2009

The Flaming Lips/Stardeath & White Dwarfs, Troxy Ballroom, London, 11-11-09


If you can go to a gig and smile throughout isn’t that something worth celebrating? Yellow and orange balloons bounce onto your head; you raise your hands to the sky as confetti drips over you like psychedelic rain. A pair of oversized hands bookend the stage as the band emerges from a giant LED vagina. A Flaming Lips show is a unique experience.

But this vagina entrance is not the first time we glimpse the talismanic Wayne Coyne. He took a position, grinning, by the onstage mixing desk to hear the support, his nephew’s band, Stardeath & White Dwarfs. Then he pounced onstage during the changeover to make sure everything was set up properly, something you suspect he’d been doing since load in. The lengthy soundcheck/instrument tuning featured the whole band. Finally, Wayne’s health and safety lecture followed then a quick dash off before emerging for the show. The Lips do things a little differently.

Incidentally, Stardeath were really rather good. Swirling guitars and pulsating bass, if not a little too much strobe light, and their fantastic cover of Madonna’s Borderline, made for an enjoyable support slot. It’s testament to the power of the Flaming Lips show and songs that their previous stage cameos took nothing away from Race For The Prize, the joyous bouncy opener. Sure, it’s a shtick in and of itself, the circus in front of you. But it just feels so good, makes you glow from the inside. Other rock shows can only look pedestrian in comparison. It’s a good job their music is as brilliant as it is, otherwise it’d just show up a great spectacle with nothing behind it. Fortunately, having just released their 12th album, the Lips know what they are doing.

The audience was dazzled, taking whatever was thrown, literally and figuratively, whether it was the searing See The Leaves from new album Embryonic, or a glowing singalong of Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots. Even their tendency to pause for applause near the end of songs before they’re over, several times, never feels annoying or contrived. Everything is endearing and charming with enigmatic support on bass provided by longtime member Michael Ivins and, the musical driving force and all round genius, Steven Drozd, on guitars and keyboards.

It’s a collective, with touring drummer Kliph Scurlock and a whole host of animal costume clad friends at both sides of the stage. But the focal point is always rock philosopher Wayne Coyne, clad in his usual linen suit with wild greying hair and beard. It’s his show, the hands-on ringmaster pulling all the chaos together with his beautiful almost Neil Young sounding voice. He creates a chaotic kind of control, as he rolls on the audience’s heads inside a giant plastic ball. It was a gig that had everything – thumping riffs on The W.A.N.D., the gentle Fight Test and the cathartic Do You Realize?? to finish.


I’m sure, reading a recent Pitchfork set of fan comments, that their ‘real’ (read: pre Yoshimi) fans resent this current incarnation. That it’s become all about the show and their music is not what it was. Classic sour grapes from the ‘I liked them 15 years ago’ brigade. Once they were a well-kept secret, now they are at the big cult band end of the spectrum, but I don’t see what the complaining is about. The music is wonderful; the show is unusual and creates happiness in a crowd of people usually, given its London, full of cynicism. They need us to complete the show; it’s a contract between performer and listener. Too many bands have disdain for their audience, this band see us as crucial parts of the show. They can’t do it without us. I walked out of the Troxy feeling high as a kite, wishing more gigs were like this. When I got home and took off my shirt, half a dozen bits of yellow and orange confetti fell out and spiralled to the floor. All gigs should feel like this.

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U2, Wembley Stadium, London, 14-08-09

Oh it’s just so easy to have a go at U2 isn’t it? They can’t be critical darlings because they sell too many records, they can’t be a people’s band like Oasis because they don’t believe in piss-throwing hedonism (and they don’t have songs about nothing) and the cool kids can’t like them because they’re not from Williamsburg and they don’t have beards. They cannot win; they are the most maligned band on earth. And what have they done to deserve it? Making a grand rock show an art form (no-one moaned when Pink Floyd did it) and daring to talk, or that dreaded word, preach, about politics a couple of times in a two-hour gig (no-one says a bad word when Springsteen, arguably the American Bono, does it). Generally, they are maligned for being obvious. For saying stupidly obvious things like democracy is good, bigotry and fascism is bad, AIDS money helps and enough people when they all try at once, have power. You’re rolling your eyes even as you read that. Big deal. None of that shit matters. Is their show any good?

I can’t think of one other established band that would dare start a stadium show with four songs from their new album. A band that has been around for 5 albums wouldn’t be confident enough to do it. A band with 10 or more albums tends to put one or two tracks in, sneaking them in between a couple of famous ones. A band with more than 15 albums, a rock dinosaur like the Stones or The Who, play nothing from the last 30 years of their careers. And yet here we were, in the ludicrous Wembley Stadium, listening to four songs from No Line On The Horizon open the show. I’d bemoaned it, having taken a sneaky peek at a typical setlist already, but I can’t deny that it worked perfectly. People are chomping at the bit to hear songs they know but this band are still making good records and everyone knows it. They drop in perfect pop songs like Beautiful Day and I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For as if these are just one of many. And they are. Songs this band might use as B-sides would sit as the best songs in their imitators’ canons.

It’s just so easy. And they are this good not because they are all great musicians, they got this good simply because they work hard. Because they have been playing live for 30 years and at this level, they know what they’re doing and somehow make Wembley seem small. Part of that is due to the cartoonish ‘Claw’ stage set. A staggering feat of engineering and designed to resemble some kind of space station (well, they did come on stage to Bowie’s Space Oddity). Every inch of this contraption does something – a mirror ball at the top some 65 feet up, endless lights, moving walkways, a mic shaped as a steering wheel on a rope comes down for the encore and, perhaps most jaw dropping, the 360 degree screen wrapping underneath the entire structure. It’s well executed in itself but about an hour in the whole thing expands downwards, in a lattice shape, to almost reach the crowd’s heads. Ironically, this led to the show’s inevitable dip as I found the new version of the screen completely overwhelming and distracting. The spectacle should complement, not cover up, the band. That could also be due to the average City Of Blinding Lights being up next, looking bloodless after the immense Unforgettable Fire.

