Atoms For Peace: Amok

When Thom Yorke wanted to tour his solo album, The Eraser, he called upon his heavyweight musical chums: Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist Flea, REM’s Joey Waronker and renowned session percussionist Mauro Refosco. The shows were a massive success, the band got wasted and listened to Fela Kuti, and decided they were having such fun they’d make a record of their own. Enlisting Radiohead’s uber-producer Nigel Godrich, they headed to the studio. The result is Amok, the first (and possibly only) album from Atoms For Peace…

Opener Before Your Very Eyes immediately reveals the influence of Kuti, with its scratchy afro-beat percussion recalling the image of Yorke’s absurdist dancing in the video for Lotus Flower. Indeed, it’s the danciest track Yorke has been associated with in quite some time – and an unexpectedly fun way to kick things off.

That sense of abandon doesn’t permeate the whole album, however, with things settling into the throbbing, dubstep-inspired grooves which have characterised so much of Radiohead’s recent work. It’s a rich sound, filled with some wonderful basslines (Stuck Together Pieces) and even a touch of Vangelis inspired synth which might have been lifted directly from Bladerunner (Default). Ingenue features Yorke’s best vocal: a sweeping fragile falsetto offset by the unexpectedly percussive sound of a dripping tap.

There’s little here that’ll convert the unconvinced, with Yorke refusing the opportunity to cut loose and experiment a little, and occasionally losing his illustrious band-mates amidst the carefully calibrated production. There are moments where things threaten to erupt and it’s a frustration that it doesn’t, but Amok rewards repeated listens – its intricacies only revealing themselves gradually over time. It’s not a groundbreaker, but until the next Radiohead release, it will keep Thom Yorke’s dedicated fans more than satisfied.

Sunhouse: Crazy On The Weekend

In the late nineties, scores of deeply average guitar bands lamely attempted to bore the public into submission, selling millions of bland records to thousands of men desperate for something slightly more interesting than their wives’ Dido albums. This wave of musical inertia is wholly responsible for the success of the Stereophonics.

Amidst this sea of mediocrity, Sunhouse drowned. Despite the patronage of up-and-coming film director Shane Meadows (whatever happened to him?) who used their songs in two of his films and Sinead O’Connor, who provided backing vocals for the album, the Nottingham outfit sank without trace.

Their only album, Crazy On The Weekend, is now almost fifteen years old and i still listen to it very regularly: it would certainly make my all time top ten. Characterised by singer/songwriter Gavin Clark’s distinctive whisky and fags voice, it’s a rootsy/bluesy record reminiscent of John Martyn or Paul Weller at his best. The songs are powerful but fragile – and deeply emotional.

Lyrically, the album explores love, loss and death but is never maudlin or depressing – with occasional sonic blasts from tracks like Hurricane demonstrating Sunhouse’s raw power. But it’s on gentle acoustic tracks where the band are really at their best: Lips is one of the finest and most beautiful love songs ever written.

Album reviews are really not my forte and i’m not sure this one does Crazy On The Weekend justice. So my advice is this: get yourself a copy. Buying it will be nigh on impossible as it’s been deleted now – but i’m sure it’ll be possible to download it somewhere. You won’t regret it.

Bon Iver @ Leeds O2 Academy

Even in the most civilised crowds lurk utter wankbaskets. After arriving early enough to ensure a prime position in front of the stage we were amazed that nobody made any real attempt to usurp us. We remained resolutely still with nobody jostling shoving or attempting to push past us. Yet we were still deeply annoyed. This was attributable entirely to the thoroughly irritating twerp directly in front of us. She spent approximately one hour attempting to lure her reluctant sister to join her in the throng of eager Bon Iver fans. Bobbing up and down like a hyperactive meerkat, bashing messages into her iPhone, waving manically and making call after call she tried unsuccessfully to encourage her sibling to join her. It was apparent to everyone that said sister wanted no part in this. Apparent to everyone else around her, that is. In the end, nobody came to join her. A sizeable portion of the crowd laughed inwardly. I laughed outwardly.

Mercifully, once the band took to the stage, the solitary sister kept her eyes forward and her mouth shut. She didn’t really have a choice – the sheer power and majesty of the early numbers were enough to keep anyone’s eyes glued to the stage.
Bon Iver have certainly swelled in size over the last few years. Practically a solo endeavour in the early stages, Justin Vernon is now accompanied on stage by a nine-piece band of assorted guitars and percussion, brass and clarinets. It’s still not enough – one band member simultaneously played trumpet and keyboards. And they make one hell of a noise. Opener Perth was a soaring, majestic performance accompanied by a military tattoo rattled out on twin drum-kits: a magnificent way to open the set.

And things didn’t let up from there. Blasting through songs from their eponymous latest album, Bon Iver’s rousing versions of songs which are altogether more fragile and slight on the album, was truly brilliant. A mariachi-style horn section on Towers added flare and rhythm. The year’s best single, Holocene, was both haunting and moving simultaneously.

To round off the opening salvo, non-album track Blood Bank was given an airing. Beefed up with pounding drums, the stage awash with red light, it was a memorable performance of one of their lesser known songs. Sadly, it also heralded a slight slip in the standards previously set.

Older material from debut album For Emma, Forever Ago doesn’t quite suit the sheer size of the new band. Previously gentle, fragile songs have been beefed up a little too much – or in the case of Stacks – stripped back a little too far. That said, Vernon had the crowd eating from the palm of his hand as he performed the song solo – but for his voice and guitar you might have heard a pin drop.

And what a voice it is – from a deep growl to a high pitched yelp, Vernon’s vocal range is amazing. Yet he looks nothing like a rock star. After entering the stage dressed like a particularly tweedy geography teacher he became gradually gawkier-looking as his thinning hair moved further and further from his scalp. Coupled with his Deco Cuffe style facial mannerisms he’s an entirely unlikely frontman.

Even some amusing between-songs banter couldn’t rescue the set from sagging slightly in the centre. Beth_Rest, undoubtedly the band’s worst song, was a baffling part of the set – interminably dull and utterly dreadful. Sadly, the slightly underwhelming mid-section was accompanied by the arrival of a drug addled moron eager to shove her hair and elbows in the faces of anyone in the vicinity. She also attempted to crawl between people’s legs. Thankfully she eventually crawled back into her K-hole and vanished from view.

