They say youth is wasted on the young: so perhaps youth culture is equally wasted on uncultured youth?

What I’m making allusions to right here is the age of the performers in tonight’s bands- they are all more or less in their mid-thirties. Whilst this would raise ne’er an eyelid in many a musical scene (I’m thinking Classical, Folk etc) Heavy Metal is basically gnarly rock n roll; and we all know rock n roll belongs to the young. Right up until Ol’ Scratch takes your soul in return for those sweet axe skills. We all also know there is nothing sadder than some wannabe bunch of uncles engaged in a desperate effort of pretending to be 16 still? Don’t we? DONT WE.

Well I don’t: quite frankly I like the idea of a band with some mileage, a gang of canny old boys who have been around long enough to know how to shove 3 good riffs together and call it pancakes. In fact I’m ALL FOR it- music buying demographics have changed massively in the past few years, so why shouldn’t the same mission creep be allowed into the band’s job description? To be fair, this all reads as some kind of smug back-handed insult via condescension- but I assure you the reader it is not; as long as the songs chug along we live forever in beauty.

WITCH TRIAL are first up. They play straight-ahead Sabbath worship old-school doom: the kind that like to sing in a nice voice and perhaps wear a flowery shirt on the back of the album cover. This is their first gig and they soak up the universal virgin band gremlin juice well; in full evidence are good grooves and propulsive riffs. I’m going to break this review right here to point out that the bass player is well-know internet legend Neal Palmer, who once joking named himself  ’Chest Rockwell’ and it stuck to the extent that to me he’ll always be ‘Chest’. Now, Chest Rockwell was present in the audience of the first gig of a band I play in (y’know, the one that shall remain nameless like in the last review) and gave us a very unkind review on the local food discussion board ‘South Wales Massive’.

Here’s what he said about us: “O, this band isn’t even music: it’s no difference to what that Ninja guy does on the high street. Best of luck though”

But I’m not going to bang on about that, oh no, it would be churlish to take one man’s offhand comments about this reviewer’s frankly crap music and repeatedly trudge over it  in the vain hope that some reason blood might run out. Although this would be the perfect opportunity to take some kind of revenge on this Chest Rockwell character, once and for all proving that he who laughs last laughs loudest… won’t though as his new band are much goodness and we all await further gigs with interest.

IRONBIRD: a Geordie’s affectionate name of Margaret Thatcher? Or a South Wales stoner affair? YOU DECIDE! (hint: it’s the latter) Ironbird take cues from such luminaries as Orange Goblin and Taint (another great SW gang) and deal out a heavily-fleshed rock carcass, wherein the red meat is riffs, the bones drums and the sweatbreads (yup) vocals. Slightly more of a punk edge as well here, and they seem to have brought out the biggest crowd of the night (bar Chest Rockwell’s recent shearing) who lap it all up. A criticism I will make: I found that whilst this lot had a great sound, the music was rhythmically repetitive in places, quite possibly exacerbated by a somewhat long set.  There, that’s it- don’t shoot the messenger.

ZONDERHOOF are one of my favourite bands ever. Imagine if jazz aliens found a time capsule containing the Melvins’ back catalogue and 3 years worth of Kerrrang magazine, but for whatever reason they lack the technology to play the CDs and so go about recreating heavy metal by studying poorly written prose about what metal should be, and then filling in the gaps with their own freaky alien beats. Y’know like in Jurassic Park when they use bullfrog DNA to recreate dinosaur genomes and then it all goes RRRRAAAARRGH! and shit? Like that. Or if Robert Fripp stopped being a sniffy nerd (sorry Bob, to make up for it I’ll listen to Earthbound again, one day) and informed the rest of KC that synths were out and to bone up on Eyehategod albums before the next tour of Japan.

Zonderhoof play really well, and refuse a much-called for encore request with the patent falsehood that they are out of songs, but we haven’t even had the one that goes DUUUUUNNNN……DUN DUN DUN DUNNNNNNNNN yet for O’malley’s sake. They do play Aldershof though; which contains a great moment when the drummer plays this little roll, then PLAYS THE EXACT SAME ONE AGAIN immediately after it. Nice.

