Monthly Archives: March 2019

03.27.19
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Wovoka Gentle, Swimming Girls & Josiah & The Bonnevilles – Omeara – March 25th 2019

Show me a better and more solid live proposition in 2019 than Wovoka Gentle and I’ll be there with bells on. Let’s not beat around the bush here – Wovoka Gentle’s unique approach to live music-making is jaw-dropping; from splodges of sound and harnessed beats emerge the most beautiful of melodies; harmonic juice born out of the most intense of concentrates. This triumvirate astound with their innate electronic folk togetherness. Just see them should you get the chance.

Sonic Breakfast first became aware of their class after randomly walking past the stage they were playing on at the fine Nozstock festival. That’s been documented here previously in this blog. I’d pay to see Wovoka Gentle but their record label, Yucatan, has generously put on a lovely Monday night free show at Omeara. It’s another new London venue for me and it’s no-brainer to head along to the collection of railway arches just down from London Bridge.

Omeara is an ace venue. I’m none too sure where it starts and others begin. Once I’ve got my hand stamped and briefly look at the faux-dungeon crossed with music hall facility of the main venue, I wander through a series of connected rooms to see bars and street food spaces. A more upmarket version of a Budapest ruin bar, I sit eating pizza, drinking beer and waiting for the music to kick off.

 Josiah (from Josiah & The Bonnevilles) is tonight’s special guest. The crowd watch with interest despite his style bearing minimal resemblance for what will follow. He’s got a birthday coming up in the next few hours and gives quick nods to friends and family in the audience who’ll no doubt be celebrating with him. Catch him at the right angle and Josiah could be Brad Pitt’s shorter and younger brother. These tunes from Tennessee, mostly performed on acoustic guitar but with a brief piano break, are classic Americana. He’s Ryan Adams pre-disgrace. There’s a vibration to Josiah’s vocal not dissimilar to the one employed by Conor Oberst. My favourite tune of his that I hear draws influence from George Jones. “It’s about the saddest song on a record, the hidden-away one that you can’t stop listening to because you’re fucked up”, says Josiah.

 

The room gets really busy for Swimming Girls. It’s not surprising given that they’re flavour of the month in some quarters. I confess though that, on tonight’s showing, they pass me by a bit. And that’s despite having a guitar player with a Smiths lyric on his T-shirt. They’ve got a sound that’s not far removed from the excessive soft rock of the 1980’s. My notes suggest Starship or an ideal soundtrack to a recently unearthed, never-seen-before, John Hughes movie. Swimming Girls are fronted by Vanessa, a slinky, confident sort who clearly has good rapport with her crowd. When the rest of the band sit down and Vanessa plays a peeled-back number on her electric guitar, the influence of Cyndi Lauper’s True Colors comes right to the fore. There’s nothing wrong with Swimming Girls; they do what they do well and the kids love them. I guess their influences were never entirely my thing the first time around. There’s a slight exodus for Wovoka Gentle and the crowd demographic gets noticeably older.

 

Wovoka Gentle must surely be a sound technician’s nightmare. They bring trays of gadgets, cluttered desks of wires and mics onto stage with them pre-set. But with striking efficiency and organised calm, the three members find the right holes in which to plug things in. A violin is sound-checked. Six separate mics are given cursory attention. The three desks look inward; wires now flail across the stage; complicated neural pathways of the Wovoka Gentle brain.

The opening segment almost induces tears from this quarter. William strums an electric guitar and launches into the briefest of covers of 30 Century Man whilst Imogen and Ellie accompany with exquisite vocal harmony. “That’s our tribute to Scott Walker. He very much influenced us”, says William (or words to that effect).

As for the rest, the biggest big-up that I can give is that I make no more notes. This is a set of such variety and such pulsating beauty that I can do little more than stand transfixed. With the slightest of nods, Ellie lets Imogen know what William is thinking. It’s that sort of understanding that elevates this set beyond the norms. I think (though can’t be sure) that the beats are continuous and that the songs of highest quality merge into one. I recognise some but not all; there’s a new album out in June that’ll surely push the genius that is Wovoka Gentle further to the fore. I am dazzled again.

