Sad news just in that former Thin Lizzy guitarist Gary Moore passed away today in his hotel room in Spain.

Moore will be best remembered for his work alongside Scott Gorham on Lizzy’s ‘Black Rose’ album, bt also found continuing solo success with chart topping hits ‘Out In The Fields’, ‘Over The Hills And Far Away’ and ‘Parisienne Walkways’ throughout the 80s. He continued to tour and gained great respect for his earthy blues sound.

Police sat there were no suspicious circumstances surrounding Moore’s death, Downtuned would like to extend our deepest condolences to Moore’s family and fans.

Because we’re bunch of miserable bastards who spend most of our time listening to Tokyo Doom Jazz and shouting at people, it’s pretty rare that a musical event causes any stirring in our jaded muso loins here at DT towers, but even we were heartened this morning as we learnt that our very favourite band ever to play in London’s tiny Crobar are set to get it on again. Here’s the press release that appeared on DFA’s site:

Jesse and I have decided that what we can do together should not be denied.
Together again, as was always the intention, as a collaboration.
The collision of two different worlds.
As this all takes shape, we will reveal it to you.
All of it happening, as it always has, in our own way.
Thank you all for sharing in our excitement!

Yes.
SEBASTIEN

they love each other really...

So, there you have it, theelephant-faced synth-shout duo are back, hopefully in an attempt to teach Hackney/Village hipsters that not all two piece bands have to sound like Gary Newman….

Here’s to sexy results.

We don’t post shit like this that often any more (mainly because we’re a bunch of posing psueds who like to pretend we should all have jobs at The Guardian or something, rather than admit that we can’t spell, punctuate or grammaticise for toffee and don’t care anyway), but hey, this is fun, musical and ridiculously geeky -type in your sites URL, and any HTML (HTML!! Remember that?) will be transformed into soothibng synth beats!

Downtuned was pleased to discover that we’re a kind of jazzy early 90’s trip-hop, which may seem strange given the amount of Slayer related posts, but makes a lot more sense when you consider our massive tremazipan intake.

Anyway – play with this shit, it’s cool.

Thanks to the lovely chaps at Eurostar, DT were able to check out Carl Barat’s debut gig down in King’s cross on the 27th, and it has to be said that the Chavvily-Chic former Libertines man is just as at home at the front of the stage as his old boss Pete Doherty – if somewhat less generally shambolic. Carl’s hitting the road to promote tracks from his new, eponymous album and you and a friend could be lucky enough to catch him playing in glamorous Paris on November 5th, with free luxury Eurostar travel and a signed album thrown in for good luck.

If you want to be in with a chance of winning this great prize then head over to Eurostar’s site right now and get your name in the pork-pie hat.

Hit the jump for the full review

Stepping on stage after a variety of interchangeable support bands with post ironic names, Carl comes across as a refreshing, polished change to the often falling-apart-at-the-seams theme that typified later Libertines gigs, backed up ably by a profusely sweating band, he throws out tracks from his new debut album while stripping down to a wife-beater and gold chain look that prompts some very exacting comments from the blonde lady next to me.

Bashing out new single Run with the boys and interspersing the more rocking moments with a fantastic rendidtion of So long my lover, Barat moves the mood of the night expertly, but never allows the momentum to cease.

Of course, Mr Barat is no fool, and knows that however catchy his own tunes are (answer: Very, in a post indie-lad-rock way, all jangling, popping guitars and thundering, rolling basslines), a large portion of the crowd is here to listen to him rolling out tunes from his former group’s back catalogue, and we’re duly obliged. A jumpy, fun set rounded off with a surprisingly thunderous rendition of ‘Can’t stand me now’ that even sees the hipster types at the front attempt a little bit of moshing (bless ‘em).

Overall, a solid, fun night out with a professional, hard working band.

It’s friday, and what better way to finish the week off than a visit from paul McCartney and his ‘Female-Loathing-Car”?

Judging by this latest video from Seattle sound stalwarts Soundgarden (for new top choon ‘Black Rain’) it seems the Downtuned staff aren’t the only ones wasting time watching Metalocalypse all day. Featuring something of a return to their ‘Badmotorfinger’ sound and heavier Sabbathy roots, this isn’t bad at all, but it remains to be seen if the reformed band can compete in the modern market – whaddaya think?

Here I am in the sun, doing my best to look like a communist. One that's into Trans-Ams.

You know, there was a time when I considered myself ahead of the musical curve.
I got into metal when I was at school, and my collection got pretty big over the next decade. My tastes got more eclectic and (I like to think) more sophisticated. I spent time feeding my passion for obscure doom, hunting out limited edition vinyl singles, writing to bands and zines (There was no ‘interwebz’ in those days), and even tape trading.

By doing this I uncovered a lot of great music that most people will never get to hear. If you can be bothered then I thoroughly recommend you check out Pale Divine and Sir Hedgehog. I’m not going to add MySpace links because..well, because they don’t exist, but do some hunting for Black Tears distro or something and they’ll point you in the right direction.

Anyway, after school I took about ten years out from education. For some reason I thought I could be a musician, so I spent my time working McJobs and spending the cash on guitars and amps, fuel to get to gigs, and me and some friends wrote some great (and some not so great) songs. It was a lot of fun.

Wavves. Bought to you by the letter V.

So, eventually I returned to university at the ripe old age of 26, and had a lot of fun making out with teenagers and drinking. While I was there I met this chick. She was hot and fun and we really clicked. We had different tastes in music but we also had that same openess to new sounds and experiences. We took pleasure in discovering new things and I fell pretty hard for her, and she eventually broke my heart.

Afterwards,as part of the healing process I cut off all my hair and developed a pathological hatred for anything kooky, ooky, or altogether electro-ey. I thought it was because it stirred up too many bad memories, but actually it’s because I started seeing through all that posing, affected, skinny jeans and blue hair teenage shit.