It was really humid in Buffalo so I leave pretty sharpish to watch local scene kid Mikeee eat not only his Noodles, but most of his Girlfriend’s noodles as well.

Complaints to the usual address, god save the queen etc etc.

Vivers: There must be something wrong with me. Walking up Buffalo’s narrow stairs and hearing the sick thud of a drum machine that something’s died in, aided by gusts of bent cornet, leads to the happy thought “Great, Gindrinker are on”. Cardiff’s battered warriors draw the biggest crowd tonight, thick with wankers who never want bank holidays to end, and they witness a hundredth gig that’s part single launch, part permanent reaffirmation of quality and part ale-soaked exercise video. New songs dribble out, but nothing really changes: bracing anti-music of snarling tinpot guitar and rusted declarations from the Common Sense Party Of Hatred; more fun than poking bees’ nests, healthier than two Guinnesses. As always though: more cornet please.

Keef: A confession:  I’d not seen Joy Of Sex since Matt’s departure and their subsequent five-knuckle reshuffle (get it? Never mind).  It appears there’s been a bit of a revolving door drummer policy since then, with this being ex-Threatmantic Huw’s second gig with the band.  You’d never guess.  They look complete with his addition, to the point where the drum machine seems almost obsolete.  The much busier drumming noticeably changes their sound too, now heavier, less minimal, but with the low-end thump leaving plenty of space for some very nice spidery, cheese-wire guitar lines from Rosie.  She’s the secret weapon here, instantly comfortable in her new role and genuinely startling at the set’s close when taking centre stage for a Lene Lovich-esque vocal turn amidst doomy synths and ‘Metal Box’ bass.  Sign the drummer up full-time, rethink the horrid oar-shaped headless bass (please) and greatness awaits.

Vivers: Extradition Order take a couple of songs to get the genitals going; possibly the dull skinny tie look and false rumour of London origins. Sorry. But a few songs in the realisation dawns that this band are going for the ‘garage autopsy’ approach, a tricky move that involves sounding like Thee Vicars or similar Nuggets-mainliners only slowed down to a treacly pace, 45s played at 33 and stabbed randomly. The generic instruments are strung out and disjointed and at times one band member’s playing seems to have no connection to the next. This is A Good Thing, especially when screaming is added on top. What’s going on? At the frazzled heart of Extradition Order there’s a lot of good stuff, buried like a body.

Keef: Two of Extradition Order, though thankfully not the drummer, return swiftly as part of the David Cronenberg’s Wife live experience.  Tom Mayne does Antifolk the way it should be done; affable and engaging in person, turned out in natty suit, bootlace tie and specs and resembling a less seedy Neil Hamburger, Mayne eschews snottiness or confrontation ensuring his lyrical barbs are all the more effective.

They’re allied to above-average tunes, too, whether drawn-out and dirgey Velvets/garage monologues allowing Mayne’s curdled wit to poke through or snappy, Fall-indebted rockabilly belters like the magnificent ‘I Couldn’t Get Off’.  Then, when you think you’ve got him pegged, he slips in a sweetly sincere acoustic cover of a tune by under-the-radar US Antifolker Phoebe Kreutz.  They wrap up in little more than half an hour, a perfectly judged close to a night of bands whose surface similarities reflect more on shared label I Blame The Parents’s quality control than any musical predictability.

No apologies for turning this one on its head.  Three fine turns here, but hats off to Cardiff’s favourite bar-room philosophers GINDRINKER who with this gig reach the milestone of their 100th ‘live action’.  A standing ovation from the pavilion is surely only right and proper.  Plus, it’s only taken them five-and-a-quarter years to do it, which is both quicker and more entertaining than Geoff Boycott.  There’s a split single with tonight’s other local heroes Joy Of Sex in the offing, and they’ve not played much lately so they’re liable to go off at a cracking pace.  Get there early.

