Live reviews Sept-Oct 2009

MOTT THE HOOPLE:
HAMMERSMITH ODEON, OCTOBER 1, 2009

On a personal level, this was maybe the most significant event I’ve attended in the last 35 years. I first saw Mott in late 1969, they kind of ‘adopted’ me and from then on I followed them relentlessly, ran their fan club and stuck with them until the split at the end of ‘74, enjoying many adventures and great gigs in between.
In this age of pointless, cash-in reunions, Mott’s is more of a dream come true for the many who’ve been praying so long they’d all but given up. Ian Hunter’s solo career has been going so well that he, for one, had no need to get back with a group that didn’t split on the best of terms. The seeds were sewn for the reunion when original organist Verden Allen kept showing up at Hunter’s gigs, badgering him into a one-off. After he was joined by guitarist Mick Ralphs and the trio had played together at a couple of Hunter’s gigs, it was only a matter of time.
The next step was convincing drummer Buffin and bassist Overend Watts. The former was more than happy, despite not having touched a drum-kit for around 20 years, while Watts decided to give it a go when asked if Mott were reforming in a pub quiz.
What would it be like? Would they still have that untamed elemental power and untouchable way with a heart-curling ballad? Would they have a fight after the first song and it’d all be over? From the opening chords of ‘Hymn For The Dudes’ any fears flew out of the window. Rather than tread trying to recreate their glam heyday in platforms and flash, Mott played the shows with dignity, panache and, above all, seemed to be having an unmitigated blast; a bunch of mates, as Hunter put it when we spoke a few months back, ’seeing what it’s like to do it again.’ There were a lot of smiles and enough magical moments to last many bands a lifetime. The only sad note was Buffin’s health allowing him to play on just the encores while Martin Chambers from the Pretenders handled drums throughout.
Although I saw the band over a hundred times or so back in the day, my missus Michelle was a bona-fide Mott Virgin. Taking the train up from Aylesbury, we hit a Hammersmith Odeon packed to the gills with long-time fans, some who had flown all the way from the US. The atmosphere was electric by the time the lights went down around 8.45 and the familiar strains of ‘Jupiter’ from the Planets Suite rang out. This was already enough to send shivers down many spines as it was always Mott’s intro music from ‘72 onwards.
Surprisingly and effectively, they didn’t come on with all guns blazing, instead starting with the grandiose reflection of ‘Hymn For The Dudes’ from 1973’s Mott album before tearing into ‘Rock ‘N’ Roll Queen’, their first single from 1969. This was a night of memories: this one from when Mott smuggled me into my own school dance where they were playing in December, 1969, because I was under-age. As I left my vantage point from under the table supporting the PA stack to make it home before curfew time, Mick Ralphs announced, ‘This one’s for our friend Kris, who’s got to leave’, blowing my cover but making my night.
While Mick sang, Hunter strutted and swaggered alongside, back to being one of the most recognisable true rock ‘n’ roll stars in the world after years of solo gigs, performing with the energy and attitude of someone half his age. While Verden ‘Phally’ Allen wrenched the kind of floor-shaking sonic roughage which only a Hammond can muster, Overend Watts stomped around with his Gibson Firebird bass, striking his juggernaut bass goliath poses and swapping grins with the front rows. Apart from the shorter hair he looked exactly the same too.
The rockers continued with Lou Reed’s ‘Sweet Jane’, ‘One Of The Boys’ and the behemoth ‘Moon Upstairs’ from Brain Capers. Then some stools were brought on along with acoustic guitars as Hunter announced how Mott were also capable of the odd ballad. An understatement as, for many, the more sensitive outings were one of Mott’s main strengths. Amidst banter and more smiles, they broke into ‘The Original Mixed Up Kid’ from Wildlife then ‘I Wish I Was Your Mother’ from Mott, like it was in the front room or something. This was maybe the best example of this matured version of Mott The Hoople, playing on their strengths and emphasising the chemistry between them which seems to have been effortlessly reawoken by the reunion. It was wonderful.