You don’t like music hipsters, you just like name dropping bands you hope your moustachioed, vintage-clad friends won’t have heard of.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I caught a couple of bands at this thing. The Vivian Girls were on, and even though most of their songs seem to be about Mopeds (being ‘British’ is cool you see?) they’d have been alright, except that every festival sound engineer in the world now watches Glastonbury on TV and actually thinks that’s a decent mix.

Wise up knob twiddlers. If you want a decent festival sound watch some footage of Donnington in the mid 80s, when you could hear the band properly. To be fair, you also need a 400,000 Watt P.A System. And maybe the band just sound like they’re playing in a wind tunnel on purpose. Ever been in a wind tunnel? I once dropped a loud guff in bed but that’s about it.

The Vivian girls. Possibly pictured in a wind tunnel.

Anyway, there were also two types of booze on sale (San Miguel and fucking pear cider), and about a hundred nondescipt experimental art bands. There was also a pretty heavy socialist presence, because hey, Che’ was hip too you know? I once met a guy who’d met him. Apparently he looked like a chimp. On that basis I wrote a sitcom script about ex-revolutionaries living in an old people’s home together. It’s just as well I didn’t bring it along, because there’s no recycling bins. Conspicuous waste is cool.

I always saw myself as an artist I guess. I took pleasure in the things I created, and always spent time on the details, the little things that make something stand out. Now I spend my weekends in sub-Mad Max landscapes, surrounded by people who think it’s ok to go out wearing a cloak made from knotted doilies.

Old women are cool.

Doilycraft is cool.

That guy who used to be in Joy Division threatening to play his hit.

He’s cool too.

I’m really not that cool.

News is trickling in that a body found by police may be that of former Stereophonics man Stuart Cable.

Cable, 40, left the multi-platinum beige-rockers in 2003 and has been happily hosting BBC Radio Wales’ rock show ever since, he had often said that he had ‘no regrets’ about leaving the band. Emergency services reached Mr.Cable’s house near Aberdare at around 5 am on Monday morning -police said there were no suspicious circumstances surrounding the death.

Cable’s new band Killing for Company were scheduled to play Donington Park’s Download festiva this Saturday and have a new album scheduled for release this summer.

More on this story as we get it.

UPDATE: Cable has indeed passed away, cause of death is believed to have been excessive alcohol consumption which lead to heart failure. DT would like to offer our condolences to his family and friends.

Normally here on DT we avoid clubs and stick to real, actual live music, but it’s Saturday night in London Town’s most self-consciously hip district, which usually means cocktails in a former bomb shelter surrounded by pencil ‘tashed hipsters. But despite the lure of Deep House and hen parties at nearby Axis, we’ve managed to get ourselves down to Shoreditch High Street, avoided trying to sneak into Shoreditch house, and made it into Concrete for a night of retro thrills courtesy of new concern The Record Player….

Usually home to the sort of banging trance that activates my heat vision, Concrete has so far evaded the DT team’s attentions, so it’s with some trepidation that we venture into the oily depths beneath trendy eaterie Pizza East to be confronted by..well..concrete. Now, I’m sure this is meant to be ‘construction chic’ or something, but basically it boils down to a large room resembling an underground car park, a few candles and tables made from laminated chip-board. Let’s just say it won’t be appearing on Grand Designs anytime soon.
But it’s the crowd and the choons that matter right? And with The Record Club, Concrete could be onto a winner.

It’s a simple enough conceit – pick a year and stick to it for music, and get the crowd to vote for a top twenty. For this opening salvo we’re in 1979, so let’s see if our childhood memories stand up to the merciless alcoholic glare.

We arrived early, and there’s a weirdly school disco ambiance going on in the still pretty empty room at the start. Elvis Costello and similar new wave angular tunes are mixing it up with some stone cold classic disco as a small group of girls nervously edge onto the stage, while the rest of the room hug the bar and try to avoid the mechanical death-eyes of Margaret Thatcher. The Iron Lady goggling down at us from giant spirit of ’79 posters planted about the place. For a while we’re worried –sure the music’s good, but it’s too quiet and no-one’s dancing. As your intrepid DT staffer has the coordination of a dead pig on a skateboard we stick to the atrociously overpriced cocktails as the huge space very, very slowly starts to fill up.

Of course, we are also old people so have forgotten that young ‘uns these days don’t get started until at least midnight. Sure enough, the witching hour strikes, the place fills up and the sounds go up to eleven. And what sounds –everything from Donna Summer and MJ to AC/DC and Bowie –it’s eclectic, but for the most part electric.

The stage fills up and is helped along in no small part by DT’s official hero of the night, a velour suit-clad dandy with a nice line in bizarre Leslie Phillip’s-esque dance moves; he’s covered in bust ladeez despite being camp as a legion of scouts and none the worse for it. Eventually even we hit the floor and have a bloody good time. If there’s a downside it’s that it’s a little too busy, with an uncomfortable number of pissed-up 40 something blokes staggering about and adding a greasy undercurrent to proceedings, and an inexperienced DJ duo who really need to pay more attention to the mood of the room in order to keep the vibe flowing.

Small concerns –a little crowd control and the chance to settle in will sort them out –follow The Record Player on Facebook in the meantime – 1990 is up next so dig out those whistles and white gloves -based on opening night it should be a fun, unself-conscious event that deserves to be a success.

Sad news just in tonight that legendary metal vocalist Ronnie James Dio has passed away after losing his ongoing battle with stomach cancer at the age of 67.

His wife and long time manager Wendy left a message on Dio’s official website for fans today:

Today my heart is broken, Ronnie passed away at 7:45am 16th May. Many, many friends and family were able to say their private good-byes before he peacefully passed away. Ronnie knew how much he was loved by all. We so appreciate the love and support that you have all given us. Please give us a few days of privacy to deal with this terrible loss. Please know he loved you all and his music will live on forever.