DAVID CRONENBERG’S WIFE, for the uninitiated, mine the same bleak, sardonic lyrical seams as Gindrinker’s DC Gates.  Loosely affiliated with the UK Antifolk mob, but don’t be put off;  Tom Mayne’s songs are witty, provocative and occasionally even affecting.  Two fine albums and a clutch of singles are available, so bring funds.  Think The Fall, Clinic, Country Teasers.  That sort of thing.

EXTRADITION ORDER are indie art-punk from Warrington.  “Some of their songs are like the Fall on laxatives and some are like the Monks overdosing on Red Bull”, apparently.  Well!

JOY OF SEX have cooled their jets somewhat since their initial burst of gigging activity a year or so ago, one Joy Collective-sponsored shindig aside; this will be a neat reintroduction to their charms.  Nagging, insistant minimal post-punk nuggets with a spiky charm and a raised eyebrow.

DAVID CRONENBERG’S WIFE

‘bitterly humorous lyrics.. a mix of The Fall’s 80s rockabilly inspired ‘Grotesque’ and the Velvet Underground’ [NME on “Hypnagogues”]

EXTRADITION ORDER

‘it basically sounds like the Sonics… Sharp riffs, wibbling organ and a vocal best described as demonic; this actually sounds like it’s got the dust and scratches of 30 years in a bar-room jukebox ingrained into it’ [Manchester Music]

JOY OF SEX

“a wired, boggle-eyed take on the fuzzily taut Pixies/Wire dynamic with criss-crossing vocals, wrecked song structures and seeming stream of conscious while still meaningful lyrics” [Sweeping The Nation]

GINDRINKER

“Gindrinker created their own violent micro-climate, blazing through their set with customary belligerent zeal… a pair intoxicated with paranoia and convinced that the world won’t listen, but shouting-out anyway from lowly stages in the homes of the vain” [Huw Menear, UWIC paper]

Buffalo Bar, Windsor Place, Cardiff

Monday 5th April
8pm-3am
£5 entry

David Cronenberg’s Wife Myspace

Joy Of Sex Myspace

Gindrinker Myspace

Extradition Order Myspace

Lt. Meat is an excellent collection of atoms, a sardonic bald man who looks like a sexy version of the alien from Ridley Scott’s film, and who plays thrashy waves of surf guitar over preprogrammed laptop tranches of bloops, Garageband drums and weird speech samples. It’s brilliantly amateurish stuff, full of odd noise collisions and technical hitches, the Meat man (okay, his name’s Dave) covering all gaps with rambling, surreal humour and bare-faced charm. You could make a pretty watertight case, as a clip from an old sci-fi film leads into another twanging detonation, that this is all a little Man… Or Astroman-covers-by-way-of-Guitar Hero but you’d be a) a git and b) denying the awesome power of surf so don’t even talk to me.

More bonus points about tonight: great live art from Gareth John Day, and his drawing that slowly evolves into a lady with sharks in her hair. Mustard Allegro have a song about sharks too – a perky little number that finds time amongst its condensed guitar lines for “Great! White!” to be hollered at the ceiling. This Bristol band only do perky little numbers: cheeky, mostly instrumental surf vignettes that bounce and jerk perfectly and typically last under a minute, ending abruptly with a bashful smile. There’s something nicely off centre here: Mustard Allegro aren’t slavish copyists, more playful fans running with singular ideas, making the whole set into something akin to being licked by an excitable puppy. Well worth getting, er, wet for.

Vivers

Interior Monologue: Tonight was a tale of two violin players,  Well, it wasn’t entirely but it sounded like a good place to start.  It’s well documented that I have a thing for female violinists so my heart leaped when Evening Chorus took the stage.  She also played a banana.  Joining her on stage were a double bass player, a man who sang and played acoustic guitar and a banjo player.  My first though was Mumford & Sons and that proved to be not far off the mark.  The comparison was helped by the shirts tucked in trouser fashion decision of two of the band, to his credit the banjo guy baulked the trend by being only a massive beard away from looking like a member of Neutral Milk Hotel.  The band started with full on 4 part harmonies which reappeared throughout, I really liked their brand of folky pop but I sensed my partner in reviewing was less keen.  Hopefully this was only because of his belief that bands shouldn’t exist on the internet, they should live in caves.