In the 90s, as they made musical strides that ensured they sold less records, the pinnacle of rock show excess was undoubtedly ZOO TV. Playing almost every track from their then new album, (the now acclaimed as a classic) Achtung, Baby, Bono fully took over and, let’s face it, U2 have never been shy of embracing their inner Spinal Tap. Those who declare them humourless must be watching a different band than the one who dressed as the Village People for Discotheque, indulging in a camp, now dated but still fun, remix for Even Better Than The Real Thing and did a show backed by the biggest screen ever used in a gig while performing under a giant yellow half of a McDonald’s M. It’s easy to paint them as earnest when they insert a sample of an uplifting Desmond Tutu speech before the encore, or ask everyone to wear paper masks of Aung San Suu Kyi - but somehow, even though you know you should groan, you don’t mind. They give you the songs, so what if they ask you to think for 30 seconds a couple of times? There’s no reason why a rock concert has to be completely mindless. Still, I’m glad that they went back to making obvious music in 2000, which competes with, and effortlessly outflanks bands half their age - the balance in the ranks has been restored. It’s not just Bono’s show anymore.

The ageless Larry Mullen, the greying but effortlessly cool Adam Clayton and The Edge, a scientist of a man who fills the stadium with iconic riffs, are no mere supporting players. They’ve never been better. Other bands who try and fill this kind of space – Coldplay, The Killers et al – should stand back. They know they will never be as good; they will never put on a rock spectacle like U2 can. This is how it’s done.

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Los Lobos, Jazz Café, Camden, London, 29-07-09

There is no greater pleasure than being surprised at a gig. I would never have gone to see Los Lobos were it not for my parents, visiting from Manchester for a few days. Massive fans, they'd seen them a couple of times and swore blind it would be a great rock show. There was something liberating about not knowing a single song. The Jazz Cafe, a favourite venue of mine, was packed and we secured a lucky place at the front. And on they came, these rather grizzled looking Latino/Los Angeles road warriors in their mid 50s. One looked a little like The Dude, a couple of others looked like LA gang members, with admittedly rather sweet smiles. This band have been playing live for a very long time, I realised quickly. Try and imagine the best bar band you've (n)ever heard.

So admittedly, I knew next to nothing about them. I know what many of you probably know -- that they had a freakish number 1 hit with La Bamba in the 80s. No doubt this song has given them a great life and they still probably earn money from it to this day. It's allowed them the kind of career any band dreams of. You get to play music for a living and no-one drives you mad in the street. You get to meet your heroes and play on their albums. It's a dream and you sensed that they were gladly aware of it, full of smiles and appreciation.

There's a Mexican edge to it, with a few songs sung in Spanish, but on the whole they're a hard, fast, blues rock band. Imagine a soup of Stevie Ray Vaughan, Jeff Healey, a bit of Santana and that band from the strip club in From Dusk Til Dawn. In a way they are somewhat like The Band, drawing together the musical strands they know and love into something unique. To top it off I have a weakness for a good guitar and co-leader and multi-instrumentalist David Hidalgo is a serious shredder. Imagine David Gilmour in a Tex Mex band. Tremendous player. The other leader, Cesar Rosas, is fairly recognisable, with his slicked back hair, black goatee and ever-present sunglasses. Both have unexpectedly tender voices, which bore no trail of the 25 years of gigs that brought them to Camden.

It was a masterclass, undeniably. Indeed, the cool LA vibe coming off the stage reminded me of my own travels there. I was enthralled, as Dude lookalike Steve Berlin blew hard on the sax and guitarist Louie Perez laid in extra guitars, either electric or on jarana (a small acoustic guitar native to Mexico), before going back to bash the drums -- I later learned he had been the original drummer but had switched, making them a three guitar attack. This was how music should be played, to a small and appreciative audience, with flawless covers of My Generation and Traffic's Dear Mr Fantasy ending the show.

My dad bopped in that embarrassing dad way. My mum couldn't resist asking Hidalgo about his last session gig -- playing accordion (an instrument I found oddly mesmerising live) on the most recent Dylan album, Together Through Life. The night ended with me cracking up talking to Berlin and cuddly, charming bassist Conrad Lozano, as I watched my dad tell a story about drummers Philly Joe Jones and Keith Moon, while being filmed, no doubt for some DVD extra, by Perez. It was an unexpectedly brilliant night, one I'll be happy to repeat.
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Morrissey/Doll & The Kicks, Troxy Ballroom, London, 18-07-09


Morrissey fans are a sour bunch. It seems to me that some of them buy tickets simply to line up and have a go. They love and hate him before they even turn up, love him during the gig then hate him again straight afterwards, if they don't get exactly quite what they want. The man himself gets up there, sweats and exhausts his sometimes-fragile voice, and all he receives back, from some, is a moan. Many are like me, there to have a good time and appreciate one of the best pop back catalogues of the last 30 years. Sometimes I think that the love of his audience is the only kind he's able to process. The worst kinds of fans are what I call the 'setlist moaners'. I have never been this kind of person, one that will attend a gig and come out disappointed that my favourite songs were not played. I might say this is descended from my first Bowie show, where he played a greatest hits setlist. From that point onwards I never had to wish I were hearing a particular song from him since I had heard the 'famous' ones. And that seems to have informed my gig-going habits ever since. I can be disappointed with many aspects of shows I see but not the set list. yet, this seems to be the main, often ruinous issue with the hardcore fans, i.e. those attending more than a few shows. Are they suggesting he changes the set list to accommodate those who obsessively attend multiple shows? Admittedly, on paper the setlist is not strong. Not nearly as good as the one I was seeing at the Roundhouse 18 months ago, which contained Death of a Disco Dancer, International Playboys and more. But who cares really? 25 years of recorded music, 4 Smiths albums and a couple of compilations, 10 solo albums and countless gigs. He knows what he is doing, live. If you don't have a great time it's your own fault.

