REVIEW: BREATH OF AN EPOCH - AL BORLAND'S FORD TAURUS

Self-described “Midwest emo band” Breath Of An Epoch sound as far removed from the mainstream poison that the E-word conjures up. Frankly, not being versed in the genre’s history it’s hard to tell whether they’re joking or not. Al Borland’s Ford Taurus veers from sprightly guitar pop, freakish and urgent sugar rushes and some kind of demented free-form collapse as displayed at the conclusion of opening track ‘No Bass’.

The sound and arrangement on the EP suggests fragility; both musically and emotionally. By time we’ve got to last track, ‘Chapter 1’, you feel as if you’ve gone through the wringer yourself. Don’t be fooled by it’s lo-fi qualities and inherent strangeness, there’s a lot to be uncovered if you give it a chance.

The EP is available HERE, but grab a listen below:

REVIEW: DOWN - IV: THE PURPLE EP

A recent Metal Hammer piece serving as an update on the forthcoming new Black Sabbath album (sigh) imparted some odd news. Having recorded his guitar parts, Tony Iommi is now waiting for drums, bass and vocals to be added to the mix. A second’s thought should lead you to the conclusion that, aside from a couple of low-key shows and their Download 2012 headline slot, the dark hearted Aston boys haven’t rehearsed or recorded together since their financially fortuitous comeback. If one of the founding groups of heavy metal can’t be arsed playing happy families, then what hope for the rest of the genre?

This is all melodrama, of course. Thank the Lord (ironically) for Down; owing more than a debt musically to Sabbath, the brutal New Orleans five-piece soldier on. Although their 21 year career has seen a relatively small return of three LPs and now one EP, theirs is a body of work with very little in the way of regrets and tension. Part four of their unclear canvas, The Purple EP, is another blast of filthy riffs, pounding drums, pelvis-shattering bass and frightening vocals.

Opening track Levitation chugs into life slowly from silence; almost a reprise. It gives rise to the notion that they’ve never been away after all, merely plugging away all this time waiting for the right moment to strike. As the old adage goes, “familiarity breeds contempt”, but Down’s return is more than welcome. By time Witchtripper bursts into life like the song Sabbath were and are probably desperate to pen, there’s no doubt that Down are one of the key proponents of today’s metal scene. Even Orange Goblin call them “the masters.”

Though the core virtues of their sound remain, something seems a little different. Anselmo, one of the more paradoxical figures of metal, speaks with his usual clarity. This time he seems more self-assured; loose of his demons and ready to take on the world once more. Pepper Keenan, the warrior-like guitarist shorn of his duties with Corrosion Of Conformity, seems fresher and ready to kill. Hell, maybe all that green they smoke does them a world of good after all.

BENJAMIN FRANCIS LEFTWICH LIVE @ STANLEY THEATRE 23/10/12

I know what you’re thinking. Another acoustic singer-songwriter, warbling leaden dirges about how much he wants to make love under the clear night sky, that’s just what the music industry needs right now.

Ever since Damien Rice emerged in 2002 with "O", acoustic guitar and gravely voice at the ready, an army of one-man bands all set to become the next generation’s troubadour of choice has attempted to follow in his footsteps.

Benjamin Francis Leftwich, who appeared at the Stanley Theatre, Liverpool Guild of Students last night, is just one private in the acoustic army. Having brought out his debut album, Last Smoke Before The Snowstorm in July last year, the 23 year old is currently halfway through his first UK tour. Is he the next Damien Rice, or just another young pretender?

Certainly, his support acts are two instantly forgettable, acoustic folk singers. So forgettable that I didn't even catch their names. One of them sings, talks and even looks EXACTLY like Laura Marling.

Having listened to his album recently, I was concerned that his set might be a bit bland. Tracks like Pictures, 1904 and Butterfly Culture, whilst quite pleasant to have on in the background whilst trying to sleep or seduce a girl, are really rather dull when played live.

Leftwich however is saved by the presence of a small, but sensible band. Thankfully, this stops the gig from getting too bogged down. It also suggests to me that his next album will be a slightly more collaborative effort. 

Fans of his album will probably imagine him to be a serious, rather introverted young man, but to be fair his personality comes through a lot more when talking to the crowd. He dedicates song, Manchester Snow, to a girl in Manchester who he once had intercourse with “23 tines in one week” (a fact which suggests there’s not a lot to do in Manchester). And he tells of his embarrassment at appearing on television looking like “a sweaty whale”. Leftwich clearly isn’t afraid to give something of himself to the audience, and takes himself less seriously than his music might suggest.

All of which made for a pretty decent gig, the only drawback being the choice of venue. Although he’d managed to draw a sizeable crowd, the Stanley Theatre just didn’t feel right for the style of music he plays. Towards the back of the room, restless audience members were pretty much engaging in full on conversation, during songs. Never a good sign. A smaller, more intimate venue might have been more suitable.

Leftwich is one of many fish in a pool that is already becoming quite crowded. Ben Howard, James Vincent McMorrow and Jake Bugg are all competing for the same ears, and it’s yet to be seen if Leftwich can evolve the legs to drag himself out of the pond If he is to be left by the wayside though, it would be something of a shame.

RAY DAVIES - DUBLIN O2 21/10/12

Pretty much all of the traffic this evening, human and vehicular, is drifting westwards through Dublin, and accreting around the rear entrance to the splendid O2 (formerly The Point). This building is elderly, but no less diminished for that; its age, combined with a few modern tweaks, lends it a feel of comfortable familiarity and modern efficiency all at once. Perhaps appropriate, then, as a venue for one Ray Davies.

