Papa MFleece & Firkin, Bristol

Surely it didn’t have to be like this. Dave Pajo and Alan Licht stand alone on stage, slowly picking out the opening notes of ‘I Am Not Lonely With Cricket’, occasionally stooping to fiddle with buzzing guitar leads. The other members of Papa M have left the stage to wait in the crowd until they are required again, but five minutes later nothing has changed, the same four notes are ringing around the room, and Pajo remains stock-still, having not once faced the crowd since coming on stage.

He keeps this pose all night, and you have to stop yourself from shouting at him, just to make sure he’s still alive, that the slow, deliberating melodies coming from his amp are not just the result of the final muscle spasms of a dying man. It doesn’t help that musically nothing seems to particularly stand out, on record ‘Roadrunner’ may be unassailable but when stripped of that context, it becomes just another series of sounds, slowly winding their way to their rambling conclusion, before being replaced by another near-identical song. For all their flaws, at least Mogwai understand that all music requires a focal point and compensate for their lack of vocals with volume and aggression, but all too often Papa M give you nothing to concentrate on other than their own meandering. ‘Drunken Spree’ briefly manages to redress the balance, but it says a lot about a band when the only time that they manage to hold your attention is with a rendition of the Byrds ‘Turn Turn Turn’, as newfound intricacies are played out on duelling guitars and banjo.

But you still can’t help from feeling cheated, that the reverence directed towards Dave Pajo is perhaps given too freely. He may have played his part in changing the course of American alternative music but that doesn’t make him untouchable. There’s no doubting his obvious genius, but sometimes you need that little bit more. He may not like touring, but after all these years you’d think that he should have got used to it, however, he still stands there for the entire show without even acknowledging our presence before him, with only his frequent nervous fidgeting to prevent him from becoming motionless. As post-rock becomes increasingly ubiquitous, you find yourself hoping that such iconic figures will press forward and open new channels, but Papa M seem far too content to remain static, and that just can’t be considered enough anymore.

Skunk Anansie, MuseNewport Centre

Muse skip out, shower us with confetti and break into a spontaneous Spike Milligan routine. Except that they don’t, for as you all know, Muse are the new Radiohead, and therefore are a bit gloomy, a hint doomy, a tad moody, and quite possibly a touch broody as well. Fortunately, while the likes of Mansun strop about in the shadows, pouting at their reflections and smudging their eyeliner, Muse know the difference between heady angst and sticking their head up their arse, even if drummer Dominic Howard’s hair does look suspiciously like it’s been styled by Nicky Clarke’s rectal cavity. ‘Muscle Museum’ grinds together grunge dynamics and art-school theatrics, and Matthew Bellamy does his skinny white boy guitar hero thing while ‘Fillip’ dishes out the sort of sonic dissonance that would leave Brian Molko gagging in awe, all howled falsettos and jagged Stooges riffs.

Like epic shoe-gazing survivors Inner Sleeve possessed by Strangelove’s forlorn spirit, Muse are the proof that there is a more cerebral alternative to the dull and dour Britrock which has recently found itself in the ascendancy, and shows that, when given the opportunity, Radio 1 Evening Session fodder indie can occasionally grow up to be taut, edgy and doused in emotion without lurching into either mediocrity or MOR territory.

Unfortunately, Skunk Anansie soon bludgeon all such ideas into the ground, as Skin jumps about like Bez with in-growing toe-nails and Ace churns out his tepid proto-metal schlock-horror guitar blasts. If you could hold her still for long enough, and look further than that voice, you would find that Skin is little more Andi Peters in big boots, pushing yet more cock-rock bollocks (if you’ll excuse the patriarchal language bias) down the throats of a room full of pubescent girls so desperate for someone to worship that they can’t see the glaringly obvious flaws right in front of them.

J Mascis & the FogFree So Free

The connection between hoary old grunge refugees and trashy pulp-horror novels has never been widely publicised before now. But unless my memory fails me, the Fog was a Frank Herbert novel in which a malicious bunch of densely collected water-droplets drove the seemingly peaceful inhabitants of a seaside town to commit despicable acts of wanton evil, in one point driving a boarding school PE class to turn on their teacher, tie him to the wall bars and fuck him in the ass till he bled to death.

Fortunately, this particular Fog doesn’t seem to have the same effect on dear old J Mascis. True, he may have been the cause of thousands of cases of acute deafness, and there was that time when he spilt up Dinosaur just to get rid of Lou Barlow, only to reform the band the next day without telling him, but hey, Lou seems to be dealing with it a bit better now. Well, the next Sebadoh album may disprove that last bit, but let’s let bygones by bygones and look to the future.

