Fri 13th Aug

Mean Fiddler presents

Adebisi Shank

+ Strange News From Another Star

Doors – 7:30 PM

Tickets – £6

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Adebisi Shank are an electric, energetic, loud band from Ireland. Taking their cue from acts such as Battles, Oxes and Lite, their debut LP “This is the album of a band called Adebisi Shank” shines through with rays of inventiveness that would teach a few of their contemporaries a thing or two in the art of writing, without ever leaning into the self indulgent persuasions many have fallen ill to when attempting this sort of ‘art noise’.

Creating a record of supreme layers and intricate execution by every means needs a good pair of hands at the helm making sure everything fits into place. And everything fits in perfecty with J.Robbins (ex-Jawbox singer and production mastermind behind records from Mock Orange, Faraquet, Ponytail, Dismemberment Plan, Braid, Texas Is The Reason, Against Me and many more)having headed this trio’s debut. The record was recorded in June at the famous Magpie Cage Studios in Baltimore, MD and mastered at Inner Ear studios by Aloha guitarist, TJ Lipple. With the approval of such highly respected musical individuals it’s already evident that this little three piece from Wexford will be making huge waves in and amongst the ever growingfield of experimental, polyrhytmic, precision based music lovers.

Already picking up plentiful of music fans on ther path they have picked up the interest of film makers and producers alike. Their music has been featured in two films: “Danger High Voltage!” which has just won the Galway Film Fleadh, was shown at Electric Picnic festival and is now going to the American festivals.

Age: +14

www.myspace.com/adebisishank

“Your mother’s coming out on a seven-inch!”.  Ah, le mot juste.  Still readjusting to Barfly’s particular charms (Tetleys and the scent of piss, essentially), it’s mere minutes before Facel Vega’s innocent plugging of a forthcoming release is zinged right back at them by an army-coated wag.  More of him later.  Meantime, tonight’s too-early openers are on cracking form.  They do the loud-fast-rules stuff just fine, and with more than enough twisty, yelpy Blood Brothers dynamics, brattish charm and jerking histrionics from the rail-thin frontman to snare any passing indie noiseniks.  If they actually get the chance to, that is, as gigs are apparently more sporadic than usual on account of them living at opposite ends of the country.  Shame.  The split LP with Harbour is a doozy.  Go get. 

Japanese Voyeurs claim they welcome those enjoying “burgers, Gummo, Acid King, Kyuss and dinosaurs” while eschewing “club anthems, Hannah Montana, cream tea and pleasantries”.  Hmm.  I recently had a burger and a cream tea in the same day, Japanese Voyeurs; where does that leave me?  It’s a moot point, perhaps, as from tonight’s evidence any similarities to Acid King or Kyuss amount to a female vocalist and the odd downtuned guitar respectively.  We’re squarely in ’92 grunge territory here, and sadly not in a good way; there are promisingly heavy interludes but they’re lost in unspectacular ditties and the sort of vaguely gothy bad-ickle-girl lyrics that dozens of poor Kat Bjelland clones turned out years ago.  And the keyboard player must surely own the van, or he’d be shaking his Timotei locks and jabbing out meek one-note doodles in another  band.

Is it fair or even relevant to ask whether Damien ’Pink Eyes’ Abraham is the punk Tim Harrington?  Of course it’s not, you moron, so shut up.  OK, well, they’re both fat guys who like stripping off and have masses of charisma.  Both funny guys, in their own way, with Abraham playing the natural, engaging raconteur to Harrington’s hilarious non-sequitur king.  Both exude an infectious, inclusive enthusiasm that flips the standard rock crowd invasion over into a manic, all-eyes-on-me walkabout.  And both, you could argue, have utilised their magnetic personalities to propel their not especially radio-friendly bands up festival bills, affording them must-see status and a cross-genre appeal their chuntering, epic hardcore (or arty post-punk) might not otherwise have found.

Which is a long way of saying, Fucked Up are a strange sort of phenomenon.  Nothing much here sets their third Cardiff visit in 18 months apart from the first two (a jaw-dropping, frenzied sweatbox on Clwb’s ground floor and a rug-pulling mid-bill slot before the Bronx upstairs months later).  There may well be people here who’ve seen all three, and more besides on the endless tour-festival-tour cycle the Toronto six-piece have enjoyed this last few years.  This band loyalty – keep them coming back, every show is different – isn’t easy to pull off.  Tonight, as you watch Abraham’s bandmates blaze heads-down through another layered epic, pausing to observe his antics with wry, familiar amusement (again, a sight Les Savy Fav fans would recognise) you realise that, for the punk kids hollering along as they high-five the marauding singer and the casual observers grinning at the back, the music and the spectacle come as one and make it worth endless repeated viewings.

