a nice bit of low

their 2005 set from the paradiso in amsterdam, finishing a lovely version of 'two step', from secret name. there are lots more fantastic pop concerts where that came from. i might post some - it seems easy enough.



more low on GMS

Live review – Summer Sundae festival – Saturday

The UK’s averaging about three festivals per weekend all summer at the moment, which is pretty ridiculous: competition for punters is intense, line-ups tend to be broadly similar, and even established events like Truckfest are struggling to keep their heads above water, financially and literally (d’oh…).

Leicester’s Summer Sundae has a canny set-up, selling itself as ethical and accessible, with a line-up that’s eclectic but unthreatening. It’s in a large, attractive city park. It has an indoor stage, which is mighty civilised. It’s aiming to be a carbon negative festival, handing out free low-energy lightbulbs. Props! It’s also got a tie-in with BBC’s 6music, which ensures endless online and radio plugs. All said, it probably doesn’t need a sniffy review from an obscure blog, but that’s just how GMS gets down.

First up are teenage siblings Kitty, Daisy and Lewis. According to the brochure, they mix rockabilly, swing, country and western, surf, Hawaiian, and rock ‘n’ roll. If all these musical genres essentially sound the same to you, then that’s a fair description. Aside from a few clunky signifiers (at one stage, Kitty puts on a lei and starts singing about ‘Honolulu’), this is pretty narrow and unimaginative 50’s revivalism (strangely, they’re dressed in 1940s pachuco costumes). Musically, they’re decent and versatile, though not exactly great – there’s a trio of middle-aged men who play rockabilly on the street in central Oxford every Saturday morning who do this thing with much more verve. It’s also a nice, light start to a summer’s afternoon, making children, hipsters and middle-aged weekenders dance around; there are much less entertaining genres one could thoughtlessly ape; mum and dad help out on bass and rhythm guitar, which is sweet; but there’s no sense of why they’re singing about a ‘mean old man’ or ‘Louisiana swamps’, or that they’ve thought about the artistic, racial or gendered implications. Maybe this is asking a bit much of the kids, but once you lose sympathy, it does grate.

swing that mean thing daddio-wa-diddy etc.

Next up are Jazz Jamaica. According to the brochure, they mix … yup, yup, alright. Something of a supergroup, if you’re up on UK jazz: Abram Wilson, Soweto Kinch and Denys Baptiste all raise a flicker of recognition, though I couldn’t tell you who’s who. Unlike the previous act, they’ve got the integrity and the instrumental chops to let fly with crowd-pleasing Skatalites covers and a wah-wah trumpet-enhanced version of the Bond theme. Overall, the set pitches a little unsatisfyingly between energetic and arresting soul-funk numbers and languid, tasteful reggae-jazz noodling, never quite settling for one or the other.

On the indoor stage, bizarrely, are reunited late-80s / early-90s baggy-ish Peel faves Cud. Except not quite, as their singer is missing. Good sports that they are, the band invites a succession of ageing devotees onstage to do Bez dancing and Cud karaoke (they get lyrics sheets – I can’t believe that many people know the words to Cud songs). I saw Cave In do this a couple of years back, when Steven Brodsky’s voice gave out mid-set. It turned an above-average gig into an unforgettable event – not least because half the crowd were in bands themselves, loved Cave In, and could sing. This, as you might imagine, isn’t quite in the same league, though the joke is funny for a while, and though you get the impression that Cud’s heavy, funked-out indie wouldn’t sound too bad alongside people like the Klaxons and !!!.

Back to the main stage for former Arab Strap instrumentalist Malcolm Middleton. Pretty much what you’d expect – depression, mordant whit, decent sparse mid-90s indie sounds. Like Arab Strap but with singing instead of talking. Like Smog but with a ginger Scottish chap instead of Bill Callahan. Lyrically, Middleton turns Arab Strap’s miserabilist tales of drunkenness, failed relationships and low expectations in a populist direction, telling us we’re all pissing our money up the wall and listening to shite. There are moments when he seems undecided whether to slap a Snow Patrol-sized chorus on one of these and go for a money-making cross-over hit, or to stoke his sense of integrity in the hope that Silver Jews fans have ten quid to spare. I hope he goes for the former – hearing Middleton soundtrack an ‘emotional’ scene in an ITV drama would be funny as fuck.

