Having fun, in the city, it’s alright

The Rakes at Kings College, 7th March 2007

The Rakes come on like professional wrestlers tonight; all streamlined wizardry and choreographed jerkiness. Something’s gone missing in the opinion of some of my colleagues-in-arms however- in the battle for the big time (Brixton Academy, get you!), the poor distressed lads have lost their joie de vivre and got a whole heap of trouble and angst in its place. Yes, like Tony Blair after his first year in office, Mr Donahue has greyed visibly (not a literal greyness; he's far too young for that, but a spiritual malaise). He needs some sleep and a nice aromatherapy session I’m thinking. It all just seemed so much more spontaneous and heartfelt at the Islington Bar Academy in the halcyon days of June 2006 .

Not that we don’t have a good time however- for starters, we’re at the Kings College and that always gets me a bit excited; not over-excited, but certainly high-spirited (the lack of oxygen makes me feel giddy or something). Luckily for us the lifts to the fourth floor are working tonight and as we get into them, who do we spy in the corner skulking like a moody teenager, but a sombre, and very earnest-looking lead singer. Thirty something that I am, I still get the giggles slightly on these occasions (i.e. when famous people are in the immediate vicinity). So apologies for the embarrassment if you’re out there Mr Alan. Sir. (I’m sure he’s lovely when he smiles).

The Rakes are good value whatever night of the year it is, and however stressed they might be (‘just be grateful we turned up’ they seem to be saying; ‘we don’t need any support or nothing…we’re proper popular now’) and I rocked the night away down near the front, and enjoyed it all muchly- even if it was just a tossing of bones to the fan base- we’re grateful for the meat and gristle, yes indeed.
GSG.

Festive encounters of the anti-folk kind

Antifolk Winter Festival, Friday 16th Feb 2007

So it’s my first proper anti-folk/fest type gig and I’m very excited. I’m a stranger to the anti-folk scene and on arrival at the venue I’m maybe feeling a wee bit out of place in my insecure, paranoid-fantasy type of way. Not that I’m a complete novice in the gig related world; I’ve been fairly prolific in my gig-going over the past couple of years (after an introspective early life in Wild Wales). Yes, I’ve travelled far and wide in my quest for my middle-age kicks, but this is something totally new, having only been alerted to the existence of the anti-folk scene relatively recently.

The 12 Bar

On first glance the venue takes me unawares; I’ve been to Bradley’s Spanish Bar and the Camden Barfly, and various other temples of sin and inequity (not to mention the mud-drenched Reading Festival), so I’m used to getting down and dirty in a gig and drinking den-type way, but nothing in my previous career really prepared me for the Blair Witch meets Twin Peaks type ambiance of the 12 Bar. In fact on first entrance to the downstairs pit area I don’t know whether to strap a guitar on, call 999, or howl at the moon like a demented tourist that’s got seriously lost a la An American Werewolf in London. However, the anti-folk folk seem like a friendly lot and I’m as happy enough after a couple of pints of Strongbow and the first couple of sets.

Poppy

First up was Poppy a torch-song kinda girl in the Joan Baez/Tracy Chapman tradition- except her subject matter tends more towards the chocolate biscuit and pizza end of things than the ‘overturn the establishment/down with capitalism’ rants of her forbearers. Anyway I liked her tales of purple wigs and superhero girlfriends and I particularly liked her winsome sailor hat. She has a big future I’m predicting. Her voice is strong and her delivery is unfussy and direct, which is just how I like my singer/songstresses to be.

Miss Sills

Second band up and Miss Sills are very traditional in a Snow White/Vashti Bunyon type of way. During their set I kept thinking about the 1980s flake advert and frolicking in fields full of daisies, romantic aspirations, four-poster beds, that sort of thing. Having said that I’ve always liked bands with lots of percussion instruments at their disposal and they were very proficient at what they do. I particularly like the blue plastic glockenspiel which reminded me of primary school music classes sitting cross-legged in the assembly room, shaking a tambourine.

Tim Tomlinson

Third up and the above mentioned singer songwriter and multi-instrumentalist seemed to be one of the most popular acts on the bill tonight with words of encouragement propelled like bullets at the stage during the course of the proceedings. And you can understand why when you listen to the stream of musical virtuosity emanating from behind the protective sheath of the artist’s music stand. His use of cultural referencing was wide-ranging and articulate and I kept thinking of the great American songwriter Daniel Johnston who has a similar style and mode of delivery (not to mention talent). If he could only get over some of his shyness, I’m sure that he’d do ‘great things’ in the words of the Echobelly song.

Blanket

Looking back on this set a week or so after the event all I could find to reflect my experience were the words ‘sleepy, sleepy’ in my notebook. That is to say all I can remember is the overall effect rather than individual melodies or occurrences. I’ve probably hideously underestimated their capabilities and attractions for which I apologise profusely, but then I was recovering from the previous set’s frenetic pace at the time. As a gauche newcomer, my stamina is probably not quite what it could be.

