885 MERCHANDISE, Dallas Don’t, Jeff Wode, Oxford Jericho Tavern, Thursday 5 September 2013

The Autumn gig schedule eases into action with another jaunt to my regular 80's stamping ground, the Jericho Tavern! This tripette was prompted after Merchandise, my favourite new band of last month's Reading Festival (slight) return, announced a gig in the fabled old upstairs room, so my lovely wife kindly rearranged her plans so I could once again avail myself of this new Tampa FLA band's challenging brand of 80's influenced shimmering and effervescent rock. 

Since seeing da Merch (as probably no-one but myself refers to them), I’d done my due diligence, picking up their last 2 CDs and finding them deliciously languid and libidinous collections of often stretched but never over-indulgent numbers, all metronomic and absorbing, sweeping and swooping from refrain to riff, unconstrained by the usual verse-chorus etc. song structure, and sonically similar to the moody, textured atmospherics of Kitchens Of Distinction combined with chugging repetitive refrains, similar to but more guitar-based than, say, Stereolab. A real intelligence and creativity at work, so I was looking forward to seeing them at close quarters. 

So, I hit the road after the kids went to bed and wandered into the sparsely attended upstairs room as first support Jeff Wode took the stage at 8.30. A young 3-piece, they had one half-decent mid-set number which was subsumed in a morass of thrash punk workouts and 6^th form common room idiocy (a song about David Suchet consisting of his name being bellowed over the same riff at various tempos? Really?). Also the iridescently shirted vocalist couldn’t sing for toffee, although the final bellowing “Louie Louie” rather suited his “vocals”, actually… A shame, really, as the guitarist could actually play. He’s wasted there… Thankfully, better was to come with main support Dallas Don’t. A 4-piece whom I originally assumed were fey jangle-poppers, due to the presence of a female guitarist, but instead played some very good muscular proto surf/psych punk. The vocalist also had a strident stream-of-consciousness vocal style similar to 70’s punk bands, suiting their stuff. “We’ve got CDs if you like what we’re doing; if you don’t know hard feelings,” he announced at their final, thrashier number – I did, so I got one from the bassist who confirmed, “we like to play loud.” Good for you!

I had a quick chat with the main Merchandise guys Carson Cox and Dave Vassalotti, ironically at their merch stand (!), prior to their taking the stage at 10. After languid, lugubrious opener “In Nightmare Room”, they kicked it up a notch with a superb “Anxiety’s Door”, the stand-out track on their current “Totale Night” CD. A metronomic groove on record, this was however powerful and venomous “live”, with the impossibly handsome vocalist Cox, looking like the rock star from central casting all in black denim and with Ray-Bans perched precariously atop his blond flick, growling in his resonant baritone, and angular partner Vassalotti throwing shapes like a young Lucky Jackson. Oh yes. I just used a Gravel Pit comparison… And despite the more free-form structure of their songs, this one was nevertheless relentlessly hooky; “you’re the only one now, the only one now…”

“This is for the dancers at the front; not wishing to start a rivalry, but the front of the house is better than the back!” Cox announced before the lengthy, slow-burn “Winter’s Dream”, then “Time” saw me really get rocking down the front to this delicious loose-limbed mutant dance, with Cox’ deep vocals again a feature, more upfront than on CD where they’re occasionally submerged in reverb, like a distant, drowsy, half remembered dream. A couple of older, rockier, more seething and sneering but no less absorbing numbers brought a superb set to a close, although the band were persuaded back for an encore by the rapturous applause from this by-now respectfully full Jericho; “alright, we’ll do one more, but we’re not going to enjoy it!” joked Cox, clearly relishing his work throughout. Excellent stuff overall from a young but very inventive band with real potential.

And nice guys too, as Vassalotti kindly wrote me out a set-list afterwards, and I had a lengthier chat outside with an ebullient Cox and a fellow punter. I left him with handshakes and fist-bumps, plus a copy of my gig blog card and, on request, my work business card. Young Mr. Cox was amused by my being a “Horticulture Merchandiser”, but sorry, Carson , it doesn’t mean I can get you any weed!