After Ralpher’s guitar showcase on ‘Ready For Love’ from the All The Young Dudes album, Overend got his turn with a barnstorming ‘Born Late ‘58’. In 1969-70, he was the member of the group who took the trouble to listen to this ball of teenage confusion and gibbering Mott-worship. I must have been a right pain in the arse but he always smiled and offered a few helpful tips.
The set’s watershed came with one I’d been praying for: ‘The Ballad Of Mott The Hoople’, the Mott album ballad where Hunter chronicled the band’s story up until their split in March 1972 after a gig at a converted gas station in Switzerland. Poignant, heartfelt and intensely moving, the lines, ‘Buffin lost his child-like dreams and Mick lost his guitar, Verden greyed a line or two, and Overend’s still a rock ‘n’ roll star’ provoking cheers, tears and a ovation which would have been standing if the crowd weren’t already on their feet before the band came on.
So far this had been a fabulous set, something like reacquainting yourself with an old friend, but things were about to head steadily up through the emotional barometer as Mott delivered a double-header of ‘Angeline’ and ‘Walking With A Mountain’, complete with the ‘Jumpin‘ Jack Flash‘ chant originally sparked by Jagger popping his head around the door as the Stones were recording next door; two of the favourite rockers from the ‘71 period. Mott weren’t clambering around the amps and knocking things over now, although there were plenty of palm-slapping, stage-front crowd walks. The songs ran the length of the original vinyl versions, rather than extending into 15 minute crowd singalongs and chaotic rampages.
Hunter sat down at the electric piano, the instrument he played throughout early Mott gigs, bursting into an impromptu ‘Like A Rolling Stone’, which he announced as the song he played at his audition. Then came another personal highlight as he eased into the opening chords of ‘The Journey’, the cataclysmic ballad from Brain Capers, possibly my favourite Mott album. Standing in the direct line of fire of a song which had sound-tracked my 1971, everything seemed to come flooding back as time stood still. ‘We used to have this thing going on, and I just want to see if we can recapture it,’ Hunter had said a few weeks earlier. Maybe it was at this point that this primal beast was unlocked and truly erupted out of Mott’s loins.
Hunter remained at his piano for the next five songs: The Hits, which sounded good as ever. The band had now been joined by a quartet of backing singers, including Hunter’s daughter Tracie and legendary former tour manager Stan Tippins who, as Hunter told the crowd, was Mott’s original singer. With this extra vocal weight, they launched into ’The Golden Age Of Rock And Roll’, ’a rather muddy ’Honaloochie Boogie’ and ’All The Way From Memphis’. Then Hunter announced, ’and that’s it’, and lead the band offstage after a few bows.
There was still some unfinished business and the crowd bayed for more, their howls interrupted by the most moving moment of the evening. A second drum-kit had been set up next to Martin Chambers [who, incidentally, was great all night]. Hunter appeared, leading a white-haired but familiar-looking figure to the microphone. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Terrence Dale Griffin!’. It was Buffin, who’s not been so well in recent years but has lived for this moment so, by sheer determination, made it to the drums to play through ‘Roll Away The Stone’, ‘All The Young Dudes’ and a barnstorming ‘Keep A Knockin’’. It was impossibly moving but, with Martin keeping time on his hi-hat, Buff led the band he loves through one of the crowning moments of their career.
Mott returned one more time to close with ‘Saturday Gigs’, the single released just before they split which turned into their swansong. Now the ‘goodbye’ coda picked up by the audience took the band off stage and the crowd into the night, bathed in a mixture of laughter and tears. This would continue for a further four nights. Mott pulled their comeback off, but in the warmest, most beautiful way imaginable. A quieter riot, most going on in the emotions department.
Smiling afterwards in the VIP bar, Buffin summed it all up with the words, ‘Just like old times.’
Kris Needs

