Stephen MalkmusStephen Malkmus

The kings are dead; long live the king.

Following the protracted demise of Pavement last year, it seemed that perhaps all was lost, that Stephen Malkmus had abandoned his throne once and for all, leaving no-one to take his place. While Birmingham’s Jameson have been making all the right noises, they’re no more than viable a prince regent and still need someone to keep the seat warm until it’s time for their domination. So not only is it quite surprising to find Malkmus back so soon, but once more sounding so vital and fulfilled.

Although to be fair to him, that ‘Terror Twilight’ as sounded so flat and lifeless was more to do with the overly constrictive production of Nigel Godrich, a man responsible for making every album he touches sound like it was recorded in a bread-bin (though Radiohead fans don’t seem to mind, perhaps because the majority of them already have their heads so far up their arse that the real world has long sounded dull and muffled). Instead, Malkmus alter-ego Clarence Skiboots has been let loose at the helm, and as a result, the music sounds more vibrant and effervescent than it has since 1995’s ‘Wowee Zowee’, full of echoing noise, with clanging guitars fighting for precedence over Malkmus’s skewed vocals.

In place of the good ol’ Pavement boys behind him, this album sees Malkmus backed by the Jicks, namely bassist Joanna Bolme and former Elliott Smith drummer John Moen, though you probably won’t really notice the difference, with only Scott Kannberg’s dissonant guitar missing from the sound. As is his way, Malkmus’ lyrics are as obtuse as ever, ranging from tales of being kidnapped by Turkish pirates on ‘The Hook’ to an auto-biographical account of Yul Brynner’s life, while his penchant for English league football once rears its head as Stoke-on-Trent finds its way into ‘Pink India’.

For all the trauma and upheaval that led to this album, it seems that it has really been worthwhile. If Malkmus can continue to sound this wonderful, then Jameson are gonna have one hell of a long wait for that crown.

San QuentinThe Verge, Kentish Town, London

As big a phenomenon as it is State-side, it’s not been that long since, over here, emo was almost an insult to be thrown at punks who were not only too polite to rock out, but even dared to take themselves seriously. But with punk’s burial at the hands of Blink182 and Wheatus, the all too brief flowering of At The Drive-In has left the kids wanting more than such dumb-ass punk-pop will ever be able to offer.

Fuelled by Fierce Panda’s recent emo-worshipping ‘Go’ EP, those old Van Pelt records have found their way back onto the turntable. As one of the highlights of ‘Go’, San Quentin were set to lead an emo-shaped charge this side of the Atlantic, along with like minded souls such as Hundred Reasons, jetplaneLanding and the Starries.

However, just as it was all looking so rosy, San Quentin have gone and pulled the plug. After prestige appearances with Jimmy Eat World and American alt.rock heroes Superchunk, San Quentin have decided that this low-key gig in a tiny north London club will be their last. It hardly seems fitting that it should end in such a manner, but there’s not much we can do about that now.

Fronted by Tom Davies, also of Mogwai’s post-rock nemesis, Immense, San Quentin were the archetypal mild-mannered and hard-rocking emo band. From the fidgety guitars of ‘Six Seconds’ to the ‘Goo’ era Sonic Youth thrash of ‘Potato Skin’, it was all there, power, passion and integrity in abundance. As the thunderous finale of ‘Arms Folded’ roars through the room, the sense of loss in the crowd is all too obvious. As far as show business clichés go, San Quentin have got it spot on. They’ve left us wanting much, much more. Its such a shame that their premature demise means that they won’t be around to deliver it.

San LorenzoNothing New Ever Works

There’s something rumbling in the West Midlands, hundreds of kids are running around with crazed looks on their faces, guitars slung around their knees. Somewhere among them stride San Lorenzo, touted as the newest challengers for Mogwai’s increasingly precarious throne. However, don’t assume that ‘Nothing New Ever Works’ is just another excuse for a bunch of bored kids to try and replicate/rip off that old quiet-loud, nice and soft/hard as fucking granite formula that so many others have been caught peddling in recent times.

