What do you read, my lord?

A work in progress.

2006-05-31T12:05:00.000+10:00

Hey there everyone.

Just to fill you in on what's happening here - excuse me while I step around these sawhorses and the big hole in the floor - I thought I'd post a brief something.

You see, this place is in the process of being populated with content. I'm in the progress of retrieving all my online reviews so that they can be gathered together in one place. They'll be added with dates mapping to when they were written, which explains why you're seeing a lot of 2004 stuff at present.

There will be new reviews going up, as well - it just takes a bit of time.

Other than that, enjoy! Please feel free to leave comments on the writing to let me know your thoughts.

Cheers!

Gentle Ben And His Sensitive Side - The Sober Light Of Day

2005-10-20T10:45:00.000+10:00

The Queensland band with more soul than most return with a second album that makes good on the promises made in their debut. Don your dinner jacket, and enter the seamy world of the Sensitive Side.

When Gentle Ben and His Sensitive Side’s first album, The Beginning Of The End was released, it heralded the arrival something truly different on the Australian scene. Sure, people knew that the singer from the legendary SixFtHick, and understood that there’d be some level of theatrical oddness involved, but few expected the level of observational cabaret that the band would bring to the scene. Their first disc unveiled the group’s penchant for exploring the sorts of tunes usually relegated to late-night AM country radio, to lost broadcasts, and marked them as a group with bucket loads of potential.

Happily, their second release has proven that the glowing reviews weren’t bullshit: the band is back, leaner and more suave than ever. There’s growth on this disc, and it’s aided the Sensitive Side’s whip-smart tunes no end.

The last year has been hard on the band’s touring schedule. They’ve spent most of the time – save for the odd excursion into the limelight – sequestered away, working on songs for the new album. Compared to 2004 (when the band shared stages with Rocket Science, Calexico and The Handsome Family, amongst others) 2005 has been very quiet for the quartet, spending chunks of time in Melbourne’s Atlantis Studio, under the sound guidance of producer Loki Lockwood. And while it was created in time away from the stage, it’s obvious that the band’s rigorous touring schedule has impacted on the performances on The Sober Light Of Day. Tracks from their debut (such as I Don’t Think She Loves Me and I Can’t Hurt You) hinted at the sort of explosive stop-start power that the band could corral. It’s that power – the acknowledgement of the role of tension in the tunes – that’s been honed mightily since the last release. The first album sounded like a band finding its feet, while this one is a record of a band that’s rehearsed so rigorously that they’re perfectly in sync – something that’s vital if you’re in a musical concern that, in a live setting, must follow the whims of a theatrically-inclined front man. There’s a sense, much more than before, that the Sensitive Side are not only comfortable with the idea of exploring the tunes, but that they’re relishing it.

There’s a distinct sense of play through the album, of experimentation within some particularly-defined areas. This is perhaps most obvious in the album’s longest track, Summertime, a tune of a singer’s loss, which takes wordless lamentation to extended lengths. At the other extreme, songs like Punishment and lead single The Dogs of Valparaiso show that the quick-change dynamic of the band’s been refined, and that the big beat’s been embraced wholeheartedly, and embellished with flick-knives.

The Sober Light Of Day is an album that sounds, lyrically, like it’s come from England. That’s not to say that the subject matter isn’t Australian – not at all. Rather, it seems that Ben Corbett’s lyrics are of a style that echoes Tindersticks, Morrissey or Pulp’s Jarvis Cocker. The examination of life that’s written here is particularly kitchen-sink, in a warts-and-all manner that’s at once confession and parody. The focus here is on the seamy side of life, of extremity, of the nastiness that surfaces when the fun’s over and the velvet curtains have been drawn. It’s easy to laugh some of it off, but the disconcerting note that the songs strike – and there’s more than a few across this disc – linger on. It’s something that overseas bands seem to be a little more au fait with than locals, so it’s good to see a local act embracing that sense of lopsidedness.

The thing that appeals most about this album is the fact that the music is ostensibly chipper, happy music. It’s accomplished, with a certain amount of sultriness. But it’s this confection that makes the sting of the lyrical content that much more pronounced. It’s something that’s got a long history in music, and the nearest touchstone (aside from Pulp, or Morrissey, that is) is something like The Ronettes' Be My Baby. Elements of Phil Spector’s production style appear on the album – spacious sounding songs, moments where guitars ramp into walls, backing vocals that seem ripped from the past – but what appears more noticeably is the mixture of a pleading, hopeless, diminished-strength vocal linked with sugary pop music. It worked for The Ronettes, and it’s working for Gentle Ben; perhaps more effectively, as the disc’s exploration of male characters in periods of breakdown, or in the titular sober light of day, seems at once somehow more pathetic, and more intriguing. The puppy dog-eyed, over-eager offers of love are present here, as they were in the Ronettes’ day, but they’re tempered with the barely-constrained (if at all) violence of the flawed male.

It makes for a breathtaking examination of men at extremity. And as such, it puts a lot of attention on the band’s singer. Thankfully, Ben Corbett’s performative streak is broad enough to make the feelings ring true, rather than come across as some kind of overplayed cabaret role. The band behind him – guitarist Dylan McCormack, bassist Trevor Ludlow and drummer Nick Naughton – are up to the job of supporting such an endeavour. The two elements – band and singer – are obviously more enmeshed here than they were on their last outing, as the arrangements in the tunes are a lot more complex, with a South American strain making itself felt a little more forcefully than before. There’s a sharpened sense of clarity on display here, leaving the listener in no doubt that this is a formidable group, working at full strength.

The Song Of Drowning Men sets the scene for the rest of the album. Opening with insistent drums and a sort of Cramps/spy movie crossover riff, the story of social failure kicks proceedings off with a defiantly sexy hip-shake. The song also highlights the fact that the imagery in Corbett’s lyrics is much more pronounced on this release. The spin-cycle deaths of men attempting to measure up socially, stifled by music and perfume, are painted in fine detail from the outset:

There’s an ocean on the dance floor
And it’s full of drowning men
Clutching at fistfuls of torn skirts
And this song is washing over them.

It also, importantly, sets up the band as something close to a house band for tragedy. Gentle Ben is someone observing these dissolute characters, someone close to the action but not part of it. Yet, later in the disc, first person narrative comes to the fore. The line between participant and voyeur is blurred, and this sort of occlusion – carried on in lyrics which often only obliquely hint at what’s going on, such as the possible new start (or burial) implied in Filling In The Ditch – is key to what the band’s trying to do. It forces you to listen harder; to ascertain whether the buoyancy of the music or the dark velvet of the lyrics carry the true meaning of the song. It creates an internal tension that’s crucial to the band’s sound.

The First Song Of The Last Day Of The Rest Of Your Life follows, and it’s sort of like an amphetamine-fuelled version of Pulp’s Bar Italia, albeit a version containing both psychedelic offshoots and Elvis Costello-speedy panache. It is, essentially, a reminder of the Oscar Wilde truism about being in the gutter and looking at the stars – except for the fact that in this world, we’re in the gutter and looking at an evening’s worth of beer, and that that realisation is set to a beat that you can’t help but dance to.

The aforementioned Morrissey similarity comes into play with Help Me Make It Down The Street, one of the album’s most appealing songs. It could be something as simple as the fact that Morrissey does have something of a Spector-production fetish, but it seems that the guitar lines from this tune, layered over a bruiser’s warning of just what love for him will entail, could’ve come from what’s undeniably that artist’s bittersweet epic Vauxhall & I. Except here, the rough trade is real, immediate and threatening:

And if any man looks sideways
Or perchance makes a remark
It’s gonna get very dark…

Of course, all the machismo here means nothing; for while the narrator’s a thug, he can’t make it through alone:

Darling, give me hope
Take off your heels and hold me up
My split lip drips kisses inarticulate

So when I cannot speak and
Cannot find my feet
Help me make it down…

Oh, on some enchanted eve
Help me make it down the street

The guitar solo of the tune – which also reminds the listener of the Pixies’ Where Is My Mind? – adds a sort of sugary blast to what’s essential a tune about a brawling bastard. Moments where guitar and bass combine in a climbing riff, and the minor-key lead-in to the chorus work together to sucker-punch the listener into feeling for the reprobate that’s sung about. It’s confronting, because the last thing you expect to feel that Northern Soul sappiness about is someone who’s ostensibly a drunk with a hair-trigger, but it works so well that you can’t help but feel some kind of sympathy. It’s moving, stunningly so.

Carpark is another tune that takes violence as a key concern. Beginning with one of the most immediately descriptive verses I’ve heard in a while,

Cut adrift in whiskey mist
Then you sailed by, like the Mary Celeste
Slicing up the parquetry
In a drunken slow-dance
With his hand up your skirt
And your hand down his pants

the song continues an examination of a jilted lover, a fool. Sparse instruments – bass, acoustic guitar and cannily-placed organ – underscore the abandonment the speaker feels. But, true to form, the shadow of weakness overcome with violent intent makes an appearance, with a chilling prediction of how the evening’s embarrassment will end:

This is not the place
For me to stand and fight
‘Cause wallflowers wilt
Under dance floor lights

But I will show you
And I will prove to you
Who loves you more
With a true heart
And a sock full of pool balls.

Sounds in poor taste? Strangely, it’s not. It’s an examination of a character that most of us would recognise, either from keeping eyes open after a long night on the piss, or from personal experience. But it’s someone who isn’t usually given a chance to talk, someone whose viewpoint isn’t explored in rock. Not usually. That’s where Gentle Ben and His Sensitive Side shine – giving voice to people who we’d rather not hear from, and proving that their stories can be poignant and affecting, even while they remain morally reprehensible.

Similarly, the S&M messages of Punishment – a song which rides on a palm-muted guitar line, before flowering into a wonderful, sparkling guitar riff, replete with angelic backing chorus – explore the mindset of a controlling person, who could as easily be God as the singer himself. Lines that speak of whipping, of entrapment and duplicity are used to explore seaminess in a non-seamy musical setting, and it’s intriguing.

Elsewhere, The Shimmering Hand looks at a narrator that’s

Firm but fairly unconcerned
With right or wrong

before moving onto the sort of nameless horrors that he’s carried out in the name of The Shimmering Hand. Is it a crime cabal, a bunch of religious zealots, or something more sinister? It’s never adequately explained, and while the Eastern tinges to the tune carry their own suggestions, it’s refreshing to hear something that lets you draw your own conclusions, rather than stating the case plainly. It signifies bravery on behalf of the band, at least, to firstly believe that the tunes are strong enough to tell their own open-ended stories, and secondly, to let them do exactly that.

The song that underscores the band’s security in their sound is Execution Day, a cover of the Beasts of Bourbon tune. In the hands of the Sensitive Side, it’s turned from a dirty, gritty rock song into something completely different. Martinis wait in the background. We’re at some kind of Caribbean resort, at a spy convention, on a tropical island. There are low-key machinations afoot, with vocals remaining smooth until the inevitable eruption of passion – which subsides as quickly as it came. It’s more threatening than the original, perhaps because of the restraint that’s on display: like a mask hiding what’s underneath, this version of the song conveys real feelings of tension, of uncertainty, and they’re communicated beautifully through McCormack’s guitar-playing.

The album ends with an off-the-cuff tune, Plaza De Armas. Written in the studio, the tale of a new life through drug trafficking provides the perfect early-morning stumbling-out tune to close the album. It brings a feeling of ambivalence with it, that’s a perfect palate-cleanser from preceding tune Summertime’s focused despair. There’s a feeling of hope, of new beginnings, but they’re entwined with the feeling that what’s just transpired has fucked things up irrevocably. It links with the downbeat ending of the band’s debut, and brings the song cycle nicely to an end, leaving uncertainty and a certain dose of regret, of faded glamour that’s hard to resist.

The artwork of this release: queasy greens and collapsed bodies – fits the tone of the album well. But the key component, I feel, is the inlay photograph: in it, a sweat-slicked Corbett stands onstage, limp, looking off into the distance, engrossed in his song and the thoughts they bring. The faraway look in the eyes turns songs into recollections, rather than creations, and lends the endeavour the feeling of honesty that’s crucial to its success.

Gentle Ben and His Sensitive Side are back. They’ve returned in a form so suave, so sinuous that it’s doubtful that their equal exists in their country. There’s keen-eyed observation here that’s quite rare, and quite searching. You’re never sure if it’s a gigantic pisstake, or the most plain-speaking album you’ve ever heard, but one thing’s for sure: The Sober Light Of Day is much, much closer to the electric windmilling sweatbox that is Gentle Ben live. This is an album that crackles with energy, and demands to be heard. Or else.

Lock up your mothers, and give fulsome praise that Gentle Ben and His Sensitive Side exists. After all, someone in this country’s got to take care of the dirty work. And it sure as hell ain’t gonna be any of those ‘70s revivalist groups, is it? Sometimes, only a silver-tongued, swivel-hipped bruiser and his crew of reprobates are the only men for the job. Invite them in, but watch out for the sock full of pool balls. The world awaits, Ben, so sally forth and break its heart.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

The Proposition (John Hillcoat, director)

2005-10-10T23:27:00.000+10:00

Perhaps this year's most anticipated Australian film, The Proposition tells a story set in the 1880s, but which resonates with the present, too.

There have been few Australian films as hotly anticipated as The Proposition. The combination of director John Hillcoat and screenwriter Nick Cave (who have created film clips together, and were previously teamed on the thoroughly disturbing Ghosts… Of The Civil Dead) and a cast including Guy Pearce, Ray Winstone, John Hurt and David Wenham served to create quite an appetite. The good news is that the expectations created by such a gathering of talents are surpassed with this film. It’s a truculent, smouldering piece that, while managing to have a core story that’s straight out of a western, manages to address issues which still dog Australia today.

The film’s opening scene – a moment’s pleasure torn apart in a hail of bullets – certainly hooks the viewer. It’s certainly the most dynamic, action-filled scene in the movie, and it’s here that the proposition of the title is made. Local lawman Captain Stanley (Ray Winstone) presents Charlie Burns (Guy Pearce), an Irishman of questionable morality and criminality, with a deal: in order to save his younger brother Mikey (Richard Wilson) from the gallows, he must hunt down his psychotic older brother, Arthur (Danny Huston) and kill him.

It’s an easy enough deal, and one that Charlie seems to accept – except there’s flies in the ointment. Stanley’s deal is threatened by local landowner Eden Fletcher (David Wenham), as well as increasing pressures to capture troublemaking Aborigines, while Charlie’s mission is made more difficult by the appearance of a bounty hunter. From here on in, the story turns from what in other hands might’ve solely been a relentless hunting-down, into a meditation on family and the responsibilities it’s owed, both on the side of the law and the lawless.

The performances in the film are universally good, with some cast members being truly outstanding. Guy Pearce is, as expected, fine as the brother who must kill one of his siblings to save another – all unwashed, lank hair and rapid blinking. Danny Huston occasionally channels Billy Connolly – it could be the bushy hair and the wild-eyed, trickster demeanour – while elsewhere Leah Purcell and David Gulpilil provide some particularly subtle characters. The shittalking townsfolk – particularly the troopers who undermine Stanley when he’s not around – are a guilty pleasure, too.

The performance that really intrigues, however, is Ray Winstone’s Captain Stanley. It’s easily the best role of his career thus far, and though he is the instigator of the proposition that ultimately brings unhappiness to a number of the film’s characters, it’s very difficult to dislike him. Stanley’s interactions with his wife, Martha (Emily Watson) are always protective, though often wildly divergent in character. He’s a man adrift, lost in a world that he knows he must tame but is almost certain he cannot. The comments on colonialism, on identity, on power and on the idea of keeping up appearances that’re contained in Stanley’s character are manifold, though Winstone is careful enough not to turn his musings into proclamations. It’s a beautiful performance of a man who’s slowly disintegrating, who’s unable to fit where he’s put, and the emotion felt for the character at some junctures in the film is surprising and real.

Both Winstone and Pearce’s characters have a single-mindedness that puts the viewer very much in mind of the works of Patrick White; Voss in particular. The same sort of focus that that book’s titular character is given, the almost Christlike sense of being driven along a path that leads to unpleasantness or destruction is very much present in the two actors’ characters, and it’s a credit to them that they’re able to present it without losing credibility.

If there’s a downside to the performances in the film, it’s in the fact that David Wenham – while playing his role well – doesn’t really get the chance to perform to the degree that projects such as The Boys have shown he’s capable of. His Eden Fletcher remains something of a cipher throughout the film, which, while it makes the power he holds seem vaguely ominous, it also can make him appear a little two-dimensional. There’s more to him than starched collars, hair-oil and sadism, but sometimes it’s difficult to see it. A different disappointment comes in the form of John Hurt’s Jellon Lamb. He’s a wonderfully meaty character, though it seems that his role in the film – other than to highlight the quick-change nature of the surrounds – is somewhat undernourished.

Hillcoat’s direction contains a pretty meditative streak, something that’s certainly aided by the locale in which he’s shooting. The long, penetrating shots of the outside of the prison facility that gave Ghosts… Of The Civil Dead its oppressive feel return in The Proposition, but here, they’re focused on natural features, not man-made constructions. But the menace that many of these views hold is the same: we’re dealing with a landscape that’s no less dangerous than prison. In many ways, it’s more dangerous, because in this film, the power and malevolence that’s exhibited seems to come from the idea of nature asserting itself, of nature being given free reign. Indeed, in some shots, where the eldest, psychotic brother howls at the sky like a dingo, the feeling of channelled strength, of nature-invoked nastiness is very difficult to shake off.

