MORE BLOODY SINGLES.

This’ll be the last batch for a while I should think. I like buying singles though, so don’t count on it.

Comet Gain – Love Without Lies
(Twee As Fuck / What’s Your Rupture)

So here it is – the first recorded output from Comet Gain since their London love/hate/aaarg magnum opus ‘City Fallen Leaves’ three years ago, in advance of their forthcoming singles/rarities/etc. comp ‘Broken Record Prayers’. A cheaply pressed looking 7 clocking in at under five minutes, it’s an inauspicious return for the best British band of the past decade (© me), but we’ll take whatever we can get.

The A-side here is an urgent, Rachel-voiced punk stomp, not without the potential to stand aside ‘Bored Roar’ off the last record, ragged fuzz and fragments of specific-yet-universal defiance & self-definition spat out like nails. But on this recording at least, things are marred slightly for me by an uncharacteristically lumpen ‘indie-disco’ beat, rhythm section front-loaded in the mix with late-entering guitars and echoed vocal, almost like some way-too-late attempt to jump onboard The Gossip’s hit single, or an unwarranted grab at the aesthetic of the capital’s contemporary indie club culture, as romanticised so wonderfully/disgustingly (delete as desired) in the song’s video.

B-side ‘Books of California’ by contrast exists at the opposite pole of the band’s established musical territory, showcasing a similar West Coast psyche via British jangle-pop vibe to ‘Silverlake to Seven Sisters’ off the last album, as David Feck pays vague and effusive tribute to the works of Richard Brautigan, worn paperback-referencing (gotta love those beautiful old Picador editions) non-sequitors drifting off into the wind over shimmering freezing-sunshine-on-a-hungover-morning backing. Alright.

It’s a great thing to find Comet Gain returning in such rude health anyway; all vital signs looking good. More new songs soon please!

http://www.myspace.com/thecometgain

Fast Lady & Scorpio Scorpio – Love Dictator
(V/VM Test)

It’s been a long time since I’ve checked out anything on V/VM’s label – longstanding home of all that is evil, wrong, disconcerting, occasionally illegal and often sublime in the sphere of underground electronica / record detourning weirdness type stuff.

On the basis of this one though, I fear they might have started taking their terrible-becomes-genius aesthetic into uncharted realms of unfettered ghastliness in the meantime, because whatever the hell this record is supposed to be about, it is truly, truly awful in a way no hidden gag or conceptual barb could serve to redeem.

It’s like some nightmare Chris Morris parody of toxic, Vice reader post-everything stoopid cokehead music; thuggish sampled NWBHM guitar riffs and preset hip-hop beats, guys with shitty fake American accents yelling macho cock-rock pastiche lyrics, presumably trying not to bust out sniggering between each line. And the worst thing is, I don’t even think it’s meant to be a parody. I mean, I think these goons actually think they’re making *great party music* or something. Horrid.

I failed to make it through either side of this before reflexively pulling the needle. Utter shit, and not in the good way you’d tend to expect from V/VM. If anyone wants this thing, let me know roughly what direction you live in and I’ll climb on the roof and throw it.

http://www.brainwashed.com/vvm/

Gloria Cycles – Vegas
(Wendy Bikes)

Now this is a bloody lovely looking piece of vinyl, I’m sure you’ll agree. And ‘Gloria Cycles’ is a great name too! And so, hoping it was a person’s name rather than a band, I took a chance on this one, sound-unheard.

And, Hmm, the intro at least is nice… predictably enough, they’re an indie band of some description, but the opening bars of chiming, mildly psychey guitars and a singer with a Welsh(?) accent are really pleasant – rather like Gorkys trying to be the BJM or something maybe? That’s until that same old indie-disco kick drum thing rears it’s ugly head like a metaphor-mixing death knell, and we’re dragged into a thoroughly uninspired chorus that sound rather like I’d imagine some band wanting to be the Arctic Monkeys might sound like.