Next band up were Ute.  The second song they played was a cover of Radiohead’s ‘The Bends’ that they’d recorded for a benefit album.  It was rather good.  It was also the song that sounded the least like it was off Radiohead’s ‘The Bends’.  If you’re blessed with a voice like Thom Yorke then you’ll get compared to them and to be fair it’s a long time since Radiohead wrote 4 minute indie rock songs and Ute do it well. Yorke never had a photo of the Queen on his guitar either.   Throughout their set the drummer set their sound apart from the Oxford lads (although Ute are Oxford lads too) by making his drumming sound like the noise the ball makes when you let it loose on the completed mousetrap in the well known MB board game.  This was a good thing, clattery clockwork noise drummers should be encouraged.  In fashion news, the bassist was wearing a Pulled Apart By Horses t-shirt with a picture of himself on it.  This was brilliant. Less brilliant was the pissed guy that sidled up next to me during their set and at unnecessary volume, that the place was like “a fucking statue convention”.  Better than a loudmouth gobshite cuntmuncher convention.  Some would say.

Now the tale of the second violinist.  Cats & Cats & Cats usually have one.  If you believe frontman Ben then she’s either dead or in trouble with the police (the less glamorous but truer explanation was that she had to work.).  It leant a different dynamic to the band though, almost all the set was made up of new songs.  Gone is the jangly post rock of yore, present is the surreal, twisted indie rock that’s not unlike Okkervil River, especially the songs that included the trumpet player.  Latest singles ‘A Boy Called Haunts’ and ‘The Boy With The Beak’ (“This song is about a boy that turns into a bird.  This is not a metaphor.”) were played early on back to back and got a good reception from the pretty busy Buffalo room.  The band ended with oldie ‘Happiness For Lola’ which got a little cheer, proving that a few of us of been fans for a while.  It’s encouraging to see them picking up a new following though because I think this band are pretty special and deserve the attention.  Look out for the new album sometime in April.

My Tiger My Timing take the stage and the crowd begin to drift off.  This seems a bit odd because their eighties influenced upbeat synth pop is exactly what I  expect the cool kids to like.  Still, what do I know.  They weren’t my thing at all, it seemed a bit forced, as if they were trying to play music their heart wasn’t in.  The bassist was wearing a Cliff Richard t-shirt and had hair I can only describe as staggering.  Synth bloke could easily have been in Depeche Mode.  The female singer looked like a heroin casualty but I doubt she’d ever touched the stuff, the guitarist might’ve been on ketamine though, he looked like he’d've been happier snuggled into a comfy sofa than standing upright on stage.  Apparently the band nearly didn’t make it down from London at all because of the snow.  The M4 being a notorious snow trap.  It wasn’t my thing, they’ll probably have a big indie dancefloor type hit single but I think it might be a bit samey for them to have a prolonged presence in the pages of the NME.

“Fuck you, I’m having a cupcake”. 8.15 on a Monday night, the first post-dinner pint is still brimming and the band onstage are tucking into the produce of their alleged new sponsors, a city centre sandwich shop. This, though, is Strange News From Another Star, and such things are fast becoming expected.  Last time out they entered triumphantly to a well-oiled midnight audience at Swn, but tonight we’re a bit harder to please, and it’s accordingly a cautious start, the band bludgeoning in fine style without being at their gibbering, sweaty best. They hit stride swiftly though, tales of locker-room encounters puncturing the pummeling noise. The cakes looked delightful, too.