But the future seems to be one thing that J has no truck with. In fact, ‘Free So Free’ is little more than a celebration of his past. The name of the band may have different, but not a lot else has changed round Mr Mascis’ way. Which is, like, totally fucking great. ‘Free So Free’ is everything that made Dinosaur great in the first place. The laconic drawl is there, the hooks remain as mighty as they ever were and J’s guitar solos still have that habit of making a break for the state border as soon as you take your eye off them. Recent single ‘Everybody Lets Me Down’ may as well be called ‘The Wagon, Part 2’, while album opener ‘Freedom’ even starts with a patented Lou-era bass line.

So, if we ignore the nasty weather conditions, ‘Free So Free’ is business as usual. The songs may well have remained the same, but given that they’re every bit as good as ‘Freak Scene’ and ’Feel The Pain’, you’re not gonna catch me complaining.

Sigur RósÁgætis Byrjun

You know that feeling when you wake up and can’t remember which day it is? Well, take pity on Sigur Rós. They may still be a relatively new name in the UK but have actually been going since 1994, and are now having to do all that new band stuff again despite already having two albums under their collective belt. Originally released in Iceland last year as the follow up to 1997’s ‘Von’ debut, ‘Ágætis Byrjun’ is our first proper introduction to their somnolent charms. Almost appropriate then that the title should translate as a new beginning.

Ranging from eerie warblings in a vein similar to early Verve, to prolonged drone-rock outbursts, ‘Ágætis Byrjun’ provides ample justification of their current status as the biggest band in Iceland. ‘Svefn-G-Englar’ is still as affecting as when you first heard it a year ago, while ‘Flugufrelsarinn’ gently grows out of silence, as it slowly rises up and starts to lap over you like the tide, leaving the languid ‘Olsen Olsen’ sounding almost urgent and aggressive in comparison, despite the haunting melodies that lull you into a sense of spiritual reverie.

The nature of these songs means that it makes little difference that you haven’t got the slightest clue what on earth singer Jonsí Birgisson is on about. Even if you could speak Icelandic, you still wouldn’t have a hope because the little rascal has conspired to invent his own language. But it may be for this very reason that Sigur Rós sound so captivating. While the majority of the post-rock types currently littering your record collections leave you wishing that the lazy buggers would get round to writing some words, your complete incomprehension of the lyrics allows you to concentrate on the tranquil mood created by the music without being distracted by what Jonsí is actually singing.

A recent BBC program invited a number of intellectuals and Terry Christian to debate whether rock’n’roll was going to become the religion of the new millennium. If it is indeed to be this way, then you may want to consider joining the church of Sigur Rós.

BisMusic For A Stranger World

It’s the question that’s on everybody’s lips – how will Bis react to being dropped by their beloved Beastie Boys and cast out from the Grand Royal haven? Well, if ‘Music For A Stranger World’ is anything to go by, then it seems that they’re still in denial because if they were dropped for being shit they certainly don’t appear to have bothered doing anything to rectify that issue. While they had originally endeared themselves to a pop-starved public by re-enacting the punk wars on a Bontempi and drum machine and bouncing around like prepubescents wrecked on Hooch and sherbet dip singing about school discos, they now seem intent on imitating the sounds that blighted our school discos that we all endured for so many years.

In an effort to recreate such soulless, whining trash, ‘Are You Ready?’ sees Manda reaching for even more helium than usual, turning herself into some mutant Debbie Gibson parody before revealing that she has about as little idea as to how they still exist as we do (“Unsure of what is going on / I bite my lip and I cannot seem to stop”, ‘I Want It All’). And then just to pile on the disappointment some more, ‘Beats At The Office’ reveals itself to be yet another us against the man rant instead of a thinly disguised metaphor for a spot of sly under the desk masturbation. It is, however, a pile of wank, so maybe that’s the link.

Bis don’t want this mini-album to be treated as a stopgap and hope that we will consider it a “proper” release. The last proper release I had was brown and lumpy and recently disappeared around the u-bend. ‘Music For A Stranger World’ could soon be following it.

