All too often a trip to the nearest mid to large level music venue is accompanied by conflicting senses of both excitement and dread: will the band be any good live? Will they want to be there or just going through the rock-star motions with weary determination? Will there be a decent song selection? All potential problems which could ruin your night out, shatter your perception of a previously liked band, and force you to rue spending the precious money on a ticket in the first place. Thankfully I’ve never had such problems with ska legends Reel Big Fish.
Back in 2002 my brother got hold of the recently released best of Favourite Noise and, shortly after, Cheer Up. It was fun, it was sarcastic and above all it was memorable, with vocal harmonies and the overtly happy ska and reggae belying a sharp cynical streak. Over the past eight since then years I’ve seen RBF seven times and they’ve never left me disappointed, and happily this year’s gig carried on that tradition of quality.
Bounding onstage to the strains of the Superman theme tune, the ‘fish begin proceedings with a storming rendition of their original breakthrough hit Sell Out, ensuring that the whole room is bouncing from the word go. As this is a tour without an album to promote, Newcastle Academy is treated to a set-list which segues between faithful crowd pleasers such as Everything Sucks, Where Have You Been, Trendy and The Set Up and a handful of rarer songs to prevent predictability. Of the latter group, a cover of Brown Eyed Girl, the lesser known first album classic Snoop Dog Baby and Hate You (a song that predates the bands first major release) receive the most rapturous applause and send the crowd into a frenzy of skanking (with Hate You also sending me crashing arse-first to the floor and into the legs of another unsuspecting fan). At Reel Big Fish's gigs you either dance or die.
All are performed with practiced ease and an energetic sense of fun which is impressive for a band who spend around ten months of every year on the road, and it’s a testament that even with a minimum of commercial success in the U.K they still manage to pack out the main hall’s of Academy’s and similar venues across the country through the strength of their live shows and word of mouth. If anything though the crowd seem too eager for ‘Fish to get on with it, not entirely embracing the banter and antics that have long been a staple of the RBF experience. Not that it matters much though because as soon as a new song begins the horn lines are sung back at the band and bizarre spectacles such as a guest guitarist in nothing but a posing pouch and wig or a scarily brilliant rendition of Metallica's Enter Sandman are received with insane grinning.
By the time the show draws to a close with the customary cover of A-Ha’s Take on me (followed by an encore of six different versions of S.R and perhaps the most anticipated song of all, Beer) the sweaty crowd begins spilling onto the street outside, a mass of big silly grins and tired legs. And do you know what the best thing is? We get to do it all again next year.
Monday, 25 January 2010
Friday, 1 January 2010
Remotely Interested Xmas Round Up Pt1. Doctor Who
And so it comes to pass each year that, as sure as Granny will eat too many sprouts and Dad’ll get pissed off trying to attach the stickers to yet another toy, frightened television chiefs will pull out all of their biggest properties for a sprinkling of festive fun just to make absolutely sure you and your loved ones stop talking and having fun and stare dutifully at the box in the corner of the room once more. Old favourites and rising stars will be grabbed by sweaty palmed executives and thrown into the Christmas schedule complete with festive tie and rictus grin in an attempt to glue you to their channel. Honestly, you’d think they’d never seen Scrooged.
The BBC are especially good at this, having as they do a wealth of funny and unfunny sitcoms and their habit of using their talent on any of their legions of chat and panel shows in order to boost anticipation and ratings. Case in point this year? David Tennant. The outgoing Doctor was everywhere this year, Never Mind The Buzzcocks, Qi, The Graham Norton Show and finally, on Christmas Day, The End Of Time: pt 1.
Traditionally the Doctor Who Christmas special is a mildly disappointing affair for a number of reasons, firstly there’s usually a new companion so all the carefully crafted chemistry between characters is thrown out the window (apart from the first one, where the new doctor spent at least three quarters of the action in bed) and secondly they are always written by Russel T. Davies. Now Davies is without question largely responsible for the Doctor’s return to relevance and popular culture, and he’s certainly good at planning a series with certain elements and clues to the finale popping up throughout each episode, but when it comes to writing single episodes his weaknesses often show far too clearly. Take last year’s season finale for example. In an effort to make a viewing spectacle, Davies drafted in virtually everyone his doctor has ever met and then pitted them against millions of CGI Daleks. What was meant to be an apocalyptic day for the planet Earth ended up being about as terrifying as tripping up on the stairs. Even worse was last year’s Christmas special, The Next Doctor, which after some fine acting work between Tennant and David Morrisey descended into a ropey CGI battle over Ye Olde London between the doc (in a hot air balloon) and a giant Cyberman. Yawn. To me there’s been nothing scary or dramatic about the Daleks or the Cybermen since the end of series two, when they went from being only one left in existence to billions of them being thrown around the screen whenever either race makes an appearance. Thank God then for John Simm’s Master. First appearing at the end of series three, it was a welcome change to see Tennant go against an equal in both character and acting ability once more instead of robots and monsters.