A rousing finish ensured that the audience left smiling: Vernon encouraged some cathartic screaming on Wolves and then gave the crowd exactly what they’d been waiting for with sing-alongs Skinny Love and For Emma. Perhaps with another album of material under their belt, Bon Iver will be able to shift the fat around their middle: Skinny Love, indeed.

Beirut: The Rip Tide

A few years back, I was enthusiastically extolling the virtues of my new favourite band. I explained how Beirut’s The Flying Club Cup had grabbed me around the heart, played its accordion in my ear, charmed me with its French/Balkan sound and thoroughly won me over. I insisted that my friend immediately get hold of a copy and listen to it until he felt the same as me. “I went to see them last week,” he replied. I’ve never really forgiven that bastard Ryan Thomas for taking the wind from my sails so efficiently and completely. My love for Beirut has remained undiminished, however.

The Rip Tide is their first proper album in four years – and was well worth the wait. Zach Condon (who essentially is Beirut) has mellowed slightly since The Flying Club Cup – an album which occasionally felt like it was competing for the award of ‘Most Musical Instruments On An Album Ever’. The Rip Tide is more restrained – although it still features some impressively parping horns.

In this more reserved incarnation of Beirut, Condon’s songwriting takes centre stage. There’s something strangely evocative (although I can’t be sure what they evoke?!) about the nine tracks here. They certainly have an air of romance about them, but there’s an ineffable quality to the lush instrumentation and Condon’s sonorous voice which falls somewhere between triumphalism and melancholy and defies description.

Unusually for Beirut, there are actually some singalongs, too. Sante Fe bounces along cheerily, inviting listeners to join in, adding to the sense that this is their poppiest release to date. Occasional sprinklings of electronic add to that feeling, despite the occasionally mournful, introspective lyrics. Despite these concessions to the ‘mainstream’, The Rip Tide remains an idiosyncratic and original album which will delight Beirut fans – and hopefully win them some new ones.

Elbow: Build A Rocket Boys

It’s been almost four years since One Day Like This opened the world’s eyes and ears to Elbow. Having survived being dropped by various labels through sheer force of will, it was gratifying for their long-term fans to finally see them recognised, rewarded and welcomed into British music’s most beloved. So it comes as no surprise that having achieved success gradually and on their own terms, their fourth album is a continuation rather than a reinvention of their sound.

It’s Guy Garvey’s warmly sonorous voice and tenderly nostalgic lyrics which give Elbow their distinctive sound and both are at the forefront here. Build a Rocket Boys’ ruminations on childhoods lost, the reminiscing of the elderly and the local community centre are lyrical themes delivered in Garvey’s touchingly simple phrasing.

The album’s emotional centrepoint is Lippy Kids, Garvey’s joyously melancholic look at the kids on street corners affecting a ‘simian stroll’ in a style which aped his own clumsy attempts at ‘kerbstone cool’. It’s a song which will resonate with anyone who looks back fondly on their teenage years. Simple piano plays background to the swooning vocal as Garvey wonders whether ‘they know those days are golden?’ and implores them to ‘build a rocket, boys’. It’s significant that there is rarely any regret or bitterness in Elbow’s recollections of the past: this warmth and generosity is apparent not just in their music but in every interview they give or (in Garvey’s case) every radio show they present.

Build a Rocket Boys might actually be less musically adventurous than its predecessors. There’s certainly little sign of sweeping, multi-layered epics like Newborn or the tub-thumping of Grounds for Divorce: Neat Little Rows is the only track with any real bite. But some of the arrangements are much more complicated than they first seem. Opener The Birds is probably the most elaborate track with its blend of slide guitar and surprisingly funky keyboard (Garvey has admitted to occasional scatting in Elbow’s dim and distant past). Sadly a late reprise of this song misses the mark completely as an elderly replaces Garvey in a move which sees the album stray into mawkish sentimentality. It’s the only misstep on a carefully crafted collection.

Elbow are a band which wears its heart on its sleeve. They feed cleverly on their own past, absorbing and interpreting the smallest of episodes and the most fleeting of feelings into beautifully yearning and melodic tunes which say little but mean a lot. Build A Rocket Boys is the latest in a back catalogue of mature meditations on life and love that Elbow fans will want to wrap themselves in time and again. Superb stuff.

Danger Mouse & Daniele Luppi: Rome

What do you get if you ask a genre-defying producer, a classical composer, a raucous bluesman and Ravi Shankar’s daughter to produce the soundtrack to a movie which doesn’t exist? It’s a question which few would be inclined to ask and understandably so. Such a hodgepodge of collaborators have rarely – if ever – worked together before precisely because such a cocktail is so unlikely. Yet remarkably Danger Mouse (aka Brian Burton), Daniele Luppi, and guest vocalists Jack White and Norah Jones have united to produce an album that is far greater than the sum of its disparate parts. Perhaps we shouldn’t be so surprised – after all, Burton did once fuse The Beatles with Metallica and has worked with artists as diverse as Beck, Gorillaz and U2.

Owing a huge debt to Ennio Morricone’s spaghetti western soundtracks, Danger Mouse and Italian film composer Luppi have crafted a beautifully intricate yet sweepingly majestic collection of tracks which straddle the boundaries of film-score and pop record perfectly. It’s a sophisticated trick which has been pulled off with aplomb. The production is rich, detailed and imbued with an emotion which belies the fact that so many of the songs are instrumental.

The surprising choice of vocalists proves to be anything but a gimmick. White is far from his usual shrieking self but still remains an eerily powerful presence as he lends his writing talent and fragile vocals to tracks like The Rose With A Broken Neck. Jones’ performance is still more surprising. Her voice drips like warm honey over Season’s Trees and Problem Queen, adding a counterpoint to White’s more fractured and delicate contribution and lending a sultriness which only adds to the allure of the album.

Rome is a hugely successful and cohesive record – which will be a great relief to all concerned after a five year gestation period which saw vintage instruments and some of Morricone’s original collaborators assembled to lend authenticity to the process. It’s clearly been a labour of love and one which deserves to be lauded as a wonderful tribute to a rather than a hollow pastiche.

