On the whole, one tends to associate Hoxton Square more with floppy haircuts, detached irony and a generalised contempt for one’s fellow man than joy, happiness and so forth. But tonight, for one night only, the fog of bitter cynicism is emphatically swept away by the blissful indie-pop whirlwind of Shugo Tokumaru.

On first impression, you wouldn’t necessarily expect this Tokyo-based songwriter to be particularly engaging- he comes across as a shy character, perhaps a bit of a daydreamer. But with his two friends in tow, he creates a sound as beautiful as it is quirky; a exuberantly melodic broadside of classic pop songwriting somewhere between the Beatles and Mercury Rev, combined with the slightly off-kilter eccentricity Japanese bands tend to do so well.

Shugo is undoubtedly a skilled musician, his intricate, light-fingered guitar playing recalling the marvellous Dustin Wong, but his bandmates definitely deserve similar, if not equal kudos. Yumiko Hishinuma, the wonderfully stoic glockenspielist/accordion player/glove puppeteer/all-purpose purveyor of instrumental miscellany does an fine job recreating the myriad (literal) bells and whistles that are Tokumaru’s trademark, and the endearingly nerdy Yoshinari Kishida’s infectious enthusiasm is almost as enjoyable to witness as his drumming.

The live arrangements are also a marked step-up from their recorded incarnations. Shugo has the occasional tendency to overdo the twee on record, but tonight, everything sounds perfect, from the impossibly lovely ‘Katachi’ and twinkly whimsy of ‘Parachute,’ to his signature, ukulele-centric cover of ‘Video Killed The Radio Star.’

A near flawless performance from an ever-impressive talent, Shugo Tokumaru may not change the world, but he certainly makes it a better place.

Photograph by Sara Amroussi-Gilissen

John Grant is an artist that inspires evangelism among his followers. You could see it when Midlake, self-confessed super-fans of Grant’s former band the Czars, coaxed him out of obscurity and into their studio to record his solo debut, Queen of Denmark.

It was apparent in the manner in which said album took off: there was a real, old-fashioned, word-of-mouth feel to its ascendency (living abroad at the time, I received various emails from people in the UK telling me I simply had to get my hands on his record). There’s the sell-out British tour and the fact that every time there’s a moment of silence in tonight’s jam-packed Shepherd’s Bush Empire, a gaggle of infatuated revellers will loudly declare their unconditional love for him. Throughout, I’m half expecting a pair of knickers to land at his feet, as he self-consciously shimmies his way through a stellar performance.

He emerges to the groan of a synthesizer that’s so sonorous, it feels like it’s coming from the bowels of the old Empire itself. The 4/4 backbeat to ‘You Don’t Have To’ ushers him toward the mic, the lights flickering fluorescent. New album Pale Green Ghosts is a departure, for sure, but it’s arguably not until you’ve seen him perform it live that you realise just how different he intended it to be. In a week dominated by the catfight over Daft Punk’s new record, the title track, performed to a mesmerising green light show, reminds us all what a great dance tune should sound like. The searing synth riff of ‘It Doesn’t Matter to Him’, too, bellow around the theatre: louder, dancier and bolder than you could ever have envisioned (although I’d hazard that anyone who’s heard it on this tour will only ever hear it this way again).

Grant’s gallows humour transcends both of his records and it’s to the fore tonight too. From the deadbeat anthem ‘Queen of Denmark’ to the goofy existentialism of ‘Sigourney Weaver’, Grant has a Vonnegut-esque ability to sugarcoat the most barbed and venomous couplets in comedy. Often, too, the melody Grant hangs the lyrics on is at odds with the content: Grant himself draws the comparison between ‘I Hate This Town’ (about depression and alienation) and Abba’s ‘Chiquitita’ (a slightly more trivial number about teenage heartbreak), before regaling us with his confusion over how the band’s Frida would clap as she performed live (of course, he had us all join in).

Between tracks, too, his patter has the power to thaw the most hardened hearts. ‘Ernest Borgnine’, he tells the audience, is about how he felt when he was diagnosed with HIV, before setting the audience off in laughter again with a joke and an anecdote about Borgnine, the hero he once got to meet.

“I hope you can feel this,” he tells the crowd, clasping at his heart as he takes leave of his encore. We can – everybody can. From the moment he introduces his Icelandic band and thanks the support act before singing a note, to the final moments of ‘Caramel’, this has been an extraordinary occasion marked by humility and warmth.

Over the past months, there’s been a hell of a lot lot written about Grant’s illness, his depression and his addictions. Tonight, though, has been about his remarkable ability to channel his many-headed demons into something positive and beautiful.

Photograph by Burak Cingi

I’m sat in the stalls of the Barbican Hall, at the end of what’s been an evening of beautiful, challenging music. Timo Andres is sat straight up at the piano in a rococo beige suit, his head back and his long arms stretched out before him, playing out the last bars of Philip Glass’s Etudes for Piano.

My mind wanders to an evening spent watching renegade concert pianist Chilly Gonzalez a few weeks back in the Cadogan Hall, during which he tried to dispel the idea that the piano was an unconquerable instrument. There were postcards being sold on the merch desk proclaiming that a monkey playing a note is no different to Tchaikovsky playing the same one, or something to that effect.

As entertaining as Gonzalez is – and his possibly faux reverse snobbery shtick is a joy to behold – he is wrong. Andres has just replaced Nico Muhly at the keys, who himself was preceded by Philip Glass. In some baton-passing way, the sequencing feels symbolic. From the master, to the protégée, to the (outside of classical circles) relatively unknown. All three are playing pieces from the same movement, but each emblazons his own contribution with a personalised stamp.

Glass (in a straightforward navy cardigan, naturally) carries an air of unaffected normality. I’d recently watched a rerun of the stellar Glass: A Portrait of Philip in Twelve Parts – a documentary tracing his journey from avant-garde nihilist of the Lower East Side to toast of Carnegie Hall. All the way through, the man was unflappably normal. The day after Einstein on the Beach opened at the Metropolitan Opera, the , er, broke Glass was driving a taxi around New York City when a passenger leaned forward to tell him that he had the same name as a “very famous composer”. He plays his pieces coldly – scientifically, Gonzalez might say. Etudes is not difficult to enjoy. Perhaps the reason Glass has enjoyed so much crossover success is that you don’t have to look too hard, to listen too deep, to find the crux of the melody, and his style is as minimalistic as the music itself.

Muhly, by contrast, is altogether more involved. He leans – dives – into the music, contorting his body with each lift and fall. His head bobs forwards and back, the sweat glistening on the side of his face. A Scream and an Outrage is his baby and by the end of his performance of Etudes, he is emotional and drained. He snatches the music from its holder and bows, fulsomely. The calibre and breadth of performers he’s gathered for the weekend is testament to his own chameleonic ways. Conor O’Brien of Villagers is nodding in approval a few rows in front of me, and earlier in the evening we’d had our hearts ripped from their cages and served still beating on a plate by Shara Worden of My Brightest Diamond’s performance of the impeccable death speaks by David Lang.

Twenty-something Andres is a hybrid of his predecessors, at least stylistically. He, too, evokes something scientific – his bowtie and muffin hair suggest that if he were to speak (which he doesn’t), he might ask us to tell him about our childhoods. He’s not as distant as Glass, but nowhere near as intense as Muhly. Glass played from memory, Muhly from manuscript and for Andres, there’s an iPad sat on the rack, emitting a dim, tinny light that’s drowning in the face of the grandness that surrounds it. His long fingers arguably coax more elegance from his pieces than the others and his style is more playful.

As the three align to take their applause, I recall Gonzalez and his ersatz philosophy again. While Glass, I’m sure, would never claim to be a “musical genius” (Gonzalez’s words), there’s something interesting about the way in which each has struck out from the “world of serious music” (Glass’s). But as he homes in on 80, Philip Glass is still producing music which can be interpreted and reinterpreted ad infinitum, which challenges and thrills and which finds new territory and pulls new life from the same set of parameters he was given 60 years ago. That, to me, is something marvellous.

Photograph by Sebastien Dehesdin

Far from winding things down our last day in Brighton for The Great Escape Festival is packed with incredible artists, Dan Carson and George O’Brien catch sets from Mausi, Wall, YADi and Lulu James.

Photograph by Howard Melnyczuk

Mausi have come on leaps and bounds of late. Daisy downing tools – or bass, whatever – and moving front and centre has really beefed up their stage presence. Now she’s no longer constrained by keeping time strapped to her instrument; she plays the part of hyperactive cheer girl beautifully, bounding across the stage and encouraging awkward dancemoves. Backed with synths courtesy of her brother Thomas, whose vocal contributions have been pared back a little it seems, plus padding drumbeats and pogoing bass; Mausi have hit their stride as a live band.

Even the visuals have a super-sleek feel now. Shots of gorgeous guys and girls wandering sun-kissed boulevards knit delightfully with the likes of ‘sol.’ and closing track ‘My Friend Has A Swimming Pool’. Their hyperactive Tangfastic pop can come across a little cloying over the radio but in the flesh it’s actually pretty hair-raising. The latter song in particular is a bona fide, box-ticking slab of pop bombast with a brilliantly daft vocal hook and sheets of pirouetting synthesizer. It’s all come together: tighter, sharper, faster. DC

Photograph by Howard Melnyczuk

Soundtracking our late Saturday morning, Dan Croll is his typically fun-filled, energetic self, as a bursting downstairs Komedia is treated to an uplifting set of genuine pop hits. The five Liverpool lads are devilishly tight, considering the relatively new set-up and it is a completely pro-sounding set the highlights of which are made up from the spirit-raising latest single ‘Compliment Your Soul’ and his first attention-grabbing track ‘From Nowhere’. The jangling open chords of ‘Home’ wrap things up, as our final day in Brighton gets off to the best possible start – real weekend favourite.  GB

Photograph by Howard Melnyczuk

Another exciting young UK singer-songwrter followed-up at Komedia; the gentle hue of Wall sounds gorgeous in the Brighton basement. Her hushed, delicate vocal is married with ticking manufactured beats and deliberate and careful punctuation from a warm guitar. ‘Magazine’ remains a real highlight, and feels particularly poignant by the sea, given it’s relevant wording, while ‘Left To Wonder’ is genuinely  touching. The London three are magical. GB

Photograph by Howard Melnyczuk

Norway’s Farao makes the best of the cold hard daylight at Festival Hub. Until now it’s been easy hiding away in the gloom, nursing our bruised last-day-at-a-festival bodies but we’re exposed and out in the open now. Mercifully Kari Johansen’s rustic little ditties offer up a pretty lovely remedy. There’s a warmth glow at the very heart of these earthy alt-folk Scandi-pop songs. Although it’s a measured, careful performance, the sweet little cooing between Kari and her live keyboardist cradles sensitively, it’d be great to see more interplay between the two in the future. DC

Photograph by Howard Melnyczuk

We caught Chlöe’s show up in Newcastle a matter of weeks ago and the thing that really stuck out was her ability to take the shape and sound of the room in her stride and make it work. That hollowed out former warehouse – with its shipping container vibe – became a playground for her edgy, pin-sharp pop stylings and it’s a similar situation here at Blind Tiger.

Making these kind of vibrant, precisely executed tracks work – capturing the joy and the vitality – in a live setting doesn’t come naturally to all artists; but my word does she make it look like a walk in the park. It engages more than many other emerging, buzzy pop shows; ‘No Strings’ is typically peppy but she’s also keen to drop down and experiment with more mellow sonics. ‘I Wish I Could Tell You’ serves as a bittersweet aperitif to the sugared vocal hooks and spritely melodies.

You hear it regurgitated over and over, ‘she’s only 18’ but that really doesn’t illustrate how impressive this all is. She wrote these songs and she’s now translating it with striking finesse on the live circuit. Just go see her. DC

The Toronto three-piece kicked-off our evening, offering-up their enticing mix of early 80s-sounding pop rock. It’s quirky and fun and, thanks to the cute, catching vocal, it is somewhat seductive. Awash with layers of warm synths and glimmers of dancing drums the performance feels exciting and certainly noteworthy, in as much as you’re left wanting more, which Diana have promised with a new Jagjaguar record on the horizon.GB

Newcastle’s bundle of energy and excitement, Lulu James smashes through her super cool set, stomping around the Digital stage in some typically garish attire. She’s the finished article now, thanks to the ease of ‘Sweetest Thing’, the garage-like ‘Closer’ and her hugely impressive vocal that sounds as fluid and natural live as it does on record. Endearing humour between songs fills the seafront venue with smiles, and the effortlessly charismatic Geordie really gets the evening off to the perfect start. GB

A real electro-pop pace-setter, Copenhagen’s edgy Karen Marie Ørsted delivers one of the weekend’s highlights; with her perfect levels of attitude and angst, MØ sits somewhere between Grimes and Robyn, and powerful tracks like ‘Pilgrim’ and the new ‘Waste Of Time’ sound sultry and genuinely enormous. Bone-shuddering bass thunders out underneath her distinctive, languid vocal and glistening guitar riffs. Punching the air and chucking herself about, she is captivating and we really can’t take your eyes of this one.   GB

Wrapping-up the pretty special Digital line-up, Glasgow synth-poppers CHVRCHES entertained a packed crowd, utilising their booming electronic lines underneath a chillingly striking vocal. ‘Lies’ and ‘Mother We Share’ are two of the most memorable numbers from the set, and indeed the weekend; futuristic, thunderous, with hints of retro, they sound immaculate and help to prove why so many turn out for the show. They make a big, big sound and it really was everything we hoped for. GB

Photograph by Howard Melnyczuk

Emerging London vocalist YADi warns her live drummer, Chris,that “he’s got his work cut out tonight” shortly after she emerges on stage at The Blind Tiger. She’s not wrong either; his springy backbeats – urgent but wholly controlled – provide the ideal cushion for her sultry, expressive tones. ‘Guillotine’ chops rippling piano chords together with snappy, pitter-patter percussion; her cool collected voice swelling into the refrain ‘like a queen, I can make you love me’, repeated over and over. There’s sass and bite to the starlet’s sound which keeps things from slipping into the realms of electro-pop tweeness; even a mistakenly repeated intro doesn’t phase her one bit, shrugging ‘this is just the remix version!’ YADi is quickly becoming our new go-to girl for smart, sexy future-pop. DC

Lead photograph by Howard Melnyczuk

If yesterday was the warm-up leg then today was the real deal: Dan Carson and George O’Brien ran around Brighton so you didn’t have to.

Brolin

Photograph by Howard Melnyczuk

Brolin absolutely flew through a Double Denim-curated set above a pub to kick-off day two. The loft room played host to a decent-sized crowd as the masked producer filled the stuffy attic with his cooling tones.

With just drums and a voice, it is a simple set-up, but, particularly the later songs like ‘NYC’ and his closer ‘Reykjavik;’ embrace their pop-like nature. The blend of manufactured and actual drums simmer through the tiny room, while his chilling vocal leads proceedings. There is something about Brolin that is lacking in his contemporaries, we’re not quite sure what it is, maybe it’s hidden underneath that mask of his.GB

Empress Of

Photograph by Howard Melnyczuk

The Brooklyn based ambient singer sights “X-files, Fresh Prince of Bel Air (seasons 1-3 with the original aunt viv)” as her influences and her set is as sought-after as a reformed Will Smith show, as punters line the stairs of the Fitzherberts bar.

Her first ever UK show is massively captivating; dreamy vocals lead the way, while heady, manufactured synths pound through. She is captivating, in terms of her obvious excitement to be playing in Brighton and her energy and intensity is completely endearing – ‘Hat Trick’ is a really memorable moment.GB

San Zhi

Gorgeously soft pop rock washes the Unitarian Church for Best Fit’s own stage, as UK five-piece San Zhi flood the busy venue with their heady combination of FX-heavy guitar and warm synth lines.

‘Ice Light’ stands out, as well as an ambiguous track with their best riff; unclear whether it is a Lauren Hill number, the band contradict themselves explaining who wrote it but ownership becomes irrelevant as soon as the piano line kicks-off. A crackling mini megaphone adds depth to the already intriguing vocal and it is an entirely dreamy set from the exciting group.GB

Josef Salvat

Photograph by Howard Melnyczuk

Hotly-tipped London-based Aussie, Joesf Salvat married his clear knack for songwriting with intensity and verve, as the evening closed-in at the Best Fit stage in Brighton.

Filling a veritable gap in the market, it is so refreshing to see a male singer, with a proper catalogue of hits, losing himself in honesty and pouring out a distinctive vocal. ‘This Life’ and ‘Hustler’ stand-out are undoubtedly highlights and give it time, and a band around him, this set could be genuinely breath-taking thanks to the quality of the tracks already in place.GB

Luke Sital-Singh

It would be a real challenge to see a better voice over this jam-packed weekend. The church setting couldn’t be better suited for the North London raconteur, as his powerful, but wonderfully controlled vocal screams out over the pews.

‘Bottled Up Tight’ is the set’s hit single, in a show filled with emotion and wonderful melancholy. There are middle-aged men in actual tears, captivated and shocked by the equal rawness and delicacy of his voice. Endearing, dry humour breaks-up this intensity, and it is a set filled with assurance from the very best ‘man and his guitar’ around – stunning.GB

Mykki Blanco

‘Dontcha just love a good showcase?’ hoots a seriously pumped up Mykki Blanco when she arrives front and centre, downstairs at Audio. The American rapper holds each and every one of us in the palm of her hand, negotiating the crunching beats and coronary-inducing bass throbs with deadly verve. Her live DJ – aided by the venue’s impeccable soundsystem – keeps things broiling over nicely with sinister, industrial oscillations but Mykki actually shines brightest when the backbeat drops out entirely. Writhing across the front row, cooing Marilyn Monroe quotes and glugging away at bottles of beer; even the deftest flick of her wrist commands total attention. The most enthralling show we’ve seen thus far; we expected nothing less to be honest.DC

Ewert and the Two Dragons

Photograph by Andrew Novell

It’s a capacity crowd at the beautiful but tiny Prince Albert pub for the much-talked about Estonian four-piece’s first performance of the festival. With the entry being co-ordinated on a ‘tall guys at the back’ basis, we can just about catch a glimpse of the band as they gently pad their way through a set punctuated by tinkling xylophones, bounding kick drum and sweetly whispering guitar lines. Totally worth the long uphill slog from the seafront. DC

Tourist

Following the neurotic rhyming and pulsing beats of Mykki Blanco was always going to be a tough task but London-based producer Tourist makes a strong fist of the mammoth task regardless. For those capable of concentrating on anything other than Blanco’s batshit mental dance moves; Brighton’s own William Phillips turns in a pretty energetic showing from behind his array of Midi controllers and synths. Whipping his hometown crowd into a fervour with a potent blend of swarming 2 step and mellow house; Phillips’ frothy vocal loops, skittish beats and bubbling bass are a match made in heaven for the suitably loosened-up dance-floor.DC

Rainy Milo

Photograph by Howard Melnyczuk

Coalition’s got a really nice buzz going ahead of Rainy Milo’s late show. The South Londoner emerges and takes the howling, well-oiled crowd in the palm of her hand from the moment she brings the mic to her lips. She mightn’t yet feel fully confident in her own skin but the youngster’s silken, soulful tones speak for themselves. Bobbing her way through cuts from 2012 breakthrough EP, Limey, Rainy handles both delicate melancholy and ballsy, bassy future-pop with charm and grace. It’s by no means perfect but her sugared lilt alone keeps the future looking blindingly bright.DC

Lead photograph by Howard Melnyczuk

Dan Carson and George O’Brien ignore temptations to do nothing but sit on the beach all day in the Brighton sunshine and bring us an account of some incredible performances from the first day of this year’s Great Escape Festival.

