Jameson'Somewhere Forever Inside'

You know that bit in Forest Gump when Tom Hanks decides that life is like a box chocolates? Well, in the same manner, Birmingham’s Jameson are a bit like a box of fireworks. Throw in a lit match, and you never know quite what is going to come out; though the chances are that it’s going to fizz and flash for a bit, before exploding into a glorious mess of colour and stars. Tonight the display begins with ‘Eraser’, an effervescent little catherine wheel of a song, all turbulent shapes and shouty bits, before ‘Burden The Process’ and ‘Black Dairy Squeeze’ bring on the big bangs and even bigger flashes of both brightness and brilliance.

Although Jameson rarely stray too far from the comfort of Pavement’s shadow, it’s only on ‘Four Square Fraternity’ that the influence perhaps becomes a little too apparent, maybe borrowing slightly too heavily from ‘Crooked Rain’. In this instance though, there’s no worry of familiarity breeding contempt, as it’s skewed country hooks ease their way under your skin with such ease that you have no defence from their charms, until you’re left feeling safe in the knowledge that if everyone’s favourite slackers choose not to return to their special place in our hearts, we already have a more than adequate replacement so eager to take their opportunity that they’ve started to dig their way into your life by the fourth track. In fact, ‘Four Square Fraternity’ sets their agenda so succinctly that it would take something very special to follow it.

Fortunately Jameson have had the hindsight to do so with ‘Magik Band’, undeniably the true gem in their crown of sparkly little numbers, and a classic by anyone’s reckoning. The guitars lap at your body like a particularly calming tide, washing over you as Stuart tells the tale of his two-fingered, ambidextrous, bass playing hero, before the squalling noise breaks in, thrashing you against the rocks as the adrenaline and excitement threaten to pull you apart in a brief enthralling moment until Stuart guides you back towards tranquillity once more, while proving that it’s possible to that quiet-loud thing without trying to rerecord the Slint back catalogue.

'Somewhere Forever Inside' closes with ‘Sprinkle The Axis’, which leaves Jameson staggering about like those little kids who never learn, the one who pick up the sparklers by the wrong end, those who return to the firework that didn’t go off, only for it explode in their face seconds later, a riotous racket of churning chords and mangled instruments. But, as the man says, they "always get up when they fall down" and surely that’s a message from which we can all learn.

Apparently, their friend Stephen is looking for a magik band, but on this evidence, it appears that he may already have found them. If there’s any justice, some day soon everyone else will realise it as well, but until then, dream on believers.

Various Artists'War Tunes, Volume 1'

First, some good news. Not only is ‘War Tunes’ completely free, it picks up where Sink & Stove records’ own ‘Hospital Radio Request List’ left off in 2000 by highlighting some of the best music to be found coming out of Bristol right now. Even better, there’s not a single piece of sodding trip-hop on it. The bad news is that there’s not many copies left, and it’s only available at Choke promoted gigs in Bristol, which could be a bit of a fucker for some of you.

While you’re already feeling the disappointment wash over you we should dispense with the experimental lounge-core wank-silage of Madnomad. We could also pretend that the Hustler had seen fit to contribute one of their rather fine Mudhoney gone stoner thrashings and not ‘Turtle’, which does little more than drag a couple of pleasant guitar codas through a very predictable quiet-loud mangle in a we want to be Slint kind of way.

Now that’s out of the way, let’s concentrate on all that is great about ‘War Tunes’. Chikinki continue to refine their synth-driven electronica on new track ‘Drink’ while we try to invent a new word to describe their sound. We’d call it eclectonica, but that would be ridiculous, so you’re just going to have to trust us on this one. Bronnt Industries Kapital throw some Aphex shaped nastiness into their textured DJ Shadow flavoured grove and Psycho-Naïve even moved over from France to share his Parisian Metro inspired ambient beats.