Fionn Regan: 100 Acres of Sycamore

Like any young folk singer, Fionn Regan suffered/benefited from comparisons to Bob Dylan. It’s a lazy cliché to do so, and despite some strong songwriting, Regan’s debut The End of History was really nothing like Dylan’s. Although lyrically interesting, Regan’s delicate and fragile vocals bore absolutely no relation to the master’s nasal delivery – they’re probably more reminiscent of Nick Drake.

Regan’s first album had taken some time to arrive, released a good five years after my first glimpse of him as a supporting act for fellow Irish act Gemma Hayes. His introspective performance belied an authority which permeated his songs and which really demonstrated itself on his second album, The Shadow Of An Empire.

Here, the Dylan comparisons stand up to scrutiny. Whilst his debut was essentially just one man and a guitar, his second album went rock (or at least pop-rock). It wasn’t quite as great a transformation as Dylan’s decision to go electric, but it was a radical departure. But it wasn’t as good as his previous output: a fact he seems to have recognised by quickly putting out his third long-player.

100 Acres of Sycamore is a quietly beautiful album. Regan has unplugged himself from his amp returned to the folkier sound of his early work. Only this time he’s filled out his sound with some lush string arrangements. Whilst his guitar is still central to each song, the more detailed arrangements add a depth that was missing from The End of History.

Lyrically it’s unashamedly romantic and Regan really knows how to pick a phrase – with each delivered in his wonderfully warm voice. It’s not an album to excite, but one which rewards repeated listening and can wrap you up like a warm blanket. Lovely.

Leeds Festival 2011

Liam Gallagher is a snarling, sneering bore. And his new band are just as objectionable. Shorn of brother Noel's wit and tunes, the latest incarnation of Oasis (an ever evolving cast that finally stopped pretending to be any relation to the mid-nineties Britrockers when they became Beady Eye)are little more than a pub band with an instantly recognisable frontman.

Gladly, Liam was not representative of the lead singers on show at Leeds Festival. The ever-affable Guy Garvey had the crowd eating out of his hands on a rain soaked Friday, Seasick Steve serenaded members of the crowd and even Noah & The Whale's Charlie Fink managed to plaster a smile on his normally dour face. Matt Bellamy rarely does bonhomie, but as Muse powered through Origin of Symmetry and a collection of their bigger hits it was difficult to care.

With the weather unpredictable, it fell to bands in tents to entertain the masses huddled inside against the elements. Whilst White Lies rose to the challenge admirably (focusing on their vastly superior first album rather than their very ropy follow-up), Beady Eye and Metronomy are unlikely to have made many new fans.

When the sun shone, the revellers decamped to the main stage where goodtimers Two Door Cinema Club and Madness helped keep people's peckers up with their party tunes and classic pop songs respectively: although Suggs did seem a little bewildered to be amongst so many youngsters. His younger counterparts revelled in the adoration to give one of the weekend's better sets.

Sunday night saw the dual treat of double headliners. After ending the night at Reading, The Strokes stepped down to let Pulp host a triumphant party on Yorkshire soil. It was certainly the right decision. Julian Casablancas did not seem delighted to be in Leeds - although a collection of excellent tunes ensured the New Yorkers kept their fans happy.

The undoubted star of the weekend was Mr Jarvis Cocker. In tweed jacket and glasses he looks nothing like a popstar but oozes charisma and charm. His Yorkshire brogue was thoroughly welcomed as he bantered and flirted with the crowd, writhed to This Is Hardcore, snapped his guitar strings and delivered hit after hit. Erstwhile Pulp member Richard Hawley provided some dirty licks, the crowd bopped to Disco 2000 and an awful lot of people were left with very wide smiles as Jarvis wiggled his bottom off stage for the final time.

David McAlmont @ Kendal Calling

Kendal Calling’s House Party venue is exactly that: a tent crammed with beds, sofas, dining tables and even the kitchen sink. And in the midst of this shabby chic was David McAlmont.

If ever there was a man at odds with his surroundings it was the flamboyant singer. In a crisp black suit, crimson shirt and tasteful bling, he looked every inch the star attraction. And so it proved as he cheerily posed for photographs with the fans huddled in front of the stage.

With no barriers or security guards, his set was an intimate affair: just McAlmont, his keyboard player and the fans at his feet. He gave them a performance worthy of their adulation.

A sensual cover of My Funny Valentine opened proceedings, accompanied by exactly the kind of theatrical eye rolling and gesturing one might expect from such a flamboyant performer. When the singer self-mockingly asked the audience, “Do you want some camp?” it was unclear quite where he had left to go. In retrospect it was obvious that Diamonds Are Forever would follow.

Clearly keen to dispense with ‘& Butler’, the 90s group’s biggest hit Yes was thrown into the set surprisingly early – much to the joy of the dancing crowd. It was followed by a touching tribute to Amy Winehouse: a beautiful acapella version of Tears Dry On Their Own.

With the short set of just eight songs drawing to a close, McAlmont toyed with the idea of playing another track and finally, like a kid with a secret he can’t keep, decided to announce an upcoming group featuring himself and keyboardist Guy Davies. As if to deliberately showcase his new bandmate’s skills they performed a cover of Tom Waits’ Grapefruit Moon which featured some trademark swooping vocals from the singer and some extremely impressive playing from Davies – keep your eye on David McAlmont’s website for an official announcement on their collaboration soon…

Amy Winehouse Found Dead

I was there when Amy Winehouse punched a fan at Glastonbury. I was on my way to watch Jay-Z and cut across the Pyramid Stage as she performed, catching the limp-wristed jab on the big screens. I eventually abandoned my mission thanks to a dangerous crush – opting instead to watch Massive Attack.

If only Winehouse had made a similar decision to steer clear of apparent danger. Gripped by drink and drugs, the 27 year old singer chose the wrong path, the wrong men and the wrong career choices, culminating in tragically early death.

Prodigiously talented, Winehouse burned brightly but briefly. With only two albums under her belt she will never release another. Back to Black will forever remain the high-water mark in brief career: it rightly bagged her award after award for her autobiographical lyrics and smouldering, sensual voice.

