Marina And The Diamonds – Electra Heart [Atlantic Records]

First published on state.ie

 

The clue’s in the name really. Electra Heart is Marina going electro, with varying degrees of success. Although, curiously, it isn’t in the new electronic element where the lack of consistency shows, but in everything that was pulled off successfully in the previous album. In her new-found fascination with beefing up the synth level to create what might actually become very successful dancefloor fillers in the vein of Ladyhawke or Robots In Disguise, the lyrical content and vocal dexterity she is known for have suffered; ‘Homewrecker’ being the most obvious example. A rip-roaring power chorus doesn’t hide the fact that the verses are greeting card-level poetry, recited in a childlike voice.

Kick-off track ‘Bubblegum Bitch’ is definitely the stand-out of the album. Everything comes together in two and a half minutes of pure synth attitude and genuinely pretty vocals. The song titles follow this theme with ‘Primadonna’; wannabe feminist anthems disguised in a Mean Girls-esque dialogue.

Admittedly, it doesn’t take itself seriously. Heavily pop culture laden, it contains a tongue-in-cheek superficiality. Pretending towards philosophy for today it reads like a teenage diary, ‘Teen Idle’ bemoaning an uneventful youth, avoiding comparisons to Philip Larkin’s ‘I Remember, I Remember’ by the distracting use of cheerleader backing vocals and repetition of the phrase “Super-super-super-suicidal”.

As fun as this is [and it is fun; strong, mindless teen pop] Electra Heart starts to lose momentum in the second half. Having been led to expect a fully electronic album the last three tracks could have simply been lifted from the reject pile of the previous album. A cursory nod to Portishead-lite backing tracks is provided but, basically, Electra Heart starts with a bang and ends with a whimper.

3/5

Elizabeth McGeown

The Magnetic Fields, Olympia Theatre, Dublin 28.4.12

First published on state.ie

The music of The Magnetic Fields conjures up images of things that are terribly old-fashioned: top hats and tails, string quartets, parlour entertainment; while bringing to the fore timeless emotions like jealousy, hate and hope. They’re not above singing about a murder plot, a cheating lover, a revenge fantasy and the velvet-swathed Olympia theatre is the perfect setting for such middle class tales. It comes as a surprise then when the five -piece take to the stage with chief songwriter and main vocalist Stephin Merritt dressed more like a builder than a poet. Checked shirt, flat cap and hands firmly in pockets he sets the scene with the melancholy ‘I Die’. His bass voice fills the room, drawing people in like a vocal black hole, so rich and dense that it almost sucks the air out of the room, filling the audience like gorging on an entire chocolate cake washed down with a pint of Guinness. Claudia Gonson and Shirley Simms take over on lead vocals for roughly every third song and they provide a light relief, the knowingly comic stylings of the girls making the audience laugh, but also making them miss Merritt and long for his return.

It’s a very static stage show, the quintet arranged like a coffee shop acoustic act with movement reduced to a minimum. Everything Merritt does is considered and deadpan, down to the brandishing of his kazoo. Almost despite himself sometimes he becomes animated and then checks himself, forcing his hands back into his pockets. The show is a curious mixture of pathos and wit, songs falling into two categories: One being the laugh-out-loud comedy song with the clever rhymes and often abrupt punchline denouement, usually sang by the girls; ‘My Husband’s Pied-A-Terre’ being the perfect example. Many songs are simply throwaway pop, two minute songs that could have been created at a drunken party at 4am.

Of course, all this joking around distracts from the heart of the matter; that there is actually serious songwriting at work here. Different genres are experimented with, the girls changing their voices to country drawls here and there, the ukulele lightening moods and bringing a bluegrass edge to some songs, an edge that is expanded upon by some very clever female harmonies and guitar picking. In fact, the ladies are the unsung heroes of the night, providing subtle, well-judged echoes here and there – most notably to ‘All My Little Words’ – adding just enough harmonies to add depth, but not enough to overpower Merritt.

The second category is harder to pin down but can be defined by the pin-drop silence of the audience, each member leaning forward in their seat to hear something small they might miss in these tragically sincere tales of woe. Often stripped down to ukulele and vocals every subtle nuance is heard. Most significantly, these songs last beyond the usual 2 minute curfew the band seem to have imposed on themselves. They don’t fear repetition of a chorus because a surprise punchline is not the objective; the objective is to create a piece of music that develops with each repetition, the strange dark beauty of the cello adding a sinister edge to lyrics and a voice that already drip with menace.