There’s been much made about the use of violence in The Proposition, and many have suggested that it’s the case that Cave has been indulging his penchant for a bit of bloodletting, out of all step with the narrative. But from my viewing, I must say that this is a wholly inaccurate criticism of what occurs. The film is violent. This violence, however, is a reflection of both the landscape and the people upon it. There are scenes of incredible violence, but they are never gratuitous, except in one instance – but the abundance of gore in that particular scene is used to illustrate the fundamental lack of understanding of human limitations by one of the film’s major characters (Wenham’s landowner). Not only is this an instance of violence being used for character development – not shock – but it’s also something that’s commented upon by the small town’s chorus of locals. At the junction I’m referring to – and it’s pretty plain in the movie which it is – even the hardest, meanest frontier survivors blanch at what’s been dished out. There’s palpable disgust and dismay. (That, of course, is without getting into the evocations of Christ that the scene is filled with.)

Where Cave’s musical and filmic portrayals of violence differ is that here, there’s no nudge-nudge, Murder Ballads tongue-in-cheek feeling to take the edge off. You get the feeling, more than in any of his other work, that this is For Real. (Of course, this is perhaps criminally underplaying Hillcoat’s contributions, but given that the script dictates how things proceed onscreen, I believe it’s apt.)

The fundamental problem I see with accusations of wilful violence in the film is that it negates something that’s fundamentally true about the era that’s depicted: it was a time of violence. It was the time of the bushranger, the time of. Aboriginal denegration and destruction. The time for figures of authority who openly resorted to violence to contain locals who were often only a short step away from convicts. There’s a tendency to want to portray all people living at the point where civilization and the unknown hit each other as being somehow all upstanding: all goodly folk, free of disease, despair, and the smell of shit. It’s true, there’s a new century just around the corner from when this film’s set – but the action here happens away from the bright lights and big cities. It occurs in the moral miasma of the rural, a place where the strength of the residents was the difference between survival and failure, and it strikes me that it’d be a failure on the part of the filmmakers if they caved – no pun intended – on this particular point of realism.

The violence in the film isn’t such that it should stop anyone watching, but it is explicit, and in context, supports the story. Hillcoat’s style of direction seems to be set against the idea of showing anything that doesn’t contribute to the advancement of the story – this is a lean film, in many ways – and so it would be a bit of a fool’s errand to stuff in some bloodlust simply for the sake of it.

As you’d expect, the score – a joint effort between Cave and fellow Bad Seed (and Dirty Three main man) Warren Ellis – has a distinctly wire-and-wind quality to it that befits the action. There’s a distinct feeling of development as the film progresses, and the music’s underplayed in a way that allows the action onscreen – and not the names behind the tunes – to take your attention. It provides feeling by stealth, in an almost unobtrusive way, something that’s lost on many soundtrack composers today. There’s moments of heightened tension, usually ushered in by sinuous violin lines, but by and large it’s the subtlety of the soundtrack that really scores points for the film.

The Proposition is a film that’s as solidly satisfying as a novel, yet as shocking (in places) as a slasher flick. It’s not a stock-standard western, but neither is it the sepia-toned morass of self-congratulation that many films on early Australia are. It’s different, and it’s important, and it’s the sort of film that you hope would get a lot of attention overseas, if only to show that there’s more to us than Strictly Ballroom or Priscilla.

It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that this film speaks to Australians more fulsomely about the harshness of their country’s earlier times than scores of films before it. It’s brutal, bloody, brotherly love wrapped in the thin tissue of societal boundaries, and it gives the audience no chance to look away, no chance to catch their breath. Like the place in which it is set, the film is both beautiful and unforgiving, both vital and dead. It is a joy to watch, a terror to behold, and, quite simply, one of the finest Australian films ever made. See it.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

Mikelangelo And The Black Sea Gentlemen - Journey Through The Land Of Shadows

2005-06-03T15:44:00.000+10:00

Mikelangelo And The Black Sea Gentlemen unveil their second album, an immersive disc that sounds like a musical antique store, run by a loquacious gypsy sailor.

Since forming in 2000, Mikelangelo And The Black Sea Gentlemen have been gathering accolades for their superlative, part fairy-tale, part cabaret, part cautionary huckstering live performance. Playing a number of festivals worldwide – including the Edinburgh Fringe Festival – they’ve honed their approach and reeled in punters with an ear for the more curiously strait-laced (in a completely Victorian, bodices-and-waistcoats kind of way) side of the gypsy-folk spectrum. And with this, their second independently-produced album, they’ve finally managed to capture the stage magic that has made them famous.

Journey Through The Land Of Shadows is the sort of album that begs to be sold with a monocle. Images of mustachio’d brutes and astrakhan caps play through the mind upon hearing the band’s songs. It’s evocative and emotive, and is relentlessly not of our time. That’s its thematic appeal – it’s so foreign, so bizarre that it immerses completely.

Musically, there’s a lot to link the band with Tom Waits, perhaps the most obvious exponent of the good that tacking a bit of weirdness into your music can do. More specifically, the music on disc would fit into The Black Rider, the Waits album that accompanied a stage collaboration of the same name. Particularly, Clarinet Interlude and The Eye Of The Storm, small instrumental interludes, are particularly close to Waits’ incidental music. Elsewhere, the brilliantly percussive The Wandering Song owes a spiritual debt to Raindogs’ Singapore – all foot stamps and piratical la la-la-la la backing vocals, and a surprisingly familiar bass riff.

So I wandered to a place sometime long ago I knew
A place that we all know but only tell a precious few
Moored upon its shores a ship, on its deck the crew
Their faces are familiar - their eyes are glazed with glue
I wonder where this ship would go, if I shot the crew?

(At which point, three taps on a snare echo shots. Simple, percussive narration.)

Of course, this should not be taken as inferring that the band is a rip-off. They’re writing in that same big-hearted gypsy-folk vein as Waits, to the point that this album’s This Broken Dream is a song so gorgeous that it demands a cover by the gruff vocalist. With its melancholy, entwining melodies, it’s a distressingly beautiful, setting-sun-through-Venetians moment that it’s hard to not get swept up in.

The shackles of this life
Have left me hiding in the dark
Like some mangy beast.
The torture of this life
Has left me cowering
Like some poor beaten child.
Still, I hope
Still, I believe
There is a way
Out of this broken dream.

Truly, a grand weeper, very much in the vein of Waits’ writing on Alice.

The UK band The Tiger Lillies might be a better reference-point for the band. That group’s use of Victoriana and highly theatrical presentation is pretty close to what it is I think that Mikelangelo and his Gentlemen are attempting to do. There’s no sense of the creators here as ordinary blokes – they’re all either vagabonds or scoundrels, or great lovers. Their group functions on the suspension of disbelief, on the injection of some forgotten – though not outmoded – magic into music. Songs of horrible travails, of sea journeys, of the Devil stalking the streets are their stock-in-trade, and to pull them of effectively, they demand that you take them as they present themselves: eccentrics, cads, and ultimately heart-on-sleeve men of genteel distinction. It’s a bold move, and one that few bands can manage without sounding like rip-offs. But by God, these guys have done it.

For the album, the four core band members – baritone vocalist Mikelangelo, clarinettist The Great Muldavio, violinist Rufino The Catalan Casanova and Baron Von Babyface, the fearsome contrabassman – are joined by a number of different musos, including those on musical saw, piano accordion and trumpet. Elsewhere, an orchestra turns up – backing the wondrously over-the-top Rufino on Thing Will Never Be The Same, a tune Maurice Chevalier would kill for. All the while, the standard musical weapons of the band – accordion, piano, glockenspiel, tin whistle, jaw harp, mandolin and the like – create a soundscape that sounds particularly Eastern European, albeit one that’s been captured on a wax cylinder, a sort of musical time-capsule.

A range of musical styles are touched upon throughout the album. There’s an almost-gospel vocalise in The Dead Men Rise At Dawn, while El Diablo smoulders on in a style that’s at once Latino, smooth jazz, and experimental sawing. A Formidable Marinade is straight klezmer sneakiness, while Figueras (with guest vocalist Anushka, The Russian Princess – who sounds for all the world like the Emcee from Cabaret) offers shades of sleepy Spain. There are stompers, weepers and sing-along tunes, and it really serves to add a sense of propulsion to the proceedings. In addition, almost every song features a Gentlemen’s chorus. Seriously, there’s more homage to the art of the barbershop quartet going on here than I’ve heard in a while, and there’s nothing more effective in communicating either upstanding goodness or bastardly dastardliness. Every “bom” and “la” is thankfully free of any sense of tongue-in-cheek irony, and as such renders such vocalisations delightful.

The album is structured in two acts, underscoring the theatrical nature of the excursion. It’s certainly easy to pick which is the more perverse side, as the tone darkens considerably from The Eye Of The Storm until its conclusion. El Diablo slinks on with its tale of faceless devils, of lungs filled with sand, of creeping death, but of particular note is The Carnival Goes On All The Same. It starts lugubriously:

Life was mild and it was meek.
When it was not as sour as kraut
It was sweet.
Things rolled on and turned on and churned on
Like the wheels of some old ice-cream machine.
We never noticed what was approaching.
We were to numb to see that our eggs were a-poaching.

before really heating up. The song goes on to mention some kind of spiritual mistral, a malaise blowing through life with the sound of a lark that has fallen one too many times from its tree. By the time the eight-minute tune comes to its end, there’s a Zorba-style maelstrom in progress, with lyrics that testify to the continuing nature of the carnival of life. (Hairy-chinned wives are mentioned, and larks sing prodigiously throughout.)

The tune on the album that perhaps captures best what the band’s on about, though, is A Formidable Marinade. Opening with its tale of creepy enchantment in a Turkish bath, the song progresses to a murderous close – but not without invoking one of the most memorable choruses ever:

Sodomy is not just for animals
Human flesh is not just for cannibals
I’ll feast on your body if you feast on mine
Blood is thicker and redder than wine
Lay ourselves out upon the table
Ravish each other ‘til we’re no longer able
When juices mix in the heat of the fray
It will make a formidable… marinade.

Clarinets sinuously slide through the tune and Bernard Herrman-like violin slashes punctuate while Mikelangelo’s strikingly deep, affecting voice tells of a lust taken to unnatural extremes. By which I mean a desire taken to the point of spit-roasting your lover and climbing inside to be close and to dream. The most important vision he sees there? Men who live on only remorse, a line emphasised so effectively by the manly chorus of the rest of the Gentlemen, who end this klezmer-themed tune with the most stentorian, brilliant round of la-la-ing you’ll hear this year. It’s thoroughly addictive, possibly because there’s pretty much nobody else pulling off this kind of thing with such balls… and such aplomb.

Throughout the length of the album, there’s a couple of little vocal tales from two guys billed only as Laslo and Josef. They tell stories of duck calls, of escapes, of travel and general arsing about, in deepest, deepest accents. Their anecdotes form a sort of vocal signpost for the listener, and lead nicely into The Great Muldavio, a dockside spoken word track in which the group’s clarinettist speaks of his history thus;

“How comes a man by a name?” you ask, with a curiosity shallow
You wish for a simple anecdote – a trifle
An entertainment for you and your fellows.
Very well.

It’s a nice interlude, and is perhaps the most obvious reference to the stage life of the group. Of course, Laslo or Josef end the disc, talking about playing music with combs, the pianoforte, Good Morning Vietnam and animal balls as an accordion plays in the background. It gives the feeling, particularly strongly, that somehow all that’s passed in the last hour of music has been a momentary daydream, some kind of muzzy musing, and now you’re jolted back to reality by the voices of old men in a market. It’s a nice way to bring the listener back to reality, and pretty much emphasises the fact that this is a disc that’s conceived as an experience, not just as background music.

As you’d imagine, this isn’t really a disc that lends itself to casual listening. The lyrical cleverness of Mikelangelo – quite aside from the often grin-inducing blend of almost archaic styles – is something that rewards close attention. There are subtle undercurrents on the disc both musical and lyrical, and while it’s certainly closer to music hall or Gilbert & Sullivan light operetta than many listeners these days would be used to, they’re hiding there, just waiting for you to discover them. There are moments of pure over-the-top vocal emotiveness – I’m looking at you, Rufino! – but everything here is played so straight that it’s difficult not to get sucked into the world of pipe smoke and flickering gaslight of the band.

The quality of the disc – and indeed the performances – is pretty high. If one compares the version of A Formidable Marinade that rests on the band’s website - the best place to grab this disc - with the one that’s laid on disc, the increased darkness, the improved grasp on theatricality is particularly noticeable. This is an album which has a quality that is, I think, the result of its independent production. There’s a more matured sound here, also: earlier songs sounded a little too close to artists like Waits, whereas now that’s less prevalent. The band’s sound is complete and its own, though there’s an undoubted tip of the fez to other artists on the way. It can safely be said that the sound is unique, and seems to – at least on this record – be fully-formed, and (despite the theatrical conceit for the whole thing) unforced and naturalistic.

The cover of the disc – also produced by Mikelangelo, so rumour has it – fits into the scheme of things beautifully. Watercolour fish skeletons bedecked with top hats dance on in a hallucinogenic break from darkness. Demons in party hats dance around in a circle. Childhood becomes something horribly perverse, yet cute. Juggling, youthful enthusiasm and naïve art come together as one, and though it may appear a little too close to Leunig for some tastes – I can’t stand the bloke, myself – it’s somehow incredibly apt. The portraits inside, thankfully, show the band in suitable garb – no illusion-destroying tracky-dacks here.

Journey Through The Land Of Shadows is a rare album, and should be cherished as such. At times, there’s a little too much greasepaint-smeared enthusiasm, but Mikelangelo And The Black Sea Gentlemen should be congratulated for larding the album with so much of their souls. Music like this doesn’t come along very often and – like other moreish ephemera; a fine smoking jacket, a carved wooden fetish or a delightful pair of ornate pince-nez – it should be hoarded when it does. This is a thoroughly delightful, unashamedly melancholic, stomp-around-the-room-drunk sort of album, the kind that stays close.

And the Gentlemen all sing…

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

Tom Waits - Swordfishtrombones

2004-12-09T15:09:00.000+11:00

A look back at the album which saw Tom Waits ran away from the bar to join the circus.

Love, invariably, has an effect on an artist’s music. Whether it’s the pursuit of it, or the resultant joy or pain from acquiring it, many artists have been changed by the experience of love. And there’s none that exhibit this more profoundly than Tom Waits. Swordfishtrombones, for all its strangeness, is an album that pays tribute to the power of being in love, because it’s the first "proper" Waits album to have appeared following the songwriter's tenure as a soundtrack-writer for Francis Ford Coppola, for a film called One From The Heart. The film's important, as it was during his time working on it that Waits met his future wife, Kathleen Brennan. Brennan's been credited with the role of muse and musical head-fucker; and since that time has had joint writing credits with him on his albums, and is often lauded by the artist as being crucial in the creative process.

So what is it that makes this disc so important, so necessary? It's because it's where the old is snapped back and allowed to pervert itself; it's the place where the singer's career changed irrevocably, and it still – its insistence on exploring odd tones and wilfully weird lyricism – informs his work now. With Swordfishtrombones, Tom Waits shrugged off the increasingly tired boozehound, barfly persona that was threatening to drown him, and became the crotchety-yet-lovable, avuncular artist that he's known as today. This is a crossroads album that still, years later, holds a heady thrill – there's the sense of an artist searching for expression through a number of new forms, and it's intriguing to see just how far on a limb a singer-songwriter can go. It’s a total reinvention; the sort that few artists have the balls to attempt, and that even fewer have the strength of vision to pull off. Swordfishtrombones was, all things considered, a brave outing for the guy who could’ve taken the easy option and continued as a Billy Joel analogue. Instead, he leapt into the abyss, jumped ship from his former record company Asylum Records for the sunnier climes of Island Records, and unveiled himself as a much more dramatic performer than his previous outings had revealed him to be.

This was, from the outset, Waits' baby. He produced the album, arranged (for what’s often described as a "junkyard orchestra", featuring players he'd return to in the future) the music and handled the design and cover art of the disc. The bum, such as he'd existed in Waits' career thus far, was well and truly gone, and replaced with something much feistier.

Album opener Underground begins with a blockheadedly-thumped percussion line (and more than a hint of marching-band horn atop a chicken-pecked guitar), giving the first hint that the troubadour of old had departed. Singing about a world beneath our own, a combination of marching tempos and chest-beating declamation heralded the new Waits like a punch to the gut.

A short, sharp introduction, Underground is followed by a more subtle character-sketch, a world – literally – away from the skid-row losers that'd previously been the singer’s stock-in-trade. This song, Shore Leave, is one of the finest tunes ever to feature accompaniment from a chair. Moving into shadier territories, Waits relates the tale of a dislocated seaman on leave from his ship, seeking simple pleasures while missing his girl. Muted horns growl like passing traffic over stories of floorshows and new decks of cards, and billiards-playing midgets. It's a tense piece, but during the loverman chorus, marimbas – soon to become a Waits staple – add a slinky-hipped sort of sway to the horny sailor-boy tale.

