Lots has been going on in the music world recently hasn’t it? That guy from The Village People died, Pete Doherty has received another prison sentence, it was record store day, and bands have continued to release music. Not only bands, but Hugh Laurie has only gone and done a blues album. Dr. House plays the blues! Can you think of anything cooler than that? Thought not.

Unless you have been hidden under a rock for the past few months you will be aware of Odd Future and if not that bright young rap collective then Tyler, The Creator-their leader-but for those who are none the wiser I will continue. This LA based hip-hop crew have recently come into the limelight for their sharp rapping and even sharper views. As a collective of more than ten guys from the puppyish age 18 plus Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All (OFWGKTA) have been releasing mix tapes for free on their website for a while and have recently bubbled up as Big Earl went, and is still, missing and Tyler got a major label record deal. Rapping about subjects ranging from fathers, video games, rape, and homophobia they are earmarked for controversy as much as stardom. Their don’t give a fuck attitude and overuse of the word ’swag’ keeps them always in mind and their live performances are quickly becoming renowned; check out Tyler and Hodgy Beats on The Jimmy Fallon Show to find out why. Tyler’s debut album ‘Goblin’ has been released to mixed receptions, not that he cares anyway right? Whether you love them or hate them their is no denying that Odd Future are the next generation of hip-hop.

An even lesser known Manchester based band now WULYF or World Unite Lucifer Youth Foundation. What’s happened to band names these days remember when The Band worked just fine? Yeah me either. Anyway WULYF have managed to keep just about everything a mystery from band members to song titles and it’s refreshingly brilliant of them. When you know nothing you want to know everything. Their website is damn near impenetrable with seemingly random manifesto like statements dotted around, but you can make your way to discovering a few songs and by god are they worth the search. It’s indescribable, but think children singing Tom Waits and you’re some way to understanding. I urge everyone to check these guys out.

If you’re merely looking for some new music by some old favourites then you can stream the new Death Cab For Cutie album here http://www.npr.org/2011/05/22/136465054/first-listen-death-cab-for-cutie-codes-and-keys or check out Belong by The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart, it’s a perfect indie-pop gem.

Due to a distinct lack of posting on my behalf recently I thought I would do a some mini-reviews of recent albums all in one place for you lovely souls out there that are just lost when we’re not telling you who to like.

Mogwai- Hardcore Will Never Die, But You Will

A great and varied album from the veterans of post-rock. Last album The Hawk Is Howling, was a bit lack-lustre, HWNDBYW though is an album that goes from strength the strength. It is an album that will feel much more accessible to those just developing a love for the genre, while still sounding relevant to the hardened fans.

Frankie & The Heartstrings- Hunger

Pure unadulterated pop genius.

Esben and The Witch-Violet Cries

A strong début that takes you to dark and tempting tides. At times captivating this album of indie-pop ballads can also border on grating, not because of the music which is sharp, but the whispery, whimpering, slightly scratchy vocals. Check out the video for ‘Marching Song’ if it sounds like your thing, once you see it there’s no going back.

Bright Eyes- The People’s Key

With a poppier sound than earlier efforts this could be the album that takes them mainstream. With all their senses intact Bright Eyes as usual deliver soul saving music and stark, clever lyrics. They are still the thinking man’s band.

Don’t forget to check out the new Arctic Monkey’s song ‘Brick By Brick’ and the latest tunes from The Strokes up-coming album.

Everything about Hurts is epic. Now I’m well aware that word went out of fashion some point in the history of the world, but Hurts are bringing it back and it’s dressed in a lovely suit too. The only way you could describe this; the last date of their tour in their home town of Manchester, is as epic.

It’s only right then that one of the breakthrough bands of last year be supported by some of 2011’s hottest new talent, Clare Maguire. Maguire sadly is anything but epic. You can’t dislike her, but there just doesn’t seem to be enough passion in the world for me to even care about her. Dull is the word that comes to mind and onstage she is exactly this. She has a great voice and can belt out a tune there’s no denying, but then so can anyone from the over 25’s category on the x-factor. If you lived through the 90’s then you will be able to instantly conjure up what she sounds like by thinking of anyone who had a vaguely popular single that year. She did however wear a nice floaty dress in which you could see her underwear, so that’s something at least, she then proceeded to prance around the stage extending her arms at every available opportunity and waving them around. The audience obviously loved it because they are well dressed cutting edge indie folk who probably saw her perform in the café down the road from them while you were still an embryo.

I should probably now apologise to Clare Maguire and her fans for that sewage that just spewed from my fingers please feel free to leave horrible comments below.

Hurts. Luckily the main attraction offers up a much more delectable product for us to tap our collective and well styled feet to. With not much more than an albums worth of songs to offer up the set started with album opener and synth heavy ‘Silver Lining’ setting the chorus chanting tone of the gig. It’s hard to pick the biggest song of the night when all the songs are this big, but ‘Wonderful Life’ is a strong contender and the audience were always eager to please these local lads. Theo is possibly the best frontman around right now and works the mic-stand like nobody else; it was part prop, crutch, and propeller and allowed for some brilliant leaning which only emphasised key changes and choruses. Not big on the talking crowd-banter was kept to a minimum and clichés somehow avoided, this from the band who sings about rain more than the chart top 100 put together, but when Theo did offer us some pearls of wisdom it came in a northern drawl you just can’t get your head around.

As I’m sure many fans were, like me, upset about the distinct lack of Kylie Minogue the boys decided to throw in a cover of ‘Confide In Me’ to show her what she was missing. It was a highlight of the gig and sounded excellent in a strange Depeche Mode sort of way. They can’t escape the 80’s and to be honest who would want them to. The best summation of the gig I can think of is “They covered Kylie and it was fucking awesome.”

With only a one song encore I had wondered what was left for them to play until ‘Better Than Love’ kicked in with its strong vocal “Every second is a life-time.” Hurts might be good on record, but they are and will become ever greater live;  with all the components coming into play from dazzling light shows, sing-alongs, and stage presence working together to make them an unstoppable force.

With more material on the way Hurts are definitely one to watch.

The new The Streets album ‘Computers and Blues’ hits stores tomorrow folks.

The fifth and final album from Mike Skinner has been doing the rounds on the internet for a good few weeks, but finally it’s time for an official release from the man himself. Skinner is “fucking sick” of the name and the connotations that now go with it which is why this will be his last release under the moniker.

Working closely with Rob Harvey, of The Music, this album is unlike anything he has ever done before and showcases the vocal talents of Harvey and BBC sounds of 2011 nominee Clare Maguire. Computers and Blues is brash and in your face, Skinner has done what he set out to do and created an album you can “dance and drink tea to.”

The first single from the album ‘Going Through Hell’ has a great rock dynamic to it from Harvey and the riff running right down the middle of the track. Skinner is great at adapting his style to suit those he works with and in the process getting the best sound for everyone involved. Lyrics are on biting form “imagine the dilemma for the man and his penance if he could get fucked without hanging his health up would this be illegal would the Daily Mail rail on it?”

It’s a shame Skinner feels he no longer wants to be associated with The Streets, it almost detracts from his creations and he is a modern day poet, don’t let anyone tell you different, “I’m pretty good at puzzles, but puzzled by people.” That lyric gets to the heart of the issue, people associate Skinner with things he’s moved on from; i.e drugs. His most accessible album to date could possibly be his best. Die hard fans might complain about the up-beat pop melodies that are at the forefront of Computers and Blues, but Skinner still retains what made him great, an ear for a brilliant beat and a top-notch rhyme.

Lets hope this is only the end of The Streets and not Mike Skinner.

Check out: Without Thinking

It’s December and that means only one thing, time for lists! Oh and probably Christmas too, but what is Christmas without a good list. I’d make a top ten Christmas list if I had any idea what that even means, but since I don’t I’m going to be highly original and do lists of the best albums, films, and anything else that takes my fancy.

It’s a joyous time for me so get on board because otherwise this wont be much fun for you.

Let’s start with albums shall we. Now 2010 in music has been quite exciting and though some of the biggest bands going have released new albums and some even bigger bands have reformed, it’s new music that has come into the light this year and scooped all the prizes. Before you ask, no, Laura Marling will not be in this list or mentioned in any way from here on out because she should smash her boring guitar into her boring face and die a boring acoustic death.

So here it is, after much in house discussion, my top ten albums of 2010!

10. Just scraping their way onto the list is My Chemical Romance With Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Kill Joys.

A comeback record like nothing they have ever done this colourful concept album put the boys in black well and truly to bed. Danger Days showed My Chem now have the power of bands like Green Day in their hands and they can make an album become a global event. What they do next is anybodies guess.

