Live Review: Parquet Courts + Mazes - Village Underground 28/10/13

The lovely lo-fi psychedelia of Mazes’ Ores and Minerals LP has been one of the year’s more absorbing releases, but the band were a shadow of their recorded selves at Village Underground tonight, the loops that should have augmented the guitar, bass and drums trio felt somehow shorn of all melodic depth. This meant the focus fell too unforgivingly on the jagged string-picking and off-kilter vocals of Jack Cooper, who was reticent in the spotlight. Showpiece tunes, such as ‘Bodies’, ‘Hayfever Wristband’ and the ‘Mrs Robinson’-esque cover ‘Donovan’ were still pretty fabulous, strong enough to withstand a below-par performance, but, stripped of its studio subtleties, much of Mazes’ idiosyncratic poppy Krautrock veered disappointingly close to the landfill. A blip, perhaps.

No such crisis of confidence for Parquet Courts, so full of Big Apple swagger that they barely seemed to notice a couple of false starts and even got away with some interminable drone rock in ‘She’s Rolling’ (an antidote to the hardcore snippets that peppered the rest of the set) before kickstarting the pogoing and stage-diving proper with Light Up Gold’s zippy back-to-back openers, ‘Master of My Craft’ and ‘Borrowed Time’. Looking like four insouciant college kids, the Courts’ excitingly forceful hipster punk occupies an unlikely space where The Strokes might rub up against Discharge. Their slacker singalongs slammed into the sell-out crowd via a surge of distorted adrenaline and unrelenting high-speed 4/4, delivered in a whirl of hair, sweat, power chords and feedback. Guitarists Andrew Savage and Austin Brown took turns to bellow out lyrics in a Brooklyn drawl, the latter joking how he’s made more trips to London this year than to his mother’s - the band have more than quadrupled the size of venues they’ve played while doing so. The intimate ferocity in which they specialise is best suited to compact and sweaty, though, and it’s hard to imagine them pulling off such a relentless onslaught in establishments much bigger than Village Underground. Relish the moment, of course, but the Courts may have reached a career crossroads where the snotty attitude and humour of thrilling garage nuggets like ‘Master of My Craft’ and ‘Stoned and Starving’ point the way over much of the set’s powerful but perfunctory punk rock. After all, Parquet Courts may come on like indifferent wasters, but their wise-guy lyrics betray a band whose ambitions surely lie beyond just sharing the bill with Anti-Pasti at the 2016 Punx Picnic.

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Live Review: Yurs + Mano's Daughter - The Finsbury 12/10/2013

In BBC4’s ‘Synth Britannia’ doc, prolific music writer Simon Reynolds contends that 1980s electronica acts developed a ‘fire and ice’ template, wherein a boffin figure handled the technology while a passionate female or gay male vocalist provided the sensual drama. Think Yazoo, Soft Cell et al. It’s a formula that Mano’s Daughter adhere to, contemporising the image thanks to their man behind the Moog who, in stubble and distinctive tee, resembles the hip guy from your office IT department. But over and above knowing where to locate the restart button, Matthias Garrick’s expertise at sequencing steady binary beats and hefty cadences was clear, as was his musicality – sublime keyboard runs colourised his act’s cyborg sheen as much as the heartfelt reverb-drenched vocal of Sarah Carter, who injected range into the duo’s downtempo balladry. Touches of Portishead’s ethereal chill leaked into a brooding sentimentality popularised by the likes of BANKS, leading to dense slab of moody modernism, occasionally so widescreen that the songs' abrupt endings came as a disconcerting jolt. And as well-conceived as each tune was, the set never really changed gear, its constant loping pulse rendering it somewhat repetitive. Mixing up the BPM here and there wouldn’t have gone amiss on this Saturday night.

If Mano’s Daughter maxed out the melancholy, Yurs bounced in from the other end of the emotional spectrum, a sunny blast of poppy tuneage that had the crowd jumping from first number to last. Their two frontmen sharing guitar and vocals were embellished by keys, bass and drums, with four of the five-piece spreading delicious harmonies around a powerful tenor, leaving traces of Byrds here, Monkees there. Direct comparisons to such giants would plainly be overdoing it just yet, but those layered voices are a wonderful card to play, and terrifically crafted numbers like ‘I’m Allowed’ had instant impact. In the main, the group drew on the finer stuff of noughties indie, a combination of catchy riffs, the lightness of touch of good-vibe American guitar bands and, most obviously, the effervescent dexterity of Supergrass, an outfit whose versatility was key to their success. Judging by this Finsbury show, Yurs also have the proficiency to change direction with ease, a quality that should scream commercial viability. Yurs ‘oping, anyway (bad closing pun should be read with a Westcountry accent for full effect).