This is where it’s at.

03.26.19
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Glowie, Karimthapeasant and Millie Turner, Sebright Arms, March 21st 2019

It’s nearly the weekend. But before I head out of London to catch up on sleep there’s still time to take in one more gig. The Sebright Arms is yet to let me down so I head there for a Thursday night of new music promoted by Abbie McCarthy’s Good Karma Club that, on paper at least, looks like it could be a banger.

There are four acts on but the key breaks in the lock of my AirBNB hampering my ability to see the opener and testing my ‘escape room’ resourcefulness. When I get to the Sebright’s basement, Millie Turner is about to take to the stage. I’d seen her name recently announced as a Barn On The Farm festival act – always a reliable predictor of up and coming pop talent.

Millie doesn’t let us down. She’s got years on her side but has already got quite a handle on her stagecraft. Her name is painted on a sheet backdrop across the stage but that’s the only noticeable nod to any DIY ethic. This is polished and smooth; the theatre is thought through. 

 

Flanked on either side by a keyboard player/guitarist and a drum machinist dressed in identical white T-shirts, Millie adds to the symmetry when she emerges centre-stage in angular red mack. She’s got a voice, a decent pair of lungs for this game. It’s hot up there and she throws the mack to the floor as she launches into a spoken word intro to her tune, The Shadow. You expect a duff moment, filler amongst the glorious pop but it doesn’t come. There’s more poetry and you can’t help but notice that Millie’s literate and well spoken. She suggests to all that she’ll send us an individual drawing if we fill out our address on one of the postcards she brandishes. You’d be a fool not to. They could be worth something in years to come.

Karimthapeasant indulges in a very modern rap that I’m not sure I’ll ever entirely understand. That’s not to say that I don’t thoroughly enjoy his enthusiastic set. He bounds on stage with a look not dissimilar to the lion from The Wizard Of Oz yet with so much uplifting energy it’s contagious. He introduces Will, his backing technician on the MPC before freestyling and doing ‘new shit’. The crowd love KTP; he works them well. When he jumps into the crowd for his finale, a mosh pit gets going that your average rock fan from 2019 might only dream of. Exuberant and a total triumph. 

 

Glowie, the headliner for tonight, arrives from Iceland highly rated. My eyesight isn’t what it once was but I can still tell that her charms are seductive. With T shirt tucked into her jeans that are pulled up to her belly button, she flicks her hair around and tells all that she’s good. On balance, this is probably true though I’ll reserve judgement until I’ve seen her with band. Tonight, with backing tape and the slightest suggestion of miming to her vocal tracks, there’s room to improve. I do feel for her though when men old enough to be her Grandad poke their cameras into her close and personal space to get shots of her writhing dance. It feels just a tad seedy and unsavoury.

 

This London scene shows no sign of letting up. Across genre and across town, they’re are emerging pockets of brilliance. Tonight has again proved that. 

03.22.19
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Bjørn Tomren – The Betsey Trotwood – 20th March 2019

Everybody likes receiving an invite to a ‘showcase’. Obviously the lure of free beer is simply a hook and the chance to see new music in a live setting the deal-breaker. 

Propeller Recordings are rapidly becoming one of my favourite labels. Dedicated to the promotion of Norwegian acts, their thorough and diligent UK based coordinator has invited me to some right cool stuff in recent weeks (here) and (here).

And it’s because of Georgie that I’m standing in this basement at the Betsey Trotwood in Clerkenwell on a Wednesday evening to watch an act newly-signed to Propeller, Bjørn Tomren, do his thing.

A word about the Betsey Trotwood first. The more that one scratches at London’s surface, the more you uncover great bases of entertainment. The Betsey is a dinky pub where streets converge. The basement, at a guess, holds no more than 50 though it could be deceptive with nooks, crannies and alcoves all offshoots of the main space. It would appear that they hold folk sessions down here, ukulele jams and knitting circles. It has community and great charm.

