PART ONE: the story so far...
I’ll nail my colours to the mast about Coldplay now: I like them, but I’m not a fan. I don’t analyse their songs and collect their b-sides, but I have all their albums and will defend them against naysayers who see them as a bland coffee-table band with nothing to say. I thought their first two albums were good but I felt frustrated that they petered out after the first half (which isn’t to say the second side featured bad songs, it’s just the energy and vigour seemed to vanish) and their third album was wholesomely consistent and stronger but suffered a rather unfair backlash by the music press after it’s initially successful release. What I liked about Coldplay during this first-three-album period was that, although they were indeed “soft” and saccharine in places, there was still an edge and ingenuity to their musicality which I found very engrossing. Like an auteur film director they didn't always produce wholly satisfying features but their skill with framing and composition always beckoned my interest. But by their fourth album something had changed, they started introducing concepts and themes and characters into their music and turning their live shows into fancy dress parties with extravagant colour schemes and faux military garb… all the warning signs of a loss of inspiration and the introduction of gimmicks. Viva La Vida Or Death And All His Friends took what I liked about Coldplay and inverted it: their writing had finally become experimental and edgy and their musicality had turned soft.
What could have been accused of being a gimmick on Viva La Vida has been returned to on Mylo Xyloto with admirable abandon and the band have now fully blossomed from shy, angst ridden boys into gregarious men of the world who’s ideological and musical leanings have begun to grow more world-weary…
NEXT: the album...
Sunday, 27 November 2011
Tuesday, 18 October 2011
Killer Sounds
You can always count on rock ‘n’ roll for a bit of bad timing: Radiohead changed it’s lyrics to The Bends’ penultimate track “Sulk” following Kurt Cobain’s shotgun-related suicide; The Smashing Pumpkins’ third single “Disarm” from their second album Siamese Dream was banned by the BBC after it’s lyrical content clashed with morbid news stories of the time; and The Strokes saw sense to omit the mocking “New York City Cops” from the US release of their Is This It? debut album in the wake of the 9/11 terrorist attacks. However, it goes without saying that the release of Hard-Fi’s third album Killer Sounds is flagged by none of the above records’ hype or anticipation, therefore the closing title track with it’s tale of young people taking to the streets and rioting hasn’t whipped up a media frenzy and been rushed to be replaced following the recent urban unrest that’s plagued some of England’s major cities.
It’s almost a shame for the band that such an example of prophetic poetry and life imitating art didn’t hit the six o’clock news, as a bit of bad press would have done the album a bit of good. It’s been a very muted arrival all in all and, apart from it’s slightly unsettling painted skull artwork, Killer Sounds isn’t adorned with the same inspired, but strangely controversial, No Cover Art concept that fronted their previous effort Once Upon A Time In The West. But whether it’d made the headlines like it’s predecessor or not, Killer Sounds has remained what it is: a compulsively enjoyable slice of decadent and overly ambitious pomp.
I must admit I’m a fan of some of rock’s recent much hyped flops: Second Coming, Be Here Now, X&Y, Euphoric Heartbreak. I just love a band that pushes it’s music too far in the hope of being bigger and better only to end up veering off into absurdity. In context the above albums received harsh backlashes after an initially successful release and were only considered critical disasters after the dust had settled, but they remain enduring bloated treasure troves of musical guilty pleasures.
Even though Hard-Fi have attempted to classify themselves as a politically charged band with their own personal involvement in racial equality campaigns and musical themes cantering on the mediocrity of lower middle class idleness, they’re politicizing remains far too dumb to be taken seriously by the masses and so the band are at best enjoyed for their musical merits rather than their part-time protesting. A good thing too, as Killer Sounds is by far their dumbest record to date.
Teetering somewhere between mid-80s Michael Jackson records like "Billy Jean" and "Thriller", the Manchester Hacienda club scene and 90s dance acts such as Prodigy and The Chemical Brothers, the organic rock drum beats that were the heart of Hard-Fi’s previous albums has taken a back seat to some of Killer Sounds’ more explicit electronic rhythms. That’s not to say they’ve followed the recent indie band trend of simply sticking a few synth parts onto their records here and there to keep the kids happy, quite the contrary, in fact they’ve developed their already well established rock-you-can-dance-to format into a more intense and euphoric experience without opening themselves up to accusations of compromising their rock integrity… after all, they never really had that to begin with.
