Email | LiveJournal | MySpace | Last FM
Here is the content from Nemesis To Go issue 4.
Scroll down, click to get to places you want to be. All the links below go to the original pages, but the navigation links in the grey bars at the top and bottom of every page will take you to the current issue of Nemesis To Go. Hit the Archive link to come back to the old stuff.
Interviews from issue 4:
Straight Up: Youth introduces Vertical Smile
Live reviews from Issue 4:
 |
The
Jesus And Mary Chain |
 |
Ipso
Facto + Eve Black / Eve White + Sam Amant + Kitty Bang Bang Decasia @ The Old Blue Last, London Wednesday August 29 2007 |
 |
X-Ray
Eyes |
 |
Screaming
Banshee Aircrew + Zeitgeist Zero Slimelight, London Saturday July 21 2007 |
 |
Emilie
Autumn + Lahannya + Dyonisis Underworld, London Friday July 20 2007 |
 |
Front
Line Assembly + Portion Control + Mechanical Cabaret + Trauma Pet Electric Ballroom, London Sunday July 8 2007 |
 |
Devo + Scanners Shepherd's Bush Empire, London Tuesday June 26 2007 |
 |
Clan
Of Xymox + Violet Stigmata + Act Noir Slimelight, London Saturday June 23 2007 |
 |
Eve
Black / Eve White + Sam Amant + Miss King & The Kougars Tesco Disco @ Hedges & Butler, London Wednesday June 13 2007 |
 |
Wave
Gotik Treffen Various venues around Leipzig Friday May 25 - Monday May 28 2007 |
 |
The
Human Value Punk, London Tuesday May 22 2007 |
 |
Noblesse
Oblige + Deluka The Glitz @ Madame Jojo's, London Thursday May 17 2007 |
 |
The
Young Gods |
 |
The
Human Value + Le Chat Noir + Venus Bogardus The Junction, Bristol Saturday May 12 2007 |
 |
Sixteens + Wrong Animal + I Am The Arm Tesco Disco @ Hedges & Butler, London Wednesday May 9 2007 |
 |
Sixteens + Cristine + Cassette Electrik Being Boiled @ Notting Hill Arts Club, London Tuesday May 8 2007 |
CD/Vinyl/Download reviews from issue 4:
Siouxsie
Mantaray (Universal)
Here's
a bit of history being made. The first album by Siouxsie as a solo artist
(as opposed to part of the Banshees, or The Creatures), the first release
via her new major label deal, and - rock 'n' roll pub quiz enthusiasts
please note - the first album of any of Siouxsie's incarnations since
1980 that has not featured Budgie on drums. New ground is being broken
all over the place here. Although Siouxsie as a solo artist is not an
entirely new concept (she's been performing solo since 2004), this is
her debut album of new solo material, and represents, I suppose, the
real start of her new career. Certainly, the fact that she's on a major
label again will boost her profile, for I think many erstwhile fans
rather lost touch with Siouxsie's activities during the years she was
working independently, with her own label, Sioux Records. But this release
arrives with all the big-budget trimmings you would expect, and a credit
list that includes Siouxsie's hairdresser (Mark English, just in case
you're taking notes) and something called an 'A&R Co-ordinator'.
Since it apparently took a corporate cast of thousands to make this
album, the least we can do is listen. Let's press play.
Well,
Siouxsie has obviously got in touch with her inner Twentieth Century
Boy. 'Into A Swan' slams into action on glam-fuel and glitter-stomp.
It's brash and loud, and Siouxsie herself is right up front in the mix
as fuzzed-out guitar and defiantly distorted synths rampage in the background.
If you told me this was a cover of something from T Rex's album The
Slider, or some other slice of vintage glam rock, I would be almost
inclined to believe you - although the lyrics, which are quite brutally
direct, are all Siouxsie. 'I'm on the verge of an awakening,' she declaims,
although how anyone could be anything other than awake with that glam
racket going on is beyond me. 'Don't be surprised/This change is my
design' she asserts, and there's no doubting that. 'About To Happen'
continues the theme: Siouxsie anticipating - no, relishing -
the future, with all its apocalyptic changes, over a rampant glam rock
workout that even contains - yes! - handclaps on the off-beat. Sweet.
Literally. On 'Here Comes That Day' the guitar is given a rest in favour
of a somewhat dated avalanche of thwacking drums, parping brass and
sampled orchestral stabs - it's so Trevor Horn - as Siouxsie
settles some old scores. 'There's a price to pay/For a life of insincerity'
she asserts, as if victory is 
already
in the bag. Who's the victim? Dunno, but I'm glad it's not me. Siouxsie
can certainly spit venom as effectively as ever. 'Loveless' is more
self-examination over a low-down dirty, riffing, guitar. 'I'm wearing
my slinky boots/I'm wearing that kookie mood/Now they seem to fit less'
Siouxsie ponders, and it's almost uncomfortable to be allowed into her
head like this. 'If It Doesn't Kill You' is a bizarre kind of self-help
mantra, a wide-screen ballad of humming strings, as Siouxsie gives herself
a pep talk. 'One Mile Below' is yet another exposition on a theme of
'I was down, and now I'm up again', and it's a rattling, rhythmic thing
that recalls The Creatures' drums-and-noise excursions - an odd nod
to the past on an album that owes little to the previous places Siouxsie
has been on her musical journey.
Strangely, since she has left suburbia far behind her and hasn't lived the life for years, Siouxsie undertakes a ritual excoriation of the mundane and the everyday on 'Drone Zone'. 'Consumer dreams/and shopping mall schemes' she croons with gleeful disdain over a not-quite-jazz shuffle, and am I the only one to note the near-quote of the line, 'Your future dream is a shopping scheme' from 'Anarchy In The UK'? A deliberately oblique big-up to the Bromley contingent, or just coincidence? You decide. 'Sea Of Tranquility' is a full blown ballad, a style with which Siouxise has seemed a little uneasy in the past. Here she sounds confident enough, if not entirely at home amid the smooth, this-one's-for-the-mums-and-dads production. It's yet another song that seems to be about new beginnings, although the line 'There are more stars in the sky/than grains of sand' is a bit of a faux pas. I think you'll find, Siouxsie, that there isn't any sand in the sky. 'They Follow You' has a to-and-fro lilt and an attractively woozy, late-night, last-orders feel. It's a rueful look back at the pitfalls and spills of the past, and casts Siouxsie in reflective mood as she gazes, older, wiser, and a little frayed at the edges, over her life. The cluttered arrangement packs the song with busyness (two keyboard solos, for heaven's sake, one of which sounds absurdly over-distorted) while the backing vocals - 'Oh, Oh, Oh' - sound like they were dropped in as an afterthought. The song itself is a neat little thing, but it does rather sound like it's being smothered by musos and production techies who never quite know when to back off. 'Heaven And Alchemy' wraps things up with a delicate falling-out-of-love song, and while Siouxsie still sounds pretty assertive even when she's being delicate, it's nevertheless a moving piece, considering her split from Budgie is not just professional. It's personal, too. The arrangement, alas, tends towards the cheesy (that sampled male voice choir is definitely the large fromage), but it's still a brave move to leave the listener with a hint that Siouxsie - warrior ice queen of punk, and all that - can feel vulnerable, too.
