The Lexington, London 22 June 2011
What can be said about The Cesarians that hasn’t already been described, outlined, put into the public sphere? That Charlie Finke is one of the great cavorting besuited frontmen of the century? That Justine Armatage arranges tunes to set the heart pounding and the pulses racing while being cool and intellectual too? That the ever-evolving band can multitask like no-one’s business, swapping instruments from French horn to violin to glockenspiel as the moment demands? That they are, quite simply, one of – perhaps the – premier whatever it is that make The Cesarians unique among performers, artistes, bands (etc) – treading the boards in London and beyond today?
The answers come in black and white grains, in full-band swells,
Continue reading The Cesarians (live) [...]
Bruce Gilbert and Pan Sonic‘s Mika Vainio were next on the bill. Introducing themselves in a short burst of hi-end pierce that got the crowd cheering. They continued with a Malaysian flavoured ambience, a gigantic staked beauty, fluttering like a quartz split mouth of the night, later molested in high pitched scars. Then the beats kicked in, like sacks of liquidised potatoes slapping all hardcore, whirring on the rebound, turning the
It’s Sunday, it’s sunny, so a 6.30pm start time for a gig seems terribly early, especially when you have the choice between a sweaty venue or a cool pub beer garden, oh well….. Also putting on four support acts before a main band on a Sunday when public transport is hardly at its greatest (even Lori S from Acid King pointed this out on stage). But enough of my ‘ole man complainin’, I’m here to see the Kings of Acid themselves for the first time so I’m quite excited.
From the very first beer-waving introduction to the crowd eagerly awaiting the return to what would seem to be their favourite London home from home, Weedeater arrive in cheery mood, lapping up the adulation and ripping straight into a fearsome “God Luck and Good Speed,” as powerful a statement of intent as any sludge-doom-stoner-rock band is ever likely to open a show with. Bassist Dixie hams up the eye-rolling, Jack-swilling and head-slapping goofiness, but as ever, his presence onstage is a combination of the leeringly weird and the snarling hardcore punk attitude squeezed through a mincer of Southern rock cavortings and high-kicking, four-stringed catharsis. The sound is suitably dense, and Shep keeps his guitar nonchalantly turned to 11 while shredding without seeming to move from the spot
So nostalgia culture bravely forges into the ever more recent past. John Foxx ambles amiably on; I think people are welcoming, the odd chin wobbling in appreciation, but this is not a high energy crowd. I am used to hot venues, sweat dripping off the walls, a cloud rising off the mosh-pit. This, however, is the heat of the retirement home and it is soporific. Mr Foxx traipses through “Underpass” and “Hiroshima Mon Amour”but, but… do all electronic classics lose their charm when they sound like they have been run through pro-tools? I’m sure it is technically better but that isn’t the point. I liked the sound of people stretching the barriers of what could be done at the time, so if you are going
This phrase may have crossed Nik Turner and the rest of his Space Ritual cohorts minds at some points over the years. But here they are still playing some of the best darn space rock this side of the Andromeda galaxy. Before I start reviewing the tracks played I must make a special mention about Terry Ollis, as the gods of rock’n’roll just don’t make drummers like that anymore. He uses the drum kit to its full potential and is sparing at the same time. He keeps the beat and adds dramatic fills that only drummers from a certain era knew how to do. It was fantastic to watch him and, yes, nowadays he does play fully clothed…..
The Nest is the old Barden’s Boudoir with a bit of a face lift. Rather than the stage being in the centre of the room, as it once was, it’s now tucked away nicely into a corner. As the venue is quite long (and there is a handy pillar right next to the stage) the further you stand back the less chance there is of seeing the band. This could end up being a real problem if the venue has a large audience. The stage also seems rather small as the three members of Prince Rama seemed to swamp the area. Maybe some of these things will be
As a night taking its title (Death to Trad Rock) from John Robb‘s book about the Eighties underground music scene in the UK, and held on the 405th anniversary of the gunpowder plot to destroy Parliament, it’s not surprising that there’s an atmosphere of challenge to the status quo (and perhaps especially Status Quo) in the air, though the music is drowning out the massed fireworks in the night sky outside.
My view of this evening is tainted in about 200 different ways and as I haven’t drafted this review I don’t know what you’ll make of it but hang on a minute. I have to explain that when I was younger and more energetic and had more brain power with which to be creative I did used to review music; but after awhile I became bored of my own observations and felt I was often saying the same thing in an emotional way and not really reaching any points of information for the target audiences desiring the over analysis of technical something or anothers. To me
Reanimated musical corpses aren’t much of a news story these days – after The Velvet Underground and Throbbing Gristle reformations, nothing comes as a surprise. I was shocked then to realise just how stunned I felt to hear that The Pop Group had got back together to allegedly “blow the dust off the old songs and pick up where we left off…” or might it be perhaps to benefit from some of that old “consumer fascism” they railed so strongly against back in the day?
After three decades of informing people that they were the greatest artistic entity I’d ever encountered, it had never occurred to me that
Skinny Puppy shows are pretty much bound to be weird, and more than a tad befuddling; bemusing even. Where else can a grown man shimmy onstage dressed like cross between a lightshow-bejewelled Torquemada and the dead king of Sutton Hoo, all pointy white cone-hat and empty-socketed stare against a background of videogame corridors – which it soon transpires on further exposure are probably filmed in the real world – and a panorama of desert warfare fallout and urban debris colour-filtered into psychedelic abstraction. Skinny Puppy’s musical approach is somewhat similar to their visual sense; distorting, inverting and making the organisation of commonplace sounds unfamiliar and more than a bit digitally outré. Slipping wraith-like between the precise boundaries of