Back with the guitars, Ivory Springer bring some taut hardcore noise, while their spiritual brothers, the Signal, come on all menacing as their post-rock goes all ultra fucking heavy on ‘Matching Claws & Beak’. Former Assembly Communications singer Nick Talbot turns up with his new band Gravenhurst (pictured above) and makes like Nick Drake fronting the Red House Painters. Elsewhere, the Raconteurs do their sleazy swamp-rock thing, John Parish crops up alongside the post-folk of Morning Star, and Soeza prove once more why they’re Bristol’s favourite sons and daughter on the luscious and restrained jazz-punk of ‘Now & Again’, lifted from their still awesome sounding ‘Founded by Sportsmen & Outlaws’ album.

As some old soul duffer very nearly asked, ‘War Tunes’, what are they good for? Nearly fucking everything, that’s what. Now be good little girls and boys, get your arse down to a Choke gig and find yourself a copy.

Preston School Of Industrythe Garage, Highbury

”Under the pavement, the beach” cried the situationists in 60’s Paris. Well, jump forward 30 years and in North London the cries haven’t changed all that much. “Under the Pavement, the Stairs”, or rather the Spiral Stairs, for Scott Kannberg, as he known to his parents, is back. The man responsible for all that fidgety frat-rock noise in Pavement has returned with a new group, but has thankfully brought some familiar sounds with him.

Like Stephen Malkmus before him, Kannberg has left the archetypal lo-fi indie rockers behind, and come back sounding like nothing’s actually changed. But then that’s the root of the Preston’s appeal. Everyone’s here because they loved Pavement, so no one is going to complain that there are no obvious differences on show. As the jagged and jarring guitars mix with undertones of 70’s rawk and a subtle country twang it becomes apparent that this isn’t so much a revolution as a matter of trademark sounds being slanted and transplanted onto a new band. Instead of a first date with an unknown stranger, tonight feels more like an emotional reunion of old friends.

Whether it’s a matter of catharsis or just an opportunity to set the record straight, it seems that Kannberg wants to make that we know how he feels about the whole Pavement situation on ‘Whale Bones’ (“I don’t want you to feel bad”) and ‘Follow The Sun’ (“I know that you like us”). As he launches into the Dinosaur Jr. aping new single, ‘Falling Away’, Scott Kannberg’s role in life becomes clear. Spiral Stairs has come back to save good old-fashioned college rock. He’s going to take it back to where it belongs, at school. And not just any old school, but at the Preston School of Industry.

Quasithe Monarch, Camden

Bollocks to your sterile “no sex please, I’m in a boyband and in love with Britney Spears” posturing of mainstream pop, sexual tension and coupling rule the roost in rock these days. From the Mormon monogamy of Low, through the junkie love of Royal Trux to the ‘are they or aren’t they siblings/married/incestuously fucking’ bewilderment surrounding the White Stripes, it seems that everyone is at it. All of which just go to show far ahead of their time Quasi were, having already taken the next step forwards, the once happily married having become disconsolate divorcees, leaving the way open for loving bliss to become bitter loathing.

Given this state of affairs, and the ridiculous number of bands that can count Janet Weiss and Sam Coombes amongst their ranks, then you can forgive a jet-lagged Janet for looking more than slightly confused as she takes to the stage. There’s no sign of Carrie and Corrine, so this can’t be a Sleater-Kinney gig. While Sam is over there in the corner fiddling with his keyboard, there’s no sign of Elliott Smith or his smelly old hat, so if it’s Thursday, it must be Quasi.

And the good news is that Quasi means dissonant lo-fi pop like Ben Folds would make if he had a chip on his shoulder and a bitter lemon up his ass. As they shake the sleep out of their eyes, Sam and Janet prove to be the alt.rock Carpenters as their discordant tunes and discontented lyrics tell the tale of their estranged relationship. Sam’s bitterness and bile spills out on ‘It’s Hard To Turn Me On’ and ‘Nothing From Nothing’, but as they crash through the finale of ‘Our Happiness Is Guaranteed’, it’s hard to disagree. Let’s hear it for divorcees in rock, the true choice of the jilted generation.