Chasing Grace

Recent Island signing Chasing Grace kicked our weekend off with an early performance at The Hope. The British four piece conjure-up a light-hearted blend of folk and emotional pop with glimmers of heaviness, that is arguably too shackled. There is no doubt it’s early days in terms of live performance though and they soon warm into their set with tracks like ‘Bullet’ and particular highlight ‘Trust’. A Live Lounge-esque cover of ‘White Noise’ shows intelligence, while the quality of their voices stand them in good stead. They’re not quite ready but undoubtedly a decent future lies ahead. GB

Honeyblood

Photograph by Andrew Novell

The darkness of the Dome Studio played host to some pure punk-pop from Scottish duo Honeyblood, as Brighton was bathed in sun. Their simple setup of crunchy Telecaster power chords and splashing drums sound so much bigger than they appear, while Howling Bells-like vocals help carry the performance. GB

Holy Esque

Photograph by Andrew Novell

More punchy scuzz followed-up, as fellow-Scotts Holy Esque soundtracked our Thursday lunchtime. The quartet deliver controlled angst, with a quivering lead vocal rasping out over the top of some genuinely bone-shaking synth bass and relentless top-end riffs, that at times echo the heavier moments of Editors. The performance feels polished and brilliantly professional, the voice grabbing attention above all else, and the closing track ‘St.’ is desperately brilliant. It’s accessible aggression and very, very watchable. GB

Glass Animals

Photograph by Andrew Novell

A delay to scheduling at Digital seems to leave Oxford four-piece, Glass Animals, feeling somewhat jarred and disjointed initially. It certainly takes them a few minutes to find their groove amidst the shroud of smoke and aqueous atmosphere. Although they’re wedged into an early-ish slot on the bill, their occultish soundscapes – formed of whining samples and softly kissed hi-hats – manage to precipitate a kind of trancelike shuffling amongst the assembled fans. ‘Dust In Your Pocket’ broods and bubbles and threatens to boil over, all flitting synth arpeggios, seedy finger clicking and creeping whispers; it’s the highlight of a set stuffed with primal delights. DC

London Grammar

One of the most anticipated performances of the day came from the fast-rising London Grammar. A wonderfully lavish church provides the ideal setting for their sound, filled with emotion and lead by one of the most striking voices you’re likely to hear.

With the makeshift pews at bursting point, the three young Londoners seize the crowd’s attention; ‘Wasting My Young Years’ feeling completely like the hit single it is. The real drums that kick in when ‘Metal and Dust’ starts, turning a good sounding live track into something genuinely spine-tingling. They can do it live, and that’s what confirms them as one of the UK’s most exciting new bands. GB

Syron

Photograph by Howard Melnyczuk

The clue’s in the name with this London garage diva. A Best Fit favourite, Syron is responsible for some of the most exciting garage-fuelled tracks to surface in the last 12 months. Dominating the Audio stage with her trademark, extravagant appearance, her live set has grown, allowing her to slip seamlessly between songs, with carefully thought-out backing tracks. Her comfort and energy on stage is genuinely eye-catching and with chart-ready hits like ‘Breaking’ and ‘Here’, there’s no doubt she is the absolute complete package. GB

Mac DeMarco

‘We’re from Montreal, welcome to the rock show baby’. Hello indeed Mr. Mac Demarco. Looking like a quartet of roughnecks time-warped in from an 80’s truck stop, he and his band might seem a little marooned front and centre in the cavernous Corn Exchange but that doesn’t hinder them from delivering an essential collection of tuned-down romantic slacker-rock gems.

Surfy up-tempo toms roll with intricately woven bass and impeccable three-way harmonies, Mac blithely jamming away on his guitar, tongue lolling out through the feel-good bridges. ‘Rock n Roll Nightclub’ provides the biggest thrill of the set. Pounding floor toms and swooning leads are punctuated by Mac’s bassist’s frankly mental backing vox. Honest and self-deprecating throughout; even the room’s sternest critics struggle to withhold a slight grin. DC

Merchandise

Photograph by Howard Melnyczuk

The Tampa trio – plus their live drummer – are probably better suited to diners and dive bars where their punchy post-punk rhythms hug the sweat-stained ceiling, rather than flutter away, as in the case of tonight’s somewhat ‘airy’ venue. The Corn Exchange is barely at half capacity but Merchandise perform as if they’re facing a crowd of 10,000. Oozing charisma, vocalist Carson Cox lets rip with his disillusioned croon on ‘Time’. Bruised yet comforting, he wags a cautionary finger between the gristly guitar breaks and thunderous toms and snare. Romance and recklessness entwined; Merchandise are living proof that falling in love will only ever end in tears. DC

Phantom

Hanna Toivonen and Tommi Koskinen aren’t your archetypal Scandi-pop duo. Though they retain that innate command over big, bold hooks; they also wield the power to drop down a key and roll out some wonderfully expansive, elegiac sprawls. Tonight they exercise both capabilities in perfect synch. A hooded Tommi arches over a huge, homemade Midi controller – Hanna dubs it ‘The UFO’ and suggests we check out its Facebook page – laying down the bristling, crunchy beats to which Hanna’s spidery coo attaches.

Bon Iver’s ‘Skinny Love’ is morphed into a rapturous electro-pop call to arms while ‘Kisses’ sounds typically euphoric; Tommi and Hanna’s billowing limbs casting playful shadows on the backdrop of cascading CGI images. Dipping into a host of genres with thick dubby bass drops, haunting post-rock synth swells and tonnes of pop sensitivity, Phantom’s confident little intricacies suggest they’ve got what it takes to mix it with the genre’s heavyweights. DC

Blue Hawaii

Photograph by Andrew Novell

The Brighthelm Centre could easily be mistaken for a temporary disaster relief building. There’s flagging bodies strewn across the floor as Montreal duo Blue Hawaii appear. They promise to ‘take it slow, then speed’ up, giving us a chance to catch our breath after a long day pounding the concrete. Shoulder-to-shoulder, Alex twirls over a switchboard of samplers and synths while Raphaelle trills spookily in the gaps between his echoing beats. Their padding cowbells and prowling bass oscillations prove the ultimate tonic for sore limbs and fuzzy senses.

Come back tomorrow for more coverage from Brighton’s Great Escape Festival.

Lead photograph by Andrew Novell

The gubernatorial surrounds of Islington Assembly Hall seem slightly at odds with the fluorescent schtick of Doseone – he of Themselves, 13 and God and cLOUDDEAD fame. And for about 10 minutes, an air of bemusement envelopes the early revelers; or perhaps they’re simply hypnotised by his garb (neon-pink t-shirt, big-buckled ‘I Love Haters’-adorned belt and flashy old school hip hop jacket).

The music’s fittingly kaleidoscopic too. His high-pitched squall, laid over disjointed, funk-tinged beats, sits somewhere between Prince and Connan Mockasin. The set is unhinged and fragmented but there’s something mesmeric about watching a man swig from a half-bottle of bourbon on stage. “I rap, too,” he helpfully informs the uninitiated before launching into a series of blistering, propeller-tongued rhymes and leaving to a hearty, if slightly befuddled, round of applause.

The contrast with Anticon stable-mates Why?’s performance could hardly be starker. Yoni Wolf has brought his full quintet on tour and the unit is tight, the set polished and slick. Where Dose was tanking drams of whiskey, Wolf sips from a bottle of mineral water (a tickle in his throat sees him reset the band once or twice). And no matter how many times you spin his records, it’s still always something of a surprise to hear the expletives fall from Wolf’s mouth in the flesh. His slight stature, polite, slightly-reserved stage manner and tame interaction with his audience and band is somewhat incongruous with some of his more potty-mouthed, vitriolic lyrical content.

The songs from Elephant Eyelash and Alopecia were always going to be crowd-pleasers – and so it pans out. ‘Waterfalls’ from the former kicks the set off nicely and Yoni holds the mic aloft triumphantly, as the crowd bellows back the chorus of ‘Good Friday’, not a “disinterested bitch” in the house. The stellar ‘January Twenty Something’ from the sometimes forgotten Eskimo Snow acts as something of a bridge, as Why? launch into a series of cuts from last year’s underrated (at least in some, influential quarters) Mumps, Etc.

One of the most interesting elements of the evening is witnessing the deployment of the band’s newest work. It is arguably Yoni Wolf at his most narcissistic – but as with all of his lyrics, you get the feeling that in the Denton, Texas studio in which it was recorded, there was at least one tongue boring a sizeable hole in a Wolf’s cheek. The band chooses well: the one-two-three of ‘Waterlines’, ‘Strawberries’ and ‘Jonathan’s Hope’ are the record’s strongest and are well-received – but by the time they’re finished, the crowd is baying for old blood.

They get it in the form of ‘These Few Presidents’, ‘Yo Yo Bye Bye’ and ‘The Hollows’. The latter in particular shows Why? and Yoni Wolf at their best: the flicked, bassy riff, the ghostly harmonies, the nasally delivered, borderline slapstick lyrics (“I spent the last six months hiding behind a moustache”) and the big, singalong chorus. The song prompts the first and only real surge from the audience – whose slight reservation is perhaps a reflection of that of the band itself. But musically, the evening’s performance can’t be faulted.

The function room of the New Oxford pub seems somewhat undersized to host two of the finest contemporary purveyors of traditional American folk on a rare trip to the UK and an even rarer to trek to the North. The cosy confines soon turn out to be a blessing in disguise, however.

M.C. Taylor – the North Carolina-based songwriter operating under the Hiss Golden Messenger banner – has barely made it through a beguiling version of ‘Jesus Shot Me in the Head’ (one of the highpoints of 2011’s Poor Moon, something of a breakthrough album for Taylor following several years of toiling with varying fortunes in the business of making music) to the beyond-packed room when the venue loses electricity. “Does electricity also get a day off on Bank Holiday?” Taylor jests. The answer, unfortunately, appears to be yes. Power is soon restored, only to vanish again minutes later, this time for good, save for enough juice to fire up erstwhile Lambchop (and HGM) guitarist William Tyler’s amp.

Lesser performers would pack up and storm off. In town as part of the Sounds from the Other City festival, which takes place across several venues in in Salford, Taylor and Tyler regroup to produce an improvised performance that’s bound to be unforgettable for the lucky few who have managed to squeeze in to the venue.

Standing precariously on a stool to maximise audibility over the clatter of glasses drifting from the other end of the pub, the lack of amplification seems to bring out the full expressive power of Taylor’s rust-and-honey voice, emphasising the unadorned beauty of his melodies and – most importantly – the compelling depths of the lyrics.

Mysterious, brooding songs like ‘Sufferer (Love Thy Conqueror)’ from career-best, deservedly praised new album Haw (dedicated to Songs:Ohia/Magnolia Electric Co.’s Jason Molina tonight) dodge easy interpretations, yet pack far too much emotive power to slide into meaning-skirting obscurity. Spiritual concerns crop up regularly, much as they do in the classic country music that is one of Taylor’s key influences. The infectious ‘Busted Note’ is introduced as a song about Jesus without a hint of irony but, again, doubt, unease and openness to multiple readings keep comforting certainties at bay.

As potent as Taylor’s timeless country-got-soul songwriting is, this isn’t solely his show. Apart from contributing compelling atmospherics to many of Taylor’s songs (including a stinging lead guitar spot on the raucous ‘Red Rose Nantahala’), Tyler wheels out a number of tracks from much-acclaimed new album Impossible Truth, essaying near-superhuman dexterity on the fretboard – you’d swear there were at least three guitarists on stage – and finely honed, melodically endowed, modernised take on the long line of American folk/blues solo guitar explorations.

It’s a testament to the potency of Taylor and Tyler’s performance that the squeezed room is entirely hushed throughout the set. The crowd’s rapt attention during the very literally unplugged performance isn’t lost on the performers. The phrase ‘we’re all in this together’ sounds horribly hollow when parroted by austerity-peddling politicians. When Taylor liberates a crate of beer from the backroom to hand out as liquid thank you’s to patient listeners, however, it feels as if we’ve been part of a much more communal, boundary-free experience than a standard-issue gig. The brisk traffic at merchandise stall afterwards suggests that the extra effort Taylor and Tyler have made to entertain the crowd tonight hasn’t been wasted.

London’s Still Corners go somewhat quietly about their business. They have followed-up their 2010 debut Creatures Of An Hour with another, more intricate, 80s-infused record that feels like the natural progression a good sophomore should.

The duo belong to the ever-impressive Sub Pop family and perhaps deserve more attention than they enjoy, due to their heady mix of cerebral, and at times downright haunting, style.

Marrying Greg Hughes’s intuitive songwriting with the soaring, breathy vocals of Tessa Murray, they have quite effortlessly slipped into more catchy territory with, the suitably titled, Stange Pleasures, and celebrated its release with a string of UK shows before they join CHVRCHES across America.

XOYO provides the home for the London leg of their journey and, following support from the stunning ambience of Woman’s Hour, a flickering projection welcomes the four to the stage, accompanied by loyal cheers of excitement; it’s an eye-catchingly satisfying set from the outset as these visuals flood the back-drop.

They may occupy the dream-pop bracket, but it’s a label that doesn’t tell the whole live story; thundering, massively impressive real drums dominate early songs with intricate, dancing rhythms really showing flashes of their new, more up-tempo style. ‘Berlin Lovers’, with its fuzzy synth bass line, is an early highlight.

Similarly, the whirring organ of tracks like ‘Cuckoo’ and the FX-heavy guitar in the wonderfully euphoric ‘Fireflies’, show their versatility and highlight Murray’s faultless live voice, while glistening keys add brightness to the moments of gloom in older numbers.

The impressive performance is so well thought-out, with the aforementioned visuals and cold blue lights neatly matching the different waves of sound. The set feels entirely professional and, although their genre maybe saturated, they’ve perfectly cornered their market.

In many ways, the three punctuation marks that comprise the moniker of this Sacremento six-piece are a statement of intent, for !!! (pronounced “Chk Chk Chk”) aren’t a band that care much for subtlety.

Exiling themselves to a log cabin, penning delicately crafted ballads about love and loss is certainly not part of their M.O., nor is jettisoning their live band for deep aerobics and diatribes on gender theory. Their sole aim is to make people dance as hard as possible, and in this noble mission they almost succeed, in spite of a sound mix as muggy as the venue on this warm Spring evening.

The core of the !!! live experience is indubitably Nic Offer and his frankly ridiculous dancing. That’s not to diminish the achievements of the rest of the band, who deliver funk-driven basslines and insanely tight percussion with commendable elan, but it’s his gurning, flailing presence that gives the show its infectious personality. He is by no means a suave dude. His alarming, unpredictable gyrations would, under non-gig circumstances, be banned by law, if not by international treaty. But it’s all so enthusiastic, it’s hard not to get caught up in a strange, and potentially ill-advised desire to emulate his uniquely mesmerising shapes.

It’s just a shame the music itself isn’t always as compelling as Offer’s moves are. Their filler/killer ratio has always been slightly out of whack, with too many songs falling into the “workmanlike” category, and tonight’s muffled low end did them no favours. But when they unleash the slick, Daft Punk-worthy space-funk of ‘One Girl /One Boy’ or the filthy, disco-punk brilliance of ‘Yadnus,’ it’s easy to see why they’ve garnered such a cult following. In all, it’s too uneven to be considered a classic performance, but at their best, !!! truly merit all three of their exclamation marks.

Photograph by Siamak Amini. Full Gallery here.

Where’s the drum kit?  Seriously, why hasn’t Zach Hill set up his drum kit?  Is he here? Won’t it… suck a bit, if he’s not here? What’s a Death Grips gig without Zach Hill? Stefan Burnett’s imposing and all, but can he really carry this off? This is a much bigger crowd than the last time they came to London. I really hope Zach starts setting up that drum kit soon.

Musings like that were commonplace as the Forum’s congregation stood awaiting the arrival of Death Grips.  Had I not been party to a bit of insider knowledge (turns out Zach Hill had indeed stayed away from a Glasgow gig a few nights back previously), I’d have been as anxious as the others. Their show at the Electric Ballroom a few months back was astounding for many reasons, but a big one of those was Hill – watching him attack and destroy his miniscule drumkit like a possessed man taking orders from a cult leader was genuinely revelatory. I wanted to see it again, note for note, smack for smack, but at least I was prepared for something different.

Thankfully I’d not only been told that Glasgow weren’t privy to any Hill drumming, but also that it didn’t matter – the reports were just as rapturous. It turns out that Burnett’s way around a stage, (continually contorting his naked, glistening torso as he raps in a manner that has you worried that his throat might tear open to reveal an Alien-style monster), is more than enough of a visual hit to keep one entertained.

Silhouetted against the smoke and strobes, he couldn’t look more imposing. But unsung hero Andy “Flatlander” Morin – the one in Death Grips who nobody ever talks about but tonight is on stage handling everything that isn’t the rapping or dancing like a maniac – has enough technical nous and great tunes at his disposal to ensure that our musical appetites are satiated along with our visual cravings. No need to worry; Death Grips both look and sound amazing.

Live, Hill’s drumming was the most welcome distraction from a decidedly imposing set of tunes, but his absence this evening allows you – in the moments where Burnett isn’t screaming in your face – to focus on what else is going on in the music, of which there’s a baffling amount. Three albums (OK, two and a mixtape) in to their career, their style has developed in to something more diverse than breakthrough number ‘Guillotine’ – given a sound beating tonight – could ever have suggested. Though Burnett’s delivery of them is never at less than full throttle, comparing a song like the slowly revealed peril of ‘No Love’ to a hands in the air party banger like ‘I’ve Seen Footage’ reveals them to be a band with more subtlety than they’re usually given credit for. Whoever’s in Death Grips of any given evening and whatever song they’re chucking at you, they’re always on the attack. But it’s the way in which they vary their angle that really thrills.