So, there it is. Siouxsie's new beginning. It's hard to predict which direction her solo career will go - here, she tries her hand at everything from roaring glam rock to jazzy shimmying, almost as if she's up for anything that steers the music away from Banshees territory. While she sounds most convincing when she's getting a good rock on, her vocal performances on the softer stuff ain't so dusty, either. But the production is brutally upfront and glossy throughout, to the point where it all gets rather overblown at times, and the arrangements throw everything including the kitchen sink at the songs. I'm not sure how sympathetic the musicians Siouxsie works with here are to her style. They sound, on occasions, like they're trying to assert themselves at the expense of their singer. I catch myself wishing on several occasions that they'd just can it and let Siouxsie do her thing. The band, incidentally, is a completely new bunch, with the exception of horn man Terry Edwards, who created the brass arrangements for The Creatures. The two principal musicians, Steve Evans on guitar and programming, and Charlie Jones on bass and synths, also produce. Their credit - 'An Evans and Jones production' - emphasises the extent to which this is a producer's project.
In the end, the album comes across as an opportunity to test the water, clear the air, drop a card on the mat, put down a marker and say, 'Look out, world. Siouxsie's back'. It resounds, without quite being a resounding classic. At times, it's definitely overcooked. There are moments where it sounds more like the producers' album than Siouxsie's album. But for all that, the good stuff is good. Consider that calling card well and truly dropped.
Frank
The Baptist
The
New Colossus (Strobelight)
The
nautical imagery splashed all over this album is quite appropriate,
for Frank The Baptist's music has a windswept, seabourne, quality. Guitars
crash like ocean waves, violin keens like wind in the rigging. Up on
the bridge, wrestling with the wheel, Frank himself guides his rock
'n' roll vessel ever onwards, hollering mightily into the gale as he
goes. This album was almost entirely recorded with the new Berlin-based
Frank The Baptist band - only 'Ever' survives from the earlier Californian
incarnation. Berlin seems to suit Frank The Baptist, for there's a sense
throughout this album that the entire band is surging forward, eyeing
up the future with a view to grabbing the main chance as soon as it
heaves into sight over the horizon. It all comes across as very live,
too: if the album wasn't substantially recorded by the full band walloping
away in the studio, it certainly sounds like it. Even little glitches
- like the way Frank sometimes runs out of breath as he gets to the
end of a line of vocal - have been left in, but these moments just add
to the immediacy of the music. Naturally,
'Harlot Of Nations' is a tour de force, Frank casting himself as part
hellfire preacher, part poet. The snare drum thwacks away as the bass
dashes at it like a playful cat. 'Beg, Steal and Borrow' ebbs and flows
like country dancers in a barn, while 'Nautical Miles' is one of those
heroic sagas that Frank The Baptist does so well, the song soaring as
high as a waterspout as the ship sails implacably straight into the
gathering storm. I have always contended that Frank The Baptist is an
alternative rock sensation waiting to happen, although I suspect in
order to make that move he'll need a label a little less focused on
the deathrock scene and much more aware of the bigger picture. But,
if you want confirmation of my contention, lend an ear to the rolling,
shimmering epic that is 'Scars Forever', and the towering atmospheres
of 'Cosmonauts' - which demonstrate that whether his record label recognises
it or not, Frank The Baptist's ship is steering an unerring course between
the twin lighthouses of the Pixies and Echo And The Bunnymen. Sounds
good to you? Then jump aboard.
Frank The Baptist: Website | MySpace
Schmoof
The Glamour (Council
Pop)
Chocolate Boyfriend (Council
Pop)
Schmoof
may have a name like a Bavarian bathroom cleaner, but they're a very
British pop group. They have an engagingly high-heeled glam swagger,
and their electropop sparkles like mirror balls - but, throughout everything,
there's the feeling that underneath the polish lurks a hint of strangely
enticing grime; the sense that underneath the disco gitz, you'll find
soot-blackened bricks. Their lyrics, delivered by Sarah Barnett in a
cut-glass Pet Shop Girl accent, are wry and witty, while the insistent,
get-on-that-dancefloor-now beats never give up. 'Rock Wife' sets the
tone, a dry commentary on a world of glam that's not all it's cracked
up to be: 'In the dressing room/JD we 
consume/kebab
we gorge/in the Transit van/I'm you're biggest fan/It's so debauched'
- ah, the romance of showbiz! 'Hayfever' invents an instant new genre,
and while I'm not certain that the world is ready for electro-country,
Schmoof's tale of an unfaithful farmer - 'He was playing the field'
- mixes pop genius with pedal steel guitar in equal measures, and it's
not often you can say that, now, is it? Meanwhile,
'Make-Up' hurtles along on some splendid, bubbling, analogue bass. It
must be said that Schmoof do bubbling analogue bass better than anyone
(see 'Bubblegum' for further evidence), and I frankly defy anyone to
listen to their lyrics straight-faced. One of Schmoof's best moments,
however, isn't on the album. I heartily recommend that you obtain the
band's 'Chocolate Boyfriend' single for possibly the finest exposition
of sex versus cocoa solids that the world of pop has ever produced.
'This is a song about my dilemma/I have a big decision to make/Although
I love my boyfriend dearly/I adore chocolate cake' muses Sarah Barnett,
over an electro brew as heady as fresh Ovaltine. Extra points, by the
way, for the inclusion of such splendid Britishisms as 'footy and 'totty'.
But that's Schmoof for you. Glamour and grit, wit and chocolate, in
a Great British Electropop package.
Screaming
Banshee Aircrew
When All Is Said And Done (Resurrection)
This album is the release the Screaming Banshee Aircrew presumably hope
will start their journey from UK goth scenesters to genuine contenders
for broader success. It's a little bemusing, then, in the light of the
band's stated ambitions for wider recognition, to find that they've
signed up to the UK's principal goth scene label, with all the restrictions
that implies. The album will be marketed to the goth scene, but not
beyond: the bigger audience of alternorockers and indie kids upon whom
the Screaming Banshee Aircrew's chances of real success depend will
probably never know of the band's existence. But then, we've seen this
odd kind of cognitive dissonance before, with other bands from the goth
scene. They'll talk grandly in interviews about moving on, broadening
out, gaining a wider audience. And yet, every time a practical decision
needs to be taken, the bands simply default back to the Goth Way Of
Doing Things, as if, for all their rhetoric, they know of no other path.
