Possibly the shyest person ever to walk through Newport, Midori Hirano sits behind her table and lets things snowball slowly. The amalgamation of sounds she produces starts so quietly the usual crowd chatter feels part of the enveloping soundscape, but give it a few minutes, with barren piano notes looped and crunched together, delicate vocals floating amongst them,and knockout beauty emerges. Kind of impossible to describe without coming over all Jilly Goolden and letting rip with the gradually melting iceberg imagery, Hirano creates music of chilly gorgeousness, keyboard and laptop conflagrations of no little wonder.

Dirty Goods. Ah.

For all the kit and effort on show from Max Tundra, the thought that keeps bouncing around my brain is “You funny little man”. No finer sight than a small balding dude, dancing on the spot, becoming ElectroPrince, and sometimes the tunes reach the same heights too. Ben Jacob’s winning pop is a selection box of homemade, wonky charms, brightly coloured keyboard noises and malfunctioning Spectrum beats, but the real fun is in how much is invested in the performance. There is excitable stomping in the vocal gaps, random grabs for a recorder or other sonic toys every few minutes, arms and falsetto reaching to the audience like lost friends. Clone him by the thousand and sort Britain out: a superlative festival’s happy endpoint.

Anyway, this is No Bad Vibes night. Agaskodo Teliverekdon’t so much turn that frown upside down as spray paint it green and deep fry it in beer batter. Singer Hiroe Takei emerges Ring-like onto the stage in hoodie and impenetrable veil of hair and spends the set as the grinning focal point of AT’s pointillist noisepop rush. It’s the perfect synthesis of band and frontwoman: both are chaotic, cheeky, waywardly brilliant and fizzing on some childlike energy. Weekend drinkers wander up the stairs: Hiroe drinks from their glasses and shakes their hands. There is keytar abuse, but there are also songs that atomise guitar pop, rescrambling riffs and forcing them through electronic mangles. Best song? ‘The Gay Hussar’ – three minutes of repetitive, serrated rhythm with a wailing banshee adding random vocal sounds by whacking her own larynx. Give them a trophy.

Halfway through Snorkel‘s set of killer instrumentals, they drop in a slow, moody piece. This may be a mistake on a Saturday night in Newport. “You’re shit…” mingles with the dub. Prior to and after this they mine a great seam of spy flick-addled music that darts nimbly over heavy bass weight and roughly added live trombone. If you’re in a hurry: like Bass Clef covering Pram. If not: these four Londoners layer darkly propulsive, cinematic noise with stoic intent and glum faces, and have a keyboard player that looks and jigs like Chris Martin. Get it in yer.

Which brings us back to crowding round a sweating, drumming male torso. Publicist is the nom du rhythm of Sebastian Thomson, sticksman for Trans Am and Weird War. Naming his previous employers doesn’t do much for clarity though: Thomson’s MO is frazzled, monomaniacal disco, where barely there vocodered vocals ride over endless variations on “groovy”. That’s uptempo, solid backbone groovy by the way, and pretty decent as it goes. Semi-nudity, live tromboning and superlative Frenchmen are par for the course this month though. You can have it all if you want.

InteriorMonologue:

Scotty: I liked two things about Heirs very much – One: A drummer who looked like he hated every single person in the audience; I applaud that kind of attitude. Two: A guitarist that spent an inordinate amount of time tuning a guitar which only made a noise rather than any discernible notes - this sound is generally known as the sound of the end of the world.

InteriorMonologue: Heirs are amazing.  It’s not really post-rock, more post-industrial-feedback-noise-core.  Or Something.  Scotty’s right, the guitarist basically had a million effects pedals that allowed him to make a massive racket.  He also looked exactly like Hugh Cornwell on the cover of The Stranglers’ Black & White.  The drummer looked a bit like Jack from Future Of The Left.  Only more psychotic.  He didn’t move his head.  Or make facial expressions of any kind.  I should probably mention that the other guitarist was wearing a leather waistcoat and glove combo.  And a moustache.  Genius.