The former Kinks man (who has a number of notable projects aside from "the K-word" as he puts it once or twice - Collaborations with John Bon Jovi, Bruce Springsteen and Metallica, anyone?) is now a resident of the emerald isle, so perhaps the sizeable crowd isn't such a surprise. What does come as a pleasant shock is the man himself. Warm and witty, he is engaging and utterly unfazed by the size of the venue, or the ferocious idolisation of the well-oiled Dublin crowd (a group of four men in the front row sporting T-shirts each bearing a letter from "Lola" and "Cola", front and back, should give you some idea of the kind of festival atmosphere that prevailed from the get-go.)

Raymond Douglas Davies is not afraid to make light of his time in The Kinks, telling anecdotes between songs with ease and a clear fondness. Opener "Autumn Almanac" is a jaunty, nonsense tune; with Davies joined onstage only by guitarist Bill Shanley however, the song takes on a more reflective tone; that is, of course, until Davies stops the song to point out that the line "Roast beef on Sunday: Alright" is a little redundant with thousands crammed into the O2 on, yes, a Sunday night, (to all-round amusement) and promptly re-starts with the line "No roast on Sunday: Alright!".

The eventual addition of the rest of the band livens things up somewhat; before reeling off yet another classic - and let's face it, he’s written a lot of them - "I was twenty-one when I wrote this song" he says, a gleam in his eye as he continues "...thirty years ago" - He is in fact 68, and the song is 'Waterloo Sunset', prompting a sing-along that is only matched in intensity later on for ‘Victoria’ and ‘You Really Got Me’.

His age apparently doesn't seem to matter, at least where performance is concerned. As with many ageing rock gentlemen, the tempestuousness of youth is tempered with the wisdom of age, and it shows in the short but pointed imprecations to be cautious of fame’s ups and downs. For a man approaching seventy, his energy throughout the hour-and-a-half set is high, although he does sit from time to time – one of the advantages of growing old, apparently.

All told, Ray Davies puts on an impressive, engaging and above all entertaining show, with a pleasing combination of the lesser known Kinks classics - ‘20th Century Man’, ‘Dedicated Follower Of Fashion’, and ‘Victoria’ amongst others – and one or two newer songs, the most pleasing being ‘Hollywood Boulevard’ with intelligent and amusing lyrics, a style of song writing at which he excels. The final flourish; the well-worn device of an encore could hardly fail to be something special with this kind of back-catalogue, and so it proved: In quick succession, the crowd were bombarded with sterling renditions of ‘Lola’ (which was the cue for the front of the all-seater auditorium to be awash with hundreds of people dancing and climbing on seats, to the clear delight of Ray and the band), ‘All Day And All Of The Night’, an a capella sing-along of ‘Thank You For The Days’ and a final rousing and duly bombastic performance of ‘You Really Got Me’ to top-off an excellent night.

There have been criticisms levelled at Ray Davies in recent years for not having the vocal range of his earlier years, but the songs (both old and new) are classic examples of good pop and rock writing. He is a warm and engaging character and, at 68 years of age, the occasional wavering note can be more than excused – particularly when you have an entire crowd singing the lyrics along with you.

TOTALLY ENOURMOUS EXTINCT DINOSAURS - LIVE AT THE O2 ACADEMY LIVERPOOL - 21/10/12

"The CIA shot Kennedy, kids!"

Here’s a riddle for you. What do the much loved children’s TV character Barney, and the son of an Oxford University choir-master have in common? The answer; they’re both Totally Enormous Extinct Dinosaurs, and the latter paid a visit to the O2 Academy last night, as part of his UK wide tour.

For those of you who don’t know, TEED is the brainchild and solo project of master Orlando Higginbotham, a young man who may be cursed with a silly name but who has got a lot of people in the world of electronic music very excited.

Taking to the stage in a dinosaur shaped romper suit, he fixes himself firmly behind a mixing desk that has more switches and dials then the Apollo 11 spacecraft did. What follows is either a “glorious swirl of neon synths” (to borrow a phrase from the O2 Academy promo mag) or a series of bleeps, whistles and drum beats that you are liable to find in any gym or dancefloor in the city.

I’ll level with you, I was expecting to really hate TEED when I went along to this gig, and I’ll admit that I’m still not 100% sure what all the fuss is about. It seemed like we’d paid £12 to get into a glorified nightclub, and one that charged £4.30 for a pint of cider for that matter.

That said however, there were aspects that I found weirdly enjoyable. Higinbotham’s music may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but there’s something strangely hypnotic about all the colourful lights and female dancers he has accompanying him on stage. It’s sexy, stylish and oddly alluring, but is it good music?

It definitely takes talent and skill to be a good DJ, and judging by the crowd’s reaction, TEED is a good DJ. He does seem rather too preoccupied with twiddling his knobs however, and doesn’t even speak to the crowd until halfway through the set. When he does, it’s generally to ask them to “make some noise” for singer Louisa from Lulu who joins him for his track Garden.

If you’re the sort of person who likes to jump around with your hands in the air and relive that package holiday you and the girls took to Ibiza or have always wanted to go to Creamfields then you’re going to love him.

Not a fan of electronica? Stay at home, because you’ll find nothing to love here. In fact, it’ll be your idea of hell.

Anyone in between, check out the video and make up your own minds!

DOWN/ORANGE GOBLIN/WARBEAST - MANCHESTER ACADEMY 19/10/12

Like punks, metal fans who keep their fashion and outlook into their later years can seem a little out of touch, unnecessary even. A sold-out and heaving crowd took their place in Manchester Academy for the long-awaited return of the genre’s extended royal family, Down.