Photograph by Howard Melnyczuk with a Lomo. Full gallery here.

“End of an era” is a phrase thrown around far too variably these days, whether it’s in reference to a football coach retiring, or, ahem, boy bands splitting. ATP‘s recent announcement that their UK holiday camp weekenders will cease from the end of the year seems less of an era coming to a close, despite what the marketing of their final shows might suggest, and instead somewhere between the passing of a dream that always did seem a little too good to be true and the curious possibility of what will come next.

For the music fan’s music fan, those single-handedly keeping the music industry afloat, the events – coming roughly quarterly every year since 1999 – combined the leisure of a weekend away while simultaneously cutting the fat off an average festival’s billing. But with well-noted financial troubles and disagreements with their past venues, you’d be forgiven for expecting All Tomorrow’s Parties to scale back a bit. This doesn’t seem to be the case; instead, it seems business as usual.

What bolder a move to show full steam ahead than to announce a festival at a former NATO base in Iceland? And so with fans hopeful, if not slightly confused by recent unfoldings, it’s all eyes on the company’s 2013 edition of their I’ll Be Your Mirror sister-event, fronted by Yeah Yeah Yeahs at London’s Alexandra Palace. And with the Grizzly Bear leg meant to follow on the Sunday postponed at short notice, the day really needed to run smoothly to keep up consumer confidence among the ATP crowd.

Named after the original b-side to ‘All Tomorrows Parties’, a fact not always self-explanatory, I’ll Be Your Mirror tends to follow the same suit as the organisations classic events, in which the headline act curates proceedings and, in doing so, inherently opens ATP up to the fears faced by other festivals – but also does so to a greater extent. What do you do if  a band simply picks a few misses and even fewer hits? There’s not much you can do, really.

But it would be a bit harsh to say that was entirely this case with this May Bank Holiday instalment. Instead, the line-up simply didn’t seem fitting of the setting. Whereas at Camber Sands, and Minehead before it, you could guarantee at least a couple of hundred (maybe hungover, possibly sleepless) onlookers for even the early-bird sets, a city-based event is always going to warrant a later start, with many opting for beers in the nearby Alexandra Park over the opening raucous of New Orleans bounce-hopper Big Freedia, psych-dance duo Prince Rama and the exotic extravagance of King Khan.

More disappointing is the mere handful in attendance of ambient soundscaper, The Field at the main stage, with the low turnout completely robbing the music of any immersive quality. By this point, the highlight of the day is – sadly – witnessing a punter, and complete stranger, raising his beer in the crowd to a Dirty Beaches-watching Karen O, who offers a bashful wry smile in response.

By the time the crowd do make their way in however, with half the bill already packing up and cracking open a beer of their own backstage, things start to peter a bit. Black Lips, whose association with hipster bible VICE has always left them open to accusations of style over substance, sound like a caricature of a garage rock band without half of the excitement. Masked grindcore bizarros The Locust, on the other hand, while wholly enjoyable in theory, have a live half-life much shorter than their 45 minute slot. Likewise, the game of counting how many times Jon Spencer Blues Explosion can shout their own band name at random intervals seems to be keeping more hooked than the actual music itself.

Instead, nearing the 9.30pm mark, the main room bloats out and the night starts to feel like an overpriced Yeah Yeah Yeahs gig rather than an entire all-day event. As the lights dim and expectations heighten, there seems to be a passing of the torch as ATP’s loyal old guard, with feet now understandably a little sore, relocate to the back while the younger sprites push forward towards the stage centre. Lucky for all involved, punters old, new and promoters alike, the band are just as bright and brash as a decade back. Karen O, who’s dressed for the evening either as a nu-rave take on Sgt. Pepper or Elvis Costello going to a New Year’s party, leads the way like a new age ringmaster.

Along with drummer Brian Chase and the never-aging Peter Pan of Goth-Punk, Nick Zinner, the trio run through what would be deemed a Greatest Hits set if their albums didn’t neatly connect the dots behind one another. Even their latest record, Mosquito, doesn’t venture far from the three that came before it. It does, however, bring one of the best highlights of the day though, with opener ‘Sacrilege’ – a riot grrl anthem for the modern age that Pussy Riot themselves must wish they had penned – only able to sound more sublime if there had been an actual choir onstage to sing the gospel intersection at the end. Perfectly executed closer ‘Date With The Night’ gets even the most tiresome moving and subsequently with one fell swoop makes everyone forget that which came before it.

With two of their last Pontins breaks nigh (TV on the Radio this weekend before Deerhunter next month), the day doesn’t completely evoke confidence from those in attendance but through limited fault of ATP’s own. Even though we’re presented with a headline band choosing art-rock density over sheer entertainment stakes, it’s thankfully a single-handed late save for an event that will now surely be the focus of ATP’s events calendar.

Pictures by Jason Williamson. Check out more photos from the festival here.

The last time Yeah Yeah Yeahs played in Manchester, at this same venue back in December 2009, they were on their victory lap for It’s Blitz!: a sharp, glittery pop record suffused with nods to dance and disco. The assuredness with which they pulled off a such a sonic left turn would leave them with little room to surprise when it came to making their next album; they’re one of the few established indie rock bands for whom the release of a lead single that features the abrupt introduction of a gospel choir at its midpoint wouldn’t be immediately considered a worryingly indulgent development.

I imagine the venue – a beautiful old, converted art deco cinema – is far more suited to a live show as theatrical as tonight’s than the academies the band are likely to frequent elsewhere (although it has, tragically, been blighted by the affliction of O2 sponsorship).  ’Sacrilege’ proves a fitting opener; the aforementioned choir are present only in recorded form, contrary to the slew of live TV performances on which they joined the band onstage. Their absence dampens the spectacle a little, sure, but Karen O is such an irresistibly compelling frontwoman that the aesthetic side of a Yeah Yeah Yeahs live show doesn’t really need enhancing in the first place.

The setlist lands firmly in retrospective territory, with cuts from new record Mosquito used for punctuation rather than backbone. Material from debut full-length Fever to Tell remains the band’s most potent in a live setting; ‘Black Tongue’ is O at her sassiest, with menacing guitar work from Nick Zinner simmering away in the background, whilst ‘Y Control’ is their piece-de-resistance, with an improbable, but startlingly effective marriage between atypically restrained, emotive vocals and an urgent, looped riff that blares like an air raid siren for the grunge generation.

Elsewhere, the big-hitting likes of ‘Phenomena’, ‘Gold Lion’ and ‘Zero’ are all present and correct; the question of whether or not they’re the strongest efforts from the releases they’re plucked from fades into irrelevance when you realise that, really, the songs are merely vehicles for the deliverance of O’s stage persona. From Lux Interior-inspired mic-swallowing on vintage cut ‘Art Star’ to treating the Apollo boards as a personal dancefloor at a uniquely debauched disco on ‘Heads Will Roll’, she exudes the kind of irrepressible charisma that remains one of the current alternative scene’s rarest commodities.

The set’s softer moments only serve as confirmation that O is capable of covering all bases; the criminally-underrated ‘Soft Shock’, a It’s Blitz! highlight, is delivered with impressive finesse, whilst ‘Maps’ – presented tonight in its original form, as opposed to the recently-favoured acoustic version – remains this century’s most devastating love song. ‘Subway’ is one of Mosquito‘s finest offerings, but its delicate nature was always likely to fall foul of a talkative crowd, and it sadly isn’t afforded the hush necessary to create a suitable atmosphere.

In fact, the reception for the new tracks tonight proves universally tepid; with the album only two weeks old, it’s difficult to ascertain whether it’s indifference or unfamiliarity that’s responsible – ‘Under the Earth’ is certainly underwhelming, but ‘Despair’, a masterfully crafted slow-burner, is surely destined for live-stapledom. The only unequivocal disappointment is the running time; the band were assigned a ninety-minute slot, but arrive fifteen late and still manage to finish early; the brutal truth is that there’s plenty of artists who charge less for tickets and have fewer songs to play than Yeah Yeah Yeahs that manage longer than an hour and a bit.

Regardless of any issues that the set’s duration might raise, there’s little ground for complaint when it comes to the evening’s entertainment value, especially once they’ve signed off in incendiary fashion with ‘Date with the Night’. Seeing Yeah Yeah Yeahs in 2013 not only involves bearing witness to indie rock’s most engaging performer – it also offers the opportunity to catch a genuinely-challenging rock band at somewhere close to the peak of their creative powers.

Photograph taken by Jason Williamson at I’ll Be Your Mirror.

One shouldn’t expect a metaphorical walk in the park from a Knife show. The siblings’ approach to the medium of performance has always been accompanied a certain Scandinavian guile and the ‘staging’ of dance music remains a central concern to The Knife as a live proposition.

That conundrum was tackled with a sense of parody and humour by fellow Swedes Air France and The Tough Alliance – the former veered mainly towards DJ sets while the latter resorted to simply playing back their tracks on the venue PA while projections, lip syncing and swinging baseball bats replaced any attempts to recreate their largely synthetic sounds.

So one shouldn’t try and appraise tonight’s show on a musical level although some skill may lie in the creation of toothsome arrangements that push the blister and pop of The Knife’s sound. It’s largely a moot point though considering the audio is delivered via a backing track and largely mimed vocals for the majority of the evening.

They’ve done this before of course and many have come prepared with that knowledge. Of those who don’t know, the surprise either turns to frustration (there are a few walkouts), resignation or joyful glee at the more conceptual elements on stage.

The band promised “a place, a scene, a moment” aligned to the titular intent of marmite long player Shaking the Habitual for the accompanying live experience and this tour comes come loaded with a manifesto that asserts “this is not every day” and a desire to break the audience out of “the habitual dance of the ordinary, the narratives of the normal”.

Thus the 3,00 strong Roundhouse audience is exorcised out of any metropolitan mid-week lethargy by a session of “Death Electro Emo Protest Aerobics” courtesy of an over-enthused instructor. As a prelude to the main event, it’s an entirely tongue-in-cheek gesture that goes some way to dictating the night’s mood. “I think we will show some humor in our live show…it has to be fun,” Dreijer-Anderson told SPIN earlier this year and at least no-one can accuse her of po-faced pretension.

After ‘Cherry on Top’ provides a cacophonous opener – slow burning until a full band of hooded figures line up for ‘Raging Lung ‘- we get Dreijer-Anderson’s voice operating at full power: a beautifully shrill husk in one moment, an enchanted melodic pipe in the next. But it’s the opening beats of ‘Without You My Life Would Be Boring’ that sees her (if indeed it really is the woman herself – no-one is really sure) take commend of the stage; a joyful, percussive-heavy troupe in glitter and face paint. She drops to her knees in front of them and an aerobicised tribalism shakes the Swede and her band all the way to the track’s end.

It’s a dynamic that permeates the rest the set – a selection of tracks heavy on Shaking the Habitual with a few entirely appropriate additions from the duo’s first three records. ‘One Hit’ strikes a lively note with some of the best onstage action of the night. ‘Networking’ finds a return to the stark lights, darkness and backing track motif of earlier Knife shows. ‘Got 2 Let U’, the one Deep Cuts song given an outing, is accompanied by a gilded projection that blurs those gender lines the siblings love to play around with in a way that’s both hilarious and preposterous.

A closing ‘Silent Shout’ goes some way to appeasing the ambivalent among tonight’s audience. Those at the front might be more forgiving of the backing track and stage antics but the cavernous Roundhouse struggles to accommodate the show’s intentions, especially for the further-back crowd. And what remains at the end is all about the subjective: tonight is an experiment of sorts and fans in thrall to the trebly electro-pop of the band’s 2001 self titled debut or Deep Cuts from two years later are visibly disappointed by the set choices and execution. If you were to claim tonight’s show as the worst thing you’d ever seen, that would be a perfectly valid opinion (and at £30 a ticket, many will). But some will claim the opposite, and they’re kind of right too.

Embrace the fun of the show, get lost in the ridiculousness and maybe you’ll be some way to getting it. Whatever it might be. Escape from the mundane? A bit of colour on a Wednesday night? Or just some frighteningly staged am-dram dancing? It’s all that and more. It’s a place where the Swedish duo feel like they were always heading and although the collision of the abstract and sensory struggles to connect at times, it remains on a basic level just very good fun.

Setlist

‘Cherry on Top’
‘Raging Lung’
‘Bird’
‘Without You My Life Would Be Boring’
‘A Tooth For An Eye’
‘One Hit’
‘Networking’
‘Wrap Your Arms Around Me’
‘Got 2 Let U’
‘Ready to Lose’
‘Full of Fire’
‘Stay Out Here’
‘Silent Shout’

Photo by Howard Melnyczuk

More photos of The Knife’s show here.

After a short sharp shock of a set from Say Lou Lou (prior to their Best Fit headliner at Madame JoJo’s a couple of hours later), the launch soirée for Swedish festival, Way Out West, in London sees quirkess, Lune, take to the stage.

Proving that this one-off evening celebrating Gothenburg’s finest summer outing is not all about the Scandinavian canapés and cider, Linnéa Martinsson (for it is she!) is here to remind us why Sweden has such an unquestionably impressive music heritage.

Her demure demeanour is mixed with a knowing edge and a half-smile that betrays confidence cut with vulnerability. She is accompanied on stage by a laptop loaded with pre-recorded music and a hippie-Shaman dude, Mårten Spångberg, who – apart from a bit of acoustic guitar playing on a couple of the quieter tracks – limits his contribution to ambient lighting. This he creates by shining a flashlight on various objects, such as gift-bags and silver mixing bowls. It’s bizarre, it’s distracting, but hey – it’s part of the Lune stage set-up and, you know what? Ultimately, it doesn’t take away from the fact that Martinsson is a captivating performer with a very strong set of songs and you soon learn to ignore the somewhat unnecessary stuff happening around her and focus, instead, on the music.

Lune’s voice, at points, is almost startlingly similar to Bjork‘s and her songs are often characterised by a pulsating electronic beat layered with melodious instrumentation. From set-opener, ‘Falling’, through ‘Boys’n'Roses’ to recent single, ‘Girls With Bangs’, she grows in confidence and the crowd becomes more and more smitten.

‘Lori Grimes’ finds Lune and Spångberg delivering a beautiful guitar ballad, where enough breathing space is given to the vocals, and a languid fade then connects smoothly with the equally-notable, ‘Rain’, before leading to the tempo-rejuvenating, ‘That Day’.

Even if you are not sure what to make of this act at the outset, by the time closing number, ‘Close Dance’, is halfway through its stage time, you can’t help but feel taken in. This performance certainly manages to whet our appetites for Way Out West, where we hope to see and hear more of Martinsson.

Setlist

Naming livelier bands than Low is easy. It’s… well, it’s pretty much all of them. But lovelier ones? That’s a struggle.

The Duluth, Minnesota three piece are now at a stage in their career where they only play places that befit said loveliness. Their trips to London haven’t included a toilet circuit venue in many a year, with them now a regular feature on bills at places like the Royal Festival Hall, tonight’s home The Barbican, and in all likelihood private audiences with the Queen at Buckingham Palace. Well, they wouldn’t seem out of place.

Despite their increasingly grandiose venue choices, Low’s sound remains as tantalisingly subtle as ever. Alan Sparhawk plays guitar through a miniscule amplifier, Mimi Parker’s drum kit is as sparse as her hitting of it, and their audience is so hushed and attuned to what it is Low do that one wonders if the pair even need to approach a microphone when they sing; us lot would gladly just listen a bit more closely if they chose to ditch them. It’s this delicacy to their playing that makes them such an enticing live prospect – what they create is so fragile that one stares on baffled at how it doesn’t crack apart under the slightest scrutiny.

This isn’t the case with Low on record, or at least not all the time. LPs such as the Dave Fridmann-produced The Great Destroyer and new effort The Invisible Way (helmed by Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy) pack a considerable punch, yet when stripped back to just guitar, drums, vocals, bass and occasional piano, they shine in virtue of being comparatively skeletal.  The Great Destroyer provides us with three tunes tonight, a menacing pairing of ‘Monkey’ and ‘Pissing’, and an unplanned encore inclusion for fan-requested beauty ‘When I Go Deaf’, but it’s The Invisible Way that we get to know best. No less than nine tracks, almost half the set list, are brand new Low numbers.

The reason nobody seems to mind is that their most recent record is one of their best for a while, with songs like the opening ‘Plastic Cup’ (which contains the first of two uses of the word “piss” this evening – really, guys) and utterly majestic ‘So Blue’ sounding like sisters to more time-honoured Low classics such as the ever-beautiful and deceptively sinister ‘In Metal’, despite their being born of quite different bands, decades apart.  The main change has been in personnel, with new member Steve Garrington adding delicate piano flourishes and a muscular bass guitar grounding to songs that would otherwise be in danger of flying away, such is their gentile splendour.

Low seem happy to be playing, which is great, because that can’t be said for all of their shows. Tonight however, they seem in a generous mood, and genuinely touched at our esteem for their performance. Though it’s heavy on new material, when their set makes pit stops in their back catalogue, their selections are expertly picked, and clearly tailored to long term fans (‘Soon’ from Secret Name, ‘Words’ from their debut I Could Live In Hope). These guys seem happy and humbled, despite playing to audiences this reverent as standard now. Smiling suits Low; though their tales of murder and piss are plentiful, when you walk away from one of their gigs, it’s their loveliness that’s most prominently on your mind.

Photograph by Howard Melnyczuk. See full gallery here.

Who runs the world? Beyonce. Or at least the world in which her fans live, giving it a population of millions. 

Before she’s even appeared on stage, she’s already been granted three rapturous receptions, via whoops for the advert for her perfume Fever, a Mexican wave approving of her patronage of Pepsi cola, and an appearance in a video for Chime for Change where she makes an impassioned plea for a better future for young girls that has some of her admirers starting to well up. To these people, Beyonce is far more than a singer – she is a woman of otherworldly perfection. The fact that she occasionally sings amazing songs is mere icing on the cake.

This may seem dismissive of her considerable musical talent, but actually, you’ve got to admit that thinking of Beyonce as more than a singer is only accurate. When she emerges on a platform from beneath the stage straight in to ‘Run The World (Girls)’, nobody’s first thought is “I love this song!”.  It’s a shared gasp of recognition, a communal wonder that Beyonce – Beyonce! – is even here. Her stardom is so huge it takes a while to focus on her music, which is fine given how much else there is to distract you – the costume changes, the dancers, the floating video screens, Beyonce’s insistence on accompanying everything she does with a vigorous shake of her barely concealed derriere. It’s impossible not to be entertained, enthralled even, despite the fact that the music at times seems entirely secondary to whatever else it is that’s going on.