So, that mini-rant at my fellow fans over, onto the show. The Troxy is one of the more bizarre venues I've been to. A 1920s Art Deco ballroom, carpeted, with many different sections separated by curled stairways and barriers, it felt like being in a venue you didn't want to drop a cup in. There was even a polite row of seats at the back of the tiny main floor. Clumsy as I am, dark as it was, I didn't see this and managed to go flying over someone's outstretched legs before the show even began. I knew I'd done myself some damage but, unwilling to sit it out at the back, I steeled myself and joined the throng. I had been describing the centre of the crowd as a moshpit to friends. This is the wrong word but there doesn't exist a word for what it's like. At the front it was so squashed one could lift legs and remain unmoved. A little further back it's more a mass of swirling, jumping, pushing, frenzied bodies.

This Charming Man had been a song that The Smiths dropped from their shows early on and he had never played it as a solo artist before this tour. As a gig opener it's hard to think of a better choice. I was pleased to then get Boy Happy, from 2005's brilliant Ringleader of the Tormentors, an album he'd been ignoring until recently. Later on, Life is a Pigsty, with its crackling thunder and lightning sound effects, received a rapturous reception, while also allowing everyone a breather. The first couple of songs were a warm up compared to what came next, as everyone bounced together, then something happened -- Irish Blood. It all kicked off. I found myself happily swept up with the crowd, as ever mostly made up of burly men. It's important to stay sharp during these sweeping movements or you can lose your footing. I ended up a good 15 yards to the right of where I started and it wasn't the last time in the evening my position would change. By the end I was almost at the front.

He couldn't resist a little dig at a favoured target. "I was walking through Piccadilly today, and I saw Michael Jackson T shirts saying the King of Pop. This name of this song is The World is Full of Crashing Bores." A smirk and an eyebrow raise, a ripple of laughter spread through the venue. His crowd knows him. And those there to hear Smiths songs, of which there were no less than six, were as delighted as those of us who are more fans of his solo material. After all the moaning, the set list, I feel, has good balance until the later stages. There are four tracks from You Are The Quarry, his so called comeback record, but the six choices from Years of Refusal should be spread better. With half of these Refusal tracks at the end of the show there's no doubt the flow and energy levels do suffer. But these are minor quibbles. You very much feel you are witnessing one of the last great, touring, English pop icons. A man who gives everything he can to his audience. The show is all about him and us; what goes on outside that bubble is irrelevant. He is a million miles away from the performers who might have the songs but barely make eye contact with the audience. He's played arenas and tiny clubs, seeming to prefer the latter despite his lifelong need for appreciation he can never get and his passion for counting sales - as if this bears some relationship to his value as an artist and place in history. He should stop worrying about such things; his legacy is assured.

As his shirt flew into the air just above my head as the First of the Gang encore came to its noisy end, I knew by now what to do -- move back, and fast. In front of me a snarling group, egged on by Morrissey, who has always been attracted to brutal violence (as long as animals aren't involved), jumped for it. A domino effect took hold and the entire middle of the audience fell to the floor. Some people helped each other up, as the rest started fights over the shirt, then security waded in and noses were bloodied. You know you've had a proper night when you've seen a few fights and you go to bed with a bandaged knee.

This Charming Man / I Just Want To See The Boy Happy / Black Cloud / How Soon Is Now? / Irish Blood, English Heart / Ask / I'm Throwing My Arms Around Paris / How Can Anybody Possibly Know How I Feel? / You Just Haven't Earned It Yet, Baby / The World Is Full Of Crashing Bores / Girlfriend In A Coma / One Day Goodbye Will Be Farewell / Why Don't You Find Out For Yourself / Life Is A Pigsty / Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want / When Last I Spoke To Carol / Sorry Doesn't Help / The Loop / I'm OK By Myself // First Of The Gang To Die

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:: The Prodigy :: Bat For Lashes :: Bon Iver :: Linda Lewis :: Tom Jones :: Glastonbury, Shepton Mallet, Somerset, 28-06-09


Tiredness after so many late nights, getting to bed at 4 or so and up before 9, had kicked in but this was the last day and the last chance to hammer it before heading back to real life. A slow start had us at Jazz World (when will they ever put some jazz on?!) relaxing to the unchallenging but listenable vocals of British soul singer LINDA LEWIS. Just listening to her voice (imagine Duffy but much better and less annoying) you’d swear she was 20 but she’s nearly three times that age, having worked with Bowie (backing vocals on Aladdin Sane) and Van Morrison in her time. A pleasant way to start the afternoon.

I confess I’d been looking forward to the designated ‘oldie’ slot of the afternoon - TOM JONES. Last year it had been the dreadful Neil Diamond and was best avoided; this year it was a big party. You think you only know a few songs but it turns out you know almost all of them. A real charmer, he knows how to work the crowd and his soaring voice must have filled the entire farm. Tremendous entertainment.

A short time later we arrived at the Other Stage for the rest of the night. And I witnessed the best back-to-back performances of the weekend. First up was the staggeringly talented Natasha Khan and her band BAT FOR LASHES. More accessible than Kate Bush and not as weird as Bjork she surely has a long career ahead of her, producing magical music. Beautiful songs accompanied by elfin magnetism.

As with Bat For Lashes, the next act were also a solo project, except in name since the leader is the singer and songwriter. Reminding me of Richard Thompson and Tim Buckley came the stand out non-headline performance of the weekend - BON IVER. Leader Justin Vernon wrote the first record in a remote cabin in wintry Wisconsin, his hometown, recovering from serious illness and heartbreak. The crowd felt every sinew of passion and pain as every torn falsetto seared right into you as he told tales of love and loss. It was a truly extraordinary.