METALLLLLLLLLL

As per usual, a potentially great gig contrives to be hamstrung by an obnoxious audience; small girls in raggedy fishnet clothing and natty coloured dreadlocks with big tits (a staple in a metal audience) brusquely pushing past all and sundry and expecting little resistance simply because they are female and overweight men with silly tattoos and more piercings than a Cornish cattle auction. For a movement that has consistently prided itself on its perceived outsider status and unique qualities, most that adhere to every word of the metal scripture carry on oblivious to the paradox of their uniform individuality.

The first of two support bands, Warbeast, were a concise manifestation of this. Their ‘BAND SEEKING MUSICIANS’ advert must have contained a checklist of the worst metal tropes:

• Pot-bellied singer with a face like Jasper Carrott with an Afghan Hound stapled to the top of his head? Check.

• Freakishly-muscled guitar player who looks like the rejected version of WCW’s Van Hammer? Check.

• Spiked leather bracelets? Check.

• Songs that sound like all are playing different things at once with no deviation? Check.

• Lyrics about rats in tops hats and monocles shitting on a house made of gold or something? Checkity check-a-roo.

If this is what passes for up-and-coming metal of a particular strain then somebody needs to have a word with the factory steward because there is a fault in the production line.

Thankfully, the cloying pain afforded to us by Warbeast was soothed by the appearance of filthy British veterans, Orange Goblin. The personification of a pint of real ale, the denim clad and impossibly long-haired sludge trolls showed both their preceding and forthcoming tour mates how it should be done. Their denim-clad and hairy frontman slugged from a bottle of something cold, wet and percentage-laden, laying down throaty growls and curses. Culling a couple of choice tracks from 2012 LP Eulogy For The Damned, the group made you wonder just how and why they have remained perennial outsiders on the international scene. Maybe their time might finally come after this tour. Better late than never anyway.

Down, down, deeper and down

With a cracking new release, The Purple EP, being allowed into the wild, Down promptly took to the stage and did what they do best; monolithic riffs, bone-shattering bass and the projection of constant intimidation that radiates from vocalist Phil Anselmo. Opening with the slow-burning ‘Eyes Of The South’ before slashing their way through certified classics like ‘Losing All’, ‘Lysergik Funeral Procession’, ‘Hail The Leaf’ and new crowd favourite ‘Witchtripper’, these good ol’ Southern boys showed the north of England how to put on a show. The passage of neither time nor a five-year gap between records has dulled their instincts, ultimately sounding revitalised and somehow even hungrier. Despite a stellar, crunching setlist, they still managed to save the best until last. A sing-a-long-with-Down version of ‘Stone The Crow’ was followed into oblivion by ‘Bury Me In Smoke’; the funeral song of choice for those who like nothing more than to poison their own bodies.

With Anselmo taking time to address the crowd like a crazed dictator, laying down the law and offering nuggets of wisdom, the dizzying heat of the venue and the lack of breathing room provided little obstacle to a baying audience. In any post-apocalyptic scenario, make sure you join Anselmo’s army; you might not win, you might not even be very well organised, but at least you’ll go down in a blaze of glory.

Check back with Audio Apocalypse for a review of Down’s new EP in the next few days.

SPECTOR - O2 ACADEMY, LIVERPOOL 16/10/2012

"Now, who can tell me the capital of Mongolia?"

It’s Tuesday night, and all the NME readers in Liverpool are packed into O2 Academy 2, the tiny venue tucked up at the back of Lime Street station, where the drunks and prostitutes go about their nightly business. Below us, in the much larger Academy 1, Bowling For Soup will shortly be performing their hit, for a no doubt inebriated crowd who just want to bellow “Girl all the bad guys want” and remember when they were 13 and life was simple.

The (supposedly) more sophisticated music lovers have come to see Spector. Not the legendary maniac music producer, but the London based quintet. I say we’re all NME readers, I’m sure we can’t all be, but as Spector are the current darlings of the indie scene there’s a good chance you’ve heard about them in nobody’s favourite music magazine.

I wasn’t going to write about the support acts, Swim Deep and Splashh, but as they were both excellent it would be a shame to leave them out. Splash in particular are a great little band. Although they claim to be having technical glitches, nobody seems to notice and they look so achingly cool that nobody even cares.

And then Spector arrive, and the night really kicks off. Led by singer Frederick Macpherson, a man who’s done more for geek chic spectacles than Buddy Holly, they kick off an amazing set with Twenty Nothing, a track from their debut album, Enjoy It While It Lasts.

I really like Spector. It might seem like they’ve come from nowhere, but they’ve been steadily plugging away for the last 2 years, cutting their teeth as support acts, and tucked away in beer tents at the odd summer festival. This experience has helped to shape a very polished act.

Macpherson engages in “between song banter” with the crowd, in a good natured way that is genuinely funny and charming, rather than annoying. I can’t quite decide whether he loves us and we are the best audience they’ve had on this tour, or he secretly despises us and we’re the punchline in the private joke he has going on his head. Take this exchange for example:

Macpherson (spotting 2 girls in the audience sporting round glasses, similar in style to his own pair) – "I see you’re wearing round glasses, like me. Do you turn up at Stephen Hawking gigs in a wheelchair?"

Whatever you think of Macpherson, his music speaks for itself. Chevy Thunder is already a well known rocker, and the closing track Fade Away is a full-throated sing-along. Other standouts include No Adventure, another track driven by audience participation, and the hymn to pre-weekend excess, Friday Night, Don’t Ever Let It End.

A really amazing live band, whose album should be on your Christmas list. If the indie scene at the moment is made up of shoe-gaze, hipster type acts, then Spector are the antidote, a driving rock band who play music you can dance, get drunk and fall in love to. On this occasion the hype could just be on the money.

