Is there a more contentious issue in popular music today than the annual Xmas song debate? Okay, yes there probably is, but now the rest of the world acknowledges that Cheryl can’t actually sing, GaGa is overrated and Bono is a tool, our attentions must turn age old topic of why no-one releases festive songs to rival the greats. Lewie, De Berg and, er, Cliff have all had a fairly long reign in world of Christmas tunes, with only a few challengers appearing since The Pogues waltzed into the Christmas number two slot in 1987 with their masterpiece, the dark carol Fairytale Of New York.
Recent examples of ranged from the bauble-shatteringly awful Don’t Let The Bells End (The Darkness) to some which, whilst deserving a place in the discerning listener’s collection, would hardly fit snugly on “The Best Christmas Album Since Last Year’s Best Christmas Album – Ever!”) such as Glasvegas’ slurred tale of winter loneliness “A Snowflake Fell And It Felt Like A Kiss”, or Frightened Rabbit’s majestically miserable It’s Christmas So We’ll Stop. Hell even The Killers have been releasing Christmas songs for those who are too cool for Slade.
This year though, anyone craving the halcyon days when X-Mas singles were the musical equivalent of a knitted jumper and a glass of sherry by the fire, can wrap themselves up in Niall Conn’s Loving You At Christmas Time.
Realistically, Conn has taken all the major ingredients from the most popular and smashed them all together. There’s a drawling vocal reminiscent of Bing, a ridiculously cheery piano, and to top it all, there are sleigh-bells and a choral bridge. Conn is spoiling us. Elsewhere there’s an exceptionally traditional lyric detailing the falling snow and the activities of children (it’s not as creepy as I managed to make that sound), think of any cliché from any 70s festive hit and you’ll find it here.
Make no mistake, Loving You At Christmas Time is hardly at the cutting edge of cool, and it’s so sugary it could cause diabetes, but that would be missing the point. As much as I feel obliged to be a cynical, soulless Muso about these things, Loving You At Christmas Time genuinely made me feel more Christmassy, and therefore it serves its purpose. Any enjoyment gained from is going to be relative to your enjoyment of the festive season and how nostalgic you feel for the golden days of the seasonal song, but you’d have to have a heart of stone not to want at least a snowball fight afterwards.
Friday, 27 November 2009
Tuesday, 17 November 2009
Arctic Monkeys - Metro Radio Arena - 16/11/09
Given the wildly divergent nature of The Arctic Monkeys’ recent Humbug album, I was a little surprised to find that the Sheffield band had managed to continue their meteoric rise, headlining Leeds and Reading festivals and a sold-out U.K arena tour without even stumbling.
Not that they don’t deserve it of course, Humbug was a masterful move away from the constraints of the “indie” scene and the kitchen sink poetry, instead letting the craftsmanship and depth of the young band shine through. So it is then that after a bafflingly well-received set from The Eagles Of Death Metal, whose songs have so few chords and lyrics as to make Status Quo sound innovative, Alex Turner’s newly matured and well dressed mob take to the stage.
Setting the scene for things to come, the Monkeys start with the achingly delicate The Jeweller’s Hands before a bombardment of drums and strobe lighting signals an earth shattering Brianstorm. It’s a formula that is repeated throughout the evening with the new (such as Cornerstone, My Propeller and Potion Approaching) sitting comfortably amongst the old guard of I Bet You look Good On The Dancefloor and View From The Afternoon. Songs from all three albums receive hero’s welcomes from the surging crowd and in turn the band never miss a note, delivering each song flawlessly.
As always the best is kept to last with When The Sun Goes Down and an enchanting Secret Door giving way to an encore of Florescent Adolescent (interspersed with Mardy Bum) and a suitably rapturous 505, ensuring that all in attendance have witnessed something special from a band who, incredibly, clearly have even more to give
Not that they don’t deserve it of course, Humbug was a masterful move away from the constraints of the “indie” scene and the kitchen sink poetry, instead letting the craftsmanship and depth of the young band shine through. So it is then that after a bafflingly well-received set from The Eagles Of Death Metal, whose songs have so few chords and lyrics as to make Status Quo sound innovative, Alex Turner’s newly matured and well dressed mob take to the stage.
