LES GEORGES LENINGRAD

(Disorder Magazine, 2005. An exceptionally awesome band I managed to grab a few minutes with. What transpired was one of the most delightfully bizarre interviews I've ever conducted.)

“We are the protochemical ironclad Les Georges Leningrad. We touch everything without fear to dirt our nails and to break them right after a slow and painful slide on a school board. Our sweaters got holes in their elbows by the super power to admit our violent candour demonstrated by our grape juice moustaches.”

This was the self-introduction from Montreal’s schizoid synth-punks for their decidedly esoteric debut release ‘Deux Hot Dogs Moutarde Chou’ in 2002. Since then, attempting to find an adequate description for the intangible sounds of this extraordinary band has proved challenging for many critics. Usually, it’ll involve Lene Lovich and Cabaret Voltaire covering a Slits tune in a sewer sometime in 1982. Sure, they may share the same shambolic lo-fi nature of equally ace bands like Numbers, Erase Errata and Panico, but nothing can really prepare you for the unique onslaught of sliced-up sounds on their second album ‘Sur Les Traces de Black Eskimo.’

An opening skit, which is roughly as unnerving as a date with Papa Lazarou gives way to speaker-stripping crunches of bass and piercing screams, before the mutated dub-spasms of ‘Missing Gary’ kick in. Elsewhere, ‘Supa Doopa’ is pogo-friendly acid-punk and ‘Fifi F’ sounds like a roller disco on poppers descending into hell itself. In short, they’re exactly the kind of no-wave racketeers that you’re testosterone-free shit-for-ears neighbour (you know, the one that’s been blasting ‘X and Y’ at you through the walls all frigging summer) won’t even be capable of comprehending. Oh yes!

Poney P (“the voice of strange ill falling on a pillow like a crying knife”) has a shrill vocal delivery (weirdly, Poney’s spoken voice sounds just as distorted on Disorder’s tape recorder) that jostles for space above layers of noise. Mingo L’Indien (“the mysterious melodist on the Spain warpath”) is usually masked and responsible for the electronics and guitars. Bobo Boutin (“the crowd beater and the great boiling theorist”) is the sole destroyer of drums.

Currently in the middle of a lengthy club tour, they’ve been exposing the uninitiated to their freakish live spectacle all over Europe. With a penchant for dressing in the costumes of superheroes and Mexican wrestlers, smeared cosmetics, pie-throwing and generally fucking shit up wherever they go, Disorder corners the three of them  in a bar just minutes before a secret gig in Shoreditch and fires a few random questions at them.

How did you meet and decide to form this band?

Poney: “Back when I was a kid I was into The Addams Family and the darker stuff, so it’s part of our nature to be the darker people in the class. So I guess that these two guys were the darker people in their own class when they were kids… eh, Mr Bobo? He used to live in the hallway of his classroom. So I guess at the time we just met where the people have to stay to copy the dictionary…?"

You mean detention?

“Yeah, we met in detention… in the sky, you know?”

What kinds of things were you all into at the time?

Bobo: “Breaking cars, PCP, hyper-ventilation, peroxide, chains, Subhumans (‘EP-LP’, ‘The Day The Country Died’).”

Where does the name of the band come from?

Poney: “It’s like a found baby in the street. You see a new baby on the street in a basket with their name on? It’s accidental. I think it’s a really ugly name but that’s how we were born and we didn’t question it. It’s a bastard!”

Do you all have very varied tastes in music? What do you like listening to?

Bobo: “I only listen to American hardcore from 1980 to 1983. It’s very eclectic, ha-ha. But I’m not ashamed because I’m doing the beat so I only need to keep the rhythm. You only need anger. I’m a very laid-back person in life, so it’s time for me to release the beast when I’m on stage.”

Poney: “I watch a lot of fifties movies with the starlet moving. I like to study their moves for dancing. I like the movies of Marilyn Monroe. I’m into Yma Sumac, a famous South American singer from the sixties. She sings like a lovebird. She possesses a range of eight octaves for her voice. It means she can break glass, mirrors and windows. This is a super power for a girl. If all girls had a special voice like hers, there would be no more raping.”

So if Les Georges Leningrad were in a film what would it be like?

Poney: “French-Canadian expressionism. Cardboard decors. Real animals – donkeys, monkeys and honkeys. Special FX. Stinky bombs. Prince Charles with no ears. A Quebec Bollywood, because French-Canadian are masters of bad taste. A paradise for John Waters, the director of our movie.”

