1,211 DESPERATE JOURNALIST, LIINES, London Lafayette, Saturday 19th February 2022

 

This one was supposed to be number 2 of 4 gigs in 4 days but instead ended up being the second part of a double-header; but more on that in my footnote... anyway, as amply proved at the opening date of their tour at the Thekla last month (gig 1,205), Britain’s Best Band, spritely post-punkers Desperate Journalist, are currently in dazzling form, more than worthy of a long trip to London such as this. Good thing too, as this one was booked even before the Thekla date was announced! And, if any were needed, further incentive was offered by the inclusion of Manchester’s Liines as support… this all-girl 3-piece had also dazzled in support of the bloody terrible Sleaford Mods in Bristol a couple of years back (gig 1,130), a gig during which the girls were subject to some misogynistic abuse from some Mods “fans”, and which earned me a bit of a slagging off from other Mods fans when I posted my blog write-up on a Liines facebook fan page saying so! Still, hopefully a smoother ride was due this time; or so I thought…!

 My solo status was due to DJ uber-fan Stuart, who was due to join me, sadly suffering a family bereavement so being occupied elsewhere. So I hit the M4 at 3.30, an hour earlier than I’d initially planned due to reported closures between Junctions 8 and 6. I’d decided to dump the motor in Osterley tube station car park, under the Heathrow flight path, and take the lengthy but direct Underground service over to Kings Cross, rather than brave the roads of a Capital which had been particularly hit hard by yesterday’s Storm Eunice (bits of the O2 Arena roofing being ripped off in the high winds like soggy old tarpaulin, for instance…!), so hit the venue a half hour before doors. Part of a new series of eateries and entertainment complexes at the ground floor level of a number of new build office blocks, this was a weird one; the venue itself was through a door off a small indoor central atrium surrounded by a few drinks and food bars. However, both bars I attended had little interest in serving me (one guy flatly refused, despite not doing anything else!) and, after the other one had deigned to sell me a small can of cherry soda (which was both stupidly priced at £3.50, and tasted disgustingly of chemicals!) then made a point of asking the hovering waitress/ hostess, well within my earshot, to, “stop sending people to the bar”. Fucking ignorant entitled twat!

 The venue – down a flight of stairs through said side-door into a new build but small 2-tier brick-lined room that reminded me of an old engine shed – eventually opened and I wandered down; ran into Liines drummer Leila and tried to both thank and apologise to her for getting her involved in “that” row, only she was dealing with some hassle of her own from the venue security staff and my presence only seemed to make it worse, so I excused myself and took a spot down the front, feeling uneasy and unwelcome in this venue and pretty much already just wanting it to be over! A chat with a couple of fellow front row punters brought me back into the room, as it were, so my head was on a little straighter for Liines’ onstage arrival at 7.30. A new iteration, with former Honeyblood touring bassist Anna replacing the departed Tamsin, they however seemed already well practiced in this new unit, attacking the set from the outset with the same glorious intensity and taut, wiry tension as before. Liines’ sound is replete with agitated yet insistent pin-pricking guitar lines, tough militaristic drumbeats and growling, Hooky-like bass, overlaid with a strident, commanding yelp of a vocal from Zoe. Wire or Comsat Angels fronted by Patti or Polly Jean, maybe, but more wide-reaching than that… “Find Something” featured some alarm-bell Joy Divisionesque guitar work from Zoe, “Always The Same” was a growling backbeat beast with a nagging, repetitive hook, and after a refreshment break (“we’re such beer hounds, aren’t we?” quipped Anna whilst Zoe guzzled) oldie “Cold” evoked an atmosphere of incipient tension, redolent of both those early 80’s “Two Tribes” Cold War days and the teetering tension of today’s Europe… “Shallow”’s skittering one note riffery wouldn’t have felt out of place on “Pink Flag”, and after a tremendous, stark “Never There” and thanks to us earlybirds for, “supporting the support,”, “These Days” ended another taciturn yet taut, tense and thrilling set from this seriously promising band.