Her demise has been a long time coming. Her wasted frame has been seen lurching in and out of the tabloid press for years, each stint in rehab being immediately followed by yet another relapse or cancelled concert appearance. Divorces and reconciliations with uber-rogue Blake Fielder Civil were a sure sign that the Londoner was making bad decision after bad decision – with every one documented and photographed by the gutter press and paparazzi.

It’s a sad fact that the public’s demand for scandal feeds the media frenzy around figures such as Winehouse. Whether they contributed to her downward spiral is impossible to ascertain, but it’s sure that they cannot have contributed anything positive to her struggles with addiction. Maybe her state of mind and substance abuse would have eventually led to her demise regardless of the press coverage. But in the coming days it will be interesting to see exactly how those who capitalised on her weaknesses in life will lionise her in death.

Snoop Dogg @ Lovebox

Non-camping festivals suffer in the rain. Without a tent-based community stoically braving the elements, Saturday’s Lovebox took some time to get into full swing. With ticket-holders staying at home or in the pub until the weather cleared up, the early stages were muted to say the least. Foster the People attempted to liven up proceedings but were stymied by a curtailed setlist: they were only allowed to perform three songs. It was a real shame – they sound like MGMT before someone sucked the joy out of them and are sure to become a household name.

Ziggy Marley already has quite a name to trade on, but reggae is best enjoyed in the sunshine and his set had very little of that. Perhaps a Bob cover might have warmed the audience, but he (perfectly justifiably) ploughed his own furrow.

Further up the bill, Katy B endured arguably the worst of the weather. This seemed entirely fitting given that she delivered the worst set of the day: utterly uninspiring music in torrential rain. The Joy Formidable fared much better, filling the Gaymers stage with some powerful chords and unexpectedly fine harmonies.

Santigold promised much but delivered little. Expecting a pulsating performance, a decent crowd gathered around the main stage only to be disappointed by a lacklustre set which lacked the colour and vitality expected. She at least looked pleased to be there – after a late call up to replace ankle-knack victim Jessie J, De La Soul turned up late, ambled half-heartedly around the stage and had their set cut short. When will hip-hop acts get the message about their terrible timekeeping?

Thankfully the day’s true star arrived bang on time. The artist formerly known as Calvin Broadus brought the full Doggystyle entourage to Victoria Park and delivered a set worthy of any festival headliner. With stars like Dr Dre and Pharrell Williams starring in video idents, a trio of scantily clad dancers and a microphone dripping in bling, Snoop gave a consumate and charismatic performance. Somehow that half-smile which plays on his lips and his pair of girly pigtails seem to undercut any misogyny in his lyrics, and the rapper manages to get the ladies in the audience onside by constantly asking them to identify themselves.

Classics like Gin n Juice and Gs & Hustlaz get an airing alongside newer tracks and House of Pain covers, Warren G pops up to give Regulate a thoroughly welcome outing and the entire audience enthusiastically remind Snoop what his name is. It's a tour-de-force of a performance and one which fully justifies the decision to allow the strangely loveable 'gangsta' back into the UK - and which saved Saturday at Lovebox from becoming a damp squib.

Pulp @ The Wireless Festival

After a spate of gigs and festivals from the likes of Arcade Fire, the Black Eyes Peas and the Chemical Brothers the corner of Hyde Park hosting the Wireless event resembled a dust bowl. Shorn of rain, the ground was brown and dry with the only moisture seeming to be in the urine-soaked swamp around the gents' urinals. Down either side of the venue catering vans laboured under the misapprehension that adding the word 'gourmet' to their signage would make their grub anything other than bog standard. Coupled with an almost forensic search of my pockets, wallet and person, things had not started brilliantly.

Happily, the first band was in full swing as I arrived and aided by two complimentary glasses of vino I made my way to the front. Vintage Trouble were a lively (if unoriginal) start to the day - and their lead singer had one of the finest sideburn/teeth combos I’ve ever seen. Better still were Devotchka - a stylish bunch of multi-instrumentalists whipping up a fusion of mariachi and gypsy-punk which went down extremely well indeed. Any band with a moniker inspired by A Clockwork Orange commands attention - and I fell further in love when they cracked out an accordion and theremin. Metronomy were quietly impressive, although the huge caricatures hanging behind them had disconcertingly scary eyes.

The Horrors and The Hives shared little other than alliteration as they took turns to take the stage. The former's My Bloody Valentine-esque wall of sound was extremely impressive and engaging, but they're probably not exciting enough for a slot on the main stage. The Hives, on the other hand, are simply made for this kind of gig. Spurred on by the faux-machismo of one-man-ego-machine Howlin' Pelle Almqvist they absolutely ripped up Hyde Park. In their dandified top hat and tails they romped through their greatest hits, begged for the crowd's adoration and slipped their hands into a few punters' pants. It was an awesome set which left large swathes of the audience with huge grins on their faces. Sadly, TV on the Radio didn't quite achieve the same effect. Despite a brilliant back-catalogue and an excellent recent album they seemed slightly lacklustre and probably didn’t convert too many potential fans.

The one act of the day utterly unconcerned with winning over people to their cause was, of course, Pulp. With no plans to record new material and only a few more live dates lined up, they came to perform for existing fans and hoped not to sully their reputations. And they did not disappoint.

Jarvis Cocker may be bearded and older, but he's still a snake-hipped charmer with a neat line in betwixt-song-banter and a back-catalogue of belting tunes. Launching into Do You Remember The First Time? saw the band immediately grab the audience by the balls - and they didn't let go until their impressive performance was over.

A set largely culled from His & Hers and Different Class saw Cocker scissor-kicking, guitar-strumming and outrageously flirting with the crowd. He's lost absolutely none of the gawky charm which saw him worm into the affections of the nineties indie crowd - despite the fact that his lyrics often contain some pretty biting comments on society. A surprise rendition of Mile End was a clever sop to the London audience and Jarvis asserted that Pulp belong as much to the capital as their native Sheffield – but this buttering up of the crowd was merely icing the cake. With singalong anthems like Disco 2000 and Sorted for Es & Whizz, Pulp’s material was the star – not least the show stopping finale of Common People.