BroadcastFleece & Firkin, Bristol

Imagine the sort of music that would have accompanied early editions of Tomorrow’s World, analogue keyboards and drifting guitars, painting a picture of a future where expression has been stripped down to it’s basic counterparts and a chemical formula exists for every feeling. Now imagine the band that would make this music, holed up in their studio, labouring away to produce just the right bleep, the perfect whirring noise. Now look at he stage, for that band would appear to be Broadcast, modelling the finest retro-futurist look, as dated yet timeless as the instruments before them and the music that they’re playing.

Only something’s not quite right. For a band so concerned about the failings of producers that they built their own studio – and then had to delay the recording of their album while they learnt how to use the equipment – they seem to relish the opportunity to play live. In fact, they create a claustrophobic wall of sound so powerful and enticing that the audience look on in wonder as Broadcast prove themselves to be the Stereolab that you can’t dance to – even if ‘Papercuts’ does lead a few brave individuals to at least try to do so – and ‘The Book Lovers’ even manages to raise an enthusiastic cheer before proceeding to rattle the walls and ruffle your hair with it’s heavy bass. ‘Come On Let’s Go’ holds all the style and sophistication that St. Etienne carelessly threw away when they first mistook kitsch for good taste, while ‘Lights Out’ lends a cinematic feel to proceedings, as Trish’s voice grows in stature though out, awash with emotion, until we can all feel her sorrow and resignation.

Finally ‘Hammer Without A Master’ allows them to build themselves up for a glorious finale, drum sticks are stuck into fretboards, an oppressive metronomic time signature echoes around the room and everyone in the crowd loses themselves in Broadcast’s new found majesty, transfixed by the cacophonous climax. If you look carefully at Trish once more, you can almost see tapping her heels together, almost hear her whispering “there’s no place like drone, there’s no place like drone, there’s no place like drone”.

McLusky'My Pain & Sadness Is More Sad & Painful Than Yours'

What’s that on the horizon? It’s making one fuck of a racket. Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, you twat, it’s McLusky and they’re here to obliterate the history of Welsh music and make the world a slightly safer place to visit again.

At a recent gig for Radio 1’s Cardiff Sound City fandango, the usual bunch of ‘oh, aren’t I trendy’ Welsh fashion-whores crammed into a tiny club to celebrate how cool they must all be, and then tried to dance to McLusky’s bastardised noise onslaught, only to look on in bemusement and fear when singer Andy Falkous began to pound his body against the stage and Jon Chapple started thrashing himself with his bass. Hear them scream; see them run like little bunny rabbits, ‘Nurse, the evil men have escaped again’.

‘My Pain & Sadness…’, which amply illustrates just how they managed to alienate so many clueless people in such a short space of time, is little short of a call to arms, which offers a sneer to their supposed contemporaries just before smashing them over the head with their ferocious and snarling yet beautiful music. Given that McLusky sound like Nirvana torturing Big Black, you just know that there’s gonna be no messing with these boys. Former singles ‘Joy’ and ‘Rice Is Nice’ flash past before you’ve had time to realise just how good they are, yet still leave you feeling like you’ve just been buggered by Black Francis. ‘Friends Stoning Friends’ nicks the riff of Sleeper’s ‘Inbetweener’ and the chorus of Terrovision’s ‘Oblivion’, sums up Welsh life in one line ("you’re moving to the city cos your village is shit") and still sounds great. And if the friends that they’re stoning are art-pop no-hopers Mo-ho-bish-opi, then we’re gonna be laughing even harder.

In spite of this though, ‘whiteliberalonwhiteliberalaction’ is their true pièce de résistance, as they kidnap the traditional off-key discordance of Pavement and get it pissed on cheap vodka and Molotov cocktails. Even the title is a barely concealed dig at the Manics; at how many levels do you want one song to be so utterly brilliant?