 More chat with the front row boys to kill time, before the expansive Krautrock synth preamble of “Themes For Great Cities” kicked in and Desperate Journalist took the stage at 8.30, with bassist Simon right in front of me and seeming, Jim Gilbert-like, about nine feel tall onstage, and vocalist Jo Bevan, black-clad with cowgirl arm tassles swishing about, joining us last with an uncharacteristic nervous, almost coquettish wave and hushed, “hello…” Opener “Was It Worth It” quickly dispelled any nerves, though; Jo was “on it” immediately with an imperious and commanding vocal, and an early “Cristina” was also tremendous, getting me bopping as much as my knackered knee allows these days. A couple of oldies followed, namely “Hollow” (“for anyone with a Gothic persuasion”), all murky and gloomy before bursting into that strident chorus howl, and “Why Are You So Boring” (“who doesn’t love a bit of spiteful doggerel?!”). racey, sneery and deliciously snarky. Then the new material from last year’s “Maximum Sorrow!” CD once again took centre stage, with a pastoral, Smiths-like “The Victim”, a sinuous and meandering, Forbes-esque bass-riff powered “Everything You Wanted”, and “Poison Pen”, which featured an almost Mould-like squalling, discordant middle 8 overlaid by Jo aggressively shouting the odds, then a full-stop pregnant pause (I love those!).

 “Cedars” was, as ever, majestic, glorious and widescreen, but of course you know that already… suffice to say I’ve only got 2 things to say to anyone who questions the sheer stellar magnificence of this band; 1. Go listen to “Cedars”, and 2. Now shut up… The doom-laden funereal march of “Armageddon” finished the set but thankfully not the night, with the tender, touching “Be Kind” added to the hectic luge of “Control” and the soaring, joyous finale of “Satellite” for a triple-threat encore to die for, rounding off a quite brilliant set from a pretty faultless band, early but serious contenders for top “live” honours in 2022. Oh yes.

 A set-list too from a kind roadie, and a quick chat with the Liines line-up at the merch stand, hopefully clearing the air with Leila… I do hope so, I bloody love that band and would like to see them “live” over and over again! A delayed tube back to the motor and those bloody M4 roadworks however turned a 10pm venue departure into a bleary-eyed 12.30 home arrival. Yipe! So, roadworks, crappy venue with ignorant staff… a lot about tonight sucked, but 2 utterly stellar performances from Liines and Desperate Journalist saved the day. As DJ themselves ask, “Was It Worth It?” Absolutely!

 However, the footnote was the following morning, when I did my back in after grocery shopping, subsequently being referred to A&E and UTC at GWH the next day and being diagnosed with a muscular spasm due to a trapped nerve, and therefore missing the other 2 of the 4 in 4 (Echo And The Bunnymen on Sunday, and Bears In Trees on Monday – luckily my daughter still went to BIT, with mum instead!). Bollocks! Still I’m glad I spasmed after rather than before this one, at least…

1,210 WHITE LIES, Bristol Rough Trade Records, Friday 18th February 2022

 

Gigs are like buses… sometimes you wait ages for one (313 days recently of course; thanks a bundle, Covid…), sometimes 4 all come at once! And, kicking off a frankly insane schedule of 4 gigs in the next 4 days over this February weekend, is an in-store appearance by White Lies, promoting their impending 6^th album “As I Try Not To Fall Apart”. A little “on the nose” title-wise (I mean, aren’t we all just holding it together day by day in these fucked up times?), initial listens of a smattering of tracks posted on YouTube indicate that this promises to continue their 80’s-influenced musical evolution from dark, brooding Joy Division-esque post-punk/gothy types to shinier, poppier yet still cerebral synth-led Talk Talk/ Heaven 17 acolytes, whilst still retaining their collective ear for a killer hook and brain-hugging, repetitive melody. Logan and I had already booked tix for their March tour at Bristol O2 Academy, but an in-store at Brizzle’s Rough Trade, reasonably priced and with a free copy of the new CD thrown in? Oh, go on then…!