Sandwiched (arf) between two local favourites, you fear for Amsterdam’s Labasheeda on a night like this; sure enough, many take the opportunity for a lingering fag break or a chat at the back. They miss a bit of a treat, though, as the unassuming quartet offer some nice slow-building art-rock with undeniable echoes of Sonic Youth (Saskia van der Giessen’s vocals on the first couple of songs are a dead ringer for Kim Gordon) and dEUS amongst others. Van der Giessen switches from guitar to violin halfway through and the set diverts into more experimental, drawn-out territory as she tentatively navigates a forest of wires and pedals. It’s a song or two overlong, but rewards attention; a considered, slow-building swirl with a particular charm reminiscent of Dutch peers Bettie Serveert or Seedling. Nice.

This is apparently the last Right Hand Left Hand gig for a while, as they head to the studio; it’s a hell of a way to close a chapter. An all-killer-no-filler half-hour brimming with confidence and yet plenty of creativity, trying ideas on the fly and relaxed enough to laugh off any slight miscues or uneven loops. Plus they have glow-in-the-dark drumsticks. I mean really. The penultimate tune, in particular, has familiar faces grinning with glee and the uninitiated open-mouthed, beginning with a huge, swooping bass riff from Bernie and adding layer upon layer of insidiously catchy guitar while Rhodri screams repeatedly into his fretboard. Each section is looped, drops out and is reintroduced at just the right moment, and the effect is staggering. The more these songs build on the basic looped-riff, thunderous drumming format, the more essential they get. Roll on 2010.

Joe Lally‘s name and Fugazi pedigree alone were seemingly enough to draw a pretty decent crowd for a cold, wet Monday night, though how many of them knew what to expect from his solo material is a different matter. His two solo albums to date (neither of which, he cheerfully remarks, he’s brought with him) flew under the radar for many, but owe more to the spirit of his old band than Ian Mackaye’s work in the Evens has. It’s probably a sign one should leave the house more to say that a bassist’s style can be instantly recognisable, but as with Mike Watt it’s true of Lally; a relaxed, almost zenlike calm falls across him as he picks out nimble, head-nodding patterns accompanied by skittering percussion and the fascinating, atonal guitar of Elisa Abela. Head bowed, almost oblivious, Abela coaxes rumbling drones, squeaks and clicks from her instrument, leaving Lally’s bass to take the lead, and with his spare, quiet vocals intruding little there’s a lovely spaciness to it all. It can get a little one-paced, and his personable banter loses some of the crowd as the clock ticks past 11.30, but it’s refreshing stuff and further proof that in your rock music, as with your sandwiches, there’s plenty of ways to do the same thing.

I’m wary of starting a review of a fairly well-attended gig, headlined by a band who few present will have heard much of beforehand, with a moan. But hey, it’s never stopped me before. People! If you’ve come out early and paid your fiver for three bands, why disappear completely before 9.00? You might miss something you’d love! I mean, enduring mediocrity for the sake of it is daft, but at least give the rest of the bill a chance. Ah well.

Anyway, praise is due for Kutosis‘ approach to this midweek jaunt; first-on local bands can get a raw deal, but not with Loose, and when you sense a band hasn’t bothered promoting their own gig it’s a bit disheartening. Kutosis, though, have enthusiastically badgered dozens of people to come out early in support. Good form, and the band play a blinder in their first Cardiff gig since playing Reading and Leeds festivals. Their former eyes-front ramalama style has been changed up a little, Ian starting off guitarless and revelling in some light posing, and the songs themselves have more toughness, tricks and turns these days. Snappy, catchy punk-pop recalling Mo-Ho-Bish-O-Pi with a dash of Jarcrew noise thrown in.

Wonderswan are a very late-decade affair; one of a bunch of young UK bands who ape, often note-for-note, the best and brightest of US early 90s slacker-pop and coat it with a layer of crunch and dynamics that those originals shied away from. After a red-herring opening instrumental more muscular and Mudhoney-heavy than anything that follows, they turn into a faithful Pavement tribute. The two guitarists settle into that studied, floppy-limbed slacker template, the vocalist pitches his mid-Atlantic mumble just so and the guitar lines ape Slanted & Enchanted to a tee. It’s not a bad thing, just not one you feel they should stick too slavishly to without developing. Early days though, and they are entertaining for all that; the bassist has bizarrely opted to play offstage, and he spends the set strafing imaginary foes with the neck of his bass. The drummer looks like a Halloween pumpkin carved into the shape of Mark Arm.