InteriorMonologue: The Night Terrors had a theremin player.  He was also the bass player.  A really, really fucking good bass player.  Thirdly, he was Meze Festival’s second giant.  I have no idea how to describe their sound, another amazing drummer, fuzzy, loud, rhythmic bass and keyboards that somehow made it sound almost poppy.  They ended with Faith No More’s Woodpeckers From Mars.  Brilliant, I pitied the headliners.
Scotty: People are going to obsess over the Theremin aren’t they? They shouldn’t.

InteriorMonologue: I needn’t have worried, Electric Electric are astonishing.  Genre?  Who the fuck knows.  I guess if you like Battles and Fuck Buttons then you need to see this band.  Fuck it, go to France.  Synth/keyboard player again wove his magic around the third absurdly talented drummer of the evening.  The guitarist stopped, started, fucking rocked, and if memory serves me right, sang something.  With his voice.  Of course, we were all deaf by then so I can’t be sure.  Amazing show.

Scotty:  I text a mate during the gig to tell him I might have just seen the best live band I have seen this year (and this is a year in which I saw Magnolia Electric Co.) He told me they had a ‘wafty’ name. I told him they were French. He then decided they had the best name ever. That’s a true story.

PASSION PIT (DJ SET)
http://www.myspace.com/passionpitjams
A member of Passion Pit is calling in during their European Tour to spin some electro, house, disco & techno.

MAX TUNDRA (DOMINO RECORDS)
http://www.myspace.com/maxtundra
“A whole other world of pop music – an absolutely unique, enchanting, and irreplaceable vision” – Pitchfork

“This year has bubbled and bleeped with the sound of bedroom electronica that harks back to the past, but the third album by Max Tundra is the most joyful of all. A pop tour de force, bursting with bright, bouncy hooks” – The Guardian

DIRTY GOODS
http://www.myspace.com/dirtygoods
“80′s influenced electro-pop suggestive of Prince, Chromeo, MRSKRFT and Kanye West; could see this getting picked up” – Buzz Magazine, March 2009

MIDORI HIRANO (JAPAN)
http://www.myspace.com/midorihirano
Midori Hirano from Japan was one the early Meze Festival Top Picks!!! Beautiful soundscapes that mix organic instruments with digital beats & bleeps. Minimal in its approach but with a mighty output.

THE LITTLE DEATHS (recently added)
http://www.myspace.com/lildeathsnewport
The Little Deaths are soon now to begin their much over due debut ep – with only some demo’s about, most of their reputation as an “up and coming” local band come from those who have seen them perform live. This is the last chance to see them playing South Wales for quite some time.

THURSDAY 29TH OCTOBER
MEZE LOUNGE
8PM – 3AM
£5

online tickets:
https://www.wegottickets.com/event/58465

or available at Spillers / Diverse / Meze Lounge

for full into regarding the month festival in association with The Joy Collective, see http://www.mezefestival.co.uk

Thursday must indeed start with Science Bastard shaking the roof tiles at the all-new Chapter. Then head into town, where a Shape label special is highly tempting, starting with the frenzied kitchen-sink jumble of Them Squirrels. Spread the love, though, as beyond Dempseys lies Zwolf‘s crunchy electro (or The Death Of Her Money‘s epic, spiralling post-metal) within mere feet. Three Trapped Tigers do what numerous pallid Foals-alikes on the Swn bill signally fail to, and blend rave-era keyboard lines, awesomely huge dubstep bass farts and glitchy post-rock to superb effect. Do. Not. Miss. Either Gold Panda‘s noisy fx wash or Team Brick‘s uncategorisable throat singing/noise attack will be a fine follow-up, and if you manage all of that AND Cardiff’s best new band (TM) Islet then you’ll have played a blinder already by 9.30. Wild Beasts at the Gate will be an alien pop joy, but you might well have to commit to it early to see them. As an alternative, stay on Womanby Street for whatever it is DJ Scotch Egg’s Devil Man brings. Let’s face it, the man does not let us down. Not Cool trade in a pretty snappy popcore thrash, before rounding off the night with Zun Zun Egui‘s Bristolian blend of prog noodling, doom heaviness and East African pop.