9. Hurts- Happiness.

As much as it pains me to say it, the Manchester duo who came fourth in the BBC’s sound of 2010, are the coolest pop band around. Yes they dueted with Kylie, and yes they use far too much hair product, but in terms of sheer joy nothing beats Happiness. The cheesiest album of the year by far, but if you think you don’t like these huge echoey choruses and synthesisers then you’re only lying to yourself. You can’t hide for long, believe me I tried my hardest to hate it and now look at me.

8. Zola Jesus- Stridulum 11.

A dark avant-garde work of genius. The third album by the American born singer showed us just how good she can be. Her electro styling’s are reminiscent of Bjork, Ladytron, and even The Knife, Zola though is much more listenable than all of them, which is exactly why Fever Ray is supporting her and not the other way around. Stridulum 11 is an album you can truly delve into and get lost with for an hour or so.

7. LCD Soundsytem- This is Happening.
By far the best album of his career it’s a credit to James Murphy that he can bring himself to quit while he’s ahead. Each of LCD’s albums is better than the last and this is no different, mixing his usual ultra-cool indie with electro so pleasing it makes you do air keys. This is music on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

6. Pulled Apart By Horses- Pulled Apart By Horses.
The most aggressive band on the list, this Leeds band have brought some balls to the British rock scene. The eponymous album is nothing short of being a hardcore romp from one of 2010’s most unique bands. Expect big things from these young upstarts.

5. Yeasayer- Odd Blood.

The second album by Brooklyn’s weirdest band see’s them take their sound to a new level. A psychedelic amalgamation of the worlds finest music Yeasayer have created the years most eclectic album with their brilliantly honed pop vocals. At times very dark it never strays far from beautiful.

Is it me or does the guy on the left look like Harry Conick Jr?

4. The National- High Violet.
The oldest band on the list this is The National’s seventh album and just as consistent as their earlier efforts. A mature band The National have proved they can’t be written off as ‘dad rock’ and have come to dominate the international indie scene of recent years. High Violet has some of the bands best songs to date showing their knack for big instrumentation and clever lyrics. They may be critically acclaimed, but they deserve much more mainstream media attention than they get, next year could see them get even bigger.

3. Titus Andronicus- The Monitor.

One of my new favourite bands of the year the second album by this quintessentially New Jersey quintet reminds you just how good some feedback can be. The band that take their name from a classic work of literature obviously have a lot more up their sleeve than first meets the ear and this album, which is a concept album based on the American Civil War, is a slow grower, but give it time and you wont regret it. Inter-cut with stock footage, or so it seems, this album is fast, edgy, slow, and moving. T

Titus Andronicus could be the best band you haven’t heard of.

2. Everything Everything- Man Alive.

Easily the most insatiable album of the year. I almost want to say don’t listen to this because you will never stop. Everything Everything are the Pringles of music. Man Alive is a rare gem in an artificial pop world and this is a pop album, but don’t be disheartened because it’s also so much more than just a pop album. EE have angular math-rock guitars and keys, simple effective drumming, and arrogant singing. If you don’t tap your feet to this then you’re ears are dead. They top it all off by making it so effortless and pretty. With songs that slowly build up to immense walls of sound and some that never quite take off, not a single song on this album is worth skipping. Just start listening now and by new year you might have had enough, but probably not.

1. Beach House- Teen Dream.

If you search on Wikipedia for this band, yes I did that, what you get is ‘see disambiguation indie/dream pop band’ and dream pop is the perfect way to describe what Beach House do. This is their third and most widely recognised album since their conception in 2004 and it’s impossible not to fall in love with. The hushed vocals of French born singer Victoria Legrand are in such harmony with Alex Scally’s haunting lo-fi compositions that it makes time stand still. Don’t be fooled by the name Beach House are the least summery band in the world, this record is twisted and downright dark all of which is helped along by their interesting use of an organ. No other album of the year is so immersing and yet so simple. No matter who Legrand’s vocals are compared to, usually Nico, nobody else sounds like her right now, it’s a rare thing to not care what somebody’s singing about, because their tone tells all, but that‘s exactly what we get here. You will struggle to pick a favourite song from this album it works too well as a whole. If they make more of this delicious dreamy pop you can expect to hear much more from this duo.

Well that’s it folks my finest albums of the year are now yours to love and cherish and I suggest you do so immediately. My band to watch out for next year, as well as more from these lot, are Frankie and the Heartstrings. An indie pop outfit from Sunderland, they sound and look like a throwback to 50’s era pop with a modern twist and with their own label they have a sold DIY ethic. With a debut album out in February they could well be number one next year.

A Daft Legacy

With the release of the highly anticipated Tron: Legacy on December 17th it’s only fair that its unique soundtrack by French DJ’s Daft Punk gets the same treatment.

It seems only right then that the DJ’s who made their name in the 90’s house scene started their careers with a meeting a Euro Disney. Their unique brand of future-house-techno, as I’m labelling it, took the world by storm with such singles as ‘Around the World’ and ‘Technologic’ and their even more unique ‘style’ on stage is a uniform of leather suits with helmets shielding them from the rave happy crowds. Helmets you say? That sounds familiar. Yes Daft Punk are those guys that look they should have been in Tron. How perfect then that they happen to create music that suits the tone of the film like Cinderella’s slipper fits her own foot.

Two disks and over an hour and a half worth of music that takes you from a sense of impending doom and dread to moments of triumph and even elation. Daft Punk have pushed themselves to the limit here expanding to what sounds like a full orchestra being held captive and forced to play while Daft Punk have a techno battle over the top, just for fun. This album is strange because it’s not quite a soundtrack and not quite an album in its own right. If you look at the Tron grid and then try to imagine the natural music that would emanate from that world you will start to get some idea of what it sounds like. Epic is the word that comes to mind and I don’t use that term, as most do, lightly.

The duo consisting of, Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo and Thomas Bangalter, appear to have fully immersed themselves in the world. They had unlimited access to the set and director Joseph Kosinski and have formed a close relationship with original director Steven Lisberger, who is now contributing liner notes to the album. The pair even had their own Tron helmets purpose built, which I like to think turns their thoughts into music. All this attention to detail has paid off leaving the musicians with what could turn out to be the definite soundtrack of the year, even a generation. Now that seems like a rather large statement to make, but if you think about the last decade and ‘the rise of the machines’ then it doesn’t feel so odd. The internet has changed the way we all live and social networking is how we project our identities, much like the avatars and computer programme characters of Tron, this soundtrack takes you to that other world and forces you to face yourself. Epic, like I said.

Whether you like classical or modern music this album will work for you. It has pace and depth and substance and style, all things you want from music, it manages all of this without lyrics and only one introduction from Jeff Bridges or Kevin Flynn if you will. It’s reminiscent of a Clint Mansell score in the way the orchestra utilises the sharp edgy strings, but this is one soundtrack that truly deserves to be filed under the heading OST.

Knowing that Minus the Bear were supporting I had been excited about the gig for a long time and thus arrived early not wanting to miss anything. I don’t know if anyone has ever turned up to a gig at doors opening time, but I hadn’t before and it was a sight to behold. I was a bit shocked at the cleanliness and spaciousness of the Academy (which is much bigger than you think.) Luckily it paid off as drinks are half price till half 8 which worked out at treat, two cans of Red Stripe for £3.80 I think so my friend.

Arriving early is also an excellent idea for all us small people that populate the planet because it means you can see, which isn’t essential to the music, but you know, it’s a nice part of the gig-going experience since you paid 20 quid for a ticket. I still managed to miss what everyone chuckled about during the support set, but whatever it was probably shit anyway.

The apparently funny support band in question is Minus the Bear, Seattle’s very own math-rock band. Touring their new album “Omni” they played a set that suited the audience in question, with some older hits including ‘Knights’ and new single ‘My Time’. I always feel a bit strange watching support bands though and spend most of the time wondering what they are thinking about ‘us’ the crowd. Clearly some fans were present and I’m sure some of the nodding heads were converted by the bands massive sweeping soundscapes and lavish melodies.

As much as it appears the crowd may have enjoyed their set, nobody was really there to see them. No, the band the packed room was waiting for was Jimmy Eat World, A band who it feels like have been gone forever. With the stage blackened and the punters smacking their hands together the four innocent looking boys from Phoenix walked onto the stage and struck a chord straight into ‘Bleed American’.