Some of the most fabulous guitarwork to be married to Waits' imagery exists in this song, too - spidery guitar lines that burst into fullness, with a texture reminiscent of a blade drawn across the skin of a peach; juicy, fulsome, splitting. The solo offers the clarity of a shiv, spiked into one's eye – in a background of aunglongs and what sounds a lot like banjos. By the end of the song, the frustration's become too much: an almost incapacitated Waits wails the words "Shore leave!" over and over again, a sort of idiot mantra, as the marimbas slink away in the background. It's an air of open-ended uncertainty, framed by strange reedwork, that's created. It's immersive in a way that none of the singer’s songs had, thus far, managed to be.

Of course, the old Waits hadn't entirely been eschewed. Both Johnsburg Illinois and Soldier's Things hark back to his earlier work – perhaps so as not to spook the long-time fans? – though have enough dissonant aspects to unsettle. There’s a nakedness to the tunes – about love and about the reduction of a life to a box of useless ephemera – that makes them compelling, though strangely-placed, given the avant-garde nature of some of the other works on the album. In other quieter moments, Australia gets a mention with Town With No Cheer, a tune that talks of the reduction of rail services that bring a small outback town to its knees, wrapped (after bagpipes skirl and what sounds like a blowing sign clanks through the intro) in nettles that shroud the hills in "a blanket of Patterson’s curse". With reference made to both Slim Dusty (see A Pub With No Beer) and the sort of thumbnail portraits of tragedy espoused by Paul Kelly, with this song, he creates one of the most heart-rending portraits of fucked-over rural existences laid to tape.

It seems, however, that Waits hadn't entirely come to the disc with the intention of being inventive for the sake of it, nor with the idea of repeating his past too much. Tunes like Down, Down, Down see experimentalism given the shunt for some stop-on-a-second soul-groove playing that swings amazingly. 16 Shells From A Thirty-Ought Six – featuring a percussion line played on a brake-drum and thumped doghouse bass – rocks its way through, and marks the start, perhaps, of the singer's grandstanding blues part of his career: "I'm gonna whittle you into kindling!" he cries, between lines speaking of mule escapades and of tearing the seats out of cars. Elsewhere, Gin Soaked Boy knocks out some dirty blues, almost like a John Lee Hooker tune with the benefit of a three-week bender, akin to the sort of pissed lecture you'd receive from a favourite uncle who you’ve found on the back porch with the dregs of a bottle of bad bourbon, and no pants.

The bandleader aspects of the album are best encapsulated on In The Neighbourhood, where Salvation Army-styled instrumentation accompanies an ode to the urban life, like a heartfelt love-letter to the bastard aspects of everyday life as heard through a hangover; at once thankful and celebratory and sore headed. Portraits of guns by registers, noisy traffic, newspaper sleeping-bags and lapsed deliveries wrap around each other in the skein of memory.

Providing a link between the lengthy ad-libs of the singer's live shows (captured on numerous bootlegs, as well as the legit release Nighthawks At The Diner) and his new area of interest, is Frank's Wild Years, a spoken-word number that’s backed by a particularly funky set of keyboard stylings. The suburban dream, during its length, is burnt to a crisp, and it's a tune that would also provide the seed for an album – and stage-show – of the same name, to be explored in the ensuing years.

The album's title track is the platter's best example of Waits' perverse recollection of human peccadilloes. More marimba, talking drums and an almost-vocal bass combine with a tale of twisted locals, the effect of wars and mental illness to produce a uniquely backwoods, drink-sodden tale. Here, his imagery is at its strongest, with protagonists with a pair of legs that opened up like butterfly wings, and with the cryptic cultural reference of characters who Chesterfield moonbeams in a song. The track is also, perhaps, gives hints to Waits' reinvention. In particular, the lyrics

Now some say he's doing the obituary mambo
Some say that he’s hangin' on the wall
Some say this yarn's the only thing that holds this man together
Some say that he was never here at all
Some say they saw him down in Birmingham
Sleeping in a boxcar going by
And if you think that you can tell a bigger tale
I swear to God you'd have to tell a lie.

seem particularly apropos, given Waits' interview tricksterism and general playfulness with descriptions of himself. If there were ever an acknowledgement that Tom Waits was a made up bloke, then this is it.

The album's running-order is broken up, sporadically, by instrumentals that lend the album a sort of silent-movie feel: Dave The Butcher gives atmosphere that seems to be borrowed from Nosferatu, Just Another Sucker On The Vine comes across as a kind of ragtime disappointment, with a dash of Gallic charm, while album closer Rainbirds feels like curtain-music, like the signifier of the end of an evening. It's a brilliant, theatrical feeling that’s oddly fitting.

While it's the first in what many perceive as a trilogy of albums that woven from the same strange wool, Swordfishtrombones remains the work that still casts a shadow over what Waits does today. While Raindogs highlights more of the scope of Waits' musical peregrinations, and Frank's Wild Years is much more of a considered whole, Swordfishtrombones is the disc that saw him break free from his past and embrace the sort of roleplaying tendencies that would see him move more towards the theatre and film. A kaleidoscopic portrait of the weirdness of life, the album is still, more than twenty years on, like a radio-broadcast from another planet.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

The Tremors, The Grates @ Hopetoun Hotel, 6/06/04

2004-06-09T18:18:00.000+10:00

Two Brisbane bands bring a touch of the tropical to a slow Sydney Sunday.

The Grates' frontwoman Patience Hodgson is a sterling advertisment for the benefits of youth, clean living, and a shitload of red cordial.

While the drum-guitar-and-vox combo's tunes stand on their own - while not exactly reinventing the wheel, the trio provided a great set's worth of exuberant Yeah Yeah Yeahs-styled rave-ups rooted in childhood reminiscence - it's their singer's energy levels that keep most enthralled during their set. Perhaps it could be the threat of being followed by the stage-slamming beast that is Geoff Corbett, perhaps it could be the result of an enviable sugar rush, but for the short set these guys were on stage for - during which it seemed they shoehorned in at least three hundred tunes - she was a jumping bean. Literally. There was hardly a tune that was delivered from a static position: arse-shaking, aerial moonwalking, foot-slamming - it was all in evidence during the set.

The JJJ favourite tune Trampoline won some head-nodding approval from the crowd, while oddly endearing songs about mosquitoes and Snakes And Ladders gave punters a look into the cracked world the band inhabits. It's all very BRIGHTSHINYSUPERFUNHAPPY! but it's handled with such sweetness and doggone enthusiasm that you can't help but get into it. (And, a reliable source mentions, guitarist John Patterson is kinda cute.) The Grates' music is childlike, and impossible to decode, and seems like something that was thrown together for a school fete - and that's precisely why it works.

Special mention must go to drummer Alana Skyring, who throughout the set laid down some fearsomely steel-fisted beats, and generally kept the show on the road, providing the backbone that, if missing, could have seen things end rather terribly.

Then, it was Tremors Time. The four-piece ensemble have recently been laying down tracks for their forthcoming long-player at Big Jesus Burger with Jon Boy Rock. And judging from the snarl when they took to the stage, they've been suffering from a little cabin fever. So, with a little setting-the-scene-in-a-cruise-bar tete-a-tete happening, they kicked into the first song, dedicated to The Beat, a notorious nightclub in Brisvegas. Consisting of little more than the mantra "The Beat goes off!" over and over again, it was proof that the band's tightness has become damn-near impenetrable. Sure, there's the expected sliding and slipping across the stage that we've come to expect, but there was much more of a sense of slicked-back danger in evidence tonight.

"Is it OK with you if we just play new stuff?" Geoff asked the crowd at one point, just after deciding to nix Keep It On from the set proper. There wasn't much argument - the tunes that had been given an airing this evening fairly crackled, they were so loaded with energy. From straight-out rockers (the already-released Mirrors, introduced as a tribute to drummer Cec Condon (who'd jokingly been referred to as having to be gaffa taped to his drum stool so he didn't float off) to unbelieveably soulful Lovin' You - a song that's so tearjerking in its use of wailed chorus and gut-punched feel that it already feels like a canonical number that you've heard belted out by one of the greats. True, there's a sort of sordid tang to The Tremors' tastes - Monkey being about a traumatic, drug-effected relationship - but it's wrapped with such canny use of rhythm that it's impossible not to get on board.

Oh, and there was some top-of-the-bar crooning, too, as fans have come to expect.

Keep It On - after its unceremonious dumping earlier in the set - made its appearance as the band's encore tune. Back by popular demand and treated like a James Brown musical experience, the tune meandered over an extended, drawn out intro, before guitarist Dan Baebler kicked in with the signature riff. Eleanor Logan's trumpet and vocals added a soulful note to Geoff's rough-as-guts wailing, and the flirty interplay that there'd been between the two came to a head in some punter-pleasing exhibitionism - the keyboardist left the stage, climbed up a pole and proceeded to gyrate, delivering the final verses in feigned ecstasy. (And somehow, it looked as if Geoff was musing why he hadn't thought of that move earlier.)

Leaving the stage, one couldn't help but realise that The Tremors are approaching the sort of get-the-fuck-out-of-the-way sense of assuredness and strength that people normally reserve for stampeding zoo animals or rocks heading for the earth, destined to obliterate it. The time in the studio has affected their poise on the stage, and they're playing more tightly than ever before. The soulful-yet-funky touches that made Jon Spencer big are there, but with a frontman who deserves the gaze. Showmanship, musical communication and a hearty does of arse-shaking is what the band has to offer - and there's not many out there who can do it better.

So there you have it: charged frontpeople, dry-humped support poles and a whole load of broken glasses. Not your average night in the Hoey, but a bloody good one.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

Shannon Wright - Over The Sun

2004-06-02T18:33:00.000+10:00

The perennially-dumped punk-folk songstress returns with an album that won't let you go until you're heartsick and headached.

Shannon Wright has opened on tour for Nick Cave, which should immediately tell you something about her style of music. A live performer known for almost painfully personal gigs, she's rooted deep in the southern gothic neck of the woods; a place of betrayals and of misdemeanours, of love lost and lovers fucked over.

This isn't going to be an easy listening encounter.

The cover of Over The Sun, shows the singer-songwriter at the controls of some film editing equipment, creating some mysterious work. And it's probably the best way to describe the disc in its entirety. There's a sense of working towards something, but Shannon's the only one with a clear idea of what it is - we're not at the controls and are just along for the ride. It can't help but feel, though, like we're going to end up at the dentist's office, and not Disneyland. The power in Wright's voice can't undo the feeling that all the songs are pushing the listener towards a bad place, towards a finale that's going to do nobody any good. With titles like You'll Be The Death and Plea living up to their tissue-paper-in-the-rain promise, there is certainly a lack of room for light here. There's Leonard Cohen discs with more joie de vivre attached.

Musically, however, this album is compelling, though it does lapse into repetition a little too often for its own good. With room-filling drum work from Christina Files, the only other contributor is Wright herself, providing spiky guitar that refuses to be pinned down - at once forming coherent riffs, at other times making confrontational attacks on your ears. There's keyboards throughout - the disc opens with a small mellotron interlude (which returns, disturbingly, later in the disc) before the crash of guitars sweeps it asunder - and it's these moments that provide respite from the angular guitar onslaught of off-kilter riffs. At various places, it sounds like the electric keyboard from mid-period Led Zeppelin has been roped into duty, and it adds a strangely spacious contrast to Wright's cramped guitar work. Indeed, one of the most affecting tracks on Over The Sun is entirely piano-driven - Avalanche. Through the tune, Wright cajoles simple chords out of the piano, reminiscent of some of A Silver Mt. Zion's work for its lonely, played-in-a-scout-hall feel. The playing style is deceptively accomplished - from Philip Glass-like moments to childishly-thumped passages, it's here that the performer's true range is explored, and it's the song that benefits the most from the absence of guitary artiness.

It took three years from the release of Dyed In The Wool - a time of continual touring and refinement of her legendarily passionate live shows - for Wright to get around to recording this disc. Someone so intense would naturally chose Steve Albini to handle their production - though some would argue the term should be preceded by the words "lack of". However, it's perfectly suited to Wright's musical vision. There's not a lot in the way of trickery, except for the way the vocals are mixed. At once, they whisper in your ear but seem maddeningly out of reach. There's always the thought that the singing should be louder, so apparent is the strain that's heard in some songs - the wail in Throw A Blanket Over The Sun is heartbreaking - but it all seems to hang together well. There's an almost-falling-apart quality to the drum sound on here - a familiar thing if you?re aware of Albini's other work - and it gives more weight to the desperation, to the rawness that lards the tunes.

The biggest complaint about Wright?s writing is that it ploughs the same furrow, largely. Musically, even. This is by no means a bad thing - many artists have made great careers from doing one thing and doing it well - but Wright's song writing is occasionally akin to stumbling across your obsessive-compulsive sister's diary, post-break-up. Being done wrong, continual recurrence of confessional admissions of worthlessness abound, and end up tiring, rather than revealing. A bit of levity to balance out the grim nature of this recording wouldn't go astray, and would probably even out the relentlessly bummed feeling that pervades every song here - eventually becoming so cloying that you'll have to rip out some brainless pop to stop yourself from rooting around in the knife drawer.

Ultimately, Over The Sun has a sort of narrow-lipped tension-headache feel that makes it a difficult disc to sympathise with. There's plenty of emotion through its length, but it's wrapped so tightly that it's difficult to penetrate - or escape. Like black writing on black paper, there's an inscrutable quality here that's intriguing, but makes for very hard going, listener-wise. It's rewarding if you persevere with it - masochism can bring rewards! - but this is certainly not an album that allows you to put it on as background listening: it cajoles and bludgeons its way into the limelight. There's no doubt that this is a heartfelt, intensely personal album, but it's one that isn't likely to find its way into the player much, unless climbing the walls while hopped up on red wine and heartbreak is a regular occurrence around your place.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

PJ Harvey - The Letter

2004-06-02T00:30:00.000+10:00

After a couple of years' wait, the first single from PJ Harvey's new album hints at the blacker points of her past.

This, the first single from the Uh Huh Her album contains the biggest hint we�ve had yet that the evil, voodoo-crazy PJ Harvey of old is kicking at the door and waiting to come out into the light again.

Opening to with a detuned, low-down riff that reverberates in your gut, Harvey�s almost-funky-but-not-quite playing immediately kicks The Letter into a strange place. Rising in accordance with lyrical emphasis, an organic sound�s created, beaten into shape by Rob Ellis�s skittish drumming. There�s an element of languor conveyed by breathy vocals, invoking a lover�s scent on a communiqu�, placed at odds with the ominous bassy rumbles that pepper the music.

There�s moments of vocal affectation here that have Polly Jean sounding more like Siouxsie Sioux � her words trailing off into a tunnel of echo that ventures into the realm of the banshee (if you�ll excuse the pun). Rather than sounding operatic � as Harvey has done previously � it sounds more unsettling, unworldlier. The final words of the song ring as if they�re coming across the ether, communicated by ghosts.

Lyrically, the song continues Harvey�s highly sexualised investigations into passion and communication. Sure, this is a tune about a letter, but when she describes licking a pen, removing a lid, gnawing the stationery and the shape of her g� well, you get the idea. There�s the idea of eavesdropping, of intercepting cryptic, private notes shared between lovers who are running out of time. As ever, PJ Harvey exists in a world of shadow, seen obliquely by the outsider who can�t penetrate it, no matter how much they desire entrance. And it�s frustratingly seductive, whetting the appetite for a fuller exploration of such ideas.

It just might be the case, judging by the bass-heavy, soup-thick sound that�s on this sample track that the dusty hellishness of To Bring You My Love is once more at the front of the PJ Harvey sound. While it�s not as immediate as some of her other work, there�s a creeping nature to this tune that sees it embedded in your head after only a couple of plays. Here�s hoping the level of mystery bodes well for the album.

The commercially released version of The Letter in single format contains three additional tracks: The Phone Song, Bows & Arrows and The Falling.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

The Casanovas - The Casanovas

2004-06-01T14:19:00.000+10:00

One of the hardest-working bands in the land survived lineup change and taping delays to release their debut. And it's one of the best - and dumbest - Oz Rock albums you're likely to hear.

You love AC/DC, don't you? Admit it. You do. You're thinking of a couple of Angus Young riffs right now, aren't you?

So is guitarist, vocalist and self-confessed Acca-Dacca enthusiast Tommy Boyce. But he's not only admitting his love � he's shouting it from the rooftops with his two partners in crime (Damo Campbell on vocals and bass and ex-The Onyas drummer Jaws) � who, together, make up the Melbournian trio of raunch-merchants The Casanovas. Their debut album � after a string of smaller releases � is filled with the sort of sly-grin shenanigans and fabulous fret-busting riffage that makes those elders of Oz Rock so damn enjoyable.

There's an element of the naughty to The Casanovas that seems to be missing from many bands. The band exists in that special place that most rock bands have since eschewed, unless they're somehow connected to David Lee Roth or KISS � the Oo-Er Missus Fun Zone. Big, dumb rock? Hell yes. After all, AC/DC were tough as hell, but there's also a large element of behind-the-hand sniggering going on almost all the way through. (You have heard Big Balls, right? Come on!) The songs on this album exist in a wonderfully fun place. It's like they've been bodily lifted from a risqu� '80s movie � and this is by no means a denigration of their achievement. This is the sort of album that you'd play on the way to the beach with the windows down, whistling and playing steering-wheel drums. It's got a sort of naughty innocence - or ignorance? - floating throughout that remains miraculously good natured for the length of the disc, and it's one that endears the group to you. Yeah, they've only got one song, give or take - but it's a bloody good one, and they rip through it well enough to ensure it stays interesting. It's one of those discs with perfectly-timed intervals to allow the armchair guitarist to stick their crotch out and go �Uhhhhhh!� in Big Rock Mode; in other words, it�s eminently, wonderfully enjoyable.