Friday‘s starting point could depend on your location; Eastsiders will be well served by Vito‘s long-absent slow-building epics and Our Brother The Native‘s twinkly folk jams. The Canton faction should get off to a flier with the redoubtable Peppermint Patti’s early evening bill of righteous shout-pop (King Alexander), swoonsome torchsong and sea shanty (Barefoot Dance Of The Sea) and utterly ace Raincoats-style post-punk (Wet Dog). Haste ye then to Y Fuwch Goch for the always magnificent Sweet Baboo‘s countrified folk singalongs. There’s a lull thereafter, to be honest, but you could do worse than Cymdeithas yr Hobos Unig‘s messy DIY clatter followed by joining the heaving ranks of The Kids for Johnny Foreigner‘s breathless, sugar-rush indie rock. I might well be seeking solace in the haunting acoustica of Tom Brosseau though, especially as he forms a tempting one-two with increasingly winning anthemicists The Twilight Sad. Whichever pairing works for you, don’t miss riotous Leeds nutbars Pulled Apart By Horses – the best crowd-interferers of recent times – followed by 45 minutes on tiptoes craning your neck for a look at Girls. The band, dummy. There’s still arch electronica gems from Daedelus, and Mary Anne Hobbs to bring the night to an end with what could, based on her recent Planet Mu compilations, be a storming hour of future funk and dubstep fun to shake the dregs of your last pint to.

Saturday offers the nine-to-fivers their first chance to start proceedings at a gentle pace, with a rummage around the record fayre over a spot of lunch at Chapter. Allo, Darlin‘s Francophone twee-pop should be a charming musical start early doors, care of Loose‘s third annual Swn alldayer; see them then head to the City Arms to regain some mental faculties over scrabble and the psychedelic wonders of Pete Fowler’s record box. Get some culture at the literary gathering in the Vulcan (including author Rhys Thomas, plugged here as he’s my ex-housemate’s brother) or at ‘Datblygu Uber Alles!’ at the Toucan – not sure what exactly the latter entails but the name bodes well. I’m all for all-male indie fanboy Kenickie tribute acts, so shoot me. My harrowing singing along there done with, it’s a dash to town for Cate Le Bon‘s tried and tested folk-rock gorgeousness before returning for the joyful, inclusive POP madness of Dananananaykroyd‘s wall of hugs. Minotaur Shock‘s chiming acoustica, the so-hot-right-now wide-eyed surf pop of The Drums and a triumphant closing Gate set from Los Campesinos! would all be fine ways to spend one’s time, but sod that – it’s the penultimate Broken Family Band show, and I’m having a sing and a tiny cry. Then trying to get in to see Right Hand Left Hand dismantle the centre of Cardiff from within.

Sunday brings talk of free breakfast, Voice Of the Seven Woods and, for all I know, complimentary neck massage at Gwdi Hw, before I insist everyone join me in OTT in Newport for stoner titans Hey Colossus, local man Lt Meat (backed, in a one-off supergroup, by Kutosis), Exit International and your pals Gindrinker. What better way to round off three days of whirlwind gig-going than one more gig? Right? RIGHT.

More Meze treats for your undeserving ears. The last time Agaskodo Teliverek played South Wales their singer was seven months pregnant. She may not be this time. They were though, absolutely sodding brilliant, an amazing mess of weird noises and screeching set to a riotous party beat, like a bomb in a Dulux factory. Miss them and you deserve to be struck by lightning.

