While Bath's nightlife is unlikely to
rival Berlin's anytime soon, Moles has got to be a contender (not
that there's much competition) for being the Berghain of Bath. After
a host of recent high profile bookings (Justin Martin, Eats
Everything and Paul Woolford) the club is earning back respect among
the partygoing denizens of Bath. Their recall night (which hosted
Woolford) last night brought Benji B to the small but vibrant venue.
The all embracing underground
electronic curator packed the newly renovated club, and there was a
palpable feeling of excitement when his set began with Omar S and Ob
Ignitt's modern classic Wayne County Hill Cops from last year.
Admirably, Benji played this one out for all of its glorious seven
minute duration. Instantly pointing his set in the right direction,
this track with its taut razor sharp percussion and gorgeous analogue
synth lines, had me going nuts.
His set never stayed still. It
touched on a host of styles, notably the underground hip hop and
grimy UK sounds for which he is renowned, but more interestingly, these
were paired with canonical house tunes such as Mr Finger's 'Can You
Feel It.'
The two hour (ish) set just flew by,
and it was definitely a crowd pleasing selection from the Deviation boss. It's always good to hear Joy O's 'BRTHDTT' on a decent
soundsystem (which Moles now has) despite its ubiquity. And
needless to say, while the bottom end made my legs feel like jelly, the crowd loved it, provoking the warmest reaction of the night. It was good to see that this tune is still
capable of destroying dance floors, with thosevocals and their
anthemic power.
All in, it was a great and eclectic set, which
definitely delivered. The mixing was accomplished and the dude looked
like he was enjoying himself too. It was a delight to see a dj of
Benji B's stature in an intimate environment, and his passion for the
tunes he span was ever present.
The only slight disappointment was the
sudden exodus after Benji B's set finished. The array of Recall
resident djs, many of whom are on Bath Spa's music tech course, are a
real asset to Moles. After watching Chubba demolish the same club a
few months ago with his bass heavy selections I had high hopes. And
the young resident who stepped up to the challenge of following the
radio 1 man didn't disappoint.
The people who left early missed a
solid set of house and techno rounded off beautifully with Brawther's
'Endless (UG mix)' a jazzy, and satisfyingly deep end to a great
night of music.
Just got back from watching Bill Callahan at the Trinity Arts Center, Bristol. The venue itself is a bit of an oddity, tucked away in a fairly dilapidated part of Bristol just west of Temple Meads. But the building is beautiful, an imposing, gothic edifice all points and arches. A former church now devoted to the secular "Arts". It's almost comically incongruous among the area's massage parlours and boarded up shops (maybe this is just my "Bath vision" clouding matters). Suffice to say, it was obvious where the beardy roll up smoking student types were heading.
This small venue with a reputation for getting class leftfield acts, was a perfect setting for Bill Callahan's scorched baritone and its sparse accompaniments. The artist formerly known as Smog has been pedalling his own unique brand of melancholic folk-rock for decades now. Renowned for lyrics which can border on the inscrutable and all delivered in an unwavering, unemotional monotone, it was somewhat surprising to see him enter the stage in a white pinstripe suit. But perhaps that was just an example of his often overlooked warped sense of humour. The set itself, however, as is true of Callahan's work generally, was one of high seriousness. Though often impossible to dissect, Callahan's songs contain recurring motifs and images; things such as birds, travelling, rivers, roots and shepherds. And at least his two most recent LPs can be accurately called concept albums. It was unsettling seeing Callahan's face contort on the opener, "Riding For The Feeling", as it became obvious these songs are more than just cerebral linguistic exercises, much more. It felt strangely voyeuristic watching the gig unfurl, Callahan seldom looking up from his feet and making no effort to dispel the gloom his songs inevitably created. After the first song, a woman shouted, "you've got a sexy voice, Bill!" Which was greeted with.....nothing, not so much as a ripple of mirth over his surprisingly youthful (for forty-four) face. However, you don't go to a gig such as this for badinage and banter. And he certainly delivered, pleasing the crowd with a healthy smattering of Smog songs along with cuts from the great new album, Apocalypse. Like a more leftfield Leonard Cohen, Callahan strode through great song after great, never deviating from his simple acoustic guitar. Backed by some skillful guitar impovising, he occasionally changed the arrangements to songs, as in the sublime, "Too Many Birds". But tonight was all about Callahan's words and his sonorous delivery of them. A powerful, impressive selection of songs- they were almost like riddles, repeated images and thoughts appearing out of the blue as if just occurring to him. "I got darker, then I got lighter, then I got dark again" he sang on the closer, 'Bill Cain'. We didn't see that kind of contrast tonight but what we did see was unwaveringly beautiful and haunting.
