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Chicaloyoh / Terrine / Twin (live at Café Kino)

Bristol 21 August 2015

Loved the way Twin‘s guitars seemed to shimmer in your mind’s eye like a hazy mirage. A spectre of voice weaving through as lush loops were overlaid in trebling ascents. Endlessly changing, channelling, dusted in a candle-lit intimacy of curling chords caught in a Fursaxa-like beguile. A sound that climbed into scythed skylines and collapsed in radiating waves. A delicate and dreamy apparition that exploded in applause.

Next were angular tantrums of guitar and screaming vox, noisy post-punk shenanigans under the moniker of Terrine (aka Claire Gapenne) to a backing of fucked-up sparks and trashed percussions. She was a box of total surprises that just kept giving fractured with awesome curves of guitar’n’wailing pedals. A blissful, bruising squeezing in an altogether mellower diversion, a surprise brassware addition that gave me TG Fanni Tutti shivers smeared in kettling drumscapes before wasping back to more noisy enthusiasms

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SunnO))) / Phurpa (live at Meltdown)

The Royal Festival Hall, London 18 August 2015

Throat-singing. It’s the new rock and roll. Or the OLD rock and roll, if you subscribe to the theory espoused by the likes of luminaries such as Patti Smith, Julian Cope and me that a rock concert is essentially the modern variant on religious worship. Phurpa bridge this gap across time and space by playing ancient devotional Bon music (from an incredibly early form of Buddhism) in a rock setting, sat cross-legged on the floor of the Royal Festival Hall in front of an audience of metalheads.

Phurpa (Picture: Meltdown) Phurpa (Picture: Meltdown)

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The Sugarcubes – Life’s Too Good

One Little Indian

The Sugarcubes - Life's Too GoodIt is more difficult to write about The SugarcubesLife’s Too Good than I had anticipated. Although I know the record well, played it endlessly throughout my mid-teens and still find it to be a really good listen, it is hard to say any more about it than has been said elsewhere.

It is a great album, a great first album and a record that stands up very well considering how much has happened musically in the intervening years. It is a big record, it is bouncy, exuberant, fun.

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George Clinton & Funkadelic (live at The Electric Ballroom)

London 7 August 2015

It’s a balmy Friday night in old London Town, and the Mothership has just landed on Camden’s Electric Ballroom, bringing its message of light, love and lavatory humour in the form of George Clinton and Funkadelic. And godDAMN if he still isn’t the best pilot it could ever wish for.

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Bérangère Maximin – Dangerous Orbits

Crammed Discs

Bérangère Maximin - Dangerous OrbitsI’m seriously fixated by musique concrète, along with a lot of other musical niches; it’s been a slippery slope ever since hearing Luciano Berio’s Visage at an impressionable age, which set the dominos toppling for other magnetic tape twisters, splicers and slicers. In turn, this spurred an appreciation of more tonally spread hues, that floating gasp to our everyday stripped of recognition, the petri dish of the consequencidental magic, the mechanical rush or clank, the whirring innards — the ticking arteries of combustion — largely ignored, often found irritating; the consequences of modernity that Bérangère Maximin investigates on her recent release Dangerous Orbits.

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Acid Mothers Temple And The Cosmic Inferno (live at Baba Yaga’s Hut)

The Dome, London 3 July 2015

Okay, so here’s a thing. I don’t really remember ever seeing Acid Mothers Temple. I’ve seen them on various occasions, and I don’t really remember any of them. Now, I don’t make a conscious effort to indulge any more before an Acid Mothers Temple gig than I do before a show by anyone else, but somehow after the fact they always elude me, sliding apart into vague fragments like a dream does on waking.

Acid Mothers Temple at the Dome 2015

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Repo Man – Minesweeping

Lava Thief

Repo Man - MinesweepingFrom the angsty bristles of their debut All Mind in the Cat House comes another Jaggersaw of squabbling quadients with a smidgen more hip-swinging melody sneaking under/over that the despotic word spillage. A danceable zest that happily avoids cliché whilst simultaneously dragging you through a thicket of barbed carnivores and bullying percussions.

This is so good — every song a radiant splinter, siphoning the spirit of The Birthday Party billowing on Fall-like sails and more some. A bit of James Johnston in the toppling guitar department, with maybe a taste of Spleen’s inherent psychosis about it — but to be honest, this is breath of fresh air that doesn’t need the crutch of comparison to it prop up. A rare commodity indeed, stitching in the new, splashing the melodic with glittering clashes of no wave, duelling gravities

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