Not a bad record by any means, but not a great one either. Here’s wishing them luck in fusing the genuinely groovy aspects of their sound onto something a bit more engaging in future.

http://www.myspace.com/gloriacycles

The Manhattan Love Suicides – Clusterfuck EP
(Squirrel)

It’s a curious phenomenon, the current popularity of prefabricated early Jesus & Mary Chain styled rock n’ roll bands in indie-pop circles, and one which is surely crying out for an article of damning indictment from some journo or other, laying into these essentially ridiculous groups who stomp onstage in leather jackets and mini-skirts to snarl, pout and spit with a carefully feigned disinterest, play twenty minute sets of sloppy, politely-feedbacking noise-pop tunes about drugs and death then storm off in mock disgust…. only to be sighted a few minutes later hanging out in a perfectly personable manner with their fellow concert-goers, all parties having enjoyed a few minutes of vicarious r’n’r chaos, but without the inconvenience of having to deal with an ACTUAL gang of wild-eyed Iggy-wannabes getting in their faces.

I’m not gonna write that article though, cos I think the whole business is actually really good fun, kinda charming and an amusing comment on the essentially inauthentic (yet universally applicable), dress-up nature of rock n’ roll cliché, and The Manhattan Love Suicides in particular are, like their beloved JAMC and Shop Assistants, a fantastically enjoyable bunch of self-aware trash culture avatars. And what’s more, they’re a dedicated and prolific band, and on releases like this one they transcend their inbuilt clichés by making some genuinely fucking great rock n’ roll.

The guitarist’s fuzztone is vicious; absolutely toxic buzzsaw skree. The rhythm section work out some glorious no bullshit DeeDee n’ Tommy thug-motorik pounding to killer effect. The singer cuts in high and clear in angelic, deadpan Debbie Harry style as classic three chord chorus melodies bounce past like rocks through classroom windows.

Bands with the audacity to try to look cool are often given shit for being overtly beholden to underground rock’s past, but when a sensible grasp of history allows bands like the MLSs to craft music containing NO ELEMENT THAT’S NOT BRILLIANT, well…. I’m all for it. Fuck ‘authenticity’, this is genius; it’s great and it’s exciting and I don’t care what the lyrics mean! Stick this shit on the portable dansette the next time yer bombing down to the seaside in the Morris Minor to cause some trouble. (Whatdoyoumean you don’t have an… etc.)

http://www.myspace.com/themls
http://www.squirrelrecords.co.uk

Rolo Tomassi – Digital History / Beatrotter
(Holy Roar)

A one-sided 45 with the grooves on the music side so thin that I momentarily thought I’d paid £5 for a completely blank record, the couple of minutes of sound presented here capture the current exciting/terrifying/frustrating trajectory of great-white-teenage-British-hopes for progressive, heavy music Rolo Tomassi in full effect, leap-frogging the genre expectations of the hardcore and math-spazz scenes they’ve grown from and emerging blinking into the light of the kind of undocumented place that sees them gracing the cover of Plan B as punk-dude fans find themselves trying to stagedive to meandering gothic keyboard passages and interpretative dance.

‘Digital History / Beatrotter’ manages to compress all facets of these aesthetic conflicts into about two and a half minutes, as a loping machine noise intro gives way to twenty utterly invigorating seconds that sound like Man Is The Bastard headbutting Mayhem, followed by a brief Delia Derbyshire nature documentary theme, a soaring melodic metal guitar motif, a blink-and-you’ll miss-it Painkiller jazz freakout, about twelve seconds of flawless synth-pop and…. fuck, I’ve lost track. And now it’s finished.

As fans will know all too well, the sections in which singer Eva cuts her tonsils into pure, bloody black metal gravel and the band lock into ferociously precise whipcord beatdowns are simply astounding. To be honest, whilst I have no time for thuggish concert etiquette, I’ve kinda got to side with aforementioned punk dudes in wanting them to do this more, for longer, and to try to incorporate their more eclectic callings within a more natural framework, rather than tearing up the rulebook and starting again every ten seconds.

Praising ambition and eclecticism in a young band is one thing, and the range of musicality and imagination embedded in every second of Rolo music is awe-inspiring, but sides like this one sound more like an explosion in a record collector’s basement than a cohesive piece of music. It’s too much, man! Proof that intense focus on realisation of one’s craft can, at the same time, create the most fragmentary, unfocused art imaginable. Or maybe I’m just getting old.

http://www.myspace.com/rolotomassi
http://www.holyroarrecords.com

Underground Railroad – Kill Me Now (Or You Never Will)
(One Little Indian)

A French trio enamoured of all things ‘90s and American who’ve relocated to London to make their fortunes in a climate perhaps more receptive to the unquestioned worship of Trux/Youth/Pixies/Chunk, Underground Railroad (perhaps named after The Lollipop Shoppe’s classic psyche track? – I HOPE SO) have made themselves a pretty ubiquitous presence on the – AHEM – ‘live circuit’ in recent years, and, having caught them in several support slots, I can vouch for them presenting a seriously fucking impressive live presence, swinging out an’ reeling it back in as only a band who live together / play together every day really can.