Livin' In The City is probably the finest example on the album of the bad-boy-with-attitude storytelling The Casanovas purvey. Of course, the tale about getting out of a hick slum to move to the big city to try coke and get a shag is bookended with some fantastically plain living lyrics:

So I got a place
I wasn�t lonely
I ordered pizza
With pepperoni

Fabulous. Na�ve first experiences in the big, bad city distilled down to a pizza box: there�s honesty amongst the twelve-bar raunch, and that�s what appeals so greatly about this disc. It�s not pretending to be anything grandiose or life changing. But it is some of the most honest rock you�ll hear � and that�s without mentioning that this is a bunch of blokes that can pull off that Twisted Sister vocal doubling/falsetto thing and get it right (Break Your Heart). A rarity, that.

Of all the tunes on the album, there's only one real weak one - Here's To It - but even this isn't too bad an imposition on the ears. It's a substantially rockin' tune (with some wonderful slide guitar) but pales in comparison to some of the absolute fist-pumpers that it sits alongside. It�s the only real misstep � and that�s only because the chorus doesn�t live up to the opening riff�s promise � of an album of tight rock that�s mindful of the big names of Oz pub rock�s glory days without becoming too slavishly forelock-tugging. Heartbeat has hints of the You Am I (at their most beat-drummed) to it, Strange Dreams is almost a Hoodoo Gurus number, while tracks like Shake It and Runnin� So Late are so perfectly formed that they fairly beg to be included in the chase scene of a caper flick. So strong are the rhythms, so meshed the trio�s playing and so fluid � though not ostentatious � the guitar soloing that there�s just no way you�ll be able to stop involuntary bodily rocking-out movements while this album�s on. Fact.

Clocking in at 37 minutes, there's no room for filler on this album. Each of the ten songs on disc is pretty solid, presumably as a result of the extended recording period taken to get 'em down, coupled with the amount of touring that the band have undertaken. Sharing stages with The Datsuns and The Living End - not to mention Rose Tattoo - would force any group to tighten up, but in the case of The Casanovas, this would seem an impossible task. They're about as tight as bands come: the playing on The Casanovas sounds devoid of screw-ups, but somehow this is managed without sacrificing the great feel that the band�s rocking out, sneaker-clad in the same room, replete with devil�s horns and rock tongue action. Sure, there's nothing original really going on here. But that's fine. There's nothing original going on on Jet records, either. But there's a lot more fun � and a lot less pilfered riffs � on The Casanovas than there are on most retro-rock big things' discs. And they've even got the common decency not to screw up the party with any of those wussy ballads.

Well done, those men

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

Danko Jones @ The Gaelic Club, 27/05/2004

2004-05-30T23:54:00.000+10:00

A not-quite-full Gaelic Club was blown away by the trio from Toronto with rabble-rousing attitude and energy to burn.

This was a gig that had been a long time coming. Danko Jones � the singer/guitarist and his identically named power trio � had been looking forward to touring Australia for months. Little did tonight�s punters know that they were about to be hit by The Canadian Sledgehammer Of Rock.

Walking onstage and kicking off with the thunderous We Sweat Blood, it was clear that the sharp-dressed men weren�t here to mess around. With a tongue that�d do Gene Simmons proud and some True Metal head shaking going on, Danko ripped into his riffs with jaw-dropping ferocity. The title track from the band�s last album seemed more imbued with bristling rage than in CD format. Rather, it was a defiant announcement of the dedication of the three guys on stage: leader Danko on vocals and guitar, JC on bass and Damon on drums. Yes, they were there to rock. And no, they wouldn't leave the stage until rocked was what you were.

There�s only one way to describe the group�s playing � fucking tight! That two-word descriptor was bantered around the Gaelic with some regularity, and while it�s true that metronymic rigidity does not, necessarily, a perfect gig make, it certainly helps in laying the musical punches where they need to go. There�s no wasted gestures here; everything sits together in a perfectly crafted way. Rhythm chord slashes make way for lightning-fast licks in a way that�d make you believe there were two guitarists playing. Vocals are strong, and never strained. Bass lines punctuate, rather than dominate. And drumming? Well, it�s been a long time since many gig-goers have seen a kit beaten as hard as Damon�s was this evening. It�s an old standby, but the three played as if they were one � sympathetic and muscular. The trio�s dedication to their performance comes across effortlessly in a live setting. With band members less on the ball, it all could�ve fallen into a screaming heap: but not here, and not with these guys.

There wasn�t a great deal of stage banter through the gig. That�s not to say that the band were sour � far from it. But they were more concerned with setting off another rocket of a song than with having a chinwag with the locals � at least while they were onstage. When Danko did talk to the crowd, though, it was certainly easy to see how he can hold European festivals in his hand. Like a grandstanding, rock version of � ahem � The Rock, he spent parts of the night baiting photographers (come closer to the stage and see exactly what you get to photograph!), geeing up the crowd (�Are there 8,000 people in here? That only sounds like 2,000!�) and generally playing the part of the shit-stirrer. An easy grin and a rock-n-roll outlook meant that Danko's mix of double-entendre banter and honest-to-God nice guyness had the crowd exactly where he wanted them.

Whipping through a set that was liberally sprinkled with older tunes � it�s refreshing to see a band that doesn�t do the standard here�s-our-new-album-in-its-entirety-plus-two-hits-at-the-end-if-you�re-good � the band ensured that their die-hard, longtime fans were kept as happy as those who�ve come to the Danko Jones fold through recent airplay of Dance. Danko�s tales of learning to play the blues (by getting himself a woman, natch) of being the lover man of prodigious proportions (not to mention the lovestruck man of Forget My Name) all sat nicely atop the chunky, devil�s horns-inducing riffery that saw the whole crowd moving. Simple enough to rock but smart enough to avoid being stupid, the playing was so energetic that it was impossible for the band�s enthusiasm not to rub off on those there to see the show.

Of course, big applause must also go to the band�s soundman, Corey, for ensuring that the mix on the night was clear and sharp. No dropped-out vocals or flabby drums: the tunes of the night kicked hard as befits a group of this stature.

The set proper came to an end with the not-yet-properly-recorded tune Bring On The Mountain (Become The Mountain), which saw Danko shuck off the ready-to-rockisms for some truly awesome spirit channelling, shaman-style. The tune speaks of the frontman making it to the top of a mountain, overcoming all those who�ve tried to put him down, and holding hands � and court � with departed luminaries such as Johnny Cash, Bon Scott, DeeDee and Joey Ramone, Joe Strummer, Barry White and Otis Redding. Ending with the sentiment that everyone�s sexy in heaven, it�s hard to decide whether it was future ideal or retrospective lament � but it was one of the most empowering tunes to ever make it into a set of dick-swingin� rock that�s been heard in recent years.

The band returned to the stage to perform three more tunes before bidding Sydney a fond farewell. The set had packed in seventeen songs but seemed to have ended in an instant, so mesmerising was the performance. This truly was a gig where you found yourself startled by how quickly you�d reached the end of it. (And was that a song dedication to the Hard-Ons, there at the end? Rock!)

The only disappointing thing about this Danko Jones gig was the audience. It wasn�t that that the audience wasn�t getting into the rock action � far from it � but rather that numbers were down for what should�ve been a sell-out show, given the vitality of the performance. While Danko�s stage presence is certainly enough to control wandering-off punters in a festival field somewhere � meaning that it�s more than up to the task of corralling a couple of hundred punters in a room in Sydney � those in the audience couldn�t help but wonder exactly how much more electric this show might�ve been in a venue the size of The Annandale, where the band�s in-your-face, high-testosterone rock would�ve been slammed straight into punters, rather than into a two-thirds (at best) full room.

Whinging over crowd turnouts aside � come on, Sydney! It was a Thursday night! Where were you? � it was clear that those lucky enough to get along to the Gaelic bore witness to some pretty damn special rock and roll this evening. Here�s hoping that � given the workaholic nature of Jones et al � that they�re back soon.

And this time, that they get the hanging-off-the-rafters crowds they deserve. Certainly, there can�t be many bands that work quite as hard as these guys do for their applause.

The set for the evening ran as follows:

We Sweat Blood
Way To My Heart
Samuel Sin
Dance
Play The Blues
Livin� In The City
Sugar Chocolate
Sound Of Love
Boogie Woogie
Forget My Name
Lovercall
Cadillac
Bring On The Mountain (Become The Mountain)
Encore: I Want You
Encore: Mango Kid
Encore: Get Outta Town

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

Bugdust @ Bat And Ball Hotel, Sydney, 21/05/2004

2004-05-26T15:01:00.000+10:00

Sometimes, there's just no justice. Why's a band this good playing to less than thirty people?

There's many a moment of clarity been experienced in venues serving alcohol. Usually they revolve around one's consumption of aforementioned liquids or behaviour after same. But not tonight. Tonight's razor-sharp observation more revolved around the deep philosophical question of why it is, exactly, a band as good as Bugdust are playing to fewer than thirty punters.

Having not seen The Crisps or AJ, the two supports of the evening, it's impossible to say how they fared in comparison to the headliners. But they would've had to pull some pretty stylish rock moves out of the roadcase in order to top the balls-out "ARE YOU READY TO ROCK?" show that this four-piece were packing. The band's played gigs with Pacifier, and it appears from tonight's show that everything they'd seen from that stage-sharing has been taken to heart. Like that band, the performance here is faultless, and full of classic rock moves. That doesn't mean it's pre-rehearsed, though. Indeed, when they take to the stage and launch into the first song, the four-piece adopt guitars-in-air poses, summoning down some fearsome rock energy in that exuberant, Bill-And-Ted kind of way. All closed-eye soloing and two-guys-one-microphone stances, they're riffling through the pantheon of performers' finest stage tricks, but unlike other bands, they've a refreshing honesty that carries it off. This is something that a brief chat with band members cements after the show - they're earnest, nice guys, who are enthused that people want to watch them. There's no rider-nitpicking arrogance here, just a dedication to the music - and it shows.

Musically? Finally, we have a band who's unashamed to use the cowbell! Bugdust's sound is strong and thick. There's overtones of early-era Iron Maiden (without the histrionics), The Hellacopters (those double-guitar leads are a killer), Black Sabbath and general Detroit rock in their sound, but it's constructed in a way that makes it sound their own. This evening's mix pretty much knackers their three-part vocal harmonies - what happened to the voice levels? - but the polish amid the rough is communicated clearly enough. There's stoner rock and acid freakout tinges to the tunes, but any idea of slacking is removed as soon as the guys open up and let rip. The drummer's shirt goes by the wayside as the tunes begin to cook, and it's impressive to note that the group stays locked in with one another, no matter how slow or heavy the tunes get. There's a tripping fluidity to the performance that's enthralling, and that's before you get to the bits that sound like they're improved versions of Master Of Puppets riffs. This is superb, head-nodding rock-and-roll mayhem; simplicity and tightness used to devastating effect. The evening's rendition of Set To Snap, from their four-track EP, obliterates the original, before ending with a bass player atop a bass drum, all fucked-amp glory and fist-in-air bravado. Class.

It's usually a pretty good indicator that a band you haven't seen before has their rock ducks in a row if you find you can play air guitar along with them on a first listening. The amount of phantom axe-wranglers in the Bat And Ball this evening was terrifying. So again, the question raises itself: how come Jet are playing festivals and Bugdust aren't? Why is it that something so good is happening in front of so few?

If the Muses exist, boys, then they're fuckin' with you. Your time will - if there's any justice - surely come. Rock needs more majesty - but just be sure to take those devil's horns with you on your travels.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

Dirty Dealings With Danko Jones

2004-05-25T03:15:00.000+10:00

Danko Jones - guitarist and vocalist of the self-titled Canadian trio - spoke to us about dead rock stars, sleeping on amps and playing with Mick and Keef..

With the Australian leg of their tour to support the incendiary We Sweat Blood set to start burning through some lucky venues this week, it�s about time that you all sat down, shut up, and got a good dose of Danko. Danko Jones, that is. The Canadian three-piece�s mix of metal, sass and dedication to rock has been winning fans the world over � particularly in Europe � and so now it�s our turn to see what the fuss is all about. We spoke to the man himself, Danko Jones, in Stockholm. Our conversation took in writing to Chuck D, hanging out with Keith Richards, gravesites of the rock and famous and what happens when you annoy your record label too much.

�I spend a lot of my time off here,� says Danko of Stockholm. �We just came from France � we played three shows and before that, eight or nine shows in Germany. France is the hardest market to crack in Europe. They were packed � Paris was sold out � so it was really good. We just finished the tour. We�ve got a week off. Saturday, we go to Norway and play with Gluecifer and then Sunday we join The Bronx in the UK for two weeks of shows, then we�ve got four days off. Then we�re heading to Australia. Very excited!�

Breakneck tours schedules are something of a given in Danko�s world. His band � managed by bass player JC � has been on something of a marathon tour to support their newest disc. It�s best described by the singer/guitarist himself: �I left home March 29, I don�t get back home until September 6 � and I hope it�s later than that!�

Clearly, this is a driven performer. But what is he expecting of Australian fans? Subdued applause, or raucous, storming-the-stage enthusiasm? With mates in bands like The Hellacopters � themselves tourists so familiar with Australia�s venues that the bar staff probably could pour their drinks without asking � have the Canadian trio been forewarned about our crowds?

�We just played Germany and France with The Bronx. And The Bronx were just down in Australia not too long ago and they were saying that we�re gonna have a blast. We�re coming with no expectations � we�ll come to play. If there�s 50 people there, it�ll be fucking awesome. If there�s 500, then that�s so much better!� he enthuses. �But what I gather about Australia is that rock lives and breathes there. A lot of bands go on tour there, and it�s pretty far from everywhere else. In order to do that there has gotta be a pretty big incentive � so I�m guessing that there�s some real rock fans in Australia. A lot of live albums and concerts are taped in Australia. Maybe my eyes and ears are more in tune with Australia because we�re going there, but I�m noticing more and more that some heavy rock shit�s going down there.�

But what sort of Aussie tunesmanship has managed to make its way into Danko�s collection? What locals are doing us proud in the Northern Hemisphere's listening tastes?

�Radio Birdman. I just saw Powderfinger in Texas at South By South West. Other than that, I know what everyone knows about Australian music � the super-famous people. I�m not really familiar with the down rock scene over there. But I�m more than willing to get myself acquainted with it.�

Given the heavy AC/DC leanings of the band�s most recent output � and the ubiquity of the pilgrimage film Thunderstruck at the current time, it seems churlish not to ask if there�s a special trek to Bon Scott�s Fremantle grave in store for the trio.

�I didn�t know he was buried in Australia,� says Danko, enthusiastically. �That�s awesome! I mean, Angus Young lives in Holland, so I dunno how I didn�t know that. That�s cool. I would definitely go there. When we were in Ireland, I wanted to go to Phil Lynott�s grave, but the club we were playing was in the exact opposite end of town to where the gravesite was. But next time we�re in Dublin, I�m gonna go to Phil Lynott�s grave. If I can get a free moment and head on over to the graveyard, I�ll definitely make a journey out of that.�

It�s fitting that death�s mentioned here, as the band�s beginnings were so intensely focussed that they would have killed less hardy rockers. Danko Jones were a band that were so keen to hone their craft that they eschewed sales, recordings and � almost � any profit at all. Danko explains:

�Basically, we didn�t put anything out for two years. We just played. We just figured we wanted to build a reputation as a live band. We followed that route � the road less travelled. And we did it. For two years, we did tours with no merchandise, no t-shirts, no records. We slept on our amps, barely had enough money for the three of us to go into a motel room. We crashed on people�s couches endless nights.

�We wanted word to spread through word of mouth. The strongest marketing campaign anyone can have is word of mouth. Whether you�re inundated by multi-million dollar campaigns from record labels, you�re always gonna listen to who your friends tell you who should check out before you check out who the million-dollar campaigns tell you you should."

�We refused to do interviews for two years. I guess we were more like punk rock fucks. We were arrogant punk rockers, and we thought we could get away with it. And in a way, we did. People were like �Who do these guys think they are? They don�t want to do interviews, and they don�t want to do photo shoots or put out records � there must be something there.� And thankfully, there was, and that was the live show, which is what I think people kept wanting to come and see.

The hard slog around Canadian venues � which garnered feverish live reviews � did end up taking its toll, and the band eventually relented on its no-recording stance.

�Finally, we had to put out a record so we could play longer, farther, play more of the year. We wanted to see more of the world, so we put out an EP that had five songs on it and put out another EP a year and a half later. Then we compiled that and put it out as I�m Alive And On Fire � available on Bad Taste Records � which came out in 2001. It�s a collection of songs we�d had backlogged for a couple of years. Then, Born A Lion came out in 2002, and then we toured that extensively, then We Sweat Blood � and we�re in the middle of that record�s tour.�

It�s a tour, it seems, that�s been having results. The band played Europe
for three months last year, as well as some shows in Canada to prepare for another five months on the road in Europe and Australia. They�ve signed licensing deals in South Africa and have had a lot of interest from Brazil � but nowhere has the band�s rock dream been more fulfilled than when the band landed a support slot with The Rolling Stones on their 40 Licks tour� a tour that some thought wouldn�t sit well with Danko�s well-known impatience with corporate rock. After all, these days, the Stones are as big a corporate rock entity as you�ll find, right?