RETRO REVUE: THE BOY LOOKED AT JOHNNY

Coming to prominence upon the advent of the NME’s predictably embarrassing call for “hip young gunslingers”, Tony Parsons and Julie Burchill were unleashed upon a world that not only didn’t want them, but didn’t fucking ask for them either. As Parsons slides ever more into middle-aged ennui and poorly-researched political rants for a tabloid with too many ideas above its station, he probably likes to think that The Boy Looked At Johnny captures perfectly the fire of his youth and put the world to rights in a satisfactory manner. Neither were realised; the book is a paean to ALL that is wrong with music journalism, no matter what year it is.

Taking the Gonzo method and subverting it to the point of awfulness, Parsons and Burchill set out to wreak revenge, confirm unsubstantiated gossip and burn more bridges than a retreating Persian army. As you would expect, those who (for better or worse) had a major influence on the British punk movement cop it full on in the knackers. Malcolm McLaren gets the worst of it; receiving countless jabs, pokes, insults and blame. Johnny Rotten is called all kinds of things, mainly for the alleged crime of citing anybody outside of the norm as an influence and deciding to try something new with PiL.

For somebody who made their name with punk, Parsons and Burchill seem to resent the genre more than anything else on Earth. The pair, already so self-obsessed and cuntish by this point, allow no light to seep through. Instead, every song, every band, every venue is painted black and shat on just for kicks. The Damned are given no quarter and treated like lepers. Worse even. They’re spoken to and about as if they’re up before a kangaroo court on rape and murder charges. Funny to see who has stuck to their M.O. after all this time isn’t it, guys?

It’s this poor attitude and petulant prose that spoils what could have been an important primary source for a strange time in recent British cultural history. As it stands, the so-called “obituary of rock and roll” did little else but put the nail in the coffin of their status as smart, knowledgeable journos. They shattered their own illusions; how fitting. Now, Parsehole & Bitchill, kindly FUCK OFF forever. 

...IS GOLDEN: SILENS BEGIN UK TOUR

DON? IS THAT YOU?

The London and Liverpool based four-piece Silens embark on a tour in support of their debut LP, Visions On. Beginning tonight at Liverpool’s longstanding Lomax, the measured and talented folky-types take in some of the sights of our lovely home nations. Unlike other groups, they’re not afraid to ask the tough questions, such as: “Would you rather sit in a washing machine for a full cycle or sit in an oven for twenty minutes (not pre-heated)?” These are the questions that have baffled scientists and philosophers for aeons, but it’s only now that somebody dares to breach the answers. Silens’ Liverpool branch is represented by Tom Carroll, who also puts in a shift as guitarist and vocalist with the riotous three-piece, 1902.

So what can you expect from a Silens gig? Plenty, as it happens. From the slow, emotional drawl of ‘Heaven Helps Those Who Help Themselves’ to the playful, runaround ‘Dare To Believe’, Silens offer a muso’s perspective on the timeless pop hooks that have permeated modern music.

If you can’t make tonight’s show, then here are the rest of the dates:

Wed 17th October: Old Brown Jug, Newcastle-under-Lyme.

Thurs 18th October: The Diamond, Nottinghamshire.

Fri 19th October: The Dublin Castle, Camden, London.

Visions On can be purchased from iTunes, Spotify et al.

BASTILLE - STANLEY THEATRE, LIVERPOOL

The Stanley Theatre is not quite full on Friday, as Bastille took to the stage. Some audience members are wearing skull masks, given out by the band’s PR people, in a bid to lend some gothic horror to the evening, but which leaves the place looking like a crap ghost train.  Lead singer Dan Smith, who brings to mind Nick Grimshaw as played by Gary Oldman, breaks into an opening track accompanied by his 3 band mates who all appear to be playing drum machines. For a while, it kind of feels like they’ve been let loose with Garage Band on their I-Pads and despite the enthusiastic cheers from the crowd, for me the opening track gets lost amongst the endless beats.

Thankfully, things get a little better, and Smith is allowed to showcase his decent vocals on the next couple of songs, Things We Lost In The Fire and Overjoyed, both of which are extremely likeable alt-pop songs. Smith is a good front man, enjoying the crowd’s reactions as he announces the next song, and telling us all how amazing this is. Maybe it is, I don’t know, but I get the feeling that if he thinks a half-full Guild of Students is amazing, maybe he’s not quite ready for Wembley yet.

There’s a terribly intense feeling to Bastille’s work, as they sing serious songs about serious things like, falling in love and having your heart broken. Pretty much every girl (and, possibly some of the lads) wants to take Smith home and tame this wild stallion.

Ok, this isn’t ground-breaking stuff. That whole ‘deep well of meaning underneath the boyish exterior’ routine is as old as the hills, but Smith is still young enough and likeable enough to get away with it. And he proves with Flaws and Bad Blood, two songs that have you can check out on Youtube, that he knows how to craft a good pop song. Flaws especially, which he finishes with before coming out to do a 2 song encore, is a decent tune.

On the whole, Bastille aren’t a terrible band, and they are clearly adored by their fans who sing every word back to Smith as he leaves the stage to join them, flanked by a nervous looking minder.

You are left with the feeling however, do they ever just chill out with a game of Fifa and a beer?  

REVIEW: ALTA - PLACES

The headlines must write themselves: “Alta-ed Perceptions”, “F-Alta Lines” and so on. A snappy name is a gift from the Gods for the rushed hack. Problems may arise when the music contained within demands the attention and does the talking more than a cheap pun ever could.