- Wendy Dio

Although his Dungeons & Dragons imagery and diminutive stature occasionally led to ridicule, Dio was widely regarded as a true professional by fellow musicians. From humble beginnings playing trumpet and bass guitar in the late 50’s and 60’s his distinctive vocals helped define the sound of late 70’s heavy rock during stints in Rainbow and as Ozzy Osbourne’s replacement in Black Sabbath – he had recently reformed with members of Sabbath and was intending to tour under the ‘Heaven & Hell’ moniker – and he is widely credited for popularising the distinctive ‘devil’s horn’s’ salute familiar to rockers worldwide.
Ronnie also fronted his own band and became America’s number one touring act during the mid-80’s, and despite wavering fortunes continued to tour consistantly to the last.

On a personal note, we here at DT would like to extend our sympathies to Ronnie’s family. Having crossed paths with the man on several occasions over the years, he was a dedicated and genuinely pleasant individual who created some of the most singular and influential music in metal and his presence will be keenly missed by friends and fans alike.

One day, long after man has departed for the stars, we’ll gert tired of posting up stupid Slayer cut n’ pastes…but not today I’m afraid.

The Rotted

As befits a holiday weekend, it’s pissing down in London, so the DT staff hole up in a nearby pub and arrive late at University of London Union’s cavernous main hall just as The Rotted take the stage. While the banter is upbeat and the musicianship tight there’s a definite feeling that the band may be ploughing a rather dull furrow, their attempts to form a death metal conga line dredging up uncomfortable memories of 80’s chancers like Xentrix or Tortoise Korpse. Musically it’s a slightly odd mix, with black metal drums backing up some thrashy death and a very British sense of humour unfortunately undermining their credibility. They’re solid and spirited but ultimately unremarkable, meaning we quickly return to the merchandise area/bar/school hall area, avoiding a gigantic, very pissed skin in a Rudimentary Peni shirt in our efforts to locate a BT shirt that isn’t in XXXL size. This doesn’t exist, but luckily Greek titans Rotten Christ turn up to break the tedium.

Rotting Christ

While their move from the crawling evil that typified their early sound (and was far more appropriate to the band name)into the anthemic, gothed up festival sound they currently sport doesn’t always make sense on disc, in the live arena it makes them Christ a force to be reckoned with. Huge, swelling sound and chanting broken by those distinctive uro-centric barking vox and soaring solos. RT are a fist-pumping, festival-friendly crowd pleaser that magically lure every female in the room to the front while managing to keep up the spirits of their boyfriends back at the bar. A solid performance and the best sound of the day.

Another hour of dork watching, drinking and bemoaning the closure of the Astoria to all and sundry passes amiably enough, until that lost-but-not-forgotten opening theme strikes up and Bolt Thrower amble onto the stage, all happy faces and friendly waving at odds with the crushing war machine image and ridiculous stained glass logo.

Bolt Thrower

It’s hard to believe everyone’s favourite Warhammer obsessed brummies have been absent from the live scene for the best part of a decade, so anticipation is high. Unfortunately the actual experience can’t compete.

‘The Sound’s Shit’ remarks a punter in front of me, and he’s spot on.

Masters of the run-gu-gud-dada chugalong school of Death, BT are hamstrung by a wobbly, thin mix that no amount of geniality from frontman Karl Willetts can cover. Ultimately we’re left watching some good natured midlanders wandering around the stage, classics like Kill Chain failing to connect –or occasionally even reach – all of the audience, leading to a lack of fun down the front and indifference at the back. Sad to say, but it makes the whole thing boring. Bolt Thrower are a great band – professional, fun, drinking-man’s death metal – and they deserve a better venue. Finger’s crossed it’s a one-off and they’ll be back on form for the next campaign.

Castles.

As buildings go, they’re already pretty metal aren’t they? Can you think of any other buildings incorporating a murder hole?

This legacy of carnage obviously wasn’t enough for Rochester Castle however, which recently upped the ante by displaying a massive AC/DC gig (with a little help from Seeper). According to company founder Evan Grant:

“This onslaught of the senses saw the castle confront its ultimate challenge. Warping, morphing, spewing and collapsing before the audience’s eyes. Let there be rock!”

And who are we to argue with that?

So, you’re a billion-selling rock behemoth that needs to make your dinosaur-grooves relevant to a new generation – have you considered getting the geek overlord over at rainwarrior.com to programme your biggest hit to work on a NES?

If you’re a true music geek, then you’ll probably dig these weirdly beautiful charts by artist Marco Fusinato, each of which takes a piece of sheet music and suggests new possible reltionships between notes.

The process works on anything so if you’re planning a cover version or want to make a U2 song sound good* then this is the process for you! For the rest of us it just looks cool.

Check out Marco’s page for more of project: Black Mass Implosion.

*Not actually possible

There are times when you’ll be sat at work, the godawful strains of commercial radio filling yor ears with bilge, when you may find yourself wishing that current popular music took more notes from the classics. Obviously Endless Noise feel the same way, conjuring up this fantastic motown version of Beyonce’s Single Ladies – makes us wish beehives were back in fashion.

As is now traditional, piss-poor directions see at least one DT reviewer introducing himself to the entire UK beatbox championship upstairs before finally hooking up with the rest of the Downtuned school trip in the bar downstairs for Overkill’s annual classic thrashathon .

Openers Gripper are maintaining a resolutely low-key internet profile (I think – to be honest I could only stand to stay on MySpace for about 45 seconds) in line with their stage presence. The group put accros some bland but effective post-Arch Enemy deaththrash with cut n’ copy female vox and a dreadlocked weirdy-beirdy bass player failing to disguise tunes that blur together and bring nothing new to the table. They do have decent musicianship and a nice line in Slayeresque off-beat coordinated headbanging, but need to drop the hackneyed ‘pump-fist-shout-hey-hey-at-audience’ stage moves.