Having found Glasvegas to be the emperor’s new clothes the year before we gave them a miss and prepared for the final show. I had been on the fence about it, whether to subject myself to the assault of THE PRODIGY, who I had seen live once before, or take in Blur for the first time. I knew the back catalogues of both bands well so it was just a straight choice. In the end, the Oasis fan in me took over and I thought: fuck Blur. I’ll regret not seeing the Prodigy but I won’t regret not seeing the Essex art-school boys. I needed a big finish to the weekend. And thus I let the Prodigy, also from Essex as it happens, hit me over the head.

No-one does what they do as well as them, of that there’s no doubt. As powerful, and no doubt illegal, flares were set off during Firestarter and the crowd bounced with all the energy they had left I knew I had made the right choice. Without the genius of Howlett they are just a pair of panto villains shouting at you but they were irresistible. And then it was over for another year, as the mud dried, the tents were left in the fields and the long journey home began.

Prodigy setlist:

World’s On Fire/Breathe/Omen/Their Law/Poison/Warrior’s Dance/Firestarter/Run With The Wolves/Voodoo People/Comanche/Omen (reprise)/Invaders Must Die/Diesel Power/Smack My Bitch Up/Take Me To The Hospital/Out Of Space

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:: Kasabian :: Metric :: Spinal Tap :: Crosby, Stills & Nash :: Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band :: Glastonbury, Shepton Mallet, Somerset, 27-06-09


The blazing sun forced me out of my tent earlier than I would have liked but the mud was now dry and so off came the wellies and I was ready to race to the next gig, by now very much in the swing of things. First up was Canadian pop in the form of the surprisingly excellent METRIC before a slow trek in the heat over to the Pyramid to see some proper legends – SPINAL TAP. I confess, I enjoyed this gig a little too much. They would be acclaimed as great musicians were they not, well, what they are. It was a tremendous show, full of humour and genuinely good songs. In theory it simply shouldn’t work - three middle aged actors in eyeliner and wigs - but there is so much good feeling and affection toward them that it became the best day performance I’d seen thus far. You can’t beat tunes like Big Bottom (with Jarvis Cocker adding yet more bass) and Sex Farm and, inevitably, the highlight was a brilliant Stonehenge as they were joined on stage by a sagging inflatable miniature monument and two midgets dressed as Druids. Unbeatable.

Around that time we realised we couldn’t remember the last time we’d eaten, so returned to a tried and trusted food outlet by the John Peel Stage. I must say that the food at Glasto is flawless and hugely varied, a million miles away from standard greasy burger festival fare and more than accommodating to everyone’s tastes, including vegetarians like me. While having a little rest with our food we overheard a band that had recently headlined the Camden Crawl called HOCKEY. They came across to me as utterly average so we left, just as New Jersey’s GASLIGHT ANTHEM were starting, to get back in time for CROSBY, STILLS & NASH. Perhaps we should have given them a chance - Springsteen joined them on stage for a song, to the utter frenzy of the crowd. Lead singer Brian Fallon returned the favour and appeared on stage with Bruce later on. I might say a Glasto regret is rare but not sticking around for the Gaslight Anthem counts as one.

Mind you, I had been very much looking forward to CSN, being a longtime fan I knew they would put me in hippy heaven. What felt like a sparse crowd were treated to some genuinely legendary songs - Long Time Gone, Wooden Ships, For What It’s Worth (originally by Stills’ - and indeed Neil Young’s - first band Buffalo Springfield), Almost Cut My Hair, Military Madness, Marrakesh Express, Guinnevere and even a tender cover of Ruby Tuesday. Even without the iconic Suite: Judy Blue Eyes, which they had performed at only their second ever gig, Woodstock, being played It was a lovely performance from a band who truly embody the spirit and politics of the festival.

Having been underwhelmed by KASABIAN at Oasis’ Heaton Park gig recently I wasn’t excited to see them again but I must say, I wrote them off too early. They turned in a masterful performance, which I couldn’t help but enjoy. I still think they write a lot of filler but they seem to be improving now, after stalling with Empire. However, while it was an undeniably good show, they couldn’t avoid being the forgettable warm up compared to the main event, The Boss. I just never got it, what his fans go on about, until a few months ago. My parents, avid fans, had always insisted of his genius as a live performer. So I bought a DVD before the event to see what all the fuss was about and that was it, I saw the light. And thus, it became, for me, the most anticipated performance of the festival - BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN and the earth shaking, history making, Viagra taking E STREET BAND!

I have seen Prince, Bowie, Jagger, Bono and James Brown live but this guy, this likeable, sexy, charming, down to earth working class hero might well be the greatest live performer I have ever seen. Starting with a song written about the festival by Glasto’s patron saint, Joe Strummer, he raced ahead as the audience barely kept pace. After a high-octane start, he left the stage probably a dozen times throughout the show to get down to the crowd, leaning in as far as he could without vanishing into the mass of outstretched hands. The songs are unadorned classic rock and roll but in truth, for most of the audience, there was little recognition of many of them.

The fact is that Springsteen is simply not a cultural icon in this country like he is back home. Your average rock fan in the USA knows a dozen or more of his songs whereas here that’s simply not the case so for much of the audience, though the show was compelling, thrilling and masterfully performed, they didn’t know the songs and that took the edge off. Never mind that it is impossible for the audience to match his energy - never have I seen a performer work so hard. During a quiet moment late on, he stood motionless before starting to sing and the cameras captured his silhouette, as steam rose off his body. It was a staggering moment.

But I can’t deny that he should have chosen the setlist a little more carefully to receive the outpouring of love he’s used to. Outside of his own fanbase, and remember he can still fill stadia here too, people only know Born in the USA and a few others so while I was enthralled I also felt aware that no-one knew the tunes. Classic material like Badlands, The River and Thunder Road would be greeted at an American festival with the same ardour reserved for his famous 80s hits. But here the crowd only hit the sky when he did Glory Days, Born to Run, Because the Night and Dancing in the Dark, as he kept working and finally winning everyone over, ending on the best encore of the festival. For me, the setlist was great - highlights being transcendent versions of Outlaw Pete, the Ghost of Tom Joad and Out in the Street, with particular worship heading for the magnificent Max Weinberg, Nils Lofgren, Steven Van Zandt (Silvio Dante no less!) and the ageless Clarence Clemons. But for everyone else, they were reaching for songs they knew and found only a few. Perhaps partly because of this, it became my second favourite show of the weekend when I had expected it to be the first. It wasn’t Springsteen’s fault but, on that form, in this setting and despite Bruce playing 10 songs more, Neil Young was never going to be topped.