They’ve got the tunes, no mistake.  ‘Crusades’ is dispatched dangerously early at a sea of jabbing index fingers, but a set balanced typically neatly between familiar ‘Chemistry…’  material and completist-friendly older stuff has more than enough in reserve.  It’s weird how an hour plus of relentless five, six minute punk ragers avoids sagging.  It helps when Abraham’s circling the room, patting, stroking and high-fiving all and sundry with a crushed pint pot stuck to his forehead.  Our army-coated pal is notably placated after being dragged onstage to slow dance with Abraham’s heaving sweat-sodden bulk.  “Bez from the Happy Mondays, everyone!”.  That’ll learn him.   Miles of mic cabling allow him to fulfil his promise of visiting street level mid-song (“there’s free beer and cocaine up there”, apparently), and the banter is well-balanced between endearing anecdotes, fuck-yeah social politics and a level of self-awareness and mockery which can draw the sting from crowds far more rowdy than tonight’s beaming lot.  It takes something to bring music like theirs across genres without being remotely watered down, and whether he’d admit it or not he’s a big part of why Fucked Up draw you back again and again.

If we’re still immaturely making fun of people’s looks can we suggest Guy McKnight ought to think about suing James Cameron? The makers of Avatar have clearly copped the Eighties Matchbox singer’s alien bone structure for the Na’vi, strange, knobbily sexy nose, cheeks and all. The tall singer in the natty old man threads is an arresting presence throughout, whether singing as Edvard Munch or performing onstage leg stretches. It’s also a nice counterpoint to the guitarists he’s flanked by, who combine impressively spastic flailing with quite funny hair. From all this I conclude that these boys have still got it, short blasts of what are essentially pop songs fed through a mangle of Cramps records get fired through with a happy intensity whether from early or late period. ‘Chicken’ lands an early hit, lapped up like happy milk by the crowd. Do they go less fierybum mental for the newer stuff because they’ve heard it less or because it’s not as good? Um, it’s because it’s not as good, but still: there’s massive armloads of fun watching this band smash out dynamically hard-on right, Kinder egg rockabilly. And hey, everyone gets a flyer plugging their gig at Sonisphere, playing under Placebo. They must be doing something right.

I’ve reviewed Baddies before and wasn’t overly complimentary. There’s nothing bad or evil about them, they play that kind of post punk well, they have the odd catchy tune and as a support they do their job of warming up the crowd rather well. They even acknowledge this themselves. I’m just not sure they have the originality to get any bigger than than they currently are. On different songs they sound like The Knack, The Futureheads but as my gig going colleague remarked ‘aren’t clever enough to be Talking Heads’. The matching grey shirts done up to the Adam’s apple look like they’ve walked out of an open prison but hey, you have to have a look these days. After a few songs, conversation turned to how much the singer looked like Cardiff City midfielder Stephen McPhail.

The Joy Formidable are a different prospect altogether. Their star seems to be in the ascendency, you can’t open a magazine of webpage without seeing their name. This is pretty impressive seeing as you can only buy their debut album from their merch stand if you want to hold an actual, physical CD (as opposed to one of those ether based download thingys). Gigging, radio play and a clutch of 7″s have got them this far and tonight they play to a pretty much full Barfly.

I like this band because I like the bands that they probably like too.  The shoegaze of bands like Slowride And Mazzy Star soundtracked my late teens.  The Joy Formidable take this template and batter it into song shapes.  For all the shimmering guitar and thumping bass, you’re never very far away from a big chorus.  Singer Ritzy isn’t just a pretty face either, her glassy eyed stare into the audience probably doesn’t harm the band’s chances of making it big, rock is always thankful for a poster girl but her voice is perfectly suited to soar above the wall of noise.  Even more impressive seeing as she’s contributing to said noise by battling with her guitar at the same time.

This is the third time I’ve seen the band and they still seem to be improving. This must simply be down to confidence as they’ve been playing together as a band for a fair old time now. Let’s just hope the songs keep getting better and that the forthcoming album matches new single Popinjay.

After the gig it would appear that I warranted a fellow JCer to use a popular social networking site to proclaim me ‘a terrifying drunk’. My gig colleague left early to catch the last train and was promptly sick on it. Please Barfly staff, in future, do not serve us Red Stripe.