Malcolm mulls it over

Indigo Moss have managed to remember a genre not minced up in Kitty, Daisy and Lewis’ throwback blender – bluegrass (you see … the name … it’s a play on words …). They’re also, in some ways, the opposite sort of band – less confident, less polished, but more talented, imaginative and interesting. They marry a Sons and Daughters-style mixture of bluegrass, skiffle and twang to the sort of light, wistful English romanticism peddled by Ray Davies, Pete Doherty and (occasionally) Morrissey. There are usually (I think) five of them, but they’re stripped down to a three-piece, which means that the bassist does little to help the sound, but the lead male and female vocals are impressive. They’re not quite there yet – some of the songs feel a little underwritten, and a reflective ballad entitled ‘England’ is rarely a good idea – but well worth keeping an eye on. Unfortunately, GMS has to report another fancy-dress mishap – the lead singer is dressed as a cheeky ‘40s tradesman, while his two lady accomplices are in prim dresses and feathered hats as if attending a flower show at the local rotary club: in the 1940s, the two classes would never have teamed up to put on a pop concert.

I’m glad I saw the Rumble Strips at Summer Sundae for two reasons. Firstly, they’re the sort of band who get a bit of hype and who I’d probably have forked out money to see if they’d come to Oxford. If I had done, I’d probably have been a little disappointed – although they have a bit of energy and a horn section to set them apart from the crowd, the songs aren’t up to much. Secondly, they sounded like Dexys Midnight Runners, but without any tunes, which reminded me to go home and listen to some Dexys. Huzzah.

Martha Wainwright seems to be a bit of a poster-girl for 6music. I’d hoped she’d be the person to inject a bit of bile and humour into a pleasant but underwhelming line-up, and she does, but only a bit. Her voice is incredible – live, at least, it’s better than Rufus’ – but she’s let down by the songs (most of which are new). The first time I saw her, she was all Tori Amos / Sandy Dillon raspy bluesy angry mad woman, which was good, if also slightly oppressive. The second, she was doing languid, drunk country stuff, like Cat Power but more compelling and witty. This time she seems to have swallowed one too many Ys (groan) – adding Joanna Newsom cutesiness to the end of her syllables, and generally aiming for songs so complex as to be formless. If this is what her next album sounds like, she’ll be head-to-head with Nina Nastasia for the token female slot in lots of end-of-year roundups. Nina wins, though.

Lake District writer and walker Alf Wainwright. Best Wainwright ever.

For the Low review, I’ll direct you to my last review of them, as the set was practically identical, not that there’s anything wrong with that, when it’s so much better than everything I’ve seen today. While I can’t find much to like about ‘Drums and Guns’ on record, it works well live, especially when it’s fleshed out and translated into the sort of gut-wrenching slo-mo blues that people like Codeine and Come used to do. It’s a shame they got such a thin crowd, as their only competition was odd-faced sub-Danni Minogue posh-pop shouting-catastrophe Sophie Ellis Bextor.

Headliners are the Magic Numbers, who are ideal for the sort of all-ages, all-tastes ethos that Summer Sundae aims at, especially as their debut remains one of the best indie records of the past few years – gloriously unfashionable, brilliantly composed, and packing an emotional punch. As everybody except the Magic Numbers themselves has noticed, the second album sucks. This is understandable – it’s clear when listening to old and new songs back to back tonight, that they spent their whole lives writing the first album, and twelve busy months writing the second – there are simply two or three fewer ideas per song. Frontman Romeo attempts to cover over the cracks with world-beating enthusiasm, celebrating the festival, the crowd, his band and himself. When they played a triumphant headlining slot at the Glastonbury New Bands tent two years ago, this was endearing and inspiring, but tonight it’s a little bit much, especially when Kitty, Daisy and Lewis, and inflatable cartoon figures of the Magic Numbers are brought onstage for an overwrought finale. Much better is their surprise collaboration with Martha Wainwright, paying tribute to Lee Hazlewood with a cover of ‘Some Velvet Morning’ that brilliantly exploits the contrast between Wainwright’s piercing, jazzy voice and Romeo’s soft, wistful vocals. A memorable festival moment at the last gasp.

Live Review: All Tomorrow’s Parties – Day 2

First up today is Magnolia Electric Co., bringing breezy Americana onto the main stage. All the elements are in place – Neil Young-style vocals, blues motifs, gee-tar solos, a masterful impression of God’s favourite bar band. What’s lacking? Well, they aren’t Wilco, which is a hopelessly unfair criticism, but nonetheless, Jason Molina and (heh) ‘Co.’ seem constrained by the limits of their genre, and make little connection with the early-afternoon crowd.