With a band like Jimmy who have been going over ten years now it’s very easy to forget just how many hits they have and it takes a blistering set like this to remember. If you can name a song then they probably played it and then they played some that you can’t name too, just for a bit of fun. It’s amazing to see a band like them still having fun after all this time, it really does seem like they love what they do and who they do it with. If you don’t believe me then the fact that they threw in the full 16 minute version of ‘Goodbye Sky Harbour’ leaves nothing to be discussed. Hearing a song that big and pure live is nothing short of spectacular. There is literally nothing to not like about this band.

The only thing they lack is crowd-banter, but when the music is this good I don’t think anybody cares about hearing how good they are compared to last nights audience.

When you have a few hundred people singing along to every song it can start to sound a bit fuzzy and crap, I’m starting to find this is a venue issue more than an band one, and the Academy is great for not doing that. The band were never drowned out by the audience and the sound stayed clean and crisp throughout, which is perfect for a band like Jimmy who tend to be note perfect.

They pulled out all the stops playing everything from ‘Blister’, ‘For Me This Is Heaven’, ‘A Praise Chorus’ to newer classics like ‘Pain’ and ‘Futures’ to songs from their consistently good new album “Invented”. After an already epic set they come back on to chants of “Jimmy, Jimmy” and play a 4 song encore with their biggest hit to date ‘The Middle’ and my personal favourite, the vicious, ‘Get It Faster’.

Jimmy Eat World are one of those rare bands who only ever seem to get better with age and leave nothing to be desired. They are genuinely nice people and genuinely great musicians.

My Chemical Romance’s latest effort isn’t so much an album release as a well orchestrated apocalyptic art event. With the advent of listening parties the band last night offered fans worldwide an exclusive preview of the album as hosted by the elusive Dr. Death Defying.

Apparently this is the bands departure from concept albums, but you tell me, fans are ‘killjoys’, areas are ‘zones’, enemies are ‘draculoids.’ Now personally I don’t care about this, they are great at what they do and this whole new world is utterly engrossing, so why change? Though this is still a concept album, it’s a massive leap from their previous sound with everything bright, poppy, and dripping electro from its very core.

Within the first three songs two singles are showcased. The world has already heard ‘Na Na Na’ and is undoubtedly sick of having it infused in their brains, but ‘Sing’ is relatively new and I’m sure it will sneak its way into the charts. Structured like a 30 Seconds To Mars song it seems a bit too epic for such an early place on the album, but it does have some more traditional My Chem breakdowns thrown in.

As much as I hate to say the album is insidiously pop-based, it is. Don’t fear yet though ‘Planetary (Go)’ will have everyone dancing to what is basically a rock song and the lyrical prowess that always made them great is still present “truth is not acceptable, fame is now injectable, process the progress.”

What made My Chem unique were the classic rock riffs from Ray Toro and the chugging punk sound that Frank Iero brought. It’s still very much audible on certain songs but otherwise it all seems to have been run through a synthesizer.

This album will gather the band a brand new assortment of young rock fans and the older ‘killjoys’ will stick with them out of loyalty and no doubt carry with them a sense of ‘I heard them first’ superiority (I know I will) and there is no reason why this shouldn’t bring them new fans, it’s a good album. In terms of their back catalogue it’s a great follow-up to ‘The Black Parade’ and if that was their first album I would be applauding them on creating a genre defining album, or something to that affect, but when you compare this with ‘Bullets’ or ‘Three Cheers’ it seems like their aggression just sort of wilted and died and then the bleakness of ‘The Black Parade’ made sure it had a proper send off. Having said all that ‘Party Poison’ is more along the lines of what I was expecting, being a fast paced, punky, guitar number and this is where the album gets good with ‘Save Yourself I’ll Hold Them Back’ bringing back the misfits-esque normality of the group. Gerard gets his wail back, the very camp My Chem swear of ‘motherfucker’ hits our ears, and we can all revel in some classic 80’s rock riffs. The band hasn’t gone anywhere it’s just a struggle to find them.

The whole concept of the album was originally Gerard’s next comic idea and it would have been a fantastic read there’s no doubt about it, but I’m fucking glad he sacrificed it for the band. Having scrapped an entire albums worth of songs, which I think we all desperately want to hear, the band were clearly in need of some new energy and one thing this album has in spades is energy. Our host for this evening Dr. Death Defying makes this whole thing exactly what it is, an experience. He acts as radio DJ for WKIL a fake radio station operating out of Battery City. He is so convincing me and probably everyone else listening wishes he was a real person and not a creation. Hearing his classic radio voice brings a smile to my face and his lair is pretty damn cool too. More bands need to embrace the concept album and the listening party. It truly is a phenomenon and My Chem is ahead of the curve on this one.

Getting back to the music after some reports from the zones ‘DESTROYA’ hits you in the face and is reminiscent of the experimental sound of early Lostprophets songs like ‘Shinobi Vs Dragon Ninja.’ It wouldn’t sound out of place on the soundtrack for a game like Tekken. As a fan more used to this aggressive sound it’s good to see they still have it on an album that has a lot of ballads. The ballads aren’t bad by any means they are just in too large a quantity. Album closer ‘Vampire Money’ is fucking spot-on and may be the best song on the album, it makes you forget about ‘Na Na Na’ and remember the good old days. It’s fast and vicious with a ‘Wipe Out’ style surf-pop beat throughout. The album isn’t their best and starts off slow, but by the end it will leave you fist pumping and after a few listens you will realise it’s actually not that bad.

Everything Everything Get Dancey With Us….

Everything Everything are the best British band you haven’t heard of, until now. With the release of debut album Man Alive here is a band everyone can be proud of and they don’t sound anything like Oasis.

Foals and the recent onslaught of bands that lure us in with their charming indie awkwardness and pop hooks is exactly where Everything Everything should sit on your shelf. Yet just as Foals swallowed themselves up in a pseudo-intellectual nightmare along came Everything Everything to make you dance.

The boys were sad to find that their vanishing cream was a little too effective...

Not to tarnish them with cool art-rock expectations too soon, but quirky is a word that comes to mind. ‘Photoshop Handsome’ starts off with 8-bit Nintendo sounds and morphs into all four band members melodically singing about being airbrushed in schoolboy style rounds.

The album opener and re-released single ‘My Kz Ur BF’ is a sure-fire club hit demonstrating the bands penchant for dark lyrics “and I haven’t seen the body-count lately but looking at your faces it must have been bad” and sing along choruses.

Everything Everything’s sound is at odds with itself, they are a definite product of the digital age and yet somehow it all manages to sound very natural. Any song would sound at home on Radio One and ‘Come Alive Diana’ could be an Interpol song if half way through it didn’t have a laptop induced breakdown. The production brings a clean, layered, almost angular sound to the album which is reminiscent of Minus The Bear’s icy math-rock.

Just as your giddiness has peaked out come the ballads ‘Nasa is On Your Side’ and ‘Tin (The Manhole).’ While the sentiment is a good addition to a great album, at four minutes plus the return to sharp electro for finale ‘Weights’ is welcoming.

Everything Everything and Man Alive are insatiable. If you don’t tap your feet or attempt to sing to nearly every song on this album then you’re probably dead.

The gig is a sell out, the band on the other hand are not…

My Chemical Romance are getting bigger by the year and now, with the release of Danger Days, they are set to go astronomical. The band had some trouble after The Black Parade with the departure of drummer Bob Bryar, an entire album scrapped, and about two years away from touring everything could have been a bit of a disaster for them. Luckily for them they know what they’re doing.

Storming on stage to riotous applause they waste no time and get straight into new single ‘Na Na Na’ out of the four or so new songs they play, which are all tinged with electro, this sounds the most polished and is a rowdy opener to get people going.

When you see My Chem you go to see a show rather than just a band, yet this was more of a minimal affair with little in the way of crowd-banter or showmanship. This new low-key style fit perfectly with their set which consisted of songs mainly from Three Cheers. This was a band embracing their roots with some ballsy pseudo-aggressive rock. Gerard stalked the stage like he was genuinely pissed off and even invited one lucky crowd member on stage to help sing ‘Honey This Mirror Aint Big Enough for the Two of Us’ from debut album Bullets. He was greeted on stage to “If you dare ask for fucking photo you’re gone” and then proceeded to miss the song queue three times. Fans eh?

