I went to see Boris last night and, as predicted, they completely mashed my head. To say they rock is like saying space is big. I'm too dazed to throw any proper words about it together yet, and I've got a hectic slew of other gigs coming up, so in the meantime, here are a few (well actually, quite a lot of) words about three gigs I went to a couple of weeks ago;


WORKMAN-LIKE GIG REVIEWS; YOU WAIT MONTHS FOR ONE AND THREE COME ALONG AT ONCE…

1. Wednesday – Kimya Dawson / Aberfeldy / Shwervon!

I bought a badge with a picture of a walrus on it from a woman who’d made a series of badges out of her favourite childhood book, but my the end of the gig I’d lost it.

Shwervon! are an absolute joy and make me smile compulsively. Major Matt Mason is a dude, looking like a young Brian Wilson, doing weird little jivey dances in ill-fitting trousers and playing all those dumb, infectious, corny guitar hooks that other guitarists are too embarrassed to play. And his Nan Turner is a dude too, rocking out on the drums to great effect and instantly earning herself pride of place in the next Female Drummers Appreciation Society quarterly newsletter (no, seriously, I’m really going to start it one day..). They indulge in couple-y chit-chat between songs and, um, actually most of their songs – for which the words ‘catchy’, ‘goofy’ and ‘naive’ spring immediately to mind – are based around it too, which should be absolutely insufferable, but they’re so unaffected and joyful about what they do that it’s the most instantly enjoyable thing I’ve heard/seen in weeks.
A dark and squalid punk rock venue with a distant, head-nodding audience in the depths of winter is probably the worst place imaginable in which to see them – they’re the kind of band that should be playing in your kitchen at your birthday party or something – but nevertheless, their unshakeable enthusiasm for what they’re doing shines through brightly. To make another lazy and ill thought-out summation, they’re like the White Stripes for happy-go-lucky, tank-top wearing, geeky folk, and the world is all the better for their presence.

Aberfeldy are a distressing case. On the surface, they have all the distinguishing characteristics of quirky pop greatness, sounding, and indeed looking, rather like Gorkys Zygotic Mynki filtered through Belle & Sebastian. They’re the kind of band whose record somebody might be tempted to buy me as a birthday present. “He’s bound to like this lot”, they’d think. But they’d be wrong. For there is something utterly vital which is missing from Aberfeldy, something which I can’t quite put my finger on, but if pushed I might be tempted to venture….. heart and soul? Well whatever it is, it’s sufficiently serious to form a gaping black hole at the centre of their performance which makes it an uncomfortable chore to stand through. And the fact that they seem to have a fanbase of obnoxious, drunken middle-aged men doing the ‘looking for lost change in a snowdrift’ dance doesn’t really help matters.

As is predictable under such circumstances, Kimya Dawson’s performance is marred by a certain level of awkwardness. Those familiar with Kimya’s solo material will know that her intricate and image-packed songs demand a certain level of concentration, and also that her performance style is so quiet and shy that even when amplified through the PA she can still be drowned out by even the most half-hearted heckler. And this gig is blighted by an abundance of half-hearted hecklers who don’t seem to have got their heads around the idea that the boisterous spirit of the Mouldy Peaches is no longer the order of the day. It could be a disaster, but the forces of good rise above and victory is achieved.
“There’s gotta be a better way to do this..” says Kimya surveying the scene, and invites her faithful – cute misfit teenagers for the most part – to join her on the stage, where they sit respectfully at her feet, silently mouthing the words to their favourite songs, whilst most of the goons drift away towards the bar.
I’m really glad that those kids are there, and that these strange, sad and beautiful songs have found their own devoted audience. As with a lot of the music I really like, it’s difficult for me to write about it without getting lost in dribbling, superlative cliché. The dense, fast-paced folk-ish guitar picking, the constant stream of free-wheeling lyrical imagery moving seamlessly from dick jokes and surrealist doggerel to shockingly sad and direct memories, hopes, fears, sadness and happiness… lovely, just lovely. Regardless of what you think about the Mouldy Peaches and ‘Anti-Folk’ and whatever, she’s really excelled herself as a talented and unique songwriter, and as a general champion for the weird and disenfranchised, and as such should be listened to.

2. Monday – Need New Body / Dragon or Emperor / Spin Spin the Dogs

The owner of the pub seems quite excited about having a really weird rock gig take place in his basement. “It’s like the other side of the moon in here!” he says.

One of the occasional joys of living in Leicester is the irregular gigs organised by Nigel of Pickled Egg Records. Polar opposite of most dire, energy-sapping local pub gigs, Nigel has a talent for seeking out the most striking, off kilter and, shall we say, ‘differently inspired’ musical combos around, and dragging them out from whatever strange places they hide in to perform for us.