British Sea PowerThe Decline Of British Sea Power

There must be something in the water in Brighton. Maybe it's effluence, perhaps industrial waste, possibly even a mix of dead fish, used condoms and washed up big beat DJs. Who knows? Long-shore drift is a curious beast. It gives and it takes. But the moment you try to mess with it, it’ll ditch your neighbour’s cliffside villa into the sea faster than a game of hunt the weapons of mass destruction. Or maybe it’s written into the housing contracts? Three bedrooms, two receptions, sea view, £320 a week, must form slightly quirky off-kilter rock band. Whichever, Brighton bands tend to err on the eccentric side of life. Look, over there, it’s Clearlake with their fictitious fishing village and neo-Floydisms. And who’s that behind you? It’s the Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster doing their hard-rocking, donkey-punching psychobilly Cramps revival thing while their singer does his best to impersonate Jon Penny from Ned’s Atomic Dustbin.

So it’s little surprise then, that British Sea Power have come across as being a few pavilions short of a seaside resort. But if that’s what made them sound like a curious new wave amalgam of Magazine, Talking Heads, post-Pixes era Frank Black, and mid-70’s David Bowie, then I’m all for it. Which is just as well, because each song on “The Decline Of…” is essentially just a variation of that theme. ‘Remember Me’ would have had no problem making itself at home on either of the first two Frank Black albums, ‘Carrion’ sounds like the entirety of Bowie’s ‘Heroes’ album compacted into four minutes and the seventy second thrash of ‘Favours In The Beetroot Fields’ is loaded with riffs straight out of a Howard Devoto songbook.

On this evidence, it seems that auto-instigated rumours of British Sea Power’s decline may have been greatly exaggerated, just as long as they don’t use that cliff-side swimming pool.

Notes from the Underground #1

So where do we start? Something about being sick, angry and unattractive if my memory serves me correctly. I’m hoping at least two of those are incorrect, but as I’m going to nick a title from Dostyevski, it’s only fair that I give him his due by bothering to re-read the first paragraph.

Perhaps I am sick. I’m sick of trawling round scabby indie-dives on my own. I’m sick of searching for a scene that isn’t financed by major labels. That isn’t staffed by coke-addled media-whores sucking on ketamine and Smirnoff ice, who grace a gig with their presence purely because the band has had a bit of press recently and, for this week at least, can be considered cool and trendy, man. Perhaps this is the time to say I remember when no one had heard of Bobby Conn, back in the days before he was playing venues as (s)wank and salubrious as Trash. But then, what does my opinion count? This is only what I’m trying to do as a living. That’s right, I’m sick, sick of it all.

I may well be angry. Anger can be good. Anger keeps you searching for a reason not to be angry. Anger keeps you hungry. I’m angry that this hasn’t worked out as planned. I was moving to this wondrous city, and this wondrous city would welcome me with outstretched arms. But my anger has been stirred by the sea of whores I that swim before me. Am I going to play their games? Am I fuck? I’m trying to find a solution to all this negativity. I’m chasing after ghosts of promises of bands that can change my life. I know that there’s an underground out there, and it’s waiting for me to come knocking. Problem is, at the moment I’m buggered if I can find the door. I’ve seen glimpses of this hallowed turf. I’m beginning to recognise faces. I’m beginning to recognise faces that aren’t trying desperately hard to be Faces. This can only be a good thing. The signs that I have found are hopeful, I just having difficulty in following their directions. I found San Quentin. Then they split up. What is a boy to do? But at least they gave me hope. San Quentin showed that my search might not all be in vain.

What’s that you say? What is this search I talk of? I’m searching for no more than anyone else is. This isn’t some mystical holy grail I’m looking for, just a place that I can feel at home; a place where the music can take hold of me; a place where maybe, just maybe, everyone knows my name.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Sickness. Anger. There was more than that under consideration. The final ignominy. Sick, angry and unattractive. I believe that was the deal. Sickness and anger I can comment on, these are concepts within my understanding. Attractive or unattractive? That’s not for me to say. Perhaps it is for you to decide, to guess, to find out. My ramblings will take me far and wide, across the breadth of this city, and occasionally further afield. I’ve been there before; I shall go there again. I am afraid of nothing. I am scared of nothing, other than the possibility that I may fail in my search.

So that’s why I’m here. Why are you here? Why are you still reading? Are you laughing at my plight or are you crying with me? I’ve seen how these things work in Bristol and Birmingham (and don’t work in Cardiff). A city like London must have more to offer me. I’m just going to have to try harder to find it. Are you going to help me? Or are you going to sit there and watch as this city falls to its knees, and throws itself in the gutter in desperation.

I’m willing to search for the bands that could save London’s music scene from the evils of the multinational industry. I’m looking for a music scene that places the emphasis on music rather than the scene. Are you going to accompany me on this search, or have you already stopped giving a shit?