STRAWBS 40th ANNIVERSARY CONCERT
TWICKENHAM FOOTBALL GROUND LIVE ROOM 12th 13th SEPT 2009

Not being familiar with Twickenham, Twickenham football ground, or football for that matter I was initially bemused at the venue, but it all made sense when Dave Cousins revealed that this was the old stomping ground of the Strawberry Hill Boys in the early 1960s. Whilst conveniently blotting out the conference centre cum airport lounge vibes, two days of Strawbs over the 12th and 13th of September were also a guaranteed feast for fans, and it was evident that some had travelled a very long way to experience what was certainly a very lavish one off.
Having missed day one of the event, which featured later line ups of the band and a headline a slot by Dave Cousins and ex-Strawb Rick Wakeman, day two seemed the better punt. Not only did you get to see a rare and highly authentic 1960s set by UK pop psike legends Fire (with future Strawb Dave Lambert on guitar and vocals) but also an acoustic Strawbs set with the lovely Sonja Kristina (ex Curved air) leading early Sandy Denny material all, apparently, performed at her request. It was however the orchestral finale with the current line-up of ‘70s Strawbs Dave Cousins, Dave Lambert, Chas Cronk and Rod Coombes along with Oliver Wakeman (looking and sounding spookily like his dad) that was certainly the most eagerly anticipated segment of the day. A full orchestra conducted by Nick Drake arranger Robert Kirby, must have been the core of some lengthy rehearsals and the result took this much underrated bands electric progressive rock to a level of jaw dropping intensity. It was a truly emotional experience to hear familiar gems such as ‘Autumn’ ‘The Winter and The Summer’ and ‘Down By The Sea’ sounding even better than the original album versions and similarly ‘Where Silent Shadows Fall’ - from the band’s latest album Dancing To the Devils Beat, confirmed the strengths of the current line-up. A guest appearance from John Ford performing ‘Heavy Disguise’ from the Grave New World album -complete with gleaming brass band backing - was a surprising bonus to an equally surprising afternoon. A DVD is on the way soon.
Richard Allen

Wooly Weekend
August 6 to 8 2009, Montreal, Canada

It was exciting for this former Montrealer to head down to the city’s very first garage festival. Set in the restored Théâtre Plaza, a stunning 1920’s former cinema, the festival was the brainchild of two dedicated and courageous garage fans turned promoters, Teenbeat Takeover’s Oliver Bessner and Matt Fiorentino. The duo gathered a impressive array of garage freaks past and present. Question Mark and The Mysterians, The Electric Prunes and The Alarm Clocks represented the legendary and quite rocking original contingent; Montreal’s The Gruesomes, the West Coast’s Morlocks, The Flakes and The Nashville Ramblers, and Minneapolis’ The Hypstrz delivered as the “second wave”; and current faves, New York’s A-Bones, Detroit’s Fortune and Maltese, the U.K.’s Higher State, Boston’s Muck and the Mires, Toronto’s Saffron Sect, San Francisco’s Nagg and locals Les Breastfeeders and Sunday Sinners proved once more that the garage scene is alive and well somewhere, at any given time. Like any garage fest worthy of its name, guest DJs from around North America had the restless and enthusiastic crowd grooving in between sets, and the weekend started things off on a high note by premiering (in Canada) the documentary “America’s Lost Band: The Remains”.
A fan such a myself can sometimes be overly critical of such three-day events, especially after having attended more than a few in the past and being horribly sleep-deprived. Yet the quality of the performances, the positive and peaceful energy emanating from the festival goers, and the diversity of the genres we now include under the umbrella term of “garage” (folk-rock, psych, freakbeat, frat-rock... need I go on?) present at the Wooly Weekend overall contributed to create a fantastic showcase for bands, and independent record and fanzine distributors. Lets not forget it also provided a jolly good time for all and a chance to shake our derrières. The event was an excellent reminder of why we got into this music in the first place. Bravo to the first garage fest in Montreal, and here’s wishing for another in the future.
Sophie-Françoise Faithfull