With only the one song from Bullets played some of the older fans were inevitably disappointed. Though with a very young crowd (parents were involved for under 14’s) that went nuts for singles like ‘Teenagers’ this wasn’t much of a problem. That wasn’t the only problem with the evening. The Apollo is a great venue because you can see no matter where you are and it’s a pretty perfect size for a band of their stature to seem like it’s still intimate, but the sound quality just wasn’t good enough. This was more likely a problem with the band, who had slightly adapted some intro’s the fit with the ‘space music’ in-between songs, but they never seemed to pick up the pace again ‘Ghost of You’ was a particular low-point.

Despite all this the songs they do play well ‘You know what they do to guys like us in prison’, ‘Dead!’, ‘Give em’ Hell Kid’ etc…have thousands of people screaming the words and sound flawless. When they get it right there is nothing like it.

My Chemical Romance has a lot to offer and if you’re a fan of the albums then the raw energy of seeing them live is a must.

Thanks to the lovely people at Best Buy we find ourselves enjoying a tasty meal in the VIP area of the O2 before the show. It’s all very civilised and grown up, very fitting for a band now a mainstay among parents rather than their rebellious offspring. Bon Jovi are certainly an institution, so let’s see how they fair in a giant dome crammed with their rabid fanbase. (Hint- they do well)

But to get to Bon Jovi, we must first endure Kid Rock. His blending of terrible rap and even worse country-metal music was at least slightly relevant back in the bad old days of nu-metal. He’s not even that any more. He’s a dinosaur. He has become bloated (musically – he still looks like a trailer park meth addict) and needs to be hit by some kind of metiorite. Or a truck. I’m not bothered.

Swaggering around the stage in a series of stupid hats, backed up by a band of clearly talented, but slightly bored looking musicians, he plows his now almost exclusively country furrow to a venue that is not interested. People are here for Bon Jovi. Kid Rock is like an excitable muzak tannoy, allowing people to take their seats without silence.  At one point he goes around the stage playing all the instruments. This would be impressive if he was good at them, but he plays  to about the same level as a talented teenager in a school-age rock band.

With the audience not exactly warmed by this act, we await Bon Jovi. Best Buy’s corporate box is in a great location, overlooking the stage, but this view is traded off by the most overpriced beer I have ever seen in a venue. £4.80 for a bottle of Becks. VIP – Very Immoderate Prices (Yes, I used thesaurus.com for that)

Bon Jovi hit the stage to rapturous applause – they are note perfect and have an impressive array of age appropreate stage moves – these guys are still in great shape, but no one is diving off a speaker stack or flying over the audience on a harness.  It does seem to be the Jon and Ritchie show though, they get the front of stage, the rest of the band are relegated to the backline with the amps. But still, those two know how to work a stage – and strangely the O2’s stage-space is actually quite small.

Around half way through they bring out special guest Bob Geldof. Thankfully for everyone in the venue he comes on, does ‘I Don’t Like Mondays’ and buggers off. No sanctimonious speeches. Well done. This is a Geldoff I could get to like.

We get a bit of acoustic treatment, and even the inclusion of an accordian is welcomed. Ritchie Sambora sings his song, and we get some of Jon solo. The full gamut is covered.

But. We know that most of the people are here for the big ones. Bad Medicine, You Give Love A Bad Name, Livin’ On A Prayer.  How do they hold up?

Let’s be honest. You love those songs. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t. They are pop rock perfection. And even if you would deny their majesty, after a few pints you would be singing along. I’d put money on it.

They hold up very VERY well. Bon Jovi are not to be fucked with when delivering songs that have made them multi millionaires.  They kick them out with precision and passion and a set of teeth so white they burn your eyes.

I’m a bit jaded and hard to impress when it comes to music these days. I’m a bit of a dick like that.

I was singing along by the end.

Every. Word.

And dancing.

Yeah, they were good.

When you first arrive on site, you are not greeted with the overwhelming whiff of jazz cigarettes and sweat, but an adventure playground and a stupid-looking goose standing right in your way. It’s not a normal festival by any means.

Some things, to be fair, will always be the same; even given a chalet, the kids will still find a grassy spot to sit on, sun or no sun; there will always be a goth contingent, although in this case, they are all Robert Smith hair and skinny black suits. But there is also a festical TV channel showing weirdo animation and arthouse movies, a water park and the ability to make yourself a proper cuppa every morning. If it didn’t make me sound like an old fogey, I’d declare it The Future. Which seems ironic at Butlins.

Due to a combination of rogue sat-nav, West London traffic and – gasp – real lives, we don’t arrive until 10pm on the Friday night, just missing the headliners Broken Social Scene. But no fear! This is All Tomorrow’s Parties and things work differently here. There’s still four hours of bands and 3 more hours of indie disco fun to be had this night.

We stroll over to the second stage, housed in one of the resorts entertainment venues, to watch Quasi, who, it seems form their biog, have less been booked to play, and more tagged along with all their friends and decided to do a set. It’s rousing, catchy and clever college rock and ideal for a late Friday slot.

Following a few rounds of air hockey we return to the second stage to check out Wooden Ships, seemingly hyped by every independent record store in the country. There is much hair, some cracking riffs, helped massively by the bafflingly excellent sound system (does an ABBA tribute act really need such good sound mixing? The desk is as big as the stage), but ultimately it is just a little too proggy to be a festival hit.

Saturday starts with the best of intentions, catching second stage openers Horse Guards Parade. They have a good line in banter, but ultimately their sound is that of someone singing 90’s Britpop songs over a post-rock backing, which seems to result in something rather awkward if not entirely unpleasant.

The sun and a pub lunch distract us for the next few hours, before heading back to the vast Pavillion to see Camera Obscura play the main stage. This festival definitely has a high male-to-female ratio, and at this point a lot of them seem to be grudgingly tapping their feet. Camera Obscura have perfected their particular line of Scottish twee, being more consistent than future AATP curators Belle & Sebastian, and a bit less precious with it.

Pavement, I have always maintained, were a little bit before my time. When Slanted & Enchanted came out, I was still young enough to be taken to Butlins in a non-ironic way. But the crowd here has a good few years on me, and they are loving it. The band are enjoyably wonky, the lyrics pleasingly odd, and the members, rather thrillingly, still don’t seem to be entirely comfortable being Pavement again. There is banter, playful inter-band bickering, and an invitation to a Stonemasonry workshop Sunday lunchtime (to be held, joy of joys, in the Bob the Builder themed playground). Someone in the crowd was wearing a Rush T-shirt, and we all hoped the reference was deliberate.

Later still we watch Still Flyin’, a San Francisco band who according to the programme promise a mix of reggae and Krautrock, but all we hear is perky US indie with the faintest of ska beats. They’d almost certainly gee up a tentative midday festival crowd, but this is 1am and everyone here has just seen Pavement be awesome, so the band seem slightly out of place.

Sunday starts with a trip to the pool, a carvery and a round of pirate-themed mini-golf, before heading to the Pavillion to check out The Dodos. Any band with a line-up of guitar-xylophone-drums is one I will generally enjoy, and this certainly true here. It’s a big expansive sound which is still poppy and melodic. A great little discovery.

By this point curiosity gets the better of us, and we go and catch part of Boris’s set, in which they perform their 2003 album Feedbacker in it’s entirety (although this is – oh, how this makes me feel ill – one track). There are three cool-looking Japanese people with double-necked guitars, a lot of dry ice, a huge crowd, and about 2 notes held indefinitely. It is one of those areas of music in which I am sure something utterly brilliant is occurring, but I’ll be buggered if I could say what. We go and play air hockey instead.

Later on, a bloke in white suit wanders on stage. We identify him firstly as the guy who was off his nuts and overly keen to have a long chat with one of our party in the loos of the Irish bar the previous night, and secondly as singer-songwriter Terry Reid. He’s clearly a guy who’s been around, and has the voice and the barely coherent stories to match. The songs are folksy and simple, and provide a much-appreciated contrast to the amount of big noodly space-rock elsewhere at the festival.

The Fall surprise a lot of people by being tight, tuneful and generally very enjoyable. Mark E Smith is still largely incomprehensible, but he seems to be keen to put on a decent show.

The Raincoats are hugely likeable and draw a massive crowd to see their folk-punk set. I had been put off of them initially, mainly due to the presence of what appeared to hand-felted Raincoats bags on the merchandise stand, but the fact is they are very very good, albeit every bit as twee as the merch makes out. But then again, so am I, so it was the perfect way to round everything off.

The line-ups for ATP festivals of the past have always seemed slightly too serious and heavy-going for my tastes, and largely this was no different, as evidenced by the amount of the times the word ‘sonic’ appears in the programme, and the massive queues for the gents. Nonetheless, the novelty value of watching The Fall next to a Punch and Judy theatre doesn’t really wear off.

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.