�Definitely! But I think the Rolling Stones also come from a grassroots sort of background. No matter how much sheen you put on some of these Stones, they don�t shine up. I mean, no matter how much sheen you put on Keith Richards, he�ll never look like part of a corporate band. I think that�s because the true essence of Keith Richards � who I think is the heart and soul of the Stones at this time � is blues and roots, that kind of thing. We�re not a blues-rock band, but I think he�s hip enough to keep his ear to the ground. Actually, we were in Germany last year, playing in a club in Cologne, when someone there told us they�d just read an interview with Keith Richards and he was asked which band was his favourite support on the 40 Licks tour, and he named The White Stripes and Danko Jones. That made my night, if not my week!

�The reason why we got on the Stones bill is, I think, because we�re nice guys. Our crew insists on working with us, people want us back because they worked with a band that was not only in control and responsible, but made things smooth because they were nice guys. We don�t screw around, and we don�t screw people over. When people meet us in a business setting, they realise that they�re working with a band that�s responsible, that�s punctual, and � I like to think � very professional and very nice. I think it was also the Stones recognising a really cool local band. There are other things � [Mick] Jagger was given a copy of Born A Lion at a birthday party.

�The Stones hang around Toronto to practise before any world tour. I think word had gotten around about our band. So when it came down choose a local band, we were in line, and they recognised us. I guess they liked what they heard � and they chose us. The story I�ve heard is that they chose us because they liked us � especially Jagger because he got two copies of Born A Lion � one at his birthday and one just before the show!�

So: rapturously received shows � on their own back and on a bill with one of rock�s biggest bands. Things couldn�t be going better for Danko Jones, right? So you�d think. But all through the band�s career, there�s been a problem: Danko�s not a huge fan of the record industry.

�I have a tendency to open my mouth too much! Many doors have been closed because of the way we do things � because we demand control of our band. Record companies don�t like that � they realise they can�t manipulate this band. The reason there�s so many new bands that you�ve never heard of, that don�t have a back-catalogue is because these are young bands that record labels know they can mould because they don�t have a voice and they�re na�ve. We�re not like that, so we don�t get a lot of attention from major labels because they know we�re just gonna be trouble down the line. Whereas if they were actually business-savvy, they�d realise the potential of this band and capitalise on that. But they�ve failed to do so.�

Add this outspoken nature to the thorny issue of downloading and you�ve got a sure-fire recipe for artist-label headbutting � as Danko was to find out.

�We got dropped from our label in Canada � Universal � because on February 22nd, I appeared on a nationally-televised panel on downloading. I was for downloading. And we didn�t tell our record company this.

�Three weeks and two days later, we got dropped. Discussions went from my pro-downloading stance to our relationship with our major label, and I disclosed a few things I was unhappy with. I think it�s an old story. I mean, how many stories and interviews have you read about bands complaining about their label? It�s old hat! But they didn�t like that.

The record they were working [We Sweat Blood] was five-and-a-half months old. It didn�t even get the twelve-month treatment. We got brushed. The second single for the album, Dance, was dropped. Basically, we signed an agreement that they would work our record, and as far as I�m concerned, they didn�t hold up their end of the deal. They dropped it cold.

�There�s a lot of problems with that label. The Canadian version of We Sweat Blood doesn�t have the Universal logo on the back of the record, because they forgot to put it on. The graphics department forgot to put the company�s logo on the back of the record! I mean, if that isn�t complete negligence, I don�t know what is.

�I always say this � part of it�s our fault, because we tour outside Canada constantly. And the official reason for us being dropped was that we didn�t play enough Canadian dates. So basically what they�re saying is that you get dropped if you�re a domestic act who goes international��

Unfortunately, the interview slot is coming to its intercontinental end, though there�s still so much more to say. But with the energetic � and damn friendly Danko � manages to fit in more information in the last thirty seconds than some manage to shoehorn in an entire press release:

�Sorry if I rambled on on downloading, but it�s just that I just sent a letter off to Chuck D about it, so it�s fresh on my mind. I�d just like to say that We Sweat Blood was written in five weeks, recorded in about two and a half weeks, mixed in ten days and we�re going on tour all the way.

�We�re gonna start working on the new record this [northern] summer, we�re hoping that it�ll be out by December this year or January/February of next year. We�re working on a DVD, and I�ve got a radio show in Stockholm called The Magical World Of Rock With Danko Jones � check it out at www.themagicalworldofrock.com � I�m doing spoken word gigs this [northern] summer in Europe� and I�m goin� to Australia, man! I�m fucking pumped!�

And with that, he�s gone. With an attitude and a work ethic like that, you better believe that Danko Jones sweats blood.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

Pixies - Wave Of Mutilation: Best Of Pixies

2004-05-19T18:29:00.000+10:00

Best-of albums: sell-outs or essential overviews? Have the Pixies finally debased themselves? Are your long-held memories of college rock's favourite band about to be corrupted? This selection would seem to indicate not.

Pixies. Ah, the Pixies. A band who everyone professes to love, to be influenced by, and to own. A band born out of two Bostonian guitarist roommates, university, perversity and an inability to play. A band that was unlike anything else making music at the time that they came out. A band that lasted six years together but have a shadow longer than some of the dinosaur rockers still plying their trade. A band whose post-break-up releases (rarity compiles and best-ofs) are matched only by The Smiths in number.

And now they're back. Perhaps the plaudits about the soft bit/LOUD BIT so common in much alterna-rock originating with them hit home, maybe they want to prove Steve Albini wrong or maybe they really are in it for the money. But regardless, they're back on the road - though not, as of this writing, planning on hitting Australia. And so, there's a new best-of to pull in unwary ears. And for the uninitiated, it's bloody good.

First things first. The title of this selection is perhaps the most perfect that�s been applied to a career overview. If there's one thing that marks out Pixies tunes, it's a general undercurrent of violence. Musically, too, the songs arrive like something coastal - either in lapping waves or in storms you wouldn�t want to take your boat out in.

So what of the song selection? It's almost faultless. Well, for a newbie, at least - more experienced hands will undoubtedly carp at some selections and knowingly nod at others (the Neil Young cover Winterlong, say). But for someone who's not particularly knowledgeable about the group's work, it's a brilliant thing; a door cracked open into an extremely perverse - though literate - world. College rock? You betcha - and this is back when that appellation actually meant something.

There's a lot of leaning towards Doolittle and Surfer Rosa in the tune selection, but this is understandable, given that they're easily the most consistent (and hook-laden) discs of their oeuvre. Later albums get short shrift (Bossanova and Tromp Le Monde have three cuts each on this platter) while the Come On Pilgrim EP gets three look-ins. Some would argue that the filler-free Doolittle is all you need in terms of Pixies tunes, and this corralling of songs seems to underscore it - and perhaps encourage a new generation of fans to go out and snap that sucker up.

Still, most of the canonical Pixies tunes are all here, and what's astounding is that - no matter how often you've heard the songs - there's something more you can dig out of them. Black Francis's (or Frank Black's, or Charles Thompson's, if you prefer - they're all the same big bloke in a flanno) highly literate predilections - sex, death, faith, incest, self-examination, surrealist flicks, numerology, humanism and other philosophical (or biblical) peregrinations create a rich tapestry of reference that can be dug into at your leisure. Certainly, trying to understand what the hell he's going on about - even when he's not wailing on about attempted molestations in parking facilities (Bone Machine)or being the son of a motherfucker (Nimrod's Son) - is something that generally requires more time than the tunes take. But that's the appeal of the group; they championed intelligence over musical ability and content over popularity.

Musically, there's always more going on than you'd think, but one thing's certain: it never feels here like anything is done exclusively for the sake of the big riff, really. All despite the fact that the band came together with the aim of puncturing self-important posturing with the goal of creating "something great that says nothing". Also notable is the frequency with which what's heard communicates a frightening energy. Even in rearranged form - freed from the settings of their original albums - these songs have the ability to make the hair on the back of your neck rise up. There's a sublime combination of fragility and strength to most of the tunes; there's always the idea of something more going on; of a sadness versus joy tug-of-war, of violence trying to best rationality. Apathy versus action? Maybe.

Monkey Gone To Heaven's meditation on planet-wrecking and evolution, for example, begins with a narcotic, woozy dump of guitar, before near-silence jack-knifes into screamed explorations of the workings of the universe while strings play in the background. It's maybe the best-known example of the contending streams in the Pixies' work - primal scream versus chinstroking.

The band's straddling of rock, post-punk and pop is plainly obvious on this collection, and it�s curious how well they flow together. Full-scale head-kickers like Gouge Away or the motoring Holiday Song sit alongside perfect pop gems like the Kim Deal classic Gigantic. The happily faux-suicidal (Wave Of Mutilation, a surfy car-wreck ode!) nuzzle up to the amp-kickingly harsh (Vamos). Drug-hazed angel choirs support investigations into the nature of the self while snorkelling (Where Is My Mind?) while elsewhere, the band attempts to get into your pants again (Hey). Debaser, years on, is still one of the most exhilarating rallying calls recorded. Hollered vocals beckon listeners to embrace the strange and explore the different, debased, unexpected ways life can be lived. As a hymn for affirmative action for the blank generation, it's unsurpassed.

And then, of course, there's Here Comes Your Man, a tune that, for all its summery nature, has the ability to make grown men weep unrestrainedly. Seemingly an homage - though knowing its progenitors' mercurial temperament, probably not - to fabulously-constructed girl pop of the '50s and '60s, it features the most fabulously soul-piercing harmony wail that you're likely to hear. A dusty Kim Deal and a ragged Black Francis combine their vocal powers - and this is before the wordless vocalise that sits between chorus repetitions - and bring them to bear on a single word. It evokes the feel of scratched, washed-out home movies, of something lost, of something so beautiful it hurts. It's something that could well be used to describe the songs here as a whole: cracked, fucked and beautifully, lovingly realised.

This is affecting stuff.

(It's also worth noting that the record label has taken some care with this release - or at least, there's a real Pixies fan helming the quality control: it's been noticed that Hey is missing the big man's initial holler, so they've offered a shout-inclusive version for free downloads to all you gypped punters (remasters will include said shout) on this webpage. Rockin'.)

Ultimately, though, if you're already a Pixies fan, this isn't the album for you. If you've listened to them for any length of time, chances are that you'll already have most of the albums and another compile of their work won't exactly be essential - as their recent Complete B-Sides selection was, say. It's a much better-chosen best-of than the frequently-lambasted Death To The Pixies, though, perhaps because its flow allows the development - and increasing paucity of Kim Deal tunes! - of the band to be examined a bit more fulsomely than you�d expect. For hardcore fans, this disc will fulfil the role of a pretty nifty mix tape - albeit one with fancy packaging. You'll probably use it to debate the running order (more or less chronological) and give you excuses to pull out your albums.

The people who'll be best served by Wave Of Mutilation are those who've heard that Kurt Cobain quote about how Nirvana were only trying to appropriate Pixies tunes; those who heard Where Is My Mind? at the end of Fight Club and thought it sounded hazily cool; those who've had mates who'd chant the "...and if man is five, if man is five..." bit from Monkey Gone To Heaven at when they were pissed, but never understood it. The uninitiated. This release - assuming it's not solely released to accompany the DVD that's also just been released - is best pitched at newcomers to the band. And as an introduction, it's pretty much faultless. The range of the group - from spiky, arms-crossed fuck-off tunes to the most gloriously heartbroken pop to ever be laid down - is delineated over the length of the disc. And it's as impressive now as ever.

This is the best way to get into Pixies if you don't know their work too well. It's a tearily joyous almost-70-minute reminder of what music sounds like when it's fucked-up, ebullient, unashamed and new. Cherish it.

And if you do know their work well... what are you doing reading this? Go and fish out Surfer Rosa and Doolittle. And play 'em loud.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

Marky Ramone, The Spazzys @ Gaelic Club, 02/05/2004

2004-05-07T17:07:00.000+10:00

A punk stalwart came to share his memories and experiences... and was rewarded with a cup of urine. Well done!

As the line to the door of the Gaelic snaked up Devnnshire street, a steady stream of ticketless would-be punters scoured the crowd on the off chance that a spare way into the club would present itself. The number of people trying to get in - hoping against hope! - was indicator enough that this was a gig of some note. Marky Ramone - Marc Bell to his parents - was in town to talk about his history, NYC, booze, pills and rock. While it was a spoken word evening, there were also plans afoot to perform a set of Ramones tunes - hence the clamour for tickets. Those that had managed to snaffle some were up for a memorable night, to say the least.

The evening kicked off with a typically energetic set from Melbournian three-piece The Spazzys, the first of two outings on the boards that they'd make this evening - the second would be as backing band for Marky. And while the band played with great enthusiasm and vigour - bassplayer Lucy's slew of Big Rock moves received a full work-out - the sound quality for their set was, unfortunately, less than optimal. Kat's vocals, especially, were drowned out by the rest of the band, though their sound as a whole seemed a lot muddier than it had on previous occasions. It's a shame, as whenever The Spazzys play, they put more into their performance - whether it's honesty, youth or just plain arse-shaking rock - than many other bands, so it was disappointing to hear them let down by the PA.

After a shortish set, they left the stage - leaving many punters with fingers crossed that their appearance later on would receive a mix they deserved. Next up, the Gaelic darkened - after a projector was installed centre-stage - and the screen on the back wall flickered into life. On it, footage of The Ramones was played. Switching between interviews, award acceptance speeches and oldschool performances to an insane record of the band's crowd evasion techniques while on tour - which largely consisted of drivers tear-arsing around and hoping they'd not mow down too many fans - the footage saw excitement in the room rise. Catcalls, slow-clapping and general amounts of "Woo! Yeah! MAAAAARRRRRRKY!" shouting filled the air.

Then, it was time. Clad in black, Marky entered. Gripping the projector's controls, he began recounting the story of his life, from geeky kid to punk superstar. Touching on key figures in the NY punk scene - Richard Hell, NY Dolls, The Voidoids, Wayne/Jayne County, Blondie and others - the wide-ranging tale took in poverty, single-mindedness, Keith Moon's drumming style, arrests in Japan and appearances on The Simpsons as Marky recounted his journey from suburban normalcy to musical notoriety over ninety minutes or so.

A technical hitch with the slide projector brought the talk to a halt for about ten minutes, in which time Marky took questions from the audience. An absence of roving mics through the crowd meant that he was largely restricted to answering queries that originated in the front couple of rows of the crowd - something that wasn't taken particularly well by the crowd in the Gaelic's upstairs section, who made their discontent pretty plain. Sadly, when an attempt to include anyone further than arm's length away was undertaken, the questions were rendered inaudible.

This sort of heckling interaction was a more vocal version of what had been bubbling through the crowd for the whole night. Perhaps it was the weird amalgam of spoken word show and live performance, but it seemed that a large portion of the audience had already made several trips to the bar, resulting in a fairly audible undertone of conversation the entire way through the show. Every time somebody's name was mentioned, a boozy cheer would go up from the audience - no matter if it was a memorial pause or a passing comment. Enthusiastic, sure, but ultimately, it meant the flow of the night was frequently stifled while Marky waited for some level of quiet to descend again so he could recapture the threads of conversation.

Of course, the hard-arsed nature that drove The Ramones onwards was still close to the surface - despite Marky's lack of leather jacket. There wasn't too much ill behaviour he'd tolerate. A fan down the front - who later showed his appreciation for such a great evening's entertainment by throwing cups of piss on the stage... what a gent! - wouldn't shut up. Marky had asked him before - nicely - to keep quiet and calm down. But it wasn't to be: increasingly incensed by his interruptions, the rocker leant down into the crowd and - with the aid of the term "Fuckface", silenced his opposition. He may not be 20 any more, but the threat of a Ramone arse-kicking still carries some weight.

Micturition-based distractions aside, the audience was enthralled by the collection of bravado- (or stupidity) filled tales. Marky was candid about his bouts with addiction (of all kinds) and always keen to salute those that've passed on as a result of such dalliances. "I ain't a preacher," he said, before giving the crowd license to do what they wanted, within reason. But bear in mind that this is a guy who's swallowed drugs thrown over a fence, and managed to survive rubber rooms and crashing his (unregistered) car through a furniture store after consuming enough alcohol to lay low a football team. There's probably a bit of wisdom passed on here!

Instead of coming across as an I-Was-There-And-You-Weren't kinda guy, Marky's generosity, honesty and general easy manner made the spoken word part of the evening a lot more enjoyable than it might've been with other artists. Rather than being an offhand discussion of well-known events with disdain for his fans, the night felt like a great conversation over a couple of beers. Yeah, the guy on stage has lived his life with some people who have become - as he has - legends. Yeah, he's been through some incredible things. But he carried with him the simplicity and the lack of pretentiousness that made the evening a pleasure.