“Lo-fi pedigree”. Oxymoronic, maybe, or just plain moronic. Sic Alps bring it, though; a San Francisco indie label owner and an ex-member of Coachwhips, and their recorded output has fuzzed-up tunes and tape-splicing experiments in equal measure. They’re joined here, though, by Comets On Fire man Noel von Harmonson, and that’s a big clue to their hugely appealing live sound. The splintered, two-minute noise-pop tunes owe as much to Nuggets-era West Coast psychedelia as anything else, and the convergance of the two and the easy likeability they give off in playing it are hugely infectious. It’s a nifty lesson in how to present a largely unknown touring band, giving the more ho-hum moments from those albums the elbow and not only keeping the remaining punters interested but winning plenty of converts.  See?  They just needed a bit of patience, people.

The hardcore kids look wary of Islet. Jumping on chairs and banging percussion instruments over the whole venue could equal zany hipsters I guess. In their fevered intensity and devastating noise attack though they have no equal; the best band in South Wales, easy. Islet make a dense and hard to categorise racket: lots of wailing and shouting going on, bursts of angular din, bass like an angry Zeppelin, rudimentary keyboard and guitar holding it all down. They take it up several levels by playing like a cult channelling demons, like their hair’s on fire – yeah, I think they mean it.

Anything less is, well, less. Harbour are dedicated to their grumpy hardcore for sure, but without the killer fun element of someone like Shitty Limits, they force me into an anthropologist’s outfit, splitting the crowd along tribal lines (I know, I’m a twat). People who appreciate gruff barking via classic attack pose dig it, subtlety lovers look elsewhere. Harbour hit hard in short diamond bursts, and their bassist wields his guitar like a crazy scimitar, but it’s a set that only sporadically impresses.

Lovvers somehow manage to synthesise all of tonight’s rock elements into one stupidly good wave of fun, while essentially playing the same song over and over. Having singer Shaun strap on a guitar for almost the whole set limits the audience molestation aspect  little, but the sexy, drunk zombie component remains: eyes rolling and head lolling over endless slices of garage fuzz goodness. It’s deceptively shambolic, with oddly classy vocal echo, but mostly it’s unstoppable party pop, a weird cloud of yob tunage and snot cool. They bash through an awesome cover of ‘What Do I Get’ by the Buzzcocks to finish, but that’s just rubbing it in really.

The last time Banjo Or Freakout played Cardiff their ace widescreen swirl and drone was wasted on a minuscule Clwb Ifor Bach crowd. “What is it with the people here?” I remember the confused Italian guitarist asking. “Do they always sit on chairs against the wall?” Well, sometimes. I get the feeling I’m still in a minority here, but basically: ALL YOU PEOPLE ARE WRONG AND THIS BAND ARE GREATAND I LOVE THEM AND I’M GOING TO KIDNAP THEM AND MAKE THEM PLAY FOR ME IN MY HOUSE IN THEIR PANTS. Banjo Or Freakout set up layers of guitar and keyboard noise, switch between them every other moment, introduce intermittent pounding drums, and, for some reason, turn on a small portable TV for their last song. Banging freakout shoegaze: I hope it catches on.

For this gig’s preview I said Times New Viking sounded like kittens being thrown down stairs. They don’t really, unless we’re talking particularly tuneful kittens. What we have instead is some super efficient pop band, given to burying melodic thrills in distortion, fidgety momentum and sheer volume. Primitive drums, keyboard and guitar stab each other repeatedly, always on some unstoppable forward motion: even between songs drummer Adam gabbles relentlessly while his bandmates fiddle noisily. Songs splutter or take off, mostly the latter, and usually dead short. It’s the band and set as a whole rather than their individual songs that slays here: Matt And Kim’s bug eyed, way cooler older siblings, messy and serious. We mug the merch guy.