Bjørn shuffles to a bar-stool, emerging out of one of the nooks. He has a self-deprecating manner that verges on the fatalistic; he’s an observer, a storyteller with a dry sense of humour and it’s hard not to warm to his folky reference-laden Americana.

After celebrating Vera Lynn and questioning the validity of there ever being ‘bluebirds over Dover’, Bjørn launches into a story about Eartha Kitt’s invite to the White House in 1968. Eartha speaks out about the Vietnam war and sees her career in the States nosedive as a result. Bjørn champions her and other protestors in his song, 68. 

He might be Norwegian but his outlook is truly global. A traditional Norwegian folk song complete with a form of throat singing is included but so to a tune about Drinking in Helsinki, an opportunity to literately reference the influence that the mathematical best-seller ‘The Drunkard’s Walk – How Randomness Affects Your Life’ had on his thinking.

Showcases, by their very nature, can be short affairs but I really don’t want this to end when Bjørn says that he’s going to close his set with a cover of Hank William’s Long Gone Lonesome Blues. Most of us gathered are more than aware of the innate darkness and suicidal sadness lingering within this tune but can’t help raise a smile as Bjorn effortlessly and impressively takes on the yodelling parts.

It’s just another string to his bow. Propeller Recordings have successfully whetted the appetite of those gathered regarding their latest signing. You can see why they’ve trusted in Bjørn. 

 
03.21.19
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Lonnie Storey, Leyma, Jimmi Herbert and Harry Heart – The Finsbury – 19th March 2019

I’m making a conscious decision this week to check out gig venues in London that are new to me.  With some of the more obvious places now ticked off, I head north and to The Finsbury. There’s entertainment in this Manor House pub most nights but for some reason I’ve not considered trekking up here before.

And that’s my loss. This is a busy boozer with a back venue of not inconsiderable space. The stage is raised and the lights good. I can overlook the smoke machine overdosing just after acts take to the stage. For some, I’m sure the haze adds to the atmosphere though for this older man it simply brings on the wheeze.

Harry Heart is on first. It’s just him with an acoustic guitar. He does nothing wrong as such but also nothing to stand out. He’s got a pleasant manner between tunes and we glean that Harry is probably here from Australia. He plays a tune that he ‘normally plays with four other blokes’ and another that he ‘wrote the last time he was in England a few years back’. The voice is a strained Jeff Buckley but, on first listen at least, none of these tunes really stand out. Even when Harry changes his guitar tuning, the songs all pretty much mesh into one. He offers free CDs from a murky merch table, a nice touch from a nice chap.

 

Jimmi Herbert has bought a new band with him. In crueller moments, I wonder if he’s raided his college Dungeons and Dragons after school club to find them. It’s their first gig and they’ll no doubt get better as they perform more together. Jimi, half wearing a floral shirt and with frizzy long hair is every inch the slacker yet his voice and manner is distinctive enough to mark him out. A chilled and laidback jazzy hip-hop, I struggle a bit to get beyond the notion that future single, Purple Pills, sounds like Frank Spencer covering Easy Life. Oooh Betty.

 

Easy Life are a band of the moment and I suspect that Leyma (up next) have also been influenced by their rise. More jazzy-chilled stuff with splashes of hip-hop, there’s an effortless cool about them. Leyma has a deep voice that contrasts well with track-suited Siv on bass. They’ve got a raucous fan base who have come from the East of this city to support. And in tunes such as ‘Extra Extra’ and ‘Smile For A Second’, they’ve got the material to back up the buzz that’s forming around them. Older adults stride around giving direction – managers and advisers one suspects who have promised these young lads fame, glory and celebrity endorsement. An enthusiastic but official photographer takes photos everywhere even jumping on stage and taking pics of Leyma’s set list. Somebody needs to tell him to turn the flash on his camera off. It dazzles like you’ve just been blinded by the sun and ultimately spoils the enjoyment of the unconverted.