A good proportion of the audience left an important part of their brain somewhere in a field in London. I suspect a few left their hearts too.

Jesus Was A Rochdale Girl

I've got no words to add to this. It's a new Elbow song which is best left introduced by Guy Garvey...

Radiohead: King of Limbs

It’s been a while since Radiohead released an album traditionally. Having broken new ground with their ‘honesty box’ approach to In Rainbows, this time they took the music world by surprise by announcing midweek that their new long-player would be released for download on Saturday 19th February. Presumably it was a bid to beat the pirates who would leak the material ahead of any normal release and as such it seems to have worked. A physical release and a fancily packaged newspaper version will follow. But aside from the gimmicks, have Radiohead come anywhere near to emulating the brilliance of In Rainbows?

Bloom is something of a misnomer. It begins with deceptively gentle piano but refuses to bloom into anything – instead launching itself into a disjointed rhythm and an eery vocal. It’s hardly a surprise that Radiohead should open an album in such an abstract way and a further reminder that the path they tread is theirs and theirs alone.

Morning Mr Magpie begins with an insistent riff which could almost belong on a seventies cop show – the up-tempo nature of it tempered by Yorke’s vocals before it gives way to the opening guitar strum of Little by Little: a sound which wouldn’t be out of place in a Western soundtrack. That sense of playfulness continues lyrically: ‘i’m such a tease and you’re such a flirt’.

It’s an album which wears its influences well. It’s clear on tracks like Feral that the ‘dubsteppy’ sound pioneered by Burial (and appropriated by James Blake) have been on the Radiohead turntable. Lotus Flower, however, is the closest to a ‘traditional’ Radiohead song (if there is such a thing). The lyrics have a clarity not heard on a Radiohead song in quite some time – and if you haven’t seen the video you definitely need to check it out (below).

Codex is, quite simply, beautiful. Piano led, with a quite stunning performance from Thom Yorke, it’s a simply crafted, gentle song which really benefits from the band’s decision to rely on melody rather than effects. It’s gorgeous. I’m not sure the birdsong at the end was strictly necessary although it does allow a neat passage into Give Up The Ghost – a song (like album closer Separator)which builds gently and then fades away leaving nothing but a warm feeling.

It’s probably not the best idea to review an album immediately after it’s been released – especially one by a band who reward repeated listening. But we live in an era where people want everything all of the time (see what i did there?) and so here it is. Critics seem disappointed that Radiohead haven’t set off in an entirely new direction, but innovation for innovation’s sake isn’t necessarily a good thing. King of Limbs is unlikely to win the band many new fans but it will absolutely delight their existing ones. It’s a brilliant record which will reward repeated listening and which i cannot wait to learn more about.

The Shit Awards 2011

Tonight Spurs take on AC Milan in the Champions League, a game which I’d quite like to watch. But I’ll play the long game, forsaking my choice of channel in favour of watching the Brit Awards. There are three reasons for this:

1. Utilitarianism: more people in my household will wanna see the Brits so it’s selfish of me to insist on watching the football.

2. Deferred gratification: I can then claim the right to watch Arselona tomorrow and my housemates would be churlish to deny me the opportunity to watch the tiki-taka pass-fest.

3. Watching the Brit Awards gives me something to moan about. And how I love to moan.

Right off the bat, I ought to make clear that I don’t place a lot of stock in music awards. It’s such a subjective thing that to compare artists of wildly different genres is unfair and ridiculous. The Brit Awards rankle particularly in their failure to differentiate between musical styles – rather than producing a number of different awards for British artists they award just six gongs to domestic acts and a further five to those from overseas. Dozens of brilliant British groups and artists who would benefit from the exposure that more home-based categories would bring instead miss out on being honoured whilst (largely American) artists rack up more meaningless baubles with which to decorate their downstairs toilet.

I could write for weeks about those who’ve produced magnificent music in the last twelve months without receiving Brit acknowledgement, but what’s the point? Instead I’ll limit myself to looking specifically at those nominated and choosing those who I think should win (although they probably won’t).

British Male Solo Artist
Mark Ronson; Paul Weller; Plan B; Robert Plant; Tinie Tempah
I haven’t heard Ronson’s album, but purely on the basis of that fucking awful ‘bicycle song’ he’s not getting his hands on my award. Weller’s album was decent, Plan B makes me wanna rip my ears off the side of my head and Tinie Tempah has made no impact on my life at all. So Plant gets it by virtue of being sensible enough not to reform Led Zeppelin.

British Female Solo Artist
Cheryl Cole; Ellie Goulding; Laura Marling; Paloma Faith; Rumer
That someone with such negligible talent is involved in The X Factor is entirely appropriate – and Tweedy is even worse alone than she was in Girls Aloud. Ellie Goulding is almost as irritating as Paloma Faith and I have no idea who Rumer is. All of which is irrelevant as Laura Marling is head, shoulders and torso above any other nominee. A unique talent and she’d be a worthy winner. Although she’ll probably come fifth of five.

British Group
Biffy Clyro; Gorillaz; Mumford And Sons; Take That; The XX
The XX are great for those nights when you can’t get to sleep. But having won the Mercury let’s hope another ill-deserved award doesn’t make its way onto their mantelpiece. Take That readmitted the fat dancer and made a record vastly inferior to their last effort, Gorillaz disappointed and Biffy Clyro are simply awful – and responsible for Matt Cardle’s Christmas single. So Mumford & Sons win despite their album actually being released in autumn 2009.

British Single
Alexandra Burke ft Pitbull - All Night Long; Cheryl Cole - Parachute; Florence And The Machine - You've Got The Love; Matt Cardle - When We Collide; Olly Murs - Please Don't Let Me Go; Plan B - She Said; Scouting For Girls - This Ain't A Love Song; Taio Cruz - Dynamite; Tinie Tempah - Pass Out; The Wanted - All Time Low
It says everything about the state of the singles market that every single song on this list is fucking abysmal. Choosing between these is like being asked to choose between genital warts or chronic piles.