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.

The new way of discovering music through people. – Where music comes recommended. -Sit back and listen in full as your friends, dj’s and artists flow you the tunes they really rate flow music to your own friends and followers and earn 20% of the price when they buy.

mFlow. Uh. Yeah. So it’s Spotify plus Twitter with some way to make some money if people buy what you recommend to them. It’s quite confusing.

So lets see if it’s any good. I’m downloading it now.

Setup is utterly painless. Not sure why it wants my whole name but hey. To them my name is Optimus Motherfucker. The login screen also looks like a laynyard. That’s a nice touch.

Lets see how it works. Nicely done tutorial – no  video. Just some screens. OK, so I have to follow people to get ‘flows.’ That’s the music I can listen to. I refuse to make a joke about ‘flow’. I’m above it. Really. If I ‘flow’ music and someone buys it I get a few pence.

Ok. So who can I follow?

Fuck. Zane Lowe. I hate that guy. NME? Bah. I’m not sure they fit my taste. Bit too, well, NME. Popjustice? Love the man’s writing, but can’t say I agree with what he says is AMAZING.

I’ve heard Metal Hammer is on here, so I might as well take a punt and follow them . How do I find them? Ah, they’re featured. If they weren’t I’d have no idea.

Followd. They’ve flowed some Bon Jovi. Way metal guys. But I can take a listen to the track. To be honest nothing they flowed is ‘new music’ though. Anyone who has even stood close to a metalhead knows the bands they’re recommending.

Let’s recommend something. Clutch? Clutch. More people need to know about them.

Search Clutch. One song. From The Crobar album. Strange. Let’s listen to it first so I know what I’m talking about.

Also, 90% of searches came up bad. Not much choice. Yes, the service is new so I’m going to be uncharacteristic nice and forgive them – but they better get a shit-ton of songs in there soon.

I only get a 30 second sample. Well, that blows.

What do I do with 30 second samples? I send them to people so they can hear the whole song. I’m comfused. And a bit angry. This makes no sense.

Can someone explain this to me? I want to listen to music, but I can’t. I’m going back to Spotify and Grooveshark until someone explains why this is a good idea. I like listening to whole songs. I like listening to new songs. I don’t like having to wait til someone sends me something so I can listen.

So, yeah, if you like your music taste dictated to you – go for it!

Reviewing this gig could be a problem. In fact, I’m not sure if I’m even reviewing it on the right blog. Yes, it was a gig, but it was also the launch of a new car, and featured some pretty kickass tech, so perhaps it should be over at Electric Spectre.

(So It’s there now too.)

So Chevrolet are launching a new car. If it was something like a Camero or a Nova we might expect their launch party to be held in a strip bar and feature entertainment from Monster Magnet, the Drive By Truckers, the Dallas Cowboy’s cheerleaders and a fountain of Malt Liquor. Unfortunately we don’t live in a cartoon version of the 70s. Cars are now economical, safe and don’t come with bucket seats, four tracks and NOS as standard. Shame really. So instead we  have The Mystery Jets, Nick Grimshaw and a nail bar.

The Mystery Jets, to me, are another identikit, landfill indie band, and Nick Grimshaw can fall on a spike for all I care. But for some reason, I had a really good time. Why? Free booze, fun toys to play with a good organisation.

Some bright Spark (Eh? See what I did there.) had set up a life size screen displaying the Spark  and a ‘virtual’ spraycan. This was coupled with a nice, easy to use graffiti program allowing us to spray paint the car. The cool thing was that this was projected onto a real Spark.

This meant me and Interceptor spent far too much time trying to recreate the Mirthmobile from Wayne’s World, the Batmobile and Ecto One as well as some very obscure 2000AD referencing graffiti.

We then decided to crash a photo of some models being taken in the car by getting in the back and asking how much it was for “South of the River”. We’re dicks. Sorry.

The DJ booth was pretty cool too – a Spark on it’s side with it’s wheels being used as the turntables.

So – I’m sure the Mystery Jets fulfilled their contractual obligations and played their music, and Grimshaw played some records. But I wasn’t looking.

You can check out pictures from the gig here – including some car graffiti – You can probably spot ours….

It’s a bright sunny Sunday in old London town. What better way to spend the day than in a pub, in the company of some of the nastiest sounding bands this county can offer. What indeed?

Reviewing this will be tough – part of the fun of writing about music is giving bands bad reviews. It’s much easier to creatively insult someones music than to praise it. So, when presented with an entire day of uniformly excellent bands, it makes my job tough. If you’re into this kind of music, you can’t really go wrong checking out any of the line up – they were all damn good. So I’m digging deep to criticise…

We arrive bright and early and manage to catch the end of Berserkowitz set, only heard two songs, but they sounded Iron Monkey-esque – big fuzzy downtuned riffs and angry, intense screaming from their frontman. It’s hard being the first band on and playing mainly to the other bands, and the saddos who arrive early (me) But none the less, the don’t display any apathy because of it and blast through on the wings of dirty riffs.

Gorse are on next, and are probably the lightest and most rock oriented band of the day. More cerebral than the others, but lose nothing for it. They straddle genres well – they could probably entertain an audience of Mogwai fans as well as the longbeards in attendance here today – sitting between the heavy end of indie and the lighter end of stoner. They lack the power – hitting of some of the other bands – but make up for it in some higher thinking.

Hey, Serpent Venom, Lee Dorian called and he wants, well, everything back. Yeah, Serpent Venom has a frontman that even looks like the British Doom overlord.  But, y’know what, there aren’t many bands that can carry off the Cathedral look and sound – that’s why they’re so good. Serpent Venom certainly wear their influence on their sleeves, but when you can pull off great big crushing monolythic riffs, before throwing down a head-bang-along gallops and powerful singing, then there’s no reason why they shouldn’t.

Dead Existence bring some really grotty sounding sludge to the table. They sound like hungover people fighting, slow and nasty, each movement bringing some low end gut pain. Their singer is in fine voice pulling off some excellent gutteral noises while avoiding a decent into death metal cookie monsterism. I would like to see the band move about a bit more – this kind of noise is chacterised by fairly easy to play (says me who can’t play for shit) riffs – you’re not doing the solo from Painkiller – give us something to look at! Maybe they were hungover. Either way – it’s a small criticism for a band who delivered some top table low end sludge.

If I were to look at Witchsorrow’s MySpace, I wouldn’t be surprised if their description was Doom/Doom/Doom. (It isn’t though. Bah.) It’s pure doom. Denim and slowness abounds. They also seem to be drawing on the very early days of extreme metal, when they do pick up the pace a little (not much mind you) it goes very Celtic Frosty – one riff being almost the spitting image of the opening of Dethroned Emperor – before turning off onto it’s own path. (the singer also did the Tom Warrior patented ‘URGH’ during this song – I think they knew what they were doing!) Their sound was also a little more sparse than others – more Cirith Ungol than Black Sabbath, but nice to hear some variety in the Circle Of True Doom. I’m not entirely convinced by their frontman’s voice – not strong enough to power over the riffing, but again, a minor point of critisism in another killer set.

During the break I buggered off for chilli at Big Red, which has now utterly demolished my intestines. Thanks.

On returning Astrohenge are playing. There is a uniform look on the audience’s faces. Confusion, but in a good way. Like biting into a sandwich to find it filled with fifty pound notes. Astrohenge are fucking unhinged and fucking good. Experimental, but not in a wanky, navel gazing, introspective way, they are experimental in a ‘whatthefuckamIhearingit’sreallygoodohitschangesbut itsstillgood’ way. They seem to jump genres in the middle of riffs – from grind to space rock to punk to sketchy mathcore craziness and back again, but without losing any momentum. They don’t have a singer, but I don’t think anyone (except maybe Mike Patton) could keep up, and lose nothing for it. At one point I think they even dropped a bit of the Dune soundtrack in as an outro and have made me a dedicated fan. The weirdest band of the day, but possibly one of the best.

Dopefight only have three members, but they sound absolutely HUGE. Mostly instrumental, singing seems to be an afterthought and only pops up every now and again, but doesn’t really need it. Powerriffing and pummeling drumming soon see the whole place nodding in unison at their stoner grooves. For a band as weed-powered as this, you would expect them to be a little sloppy and play it off as their charm, but no, these guys are tight, no messing around. Power-stoner anyone?