If ‘My Pain & Sadness…’ is any indication of what to expect from McLusky, then the cock-rock blustering and laddism of the majority of Welsh indie-rock is about to be blown away and buried in a disused mine shaft. In short, the future’s bright, the future’s real fucking nasty sounding, and Terris definitely aren’t invited. You’d better get used to it, or get out the way, cos otherwise McLusky are gonna pursue you until you die along with the bloated corpse which has constituted the Welsh music scene for far too long.

Shellac‘1000 Hurts’

"Fucking kill him, fucking kill him, kill him already, kill him". It’s not quite as catchy as Daphne & Celeste's 'Ugly', but if he has any taste, your milkman will be singing ‘Prayer To God’ while doing his rounds next week. For now though, all you need to know is that Shellac are back and Steve Albini's not a happy bunny. It's been said that this is an emotional record, but there are only negative emotions on display here. '1000 Hurts' is loaded with such vitriolic anger and disgust that it's the most brutal album that you’ll have the pleasure of hearing all year.

By the time 'Canaveral' finds Albini questioning the cause of his torment ("what do you think would make him stick his cock in my wife?") with despair in his briefly fragile delivery, '1000 Hurts' has already ousted Marvin Gaye's 'Here My Dear' as the ultimate account of adultery and retributive violence wished upon its' protagonists.

But it's not just the lyrics that force their way inside your consciousness, as ever the rhythm section of Weston and Trainer hacks into you like a blunt knife, as if they're driven by some insatiable hunger. Fortunately, where previous excess allowed 1997's 'Terraform' to lose its focus, the intensity rarely lets up here. Once the opening shard-like chords of 'Prayer To God' kick in there’s no relief from the trauma of '1000 Hurts' until long after the album screams to a close with the serrated rhythms of 'Watch Song', in which Albini makes the polite suggestion that his rival may wish to meet him outside.

If Albini really is out for revenge, then Courtney Love should start looking over her shoulder, and friends of Urge Overkill may want to check that Nash Kato hasn’t already topped himself. The rest of us, meanwhile, can sit back and relax, because hostility and vengeance fit Shellac like a glove; a glove fitted with barbed-wire knuckle-dusters.

Various Artists'The Hospital Radio Request List'

After Sony's 'Cigarettes & Alcohol' debacle, you could be forgiven for refusing to admit that compilation albums exist, but thankfully, Sink & Stove Records may be about to provide you with some well-deserved solace. Spawned from Bristol’s currently vibrant music scene, 'The Hospital Radio Request List' is the perfect antidote for such bloated blathering, firmly placing its faith in new artists determined to put their art ahead of their bank balances.

The tight-knit nature of Bristol's post-rock scene is reflected by the large crossover of shared resources, with many of the songs recorded in Sink & Stove owner Ben Shillabeer's studio, who also pops up in Soeza (along with Kiska’s multi-instrumentalist Aaron Dewey) and the Fall Project, while many of the other bands on here feature contributions from a central core of musicians. However, when they are responsible for some of this record’s highlights you can forgive them the occasional touch of incest and nepotism. As such, the jazz-punk-swing of Soeza's 'Young’s Elastic Constant', and the hypnotic lock-grooves of Tortoise types Kiska, are the equal of anything that you’ve found in the NME's On section recently.

'The Hospital Radio Request' also sees rising Bristol's stars flanked by a number of their more established peers, including nearly everyone that’s ever played with PJ Harvey. John Parish weighs in with the spectral '116 N.O.' in addition to providing guitar for the Ideal Husbands; Rob Ellis premiers his new band Christmas; and drummer Jean-Marc Butty turns up with Canadian alt.rockers White Hotel. Elsewhere, James Banbury of the Auteurs showcases his Possessed side-project, and perennial lo-fi blues-man Terry Edwards takes a break from the Tindersticks and Gallon Drunk to bring us the scuzzy jazz of the Scapegoats' 'Asthma'.

As alternative programming on national radio continues to decline, with the lo-fi eclecticism on offer here, from the Aphex Twin whirrings of Vagus Nerve to the deadpan reminiscences of Mano Poderosa, you can be sure that hospital radio is the only channel you’re going to want to listen to from now on.