Next up it’s Savage Messiah, featuring possibly the only guitarist ever to purchase a red Jackson Kelly and kicking off with some decent mid-tier thrashing a la Sacred reich with some impressive soloing that brings a hint of Chuck Schuldiner to proceedings. Unfortunately they cock this up with a bizarre foray into Gary Moore noodle territory and a reliance on their Iced Earth album collection for songwriting skills.

So far-things are going…ok, but despite the constant flow of booze we’ve yet to be impressed.

Enter Greece’s Suicidal Angels.

Heeellooo Looohhhndohhhnnn…are you vvvvready to thrasssshhhhh??

Proof positive that Sepultura have a lot to answer for, we’re treated to a hot mix of Destruction/Scepter Eurothrash circa 1986 –in other words, stupid and fucking great! Nonsensical comments about being borrrrrnnn in darrrknezzzz aside, SA will never be big, but have all the kvlt kudos to keep them busy on the party san festival circuit for years to come –derivative but tons o’ fun.

In the past few years Overkill have occasionally felt like they were treading water on record, but new album Ironbound seems to have reconnected them with their roots. With the band favouring a classics-heavy set tonight, it’s a genuine tribute to the new tunes that they don’t stick out, giving us a short sharp dose of exciting, quick witted early 80s thrashing with nary a step wrong. Out front, singer Blitz seems to have transformed into the bastard offspring of Bruce Lee and the Cryptkeeper, whip-thin with a voice that could cut glass –this from a serial stroke victim, while D.D.Verni may have lost his corkscrew locks but has kept his talent for great tunes and the gnarliest bass sound in metal.
Keeping things short and sweet, the set is heavy on early material with a few rabble rousing shoutalongs like Necroshine and Here’s to The Old School thrown in, then it’s back on for a quick encore, ending of course with Fuck You! – Which segues seamlessly into the seldom-aired Dead Boys cover Sonic Reducer.

Furious, headbanging fun of the highest calibre, Overkill cement their deserved status as scene legends with a show that pisses all over younger challengers and even leaves old bastards like us with a bangover. Long may they reign!

Yeeeeeeah boy! NWA may have produced a “bombastic, cacophonous car ride through Los Angeles’ burnt-out and ignored hoods.”(Rolling Stone Magazine), but who the hell cares about all that poverty and police brutality stuff -what we really like is the swearing!

As we all muthafucking know, swearing makes you harder and more muthafuckin’ sexy than any other muthafuckin’ muthafucka on your block. You want to be sexy dont you muthafucka? Of course you muthafuckin’ do! So why not check out the profanties only mix of NWA’s stone cold muthafuckin classic Straight Outta Compton?

Sure it might be missing the point completely -and reduce classic Comptons in the House to a mere 27 seconds – but those is valuable seconds you could be using to pop a cap in someone’s ass or nail some bitches..whatever those things are.

Anyway -it’ll still slam ya down to the street top: Check it out here!

How black is too black? None! Erm…or something…
anyway, put on your mining helmet and join us as we head down the dimly-lit path of rock n’roll nightmares and uncover the oily remains of The Blackest Albums EVER!!!!!!

1: The Black Album – Prince

Apparently some people thought that Prince was too pop orientated in 1987, because obviously Prince had never had anything at all to do with pop during his career. Anyway, he ditched the purple for
something altogether darker as a follow up to Sign O The Times.
Well, almost.

After cobbling together this collection of super funk -and the phrase “Who’s that skinny motherfucker with the high voice?” courtesy of weird woman-killing funk workout Bob George – Prince had a
religious wobbly and decided the whole thing was tainted with evil!

Brilliant!
Unfortunately he dealt with this by withdrawing it and releasing the altogether more upbeat LoveSexy instead, thus sparing us the likes of the wee fella drawling all over Cindy Crawford on ‘Cindy C’ and pretty much telling every gangsta rapper that they suck balls – top work Prince!

2: The Black Album – Metallica

Remember when Metallica were great?
Not if you were born after 1990 you don’t sucker.

Roping in Big-barneted cock rock overlord Bob Rock to produce may have cured the ‘playing under a mattress next door’ sound that plagued …and Justice For All and launched the band into the superstar stratosphere, but it also marked the start of their fall from world’s greatest thrash band to middle-management sub-Meatloaf
fare.

The song about the werewolf isn’t bad mind you.

3: The Black Album – The Damned

Loses a lot of points for three reasons.
Firstly, It’s not entirely black.
B: It was released on Chiswick records, a record label named after the least rock n roll place on Earth.
Number three: It contains music by The Damned.
The album still manages to rise above these limitations, containing the band’s most enduring tune – New Rose, and setting them up as the first UK punk band to tour the US.
Caution: May contain traces of Rat Scabies.

4: The Black Album – Jay-Z

According to Rolling Stone magazine, The Black Album ‘Allowed Jay-Z to show himself as a rap classicist’ which pretty much proves what utter shite the magazine talks these days. Possibly fearing the wrath of
Prince, Jay-Z saw fit to release an accapella version of the album alongside the regular one, so feel free to steal his shit, marry Beyonce and put together your own mega hit collection.
You may need to sell out completely to do this, but who cares about musical integrity when you own 15 Lamborghini’s eh?.

5: The Black Album – The Dandy Warhols

Imagine if you can the sheer terror that ran through our veins when we uncovered this. It’s an album by The Dandy Warhols…recorded in the ‘official worst decade for music ever’ mid 1990’s…that was considered too shit for general release!
Eventually a couple of the less crap tunes surfaced on the aptly titled ‘Come Down’ album, but it was too late for the literally tens of fans* who’d traded this underground. DT respectfully asks that you play Accept’s 1981 hit ‘Balls to the Wall’ really loud in their memory.