884 THE 2013 READING FESTIVAL (Sunday only), Reading Festival Site, Richfield Avenue Reading, Sunday 25 August 2013

A return to Reading Festival for me after a 9 year absence had its’ genesis in gig 850 last June, Biffy Clyro’s surprise trip to the Oasis and my son Evan’s first rock gig proper. He loved it so much, we promised we’d try to get him down when they were playing their next album tour; but couldn’t quite make that work when they toured their excellent “Opposites” album in March this year. However, when I heard they were stepping up to the big time, and headlining the Sunday at Reading Festival, I hatched a plan to take Evan, which came to fruition!

Thus was a gig hiatus of over 2 months (!) ended, as Evan and I caught the train on a dank and drizzly Sunday morning, both apprehensive for different reasons. Evan nervous as he’d never been to a Festival before, and me wondering whether the things that stopped us going back in 2004 (overcrowding, crap facilities, generally unhelpful and occasionally hostile vibe) would still be prevalent 9 years later. Arrival at the new Reading Station saw us heading out on a North entrance; very handy for the Festival site! Our arrival onsite continued a good impression, with easy access/ egress boding well for a quick getaway. Our wristband march took us through lots of barriers which as they were empty was a bit of a pain, but I could see the advantage over the free-for-all of the past. We ran into Andy Fenton immediately after getting our wristbands, which was a great help – during our walk to the back of the arena, he genned us in on the recent changes (apparently the arena itself has been increased by 1/3 over last year, with no more tickets sold – great!). The site itself is now massive, but everything seems better organised and laid out, and ticking along like clockwork.

Found the amply-sized tent housing the Festival Republic stage, where we intended to spend much of the early afternoon. BATTLE LINES kicked off at a frightfully early 11.15; musically they were an ethereal, 2.54 type of band, all swirling keyboards and shimmering guitars, however the female vocalist had too much of the strident, yelping Flozzer-isms for my liking, which made it all a bit jarring. Still, heard worse.

“Please sing along to this next song, it’s about stalking people,” SAN CISCO’s female drummer announced before one of their early numbers. SC brought some Summery jangle-pop to this early lazy Reading vibe, all jaunty and C86-influenced, like an Antipodean North Of Cornwallis, and got a much larger, girlier and more receptive crowd clapping along. Their purple beach ball freebies suited their music, although there were only a few of them bouncing over the crowd…

Took a walk outside into the arena while BURY TOMORROW were burying the ghost of Nu-Metal onstage with really poor shouty date rape rock. The vocalist announced their all-time favourite band as Slipknot. Says it all, really… We were however back in the FR tent for CHINA RATS, a swaggering, confident listen, like the Vaccines channelling early Rolling Stones instead of Buddy Holly. An early t-shirt of the day contender (“Have You Seen This Unicorn?”) was the only distraction from this fine, strident guitar set.

Back into the arena as the sun finally broke through, taking a walk right of the main stage during Poughkeepsie ’s WE ARE THE IN CROWD’s mainstage set of sub-Paramore powerpop punk rock. Very occasionally Cleos-like when they powered down a gear or two, they delivered a likeable and energetic clutch of tuneage, and left a favourable impression, which may or may not have been helped by the bouncy and effervescent female vocalist… Some dead time saw us take a wander around the stalls, passing the biggest tent, the Radio 1 stage, where THE VILLAGERS were peddling some low-key folky country. Then we stumbled upon the tiniest Reading tent ever, the BBC1 Introducing stage, which was basically under an awning! Two-piece TO BE FRANK were kicking off a slow-burning keyboard/ drum machine set, but to be Frank they sounded dull and droney, so we carried on our wander, trying to avoid the mainstage-bound HADOUKEN massive, plus the shouty and incoherent yo-funk crap emanating from the object of their collective affections.