Setting the scene for things to come, the Monkeys start with the achingly delicate The Jeweller’s Hands before a bombardment of drums and strobe lighting signals an earth shattering Brianstorm. It’s a formula that is repeated throughout the evening with the new (such as Cornerstone, My Propeller and Potion Approaching) sitting comfortably amongst the old guard of I Bet You look Good On The Dancefloor and View From The Afternoon. Songs from all three albums receive hero’s welcomes from the surging crowd and in turn the band never miss a note, delivering each song flawlessly.
As always the best is kept to last with When The Sun Goes Down and an enchanting Secret Door giving way to an encore of Florescent Adolescent (interspersed with Mardy Bum) and a suitably rapturous 505, ensuring that all in attendance have witnessed something special from a band who, incredibly, clearly have even more to give
Monday, 2 November 2009
Weezer - Raditude
If I’m honest, after the lacklustre Make Believe and last year’s frequently bizarre “Red Album”, I was growing unsure as to whether Weezer would ever regain the sense of fun from Maladroit, the emotional anguish of Pinkerton or the masterfully confused combination of the two that made up 1994’s eponymous “Blue Album”. Then though I heard Raditude’s opening track and lead single (If You’re Wondering If I Want You To) I Want You Too, and hope was restored. It’s fun it’s fast, it doesn’t have an r’n’b back beat and it stays on just the right side of crazy. Kicking things off with a deranged whirl, this slice of Grease-style Americana often verges on pop genius with a fun, lilting verse and joyfully infectious chorus ensuring a smile on all but the stoniest of faces.
A startling return to form then, and while the rest of Raditude doesn’t embarrass itself it almost inevitably struggles to live up to its opening salvo. For perhaps the first time in Weezer-land the focus is very much on mindless fun, with In The Mall and Tripping Down The Freeway providing riffy slices of vaguely nonsensical power rock. Both songs are let down by a rather lazy lyrical shallowness, but, conversely, both are evened out thanks to a frothy, sing-along chorus which rescues them from the brink of being throwaway.
Much better are the earlier tracks, with I’m Your Daddy and The Girl Got Hot proving a great deal more satisfactory thanks to a tongue in cheek lyric and delivery being draped over a more traditional Weezer groove. Mind you, hearing a 39-year old nerd singing “Your my baby tonight/ And I’m your daddy” can seem slightly disturbing at first, but it’s all part of a band not taking themselves so seriously and loosening their collars that little bit more.
Things get a bit out of hand on Can’t Stop Partying though, when the guitars and drums are replaced by a generic r’n’b backbeat and stilted rhythmic delivery from Rivers Cuomo gives way to a rap by Lil’ Wayne. It sounds like a pastiche of today’s chart fodder but it goes a little too far into its subject matter for comfort, and joke or not it’s still of the weakest tracks on Raditude.
Happily there are two deeper, emotional songs on the standard edition of the album which help to make it sound more complete. Put Me Back Together sounds like a cross between Pinketon era Weezer and Jimmy Eat World, and with a heartfelt yelp and deceptively intricate guitar line serves to be a dark highlight on an otherwise jovial experience. The same can be said for I Don’t Wan’t To Let You Go, which never really goes anywhere but does provide a nice change of pace to end the album on and arguably the best set of lyrics. Both songs however raise the question of whether Weezer should have spent a few more months crafting Raditude. For such a big band to release two albums in two years is very admirable but there are tracks on Raditude that have the a slight feeling of filler about them, and could have benefitted from a bit more time and attention.