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Live Review: Zoo Zero + Tied To The Mast + The Jack J Hutchinson Band @ The Finsbury 7/9/13

On occasion a reviewer will chance upon an act so familiar that any florid turns of phrase seem surplus to requirements. Blues-rock is the only appropriate descriptor of The Jack J Hutchinson Band, a trio with a decadent Seventies bent but very much of a genre that has been with us since white boys first turned their hands to Elmore James licks. No bad thing, of course, as when well-executed it is a sound to offer timeless pleasures. This outfit were reliant on theirs from main-man Hutchinson, a good ol’ guitar hero giving up all the hammer-ons and hirsute gurning you could desire. His adroit fretwork was at its most expressive in shorter bursts, however. Come the set’s end, and despite ably brandishing a bottleneck, his soloing had become so pervasive it was like listening to a medley of everything ever recorded by Lynyrd Skynyrd. Hutchinson’s extended lead play may have been cover for an enforced line-up reshuffle necessitated by the disappearance of his regular bass player. The replacement did a steady job, if tentatively, his look of studied concentration a little at odds with a music so evocative of carefree rock’n’roll excess.

No such incongruity from Tied To The Mast, a rum-looking bunch who were as effective a band-as-gang as you’re likely to witness. Blasting out overdriven slacker punk, their three guitarists interwove thrillingly, also trading lead-vocal duties to subtly alter the feel of each song. Employing a powerhouse drummer and a muscular bassist, the band’s default setting was ferociously full-on, but they had a fine ear for dynamics, breaking down and dropping out in all the optimum places, constructing tunes from layers of contrasting volume. There was something of Dinosaur Jr to their distorted vibe; dirty and joyous, rather than dirgy, mainly thanks to those ever-fresh vocal interjections. ‘Bubblegum’ ended proceedings with a flourish, proving TTTM could pull out a blinding pop tune too, albeit with a white-noise sheen.

If anything, the volume pots were pushed further clockwise when Zoo Zero took to the stage, the four-piece announcing their arrival with a swirl of feedback, setting the tone for a set that enveloped The Finsbury in a six-string sonic shroud, darker than Tied To The Mast’s, more shoegazey and stoutly psychedelic. The clarity of the lead vocal, appearing occasionally amid the guitar maelstrom, offered footholds in the wall of noise, further enhanced by harmonies from the drummer. Peaking during songs built on near-Hawkwindish driving krautrock, Zoo Zero’s set may have struggled to sustain its high for the full 45 minutes, but affirmatively found fifth-gear again for the finale, a slab of pounding, glistening electric thrash that... well, that rocked really fucking hard, as even the most erudite reviewer would be content to admit. Zoo Zero’s debut album is out 30 September.

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Live Review: The Young Aviators @ The Finsbury 09/08/2013

Young Aviators @ The Finsbury 9/8/13 With an Oasis-like sense of dramatic timing, Babeshadow, the night’s scheduled headliners, apparently split up just prior to the gig. You could argue they chose a good day to self-destruct. Their support, Young Aviators – three young fellas from Ireland who crossed the North Channel to plant roots in Glasgow – proved themselves a tough act for anyone to follow.

Although occupying territory that has been generously populated with guitar-wielding wannabes since The Strokes swaggered on to the scene at the turn of the millennium, Young Aviators’ take on melodic garage rock had more than enough verve to rise above the hordes. Their clipped, driving guitar-based indie was tight, razor-sharp and, most crucially, built around memorable pop hooks delivered with uplifting three-part harmonies. At their most exuberant they brought to mind the finest practitioners of the genre, acts such as Arctic Monkeys and The Young Knives. And like the latter, Young Aviators are blessed with easy, appealing wit – no demure indie boys these. The singer offered a withering assessment of the band’s London mini-tour, one which “offered so much but delivered so little”, noting the aloofness of the capital’s gig-goers. This old-beyond-his-years cynicism was countered by a determination for the Finsbury crowd to prove an exception; the ‘self-help’ books that were distributed as ironic gifts were further evidence of the trio’s anti-earnestness. Two audience members were even invited on stage, with only the lankiest being deemed worthy of a prize. It was all a disarmingly funny foil to Young Aviators’ buzzsaw new wave: dynamic, chunky tunes like ‘Future Pill’ and ‘Forward Thinking’ were raw rock’n’roll belters, while ‘We’ve Got Names For Folks Like You’ was a groove-built blast of disco polemic, essentially a floor filler, but more daft punks than Daft Punk. The band encored with a high-velocity cover of ‘Get Over You’ by The Undertones, those expert Irish exponents of eminently hummable overdriven pop. That figured. Young Aviators are supporting Travis on a couple of dates later this year. ‘Driftwood’ after this lot? Don’t be altogether surprised if Travis suddenly announce their retirement in the run up to the show...