If that same fate awaits the Screaming Banshee Aircrew, it'll be a real
shame, for the band have undoubted potential for greatness. This album,
a rollicking, swaggering collection of punchy, punky contemporary rock,
certainly has appeal that could go some way beyond the goth zone. Weaving
a path somewhere between the Wonderstuff and pre-glam Bowie (Mister
Ed's lead vocals do occasionally recall Bowie in his dryly observational
troubadour phase), the Screaming Banshee Aircrew rattle with impressive
brio through a set of devilishly catchy, and often intricately arranged,
songs. Buzzsaw guitar and anything up to three vocals hurl themselves
out at the listener, jockeying for equal ear time. It must be said that
the production doesn't do the songs any favours - the drum sound is
an embarassingly weedy 'bippety bop' noise throughout, while the overall
sound is very 'hard', as if the band had crowded into the bathroom and
the sound is bouncing off the tiles. But there's no doubting the substance
of the material. 'Clackety Jack' is the kind of doomed romance that
the Dresden Dolls would turn into a rampant melodrama, but Mister Ed
retains a sense of wry fatalism as he imagines himself as a rock 'n'
roll marionette '...left here in a heap/Of cogs and springs and metal
things' - and if you listen, you can hear the cogwheels whirring in
the background. 'Cold Caffeine' makes acoustic guitar and lamenting
violin seem deliciously bleak (until two minutes and twenty-five seconds
in, 
where
it sounds like whoever did the mastering suddenly leant on the LOUD
button). Jo Violet's vocals on 'Two Step' sound incogruously like the
choir on 'You Can't Always Get What You Want' by the Rolling Stones,
but believe it or not, it works in the context of this pell-mell rocker.
And then there's 'Crazy Cats', a knockabout jazz-punk slinker upon which
Mister Ed, adopting his best sleazy vocal, leads the band on a midnight
prowl. Yes, this is an album which confirms the Screaming Banshee Aircrew's
potential as top condenders. They've got the ideas, they've got the
songs, and if the scale of the band's ambition occasionally outstrips
the ability of their producer, just as it will almost certainly outstrip
the capability of their record label, those are problems that can be
fixed. All it's going to take is a bit of thinking out of the goth box.
Screaming Banshee Aircrew: Website | MySpace
Elle
A
Jet Set (Juno)
A
stripped down, retro electro rhythm gives it that essential 130bpm poke.
Odd little scritchy-scratchy noises prickle the sound, and some bass-gurgles
rumble up from the sonic cellar. Over this, a goofy-but-cool vocal recites
a tale of mile high shennanigans. I might guess this was one of Felix
Da Housecat's productions if I didn't know this single was actually
pieced together in Stockholm by Elle A, who makes minimalist electro-dance
tunes at home, in classic DIY fashion, when she's not putting in the
catwalk miles as a model. 'Jet Set' is available on assorted labels
in various parts of the world (or you can download it from Elle A's
MySpace page if you like) and in a veritable confusion of remixes. On
my deck right now I've got the Audio Unit Vocal Mix, out on the UK edition
of the single via the prolific British dance label Juno. Exactly how
far this mix differs from the original track Elle A put together in
her flat in Stockholm I'm not sure, but the tune has a minimalist, sexy-but-silly
feel that reminds me of all that Belgian New Beat stuff that was around
in the 80s, not to mention those classic collaborations between Mr Housecat
and Miss Kittin. That's pretty cool territory to occupy, in my book.
If you ever experience the urge to goof off on the dancefloor to the
sound of thumping electronics (and, I confess, sometimes I get that
very urge, although usually I resist it), here's a tune that'll do the
right stuff.
Sixteens
Into The Gold Wave Of Future Non Rip Off! (Hungry Eye)
Time
to hit the floor at the weirdo disco. The Sixteens have slicked up their
mutant dance sound and make an album that sounds like Giorgio Moroder
decided to get into bed with Can, and now they're kicking each other
under the covers and fighting over the duvet. Rhythms pulse like the
band have a perpetual motion machine concealed in the back room; noises
and voices weave in and out. The intriguing paradox of the Sixteens
is that while I suspect Veuve Pauli and Kristo Bal are actually very
good musicians (they could probably form an entirely standard rock band
if they wanted to) the music of the Sixteens employs sound in an almost
architectural manner. It's as if they build songs like other people
build houses. Sometimes, the songs aren't even songs. On 'Song Species'
it sounds like the Sixteens are making their own movie version of The
Island Of Doctor Moreau. Then the beat cranks itself up for 'Cristalline
Saturate', and we're grooving. In a suitably off-centre Sixteens-esque
manner, of course, but definitely grooving. 'Lesson In Letting
Go' is almost a boystown workout - it has the rattling metallic percussion
and vintage syndrum sound, and we're suddenly reminded that the Sixteens,
for all their globetrotting, actually hail from San Fransisco. Aficionados
of art-infested noise need not fret, however, for 'An Old DC-10' is
a slo-mo assemblage of sandpaper-rough beats and disembodied voices
- an oddly hypnotic thing, and probably the nearest piece here to what
you might call the classic Sixteens sound. Wait - there's a classic
Sixteens sound? Ha, they'll never live that down! Then it's a headlong
rush back to that pulsating dancefloor, the beats stacked up like bricks,
sampled voices and found sounds stuffed between them like mortar. 'Pastel
Tourist' is a surreal tale told by two voices, tangled like string and
prodded by electronics, while 'Caroliner' is the slowie, the end-of-the-night
smooching song the DJ plays by tradition, to enable the disco kids to
cop off with each other. Of course, here in the Sixteens' disco, it's
more of an unsettling almost-jazz ballad that suddenly kicks off into
a sepulchral, uptempo, synth-fuzz and beats number. It wraps up a weirdly
creative album from a band which has always carved its own path through
the musical wilderness - and they do so again here. Notwithstanding
the fact that some of the tunes this time round are almost recognisable
as Stuff You Can Dance To, there's no danger that the Sixteens will
deviate from their chosen path yet. The disco kids will have strange
dreams tonight.
Sixteens: MySpace
Mercurine
Waiting For Another Fall (Heads On Sticks)
Mercurine
have a rather wonderful band name - it hints at a certain fluidity,
tough and tender, a ballsy femininity. They also have one of the most
clunky song titles I've ever seen, in the ghastly 'Nu Groove', a phrase
which sounds like a marketing man's attempt to make bland jazz-funk
interesting. Fortunately, Mercurine don't play bland jazz-funk. They
create serpentine, circling rhythms over which flurries of guitar pile
up and disperse, here building into head-high drifts, there scattering
in a commotion, while the vocals of Mera Roberts stalk through the musical
landscape with a serenity that nevertheless hints at a firm-handed control.