It would seem that after the more democratically produced and somewhat messy “Red album”, Weezer have benefitted greatly from handing back more of their creative process to singer and front-man Coumo, turning in an album that is far more comfortable and consistent, if perhaps made and released a little too quickly. It may not match their early work but it’s certainly on the right path.
7/10
A startling return to form then, and while the rest of Raditude doesn’t embarrass itself it almost inevitably struggles to live up to its opening salvo. For perhaps the first time in Weezer-land the focus is very much on mindless fun, with In The Mall and Tripping Down The Freeway providing riffy slices of vaguely nonsensical power rock. Both songs are let down by a rather lazy lyrical shallowness, but, conversely, both are evened out thanks to a frothy, sing-along chorus which rescues them from the brink of being throwaway.
Much better are the earlier tracks, with I’m Your Daddy and The Girl Got Hot proving a great deal more satisfactory thanks to a tongue in cheek lyric and delivery being draped over a more traditional Weezer groove. Mind you, hearing a 39-year old nerd singing “Your my baby tonight/ And I’m your daddy” can seem slightly disturbing at first, but it’s all part of a band not taking themselves so seriously and loosening their collars that little bit more.
Things get a bit out of hand on Can’t Stop Partying though, when the guitars and drums are replaced by a generic r’n’b backbeat and stilted rhythmic delivery from Rivers Cuomo gives way to a rap by Lil’ Wayne. It sounds like a pastiche of today’s chart fodder but it goes a little too far into its subject matter for comfort, and joke or not it’s still of the weakest tracks on Raditude.
Happily there are two deeper, emotional songs on the standard edition of the album which help to make it sound more complete. Put Me Back Together sounds like a cross between Pinketon era Weezer and Jimmy Eat World, and with a heartfelt yelp and deceptively intricate guitar line serves to be a dark highlight on an otherwise jovial experience. The same can be said for I Don’t Wan’t To Let You Go, which never really goes anywhere but does provide a nice change of pace to end the album on and arguably the best set of lyrics. Both songs however raise the question of whether Weezer should have spent a few more months crafting Raditude. For such a big band to release two albums in two years is very admirable but there are tracks on Raditude that have the a slight feeling of filler about them, and could have benefitted from a bit more time and attention.
It would seem that after the more democratically produced and somewhat messy “Red album”, Weezer have benefitted greatly from handing back more of their creative process to singer and front-man Coumo, turning in an album that is far more comfortable and consistent, if perhaps made and released a little too quickly. It may not match their early work but it’s certainly on the right path.
7/10
Tuesday, 20 October 2009
Frank Turner Live - Newcastle University Basement - 16/10/09
Over the past three years or so, I’ve seen ex-Million Dead man Frank Turner play live a lot. In fact I’ve seen him play, ooh, at ten gigs including tonight’s, with only two being non-headline appearances. Each time the venue has increased slightly in size but there’s always been the feeling that, if there was any justice in the world of music, the man on stage sweating and screaming about love, friends and the adventures to be had of life would be doing all of this on a bigger stage, and to more than the handful of familiar faces and their mates. Tonight, at last, that potential became a reality.
Back in June 2006, at gig number one, my brother and I found ourselves in the sauna-like box room of a Newcastle pub called the Dog And Parrot, with under a hundred other people sitting on the floor in a vague attempt to avoid the moisture in the air and to let everyone have an equal chance at seeing the tiny stage. There was a peculiar mixture of the easy atmosphere which usually comes with watching a mate’s band playing with a reverential attention, as everyone attending listened intently to the words they didn’t know, and sang back the ones they did as if they had been plucked out of their own heads.
Fast forward to Newcastle’s University Basement, October 2009, and mercifully little has actually changed. Yes the venue is comparatively cavernous, and the beer is extortionately expensive, but the masses of new faces in the crowd are just as eager, and the man on stage with an acoustic guitar and punk spirit, still manages to connect with each and every one of them.