Koresh clearly enjoy themselves. Playing a Raging Speedhorn (2 singer) style of downtuned to fuck angry metal sludge punk thing they aren’t po faced about it. Likie what would happen if you told Iron Monkey to lighten the fuck up and forced them to read Viz comics for about a decade. Their stage banter consists of “mumble mumble FUCK CUNT….giggle”  but I’m fairly sure if I could hear them it’d be funny. Judging by the fact that their T Shirts have “a picture of a duck fucking a moomin” on them – they are funny guys. Humor mixed with this sort of angry, messy music is a potent combo, and they even have some killer stage moves. I think Koresh could become the next cult British band. Glad I got that T Shirt before it gets popular.

Trippy Wicked are pros. While the other bands may as well be playing to a room full of their mates (which, judging by the good natured camaraderie on display – they are) Trippy Wicked know how to work the stage and play to fans. And while many on the previous bands have a very earthy concrete and piss style of music, live, Trippy Wicked head out on a space rock quest to kick some ass. Their singer may well be putting his voice whrough a ton of equipment, but he can sing very, very well and it adds a whole dimension on to their music. If any of the bands on the bill could have some semblance of mainstream success, it would be these three as their mix of stoner, blues and balls out craziness goes down well with the crowd of backpatches and longbeards, but would also do quite well at one of the more commercial festivals. Polished to a bright shining point, Trippy Wicked were a fine way for me to end the evening.

I had to miss Invasion and Charger – so if anyone wants to let us know how they were – hit the comments.

For a day of bands whose primary motif is copious drug use, it was supremely well organised. Massive kudos to the organisers, The Gaff, the dude who did the amazing posters and all the bands. A great festival – More please!

Both myself and Mr Interceptor attended this gig. So we decide to review it in the form of chatlog. We hope you enjoy our moronic rambling.

Interceptor: So, what were the bands called?

Von: Hang on, I’m having a sammich.

Interceptor: Hows abouts a knuckle sammich ya godamn muldoon? I have spaghetti! nom nom etc etc

Von: Right so, first up were ‘Roll Call For The Second Site‘ If we don’t count the grind/thrash band in the Unicorn.

Interceptor: But the thrash band were good! They should go in! There was a Japanese lady in VERY small shorts! And beer! God knows what hey were called though

Von: That is true. We can thank Zak for being a spazz. (Zak from weheartrecords invited us to this gig but told us to go to the wrong pub. There was a decent thrash band playing there.)

Interceptor: Thanks Zak. OK, so, tweeny thrash aside -Roll Call For The Second Site. Weird name

Von: All these post – bands have weird names.

Interceptor: Whats wrong with a proper name like Baby Eater? That’s probably what the thrash band were called. Oh I see-they were being hip and ironic..

Von: The audience did include some Hoxton types, so I guess there was a hipness factor there somewhere.

Interceptor: Camden Leisure Pirates is the technical term I believe -actually we should probably mention the venue -it was certainly cosy.

Von: It was fucking small.

Interceptor: It was like watching a band performing inside a shoe in a sex dungeon.

Von: A sex dungeon with tasteful pictures of ships on the walls. And a tiny but well staffed bar.

Interceptor: and of course, a surfeit of attractive lady drummers who doubled as stroke nurses. There’s nothing like doing your research at the bar to uncover these nuggets of valuable info is there?

Von: Indeed. So, anyway. The first band – pleasntly surprised. I think they had actual songs, rather than ’soundscapes’ or whatever these guys call their music.

Interceptor: Exactly, the singer was a little too keen to get down to his scanties, but they had a Rollins-esque energy about them -twitchy and shouty with real, actual choruses.

Von: Also, it looked like the bassist was about 14 – which gave them a sort of early days – DIY – NYHC thing.

Interceptor: And of course, being a mischevious teenage type, she managed to blow up a bass amp -always a good sign!

Von: True that. I’d have like to see them smash things up and jump off things too, but I think they were in danger of banging their heads if they stood up properly.

Interceptor: I think that would make it better -If you’re in an up-and-coming band, there’s nothing like a serious head wound to get the audience riled up I say!

Von: Bleeding over everything adds a certain memorability to the set. Anyway – so the first band – ace. Hopefully we’ll see more of them, and they continue writing songs.

Interceptor: Yep -they need to fully ignore their contemporaries and listen to more Agnostic Front and they’ll be fine -top work Roll Call! So who was next?

Von: Nitkowski. Who were one of those bands who’s songs just don’t go anywhere.

Interceptor: Big or Little Nitkowski?

Von: Big. Nitkowski Urban Achievers is the name of their fan club.

Interceptor: True, but their music was as endless and rambling as Sam Elliots monologues in the movie -basically, terrible noodly widdly wankery with too much jazz thrown in.

Von: This is what happens when bands are influenced by Fugazi and Godspeed You Black Emperor rather than Fugazi and Slayer.

Interceptor: Fuck Fugazi, they should just listen to Reign in Blood over and over again.Personally, I only owned a second hand tape of Overkill’s ‘Taking Over’ when I formed my first band -that’s why I’m such a huge rock star these days.

Von: Mmmmm.

Interceptor: I’ll be honest, I was slightly more engaged by my cider than by the band.

Von: Yeah. And I was suffering from some kind of stomach trouble. But thats a story for another day.

Interceptor: So, a band that couldnt compete with cider and the shits then.

Von: Guess not. The audience liked them though.

Interceptor: Well, what do you expect from a shoe full of hairy leasure pirates? NEXT!

Von: Silent Front. It was their party after all. But there was no jelly and / or ice cream. Crap party.

Interceptor: although there was pass the parcel, their new record dead lake -which one imagines, is probably not as bad as Celtic Frost’s Cold Lake…and I believe-the last ever weheartrecords release?

Von: But less Swans than Swan Lake….Possibly so.

Interceptor: So nothing to with Chris Lake then? Or Rikki Lake-the fabulous musical (and fat) star of Hairspray!?

Von: I don’t think so. Although a concept album on the subject of Rikki Lake’s death would be interesting.

Interceptor: is Rikki lake dead?? When did this happen? Why wasn’t I informed!?

Von: Calm down. It’s a theoretical concept album. Not really happening.

Interceptor: Curses, I was looking forward to taking over her chat show -this week on Rikki, post-rock noisecore bands – shit or what?

Von: So, whaddya think of Silent Front? Because I wasn’t amazed or nuthin’

Interceptor: Yeah they were ok I spose, but again, I didn’t hear a single – you know? They reminded me a bit of the middle eight sections from Mastodons quieter pieces

Von: Huh – good analogy. Thing with Mastodon is they then go on to write massive fucking choruses.

Interceptor: yep, this reminds me of a few years ago, when guitar solos were ‘out’ for a bit. Experimenting is fine but there’s nowt wrong with ‘ ‘verse, verse, chorus’ either is there? Jesus Christ that makes me sound old.

Von: But it’s true. if Silent Front and their kind put their musicianship into writing something catchy and put their noodling into the right bits they’d probably be playing stadiums rather than tiny sex dungeons.

Interceptor: Or even better -stadium-sized sex dungeons.

Von: Ooohhh…now there’s a plan.

Interceptor: What I’m saying is I think the first band had it right, they were innovative but still tied things up neatly -practice your great rock n’ roll endings arather than letting your tunes just fizzle out. And I’m not saying that because I fancy the drummer either.

Probably

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!

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.

Ahhh, steampunk. If being a goth doesn’t get you enough fingers pointed at you, try out this sub sub genre involving alternate histories, victoriana and cogs. To be honest it holds its wonderfully geeky charms and has attracted enough people for a proper shindig in the Cross Kings in Kings Cross. As I am a big ol’ geek too, I’m there.

First band up are Savile Row, who haven’t played together in 10 years and are a guitarist down are a tight band, although more steam-indie than Steampunk, their sound (and their look) wouldn’t be out of place among the britpop scene, all jangly guitars and fun poppy sing along choruses. The addition of the rarely sighted female drummer (Seriously – you don’t see them very often) knocked them over the edge from pleasent into ace.

Next up was this years weirdest act so far – Robert Rankin’s goth wife playing hits of the 80s on a steel drum. I don’t think this needs a review. If you don’t think this is something worth seeing, then bugger off.

The fan favourites of the night, The Men Who Will Not Be Blamed For Nothing. Or The Men as I shall now call them as that takes too bloody long to type.

Featuring comedian Andrew O’Neill on vocals and guitar they are certainly not short on wordplay, humour and songs with instant sing-along-ability, they dominate the tiny venue and soon have the becorseted crowd dancing away. The only problem I have with them is that they are too funny. – If steampunk is to be taken as a moderately serious sub genre than bands who are more joke project than legitimate entity then The Men could hamper that by being too popular and making the face of Steampunk a big dumb grin rather than a frowny bugger in a monocle.

