Awesome, Jail Weddings are back!

Ok, they’re not back, they never actually went away, I just lost track for a while (since I last wrote anything about them in 2009, shit!), but it’s like I just accidentally ran into an old pal. By happy chance I stumbled over Pitchfork mentioning a new track and I’ll be damned if it’s not just chuffing lovely. Gabriel’s deranged crooner vocal has still got it, the band has still got the strength in depth and is still made up of about a bazillion members, and all seven minutes of this track fly by in a whirl of cocktail-bar velvet banques, cigarette ash, and sharp tailoring. Yeah, this one’s going on repeat.

You know what else? That name’s still fucking BRILLIANT, too.

Further Reading: Jail Weddings

Even I’m a bit embarrassed about that headline, sorry.

First off, I straight-up fucking *love* Bloods. When I arrived in Oz, they were only a few months old, and they were one of the first bands I really actually discovered for myself, rather than being pointed to them by locals or friends. It was one of those finds that  made me start to really  love the local scene over here. And just SO much fun live, too.

For anyone who’s met me, it won’t come as any kind of roaring surprise why Bloods tickle my fancy, sounding as they do like Joey Ramone’s personal steam train full of drunken teenagers. They’re now soon to release – hurray! – their debut vinyl single  ’Goodnight’ (go get it here, kids) and you can catch it on their bandcamp or via the Y0uTube embed (sound only) below. I’ve even stuck a Spotify link down there for any of you with that installed (not many in Oz I’m guessing, but you never know).

I’ll no doubt be banging on about Bloods for some time to come, so you’ve had fair warning – but I figure I’m justified. You know when you listen to a record and if you shut your eyes you can actually hear the smiles on everyone faces? Yeah, that.

Further Reading: Bloods Bandcamp

I doubt Howler would agree with me, but for those among us who prize both the craft writing about as well as making music, Jazz Monroe’s jeremiad against mediocrity for Drowned In Sound is about as good a record review as you’re likely to ever read.

I know, I’m weird like that – I really and truly do get as much of a kick out of reading a well-formed piece of music writing as finding a well-written piece of music, but honestly, this is just on another level. Especially so, since you consider it’s not coming from the “professional”  sorts of places you’d expect it to – The Atlantic, New Yorker, Rolling Stone, these are the playgrounds in which writers indulge themselves every now and again by deigning to write about daft little subjects like music.

It’s far more than the precision-tooled mauling it appears. It’s a sincere blast against three-out-of-five bands, against masking a lack of talent behind a curtain of beige flacidity, against – frankly – not being fucking good enough. My favourite bit:

“Ours is a violently apathetic, mediocre generation, and as such, it deserves gods, poets and eccentrics for figureheads. Feisty as, oh, a vicar’s washing basket, America Give Up is music for people who think guitar music is dead. Music, without doubt, for people who, whether before or past their time, have given up on music. It’s a lop-sided sex routine in the washed-out toilets of a washed-up toilet venue. It’s McDonald’s apple pie and series three of The OC and Cool Original Doritos without dip on an innocuous sick day”

Anyway, go and read it, it’ll make you worry a bit, especially if you’re in a band. Then go away and work out how to improve what you do, and make it so good that even Jazz Monroe would like it.

You know that debate about whether music criticism is still valid? Over.

The New Yorker’s done a playlist of Thatcher songs (which is quite good, so you should read that too) but it reminded me of this S*M*A*S*H track.

For those of you too young to remember, this lot lasted about five minutes, made Welwyn Garden City famous for slightly less than that, upset some people for liberal usage of (gasp!) sweary words and released this track – their only good one – on a single that was promptly deleted the next day. I say it’s their only good track, but actually the Gunshot remix on the flipside was EPICALLY good, and much, much more menacing. But, since no-one’s put that one up on Youtube yet, this will have to do.

In case anyone else is feeling nostalgic, Taylor Parkes’ 1994 interview with them is – all at the same time – a chilling reminder of those dark musical days, a standout piece of music journalism, and hilarious.

I hated this lot as a teenager (that manufactured NWONW scene made me feel a bit sick), but it makes me smile now – it even sounds a bit sweet these days, the excitable little rapscallions.

Amid the usual torrent of guff that the world and their civil partners are writing about PJ Harvey, Tune-Yards and all the other more famous folk coming to the Sydney Festival, AA Bondy‘s getting a bit overlooked. Let’s correct that shall we? Excellent.

I’d only heard snippets of him before catching him live, on a scorching back patio at SXSW (at the very awesome Donewaiting blog’s party, pictured) a few years ago. In the blazing sunshine with just him, his guitar, a microphone and what looked like a generously-measured tumbler of whiskey, it was one of the most quietly brilliant gigs I’ve seen, not just at SXSW – where the mad little shows come thick and fast – but anywhere. Not a show to kick your stomach in, or to blow your eardrums or your mind, but it’s been one of those times-spent-with-music that has just stuck out in my mind like a rough-throated hangnail ever since, and not just for the really drunk local who kept urging Bondy to run for President.

He’s doing two nights in Sydney during the Festival, his first ever visit to Oz, and I am going to take the virtually risk-free step of guaranteeing that he’ll be so fucking excellent that you’ll take that sniffy expression, cry all over it, and watch it disintegrate in the salty wash.

Seriously, it’ll happen just like that.