It’s no secret that frontman Richard Archer can’t sing, that’s what we love him for, but for once even his atonal wailings seem fractured and under pressure, especially on opener “Good For Nothing”. It’s the one part of the album that is glaringly inconsistent and perhaps could have done with re-recording. Archer has never sounded so underconfident and tired. Fortunately for us though his vocals never veer off into the mumbling nadir of Julian Casablancas’ vocals on The Strokes’ third album First Impressions Of Earth which single-handedly destroyed the hard work put in by the rest of the band, but they do hit a few cringe-worthy speed bumps.
With this new electro confidence the DIY ethos that permeated their previous albums has gone. This doesn’t sound like the same band that built their own studio by hand or recorded tracks in the back seat of a car. Before they were making dance records as if before the dawn of synthesisers, sampling and looping. Now their music is washed with an antiseptic electronic bleach that has eroded their characteristically modest musicianship and drowned much of the instrumentation’s personality.
But even though there’s an intoxicating busyness to the album it doesn’t spoil the very skilled songwriting that’s been made to endure, and so the new production dynamics have not been allowed to become too much of a barrier between the listener and the great tunes.
Whilst Killer Sounds is by no means a musical failure it does represent a band experimenting with a sound that they’ve been flirting with ever since their debut, Stars Of CCTV, with mixed results. The new glossy production values, which will be well suited to providing the soundtrack to clips of football highlights or montages of sun drenched music festivals with young people waving their arms in the air, is a welcome change but I really hope that Hard-Fi return next time with a more bare bones release that shows them at their best. Warts and all.
3/5
It’s almost a shame for the band that such an example of prophetic poetry and life imitating art didn’t hit the six o’clock news, as a bit of bad press would have done the album a bit of good. It’s been a very muted arrival all in all and, apart from it’s slightly unsettling painted skull artwork, Killer Sounds isn’t adorned with the same inspired, but strangely controversial, No Cover Art concept that fronted their previous effort Once Upon A Time In The West. But whether it’d made the headlines like it’s predecessor or not, Killer Sounds has remained what it is: a compulsively enjoyable slice of decadent and overly ambitious pomp.
I must admit I’m a fan of some of rock’s recent much hyped flops: Second Coming, Be Here Now, X&Y, Euphoric Heartbreak. I just love a band that pushes it’s music too far in the hope of being bigger and better only to end up veering off into absurdity. In context the above albums received harsh backlashes after an initially successful release and were only considered critical disasters after the dust had settled, but they remain enduring bloated treasure troves of musical guilty pleasures.
Even though Hard-Fi have attempted to classify themselves as a politically charged band with their own personal involvement in racial equality campaigns and musical themes cantering on the mediocrity of lower middle class idleness, they’re politicizing remains far too dumb to be taken seriously by the masses and so the band are at best enjoyed for their musical merits rather than their part-time protesting. A good thing too, as Killer Sounds is by far their dumbest record to date.
Teetering somewhere between mid-80s Michael Jackson records like "Billy Jean" and "Thriller", the Manchester Hacienda club scene and 90s dance acts such as Prodigy and The Chemical Brothers, the organic rock drum beats that were the heart of Hard-Fi’s previous albums has taken a back seat to some of Killer Sounds’ more explicit electronic rhythms. That’s not to say they’ve followed the recent indie band trend of simply sticking a few synth parts onto their records here and there to keep the kids happy, quite the contrary, in fact they’ve developed their already well established rock-you-can-dance-to format into a more intense and euphoric experience without opening themselves up to accusations of compromising their rock integrity… after all, they never really had that to begin with.
It’s no secret that frontman Richard Archer can’t sing, that’s what we love him for, but for once even his atonal wailings seem fractured and under pressure, especially on opener “Good For Nothing”. It’s the one part of the album that is glaringly inconsistent and perhaps could have done with re-recording. Archer has never sounded so underconfident and tired. Fortunately for us though his vocals never veer off into the mumbling nadir of Julian Casablancas’ vocals on The Strokes’ third album First Impressions Of Earth which single-handedly destroyed the hard work put in by the rest of the band, but they do hit a few cringe-worthy speed bumps.
With this new electro confidence the DIY ethos that permeated their previous albums has gone. This doesn’t sound like the same band that built their own studio by hand or recorded tracks in the back seat of a car. Before they were making dance records as if before the dawn of synthesisers, sampling and looping. Now their music is washed with an antiseptic electronic bleach that has eroded their characteristically modest musicianship and drowned much of the instrumentation’s personality.