The headliners are the absolutely Poe faced Ghostfire. No jokes here, just steam scented goth-a-rockin.

Steampunk is all about a past that never happened, and is only imagined. Ghostfire look like a band with an imagined past. They really do look like a faded goth band who would have been huge in the 80s. Singer Mister E and guitarist Andii look like they could have been the Goth power couple in 1985 dominating the lives and eye-liner collection of a generation of angsty adolescents. The thing is, as far as I know Ghostfire have only been around since last year, so their past is only imagined, which I feel make them more romantic and mysterious. But maybe that’s just me.

Anyway, they act like they’re headlining Wembley, which is the correct way to act when on a stage barely big enough for the band, acting like a rockstar is 90% of being one after all – stage moves and arrogant banter abounds between the excellently jangly songs.

All in all, a triumph for Brit-Steampunk. The kids into it may still get called names, but with this lot on their iPod I really doubt they’ll hear it, or care.

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.

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.

Never let it be said that we only cover gigs in London. We find ourselves on the South Coast in a pub where it cost only £1 to see Death Metal in a multitude of forms, drinking jagermeister and avoiding a pair of dudes who seem to have got naked for some reason.

First up are Hampshire’s Bloodshot Dawn. They play something between deathcore, thrash and techy death metal, or at least I think they do, because missing their second guitarist, plagued by technical issues and (at the risk of sounding like sound quality wanker) having a bloody godawful mix, it’s hard to tell. I’d like to give them a proper review, but it would be unfair to judge them on this performance, because this was a shambles.

Part metalcore, part glam and part haircut The Defiled look a wee bit out of place on the cramped pub stage. They look like they should be tearing up the Sunset Strip in the mid eighties, rather than entertaining a pub full of half cut greasers. In fact the look is at odds with their sound too. Obviously a lot of work has gone into creating a look somewhere between The Misfits, Nikki Sixx and your local gathering of emo kids down the park, and yet they play a very angry form of glammed up metalcore, full of venom and bile. However I find it hard to believe that you can be that angry and spend that much time on your ‘look’. They have the moves, and if you’re an angry teenager they have the songs, but they don’t have the conviction to impress me, but I am a bastard.

Speakin of conviction, Ted Maul have it in spades. Their drum and bass elements are pushed to the back, allowing their feral, aggressive death metal shine through in its dirty, gritty glory. No showy stage outfits, just shouting, riffing and blasting. They sound like a product of their environment, grotty London streets, overcrowded towerblocks and permanently stinking pubs. Not the ideal place to raise kids, but a great place to make metal. Unpretentious, ferocious and fun, it’s nice to see Ted Maul back on the scene.

It’s Friday night in glamorous London Taaahn Innit, and as it’s Vones’ birthday, and he’s already well away by the time he arrives, it falls to me dear reader, to report to you all the latest musical juice pouring out around the tube station. Venture with me then, into the bowels of the Camden Underworld.

Actually, let’s arrive on time, realise all your mates are going to be an hour late, and pop into the Worst Pub In Camden ™ The World’s End for an overpriced pint of sour Blackthorn first. After a trip to the hellish toilets it’s time for another, before realising your ex-fiancée is bobbing about on the other side of the bar. I swiftly withdraw to the relative civilisation of the Camden Eye across the street, and in doing so increase the chances that this marvellous little boozer will ply me with free beer at some point.

Onto the gig! There’s a support band, but I’ve already forgotten their name-as far as I can tell they sounded a bit like Annihilator, only worse-high praise indeed! Onto the only actually Canadian group of the evening: Cauldron!

Taking the somewhat unusual career path of deliberately trying to sound like mid-80s second stringers, they’re actually quite good fun. All the band members are appropriately skinny, and singer Jason Decay (yes, really) has a magnificent Powerslave-era Bruce Dickinson Fringe married to a Geddy Lee voice, an overall effect that brings to mind 2 foxes fighting at a Cirith Ungol concert. To be fair, they do sound better than on the album, with a bass heavy sound and lots of general ridiculousness making them entertaining, if not actually good. Extra points are awarded for having a song with the ludicrous title “Chained Up In Chains”. They’ll go down a storm on the Euro mini-fest circuit.

Having alternated between fizzy, overpriced cider and fizzy, overpriced lager all evening, it’s time to switch to rum and try to ignore the mysterious stain that’s appeared on the Celtic Frost shirt-never let it be said I’m not sartorially prepared for these events – as a band already big on the festival circuit arrive-the joyously mental Wolf.

Wolf first came to my attention with their first album-I was going through a short phase of only buying CDs if they had either a man with an axe or a terrible beast on the cover – great way to get into Iron Angel I can tell you – and Wolf’s debut has possibly the worst rendering of a wolf ever commited to paper, witness it here.

Always locked up tight, constant touring with vets like Tankard and Saxon has honed the band to the nth degree, hackneyed stage patter and all. They make bad jokes, they headbang in unison, they get the audience to wolf-howl in memory of the dead. They’re great, sounding, as they always have, like Mercyful Fate covering the first two Iron Maiden albums, it’s the energy levels that keep this from dating, from hot rockin opener Evil Star, through to the menacingly silly closer Venom (Sample lyric – Dark as a shadow, sharp as a knife, a burning hellfire on the rise – suffice to say it’s hardly Ibsen), all that’s required to enjoy Wolf is a willingness to park your sense of cool outside the door and headbang like a grinning loon. If they’d been around 25 years ago, they’d be filling stadia by now, but we can be thankful they’re still in sweaty hellholes on a regular basis. Fist pounding fun for all.

Dizzy, sweaty and drunk, The DT staffers head to the Devonshire, where amazingly a DJ from my hometown is playing. He plays thew same set he played in 1990, only now enough time has passed that people think he’s ironic, rather than crap. I’d like to take this opportunity to say that if I’m ever stuck listening to “we’re not gonna take it” on a Friday night again I will burn the venue down. I retire for falaf.

A great metal night out-happy birthday Vones!

So, Grunge heavyweights AiC are back, with William DuVall taking Layne’s late, lamented place up font, and while it’s a neat transition album, there’s a touch of the Metallica New Member Syndrome that stops this from reaching its full potential.

Let’s get down to brass tacks first of all – Layne Staley, for all his qualities as a singer, was not Alice In Chains. It’s appropriate that that central role falls, as always to Jerry Cantrell. It’s that trademark atonal riffage that pushes this along, bringing back every flannel-shirt-and-Doc-Martins memory you thought you’d buried. This isn’t a tribute to Layne Staley, it’s just Alice In Chains, producing a dark and powerful album that isn’t their best, but is representative of their unique vision and sheer heaviness compared to other bands that rode the Seattle boom to fame.

One thing that stands out is how much heart and soul there still is here. A thousand bands have used AiC as a template over the past decade, but the result has almost always been bland, corporate rock, so it’s a genuine worry as opener All Secrets Known leaks insipidly out of your speakers, every worst fear confirms as it casually wastes four minutes of album time. Then, suddenly, the real Alice appears. Check My Brain has all the ingredients, droning minor key chords bent just so, hypnotic, repetitive and powerful, the guitars growing, ebbing and flowing as the truly huge chorus stamps itself indelibly into your mind. Cantrell harmonises with Duvall, and while it’s a different sound, it’s a uniquely recognisable one that dances a celebratory jig on the grave of Man In The Box.

There is unfortunately a tendency to rely a little too heavily on Cantrell’s singing here, the full possibilities of Duvall’s voice not being explored, and there’s also the sad tendency that so many reunited bands share to rely too much on sheer heaviness. AiC work best creating atmosphere, the subtle acoustics and interplay between light and dark have always been the group’s greatest strength. When The Sun Rose Again is probably the lightest track here, and it’s a thing of twisted beauty, moving, unearthly harmonies with some fantastic, tasteful soloing from JC.

Finally, there’s a very surprising cameo from a certain Reg Dwight on the title track, and it’s actually an understated little farewell to the former frontman, which manages to avoid mawkishness despite the tinkling ivories, with a strong lyric and some very subtle shading.

This has all the right ingredients, and its tribute to Cantrell and the band’s taste and ability that they pull it off so well, they definitely aren’t pushing any new boundaries here, but hey, that didn’t stop AC/DC excelling on Back In Black, so it would be churlish to complain too strongly. Overall, this is the sound of a great band playing it safe while finding it’s feet again, and fans can tentatively look forward to greater things to come. Dig out that old flannel shirt and enjoy.