Beyonce does ballads and bangers like no other. Her vocal prowess on the former and show-womanship on the latter are unbeatable, but her more mid tempo numbers would be close to forgettable if they weren’t adorned with pyrotechnics, the perpetual choreographed chucking of one another in the air and elongated video interludes that thread the whole Mrs Carter Show World Tour together like a musical production, but only in a West End theatre kind of sense. Even pointing out slight chinks in her armour seems harsh given her talents, but the crowd around me seem to agree – even if they’d never utter the words – that there are a handful too many of these moments, instances where many of us think to ourselves, ‘yes, I will have a little sit down’.  In such times, nobody’s bored, as the visual spectacle is still overwhelming. But neither are they dancing.

OK, when Beyonce’s at her worst, she’s still pretty good. But when she’s at her best?  Holy shit. I’ve heard the ‘this side make some noise/that side make some noise’ thing countless times, but the response has never hurt my ears before. I’ve seen The Flaming Lips on enough occasions to know what a glitter cannon does, but never have one’s contents filled my entire field of vision. I’ve just never seen a woman turn a crowd on, in every sense, to quite these levels.  Through a cheesy but yeah, kinda empowering ‘Halo’ and a brutally forceful ‘Why Don’t You Love Me?’, we’re out of our seats, and then in other people’s seats, and then we’ve all completely lost our seats. And by the time she flies – she actually flies – from one end of the venue to the other for a remarkable ‘Irreplaceable’, gliding back over to the front for a double whammy of ‘Crazy In Love’ and ‘Single Ladies’ so powerful it borders on transcendence, I’m signing myself up to the religion of people who think this woman can do anything.

For me, it’s Beyonce’s best music that makes all the other stuff about her so notable, not vice versa. Few other pop artists ever reach these heights, and they don’t even have to deal with the hassle of having to be bloody Beyonce every day. Michael Jackson did, sure, and at its best this show is probably most reminiscent of the stunning footage I’ve seen of him touring Bad. But look at how that turned out. Beyonce, thankfully, isn’t showing any signs of similar impending insanity. She still seems curiously humble, even when she’s literally looking down on us, suspended in the sky. For all her myriad talents, being able to seem like one of us at the same time as being not of this world is surely amongst her greatest achievements.

Sometimes sparks can fly in the most improbable of places. Tonight, Middlesbrough’s Westgarth Social Club, the not-so-secret gem in the town’s live circuit, is the unlikely host for two of the most in-demand bands of the moment, creating a little pocket of excitement on a drab Wednesday night. Small town inactivity paired with fingers being firmly on the right pulse means the room is packed out while a cautious but palpable anticipation hangs in the air.

Peak District blues punk duo- surely the least feasible start to a sentence ever – Drenge are first to prove their mettle, and they almost manage it. Making up in enthusiasm and ridiculously excellent names – Rory Loveless – what they, in fairness, lack in true originality, the young pups match no frills riffs with fresh faced commitment to sweet, if slightly underwhelming effect. A polite teen rebellion via The Black Keys which doesn’t have to tidy its room and can create a racket when it bloody well wants.

Temples, however, are the real reason for the swiftly rising temperatures round here, not least because of some particularly obscenely attractive band members. But since we’re here to talk about the much more disappointingly proper business of music and not shallow aesthetic gratification, we’d better get back to the task in hand. The psychadelia revivalists from Kettering have certainly been causing a stir of late, validated by the likes of Johnny Marr, Noel Gallagher and recent gig buddies, Suede. Racking up quite the roster of indie heavyweights can’t hurt a band in its burgeoning stages and they’re quietly keen- almost too quiet- to show why.

Opener ‘The Golden Throne’ is organ heavy and hook laden while ‘Keep in the Dark’ is a bluesy, stomping number which rolls into a swooning, romantic chorus. Singer, James Bagshaw, holds on to a knowing remoteness throughout, and fosters a mysterious allure, probably by virtue of knowing the value in shutting up. The band go on to play ‘Prisms’ which is a paisley printed daydream while their debut single, ‘Shelter Song’ is pleasingly trippy and an obvious standout track. The songs are hypnotic and unconcerned with urgency, softly seductive and touching on hidden depths.

Faithful in their intentions, the set speaks of a band with understated confidence and ability who know exactly the context they want to fit in and the importance of a cohesive vision. While it’s fuzzily nostalgic and experimental, they clearly want to invoke blotter paper mind-bends and wildly dilated pupils but they might just be too clean around the edges and are probably more of a friendly magic eye picture for now. It may simply be shy inexperience but their cool detachment and reserved delivery leaves the atmosphere lacking somewhat, though they manage to keep the attention of the crowd.

Entering the post-MGMT music scene at a time when the likes of Tame Impala are causing real waves, this is far more grounded stuff but it’s no less valid. Judging by tonight’s performance, Temples are a really good band with the potential to be really great. Not quite a trip, but they well could be.

Photograph taken by Sebastien Dehesdin at The Lexington, 29/04/30. See Full Gallery here.

The problem with not knowing a lot about a band other than their name and what it conjures up – plus a few minor details about what they might sound like – means you’re often living with a self-created musical myth instead of what they actually do sound like. That’s the position I found myself in before finally experiencing the music of Minus the Bear at Glasgow’s King Tut’s on Saturday night. Here’s what I knew/assumed:

1. The name: kind of a rubbish band in-joke, yet it works in a kind of endearing way. That assumption still stands true
2. There’d be a fair amount of “guitar taps” throughout, a technique that looks and sounds irritating in equal measure. I was glad to be proven wrong on that score
3. There’d be a good quota of difficult to follow time signatures and tempo changes, and few choruses. Correct, but that would never had bothered me anyway

The Seattle band can probably be put into the “veterans” bracket of the alt.rock scene given it’s been 12 years since front man and guitarist Jake Snider formed the band, and in that time released five full-length records. They’ve always passed me by, give or take a few songs, so this was an opportunity to finally get to know Minus the Bear as they toured behind their latest album Infinity Overhead.

The songs I heard that were taken from that record appeared to be the sound of a more direct Minus the Bear: driving guitar rhythms backed with subtle electronics (think a rockier Bear in Heaven…..must be a bear thing) and less skipping around the time signatures. So songs like opener ‘Steel and Blood’, ‘Diamond Lightning’ and ‘Toska’ were pleasingly instant hits (the latter especially with its addictive and colourful cyclical riffs), if a little obvious at times – although there’s nothing wrong with obvious if it’s executed extremely well.

The most enjoyable moments for me – and those that were most well-received by a receptive crowd who knew the back catalogue better than I – came when the band played tracks from older albums: ‘The Fix’, from 2005’s Menos el Oso, was a wonderfully scratchy punk-funk bomb, while another older track ‘Knights’ pounded along with math rock intensity and plenty of fun changes in tempo and ‘Spritz!!! Spritz!!!’ from debut album Highly Refined Pirates was probably the best moment of the night; an example of how well the band seem to combine those tricksy math rock tempo changes with a more direct guitar style, that track, plus show closer and all-round anthem ‘Pachuca Sunrise’ would be enough to convince anyone to seek out the band’s back catalogue.

As a first experience of Minus the Bear I have to admit that it’s not made me a complete convert to what they do; I think when they nail that combination of math and alt. it’s very good indeed, but I wonder if when I finally do listen to those records there’ll be a great number of dull moments in-between the attention-grabbers? However, this was damn good fun and if it’s made me want to investigate further, then it’s a definite case of job done.

As a certain robotic masked-duo continue to dominate our musical headlines, there is another fiercely cool Parisian outfit that have effortlessly returned from hiatus without causing a social media firestorm.  

It has been four years since Phoenix‘s arguably faultless, Grammy-winning, fourth album Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix appeared; an album that thrust the French alt-rock quartet out of the relative shadows of European music, into a deserved international limelight. Singles like ’1901′ and ‘Lisztomania’ proved what a knack they have for writing uplifting and intensely moreish pop songs and, although the new record Bankrupt! promised more experimental sounds, the band really have continued in the same, brilliant vein.   

On the day of this new albums release, Phoenix sold out the iconic Shepherd’s Bush Empire, a venue that may not possess the lavish decor of their hometown palace but nevertheless remains one of the Capital’s finest live music homes. The floor swarms with people as the current single, ‘Entertainment’ and it’s unmistakable Oriental refrain, welcomes them to the stage, accompanied by an excitable furor from the crowd.

It’s a full-on attack on the senses from the outset; blinding strobe lighting, heart-murmuring bass and shuddering percussion – the drummer’s relentless energy and ferocity comparable to The Muppets’ Animal. Two stripped-back renditions of ‘Playground Love’ and ‘Countdown’ provide early moments of respite, as frontman Thomas Mars displays gentle versatility by almost story-telling with the crowd he is in-amongst. He is a frontman in the true sense of the word, bounding around exuding chic charisma throughout.

Although the evening is celebrating a collection of new songs, it feels like a greatest hits show, with early singles like ‘Too Young’ as well as almost the entire Wolfgang… album sounding completely satisfying. The visual emphasis continues, as stripes of scanning white lights accompany the opening to ‘Love Like A Sunset’, before alarming multi-coloured strobing appears alongside ‘Bankrupt!’ which screeches out forming this wonderful medley of interludes.

‘S.O.S In Bel Air’ and ‘Trying To Be Cool’ fulfil the new album excitement and allude to what a solid return it is; ‘Rome’ makes up an encore, before Mars embarks on one of the most impressive crowd-surfs you are likely to see, ascending to the Level One seating to our amazement, and managing to return safely to a reprise of ‘Entertainment’.

The health and safety nightmare of the year brings smiles and old fashioned rock n’ roll to ensure the show had every box ticked and topped off a massively cool return from Phoenix, who remain one of the hottest bands around.

Photograph by Minh Le

If listening to Anxiety, the latest album by Brooklyn based Autre Ne Veut, is likened to that of a private 45 minute self help audiobook, the live experience is a full on public sermon/therapy session with Arthur Ashin a ramped-up minister, spouting out the gospel of heartache and self loathing to a congregation of misfits and hipsters.  

The second of two sold out London shows to coincide with the critically hailed sophomore LP (released by the ever-inspiring Software label) Ashin’s bleak tales are a contradiction in terms. An exorcise (sic) in pleasure and pain, the throbbing audience at Elektrowerkz are exposed to a very public display of unrestrained angst: sung with such an incredible amount of gusto and grace, it’s borderline impossible to compare Ashin to any other vocalist operating within the thriving R&B scene right now. If comparisons must be made then – to the unassuming – witnessing the ANV live show is like watching a rabid version of  How To Dress Well‘s Tom Krell on steroids.

Opening with the divine ‘Play By Play’ and flanked by a live drummer and effortlessly cool female backing singer, Ashin is focused on the task in hand throughout the relatively short set. Intense as hell, the moderately static audience avoids the deep grooves of Anxiety‘s dancier moments in fear of having to take a breath. It was that kind of atmosphere.

As the set progresses, a moment of sheer genius hits during ‘World War’ as – solo at the piano – Ashin splices in the opening verse of Whitney Houston‘s ‘How Will I Know’. Never has the line “there’s a girl, I know, she’s the one I dream of” sounded so tragic. Or indeed, so perfect. It’s that pleasure/pain thing again.

To summarise this brief encounter, and apologies in advance for the rather lurid comparison, witnessing the Autre Ne Veut live show is nothing short of an aural cry-wank. Self-indulgent? Yes. Intense? Massively. Cathartic? You bethcha. But with a massively rewarding, if not a little upsetting (and abrupt) ending.

Crank-wave, anyone?

Photo by Howard Melnyczuk

This is the first time I’ve seen Adam Green play in quite a while. My experience of him as a live performer is limited to a solitary support slot for The Cribs, across town at the Apollo in 2009.

Back then, he didn’t really have any practical reason to be there – his newest record, at the time, was more than eighteen months old – but that certainly didn’t slow him down, as he delivered a performance that was equal parts thrilling and farcical; decked out in a specially-prepared, puntastic t-shirt that read ‘MAN CHEST HAIR’, it probably wouldn’t be remiss for me to suggest that he’d indulged in a little artificial stimulation beforehand.

Tonight, though, he has got a record to promote; a full-length, self-titled collaboration with Californian singer-songwriter and Little Joy frontwoman Binki Shapiro. It’s seems very obvious – and it’s definitely very tempting – to draw immediate comparisons with Green’s tenure as one-half of The Moldy Peaches, but anyone familiar with his solo work, and live presence in support of it, will know that hooking up with Shapiro really represents the first time since his Peaches days that he’s slowed things down a little; the opening slew of tracks tonight, all drawn from January’s joint effort, see him on more subdued form.

On ‘If You Want Me To’ and ‘Casanova’, Shapiro takes the lead; her vocals, honeyed but not saccharine, are drenched in 60s charm, but when they aren’t delivered in tandem with Green’s low drawl – as they are, to impressive effect, on ‘Pleasantries’ and ‘Pity Love’ – they can feel a little flat.

“We’ve had a really weird day. A guy stole a load of gear from our van. We got a picture, but all we know is that he was wearing grey pants.” It’s interesting that this information is relayed to the crowd just before the evening’s midsection, which is largely dominated by Green’s solo material; whatever the grey-trousered culprit managed to make away with – “we just went out for dinner, and every time I saw someone in grey pants, I thought “fuck you!” – he couldn’t have taken Green’s electrifying stage presence out of the equation. “I’m gonna take the mic off the stand here, in classic lead singer fashion,” and he’s a different proposition once he’s done so; an enthrallingly awkward dancer, Green brings a real vitality to choice cuts from his back catalogue, including ‘You Blacken My Stay’ and ‘Friends of Mine’.

Shapiro prefaces her one genuinely ‘solo’ moment, a cover of Little Joy’s  ‘Unattainable’, by gushing about how entertaining it’s been to watch her bandmate perform every night, and it’s difficult to shake the sense that The Adam Green Show has been tonight’s key component. It’s clearly a difficult decision to have to make – the collaborative LP is a perfectly charming pop record, but it’d seem a shame to play only that, with Green restrained throughout, and be on and off within forty-five minutes. The audience certainly get more bang for their buck with the inclusion of the likes of ‘Dance with Me’, from Green’s 2002 debut Garfield, during which he completes an impressively swift crowd-surf lap of the venue, but his antics put Shapiro in the shade.

It’s kind of a shame; ‘What’s the Reward’ recovers well from an intro that sounds uncomfortably close to Snow Patrol’s ‘Chasing Cars’, and ‘Nighttime Stopped Bleeding’ provides a suitably dramatic closer, but to ask Green to dial down his energy would only serve to seriously mitigate the sense of excitement at his live shows; he’s unquestionably tonight’s real star.

It’s busy in here. Which may be a boring, predictable and fairly pedestrian thing to say about a sold-out gig, but it is. Really busy. Busy enough to suggest there may be an Animal Farm slant to this. Maybe some sold out gigs are more sold out than others. If so, Steve Mason is definitely looking at the higher end of the spectrum.

What’s perhaps more interesting is that there is also a properly joyous feeling in the air. Starting with the musicians up front, then reflected fore and aft through the crowd, even causing some sporadic outbreaks of dancing amongst the soundmen. From the moment Mason enters, with a “ding-dong”, which suggests he’s probably not going to be looking into black suit hire for Wednesday, the word which springs to mind is ebullient.

While it makes for big smiles all around, it does occasionally strikes you as a little bit of a change from where the work was originally cast. The songs from his solo career, from which tonight is completely drawn, are on record a bit more poignant and a bit more subtle than the big bold numbers which appear here. Where the looping beat of Mason’s songs was once a thoughtful trek through suffering towards enlightenment, here it’s more of a shuffle towards victory.

But while it may be different and at the slight expense of some the oddness that Mason has always wrapped himself in, it makes for a great live atmosphere. The opening trio, a mystically tinged ‘Lost and Found’, a gorgeously sunny ‘Oh My Lord’ and a brilliant ‘Seen It All Before’ inflate the occasion with a triumphant buoyancy that never gets released. The crowd applauds Steve, Steve applauds the crowd, and the whole thing becomes a perpetual appreciation machine which can’t help but warm the cockles of your heart.

The baggy ‘All Over You’, retrieved from the vastly under appreciated King Biscuit Time album, with it’s refrain of “Loneliness / Sadness / Joyless / Lifeless” a Latin translation away from being the worst school motto ever, is nagging and insistent. ‘Fight Them Back’, played immediately after he offers heartfelt thanks to those who stopped it going “tits-up” for him seems less like a political rabble rouser and more like a mantra aimed at himself (“You get up and fight them back”).

If the restless melancholy of his records suggested someone who has been fighting for a while, this performance suggests he’s finally winning. An artist who for a variety of reasons has not either had it, or made it, easy finally finding peace. And you’d have to be a cold-hearted bastard to deny him that.

Photograph by Kevin Morosky.

Upon hearing that tonight’s Karin Park support not only hailed from East London, but had commandeered their band name from a relatively obscure Francois Truffault short, my pretention klaxon immediately began blaring with abandon. But Les Mistons turned out to be a real find; ambitious and epic in scope.

With a sound that flitted between M83 anthemics, Oberhofer-esque indie-pop and brooding synth rock, they definitely have the potential to appeal to much wider audiences, and although the three-piece occasionally overreached themselves, it was in all a striking and highly impressive performance.

The prelude to Karin’s set, involving a pig mask wearing, white-cloaked figure chanting over unsettling looped vocals was also striking, albeit in a rather self-indulgent fashion. Thankfully, once Karin Park made her entrance, needless gimmickry was no longer required.

The Swedish songstress cuts a striking figure; raven haired, clad in the sort of attire only a 6ft 3 tall model could get away with, but it’s her voice that deservedly grabs the attention. The immediate comparison is Björk – although Karin’s vocals are smoother, their vocals share the same timbre and power, and when fully unleashed, they inexorably send shivers down your spine.

Initially, her demeanour was as glacially Nordic as her countrywoman Karin Dreijer-Andersson (Fever Ray, The Knife), a perfect fit for the moody electro-pop she specialises in, but resulted in a barrier between herself and the audience. It’s only when the ice-maiden persona melts to reveal her true sultry charm that things truly hit their stride. (Well, the keytar helped too).

Her percussionist brother David, a long haired Thor lookalike, was the only other person on stage, but the “less-is-more” philosophy worked in their favour- it gave the show a greater sense of intimacy. Some of the songs blended into each other, especially in the latter half of the set, but generally her atmospheric, discordant disco (most notably Explosions’) hit the mark and confirmed her as one of the more intriguing rising stars of the Swedish pop scene.

Endearingly nonchalant, gently mysterious and responsible for some of the most distinctive and versatile songwriting to come out of this country for a number of years, it is very easy to forget that James Blake is only 24.