After spirited support by the hypnotically chaotic Beans On Toast (who’s now added rapping with an accordion to his skill set), and the gravel throated roar of Fake Problems, Frank Turner hit the stage with an instrument by instrument build up intro to Live Fast, Die Old. More of an overt rock song than a lot of the rest of his catalogue, track one of the recent Poetry Of The Deed album did provide an indication of the shape of the rest of the show. The show marked the biggest solo show of Turner’s career (until the next day at Manchester), and it was time to celebrate.
A well balanced set-list successfully mixed some of the most anthemic of Turner’s back catalogue with the more upbeat songs from Poetry Of The Deed, ensuring the mood remained at a near constant, beer fuelled, sing-along party, with only a too up-tempo reworking of last year’s seminal single Long Live The Queen feeling slightly out of place.
Love, Ire and Song, Fathers Day, Worse Things Happen at Sea and latest single The Road all provided mass sing-along’s, and as usual all paled in the face of collective performances of The Real Damage and The Ballad of Me and My Friends which brought the huge crowd and Frank Turner together as one voice for a few incredible minutes which prove why the man’s shows are always so special.
The highlights of the show though were easily the unexpected nods towards the past. First up was one of the oldest songs, Nashville Tennessee, which spotlighted Frank’s recent increase in fan-base well as not nearly as many people knew the words than they did to the newer tracks. More impressively though was a beautifully understated rendition of Million Dead’s first single, Smiling at Strangers on Trains. Preceded by a reminiscence that the last time Frank played the venue was with MD, the rarely played adaptation of Smiling...received a rapturous reception by those who knew it and knew that they were witnessing a treat, a special thank you from the man on stage for helping him get where he is without much more support than from that of his fans.
Ending proceedings with Photosynthesis, complete with Beans On Toast and members of Fake Problems playing along, Frank launched himself into the crowd with a cry of “I won’t sit down/ and I won’t shut up/ and most of all I will not grow up”, leaving all those in attendance thankful for the sentiments and the conviction behind them, and knowing that for all the brilliance of this gig, Frank Turner can only continue to give more and reach even higher and further in coming years, and we’ll all be there while he does it, singing the words back at him.
Back in June 2006, at gig number one, my brother and I found ourselves in the sauna-like box room of a Newcastle pub called the Dog And Parrot, with under a hundred other people sitting on the floor in a vague attempt to avoid the moisture in the air and to let everyone have an equal chance at seeing the tiny stage. There was a peculiar mixture of the easy atmosphere which usually comes with watching a mate’s band playing with a reverential attention, as everyone attending listened intently to the words they didn’t know, and sang back the ones they did as if they had been plucked out of their own heads.
Fast forward to Newcastle’s University Basement, October 2009, and mercifully little has actually changed. Yes the venue is comparatively cavernous, and the beer is extortionately expensive, but the masses of new faces in the crowd are just as eager, and the man on stage with an acoustic guitar and punk spirit, still manages to connect with each and every one of them.
After spirited support by the hypnotically chaotic Beans On Toast (who’s now added rapping with an accordion to his skill set), and the gravel throated roar of Fake Problems, Frank Turner hit the stage with an instrument by instrument build up intro to Live Fast, Die Old. More of an overt rock song than a lot of the rest of his catalogue, track one of the recent Poetry Of The Deed album did provide an indication of the shape of the rest of the show. The show marked the biggest solo show of Turner’s career (until the next day at Manchester), and it was time to celebrate.
A well balanced set-list successfully mixed some of the most anthemic of Turner’s back catalogue with the more upbeat songs from Poetry Of The Deed, ensuring the mood remained at a near constant, beer fuelled, sing-along party, with only a too up-tempo reworking of last year’s seminal single Long Live The Queen feeling slightly out of place.