Can you tell me a bit about your relationship with the Black Eskimo and why you named your album after him?

Bobo: “He is our physically disabled mental mentor living up our North like a brain in the arse. He smoked raw tobacco and dreamed in a cloud for day and night in his cracking rocking chair. One morning he turned-in the radio on a sound like a thousand bugs – the idea of north, loneliness and solitude.”

What do you do to pass the time when you’re touring?

Bobo: “Reading on the Klu Klux Klan. Jules Verne’s ‘20,000 lieues sous les mers’ and William Blake poetry. German lessons. Making our best in postcards every day. Drawing. Dreaming. Eating foreign candies. Sleeping like baby hogs.”

Your live shows can be quite riotous. What’s the craziest experience you’ve had on stage?

Poney: “There was the bleeding in Toronto. We started the show and we didn’t realise there was some broken glass all over my keyboard from some drunken people. We started to play and all of a sudden we could really taste blood. We were nervous and people didn’t know if we were serious or not. But in that kind of situation you take a benefit from it and make it gory-gory!”

Mingo: “People were bringing us tissues while we were playing and helping us cover the wounds because the gashes were always bleeding.”

Poney: “People were like, ‘Why?’ because they didn’t know us. They were very scared.”

What’s the best description of your sound for someone who hasn’t heard your records?

Poney: “Nails on a chalkboard. A crow in heaven. Waterfalls in hell. After the White Stripes, it’s the black dots. The polka-dots!”

Mingo: “Snow-wave. It’s what you will never hear from Michael Jackson.”

Lots of people find the music you make quite abrasive, but do you think there should be a place in the mainstream for the type of music Les Georges Leningrad make?

Mingo: “There is a place everywhere for Les Georges. We are preachers for the old people and for the blank. We are fishing the furry trout.”

BOLT ACTION FIVE

(from MySpace Unsigned, Disorder Magazine, 2007)

Meet four mis-matched young individuals from East London that’ve spent the past 12 months shit-kicking their way through venues from Islington to Lewisham. There’s Tobias (the geetar-wielding out-metalling metaller), Dan The Carnivore (singer, manic dancer and firestarter), Ian (yelling bass player in charge of weird flashing boxes) and Mark (mad-eyed and maker of schizoid techno noise). They don’t want you to turn up and stare at your pints. They want you to get involved, raid the dressing-up box, dance and grin like loons to their irresistible screaming infernos. Oh, and that elusive fifth member? That’ll be the drum machine. Actually, they have four, all of which replaced a now-sectioned human one. Four, they have discovered, is too many to fit inside one Fiesta.


Influenced by The Jackson Five, MC5, The Furious Five (but, we’re guessing maybe not Five Star), they’re well deserving of the adulation that’s so far been poured on them, not least of all from Disorder faves Hadouken! in a recent blog entry;


“Wouldn't it be wicked if there was a band out there that combined the racy live feeling of British Indie rock with the digital square synthesis and 808 claps of Grime music? Hadouken tried it, but Bolt Action Five did it better.”



www.myspace.com/boltactionfive

LIVE 8

(from 'Year In Review', Disorder Magazine, Dec 2005)

Twenty years ago Sir Bob Geldof urged the world to respond to the plight of starving Africans. A sea of mullets duly obliged, eager to get their purses out and cleanse their consciences in return for fleeting glimpses of the mega-rich and multi-talented (oh, and Nik Kershaw) before smugly sitting back, knowing that they’d ‘done their bit’ for another few years.



“This is not Live Aid 2,” announced Geldof this summer. “It is your voice we are after, not your money. Live 8 preceded the march on Edinburgh, just prior to the g8 summit at Gleneagles in Scotland, where Make Poverty History protesters would demand that world leaders drop the debt of Africa’s most poverty-stricken nations, double aid and negotiate fairer trade laws. So, was it worth it?






Quite how standing in a park watching UB40 would contribute to the filling of stomachs in Africa and the bringing down of evil regimes wasn’t immediately obvious, although to be fair, Geldof did attempt to silence the sceptical rather cleverly. Following the festival season’s umpteenth appearance by Johnny Borrell’s nipples, which had of course dived bono-like into the press-pit below (“All You Need Is Love. John Lennon said that… Sign the fucking petition. I said that!” Quite the philosopher, isn’t he?), those same macabre scenes from the 1985 famine bore down on the crowd, to the tune of ‘Drive’ by The Cars. Once the ravaged image of a dying child in that footage, Geldof introduced Birhan Woldu, now a healthy student with a bright future ahead of her. “Don’t let them tell us it doesn’t work,” Sir Bob implored.