Beautiful rendition of a standout track from this year's Kiss Each Other Clean LP. Lovely arrangements, complement the graceful melody -the flutes and backing vocals are ace. All confirming my opinion that Beam is one of those artists best heard live, in a back-to-basics organic setting. As with Sufjan Stevens, I feel Beam is best when the main focus is very much him. His narratives. His guitar. Not during the genre hopping experiments in rhythm and textures or beats with which they both, respectively, dabble.
Equipped with a raincoat and camera I sought out a night of psych-folk sunshine from Bristol's sodden streets. I also wish I'd brought something else, but more of that later.
I'd missed most of the opening act by the time I'd found the place- right by the station yet up an alley no-one would ever think existed, including, seemingly, the non-plussed newsagent I asked.
So on to openers- Woods. For those unfamiliar they are a fantastically unpolished and unpredictable NYC folk outfit. By unpredictable I mean kind of schizophrenic- one minute they sound like The Byrds or CSNY, and the next come over as bleary eyed proggers, unafraid of wigging out like a Neil Young on mescaline with a dark edged psycho blues. But they are startlingly adept at both styles.
What is immediately striking is the unassuming way they take the stage, which is in stark contrast to the racket that they make. Singer, Jeremy Earl sports a rabbi beard with librarian specs and his diminutive size again seems at odds with the noise his frame is just about to unleash. He looks as if he spends a long time indoors, and he probably does, for not only is he founder of Woods, but he also runs Woodsist, their Brooklyn record label.
Songs such as "Blood Dried Darker", opener of last year's At Echo Lake, pack a more visceral punch live with Earl playing his guitar as if on fire whilst soloing, stabbing away at it like a man possessed. The alluring, stately melodies of their LPs become something darker, as the acoustic parts are dropped in favour of electronic experimentation. And the laid back ambling demeanour of the personnel belies a tight musicianship which sees Earl adopt a variety of guitarist personae, sounding like an eastern sitar player during the improvisational 'Out Of The Eye', and like J Mascis of Dinosaur Junior elsewhere. Such histrionics are coupled with his shrill tenor, reminiscent of any number of the many venerable singers who sound a bit like Neil Young. However, Earl's voice is sweeter than Young's, less anguished, yet still a formidable instrument that held up well against the rigours of a live airing.
Switching between blissed out hymnal folk of "Say Goodbye," and the krautrock of their more experimental numbers, everything is coated in a slacker sense of spontaneity. Each song, however accomplished, feels like a jam session. This suits a live performance well, though for all the intrigue of their lengthier, tie-dyed experimentalism it's the more conventional moments where Earl's subtly hooky songwriting shines that most please this writer's ear. Such as new album stand out, 'Pushing Onlys', where they truly fit the description of 'sunshine pop' which has been given them. Here, with their gorgeous, swelling guitar arpeggios they recal The Byrds at their least grandiose.
So all in, a compelling performance from an accomplished set of musicians who, just as each member swaps instruments, cannot quite decide what musical style to use. Though each they choose seems beamed in from outer space- or the heady 70s at least- with a bug eyed psychedelia.
This is the thread that links to the headline act Kurt Vile, though I see it more of a double A Side lineup, and also to what I forgot to bring. He takes the stage like a younger incarnation of "the dude" from The Big Lebowski. "Everyone ok", he asks, which is greeted by a chorus of affirmative grunts, "Nice", he drawls in response, with a massive grin on his hair enveloped face. It's at this point, and during my interval ciggy break, that I realise what would aid my enjoyment of the night: weed. Not a lot- just a smidgen, enough to put me nearer the ambling, leisurely gait of Vile and his Violators, and the blissed out Woods.
about as close as possible to a mugshot of Mr Vile
Vile recently signed to indie major, Matador, after years with The War On Drugs (also awesome). His most recent album, Matador debut, Smoke Ring For My Halo, has all his trademark hesitant, somnambulant hooks, but with a deeper array of textures. Thus seeing him slowly emerge from his lo fi four track cabin, it seems.