 

A track by Rilo Kiley plays in the interlude between Leyma and tonight’s headliner, Lonnie Storey. I recall how much I miss that band.

Lonnie Storey is a charmer. His thing is lo-fi bedroom pop and he does so with the manner of Mac De Marco and the voice of Edwyn Collins. His confidence is understated with more than one tune announced as “being about making a dick out of yourself”. He specialises in crisp, cheesy guitar riffs executed with fine technique as the programmed-synth bleeps and beats away in the background. He tells all that he’s not yet released much but that more will be coming. I like his music and resolve to check out more when it arrives. 

 

I’ve been to some cracking gigs in recent weeks. This one doesn’t perhaps hit the heights of some of those but I’m glad to tick another venue from my London list. I’m sure there’ll be a return in coming weeks

03.20.19
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Louis Brennan – The Greenwich Pensioner – 18th March 2019

I am drunk. On a Monday night. This is evidently not a good thing. Even if I make excuses in my own head and try to justify it all by saying it’s just my St. Patrick’s Day one day late this is far from convincing. 

I have an excuse of sorts; it’s another gig in this fair city and a new venue for Sonic Breakfast. The Greenwich Pensioner, out Poplar way, has had a makeover. Energetic new owners have lined up a tasty range of beer, a fine pizza menu and a set of live gigs that are not to be sniffed at. “I’m just booking things that I hear and like“, says the Northern proprietor. “We’ve not even got a PA. I don’t know what one is“, she adds, in a refreshingly honest moment.

You suspect though that these are people of good taste. And they’ve struck lucky with their first booking, Louis Brennan, even if the crowds aren’t exactly flocking in to support. Louis has been featured on Sonic Breakfast before (here). He’s got the quality to be playing venues much bigger and the select few know they’re getting a treat.

“I hope everybody likes depressing music“, he says by way of opening banter. A table of beer-swillers having a few post-work pints show their opposition by raising the level of their conversation. Louis wears them down by attrition and a few songs in, they leave. 

His voice, baritone gold, is one to get lost in. Sat on a bar-stool in the corner of this square and open room, Louis picks away on his guitar playing new songs and old songs. It really is all sorts of lovely. Ideas flow from lyrics with such speed that it’s sometimes not possible to keep up with this master poet-raconteur. It’s like discovering that Leonard Cohen is alive and well and playing a secret show at your much loved local.

Louis declares that he was going to play three half-hour sets but will now settle for two 45 minute halves. “It’s like a paper round where you’re diligently delivering the free papers rather than throwing them in the hedge“, he suggests whilst stoically working through his set-list and wondering if anybody actually cares.

But we do. This is a night of unplugged joy, a Monday night delight for the discerning. As Louis draws things to a close, a local group of Kendo enthusiasts come into the pub in an altogether surreal quadrupling of the punters present. Their menacing looking swords are sheathed but Louis doesn’t risk alienating them by playing on.

Beer is drunk. The wonderful Wild Brew beer at 6.6% is not one for a Monday night session. But it’s too tasty to not test. Taxis are booked. This hangover will hurt at work tomorrow. 

03.15.19
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Holy Now, Lazy Pilgrims and Calluna – Sebright Arms – March 13th 2019

The AirBNB is comfortable this week. I’m paying peanuts to be in Bethnal Green. The room has a desk (on which there’s a couple of cups and a box of strawberry, raspberry and cranberry infusion teabags – but no kettle) and the bed’s a dream to sleep on. I sit and write at the desk and I’m almost tempted to not head out to a gig. 

But this one comes recommended by a good friend who’s music taste I trust. I realise that the Sebright Arms (a venue I loved when I visited last – here) is no more than a twenty minute walk away and I’ve always been a sucker for a bit of Swedish jingle and jangle. Holy Now, recent additions to this year’s Indie Tracks festival line-up, are probably going to be worth making the effort for.