This landed us back in the FR tent for THE FAMILY RAIN, a band of 3 brothers playing a primal and embryonic bluesy howl. A little incoherent,but they drew a decent crowd. I was however more up for the subsequent CALIFORNIA X set; this bunch of reprobates looked like a group of young J Mascis clones (all hair and vintage Wipers t-shirts!) and clearly grew up on a diet of Dinosaur Jr., Pixies, Nirvana and early Lemonheads with their proto grunge rock partying like it was still 1992. Noisy, lazy and rather splendid actually, the only disappointing aspect being a lack of set-list for me to swipe from the bassist afterwards! Then back into a sun-drenched and dusty main arena for the mid-afternoon DON BROCO. Billed as the new Biffy Clyro (hey, aren’t they all…), they actually veered between macho but listenable rock and occasionally jarring generic nu/ rap metal, although the vocalist actually reminded me of 80’s funksters Hue And Cry, although that might have been due to his scattergun vocal style and neat haircut. A lot of crowdpleasing sing/ shoutalong antics punctuated an OK, audience participative set.

One quick loo stop later, we headed down the front as far as possible, stage left, whilst ominous dark and threatening skies gathered – a little too early perhaps? Let me explain. I’d mentioned to Evan that EDI TORS would benefit from some dark foreboding clouds during their mid-afternoon set to envelop their brooding rock, and the weather almost arrived on cue, forcing us to don raincoats briefly for the only time today. However, it cleared quickly and a weak but persistent sun accompanied Tom and the boys onstage, for their slow-burn and dramatic opener “Sugar”. Then into the familiar, speedy staccato guitar riff of “ Munich ”, and we were away…

Now a beefed-up 5-piece, Editors were initially rather superb, an angular “End Has A Start” followed by the Bunnymen “Cutter”-isms of the dramatic “Ton Of Love”, the highlight of their current, slightly lower-key CD “The Weight Of Your Love”. However the set mid-section did feel slightly muted, with understated new single “Formaldehyde” being followed by a discordant and slightly jarring “Blood Drool”. It took an immense “Racing Rats” to pull the set back, Tom’s piano lead giving way to a wild, rip-roaring rendition, and a final double-header of “Smokers”, soaring and dramatic, was even capped by a seething and menacing “Papillon”, Tom and the boys lengthening the climax into a thrashy and hectic crescendo. Great stuff overall – follow that, Biffy!

This now took us to 5 pm, so we had noodles and free drinks (!) for tea, eating them in our spot over by the FR tent to the chuntering sounds of FRANKIE AND THE HEARTSTRINGS’ at-times thrashy pop, at times jangly rumpus, but mostly innocuous background noise for us. When the Frankie massive emptied, we wandered in, running into the California X boys for a chat and some pix. Nice guys. They suggested we check out MERCHANDISE, next up, who were on my to-do list anyway; though seemingly not on many other peoples’, as they came on to a surprisingly sparse crowd. Those there were however witness to an intriguing, absorbing and mighty fine set of textured, flowing and slightly 80’s tinged rockist stuff, with each often lengthy number intelligently constructed, usually without the jarring presence of such niceties as choruses to interrupt the flow. This set was difficult to pigeonhole (a Stills guitar shimmer here, a Smiths vocal inflection there), but very very easy to enjoy. “You’re already kicking the shit out of Leeds ,” remarked impressively strident voiced singer Carson Cox after an early number, and honestly Merchandise kicked the shit out of the tent with this, the Best New Band set of the day.

Chilled in the main arena during the arse end of FALLOUT BOY’s set of surprisingly low-key and very forgettable pop. A collapsed drunk girl receiving some medical attention in front of us was actually more memorable and entertaining than the onstage fayre, at least until the end when FOB cranked it up a notch with some punkier singalong stuff. A surprisingly quick trip to a surprisingly clean loo then preceded a wander down the front for NINE INCH NAILS’ set. Bumped into the Merchandise lads in a surprisingly quiet arena (I’m being surprised a lot this evening, aren’t I?) before US alt-rock legend Trent Reznor led the latest NIN incarnation onstage. I’ve never been a fan, really, finding their usual post-grunge funk hard on the ears, however this set started off with some eerie, synth-embellished and libidinous numbers, carrying on in a similar vein, some shards of harsher industrial goth guitar being the exception rather than the rule. Music as swirling as the clouds of dry ice which enveloped the backlit stage, this, and for me a pleasant surprise. A throwaway comment from Reznor midway through the set, “fuck rock’n’roll, by the way,”
encapsulated both his approach to this set, and his frame of mind tonight (we later found out that Mr. Grumpypants Reznor took to Twitter complaining about the promoter and “the band following us – whoever the fuck they are” – ouch!), although the set closed out with some noisier and more full-on gothy rock.