It's splendid, sweeping stuff, paradoxically demonstrated to greatest
effect on the ridiculously named 'Nu Groove'. Once you're past the horror
of the title, the song unfolds into a swirling epic that combines a
soaring melody and a vocal that rises to touch the very underside of
heaven, while still anchored to earth with low-down bass-ganks worthy
of Dave Allen's finest moments in the mighty Shriekback. Mercurine's
ability to combine the soft and the hard, the fluid and the solid, the
etheral and visceral, is their trump card and secret superpower. If
you require further evidence, lend an ear to the psychedelic nursery
rhyme of 'Sunlightgreyskies' (nope, I don't know why three words have
been run into one there, either) upon which Mera Roberts' vocal is layered
and treated over plangent sweeps of guitar. Get a load of 'StrangeTimesLove'
(and I don't know why it's written like that, either - Mercurine really
do need to fix this song title thing) which employs a drum machine beat,
shameless in its stark nakedness, as a counterpoint to a lush, ever-ascending
mistral of a song. Drums kick in, and it all kicks off, the band throwing
everything into the arrangement but still somewhow retaining a sense
of airy space. In a way, Mercurine sound like the Cocteau Twins would've
done, had they ever decided to crank it and go for it, but then their
excursions into the ether - as on the waft and weft of 'Another Ending'
- are just as effective. At times, Mercurine are genuinely catch-your-breath
impressive. They just need to sort out the baffling way they have with
their song titles.
Clan
Of Xymox
Heroes (Pandaimonium)
Picking
their way carefully through one of David Bowie's finest moments, Clan
Of Xymox don't so much cover 'Heroes' as genuflect before it in attitudes
of exaggerated respect. Measured, restrained, and meticulous, Ronny
Moorings - who, in the studio, is Clan Of Xymox - treats the
song with such caution it's almost as if he's afraid he'll break it.
Sure, he's billed the lead track here as a 'slow industrial version'
(for which read, basically, 'slow version'), so we know we're not exactly
in for a rollercoaster ride. But it's all a bit too cautious for comfort.
That splendid line in the original, where Bowie gets downright hysterical
as he yells out how 'the guards shot above our heads!' is here declaimed
in such mundane tones you'd think Ronny was simply calling the cat in
for the night. Even the 'pop version' of the song, which speeds things
up and adds the Standard Goth Band Sampled Choir ('Aaaaaahhhh!') doesn't
add much excitement. It just sounds like All Living Fear on a bigger
budget. Two versions of 'On A Mission' are also included here, representing
Xymox with their dance heads on, plus 'Be My Friend', which, with its
stabbing orchestral samples and stepping synths, sounds like something
Apoptygma Bezerk would've done in the 90s. I confess I find this a slightly
disappointing package, because Xymox covering Bowie should be a recipie
for greatness - but greatness does not, alas, happen. You know what,
Ronny? Enough with the meticulous restraint. Get some punk rock pills
inside you!
Clan Of Xymox: Website | MySpace
Marsheaux
Peek-a-Boo / Ebay Queen (Out Of Line)
They
come from Athens, Greece, they look like the girls from The Human League,
they play analogue everything, and they are instantly, effortlessly,
cool. In a sense, that's all you need to know about Marsheaux, but allow
me to add some detail. This limited edition release gives you two Marsheaux
albums for the price of one: 'Peek a Boo' represents their latest stuff.
'Ebay Queen' is the vintage hits. But you can dip in just about anywhere
and find good things, for Marsheaux seem to have downloaded the best
of 80s electro into their heads, and now they're using those influences
to create their own music that nods in the direction of those classic
influences (and occasionally covers them: New Order, the Lightning Seeds,
and Chris and Cosey songs all crop up in the Marsheaux repertoire) while
remaining pin-sharp and contemporary. 'Hanging On' has depth and atmosphere;
'Love Under Pressure' is a looming bassline over which electro-detail
skitters, and
'Dream Of A Disco' is a sweeping, swooning anthem that conjures up the
romance of the dancefloor with chiming synth chords, an insistent, synchopated
beat, and a glacial style of the kind that nobody has achieved since
Blondie took us clubbing in New York with 'Heart Of Glass'. The
production is resonant and luxurious throughout - it's as if you could
dip a spoon into Marsheaux's music and scoop it up like double cream,
a genuine achievement for a self-produced independent band. Believe
me, certain other contenders in the electro zone are going to sound
embarassingly weedy after this. While Marsheaux make no secret of their
influences - 'Computer Love' could be Kraftwerk with a broken heart,
for example - they remain defiantly themselves, and if you're a devotee
of the guitar-free end of the music rainbow I suspect you're going to
fall head over heels for them.
Bellmer
Dolls
The Big Cats Will Throw Themselves Over (Hungry Eye)
Bass
guitar clanking like a freight train, the Bellmer Dolls anounce themselves
with 'Push! Push!', a tense, urgent anthem of post-post-punk that more
or less encapsulates this New York band in a musical nutshell. This
six-tracker of a CD sounds very much like it was recorded live in a
room, and it certainly puts the listener right in the middle of the
band's rush-and-push rock 'n' roll tempest. Guitars shriek and chime
in 'There Is No Oblivion', and the band hurl themselves at the chorus
as if it's the edge of a cliff, but don't let their pell-mell dash fool
you. There's control here, too, and unexpected restraint - 'L'Condition
Humane' commences as an almost bluesy croon, before losing its head
and getting all nervy and agitated as the guitar flurries up a storm.
It's at this point we notice the name on the production credit. It's
none other than Nick Cave's old mucker, Bad Seed Jim Sclavunos - a man
who should be able to tease out a punkzoid blues epic if anyone can.
But then, in the Bellmer Dolls he has an ideal band to work with, for
they're obviously sucking up that freaky rock 'n' roll juice just like
Iggy taught us. Go, dolls, Go!
Bellmer Dolls: Website | MySpace
Client
Heartland (Loser Friendly)
Client's
third album sees the band step away from the left-field foundations
that underpinned their previous work, and go head-on for polished pop
perfection. That's a bit of a mixed blessing, for while Client make
very good polished pop stars, it's the odd angles and attitude, the
grit in the gears and the mess on the floor that apeals to me in their
music. Fortunately, the band's oddly enticing stand-offish cool is in
full effect. Coupled to production work from (among others) Youth, who
puts all manner of detail and colour into the sound, this ensures that
for all its accessible sheen Heartland is a collection of high-quality
Clientism. The trademark melancholia of Cient B's vocals is in full
effect. 'Can't stop this hurting feeling/It's my heartland' she sings
on the title track, as if staking out Client's territory in the Not
Happy zone. And, of course, it's the contrast - nay, the collision -
between the band's every-silver-lining-has-a-cloud attitude, and the
jaunty, uptempo electropop pieced together by tech-controller Client
A that makes it all hang together. The
band's penchant for staring into the heart of darkness while soundtracking
their existential gloom with a merry dancefloor melody is perversely
attractive. And when those dancefloor melodies encompass the gleeful
Glitter Band stomp of 'Lights Go Out' (nice bit of bump 'n' grind bass
in there by Client E, by the way) you can't help being swept along.