After a second bout of questions, Marky left the stage for a short break. The members of The Spazzys took up their instruments - with the exception of drummer Alice, who was relegated to vocal duties while Marky took his place on a much larger kit, set up at the rear of the stage. The drum sound put out was bigger than ever, and when that familiar "One, Two, Free, Faw!" count-in began, the place went wild.

The set list for the set ran as follows:

I Just Want Something To Do
California Sun
Sheena Is A Punk Rocker
I Don't Care
I Wanna Be Sedated
Rockaway Beach
Rock'n'Roll High School
The KKK Took My Baby Away
It's A Wonderful World (as covered by Joey Ramone on his solo disc)
Chinese Rocks
Pinhead

As Pinhead came to a razor-sharp end, the band left the stage, though everyone knew that they'd be back to rectify the glaring omission from the performance: Blitzkrieg Bop. And as an encore, it was great. Hey-ho, let's go! Like the rest of the set - though it was prefaced with a big grin from Marky, and the admission that he loved everyone in the audience (perhaps with the exception of Mr Fuckface?) - the song kicked the crowd into overdrive. Thunderous drumming saw the moshpit spark up for a final two-minute all-out thrash, knowing that their time with a legend was almost over. And by the end, there was a sea of smiles.

Sure, there's no way anyone - a noble effort by drummer Alice aside - can ever replace Joey on vocals. Not really. Sure, the performance seemed like a Spazzys set with more solid drumming. But that was the point. Again and again, Marky had pointed out that the great thing about The Ramones was that anyone could play their kind of music. He seemed flattered at the relevance of the music he was a part of - and tonight, the crowd in the Gaelic Club showed their appreciation in that time-honoured way: by getting pissed and going absolutely apeshit.

Somewhere, The Ramones were smiling.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

Danko Jones - We Sweat Blood

2004-05-05T16:03:00.000+10:00

Canada's greatest live act? Metal revivalists? Or one of the most positively-minded bands ever to earn a set of devil's horns? Danko Jones' latest release proves they're all three.

Danko Jones are the real deal. A band who gigged relentlessly through the Canadian scene for two years before laying anything to tape. A band whose label dumped them because of singer Danko's - yes, this is a three-piece that shares its leader's name, much as PJ Harvey did on early albums - outspoken views on filesharing and music downloading. A band who are managed by their drummer and play to crowds in Europe that most bands'd kill for. Keith Richards' favourite support (along with The White Stripes) for The Rolling Stones' last tour. The hardest-working band in rock? They're certainly front-line contenders for that honour. And all this - attitude, hard work and strength - comes out on their newest album, the fabulously-titled We Sweat Blood.

The disc's their third album, though in reality it's their second proper studio effort, following Born A Lion (the previous disc) and I'm Alive And On Fire, the collection of odds-and-ends that doubled as their debut full-lengther. It's also the product of main man Danko Jones getting back into metal, something he says he's not been listening to much of over the past five years. And as a metal homecoming, the reunion of an old headbanger and the devil's own music, it's brilliant. The sort of punky soul that the band exhibited on earlier EPs has been replaced by a pared-back beast that rocks with fists of steel - but one that also nails the mid-'70s swagger that made bands like AC/DC kings.

The cover of We Sweat Blood should telegraph exactly how metal this album is. On the back, a trio - red-eyed, shaven-headed (mostly) and wearing black leather wristbands stare out. (Inside, there's devil's horns, fittingly.) On the front, a stylish guitar-player - leather wristbands again - is seen in close-up. Blood drips from his hand as it knocks out a riff... just underneath a logo in a pointy metal font. The only thing missing off the rock-and-roll-all-nite checklist is a picture of Satan riding a motorbike. This is HARD ROCK, baby, and from the outset you're gonna know about it.

The band's packed touring schedule meant that We Sweat Blood was recorded quickly. It sounds like it - although that's not to infer that there's anything rushed or sloppy about it. Rather, it's a gripping example of what an incredibly focussed bunch of players can do when they're given studio time. The songs roar out of the speakers threatening to rip the listener's head off - which is exactly what Danko Jones claims he intended with this disc. They're uniformly strong, and the production is fearsomely crisp. There's no sense of booming spaces or of distance from the band - they're front-and-centre, and are loud. Theirs is a style of music that demands to be played at full volume - but the great part of this disc's construction is that you're always left thinking that it could be turned up a little bit more. There's no distorting of vocals, no overwhelming sense that it's too loud - just that it's too damn good.

Musically, the tunes are strong all the way through - though if a weak track had to be picked, it'd be Love Travel, which seems to get stuck in second and never quite take off. But in terms of greatness? I Love Living In The City, for example, begins with some funky Tone Loc-styled cowbell before moving into some seriously stratospheric riffing that's laid-back despite the tune's speed. It is, of course, topped by a vocal that mentions getting it on with your sister. I Want You is moshpit perfection with a brilliant harmonised chorus lead-in. The skittish riff on Heartbreak's A Blessing rocks like a supercharged boogie tune before jumping into a chorus with sledgehammer restraint: the band drop in and out, but when they come back, it's like a brick to the back of the head. Wait A Minute's jerkiness harks back to punk styles, while Hot Damn Woman even sounds dirty. But the killer track's the title one - a thumping lead that sounds like sped-up Black Sabbath, elasticised bass, corralling drums and a shouted chorus that's great in the evil, bigger-than-Jesus way that all good rock should aspire to be.

There is a touch of the "All right, Cleveland - are you ready to ROCK?" Steve Tylerism to Danko's vocals. But it never colours the music with any sort of campness or unintentional hilarity. It's not used all the way through - The Cross, for example, is a white-hot screamer of a track - but when this sort of knowing tone's used (on Dance, say), it's used to full effect. It's hard to know if Danko's taking the piss or if he's being entirely earnest when he sings, and that level of mystification adds an enjoyable confusion to the listening experience. This could all be about a character, or it could all be from the heart - but as it is with George Thorogood, you can't quite tell if that's a tongue in his cheek or if he really is happy to see you.

What's intriguing about the disc is the lyric writing. Previously, some critics have written the band off as nothing more than frat-boy rock - a sort of Canadian Andrew W.K. power trio - because of their lyrical content. And it's true, there's always been an element of Danko Jones' music that zeroes in on the seamy side of seduction. But there's never really a sense of exploitation found in the songs here. There's tunes that borrow from the blues' history of raving up sexuality and performance - Love Travel or Hot Damn Woman - but there's also songs of empowerment. Strut and Dance, say, are both positive songs of women of sexual strength. Forget My Name, rather than being a tune of ogling, is sweetened by the fact that it's a big, bad rock song about the singer's shaky-legged inability to communicate with the object of his desire. It speaks of a maturity that's not overtly indicated by the plethora of riffs on the album. It certainly goes against expectations, pleasantly so. This ain't just big dumb rock we're dealing with here - it's a new breed entirely: self-aware, but able to channel the best of the past, no matter how glam.

If you look around, if you dig inside the rocking sound and fists-in-the-air choruses, you'll find that the concepts of self-reliance (Heartbreak's A Blessing) and of having strength, of never giving up (We Sweat Blood) are central to Danko Jones. While it's got a twitch in the hips, this is a disc that's more aligned with the straight-edge mindset. Sure, you can be the loverman, and sure, there's a big part of the music here that's rooted in... well, rooting... but the concept of kicking arse and always moving forward is something that comes across here, writ large. It's just backed up - and occasionally overwhelmed - by riffs that'd make Angus Young envious.

The Australian edition of the album contains a bonus disc with three tracks on it. Boogie Woogie, I Like To Ball and Take Me Out On A Stretcher were all recorded during the We Sweat Blood sessions, and as such share the same hard-driving ethic that informs the rest of the album. They're all cut from the same cloth, lyrically - voyeurism, seediness and rapid-fire sleaze - but are reassuring as they don't come across as the sort of limp not-good-enough-for-release material that some bands foist on assorted territories as extra content. I Like To Ball, a cocked-eyebrow, stop/start powerhouse - the line "You can trust me - I'm a gentleman!" never sounded so deliciously vile - is probably the best of the three, though the machine-gun riffing of Take Me Out On A Stretcher is stupidly enjoyable. The album itself features some multimedia extras, too. If you've a PC that can handle it, you'll be treated to a video for I Want You and a photo gallery backed by the tune Lovercall from Born A Lion. Shots of festivals and fans with tattoos of the band's logo abound. The real joy of this part of the disc, though, is the interview with Danko, filmed at his home on the eve of the world tour in support of the album. There's a potted history, some air-guitar and plenty of footage of the band playing to huge audiences across Europe.

The scary thing about this footage is that you begin to realise - as strong and focussed as We Sweat Blood is - that the band is really a live beast. This is a reduced version. And yet, it still manages to beat most hard rock albums out there.

We Sweat Blood is, at heart, an album made by a band that gives until it hurts. Their sense of honesty - despite the occasional adoption of sleazy poses - their strength and lack of guile is what comes across most plainly when you listen. There's nothing but three blokes, playing together in a superbly tight fashion that borrows from some great, '70s-and-'80s-style riffarama - and they do it better than almost anyone you're likely to hear. If you've been looking for an arse-kicking, back-to-basics rock album with sneering to burn, then you've found it. We Sweat Blood is worthy of double devil's horns - and then some. Check out the band's site for some MP3s if you're cheap - but it's almost certain that this is a title you'll want your own copy of.

Why? 'Cause pissed-off air guitar's never been so much fun. Play this sucker loud.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

Tourettes @ Excelsior, 16/04/04

2004-05-02T14:48:00.000+10:00

Darkly mesmerising, Tourettes - and the Sik FuKs - were out in force at the Excelsior. And woe betide any hecklers...

Late arrivals to the Excelsior this evening were certainly kicking themselves. Stuffed to the gills, the pub was heaving as the Sydney-based Tourettes kicked into their set with all the subtlety of a petrol tanker explosion. As more punters tried to move their way to the front of the band room, the Tourettes Army - otherwise known as the SiK FuKs - made their presence known. Moving as one, the mosh began, and a real sense of camaraderie pervaded; of community and single-mindedness (not only of dress) that's often missing from rock gigs.

The four piece's type of music is certainly dark, but it's plain to see why it engenders such a fervent respsonse from the band's fans. It's also easy to see why Tourettes aren't signed to a major as yet - the most notable big-name act (lame as the comparison may be) that sounds somewhat similar to Tourettes is Evanescence; although they're a severely emasculated version of the local powerhouse - a watered-down Diet Tourettes, if you like. The real thing communicates a crushingly heavy sound that somehow manages to remain unique, despite the overtones of industrial, metal and darkwave that pepper the tunes. And they have the king-hitting bonus of being fronted by perhaps the most enigmatically terrifying to ever wield a microphone: Michele Madden.

Tonight's gig at the Excelsior is - like Tourettes shows in general! - really just a case of Michele holding court for the duration. There's no question about the instrumental ability of the band - indeed, they're some of the strongest musicians playing this type of music you're likely to see - but as good as they are, there's no denying that the audience's attention will, for the most part, be commanded by the band's singer. With long hair flying, tattooed muscles tensed and a wild-eyed stare staking to the spot those punters brave enough to venture into the front rows, she's nothing short of enthralling.

Vocals summoned from the depths of the earth are flung at punters. In terms of emotiveness, there's nothing short of primal screaming that'd communicate pain, anger and general feelings of spiritual seasickness more effectively than the vocal lines that're given an airing tonight.

This is less a gig and more an encounter with some kind of caged, superbly literate beast. It's a live show that immerses - thanks to its dynamic leader - in a way that encourages both fear and respect. Tourettes ride a knife-edge between chaos and muscular assuredness in a way that few bands are able to - or have the balls to.

The great thing about a Tourettes performance is that there's no question of the crowd being there to see the band. To be honest, they'd be scared not to pay attention. Anyone who heckles - you have breath left to heckle with after this mosh? - is forced to run the gauntlet of Michele. Aside from the obvious fact that a muscled singer with a microphone is going to easily overpower an unamped dweeb with an attitude, those tonight that try their luck at smart-arsery are quickly undone with a reminder of exactly who paid to get in tonight, and who's taking the cash home - just before the band pummels the audience with another of their dark constructions.

As the crowd made its way out of the humid pub, the most telling testament to the intensely personal nature of Tourettes' music was made by vocalist Michele. For the past hour or so, she'd been all over the stage, prowling and intimidating. But at the end of the night, the image that remained was of a performer, glasses and beanie on, blending into the crowd and slipping away. Someone who'd channelled so much power, content to merge into the night and leave gobsmacked punters alone with memories of a performance stronger than most you're likely to see.

Somebody, please give Tourettes the acclaim they deserve. In a sea of mediocrity, there need to be more homegrown arsekickers.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

The Spazzys @ Hopetoun Hotel, 16/04/04

2004-05-02T13:53:00.000+10:00

Paco mightn't love 'em, but this evening's Sydney crowd thought The Spazzys were more than just a bit of all right.

Tonight's gig at the Hopetoun - the official launch of The Spazzys' infectious (and nigh-on unavoidable, if you're a radio listener) single Paco Doesn't Love Me - saw the Sydney landmark packed to the rafters with punters eager to get a good gander at the punk girl group of the moment. Trips to the bar became a battle of epic proportions, and actually being able to see the stage throughout the gig was, for many, nothing but a dream. It was, to put none too fine a point on it, sardine-like. But the great thing about a show by the Melbournian three-piece is that they have the distinct ability to make you forget your worries - to forget that your hard-won beer's just been knocked all over the place by some dingus in a trucker cap, to forget that several members in the crowd look like they're about to explode in a fit of claustrophobia-induced psychosis - and to party. P-A-R-T-Y, in the way that only good, honest punk can.

In The Spazzys' set, there's no tinges of emo-wank, no overtones of anything other than three chords and slavish love of Ramones tunes. The songs have one speed setting - full bore - but that doesn't distract from the quality of the playing. The band is - as you have to be to pull off the kind of music they play - tight as the proverbial aquatic being's orifice. Most of the crowd can't see the band, all youthful enthusiasm in a leather wrapper, as they speed through their set, but it doesn't seem to hamper the reaction. Songs zip by every two minutes, and the strength that's led to the trio's constant string of support slots (playing as Marky Ramone's backing band must be a dream come true!) is readily on display. Whether it's the band's age, or the fact that they're totally immersed in their work, instrumental virtuosity replaced by honest-to-God love of what they do, one thing is simple: the band is kicking formidable amounts of arse with a crowd of punters of whom more than a few are only in attendance for the eye candy factor. Thumbs up!

The grin-factor's really kicked up a notch by the band's rapid-fire rendition of The Angels' (no, not the Doc Neeson variety) My Boyfriend's Back. It's the perfect encapsulation of their gig in just one tune: aware of the past, faithful to the spirit of the original - ain't no irony here - and yet embued with their own energy. This is a band unafraid to take on the classics (remember, these three have updated the most legendary punk shout-out of all time to "Second Verse! Different from the first!") and make them their own. And no matter how hard some might try to find fault with what The Spazzys do, it's simple - you can't. Watching them play is, quite simply, good clean fun. No, it ain't rocket science - but sometimes all you need is a buzzsaw guitar, a couple of chords and the heartfelt belief that you're rocking the fuck out.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

5.6.7.8s, The Holy Soul, The Booby Traps @ Annandale Hotel, 30/04/2004

2004-05-02T12:57:00.000+10:00

The 5.6.7.8s destroy the Annandale on another of their Australian visits - but where's Quentin?

This was always going to be a big gig. Despite cancelling his Q&A session at the Opera House due to exhaustion, rumours persisted that Kill Bill director Quentin Tarantino would make an appearance at Japanese trio The 5.6.7.8s' Sydney gig. After all, he had put them in one of his films - surely a plus one on the door wouldn't be too much to ask?

But the Annandale's patrons - and with 400 payers, the venerable institution was absolutely heaving - were disappointed; the world's most successful fanboy was nowhere to be seen. In which case, he was the loser of the night: part from missing a sold-out performance by the headliners, he also missed out on one of the best-conceived local acts going - The Booby Traps.

On stage first, The Booby Traps warmed the place up with their knife-sharp take on miniskirt rock. The set tonight saw them approach their tunes with more enthusiasm than ever before; from the last couple of gigs the band's played, it seems they're slowly getting more au fait with playing live. Certainly, lead singer Carrie's voice tonight seemed to be pushing edges of strength that'd previously been a little more hidden away. What the quintet would benefit from, however, is a little of what The 5.6.7.8s have in abundance: a lack of selfconsciousness. Just rip it up and go! As good as these bearers of the Alice band rock flame are, if they all tore it up as much as their drummer Michelle did, they'd be an unstoppable combo, fuelled only by attitude and hairspray. Some of the band look slightly uncomfortable in the lights, but surely a look at the grins wreathed around the crowd should overcome any feelings of uncertainty? These guys are good - they just have to start believing it.

The Holy Soul put in their usual set of angsty, we'd-really-like-to-be-Joy-Division rock for the punters. Having stepped into a support slot at the Annandale often in recent months, the band appear comfortable playing on-stage - perhaps a little too comfortable. Indeed, the set seemed to be marked by a sense of the average - occasionally even plunging into the mundane. Sure, the songs the band plays have angst hard-coded into them, but they still reek of the quick study. Rather than being changed by the pain inherent in some of the tunes, it seemed a large part of the audience was left unmoved; for all the grinding onwards, for all the throbbed veins in the neck, there was no real emotion communicated. Perhaps it's easy criticism, but it seems that The Holy Soul mount the stage with nothing to say; that's why some of their tunes seem to have all the appeal and apparent plan of a seagull looking for a place to land. Certainly, tonight's lacklustre performance gave no indication of the talent that's been experienced at other gigs - their support slot for Bob Log III, for example, where they were revelatory - or the ocean of hype that currently surrounds them.