MasterCard British Album of the Year
Mumford And Sons - Sigh No More; Plan B - The Defamation Of Strickland Banks; Take That - Progress; Tinie Tempah - Disc-Overy; The XX - XX
I’ll disqualify Mumford & Sons since it came out 18 months ago. Which is cutting off my nose to spite my face as it’s the only one of these albums I really like. I’d give it to The XX for the way they’ve eased my insomnia on occasion.

International Male Solo Artist
Bruce Springsteen; Cee Lo Green; David Guetta; Eminem; Kanye West
It’s pretty hard to care about this. Fuck it – Bruce.

International Female Solo Artist
Alicia Keys; Katy Perry; Kylie Minogue; Rihanna; Robyn
Kylie? Seriously? Even her surgeon seems to have given up nowadays. Keys takes it for that single with Jay Zed (and I wonder if he should claim more credit than her for that?)

International Breakthrough Act
Bruno Mars; Glee Cast; Justin Bieber; The National; The Temper Trap
At last! A category I can care about. Sweet Disposition has been kicking around for ages, so The Temper Trap aren’t having this. The Glee Cast aren’t even a fucking band so they can piss off too. The National are so clearly the winners here that it seems almost certain that Bruno Mars will waltz off with their award. Because there’s no justice, you see.

International Group
Arcade Fire; Black Eyed Peas; Kings Of Leon; The Script; Vampire Weekend
The Black Eyed Peas are literally the worst band of all time. Ever. It’s music for people who don’t like music. Kings of Leon ceased to be interesting when their lyrics became intelligible and Vampire Weekend have gone backwards. So the Canadian colossus that is Arcade Fire ought to (and probably will) claim the crown.

International Album
Arcade Fire - The Suburbs; Cee Lo Green - The Lady Killer; Eminem - Recovery; Katy Perry - Teenage Dream; Kings of Leon - Come Around Sundown
And it goes without saying that the world’s best band also produced its best album. The Suburbs by a country mile.

Right, i’d better put the kettle on and get myself within bile-spitting distance of the TV and hope for a Jarvis Cocker-style arse wiggling incident.

The White Stripes Split

After thirteen years as a partnership, The White Stripes have dissolved their working relationship in the same amicable way they dissolved their marriage. A release on their official website described an ‘intense and incredible’ career and described a decision taken with a view to preserving their legacy and leaving nothing but fond memories for their fans.

My relationship with The White Stripes has been a mixed one. I’ve seen them play fantastically visceral sets yet I’ve also been bored by Jack’s occasional self-indulgence. I’ve seen them play every where from Bridlington Spa to Glastonbury Festival. I’ve enjoyed their thumping drums whilst wondering how Meg ever got a job in a band (surely the aforementioned marriage was a factor) and I’ve recoiled in horror as they abandoned the simplicity of their earlier material to put bagpipes on their last album.

When they emerged the NME (which was clinging faintly to the last vestiges of respectability) lumped them alongside garage rockers such as The Strokes. It quickly became apparent, however, that they belonged in a category all of their own. Utterly primal, with Jack’s wailing, shrieking vocals layered over his own squalling, ferocious guitar and Meg’s rhythmic pounding. That two musicians could make such raw music was no surprise. That they could do so with such swagger was amazing.

Caring nothing for convention, The White Stripes ploughed their own furrow. They employed no session musicians to pad out their live sound, created their own incestuous mythology and wore their country and blues influences firmly on their sleeves. And their music videos were absolutely brilliant (see below). For a while I rarely wore clothes which were not black, white or red – a stylish affectation borne entirely of my man-crush on Jack.

Utterly original yet completely derivative, powerful yet tender, they were truly unique and despite an occasional ropey performance, a cancelled gig and the majority of Icky Thump, I will truly miss them.

Band of Horses Live @ O2 Academy Leeds

Opening with Ode to LRC, Band of Horses set out to prove that the world is, indeed, a wonderful place. And boy did they succeed. Bearded and clad in plaid shirts, they look every inch the American country rockers. They wear their influences (Crosby, Stills, Nash and particularly Neil Young) as closely as their jeans and have surfed over to the UK on a wave of multi-layered harmonies pioneered by the likes of Fleet Foxes and My Morning Jacket.

Where they differ from their predecessors is in their secret weapon – lead singer Ben Bridwell’s incredible voice. There’s a powerful clarity to his emotive vocals which imbues their songs with a richness and depth which elevates them above MOR into something quite beautiful.

Performing against a backdrop of panoramic Midwestern vistas they rarely stray far from blues inflected country because they simply don’t need to. An occasional thrash of the guitars or intricate bass outro are the sign of a band having a bloody good time, but generally their guitars slide around yearning love songs or paeans to the good old US of A. At times it’s utterly beguiling – the heartbreaking intro to Is There A Ghost being a case in point. In fact, it’s the material from Cease To Begin which is most likely to make your hair stand on end.

But that’s not to say that more recent material is weak. New number Du Jour Of The Day broods intensely and the sweeping, soaring, majestic Factory is a highlight. Sadly, an intimate duet on Evening Kitchen between Bridwell and guitarist Tyler Ramsey was spoiled somewhat by incessant chatter from the inconsiderate goons in my vicinity – it ought to have been a ‘moment’ but was instead spoiled by my desire to rip someone’s teeth out through the back of their skull.

The Return of Elbow!

It took Elbow years to achieve success on their own terms. They were dumped by their record label more than once but refused to buckle. And eventually the nice guys of British music broke through with the Mercury Music Prize winning Seldom Seen Kid – a triumph which owed no little part to the magnificent singalong anthem One Day Like This. So has that success altered their approach to new album Build A Rocket, Boys? In the face of current the evidence, it seems not...



A sneak preview of the first track from the record, Lippy Kids, reveals a band who are absolutely comfortable with and committed to doing things their way. A mainstream anthem similar to ODLS would surely have cemented the Mancunians in the nation’s hearts – as well as guaranteeing massive sales of the album. But instead they’ve chosen to preview a subtle, low-key slice of melancholia. It captures childhood innocence and nostalgia wonderfully, choosing to see the best of those ‘lippy kids’ hanging about on street corners in a way which Garvey has mastered as our greatest current lyricist and one of our greatest vocalists. It’s affectionate, warm and beautiful in a way which Elbow have made their trademark – and long may it continue.