The Milwaukee post-hardcore outfit are a group that mixes dizzying intricacy, speed and bewildering noise to great effect. Their appearance on Liverpool-based EDiLS Recordings’ fourth (and best?) compilation granted them access to a city and a nation always keen to embrace and accept the latest sounds.

From the off, ‘Winter/Mute’ with its needling feedback giving way to the bass-driven swell, Places is not shy to have a go at…well, almost anything. Wilfully obstructive song titles (‘Merry New Year’, ‘+ -‘) belie the range of emotions on offer, but the device works insomuch as it succeeds in not giving the game away. ‘Ocean Liners’ deadening assumption that “things, they stay the same” states that underneath the trickery, they’re just telling it like it is.

One of Places’ more prominent virtues is its overall sense of fragility. The instrumentation may front and pulverise, but the raw production and relentless pace threatens to unravel at any second. Hearing the vocals nearly break down completely under stress during ‘Dakota’ is a prime example of this.

Alta are a band that offer an unspoken agreement that it’s better to burn out than to fade away. If they come and go in the blink of an eye, then records like Places should be sought after keenly.

JOHN COOPER CLARKE - PHILHARMONIC THEATRE 10/10/12

What can you say about John Cooper Clarke that hasn’t been said already?

The Salford bard took to the stage at the Philharmonic Theatre on Wednesday 10^th October, to unbridled applause. If this registered with him, he barely showed it, his eyes hidden behind pitch black shades. No matter how many photos you see of Clarke, nothing prepares you for how weird he looks in real life. Now aged 63, he still wears a pair of eye-wateringly tight trousers, which accentuate his spider-like frame. The mass of jet black hair atop his head, adds to this scarecrow like appearance. As he stalked across the stage, the shadows thrown against the walls brought to mind a scene from a Hammer horror movie.

A night of poetry was kicked off by Essex poet Luke Wright, followed by Manchester’s award-winning Mike Garry. Of the two, Wright’s work is much more jovial with poems like the B Movie a stunning work of alliteration featuring the  Blob of Brentwood – who eats white van men across the county of Essex – and Essex Lion. By contrast Garry’s work is deeper, more serious. His poems take in the metropolis of Manchester, and all it’s characters. Both poets warm the audience up nicely, with the Mancunian tones of Garry helping to put us in the mood for Clarke.

Funny, intellectual and satirical, Clarke’s work ignites the audience. Between poems he rambles like all the best comedians, taking in a hundred ideas and topics including his plans to write a film based on Snakes on a Plane, but called Parrot in a Car, “That’s a real emergency,”  the difference between VD, "if you've got that you're a dirty bastard, a fucking rotter" and STI's "sounds like something you can catch on the breeze", and the benefits of serving pizza to swine flu victims, "the only food stuff you can slide under a door."

  

He forgot the words to Hire Car but, quite frankly, the amount of mind bending hallucinogenic he’s ingested over the years, it’s a miracle he can still form a coherent sentence never mind perform non-stop for over an hour and a half.

He rattled through all the classics at breakneck spped, including Beazeley Street and Evidentally Chickentown, but even his lesser known poems are works of untapped genius. Forget Seamus Heaney, give every school boy a copy of You Never See A Nipple In The Daily Express and ask them to find the meaning in that.

For those of you unfamiliar with his work, check out this video and thank me later.

WHAT'S ON IN DUBLIN: OCTOBER EDITION

Let it be known that despite a lack of resources and cadaverous underlings, Audio Apocalypse retains a few dangerous tendrils that coil in and around the world. So, in that vein, here is a few words on coming highlights from the Emerald Isle.

Heathers: The ladies are currently on a tour of Ireland in support second album Kingdom, released Friday September 7th. Heathers are twin sisters Ellie & Louise MacNamara. They have recently signed a global deal with Universal Music Publishing UK. The album and the subsequent showcases are home to some stunning harmonies and refined pop sensibilities. The album production lends them a feel of almost a female Coldplay ("not necessarily A Bad Thing" - Ed.) You can see them on 28th October at Round Room, Mansion House, Dublin.

"We gotta great big...etc..."

Convoy: San Diego pseudo-punk rockers Convoy have a string of dates booked at The Gaiety Theatre, Dublin. With nods to classic bands such as Journey, but Foo Fighters guitar licks and a modern punk-ish vocal style, it's hard not to find yourself nodding your head or tapping your foot. You can catch them 5th/6th/9th/12th/13th October, Gaiety Theatre, Dublin.

EVIDENTALLY COOPER CLARKE - TONIGHT AT THE PHILHARMONIC

The word "legend" is probably the most overused word in the English language. I personally know people who drop it into conversations liberally, even when it's not neccessary or even appropriate. It's used so often these days that you might say it's lost some of it's meaning. Not when you're talking about John Cooper Clarke, however.

The Mancunian punk poet, is a man within touching distance of some of British music's most important bands. A man who shared the stage with the likes of Joy Division, The Sex Pistols, The Fall, Buzzcocks and Siouxsie & The Banshees.

His poetry takes in urban devastation (Evidentally Chickentown), unwanted guests (Twat) and good old-fashined romance (I Wanna Be Yours). His influence on the latest generation of British songwriters is undeniable. Witness the Arctic Monkey's first album, particuarly From The Ritz to the Rubble, which sees Alex Turner practically do a Cooper Clarke impression as he mumbles about bouncers, and getting chucked out of nightclubs.

Few people actually warrant the word "legend", so unless you've got Muhammad Ali, Bobby Moore or Kurt Cobain coming round for dinner (and with Bobby and Kurt that's extremely unlikely) I suggest you get a ticket for Cooper Clarke's gig tonight at the Philharmonic.