Love, Ire and Song, Fathers Day, Worse Things Happen at Sea and latest single The Road all provided mass sing-along’s, and as usual all paled in the face of collective performances of The Real Damage and The Ballad of Me and My Friends which brought the huge crowd and Frank Turner together as one voice for a few incredible minutes which prove why the man’s shows are always so special.
The highlights of the show though were easily the unexpected nods towards the past. First up was one of the oldest songs, Nashville Tennessee, which spotlighted Frank’s recent increase in fan-base well as not nearly as many people knew the words than they did to the newer tracks. More impressively though was a beautifully understated rendition of Million Dead’s first single, Smiling at Strangers on Trains. Preceded by a reminiscence that the last time Frank played the venue was with MD, the rarely played adaptation of Smiling...received a rapturous reception by those who knew it and knew that they were witnessing a treat, a special thank you from the man on stage for helping him get where he is without much more support than from that of his fans.
Ending proceedings with Photosynthesis, complete with Beans On Toast and members of Fake Problems playing along, Frank launched himself into the crowd with a cry of “I won’t sit down/ and I won’t shut up/ and most of all I will not grow up”, leaving all those in attendance thankful for the sentiments and the conviction behind them, and knowing that for all the brilliance of this gig, Frank Turner can only continue to give more and reach even higher and further in coming years, and we’ll all be there while he does it, singing the words back at him.
Monday, 12 October 2009
AFI - Crash Love
I know it’s wrong but when an album named as pretentiously, heart-stuck-to-my-sleave-with-safety-pins, emo as “Crash Love” lands on the desk, tiny alarm bells start to ring. With a modicum of mind-opening though I can look past that, many great albums have appalling names and covers (feel free to add your particular favourites o the end of this review). What really worried me was that Crash Love is the follow-up to 2006’s hideous Decemberunderground, an album that ditched what AFI were all about in favour of transparently histrionic scene-chasing, complete with matching band tunics (cringe) and fringes that The Lostprophets would think were a bit long.
Fortunately from what I’ve gathered from all the interviews and pre-release promotion it seems that the fringes have hit the floor and the matching wardrobe has been abandoned. Unfortunately what quickly becomes clear when listening to Crash Love is that this hasn’t meant a return to quality and the punk-rock fire that used to be AFI’s stock in trade, to be brutally honest Crash Love is simply boring.
For a start the vocalist Davey Havok sounds so laid back as to be horizontal, the majority of vocals beginning and ending in a faltering croon, always promising to break into a more traditional breathless growl but constantly disappointing, with Torch Song and Darling, I Want To Destroy You and Veronica Sawyer Smokes being indicative of a lot of the sub-Jimmy Eat World fair on Crash Love. A side effect of this is that a fairly week set of angsty lyrics is cast into a harsh light, where it could have been excused more easily if the delivery was wrapped in a bit more penache.
Frustratingly there is the germ of a decent idea, and with more time taking over the performance and lyrics then Crash Love could have been a serviceable foray into a softer side of rock. Even then though it would have been better as a side project or released by a “mystery band” like Greenday did with the Foxborough Hottubs. As it is, the concept of Crash Love feels rushed, overly long and its execution is, in places, fatally flawed.
There are good tracks though, with I Am Trying Very Hard To Be Here providing a nice mid-tempo stomp and backing vocal, whilst Medicate and Cold Hands provide lively choruses and a few well placed, jagged riffs.
Overall though, it seems that with albums 7 and 8, AFI have stumbled into rock band middle-age. If Decemberunderground was an attempt to be cool again by subscribing to trends and fashions too young for them (akin to buying leather trousers or a sports convertible any time around the age of forty), then Crash Love is the early signs of the menopause; a few hot, angry flushes followed by a slightly hollow, directionless ire which throbs under the surface before petering out completely.
Fortunately from what I’ve gathered from all the interviews and pre-release promotion it seems that the fringes have hit the floor and the matching wardrobe has been abandoned. Unfortunately what quickly becomes clear when listening to Crash Love is that this hasn’t meant a return to quality and the punk-rock fire that used to be AFI’s stock in trade, to be brutally honest Crash Love is simply boring.