Take Nottingham’s superb Spin Spin the Dogs for instance. The band – standard rock line-up with added saxophone – take the bare bones of what’s commonly known as the ‘post-punk’ sound and immediately swing off course into uncharted waters, constructing an inherently surreal and energetic pile of mess that almost resembles the Trout Mask-era Magic Band playing Prayers on Fire-era Birthday Party, with a big (probably unintentional) nod towards underrated trouble-makers Prolapse. And the singer is something else, charging around wild-eyed, spewing out head-spinning reams of dadaist beat blather like his life depends on keeping his mouth moving quicker than his brain can implement coherence. “I can’t get into the toilet! If only I could get into the toilet!” he yells as he tries in vain to tug his microphone cord as far as the venue’s toilets while the guitarist plays slide with a trumpet he’s just found somewhere, and I decide I very much like the way these guys do business. Nine thumbs up!

Dragon or Emperor, an off-shoot of long-running Leicester prog-psych collective Volcano the Bear, are somewhat akin to a geeky Lightning Bolt in charity shop suits loosening up and playing jazz, with additional shrieky Pere Ubu-ish vocalisations. The drummer beats absolute hell out of his kit while the bassist embarks on daring fretless excursions to the absolute edges of what constitutes a rhythm. The best proof since Soft Machine that you can smash your way through about a million completely unnecessary notes whilst still maintaining a solid groove? Maybe. What does it all mean, eh?

If Dragon or Emperor take on the tools of Lightning Bolt’s trade, then Philadelphia’s much tipped Need New Body instead present us with the ‘Bolts dance party hyperactivity and inhuman energy levels. It’s been a long day (Monday night and everything), so I can’t really summon up the energy to do much more than lean against the wall gawping in awe, but a word of advice for anybody thinking of going to see Need New Body in the near future; proceedings are best enjoyed whilst running giddily in circles after eating too many sweets.
Anchored by a rock solid rhythm section, in particular a drummer who sounds like a pre-accident Robert Wyatt discovering the joys of disco, the other band members are left free to do as they please, shredding Oneida-style on heavily tweaked electric organs, launching squeeky, wordless vocal rhythms like strange, Martian rappers, running around the room trying to instigate a makeshift light show, or just bouncing around joyfully like big baby elephants in their homemade hipster rompersuits. I guess it’s all a bit like if dayglo 1980s aliens made funtime dancing music – your feet will tap, your head will nod (at the very least), your mouth will grin, your brain will think “What the FUCK is going on?”. As with all great freak-rock bands, there is no real answer to that question. An amazing band, in the sense that they amaze.

3. Wednesday – Art Brut / Neil’s Children

No whimsical or vaguely amusing things happened at this gig for me to enliven my review with.

Brace yourselves, for I’m about to say positive things about a teenage London band with bad hair and a heavy Cure fixation who probably get written about in the NME. I say ‘probably’, for I stand proud in my ignorance of such matters, but I’d imagine this is the sort of band they’d write about.
But, no, really, as I say, they’re pretty good. I guess there’s something about a tightly-wound, no-slack power-trio that always sits well with me, and despite initially unpromising omens, Neil’s Children put together a surprisingly great confection of pick n’ mix rock elements. Lolloping great ‘Love Cats’ rhythms meet storming, dynamic guitar racket and even their silly, angsty lyrics go down quite nicely – it’s a sort of jaunty, baroque angstyness which makes a nice change from all the usual gloomy shit. They’re a great, energetic live group to boot, and it would be nice to see them go places. Or maybe not, considering the kind of places bands like this are apt to go these days.

So then – Art Brut. I like Art Brut - they don’t muck about. What they do is this; they take two or three chords and hammer together a jolly, punky tune, then they decide what they want the song to be about, and they sing about it. It’s not exactly rocket science, is it? But with the overwhelming number of bands who manage to screw up this simple proposition, it’s always a joy to find a group who understand the Ramone-factor of simplicity and energy, and the Richman-factor of directness and fun.
Unpromisingly named singer Eddie Argos is the central focus here, signalling his allegiance to the shamblism currently en vogue amongst less palatable British bands by taking the stage about halfway through his band’s second song. He’s a vaguely foppish and self-aware frontman with a touch of Jarvis Cocker about him and a petulant, whiny voice. And amazingly, this fails to inspire hatred and disdain. He seems like a nice chap, he says stuff that we agree with, he addresses his band as a single entity and gives them comedic orders – “are you ready, Art Brut?”. He’s a natural, you might say.
It takes about a second to get the point of an Art Brut song – the big shout-along chorus that anchors every single one of them gives you the central idea – “MY LITTLE BROTHER JUST DISCOVERED ROCK N’ ROLL!” or “POPULAR CULTURE NO LONGER APPLIES TO US!” or “ART BRUT – TOP OF THE POPS!” – and Eddie’s self-referential spoken word verses proceed to elaborate upon it. And it works – even the most dunderheaded mosh-pit drunks are able to get the gags, get the point, know where the band are coming from. It’s lovely to see, it rocks, and the formula should be good for at least one killer album. Well done, Art Brut!