Notes from the Underground #2

It’s Saturday night. Where am I? Where are you? Have you been looking for me? I’ve been out there, searching the streets, braving the sweat pits looking for the heartbeat of this city. If you’re lucky I’ll tell what I’ve found. I won’t pretend to have done all this since we last met. A quick glance at your social calendar would prove the dates just don’t add up. As some of you may have realised, I’m not always the most prescient of the Bleed team.

Sometimes I feel like Happy Harry Hard-On from ‘Pump Up The Volume’. All alone at night, either running around in circles screaming along with ‘Kick Out The Jams’ or drowning my sorrows with Leonard Cohen. This is one of those moments, but minus the MC5 and the cheery Canadian. Right now ‘Pet Sounds’ is echoing around my still and barren room. Tonight, I decided the blood could pump around the arteries of London on its own. It didn’t need me to watch over it. I thought I’d stay here and talk to you instead.

How have you been? What have you seen? What have you discovered so far this year? I thought for a moment that I’d found plenty, but then if that’s the case, why am I talking to you as I watch British Summer Time limp in. This is obviously a gap in my diary. So I’ll share my thoughts with you and to try not to let Brian Wilson distract me too much.

You’ll have to forgive me if I’m not chronologically correct, but as my friends may tell you, I’m not always that good with dates. That may be why I’m here leaning against an empty bed, procrastinating about music while my friends are tucked up with their significant others. But at least I have my friends to fall back upon. I was there when our very own provincial serpent, Bremstrahlung X Jones, was dancing among the beautiful people in Bristol’s Thekla. It was I that Brem grinned at as the DJ dropped ‘Lust For Life’ and Brem finally learnt what that primal beat could do to a man. I was still in Bristol the next night, dancing on a chair, probably looking as if I had a vibrator stuck up my ass that someone had kindly tuned to free jazz, while the Check Engine provided that first true buzz of the year.

There have been others since; other moments that justify my motivation. Back in London, being stunned by just how fucking awesome Eska have become since I saw them last. Watching Disoma’s singer crawl around the floor at the Verge, barefoot and howling like a newborn baby as Tom Duggan grinned that special grin of his in the background. Witnessing Southern Record’s very own post-rock teddy bear, Tom Davies, moonlighting as Audiowhore, and feeling the smile spread over my face as he finished his set of fractured, instrumental folk by dancing across the stage to sampled cut-ups of Roy Walker and Catchphrase. Hearing Mountain Men Anonymous blend white knuckle post-rock with electronica and turn themselves into Godspeed You Black Autechre.

I passed through Birmingham to see the triumphant return of Idlewild and to listen while Pete from the Regulars tried to convince me to drive back up there a month later just to watch their gig with the Butterflies of Love instead of waiting for the Butterflies to play London. At least I know I’m loved somewhere, even if it is in Birmingham. In London I may still feel faceless, I may be an unknown quantity, but I’m not without my influence. I introduced a friend to the Les Savy Fav live experience. He looked on in wonder as Tim Harrington (pictured above) brought the lighting rig crashing down onto the stage so that he could run off with the mirror ball. Harrington is punk rock, and I love him for it. In exchange I was taken to see the Appleseed Cast. We queued for three quarters of an hour, in the middle of the Dublin fucking Castle; a bunch of emo-kids in the middle of a nightmare vision of bad mullets. Forty-five minutes sweating like fools while ageing wannabes pushed their way past us with a look of contempt on their haggard face. Yet once we finally found ourselves safe in the dingy backroom, Appleseed and Cursive made it all seem worthwhile.

This may have be enough to last some of you a year. But for me it has merely got my blood up; I need more; I need to keep looking. But it’s no good; I can’t ignore Brian forever. He’s taunting me with his voice, his songs and his message. He’s talking to me. Yes, to me, not to anyone else. He’s waited all these years just to give me guidance. “I know there’s an answer,” he’s saying, “I know now but I have to find it by myself.” He’s right you know. You’ve no idea how much that says to me. Truth be told, neither have I. But I’m still here talking to you. That’s a good start. He went mad, you know? Totally fucking mental crazy. Brian filled his living room with sand because he thought his piano was causing forest fires. I long for the day when I believe that my songwriting is so powerful that it’s capable of causing natural disasters. Not so keen on the living in a house filled with sand part of the deal, but as long as the neighbours don’t complain, I suppose I’d learn to deal with it. In the meantime I’ll settle for finding someone else whose songwriting has that same power. I think that’s why I started on this journey in the first place. There must be an answer; otherwise all of this will have been in vain.

Brian also made his children shit on newspaper in front of the entire family. But as we know, we can’t have everything. At least not yet anyway.