Springsteen setlist:

Coma Girl/Badlands/Prove It All Night/My Lucky Day/Outlaw Pete/ Out In The Street/Working On A Dream/Seeds/Johnny 99/The Ghost Of Tom Joad/Raise Your Hand/Because The Night/No Surrender (w/ Brian Fallon)/Waitin’ On A Sunny Day/The Promised Land/The River/Radio Nowhere/Lonesome Day/The Rising/Born To Run

Encore: Hard Times/Thunder Road/Land Of Hope And Dreams/ American Land/Glory Days/Dancing In The Dark

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:: Neil Young :: Fucked Up :: N*E*R*D :: Fleet Foxes :: Lamb :: The Specials :: Glastonbury, Shepton Mallet, Somerset, 26-06-09


It seems to be getting longer each year – time was when the hordes would descend on sleepy Pilton on a Friday, jumping right into the performances before the tent pegs had been driven in. These days virtually everyone is settled in by Thursday morning. Those who couldn’t take the time off work trudged in fearfully late, knowing they would have to find space a mile away or face the worst – camping almost on the paths where people fell into your tent in the night or by the toilets. I need not even describe the folly of the latter. So there we were, leaving Bedford on Wednesday morning at 7am. Even then it was a seven-hour drive including a two hour wait to get into the site. As a result of all this, by the time you see your first band you’ve been there two days and almost forgotten there is even music coming. Some serious overnight rain on Thursday turned the ground into a sticky mudfest, reminiscent of two years ago, but thankfully the weather turned on Friday, sunscreen was applied and the first band were ready.

Personally, I find it all very physically demanding. It’s easier for some people than others and it’s hard not to feel a tinge of envy toward those who sail through it, sitting in blazing hot sun all day without so much as a batted eyelid. Unsuited to the outdoors as I am I don’t find it easy but my god, the rewards are great.

As Friday had dawned and I remembered why we were there, the endlessly fun task of choosing what to see began. It’s quite an art and it’s all in the timing. I had read a little about the unusual stage show of Canadian band FUCKED UP and suggested that they be the first stop. To me their music is undeniably average but the show really lies with their delightfully named frontman Pink Eyes. A bald, but otherwise hairy, anarchist built like a tank, there was no doubt that he was THE show. Crowd surfing on brave shoulders he made his way to the back of the John Peel Stage tent and then forward again. A fun way to start the day.

I should say at this point that I’m not a fan of dance music. I understand it, what the genre gives and means, but I like songs and that isn’t going to change. They don’t have to be short, I can sit and listen to a jazz piece that lasts an hour without a break, but there is variation in that. An endless beat is not for me. In the course of the weekend there were various trips to the dance tents to catch THE EGG, BANCO DE GAIA and others. It reminded me of the true essence of the festival; there truly is something for everyone. And everything that Glasto does, it does very well. Specialists in each genre are present, whether that be comedy, art, poetry and music of acoustic or electric (or electronic) base. It would be impossible to come away from Somerset feeling unsatisfied in any way.

A stroll to the Pyramid Stage and we were confronted by the unbilled but very welcome Pharrell Williams and his band N*E*R*D. On late and with poor sound he did his very best to put on a good show but a touch of self indulgence told in the end. Knowing he had 5 minutes left, whether that is fair on him or not, he should have skipped to the last song and given the crowd what they wanted to hear. Instead he attempted a different, lesser-known track, and suffered the ignominy of being cut off as the music was faded out. The crowd booed. I felt sorry for him because the band are hugely enjoyable but this event is about how the individuals gather to form the collective. You do your thing and make way for the next band. You don’t stand up there slagging off the organisers and saying you’ll play on as long as you like. No you won’t, they have the volume control. He put on a good show while it lasted.

Not that the organisers get it right absolutely all the time and an example of this came next with the marvellous FLEET FOXES. Wrongly placed on the Pyramid they sank in the chatter of the afternoon sun. Songs of beauty lost. Everywhere except the Pyramid, people are open and listening. At the Pyramid it’s play your hits and get off, whether you’re a legend or not. You get that booking, you know what you must do. With one album and one EP under their belts the biggest stage was not their place. Fleet Foxes would have been one of the acts of the festival at the Other (the second largest) stage. As it stood, they couldn’t make it work.

It was time to avoid Lily Allen so off we went to the Jazz World stage to see Manchester duo LAMB fronted by the enchanting Lou Rhodes, not the last magical female singer I would see that weekend. Then it was back to the Pyramid for the rest of the night. I had seen THE SPECIALS on Later… recently and been hugely impressed, so I was very much looking forward to their performance. The band are superb, the songs are well known and the crowd got right into it. It was the first classic Glasto performance of the weekend, closely followed by the second – headliner NEIL YOUNG. Having grown up with his music ringing around my ears at home I was no novice but I had, in fact, never seen him live before. I’d even had tickets but the show had been cancelled, several years ago.

I’ve been seeing gigs since I was a teenager. I’ve travelled to a dozen cities in seven countries to see artists play. I’ve seen shows in stadia, arenas, theatres, clubs, outdoors, basements… and what I witnessed was simply one of the greatest live performances I have ever seen. The superlatives have run out – charming and eccentric, his voice sears through you and both fills and breaks your heart and his guitar playing rips into your perception of what you thought music could give you. The songs, whether well known or not, are performed with such ferocious intensity or delicate heartbreak you just can’t even comprehend that you’re sharing the same space as him, that these gifts are finding you. He did it on his terms and the whole place fell to its knees. We staggered away slowly, the music spinning around our heads. Back to camp, a little fire built, a post mortem then bed. The first day of music was over.