But even though there’s an intoxicating busyness to the album it doesn’t spoil the very skilled songwriting that’s been made to endure, and so the new production dynamics have not been allowed to become too much of a barrier between the listener and the great tunes.
Whilst Killer Sounds is by no means a musical failure it does represent a band experimenting with a sound that they’ve been flirting with ever since their debut, Stars Of CCTV, with mixed results. The new glossy production values, which will be well suited to providing the soundtrack to clips of football highlights or montages of sun drenched music festivals with young people waving their arms in the air, is a welcome change but I really hope that Hard-Fi return next time with a more bare bones release that shows them at their best. Warts and all.
3/5
Saturday, 17 September 2011
True Grit (2010) - film review
The Coen Brothers’ True Grit is as stubborn as a mule. It’ll say what it wants to say in the manner in which it chooses and it’ll take it’s time about it. The film is an exercise in faithful adaptation, not in that I know because I’ve read the original novel but in that it’s in no way adapted for a modern cinema audience and makes no attempt to update vocal intonations or iron out plot longueurs and needless detours that other adaptations would surely trim, alter or cut altogether.
It’s admirably re-watchable and has been the first film that I’ve seen in some years that I can imagine myself enjoying even on the tenth viewing.
As always with the Coen Brother’s the filmmaking is flawless but the standout craft on display in True Grit is the convincingly 19th century performances. The ongoing problem I have with period pieces is that the actors all compose themselves as if they’re in the 21st century and will, after a long day’s shooting on set, drive home in their cars and spend the night on the internet or watching television. But not for a second here do you believe that Jeff Bridges’ gnarled Rooster Cogburn, Matt Damon’s proud but flawed LeBoeuf or Hailee Steinfeld’s stern and plucky Mattie Ross have such modern conveniences to while away the time… the Coen Brothers present you with the world as it was some 150 years ago and never do you doubt it.
Many other filmmakers might have been concerned about the outdated attitudes towards race and sex in the story and modernised many of the encounters, but they would not have been faithful. The Coen’s keep in LeBoeuf’s obvious attraction to an underage girl and makes it poignant rather than sinister and the various knocks, falls and scrapes the girl herself is subject to are not papered over or pulled back from. These are hard times and it’s people are even harder.
The dialogue in True Grit is sometimes indecipherably old fashioned and delivered too quick to take in on the first viewing, but there lies one of the film’s great pleasures. Like reading Shakespeare or Joyce half the battle is concentrating on what’s being said and the temptation to stray away from the narrative is often all too great. But resisting these temptations and holding your attention is rewarded by a great adventure with some very exciting and funny moments.
It’s a curious piece also for it’s truthful, but not necessarily entertaining, conclusion. Mattie, unlike Damon’s titular Ryan in Saving Private Ryan, does not “earn this” and her eventual path in life raises questions about the trail of destruction she and her counterparts leave behind in the film. But her resolve from start to end is neither sentimental nor poetic: she has a job to do and once it’s done that’ll be the end of it.
Rest assured that from titles to credits this is a film that you will love and watch over and over again for years to come.
5/5
It’s admirably re-watchable and has been the first film that I’ve seen in some years that I can imagine myself enjoying even on the tenth viewing.
As always with the Coen Brother’s the filmmaking is flawless but the standout craft on display in True Grit is the convincingly 19th century performances. The ongoing problem I have with period pieces is that the actors all compose themselves as if they’re in the 21st century and will, after a long day’s shooting on set, drive home in their cars and spend the night on the internet or watching television. But not for a second here do you believe that Jeff Bridges’ gnarled Rooster Cogburn, Matt Damon’s proud but flawed LeBoeuf or Hailee Steinfeld’s stern and plucky Mattie Ross have such modern conveniences to while away the time… the Coen Brothers present you with the world as it was some 150 years ago and never do you doubt it.
Many other filmmakers might have been concerned about the outdated attitudes towards race and sex in the story and modernised many of the encounters, but they would not have been faithful. The Coen’s keep in LeBoeuf’s obvious attraction to an underage girl and makes it poignant rather than sinister and the various knocks, falls and scrapes the girl herself is subject to are not papered over or pulled back from. These are hard times and it’s people are even harder.
The dialogue in True Grit is sometimes indecipherably old fashioned and delivered too quick to take in on the first viewing, but there lies one of the film’s great pleasures. Like reading Shakespeare or Joyce half the battle is concentrating on what’s being said and the temptation to stray away from the narrative is often all too great. But resisting these temptations and holding your attention is rewarded by a great adventure with some very exciting and funny moments.