The Soundtrack of Our Lives
The Scala, London
20th August 2009

TSOOL pitched up at the Scala for another one-off weekday show in London after a similar one in June at Bush Hall – nice for Londoners, but fairly useless for fans elsewhere in the country.
Anyway, after a splendid punk and hard rock warm-up tape, the band played 12 songs, eight of which were from their new(ish) Communion album. Being several days before the album (already released in Scandinavia and the USA some time back) came out, crowd reaction suggested that many (most?) of the audience didn’t yet know the new material.
On unfamiliar first listen it was the kind of tunesome psych-out rock in line with previous productions. ‘Thrill Me’ and ‘Second Life Replay’ were especially promising. The cover of ‘Fly’ (Nick Drake) adapted well to Soundtrack’s usual musical modus operandi. Their tendency towards unrestrained rockism was bracing (take THAT, Paul Morley!). Guitarists Matthias Bärjed (star jumps, high kicks and behind the head playing a speciality) and Ian Person (has anyone ever actually seen him and Simon Pegg in the same room?) were particularly self-indulgent, squealing extended guitar solos over everything.
However, good as the new songs sounded, the sparse number of older tracks made for a very unbalanced set. Gentleman, it’s not as if you play over here frequently – next time do more favourites and venture elsewhere in addition to the capital, mm-kay?
Betty Chienne

ROKY ERICKSON.
The Forum, Kentish Town, London
20 August 2009

Roky Erickson’s reluctance to play 13th Floor Elevators songs mean ‘Splash 1’ and ‘You’re Gonna Miss Me’ are tucked away at the end of his set. How much enjoyment one extracts out of the preceding hour depends, to a degree, on your tolerance for ghoulish heavy metalish ruminations on two-headed dogs, demons, Lucifer, vampires, zombies, bloody hammers and men with atom brains.
Whatever, and however, he played would be enough for those simply wanting to pay their respects and offer encouragement to a psychedelic rock’n’roll pioneer who suffered for his art, and paid the price, more than most. Yet Erickson, although uncommunicative (not even a hello or thank you) and rooted to the spot in an eerie autopilot mode, is in fine performing fettle. His rhythm guitar is sturdy and his voice – that much imitated Texan garage rock drawl – is in such great shape there’s no need for the devil’s sympathy vote.
There are occasional stodgy moments but the playing is relatively sprightly for such dark material. ‘Starry Eyes’ adds a beam of light and ‘Don’t Shake Me Lucifer’ sounds swiped from the Stones right under the nose of Primal Scream.
As Roky leaves to loving and rapturous applause he gently raises his fists and a glimmer of a well earned smile peaks through the mass of hair and Father Christmas beard.
Mark Raison

ROKY ERICKSON
The Forum, Kentish Town, London
Thursday 20 August 2009

No one can growl “tonight”, “slander” and “demon” like Roky Erickson. It’s real, he’s on stage at the Forum NW5. Testify, the room full of camera eyes, capturing the moment. Roky, guitar, beard and voluminous black and white Hawaiian shirt.
The confident angry fire of ‘Two-Headed dog’ began the set. In musical interludes and between songs he would face the blond drummer. There was a point at the start of every song, where I thought is it going to happen and then a chord and he would launch in. Sometimes it felt like the songs were singing him. But he was there in ‘I Think of Demons’, tight with the band, enclosed in smoke machine action, roaring about demons.
Now the bit where I may have got a bit emotional, ‘Splash 1’; a gentle song that has stood time’s assessment. The pretty psychedelic guitar and Roky singing about coming ‘Home to Stay’ to strangers it was a challenge for him to face. This wasn’t a gig full of confident patter and smooth transitions, but the songs were real and loud and I got to see Roky wrestling with them. He played ‘Night of the Vampire’ and I got to join him shouting “tonight”.
Rhonda Grantham