2010's Best Records!!!

With Christmas coming you can guarantee that there will be no more decent albums released this year. The festive shelves will heave with compilations and greatest hits packages designed to appeal to the part-time music fan or present-procurer. So with that in mind (and ahead of the press’ annual ‘list editions’) here are my favourite dozen albums of 2010.

Arcade Fire: The Suburbs
Epic yet intimate, clever yet inclusive. Arcade Fire are arguably the greatest band on earth - and The Suburbs does not disappoint. Sweeping synths, pounding percussion and orchestral brass all add up to something almost hymnal. With around sixty three members and a charismatic married couple at the forefront it wouldn’t surprise me if their next move was to found their own religion.





Band of Horses: Infinite Arms
Band of Horses’ third album doesn’t quite scale the heights of its predecessors, yet it’s still one of the standouts of the year. Gorgeous vocals and lush harmonies layered over strings and multiple guitars make them one of the leading exponents of ‘Americana’.If you like anything here, check out their debut Cease to Begin.





Beach House: Teen Dream
Album opener Zebra is one of the most hauntingly beautiful tracks of the year – androgynous vocals (the singer is, in fact, a girl) and a swooning chorus about the ‘black and white horse’ of the title. Perhaps zoology is not their strong point. The rest of the album breezes by in a similarly stoned, dreamily melodic way. Lovely.





Broken Social Scene: Forgiveness Rock Record
There is so much to enjoy on this record that it’s hard to imagine how they squeezed it all in. At times it’s like a compilation – different vocalists and musical styles each take their turn – and yet the unique twanging guitars somehow tie everything into one cohesive whole. Meet Me in The Basement is arguably the finest instrumental of the year – a rollicking triumph of a song and the kind of track which you could listen to on repeat for ages (something i’ve been guilty of).





Caribou: Swim
To label something as ‘experimental’ is often tantamount to calling it ‘shite’. But not here. Sun is an utterly engrossing album – occasionally it seems slightly detached and cold, but then draws you back in with an beautiful motif or melody. You’d struggle to dance to it, but it’s a great album to end a night out with.





Chemical Brothers: Further
Eschewing the celebrity cameos which have always characterised their albums, the Chemical Brothers have instead concentrated on creating an album which works as a whole – there are not standout singles here. It’s brilliantly conceived and their best in some time – particularly K+B+D – a song not dissimilar to the epic Private Psychedelic Reel.





Four Tet: There Is Love In You
Keiran Hebden’s latest release as Four Tet is an absolutely gorgeous slice of (what some people have clumsily termed) folktronica. Looped strings and vocals are layered atop one another in a hypnotic chant which is utterly enchanting. A great album for falling asleep too (i mean that in the nicest possible way).





Laura Marling: I Speak Because I Can
It’s amazing to think that Laura Marling is only twenty years old. Her second album is even more mature than her first, her lyrics wise beyond her years. She inhabits different personalities and personas here (in a Bat For Lashes style) and the result is a triumphant collection of songs which are rich and worldy. I’m usually a bigger fan of music than lyrics, but i wanna understand every word that falls from her lips.





Local Natives: Gorilla Manor
In the wake of Fleet Foxes there has been a slew of imitators attempting to replicate their vocal style. Of all the bands who’ve attempted it, the greatest success is surely Local Natives. They’ve taken the harmonies and added beefier arrangements and (at times) stark, vicious lyrics. Dressed up in their bouncy, chanting choruses its occasionally easy to forget that you’re listening to songs about bombs in supermarket carparks. Utterly ace.





Midlake: The Courage Of Others
Midlake make beautiful music and have been doing so for some time now. Having broken through with the acclaimed Trials of Von Occupanther, here they continue their ascent with a captivating album filled with head-nodding, beardy American folk underpinned by some rich guitars and tender harmonies.





The National: High Violet
It’s often the case that albums start strong and fade. Not High Violet. It would be easy to argue that the last three songs are the best – but that would be a disservce to the rest of their amazing album. Anthemic yet muted, the sonorous voice of Matt Berninger carries the whole thing with understated aplomb. And England is the best song of 2010 – FACT.





The Tallest Man On Earth: Wild Hunt
The best addition to my musical life this year has been Kristian Matsson (aka the Tallest Man ...). It’s very easy to point out similarities to Bob Dylan in almost everything he does, but that’s because he has the same nasal sneer and guitar plucking style. He won’t be everyone’s cup of tea, but if you have any affection for Bob, give this a whirl. It’s arguably a lesser album than his first, but it’s still utterly fantastic. Disappointingly, in the flesh he’s about the same height as me.

Leeds Festival 2010

Every year I swear that I’ll never attend Leeds Festival again. Last year, with my eyes and lungs burning from the acrid fumes of burning tents, I really meant it. But then the opportunity to work behind one of the bars arose and I decided to see if things on the other side of the fence made it a more pleasurable experience...

It was with utter dismay that I realised my shifts (three six-hour stints of charging extortionate prices for pre-poured pints) were scheduled to coincide with almost every band I was interested in going to see. All of a sudden the free ticket didn’t seem such good value. But with free meals, free drinks and splendid camping facilities it would be churlish to complain. We plastered brave faces on and amended our plans, bouncing into the sun-drenched arena for a Friday afternoon of cider and song.

I imagine it can be a thankless task opening a festival. Playing to fans that aren’t necessarily your own must be fraught with difficulty and the contrasting sets from The Futureheads and the Mystery Jets were testament to this. With their catchy choruses, bouncing rhythms and singalong anthems, The Futureheads were an excellent advertisement for themselves – they’ll have won themselves some new fans and deservedly so. The Mystery Jets, on the other hand, arrived looking sullen and subdued. They threw away their biggest hit, Two Doors Down, midway through the set and with it went the crowd. It’s a shame as they brightened up slightly with a bouncy rendition of Behind The Bunhouse, but it was too little, too late. The Futureheads saved Hounds of Love for last, kept the crowd onside and sparked debate amongst my friends about whether anyone could even remember Kate Bush’s original version of the song.