It’s a curious piece also for it’s truthful, but not necessarily entertaining, conclusion. Mattie, unlike Damon’s titular Ryan in Saving Private Ryan, does not “earn this” and her eventual path in life raises questions about the trail of destruction she and her counterparts leave behind in the film. But her resolve from start to end is neither sentimental nor poetic: she has a job to do and once it’s done that’ll be the end of it.
Rest assured that from titles to credits this is a film that you will love and watch over and over again for years to come.
5/5
Thursday, 1 September 2011
Sucker Punch – film review
I can’t bring myself to watch Sucker Punch a second time, even though I feel I should give it a second chance. It’s probably the thought of what I’ll have to endure: that arthritic opening sequence which is as confusing as it is slow; the two dimensional portrayal of all men being slimy potential-raping monsters; the final payoff which is neither surprising, interesting, satisfying nor logical in a narrative sense.
One thing I did like about Sucker Punch which nobody else seemed to like was the dream sequences. Wonderful. If writer/director Zach Snyder could have just made an alternate reality themed sci-fi adventure about of team of sexy babes fighting monsters in different periods of history and on different planets then great, fantastic, I would have watched it over and over again until my eyes got bored of the scenery. It would have been the perfect cross between an episode of Doctor Who and a Pussycat Dolls music video. The dream sequences, or dance sequences, or flights of fancy or whatever the hell they’re meant to be are the sort of moments in cinema that inspire me to write and create more than anything else. They break the mould of what you think you can or can’t do within a fictional framework and gives you something astoundingly beautiful to watch in the mean time. Yes, the sequences are like computer games, but in the best possible way.
But then we come crashing back down to Earth with the tedious “real” story which leaves you wanting to bang each and every characters’ head against the wall for being so utterly stupid.
I didn’t feel bad about the girls being in captivity because they all seemed so daft and willing that they deserved their prison. And the evil club owner and guards? I don’t know, I’m not sure what happened to any of them and, because they’re evil men, I’m not really supposed to care. Apparently there was loads cut out of the film that made it a little more coherent… well I’m sorry but I just don’t believe it, there’s plenty more crap left in that could easily have hit the cutting room floor without anybody noticing. I get the feeling that the trouble started with the script and nobody thought to correct it until so much time and effort had been wasted.
Maybe one day somebody will make an elaborate fantasy science fiction movie that will match the great parts of Sucker Punch and not feel the need to tie it all together with a needlessly convoluted plot about girls in an insane asylum or burlesque. Which plane of reality where they really on? I don’t know and I don’t care. They were mostly all dead or lobotomised by the end anyway so their little fight for freedom was made all the more pointless and so was my time in watching it.
In fact don’t bother watching the whole film, just skip to those dream sequences… honestly, you don’t kneed the rest.
Bah!!
3/5
One thing I did like about Sucker Punch which nobody else seemed to like was the dream sequences. Wonderful. If writer/director Zach Snyder could have just made an alternate reality themed sci-fi adventure about of team of sexy babes fighting monsters in different periods of history and on different planets then great, fantastic, I would have watched it over and over again until my eyes got bored of the scenery. It would have been the perfect cross between an episode of Doctor Who and a Pussycat Dolls music video. The dream sequences, or dance sequences, or flights of fancy or whatever the hell they’re meant to be are the sort of moments in cinema that inspire me to write and create more than anything else. They break the mould of what you think you can or can’t do within a fictional framework and gives you something astoundingly beautiful to watch in the mean time. Yes, the sequences are like computer games, but in the best possible way.
But then we come crashing back down to Earth with the tedious “real” story which leaves you wanting to bang each and every characters’ head against the wall for being so utterly stupid.
I didn’t feel bad about the girls being in captivity because they all seemed so daft and willing that they deserved their prison. And the evil club owner and guards? I don’t know, I’m not sure what happened to any of them and, because they’re evil men, I’m not really supposed to care. Apparently there was loads cut out of the film that made it a little more coherent… well I’m sorry but I just don’t believe it, there’s plenty more crap left in that could easily have hit the cutting room floor without anybody noticing. I get the feeling that the trouble started with the script and nobody thought to correct it until so much time and effort had been wasted.