Off upstairs for some slightly less predictable fare from Yugoslav-born zither virtuoso Felix Lajko (no, really). Lajko is accompanied by a Toby-from-the-West-Wing-style rhythm violinist, whose job it is to saw at great speed for 40 minutes. This alone makes the pair a festival highlight. Meanwhile, the main man alternates between shrill zither twanging and lightning-quick freestyle fiddling. After a while he slopes off, back to Hungary (where he’s been on telly, you know), having made several hundred converts. Whether they’ll ever buy and listen to this hectic freestyle folk-jazz is another question. But for a couple of hours, a small corner of England is down with, y’know, that Bulgarian chap with the stringbox.

Back on the main stage, Shannon Wright is, according to the official guide, “bringing people in the room to share the same emotions, revealing themselves to each other, and living completely without hindrance.” Not my cup of tea at all, really – I love hindrance. But Wright plays a winning set of plonky piano aggro, recalling Rufus and Martha Wainwright in equal measure, before swapping to guitar to indulge some Throwing Muses grunge fantasies – less tuneful, but redeemed by waggling her arse at the crowd, and playing the guitar on the ground with her legs in the air.

Move along, no hindrance here

Across to Mekons frontwoman Sally Timms, a planned highlight of the festival, on account of GMS pumping Cowboy Sally’s Twilight Laments for Lost Buckaroos since back in the day (heat for the streets, people). Unfortunately, Timms’ unbounded musical odyssey has taken her a long way from bittersweet country: her set mines the dirgy goth depths of Nico’s unlistenable solo work (albeit with a slightly nicer voice). Apparently the mix was sorted out towards the end, and the oppressive industrial splatter-beat computer accompaniment was turned down, to delightful effect, but GMS had headed off in search of a tasty omelette by that time.

Back in time for Low, whose latest album, Drums and Guns, I can’t manage to love – too much of the whinnying atonal vocals and unsympathetic drum machine accompaniments. A small victory, however, for a band I was considering putting in the ’97 mentality section: Low overcome the lack of atmosphere on the main stage, bantering with the crowd, and revealing new depths in their recent material – album closer ‘Violent Past’ is particularly good.

Low – ‘Violent Past’ (from Drums and Guns)

Unfortunate scheduling means that Low played at the same time as Suicide legend Alan Vega, whose set apparently featured “the Fall gone techno” and “verbal abuse of a Japanese child”. No Akon.

Next up: the closing twenty minutes of Spiritualized Acoustic Mainline, wherein Jason Pierce revisits his entire career with the help of a string section, gospel backing singers and some shades. The general consensus seems to be that the set lacked variation and lively crowd interaction, neither of which are generally to be expected at a Spiritualized gig. But the closing volley of ‘This Little Life of Mine’, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen’, ‘I Think I’m In Love’ and ‘Lord, Can You Hear Me?’ do what Spiritualized always did best – reducing the history of punk rock, gospel and the blues to a single idea, then expanding that idea into a sumptuous wall of noise. Release another album, Pierce.

Spiritualized – ‘Lord, Can You Hear Me?’ (from Let It Come Down)

Main stage headliner Nick Cave has an even bigger back-catalogue to re-interpret. Cave headlines days 2 and 3, each time playing a two-part set, starting with the greatest hits, ending with Grinderman-heavy material. He’s backed by the Grinderman line-up, which makes the greatest hits fall between a number of stools: we don’t get the intimacy of a solo show, the full-band extravaganza of the Bad Seeds, or the songs Grinderman was formed to play, so the overall effect is slightly unfocused. That said, any set featuring Nick Cave with his silly moustache shouting obscenities and hitting a piano is several steps above anything else on offer, so all’s good. Also noteworthy is the indie hipster who managed to time a bungee jump with ‘The Mercy Seat’. King of Anglia.

Nick Cave – ‘The Mercy Seat’ (from Live Seeds)

Having paid due homage to King Ink, GMS is off to catch the end of Amelie soundtracker Yann Tiersen, who is aiming his sights at scoring the next Sofia Coppola film by concocting a chugging cacophony of early-90s shoegazing indie and half-muffled vocals. Yann’s capable of greater things (earlier in the set he wielded an accordion, after all), but he seems to take humble, goofy pleasure in resurrecting Catherine Wheel and Swervedriver, so it’s hard to criticise.

Committed to quotas, Yann breaks out the strings

The day closes with an early-hours set by Nina Nastasia, whose captivating country-goth tunes are somewhat stifled and drowned out by the freestyle drumming of omnipresent Dirty Three sticksman-for-hire Jim White. On record, lower in the mix, White’s loose drum patterns are a good fit: not tonight, though, Jim.

On that grind, sun up to sun down

Nina Nastasia – ‘Beautiful Day’ (Peel Sessions)

Stick around for: Papa M, Dirty Three, Silver Mt. Zion, Cat Power, Bill Callahan, Joanna Newsom and Grinderman. I mean it, man.

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