SUPER FURRY ANIMALS
Somerset House, London, 18th July 2009

Vsssssst. Whoosh. Squoooge. Can you hear that noise? Is it a plane? A spaceship? The sky falling in? No, it’s five psychedelic Welshmen onstage in a Victorian courtyard.
The common (misguided) belief is that bands’ juices stop flowing after a decade or so doesn’t apply to the Furries. Their transition from Johnny-come-lately Britpoppers into fully-fledged mind-expanders now complete, they join Hawkwind, Gong, Copey and the Ozrics in the echelons of festival favourites with suitable beardage to match, new album Dark Days Light Years ranking among their best. Hence, seven tracks – ‘Wolfpack Eyes’, ‘Mt’, ‘Pric’, ‘Inaugural Trams’ (which sees Gruff touting a cardboard cutout of Nick McCarthy from Franz Ferdinand, responsible for its on-record Kraftwerkian schpiel), ‘The Very Best Of Neil Diamond’, the CSNY-ish ‘White Socks/Flip Flops’ (with Bunf assuming confident frontman duties) and the deafening Sabbath-meets-Prince groove of ‘Crazy Naked Girls’ – are aired, and no-one complains.
The joy of Furry-watching is not knowing what’s up next: opener ‘Slow Life’ is as much of a surprise as doom-laden newie ‘Earth’, on which they exhort us to leave said planet with them by waving our fingers above our heads like aliens and intoning its title. From where I’m standing I can’t see Cian, which means every time he takes lead vocals the disembodied effect is disconcerting – but that’s, er, part of the trip, maaaan. Their “indie” days are behind them, but that only adds resonance to ‘If You Don’t Want Me To Destroy You’, ‘Demons’ and ‘The International Language Of Screaming’, their harmonies drenched in bleeping squalls that complement the mellifluous pink lights and reverberate at increasing volume through the stone ramparts. Gruff holds aloft theatre-style cuecards reading “woah” or “applause”, but this crowd don’t need written instruction.
‘Keep The Cosmic Trigger Happy’ seems an odd closer, until the inevitable ‘Man Don’t Give A Fuck’, its one-time 15-minute electro outro now replaced by throbbing guitar noise, explodes brain cells, with everyone from the turntablists to the girls in full hippy clobber united in agreement. Probably the ultimate outdoor prog (yes, I said prog) experience this Summer (the best indoor event being the four-floor aftershow complete with Finders Keepers and Cherrystones DJs that they should have invited ticketholders to but inexplicably didn’t), my only criticism is that it all ended far too soon. Where’s the 24-hour love-in when you need it?
Darius Drewe

THE SOUNDCARRIERS / WHITE DENIM
Heaven, London
July 8th 2009

Some bands should not have that loud stadium rock mix, and it was unfortunate that the most delicate and thoughtful of new bands The Soundcarriers should suffer from this major soundman foible. For the first three songs Leonore Wheatley had to practically shout to hear herself – and angels shouldn’t shout! However after three songs, all from the wonderful Harmonium album, the mix had settled down and The Soundcarriers began to medicate the minds of the growing crowd. More like The Soft Machine or maybe even HP Lovercraft than the restrained and beautifully precise cinematic feel of their recordings the group grooved in a circular psychedelic style, all ebb and flow, with more power and energy than expected.
Adam Cann’s staggeringly good drumming stole the entire show.
White Denim may be at the eye of a media storm as the “greatest thing since...” and in a sense they were. The kids in the crowd who were going berserk may not have known it but their sound touched upon The Sonics, The Kinks, Blue Cheers, MC5, Stooges, Free, Funkadelic, AC/DC, Motorhead, with the added hardcore energy of The Minutemen… but for this writer it was Spirit that sprung to mind. The headband wearing James Petralli may have had the Randy California look (unintentionally) down to a tee, but it was his insanely clever use of delay on the guitar (and vocals) and the eardrum shattering bursts of wah-wah fuzz leads that would have made Hendrix proud that were even most reminiscent of California. Throughout, the group exerted a sheer dichotomy of melody and noise, avant garde and classic rock infusions that recalled the exact approach and devil-may-care attitude of Spirit, and how they played the game. The material from new album Fits is even more psychedelic with forays into Afrobeat and beyond. Were they garage, punk, soul, hard rock, jazz, noise or just unique?
The Soundcarriers and White Denim weren’t an ideal partnership. One band is shy, mellow and restrained and the other loud and forceful, but both circumvent the music readers of this magazine feed upon, and it was nice to enjoy both of them equally in different ways. If you get the chance investigate post haste.
Jon ‘Mojo’ Mills