Maybe one day somebody will make an elaborate fantasy science fiction movie that will match the great parts of Sucker Punch and not feel the need to tie it all together with a needlessly convoluted plot about girls in an insane asylum or burlesque. Which plane of reality where they really on? I don’t know and I don’t care. They were mostly all dead or lobotomised by the end anyway so their little fight for freedom was made all the more pointless and so was my time in watching it.
In fact don’t bother watching the whole film, just skip to those dream sequences… honestly, you don’t kneed the rest.
Bah!!
3/5
Friday, 17 June 2011
Suck It and See
The Arctic Monkeys have, not wanting to turn their backs on perceived failings, put at least three songs on Suck It And See (Brick By Brick, Library Pictures, All My Own Stunts) that play out like salty leftovers from their previous album - Humbug. Library Pictures, for instance, could be taken as a companion piece to Pretty Visitors with it’s cascading rhetoric and lucid midway waltz. Generally though on Suck It And See there’s an overall feeling that the Sheffield foursome are striving for more than just the breathe-too-hard-and-they’ll-fall-over melodies featured on Humbug. The denser production and brighter tone on songs like Reckless Serenade, Suck It And See and the epic That’s Where You’re Wrong hint at a new direction altogether.
As the rest of the British indie/alternative music scene scrambles desperately to sound like early to mid 1980s synth pop groups (a revivalist genre ensnaring the likes of Kaiser Chiefs, Glasvegas and Editors) the Arctic Monkeys have boldly moved on a step and now warmly tip their flat caps to late 80s Madchester bands and Union Jack waving 90s Britpop stalwarts such as The Stone Roses, The Charlatans, The Bluetones, The Lightning Seeds and, erm, Babybird (you’ll know it when you hear it). It’s a brave step, considering that said decade of untucked long-sleeved shirts and shaggy bowl haircuts still feels relatively close and, as with all just-departed periods of fashion and music culture, regrettable. But the Monkeys’ fourth album effortlessly strives to celebrate a jangly, drunken singalong vibe that has all but vanished in contemporary indie rock.
Suck It And See’s opening track contains a couple of mistakes… intentional mistakes, of course… clever mistakes. She’s Thunderstorms acts as a continuation of Humbug’s precedent of getting the ball rolling with a tale of sexual frustration and symbolic titillation. Alex Turner sings about having girls “lying on [their] front” or “up against the wall”. Wherever. But girls send his mind and mouth into a frenzy and his rising blood pressure shoots his vocals into a topsy turvy summersault. So much so are these four Northern boys distracted by black leggings and teasing feminine fringes that even the guitar solo gets “sabotaged” by too much distortion that creates an ugly and cloudy fuzz tone (tightened slightly with effects and equalisation) that most guitarists would demand a re-take of.
What seems to have changed most of all since 2006’s Whatever They Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not is the prioritisation of Turner’s crooning vocals over frenetic twin guitar attacks. Each song is constructed to allow the vocals to wander in and out at any time, like a band playing live that’s waiting patiently for their singer to swagger back on stage after a lengthy cigarette break. The compositions are looser and take into account a more patient audience/fanbase that are less in need of instant pop gratification. You get the feeling that Richard Hawley and The Divine Comedy have been playing on Turner’s turntable of late and have taught him the importance of languid purposeful pace and charming music hall pomp.
If their milestone 2006 debut represented a snapshot of being at the age when you’re either too old or too young to get away with reckless behaviour and could never (and probably should never) be repeated then ideally what has come along since should be considered their true starting point. Suck It And See is the sound of the Arctic Monkeys finally settling into themselves; juggling playful images of love, loss and life in perpetual motion with shimmering guitar jetstreams and show-stopping rhythm section interludes.
But there are still pleasant consistencies: we’re treated to perhaps the most tender and soulful tune they’ve yet committed to tape in the form of Love Is A Laserquest which continues their endearing predilection for introspective ballads (see Riot Van, The Only Ones Who Know and Secret Door for more information). We also get a (now standard?) mid-tempo love song with Piledriver Waltz that’s definitely equal to the likes of Mardy Bum, Florescent Adolescent and Cornerstone.
Overall Suck It And See has a lasting quality that makes up for the service station comfort break that was 2009’s Humbug, however the whiskey soaked ventures into haunted forest atmospherics are still present and have yet to be shaken off by a band still too youthful for such bitter grown up antics. Stick to the guitar pop, boys, there’s still plenty of time to emulate Nick Cave and Tom Waits... and don’t worry about trying to impress Queens Of The Stone Age’s Josh Homme (who co-produced Humbug) with limp interpretations of stoner rock and cactus blues, he’s only a ginger and can’t hurt you.