BUY! TRY! DIE! - NEIL YOUNG

Space stations, the Inca Civilisation, trains and dogs - just some of the subjects Neil Young has felt compelled to write about in his vast body of work. The most original, genre-defying, yet frustrating artist of the last 50 years refuses to be pigeonholed. That's why we love him, but it's also why we found it so hard to pick just three albums this time. Therefore, we're going to cheat slightly and focus on an under-valued period of his career; the '80s to the present. The '70's were undoubtedly the years when Young was at the peak of his powers, but since then he has made some of his most interesting work (and as we shall see, some absolute shockers).

BUY! - Ragged Glory (1990)

Reunited with his (best) backing band, Crazy Horse, Young started the '90s with the album that sealed his role as the 'Godfather of Grunge'. Never the best bunch of players in town (Young included), Crazy Horse conspired to bring a unique power and melody to a set of songs that must rank amongst Young's best. Kicking off with the blistering guitar work of 'Country Home', and passing through the feedback-laden 'Fuckin' Up', 'Love To Burn' and 'Mother Earth' (never mind feedback-laden, the latter is JUST feedback), Ragged Glory is surely the loudest album Young has ever made. He may have made better mood pieces, or been better lyrically on other albums, but Ragged Glory is his most accessible album for a new fan looking-in to the louder side of Shakey.

TRY! - Trans (1981)

If ever a musician has been so lambasted for a change of direction then Neil Young with Trans must be that artist. Roundly mocked upon its release in 1982, and ever since by fans and non-fans alike, Trans has not fared well. It’s a shame, because it's one of his bravest and best. Recorded in 1981 as an attempt to communicate with his disabled son, Young sang the majority of songs through a Vocoder, a bold step away from anything he had attempted before. The melodies on Trans are some of the strongest Young has ever written (the middle-eight in 'Computer Age', for example), proving that without his guitar, and only a synth for company, he could still write a great tune. The only downside to Trans is that Young dilutes the album's feel by including two weak, non-electronic songs. Then again, by sequencing these tracks first on each side of vinyl, maybe he was just luring in the curious record-buyer...

DIE! - Fork In The Road (2009)

A concept album about an environmentally-friendly car. I could stop there, but in the interest of fairness, I'll explain why this album is awful. Ten songs that are seemingly all based around the same chugging blues riff, Fork In The Road was recorded in a week, and it shows. Lyrically, the album is concerned with driving, that's it. If you don't drive, or don't like driving, don't even consider buying this album. There is one beacon of light nestled within - 'Just Singing A Song Won't Change The World' - a song probably written after he'd listened back to the rest of the album.

SO SEXUAL/CRIMINALS - CAPSTONE THEATRE, LIVERPOOL 6/10/12

You win some, you lose some; can’t win ‘em all and so on. Call it any trite cliché you like, sometimes you just have a bad night. Generally vibrant and with a certain appeal, The Caledonia (Catherine St.) tends to be a safe and busy haven for the city’s groups. On this Saturday night, no-one wanted to come out and play. A disappointingly empty room played host to a typically rousing performances from Sweden’s Criminals and Liverpool’s own So Sexual.

Kusanagi missed out, having been unable to attend, so it was left to Criminals to warm up those who dared brave the night. As luck would have it, they delivered a loud, appealing and endearingly erratic set. Retaining pop sensibilities but adding the right amount of intensity, it’s the kind of music you’ll find yourself humming on the way to work. They’re on their way to Old Europe now, but make sure you get them next time round.

So Sexual's new manager makes
with the hilarity

Their name implies a certain swagger but So Sexual enjoy writhing in the fallout from doomed and drunken romance. Recently swollen (oo-er) to a four-piece, vocalist Peter Seddon’s bittersweet words ring out in accordance with Jay Dyke’s chiming keyboards. A fully-functioning rhythm section takes care of the rest. Their almost-ironic love songs were the fitting sounds to a night where things might not have gone exactly to plan elsewhere.

DUBBLE TRUBBLE: AUDIO APOCALYPSE MEETS JAH WOBBLE

As his former bandmate John Lydon spends his later years reforming and dicking around with bands he was famous in years ago, his old contemporaries put the past to bed and move on. Former PiL bass fiend Jah Wobble is one such person. Not content with inspiring a fair few people with his thunderous playing, Wobble is a keen proponent of expansion and the art of the new experience. Having toured previously with a slew of bands and individuals that span the genre spectrum, Wobble and the Modern Jazz Ensemble rolled into town to spread the love.

Pre-gig, the venue’s lobby was replete with auld buggers in PiL t-shirts. If they were expecting a tip of the hat to the past, maybe a run-through of ‘Death Disco’, then they would be very much mistaken. Wobble and his charges blazed through two sets of stellar jazz. Their drummer, bearing more than a passing resemblance to Al Murray’s Pub Landlord, was a revelation. In the best possible terms, he played like a broken clock; scatty time-signatures and off-kilter rattles and clicks permeated the sets. The keyboard player, looking fresh off his GCSEs, played like the premature ghost of Ray Manzarek. He even had that whole “sound of crystal raindrops” thing that lay over and under the Doors’ output.

A music icon, bass pro and all-round 

good bloke meets Jah Wobble

As is tradition, the best was saved for last. After a breezy and humorous improv routine (accompanied by Wobble’s own stab at stand-up), the audience were invited backstage to eat, drink and be merry. Cautious at first that it might have been something of a prank, all finally ventured and crammed into a small room to down Thai chicken curry, Pepsi and Ginger Beer.