Evolving from a studious music producer and intuitive dub-step-meddler, into a stand-alone songwriter with a cult-like following, the talented Londoner really emerged into the mainstream thanks to his poignant adaptation of Feist‘s ‘Limit To Your Love’ in 2010. A top ten eponymous debut followed, and after a two year hiatus Overgrown was released last week, promptly receiving a rare ten-out-of-ten Best Fit review.

All is set up nicely then for a sold out hometown show at Heaven, the day after this anticipated release. The venue’s dark arches spill out into the bar as the great numbers jostle for the best view. You can feel a certain sense of awe; industrial clunks and stark blue lighting only adding to this anticipation.

Similarly, Blake’s appearance, alongside his two bandmates, is soundtracked by the experimental mix-match of ‘Air Or Lack There Of’, forcing us all to wait for the introduction of his most striking and effective songwriting, and indeed performance, tool – his voice.

And what a voice it is; live, and particularly in the Bon Iver-inspired layering of ‘I Never Learnt To Share’, it really is extraordinary. His use of live looping causes almost shocked screeches, before ‘Overgrown’, ‘Our Love Comes Back’ and the aforementioned ‘Limit To Your Love’ strip other elements away to highlight the power and complexity of this vocal: “This one we know a bit better”, he smiles before embarking on the most popular rendition of the evening, that comes complete with amped up dancing beat.

It is this versatility that makes the performance so watchable. One minute the venue is in almost complete silence, transfixed by a tranquil man and a piano with tracks like ‘Retrograde’, the next it feels like we are lost in a wonderfully late night club environment, emphasised best by the dub-step sambles, eye-catching percussion and beeping guitar of ‘CMYK’ – a massive highlight.

The encore too demonstrates maleable talent; the hypnotic ‘Voyeur’ with its sirens and unnerving, relentless rhythm is immediately juxtaposed with Joni Mitchell‘s ‘A Case Of You’ – the second of his carefully picked covers demands complete attention.

Words of genuine thanks wrap up a performance of real class, diversity and poise, and with cult status legitimised, we are offered a characteristically courteous bow from a young artist that has set his stall out for a magnificent future.

Photograph by Howard Melnyczuk

Finding a relative niche in the musical world we live in is not an easy task but Wild Belle have found complete comfort in a genre that appears to have been somewhat left by the way-side; this comfort, alongside a natural knack for songwriting, sets them apart from the majority and ensures an eye is kept firmly on their every move.

The brother-sister duo released their debut LP Isles via the typically impressive Columbia last month. The anticipated album felt almost overdue, thanks to the quality of, and justified buzz surrounding, the preceding self-titled EP and accompanying singles. They have set out on a tirelessly touring schedule promoting the record, with performances at SXSW and across the world including a welcome return to London.

Their popularity in this country, and particularly the Capital, is immediately apparent by the sold out crowd that excitedly turn out at Shoreditch’s Cargo. There is always something slightly cold about the bare tunnels of the venue, but the Chicago band bring sun from across the pond with their reggae/jazz infused pop and fly straight into the set omitting uplifting and totally heart-warming sounds.

Opening with ‘Twisted’, an album track that can comfortably sit alongside the aforementioned singles, sets the tone and allows for Natalie Bergman’s gently unusual voice to shine through with its impressive range and intuitive tonality. There is a busyness about the performance as the siblings are surrounded by big, splashing cymbals, jumping bass and twinkling keys and guitar.

Undeniably, one of the highlights of the set comes from Elliot’s huge, purring saxophone that adds fun and funk in abundance to a number of tracks, most notably the brilliant ‘Keep You’. He can sing too; his introduction to the microphone bringing a change in dynamic in one of the stand-out tracks of the evening.

It’s impossible not to love this band and, despite the more well-known numbers sounding fuller and more satisfying than some of the filler, a word that is slightly unfair, it’s a wonderfully fun show that completely holds your attention. There is something so effortlessly cool about Wild Belle, combine this with quality musicianship and genuine enjoyment in live playing, and the result is a room full of smiles.

Trust British Sea Power not to do things by the book. Whilst most album parties are rather predictable affairs – chattering journos congregating around a free bar whilst the band nonchalantly rattles through their new material – the great eccentrics of UK indie-rock pulled out all the stops to ensure the launch of Machineries of Joy was an experience worthy of their oddball reputation.

Before we’d even arrived at the 100 Club, the evening had featured mad Scotch punk poets holding court about Central London watering holes, a pub quiz on a Thames riverboat, and Bulgarian choirs singing the traditional Eastern European folk ballad ‘The Wheels On The Bus Go Round And Round.’ The pre-gig entertainment once we got there was no less esoteric: communist ping-pong and a raffle with prizes including an air raid siren and a plastic horse reposing in a Pyrex measuring jug all being present. At one point three blonde ladies, clad in togas and laurel leaf headbands ventured on stage and threw a variety of shapes for no apparent reason. All very peculiar.

Yet this imaginative and engaging frippery paled in comparison to the near-flawless set unleashed by the hosts themselves. From the subtle majesty of the title track, through the taut, no-nonsense rock assault of ‘K-Hole’, all the way to the gorgeous, smartphone-waving waltz of ‘What You Need The Most’, the new material finely complimented the many old favourites featured tonight.

The storming pop-punk riot of ‘Apologies To Insect Life’ was given a further adrenaline boost courtesy of the fantastic Jehnny Beth (Savages), the anthemic bombast of ‘No Lucifer’ and ‘Waving Flags’ lent themselves particularly well to a room full of reverential fans, and the closing one-two knockout of ‘Carrion’ and ‘All In It’, complete with marauding polar bear, perfectly encapsulated their weird, but wonderful mix of great songwriting and a quintessentially British sense of humour.

It’d be remiss of me not to mention Bo Ningen‘s subsequent brief, but scintillating onslaught of ear-melting psychedelica, a tie-dyed cherry on an already delicious cake, but tonight, not even these long-haired paragons of maximum rockness could outclass British Sea Power at the top of their game.

There must be something in the water in Sweden. The county’s musical proficiency and prolificacy is increasingly mind-boggling, but as the rest of the world is waking up to its vast array of pop experts, there is one export that has been gracefully going about their business for over a decade, and what a brilliant business they run.

Shout Out Louds unveiled their fourth studio album, Optica, earlier this year, only their fourth in ten years. The time taken for these records to appear immediately implies the quality and careful approach the Stockholm five-piece adopt when it comes to the recording process. Without a major release for the LP in the UK, a slight air of mystery floats around the band: Even though they seem to possess more indie-pop anthems than many of their household name contemporaries, they remain peculiarly and criminally underrated.

Despite the aforementioned mystery, their London fan-base have come out in force, swarming the Pentonville pub’s upstairs. Futuristic flashing stalks of light and an ambient crescendo of noise washes over the stage to welcome the band. “This is the first show we’ve sold out on this tour”, front-man Adam Olenius delivers this news to the typically bustling Lexington with a smile, “so it’s kind of a big deal for us.”

‘Walking In Your Footsteps’, with its entirely uplifting whistling motif, sounds so warm and instilling a joyous tone early in the set. In fact the five on stage waste no time in stirring up a genuine festival-like atmosphere; the nature of so many of their songs is that they feel completely familiar – whether you knew them before tonight or not you can’t help but smile and nod along as though it’s you’re very own playlist.

The Cure comparison is unmistakable at times but takes nothing away from the individuality of the set. Experience ensures everything is tight and polished from songs like the ‘Comeback’, (their proper indie anthem) to the glistening riffs of ’14th of July’ and an elongated version of ‘Illusions’. Songs drop and rebuild with relentless drum fills: Fading in and out with immaculate and satisfying precision.

It is a proper-length set, complete with an obliging three-song encore that gets better and better as the band (and the increasingly excitable onlookers) get completely into this festival atmosphere being championed. Intensely relentless drumming, thrashing chords from atop the thudding bass kick and even a trip into the crowd, mounting the soundboard complete this wonderful facade and cap a performance that is as smile-inducing as it is impressive.

Only one question remains really after a set of such quality – when will Shout Out Louds, and their extensive catalogue of indie-rock hits find their rightful place on people’s lips and stereos, and get belted out in their home away from home, a raucous festival tent?

Shout Out Louds return to London with an XOYO show in June – more information and tickets here.

Squarepusher‘s fitting choice of support act The Bug have reportedly gotten on board doom metallers Sunn O)))’s soundman for tonight’s trip to the ever-splendid Roundhouse, which means we’re only in for one thing – bass so loud that earplugs become instantly redundant, this being a noise that seems to find its way in through every pesky pore. 

It’s hugely fun throughout, all the more so for the presence of a cast of guest MCs including the excellent Flowdan who provides a welcome human element to Kevin Martin’s overpowering, otherworldly dub. Between songs, they implore us to do everything from “kill all the politicians… and paedophiles” to wave our lighters in the air like we’re at an R.E.M. gig, the latter of these peculiar requests duly taken on board by the now nearly deafened but suitably impressed crowd.  As for the former call to arms, it’s hard to tell, but the audience were so eagerly eating from out of The Bug’s hands that they’d quite happily have been led on a post-set murderous rampage.

What we got however was something infinitely more nuanced. Though The Bug didn’t make use of it, the massive lighting rig due to be used to dazzling effect by Squarepusher provided their set with an ominous backdrop before Tom Jenkinson immediately made feel like home. This must be how Ufabulum, his most recent, thirteenth LP, sounds in his head; blared at an imposing volume and flashing like a warzone. That it is a better experience than merely listening to the (actually pretty fine) album to oneself isn’t in doubt – it sounds and looks amazing, but whether it made for a truly spectacular gig isn’t as easy to say.

In a few senses, spectacular is a perfectly pertinent word for what went on here. From the video screen Jenkinson wears on his head and the baffling array of huge, choreographed lighting that makes up the visual spectacle to the cacophonous, unfathomably densely layered electronica that provides the sonic thrills, it sure is a spectacle, and there’s no doubting it. Towards the start of the new record – which is played in full tonight – folks seem more than content to let the jaunty likes of ‘Unreal Square’ and glacial ‘Stadium Ice’ do their thing whilst they simply watch on, mesmerised. As Ufabulum becomes more self involved though, such as on the drawn out murmurs of ‘Drax 2’, the same souls seem to struggle to enjoy it quite so much. It’s almost as if we’re meant to stand and admire the sheer intelligence to all that’s going on, rather than become involved in it ourselves. It turns people in to fidgeters, rather than dancers.

The best Squarepusher gigs I’ve seen have felt the opposite – no matter how clever the music, it’s always managed to make people move. Perhaps Jenkinson has simply moved on, which is fair enough – I’d rather see people this far in to their careers try something out than retread old glories. It’s just that when he does show glimpses of the Squarepusher of old, returning for an encore that confirmed him as amongst the best electric bass players on Earth and managing to skew the shit out of familiar numbers like ‘UFOs Over Leytonstone’, the endorphin levels in the room raised markedly. People moved.

Perhaps, when more familiar with the newer material, that’ll happen with the Ufabulum tunes too but hey, when we’re able to enjoy it as much as we admire it, gigs don’t come much better.

Photograph by Howard Melnyczuk. See Full Gallery here.

Well, this is odd. 3pm on a Thursday afternoon and we’re wondering just what the rules are for a matinee performances at the Royal Albert Hall. Is getting drunk ok? What about crowd-surfing, pogoing and circle-pits? Can we sing along? No-one seems to know. The girl next to me is half-hiding a glass of beer under her coat, her occasional sips furtive and slightly guilty.

No such concern from Efterklang’s Casper Clausen, who raises his wine glass aloft, staring up at the tiers above. But then he’s dressed in a jacket and bow-tie, making my Skeletor t-shirt suddenly seem woefully inappropriate. Heck, he’s outdressed most of us: damn near every guy here looks the same, clad in checkered shirts capped by floppy hair. It’s a Midwich Cuckoos of fey indie boys, hustling close together in case the ushers mistake us all for squatters and have us removed.

But if there’s any band who are appropriate to these grand environs it’s Efterklang, their songs a marriage of scale and intimacy, of soaring melody and sonic ambition: their orchestra shows rate amongst the best things I’ve seen, and the last decade hasn’t produced many better hours of music than Parades, their 2007 second album. Sad then that they don’t quite nail it on this early show, their short setlist a touch too timid for the space and for the opportunity to enchant so large an audience. A few off-notes from Katinka Fogh Vindelev marring their opening doesn’t help either. In truth perhaps we’ve been spoilt by the band’s frequent dalliances with larger stagings: shorn of the strings and the brass these songs sound but shadows of their fuller vibrancy. Despite there being six musicians on stage, and only ‘Sedna’ really transcends the sense of limitation but, hey, it’s still an Efterklang show, and it’s always good to see a band so in love with music and so humble in their own performance of it.

There’s rather less humility on display from the headliners, but then why should there be: they’re playing the Royal Albert Hall. Yet these are incongruous surroundings for Foals, mere months on from the sweat of airless clubs, of Tunbridge Wells Forum with its rivers of urine, and it’s difficult not to feel some resentment for the seating constraints. Unlike most of the sound that enters this space this really isn’t music to just sit to, to absorb and observe, and for nine-tenths of us the several hundred or so people enclosed in the standing area become a kind of proxy, their convulsing and their flailing a projection of our own.

The urge to move comes early, Foals’ arrival onstage a protracted foreplay of guitar swell and drum restraint as ‘Prelude’ builds to a crescendo, its close filling the hall with noise and setting expectations high. And in the main they’re met, with a fifteen-song set leant heavily towards Holy Fire but taking in highpoints from across their career, from Antidote’s ‘Red Sock Pugie’ to Total Life Forever’s title track. ‘Blue Blood’ sets the standard, though, a dizzying cycle of ringing notes and frantic drumming, the backlighting casting band members’ shadows high above the circle to render their movements with the scale that the volume demands.

Highlights are everywhere, from ‘Milk & Black Spiders’ glorious extended outro to the moody slow-burn of ‘Spanish Sahara’, lasers tracing the contours of the room. On ‘Bleed Like You’ frontman Yannis Philippakis braves the crowd, roaming first through the stalls and then the standing area as hands clutch and grasp towards him like Romero zombies: one guy, moments after having scraped his hands through Philippakis’ hair, runs his tongue across his fingers with his eyes closed. Later the singer leaps into the throng from the photo pit and it’s some time before he’s visible again, whatever ordeal he suffered hidden from our eyes if not the hundred or so cameraphones strobing directly above him.

Would it be uncharitable to say that these were the best bits? Perhaps, but Foals are notably less interesting when their songs are simply building to a chorus or a vocal hook, and the more Yannis sings the more I pine for an alternate plane where Andrew Mears didn’t opt for Youthmovies. Sure, ‘My Number’ and ‘Bad Habit’ are pleasant enough but it’s away from the pop template that Foals really thrive, in the mathy rhythms and the driving beats and the instrumental jams that hint at another band lurking behind the radio-friendly NME cover stars, muscular, brutal and really very angry. Towards the end of main-set closer ‘Electric Bloom’, the stage kinetic and the volume become cataclysmic, Philippakis breaks his drumstick and reaches for another before realising that he’s broken all of them already, that he’s surrounded by the splintered remnants of his aggressive percussion.

It’s a shift epitomised in penultimate track ‘Inhaler’; its dynamic an inexorable scaling of tension and noise before it finally crests, its Zeppelin riff enormous. “Are you ready?” Yannis had asked us three times before it started and in retrospect we probably weren’t, not for that, not for a wall of sound that seismic and that thrilling. And whilst I miss the trumpets and the brass of their earlier material it’s hard – with the tinnitus still not quite subsided – not to be excited about where Foals might go next, whilst hoping that it won’t be simply be to the arenas.

Photograph by Gaelle Beri. See full gallery here.

First shows are always intriguing. They can often result in a benefit of the doubt reaction, where discrepancies are overlooked as early issues will have time to be ironed-out. London Grammar require no such sympathy.

Their name feels oddly familiar considering their relatively embryonic nature, but the London trio have sold out Islington’s Electrowerkz and drawn an excitable crowd to its dark industrial caverns; its atmosphere perfect for the ambient sound the band create.

Opening the set with the stunning melancholy of ‘Hey Now’ grabs our attention immediately and highlights a focal point for their music; a completely assured and quite remarkable vocal. It is as unusual as it is impressive, and warm lower registers are married with piercing high notes with maturity beyond young years.

There is more to the set than simply this vocal though, as carefully projected live footage surrounds busy multi-instrumentation, adding depth and interest to the performance. The likes of Massive Attack and Faithless come to mind as crackling synthesized beats juxtapose smooth melodies with tidy, reverberating punctuation from a delay-heavy guitar. The use of acoustic percussion adds punch; incorporating bongos and finally putting careful brushes to one side allowing snare and cymbal to add welcome hints of heaviness.

‘Metal & Dust’ is among a number of songs sang back in unison at the smiling trio by a hoard of friends who appear blissfully unaware of their mainstream potential; it is the only part of the evening that creates a first show atmosphere, the rest is the complete package wrapped up with a poignant piano-laden encore. London Grammar have set their own standards – and set them very high.

Set List
Hey Now
Darling
Interlude
Stay Awake
Strong
Flickers
Wasting
Help
Metal & Dust
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If You Wait

The last time The Weeknd was in London he played Wilton Music Hall (no, we weren’t quite sure where that was until we got there either). When he comes back he’s playing the O2 Arena. That is a difference of about oh say 19,600 people. Fleetwood Mac play the O2 Arena. The Who play the O2 Arena. Leonard Cohen plays the O2 Arena. Not some kid from Canada who hasn’t even technically released a studio album yet, right?

Wrong. Your technicalities mean nothing to Ontario born Abel Tesfaye, whose compilation album Trilogy (neatly titled after the three EPs that make up the bulk of its track listing) has apparently sold a cool 289,000 copies since its release via Universal subsidiary Republic Records and his own imprint XO. From enigmatic blog obsession releasing his music for free to a genuine, real life money making star in two years, Tesfaye’s rise is kind of unfathomable. Oh, did we forget to mention that tonight is the second of four straight sold out dates too?

Show time and Abel raises his hands in the air, commanding his shrieking fanfare as if a conducting a grand orchestral symphony: The flick of his wrists inspiring mass hysteria and silence in the same smooth motion. It doesn’t really matter whether you received the news of his impending November O2 arena tour with cynicism or whether you’re sceptical of his abilities to compel its voluminous halls because in he’s already there, in his head, the Electric Ballroom is an arena.

The fact that the aforementioned fanfare immediately begin singing along to every word of ‘Enemy’ plays into this mentality, Tesfaye’s agonised, sweet Michael Jackson reminiscent vocals and the crowd’s volume disguising the sheer hedonistic filth of its lyrics. There is definitely something quite bizarre about being the middle of a room full of people shouting “I wanna lose myself between your legs” but then if you’d been listening to The Weeknd since the beginning of his meteoric rise you would know that basically everything he sings about can be traced back to sex in one overt way or another.