4/5
As the rest of the British indie/alternative music scene scrambles desperately to sound like early to mid 1980s synth pop groups (a revivalist genre ensnaring the likes of Kaiser Chiefs, Glasvegas and Editors) the Arctic Monkeys have boldly moved on a step and now warmly tip their flat caps to late 80s Madchester bands and Union Jack waving 90s Britpop stalwarts such as The Stone Roses, The Charlatans, The Bluetones, The Lightning Seeds and, erm, Babybird (you’ll know it when you hear it). It’s a brave step, considering that said decade of untucked long-sleeved shirts and shaggy bowl haircuts still feels relatively close and, as with all just-departed periods of fashion and music culture, regrettable. But the Monkeys’ fourth album effortlessly strives to celebrate a jangly, drunken singalong vibe that has all but vanished in contemporary indie rock.
Suck It And See’s opening track contains a couple of mistakes… intentional mistakes, of course… clever mistakes. She’s Thunderstorms acts as a continuation of Humbug’s precedent of getting the ball rolling with a tale of sexual frustration and symbolic titillation. Alex Turner sings about having girls “lying on [their] front” or “up against the wall”. Wherever. But girls send his mind and mouth into a frenzy and his rising blood pressure shoots his vocals into a topsy turvy summersault. So much so are these four Northern boys distracted by black leggings and teasing feminine fringes that even the guitar solo gets “sabotaged” by too much distortion that creates an ugly and cloudy fuzz tone (tightened slightly with effects and equalisation) that most guitarists would demand a re-take of.
What seems to have changed most of all since 2006’s Whatever They Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not is the prioritisation of Turner’s crooning vocals over frenetic twin guitar attacks. Each song is constructed to allow the vocals to wander in and out at any time, like a band playing live that’s waiting patiently for their singer to swagger back on stage after a lengthy cigarette break. The compositions are looser and take into account a more patient audience/fanbase that are less in need of instant pop gratification. You get the feeling that Richard Hawley and The Divine Comedy have been playing on Turner’s turntable of late and have taught him the importance of languid purposeful pace and charming music hall pomp.
If their milestone 2006 debut represented a snapshot of being at the age when you’re either too old or too young to get away with reckless behaviour and could never (and probably should never) be repeated then ideally what has come along since should be considered their true starting point. Suck It And See is the sound of the Arctic Monkeys finally settling into themselves; juggling playful images of love, loss and life in perpetual motion with shimmering guitar jetstreams and show-stopping rhythm section interludes.
But there are still pleasant consistencies: we’re treated to perhaps the most tender and soulful tune they’ve yet committed to tape in the form of Love Is A Laserquest which continues their endearing predilection for introspective ballads (see Riot Van, The Only Ones Who Know and Secret Door for more information). We also get a (now standard?) mid-tempo love song with Piledriver Waltz that’s definitely equal to the likes of Mardy Bum, Florescent Adolescent and Cornerstone.
Overall Suck It And See has a lasting quality that makes up for the service station comfort break that was 2009’s Humbug, however the whiskey soaked ventures into haunted forest atmospherics are still present and have yet to be shaken off by a band still too youthful for such bitter grown up antics. Stick to the guitar pop, boys, there’s still plenty of time to emulate Nick Cave and Tom Waits... and don’t worry about trying to impress Queens Of The Stone Age’s Josh Homme (who co-produced Humbug) with limp interpretations of stoner rock and cactus blues, he’s only a ginger and can’t hurt you.
4/5
Tuesday, 14 June 2011
Arctic Monkeys at the Don Valley Bowl
The doors opened for the Arctic Monkeys gig at five o’clock in the afternoon/evening, which seemed very early so I decided it would be best if we left the house at five thereby missing a support act or two. I was somehow expecting a large tent in the middle of the Don Valley Bowl, which would look weird, but in actual fact it was a massive arena sized tent just on site and not within the stadium perimeter itself. We rode in on the tram and as we came to the right stop there were a few exclamations from other passengers and, assumedly, visitors to the gig along the lines of “oh, that’s where they’ve put it!!”… so at least it wasn’t just me wondering how it was going to be set out.
We got through the gates fine and they didn’t ask to check for proof of my disability which was good as it would have felt a bit demeaning (although I did have proof on me). I was using my cane anyway so it was pretty clear that I had a problem.