 Nearly a false start on this one, however, as it coincided with Storm Eunice, possibly the most violent storm event to hit the UK since the 1987 Hurricane… reports of uprooted trees and motorway closures kept us on tenterhooks throughout the day, but by mid-afternoon it showed signs of abating, and by departure time was thankfully little more than a stiff breeze as we headed down the M4, parking in Rupert Street NCP and hitting the Record Store before half 6. Nosed about in the racks (Logan picking up a rather lovely Heaven 17 pic disc single!) and had a drink in the café and an entertaining chat about which kind of animal Logan could beat in a fight (!), which passed the time until the doors opened for this little side-room venue just after 7 and we quickly grabbed a spot down the front, house right. A capacity of 200 for this room, I understand, so a rare opportunity to see White Lies, an Academy-level band for pretty much their entire existence, at seriously close quarters…

 

In relaxed mood too, as the band took the stage prompt at 7.30, the usual core 3-piece of “H Bomb” Harry McVeigh (see gig 1,013 for explanation!), Charles Cave and Jack Lawrence-Brown being augmented by keyboardist Tommy Bowen for this “Unplugged” low-key show. Brief greetings, then they eased into opener “There Goes Our Love Again”, an understated synth colourwash replacing the usual overt, upfront instrumentation, and Harry reining in his usual strident projective vocal style, “Great to see you’ve survived the storm!”, quipped the seated frontman before introducing newie “I Don’t Want To Go To Mars”, which even given the unplugged treatment tonight, is still an old school White Lies banger with a huge soaring chorus, and is a likely shoe-in for my “Best Of 2022” compo CD. Yeah, already!

 “Morning In LA” was next up, drummer Jack underlying the relaxed nature of the performance by kicking into the song whilst Harry was still introducing it! This slower burn track suited the semi-acoustic setting perfectly, Harry really cutting loose on the high “I’m still hanging on…” hook for the first time this evening as well. “Farewell To The Fairground” (“a favourite from the first album…”) really worked as well, as did the subsequent more yearning and plaintive “Is My Love Enough”, the boys cleverly picking and choosing songs from their impressive canon which would better withstand the stripped-back treatment. Charles later made a comment underlining this point (“I first heard Smashing Pumpkins on a DVD – no-one told me it was acoustic – it was shit!”), but the numbers they chose tonight simply revealed the innate quality of their songwriting.

 

A final “Bigger Than Us” – one which I didn’t think they would actually try, given the usual moody synth pulse and dramatically soaring chorus, but one which they reworked radically tonight, turning it into a deliciously morose half-paced elegy – concluded “a real pleasure”, according to Harry, a fine 40 minute vignette serving as an appetiser for the full-on band gig at the O2 next month. That wasn’t it, though, as the band happily met the punters and signed copies of the new CD and other paraphernalia. Me being me, I took a copy of an earlier gig book for them to sign their list from gig 806 (dating from 2011!) and the boys took time to glimpse through, Jack particularly pausing over a Psychedelic Furs list. Hmmm… A brief chat and pics with this affable bunch, also recalling our previous post-gig meet at Frome a couple of years back (gig 1,145), then back along a calmer M4 and home before 10 with late kebab tea. Splendid evening, appetite now well and truly whetted for next month…

1,209 GLASVEGAS, Plasticine, Bristol Thekla, Saturday 12th February 2022

 

Glasvegas… on a boat! Hmm, this sounds hauntingly familiar…

Eleven years ago, give or take a couple of weeks, we were at this very same venue with these selfsame hosts, although under different circumstances… then, we were gleefully anticipating being up front and personal with a stadium and festival headliner of the future, at a venue that would quickly become so laughingly tiny for them. However, for some reason the Glasvegas fire really didn’t catch, and, far from a career of multiple home runs to capitalise on their stunning 2008 debut, which arrived fully-formed, distilling the insouciant rock’n’roll cool of The Clash, Buddy Holly, The Jesus and Mary Chain and even the likes of Elvis and Johnny Cash into a mournful yet thrilling whole, they’ve rather been left at first base… Maybe that old adage is true; you only play The Thekla twice, once on your way up, and once on your way down… They have however spent the intervening years crafting a body of work which, whilst lacking the majesty or even consistency of that debut, is still worth anyone’s ears, whilst also retaining the capacity for superb “live” sets, as evidenced with last November’s “Shiiine On” Sunday mainstage stunner. So, what are we anticipating tonight? I dunno… how about just a fucking great show from a fucking great “live” band? That’ll do…