The after-hours shift and shuffle of 'Someone
To Hurt' sounds like the aftermath of one of those nights that's gone
horribly wrong. 'In The Morning' is a fetishistic anthem ('You look
good on your knees/You know it's time to please') as arranged by Lennon
and McCartney ('Yeah yeah yeah!'). 'Where's The Rock And Roll Gone'
is another in the band's apparently never-ending series of songs about...well,
rock 'n' roll. In this case it's a lament for the lost attitude and
enthusiam of a misspent rockin' youth. As ever, the key phrase is pronounced
in full. For Client, it's rock and roll. This band is nothing
if not precise. Throw the rumbustious rampage through Adam Ant's 'Xerox
Machine' into the mix - all syncopation and guitars - and, yes, Client
have done it again. Sure, they've polished up their sound. The jagged
edges of their earlier work don't stick out so far on this collection
of songs. But I think you'll like the way they gleam.
History
Of Guns
Issue
Five (Self release)
Gloriously
ramshackle and fractious, History Of Guns are quite capable of staging
an in-band ruck in the middle of a song. They do just that here, on
their theme anthem 'History Of Guns'. If the sudden thuds, scuffles
and shouts - 'Get off me! Stop it! Leave me alone! Fuck off!' - that
erupt in the middle of the song are any guide, it all kicked off big
style in the studio. But, coming as it does in the midst of a roaring,
pummelling freakout of guitarz 'n' beatz, this sudden outburst sounds
entirely appropriate. History Of Guns have certainly turned up the belligerence
control on this one - and they're good at it, too. The band rampages
like old-skool Stranglers, while Del Alien's geezerish vocals rasp like
Ian Dury's delinquent brother. 'Your Obedient Servants' is a flamethrower
blast so effective you could probably use it to weed your drive, while
'Secret Garden' sounds like Peter Murphy's attempt on the world gothic
gargling record - 'Secret gaaaaaaarrrrrrden!'. Programmed hi-hats go
crazy in the foreground, the distort-o-guitar hurls itself messily over
everything. It all exudes an exhilarating menace, but you wouldn't want
to get too close. This CD is a freebie, issued to mark a gig History
Of Guns played earlier this year. The band frequently issue give-away
CDs to commemorate their gigs, rather like those collectors' plates
that commemorate notable events in the history of the Royal Family -
the Queen's silver jubilee, Charles and Diana's wedding, the Queen Mum
choking on a fish bone, that kind of thing. This does rather point up
the fact that the band don't play many gigs, which seems downright odd,
for the live circuit is where bands are made and broken these days.
Given that History Of Guns are nothing if not brimming with sit-up-and-take-notice
character, they'd surely stand a better chance than most of making the
punters pay attention. And anyone who didn't would probably get asked
to step outside.
History Of Guns: Website | MySpace
Sarah
Nixey
Sing, Memory (Service AV)
Dim
the lights, pour the champers. If ever there was a soundtrack to a late
night in Soho, this is it. Sarah Nixey's debut solo album (she was previously
the vocalist with Black Box Recorder) is a thing of minimalist sophistication,
a lush electronic cocktail served on a highly polished tray of stainless
steel. There's the contradiction: this music has a tough core of uncompromising
zeroes and ones, but it slinks like an exotic dancer. Much of the sohistication
is down to Sarah Nixey herself, who delivers the vocals with a cool
assurance. You can almost envisage her quizically-raised eyebrow as
she surveys her cabaret audience from the vantage point of a velvet-trimmed
stage. The particular track that'll have them packing the floor at Ronnie
Scott's (if Sarah Nixey has not yet played there, she really should)
has got to be 'Oblivion'. It has the lot: an addictive lilt, an insistent
rhythm, and some plings and plongs of electric piano which - stop me
if this sounds downright silly - recalls the laid-back west coastisms
of Steely Dan. Now there's a reference I'm sure Sarah Nixey never expected
to get, but in fact her effortless, relaxed style fits the comparison
uncannily well. She strolls through the songs with an understated confidence,
as if knowing exactly where she should place her vocal in relation to
the ever-sinuous music. Her version of the old Human League number 'The
Black Hit Of Space' sounds oddly gauche in this otherwise refined company,
and I suspect half the reason she covered the song was to provide an
instant heads-up for electro fans. It's a fun and faithful version,
but I suspect Sarah Nixey's true musical direction lies along a far
more urbane and mannerly route.
Sarah Nixey: Website | MySpace
Red
Painted Red
Pathway EP (SSG)
Devotees
of Obscure Stuff From Quite A Few Years Ago might recall a band from
Manchester called Mantra, who put out two albums of splendidly, incongruously,
assertively ethereal atmospherics, before vanishing headlong into the
Where Are They Now? file. Well, now two thirds of Mantra are back, in
the guise of Red Painted Red. This four-song EP, neatly and unconventionally
packaged in a paper sleeve, is their first release. Although fans of
Mantra will greet the overall sound of the band with a smile of recognition,
Red Painted Red are not simply a continuation of Mantra by other means.
They're a bit more of an upfront proposition, accosting the listener
with their rolling, skipping, sidling, glitch-classical torch songs
and steampunk-jazz ballads. The essential feeling is reserved, yet urgent.
Vocalist Yvonne Neve's voice is produced to sound up close, intimate.
In fact, if you turn your back on your hi-fi during 'Flower' it sounds
like she's right there in the room with you, a downright unsettling
experience. 'Radionoise' churns up a reggae lope, and progressively
builds to a teetering stack of noise, as shuddering, shredded guitar
and effects are piled up and up. Red Painted Red certainly know how
to build a wall of sound - and then they'll poke holes in it with a
vocal sharpened to a point. I'm pleased to see that the band are just
as far out on their own limb as Mantra ever were, and still as utterly
unique. This isn't pop music, you know. This is the sound of DNA spirals
unwinding.
Red Painted Red: MySpace
Freudstein
Dissected And Resurrected (Freudstein Industries)
A
compilation of electronic complications from Freudstein, arch-electro
weirdness-weavers from Brighton. This album brings together remixes
the band has done for other people, plus other people's interpretations
of the Freudstein sound. As such, it's a bit of a 'for fans only' affair,
a clearing out of the product-cupboard that might leave the uninitiated
wondering just what Freudstein themselves sound like, when untouched
by other hands. Still, there's good stuff here, like the rolling disco-thunder
of 'Misadventure', as remixed by Gary Hughes (who might be a big dance
scene name for all I know - I've never previously heard of him) and
the gutteral guitar-thrash mash of 'Wings Of Death', here billed as
the 'Agent remix'. Further down the stack-o-tunes, Freudsten give Chaos
Engine's 'Angel Of Ruin' a good seeing-to, turning the original industrio-ballad
into a spooky bass boom barrage, while Swarf's 'Fall' is transformed
into a club workout that leaves the original song steamrollered flat,
and then adds a neat little acoustic coda. Curiously, and encouragingly,
none of the material here sounds dated, even though some of it goes
back years (Swarf's 'Fall' originally came out in 2001, which is prehistory
as far as the dance scene is concerned). That points up the key thing
about Freudstein: they've always gone their own way, regardless of scene-fashion.
Good on them for doing so, is what I say.