Filthy Pedro and the Carthaginians

Well I’ve seen Filthy and Co twice now and I have to say they’re growing on me exponentially. What I’m beginning to perceive to be one of the defining properties of the anti-folk scene, humorous self-deprecation, is much in evidence throughout the set and I almost feel compelled to partake of the opportunities for audience participation: particularly during the rousing ‘I’m too good for you’. Everyone seems to enjoy themselves during the set, even if the stage is rather overcrowded for the assembled collective and Penny, extremely glamorous chanteuse from the English National Opera, nearly knocks herself out as she attempts to clamber on to the stage (it really doesn’t pay to be above average height at this venue). I’m also impressed with the biblical pedantry on display- the rhyming of Neolithic and prolific in ‘Man of Old’ particularly caught my ear, as did the sampling of the Suzanne Vega track Tom's Diner, which was one of my own personal folk-tinged favourites from the late 80s.

Bobby McGees

I’m not sure what to say about the Bobby McGees except that there the oddest-looking band I’ve seen in ages- kind of a bit like a Scots Captain Nemo meeting the wandering minstrel circa 1968. Tonight is proving to be a bit of a Trojan horse musically- just when you think you’ve got it all pegged, something else jumps out of the box and takes you by surprise. But actually the BM’s are extremely entertaining and the hippy chick/nautical theme is brilliantly counterbalanced by the nihilistic content of some of the songs- I’m thinking here of ‘Got no friends’ and of course the anthemic ‘Kill yourself’ (not ones for understatement this crowd). Overall it’s a brilliant cocktail of the sublime and the ridiculous wrapped up in one. Absolutely hilarious.

David Cronenberg’s Wife

And so to (my) last band of the evening (sorry I had to go catch the last train, which I missed anyway). Being of a naturally curious psychological disposition I was looking forward to this band from the moment I saw there name on the schedule. Or at least intrigued; that’s probably a better description. I’ve heard of the film director David Cronenberg of course (The Fly, Naked Lunch), but where does the wife come in? Anyway, what I got was not dancing typewriters or men dressed as giant human bugs, but gyrating anti-folk folks forming a mini mosh pit. Actually I’m feeling a bit more at home here- I was at a Rakes gig at Kings College a few weeks back and there was a very similar reaction to ’22 Grand Job’ as there is to ‘Couldn’t get off’ tonight. Seems like this anti-folk crowd aren’t that dissimilar to their art-rock indie relatives after all.

Review in two parts

The Spinto band at Koko, 15 February 2007

This is a review in two parts:

Part i- The music

The Spinto band are like a box of chocolates- full of soft centres and luxurious fondant. The songs oscillate between the Ray Harryhausen type stop start motion of Direct to Helmet (which tonight seems even more angular than usual; like a military band trooping the colour), and Oh Mandy which creates a swoopy swirly, kaleidoscopic, ‘wall of sound’ effect on the audience, making you want to twirl around and around (a la 1973), and then just fall to the ground exhausted but laughing (those were the days when we made our own fun). Not to mention the surreal triumph of Tiffany's I Think We're Alone Now- the set closer, which made me laugh even more.

Overall the gig tonight makes me reassess the band and hold them in greater esteem than before. They move around the stage with abandon and their set is much more energetic and dynamic than expected. Not that I was expecting them to be weeping and wailing about the stage, but I think I thought they’d be more static somehow. Basically if you’re fond of a dalliance with any of the current peddlers of heart-warming twee indie jinglemasters, e.g. the Delays/Peter, Bjorn and John etc., and indeed, any of their forefathers (Beach Boys, early Beatles) then you’ll definitely like a touch of the Spintos. They’re lovely creatures, they really are (mad as hatters, but).

Part ii- The venue

Koko-the venue, is as disorientating as the music. There are levels, and then more levels, and then even more opportunities to topple headlong into the dizzying depths of the auditorium. As I traverse the precarious edifice I imagine old Victorian gentlemen cavorting with doxies and harlots in secluded corners a hundred and fifty years ago; playing cards with fellow cads and inspecting their winnings with ridiculously large monocles. The giant glitter ball is also one of the biggest I have EVER seen, anywhere.

On the top level I take a weird photo of myself and my friend looking like disembodied corpses, and pass by a stranded barmaid desperate for custom or human interaction. She obviously drew the short straw, poor love.

Lower down we find a suitable stretch of balcony to view tonight’s entertainment and are surprised to find ourselves standing next to a shy and retiring Eddie Argos, of Art Brut fame- unmistakable to any indie-type acolyte worth his or her salt (it's the eyebrows). I find him attractive in an old-fashioned, Rudolf Valentino kind of way- a ‘sitting by the fire holding hands on cold winter evenings’ way; and I cogitate that if he had been born at the beginning of the twentieth century, he could definitely have been a silent movie star.

Throughout the night I wander like a gypsy queen among the rocks and crevices, with a sprinkling of Romany wander lust in my soul. I can see why some might not like Koko, but I enjoy its Victorian theme-park vibe, and wouldn’t be adverse to a second visit, given the right circumstances, the right band, and some rock climbing crampons perhaps.

“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven” (Ecclesiastes 3:1)