For a start the vocalist Davey Havok sounds so laid back as to be horizontal, the majority of vocals beginning and ending in a faltering croon, always promising to break into a more traditional breathless growl but constantly disappointing, with Torch Song and Darling, I Want To Destroy You and Veronica Sawyer Smokes being indicative of a lot of the sub-Jimmy Eat World fair on Crash Love. A side effect of this is that a fairly week set of angsty lyrics is cast into a harsh light, where it could have been excused more easily if the delivery was wrapped in a bit more penache.
Frustratingly there is the germ of a decent idea, and with more time taking over the performance and lyrics then Crash Love could have been a serviceable foray into a softer side of rock. Even then though it would have been better as a side project or released by a “mystery band” like Greenday did with the Foxborough Hottubs. As it is, the concept of Crash Love feels rushed, overly long and its execution is, in places, fatally flawed.
There are good tracks though, with I Am Trying Very Hard To Be Here providing a nice mid-tempo stomp and backing vocal, whilst Medicate and Cold Hands provide lively choruses and a few well placed, jagged riffs.
Overall though, it seems that with albums 7 and 8, AFI have stumbled into rock band middle-age. If Decemberunderground was an attempt to be cool again by subscribing to trends and fashions too young for them (akin to buying leather trousers or a sports convertible any time around the age of forty), then Crash Love is the early signs of the menopause; a few hot, angry flushes followed by a slightly hollow, directionless ire which throbs under the surface before petering out completely.
Thursday, 1 October 2009
Paramore - Brand New Eyes - 28/9/09
Paramore confuse me as a band. On the one hand I see the image that surrounds them them and the taint of the genre that they have found themselves lumped in with (something not helped by being attached to the increasingly “emo” centric Fueled By Ramen), but on the other I hear a lot of potential which often breaks through to give a promise of what could be if they let go of some of their hang-ups.
Opening tracks Careful and Ignorance are as fine an example of my point as any, with soaring choruses and excellent vocal performances from Hayley Williams (arguably Paramore’s greatest asset in terms of music and image) battling with well realised riffs packing a punch greater than anything heard on the Tennessee band’s previous efforts. Both serve to the pique the interest of the most casual of listeners, especially as Ignorance has been well chosen as the first single with its background yelps and melody sure to make many younger fans pick up the full album.
Unfortunately, along with roughly two thirds of the rest of Brand New Eyes, both tracks share a very similar theme. Followed in quick succession are Playing God and Brick By Boring Brick, both of which show a certain musical competency if not much ambition, but both, like the two tracks before, are transparently linked to last year’s internal problems. It’s been well documented that Paramore nearly called it a day last year and that producing Brand New Eyes has been an act of catharsis, but there really are far too many tracks on here which cover that turbulent period without applying any sort of metaphor or allegory. Yes its raw and honest (especially Looking Up), but it’s far too introverted, possibly symptomatic of a band who started out so young, and no matter how the musical pace ebbs and flows it begins to get dull fairly rapidly. At the end of the day it just isn’t a subject most of us can connect to and empathise with.
Far more interesting are some of the later tracks such as the subdued acoustic twanging of Misguided Ghosts and the yearning screech of All I Wanted which benefit all the more from branching off from the rest of the album musically and lyrically, with the latter especially seeing the band cut loose a bit more from their usually polished sound.
Brand New Eyes is a confident offering from a band who have returned from the brink, and it will doubtlessly appease the groups legions of teenage fans. Paramore are still a relatively new band though, and they could be so much more without really doing much extra. With a bit more life experience reflected in the lyrics, a few more songs that deviate from the template crafted over the three albums and a producer unafraid to upset the burgeoning emo market by injecting some grit and grime, Paramore could really mature and become a genuinely interesting prospect to much more people. They have the potential, they just need the courage to unlock it.