A curious affair, all in all. Laughs were had, but the moments that will likely stay with the audience are the mesmerizing stillness created by ‘The Book Of Love’ and the unexpected strength of Merritt’s voice live. It is only as the audience begins to leave that the realisation hits that there were no drums at any point during the performance. They were not missed.

Lights, Nightbox

First published on http://iheartau.com/category/reviews/live/

Nightbox begin innocently enough with sweet calypso rhythms and bittersweet male harmonies, the slightly pensive vocals at odds with the electronic bleeps on offer here, bleeps that grow steadily more hyperactive. And hyperactive is really the only word to describe what’s going on onstage, each band member in a state of constant motion, seeming somehow separate from the whole while lost in their own little world of beats. Combining tiny child-friendly elements of math rock with a strong sense of pop melody it’s as if the non-stop foot-tapping feelgood rhythms of Vampire Weekend traveled to the future and discovered rave. One hummable tune is overlayed with another, and another in a Dan Deacon-esque glorious mishmash, cleverly avoiding sensory overload, peaking with the ingeniously repetitive ‘Pyramid’. Synths are beefed up to high heaven, coming across as far more raucous as they do on the recordings, making every song a euphoric potential ‘last song of the night’ at an indie disco. The weakest point, strangely, seems to be frontman Jake Bitove, who doesn’t so much have charisma as he just has cheekbones, his vocals seemingly redundant as the band really shine in the long, hectic, building instrumental passages, when they weave sound with sophistication. The all ages crowd do respond to the nonsense lyrics though; repeated refrains of “You are an alien” and “I am a robot” drawing whoops of excitement from the audience, despite being thematically similar and showcasing a lack of lyrical imagination.

Lights is a tiny, tanned sinewy lady. So small, in fact, that seeing her over the enthused teen audience is difficult. That isn’t a problem though, as her performance is relayed to vertically challenged audience members by the screens of the many video phones being held aloft. Kicking off with epic drums and power synths making everything sound like an 80s power ballad Lights comes across as a Ladyhawke with a bigger noise and a more aggressive stage presence, even though her ‘dance routine’ simply involves the odd air punch and some audience handshakes depersonalised by the fact that they are carefully timed with her lyrics. Effortlessly choreographed anguish grabs the audience’s attention from the start but from the chants of “Lights! Lights!” and the lone boy shouting “Do you remember me from Huntsville, Ontario?” it is apparent that their attention was already ripe for the grabbing. Declarations of love and presentations of handmade gifts from the crowd aside though, it’s all a bit uninspired. New album Siberia is showcased and received enthusiastically, but it’s apparent that it doesn’t offer something unique. Similar ideas are rehashed in an identikit selection of songs that wash over the listeners pleasantly but don’t stand out as potential hits. Oddly, the stand out portion of the night comes when Lights cuts out the electronics and sits at a piano alone to play ‘Heavy Rope’; a thoughtful [if slightly emo-tinged] moment in the mostly upbeat and at times dubsteppy Siberia. Still though, with an audience of enthusiastic kids who probably don’t remember 80s movie montage soundtracks the first time round, Lights is original and who are we to argue with the younger generation?

The King And I

I had never written a theatre review so thought I would give it a go, using a show I worked at an an example!

 

Much like Mary Poppins – except without the magic – The King And I tells the tale of a governess who shakes up the lives of the family she moves in with. Rodgers and Hammerstein’s much-loved musical comes to the stage in Belfast’s Grand Opera House with all bells and whistles fully present and correct. Attention to detail is second to none, costumes beautifully accurate and the majority onstage going barefoot. Under the direction of Paul Kerryson this new production from the Curve Theatre, Leicester is excitedly awaited by Belfast audiences, if the ‘House full’ sign and the Opera House’s need to sell standing tickets is anything to go by. Pomp and circumstance reign from the very beginning, the first sight and sound we receive being that of a man in Oriental garb sounding a gong reminding us that we are not in Belfast anymore but in Bangkok, 1862. Effective use of coloured screens with silhouettes of waves and a boat create the backstory and a sense of history. All palace conversations are watched over by two giant gold Buddha statues.

At the start, of course, it’s a culture shock comedy with “Mrs. Anna’s” rather wooden son Louis declaring that the Prime Minister of Siam is naked and his mother being appalled at his use of such a word. There’s the usual surprise from certain characters that others are able to speak English, shock at the rights of women in other countries: “A woman has written a book?!”, and polygamy by the bucketload.