AGASKODO TELIVEREK

Agaskodo Teliverek (meaning rearing stallions in Hungarian!) are a London based Japano-Hungarian-Swedish-Scottish-Nepalese four-piece, featuring guitarists Miki Kemecsi, Tamas Szabo, Hiroe Takei on vocals and latest member Pharoah S. Russell on drums. They produce a unique mashed-up style of guitar based music which they call “Psycho Goulash”, combining Dick Dale-esque guitar riffage with manic electronic beats and screeching vocals. Since releasing their self titled debut album (2006 ADAADAT) they have extensively toured the UK & Europe playing alongside acts like Les Georges Leningrad, Trencher, DAT Politics, J.G. Thirlwell, Max Tundra, Lightning Bolt, and also been Damo Suzuki’s (Can) as part of his never-ending tour.

“AGASKODO TELIVEREK are wierd, they make frantic, electronic guitar concoctions, wear matching body hugging football uniforms… all of these things, however, somehow combine to create a super cool off-the-wall dream team of fun.” – DAZED & CONFUSED

“Their self-titled debut attains a level of self conscious wrongness so wholly woven into it’s own fabric it resembles a gourmet meal in the shape of a flesh-eating virus” – PLAN-B MAGAZINE

“Agaskodo Teliverek are so far removed from modern cliché’s that it’s as if they spike you with a special Hungarian Acid” – ARTROCKER

“Like Val Valentino revealing the secrets of the Magic Circle, AGASKODO seem to break what could be indulgent guitar solos down to the simplicity they are really built from, creating playful pop riffs layered like three-minute flirtations with Yes. “ – DROWNED IN SOUND

“They claim to be ‘an ordinary bunch of Hungarian accountants’. Accountants with a hideous seething pit of  weirdness just below the surface of their sensible day-to-day exteriors.” – ORGAN

Link: Official Website

Link: Some Very Colourful Photos

Record Label: Adaadat Records / Midfinger / Fantome

THE CLAY

The Clay are brothers Anthony & Jonathan Hill, along with Dougie Humphries form Newport’s newest trio who released their debut single on London subsidiary of the industry giants Sony BMG -1965 Records back last year. The band also bagged with BBC 6 Music airplay and a Radio One session and significant airplay on indie network ‘XFM’ and on several other stations on different continents including Japan and America.

The band are in the studio writing and recording for the next quarter. Next year we should see a debut tour and release in Japan and in the UK.

Link: Official Website

please note: SHAPES / BOBBIE PERU were originally also on the bill but due to live curfew restrictions this night, it has to be just the two bands.

for full into regarding the month festival in association with The Joy Collective, see http://www.mezefestival.co.uk

BusinessKeith:

Saesneg: No sooner had I gotten my third lager of the evening had the lead singer of the Sick Livers (props: large quiff, one hairspray aerosol can, black shirt) assaulted Vivers with a rockabilly torrent comparable to a jet engine firing and taking off in his face. Once Mr Livers eased himself from the Steen he leaped onto the nearest bench and repeated his yelping, before entering into an endless semi-circle marathon jog with Duracell bunny efficiency. If there’s a word that defines the Livers, it’s effort. The other might be shameless – the band don’t care about the obvious age gap between them, others on the bill and the audience, and probably have “if you’re going to form a middle aged rock band, you should form a rock band” tattooed into their chest. Could we expect to see them on the next Sweet Baboo/Cate Le Bon bill? Unlikely, but you’ll rarely see a band so totally unpretentious and eager to please in the Cardiff scene. Not like this lot, anyway.

Vivers: It’s a night of bodily fluids. Spit and spunk are everywhere, metaphorical or not. At the front is where the action is, whether that’s being groomed for a knee-trembler by Sick Livers, or watching Louis Limits in his natural habitat: pacing a small crowd space, going feral to yobbed-up snot punk. The rest of Shitty Limits may as well be shaved robots for all I care; as long as they keep firing out the grey lumps of hardcore for their singer to ricochet off, no harm can happen. There’s furious alchemy here, bleak elements of US and UK harsh music stolen and rammed through into a triumphant whole, one big blur that sounds weirdly brainy even though you can’t hear the words. You can dance to it too, sort of. Your wet face beaming.