Roy Loney and Cyril Jordan with the A-Bones

Ponderosa Stomp, House of Blues, New Orleans, April 29
Maxwell's, Hoboken, New Jersey, July 23
Southpaw, Brooklyn, New York, July 24

One of the standouts of April's action-packed Ponderosa Stomp was a raucous reunion by Flamin' Groovies co-founders Roy Loney and Cyril Jordan, playing their first full set together since frontman Loney quit the Groovies in 1971. Guitarist Jordan kept the band together for two more decades after the singer's departure, but its original loud, fast, stripped-down spirit left when Loney did. The original Groovies' gleefully twisted vibe was back in force for the pair's Stomp set. With New York slop-rock godheads the A-Bones (augmented by Yo La Tengo's Ira Kaplan on piano and guitar) providing propulsive backup clatter, the pair revisited their former band's vintage songbook in style, with Loney attacking such Groovies chestnuts as "Second Cousin," "High Flyin' Baby," "Teenage Head" and "Slow Death" with the same unhinged fervor that first established him as one of rock's preeminent wildmen. Loney, Jordan and the A-Bones reconnoitered in July for a pair of New York-area shows that dispensed with some of the Stomp sets's technical glitches and sharpened the guitar firepower of Jordan and A-Bones axeman Bruce Bennett. Those 20-plus-song sets again concentrated on Loney-era Groovies classics, with a couple of detours into the band's later catalogue, while maintaining a consistent level of raw, liberating intensity that belied just about every negative cliche about rock reunions.

Scott Schinder

Sludgefeast
At Square Records Wimbourne Dorset
24 July 2009

To be honest with you, I travelled the 100 miles from London to Wimbourne to witness Sludgefeast for the second time in one week, so I admit that I love them.
Frontman, James Barnard, returned from Singapore for a few of weeks with a mission to destroy rock’n’roll in the UK and it was a chance I couldn't miss. This gig was special also because it was in an independent record shop (remember them?).
The rock and roll feast began with locals, the C30s, who raise the roof and break some sweat with a good helping of full-on rock’n’roll. Fronted by former Sludgefeast guitarist, Andy, they threw in some ’Feast covers to get our engines cranked.
Sludgefeast follow with James one and James two (there are two guys named James in the band, they’re not a new series of robot) ploughing through some of the newer songs from the latest release “Transamplification” (available on iTunes).
For the uninitiated, Sludgefeast play brutal scuzzy rock – known to fans as “Shit Rock” (with an act that features the word “motherfucker” prominently). James One adopts a wild man persona that comes across as part Baptist preacher and part stand-up comic. This is a real show – not a meandering through a back catalogue – with a set list that was written 10 minutes before lining up in front of a stack of amplifiers that looked like a modern Great Wall of China.
Each quick injection of rock is follow by James’s hilarious commentary on himself, the audience, and the fact that they don't know their own material (yet manage to be tight as a screw). It gives my sweaty skin goose bumps. By the end the crowd have cheered and laughed and glugged several crates of free beer. They all know this is genius at work. James One finishes with an impromptu guitar solo on the shop counter whereupon he encourages the audience to strum his axe! A great time was had by all. Now I recommend that you go buy some of their records, motherfuckers! And pray for the second return of Sludgefeast.
Dylan Buckle

Very Cellular Songs; the music of the Incredible String Band
Barbican, London 19 July 2009