Much of the PR has centred around the fact that The King is played by Ramon Tikaram who played Ferdy in This Life and has recently had a drop-in role in Eastenders. Known for playing serious characters he takes to comedy like a duck to water, clearly relishing his chance to lord it over everyone in a role that is basically that of an overgrown spoilt child. Comments about slavery and women that are unacceptable by today’s standards make the audience titter. They come from his mouth with glee, his smile increasing the more dramatic the reactions he provokes from Mrs. Anna who believes herself to be “no-one’s servant” and certainly isn’t used to bowing to a King. For those familiar with the 1956 film Tikaram basically does an accomplished impression of Yul Brynner, complete with the shouting, repetition of words and mischeivous pronuciation of “Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera” but to copy an Oscar-winner is no bad thing, especially in the world of musical theatre where familiarity is striven for and change is to be avoided if at all possible.

Anna Leonowens is played by the statuesque Josefina Gabrielle whose poise in the face of the King’s idiosyncracies and bemused horror at the life she finds herself leading in Siam is equal to any that have played the role. Sometimes seen as a rather two-dimensional character, she comes to life in the bedroom scene singing ‘Shall I Tell You What I Think of You?’. A song cut from the movie version; it really is Anna’s chance to shine and to shake off the schoolteacher stigma. Watching her struggle with her emotions, crawl along the floor and proffer her backside to an imaginary King to kick makes her accessible and ultimately likeable, the atmosphere in the theatre much warmer from then on towards a woman who, up until then, had done nothing except complain.

Musically the show does not disappoint, Tikaram probably being the weakest vocalist while still being commanding. Gabrielle and Claire-Marie Hall [Tuptim] do not put a foot wrong, Hall’s soprano during My Lord And Master delicate and powerful as a spiderweb, another surprise being Maya Sapone’s warm reassuring tones during ‘Something Wonderful’: a performance that carries all the feeling she is trying to convey; the long-term love of a woman for her husband despite his faults. The ballet of ‘Small House Of Uncle Thomas’ nearing perfection, the intensity of the narration and sombre singing offsetting the charmingly old-fashioned Siamese dancing and curious retelling of the American novel ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’.

There are slip-ups, of course. Local children who auditioned for the roles of the King’s children sometimes profess their love for Mrs. Anna in broad Belfast accents, but as this also elicits the ‘Aaaaah’ factor it can be forgiven. Hopefully what an audience will remember is the haunting refrains, the warmth of the characters and good, old-fashioned storytelling.

The King And I runs until Saturday 4th February in Belfast’s Grand Opera House.

Black. Dog.

I read something beautiful today. Have a read.

http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2011/10/adventures-in-depression.html

I used to be very open about depression on the internet. I stopped, for various reasons. My mentions of it grew less and less as I became more uncomfortable with people’s reactions; their misinterpretations and gossip. Now the only place I really mention it is on Twitter, where I have a very limited list of followers. It helps me, mentioning it. It’s cathartic and keeping a diary of my moods helps me to trace patterns when I look back.

So, what do I want to say? I’m not the little cartoon character in the comic strip above. That’s not to imply the cartoon simplified things, because depression really is very simple. It’s more to say that everyone has slightly different experiences of it. For instance, I can’t imagine myself ever wanting to touch a spider, but there are moments of feeling invincible and moments of hating yourself, moments in the middle of an amazing day when you know in two days later you’ll have a comedown as a punishment for being that happy. After years like this you begin to know yourself, to develop coping mechanisms.

Being self-aware can be horribly counterproductive though. When you are at your lowest you want someone to talk to. Of course you do. A friend asks how you are and you talk and talk and eventually talk yourself out. You thank the friend and you apologise for being so honest, so ‘annoying’. The friend says it’s fine and they will listen anytime. You take them literally. Soon replies between texts get longer and longer. You apologise again, but that just irritates them more. You cry, but that increases their belief that you are unstable, because ‘normal’ people don’t cry. Eventually you move on. You have to. You find other friends and you are ALWAYS CHEERFUL. You can’t tell them about the real you because they’ll leave you. Being switched ‘ON!’ all the time becomes incredibly exhausting and you start to cancel days out. You resent the friend for never asking about the real you but you know you can’t tell them because then you would bore them and chase them away. It’s a spiral that is very hard to get out of. I’m certainly not completely over it. I’m so scarred after being left by certain friends that I’m now very independent. I love hugs but I never hug first. I always wait to be hugged. That way you can’t be called needy. I rarely text people, that’s needy. Asking to meet for coffee? You got it: needy. That way it all builds up inside me until I’m weeping at 3am, needing to talk to someone who won’t understand that I only speak when I’m sad, not realising the amount of times I don’t speak at all to save their patience.