With ‘High 4 This’ he’s soon swept the entire venue up into his sparse, down tempo R&B arms and by the time ‘One of These Nights’ comes around the shy, muted tones of the man we saw last year have all but vanished, not just behind a wall of aloft iPhones and iPads, but in a haze of sophisticated tones, a sheen of ego boosted confidence and a slick stage persona. He’s even got his own Jay-Z style “put your triangles in the air” moment worked out as everyone copies the “X” and “O” gestures he makes towards the microphone with his fingers. His vocals are still found quivering and flustering in all the right places, but as with the man, the tentative impressions left from his recorded work are bolstered with added arrangements, wailing electric guitars and rippling bass lines. A funkier groove dominates this evening’s proceedings, detracting somewhat from the soulful yearnings which appealed so much in the first place.

‘Wicked Games’ is delivered a real potency though, its pop sensibilities tripping in the background beneath irresistible upfront beats though some around me soon remark that the best five minutes of this show are yet to come, referring to the time between the end of ‘Wicked Games’ and his return to stage for the encore. Some of his fans seem a little less than enamoured this evening, his stereotypically disingenuous comments doing little to help the matter “Scream for your city London. I want you to know that tonight’s the only night that matters” come the shrills.

We have a tempestuous relationship with bands in the UK, we love them and protect them like they’re one of their own until the moment it feels like they don’t really need us anymore, upon which the bedrock of backlashes is laid. The Weeknd’s performance tonight is utterly compelling, he’s a star, he owns the stage but it certainly feels like he doesn’t need anyone anymore.

Photograph by Jason Williamson. See full gallery here.

Amid a tumultuous storm that catapults buzz-bands around like puppets in its gale-force wake, Wild Nothing seem to represent a gently fluttering pocket of calm. Jack Tatum’s music noodles and meanders across fretboards, transporting you away to neon-drenched dream-scapes and sun-bleached beach houses with peeling enamel doors. London is currently plunged into an Arctic winter, and Spring has, at best, briefly peered round the corner before fleeing in retreat. It’s no wonder that Londoners fancy their fill of Wild Nothing, then, and Scala is suitably packed out for the occasion.

“We were talking backstage,” says Tatum, in a laidback drawl similar to his singing voice, “and we think this is the biggest club show we’ve ever played. This means a lot…you guys are awesome.” Sort of dreamily wafting his way around the stage with the roaming riffery of opening song ‘Shadow’, Tatum might be in a trance, but he’s delivering the plaintive undercurrent of Nocturne perfectly live. Hazy pink lights and pouring smoke set the mood. Wild Nothing are a formidably polished band live – the pulsing funk of ‘Paradise’ sounding even richer in the relatively intimate environment of Scala, and the whole room is moving almost unconsciously in time. It’s impossible not too, really. Nocturne is admittedly the record that takes centre stage here tonight, and 6 months after its release, Tatum’s effortless grooving and vague sense of wistfulness seems as exciting as ever.

Ambling from song to song with a deliciously feet-scuffing dawdle, Wild Nothing are less about exploding your ear-drums and far more about sheer atmosphere. ‘Disappear Always’, with its fuzz-riddled guitar is both lamenting and electric, and it’s a high point of the set where Tatum straddles the line between vulnerability and ‘owning it’ perfectly. The band also cover ‘Head Full of Steam’ from 80’s Australian band The Go-Betweens. It’s a beautifully executed spin on a song by one of Tatum’s favourite bands, and as carefully considered as you’d expect from such a refined musician.

Those expecting pyrotechnics and toppling microphone stands will have left Wild Nothing feeling slightly cheated, but we get the feeling that theatrics and rock and roll affectation just ain’t Jack Tatum’s style. He seems as casual on stage as he does in his bedroom where he first started writing, and Wild Nothing’s music has the rare, ethereal ability to transport you anywhere. This might be the biggest club show this American dream-pop outfit have played so far, but if tonight’s absorbing performance is anything to go by, there soon won’t be many clubs big enough to accommodate them.

Photograph taken by Anthony Keiler at HMV Forum, London in 2012. See full gallery here.

Eels are a band that mean a great deal to a great many people. It’s remarked by someone, as we await the arrival of frontman E himself (a man occasionally otherwise known as Mark Oliver Everett) that Eels are the band that mean the world to ‘everyone else’ in the alternative ‘scene’; the wholesome middle-grounders who never truly moulded themselves to a clique when they were unearthing their tastes.

Since the release of the band’s historic 1996 debut Beautiful Freak, people of all walks have identified with the both uplifting and pain-laced output of E; something often attributed to the personal struggles he has encountered, through which he has managed to create a seminal beauty – a beauty many have grown up with and been shaped by. Nobody ever claimed the band or their following were cool – or uncool, for that matter – and somehow this has raised E and his backers to a Holy Grail-like level of credibility.

In keeping with this, the band are introduced, in darkness, by a lone voice proclaiming “…and here they are. Ladies and gentlemen – hold onto your hats”. Clad head-to-toe in blue Adidas tracksuits, shades on, heads bopping in unison, there’s certainly nothing trendy about them tonight but in a way they’re almost the antithesis of the trend-based industry they, inevitably, are a part of. They begin with new album Wonderful, Glorious’ opening track ‘Bombs Away’, and we’re simply blown away with E’s clenched, screaming guitar tone – it sounds fantastic.

This isn’t the soft, comforting blanket of bitter honesty many grew up wrapped in by Eels – no, tonight and maybe now simply for good, they’re a different kind of beast. They’re raw, through and through, and although E’s been growling for a long time, it now feels intrinsic to him and his songwriting. Emotive tracks like ‘Woman Driving, Man Sleeping’ are a very, very distant memory, but they’re oddly not missed; especially when gritty songs like ‘Peach Blossom’ drop, well and truly knocking the wind out of the crowd’s collective chest. For the most part it’s shameless head-banging rock n’ roll, and as unexpected as that may be, it’s some of the best we’ve ever seen – especially when the band crank out a cover of Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Oh Well’ of such panache that we’ll likely be talking about it for days to come.

Perhaps most fantastic of all, though, is the fact that this is also one of the most hysterically funny shows – musical or otherwise – we’ve ever seen. Newcomers would likely have expected E to be, if anything, as brooding and bitter as he comes across in his music, and yet, he’s in fact of the furthest disposition from that imaginable. He’s personable, comical, occasionally gaudy, and yet not appearing desperate to please – he’s just ‘doing his thing’. His relationship with his band, on-stage at least, is very close and wonderfully entertaining, throughout the set. Sharing many flamboyant hugs and back-and-forths, introducing them to us at last because “it’ll mean a lot to them – and their parents.” E also ‘renews his vows’ with guitarist The Chet, with whom he’s been playing music for ten years; a ceremony officiated by the band’s bassist, and played out by a short, farcical round of Bette Midler’s ‘The Wind Beneath my Wings’.

We get a lot before it’s over. A visceral rendition of Wonderful, Glorious highlight ‘The Turnaround’ leaves us dazzled, but the night is made for us by a glorious medley of ‘My Beloved Monster’ and ‘Mr E’s Beautiful Blues’ – a performance of fluctuating tempos and timbres, and incredible fluidity. It’s not over ‘til it’s over, though, and a lucky few are treated to a second secret encore of the visceral ‘Dog Faced Boy’. The house lights are still blaring, most of the 5,000-strong audience have dissipated, and those not quite out the doors flood back from the atrium to see one of the most personal, candid moments we’ve ever come across in live music.

Eels are honest, because really, that’s all they’ve ever known. They’re not concerned with keeping up any appearances, because the Eels that we know and love were always an utterly warts-and-all act. Whilst it’s true that the sound and attitude they’ve reached at this stage in their careers is quite a fundamental shift from the string-kissed indie-rock that made them the central heating, comforting Sunday morning breakfast and thick scarf in the midst of winter of many people’s lives, it’s heartwarming to see E and the boys enjoy themselves as much as they do tonight – and even more so, it’s a pleasure to be able to enjoy it with them.

Photograph by Jason Williamson. See full gallery here.

If you’ve been in a band for thirty years and maintained a prolific rate of studio output, the task of compiling a live setlist becomes less and less straightforward. It goes without saying that the shows are going to get longer, but by the time you’re putting out your thirteenth record, you’ll still struggle to properly represent your back catalogue across ninety minutes; you have to start looking for other ways to shoehorn in everything you’d like to.

The solution that Yo La Tengo have come up with is to do away with something they clearly consider a luxury – a support act. For a while now, an evening with New Jersey’s premier purveyors of indie rock has involved the band occupying both of the show’s time slots. There’s a twist, of course; these aren’t merely Springsteen-esque marathons with a break in the middle. A couple of years ago, they took a Wheel of Fortune style spinner on the road with them, with potential options for the opening portion including a set comprised solely of songs beginning with the letter ‘s’, a question-and-answer session and ‘acting out an episode of a classic sitcom’ (they weren’t kidding).

Tonight’s kick-off proves considerably less eccentric than that last tour; the first forty-five minutes of the show is an all-acoustic affair. Stripping back tracks from across their canon seems a logical step for a band who have just made their most concise, cohesive record in a good while; even the title, Fade, is suitably short and snappy. Hearing songs old and new presented in such a fashion highlights, pretty deftly, that despite all their sonic and stylistic experimentation down the years, a sharp ear for melody and a versatile songwriting ability has continued to underscored Yo La Tengo’s output. The carefree whimsy of 1991′s ‘One PM Again’ is clearly born of different influence than Fade‘s yearning ‘Two Trains’, but they sit comfortably alongside each other in a set that does a terrific job of combining some of the band’s mellower moments with reinvented versions of noisier efforts. The understated ‘Season of the Shark’ is aired in more or less its studio form, but closer ‘Big Day Coming’, characterised on record by siren-like guitars and crashing drums, manages to match the restrained tone of  the rest of the set, without compromising what made it so compelling in its original  incarnation.

Of course, another major advantage of getting the acoustic stuff out of the way early on is that there’s nothing to disrupt the flow of the ‘loud’ set once it gets underway. The evening’s second act is a furiously-paced, ninety-minute rock show that sees the three-piece barely stoping for breath between songs; James McNew and Georgia Hubley seem to be constantly swapping instruments, whilst frontman Ira Kaplan switches liberally between keys and guitar. The live translations of many of the tracks aired aren’t strictly reinventions, but they certainly take on an added vitality. ‘Autumn Sweater’s driving drum loop never sounded so urgent, whilst an extended version of Fade opener ‘Ohm’ becomes increasingly frenetic as it nears its climax, and it’s difficult to believe that it’s the same song that began the acoustic set earlier. That Yo La Tengo can play the same song twice in one night and not come across as self-indulgent says an awful lot about them. Indeed, by the time they close with a feedback-drenched, riff-driven double header of ‘Double Dare’ and ‘I Heard You Looking’, we’re about as far from the laidback mood of those first few songs than we could’ve imagined two hours earlier.

The encore, traditionally, sees the band delve into their extensive repertoire of covers, and Alternative TV‘s ‘Action Time Vision’ and William DeVaughn‘s ‘Be Thankful for What You Got’ do feel as if picked at random rather than through any consideration of complementing what’s gone before; as a result, they feel a little disjointed. It’s hard to feel too short-changed, though; tonight isn’t just about one of indie rock’s most consistent stalwarts playing a two-hours-plus, career-spanning show, although that would’ve been impressive enough in itself. Instead, a Yo La Tengo show in 2013 involves a continually eclectic and challenging band displaying a perennially-rare musical achievement: a mastery of both sides of the volume dial.

Photograph by Gaelle Beri taken at The Barbican, London. See full gallery here.

“No, thanks. The last time I smoked weed, I was… in my forties.”

Despite politely declining that fan’s offer and requesting a nice red wine rather than an array of spirits or beer for his on stage tipple, Thurston Moore, now 54, can hardly be accused of toning things down of late.  Though perhaps the most hopeful thing you could say about Sonic Youth’s current status is that they’re ‘on hiatus’ – after Moore’s split from wife and co-founder Kim Gordon in 2011 – he’s been characteristically busy, joining black metal super group Twilight, releasing an album with Yoko Ono and (interestingly?) Kim Gordon entitled YOKOKIMTHURSTON, and forming Chelsea Light Moving all within the space of a year.

Chelsea Light Moving are not the kind of band 54 year olds get in to. For one thing, Moore still dresses like a man in his… well, it’s hard to tell really, but with those baggy jeans and completely unflattering sweater, he doesn’t look exactly mature. They also don’t sound at all aged. What they sound like is Sonic Youth, or perhaps more precisely, Thurston Moore circa Psychic Hearts, the fine solo album he released in rare down time from the band in 1995 (a couple of tracks from that record are played as tonight’s surprising and very welcome encore, confirming this very much as Thurston’s gig, despite the evident talents of his co-band members). It’s a sound that Moore can slip in to like an old pair of shoes, sure, but it’s still one hell of a racket, the kind that people outside of their twenties should make only if they’re truly excellent at it.

This evening, San Francisco’s Great American Music Hall – think the layout of the Electric Ballroom but the decor of Koko, with beer twice as delicious at half the price – is two thirds full of people who, if they are in their twenties, are soon to say goodbye to them. It’s not got the air of a trendy gig at all, but the impression of not-giving-a-fuck-ness about it makes it a cool all the same. As soon as the band launch in to ‘Frank O’Hara Hit’ (dedicated to all San Franciscans “because they’re all poets”), and each of those in attendance starts nodding in appreciation, you get the feeling you’re amongst a more knowledgeable crowd than those spending their same evening catching buzz bands down in Texas at SXSW – there’s nothing like hearing Thurston shred away at a guitar like this, and me and my new musical soul mates could listen to him do so all day. We’ve got it right.

Or, maybe, I’m just trying to console myself about getting old. I need to approach it more like Thurston, who  – despite encountering various technical problems involving a pesky B string that won’t stay in tune and an amplifier that won’t stay on – is clearly still having the time of his life. ‘Groovy and Linda’ is dispatched with startling vigour, ‘Burroughs’ has him on his knees,  attacking his instrument like it’s just said something horrid about his mother, and despite the band’s fine new album being barely a month old, there are already new songs from it he’s ready to show us, like the bratty hardcore of ‘No Go’. Thurston Moore’s hipster stock might not be at its highest currently, but the levels of enjoyment in his craft seemingly couldn’t be higher. He doesn’t care. He gets to be Thurston Moore. And that makes him cooler than any of us, by definition.

Having a hit song in one of the most provocative TV series around is one thing, living up to expectation and smashing through a live set in a small industrial London club, is an entirely different story. Icona Pop‘s popularity has sky-rocketed since ‘I Love It’ – their brilliant piece of pop protest – soundtracked the out-of-body revelry of a Lena Dunham’s cocaine virgin experience on Girls but there’s more to the Swedish duo than a one-hit sync.

With a permanent residence on our radar since their first tracks emerged in 2011, it’s somewhat strange to think that their debut album isn’t set for release in the UK until the Summer. On top of the aforementioned single, the tracks we’ve heard from the new record possess boundless energy and attitude, sitting perfectly between accessible girl-power synth-pop and the deep, dropping house that continues to ascend to the mainstream; their timing is excellent.

An extensive touring schedule, including hotly tipped SXSW performances, led up to the Swedish duo’s first show in the capital for a year, and the underground club atmosphere of North London’s Electrowerkz is ideal for the anticipated sold-out show. They have a versatile appeal, showcased by the thoroughly eclectic mix in attendance and the stark setting provides a dark, blank canvas for the duo to unleash their electronic sights and sounds on the baying crowd.

And unleash they do; thudding EDM bass accompanied by lost-in-the-moment screams welcome the two striking Stockholmites to a stage just big enough to house them and their two long tables of flashing equipment. Piercing white strobe lighting is thrown out, forming arty silhouettes, as concentrated button-pressing gets underway and a soaring siren builds to a sizeable climax and drops seamlessly into ‘Manners’: “There is no one like me” is defiantly belted out by the front third of the floor. The massive chorus signals the deep dance influence and immediately displays a professionalism amongst the boisterousness.

The energy they omit is infectious and relentless: headbanging, speaker-climbing, beer-swigging and a hint of crowd-surfing all embellish the performance and the room is transfixed. ‘Nights Like This’ and ‘We Got The World’ provide the proper hits and allow sometimes hidden vocal quality to sore through over layers of synth samples and manufactured beats, while ‘Ready For The Weekend’ steps away to fulfill the deep house craving. It’s a stand-out track that has the potential to sit very comfortably on mainstream radio and dominate nightspots around the world.

Undeniably there is feeling of anticipation for the set closer, which arrives after a number of genuine expressions of gratitude and a laughter-inducing false start. ‘I Love It’ is augmented by longer build-ups and bigger, more satisfying drops in the live setting. The girls still thrust every ounce of energy into the track, which is screamed back at them by the glow-stick throwing hoards. It feels a bit like many are reenacting the scene the song has become semi-famous for: “I don’t care!” sounds so youthful and rebellious in full unison.

Despite the song’s themes and the power of their performance, there is something endearing about them. The duo take so much pleasure in showing-off this fun-filled set which is polished and complete. They really do have everything in place now to enjoy deserved recognition, and if a year from now they have improved as much as the last 365 days, mainstream pop should have fully woken up to Icona Pop.

Photos by Burak Cingi (see more)

It’s been four years since we’ve had a new Idlewild album, but Roddy Woomble hasn’t been sitting idle. In the year building up to the release of Post-Electric Blues (2009), he upped and left for the Isle of Mull with his wife Ailidh Lennon (of Sons and Daughters) and recorded the stunning Before the Ruin, a collaboration with Kris Drever (of Lau) and John McCusker. Before this, he was the co-curator of the wonderful ‘Ballads of the Book’, a project that paired Scottish authors and musicians.

It’s no surprise that his three solo outings, then, have been steeped in Arcadian themes of community, co-operation, pastoralism and nature. And despite performing in the metropolitan confines of Camden’s Jazz Café, these notions are inescapable tonight.

Woomble, the long, sweeping fringe perhaps the only hangover from his singer-in-a-punk-band days, spends the evening sat on a chair, with his arms hung between his legs. Such is his casual comfort, he could easily be perched in the kitchen of a Hebridean cottage. He smiles encouragingly at his band – Seonaid Aitken on keys and fiddle, Sorren MacLean on guitar and bassist Gavin Fox – as they blast out the best part of his three-pronged solo canon.