He’s not just coming for the weather though (and right now, that’s a fucking good job too – summer my arseless chaps) since his latest long-player’s out, which makes you obliged to buy it. It’s called Believers and it should make any right-thinking folk’s list. Maybe it’s the crack in the voice, or the trem in the guitar, or the warbling steel, or the fact it’s so rich and brown and peeling at the edges that it’s either the equivalent of an old photo of your cowboy grandfather or a piece of the best cake ever… no fooling, it’s a fine, fine piece of work. Take a listen and tell me the show won’t kill you stone fucking dead.

So, no then – I’m not really brooking any other opinions here, or looking for outside counsel of any kind. You know why? Because I’m fucking dead right, is why. You’d better buy the tickets now, just to be safe, like.

AA Bondy – The Heart Is Willing by fatpossum

Photo credit: Praise Bettie

I’ve been idly nosing around some of the session sites out there, and there’s some awesome work out there at the moment, none more so than Slow Club’s frozen session for They Shoot Music, Don’t They. I like to think that – if it was a race – we made Slow Club even colder than this when we caught them a couple of years back in Anstruther, Scotland for Off The Beaten Tracks, but it sure appears that they’ve forgotten how bloody cold it’s possible to get during a couple of takes in the open air by the sea.

Two lovely, lovely tracks captured here from one of my favourite bands of recent years – with or without the frosted coating, they’re still the sweetest little rascals around.

[See the originals at They Shoot Music, Don't They, who also have LOADS of other awesomeness for you to enjoy with your eyes and mind]

Just a quick one, since I can’t help but stare at anything to do with that Lulu car-crash - The Telegraph has got an interview with LouLars, which is the only one I’ve seen done post-release, not pre-. As a result, Lou’s on his spikily best form:

“You know a lot of time these guys that interview us, they think they’re more literate than I am. That would be a real bad mistake,” he snarls, having misinterpreted a question to locate offence where none was intended. “Don’t kid yourself about me, you know what I’m saying? I’m not a good guy to f—- with.”

Chuckle.

Anyway, he goes on to show that – contrary to all utterances and appearances – he might actually have a human soul underneath all those folds of skin and grumpiness, and for that alone it’s worth a read.

Ultimately, though, while that record was a serious candidate for possibly the maddest, weirdest and worst record ever written, and while Metallica still make me laugh like a drain any time they say, do or play anything, I still can’t bring myself to dislike Lou Reed. He’s a miserable, contrarian, arrogant pseud who would benefit, as a human being, from being roundly humiliated every now and again, but you can’t deny that the bloke’s got balls the size of family Volkswagens.

I really like that even though he’s clearly the Mr. Burns of Rock, he’s still got the sheer moxie to go through with this sort of madness, even though literally everyone in the world (who isn’t in Metallica) must have said to him he was off his cakehole and to just go back to bed for a bit.

Sadly for all concerned – alright, mainly me – I had no idea you’d need actual accreditation to take photos at this, so apologies for the lack of pics. Serves me right for not checking, and for having totally gotten used to just showing up at shows back in Edinburgh and merrily snapping away regardless. Serves me right, lesson learned.

I also learned tonight though that Felicity Groom is chuffing excellent live. While the few other folk I know here had all bundled off to Homebake, I was left scrabbling around looking for something to see on Saturday night, and took a bit of a punt on this. Cursory glances at an entertaining video shot in a kids playground and a quick scan of the player on her facebook page singled it out as worth a nod, but I honestly wasn’t expecting much. That served me right, too.

Flitting between solo acoustic and full band numbers, it’s a little scorcher of a set, cracked and slightly bonkers, veering wildly all over the road and hanging its head out of the window. It’s been a while since I saw Edinburgh’s Jesus H Foxx in the flesh, but they were channelled here tonight, with inventiveness and lunacy and glee spilling out all over the floor in great big lumps – there was even a big dollop of acapella for good measure.

Elsewhere, sharp snaps of noise buttress Groom’s killer lungs – you find yourself wanting to choke on the name, but it’s bloody hard not to think of Florence when she howls. Better though, obviously. Or - at least – as good as when Florence was actually good, if you get my drift. Closer ‘Finders & Keepers’ – the one from the playground – is just a bloody glory.

“I’m going to take you on a journey”, Groom announces at the start. I’ve no idea where we went, but for damn sure it wasn’t where I expected to end up. Happily lost, what a singular pleasure.

So I finally get round to my first gig in Sydney (or in Australia, or in the southern hemisphere for that matter) last night, featuring Kill City Creeps at the last night of their month-of-Saturdays residency here. Strange place, The Beresford – it seems to be packed to the rafters with average Saturday night folk as well as those out for the gig itself, which makes it both an odd mix of a crowd and rammed full of absolutely hammered women dancing like goons. More gigs should be like this, clearly – especially as (I’d guess) most of those dancing wouldn’t normally pick beefy glam-ish stomping, or blues-y Jesus & Mary Chain fuzz as their normal Saturday night soundtrack.

Nice to see that it can take La Blogotheque just as long as the rest of us amateurs to turn sessions round, with this WU LYF performance in a dank Parisian cave from June. I’m still undecided on WU LYF, but this video’s a proper little smasher – the monotone claustrophobia of the venue and the camera-shy schtick of the band both get the best out of Blogotheque’s trademark (and peerless) tight-in camerawork – you can’t shake the feeling that this is a very difficult band to see, which works on a number of levels.