I had Chronic Fatigue syndrome when I was in school. At least, I think I did. It may have been depression, it may have just been a result of being bullied. For whatever reason I spent a lot of time off school, in bed. I wasn’t lonely because I had John Hughes films to keep me company. It was a pretty dark time, all-in-all, but the lingering memory from that time is the all-encompassing feeling of guilt that accompanied a day off school. Sometimes my Mum would cry, sometimes my Dad would get involved and the sane of panic I felt when he entered the arguments still makes my chest tighten. The school would ring me, they sent social workers out, we were threatened with court dates for poor attendance. In the end I turned 16, passed my GCSEs and went on to do my A Levels at college without any trouble but we didn’t know that at the time and the house was steeped in tension and misery. I felt sick with guilt and I carry that with me, even now. If I have to take a day off from something now I call myself names. I’m a fucking stupid bitch. I should have just gone. Why do I always do this? Why? That sense of punishment follows me in a lot of what I do. I’ve developed a steel level of discipline, forcing myself out of bed, to get dressed, to do whatever I have to do, even if I’m virtually catatonic in work. Then everyone wonders why I am in a bad mood, and I only succeed in alienating them further. It makes it so difficult to begin a friendship, or to maintain one.

I don’t really get that numb feeling. Not really. More often I feel like I’m in pain. Brief spells of numbness can usually be postponed by listening to a song, watching a film. Going for a walk is good because you feel something. Not an emotion necessarily, but you feel the weather. You see real, people, maybe a cat. It’s nice. It’s… something. Eating also negates numbness. Tasting food, feeling the warmth and texture of it, concentrating on chewing gives you something to think about, like a mathematical puzzle. Mathematical puzzles are also good, of course. Making someone laugh is wonderful. Maybe that’s why I’m self-deprecating, because I can’t be any other way, but the things I say make other people laugh and light up, and that’s a good thing. That way there’s light around me, even if it’s not inside me.

Some days there is nothing you can do to stop it, of course. You just end up sitting and staring. Going to bed is a blessing. Going to bed is a decision. Otherwise I will sit online all day and that’s often not a decision, just a slackjawed clicking of the refresh button, hoping someone will write something to lift my mood.. Hoping someone will save me. Rescue always has to come from outside though. Rescue is external. I can’t rescue myself, because I’m a stupid fucking bitch, you see?

So I set myself challenges. I like to sing. I like the sound I make, it makes me feel happy and contented. I arrange gigs and I do them no matter how I feel because to cancel a gig would make me an utter scumbag [more so than I already am, if course] and I would never work in this town again. I do little pieces of acting here and there and although I would never let anyone down sometimes my shut-down face and sharp voice makes me seem unwilling and unfriendly. I have to wind myself up so tightly you see, even just to attend a casual rehearsal. I force myself on nights out and have to rest the day before and the day after as they can be so emotionally draining. So it looks like I’m not enjoying it when really it’s the only thing keeping me going.

Anyway, that’s what you do. You sweat the big stuff. You look at the long picture. There’s not really any point combing your hair because you’ll be alone forever. There’s a pile of clothes on the floor and it’s increasing and there is a pile of unopened letters but that’s unimportant. Washing isn’t going to hug you or care about you, is it? And while I ignore it the pile creeps closer to my feet and sometimes I look at it, I really do. Lifting it though? What, all of it? A piece at a time? Why, that’ll take time. How much time? Ten minutes? No, that’s ten minutes I could spend… thinking. I know this doesn’t make much sense, but that’s how it is.

Like I said though, there are beautiful moments. There is singing, and hope, and that feeling of peaceful bliss just before you go to sleep. I have no way of knowing if all people feel like this at times. Perhaps they do. Perhaps that’s just life. Part of me thinks that being able to feel things this deeply is a gift. Only time will tell.