From the very start, there’s enough evidence here to suggest that Stuart Braithwaite would be wise to abdicate his self-appointed position as King post-rock before thing starts to get messy round chez Mogwai. ‘Jun’ opens proceedings with a stuttering art-rock swagger of discordant guitars and yelped vocals, coming across like the incidental music for a kids television programme starring Captain Beefheart as a mentally ill door-to-door salesman and ‘Dead Amps’ is the sound of Nirvana offering Shellac outside whilst sneakily slipping a jackhammer into their back pocket.

Elsewhere, San Lorenzo craft a towering majesty from shifting time signatures and staccato drumming, as the sparse elegance of ‘Life Without Mountains’ treads a path not dissimilar to that of Red Stars Theory. Eager to not be pigeon-holed so quickly, San Lorenzo prove that they’re capable of more than full-on sonic assaults with a couple of brief glimpses at their softer, more fragile side as they stray from their effects pedals. Recalling the fragile nature of the Radar Brothers, the abatement of volume allows them to express themselves more clearly, as ‘My History Is Valid’ becomes both rallying cry and statement of self-affirmation (“my history is valid, it’s something I will defend, I stood my ground, when confronted on a train, my history is the context in which I live”), before ‘Some Trust’ clearly states their agenda and offers their opinion of their current contemporaries (“everything is for sale, your music’s shit”).

As ‘American High Rock Song’ rumbles to a close, you can almost hear that free Kappa gear coming in useful as the soon to be deposed Mr Braithwaite does a runner to the comfort of his mummy. While he strops about, you’d be wise to join San Lorenzo’s lynch mob for a party while they finish off the last of the Buckfast.

ChikinkiExperiment With Mother

The thing with Bristol, yeah, is that it’s never going to be known for anything other than trip-hop. No matter how hard the resurgent alt.rock and hardcore scene tries, they’re always going to be playing second fiddle to those blokes with made-up names who spend all their time in dark and gloomy studios playing with Tracey Thorn. If that’s the case, then how were you planning to explain the current phenomena known as Chikinki?

Showing an eclecticism that encompasses the droning dirge-pop of ‘Delivery 25’ and the mutoid drum’n’bass barrage of ‘Like It Or Leave It’, it appears that Chikinki are setting themselves up to be Add N To (X)’s precocious younger brothers, until they throw you off kilter with the mournful Elliott Smith aping ‘Elvis Impersonator’, while much of the proceedings are imbibed with the spirit of the Make-Up, proving that sometimes it really isn’t possible to approach this sort of thing with any prejudices about how a band is going to sound.

In fact, you could almost go as far as to say that ‘Experiment With Mother’ should be considered the blueprint for bands looking to combine their guitar-based vision with a wider-ranging diversity, without reducing your music to a awkward combination of guitar-wank and clumsy beats as is so often the case.

Even given the almost pornographic artwork, you get the feeling that Rupert, Boris, Trevor et al have been experimenting with more than just their mother, and given that the resultant concoction offers up new surprises at every turn, this sort of thing should be encouraged if Bristol is ever going to throw off its stereotypical musical heritage.

MogwaiAnson Rooms, Bristol

Pesky little tykes, Mogwai. From the moment they haul their not inconsiderable bulk on to the stage, they prove to be a perplexing concept, the aching succour of Low played by prematurely balding, angry young men in Kappa and football shirts. One moment they’ll soothe you with their delicate structures, the next they’ll try to knock out your teeth and force firecrackers into the bleeding cavities.

Despite stooping to such commercial prostitution as actually having lyrics, ‘Cody’ gently caresses the heartstrings, only for the pile-driving rampage of ‘Like Herod’ to sever them with a machete and feed them to a passing pit bull terrier. A clever trick that they then follow by losing both the songs and the plot in such a heavy wash of effects and tempestuous feedback that even the drummer can no longer find a rhythm, leading to a mind-numbingly indifferent performance, which is only rescued by the appearance of Luke Sutherland for an epochal rendition of ‘Christmas Steps’.

However, having been seen alongside a musician who hasn’t yet needed to join Weight Watchers, it seems that the plump little chaps are left feeling a bit self-conscious, and so turn on the strobes for the duration of ‘Mogwai Fear Satan’, just so we can’t look at them any more. If they were to use all that free sports-wear for its intended purpose and get some exercise, they may finally be able to catch up with the consistency that has kept recently escaped them. Should that happen, Mogwai could be rightfully remembered for their melancholic, malevolent beauty rather than for being a bunch of slap-heads with big mouths and even bigger waistlines.