Neil Young setlist:

Hey Hey, My My (Into The Black)/Mansion On The Hill/Are You Ready For The Country?/Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere/Spirit Road/ Words/ Cinnamon Girl/Mother Earth/The Needle And The Damage Done/Comes A Time/Unknown Legend/Heart Of Gold/Down By The River/Get Behind The Wheel/Rockin’ In The Free World/A Day In The Life

...

Oasis & Kasabian, Heaton Park, Manchester, 06-06-09

Oasis are my dirty, mainstream, secret. In the centre of my alphabetically arranged CD library of self-confessed musical snobbery lurks Nick Drake and Odetta - sandwiched between is the canon of, The Smiths aside, Manchester's finest band. I can't deny that the initial connection that spurred the beginning of my devotion to this band 15 years ago is linked to my genetic gift of football team. They are 'our band', between my Dad and I; just as City are our (and their) team.

Despite this, being decidedly a person who seeks out neither endless amounts of booze nor the opportunity for a fight, I had not ventured into the football match atmosphere of an Oasis gig until last autumn at Wembley Arena. It had been a powerful, aggressive, emotional night and I had to see them in my hometown, in the muddy expanse of Heaton Park.

I can see both sides. If you’re not on their track they’re arrogant, boorish oafs with derivative songs and embarrassingly simple lyrics. If you do get it, their songs puncture you, bringing either a full-throated joyous rejection of the constraints of conformity or tears to your eyes. This is your life’s soundtrack. As individuals, they are everyman, never changing into something you can’t identify with. Indeed, never changing at all. Oasis are your football team, if they scored 10 heavenly team goals in each game.

But, in front of a hits-and-singles tolerant crowd covered in beer (and worse), it was hard to evaluate what it is that has set them apart. The sound swirled in the wind and the mostly drunk crowd sang each word above the sound of the band. What you can surmise is that this band knows what they are doing when they deliver a concert experience to their crowd, a group always on the edge of hugging or having a fight. The setlist was well chosen, drawn mostly from their first two and most recent albums. Now with Gem Archer (Heavy Stereo), Andy Bell (Ride, Hurricane #1), Chris Sharrock (Lightning Seeds, Robbie Williams) and Jay Darlington (Kula Shaker) on board, the Mancs have assembled a fairly accomplished and well travelled set of musicians. As a result they have moved beyond the plodding, limited, rock they were guilty of a decade or so ago. Noel has, in a Pete Townshend style, now constructed himself as the leader. Liam is effortless; behaving as if he were a singer with a lesser ego, seemingly happy to saunter on and off stage, allowing Noel what must now be termed as co-lead singer duties.

But a reminder of what Noel can never achieve comes in the form of Wonderwall, which the elder Gallagher used to sing live. Now wrestled back into Liam’s domain it becomes the song that it was originally and the song that it’s meant to be. In some ways the show seems like a glorified sing-along, but there is a joy in being surrounded by smiling faces celebrating these unbeatable songs. Oasis occupy a unique place in the English psyche. The songs speak of freedom and it's something that mid teens to mid 30s, strive to feel. By coming along and singing, letting it out, it means everything. Like winning the weekend match, it makes work bearable on Monday. There’s no greater secret to it and no-one does it better.

Watching the fairly average Kasabian before the main event only compounded it. They’re not bad, exactly. They do have three or four good songs. They’re just not as good as they think they are and their arrogance, somehow charming when Oasis employ it, is wearing. Against a lesser band Kasabian might seem to have something to offer. Last night it was, well, like watching United play Barcelona. Outclassed.

...

Morrissey/Doll & The Kicks, Cambridge Corn Exchange, Cambridge, 16-05-09

Leading up to the show I hadn't been feeling that charitable towards Morrissey. The last two shows I had been scheduled to see had been abandoned and cancelled, respectively, due to his holiness's sore throat. Insistent on playing smaller venues, the only way to make them financially feasible must be to play more gigs per week than his voice can allow. So, every 20 shows or so, he'll have to let people down and I had been one such person. Checking online feverishly for evidence of his latest stubbed toe or broken nail, I left it to the last minute to make the trip to Cambridge.

Immediately, I could see why he favours town hall sized venues, as it soon became clear that the intensity and intimacy are unmatched. There was no shortage of odd characters to talk to and time passed quickly. Support act Doll & The Kicks were surprisingly good, received well by the famously uncharitable Morrissey hardcore. Then, a selection of strange little vignettes were projected onto the stage curtain - the comical video for Sparks latest single, Lighten Up Morrissey, a trashy, vintage, New York Dolls performance, a camp, leather-clad, Vince Taylor clip and a touch of 60s Shirley Bassey. Then, the curtain fell, the muscular sailor backdrop was visible and You'll Never Walk Alone dramatically heralded the entrance of the man and his band as the crush started. Pinned to the people surrounding me there was no way at all to move as the crowd surged, albeit good-naturedly.

“Good evening Cambridge, this is your starter for ten - no conferring”. A searing opening blast of This Charming Man and Irish Blood, English Heart and a gasp for breath later, came the first raised eyebrow. "I have some disturbing news for you. You're all missing the Eurovision Song Contest. Dry those eyes." I sighed with relief as his fragile voice found itself and stayed strong and powerful for the rest of the night. Newer songs from his latest, Years of Refusal, prompted a little easing of the crush, with the punchy Black Cloud coming out particularly well, but with a setlist this varied there was little let up. From the gentle Why Don't You Find Out For Yourself to, my surprise hit of the night, obscure B-side The Loop. I was surprised the song choice was so Smiths heavy, with no less than six songs from that period. As you might imagine those songs, among them Ask and How Soon Is Now, were received with joy unconfined.