But then, her senses finely tuned to sniff out any opportunity for some shameless publicity binging, none other than Madonna raced from the wings, exerted a vice-like grip upon the bewildered young woman, and proceeded to launch herself into ‘Like A Prayer’. Oh, smart move Madge. The blinding flash of cameras and a teatime-unfriendly assault of expletives ensured pole position in the Sunday papers, before the woman was virtually shoved offstage, leaving the audience to bask in their own definition of moral superiority and free to tuck back into their Harrods food hall purchases. It was a full-on diva-like moment that was possibly only eclipsed later on by a similarly egregious performance by Mariah Carey looking utterly ridiculous as ever, in a tight mini and high heels. If her horrific vocal acrobatics and constant demands for water and a mic stand weren’t enough, she brought with her a throng of genuine African kids to kiss and patronise. Interesting tactic, actually. You could almost hear the G8 leaders telephoning in their pleas: “Alright! We’ll sign up to anything! Just make her fucking stop!”






The truth is that there has always been something nauseous about the self-congratulatory rock aristocracy urging us to give more to the poor. After all, in the concert’s aftermath, it became painfully clear that the immediate beneficiaries were not the starving in Africa. On the Monday following Live 8, Disorder spent much of its lunch hour, as usual, making somewhat frivolous purchases in HMV where the in-store radio station continually played key songs from the concert. HMV later reported that most of the artists on the bill had enjoyed a sales increase of over 100% on the Sunday, and, in the case of Pink Floyd, a whopping 1300% more sales. One week later, around half of the Top 20 albums were by artists who had appeared at Live 8. Obviously, pictures of starving children still sell records. And how are we supposed to react when Bill Gates – BILL GATES!!! – was wheeled on, other than, “Fuck me! Someone could mug this man and single-handedly alleviate most Third World debt in seconds!”






Of course, you’d need the heart of Ann Widdecombe to not be moved by the video sequence detailing the unimaginable suffering of AIDS-stricken youngsters which was played out during Annie Lennox’s set, but don’t images like these merely reinforce a stereotypically negative image of a continent with a begging bowl, as well as conveniently distract the viewer from the uncomfortable truth that it is largely the policies of western banks which ensure Africa’s continuing underdevelopment. Would it not, for instance, have been more effective to celebrate Africa’s musical vitality by, say, including some black music on the bill?


“So why is the bill so damn Anglo-Saxon?” argued Damon Albarn. OK, they didn’t hang a ‘No Blacks Allowed’ sign on the gate but, Snoop Dogg and Ms Dynamite aside, the Hyde Park line-up was ethnically homogenous. Even the appearance of a real-life African, Youssou N’Dour, had to be diluted with the whiter-than-white Dido. Would you rather have seen exhilarating acts like Angelique Kidjo or Kanda Bongo Man than be forced to sit through another tediously dull Velvet Revolver set? I know I would. Instead, African artists were marginalised to the Eden Project in Cornwall, a tokenistic sideshow that was largely ignored on the telly. Instead, we were confronted with a sterile parade of vacuous celebrities with no clear message beyond acknowledging the poor and urging politicians to act, and the day was dominated by insipid MOR acts of the lighters-aloft variety. Yes, we’re talking a so white that they’re almost translucent line-up of Snow Patrol, Travis, Joss Stone and, of course, Keane, a band devoid of anything so identifiable as talent. Unless breathing counts.



The highlights? Oh, so many to choose from. Elton John bashed his way through ‘The Bitch Is Back’ before visibly suffering a mild anxiety attack. But then again, so would you if Pete Doherty, clad in purple eyeliner, was stumbling towards you with a mic in one hand and a cigarette lighter in the other. The distressing sight of David Beckham introducing Robbie Williams with all the delivery of an incapacitated best man at a wedding was equally painful to watch. It was only seconds before the task was evidently proving impossible and Becks was rendered uncomfortably dumb. Ricky Gervais fell flat on his fat arse, and The Killers desperately struggled to remember how old we are supposed to believe they are when asked by Fearne Cotton what ages they were at the first Live Aid event. Sting made much of the fact that he was to perform the same two songs he had played at the original event twenty years previously (yes, The Killers – you weren’t really in diapers were you?), which were, by some remarkable coincidence, his two biggest hits. His sole contribution was to change a couple of lines from his tiresome standard ‘Every Breath You Take’ as the faces of the G8 leaders were projected onto screens behind him. Unbelievably, so in awe of this performance was he, that none other than the editor of a certain rock ‘n’ roll weekly was moved to award Sting with a five out of five in The Independent, writing that it was “… the most politically charged performance of the day.” Words fail us too, readers.