After the Gaslight Anthem powered through their back catalogue (with some aplomb) Modest Mouse were the first victims of the weather as a torrential downpour sent the crowd scurrying for shelter. Luckily the weather perked up in time for the arrival of The Maccabees. Playing their first ever slot on a festival main stage they delivered a great set of melodic pop which was perfectly suited to a sunny afternoon.

The remainder of the day’s music was witnessed from the wrong side of the bar. Luckily it was the one closest to the main stage and enabled us to catch snippets of Dizzee Rascal and The Libertines, both of whom delivered rollickingly good sets. The real treat for me, however, was sneaking off to watch Arcade Fire as their army of musicians filled the main stage prior to them filling the arena with their unique sound.

Any band with two drummers gets the seal of approval from me, but Arcade Fire go one further by constantly switching instruments between songs – it seems that everyone gets a go at everything and that level of talent is a joy to behold. Their rendition of No Cars Go was absolutely thrilling – the hairs stood up on the back of my neck and stayed erect for the rest of their set. As always, they finished with the epically euphoric Wake Up – a song designed to close a festival if ever there was one.

Saturday was a strange affair. I spent the afternoon trapped behind the bar listening to relentlessly dull American ‘rock’ and sulking badly. The only relief came from an outburst of ska-punk from the reliably raucous King Blues – definitely the only band to pique my interest all day.

Sweet release came after my shift with a set from Shooting Stars’ Angelos Epithemou. In twenty minutes he provided more entertainment than I’d had all day. That this was achieved with a set made up of just three (terrible) jokes, a sweeping brush transformed into a flute and a telescopic blind man’s stick in a bag is testament to the strength of the character.

Band of Horses were my band of the weekend. Combining lush harmonies with lush facial hair, their set was a splendid run through material from all three of their albums. It’s a good job they were visible on stage or the audience might have thought someone had just sneaked a CD of the band on – I’ve rarely heard a group reproduce their studio sound so adeptly. Brilliant stuff from a band who deserve to be much, much bigger.

With no real agenda, the rest of the evening was spent flitting from stage to stage. We Are Scientists provided little of interest except a drummer who looks remarkably (and presumably deliberately) like John Bonham. Caribou were more intriguing: a tightly grouped quartet of musicians who played for each other rather than their audience and yet still managed to hold the attention thanks to their atmospherically laid back sound. There’s something warmly melancholic about them and they’re certainly worth checking out. A brief visit to the Klaxons revealed that little has changed in the years between their first album and last week’s new release Surfing The Void: if you liked them before, you’ll like them now. Unless you’ve matured more quickly than them.

For the first and only time we ventured into the public campsite following the end of Saturday’s on-stage entertainment. Festival Republic have certainly learned their lessons in recent years when it comes to providing late night entertainment and it seems that there was more to keep people occupied in 2010 than ever before. Unfortunately Leeds Festival still lags some way behind in many other respects: the catering is terrible compared to almost every festival I’ve ever been to; the site is homogenous and boring; information about stage times and line-ups can only be bought at extortionate prices. A little more thought about the way the site is laid out, a separate food area serving ‘proper’ grub and a few signs with timetables on would cost very little and contribute greatly.

Another person with a few gripes about Melvin Benn’s handling of the festival is Axl Rose. After throwing his toys out of the pram at Reading, rumours swept Bramham Park that Guns n Roses were not gonna turn up. Ozzy Osbourne and Arctic Monkeys were being touted as replacements and confusion reigned supreme. Sadly, the organisers did little to dispel these rumours and the crowd were left wondering...

Despite an uninspiring afternoon line-up I still managed to miss the only band I wanted to see on Sunday – I was bopping along to Two Door Cinema Club at the NME stage when Gogol Bordello were delivering their gypsy punk to the main stage audience. I was furious with myself and my mood only darkened watching The Big Pink later on – having liked their last album I was astounded that they’d made such an interesting record seem so turgid when performed live.

Later, Mumford & Sons drew the biggest crowd I’ve ever seen at the NME stage. It was impossible to get into the tent and as such the acoustics were dreadful. Quieter songs were drowned out by the nearby dodgems and it was only The Cave and Little Lion Man which got much of a reaction from the hoards of fans. That’s not to say that the band played badly – far from it. But it’s perhaps time to think about introducing an element of flexibility into artist contracts at events such as these. No doubt the group were delighted to have secured the deal they did, but since they signed up to Leeds/Reading their career has gone through the roof and it seems strange to see a band like Phoenix playing after a group who stand on the brink of winning the Mercury Music Prize. It’s fair to assume that one of the two will spend next summer playing on main stages. I’ll leave you to work out which...

Back behind the bar and bitterly cold, we drew our collective breath and waited for the arrival of Guns n Roses. And waited. And then 35 minutes later than billed they made it into the stage. Axl Rose looked like a futuristic version of himself. His bloated face looks increasingly like Mickey Rourke’s, his bacofoil jacket looked like he’d stolen it from George Jetson and his teeth glowed so violently under the UV lights I thought I was caught in the headlights.

With his collection of glorified session musicians behind him Axl launched into his set. Unfortunately, it never really took off. Whether the singer is physically unfit or just determined to allow his new bandmates time to showcase their ability is unclear, but the set repeatedly lost any momentum it had gathered due to Rose’s insistence on changing costume three times in just over ninety minutes. During his enforced absences we were ‘treated’ to instrumental versions of Bowie and Pink Floyd songs and a bizarre version of the Theme From Pink Panther. Whilst there are some decent musicians in the new set-up, it’s difficult to avoid the fact that whenever Axl wasn’t on stage you weren’t actually watching any of the original line-up.

There were some great moments – it’d be a shock if a back catalogue like theirs didn’t contain some gems. Watching Sweet Child O mine from the top of a van-mounted generator gave us the best view in the house of the main stage (and warmed our feet wonderfully) and November Rain made my heart thud in my chest. Sadly a droning version of Knockin On Heaven’s Door almost bored me to death before they encored with Paradise City and stomped off after moaning that they hadn’t been allowed to play for longer. Frankly, I’d had enough by that point and so had Axl’s voice.