Errors is a 4 piece band from Glasgow, Scotland. Originally formed in 2004 by Simon Ward, Stephen Livingstone and Greg Paterson on the back of a 3 track demo recorded in Simon’s bedroom the band quickly set about making a name for themselves in their hometown with their unique take on dance music. The band were soon taken under the wing of Mogwai who signed them to their Rock Action label alongside the likes of Part Chimp and James Orr Complex.

To date they have released a series of 7” singles, EPs and their debut album ‘It’s Not Something But It Is Like Whatever” through Rock Action and these releases have brought them to the attention of the mainstream media with support and acclaim for the band coming across the board from MTV, DJ’s like Zane Lowe, John Kennedy and Vic Galloway along with sessions at Maida Vale for Mary Anne Hobbs, Rob Da Bank and Huw Stephens, magazines such as NME, Dazed and Confused and Rock Sound as well as tours and live dates with bands as varied as Underworld, Franz Ferdinand, Explosions In The Sky, Gary Numan and Mogwai.

2009 marked the recording of Errors’ sophomore release; “Come Down With Me”. Recorded and produced by the band in their customised studio “The Freezer” based in Glasgow’s East End. The record builds on the merged sound of electronic and analogue that has become Errors signature. Angular, spiraling guitars, underpinned by truly mesmerising beats combined with euphoric synths and pop hooks.

‘Come Down With Me’ is an exceptional return from Errors. Expansive, ambitious, intelligent and genre-defying, tracks such as “Bridge or Cloud?”, “Beards” and future single “A Rumour In Africa” are destined to make 2010 as being a landmark year for the band.

Nerd alert! The between bands CD is the same as the recent Fuwch Goch music quiz Guess The Sample round. The way things go, it looks like Kutosis have specifically asked for Abba’s ‘Gimme Gimme Gimme’ as their intro tape. Who can blame them, eh lads? Whether all this helps them pummel their instruments so much is unknown but Kutosis’s first couple of songs have undeniable bellyfire: fairly scorched and ragged scuzz garage with random smears of call and response vocals. It’s an energy that dissipates slowly throughout the set, tunes getting smoother and more conventionally rocking. Between the Jay Reatard dedication and the realisation the bassist has a really fucking good side parting though they had something, and there’s no reason to think it won’t flare again.

One wag mentions the Cavern Club, one suggests ‘Gimme Some Money’ by Spinal Tap. Begone wags! If Thee Vicars win any retro competition going, they also mainline history properly, fired up and banging on the edges of their time capsule rock. Old clips of the Sonics you might have seen crossbreed with early Kinks – less Merseybeat than jokers may claim, more proto garage played with mad eyes and a carrot up its bum. Bowl haircuts unleash ‘waaargh’s rather than Scouse ‘wooo’s. My hunch is Thee Vicars retro zeal is more a monomaniacal obsession for the genre rather than the past in general, in common with Y Niwl’s equally great surf freakery. Zero variation, endless jittery thrills, three guitarists in the crowd. I must be in love (not by the Rutles).

Barfly presents

Thee Vicars

+ Kutosis + Hyener

Buy Tickets

Age: +18

]]> http://www.thejoycollective.co.uk/blog/preview/thee-vicars-kutosis-hyener-16-01-10/feed/ 1 http://www.thejoycollective.co.uk/blog/review/john-cooper-clarke-frank-sidebottom-gindrinker-barfly-cardiff-10-10-09-more-joint-reviewing-for-you/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=john-cooper-clarke-frank-sidebottom-gindrinker-barfly-cardiff-10-10-09-more-joint-reviewing-for-you http://www.thejoycollective.co.uk/blog/review/john-cooper-clarke-frank-sidebottom-gindrinker-barfly-cardiff-10-10-09-more-joint-reviewing-for-you/#comments Thu, 22 Oct 2009 09:23:08 +0000 Vivers http://www.thejoycollective.co.uk/blog/?p=3581 Vivers: Outside, Cardiff on a Saturday night is the seventh circle. A drunk woman screams at a topless man: “You fucking queeeargh!”. Inside the Barfly, a middle-aged man shouts between Gindrinker songs: “This isn’t music, it’s fucking shit!”. Might be unkind to suggest this is someone who goes to precisely one gig a year, but honestly, how can you not find anything to love in Gindrinker’s spleen attack? DC Gates lets his pickled brain ramble, rant and play the odd bit of improvised cornet over Graf’s strafing guitar and it’s like carrots and pesto, or fire and Dan Brown. If you don’t like it, you’re an idiot. Anyway, Frank Sidebottom is on next and you should see the bum notes he plays!