Jason Webley

First published on Goldenplec:

“Most of the show is going to be me tying my shoelaces” Jason Webley says while he does, indeed, tie his shoelaces. In fact, if the measure of a good gig is how much punishment the performer inflicts on his own clothing during the performance Webley is up there with the best of them. Shoelaces come undone, the little flat hat falls off numerous times, so many, in fact, that you wonder why he bothers putting it back on again and his red shirt is sweat-dyed not even halfway through the gig. Luckily though, it doesn’t all begin and end with the clothes. He’s been at this for thirteen years and has really become a master of gently manipulating the audience, playing snatches of his most popular songs then segueing into anecdotes about something vaguely connected. The audience are encouraged to sing along to each song – even if they don’t know the words – until they are filled with so much confidence that they invent their own rhythms and harmonies, shouting out jokes and suggestions that are at least responded to by Jason, even if they are rejected. The small size of the room and the fact that he often goes off-mic to address the audience also adds to the intimacy of the performance.

Webley recognises the importance of what he calls “stupid stuff”, taking half an hour or so to be the most entertaining busker ever, taking 80s song requests from the audience and playing them on accordion. Most of the material is, of course, designed to make the audience laugh like when he explains the alternate universe in which ‘Hockey Star’ is a smash hit and plays the most terrifyingly impassioned version of ‘Freebird’. The whole thing has an informal feel as he plays ‘Billie Jean’ but we’re aware a change is going to come as he keeps warning us that the “serious stuff” is not too far away.

The serious stuff, when it arrives, is breathtaking. His songs have an Eastern European vibe and he himself seems to embody all the wild energy of Gogol Bordello in one man, kicking and shouting like a demonic puppet. His voice is world-weary and expressive but versatile, able to suit the light calypso rhythms of ‘Eleven Saints’ and the tearjerking poignancy of ‘Last Song’ to which everyone joins the fading refrain at the end, turning it into an almost ‘Hey Jude’ moment with a chorus that seems like it could go on forever. It’s a sober occasion as most of the audience know this is a farewell tour of sorts for him so and there’s sadness as Webley talks of his sabbatical and possible retirement from gigging, but also hope when he speaks of his motivation to perform, and reluctance to ever completely stop, a reluctance that the audience vocally share. As the lights come up and the audience filter out it isn’t the usual post-gig high. Quietly contemplative, they go up to Webley and speak to him of their desire for him to continue playing. Perhaps he will.

Duke Special, Auntie Annie’s, Belfast

First published on Goldenplec:

Having a gig that starts after midnight has benefits; the crowd are well-lubricated, enough to laugh and chant along with anything; the downside being that sometimes this isn’t necessarily what the performer wants. Duke Special seems perplexed by tonight’s audience, their applause and enthusiasm welcome, their incessant chatter seeming to irritate him slightly. He tries to tell long-winded historical stories about the origins of new songs and he pleads with them to listen, but you get the impression it’s all going over their merry heads. Their reactions bring some classic moments though, old favourite ‘Last Night I Nearly Died’ being met with an audience who actually sing the piano bridge in the middle, making it sound like a theme tune from an 80s sitcom. The Duke has clearly never witnessed this before and mutters “Interesting…” before carrying on with the song, to a rapturous reception.

Songs range widely, from the thumping pistons of ‘Portrait’ and steam engine of a new song ‘Apple Jack’ to the Tim Burton-esque ‘Digging An Early Grave’. A special welcome is reserved for Temperance Society Chip Bailey who plays the cheese grater and rattles keys into the microphone to great visual effect, but does mostly simply play the drums, the more avant-garde items in his possession being used for flourishes and attention-grabbing.

The night drifts into unknown territory when And So I Watch You From Afar’s Tony ascends the stage, with what we assume to be a lyric book in his hand. The Duke quietly talks about their love for American songwriter Stephen Foster and they play a duet of sorts. Tony, not known for singing, has a voice that doesn’t sound like it gets aired often and has gathered dust in a cupboard. It’s a moment that sails dangerously close to self-indulgence but all is forgiven as soon as the next familiar song is played.

Duke Special spends a lot of time with his dreadlocks draped over the microphone stand and singing to a spurned lover so it’s nice to have a change with his new photography based songs, ‘You Press A Button, We Do The Rest’ taking the form of a letter from one disgruntled photographer to another, so humorous it could have been written by Roald Dahl. These moments of humour are interspersed with darker intervals, a chillingly flat version of Joy Division’s ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’ exploring the darkest depths.