“It’s Mike, Clive and Robin! Unfortunately I’m the wrong Robin...” quipped Robin Hitchcock, referring to the obvious absence of Robin Williamson, though Hitchcock filled his place well, sounding uncannily like him on some of the harmonies. Opening with “When The Music Starts To Play”, the stage was filled with the 20+ musicians who would go on to play String Band songs in various combinations throughout the evening, aided by a stage crew who made the changes seamless. As Richard Thompson remarked; “I saw the String Band many times in the sixties. Believe me, this is slick.”
American banjo player Abigail Washburn was amazing, with wonderfully personalised takes on “Swift As The Wind” and “Good As Gone”. The Trembling Bells, genuinely in awe of being in such distinguished company, rose to the occasion, with “Greatest Friend” and a superbly moving “Cold days of February. They also joined Dr Strangely Strange in an energetic “Cousin Caterpillar”, the Strangelies having done a wonderful set in the foyer before the gig proper.
Clive played exactly what everyone wanted him to: “Empty Pocket Blues” and his famous banjo solo (a.k.a. the ”N-tune”). The man has his own definition of cool.
Highlights? Dozens. The scarily intense Alistair Roberts chilled with “My Name Is Death” and impressed with the epic “Maya”, joined by Abigail and Robin. Green Gartside delighted with “Dust Be Diamonds” and “God Dog”. An honourable mention too to bassist Bernie O’Neill, brought in at short notice to replace Danny Thompson.
All the cast joined Mike Heron in a spectacular ”A Very Cellular Song”, taking turns with the lyrics, and with Abigail doing a clog dance solo! And was that Rose Simpson harmonising stage right with the Strangelies? The evening was a timely reminder of just how much so many people, artists and audience, loved the Incredibles.
Grahame Hood

Blast Off
Nottingham, 11 July

Saturday night and Sunday morning on the outskirts of Nottingham – an unlikely setting for garage and B-movie mayhem at the Blast Off festival. Or maybe not… The Bar That Time Forgot in the Marcus Garvey Ballroom serves Babycham and Cherry B (at 25th century prices) to shoot us into the stratosphere. When we regain consciousness the stage has been taken over by apes – The Torpedo Monkeys. One dressed as Elvis climbs atop the speaker with his guitar while the rest run amok like there’s strychnine in their PG Tips. How do you follow that? Les Bof hand their maracas to the front row and let them shake their brains out. Before anyone can find their marbles, DJs Shazzula, Miss Nico and PJ (late of the Dirty Water Club) unleash vinyl terror on the decks. Meanwhile, the girls in the cage are shaking loose more cleavage and leopard skin than a Bet Lynch fan club convention. It’s hot enough to melt your wig. Those still around to watch The Ghastly Ones hear them do a tribute to the Sonics. Home before the Ju-Ju man comes to steal our souls away…
Miss Claudia