When they get it right, it’s wonderful to hear. “Nothing will get lost if we work like we can, until the smell of the earth is worn into our hands,” croons Roddy on ‘Work Like We Can’ – his philosophy captured in one gentle sentence. ‘Waverley Steps’ has the front row murmuring along in what’s the closest the evening gets to a fully blown singalong. ‘The Universe is on our Side’ and the existential ‘Making Myths’, from Woomble’s slightly underwhelming new record Listen to Keep, take on real potency in the flesh and the performance is sparked into life on the occasions Aitken and MacLean take centre stage: transforming the Jazz Café into a Scottish ceilidh hall.

Alas, the overarching theme of the evening is one of “pleasance”. Too little of Woomble’s solo oeuvre excites in the manner which his Idlewild and post-Idlewild collaborative material does. There’s a cigarette paper between many of the core melodies. While his imagery is often stirring, some of the lyrics from the new record jar in comparison (specifically: see ‘The Last One Of My Kind’). He exits the stage to hearty applause: no whoops, few yells – and that sums up what his music has become: nice, gentle, soothing, but nothing to get worked up about.

An ethereal talent with a worshipful fan-base, Ryan Adams is one of those artists that crops up very occasionally and perches on a musical pedestal almost regardless of direction or performance quality – he has earned that right.

The prolific Jacksonville songwriter has journeyed through it all: from Whiskeytown and early album alt. country beginnings; being thrust into the relative spotlight after 2001′s widely acclaimed Gold; masterminding one of the best covers of all time; raising a middle finger with Rock N’ Roll and a “fully-realized sci-fi metal concept album”; to where he seems to be resting now, at relative ease.

His most recent release, 2011′s Ashes & Fire is arguably one of the most complete and a wonderful return to form after the self-confessed regrettable Cardinals collaboration III/IV. Live tours with this album were stunning, stripped-back acoustic affairs but lacked the embellishment of a band that Adams fans craved since the disbanding of the Cardinals.

Then the news came – Ryan Adams was to perform live with a band for the first time in more than 4 years and new material was to be unveiled at the Royal Albert Hall, as part of a week of shows curated by Noel Gallagher in aid of the Teenage Cancer Trust. In it’s 13th year, these series of hand-picked performances have featured some of the biggest names in music, and this year is no exception; Damon Albarn, Paul Weller and Gallagher himself making up some of the other headliners.

So the stage was set and the iconic venue is brimming with excitement, following a warm-up of folk niceness from Beth Orton. “I know you’re not used to music this fast, so put your racing helmets on,” Adams jokingly emerges before slipping into ‘Dirty Rain’ and ‘Ashes & Fire’ from the latest record. Immediately, the fullness of the band evokes smiles; whirring organ from Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers founding-member Benmont Trench, upright bass, carefully distorted punctuation and sliding double-8 guitar paint a full picture and add expression to the otherwise acoustic numbers.

Famous for moods bordering on the bipolar, Adams is known for storming off or not uttering a word during live shows, but it feels like he has found comfort in dry wit and genuinely amusing interaction; “Loaf of bread?” he replies to one of the handful barking out requests, “I don’t think we’re playing that one tonight?” Nevertheless, this is one request he does oblige; Adams and the whole band break into a improvised rendition of ‘Loaf of Bread’ that, besides its crust-related lyrics, would fit seamlessly on any of his 13 studio albums.

What’s more, ‘Fix It’ and a new blues-heavy creation titled ‘In the Shadows’, described as sounding like a “vampire driving a Cadillac kill a werewolf”, give him the opportunity to display underrated electric guitar playing. Chunky wah-wah and conversational riffs lead up to one of the highlights of the night, as ‘Nobody Girl’ gets a surprise outing and turns into another typically tight jam from a band that look like they’ve been performing together for years. Ethan Johns, who has worked with the likes of Ray LaMontagne, Laura Marling and produced Ryan Adams’ debut Heartbreaker, thrashes out an immaculate solo, which Adams, in jest, takes credit for.

Genres are ever-evolving and multiplying. One might be forgiven for believing these increasingly weird and wonderful musical brackets are simply an excuse for artists to set themselves apart from the crowd, but sometimes genre defying bands do come along and demand as such; Thumpers are one such band.

The London-based duo emerged in the latter half of 2012 from the remnants of “art school, indie rock“, Pull Tiger Tail into the ‘co-ed alt. pop’ of their new project. The online appearance of ‘Sound of Screams’ 6 months or so ago set the tone, displaying rhythmic ingenuity, pop-infused melodies and an enthused, joyful tone. This exciting cocktail, which brought about comparisons with the likes of The Maccabees and even Arcade Fire, was positively head-turning and refreshing from first listen. There is something spirited and anthemic about it, signalling an effortless translation onto the live stage.

A headline London show at KOKO’s Club NME is a perfectly suitable setting for Thumpers, as their youthful sound is matched by sprightly exuberance from a teeming dance-floor. Smokey orange lights match the heart-warming layers that are thrown out from the stage. Being integral to the noise they’re championing, the drum-kit sits alongside guitar as the duo are surrounded by supporting singers and backed by electronic supplement, further filling out this big sound they make.

‘Dancing’s Done’, their debut single, released by Kissability at the beginning of February, is ideal for the club atmosphere with its uplifting chorus-enormous. As debut singles go, it is certainly one of the more exciting from a UK guitar band to surface this year, and sounds as uplifting amongst the revelry as it does on record, signaling their festival intent. Similarly, the aforementioned ‘Sound of Screams’ is a real highlight; the track wastes no time reaching its climax and highlights again their brilliant use of rhythm. Considering its moments of complexity, the band are tightly in sync and the backing singers add soul and something extra to the riff-based pop.

The show also gives them the opportunity to show-off new tracks, and take our word when we say there is plenty more to come. They are completely on the right track and serve as another UK band proving that indie pop is the way to go. This KOKO show is another early triumph in the Capital – it really is Thumpers by name and by nature.

Photograph by Sara Amroussi-Gilissen

Guitar music is dead, proper British bands are done-for and dance music reigns, right? Three lads from London beg to differ.

Theme Park released their self-titled debut via Transgressive at the end of last month. It is an album that seems to have taken a long time to appear, since the wonderful ‘Jamaica’ surfaced all that time ago. But there is something almost refreshing about this careful approach and it has paid off. There are peaks and troughs, but the record feels thorough and complete and displays how comfortable the Londoners are in the sound they are championing.

Comparisons with Friendly Fires and The Maccabees are understandable, but don’t quite tell the full story; there is something more fun, as their name suggests, about Theme Park.

A full UK tour supporting the album has followed, and a hometown show at Heaven was always going to be a sell-out. The smoked-filled arches burst with the eclectic mix they attract, the lights soon fade and LCD Soundsystem‘s indie classic ‘All My Friends’ blasts out to set the tone.

The aforementioned ‘Jamaica’ flies out early in the set, sounding even more summery and joyous in this live setting. It gets the swarms of fans moving, as arms fly up and full-on dancing dominates the front of the room; the track remains one of their best and is a definite highlight. Similarly, ‘Wax’ stands-out after a few slightly less exciting numbers, which remind us that it is still relatively early days in the young band’s life. This having been said, they are a brilliantly tight unit and their relaxed onstage aura is completely charming.

There is something strangely refreshing about the regular appearance of three intertwining guitars, in a time when electronic instrumentation is in favour, but intelligent application of synthesised beats keeps their sound current and relevant.

The best thing about Theme Park, and particularly their live performance, is its youthful happiness. The sound they create feels like the soundtrack to a teenage house party and it’s undeniably fun. ‘Tonight’ is the best example; feeling like the track people are waiting for, it does not disappoint and wraps up the set perfectly.

The band mingle with excitable fans after the show as well, which acknowledges their obvious appreciation, as photos are posed for and tickets are autographed. It is a touching part of the evening and adds further smiles to an entirely heart-warming show. There’s plenty more to come from this band and they are undoubtedly one of the leading lights in the guitar-music revival many seem to desperately crave. One thing’s for sure though – as long as Theme Park exist it certainly isn’t dead.

Photograph by Matthew McAndrew taken at the O2 ABC, Glasgow, 8th March

British females are leading the way. Ever since Adele took over the world with record-breaking album sales and endless awards, a flurry of talented ladies have been making their mark in music; none more so than Jessie Ware.

The South-Londoner began her journey as a backing-singer for school-mate Jack Peñate but her vocals demanded more than a backing spot, and it was masked-producer SBTRKT, another London resident, who heard the potential and secured her effortlessly soulful voice for his 2010 track ‘Nervous’, before repeating the trick a year later on his self-titled debut.

Since then she has released a widely acclaimed album (Best Fit’s album of 2012 no-less), toured America, is coming to the end of a full headline UK tour and appears to feature on almost every festival poster around. She found her niche by embracing audible influences like Barbra Streisand and Whitney Houston and, although it is hard not to focus solely on the quality of her voice, make no mistake, there are songs to match.

The culmination of this UK tour is two sold out shows at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire and, following support from exciting R&B Geordie Lulu James and the vastly talented Laura Mvula, there was a marked excitement – almost pop-star like. It reaches boiling-point as lights fade, delay-heavy guitar and splashing cymbals welcome a beaming Jessie to the stage. The neat, improvised build-up slips seamlessly into ‘Devotion’; the opening, title track from the record stands-out far more in this live environment, and immediately highlights the intense drum sound and tight guitar punctuation – indeed the quality of her band shines throughout.

There is an almost child-like enthusiasm to her performance as a number of tracks begin with a “I love this song” and ends with a proud smile and a genuine “thank you”. Excitable nattering between songs reveals a natural character and one that has had to work at, but now found comfort in the live environment. “I came 8th to Florence in a singing competition in Blackheath…”, brings full-on laughs from the venue and provides an Adele comparison, as this laid-back chatter is replaced by a juxtaposing voice – and what a voice it is. Added flourishes in ‘Swan Song’, the stripped-back ‘What You Won’t Do For Love’ and a strikingly ferocious note at the end of ‘Running’, which she closes with, display wonderful power as well as seductive poise.

Further endearing excitement comes to the fore as Jessie introduces her drummer to sing on ‘Valentine’, “He’s actually Michael Jackson!” she laughs as one of her early tracks sounds as accomplished as its more recent counterparts. The highlight of the show comes from a surprise, as the Goldsmiths Vocal Ensemble are welcomed on stage, and with a nod to musical theatre, bringing big backing and organised-chaos choreography to ‘Who Says No To Love’; “It’s like Sister Act 2!” Jessie beams.

We are treated to a new one as well; ‘Imagine It Was Us’ is a funk-fueled, disco number, showing off up-tempo versatility, before dedicating ‘Taking In Water’ to her brother in attendance adds emotion to one of the album’s, and indeed the evening’s, stand-out songs. ‘If You’re Never Gonna Move’ and ‘Wildest Moments’ are sing-along favourites – she should really extend a microphone to the stalls.

Charming, loveable and astonishingly talented, Jessie Ware has everything in place to follow the leading ladies in music and you wouldn’t bet against her being as household a name as any of them. “I just wanna go for a drink with her, you know?” someone remarks on the way down Shepherd’s Bush – we know, we know.

In appearance, Icelandic composer Ólafur Arnalds is a young, diminutive, small-voiced man whose stage persona is filled with a childlike wonder. The expansive Barbican stage, and impressive Britten Sinfonia, dwarf his frame, and, from his first mouse-like words to the vast audience spread comfortably around him, seems to drown him out a little too; “Hello. I’m Óley.” He pauses; “This is pretty insane”.

“Can you sing?” he asks us, before pressing what he tells us are two octaves of F on the piano before him. The audience mirrors the same quivering note in unison until finally the last breath has reached its end, and Ólafur smiles. “See?” he says, as he plays our voices back to us, “That’s nice. Thank you – you’ve just made the first note of our first song.”

Suddenly, any timidity of presence is forgotten as Ólafur melts into a torrent of murmured piano, swelling strings and blaring lights, all of music video-level quality and synchronicity. With each passing bar we get the sense we are watching a Hollywood epic play out on the stage in front of our eyes, to the point at which blinding lights explode around the feet of the assembled musicians. These are not songs Ólafur and his roughly twenty-five-piece orchestra, complete with moustachioed conductor, are merely performing. If they could be described as anything it would be as little contemporary symphonies, moving in short surges to the churning of electronic beats.

It’s not long before vocalist Arnór Dan joins the ensemble. His presence is at first slightly bizarre to witness, with mannerisms and an attire that seem to suggest an imminent rap battle more than they do his subtle contribution to the soft neo-classical compositions of Arnalds. Within seconds, however, he’s cooing, in a voice like that of Thomas Dybdahl, the words “for now, I am winter” – the title, in fact, of Ólafur’s newest release, which he is playing tonight in full. Soon we realise his movements are being mirrored by a silhouette of a thousand bursts of snow-like flakes on the wall behind the performers, to staggering effect.

Eventually the conductor sits down on the stage floor as Ólafur takes the wheel with a short interlude of piano and strings that are so reminiscent of fellow Icelandic musicians múm’s eerie signature sound that it’s almost hard to believe it isn’t some sort of homage to them. Bars of dazzling light illuminate the stage and its audience as white noise hisses in the background. It’s sad, however, that in every instance the electronic element of Ólafur’s sound – the element that truly sticks the young composer’s neck on the block - repeatedly falls short. Lost in deluges of booming strings and blaring horns, the beats simply aren’t bold enough in the mix, and lack the ferocity required to make the same kind of impressive waves they do in his studio recordings.

Suddenly, we’ve reached a fork in the road. Ólafur turns to us, childlike again, and says “This… this was my new album. That was the end.” He leaves the stage, looking overwhelmed. His encore, before which he tells us that he will cry if he speaks for too long, and that his parents are in the crowd somewhere, is a song he translates into English as ‘For Grandma’; his voice cracking as he does so. It’s a hearbreakingly genuine moment to witness. It takes a little while, a few hugs, bows and wave upon wave of rapturous applause before Ólafur leaves the stage once and for all, the amount this experience has meant to him starkly apparent.

However, if the experience of this night, of this experimental art form joining super-modern elements with fairly traditional classical forms, could be described as akin to anything it would be to how – conceivably, anyway – audiences gathered in the Royal Albert Hall in 1969 might have felt upon the unleashing of Jon Lord and Deep Purple’s ‘Concerto for Group and Orchestra’. Like that unique work the fearless fusion of starkly contrasting genres, coming together here with superb finesse, is brave, bold and beautiful, and at the centre of it Ólafur Arnalds feels not so much like a breath of fresh air as a new and fascinatingly alien way of breathing entirely.

In arena idol tradition, Hurts singer Theo Hutchcraft stands rooted, centre stage in Berlin’s Postbahnhof venue, flings his arms skywards and prompts – maybe even dares – the crowd of adoring Germans to fling his words back at him.

Those lyrics are “Suddenly my eyes are open”, during already-classic 2010 track ‘Illuminated’, and while the moment of realisation is supposed to be the audience’s, it serves Hurts themselves (represented by singer Hutchcraft, guitarist Adam Anderson and a crew of largely anonymous cohorts) every bit as well. Tonight’s relatively intimate showcase, placing us safely out of the snow but bang in the middle of the maelstrom, is a revealing lesson in the risky mechanics of making pop – however duskily hued – in 2013.

Hurts’ second album Exile sees the Manchester band building on the success of 2010’s Happiness. Just as many were surprised that a band who looked like Bros relocated to World War I could so firmly grasp the hearts of so many, so more will now watch as Hurts’ grip on the European melancholy psyche tightens. Tonight is an evening of paradox, as Exile’s downbeat but unstoppable paeans to loss, anger, frustration and fear are lapped up like so much treacle. But as the night progresses, their more thuddingly obvious influences fade away with the realisation that if you think you’re not hearing this for the first time, it’s now more likely that you’ve heard Hurts before than it reminds you of a well-worn ‘80s touchstone.

“If you look into my heart you will find/No love, no light, no end in sight”

Yes, they kick off with The Depeche Mode One – the new album’s title track – and before we’re forced to experience Berlin’s biting wind again we’ll hear The Nine Inch Nails One, The George Michael One, The Muse One, The Katy Perry One, The Take That One. But take a look at that list. With the possible exception of La Perry, all these acts know the power of DRAMA, that conflict is 10 times more potent than joy. Hurts also betray a boldness lacking in their pop peers: it’s not at all weird for them to try tackling all these styles within one gig, within one album – sometimes within one song. That’s Lesson 1 in Pop 2013: adapt or die, and Hurts have completely nailed the essential, ineffable second-album trick of sounding exactly the same but completely different. This is every ounce as true onstage as on iPod: in a set evenly split between old and new, the atmosphere doesn’t threaten to dissolve.

Berlin, it seems, is along for the ride. Fans have been (pointlessly but sweetly) queuing outside Postbahnhof since just after lunch, and the buzz created by picking the ticket allocation out of a hat has heightened the anticipation to pant-wetting levels. Hurts find themselves in an unusual position: seen as a pop band in the UK but deprived of the blanket radio play that gives sense to such a definition, they’re compelled to rely on mainland Europe for the manic fan hysteria their music commands. Here in Germany – as in Italy, as in France, as in Poland – they’re Just A Band but simultaneously much more: the miserable depths of Hutchcraft’s lyrical preoccupations (still more powerful as his clearly weakened voice strains for the high notes of ‘Blind’) lose their nuance in translation, but the enduringly catchy tunes are duly further elevated.

It’s this key point that Hurts have realised: crowds who don’t dig deep into lyrics – possibly because they’re In Foreign – just want a planet-sized chorus to wail along to, even if it’s little more than a disingenuous “la-la-la”. And by a curious coincidence, some radio programmers love that too. In practice, this means a certain loss of subtlety. But when you’re doing your damndest to give Muse a straight-faced run for their stadium takings – and your arsenal contains an Ultravox box set, a job lot of red lights and a monkish oversized hoodie – nuance isn’t your friend. And that’s Lesson 2 in Pop 2013: compromise is not a dirty word, and Hurts are treading the tightrope between dark art and sharp commerce with a rose between their teeth.

“Cut out my eyes/And leave me blind”

Hurts are also blessed with a naturally dark palate that suits the assembled Germans perfectly. It’s hard to imagine them (say) hooking up with Rita Ora, or introducing a glottal-stopping guest rapper to the stage, but it’s exactly their air of class and exclusivity that sets Hurts apart. They’re unafraid to pull out a violin or turn on the U2 histrionics – and ‘Cupid’ shows Anderson has taken the time between albums to graduate from the Edge School of Guitar Heroism – but I can’t think of another singer in recent times who’s pulled off wearing Serbian-hitman-chic leather driving gloves with Hutchcraft’s aplomb. When he lobs them into the crowd during ‘Miracle’ there’s a mad scramble for a piece of Hurts magic, and Hurts’ increasingly deep relationship with their fans becomes more evident.