Live Review: The Bishops + The 286 @ The Finsbury 26/7/13

A neatly garbed trio with tailored tunes to match, The Bishops have been making eyes at the music industry’s movers and shakers for several years now, chalking up an impressive roster of festival slots and big-name supports in the process. Although clearly not a band to dwell on past achievements – much of tonight’s set comprised new material from third album All Lost Time, out in October – such experience has brought them patent self-assurance. At ease in the spotlight, brothers Mike, on guitar and lead vocals, and Pete Bishop, on bass and backing, strode about the stage sharing harmonies over a set of precise and angular punchy pop. Perhaps the most ear-catching of the instrumentalists, though, was drummer Chris McConville, whose oft-contrapuntal beats contrasted with the brothers’ straight delivery and lent several numbers their original edge. But essentially this band is a collective effort, each member aware of the others’ roles, and every break, every refrain, has been thoroughly honed. That said, and far be it from me to bash The Bishops (yeah, like they’ve never heard that one before), as the set unfolded it threatened to become as homogeneous as might be feared from an unadorned guitar-bass-drums three-piece. But the band’s agile songcraft managed to mostly keep things fresh; these were tunes to entice further listening. Tonight’s immediate highs were mod stomper ‘City Lights’ from 2009’s For Now, and new material on which Mike’s resounding guitar peals topped some arty white-boy funk à la Franz Ferdinand, promising much from the album to come.

Prior to The Bishops, The 286 took to the stage minus their two cellists, which was a shame as it would have fleshed out the group’s vaguely anaemic Anglo-pop. The remaining quintet did include a violinist - Emma - who sawed away admirably behind her music stand. But the dominant sound was that of the electric piano, nudging the band towards the middle of the road. Some pleasant enough tunes could be found among the fromage, however, suggesting that The 286 could have commercial impact given the necessary studio sheen. Standing out was the penultimate Sgt Pepper-esque fanfare of ‘Month of Sundays’, delivered with an appropriately nasal vocal twang, before it was all back to Hamburg for the set-closing rocky rumble of ‘Little Louisa’. But whether it was the fault of those missing in action or not, there was little fluidity in the band’s sound, mirrored by their slightly stilted stage presence. The set snagged on a tentative approach, and if they don’t shake off the shackles and inject a little soul, then The 286 may be forever destined just to make up the numbers.

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Live Review: The Meg Cavanaugh Band @ The Finsbury 14/7/13

The Meg Cavanaugh Band @ The Finsbury 14/7/13

Manor House sure ain’t Mississippi, no matter how much Bourbon you knock back at the Finsbury, but last Sunday, with the thermometer stuck in the 20s come dusk, Meg Cavanaugh’s sultry country swing band brought a sense of the Deep South to this precious venue a few miles north of the River Thames. Originally from the Midwestern environs of Ohio and now based in London, Meg, Epiphone in hand, led her group with a crystalline vocal that shone more brightly even than her golden hotpants. Her worldly takes on heartache and hedonism were backed by luscious, never-faltering harmonies from keyboardist Bridget, and, behind these two, a trio of experienced hands looked, and sounded, as if they’d been a steadying presence on many a stage; the guitarist, in particular, added colour to the frame with his slide and subtle lead-play. It all resulted in comforting bluesy alt-country Americana, and while it seems a little lame to compare Meg to guitar-toting female solo artists on a similar tip, her more rockish numbers, such as the hooky ‘Adventurous’, brought to mind a rootsier Sheryl Crow. Meg has an easy on-stage charisma, too, supplementing between-song banter with jokes that’d make Frankie Boyle blush, and demonstrating that the best thing to do when there isn’t a trumpet-player in the house is to impersonate one yourself. A pleasantly laid-back scene-setter then, for a steamy summer evening, evocative enough to bring on a kind of hazy US dive-bar reverie, at least until a lamb doner, a pint of milk from Costcutter and a traffic snarl-up on Green Lanes swiftly fractured the illusion on the walk home.

The Bedlamytes and The Black Ink, The Finsbury 31/5/13

Lost in the Manor Presents Such is the refreshingly diverse nature of the Finsbury clientele, that the crowd on the final Friday of May included a fully kitted-out softball team, fresh from an evening swinging the bat in nearby Finsbury Park. Not that such overt Americana had any noticeable impact on The Black Ink, whose white-shirt-black-tie Brit-beat shtick disguised a psychedelic rock band of greater depth. Three of the five members strummed six-strings but never overwhelmed, adopting a share-and-share-alike approach to their playing that was complementary rather than intrusive; flourishes such as the sparkling slide riff on ‘Tangerine’ gave the song its singular hook. Tight and accomplished, The Black Ink were at their best when belting out pop-flecked uptempo stompers, energised by a vibrant rhythm section. Oh, and it has to be said, the anchorman, sorry, the lead singer, was a dead ringer for Will Ferrell. No jazz flute tonight, though, sadly.

Headliners The Bedlamytes may have been more rudimentary musically, but they boasted an immediate focal point in singer Jasmine, whose keyboard swells and runs elevated sometimes functional tunes to a more intriguing level. Her strong vocal resemblance to Siouxsie Sioux completed the quartet’s alternative-eighties vibe, one where the occasional driving riff and catchy dynamic crescendo stood out rather than any infectious track as a whole. Still, another night at The Finsbury, another set of ascending London bands for no cover charge. All in all, another Home Run, as they may have been shouting on the sports pitches nearby.