*Escaped Lunatics

6: The Black Album – Boyd Rice album

He’s a tricksy one is our Boyd, releasing his very own addition to the musical pantheon of darkness tucked away in a warm, welcoming box set. This 12 incher gets extra kudos for being playable at any speed, and for…ooohh…spoooooky…not having a track listing!!! That’s right –no song titles –has that blown your mind man? I bet it has. Anyway, you could do that sort of thing in the 70’s. Good luck tracking this fucker down!

7: The Black Album – Planxty

To be fair, I’ve only included this so you’ll think I’m some sort of uber-font of musical knowledge with a vinyl collection full of obscure, Stuart Maconie-approved folk from the 70’s and snag myself a late-night spot on BBC 6 music in the process. In fact the last vinyl I bought was Slayer’s Reign in Blood, but that shouldn’t put you off checking out the whimsical strummings and parpings of these Irish fellas whoever they are. Extra points for containing a song called Blacksmithereens.

8: The Black Album – Baby Bird

Baby Bird?! What, the ‘you’re gorgeous’ bloke? But he SUCKS!! Yes, yes he does, but when he first came out right, he was considered a musical genius. You have to remember that this was during a period when Oasis were occasionally considered ‘good’. Anyhoo, this piece of fusilin indie pops up crammed inside another box-set (there’s a pattern here..maybe the middle of a box set is considered darker man…); The Original Lo-Fi.

Unique in that its musical content was neither original or Lo-Fi, prompting The Independent to describe it as “A Bargain”. Hig Praise indeed as Frontball Stephen Jones proved himself an even worse muso than his Sex Pistols namesake, releasing songs named after lettuce (Iceberg) and inadvertently giving dire popsters Cornershop their name. Should you come across this in your local vinyl emporium, set napalm on it.

9: This Is Spinal Tap.

Goes Up To Eleven..blah blah…big bottom..blah blah…stone ‘enge…blah blah. Instructions for use:
1: Buy album and memorise it.
2: Travel to obscure metal festival in Belarus
3: Repeat lyrics ad nauseum to anyone within earshot.
4: Find you’ve forged an unbreakable friendship that will last a lifetime with all of them.

10: The White Album – The Beatles

Depending on where you live, this is the 9th and/or 15th album by little known beat combo The Beatles – the album is probably best known for it’s original title ‘A Doll’s House’ being changed when megastar musical geniuses Family released a sort of similarly named album, but hey, everyone loves Family don’t they? They’re the biggest band in the worl and practically invented pop music.

Anyway, The mop-tops might be quite good, but there’s no denying that as a black album this is shit!

Fuck you Paul McCartney, what the hell were you thinking? Honestly, only the ex-Mr Heather Mills could release a Black Album so totally wrong. Apparently most of the songs were knocked out by Paul and John who would ‘Rendezvous clandestinely in each other’s hotel rooms’ –their words not ours ladies and gentlemen, their words.

Anyway; a woeful attempt at blackalbumry easily topped by Back in Black which managed to be more black without even being called The Black Album. It’s no wonder The Beatles faded into musical obscurity so quickly.

.

It’s hard out there for the independent artist. Let’s face it, today’s kids are way too busy destroying Nazi Robots or playing Wii golf to listen to actual music, and music games have been limited to the karaoke market with Rock Band and Guitar Hero; both great fun, but hardly likely to push the boundaries of musical discovery.

Until now – enter Jam Legend.

Jam Legend is a unique platform offering up-and-coming musos the chance to rise above the fug of X-Factor wannabes and autotune R&B slop by putting new music directly into the massive and largely untapped video game market.

Just visit the site, sign up and upload your tunes, and they’ll be instantly available to play, meaning artists get exposure and gamers get a massive, free catalogue of new music to conquer! Not to mention creating playable lists and sharing with friends/enemies via the facebook fan page, meaning JL has all the ingrediants to be absolutely massive.

Check out Jam Legend here.

Apparently the Devil has all the best tunes, although that apparently doesn’t stop Pope Benedict XVI from rocking out on occasion –at least according to The Vatican’s official newspaper L’Osservatore Romano, which has leapt head first into the murky waters of internetsville by publishing a list of his top ten albums. In no particular order of blessedness:

1. Revolver – The Beatles

2. If I Could Only Remember My Name by David Crosby

3. The Dark Side of the Moon – Pink Floyd

4. Rumours – Fleetwood Mac

5. The Nightfly – Donald Fagen

6. Thriller – Michael Jackson

7. Graceland – Paul Simon

8. Achtung Baby – U2

9. (What’s the Story) Morning Glory – Oasis

10. Supernatural – Santana

Apparently the list is designed as a users guide to those spiritual types who want to attend the odd festival this Summer, although the real surprise is..it’s not that bad a list. Oasis are shit obviously, and Santana lost any cool points the second he came across Ricky Martin’s phone number, but otherwise it seems the afterlife has a pretty decent jukebox, balanced out by the presence of an acid tripping lesbian dallier, and an album revolving almost entirely around the dead rising from the grave.

Rock on your holiness.

HMV’s Next Big Thing initiative is crawling out across the capital over the next two weeks and offers a pretty tasty deal for fans, with three bands a night for a tenner, leading up to a Valentine’s day climax at The Borderline and featuring up-and-comers like Paloma Faith, Wave Pictures and Band of Skulls. For once, we left our studs and leather in The Crobar next door and braved the non-dingy dungeon to check out Electro’s latest great white hopes Chew Lips.

As mentioned, these bills are all about diversity, and judging by the frighteningly uncool crowd it’s attracting all comers, as we jostle through an alarming mixture of Hip Vs Slip, A Bathing Ape meets Slightly Overweight punters and get the drinks in as openers Expatriates take the stage.