I’ve got some time to kill so order a burger at the Sebright bar. When it arrives, it’s nothing short of a taste-delight though I’d completely miscalculated that preparation time plus eating time would result in wolfing the food down to catch the opening act. Rather than give myself indigestion, I masticate slowly and saunter down to the Sebright basement when Calluna are in full flow.

They’ve clearly brought a fair following to the Sebright – and it’s unfortunate that some of the between-song banter fails to reach out beyond the dewy-eyed front row friends and family. For, despite hailing from Milton Keynes, Calluna should be more confident than this. In lead singer and band leader,Heather Britton, they’ve got a vocalist who has a pleasant, mellow husk to her voice. The band make a polished gentle shimmer of a sound and you can see why they’ve already got Match Of The Day (or is that MOTD2) soundtrack credits. My notes say it’s a bit like if Tanita Tikaram ever did shoegaze. My notes are probably wrong. 

 

The fan room empties for Lazy Pilgrims. They’re an altogether more challenging proposition than Calluna. A four piece, two boys in beanies flank a singer, Georgie, who’s probably well dowsed in patchouli oil. Their thing is grunge with a fair dose of prog. My notes suggest that it moves into stoner jazz at one point but given that’s barely a genre (is it?) I’ll just settle on the fact that they give us extended jams with power vocals. Chris, the guitarist, changes guitar after one particularly epic solo, probably because he’s worn the other one out. I notice that Chris is wearing no shoes but is wearing a particularly thick pair of woollen socks. Georgie is odd in that she wears a black boot on one foot and a sock on the other. Random things distract as my mind wanders. “This one is called ‘Sepia lips and the cosmic elliptical”, says Georgie. Oh my, I am done. In a festival field though, this could be right up my street. 

 

Holy Now are two boys and two girls from Gothenburg, Sweden. They write great songs but that is probably where the similarities with ABBA cease. “They’re like a band that would have been on Sarah Records back in the day”, says a decent chap I chat with before Holy Now take to the stage. Regular readers of Sonic Breakfast will know that this is a label that appeals and so I await their entrance with anticipation.

“It’s been a long day. We had to be up at 4.30 to catch our flight”, says Julia, singer with Holy Now. Nobody can tell that this is a tired band though. Their breezy tunes are delivered with attention-grabbing energy. It’s all about twee melody, discord and harmony. Julia has a high-pitched wail of a vocal which makes it sound less pleasant than it actually is; the rest of the band moderate with bursts of backing vocals which take the songs to new and interesting places.

Best of all, there’s a sense that Holy Now want to have shambolic fun. They admit that they’re testing a sharper approach to their chat between songs. “How does you say Sebright?“, ponders Ylva, the drummer. “What does it mean?“, she adds before telling all about the lovely merch on offer. We’re encouraged to count to four in Swedish enabling the count-in to an upbeat jaunt of a number. “Grab someone you love for this ballad”‘ we’re told – potentially strange advice for a song with a chorus containing the lyric ‘Break It Off’.  “That’s a really sad song”, admits Julia as it draws to a close. 

It’s been another night when making the effort to get out and about has richly rewarded. I’m lucky to be living this nomadic lifestyle. 

 

 
03.14.19
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HMS Morris, Perfect Body and Zac White – The Social – March 12th 2019

For too many years to mention, I’ve been a fan of Dorchester Town football club. Just to be clear, they are not an obscure band that you really must listen to. They are my football team (along with Leicester City FC). Strangely, I’ve rarely talked football within this blog; from a Dorchester perspective, there’s been slim pickings to post about in truth.

Tonight, I went along to the Social. It’s hard to believe that it’s now a whole month since I saw Peaness there with Gary (review here) but it must be because the next Huw Stephens presents instalment is in town (even if he isn’t). Tonight he’s joined up with the Bubblewrap Collective, a well-regarded indie record label from Cardiff to give us three new Welsh acts. 