That live energy, sadly, is not really captured by the two studio recordings represented here, their essentially derivative yankophilic nature getting the better of them, rendering Underground Railroad strangely out of time – short on ideas and too late to hook the fading echoes of this particular way of doing things, too early to catch it on the rebound currently being raucously pioneered by the likes of No Age and Blood On The Wall. The songs here lack any real melodic hooks (and if there’s one thing ‘90s indie-rock is all about it’s the HOOKS) or lyrical development, and the nasal, transatlantic whine on the vocals is too fucking much. B-side ‘Breakfast’ starts off with a great, stooped Trux-esque stomp/chant, but unfortunately goes nowhere except a swift fadeout.

Not bad stuff by any means – in fact it’s growing on me after a couple of listens - but oh boy, this takes me way, way back to the far end of my 7” singles box…. not to Live Skull or Babes In Toyland as the band might wish, but to other sterling examples of the ‘we-wanna-be-American’ subgenre…. Anyone remember ‘Kirsten’s Beach’ by The Pecadiloes? Scarfo? Carrie? Tiger..? They were great, and at least they didn’t do the accent. Maybe even ‘Fake Fur’ and ‘Hello Tiger’ by my beloved Urusei Yatsura….? Oh yeah! [review terminated before I drivel off into senseless nostalgia about taping shit off Steve Lamacq circa 1997].

http://www.myspace.com/urailroad
http://www.indian.co.uk

The Vivian Girls – I Can’t Stay b/w Blind Spot
(In The Red)

You’ll recall I wrote about these guys but a few posts ago, so I won’t repeat myself. This is a non-album single put out by In The Red in advance of their rerelease of the album, and, drawing maximum effect from minimal ingredients, it’s equally wonderful.

The A is another triumph for the virtues of moody Shop Assistants-core that would have slotted into place perfectly on the album, sing-song chorus standing grimly resolute against crashing guitar chords, sounding like the distortion is trying to drag the frantic bass n’ drums back to earth before they take off. The B is apparently a cover of a tune by a band called Daisy Chain (me neither), and it’s utterly, utterly beautiful, with a wobbly ‘Be My Baby’ intro opening up into a hypnotic love-chant over near cleantoned guitar, a quietly beguiling psychedelic sound to leave wouldbe shoegazers standing, irresistible like staring at the layers of a pre-Raphaelite painting inches from your face, before a shimmering tambourine signals a faster bit, and the girls kill us dead by slowly fading out on a looped groove and ending the song before the two minute mark, when really we just want it to carry on forever.

This won’t be the last time I’ll be writing about this band, you can be sure of that.

http://www.myspace.com/viviangirlsnyc
http://www.intheredrecords.com/

William – Playground
(Tough Love)

Hailing from the less than glamorous environs of Lewisham, William is, thankfully, not some dreary singer-songwriter bloke, but a rock solid indie rock band possessed of rare guts and fire, fusing impassioned lyrics concerning one-thing-or-another to backing that flies straight across the finish-line before you’ve noticed it, half Dinosaur Jr, half Buzzcocks, with zero watered down post-punk nonsense, zero yobbish chorus yelps and zero self-referential gags. It’s all too easy to shrug off bands like this in favour of more immediately novel/exotic fare, but there’s a very genuine spirit to these guys that I think will take them a long way even if fame and critical rapture are unlikely to be on the agenda. Punk rock, it used to be called I suppose.

This is a 2007 single, and they’ve subsequently had an album out – ouch, sorry for delay in reviewing. Great, unpretentious, furious stuff, If I were them I’d get working on a new name and some new sleeve designs lest everyone mistake them for aforementioned dreary surnameless bloke, but take this as a public service announcement: worth a listen.

http://www.myspace.com/williamtheband
http://www.toughloverecords.com/

Labels: Comet Gain, Gloria Cycles, Rolo Tomassi, singles reviews, The Manhattan Love Suicides, The Vivian Girls, Underground Railroad, VVM, William