Echo Is Your LoveSheets Of Blank Fucking Paper

What is it with European bands these days? All of a sudden it’s not enough for them to gain precious television exposure prancing about on Eurotrash singing about licking exotic fruit, they have to go all art-rock on us in the hope that we’ll take them seriously as well. First it was Icelandic shoe-gazers Sigur Rós and German post-rock outfit Jullander. Now, before you can say 'he may only be a substitute at Barcelona, but that Jari Litmannen’s a bit fucking good', here comes Finland’s most recent export, Echo Is Your Love.

Weighing in somewhere between the Blonde Redhead and proto-riot grrls Bette Davis & the Balconettes, 'Sheets Of Blank Fucking Paper' provides the proof that screaming really is an international language as Nea hollers away like a good ‘un while the boys work through their No Wave obsessions.

Originally forming to make "beautiful noise without being tied to too many chains of song structure", the Love more than live up to their manifesto, as layers of cacophonous guitars are welded over a juddering rhythm section, even if 'Not So Cool Pop Stars For Hire On The Spot' could more accurately be described as painful the away it lurches along seemingly unconcerned by the concept of tune or melody.

Elsewhere, 'Black & Red Lies On Yellow' sounds like 'Death Valley ‘69' had it been recorded by Huggy Bear instead of Sonic Youth, while 'Nym' goes for the slow and brooding approach before guitarists Micho and Ilai turn all nasty, liberally dousing everything in squalling, if not deafening, feedback. They may not have what it takes to knock transsexual Israelis and teenaged Danes out of the Eurovision Song Contest, but Echo Is Your Love may be about to claw back some credibility for Finnish music.

CayFleece & Firkin, Bristol

You hate to resort to the same lazy comparisons, to stoop so low enough as to pull those familiar names back out of the bag when faced with a band so desperately in need of their own identity, but sometimes you’re left with little choice. On record, there’s nothing essentially wrong with Cay that couldn’t be fixed by a touch more imagination in the song-writing department, maybe employing an occasional hint of subtlety instead of leaping for the volume control every time they reach a chorus, or even a slight digression from their already formulaic structure. Regrettably a live setting only serves to further highlight the flaws, to emphasis their reliance on repetition of a theme run into the ground so many times by so many bands before them.

While the buzz saw joyride of 'Better Than Myself' still captures the essence of 'Dirty' era Sonic Youth – with Anet screaming away like someone who has just been forced to watch the Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Who Wants To Be A Millionaire simultaneously – they only really have two other songs; those that want to be 'Better Than Myself', but aren’t quite so good; and those that want to be 'Better Than Myself', but aren’t as fast or as good.

It’s during these slower moments that that dreaded references most obviously rear their heads; the way the guitars get all broody and Anet stops screaming long enough to have a cigarette between verses; where those years spent listening to too many Hole and Babes In Toyland albums begin leave their indiscreet stamp over proceedings. While the more discerning among us cringe as memories of too many Friday nights at bad provincial indie discos resurface, the kids down the front use the respite as an opportunity to sip at the remnants of their spilt and illicit pints, before once more hurling themselves at each other like crazed dogs as Cay drop yet another mosh-friendly barrage from their big bag of songs.

Part of the problem is that Cay seem fated to attract this kind of audience. You just can’t escape the feeling that if you were still fifteen you would have been impressed by the sheer volume and aggression with which they play; that you would have jumped about and shouted along with the chorus before going home hoping that your parents wouldn’t realise that you had been drinking again.

As it is, Cay have been playing the same venues each time they’ve toured for the last year and a half, and you know as well as they do that they’ll be back here again in six months time. You can only hope, for their sake as much as your own, that somewhere along the line they’ll find that extra little something that will allow them to progress part this point, but until then it’ll be Groundhog Day again and again and we’ll just have to hope that they’re content playing to the little kids in the Slipknot t-shirts for the foreseeable future.