Most bands you see get up there, play the songs and, while you might enjoy it, you suspect it's not that different to any other show. With Morrissey you're confronted with dozens of unique incidents. One such was an abusive heckler, questioned until he squirmed, and then the show was stopped as bandleader Boz Boorer got in his face, throwing a few unrepeatable words in his direction. Apparently the heckler was later removed from the venue. The atmosphere was frenzied and the game of getting on stage began. I've never experienced this at other gigs as the fans with an eye on security and a foot on the barrier try to invade to hug or kiss the man himself. Given that this behaviour is encouraged it’s no surprise that one brave soul made it up there to wrap his arms around Morrissey's ample waist. Another staple of the show is the removal of a sweaty shirt, which is then thrown to the baying masses. Viewing him as a younger man, one might not have imagined that, nearing 50, he would rip his shirt off, stripper style, to reveal a positively beefy physique.

I didn't want the show to end and after the last song, First of the Gang To Die, I peeled myself off those around me and, aching all over, stumbled out of the venue, floating and glowing. That's the paradox of Morrissey. He might let you down... but he'll never let you down.

This Charming Man / Irish Blood, English Heart / Black Cloud / Mama Lay Softly On The Riverbed / How Soon Is Now? / I'm Throwing My Arms Around Paris / How Can Anybody Possibly Know How I Feel? / Ask / Something Is Squeezing My Skull / When Last I Spoke To Carol / Girlfriend In A Coma / Best Friend On The Payroll / Let Me Kiss You / Why Don't You Find Out For Yourself? / One Day Goodbye Will Be Farewell / I Keep Mine Hidden / Sorry Doesn't Help / Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others / The Loop / I'm OK By Myself // First Of The Gang To Die
...

Bob Dylan, The Roundhouse, Camden, London, 26-04-09

In his later years Dylan has painted himself as the traveling troubadour. At the centre of the circus that has swirled around him for over 45 years he, somehow, keeps a single mind. In concert you're lucky to get as much as a nasal hello - band intros aside – but, offstage, there has been a marked shift in his projected persona. Before 2005’s No Direction Home he had done one TV interview in 19 years. Then came the first volume of his autobiography, Chronicles, and the revelatory Theme Time Radio Hour. In the latter, his remarkable mind takes the listener on a journey through the American musical heartland; his hypnotic voice relating tall tales, jokes and even the odd recipe. He must have uttered more publicly spoken words in the last 3 years than he has in the previous 40.

Having been on the road consistently now for over 20 years he’s always coming to a town near you. Rather than handfuls of arena shows in major cities alone, he'll play a baseball diamond in Kansas, a club in Helsinki and, now, a needless Roundhouse gig. Needless in the sense that he had played the O2 the night before and I don’t doubt that the 20,000 souls exited having failed to recognise half of what they’d heard. He'll come to you but when you meet him half way that’s your gift. He’ll do songs you know, but they will bear little resemblance to the recording. He has written these songs once and now he has written them again.

You hear endless treatises on The Voice. I've never understood why it repels people. Maybe you must get past it to arrive at the prize - the songs, their words. Or maybe it's something to revel in, as I do. There's almost a perverse desire to see the voice turn people away, so the jewels are left for those who can open their minds and control their expectations. While the madness of who he is and what he means rages around him, he just gets on with the job of being Bob.

The atmosphere outside the Roundhouse was electric. The crowd stretched for hundreds of yards as the desperately ticketless looked toward the heavens for a miracle. Once inside, the expectant atmosphere was palpable as he made his understated entrance. At first it was hard to digest that it was, well, really him. A slim figure in black, with a white hat atop his head, still endless curls framing that Mount Rushmore worthy face, finished off with a Vincent Price moustache. It took the slightest raised eyebrow and glint of the eye to send the crowd into frenzy. Unlike most acts of a certain age,(stand up Mick and Keith), more than half of his set was drawn from his last three albums. His superlative band, honed to a fine point from many years of touring, led the way as Dylan howled at the microphone, leaning over his keyboard. That indescribable voice told tales of the last 45 years, songs that defy age and change lives. The paradox is that in live performance you witness that which would elicit poor reviews of anyone else – he lets the band carry the weight, his voice is a cross between a cat and a wasp that makes Tom Waits sound like Caruso and his keyboard skills are average. And yet, none of these things take anything away from the show. How he makes these clear flaws simply not matter, is part of the Dylan sleight of hand.

It’s hard to write about him, it’s all been said before. You can only be thankful that you’re around in his time. You can only try to explain what he means to you. My father witnessed this same man saying ‘Play it fucking loud!’ in response to the, no doubt now embarrassed, Judas shouter in May ‘66 at the Manchester Free Trade Hall. As this great American songbook played before my eyes, all I could do was simply call my parents and hold the phone aloft, trembling with emotion, bringing them to him and completing the circle.

Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat
Don't Think Twice, It's All Right
Tangled Up In Blue
Million Miles
Rollin' And Tumblin'
Tryin' To Get To Heaven
Tweedle Dee & Tweedle Dum
Sugar Baby
High Water (For Charley Patton)
I Don't Believe You (She Acts Like We Never Have Met)
Po' Boy
Highway 61 Revisited
Ain't Talkin'
Summer Days
Like A Rolling Stone

(encore)
All Along The Watchtower
Spirit On The Water
...

TV On The Radio & The Noisettes, Brixton Academy, London, 14-07-09

I read the other day that ‘bands get the fans they deserve’. Of course this was on a Morrissey board and who else could come up with something so misanthropic? But as I scanned Brixton Academy last night I realised that this might be true, as some fans do seem to resemble the band they have come to see. This is nothing particularly new. At Bowie gigs in the 70s the audience paid their tributes with red mullets and lightning bolts. Madonna’s 80s shows were full of Desperately Seeking Susan wannabes. Metal shows have always been like this, once you couldn’t move for band shirts and long hair and now it’s endless tattoos on and offstage. Indeed, at Glasto recently I watched Bat For Lashes and couldn’t help notice the glitter-eyed girls with long bandanas showing their Natasha worship. And so to last night, the audience was awash with black-rimmed glasses and both neatly trimmed and wild beards, reflecting livewire singer Tunde Adebimpe, always modestly charming, and Jerry Garcia lookalike bassist/guitarist Kyp Malone, respectively. And I hadn’t seen so much flannel since the video of Even Flow.