And that’s Lesson 3 in Pop 2013: have no fear. There’s been compromise, and there’s been a studied stab at diversification that might from a certain angle look like box-ticking target marketing, but it’s Hurts’ fearlessness that sets them apart. Exile teaser track ‘The Road’, with its arresting accompanying video and aforementioned industrial Reznor chugging, is as unorthodox a comeback as Robbie Williams’ Rudebox, and while that album might have been regarded by his accountants as something of a disaster, it also marked the moment Williams realised chutzpah could be displayed in music as well as off-stage activity. When Hutchcraft theatrically breaks his mic stand over his knee and tosses it aside like Bruce Willis dispenses with a spent shotgun, it’s like he’s watched The Crow for the 37th time and decided to have a proper tilt at mythmaking. And then Hurts disappear.

“I swear I’ll make you bleed/If you break my heart when I hold you close to me”

Synths buzz angrily, the tick-tick-tick of the click track evolves into the doof-doof-doof of Teuton disco, and a visibly refreshed Hutchcraft returns to the stage as Hurts’ breakthrough ‘Better Than Love’ threatens to end the night on an uncharacteristically upbeat note of triumph. For all their nimble genre-hopping and lurching, compelling moodswings, the numerous new tracks on offer this evening don’t quite match this song’s dark, thespy pop ambition, like Les Rythmes Digitales piping Guru Josh into a roomful of RSC wannabes trying to perfect their Hamlet. (Hurts actually end on the doomy, usually wonderful ‘Stay’, but without the booming male opera singer they had on the last tour it fails to hit home.)

A vein of indecent self-pleasure runs through Hurts’ being, as it should through anyone wanting to push through the masses and stand alone. Aside from a brief mis-step when Hutchcraft desperately implores the Berlin crowd to “hold your phones up” during (geddit?) ‘Illuminated’ – a naff, slightly demeaning move which only the band can enjoy – this is a professionally impressive consolidation of Hurts’ unique landgrab in the terrain of pop. The duo are smuggling adult, unashamedly goth-tinged subject matter into a milieu more used to teen-placating platitudes, in a manner not seen since Frankie Goes To Hollywood subverted a nation 30 years ago. We can only encourage Hutchcraft & Anderson, electro-pop titans-in-waiting disguised as buttoned-up Slavic accountants, to press on: this is a lesson everyone should heed, in 2013 or any other year.

Setlist

‘Exile’
‘Miracle’
‘Wonderful Life’
‘Silver Lining’
‘Blind’
‘Evelyn’
‘Cupid’
‘Sunday’
‘Blood, Tears and Gold’
‘Unspoken’
‘Illuminated’
‘The Road’
‘Better Than Love’
‘Stay’

All image by Rob Sinclair, via Flickr. Used under Creative Commons license.

Somewhere there’s a better, fairer parallel universe where musicians are rewarded according to the scale of their talent. In that idealised realm, Mark Eitzel is a bona fide megastar, slaying capacity crowds across the world’s arenas when not busy preparing another bestselling album.

Back in this reality, alas, the erstwhile American Music Club frontman’s existence isn’t quite as gilded. Tonight’s compact venue seems better-suited for hosting dues-paying up-and-comers than certified heroes of American ‘alternative’ rock, a selective club Eitzel undoubtedly belongs to. Back in the late 80’s and early 90’s, San Francisco-based American Music Club were briefly feted as equals of – relatively speaking – kindred spirits R.E.M., only to watch the Athens, Georgia quartet’s capacity for positivity enable them to take off whilst AMC’s more troubled, brooding take on the same classic rock influences was doomed to remain a cult concern. Eitzel’s solo career has gradually drifted towards the margins. Last year’s Don’t Be a Stranger (easily equal to 2009’s twilit, criminally underappreciated solo highpoint Klamath) saw Eitzel return to a state-of-the-art studio after years of meagre recording budgets, an upgrade made possible by a friend netting an unexpected windfall, rather than a record label wise enough to invest in major talent whose timeless gifts just doesn’t happen to correspond with passing trends.

If the 54-year old songwriter is bitter about this turn of events, he hides it well. Generously bearded, dressed like the elder brother of Tom Waits’ bar-hopping jazzbo 70’s incarnation in a flat-cap and a jacket and trousers that have seen better days, and backed by a tight three-piece combo of stand-up bass, keyboards and drums, Eitzel’s the embodiment of good cheer tonight. In stark contrast to the downbeat songwriting that built his reputation, Eitzel turns out to be almost as adept at stand-up comedy as he is at singing. Practically every number is preceded by a rambling but hugely compelling anecdote from Eitzel’s eventful life, the best of which cast light on the origins of the songs. Eitzel’s account of setting up a friend on a date with his mentally unstable stalker is hilarious, but injects a dose of gut-wrenching poignancy into the tough truthfulness of ‘We All Have to Find Our Own Way Out’, the song the evening, which ended up with the damaged woman curled up on a rainy street, beyond anyone’s help or kindness, inspired.

If Eitzel’s comedy muscles are in rude form, his never less than formidable abilities as a singer also seem be intensifying with age. Whatever the mystery liquid that Eitzel’s sipping from a coffee mug is, it must be working wonders on his pipes: the voice is a bit cracked around the edges, but sounds stronger than ever, capable to climb effortless from gentle croon to a full-on, emotive wail. Eitzel attacks the challenging melody of the wounded, majestic opener ‘What Holds the World Together’ (“I have no idea what holds the world together”, Eitzel quips to ripples of laughter; I’m not sure it was meant as a joke) with a gusto some would spare for the final encores, and most would never be able to conjure in the first place. The beefed-up take on the sardonic ‘Patriot’s Heart’ – justifying Rolling Stone magazine’s nomination of Eitzel as the finest living lyricist in rock – makes the American Music Club original sound tame. The portrait of the seedy flipside of rock ‘n’ roll glamour on ‘I Love You but You’re Dead’ is delivered as a fiery rap. But just about everything tonight is a highlight: the oompah-hued take on Klamath’s ‘Why I’m Bullshit’ – as brilliant as its title – is a rare misstep.

Maybe Eitzel’s figured out that when it comes to listeners, it’s the quality not quantity that counts. Unimpressive in scale as it may be, the audience tonight hangs on to every word, clearly dedicated followers in for the long haul. On this spectacular form, Eitzel might even be slowly inching himself towards the fan count of a mainstream figure: I entered the venue with some interest in the man’s music, and left it as a bona fide fan.

Many people believe the notion of a ‘guilty pleasure’ should not exist. Music that attracts this tagline is often so widely enjoyed that it really should be entirely innocent. Arguably, there is no one in music that embraces this concept more happily than Cyril Hahn.

The Swiss-born, Vancouver-based producer made a name for himself by reworking a couple of these guilt-laden tracks into some of the most proudly listened-to music on the internet. His inspired take on pop classic ‘Say My Name’ helped catapult this style of sampling into the relative mainstream, as chillwave expanded and slowing vocals became an increasingly popular technique.

Signed to PMR Records (Jessie Ware, Disclosure) there can be little doubt that his own creations will follow suit by delivering intelligent and accessible house.

An eagerly anticipated London date at Sidings Warehouse gives Hahn the opportunity to bring these reworkings alive to a baying crowd; a lazer-heavy, smoke filled room offering the ideal setting for him, as swarms of the Capital’s dance-music attentive look on.

The cold setting soon warms up, as the hooded figure produces chunky synths and crisp beats. His plays on Jessie Ware‘s ‘Sweet Talk’, Haim‘s ‘Don’t Save Me’ and Solange‘s brilliant ‘Losing You’ are instantly recognisable and satisfying, highlighting not only Hahn’s taste but his careful production which adds so much without altering these well-loved songs too much.

Arguably, the ‘set’ takes too long to evolve into the faster more drop-frequent tracks in its second half, as the hoards enthusiasm for dance greatened, but when these crowd-pleasers arrive they don’t disappoint. Closing with the aforementioned, much anticipated Destiny’s Child reworking couldn’t have been more welcome as the room swoons and refills with the slowed vocal play thundering along wonderfully.

A deep and satisfying performance then from a powerhouse remixer who, alongside the likes of Ryan Hemsworth and Flume, is opening up the world of house further to the masses. The best thing about Cyril Hahn? We can all enjoy Mariah Carey, guilt-free.

When last we in the UK came face to face with Sigur Rós it was in rude Sunday afternoon light as they played the penultimate headline slot at Bestival 2012.

Despite the general consensus being that they performed pretty admirably, the band were quite obviously ashamed of their set, which they insisted was something best experienced in the dark; a stipulation which, according to a public apology which surfaced a few days later, they had agreed upon with the festival organisers far in advance and been denied at the last minute. Whilst many saw this statement as unnecessary or even childish, it is apparent tonight in the gorgeous Brixton Academy exactly why they felt an explanation was necessary.

Before Sigur Rós, backed by a plethora of other musicians despite now only officially being a three-piece, even take the stage we can see this is going to be a mind-blowing visual performance. A huge, thin layer of gauze flutters between an audience itching with anticipation and the Academy’s colossal stage, behind which silhouettes can just be made out amidst oceanic green and blue lights. The band appear, wordless, behind it, and after breaking convention by opening the set with a brand new song, begin the pitter-patter of piano and glockenspiel melodies that introduce ‘Í Gær’.

Lights blare as a thunderclap of percussion rings in droning bowed guitar and screaming harmonics, and we’re given our first taste of the thematic stage changes that occur from song to song throughout the performance. Between the deep hellish red that accompanies ‘Vaka’, the ferocious laser show that pierces every corner of the academy during ‘Brenninsteinn’ – a wonderfully bizarre new track that sounds like an industrial collaboration between Jónsi and Nine Inch Nails, and a hugely promising preview of what’s to come from the band’s next release – and the heart-rending display of figures clutching orbs of light atop cliffs behind an incredible rendition of ‘Varud’, Sigur Rós have brought an incredible smorgasbord of visuals tonight, the first of three London shows.

At some point the gauze drops, and even without the gargantuan screen behind them and the somewhat apocalyptic lighting above, a fairy tale-like grotto made up of light bulbs on slim stands scattered across the stage, fluctuating slowly from one side to the other, create a warm perpetual glow around the Icelandic musicians.

Ever a man of few words in both his songwriting and his presence, from start to finish not one word passes Jónsi’s lips – besides those hidden in his own cooing, often ‘Hopelandic’, melodies. The audience, uniquely, mirrors this; there’s no muttering, no shouting and practically no movement whatsoever throughout the show. By the time the band reach the most consistently joyful stretch of the set, consisting of ‘Hoppípolla’, its glorious reprise ‘Með Blóðnasir’, and ‘Olsen Olsen’, our faces are broken into grins of elation as the playful melody springs from the flautists fingers and gorgeous forest-fire-esque visuals paint the band in deep maroon light.

A state of total awe grips the crowd as the otherworldly frontman performs his now-famous party trick of holding a note for a staggering length of time in the shortened-for-stage first half of ‘Festival’. By the end of the two-song encore Jónsi has enraptured the crowd to the nth degree, singing fiercely into his guitar’s pickups during ‘Svefn-g-englar’, theatrically tossing his bow to the side and knocking his microphone stand into the audience as the closer, ‘Popplagið’ reaches its bone-shattering climax.

The band reappear for the last time to finally drop their solemn stage personas and bow, smiling, to waves of rapturous applause. It’s been a live experience incomparable to others, because ultimately Sigur Rós remain, even at this late stage in their career, an absolutely fascinating collective, capable to surprise in many more ways than immediately meets the senses.

For better or worse, the first piece that comes to forefront of any conversation regarding John Cage is ’4’33’’’. It is not without good reason; as a gesture and a symbol, it succinctly encapsulates how greatly Cage’s ideas on the democracy of noises (and lack thereof) shocked the musical establishment. Yet its legacy can often be reductive (in more senses than one) to the brilliance of Cage, and rather than a maverick, many see him as an emperor proudly showing off his birthday suit. 

On glancing at the title of the lecture, on might have assumed that the evening’s proceedings would only reinforce this image but the opening gambit of the reading is an electronic shriek like amplified tinnitus causing many to squirm, hold their ears and think about getting the hell out of here. No small shock for those expecting the sound of silence. Robert Wilson, sitting in the middle of an incredible set strewn with newspapers from nowhere and headlines about nothing, conducted the stoic cacophony and sipped water, while a mysterious besuited man investigated the audience with binoculars. And then, after what could have been anywhere between two and twenty minutes – for it’s difficult to tell when being smothered such noise – we were in old familiar silence, waiting for the talk to begin.

The sense of disorientation yielded by this experience is probably the best possible introduction to Cage’s Lecture On Nothing, recited as part of the Barbican Theatre’s Dancing for Duchamp series. The work is a neat summarisation of the composer’s philosophy of music, as well as an application of his musical structures to a piece of prose. But while that description makes the proceedings sound like one of the most turgidly arduous ways to spend your Monday evening, the reality is a light-hearted enlightenment. As high-minded and pretentious Cage’s ideas may seem when objectively described, it is remarkable to note his gentle wit, even inviting us through the text to go to sleep if we were bored. Robert Wilson, perhaps the world’s most renowned dramatist of the avant-garde, does a marvellous job of capturing the naïve wonderment of the composer. 

‘I have nothing to say and I’m saying it.’ The central statement of the lecture would work well as a slogan for Twitter, but the oxymoron can lead to a great understanding of Cage’s philosophies. While seemingly content-free, it reveals the idea of purposelessness as a good – nay, vital aspect of what he calls music’s ‘affirmation of life’. Wilson et al wonderfully displayed this, as we admired the confusing intermittent sounds stumbling out of the loudspeakers, and admired the performer as he intoned (and snoozed) his way through Cage’s text – paying special attention to the blank spaces.

A year or so ago a track emerged that was so passionate and seductive it felt almost risque. Like 70s children listening to Jagger’s misogyny or Rotten’s anti-establishment slurs, it had the ability to rouse hidden emotions and sounded strangely different to so much around it. The purveyors of this piece of lustful soul remained, until fairly recently, unknown, adding intrigue and mystery by revealing little more than sensual monochrome photographs to match.

The mysterious artist in question was Rhye, an L.A.-based duo who decided to mark the release of their debut album Woman with their first London show at the wonderfully suitable, little spot of intimate calm that is St. Giles-in-the-Fields Church. Compared with the likes of Sade and (perhaps somewhat tenuously) The xx, you would be forgiven for assuming the tender vocals that dominate the record come from the source its title suggests. However, as Justin Vernon showed so poignantly when he arrived with ‘Skinny Love’, sometimes male falsetto can be an extremely powerful song-writing weapon.

Spilling out of the pews and into the aisles, a polite but expectant crowd waits in the candlelit darkness for the two to appear, their anticipation accompanied by soothing strings and gentle rhythms, that hint at things to come. Immediately the perfect union between Rhye‘s sound and the setting becomes apparent. The church’s acoustics add a natural reverb to Mike Milosh’s voice, so much so that it provokes turning heads and open mouths when it comes soaring out above the gentle warmth of ‘Verse’. Mystery and atmosphere remain, as large spotlights in front of the band stand redundant, leaving the 6 in darkness on the make-shift stage.

Live ingenuity is provided by a down-tempo version of ’3 Days’ and a stripped-back second half to ‘The Fall’, which does not quite carry the same impact as its recorded counterpart but reminds us that it is relatively early days and still highlights their versatility and remains one of their best offerings. Likewise, the lounge-like ‘Shed Some Blood’ stands out, showcasing their strength in combining soulful sentiments alongside upbeat bass-lines and rhythms; “Don’t call me love unless you mean it” rings out over a typically funky accompaniment. The inclusion of a jazzy trombone, intricate pizzicato strings and choral harmonies add depth to what could have been a simple run-through of the new record.

Comic relief from the otherwise sensual performance is provided by an improvised reaction to some malfunctioning equipment; “Did the crackle hurt your ears?” is delivered with equal poise and guile as the well-crafted lyrics of ‘Open’ that follows, and with its elongated breakdown it is the definite highlight. Closing with a 4-part a-capella harmony we feel safe in the knowledge that their heartfelt and soulful performance that will only become more accomplished in time. We know one day it will be like a soundtrack to the most romantic film ever made.

Much has been said about Laura Mvula; she was branded the “Voice of 2013″ by some, shortlisted in the ‘BBC Sound Of’ poll, is constantly placed alongside Nina Simone and even mentioned in the same breath as iconic composers like Gershwin and Porter. Although these tags and comparisons are justified, Mvula has the talent to stand-alone as an artist and her live performance is as professional as it is joyful and touching.

Marking the release of her debut, Sing to the Moon, the classically-trained Birmingham singer brought her accessible blend of soul and jazz to a sold out Tabernacle. The record has met understandable praise for its diversity and genre-defying style, but it is in the live environment that its perhaps finds its most comfortable home, sounding fuller, warmer and more uplifting. Nothing is accidental, no corners are cut; Mvula is surrounded by a full band, complete with brother-sister string section, double bass and harp, and the sound they create as a unit is effortless and polished.

‘Like The Morning Dew’ welcomes the sold out Notting Hill venue; with its explosions of harmony and colourful instrumentation, the track sets the tone for what’s to come. Immediately the 7 on stage are perfectly in sync and share beaming smiles and nods of understanding. The importance of this musicianship to the success of Mvula’s song-writing is made apparent by the selfless time she takes introducing them all, while the flattery she fails to hide hints at embarrassment but remains touching and sincere.

The aforementioned diversity comes through with the stripped back ballads ‘Diamonds’ and ‘Father Father’, which showcase her soulful tone and add a melancholic depth to the otherwise joyous set. This versatility is highlighted best by ‘She’, the track that caught everyone’s attention so serenely all those months ago; ‘Let Me Fall’ adds tempo and intricate rhythms from thoroughly impressive drummer and musical director Troy Miller, who brings experience from his work with the likes of Amy Winehouse and Mark Ronson.

Closing with the uplifting, bucolic current single ‘Green Garden’, she emphasises her love of performance once again, as playful twists on the melody induce typically wide smiles from band and audience alike, even the simple claps that accompany her acapella vocal ooze rhythm and demonstrate how wonderfully caught up they are in what they are producing. The reaction that follows is as close to a standing-ovation as you could get in an already standing venue, and threatens to prompt the tears that Mvula alludes to throughout the celebratory evening, before they take great pleasure in a first playing of the up-tempo ‘That’s Alright’.

Packed with soul, joyfulness and quality musicianship, it is an almost faultless performance from a singer it is hard to believe is so new to it all. If the love that people showed her at this early London show is anything to go by, her future is as bright as the smile that rarely disappears from her face throughout the set.

Set List
Like The Morning Dew
She
Let Me Fall
What The Weather Will Be
Is There Anybody Out There
Diamonds
Father, Father
Sing To The Moon
Flying Without You
Green Garden
—
That’s Alright