It seems all sorts of appropriate (to me anyway) that I’m keeping myself updated with Dorchester scores every time I make a note into my phone about the acts on stage; for tonight, DTFC are playing away at Merthyr Tydfil FC. When HMS Morris, the headliner of sorts, play songs about self love in Welsh or banter in the language with a countryman in the crowd, I allow myself a little chuckle. Dorchester, relegation candidates in a tight league, are crashing the goals in up in the valleys. It ends 7-1 and even the one for Merthyr was an own goal.

Zac White opens the Bubblewrap gig at the Social. It’s just Zac on the small stage with an electric guitar that’s set to a permanent reverb. The vibe is psychedelic; Zac’s long floppy hair for the most part obscures his face as he meanders through his set of fuzzed-up folk. He’s got a decent line in desperate and longing lyric; anybody able to rhyme ‘tourniquet’ with ‘tanqueray’ gets top marks in my book. He doesn’t have much to say in terms of between-song banter; in fact all he says is “I should have probably said but that was my last song”, as his set draws to a premature close. Despite the awkward stage manner, there’s enough craft on display to warrant further investigation. 

 

There’s a definite buzz about Perfect Body. You can’t help but notice the five piece (and entourage) as they waltz around the Social pre-gig and think ‘they’re in a band’. It’s not that there’s any arrogance about their behaviour; they’re all wonderfully polite, stylishly aware and evidently determined. Record company executives from significant indies are casually drawn into conversations before their set even begins.

When it does begin, the start is determinedly slow, deliberately ponderous. It’s music for wide vistas; perhaps we’re scanning across the outback in the opening scenes of a modern Western or seeing the setting sun over desert dunes. There’s longing in the languid guitar licks. This is the Welsh Wild West. 

When Perfect Body get fully into flow, their thing is dreamy shoegaze. They do it very well. Vocals from a keyboard player and a guitarist are barely audible over the shimmering noise that’s being created by the rest of the band. We’re probably not supposed to hear the words. It’d be easy (and lazy on my part) to draw comparisons to My Bloody Valentine so I won’t do that. Suffice to say, as the swirly atmospherics draw you in, you suddenly become aware of quite how loud the volume’s been turned up to. I move closer to the front to get more of the effect.

 

HMS Morris are a tough act to review. They’re not as easy to place or pigeonhole as many who have gone before and that should be a good thing. They’re a three-piece. Singer and guitarist, Heledd Watkins, plays for goals up front whilst the impressively bearded Sam Roberts holds it all together in midfield with samples and keyboards. Drummer, Alex Møller, sits behind in defence.

I can’t tell if it’s just the poor mix down here at the Social or if the piercing sound of the high-hat is intended but it hurts. My mind wanders and I begin to think how much more of a pleasant experience this could be without the drums in the mix. Seriously, it’s like fingernails scratching down the chalk-board. 

When HMS Morris’ music properly flows you can’t help but enjoy. But, for me, this is art-rock that rarely gets going. I’d make a point of watching them another time though as they’re not without appeal. 

“See you all at the Burger King at Reading Services”, suggests Heledd, conscious that many of the crowd here are on a day trip and they’ll soon be travelling home back up the M4. 

The victorious DTFC team coach probably won’t pass them on the way.. But I’ll bet it’ll be a happier bus ride home for them. 

 

 

03.13.19
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Skinny Lister and Wood Burning Savages – Leicester O2 Academy – March 9th 2019

It’s exhausting to simply watch Skinny Lister live on stage. Goodness knows what it must be like to actually be in the band. They just don’t stop moving, none more so than singer, Lorna Thomas. Quite how she still has the breath to sing without wilting is anybody’s guess. They’re certainly well practiced in this hard-partying performance lifestyle.

Indeed, this correspondent wonders whilst watching them at Leicester’s O2 on Saturday evening if there’s a band that he’s seen more times over the last five years than Skinny Lister. And if there is he’s not sure who. Be it hungover early afternoon at a festival or later at night at their own headline gig you always know what you’re going to get. This is a frantic, riotous folk, an exhilarating Clash-like head rush, a sharing-caring  united celebration, an opportunity to let your hair down whilst all else turns to shit. 