A hint, too: the cover of Swampland will, invariably, have ex-Scientists knocking on your door. And not with bouquets. Drop it and concentrate on your own stuff. It's said - reportedly attributed to Count Basie, a man who moved in a circuit where trading of tunes was much more common than today - that nobody should cover a tune unless they can make their own mark on it. It's just not happening here.

Finally, it was showtime. The three first ladies of beach-blanket axe-wrangling took the stage to a thunderous reception. And why the hell not? For the next hour-and-a-bit, they cranked out some hell-for-leather tunes that sounded like perfect '50s pop from Mars. Kill Bill-featured tunes I'm Blue and I Walk Like Jayne Mansfield made an appearance in a set packed with tasty, disposable numbers that always rested one notch below a snarl.

Formulaic? Sure. But the appeal of The 5.6.7.8s lies in the fact that they're so passionate about what they're doing. Their performance was marked by the fact that the trio seemed to be having just as good a time as the audience were. They're purveyors of great party songs: you know when the chord changes are coming, you know how the guitar solo will sound, and you know, somehow, when the backing ooh-oohs will sink in. But it doesn't matter because it's so good natured; something that's important and often overlooked in performance. They're having FUN! On stage! Unthinkable!

Despite the fact that they've been together for almost 20 years, The 5.6.7.8s' appeal - live, at least - rests on the fact that their playing exhibits a naive charm. You get the sense - despite the obvious ability of the band on their respective instruments - that there's a chance of it all going horribly wrong, that they only just picked up their respective axes last week. But it never fails, and never falters. Light and fluffy but with an iron hand on the tiller, The 5.6.7.8s destroyed the Annandale tonight - and did it with sweetness and a smile.

The end of the night saw the inimitable Jay Katz spinning the finest in chi-chi tunes - as he'd been doing all evening between sets. Tentatively, as the Annandale cleared, The 5.6.7.8s came onto the dance floor and proceeded to groove the night away - shyly, then with real release - with those lucky enough to be still sticking around. It seemed fair - the crowd had been moving non-stop while they were on stage; now it was time for the hardest-working beehive-worshipping babes in rock to get their own back.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

Spiderbait - Tonight Alright

2004-04-27T19:50:00.000+10:00

Festival kiddies rejoice! Spiderbait's new album heralds the rebirth of their rockin' phase - and it's about bloody time!

Ahh, Spiderbait. Festival favourites, and a band for whom music's more been about oversized, singable tunes than the pursuit of the super-literate - anyone remember Ol' Man Sam and their cover of Run? If you believe the band's website, Spiderbait came together as a result of combining boredom, punk, metal and a combined musical knowledge that amounted to approximately three chords. And, given the circumstances of their beginning, the great thing about the band - more than a decade after their inception, is that the thing that makes them beloved across the nation is still intact. Their enthusiasm for letting loose and playing remains intact, and seems even stronger on Tonight Alright than it has ever before - and perhaps it's because they've quit, for the moment, the electronic excursions that marked The Flight Of Wally Funk.

Of course, the electronics haven't entirely been eschewed on this album. They're still there, it appears. But it seems that largely, they've been supplanted by an increased use of the guitar - or good playing - to create more impressive sounds. There's bleeps and bloops in some places here, but rather than sounding like cheesy analogue or dated drum-machines, they sound like the result of a feedbacking guitar, an echo pedal and a bit of humanity - not to mention some good playing. Not relying on electronics to layer the band's sound means that the resultant tunes kick a lot more - and feel a lot looser, a lot groovier - than Spiderbait have for a while. It's a reaffirmation of where their strength lies: after so many years on the road, Janet, Kram and Whitt are an impressively tight unit. Tonight Alright seems to be the result of them embracing that cohesiveness and laying it straight to tape.

Even the album's artwork is indicative of the band's reconciliation with rock. It certainly breaks with tradition, at least. Gone are the cartoons that've adorned most of their previous releases and formed so much of the Spiderbait iconography. In their place? Simple silhouettes. No real details are discernable, except that each appears to be rocking the hell out - just as it sounds on the disc. It's simple, and mimics what you might see of the band on stage at a gig with a preponderance of red filters. Like a classic Blue Note cover, it's devoid of bullshit, commensurate with the music that's contained within.

And what of that music? Well, Spiderbait aren't exactly reinventing their wheel through these 36-odd minutes. But it's certainly a cobweb-clearing revisitation of some favourite facets of their style. Generally, this is a disc you can imagine playing while tear-arsing along the freeway on the way to the beach, or on a night out. Certainly, most of the tunes here have moshpit gold written across 'em. Indeed, if you're looking for the perfect get-the-night-started tune, you've found it in Take Me Back. Kicking off with an edgy Bo Diddley-on-speed drumbeat, overlaid with circling guitar, an overdriven Kram tells us he's talkin' 'bout love. A tide of guitar sweeps in as wah-swells and drums rise and fall menacingly.

And then, something fabulous happens.

After an accelerated, increasing-chord vamp, the song breaks back into what's perhaps the funkiest thing Spiderbait's ever done. Bass and drums lock tight and the groove is on. Descending basslines that sound like they should be accompanied by someone descending a stairway with a top hat and a cane. Guilty guitar licks escape a carefully-constructed cage, adding just enough freedom amongst the head-nodding. It's difficult to describe, but it's certainly grin-inducing.

The perversely disco-influenced path is continued later - most overtly - with the band's cover of Black Betty. And while it stays pretty true to previous renditions of the song, there's something importantly different about it. It's got a great combination of strength with that trademark Spiderbait weirdness. Handclaps and shout-outs rest hand-in-hand with Sabbath-worthy amp-melting... before the whole thing bursts into a marvellously slack-arsed rock god section which leads off into a sort of "funky-helicopter-flies-into-space" solo. Maybe those cartoonist tendencies have only escaped the cover art - the band's sense of giant robot fun remains intact, thank God.

Fucken Awesome, however, takes the prize as the album's most singable tune. Aside from a parent-baiting lyric line that reiterates how the subject of the song is, unsurprisingly, fuckeen awesome, it's in possession of some of the most perfect pop moments Spiderbait's ever mustered. It also brings to mind the P'TangYangKipperBangUh tune Fucken Ace, though this time around, it's a more mature, yet innocent take. The exuberance, the sheer joy that's communicated in Janet's vocal line is infectious.

Don't wanna walk away
I couldn't anyway
You fill my empty day
You know make me stay
'Cos you're fucken awesome

It's tells of a happiness, a sort of overdriven love that's backed by an almost perfect ooh-aah harmony that you'd be a hard-hearted bastard not to enjoy. Similarly, Cows lands in the same territory, though with some more '80s musical attachments. There's a feeling of tentative love - the thrill of romance tempered by the desire to make sure everything's OK, that nobody's weirded out. It's cute, in a spiky way. Tonite continues the sweetness with something that's surprisingly subtle. Vocally, it's smooth, and reminiscent of some of Lou Reed's work, with a low-key - almost Dire Staits! - musical approach. The reassurance, both musical and lyrical, is that it's all cool - Spiderbait, despite the over-the-top gestures and loudness, will look after you. And you know what? You'll believe it.

Are good things happening to the band? Hell, from the sound of these tunes - even the more misanthropic ones, like Live In A Box - there's certainly some fabulous stuff going down. There's a feeling of corner-turning, of new beginnings here that's pleasing; all the more because it works so well when combined with riffs that'd do Fu Manchu proud.

Musically, the band's never sounded better. The drum sound that producer Sylvia Massy Shivy - known for her multilayered work with bands like Tool and Skunk Anansie (not to mention Kylie Minogue) - has captured here is perhaps the finest that Kram's ever ridden. One of Australia's greatest (underrated?) drummers ever to occasionally strap on an Elvis jumpsuit, the muscularity of the playing leaps out more than on other discs. Strangely, it's not a sense of a bloke walloping the hell out of a set of skins that comes across here; more, the idea of subtlety is communicated. When the only percussion heard is a cymbal, it's not lost or underwhelming - it's just right, and strangely, not too much in-focus. Likewise, Janet's bass and Whitt's wide-ranging guitar are never spotlit incredibly: rather, the three work together as a whole. This is an album that works because the three musos on it are working as one, something that's often stated but rarely pulled off as well as it is here.

Arse-kicking drumming, fluid basslines and Gary Glitter guitar that's so crunchy it should come with a nut warning: Spiderbait have rediscovered - or should that be re-embraced? - their rockin' roots. And the result, to purloin one of their own lines, is fucken awesome. Tonight? All right!

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

Papa M - Six

2004-04-23T01:14:00.000+10:00

David Pajo is indeed a musical luminary. It's just a pity that Papa M's asleep at the wheel.

Over the course of his career, David Pajo � who pursues musical endeavours under the Papa M nomenclature on occasion � has had his hand in a number of well-received, critically important bands. A key member of the legendary Slint, one of the founders of Tortoise, a player with the Palace enclave, guitarslinger for Stereolab, The For Carnation and Billy Corgan�s Zwan. So you�d expect him to release something pretty outstanding, right?

Right.

In reality - given Papa M�s history, including the well-received Live From A Shark Cage album - it�s disappointing to hear the mediocre tunes that comprise Six, the latest release in Papa M�s self-described �endless tour diary�. The concept behind this series of releases is that it allows Pajo the freedom to record whatever he likes and release it in whatever form takes him. What it seems to have resulted in in Six, however, is basically an exercise in tedium.

Accompanied by Dianne Williams, Papa M winds his way through three tunes all remarkable for their innocuousness. There�s not really anything of excitement on offer. Foreign Hotel Garden, for example, is nothing much more than a collection of dodgy rhyme structures and badly read diary entries. Overwrought? Well, it would be if there were some substance to get one�s knickers in a twist about. Likewise, The Trees Do Grow So High is a traditional tune, ground down to a sort of slo-mo Brian Wilson nightmare, all syrup and stultification.

Lovely Room has a wonderfully redemptive moment, though � the guitar solo that bestrides the tune is quite� well, lovely. Doubletracking and what sounds like pitch-shifting push something that�s certainly not a Steve Vai-style solo into the realm of the beautiful. Unfortunately, it�s not enough to lift the disc out of the general bland area it�s resting in. There�s a soporific feel that�s too hard to shake off, and it basically comes across as laziness on the artist�s behalf. Sure, these might be private sketches, after a fashion, but if they�re being put out as a fully-formed release in their own right, surely there should be something appealing about them?

The idea of recording as and when the mood strikes is an appealing one. It�s just a shame Papa M couldn�t be bothered to collect a stack more of them and sift through them before releasing them as another CD with the emotional resonance of some of his other works. There�s no doubt that Pajo�s an important artist � but if you want proof of his grandeur, look elsewhere.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

Phantom Planet - Phantom Planet/The Guest

2004-04-22T23:56:00.000+10:00

A two-for-one deal that highlights a band's growth from sophmore pop to sneery garage - with thanks to stardom and an Amish cabin.

Phantom Planet is a band that's dogged by fame. Seriously. They've released a couple of albums (three studio, one live DVD), have played with � and get serious props from � the likes of Elvis Costello and Bruce Springsteen, Guided By Voices and Ben Lee. Their new album, Phantom Planet is a quantum leap over their previous studio effort The Guest � both of which are included in this release � but it seems that most press wants to focus on the fact that vocalist Alexander Greenwald was in Donnie Darko, and that Jason Schwarzmann, the lead guy from Rushmore, was their drummer.

Fair enough.

But Schwarzmann � who played on both the discs here � is no longer in the band, and they're certainly now further away from the tag of boy-band-for-the-alterna-flick-set. So now it�s out of the way, let's concentrate on this two-for-one set that contains the last two Phantom Planet albums.

To be fair to the band, listen to the second disc of this release, The Guest, first, because it�s an earlier studio effort than Phantom Planet. And therefore, when you whack on the newest platter, it'll be that much more effective. The Guest is a much more populist affair. Produced by Mitchell Froom and Tchad Blake, it's got much highly polished top-40 sound, as you�d expect from the producers of discs by Suzanne Vega and Crowded House.

On the whole, it's an album of youthful exuberance, sure, but it's also pretty close to cringeworthy at times. Alexander Greenwald's vocals sit so firmly in the middle of the road on The Guest that it's sometimes surprising that he hasn't been knocked off by an overtaking SUV on the Californian highway the band's obviously motoring along. But when they're on the ball � and they're not indulging in tedious sub-heartbeat soft-focus time signature schmaltz � it's none too shabby. The epic sweep of Billy Joel (yes, seriously) or The Beatles is invoked occasionally (on the lighters-in-air and faintly godawful Anthem), while tracks like Nobody's Fault sound like Elvis Costello when he was still with The Attractions, albeit with a little more cheese. Harmonies abound! Radiohead's box of tricks is opened on the album's most intriguing electronics-flavoured track, Turn Smile Shift Repeat � a nervous ditty that ultimately proves frustrating as it provides a tantalising example of the band's ability to think outside their pop straitjacket, something that's not really done enough on the album.

Aside from the twelve studio songs, four additional rag-tag tracks � alternate versions, demos and a live track � round out the disc, leaving a vaguely disorganised feel. On the whole, The Guest is sunny, as befits an LA band, and leaves you with a largely happy yet unfulfilled feeling � much like fairyfloss.

Phantom Planet, on the other hand, is a uniformly solid disc that manages to kick large amounts of arse. As it indeed should: anything recorded in six weeks (following an 18-month tour) in a log cabin in an Amish town should certainly sound like it's going stir-crazy. It's rooted in the sort of spazz-garage mire from whence sprang Liars, say, but it's much, much less annoying than some of that scene's stalwarts. Producer Dave Fridmann, formerly known for his work with epic-sweep bands like Mercury Rev, Mogwai and The Flaming Lips manages to make the band sound like they're jamming, but with a much greater sense of precision than most noodling conveys. The looseness inherent in their tour mates The Vines comes across in tracks like the bull-at-a-gate The Happy Ending, but where that band can�t keep their eye on the ball, Phantom Planet succeed. Big Brat is a solid-beat belter that leaps into gear with a pluckiness that's surely got The Strokes worried � and with the aid of what sounds like bass saxophone! Class.

Greenwald's vocals on this outing seem to be a lot more comfortable than previously. There is a certain louche Julian Casablancas overtone in effect, but the strength developed is certainly obvious � particularly in tunes like Making A Killing or You're Not Welcome Here, the latter being a pulsing wall-of-guitars anthem that requires subtlety that the vocalist certainly didn't possess on earlier discs. Touches of Thom Yorke or Robert Smith turn up in other songs on the album, with Beatles references sublimated into the background for the most part.

Then, [even further] out of left field come songs like Badd Business, a ska-styled tune that occasionally turns into car-crashes of guitar and feedback. It's an achievement that's pretty spectacular, particularly given the fact that the muscularity and straight-out rocking � combined with a willingness to play, to chop and change that's apparent on Phantom Planet seems to belong to a different band entirely to that which recorded The Guest. It could be said that they're different beasts: though the ear for melody remains intact, the sneer that's sported is a new � and welcome � addition.

If anything, Phantom Planet/The Guest is an interesting document of the growth of a band over a couple of years. It's the sound of a band finding their feet, increasing in musical ability and broadening their expectations. While both discs, taken at once, underscore the fact that the band's pretty influenced by musical trends that are everywhere at the time of recording � could the next album have Outkast-styled weirdness all over it? � they're both enjoyable for different reasons. Admittedly, The Guest has some pretty horrible missteps on it - but when it does work, it's an example of na�ve pop of a pretty high calibre. Phantom Planet, on the other hand, is an album of drag-knuckled anger and confusion that's well worth hearing. Taken together, this is a set that you should probably give a spin to: there�s more than enough to keep your interest here.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

Horrorpops - Miss Take

2004-04-22T21:07:00.000+10:00

Candy and the crypt combine in this two-track taster of Horrorpops' blend of speedy song.

This two-track taste of Danish psychobilly is as quickly digested as a Chupa Chup � and almost as tasty. Around since 1996, Copenhagen's Horrorpops are pitched somewhere near where the latter-day incarnation of The Cramps hang out: the less freaky and more poppy side of the road. More harmonies, less howling. They're precisely what their name would lead you to believe: a bats-and-spikes wrapper that belies the sweetest candy. And hell, their lead singer's giving the devil's horns on the cover of this single. And their lineup features two go-go dancers. What more do you want from a band?

Well, maybe a bit of spark would be nice.

The two tracks here have been lifted from the band's debut, Hell Yeah!, and if they're anything to go by, it'd be a great party album. There's not much in the way of depth - "woah-oh-oh!" and references to brain-lust is about as philosophical as things get - but then, the works of Sartre never were the easiest things to sing loudly while pissed and pogoing around the lounge room. They're not reinventing the genre, really - how many times have you seen or heard this kind of ghoul-groove approach? But they're at least passionate about their love of schlock. Certainly, the energy displayed here is pretty intense, and it covers a lot of the simplicity of the tunes: they're both fairly standard three-minute rockers with nifty guitar solos.