Vivers

InteriorMonologue:  Anyone who knows me knows that I have a thing for female violinists.  I can’t help it.  Cat Matador have one, as do Cats & Cats & Cats.  Marvellous.  I really like Cat Matador from what I’ve heard on myspace and while I like them live too, it doesn’t quite translate.  It’s like they wanted to do more than is actually possible with 4 people on a stage.  Also, the drummer was wearing a vest – the official singlet of Meze Festival 2009.

Vivers:  Halfway through the Muscle Club‘s set two members unbutton their shirts to reveal glorious sweaty vests. It’s a heartstoppingly erotic moment on a par with slicing your knuckles on a cheesegrater. A little too easy to dismiss these Cardiff pups as a yelpy fart cloud; trouble is, there’s not much else here to suggest otherwise. Rawk meets Los Campesinos!, fully committed hollering meets terminal lack of substance. Someone mentions the resemblance between the bassist and a Frankie Goes To Hollywood, uh, member. Please, please, please Muscle Club, for your next gig include a fat man pissing on you. Would go down well in Buffalo.

InteriorMonolgue:  Fuck me, Vivers clearly had some angry pills slipped into his slightly weird tasting Tuborg before The Muscle Club hit the stage.  Admittedly this isn’t the best I’ve seen them but I like their brand of punky indie.  Vivers’ comment of ‘Rawk meets Los Campesinos!’ is pretty spot on and I guess some people like it and some don’t.  I’ve reviewed them loads before and they have developed from their Johnny Foreigner-esque beginnings.  I didn’t like the first song though.  And there were too many vests.

Vivers: Anyway, what place do bands like Cats & Cats & Cats spring from? Hard to believe there was a group meeting where someone said “Let’s write songs that flit between shouty post rock, thumping waltz number, jinking indie and clattering noise every thirty seconds, with a load of violin on top. It’ll be great.” Such mutant unruliness comes from nowhere: they sound like themselves and this a very good thing. Cats x 3 (as I like to call them) may sound deceptively shambolic, but their chewy sugar rush gives me headaches in a good way.

InteriorMonologue: I agree with everything Vivers said.  I’ve booked Cats & Cats & Cats before and they were brilliant then too.  The difference this time is that word has sneaked out and there were more people there to appreciate their other wordly brilliance.  A man not too disassociated with this site said ‘he can’t sing, it sounds like hell’.  Honestly, he knows nothing and that why we don’t let him write reviews.  No vests.

Vivers: Occasional Joy Collective writer Scotty‘s opinion of Maybeshewill after five seconds: “No.” (Walks off) Occasional Joy Collective writer Scotty’s opinion of Maybeshewill at end of gig: “That was great!” What what what? Maybeshewill seem determined to adulterate their (you guessed it) post rock with dollops of metal and laptop beats, a process that sometimes yields lumpy results but mostly works towards punching you nicely in the bloody gut. They snake a big sample from the film Network into one song, elsewhere computer skitters make like 65daysofstatic. Fine credentials then, to go with the drummer’s fine BIG HEADPHONES, meaning all’s eventually, pretty fine. (Apart from the drummer’s headphones. I was lying, they look rubbish)

InteriorMonolgue:  Maybeshewill did something I’ve never seen in Meze Lounge before, they converted the talking people by the bar.  Once the Cardiff posse buggered off after Cats’ set, Maybeshewill were left with half a dozen people eagerly awaiting their epic (but not post) instrumental rock.  This was down to 5 about 20 seconds in.  Gradually though, their sheer wall of sound (but lack of murdering actresses) drew the uninitiated into the throng.  They ended with about 35 people wondering why they were standing by the stage.  Fantastic.  No vests.