There’s a reason Shawn Carter is Rap’s biggest brand -when it comes to self promotion, the man they call Jigga is up there with McDonalds. Fortunately, his product is -for the most part -worth the hype.

Carter recently claimed that it was his “responsibility to correct hip-hop” and while his 11th studio album doesn’t break any new ground, it certainly lives up to it’s name, expanding and refining Blueprint’s 1 and 2 to deliver as close to a guaranteed hit as it’s possible to get.

Of course, the title itself is self-deprecating, if a third is needed, are we to imply that the first 2 were failures? A more charitable view may be to see this as the addition of a new wing onto an established building-or adding a waterslide to your Malibu Mansion’s pool; It’s certainly not a failure by any means, but there’s a sense that things are becoming over-embellished that’s hard to ignore. Jay Z’s MC-ing is as complex and confident as ever, but with a gamut of guests producers and performers his raw talent is sometimes drowned out. This isn’t just a Jay Z album. It’s also a showcase for Kanye, Timbaland, Rihanna, Drake, Kid Cudi and myriad more rthat shows off Jay’s talent spotting abilities as much as his songwriting ones. This stellar line-up is a guarantee of success, removing any of the experimental risks inherent to his earlier work.

That said, there’s still some cracking tunes to be had here, just slightly diluted. DOA is top of the pile, it’s wonky woodwind samples showing that he may have taken extra notes from Dangermouse’s Grey Album. It’s ironic that the strongest track here is just Jay and No ID getting back to basics, while the starry collaborations fall short. A Star Is Born is too saccharine and appears to exist purely so Jay can thank a few celebrity great mates who’ve done alright for themselves – including Nas bizarrely – while Young Forever follows suit, with a weird 70s vocal from Mr.Hudson not helping the lacklustre, home-made-quilt lyrics.

Things are redressed somewhat by the likes of louche brass workout Thank You, and there’s plenty of studio experimentation; the odd, spectral – and Spektor – like vocals from Kanye West on Hate, and the bellowing, joyful Empire State of Mind

Overall, this isn’t the future of hip-hop it obviously wants to be, but with some heavy duty beats, and occasional flashes of greatness, it’s certainly gets the bronze for effort.

Strange venue. I’ve never had to go in a lift to get to the venue before, but I guess that’s because I’m a country bumpkin, rather than this being an unusual event.

The first act on stage was a portly chap, shirtless, wearing gardening gloves and a flower pot mask. It started badly for him when he bent over to fiddle with a pedal and all his flowers fell out. He then proceeded to produce a set of Merzbow esque power electronics, but without any of the charm or innovation. It was shit, frankly. The audience cheered him when he finished his set, grateful to see him leave.

Winnebago Deal up next, a power duo who sound far, FAR bigger than they have any right to. A heads down set of no nonsense, stripped back rock and roll, sounding like a rusty hot rod charging through the desert at an ungodly speed. Waves of distort and feedback do nothing to disguise how tight the Winnebago Deal duo are, and they fill the stage with some ace rock star posing. Great stuff. More please.

The stage is cleared except for a single keyboard. Andrew W.K. takes the stage to rapturous cheering and applause. Clearly he will do no wrong. The set consists of Andrew on mic and keyboard with his songs being pumped through the PA in a weird synth – pop / gabba style. It works, but mainly because Andrew W.K is one of the the most amazing frontmen the world has ever seen. Running about the stage possessed by the power of party and dancing like a dad at a wedding hepped up on speed, he welcomes stage invasions like old friends. Hugs are dished out to all, and by the end he has a massive album cover nosebleed and is vomiting all over the place.

‘This isn’t a gig – it’s a party!’ He declares. And Andrew W.K. is the biggest party animal of them all.

Here at Downtuned we have a bit of a dualist relationship with the four Scouse mop tops, so it’s a rare event for one of us to listen so much of their work – suffice to say that Rockband: The Beatles is not on our Christmas lists, but the new mono box set might just be.

On the one hand, they pretty much kick started modern popular music, and if you listen to just about anything recorded in the last 40 years, you usually end up finding out that The Beatles got there first.

On the other hand..well, they pretty much started modern POPULAR music, meaning they’re directly responsible for every piece of overmarketed crap from the 1910 Fruitgum Company to the abominable hoards of Simon Cowell and Louis Walsh. People think The Beatles are great because they been told they’re great, without ever having to listen closely enough to work out why.

There’s also a tendency for critics and journos alike to ram their importance down your throat, as though the Beatles way is the only way. As though everything has to be verse, verse, chorus, middle eight. As though the only way you can progress is by adding Bangra beats and Sitars, and anything that doesn’t follow this pattern is somehow valueless.

Also, and let’s get this out of the way early; these songs are old. They’ve been played to death. To paraphrase the immortal Alan Partridge; “My favourite Beatles album? I’d have to say ‘The Best of The Beatles’”. When was the last time you actually sat down and put on a Beatles album and really listened to it, rather than just catching a half-chorus in a movie?

The songs, the image, they’re part of the wallpaper. So it’s actually a surprise when you sit down and play these albums one after the other, to find their odd, inventive sound fresh and interesting. The Stereo box set that’s also available is £30 cheaper, and comes with 3 extra albums.

But this is the one you should buy.

From the first early tracks it’s clear that this is something special. And it isn’t just the chemistry and excitement of the band. The sheer speed of invention and development is a joy to behold, and while this lacks the ‘clarity’ that the stereo counterparts have, there really is nothing wrong with not being able to hear a mike stand falling over halfway through Paperback Writer.

This is the way these songs are meant to sound. You can’t hear the little fudges George Martin was forced to make, deciding if he should use the left channel to record Paul’s bass or the entire London Philharmonic can’t have been easy, and his initial mixing was built around decisions like this.

As things head toward Sergeant Pepper and become ever more complex this becomes ever more important. The world’s first back-tracked vocals, the halting inclusion of Sitar on Norwegian Wood. Each song is lovingly crafted by the producer, managing to be completely different in context and style from the last but still fir together into a cohesive whole.

An organic, warm and inviting showcase for some incredible talent that would vomit at the notion of auto-tune. A fantastic collection that should be required listening for any aspiring musician – if only so they can choose ignore it.

Girlschool have existed as a band for over thirty years. And by now should be a well oiled rocking machine, able to entertain a festival or tiny club show with slick professionalism. But they can’t. They are all over the place. Kim McAuliffe and Enid Williams should be a hard rock machine – but sound like a pair of mums drunk on dry white in a Weatherspoons. The fact that the songs just wash over the crowd with no connection whatsoever is not a good sign either.

It may be the beer, but I seem to be seeing  a lot of people dressed in the red and black battle paint of Turisas. A LOT of people. With a crowd so into the party hard, drink hard, rock hard message of Battle Metal the Finns could fart into a trumpet and get a furious mosh pit going. There is no fart-trumpeting though – there is a rock hard set of festival pleasing folk metal – and a Boney M song being shouted by thousands of metal heads at the top of their lungs is always a pleasing sight.

Viking Deathsters Amon Amarth head up the evening, and with a catalogue of hummable, fist waving mid paced death they are the perfect early evening entertainment. Johan Hegg is a truely engaging frontman, and seems to be enjoying himself, as well he should. Easily winning the crowd over with a little UK vs Germany noise making competition,  they deliver some crushing riffs, and pounding drumming that destroys eardrums and sends those in the crowd blessed with long hair into a windmill frenzy.

The suns sets, darkness envelops the field – evil is in the air. Satyricon take the stage. Satyricon have certainly evolved their sound from their days as true Norwegian black metal stalwarts. Their cut down, danceable new material is like some kind of ultra evil disco. Not that that is a bad thing. Satyr stalks around the stage – his new haircut making him look like a black metal Patrick Bateman – and throws the best frontman shapes of the festival. Ending on the la – along old school black metal pomp of Mother North, they are definitely the coolest and coldest band of the festival.

IT’S THE FINAL FUCKING COUNTDOWN! Yes – Europe in their first ever British festival appearance. They may be best known for their one hit wonder, the second best known keyboard riff in rock (after Jump) and big bloody hair – but they are the continent’s answer to Bon Jovi. And in a good way. They are genuinely a highly polished rock machine who know how to use a massive stage and big audience to full effect. They pull a bunch of wickedly hot rockin’ tunes out of the bag and throw off their novelty band status (at least in this country) completely. And when The Final Countdown does hit, it sends the crowd, me included, into a feelgood semi -dance – semi – pogo – thing ending the weekend on a high.