Wobble played court jester for the remainder of the evening; signing autographs, talking shop and debating the finer points of England’s beautiful game. Audio Apocalypse was lucky to acquire his ear and see what we could get.

The first question? PiL and their recent reformation, sans all bar Lydon. Wobble says he was approached personally by the former Rotten man of punk but negotiations broke down in both artistic and monetary terms. Maybe butter companies don’t pay so well after all.

Putting business aside, there was one question that bothered us. In Simon Ford’s compelling biography on The Fall, Hip Priest, it suggests that former Fall and PiL drummer Karl Burns had his hair set on fire by Wobble and ex-colleague Keith Levene. Wobble says that was never the case, but the real version events is even better.

High on a mixture of pharmaceuticals, Burns convinced himself that he was trapped inside a Space Invaders world. Naturally, this panicked him slightly. Sensing an opportunity, Wobble, Lydon and Levene began acting like the game’s titular characters; weaving from side to side and always getting closer. Wielding a cereal box in the belief it was a control pad, Burns attempted to repel the supposed extraterrestrial visitors. Having placed flaming balls of paper strategically around the room to facilitate what Wobble deemed “an alien landscape”, things escalated quickly when the curtains caught fire. All present, except of course for poor Burns, dealt with the flames and stopped the band being nicely toasted. Just another day in the life of man admired for his strange perception of life. 

AURAL DEVASTATION: INTRODUCING...NEW RADIO SENSATION - HERBERT GRIM

Radio is a dying art form, like morris dancing or Channel 5. The latest statistics from the Ministry of Public Statistics, shows that radio listenership is down to it’s lowest level ever. It’s estimated that every 10 minutes, someone in the UK is turning off his or her radio.

That’s all about to change however, as AD Radio introduces it’s new breakfast DJ, Herbert Grim! The 20-something, chirpy Northerner with seriously great hair is ready to save radio from eating itself and has already began to make an impression on younger listeners with his amusing anecdotes involving his celebrity friends and various varieties of common garden vegetables.

Herbert During His Days on Hospital Radio

Grim was born in a small town just north of Manchester. His father was a cotton mill worker and part time pigeon fancier, and his mother a stereotypical Northern woman. He was the youngest of 13 children, packed into a 2 up, 2 down terraced house. As Grim says, ‘I had to be loud otherwise I wouldn’t get fed!’ At 16, he realised that the life of a cotton worker was not for him. Plus he was frightened of pigeons.

Young Herbert packed his bags and headed to Leeds General Hospital, where he embarked on a career as a hospital DJ. He still plays some of the best-loved tunes from that time on his radio show today, including My Way, You’ll Never Walk Alone and Sex is on Fire.

It was during this time that Grim’s talent was spotted by a TV producer who was staying on ward A9 recovering from a lobotomy. It was whilst recuperating that he heard Grim’s slick presenting style and realised he’d be perfect for his new “youth orientated” show, The Teenage Music Hour. Herbert signed up without hesitation, and moved to the bright lights of London to begin work on his new show.

Sadly, the programme would only last 12 episodes. A heated debate between McFly and Busted over the former Labour leader Neil Kinnock, which ended in the arrest of both Matt from Busted and Tom from McFly, was enough to see the show cancelled, and Grim was once again unemployed.

Thankfully, for AD Radio, his talent had not gone unnoticed and he was signed up to do the weeknight late slot, working from midnight to 4am. He developed quite a following, with both his listeners tuning in regularly night after night and then convincing some of their Facebook friends to do so as well.

Known for taking a chance on new music, a cool head in a crisis and a cheeky disposition perfect for radio, he was the ideal candidate to take over the breakfast slot when our old DJ got too fat and old to do it anymore.

But what does Grim himself think of all this? “Eh, I’m reet chuffed I am! I canny wait to get on air and start broadcasting all me great records!”

Prophetic words from the young man! We can’t wait to hear it!

THE HUNT FOR GIG OCTOBER - THIS MONTH IN LIVERPOOL'S LIVE CIRCUIT

Luckily, the gig circuit is never out of season. Come rain or shine (SPOILER: mostly rain), the dribs, drabs and fabs of the local scene are, in a number of fashions, out and about.

October is known historically for the traditional coming together of Oct and Ober. By means of celebration, a whole host of faces (some famous, others unwashed) will be milling about earning money from song.

Jah Wobble & The Modern Jazz Ensemble: Capstone Theatre, Friday 5^th

LOW MAN ON BASS

Former Public Image Ltd. bassist Wobble has defied his tough upbringing and his early ‘East End moments’ with a career of twists and turns. Even after leaving the shape-shifting PiL, he has since worked with a Chinese orchestra, members of avant-garde pioneers Can and even The fucking Edge.

Wobble and his latest charges will amble as only jazz players can through a tour of the classics, cult cuts and improv that will leave you reeling.

Tickets @ £17.50 available HERE.

Doors @ 7:30pm.

John Cooper Clarke: Liverpool Philharmonic Hall Wednesday 10^th

“They don’t have a good word for you, but I do: TWAT” said JCC many moons ago. The man whose subtly righteous anger conjured up many a curse and pithy put-downs finds himself seeking the truth between cold fact and crude humour once again in Liverpool. With a long story and a face to match Clarke might not be the crispy spring chicken he once was, but the brain is a powerful organ so don’t rule him out of the running just yet.

Tickets @ £14.50, £17.50 and £23.50 available HERE.

The Invisible: Studio 2 Parr Street, Saturday 13^th

Smooth, genre-traversing London trio The Invisible offer warmth with their comfortable bass-lines and a cuddly electronic vibe, but don’t let that fool you. Underneath it all is a cold, calculating and ruthless musical exterior. With their song ‘London Girl’ being included on Foals’ mix release Tapes, it may well have granted them some new followers. A comfortable (albeit boorish) venue will grant them the time and space to do what they do best.