Guildford Live 2000

You can't help but get the impression that this weekend has been put together by someone's mum who saw a bit of Glastonbury on the television, and decided that it looked like a nice excuse for a picnic. It shows not only in the choice of location, but also in the choice of bands. At first glance, Terrorvision may deal in heads down, bare-chested, white-knuckle rock, but once you look past the loud guitars it becomes apparent that it's rock that your mum would approve of, rock which helps to clear away the dirty dishes after having been invited for dinner. While their performance is competent enough, you just don’t believe that they mean it, man, it's rock lacking the filth and grim of low-down living, rock devoid of everything that can make it so essential. When it comes down to delivering that pure visceral rush, Terrorvision are found wanting, for who wants to settle for 'Tequila' when you could have a bottle of JD, a bag of coke, and a room full of prostitutes waiting backstage.

Thank fuck then for Motörhead, here to liven up proceedings with some real rock'n'roll attitude. On stride Lemmy and Phil 'the beast' Campbell, looking like they've just been poured into their black denim and leather. Surely this is more like it. Sadly though, it's still not right, it's just more of the same, an hour-long trawl through the hits, from 'Ace Of Spades' and 'Overkill' and onwards to 'God Save The Queen'. Just to make matters worse, it seems that they only have one tune, and there's only so many times you can hear slightly different versions of the same song without getting bored as Lemmy grunts away over the top, in a voice so deep and hoarse it sounds like he's been swallowing gravel, gargling razor-blades and chewing on Mariella Frostrup.

The Rolling Stones knew how to rock, they were the bona fide article, you could tell they were Satan-worshipping, model-fucking alcoholic junkie reprobates just by looking at their skinny, wasted bodies as they jerked around the stage. Unfortunately they got shit in the mid 70s and have never been the same since, and just to prove how accurate a tribute band the Counterfeit Stones are, they certainly don't seem capable of rocking without a certain kind of chair. Just like the real thing, they seem to be stuck in an early eighties vision of musical hell rather than the glory days of the late '60s, a feat which is matched by Counterfeit Mick's gaudy American football getup. So it doesn’t matter how much they put into 'Sympathy For The Devil' and 'Let's Spend The Night Together', it's never going to be enough to convince that covers bands are a good idea.

You'd think that maybe those one-time politicised punks Stiff Little Fingers can inject a bit of passion, provide a spark of fervour, but, for all their rebellion through association with earlier more controversial peers, they're probably just here because your older brother used to listen to them, and because that nice Bruce Foxton has joined them now - you know, the one that used to be in the Jam with that lovely Paul Weller. Just to test the patience of their fans they toss out 'Alternative Ulster' within moments of arriving onstage before trudging through their dreary pub-rock racket, resplendent in their matching shirts bearing the SLF emblem, making them look like some over-50s bowling team out for a spot of karaoke.

Your sister used to love Soft Cell you know. Your mum certainly knew that and as she ran out of ideas of who to put on the bill, here comes Marc Almond (pictured above), the man least likely to rock. But while he may not wish to get down and dirty with the sweating hordes, having even neglected to bring a drummer to the party, there’s no doubting his ability to entertain. Dressed in the obligatory black, but sporting a rather spangly little number for the occasion, he pirouettes and prances his way across the stage like the virile young man he obviously sees himself as. By the time he's done 'Why Do You Love Me, Why Do I Let You?' and 'Something's Got A Hold Of My Heart' he's already proved to us that Neil Hannon owes his entire career to this self-styled gothic crooner. As 'The Days Of Pearly Spencer' and 'Jackie' bring his time here to an end, he has reigned triumphant and shown us that, against all the odds, he has somehow remained a true star, and that, ladies and gentlemen, is the true spirit of rock'n'roll.

Hefner

It's probably not possible to be any more indie than Hefner. They're the epitome of awkwardness, blessed and cursed in equal measure with their fresh-faced look of innocence and naivety. Darren Hayman (pictured) has the best voice that you’ll ever hear coming from someone who supposedly can’t sing, and they often invoke memories of the Wedding Present, the Go-Betweens and the Violent Femmes. As if that wasn’t enough, John Peel loves them so much that not only did they get five songs in last year’s Festive 50, with 'The Hymn For The Cigarettes' effortlessly claiming the number two spot, but he's also willing to stake his very reputation on them, as bassist John Morrison explains, "all the main national radio stations in Europe get asked to have a representative DJ that they take to Groningen, it’s like a radio festival thing, and whoever it is get asked to bring an act with them. They asked John Peel to do it this time, so he asked us to go with him. He seemed more excited than we did. After the show he was really pleased that it went really well, he said he thought we had a four-nil away win". "Every country you go to there is someone who purports to be the equivalent of John Peel", adds guitarist Jack Hayter, "you kind of got the impression that all the European sub-John Peels were there with their idea of alternative bands".