THE DAMNED
Shepherds Bush Empire
11 June 2009

When was this never a part of life? I can't remember when I wasn’t into the Damned. As a Hammer-fixated 12-year-old intrigued by both Goth and (thanks to my social worker, the onset of Sgt Pepper nostalgia and XTC) this thing called “psychedelia”, I found them deliciously enthralling: to a 30-something who spends half his time writing about horror, their continued existence seems like validation. And sadly neglected new album So Who's Paranoid is their best since Strawberries.
Sadly, only three of its songs are aired – twisty popsike opener “A World Fit For Heroes”, the moody, uptempo “Under The Wheels” and 15-minute Hawkwind-alike/Syd tribute “Dark Asteroid”, an attack on later Floyd (not sure I approve!). During its second half, Dave Vanian babbles improvised commentary while Captain Sensible and keyboard professor Monty Oxymoron batter timpani. Drunkards leap around, still unaware after 35 years that they’re watching a psychedelic band, but more watch in open-jawed amazement at the beauty on display. It’s that sort of gig. One expects (and gets) the swirling, garagey “Neat Neat Neat”, the inevitable “Eloise”, a furious “Ignite”, the splendour-filled “Wait For The Blackout” and “Melody Lee”, extreme camp with “Jet Boy Jet Girl” and two-finger salute “Noise Noise Noise”. Glorious surprises also appear, like the ultimate Vincent Price tribute “13th Floor Vendetta” (“try playing THAT on Pop Idol” quoth the Captain), “Dozen Girls” and (bugger me!) “Stretcher Case”. My friend Lee isn’t alone in bemoaning the lack of material from “Grave Disorder”, but, eyes closed, I imagine myself at one of many ’80s gigs I was too young to attend, smelling crushed benzadrines and stale Rimmel, wondering if I’m going to haunt the Batcave or Alice In Wonderland afterwards. Sadly, neither.
Bassist Stu West, no longer the “new boy”, locks perfectly into the sound, while Pinch, despite his well-dodgy ’90s punk garb, is a vastly underrated drummer, adept at the buzzsaw 'Love Song' or 'New Rose' as he is at the proggier stuff. Sensible still that luridly-dressed, sarcastic nutter, only his playing is now equal, if not superior, to that of idols Tony McPhee and Dick Taylor, Monty your eccentric uncle who joined a famous band, but still occasionally exposes himself to squirrels in Syon Park, while Vanian, despite his humble inter-song banter, remains a fascinating frontman. His Ronald Coleman chap-tache meets mixed responses, but his unquavering croon, unmistakably that of a man who spends his spare time listening to Dave Berry and watching creepy Hywel Bennett movies, has lost none of its charm, and his range has improved with age. If I was in my 50s, I'd be proud to be him.
The gig ends on a cheesy note (the band joined by supports The Alarm and Henry Cluney for Bolan tribute '2Oth Century Boy', but it's nice to see them end with something other than 'Smash It Up' for once. And when everything else has been so good, then, like Arthur Lee at the RFH with his bagpipes, they can be forgiven. When indeed was this never a part of life?
DARIUS DREWE   
     

MADNESS
Victoria Park, London, 17 July 2009

Luv a duck, wot a miserable day. The afternoon boded well, the crowds bound for Equatorial Hackney Wick in their summer togs, but come 6pm, the fusty ambience more closely resembled a damp weekend on Sheppey. However, this doesn’t bother us, or the elderly Peckham Pearly King we all insisted on having our photo taken with, and, considering their best song (and gig highlight) is called ‘The Sun And The Rain’, it DEFINITELY doesn’t bother Madness.
They recently told Jools Holland they wanted to make “music to move your feet to”, and opener ‘One Step Beyond’, is clear indication of this intent, as are ‘Embarrassment’, ‘My Girl’ and ‘The Prince’, but how will the masses react to two thirds of the more subtle and less danceable Liberty Of Norton Folgate album?
Amazingly well, it seems. For everyone nonplussed by ‘NW5’, ‘Dust Devil’ or ‘On The Town’ (with guest Rhoda Dakar beautiful in all-white apparel), five more knew the words, even going apeshit to the 10-minute “skog” (prog ska to the uninitiated) odyssey of the title track. Visually resplendent in the finest (hopefully not moody or hooky) whistles on the market, with Suggs the ever-manic ringleader in PVC tweed and titfer, they duck and dive around the stage, Lee Thompson and Bedders playing with the intuition of classic rock musicians. Thus, ‘Take It Or Leave It’ and ‘Bed & Breakfast Man’ now feel like vintage popsike, reggae standard ‘Iron Shirt’ blends seamlessly with their own songs, and even Carl Smith seems like a virtuoso these days. Alternatively, ‘Wings Of A Dove’ is still shit, except the bit that goes ‘ROOFTOOOPS!’, but you can’t have it all, can you?
Pearly joins the band onstage, giving Suggs’ head a fatherly tousle: ex-keyboardist Mike Barson stands smiling to my left, wondering why he’s not up there, and ‘Baggy Trousers’ and ‘Night Boat To Cairo’ send us skanking homeward, via an overpriced bar whose idea of ‘reggae’ is UBfucking40, only to later discover that another pub up the road had a proper bluebeat DJ on all bloody night. Still, it’s a small price to pay after a day aaht wiv the faahmily, from the Mods to the Milfs to the loonies in Cairo outfits. They are Madness. We are London. So mote it be.
Darius Drewe