As evening wrapped a darkening shroud around the arena and stage, we took the opportunity of the NIN massive leaving to push forward, Evan enthusiastically leading the way. We’re gonna get squished… A curtain covered the stage as the tell-tale sounds of construction emanated from behind it, as the arena became more crowded and anticipatory. After half a dozen Reading Festival appearances in the last 10 years or so, on various stages at various times, The Biff are headlining the whole damn show – are they ready for it?

Finally the witching hour arrived, and puzzlingly, Sister Sledge’s 70’s cheesy disco classic “We Are Family” cranked out loudly from the stage. Then a hush, as the opening note of “Different People” built from behind the curtain, and Simon Neil of BIFFY CLYRO, bare-chested and guitarred-up, wandered onstage to conduct the crowd in the opening lines of this, the perfect set opener. As it burst into jagged, amphetamine-fuelled life, the curtain dropped to reveal the ornate, elaborate tree/ circulatory system set-up of their tour. Dramatic and eye-catching.

The Biff powered relentlessly through openers “Golden Rule” and “Who’s Got A Match”, fittingly accompanied by bursts of flame from the top of the stage, so close to us in our stage left slot, about 10 rows back, that we could feel the intensity of the heat, matching the onstage performance. An element of nervousness was expected, given their comments that they were, “fucking shitting ourselves!” about headlining the Festival, but these emotions were being suppressed by the commitment of their performance, and the rapturous reaction from the immense crowd, singing along to pretty much everything from note one. All enveloping, all inclusive.

“Reading, it’s a fucking honour to be closing your weekend,” Simon announced before “Sounds Like Balloons,” the huge crashing singalong to its’ chorus causing an barely-suppressed grin to break out across the frontman’s face. He was bloody loving this, and so were we. “This is where the real magic happens,” he remarked as he wandered down their personally-constructed catwalk for a titanic “Biblical”. The white noise and hand-held strobe theatre of “Glitter And Trauma” was a stunning highlight, leading into a brilliant “Bubbles”, a poppy build-up again crashing into a huge stadium rock chorus, resonating through the inky night around the packed arena.

“This song is very dear to me and is for anyone who’s lost someone,” Simon said by way of introduction to a stripped bare, heartbreaking acoustic “Folding Stars”, bringing a lump to the throat and definitely a magnificent set highlight. The hook of the subsequent “Machines”, “take the pieces and build them skyward,” served as testament to their work as a band who’ve paid their dues on smaller stages, smaller slots, to finally crack the big time. This is their time in the light, and they’re taking full advantage of it. Good for you, Biffy!

Back to the rock for the pyro-accompanied “Living Is A Problem Because Everything Dies”, a soaring “Many Of Horror” climaxed by a ticker tape launch, then more heartfelt but never gushing sincerity from Simon (“Reading, we’ve been looking forward to this weekend all year so thanks for making it special for us”) before set closer “The Captain” saw Simon, Hendrix-like, take a flare and set fire to his guitar in a dramatic burst of punk rock theatre, walking off with rock hands aloft.

A 3 song encore climaxed with a brilliant “Mountains” and a fireworks display, ending the thrilling, rampaging Set Of The Day from a band fully justifying their elevation to the big time. By this time we’d extricated ourselves from the busy but habitable mosh, and on the final note headed off to the station, an easy jog back getting us there well in time for our train. Elated about how easy and well-organised today had been, happy that I could share it with my son (who described the day as, “one of the most intense experiences of my life”), and thrilled at seeing Biffy Clyro, in their pomp, slay the Festival. Only one way to end this report, I believe – Mon The Biff!