So did Live 8 make a difference? Was a set by the Stereophonics enough to stop people from checking out the Wimbledon women’s final on the other channel, let alone worry about whether Africa has the means to develop a self-sustaining economy? In the end, the G8 leaders didn’t appear to act any differently than they had intended to before the concert. Geldof and Bono wanted to play politics and cosied up to Bush and Blair, yet instead of expressing their indignation at the pitiful gestures of aid on offer, they appeared to applaud an agreement that was, at best, lacklustre. Live 8 was guilty of trivialising the serious issues for the sake of bland entertainment and ignoring the conflicts, brutal dictatorships, genocide and corruption that remain the root causes of Africa’s problems. Little was mentioned of the abolishing of trade barriers that remain exploitive in our favour and will continue to keep Africans poor, even with shameful spectacles like this.



As the chorus of ‘Hey Jude’ subsided, the multimillionaires could return home to further inflate their egos with their lavish lifestyles of country estates, limousines and private jets, and sleep that little more softly at night. The largely white, middle-class audience could file out into the streets, deluded in the belief that by wearing a single white band and doing the three-second finger-click, they had somehow become empowered to save millions of lives, and oblivious to the fact their own grotesque consumerism has probably contributed to Africa’s destitution. Still, now that now poverty is history, they can direct their attentions to finally getting that badly-needed conservatory sorted.

LIVE REVIEW - BRITNEY SPEARS

(O2 Arena, London, June 2009)

The ‘Circus’ has rolled into town, bringing with it a vast array of trapeze artists, dwarves and gymnasts, whose job would appear to be to obscure what is, despite the delivery of a handful of genius pop records, a rather uncharismatic pop star with a modest talent working her way through a bizarrely uninvolving set.


Of course she doesn’t sing. But she will ascend and descend between the rigging and three circular stages in a flying picture frame. She will cavort with scantily-clad male dancers. And she will writhe around on any piece of furniture that comes to hand. So who really cares?



The dance routines don’t exactly demand the greatest agility, and mostly seem to consist of;
1. Stride confidently across the stage and pause when cries of exultation reach climax.
2. Employ much gyrating of hips, vigorous tossing of hair and unnecessary crotch-grabbing.
3. Perform this with all the natural elegance of an overweight pole dancer.
4. Repeat the above until song ends.

The show is played ‘in the round’, meaning that you are forced to spend an inordinate amount of time confronted with the lower half of Britney’s arse cheeks rather than her face, although which of the two pulls off the more skilled performance causes some debate.


She also spends a ridiculous amount of time off stage. There are five-minute gaps in between songs where pre-recorded videos are played out and yet more circus personnel are wheeled out to mask the movement of stage apparatus and the changing of Britters into yet another selection from a seemingly endless supply of sequined bikinis. Still, it’s a chance to throw back another of those 5 quid beers which taste like they’ve been urinated into. All of this does little to tame the whooping masses, least of all the arm-flailing enthusiastic female sitting in front of me, who on several occasions comes infuriatingly close to elbowing me in the bollocks.



The encore sees a truncheon-brandishing Britney return for ‘Womanizer’, which she follows by setting fire to herself and racing through a raucous cover of ‘Nazi Punks Fuck Off’ by the Dead Kennedys. Huh? She doesn’t? Who knows? By now we’re fleeing towards the exits like rats down a sewer. There are 20,000 of us in here and only one number 188 outside. So, see ya. 

A young fan informs me on the way home that apparently there was a point in tonight’s show when Britney Spears acknowledged the audience by using her own voice, but the Jubilee line which offers the only sensible route to the O2 is closed and ensures we don’t arrive on time to witness this.

“What’s up, London?” she allegedly improvised.
And that’s it. Well, at least you know where you are with Britney don’t you?

