also been going round about this being his last ever London or UK show, so the incentive was upon me to get down there. I had to view the first 40 minutes or so in the hall on the screen until I was gifted a ticket, mind you- during which time I witnessed possibly the most sublime 20 minute take on Jule Styne and Sammy Cahn's "It's You Or No One" I've heard since Monroe sang it in Some Like It Hot- but it sure was blummin' 'ell worth it, guvnor. 

At least I think that's what he was playing - you never really can tell with a bebopper, especially one who's lived through the freedom revolution and come out the other side, and, as the bloke from the Fast Show said, (come on, it had to be crowbarred in somewhere) "Tune? This is jaaaaazzzz!". But that would actually be a little unfair, as Sonny is still very bit the lyrical, songbird-like architect of sound he was as far back as Saxophone Colossus and Way Out West, with sly little smears referencing tunes from both creeping in and out as the night goes on. Backed by guitar, double bass (a flawless Bob Cranshaw), trombone, drums and congas, with fascinating exploratory interplay woven in and around him by the players of each, and with his lurching, twisting stage-walking manner providing the necessary theatrics (to say nothing of his red silk blouse and his billowing, rug-like flame of white hair- can this really be the same man that once inspired me to sport a mohican?) he defines the word 'charisma'.

In musical terms, his journey now appears in his latter years to have arrived at a place where all his previous incarnations, as hard-bopper, avant-gardist, R'n'B man, fusioneer and that 'uncredited' sabbatical with the Rolling Stones at the behest of Charlie Watts have all come to rest and enjoy each other's company. He takes you on that journey again several times throughout the evening, from the booming tone of his early Coleman Hawkins-inflected work to his latter-day appreciation of Coltrane, Shepp and Sanders, forays into funk hawking, and back- with the ever-present spirit of calypso, his very own Proustian Madeleine cake, at both ends. Starting with 'St Thomas' and ending with 'Don't Stop The Carnival' was more than just a case of a well-structured set list: from the Caribbean folksongs sung to him by his mother at an early age, all the way to Birdland, Newport and the Williamsburg Bridge via Riker's Island and back again, Mr Theodore Walter Rollins has sure been around, and he wants to show you the map. Perhaps that's why his sax still coils and unwinds in a serpentine fashion. He's also still as passionate about jazz as he was in the mid 40s when a Sinatra concert changed his life, and he still wants to change yours. I think he managed it several times over tonight alone...

You can't escape the truth of mortality though, and his hunched, arthritic posture (particularly evident for one who once stood so erect) is a consistent reminder of just how long ago this all started, and sadly how soon it could all be over. There are times when the horn slips out of his mouth, although he makes light of it ("wait!! stop now!! Woh, woh, where you goin? Come BACK here!!") his humour again reminding us why he is so respected, before quickly moving on to another burst of tenor magic. If there's one complaint, it has to be that often, just when things look set to explode fully into the realms of beautiful warm noise, he fights shy by returning time and again to the melody at the end of each phrase: maybe this again reflects that we are witnessing an older, mellower Sonny, maybe he just doesn't play like that anymore. Or maybe it's because he's Sonny Rollins, he can do whatever he wants, and although he thanks us all sincerely for coming, he's long past the point where he has to pander to ANY of our expectations.

As he descends those stairs to the backstage (there is no encore) by a respectable 9.45pm, a tinge of poignancy can't be avoided at the thought that he may never pass our way again, and this may be the last time he takes that walk: not because he's in any more immediate danger of passing than any other octaganerian, but because finally, after the upcoming European dates, the man they once called 'Newk' is finally taking the rest he deserves. Happy retirement.

Darius Drewe Shimon