Tickets @ £7 available HERE and at Probe Records (School Lane)

Support from Hejira

The Cribs: Liverpool O2 Academy, Thursday 25^th

YORKSHIRE VS. KRAFTWERK

The brothers Jarman, now of course minus cousin Marr, are back on the road in support of their latest LP, In The Belly Of The Brazen Bull. Those who like them should know what to expect, those going along for the casual kicks should prepare themselves for an unforgettable show.

Tickets @ £18 available HERE.

Doors @ 7:00pm.

BUY! TRY! DIE! - THE BEATLES

50 years ago this week, a mop-haired group of lads from an unfashionable Northern town released an album of nondescript covers of US r ‘n’ b groups, plus a couple of their own tunes. It was called Please, Please Me. The band was, of course, The Beatles and the face of popular music (indeed, popular culture) would never be the same again.

If Elvis was the man who gave rock and roll to the white man, The Beatles claimed it for the British, repackaged it and then sold it back to the Americans at a premium rate. Their music would define a decade, and inspire a generation. You’d have to be an incredibly cynical music fan to claim that they were anything but the greatest band that has ever lived.

They left behind a back catalogue that some bands can only dream of. But where do you start with a discography like that? Let’s roll up our sleeves and engage in some Beatlemania.

BUY – Rubber Soul (Dec - 1965)

Where do you start? Sgt. Peppers’s? Revolver? Abbey Road? For me, Rubber Soul has always been the overlooked Beatles album, the moment when the band grew up and stopped being the loveable mop-tops. The music was suddenly more sophisticated, the lyrics (especially Lennon’s) where perfectly crafted, the harmonies had never been better and there’s not one ounce of filler on there. Even the album cover was ahead of its time. The beautiful In My Life, in particular (the best song never written about Liverpool, in my humble opinion) is the perfect example of what a band at the top of their game is capable of.

TRY – Help (Aug – 1965)

The film is rubbish. Filmed in a haze of marijuana smoke (cast and crew were high for most of the film), the sequence in the Bahamas instance was included because Paul McCartney fancied a holiday. The soundtrack, however, is surprisingly good, written when Lennon and McCartney had lyrics “coming out of their pores” (a la Ant and Dec – Let’s Get Ready to Rumble). The tune for Yesterday, for instance, came to Paul in a dream and he famously couldn’t believe he’d written it. Not to be outdone, John came up with a little song called You’ve Got To Hide Your Love Away (supposedly written about the band’s homosexual manager Brian Epstein). And they both came together on Ticket to Ride. In-cred-ible.



DIE – Let It Be (1970)

Choosing the worst Beatles album, is like choosing which of your children is going to be the one who doesn’t go to university. But there has to be one, and if we’re honest Let it Be is the one which doesn’t make the grade. Yes, it has the title track, plus the excellent Long and Winding Road and Get Back, but there’s also a lot of half-assed, unfinished songs that just don’t work. A ghastly version of the Liverpudlian folk tune, Maggie Mae, is just one example. I’ve heard better versions from the buskers on Church Street. The trouble with Let It Be is that the band had begun to hate each other, and they’d genuinely stopped caring. The 60s was over, and the so was the magic. Just be thankful this was the 12^th album, and not the 4^th.



It’s been really hard to write this Try, Buy, Die. The Beatles, as I’m sure you’ve gathered, will always be more than just a band for me, and for millions of others. To limit their output to just 3 albums is simply criminal. But it’s not over yet. Here are 5 of their best that we haven’t already covered.

A Day in The Life

Something

A Hard Day’s Night

All You Need is Love

She Loves You

AURAL DEVESTATION II: INTRODUCING...NOVA MOB

***INTER-DIMENSIONAL FREE PRESS ACT 2012 OFFICIAL TRANSMISSION: PARALLEL-4557 INCOMING SARDONIC ARTEFACT***

MOB RULES: THE STARBURST THAT IS NOVA MOB

Like any virus worth its weight, Nova Mob are quick and messy. The Bristol four-piece provoke a sense of disgust and offence from whoever they encounter. Their debut single, ‘Pope Stroke 3000’, was 49 seconds of almost intolerably vile beauty. Lead singer Mount Plexus is not somebody who particularly cares about that.

“It’s all just a larf, really. Jus’ sling some jeans on, get out there, ‘ave a whack, ya sorted. If it bothers ‘em, ‘oo cares?”

Don’t let his verbosity fool you. Plexus is a man who uses language in the crudest terms. On the eve of the release of their debut LP, Sinister Bum, Plexus and his greasy cohorts face howls of derision from all quarters re: the nature of their songs.

Lib Dem MP Colin Tortelliniminie called for the album to be taken off all shelves. He said tracks such as ‘The Sharon Tate Abortion Method’, ‘Malignant Coprophagic Spider Rapist’ and ‘Magic 8-Balls’ were “fucking offensive.”

American rock journalist Coitus Howlermoon offers another perspective. “I think what Nova Mob offer is a refreshing post-modern-punk-modern-post take on current events. The recession, global crises, Middle East, David Beckham, Pussy Riot…”

Howlermoon was unable to complete the interview after his wiring became exposed and began to short-circuit. Their programming cannot withstand such zeitgeist-ridden cud evacuating their mouthpiece.

Nova Mob are continually on the verge of implosion. Theirs is an almost guaranteed short existence. It’s all quiet on the Western Rad-DMZ in terms of free speech these days. This might be your last chance to wallow in the lingual muck.