It's probably not the comparison that the band would want you to make, but vocalist and doghouse bass player Patricia sounds rather reminiscent of Gwen Stefani - indeed, there's a sort of bad-girl-but-fun feel to the tracks here. Although it's a credit to her ability that at times she manages to channel Siouxsie Sioux and Deborah Harry (who're listed as influences on the band) - and even what sounds like our own Brigitte Handley - without making the listener think that she's merely aping them. Where They Wander - definitely the strongest track on this single - is the perfect vehicle for her, too: it's a Misfits-u-like thrasher with a fine New Wave-styled vocal line that has an irresistible beat that'll have you out of the coffin in no time, largely due to the insistence of the vocals, keeping pace with the drag-racing bassline.

All in all, the tracks on this single are a pretty listenable example of how good tight, dumb psychobilly - is there any kind? - can be. The lead track, Miss Take, isn�t quite strong as it could be - and it certainly begs the question as to why it was the single choice - but the b-side's a killer. They're a damn tight band when they want to be, and while it's probably true that, as with most rockabilly/psychobilly bands, the real measure of the group's in their live performance - it seems records often are letdowns - they put in a pretty exhilarating couple of cuts here. If you're a fan of the Zombie Ghost Train neck of the boneyard, you could do a lot worse than to check 'em out.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

Gentle Ben And His Sensitive Side - The Beginning Of The End

2004-04-20T19:34:00.000+10:00

Aw, sweet Gentle Ben And His Sensitive Side. Buy them a glass and somewhere, someday you'll hear the story of the girl that done them wrong... and what they did in return.

From the opening of The Beginning Of The End, it's clear that there's something special going on. A swivel-hipped songster with a forked tongue, Ben Corbett - half of SixFtHick's twin-headed vocal beast - prowls this platter of tunes like a schizophrenic strongman in the mood for love. From the steamy locale of Brisbane via the go-go singles of the '50s, a little town called Tijuana and anywhere that's bedecked in velvet and mirror balls, Gentle Ben And His Sensitive Side have delivered a collection (too short!) of tunes that you'll quickly store in the I Wish More Bands Did This Kinda Thing file.

Assuming you can get it off your stereo.

The sort of blended fare here - it's sometimes hard to tell if sweet, sweet lovin' or a smack to the head's in store - draws broad comparisons with Vegas-era Elvis (if he were prettier), Kim Salmon's cabaret stylings (if he were less cynical), the windblown power of Calexico (without some of the wank they've accumulated) and the death's head iconography of Nick Cave (with slightly less preachifyin'). What Gentle Ben And His Sensitive Side have pulled off - straight out of the box - is what Dave Graney seems to be reaching for but is never quite able to grasp. What's more, the ironic shield of the joke isn't in use. This album's a rarity: an exploration of lonesome, almost-too-seedy cabaret that doesn't seem to have its roots in pisstaking. It's indulgent, sleazy, hilarious and tear-in-beer moving by turns - and it's far tighter and more accomplished than any debut should be, by rights. There's rarely been something produced that's so fully-formed from the get-go.

And that's not idle; the lyricism at work here is fabulous. A sort of emotional fatalism, a distanced dissection of the acts of a bastard... it's all a bit noir, with hints of barely-contained anger, mysterious burial and unexplained passions. Take some choice lines from Lo Siento, for example:

I screamed and I spat in the eye of the storm
Oh, struggling and squirming, impaled on the horns
Of the creature that's taken up residency
In the boarding house room at the centre of me...
Lo siento!

Of course, the vocal work, fine as it is, would be nothing without the band behind it. And the musicians assembled here - Dylan McCormack, Nick Naughton and Trevor Ludlow being the band's core, with additional help from David McCormack, Shane Melder and Lauren Brown - are the perfect foils for Corbett's perversely cinematic vocals. The tunes borrow from many musical styles - there's keyboard-driven pop sounds that'd be welcome on Gidget's beach blanket parked next to martial drumming and a low-down western guitar. Falling features a powerful, emotive wailed chorus that sounds like it's been lifted from a Roy Orbison track. Don't Wait uses the same sense of crescendo - but with a more soulful effect. There's a mish-mash happening here, with perhaps the only unifying factor being a sense of seediness, a sort of shabbiness, some midnight radio feel hard to define. There's no sense of battle between vocalist and band - instead, it's a wonderful blend.

Interestingly, the songs here appear to be a further examination of currents that've always been present in the work of SixFtHick. The Lap Of Luxury's Last Lullaby, for example, hinted at some of the quieter backwaters of darkness that Gentle Ben And His Sensitive Side explore. And with most of its brace of songs clocking in under three minutes, The Beginning Of The End offers a series of enigmatic portraits that whet the appetite. Falling In Love offers a nice twist on the ideas of the Elvis tune of the same name, while Moonlight Sea makes a watery demise sound appealing in a half-drunk sort of way. Most immediate of all, however, is I Don't Think She Loves Me - a half-Spanish, half-English, all passion tune adorned in handclaps and rodeo screams. It's difficult to get anything other than an oblique view of what's happening, but like a keyhole vision, the tales intrigue.

If you've ever seen Gentle Ben... live, you'll know that one of the ensemble's strengths is the way they can move from whip-cracking strength to heart-on-sleeve po'boy-ism in the sweep of a verse. With some bands, recording songs of this nature robs them of the shamanic power that a gig can have, alcohol-enhanced or not. Thankfully, the way Ben Corbett strides the stage, an elegant, razor-cheekboned huckster badboy, flamenco-stepping through the smoke to croon or wail with furrowed brow, supported by his supple band - has survived the transition to tape. It's theatrical, yes, but it all just works. I Can't Hurt You is a great example. A tale of weeping and beating, it veers between the low-key and the swing-arsed rocking - but without any sense of the emotional release being ill-considered or forced. Similarly, the lupine derangement of the group is also in evidence on Spell Of The Moon. A howling Corbett exhorts the moon to shine down on him while circling tones - like a persistent ringing in the ears, echoed tenfold - run rings around the band's subtly tidal Mexican lament. The vocal line stops, and the two styles - south-of-the-border versus UFO - try to outpace each other, before the song ends without a feel of a victor. Uneasiness prevails; uneasiness clothed in insanity. Poisonous spines and retribution coming down the hall: that's what, more than anything else, these songs sound like.

The album ends with the plaintive Happiness, a song that begins with the sound of footsteps. It's as if - armed only with a guitar - Ben's providing an apology for all that's gone before, Jimmie Rodgers-style. All the grandeur and the drama of the album are prologue: "I'm skippin' town while you are cryin'," he laments, a masochist who no longer desires happiness or the solace of togetherness. Hell, the litany of things you could do to him without retribution - throw his possessions in the rain, tell people he's gone nuts, 'cause it doesn't matter - is surpassed only by the sense of resignation that's communicated to us, "the pearl before the swine". Faintly discernable backing vocals give a ghostly feel to what turns out to be the perfect closer.

Short and sweet, The Beginning Of The End is a cocktail of dangerous beauty. Head for nearest velvet-draped establishment in your finest rayon and get ready to toast them, because if this is any indicator of Gentle Ben And His Sensitive Side's potential, the main course will be a killer.

Literally.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

Franz Ferdinand - Franz Ferdinand

2004-04-14T14:55:00.000+10:00

The Scottish critical darlings of the art-school rock circuit step up to the plate - but can they deliver?

There's a couple of Franz Ferdinands you can choose from. First, Franz Ferdinand: Austrian Archduke whose assassination led - more or less - to World War I. Or there's Franz Ferdinand: art-school darlings of the UK press, formed to make "music for girls to dance to" after two future bandmates almost came to blows over a bottle of grog. It's fairly safe to say that while the former has more of a handle on the moustache stakes, the latter's acute rock is what's currently preoccupying scribes and hipsters everywhere. And the real question is this: does the Glaswegian quartet's debut full-lengther live up to the Brobdingnagian hype that it's been wrapped in? Is it worth the pimpin' fur coat of writerly praise it's been given?

The answer? Fuck, yes. And the label wrangles that've held the album's release up in Australia - it was out in the UK in February - merely underscore the fact this this disc was worth the wait. The band - who began life giving illegal gigs in a space called The Chateau, who aim to reintroduce fun and melody into the dour wilderness of postrock and who feature a drummer who won't use rack toms because they stop the audience seeing him - has come up with the goods. Like any debut, there's some missteps (Tell Her Tonight, for all its Bowie-esque arse-shaking and bravado, is a little unfulfilling, as is the overlong This Fire) but there's a higher success rate here than most.

Thee first track, Jacqueline, is almost without peer in terms of opening salvos. Beginning with a meditative acoustic strum, it's not long before a Peter Hook-heavy bassline kicks into gear, accompanied by guitars that spray out a rising, circling riff (and occasional shard of high-end funk chunking). Drums with cymbal breaks like pneumatic jets keep robotik time as vocalist Alex Kapranos intones a veritable hymn to hedonism on what's one of the most balls-out rocking cuts on the album. The music puts you in mind of creeping spies, while the lyrics are pure surrender, pure release of work and responsibility:

It's always better on holiday
So much better on holiday
That's why we only work when
We need the money

The band thunders like hoofbeats over lines about being alive - it's affirming and immediate, relatively unguarded in a way in which some other tunes on the disc are not. The song that first got the band widely known in Australia, Take Me Out, remains almost perfect, even though it does almost everything a tune shouldn't do: it gets slower and slower and changes direction almost entirely. But somehow, dangers are sidestepped, and the two-parter celebration of sexual tension (or sniper tension, if you like) makes its transition from Strokesville to some kind of high-stepping Land Of Booty seamlessly, with enough jangle and handclaps to make you dazzle at the chutzpah rather than decry its dilettantism. As far as pop goes, it's great. And it's immediately followed by The Dark Of The Matinee - already single-fodder in the UK - a thumper of a song with a glorious chorus testifying to the narcotic embrace of the movie theatre. Schoolboy desire and urges to impress are communicated elliptically, before a laid-back verse speaks of appearances with Terry Wogan in the afterglow of fame. Prescience? Fantasy? It's hard to say.

But that's the point of the band, it seems: desire, regret and observation are all combined in an obfuscatory way, and left to the listener to tease out
- and all without the help of a real string section or found-sound recording. Lyrically, it appears that sexuality drives the disc. It takes the tight-chested feeling of pursuit, the breathless desire of the unattainable individual, the hedonistic freedom of the party circuit (and its after-effects) and a shabby sense of voyeurism (seen through alcoholic shades and a dusting of dancefloor glitter) and wraps them in a musical covering that's tight enough to appear awkward yet loose enough to groove. Many times, the viewpoint seems to mirror the feeling you might have had if you've ever arrived somewhere at 3am, sober when everyone else is horribly, horribly drunk: that magical time when the edges are rubbed off everything else but you, and the world's little tragedies are somehow more visible - George Grosz-style.

Glamour and despair walk hand in hand on this album - but they've never really done it in such a catchy way before. Tunes like This Fire feel like the product of a night of overindulgence, but manage to provide enough upstroked-chord slink to survive. Darts Of Pleasure is a disco-rocking dissection of the art of seduction that features a vocal line that fairly oozes from the speakers - "Words of love and words so leisured/Words are poisoned darts of pleasure" - before collapsing in a German-tinted post-coital crash. Michael sounds like an accelerated, updated version of John, I'm Only Dancing - riotous gay abandon in its truest form, while 40' is a confusion of just-viewed portraiture, la-la-la lyrics and strident, arse-wiggling riffage. Every silver lining must have its cloud, it seems - but you won't really notice unless you're searching for it, and therein lies the band's real achievement. It's good, shabby fun.

Of course, Franz Ferdinand's tightly reined-in aesthetic - designwise, rhythmically and tonsorially - is largely lifted from Kraftwerk's Man-Machine period. (Which, in turn, was largely ripped off from Russian Constructivist El Lissitzky.) But their much-vaunted angularity - a critic's favoured phrase - comes solely from the recognition and nurturing of the musical ephemera that makes a fucking great (Orange Juice-flavoured?) pop song, and the fact that they're unashamed to stick to it. You won't get huge experimental diversion here - but you will get some of the strongest pop songwriting heard this year. The energy overflows here: it's hard not to get swept up in it.

You might hate Britpop. Fair enough. But to ignore this album would be a mistake. It's poppy, but in a glorious way: exuberant, convinced of its own style, and in possession of enough skill to pull it off. Out of the box, Franz Ferdinand speak softly but carry a big stick: something that took Pulp - a band whose happy tune/sad lyric shadow looms large here, particularly on Come On Home - a number of albums to get right. There's enough offhandedly-literate, gritty kitchen-sinkery here if you look. But if you'd rather just look at the brilliantly-cheekboned dancers and shake your arse, that's easily done too. This album's well-constructed enough to satisfy your brains and your backside - and while the approach to the tunes can appear a little too familiar after a while, it's an exciting taste of what the band are capable of. If they survive the press adulation and Britpop treadmill - hello, Menswear? - what these guys next produce could be fearsomely good.

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.

The Black Heart Procession and Solbakken - In The Fishtank 11

2004-04-13T14:57:00.000+10:00

The Black Heart Procession are still bummed out. But this time, it's with the aid of Dutch prog.

Konkurrent's a musical distributor in the Netherlands that has, since 1996, been running a creative endeavour called In The Fishtank. Artists - chosen from the musical tastes of Konkurrent - are given two days in the studio to record whatever they feel like. Previous recipients of the time have included June Of 44 and NoMeansNo, but there's also been notable team-ups, including Low and Dirty Three, or Tortoise and The Ex. This, the eleventh volume in the ongoing series sees the perennially-gloomy bards of The Black Heart Procession head into the studio with leading Dutch prog-rock exponents Solbakken to make a little musical magic of variant quality.

The two bands first played together in 1998, and it seems that the bond forged was strong enough to encourage this series of tunes, hammered out mid-2003, just after The Black Heart Procession's tour in support of their quasi-concept album Amore Del Tropico had finished. Curiously, it seems that Solbakken - doubting their abilities in the improvisational side of things - chose to suggest a couple of ideas to their Fishtank partners, acting perhaps more on the side of production than performance. As a result, this disc sounds a little more prepared than some others in the series: a little more thought-through, rather than being the sole production of two bands noodling about with the tape rolling. It sounds like an augmented version of The Black Heart Procession with a little more in the way of electronic touches. Solbakken - though possibly because of their lack of fame in this neck of the woods - seem here to be reduced as not much more than guns for hire rather than important contributors.

The lack of individual song credits on this series of discs make picking who does what for particular tunes a rather infuriating task. In the end, you'll end up lumping everyone in The Black Heart Procession's camp, because it sounds so much like one of their other recordings - but with a little less wind blowing through the high-tension wires, and a little more of that Montreal-collective-band feel tacked on. In that respect, this EP's perhaps not as intriguing as others in the series have been - the Low/Dirty Three disc springs to mind - because it's very difficult to really tell it apart from another Black Heart Procession release. This is particularly obvious in tunes like Dog Song, which borrow from much of Amore Del Tropico's tricks (slow-burn time-signatures, building basslines, musical saw) to produce something that's reminiscent - but not as strong - as their other work.

There's not a great deal of challenge for the listener in these songs, particularly if you're familiar with the rest of their output. BHP vocalist Pall (or Paulo, if you're following his apparent changes in nomenclature) sings here as he does elsewhere - the slightly ill-conceived and poorly-articulated bass singing in Things Go On With Mistakes aside. The best vocal performance, in fact, is one in which the bulk is taken over by someone who's not a member of either band, Swiss singer Rachael Rose. On Voiture En Rouge, she sings verses sexily (over standard doomy piano voicings) while Pall steps in and out of a shower of cymbal shimmers, singing of entropy, of ending - as ever.

The quality of the lyrics on this release are a sticking point. They're not as polished as those that appear on The Black Heart Procession's other discs, and in some places (Dog Song in particular) skate perilously close to banality. Of course, this isn't particularly surprising to anyone who's a fan of The BHP, given their occasional penchant for clunky lyrics. But it's this almost palpable disregard for something so fundamental to a literate band that lets the disc down. This is mentioned in the EP's liner notes, where it's said that vocals were recorded through a reverb-heavy guitar amp to conceal the fact that there wasn't much in the way of wordy goodness during the session. Which begs the question: what'd they do in there for two days, if this was as planned as it seems?

Griping aside, there's some fabulous moments on this disc: the martial drums that give music-box guitar harmonics a nudge in the almost-anthemic Your Cave; the double-drummer assault - reminiscent of Godspeed You! Black Emperor - and aircraft-like sounds of Things Go On With Mistakes; the kick drum and guitar sea-crashing in Voiture En Rouge; the circling, opium-clouds of violin mystery and muezzin wailing in Nervous Persian. These elements work to create a doomy feel with an undercurrent of softness that's a little more freaky - and a little less considered or planned - than other releases. But there's always the question: what would this collaboration be like if it sounded a little less stock-BHP?

In The Fishtank 11 is probably not the best place for beginners with these bands to start. But if you approach it with a grain of salt, it'll certainly provide good background music for a couple of snorts of absinth on a stormy night. Cheers!

This article originally appeared on FasterLouder.com.au. I am no longer associated with that website and, as copyright owner, have moved it here for permanent record.