Now, wearing your influences on your sleeve is all fine and well -hey, look at Rush – but Expatriates have gone that step too far and decided to endlessly replay songs from U2’s No Line on the Horizon album. They do at least attempt to mix things up with some oddly Hawkwindesque keyboards hoving into view between the tragically hip (in 1992) haircuts, but there’s no denying The Edge is entirely responsible for these chaps. The fact that they segue pitch-perfectly into the between set tape of Chris Cornell tells you all you’ll ever need to know about them.

Charli XCX

Next up it’s a change of pace as Lady GaGa’s greatest fan takes the stage, and yep, it’s just as bad as it sounds. Charli XCX specialises in big-eyed jerky dancing and shock-haired sub Gaga theatrics with ¼ Peaches attitude thinly spread on top. Her first track suffers from a technical hitch leaving her looking lost on stage and revealing a total lack of star wattage as she scampers back to the wings for another ten minutes.
“She wasn’t that good…and I didn’t like the way her face looked” remarks one astute gig-goer behind me, as Charli hit’s the stage again and attempts desperately to make you love her. The jerky dance moves conjure up terrifying images of Brixton bedroom practice sessions and she raises a surprisingly upbeat reaction from the crowd although there are plenty of questions regarding just how ‘live’ the vocals are. Hideous image aside, CXCX has some undeniably strong tunes and could go far if she chooses to focus on those rather than the cheap Barbie-face bra bearing theatrics.

And so to headliners Chew Lips. Thanks to appearances at the BBC electric proms and no little help from singer Tig’s gorgeous looks, CL are definitely rising stars, peddling a Prince-influenced electro pop that needs to iron out the uneven tempo changes a little but is definitely something to keep an eye on. Their insanely 80’s Kim Wilde-esque workouts wouldn’t look out of place over a Karate Kid training montage, with some very slick songwriting with inbuilt danceability crashing against an affable glittery image that could do with an overhaul in favour of minimalist iconic bastardry, they nevertheless know how to get a crowd dancing in a way pop hasn’t truly managed since 1985. Oddly enough, this is one group that needs to avoid advancing, as slightly more complex newer numbers slow things down – If they can just stick with the upbeat bass pop workouts and arena epicry they can’t go wrong.

Let’s be honest, no one wants to be a bass player.
If your nickname at school hadn’t been awkward dork, you’d be a frontman, blowing the clothes off the nearest member of the opposite sex with your tight leather pants and matching lungs.
If you could handle 6 strings without your fingers falling off you’d be a guitar hero, super talented and super sexy.

The bass is where the dorky boring member goes, eschewing even the rage of the drummer for a life of A pedal anonymity. Look at AC/DC. One of the tightest, finest exponents of hot rocking ever to stride the face of the earth, but Cliff Williams seemed to have lost his personality along with his leather wristband in 1976. He stands at the back. He plays an E. Admittedly he makes millions of pounds a year but it can’t be the most creatively satisfying career can it?

Despite this there are a few hardy souls who buck the trend, bass players who appear to be there by mistake. Tweaking the nose of treble clef superiority with their subsonic superpowers, they’re the leanest,meanest and coolest guys in the band – Check ‘em out:

Steve Harris – Iron Maiden

When I was 16, I spent most of my time drinking cider and enjoying intimate moments with a well used VHS Kathy Lloyd Playboy special .Steve meanwhile spent his formative years knocking out something altogether different-rock classics like Phantom of the Opera and Running Free, and possible the greatest band logo in rock n’ roll history. Employing a slightly odd and very,very difficult slap n’ tickle playing technique, his playing meant he managed to come out looking good despite a penchant for pinstripe spandex. The fact that he’s regarded as one of the nicest geezers in rock only adds to that sinking feeling you get when you realise you have no friends and struggle to pump out twinkle twinkle little star on your instrument of choice (The ukulele).

Joey Dimaio – Manowar

Roadies. They smell, they’re thick, they’re only good for tightening lug nuts and carrying speakers right? What they certainly aren’t is musical geniuses just waiting for the opportunity to crank out a solo 12-string versions of the William Tell overture, followed up by a 42 minute operetta based on The Iliad that somehow gets them signed to Geffen records. Sure Manowar are fucking ridiculous, but its a rare 4 string sorcerer indeed who can come out ahead in a band that features a singer with a 7 octave range.

Lemmy – Motorhead

How may drugs have you taken?How may people have you sexed up? Lemmy would laugh at your pathetic attempts if he had time between swigging from that whisky bottle. His name may have come from blagging ciggarettes from all and sundry (lemmy a fag mate…) but in return he gave us some of the tightest,dirtiest,all-round greatest rock n roll on the planet.

John Entwhistle – The Who

Outwardly the man known as The OX is everything a bass player should be, he’s quiet, resolute -hey, he was even raised in Chiswick. But look at that buzzard Bass, listen to those monolithic grooves. He may be the most boring man Bill Wyman has ever met, but he’s a groove-layer par excellence.

Stig Pederson – D.A.D

Throughout his career with never quite as popular as they deserved Danish rockers D.A.D, Stig has elevated bass playing to Zen levels, realising that minimalist is the way to go and dispensing entirely with 2 superfluous strings. His position on the list isn’t based on musical prowess however, but on his bubble perm, rocket shaped choice of axe and predilection for dressing up as a recently ejected fighter pilot-complete with parachute. Despite his status as a comedy Scandinavian, he still manages to anchor down some of the most lyrically complex, layered and just plain great pop rock of the last 20 years-do yourself a favour and check them out.