Their recent EP of gospel covers also came about via John Peel and his radio show. "When we’re touring we all bring CDs, and we had a phase where first of all it was a lot of soul music, and it just seemed to creep into people bringing gospel CDs", says Jack. "We had this little idea of just doing a couple of cover versions live, I can’t really remember how it happened but we did various Peel sessions and I think it was mentioned to a producer. They said that would be a really great idea for a session, in the old way that when ever John Peel had sessions, people would go in and do something completely different, they wouldn't just go play their fucking singles or two tracks off the album and try and record them in exactly the same way. It seemed to get a really strong response on the Peel show, so it made sense to release it".

You’ve gone on the record recently pledging your support for Ken Livingstone in the London mayoral election; do you think it's important for a band to be political in their outlook? "Darren's songs aren’t generally overtly political", explains John, "but for anybody who lived in London, or was involved in any of the campaigns and disputes in the 1980s, the whole business of the GLC was quite a formative thing. Also there was the opportunity to say to Tony Blair 'you’ve sold us down the river', I think that makes it important that we support Ken Livingstone". Is it possible for a band to have any tangible effect on the outcome of the elections? "It depends on the general level of consciousness", asserts Jack, "and we're not so presumptuous to say that Hefner can have that effect".

You're often represented as being defiantly lo-fi in your attitude towards music, particularly on 'Breaking God's Heart', which lead Too Pure to describe the album as sounding like demos. Jack is quick to defend his band mates, "I wasn’t around for the recording of ‘Breaking God’s Heart’, but I certainly get the impression that there wasn't an intention to do a lo-fi recording anyway, it was just a necessity, I'm sure if we had better technology at home then we could sound like Yes or AC/DC". Why did you re-record the songs from 'the Hefner Soul' EP for the compilation album? "We just thought the original versions sounded shit", states John matter-of-factly. What about the comparisons that you generally incite, how do you feel about the continual references to the same few bands? "The first time we got compared to the Violent Femmes, it wasn't something we could claim never to have heard, but it wasn’t like we said 'let's sound like the Violent Femmes'. I think a lot of that came from the first album, the way that it was really stripped down". Jack is more amused by the whole situation, "I had friends who are really into the Violent Femmes who were outraged by the comparisons".

Do you feel held back by the image that's portrayed by the press, do you think that it's time you were allowed to move on, and gain recognition for who you are, rather than have people turning up with a preconceived opinion of the band? "I think sometimes people are a little disappointed with the way that we are, and the way that we are live. It's such a laugh, we have such fun with it", says John, "I think from the lyrical side of things they expect us to be moody and tense, they don't expect us to be smiling". "It’s very easy if you've got a singer with glasses and songs about relationships for a journalist to go geeky bloke, lives in a bed-sit; so you do your best to shatter those myths", Jack grins and continues, "about half an hour ago, Darren got asked if he still lives with his parents, and he nearly twatted the guy".

How about the themes of the songs, the majority tend to concentrate on almost adolescent subjects, girls and alcohol for the most part? John swiftly fends off the criticism, "but most pop music is about fancying girls or fancying boys". What about the themes of the records, 'The Fidelity Wars' was concerned with relationships and infidelity, while you’ve said that the next album is about London. Do you feel trapped by the subject? that it's important to follow through an idea for the entire record? "I think always there's a kind of a theme to a record or Darren's lyrics, but he goes much wider and he uses something in particular, he’ll be singing about the hymn for the cigarettes or the hymn for the alcohol, but he tells another story within that". Are you worried that you're going to end up making a concept album? "I think that by definition you’re not going to end up with a prog-rock album", laughs Jack, "I think you'd be hard pushed to turn any of Darren's songs into a prog-rock concept". John, however, is more willing to concede a point, "I guess in a way there is a kind of concept to Hefner, with the covers and the themes to the albums. When Darren does interviews he'll often say he really liked the way that with Smiths or Joy Division records, even if it didn’t have the name on it, you could see that here's another Smiths record". Do you wish that you were able to have a greater input into the image, or are you happy with the set-up as it is at present? "Darren does all the covers and it's totally up to him what he does. He always shows everyone the artwork, but I'm sure if one of us said 'that's absolute bollocks', then he might take notice".