Ostensibly, Skinny Lister are here to promote their new album, The Story Is. And they take the opportunity to play a fair few of the songs from it. It might have only been out for a few days but the tunes already appear to have worked deep into the heads of the moshing crowd and the more-cautious types who position themselves just outside the throng. There’s no sign of discernible lull here when the band plays new ones. “This is not a drill”, we urgently sing reminding ourselves that life is to be cherished whilst also comprehending the stark situation described within set and album opener, 38 Minutes.

For Lorna (and her brother Max), Leicester is pretty much their homecoming gig. They tell us regulars once again that they remember Saturday lunchtime folk sessions at the old Phoenix (what days they were) – and a Skinny Lister gig in Leicester wouldn’t be what we love without an appearance from Party George, their Dad. He comes on stage during the traditional encore as do the rest of the touring entourage, support acts and shameless liggers, in a finale free-for-all knees-up. Six whiskies is the most exuberant of drunken excess party tunes and it’s hard not to delight in its playing tonight. 

 

I mention the support; we berate ourselves for missing the opener, Trapper Schoepp, but happily arrive just in time for the Wood Burning Savages. From Northern Ireland, they’ve got a neat take on the angry, the political and the human.  They’ve got a retro -rock anthemic sound not dissimilar to The Alarm (though I’m sure they’d baulk at such a comparison). “Put your name on our mailing list and you could become our First Minister“, says their lead singer, clearly as despairing of the state of things in Stormont as most are here about the impending Brexit gloom. 

 

Lorna dances with the punters; she dives into the mosh and crowd-surfs. The flagon of rum gets passed around as is tradition though I’m no longer close enough to the action to take a gulp. John Kanaka, Skinny Lister’s largely acapella call and response number, raises the roof like never before. 

This is a band at their very riotous heights. As they head off overseas with leg one of their UK tour done and dusted, the neatly reworked Scholars bar at the O2 knows it has witnessed a treat. 

03.08.19
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Tetine, Fake Turins and Voodoo Rays – The Shacklewell Arms – March 7th 2019

My working week in London is nearly done. After a training day tomorrow, I head out to the countryside (well, Peterborough and Leicester) for a weekend break from the constant go. I can’t help myself. This is a city that never sleeps and so I oblige by rarely nodding off. It helps that the bed in this Airbnb is basically an instrument of torture.

 

But I won’t grumble. Instead I’ll just make myself scarce and head off to another free gig. Anywhere else they wouldn’t be free but there’s just too much choice in this town. It’s back to the Shacklewell Arms tonight. I enjoyed my first trip there (reviewed here) and this is a chance to see three more bands. 

I arrive just as Voodoo Rays begin. I don’t want to be ageist – indeed, I’m no spring chicken myself – but it’s fair to say that Voodoo Rays have age on their side. It’s something of a surprise then that life experience doesn’t seem to have given any of these losers insight into gig etiquette. They’re not astonishingly awful though I do find myself hoping that somebody will tell them they’ve over-run when they casually enquire ‘how much time have we got left’. They play ‘new ones’ which seems to be code for ones we’ve not fully rehearsed.

 

What really gets my goat – and swings my mind towards slamming Voodoo Rays – (regular readers of Sonic Breakfast will realise this is a rare occurrence) is their attitude post gig. There mightn’t be space to leave kit anywhere at the Shacklewell but it’s just bloody rude to spread yourself out alongside the wall with a shelf – the only place where punters can rest their beer glasses. The drummer excessively and possessively fiddles with kit like nobody else here matters. He’s oblivious to anybody else around him and by the time that he pretty much knocks my beer out of my hand, swinging the bass drum on his back like a snail on speed, Voodoo Rays music has long since ceased to matter.