There were lots of food and drinks stalls outside the music tent and we indulged in a few. It felt more like a beer festival than a standard rock concert. We had a pork roll, some southern fried chicken and, later on, a bacon and cheeseburger. There were plenty of toilets including a male urinal section, which was strange to do outside.
After a couple of Gaymers ciders (which was lush and tasted nicer than horrible Strongbow) we went and found the disabled platform and made ourselves comfortable. We were miles away from the actual stage but no more so than some of the regular audience members who were struggling to get anywhere near the main event.
We’d stayed away for the first two support acts but sat down for Miles Kane, who was only ok but seemed to get the crowd very excited. I wondered for a second whether his road crew were pumping pre-recorded crowd cheers through the speakers as I’m just not convinced Miles Kane is that popular. He seemed quite cocky onstage and seems to be riding on his association with Alex Turner and the Arctic Monkeys quite comfortably. His set reminded me a lot of Cast, but not quite as good.
When the Arctic Monkeys did finally come on they kept to the same setlist as the previous night (Friday), which was a shame as it felt like we weren’t getting anything particular to our night. Still, it was very enjoyable and I got very excited when they started. I’m still convinced they went out of time a couple of times on the first song. The transition from A View From The Afternoon to Brianstorm was very successful and it felt like the two songs were written for each other. I was amazed how giddy I was when they played Crying Lightning from their previous album as the whole record was hardly a career highlight… it just seemed to work very well in a live setting.
I had to go to the disabled chemical toilet a few times the more I drank, which is typical, but I’m glad it was nice and spacious and not too smelly. We were sat amongst a nice group of people although once the Monkeys started going a guy turned up on crutches and proceeded to drunkenly swing them around his head (almost hitting my girlfriend).
I hadn’t planned to stay to the end as I knew it’d be a bugger trying to get on public transport with 2,000 other punters so we left after I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor which seemed aptly timed about two thirds of the way through their set. It didn’t seem to matter that we’d left early however as we could still hear the concert from the tram stop half an hour later and caught the next three or four songs.
We rode back into Sheffield centre and got the bus home. I needed the toilet again all the way home and almost had a sneaky wee in the doorway of an abandoned building next to the bus stop, but resisted thank goodness.
All in all it was a successful evening and we really enjoyed ourselves. I’m glad they had food stalls on because it stopped me getting too drunk (a total of eight pints were downed by the end of the night… eek!!). It’s a shame the gig wasn’t quite as intimate as I thought it’d be but I guess I’ll never see the Arctic Monkeys in a small venue until maybe they’re in the twilight of their careers (and I in mine… whatever that turns out to be, lol). Two thumbs up, lads!!!
We got through the gates fine and they didn’t ask to check for proof of my disability which was good as it would have felt a bit demeaning (although I did have proof on me). I was using my cane anyway so it was pretty clear that I had a problem.
There were lots of food and drinks stalls outside the music tent and we indulged in a few. It felt more like a beer festival than a standard rock concert. We had a pork roll, some southern fried chicken and, later on, a bacon and cheeseburger. There were plenty of toilets including a male urinal section, which was strange to do outside.
After a couple of Gaymers ciders (which was lush and tasted nicer than horrible Strongbow) we went and found the disabled platform and made ourselves comfortable. We were miles away from the actual stage but no more so than some of the regular audience members who were struggling to get anywhere near the main event.
We’d stayed away for the first two support acts but sat down for Miles Kane, who was only ok but seemed to get the crowd very excited. I wondered for a second whether his road crew were pumping pre-recorded crowd cheers through the speakers as I’m just not convinced Miles Kane is that popular. He seemed quite cocky onstage and seems to be riding on his association with Alex Turner and the Arctic Monkeys quite comfortably. His set reminded me a lot of Cast, but not quite as good.
When the Arctic Monkeys did finally come on they kept to the same setlist as the previous night (Friday), which was a shame as it felt like we weren’t getting anything particular to our night. Still, it was very enjoyable and I got very excited when they started. I’m still convinced they went out of time a couple of times on the first song. The transition from A View From The Afternoon to Brianstorm was very successful and it felt like the two songs were written for each other. I was amazed how giddy I was when they played Crying Lightning from their previous album as the whole record was hardly a career highlight… it just seemed to work very well in a live setting.