883 PETER MURPHY performing the songs of BAUHAUS, Eyes On Film, Bristol O2 Academy, Tuesday 18 June 2013

Another trip down memory lane, another “revival” show, another chance to revisit one of the acts of my fledgling early 80’s late teen formative musical years… a slightly different twist on the theme this time though; Peter Murphy, former frontman of 80’s dark, twisted art-school rockers turned Goth pioneers Bauhaus, chose to celebrate his former charges’ 35^th Anniversary not by getting the old crowd back together, but instead by touring a full Bauhaus set with his own band! I missed out on the chance to see Bauhaus back in the day, as my musical tastes evolved away from the subsequent more black-clad, bat-infested Theatre of Goth, and also a few years back, when a Summer 2006 full Bauhaus reunion tour coincided with a holiday abroad. So I resolved to take the opportunity this time, also being joined by recent punk-oriented gig buddy Debs and old friend Doug McGuire, who’d been threatening to join me for a gig of late, and finally sorted one out!

I'd surmised this to be an early - and busy one, so I picked my gig companions up early doors for an entertaining drive down, parking up at 7.15. Wrong on both counts, though, as the place was deserted on arrival, a portent for the evening; the venue only ever got 2/3rd full at best, with the balcony shut all night. T'uh, no respect, these Bristolians... also, we faced an hour wait for the support, so hit the bar to chat. Support Eyes On Film, when they arrived, certainly looked the part; 5 leather jacketed young bucks and a hard-hitting female drummer playing some early-doors edgy punky stuff, remnisicent of a darker Marion. However, they degenerated into innocuous background noise and personality-free random riffery. A young band with much to learn about talking the talk before they walk the walk, methinks...

We took a good house left viewing spot before being regaled with a short film featuring clips from Peter Murphy's forthcoming album "Lions", some haunting and resonant stuff proving you can take the boy out of the batcave, but... However, we ere here for some doomy nostalgia, and following a final fiddly soundcheck we got it, as Murphy and his young band took the stage to little fanfare, easing through a couple of baroque, introspective openers embellished with some chillingly lovely mandolin, before taking flight with a strident "Double Dare", all seething and swooping drama.

Bauhaus ploughed a fiercely idiosyncratic furrow in the early 80's rock landscape, funnelling influences such as Bowie, Krautrock, post-punk and art school rock through a dark and slightly depraved worldview, strewn with sleazy sex and horror imagery and references. Like all pioneers, their music wasn't as extreme as that which followed in their wake, retaining style and melody instead of the comic Munsters goth of, say, Alien Sex Fiend. This was embodied tonight by Murphy's performance; imperiously striding the stage, adjusting the sound throughout (tweak this up, turn that down, a perfectionist in motion), and overlaying these classic songs with his rich, deep and sonorous vocals, adding suitable haunting gravitas to his lyrics. "In The Flat Field" and "God In An Alcove" were a superb early double salvo delivered by an impressive band, Murphy underlining this with, "these guys have been with me awhile; this isn't Bauhaus, this isn't trying to be a covers band - this is the shit!"

Murphy, strangely, also contrasted his imperious stage presence with some odd vaudevill routines, a stand-up routine referencing Bristolians Massive Attack and Portishead ("if you're here, hi...") preceding the acoustic shimmer of "Silent Hedges", A funky "Kick In The Eye", accompanied by Murphy's high kicks, brought back early 80's Wednesday night Brunel memories, and a mournful reading of "Strange Kind Of Love" was dedicated to bassist Emilio's late mother, Emilio's virtuoso violin work proving a fitting tribute. Then, a magnificent set highlight; the gloomy, claustrophobic "Bela Lugosi's Dead", stretching out sinuously and languidly throughout its' full 9 minutes, with Murphy's vocal a deliciously sinister feature. Simply stunning.

The classics kept rolling; "Passion Of Lovers", an extended, echoey and dubby "She's In Parties", a brilliantly jagged and ragged "Dark Entries", sadly shorn of the great inhalation of breath on record but magnificent nonetheless, songs I never thought I'd hear "live", songs as familiar as time and tonight delivered as celebratorily as they were dark. Another vaudeville routine punctuated encore "Hollow Hills", a by-now bare-chested but impressively rakish Murphy posing and preening, channelling Julie Andrews and Dick Van Dyke (!) before commenting, "it's odd that [this song] is a classic, [likewise] "Bela Lugosi's dead", David Jay wrote that, but I killed it; without my vocals, that song would be shit!" Actually, true, that. A raucous "telegram Sam" and a brilliantly singalong "Ziggy Stardust", underlying Murphy's debt to Bowie, concluded a brilliant evening. Murphy ended with thanks to his impressive band and sincere thanks to us, for joining this 35th Anniversary celebration. Me, I wouldn't have missed it, and it was a real surprise that so many did.