Two encores later and only the hardcore devotees are left and are rewarded with ‘Freewheel’ for their patience, coupled with a chorus of Bon Jovi’s ‘You Give Love A Bad Name’. The music stops shortly before 2am and everyone leaves, bewildered by the more heartfelt moments but knowing they were definitely not short-changed on performance.

Joanna Newsom, Marlay Park, Dublin

First published on State.ie

The immaculate setting of Marlay Park makes this seem much more like a country club garden party than a gig; the good weather and the fact that most people milling around are here to see a girl play the harp adds to the feeling of being at a Juilliard recital. Newsom greets the audience with a childlike delight, all the while politely batting away shouted cries of devotion from admirers.

We’re so used to indie boys staring seriously [sometimes confusedly] at their 4 or 6-string weapons that seeing this petite young woman take control of a multi stringed harp brings a smile to the face, along with a sense of wonder.

Beginning with ‘Bridges And Balloons’ Newsom’s familiar singing voice seems more unreal in real life than in recordings, seeming almost superimposed on the image of the girl in the flowery dress. Having a voice that is characteristically marked by its seeming fragility it’s a surprise just how loud this girl can sing live. Her voice doesn’t falter and there’s no hint of  songs being reworked to make them easier live, each note is sang just as it is on the albums. At times she shouts fiercely which is no mean feat as she has both arms perpetually in use while crouched beside a harp which is considerably bigger than she is. She twists and turns her mouth while singing in a manner that’s charmingly reminiscent of Samantha in Bewitched’s nose-twitching as she casts a spell.

‘Have One On Me’ showcases the talents of her band, the drummer seeming almost like a foley artist, narrating Newsom’s tales with sound effects, suggesting spider-like movements with the gentle teasing tickle of the cymbal. Other instruments are also used in this fashion, the dramatic screech of the violin signifying tension whereas the guitar and banjo add depth to quiet, serious moments. Very tight close vocal harmonies are provided by the band as well, at times some of them locking eyes to concentrate and smiling at each other when they succeed.

The first night of a tour is never completely smooth sailing and there’s a sprinkling of mistakes tonight, familiar passages being altered to work around the errors at a speed that brings new meaning to the phrase “thinking on your feet”. Newsom admits that it’s good to get playing live shows again as it’s been a while and confesses to nerves, a confession so endearing that the audience are with her every step of the way, even when she has to ask the lighting engineer not to shine pink lights on her harp strings as it makes it difficult to see which notes she is playing, a request that might come across as precious if uttered by, say, The Kings Of Leon.

It’s a set that travels from almost silence and tales of ships to a jazz shuffle when Newsom moves to the piano to play newer material, most notably the near hoedown of ‘Good Intentions Paving Company’. The whole show is a joyous union between the band, of band and audience, and of the audience as a whole.

Glasgowbury Music Festival

First published on State.ie

For one day each year the Sperrin Mountains in Northern Ireland reverberate with the sounds of Irish music. From noon until midnight 60 bands showcase their wares over five stages. Now in its eleventh year, Glasgowbury music festival has expanded from humble roots, having a comedy stage, children’s activities and inviting bands from all parts of Ireland although the concentration is still on talent in the North of the island.

Virginia-born singer-songwriter Rachel Austin is an early draw for those looking for something a little different. Dressed like a pioneer secretary she radiates a certain tension that only serves to add to her performance. Vocals and sound effects are looped giving rise to a constant feeling of trying new things – things that don’t always work, admittedly – but trying nonetheless. It results in a fragile web of songs, tied together by Austin’s timeless American vocal.

Phoenix Fire play melodic rock made more accessible by dual male/female vocals provided by David Jackson – whose enthusiasm is infectious – and Fiona O’Kane, the earnest, heartbreaking voice of the partnership. They risk falling flat on their faces by trying to start an audience singalong this early in the day but the Phoenix Fire audience are prepared, singing back the lines that are fed to them, the repetition putting the song firmly in everyone’s memory. Elspeth play indie rock of the American variety, portrayed intelligently by a frontman who seems to have studied at the Thom Yorke school of sincere agony. Musically it’s downbeat, with plodding bass and drums underpinning the winding paths led by the vocal and the almost sarcastic swagger of Gerard Sands.

Next it’s outdoors to the main stage to enjoy the dry weather. If you take the pealing bells and shimmering sounds of Sigur Ros and give them an injection of adrenaline while sprinkling them with sugar you have Kowalski. They truly produce the sound of summer with hummable melodies that dissolve like sugar on the tongue, a spell only broken when the typical-indie-voiced singer attempts to engage in deeply unfunny stage banter.