The plot as it was revolved around the Doctor’s impending death (he’s been warned that “he will knock four times”) and the Master’s botched resurrection to the backdrop of an unknown threat bigger than either of them. For the most part this revolved around both actors running towards each other for about thirty five minutes before finally meeting in the best scene of the episode. Basically a heart to heart between the two characters, the scene discussing their shared past managed to rise above some clunky dialogue through Simm and Tennant’s performance, successfully managing to convey a friendship lost centuries ago, and the fact that The Master’s mental drumbeat (an indication of insanity integral to the character since he reappeared two years ago) was real, and worse it could be the four knocks that The Doctor fears. The End Of Time Pt1 was by no means perfect, ending as it did with a bizarre plan by The Master and not enough explanation of some of its key concepts, but thanks to spirited performances (including the excellent Bernard Cribbins, proving to be far more entertaining than the women the Doctor has taken with him recently) and an amazingly vulnerable scene exposing the truth behind regeneration and our hero’s fears, The End Of Time Pt1 proved to be a fitting send off to a much loved character, so long as Pt2 keeps up the good work.
The BBC are especially good at this, having as they do a wealth of funny and unfunny sitcoms and their habit of using their talent on any of their legions of chat and panel shows in order to boost anticipation and ratings. Case in point this year? David Tennant. The outgoing Doctor was everywhere this year, Never Mind The Buzzcocks, Qi, The Graham Norton Show and finally, on Christmas Day, The End Of Time: pt 1.
Traditionally the Doctor Who Christmas special is a mildly disappointing affair for a number of reasons, firstly there’s usually a new companion so all the carefully crafted chemistry between characters is thrown out the window (apart from the first one, where the new doctor spent at least three quarters of the action in bed) and secondly they are always written by Russel T. Davies. Now Davies is without question largely responsible for the Doctor’s return to relevance and popular culture, and he’s certainly good at planning a series with certain elements and clues to the finale popping up throughout each episode, but when it comes to writing single episodes his weaknesses often show far too clearly. Take last year’s season finale for example. In an effort to make a viewing spectacle, Davies drafted in virtually everyone his doctor has ever met and then pitted them against millions of CGI Daleks. What was meant to be an apocalyptic day for the planet Earth ended up being about as terrifying as tripping up on the stairs. Even worse was last year’s Christmas special, The Next Doctor, which after some fine acting work between Tennant and David Morrisey descended into a ropey CGI battle over Ye Olde London between the doc (in a hot air balloon) and a giant Cyberman. Yawn. To me there’s been nothing scary or dramatic about the Daleks or the Cybermen since the end of series two, when they went from being only one left in existence to billions of them being thrown around the screen whenever either race makes an appearance. Thank God then for John Simm’s Master. First appearing at the end of series three, it was a welcome change to see Tennant go against an equal in both character and acting ability once more instead of robots and monsters.
The plot as it was revolved around the Doctor’s impending death (he’s been warned that “he will knock four times”) and the Master’s botched resurrection to the backdrop of an unknown threat bigger than either of them. For the most part this revolved around both actors running towards each other for about thirty five minutes before finally meeting in the best scene of the episode. Basically a heart to heart between the two characters, the scene discussing their shared past managed to rise above some clunky dialogue through Simm and Tennant’s performance, successfully managing to convey a friendship lost centuries ago, and the fact that The Master’s mental drumbeat (an indication of insanity integral to the character since he reappeared two years ago) was real, and worse it could be the four knocks that The Doctor fears. The End Of Time Pt1 was by no means perfect, ending as it did with a bizarre plan by The Master and not enough explanation of some of its key concepts, but thanks to spirited performances (including the excellent Bernard Cribbins, proving to be far more entertaining than the women the Doctor has taken with him recently) and an amazingly vulnerable scene exposing the truth behind regeneration and our hero’s fears, The End Of Time Pt1 proved to be a fitting send off to a much loved character, so long as Pt2 keeps up the good work.
Friday, 27 November 2009
Niall Conn - Loving You At Christmas Time
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