Opening tracks Careful and Ignorance are as fine an example of my point as any, with soaring choruses and excellent vocal performances from Hayley Williams (arguably Paramore’s greatest asset in terms of music and image) battling with well realised riffs packing a punch greater than anything heard on the Tennessee band’s previous efforts. Both serve to the pique the interest of the most casual of listeners, especially as Ignorance has been well chosen as the first single with its background yelps and melody sure to make many younger fans pick up the full album.
Unfortunately, along with roughly two thirds of the rest of Brand New Eyes, both tracks share a very similar theme. Followed in quick succession are Playing God and Brick By Boring Brick, both of which show a certain musical competency if not much ambition, but both, like the two tracks before, are transparently linked to last year’s internal problems. It’s been well documented that Paramore nearly called it a day last year and that producing Brand New Eyes has been an act of catharsis, but there really are far too many tracks on here which cover that turbulent period without applying any sort of metaphor or allegory. Yes its raw and honest (especially Looking Up), but it’s far too introverted, possibly symptomatic of a band who started out so young, and no matter how the musical pace ebbs and flows it begins to get dull fairly rapidly. At the end of the day it just isn’t a subject most of us can connect to and empathise with.
Far more interesting are some of the later tracks such as the subdued acoustic twanging of Misguided Ghosts and the yearning screech of All I Wanted which benefit all the more from branching off from the rest of the album musically and lyrically, with the latter especially seeing the band cut loose a bit more from their usually polished sound.
Brand New Eyes is a confident offering from a band who have returned from the brink, and it will doubtlessly appease the groups legions of teenage fans. Paramore are still a relatively new band though, and they could be so much more without really doing much extra. With a bit more life experience reflected in the lyrics, a few more songs that deviate from the template crafted over the three albums and a producer unafraid to upset the burgeoning emo market by injecting some grit and grime, Paramore could really mature and become a genuinely interesting prospect to much more people. They have the potential, they just need the courage to unlock it.
Wednesday, 30 September 2009
The Wildhearts - 02 Academy Newcastle - 28/9/09
Over the past few months something troubling has been going on in the world of The Wildhearts. For a start new album Chutzpah!, whilst a competent rock album, lacked so much of the wit, warmth and connectivity of their previous output that it sounded like a different band entirely. Experimentation is fine but there’s a delicate balance between progression and abandoning what fans loved in pursuit of a style that doesn’t quite match up. Secondly they decided to play said new album in its entirety on tour before breaking out a selection of classics, a decision seemingly sealed by fans comments on the WH forum who can’t see past their love of the band to criticise any aspect of them (I’ve been arguing for around two months with said fans on my review of the album despite being a massive WH fan myself). The problem is though, for a band as honest, open and down to earth as The Wildhearts, playing the whole of Chutzpah! seems like an ill advised step into self indulgence.
It’s a sentiment reflected on the floor of the 02 Academy; for a home coming gig by the N.E’s favourite sons its alarmingly empty at around three quarters of the capacity full and a sizeable chunk of the crowd choosing to stand near the bar instead of on the floor, leaving rather conspicuous space all around the venue. From the band’s demeanour it would be seem likely that this has been the case at several of the other shows prior to this one, as they announce after The Jackson Whites, the first track, that they intend to split the set and will be hammering through the new material. What follows is an odd half hour or so, as the bands conviction in the material (matched by around ten people at the front) clashes with the workmanlike sprint with which it is performed. To be fair to the band several tracks including Tim Smith and You Are Proof That Not All Women Are Insane do sound better live, but they are met with patience more than anything else, and not even Ginger seems to be feeling them much, furthering suspicions that a handful of new tracks thrown into a more traditional set may have had more of an impact.