Black
Ice
Myopia (Hungry Eye)
All
spikes and angles, Black Ice play a variety of avant-rock as bone-cold
as winter, but with a strange appeal that will pull in even the most
enthusiastic devotees of warmth and comfort. The scritch-scratch of
guitar, the scrape of violin, the thrum and thunk of bass encircle the
vocals of Miss Kel, who declaims the words with an implacable froideur.
She makes Siouxsie sound as cheery as Charlotte Church, but while the
band clearly aren't in the business of making their sound conventionally
accessible, it works rather splendidly. 'In The Dark' is a folk-punk
lament, the bass and drums marching forward like a New Orleans funeral
procession as the violin and voice spiral upwards like smoke in frosty
air. 'In Ruins' kicks up the pace a bit, as the bass rattles like dry
bones. 'Elements Of Chance' staggers along like a hurdy-gurdy held together
by sticky tape; 'Hypnagognia' drifts ever-closer, like fog over winter
ground, all atmosphere and icicles. In a way, Black Ice signal their
musical area a bit too obviously with their band name - but then, if
they were called Yellow Sunshine we probably wouldn't pay attention
in the first place, would we? Uncompromising and implacable, Black Ice
convincingly demonstrate that bleak is good.
Pzychobitch
Electrolicious (COP International)
Rampaging
around gleefully, as if they've just gatecrashed a wedding reception
and nicked all the booze, Pzychobitch make speedfreaked electro-dance
workouts spiced with a knockabout humour and shameless silliness. And
- cover your ears, vicar - you're never more than a minute away from
a reference to 'pussy'. If that sounds a bit daft, well, that's the
plan. Pzychobitch aren't in the business of making frowny industrial
anthems for the serious noise crowd, although they can certainly rack
up the distorted beats with the best of 'em. They're here to get a good
stomp on and party to the sound of suitably tortured electronics, and
vocalist Sina has just the right combination of come-hither sexiness
and fuck-off assertiveness to make it work. She delivers the vocals
in a variety of voices, from hyped-up rap to haughty disdain, and in
two languages: English and German. The English lyrics sometimes mangle
the language in a fashion which (I assume) is unintentional, but weirdly
effective - when Sina describes the predatory female character in 'Go
Pussy Go' as 'Obstinate and too much proud' she conjures up an image
more readily than a strictly grammatical rendering of the phrase would
do. Too much proud? 
Yes,
I've met people like that! The lyric is all the more effective for being
recited in the precise tones of a newsreader on one of those multinational
TV stations you find in central Europe, which use English as a handy
common language. 'Pussy Gang' is in German, and all of a sudden Pzychobitch
sound like Nina Hagen on disco biscuits. This, by the way, is a compliment.
'Lotus Eater' is as bizarrely sexy as a song which starts with the line
'I taste your drool' can possibly be, while 'Maschinerie' chases the
ghost of vintage DAF through a filter of shuddering analogue electricity.
This is an album which tweaks the nose of conventional electro-dance.
Pzychobitch are a band unafraid to get down and have fun with a genre
in which, these days, leans towards the hand-staple-forehead merchants
of EBM doom to an extent that just ain't healthy. And if Pzychobitch
can kick a bit of abrasive noise around while they're on the dance floor,
hey, that's all part of the party. I'll buy a ticket for that.
Pzychobitch: Website | MySpace
The
Opposite Sex
Violent Heartstrings (Opposite Sex Music)
The
Opposite Sex wear their musical hearts shamelessly on their sleeves.
Clearly influenced by British post-punk music, you can hear a fair chunk
of the alternative 80s in this Washington DC band's sound. That's not
a bad thing, of course, both from a business point of view - current
alternative music derives much inspiration from that era, and it certainly
hasn't done the likes of Franz Ferdinand any harm - and also in musical
terms, for The Opposite Sex have come up with a spiky, punchy sound
that works rather well. 'Violent Heartstrings' sounds like early Cure
doing battle with the vigourous horns of Pigbag, while 'Somewhere Girl'
racks everything up into a frantic, squalling musical jalopy that always
keeps things neatly structured while nevertheless being TOTALLY PUNK
ROCK. 'Does Anyone Truly Love Anyone Else?' kicks the question around
in a reflective mood, showing that the band can take things down a bit
when they have a mind to do so - although the guitar is never less than
robust throughout. 'Shattering Walls' sounds like Echo And The Bunnymen
after they'd been given a good working over with cattle prods. The influence
is unmistakable, but the delivery is hyped up and overdriven, the vocal
a freaked-out rip. It's exhilarating stuff, and that's the key point
about The Opposite Sex. Although you can indeed sit down with this album
and play Spot The Influence on many of the songs, the band put so much
of their own fire and brimstone into the brew that it all works. Intense
and sinewy, powerful and ragged, The Opposite Sex would probably be
well on their way to stardom by now if they were a London based band.
Hey, all you post-punker music fans - fancy a pilgrimage to Washington
DC?
The Opposite Sex: Website | MySpace
Huski
Love Peace Pain (Xie)
Here
we have the latest musical project of Melanie Garside, now trading under
her Maple Bee identity, although her voice - that delicious other-worldly
wobble - is so recognisable I don't know who's going to be fooled. Huski
is a collaboration with all-round producer and music maker Pike (yep,
just Pike), and the music is a slink-and-stomp excursion into ethereal
glam. Now, that might sound like a contradiction, but in fact Huski
do manage to tie those two disparate styles together more naturally
than you'd perhaps expect. 'Undatow' has an almost cinematic background
of synthesized strings, but a loping beat up front, around which Ms
Bee (or can I call her Maple?) wraps an effortless vocal. 'Make Me Your
Picture' gives it the full Goldfrapp, with a thumping glam beat that
is just crying out for a good workout on the dancefloor while wearing
glitter-encrusted platform boots. It must be noted that the ghost of
Goldfrapp does stalk Huski's music quite shamelessly here and there,
to the point where you might start wondering if Pike and Maple Bee took
a look at the success of Goldfrapp and decided that they'd quite like
a slice of that action. But where Huski establish their own identity
is on songs such as 'Finally Free', a wistful drift of a wide-screen
ballad, and 'There She Goes', where a muted electro-pulse backs up a
swaying, to-and-fro excursion into rock 'n' roll hypnosis. 'Urtica'
(apparently some sort of imaginary planet upon which Huski think they
reside - honestly, these weirdos) is a cruise through clouds of glittering
interstellar dust on a dub-techno spaceship, but 'Everything Changes'
and 'Precious' bring us back to earth with lushly-produced introspection,
and some delicate, controlled voicals from Maple Bee. Huski are a beguiling
pop group, and in a sense it was probably a mistake to front-load this
album with the glam-stompers, because that's not really what the band
are all about. Dive in to the warm pool of Huski's ballads, and discover
the honey at the core.
SubQtaneous
Some Still In Dispair In A Prozac Nation (Mythos Media)
What
strangeness have we here? This: a trippy ride through post-industrial
atmospheres, guided by multi-instrumentalist and producer James Curcio.