AngelicaThe End Of A Beautiful Career

If you’ve not been paying much attention recently, you may have led to believe that Angelica are no more than the next Kenickie. While some may judge that as an achievement in itself, 'The End Of Beautiful Career' sees Angelica step out of the shadow of their defunct contemporaries and gleefully announce their arrival at the debutante ball. This is how Kenickie must have sounded in Johnny X’s most vivid dreams, if you can look past the incestuous undertones implied by that notion. If they had grown up wanting to be Scorpions rather than Pink Ladies; if their favourite film had been the Wicker Man instead of Saturday Night Fever; and if they’d hadn’t gone Disco, but gone looking for a disco that played Fugazi; then this what is the first Kenickie album could have been.

Despite Holly’s sweet, almost child-like voice, a closer listen to her lyrics reveals a tendency towards extreme violence and retribution, a little like adding your artificial sweetener to your morning coffee only to that discover your spoonful of saccharine has a strychnine aftertaste. So 'Bring Back Her Head' describes how she wants to treat the new girlfriend with the same malice that nice girls usually reserve for their Barbie, while 'All I Can See' makes clear her intention to gouge your eyes out the first time you piss her off. Where debut single 'Teenage Girl Crush' saw Angelica set themselves up as Skinned Teen with talent, much of this album suggests that these girls have been listening to the sound of underground America since, and when Brigit takes over the vocals for 'Concubine Blues', we’re treated to a less intricate take on Sleater-Kinney, before the guitars go all Sebadoh on 'You Fake It, You Make It'.

Occasionally, their true ability is only hinted at rather than given the opportunity to flourish, but then everyone hates a teenager who thinks that they know it all. By the end of the year though, the lazy comparisons should be all but forgotten. Until then, be warned, there’s enough evidence here to suggest that if you dare mention the K-word to their faces, they’re not so likely to kick you in the bollocks as rip them off, stick 'em in a jar and post them to your mother for as a Christmas present, before going home to write a song about it.

The Action TimeVersus The World

History is always subjective, the past can be rewritten at will, and the only truth that ever matters is your own. In fact, if the rhetoric is strong enough then history can be cast aside altogether, allowing a new past to be fabricated that will then take on a new life of its own. The Nation of Ulysses claimed responsibility for a worldwide campaign of violence against United States embassies and the history of the Ulysses Jihad obliterated any true past that may have existed previously.

Having learnt from their forebears, the Action Time come to us with their past lovingly created and recorded, whether much truth lies within their stories has been rendered unimportant as a desire for excitement replaces the need for a less interesting reality. They present themselves as criminal masterminds on the run from the FBI, pulp fiction authors and part-time pornographers, students of Phil Spector and former go-go dancers who have come together to reclaim the art form of rock n‘ roll from the capitalist graveyard of pop radio.

Pitching themselves at the point where the Make Up meet Comet Gain, the Action Time are a riot of Jack Duvall’s skinny white-boy soul, the pounding Motown rhythm of Miss CC Rider and the jagged guitars of EB Rockets fronted by the Gospel Yeh-Yeh swagger of singers Rock Action, SK Sparkles and Miss Spent Youth.

'Versus the World' is their manifesto, a treatise for war and peace "using violence to reach beyond gravity’s pull" ('Soul On Ice') in order to stir up modern society once more. Even when the songs sound candy-coated, they’ve been laced with strychnine, as 'Rock‘n’Roll' spurns pacifism in order to create a better place to live ("I know I shouldn’t say it but it’s gotta be said, some of you people would be better off dead"), as they take on the mantle of a terrorist cell, hiding their dissent under the cover of sharp clothes, perfect eyeliner and gleaming polemic. This may not be your truth, it may not even be theirs, but when the past has been seized and rewritten with such insight and attention to the finest details, and the music is infused with the twin forces of passion and politics, who are we to doubt them, for the Action Time are here to prove once more that music can save your soul.