After a short, encore-style break, Ginger, CJ, Scott and Ritch step back onto the stage with the promise of a more relaxed party atmosphere, and after a slightly bittersweet rendition of Geordie In Wonderland (“Now that I’ve stayed and the rest have all changed/ Well why do I feel so confused... I’ve had praise, I’ve had ridicule, either meant nothing/ Faced with the task of tomorrow’s demands”), that’s exactly what they deliver. Several comments about nostalgia hamper the early atmosphere but Ginger and co soon settle into the older tracks and are clearly quickly enjoying themselves, ensuring that the next hour leaves a smile on the faces of everyone watching whilst demonstrating that when The Wildhearts are on form and having fun with their fans there really is no-one like them.
Hit after hit is rolled out to an instantly more receptive crowd, with Suckerpunch, Vanilla Radio, My Baby Is a Headf**k, Nita Nitro and I Wanna Go Where The People Go being interspersed with rarer gems such as Red Light Green Light, Sick Of Drugs and an anthemic airing for Nothing Ever Changes But The Shoes. It’s a master class in how to write perfect rock songs that provides proof, if needed, of why The Wildhearts are held in such high affection. Fittingly the final song of the night is an utterly euphoric sing a-long of 29x The Pain, ensuring that the night ends on a high and any ill-will from the first half an hour is wiped away in a chorus of voices screaming back at Ginger. In the words of the man himself; “ Give me old, give me new, lend me all you're feeling too/ 'cos the sounds that twist and curl, it's a brave new world...I'm up, I could not get down, well I get all my friends around”. Couldn’t have said it better myself.
It’s a sentiment reflected on the floor of the 02 Academy; for a home coming gig by the N.E’s favourite sons its alarmingly empty at around three quarters of the capacity full and a sizeable chunk of the crowd choosing to stand near the bar instead of on the floor, leaving rather conspicuous space all around the venue. From the band’s demeanour it would be seem likely that this has been the case at several of the other shows prior to this one, as they announce after The Jackson Whites, the first track, that they intend to split the set and will be hammering through the new material. What follows is an odd half hour or so, as the bands conviction in the material (matched by around ten people at the front) clashes with the workmanlike sprint with which it is performed. To be fair to the band several tracks including Tim Smith and You Are Proof That Not All Women Are Insane do sound better live, but they are met with patience more than anything else, and not even Ginger seems to be feeling them much, furthering suspicions that a handful of new tracks thrown into a more traditional set may have had more of an impact.
After a short, encore-style break, Ginger, CJ, Scott and Ritch step back onto the stage with the promise of a more relaxed party atmosphere, and after a slightly bittersweet rendition of Geordie In Wonderland (“Now that I’ve stayed and the rest have all changed/ Well why do I feel so confused... I’ve had praise, I’ve had ridicule, either meant nothing/ Faced with the task of tomorrow’s demands”), that’s exactly what they deliver. Several comments about nostalgia hamper the early atmosphere but Ginger and co soon settle into the older tracks and are clearly quickly enjoying themselves, ensuring that the next hour leaves a smile on the faces of everyone watching whilst demonstrating that when The Wildhearts are on form and having fun with their fans there really is no-one like them.
Hit after hit is rolled out to an instantly more receptive crowd, with Suckerpunch, Vanilla Radio, My Baby Is a Headf**k, Nita Nitro and I Wanna Go Where The People Go being interspersed with rarer gems such as Red Light Green Light, Sick Of Drugs and an anthemic airing for Nothing Ever Changes But The Shoes. It’s a master class in how to write perfect rock songs that provides proof, if needed, of why The Wildhearts are held in such high affection. Fittingly the final song of the night is an utterly euphoric sing a-long of 29x The Pain, ensuring that the night ends on a high and any ill-will from the first half an hour is wiped away in a chorus of voices screaming back at Ginger. In the words of the man himself; “ Give me old, give me new, lend me all you're feeling too/ 'cos the sounds that twist and curl, it's a brave new world...I'm up, I could not get down, well I get all my friends around”. Couldn’t have said it better myself.
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