CRYSTAL CASTLES

(one of their first UK interviews, Disorder Magazine, summer 2006)

Crystal Castles like a drink. They also like dancing and playing loud music. Skull-fuckingly loud, if they get their way with the sound guys at their gigs. If you’re a frequenter of those zeitgeist-surfing club nights around the country, you may have caught them live this summer when they came over for the obligatory trawl around the Do Club/Liars Club/Dalston crackhouse-type venues, following a couple of years of dragging themselves up from Toronto’s grimy underground. Um, quite literally it seems…



“I have a sewer job,” explains Ethin, who makes their speaker-shredding sounds on his computer. “There’s this old sewer that always gets blocked up. My job is to go down there every now and then to make sure that things are flowing freely.”


“We’ll be like… what the fuck stinks?” squirms vocalist/keyboardist Alice. “Oh it’s you, sewer boy!”


“I like having the keys to the sewer,” Ethin whispers. “I could quit but they’d probably change the lock.”






“This is all a complete accident,” begins Ethin, as he prepares to assume the role of storyteller so we can do the whole band history thing. “In 2004 I made a few songs and gave them to her to put words on but she didn’t get round to it for six months. So, in early 2005 we practised once, hit record and put them up on our MySpace page. Somehow this website called 20jazzfunkgreats (Brighton-based blogger) discovered the page and wrote that the forthcoming Crystal Castles album will be the best record of the year. And it’s like… who said there was a forthcoming album? These were just downloads for my friends.”


“From that, people around Toronto started asking us to play shows and Ricky from Alt-Delete discovered us. He told Klaxons about us, they told Milo (from Merok Records) about us and he wanted to put it out as a 7-inch. I told him that it was just a practise. I mean, we even called the song ‘Alice Practise’, and now it’s, like… a single? Like… we’re really not trying here.”


Alice is more succinct in her description of events. “It’s a walking abortion.”






There’s one woman somewhere who’s solely responsible for the unholy racket created by this pair.


“We met through a friend of Alice’s who had a crush on me,” explains Ethin in the kitchen of their record label’s HQ in London as the odd Klaxon or two potter around.


“She tagged along and I saw their band play. I noticed that her lyrics were cool so that’s how I became interested in having her sing over my songs. So, were it not for her friend liking me I would never had known she existed.


Still, here they are: rake-thin and housed inside two pairs of the skinniest black jeans available to humanity, and just a dozen or so shows into their careers.


“Back home we were just playing to our friends,” says Ethin, who tends to be hidden behind stubble, an Adidas hoodie, and, for today at least, a Les Georges Leningrad t-shirt. “At least here we’re playing to strangers. On this trip we’re gonna double the amount of shows we’ve done in our lifetime.”


As brief as their existence as a live entity has been so far, there’s still been ample opportunity for on-the-road mischief, like the time they unplugged the PA during some god-awful electro-rap act “because they just wouldn’t fucking stop,” and they’ve found time to acquaint themselves with the thuggish scum that infest our public transport system.


Alice: “There was an old man sitting behind us when we were on the bus to Nottingham who perfectly slashed one of the cans of beer I had in my bag.”


“He was so disturbed by what we were talking about that he slashed one of the cans with a knife,” confirms Ethin.


Alice: “The digital camera didn’t get fucked though. Even though it was floating around in all this shit.”






Google Crystal Castles and you’re more likely to stumble across geeky sites devoted to a Pac-Man inspired arcade game from the 80’s than a Canadian duo with beats that pummel your senses so hard it makes you want to vomit blood.


“That’s a coincidence,” says Ethin. “But yeah, that might be a problem actually. Yeah, the game ruined everything.”


That said, the band were actually named after She-Ra’s (He-Man’s sibling) home. There’s a picture of it proudly displayed on Ethin’s computer in all its pink glory. An unhealthy childhood obsession with the Masters Of The Universe, then?


“No,” replies Ethin, completely straight-faced. “But She-Ra’s home is a magical place.”


Neither of them are particularly forthcoming when it comes to influences (their MySpace page helpfully lists “murder, blank looks on girls, knives”) and Ethin will only admit to having enjoyed “the first few records by Metallica.” And although many of their tracks sample 8-bit sounds they’re hardly joystick-grabbing junkies either.


Ethin: “I hate video games, but I’m aware that the sounds from the early games are really nice. So, as soon as I got the idea for the band I went to a thrift store and tracked down an Atari computer. I bought it, took the sound chip out of it and put it inside a keyboard, so that I’d be able to control the sound.”