 Rachel and I cleared off down the M4 in mizzly drizzle, picking our way through Bristol’s underbelly and grabbing the last parking space outside the Thekla before hitting the venue bar early doors. Openers Plasticene were on at 7.30; a 4-piece led by a tiny blonde vocalist/ guitarist almost wearing an even tinier and clearly utterly impractical lime dress, which she immediately drew attention to (“tits are nearly falling out already – that’d be a real show!”) whilst hoiking up or down whichever end of said dress was misbehaving at the time. A shame, as this seemed to detract from their dated and often clumsy but listenable Pixies/ Veruca Salt riff-heavy grungy numbers, with the occasional amphetamine punk stomper such as “STD” (“don’t worry, I’ve never had one… [they’re] quite catchy though…”) thrown in for good measure, so much so that a number of bloke punters were not even bothering to hide the fact they were filming her, head downwards… Their final, tempo-changing, number “Mistake” (as in, that dress is a…) was the best of a decent set.

 A lot of Elvis on the PA as the place filled up (not an advance sell-out, this, but I reckon close to it on the night), and we took a spot house left, a couple of rows back; then “Somewhere Over The Rainbow” heralded the entrance of Glasvegas at 8.30, the shimmering and mournful guitar and cascading drums of opener “Dive” setting the dry-ice swathed scene perfectly. Dark, brooding and gloaming; if ever they need volunteers to write a musical for “Macbeth”, James Allan co. should have their hands up first…

 “Thank you thank you thank you so much for coming out to see the band,” Allan intoned sincerely, before a quite stunning and majestic reading of “The World Is Yours”, the jagged verse opening into an immense, Scott Walker-esque chorus of seething power and majesty… and this was just the third number! The siren call of “Geraldine” was the first singalong of the night, really getting the joint jumping, before Allan toyed with his own mortality (“there’s a puddle of beer next to this socket [on the stage]… what a way to go, out in a blaze of glory!”) before leading the band into the impressively militaristic drum-dominated “Shake The Cage”, new drummer Chris standing upright and pounding the shit out of the snare, as per his predecessors. The elegiac cathedral organ intro of “Ice Cream Van”, overlaid with a superb vocal from the heavily accented Allan, led to a huge crescendo, and “Secret Truth” was windswept and widescreen, a soaring stadium filler in another, saner world. But the best was saved for the end of the set; the rollicking terrace chant of “Go Square Go” saw the band cut the music for the bouncing moshpit to sing back the, “here we fucking go!” hook before a thunderous finale, then “Daddy’s Gone”, for me the high watermark in their catalogue, heart-breaking and wondrously joyful in equal measure, and again sung along with gusto.

 “You never get used to this [people singing along]… it’s always, what the fuck!” announced an appreciative Allan before a 3-song encore, the circular hook of “Lots Sometimes” ultimately launching into full-on punk rock wall of noise assault, then finale “Cheating Heart” swayalong and immense. Superb. A mixing desk set-list on the way out, then home in the same mizzly drizzle and home well before 11. Yup, this was, as hoped, a fucking great show from a fucking great “live” band. And from Glasvegas, that’ll more than do!

1,207 CHAMELEONS, The Membranes, Bristol Fleece, Wednesday 2nd February 2022

 

My Chameleons odyssey continues, as I again cross swords with this 80’s post-punk band, whom I never fully “discovered” until my 2016 redundancy freed up some time (and slush cash!) to revisit some older bands who’d passed me by back in the day. This, my 7^th time of asking (indicative not only of my desire to make up for lost time, but of bandleader Mark Burgess’ appetite for “live” performing!), was not only a Covid-affected much-postponed affair (originally scheduled for Autumn 2020!) but also a “35^th Anniversary” run-through of their sophomore 1985 release, “What Does Anything Mean, Basically?”. The one of their 3 seminal 80’s albums that had arguably made least impression on me, and the one I’d yet to see played “live”, so I was well up for rectifying both of these points as well, now this gig can finally go ahead!