Billy Sheehan – Mr Big

So, there’s this guitar player right? His name’s Steve Vai. He was in this band with this dude called Frank Zappa-maybe you heard of him? Well little Stevie managed to be in that band and not ever get upstaged by big Frankie Z. And when Steve got hired by a certain ex-Van Halen frontman, he hired a bass player.Who was better than him. Most people know Sheehan’s later project Mr.Big for the insipid ballad ‘To Be With You’. What they don’t remember is the ultra high velocity rockin propelled by Sheehan and his ridiculously dexterous down tuning.

Cliff Burton – Metallica

There’s a lot of middle managers out there that think latter day Metallica are great. They’re wrong. Want proof?Listen to what’s going on in the background on ‘Trapped Under Ice’. Now listen to ‘Load’(actually,please don’t).Cliff’s demise may have marked the start of Metallica’s supergroup status, but it also started a slippery slide into creative bankruptcy that left most original fans wondering what might have been.

John Paul Jones – Led Zeppelin

Hey hey mama gonna make you move. JP never quite seems to get the kudos afforded fellow mudshark incident survivors Page and Plant, but would Kashmir really sound so awesome if it wasn’t for the greatest rhythm section in rock history? Despite hanging out with a post Kyuss Josh Homme a little too much lately, he remains a down with the kids wrinkly talent,

Geezer Butler – Black Sabbath

The heaviest, Loudest member of the band. Oh-the band is Black Sabbath by the way. The awesome moustache and ability to create relevant, amazing albums outside his day job only adds to his brilliance and makes you realise just how far Ozzy really has fallen.

Colin Grigson – Bad News

His name is Colin Grigson,and he gets the fucking night bus home. Only in the band because he owns a PA system, Colin still managed to cobble together the middle eight’s to such all-time classics as ‘masturbike’ and ‘Warriors of Ghengis Khan’,he’s the only one here who’s playing resulted in his throat being slit at a major rock festival. Currently working as deputy branch manager for Crouch End Nat West.

Well, I know I’ve missed some -Les Claypool is up there, and what about That dude from UB40 – You know the one? Alan Partridge likes him? Plays a sort-of watered down reggea? Anyway, I asked some bass players I know and they said he was quite good apparently, and I wouldn’t want to (red,red)whine about including him here – and apparently one of The Beatles played the bass too… let us know if you think of any others (apart from any members of The Clash or The Sex Pistols -they are shit)

Tonight’s sparse crowd isn’t helped by The Lexington’s weird décor – a mix of Auntie Mabel wallpaper and Bowells of a Steam Ship that still manages to boast a decent stage area and a thunderous PA playing Devo –certainly enough to engage our hipster radars from the get-go.

Plenty of pre-gig buggering about on our part means we miss openers Grave Architects, (but check ‘em out here anyway!) so are initially put in a bad mood by the trying too hard indie antics of Lost Infantry.
First rule of stagecraft: Treat the audience like the dogs they are. They aren’t interested in your in-jokes and self effacing banter. Second rule? Well, not mixing Yes guitar lines with a Dexy’s influence is probably a good one…

The trouble with LI is they just try too hard. Decent musicianship is hidden behind unnecessary tub-thumping, while a love of 80s Bowie causes several uneven time changes that tear apart the shouty choruses. Unsure if they want to be ColdPlay or the Ordinary Boys, the band practice spaz dancing, overly sincere emoting and swop songwriting for hairstyles.

Next up it’s Danish export Bodebrixen, and watching them set up fills DT with deep worry. They wear the type of skinny jeans that give you a deformed package and matching stripy tops that seem to have crawled in pissed from Vice Magazine’s Do’s and Don’ts column. The bass player (what is it with bass players? Lemmy never had this problem) sports matching red cardigan and socks –and no shoes, while white jeans with turn-ups have us heading for the bar to avoid the inevitable simpering Euro-emo.

We needn’t have worried.

While they conform to every Scando stereotype in the book, Bodebrixen pull of some of the cleverest, most joyous indie on the planet. Parping keyboards and lush vocal harmonies mean they come off like every funny memory of Eurovision you ever had with just a touch of Magic Numbers feelgoodosity bunged in for good measure. There are balloons, there is confetti – there’s even something resembling a lunch break, but it takes genuine talent to play a set that incorporates whistling, humming, whoa-whoa’s and happy clapping and still seem cool.

Childish and whimsical but undeniably fun, grin inducing songs and amusing Uropee-an intros “This next song used to be a Christmas song…but its not a Christmas song anymore” may be put on but add to the performance A tambourine crown of thorns and hints of Paris jazz – albeit filtered through a 1982 Casiotone – mean Bodebrixen are onto a winner with their parping pop anthems that remain crass but resolutely inoffensive in the best possible sense, the perfect soundtrack to a prawn cocktail and Kiev dinner party.

Everyone loves colourful flow-charts, they’re just so reassuring, here at DT we’ve spent months turning Immortal lyrics into pie-chart form – but our efforts pale next to those of Beatles fan and designer Michael Deal, who’s spent way too much time creating a series of obscure Fab Four graphs and charts, and from the looks of it, it’s amazing they ever had time to release any music:

The project isn’t finished by any stretch, so get on over to MD’s site and get involved – anyway, here’s your linky for the full gallery – we demand T-Shirt versions!

Everyone knows that listening to Motley Crue at dangerously loud volumes makes you look a lot cooler when you’re cruising in your shitty old Mark II Escort, and thanks to Ford’s in-house boffins you can finally ditch that 8-Track and get with the now, yo.

The latest version of Ford’s SYNC system -the trendingly titled MyFord Touch – now supports Pandora radio, giving you the chance to annoy people at junctions with weird Boris remixes.

Add in Stitcher for Podcasts and even Openbreak so you can bellow tweets while on the move, and Ford are all set to provide us with an all new, net-savvy generation of music loving drivers. Now they just have to fix that weird leaky breaks thing and they’ll be good to go.