Although SubQtaneous seems to be a collaborative effort, with many names
in the credits, it's James Curcio's name that crops up most often. This
music runs riot from dubbed-up rumbling to heavily-fuzzed guitar workouts,
from incongruous jazz odysseys to bouts of bad-trip psychedelia. At
times, it resembles rock music, particularly on 'Daily Grind', which
sounds like the kind of mashed-up splattery racket you'd get if you
shoved Ministry down a waste disposal unit. At other times, rhythms
you could (almost) dance to are hauled into the sonic melee, and there
are effect-laden interludes and sample-soaked soundscapes, although
even when things get a little mellow the listener can never quite escape
the suspicion that monsters lurk just beyond the music. 'All You Know'
is a jazzy rap, springing forward on the vibrations of a double bass,
and in a way it's the most radical thing here. Stick out a white label
12" with this track on it, and I bet it would be all over hip hop
radio in a week. 'Panning For Gold In Rivers Of Blood' sounds like someone
slipped the orchestra that accompanies silent movies some amphetamines,
while 'Out Of Control' belies its title with a tumbling, chopped-up
neo-rock rampage. I'm not at all sure who SubQtaneous think is going
to buy their wayward art, for it's obviously not aimed at any particular
market, and the band - if indeed there is a band - takes a particular
delight in eating generic boundaries for breakfast. But you know what?
I'm glad this stuff is out there.
SubQtaneous: Website | MySpace
Swann
Danger
Deep North (Custody Night School)
Stark,
minimal, and uncompromising, Swann Danger make music as bleak as Siberia
on a cold day, but, paradoxically, there's a heady attraction to their
sound, a curious raw appeal that pulls the listener in. Building everything
on implacably precise bass and drums (the original duo of vocalist/guitarist
Cynthia Mansourian and bassist Andy Zevallos are now joined by Robert
Perales on drums) the Swann Danger sound harks back to Metal Box-era
PiL in its angular almost-dub sweeps and skitters, surges and flows.
In a way, it's a very British sound - you can imagine Swann Danger cropping
up on the John Peel show circa 1981, but in fact they're graduates of
the Californian school of post-rock invention. Cynthia Mansourian sings
with a fatalistic clamour, like Lydia Lunch gazing through windows at
rain, while her guitar pokes the listener like needles. The songs frequently
kick conventional structures aside in favour of unexpected tangents:
'The Divide' skids off into an almost militaristic workout, the drums
hammering an uncompromising tattoo while the guitar scribbles over the
top like crayon. But then the title track, urged along by a bass-pulse
worthy of the great Jah Wobble himself, ushers us past the velvet rope
and the frowning bouncers, into the death disco. Here, the band suddenly
become bizarrely immediate and accessible, the bass holding things to
a danceable throb even as the drums throw in punctuation and the guitar
scratches at the song like fingernails on a locked door. Now that works.
Swann Danger certainly aren't going to be everyone's idea of a good
time, but I'm quite happy to point them at my head.
Swann Danger: Website | MySpace
The
Divine Madness
Secrets (Mazzecanride Music)
'What
if Alice left Wonderland and started a band?' asks the promo blurb.
I'm tempted to reply, 'She'd probably come up with something more interesting
than this,' for despite their coy reference to that classic of imaginative
fiction, and notwithstanding the coquettish glance singer Victoria Mazze
is giving us on the CD cover, the mundane fact is that The Divine Madness
play a very ordinary brand of adult oriented rock. Conventionally-arranged
rock songs come and go in an unruffled, mid-tempo stream. Guitars chug
obediently, never straining at the leash. Strings soar. Keyboards plonk.
The vocals are that conventional, overblown MOR slither - you know,
where every vowel is stretched into a mock-weary slur, and the first
person singular becomes something like 'Awhahhhhhh' instead of a neatly-enunciated
'I'. On 'Total Addiction' (possibly the closest The Divine Madness get
to a visceral rock song, but don't bother getting out of your seat,
it's not that exciting) Victoria Mazze wants someone to 'Hold
me taaaaahhhd' and tell her 'Everything's awwwraaahhhd' - and, leaving
aside the numbing banality of the lyrics themselves, I feel a sudden
urge to buy the poor girl elocution lessons for Christmas. I frankly
don't know what sort of audience The Divine Madness think they're going
to attract - I suppose there might be a few mature soft-rockers out
there who are still looking for the new Linda Ronstadt, or maybe a few
enthusiasts for drivetime rock who can't wait for the next Heart album.
Maybe that's the band's target market right there - ageing sales reps
who want something vaugely rocky but soothingly conventional to play
in the Mondeo on those long motorway trips. If so, they'll doubtless
love this stuff - especially as the band have been generous enough to
inflict a double album on us. The two discs are billed as 'Paradiso'
and 'Inferno', which, to my ears, equates to 'Soft rock' and 'Not quite
so soft rock', but frankly I think I need to stop listening right now,
before The Divine Madness make me go soft in the head.
The Divine Madness: Website | MySpace
The
Process Void
Arcane Matter (Green Mutant)
Take
cover, pop kids. The Process Void go like this: CRASH! THUD! SQUARRRRK!
GURGLE! It's the sound of heavy-duty industial noise, not so much throbbing
gristle as weirdly pulsating meat products. Then they throw in walloping
disco beats and shuddering synth runs, like they're taking Front 242
from behind. Occasionally, there'll be a nod to Real Songwriting ('Retribution'
actually has a chorus, of sorts) but mostly we're in the beatz, noize,
and shouty-crackers vocal zone. It must be said that there's a lot of
this stuff about - The Process Void can hardly claim to be unique these
days, for the industrial scene is infested with outfits who make, by
and large, variations on this same racket. If you've heard a bit of
Painbastard, for example, you will already be on familiar terms with
the vocal style of The Process Void's Alex J, who is the main man and
lead shouter here. But it's well done, and - crucial point for those
of us with delicate ears - never overdone. The noise dies down from
time to time and a little subtlety and atmosphere is allowed to break
through. 'Arcane Zone' is a moody dance instrumental that manages to
be quite relaxing, notwithstanding the relentless crash of the offbeat,
while 'Comfort Zone' is a minimalist beat-samples-distortion workout
that nevertheless manages to be threateningly assertive. If The Process
Void have a problem, it's their lack of an instant regognition factor.
Given the crowded nature of the industrial wastelands, it may not be
easy to get Johnny Punter to pay attention to yet another faceless industrial
outfit doing the rhythms, shouting, and atmospheres thing - especially
as The Process Void come from Australia. I can't see many promoters
rushing to dish up European dates when we have plenty of bands right
here who cover similar ground. But if you're of the rivetheaded persuasion,
there's stuff here I think you'll dig.