 A swift motor down the M4 and a parking space with my name on it (!) around the corner saw me lurking outside just before doors and getting in – and swiftly getting merch bought and back to the car! – early. Grabbed a front spot and chatted with a couple of fellow punters of similar vintage beforehand and between sets – it’s true; if you like the same bands, you’re soon friends! The Membranes were on at 8 – a band also of similar vintage to the headliners, but one that had pretty much completely escaped my radar until now. My mistake. Leader and legendary indie figure John Robb, whom I know mostly from his excellent and sadly missed “Louder Than War” publication, cut an imposing presence onstage, wild eyed like Wilko, pacing around purposefully like Bob Mould, and wielding his bass like a Kalashnikov, firing off Hooky-like bass riffs underpinning The Membranes dark, dramatic post-punk material. A voluble performer too – after thunderous Joy Division-esque opener “Universe” he inquired ironically, “have you been having fun in the last two years? We were in Manchester – double lockdowns!”, later quipping, “we’re the post-punk version of omicron – a hideous disease!” and throwing some pointed social commentary our way prior to the splendidly savage terrace chant chorus of “Snow Monkey” (“the posh monkeys get to go in the swimming pool and the rest throw snowballs at them – that’s a sociological dissection of UK politics [right there]!”). Quite Chameleonic musically, with the early primal stomper “Supernova” channelling early Clash and “Grave” recalling “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” with some potent dub goth rhythm, The Membranes, like their headliners a few years back, made me regret not checking them out before, a mistake I fully intend to rectify. Robb, fittingly, exhorted us to, “live in the moment,” before a slow launch into a driving Joy Division-esque closer “Myths And Legends”, equally fitting as The Membranes were an unknown pleasure – for me at least!

 After that splendid opening set, the place (a sell-out tonight!) got appreciably busier but still eminently habitable down the front as Mark Burgess led the 5-piece Chameleons onstage, happily augmented by original guitarist Reg Smithies. “Draw a veil between yourself and the world that smothers you – play on! Said the referee…” Burgess announced, tongue in cheek, over instrumental opener “Silence, Sea and Sky” before easing into opener “Perfumed Garden”, commencing the “WDAM? B” run-through in order. Less widescreen and immediate for me than its 2 companion pieces, and relying more on mood, atmosphere and (occasionally) almost old school punk rock attitude, this material was nonetheless splendidly delivered tonight, Chameleons’ trick of almost slowing up the delivery “live” in comparison to the studio recordings giving the songs both added nuances and space to breathe. “Intrigue In Tangiers” featured some almost Bowie-like vocal inflections from the great man in its’ denouement; “Roughnecks” by contrast was a snarling vocal delivery over an undulating Bunnymen “Do It Clean” bass riff, and “Singing Rule Britannia” a savage yet epic attack, preceded by a prescient word from Burgess – “stop making [these songs] relevant so I can stop singing them!”. This prompted a “Boris is a wanker!” catcall from a fellow punter, Burgess firing back, “that’s the truest thing we’ll hear all night!”

 The “Shine On” ringing siren blare of “Looking Inwardly” was my album highlight, although the plaintive and haunting crescendo of an extended “PS Goodbye” (a track I’ve never much cared for on record) surprisingly ran it close, Then, after the 2 “bonus CD tracks” of a rollicking, punky “In Shreds” and a singalong “Nostalgia”, a poignant moment; a fan had posted on the facebook site that he’d attended his best mate’s funeral that day but was at tonight’s gig to honour his memory, and the band dedicated an unplanned “View From A Hill” to him, which was stark, emotive, heart-breaking and just beautiful on so many levels, and a fitting end to the set as the band left the stage afterwards, But wait, there’s more…

 Following calls for an encore, Mark took the stage again, declaring that, “the [mixing] desk is broke!” (hence a rather harsh feedback sound during “View…”) which seemingly truncated the gig somewhat. However, following debate with the crowd and band, and in the true punk rock spirit of community and solidarity, they soldiered on, the roadie turning the onstage monitors upright and facing outwards, and the band delivering quite brilliant and blistering versions of a wonderfully meandering “Swamp Thing” and the astonishingly widescreen and joyous “Second Skin”, roared and sung along to the rafters by this appreciative crowd. The most appropriate way to end a night which had started off as a very fine Chameleons gig, but had turned into a communal and inclusive gathering of folk, and a celebration of live music at its finest.

 Grabbed my breath and equilibrium, a set-list thanks to a friendly roadie (yay!) and a word or three with John Robb at the merch stand, thanking him for “Louder Than War” and giving him a card for my blog. Hope you’re checking it out, Mr. Robb, good sir… A roadworks-affected yet swift drive home got me back for midnight after another stunning step on my Chameleons odyssey. This one 18 months in the waiting, but well worth the wait. We are all Chameleons!