I had to go to the disabled chemical toilet a few times the more I drank, which is typical, but I’m glad it was nice and spacious and not too smelly. We were sat amongst a nice group of people although once the Monkeys started going a guy turned up on crutches and proceeded to drunkenly swing them around his head (almost hitting my girlfriend).
I hadn’t planned to stay to the end as I knew it’d be a bugger trying to get on public transport with 2,000 other punters so we left after I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor which seemed aptly timed about two thirds of the way through their set. It didn’t seem to matter that we’d left early however as we could still hear the concert from the tram stop half an hour later and caught the next three or four songs.
We rode back into Sheffield centre and got the bus home. I needed the toilet again all the way home and almost had a sneaky wee in the doorway of an abandoned building next to the bus stop, but resisted thank goodness.
All in all it was a successful evening and we really enjoyed ourselves. I’m glad they had food stalls on because it stopped me getting too drunk (a total of eight pints were downed by the end of the night… eek!!). It’s a shame the gig wasn’t quite as intimate as I thought it’d be but I guess I’ll never see the Arctic Monkeys in a small venue until maybe they’re in the twilight of their careers (and I in mine… whatever that turns out to be, lol). Two thumbs up, lads!!!
Sunday, 17 April 2011
Angles
It’s always nice when a song comes along that hits so many giddy nerves in your body that it makes you whistle and skip from the breakfast table right through to your midnight cereal raid… and it just so happens that “Under Cover Of Darkness” on The Strokes’ fourth album Angles is one of those tunes. In fact it’s so riff-tastic and catchy that you almost curse yourself for not coming up with the idea first.
Thankfully though this isn’t the only gem on the band’s long awaited (and much feared by this reviewer) follow-up to the deeply flawed First Impressions Of Earth which frontman Julian Casablancas managed to spoil almost single-handedly with a collection of vocal melodies which plunged to the very nadir of songwriting craft. Angles, predictably much like it’s title, has a few new angles to it, but the resulting record is neither confused nor rambling… it’s also mercifully shorter than it’s overlong predecessor.
From the colourful opener Machu Picchu onwards it’s clear that The Strokes have finally remembered how to infuse a bit of sunlight and fun into their garage rock groove and have brushed away the cobwebs of the past to march ahead to a more promising, productive and artistically valid future.
There are some lovely 80s flavours to the album, so much so in fact that on tracks like “Two Kinds Of Happiness” and “Games” you half expect Cyndi Lauper to make a guest appearance and wink cheekily through your speakers with a mouth full of bubblegum.
Elsewhere there are more earnest experiments into Radiohead-style alt-rock that thankfully aren’t left field enough to spoil the flow of the record and end up being entertaining in their own right. For those yearning for a reminder of their first two albums then “Taken For A Fool” comes with a lush chorus that must’ve been picked straight up off the cutting room (on fire) floor.
Angles is certainly one of the better albums to appear during this guitar-rock lull and the shoulder pad inducing synths are mixed well with the band’s familiar retro sound.
Give it a go… it’s a very rewarding “grower”.
4/5
Thankfully though this isn’t the only gem on the band’s long awaited (and much feared by this reviewer) follow-up to the deeply flawed First Impressions Of Earth which frontman Julian Casablancas managed to spoil almost single-handedly with a collection of vocal melodies which plunged to the very nadir of songwriting craft. Angles, predictably much like it’s title, has a few new angles to it, but the resulting record is neither confused nor rambling… it’s also mercifully shorter than it’s overlong predecessor.
From the colourful opener Machu Picchu onwards it’s clear that The Strokes have finally remembered how to infuse a bit of sunlight and fun into their garage rock groove and have brushed away the cobwebs of the past to march ahead to a more promising, productive and artistically valid future.
There are some lovely 80s flavours to the album, so much so in fact that on tracks like “Two Kinds Of Happiness” and “Games” you half expect Cyndi Lauper to make a guest appearance and wink cheekily through your speakers with a mouth full of bubblegum.
Elsewhere there are more earnest experiments into Radiohead-style alt-rock that thankfully aren’t left field enough to spoil the flow of the record and end up being entertaining in their own right. For those yearning for a reminder of their first two albums then “Taken For A Fool” comes with a lush chorus that must’ve been picked straight up off the cutting room (on fire) floor.
Angles is certainly one of the better albums to appear during this guitar-rock lull and the shoulder pad inducing synths are mixed well with the band’s familiar retro sound.
Give it a go… it’s a very rewarding “grower”.
4/5
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