As emo heartthrobs General Fiasco finish their special guest slot on the G Sessions stage Girls Names seize the opportunity to steal the wandering crowd, their brand of doom-laden post-punk startlingly out of place but oddly suiting the outdoor setting. Frontman Cathal croons menacingly, the band’s Bauhaus-esque stylings bringing to mind American summers of days gone by, like a nostalgic movie soundtrack.

Back under canvas in the Eagle’s Rock Stage for Rainy Boy Sleep, who we probably shouldn’t like. His voice is nasal, he plays simple guitar chords, strumming over a laptop beat. His lyrics are trite and he has a slightly odd schoolboy persona yet he still ends up being likeable. His geek chic glasses win over the ladies while his lyrics about dead girls win over everyone else. It’s one thing deliberately instigating a singalong, quite another to watch one happen organically as it does here.

Le Galaxie aren’t well-known in these parts. Hidden away on the Spurs Of Rock tent [which is pitched on rocks instead of grass, geddit?] their electro-dance beats permeate the surroundings. The frontman explodes in a series of yelps and frantic movements, his cries and jumps wouldn’t be out of place in a Go! Team show as he shares Ninja’s enthusiasm, if not her polish. Smoke appears and the audience embrace the 6pm rave, even though they’re initially rattling around a nearly empty tent like snooker balls during a fierce game.

Belfast-based cabaret act Katie And The Carnival pack out their tent and with good reason, the harmonies perfect and their approach to percussion – using horns, bells and a washboard – probably the most well-thought-out of the entire festival. New song ‘To The Sea’ brings a sassiness to the usual tragi-comedy with the feel of a jazz standard for independent women. The lead vocals have a slightly dirty edge leaving it to the harmonies to add a choral sensibility all fitting together to create singalong classics from a bygone era.

By now it’s the home straight and the plan is to see as many bands as possible before the music stops. A quick stop by the Foy Vance tent tells us that he’s possibly a little too over-refreshed to do battle with the loop pedal using his customary precision timing. The soulful voice is still there, albeit with an edge of gravel, but the majority of the rest of his set is plain acoustic singer-songwriter material which is a disappointment from someone who can offer so much more. Headliners of the festival are the recent Bella Union signings Cashier No. 9 and they play their part very well. Their rhythmic alt-country has gradually developed into a more ‘Pounding’ era Doves-esque sound, ethereally haunting the crowd late into the night.

Rams’ Pocket Radio

First published on Goldenplec.com :

 

Still soaring from being one of only a handful of Northern Irish acts to be chosen to play Glastonbury 2011, Rams’ Pocket Radio play a homecoming gig of sorts at Belfast’s Animal Disco night. YouTubes of the band’s Glastonbury performance have been passed around excitedly and the venue is rammed, a sense of expectation in the air. The band are supposed to start at midnight and it creeps further past the hour, the amassed crowd getting sweatier and more restless. Finally the band take to the stage, relishing their entrance like prizefighters and getting down to the business of piano-rock. It’s a full-band set up, the piano acting as the crux that brings everything together. Peter McCauley’s piano-playing is at the next level, elevating an otherwise simple band set up and filling what could be musical voids with creativity. The piano underpins everything, delicately soloing at quiet bits and crashing with power at the emotional climaxes of songs. Melodies range from the deceptively simple to the breathtakingly complex, the band embracing delicate moments just as much as theatrical ones, juxtaposing the two in quick succession to great effect.

The pace doesn’t let up for the first three songs, made more  intense by the oppressive summer heat. The audience don’t get a chance to catch their breath until the fourth song ‘Love Is A Bitter Thing’, an ode to loss, the hiss and crash of the cymbals accentuating the feeling of high drama. In fact, the drumkit as a whole brings a real gravitas to the songs, making them one part medieval dirge, another part soldier’s military march.

There’s an edge to McCauley’s voice that wouldn’t be out of place in an emo band, the anguish that makes you think the singer really feels what they’re saying. An almost Americanised way of pleading, getting the audience to listen and believe.

They finish with ‘Dieter Rams Has Got The Pocket Radio’, an older song from their repertoire but still their clarion call, the audience-uniting moment with enough melody to be pop but enough heaviness to be more than just that. Finishing suddenly, the band depart after what seems an oddly short set, leaving the audience wondering what will be next for a band that have seemingly outgrown their surroundings?