Open tuned guitars and circular swirling riffs predominate on acoustic only opener, "Blackberry Song", creating a narcotic haze of sound. Then 'Baby's Arms' arms kicks in and his band The Violators emerge from the shadows, similarly hirsute and spacey looking. As oblique as Dylan and with a speak-sing vocal style not dissimilar to BRMC or Jesus and The Mary Chain, Vile also sounds bizarrely like Richard Ashcroft. Yet his resolutely lo fi scuffed jeans slacker aesthetic differs to all the above. Womb-like synths and subtle textures accompany Vile's incantatory outpourings. I saw one fellow fledgling journo write into his iphone "off beat.hair. free verse", as some kind of reminder. As if his hair is forgettable (?!)- check it out above. I spent ninety minutes or so trying to see behind it. As to the free verse- I didn't realise blank verse was the norm for troubadours du jour. I think free association is more on the money, or maybe even stream of consciousness. But that is as far as the Dylan comparisons go - Vile is refreshingly devoid of pretension. He sings about the everyday not the eternal, "She was a Tom Boy, I was a peeping Tom, more than it seems, I was a peeping Tom, (you know what I mean)", exhibits a humour rarely seen in indie climes.
This is also seen in his engagement with the crowd. "Can't remember that one- it's a decade old and sounds too much like the other one", he gently rebukes himself with. "I'm older than you think, you know." Audience: "How Old!?" Vile: "Old enough to be your mother!"
He is incapable of sonority, treating the metaphysical with a keen awareness of our own inconsequence: "Christ was born, I was there, You know me I'm around, I got friends." A line that wouldn't sound out of place in the mouth of a Coen Brothers' narrator. So the new Dylan he is not, ditto Springsteen (I can't really understand that oft made comparison).
There is no dark core of tortured truth underneath all that hair. No angst. The tempos are sloooow (dude), and beneath all the hazy atmospherics and lyrical obliquity, is a man alive to the ridiculousness of life with a peculiar ability to evoke a languorous state of mind through insidious hooks.
So a fantastic night of music brought to life by the humour and warmth of Vile's stage presence. A night where, though only outside, the rainy streets of Bristol seemed light-years away, and the ether a lot nearer. A trip I won't forget.
Great mini session from Local Natives. If not native to this particular locality you should be. The Natives combine sun drenched Beach Boys esque vocal harmonies with a dark hearted, anglophone melancholy. Their debut opus, Gorrila Manor, was one of my favourite LPs of last year. Sprawling, rich instrumentation, with a very inventive take on well worn influences. They even tackle a Talking Heads cover in 'Warning Sign' and retain dignity, perhaps even, dare I say it, bettering the original.
The session sees them playing fast and loose with their own material, rearranging and reinterpreting themselves as befits a band brimming with ideas. Just listen to the drumming on the 'Wide Eyes' that sounds as if it's being tapped out on chopsticks. Lead singer Kelsey Ayer's vocals remain crystalline and flawless too. Damn, I'd love to see ths band live.
The song 'Cubism Dream' made me really notice what a great vocalist/ lyricist he is. A skype conversation sees ex lovers talking "on a small screen, A cubism dream, the most beautiful squares I'd ever seen" (read the whole lyrics here). Now if that's not inventive and evocative writing I'll eat my blog shaped hat and call it a day. I find it impossible to repress a spine tingling shudder when listening to the final denouement, as Ayer's vocals take flight and attempt to compass the distance between the lovers. It's a lovely song from a band unafraid to embrace emotion and grandeur.
These are LA hipsters with a heart.
I have linked the album below just in case people aren't familiar with it. These songs from the session are by no means the strongest on the album, however, I think the live versions above are vastly superior to their recorded counterparts. You could do a fun little compare and contrast job.....
