Month: February 2008

A sugar cube empire could have been there’s … If only it hadn’t rained in September 1995. The Presidents of the United States – PUSA – to those who care. They had a large-scale radio ‘smash’ with a song called ‘Lump’ in the mid-nineties and followed it up with something almost as endemic called ‘Peaches’. It was fun while it lasted – a rubbery cartoon trio of yanks that existed along a faultline in the UK charts which had developed Continue Reading

First erupting from the fertile loins of Adele Bethel whilst he was on tour with Arab Strap in 2001, the band has supported everyone from Franz Ferdinand and Throwing Muses during their less than meteoric rise to this, their third album, produced by produced by ex-Suede guitarist Bernard Butler and building on the band’s characteristic brand of gothic, vaguely folksy punk-rock. In fishnets. Recalling bands as noisy and diverse as The Birthday Party and Pretty Girls Make Graves, ‘The Gift’ Continue Reading

We’d always put The Mountain Goats’ appeal down to the inherent loneliness, fragile tragedy and ultimately the optimism exhibited by John Darnielle’s detail-crammed compositions – exemplified by the very fact that they were performed under the auspices of privacy, recalling as they did personal journeys, stolen moments from a childhood, and uncooked emotions conveyed eloquently. The blinds, we felt, were always down. They worked particularly well when you were under no misconception that this was a band (even though for Continue Reading

How do you get back at your goose-stepping, trance-trekking fascist oppressors? By dragging your buzz-saw off it’s hook in the garage, coupling it up to a distortion pedal, feeding it through your synthesizer and assaulting the whole bally lot of them with beat after beat of throbbing hardcore ear gristle and some razor-sharp strikes to their ghastly mainstream glamour. It’s a violence you do with sound. Throw in some guitar, a little feedback, a little noise and some squealing oscillation. Continue Reading

That time already, is it? Just when you thought it was safe to go back to the mixing desk up pops another ‘connoisseur’s choice’ with the phrase ‘Balearic’ by way of an exclamation. And although clearly nothing of the sort, this latest in the ‘Late Night’ series does offer up a tasty selection of soft and smudgy downtempo classics ideal for a night spent in your girlfriend’s slippers, shuffling up and down the length of the lounge, the only energy Continue Reading

Folk played with a firm hand is much like the regular sort, only so much more, you know, firm, sure of itself, the kind of folk that would lead in a handshake. Which might sound like little in the scheme of things – being stuck with a feather twice as hard is still just being struck with a feather after all – but it can make the world of difference. That the Cave Singers all come from more affirmative backgrounds Continue Reading

R N’BEDROOM is back. Only this time it’s prised open the door of the bedroom, kicked off its bedroom slippers, torn off its bathrobe, slipped downstairs and headed straight for the kitchen where it’s thrown open the door of the refrigerator and proceeded to stand stark-bollock-naked in front of a dazzling neon shower shaking its ass and flapping its scrotum back and forth to some kick-ass tune or other. In terms of where it stands in relation to Mercury Music Continue Reading

Not sure where to start with this one. Brooklyn based, Panamanian Irish jazz singer flies over to London, goes out clubbing and slips Gilles Peterson a copy of one of his demos. Peterson chap is dutifully bowled over and tickled pink by Panamanian man’s stunning vocal version of Trane’s classic ‘Equinox’ (not featured on this album) and immediately signs the scabby bastard to his thriving young indy label, Brownswood. Stir in some typically virile word of mouth marketing and internet Continue Reading

Who’d have thought the demise of gonzo-noize punk band the Test Icicles would give rise to a black Ed Harcourt. Because that is exactly what you’ve got, minus the violent mutton-chops and Radio 2 flowing through his veins; Wogan would, afterall have his gentle Irish whimsy turning somersaults over the robust urban vernacular and the precarious mental stability of chief Champion fella, Dev Hynes – a fiery, uninhibited cauldron of neurotic energy, lyrical romance and knitted-sweaters. Recorded in Omaha by Continue Reading

At time of writing I’m reminded me the line from ‘Eleanor Rigby’ (sung and rehashed for the sake of this album by souly Merseybeat combo, The Real Thing): ”Just Who Is It For?” And I sit here repeating it to myself in the hope the answer suddenly erupts in a shower of clarity, dispelling the mists of doubt in my mind about why, when and how this album ever got made in the first place. Is it a Beatles covers Continue Reading