Support band Noisettes were pleasant enough. A good sound and undeniably powerful vocals partially masked that they have only two decent songs in their possession and one of those, due to over-saturation, has become fairly annoying. As stage time approached I realised this was how gigs should be; hot, packed and brimming with anticipation. I cast my eye to the staggering array of equipment and instruments on stage. With five band members plus two additional musicians - saxophonist and sample/keyboard tweaker - this band meant business. Entering to a rapturous howl the band started with the gentle Love Dog, from most recent album Dear Science. A late convert to TVOTR I had only owned the album, released last September, for a few months but it had made a late break for my album of 2008, a spot previously held by Fleet Foxes. It’s a perfect pop record, the like of which I haven’t heard in years. I was gratified to hear most of it live, along with choice cuts from their first two albums. Before they hit this vein of pop the band were fairly noisy and discordant in places, in comparison anyway. This accidentally suited the venue’s sound, more of which later.

Musical collectives like TVOTR (and indeed Arcade Fire) give you something extra on stage. Your eyes dart across each performer, alighting on a viciously passionate drummer, a high jumping guitarist, a headbanging keyboard player or a charismatic bassist singing his heart out. I was overwhelmed by the energy on stage, from producer/guitarist David Sitek’s head down hard playing; the wind chimes attached to his guitar head swinging furiously, drummer Jaleel Bunton’s muscular rhythms, serene but cheekily cool guitarist Malone, who hit the show’s high point by singing the brilliant Red Dress, and the jumping bean leader Tunde. All this while Gerard Smith, on bass/keyboards, lurked at the back of the stage getting the job done and saxophonist Martin Perna blew and flailed as if his life depended on it. Their audience already know these songs will become classics and are just waiting for everyone else to catch up. It’s testament to how good this band are that they beat the sound, which, it must be said, was probably the worst I have heard at a London gig.

Brixton Academy used to engineer some of the best live sounds in London. Around five years ago a new system was installed and it’s been downhill ever since. I’ve seen countless gigs here and been disappointed each time. Any band that has complex sound needs should really play somewhere else. Metal doesn’t fare too badly, as it goes, since the NIN show I saw here was outstanding. But last night it was unbearable. They may as well have left the guitar and bass at home for all you could hear them. The voices did sound good, no complaint there. Other than that it was like listening in submerged water, as a wall of noise came at you. It was just a mud of a sound, surely the worst at any venue in London. It reminded me why I wisely choose to avoid the place when possible. Even so, a great band will defeat the sound system and TVOTR were irresistible.

This band overflow with ideas. There’s lyrically dark pop like Bowie at his best, disco, punk, bits of Afro beat, a Prince-like meld of funky drums and voice, touches of jazz, even prog: this is the sound of a band at the top of their game. Most bands can’t achieve in their whole careers what these Brooklynites have done with only three albums. They are refreshing, in a world of agendas. There are no gimmicks, just great music. You dance and they evolve right in front of your eyes into, the often-made comparison, the American Radiohead. Give them a few years, more good records under their belt, a decent sound system and the world is theirs.

...

Meshell Nedegeocello, Jazz Cafe, Camden, London, 31-03-09

It was hard to know what the mostly middle class mixed audience expected of Meshell Ndegeocello's second consecutive Jazz Cafe gig - sensual musings, gently delivered political rhetoric, hard and heavy jazz, dub reggae or funk. Whatever the expectations, she met them all with a glorious style.

Taking the stage with an understated entrance, almost hidden among her band, she slipped into songs from her 2007 release, The World Has Made Me the Man of My Dreams, without fanfare. With the crowd already enthralled she barely needed to dip into her not inconsiderable musical canon to keep our eyes wide open. Her thoughts, lyrical and verbal, muse on larger topics - faith, science, politics, love - but it's her strident yet unthreatening persona that allows her the space with her audience to gently push her opinions. She bemoaned not being able to join the G20 protests then added with a wink 'Sorry, I'll be in sunny Barcelona tomorrow'. The important comment with the throwaway tag was a recurring theme throughout. The English have a peculiar attitude to emotional resonance at musical events. You can tell it in your lyrics but don't stand there between songs harping on about politics. In America such openness is greeted with heart beating sincerity from the audience but here there's very much a 'get on with it' vibe. If we want to find meaning we will find it ourselves, not be told where it is. But if it's done with grace and charm you can navigate around that English cynicism and Meshell knew the game.

Even then, with eyes firmly on current material, there's room for the odd look over the shoulder, with Faithful, from 1999's magical Bitter, a highlight. But the star of the night was the music, more so than theme or voice. The assembled musicians were of a standard one doesn't usually see. The nearest comparison is to a recent Herbie Hancock show at the Barbican, such was the level of musical ESP at both that show and last night.

The band weaved seamlessly in both genre and tempo, dropping and picking up cues and time signatures - bassist Mark Kelley would play around Meshell's bass, creating the unlikely effect of two basses being not too much for the small room. She allowed him space to shine, with her contributions only intermittent but crucial. Keyboardist Jason Lindner was somewhat lost among his collection of electronica and didn't add a great deal but guitarist Chris Bruce created flawless sounds that danced around the harder edges. Perhaps the star of the show was the staggering Deantoni Parks, once the touring drummer for The Mars Volta. Even a short break following his literal destruction of the bass drum added to, rather than derailed, the proceedings. An easy mood pervaded both band and audience.

After a breathless encore and heartfelt thanks she was gone. You were left with the the thoughts of her eternally curious mind and the powerful elan of her musicians
...