Elated, I grabbed a set-list and we headed off, having witnessed another resurrection almost on a par with Adam /ant's recent revival. Yup, that good. Mr. Murphy, Sir, you and your band tonight did full justice to the impressive legacy of Bauhaus. Well done.

882 GAZ BROOKFIELD, Joshua Caole, Benji Clements, Swindon the Victoria, Thursday 6 June 2013

Rachel told me she’s having a contest over the course of this year; will I take her out more times than I go and see Gaz Brookfield? This being the third time I’ve seen The West Country’s finest potty-mouthed, have-guitar-will-travel, punk rock attitude acoustic troubadour in the year of 2013, this draws Gaz level with nights out with Rach; but as I’m taking her along tonight to see Gaz, does this count as No. 4 with her? As Captain Redbeard Rum once said, “opinion is divided, m’lud!”

Well, enough babble. Rach’s mum babysat and we headed off up the hill, hitting the obscenely deserted venue about 8.15. Dammit, Swindon, it’s Thursday night and early in the month; get out and support one of your own! Particularly when he’s as profusely talented as Mr. Brookfield is! Ran into Gaz in the bar early doors for a quick chat on this issue, to which he magnanimously remarked, “it’s quality that counts, not quantity!” Damn right, we’re here, after all!

Took a wander down to the back room venue to see opener Benji Clement. Accompanied by a low-key band this time, with bass and percussion to flesh out his sparse, bluesy-jazz sound, he again highlighted an eclectic selection of covers (a melange of “Moondance” and “Summertime”, some Hendrix, a challenging Al Green number and some Jungle Book!), an impressively smooth, occasionally scat-rap-improv vocal style and a positive attitude despite the tiny crowd. Nice work, young man. Back to the bar for a sit-down, but only briefly, as the between-act turnaround was impressively swift, allaying a tired Rachel’s concerns that this would be a late one. So Joshua Caole, a more unkempt, bearded young chap with the looks of an “LA Woman”-era Jim Morrison, a very American-sounding voice somewhere between Hobotalk and a nasal Michael Stipe, and an engagingly vacant line in between-song patter, entertained with some more Americana-tinged acoustic tomfoolery. I liked the idea of a murder suicide ballad set in the Forest Of Dean, and his stories of living in his car and needing to borrow cables from his mother-in-law (!) for this gig brought chuckles from the finally-growing crowd.

Again, the turnaround was quick, so Gaz took the stage a shade after 10, accompanied by his violinist partner-in-crime Ben Wain. This being only the second gig back for Gaz after a nasty bout of laryngitis which sidelined him awhile, he was allegedly taking it easy, but this certainly didn’t show with as committed and energetic a performance as ever, lapped up by this small but equally tuned-in and very knowledgeable hometown crowd. “Limelight”, second number in, was dismissed as, “a lie,” by Gaz, “as I’m on last, and also because this next number is about going on the road with my favourite band,” introducing the increasingly familiar Men They Couldn’t Hang-like travelogue of “Land Pirate’s Life”. The loud “arrrr”s at the end of “SN1” were met with an, “every time!” from an impressed Gaz, and I appreciated the way he tuned a lovely “Glass Half Empty” right back to a hushed whisper, to expose – and shut up! – a couple of noisy punters. Style.

“Towns”, a newie relating Gaz’ origins, revealed much of the man lyrically, with a passionate performance and the announcement that this might be the next album’s title track, underlining how important his heritage is to him. Live faves “Diet Of Banality” (which saw a breakdancing session from a punter, Gaz remarking, “that’s not going to be the dance routine!”) a rousing singalong “Under The Table” and an always brilliant “Be The Bigger Man” were a marvellous one-two-three punch, before another rousing singalong “West Country Song” rounded off another splendid evening. Taking it easy? Easing his way back? No way, tonight’s performance was as passionate, committed and thoroughly entertaining as ever, Gaz seamlessly returning to the stage like a true performer born.

And, given how much Rach enjoyed the gig as well, I’m counting this as 2013 night out No. 4 with her!