The Process Void: Website | MySpace
Tonal
Y Nagual
The Unseen Deserts (United Manipulation Broadcasting)
Let's
go o
n
safari. Tonal Y Nagual create what I suppose you'd call world-industrial
music (have I just invented a genre here? I really must stop doing that)
which seems to be influenced by the wind blowing over Tibetan mountain
passes and the steaming, bubbling swamps of the Everglades as much as
any musical connections, or indeed the hi-tech urban-everything notions
that conventionally underpin the industrial genre. This album is full
of flavours and atmospheres, textures and senses, but just to allay
any suspicions that the band are musical eggheads on a backpacking holiday,
they'll casually throw in a song called 'My Girlfriend Is A Car', which
sounds like one of those whacko-electro numbers that Daniel Miller would
release on Mute Records in the early days, in the guise of an imaginary
band. Actually, you could indeed play this number up against 'Warm Leatherette'
and the two songs would fit together uncannily neatly. There's an idea
for any DJs with a dancefloor deathwish who may be reading this. Tonal
Y Nagual's sonic explorations certainly aren't conventional, but they
keep their beats reassuringly regular, so even in their most out-there
moments there's something to latch on to. In a way, this album could
be the natural successor to Brian Eno and David Byrne's My Life In The
Bush Of Ghosts - it has the same kind of compelling strangeness and
hinted-at humour. Weird, but really rather wonderful.
Tonal Nagual: Website | MySpace
Veil
Of Thorns
Cognitve Dissonance (Mythos Media)
Another
emanation from the Mythos Media monster, in this case a solo project
from P.Emerson Williams. And - somewhat surprisingly - we're in the
rock zone, sort of. Veil Of Thorns are not exactly a band, but the music
does inhabit a rocky landscape, even if it sometimes doesn't seem entirely
comfortable there. P. Emerson Williams is responsible for vocals and
most instruments, with James Curcio on drums (I'm delighted to note,
by the way, that the album was engineered by someone called Fluffy)
and together they brew up a dust storm of tight-but-loose guitar riffs
and driving, nervy, drums. Let's sample some: 'The Enigmatic Barely
Atone' has a lost-in-the-desert feel, as if the sands of the Sahara
are shifting under the music as it hurtles towards the sunset. 'Delusions
Of Excitement' is a fine title for a spooky, sepulchral song - the desert
night has fallen, the world is hushed. Even the bass seems muted here,
rumbling somewhere in the background as if Steve Severin was hiding
behind a pyramid. 'Corrode And Engulf' (Veil Of Thorns are great on
titles) is a grind of treated cello, half way between a lament and a
threat. This music is, naturally, high on atmosphere, and if, at times,
it teeters on the brink of proggy indulgence it has enough latent attitude
to pull back from the brink. It's like nothing else out there, that's
for sure.
Veil Of Thorns: Website | MySpace
Pink
Turns Blue
Ghosts (Strobelight)
Strangely,
for a band that once based itself in the UK and has expressed admiration
for such 90s Brit-indie heroes as the Stone Roses, Berlin's Pink Turns
Blue have made a very gothic album. Fortunately, it's gothic in that
early-80s sense of noir-tinged post-punk rock, spacious and minimal
in its arrangements, mid-tempo and meticulous in its execution. Built
around solidly regular chang-chang-chang guitar riffs and neat, exact,
drum patterns, 'Ghost' is an album as tidy as a spring cleaned kitchen.
There is no clutter here; no extravagance. If Pink Turns Blue were clothing,
they'd be a collection of neatly-pressed dress shirts - all of them
firmly buttoned up to the neck. That's sometimes a frustration. It would
be nice to hear Pink Turns Blue cut loose and get crazy occasionally,
but they just don't indulge in such stuff. However, the saving grace
of this album is that it's done so well. Vocalist Mic Jogwer
delivers the lyrics with the easy aplomb of a poet reciting familiar
works, while the guitar darts about like an active but well-trained
dog that knows not to tug at the leash. If all of this makes it sound
that Pink Turns Blue are not exactly exciting...well, OK, there is nothing
here that'll have you breathless on the edge of your seat. But the crisp,
methodical, almost contemplative style of the band has its own appeal.
Pink Turns Blue are quietly impressive on their own terms.
Pink Turns Blue: Website | MySpace
Elusive
Locked Doors, Drinks And Funerals (Pandaimonium)
An
album that does not, alas, live up to the promise of its title. I was
expecting a heady romp through some low-slung, swaggering debauchery,
but I fear Elusive don't quite deliver. The desert imagery and the band
shots in the inlay booklet drop a clue to the area we're in: see how
all three members of the band are rockin' the cowboy hats 'n' shades
look? Can we say Carl McCoy? Yes, I think we can. That's not to say
that Elusive are another bunch of Neph copyists, although they've certainly
copped the look. They're a straight-up hard rock outfit with a certain
penchant for relentless chugging riffs and big six-string crescendos
- hear how the guitars go SCHLAAANNNNGGG! every time the choruses
come round. Stentorian vocals declaim lyrics which hint at mystical
melodrama while remaining, by and large, incomprehensible. Try this,
from 'Run Away': 'She moves between light and shadow/Drawn towards/Drawn
to the stars/In fire, untamed/Blood rushing/It's all so strange'. Well,
you said it, mate. I get the distinct feeling that Elusive write their
lyrics by nailing mystical buzz-phrases together, without much thought
for meaning. Slap the words over some ballsy riffin', and you've got
the new rock sensation right there. Well, if you're a diehard rock fan,
maybe that's the way Elusive seem. Me, I just don't think the world
needs a new Nazareth.
Bee
Stings
Pressure (Running Away) (Council Pop)
Here's
an unexpected, but very welcome, discovery. This CD was sent to me by
Schmoof, who we met above, because there's a Schmoof remix tucked away
in the extra tracks on this single. But Bee Stings are an interesting
proposition in themselves, if this neat racket is anything to go by.
Led from the front by a take-no-shit female vocal (the singer's name,
I gather from the band's MySpace page, is Valkyrie, which seems entirely
appropriate) 'Pressure' starts off deceptively quietly, but just when
you've figured that the song is a nice poppy little ballad, it erupts
in a squall of staccato rhythms and skidding keyboards, boldly-struck
guitar and bristling attitude. It's a fine burst of strop-pop, and definitely
a heads-up for further investigation. In amongst the remixes, Schmoof
sprinkle their analogue fairy dust over the song and almost turn it
into a Donna Summer disco hit, which probably made Bee Stings raise
an eyebrow or two when they heard it. But hey, it works.
Up Yer Pod...
Let's
round off this unfeasibly long page with a place to go for some good
old download juice. This time our zeroes and ones arrive courtesy of
former London club DJ SamSam, who has been hurling new music up on the
web for a few years now via the online noise machine he calls Radio
Free Abattoir.
Now operated from a beach in Florida (it's all right for some) the music selections change frequently, and you can always be sure of hearing intriguing stuff that you won't catch anywhere else. Check out the essential locations linked below, and get some in. (And tell SamSam that Uncle N sent you!)
Radio Free Abattoir on the web
Email | LiveJournal | MySpace | Last FM
Page credits: Construction
by Michael Johnson.
Nemesis
logo by Antony Johnston,
Red N version by Mark Rimmell.