Google is all powerful! It knows who you are, where you live and what you watch when you’re jerking off. Luckily there’s still a way for rock n’ roll to stick it to the man – even a man that will happily make naked ladies appear on your screen whenever you like – form a band even the big G can’t track down! DT ignores the spellcheck and checks ‘em out:

1: The Band.

The masters of post-modern irony. It’s fairly obvious these days that Bob Dylan is an alien time traveller, which explains how, despite dying before the spread of the internet, Richard Manuel managed to utterly confound the combined powers of Google and..erm..Ask Jeeves..with this name, which returns just about every MySpace page on the planet. Good work alien Bob!.

2: !!!

Sacramento, California, has it’s fair share of funk/dance/post-punk ensembles, all dying to get talked about. Unfortunately !!! seem to have chosen their name based on the sound their maternal grandmother made upon finding porn in their bedroom.

3: MP3

A brilliant name unfortunately hoovered up for use by some bloody politicians -Members of Parliament… and there’s three of them..do you see what they did there? Do you get it? How we laughed at the DT office as we spent 3 straight hours trying to find a website almost as elusive as D.A.D’s  (before realising we could find them on wiki. Strangely, they recently changed the name to MP4, which made sense with the extra member, but must have halved the number of hits these guys were getting.

4: Torrent.

It seems like a great name doesn’t it? It’s fresh and modern sounding, with a bit of an edge, some meaning behind the name. Until one of your fans wants to know more, and is faced with 248,000,000 results, most of them for knocked off copies of The Wedding Crashers. Not helped by that terribly familiar logo..

5: James.

Luckily no one in their right mind would bother searching for the baldy Manchester egomaniacs, but try googling them – or indeed their hit Sit Down – and see what you get: More adverts for beanbags and office furniture than you can shake a lazy Madchester shoegazer at.

6: Sunn0)))))))

A bit of an anomaly here, as the titans of drone doom can actually be googled. What they can’t be however, is downloaded. Go to BT or Kazaa or whatever –try typing that name in. It can’t be done! So underground they refuse to believe anyone would be able to share their music – probably because they record it on wax cylinders.

7: 404 Forbidden

A band so difficult to find, that after an hour of looking for a picture, I though “ah fuck ‘em” and instead used an image of Bay Area Thrashers Forbidden (Partially because I vaguely resemble singer russ)! 404 encapsulate the frustrations of legions of garage band users, as evidenced by similarly named associates 403 and 405. Face it Casio-centric noisecore-ists everywhere, you’d be better off with a moog.

8: A!

Proof positive that the Aaron A. Aardvark trick may mean you’re first on the shelves in HMV, but when the entire music marketing game changes overnight, you’re fucked. It also doesn’t help that A! are fucking awful.

Any more? Send ‘em in and undermine their undergroundness!

Since it’s massively disco-balled rejuvenation a couple of years ago, KoKo is ostensibly more suited to the likes of last night’s Guilty Pleasures disco than ravenous Viking metal, but with a hugely bass-heavy sound, it remains the venue of choice for the discerning – or half-deaf – metal fan.

Entombed are up first after for some trademark death n’ roll, and despite having nurtured a sound that, by it’s very nature seems designed to fall apart, are incredibly tight and focused tonight. A quick visit from Amon’s Johan Hegg livens things up, but L.G.Petrov is a growling machine, bellowing out Wolverine Blues and Chief Rebel Angel like his life depnds on it. Usually, Entombed can be relied upon to perform a raucous, ramshackle headbanging exercise, and while L.G seems to be slowly morphing into the metal Shaun Rider, tonight they come across as an accomplished, polished death metal machine, with a great sound tightening things up with thrilling results.

Headliners Amaon Amarth are clearly reveling in the massively upped profile they’ve built over the past 3 or 4 years, the enormous version of the ‘Twilight of the Thunder God’ making you realise just how bloody ridiculous they are- something the band clearly know and exploit. Dressing more and more like rock stars and clearly enjoying the status, the music is always slightly formulaic but never less than enjoyable – it says a lot for the pure charisma of the band that they can take four-four melodic death and keep it enthralling from start to finish.

Tonight we’re promised “a night of surprises” – which begins with ‘Ride of the Valkyrie’s ‘ being dedicated to “The Ladeez” and ends with some cello and a slightly-out-of-place double header with L.G returning to the stage, bizarrely reminiscent of Mark Wahlberg’s performance in ‘Rock Star’.

The theatrics continue with dry ice aplenty, scorching red mist for ‘Death in Fire’ and a fantastic run-through of ‘Cry of the Black Bird’, Amon Amarth is a band on top of their game and they know it. If they can avoid becoming overly sanitised then based on tonight’s performance, they’re set to rule the death metal roost for years to come.

Punk semi-legend and occasional Danzig bookend Chuck Biscuits today joins the exclusive ranks of not-dead-rock –n-roll-Chucks (to be honest, Chuck Billy from Testament is the only other one we could think of) and former bandmate J.Christ by rising from the dead!

A bizarre – not to mention mean-spirited – internet hoax claimed he’d died of throat cancer yesterday, and yep, it suckered us in as well. The rumours spread down the series of tubes quickly after a tip-off from an ‘anonymous family member’. Rest assured he’s still bicuiting it up in Social Distortion. Up the Chuck!

Legendary punk drummer Chuck Biscuits passed away this week after a long running battle against virulent throat cancer aged 44. Chuck’s career spanned punk, metal and hard rock, with his distinctive, driving style appearing on albums by D.O.A, Black Flag and Circle Jerks among many others. Most recently he played with Social Distortion, but he will undoubtedly be best remembered for his work with Glenn Danzig, John Christ and Eerie Von on the first four Danzig Albums.

Chuck passed away quietly surrounded by close family who thanked fans for their support.

UPDATE 3/10/09

It’s apparently a hoax. He’s not dead. More info as we get it.