Fortunately, things quickly take a turn for the better. There’s six, no make that seven, members of the Fake Turins crammed onto the Shacklewell stage but despite the tight fit they’re all more than aware of their personal space and role in the band. There’s no getting away from the Talking Heads comparisons here. Their lead vocalist takes the mantle of band leader in a manner reminiscent of David Byrne as he conducts the rest of the troupes through their funked-up art jams. Intuitively, they know when to build and when to fade. He takes a David Toop novel out of a jacket pocket and proceeds to read from it; the spoken word of the prose creating an effect not unlike that you’ll get from Bristolian stalwarts, The Blue Aeroplanes. Fake Turins are good and they know it; despite unnecessary interjections from recorder and cowbell, there’s more than enough bass, bongo and backing vocal to stop this from being a dud.

 

Tonight’s headliner, Tetine, are from Sao Paolo though I’m led to believe that they spend a fair bit of time in London these days. The duo of Bruno and Eliete originally present as a pretty traditional synth act with added bass. Full of beat and disco excess, they’re never anything but entertaining. Eliete leaves the keyboard to fend for itself and takes centre stage during Mata Hari voodoo, an early set-highlight that begins in contained control but ends with Eliete as a person possessed, speaking in tongues in squat position.

 

I don’t get to hear what the song title is but over the chorus of a disco-pop banger, the words ‘I was falling in love’ entices a couple in front of me, who are clearly in the first throes, to start dancing energetically. My smile is enduring.

Bruno’s bass is discarded with and Eliete again leaves the Roland running for Tetine’s very own ‘Beastie Boys’ moment. Lick my Favela is a Brazilian reworking of ‘Fight For Your Right’. It’s seedy and performed seductively. It’s only later that this correspondent realises that the Favela is not a body part but a slum area in Brazil. One suspects that there’s a political angle to this art and it’s not just a hedonistic party.

 

London’s given me another top night despite the slow start. I splash through the puddles on the way back to the Airbnb without a care in the world. 

03.07.19
by

Suitman Jungle – 26 Leake St – March 6th 2019

I have no idea that the Leake St Arches might provide such a vibrant experience when I head there straight after work. The smell of spray-can paint is thick in the air; the juice of creative sorts rampant. Pop-Ups are popping up before the idea has even hatched out of its incubator; yep, down here underneath Waterloo some fine artistic pursuits are taking place.

I stop for a while and pause, pretty much paying homage, at a drying image of Keith Flint. 

I’m here to go to the bar at 26 Leake Street. In a reclaimed arch space, they’ve taken to scheduling gigs a few nights each week. Look to the ceilings and you’ll see two long rat murals, black and white rodents on a red canvas. It’s a Banksy apparently. It all fits with the surrounds. Bands and acts play at the far end of this cavernous tunnel whilst punters (art school beardsters, fashionistas and adventurous tourists) find space at tables to drink the local craft. It’s not as exclusive as I make it sound. I arrive in my office clothes and feel no snobbishness over my lack of effort.

Perhaps that’s because Suitman Jungle is also in his office clothes. Admittedly much more dapper than mine, Marc Pell (who is the Suitman) sports a nifty fitted-blue suit and tie. His hair, neatly combed to one side, tells tales of a man who’s anonymously sat behind a desk all day. Maybe he’s contributed to an office donation or opened up with a few words at a team meeting. But now is his chance for release as he takes to the 26 Leake St stage. 

And what a release it is. Just him, a minimal drum kit and electronic gadgets, he sets the most almighty drum ‘n’ bass into motion. In pauses between beats, he issues wise spoken word segments. This one is all about his walk to work through the ‘jungle’ of suits; and this one’s all about going up and down in the lift. In a break-heavy piece, he waxes lyrical about all manner of work breaks. 

When not riffing about work, Marc samples the voice of his young niece. You can tell why he’s a popular uncle such is his spirit of fun and mischief. 

It’s an exceptionally urban, essentially London sound that’s being created here. The perils, the opportunities, the frustrations and the joys of living here are laid out for all to see. It might only be a Wednesday night but the crowd at the front show every desire to dance their socks off. 

Suitman Jungle – made for the festival circuit, made in London.