BusinessKeith: There have been few more character-building experiences for the hardy Cardiff gig-goer over the years than early evening in a cold, deserted Barfly. Time has not dulled its effect; if anything, not having been in here since Swn last year has renewed the impact of the ultra-minimalist decor and view-inhibiting layout. Still, it fills up swiftly during Gindrinker‘s matinee set, and the reception they get at the end is comforting after the early heckles. It’s hard to imagine that many fans of the other turns could find nothing to savour in DC’s caustic, bilious and frequently hilarious prose, or the angle-grinding riffs that accompany it. Good to hear newer favourites like ‘Comedian’ and ‘Transit’ aired in this atmosphere. They’ll all be humming them this time next year, mark my words.

Vivers: It’s a weird, chilling thrill to see Frank Sidebottom‘s head appear at the back of the crowd, and slowly travel towards the stage. It’s securely wedged above a short man’s shoulders, and looks to contain no eyeholes. It’s perfect, slightly unsettling, cartoon heaven, a strange mix of stand up comedy, rudimentary Casio and childhood flashback. Every song’s  a medley, and all end the same way: they do, they really do. Dropped references to Wire and the Fall meet the crapness of splitting the crowd in half to see which sings the loudest. There are rubbish costume changes and Little Frank, which is thankfully not his penis. Above all though, it’s that great glazed head looking back, bobbins icon of quality entertainment.

BusinessKeith: I’m sat at the back chatting to a friend when we’re both silenced, with something weirdly approaching awe, as Frank Sidebottom enters the room in a slightly ill-fitting suit, briefcase in hand, giant fibreglass head affixed. It’s as Vivers says, a flashback to your first exposure to his peculiar schtick of working men’s club turn meets children’s entertainer on the skids. Sure, like JCC following him, he’s using material he’s recycled for longer than many of Barfly’s usual patrons have been on this planet; so why is it still making us laugh? It’s not a forced, awkward laughter, it’s genuine, and the goodwill his familiar rambles through ‘tributes’ to the Beatles, Queen and Manchester’s punk lineage generate is utterly heartening. The roomful of thick-set football dads descend on our papier mache hero for photos at the end, and Timperley’s finest has done it again. You know he has, he really has.

Vivers: In this celebratory love-in John Cooper Clarke can’t really fail, but it’s to his credit he pulls off this non-failure with no little charm. Despite starting with some jokes older than a Messel stairlift (how deep would the sea be without sponges – sheesh), there are diamonds here, mostly hidden amongst the easy patter of a professional natterer. It’s nice shaggy dog rambling, disguised as poetry and anecdotes, and it’s interesting to see that Clarke’s disintegrating notes look similar to DC Gates’ when in spoken word mode. Course, he can’t read them cos he’s wearing sunglasses, but such is life as a mostly-good hero to drunk husbands.

BusinessKeith: When John Cooper Clarke supported the Fall at the Coal Exchange in 2005, DC Gates likened his latter-day incarnation to part Les Dawson, part Harold Pinter. Tonight, ten minutes into a routine which could easily have slotted on to ‘The Comedians’ in 1975, I remarked to DC that it was like watching an affable, likeable Bernard Manning. Jokes about JCC’s Irish Catholic/Jewish upbringing, gentle take-my-wife-please cracks and a gag stolen from a 1992 Simpsons episode serve to ease us, and John himself, into the 2009 version of his act. It’s less confrontational, less rapid-fire than you imagine he was 30 years back, which is of course to be expected, but the poetry, when it punctures the jokes and anecdotes, remains valid and the observations are still sharp. His newer material may be different, even softer in style (‘I Love My Wife’ can’t help but be touching) but along with the hair and the shades he’s retained the gift for rolling syntax and delicious payoffs that first emerged with the likes of ‘Evidently Chickentown’. He leaves us with the fastest recital of the latter I’ve ever seen, as if challenging himself to prove he’s still got it. He has.

A Place To Bury Stranger

If you’re a fan of nineties shoegazing, feedback, and ear piercing volume then get your tickets now. Think The Jesus & Mary Chain crossed with early Cure with a drum machine and Ian Astbury on vocal duties. This is a band that need to be witnessed in a dark and dingy cellar, thank God for Barfly.

Light and rather brilliant relief comes in the form of Japandroids. Hailing from Vancouver this two-piece make garage rock that sounds like it was actually recorded in a garage. Scuzzy, dirty songs that are happier in tone than their American tour buddies, but definitely share a love of making a massive racket.

Opening the night are Dublin upstarts The Brothers Movement who fit in well with the show’s aural theme and sound a bit like Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.

All in all, well worth 6 quid of your cash.

Doors – 7:30 PM

Tickets – £6 / £5 flyer

Buy Tickets