The result is some the gnarliest, most insanely intense sounds outside of Lebanon, with Alice hollering over the malevolent-sounding bleeps, pings and crunches of bass. A lesser publication would doubtless lump them in clumsily with any number of terminally hip bands that ever been within striking distance of a keyboard (Nu-rave? Or whatever this week’s collective term is for danceable indie acts). For now though, Ethin seems content with “Atari dance music. Well, for this year. Next year we’ll probably like… completely change our sound. This year it’s old computer games. Next year it could be something else.”






“It’s all just blocks of concrete,” says Alice, thinking about their hometown in Canada. “Buildings from the fifties that look like they were just put up overnight. It’s pretty ugly. And every sixth person you meet will be an accountant.”


But surely there are loads of great new bands tumbling out of Canada at the moment?


Alice: “When you finally find something, it’s amazing and everyone shows up, but most of the bands that are actually really good are like… fucked up.”


“Yeah, there’s some good metal hardcore bands from Toronto,” agrees Ethin, “but the electronic bands are a joke. We just defeat them without even trying.”


Cocky? Hmm… maybe. But listen, these guys are brandishing kitchen knives and may well be in league with the Princess of Power herself. Frankly, we’re in no position to argue. Disorder’s outta here.

READING FESTIVAL 2006

(Disorder Magazine, 2006)

THE LONG BLONDES



Whether wantonly perverse on purpose or not, it surely takes balls the size of watermelons to kick off your Reading debut with two B-sides and a couple of unreleased gems. But then, as Disorder’s elbowed out of the way by dozens of glammed-up girls in festival-unfriendly attire (stripy frocks, berets and stilettos?), we realise that when you’re chucking away track of the bleeding year, ‘Fulwood Babylon’, as a B-side and you’re packing future pop hits like ‘Once And Never Again’, you can pull it off in style.

GUILLEMOTS


There’s a hint of 80’s-Big Music bombast (The Waterboys, perhaps?) to Guillemots which sets them apart from most other bands on the bill this weekend. Soaring melodies seem to fly over the heads of most of their audience today, so they didn’t quite ‘do an Arcade Fire’, yet no-one can resist the giddy romp through ‘Trains To Brazil’.

GOGOL BORDELLO


Now this is surreal. You may, like us, feel the urge to vomit every time ‘Start Wearing Purple’ comes on the radio, but Gogol Bordello pull of the most insanely intense performance of the weekend. Dressed in flamboyant gypsy attire, and coming on like The Birthday Party and The Pogues at some speeded-up Ukrainian hoedown, moustachioed singer Eugene Hutz is bouncing off the front barriers like some crazed pirate.

PEACHES


Peaches has a new silver-clad all-girl rock band to play with, even if she’s forced to perform half of it with an injured cock. It was there one minute, centre-stage and magnificently erect. Then it kind of drooped and fell over. Next, we’re pretty sure we catch sight of that Mikey from Big Brother. That’s at least two dysfunctional pricks on site, then.

MYSTERY JETS


What’s great about their Reading show and the release of ‘Making Dens’ is that all of the much-written-about wackiness (pots ‘n’ pans, Eel Pie Island, Dad in band, etc.) can now take a back seat and not overshadow the tunes. Lunging headfirst into ‘The Boy Who Ran Away’ and ‘You Can’t Fool Me Dennis’, they’ve triumphantly channelled their pastoral musical influences into something evidently more pop than prog.

BROMHEADS JACKET


“If you get the choice, don’t ever drink Carling,” warns the Bromheads frontman as they take to the, ahem, Carling Stage. “It tastes like shit.” Running through their likeable Streets-like tales of drunken lairiness, they save ‘What Ifs And Maybes’ for a guitar-smashing finale.

PRIMAL SCREAM


So which Scream Team do you prefer? The malevolent, techno-touting anti-consumerists from the turn of the decade, or the brown-sugary clichéd rockunrollers that drive themselves to excess on ‘Riot City Blues’? Whatever, whilst they may miss Kevin Shields’ ability to make the most timid of noises sound like the end of the world, there’s still room for a thunderous ‘Shoot Speed Kill Light’ and an arsenal of ‘Dirty Hits’.

BE YOUR OWN PET


Much as their debut album was on its arrival, this is like being punched in the face repeatedly in the centre of some adolescent temper tantrum. Singer Jemima Pearl is a hyperactive ball of youthful frustration, while the rest of these Nashville teens whip up a maelstrom of snotty anthems like ‘Bicycle Bicycle You Are My Bicycle’ that rarely hit the 2-minute mark. Fuuuuuun!

THE FALL


When’s it my turn to be in The Fall? There can’t be many of us that haven’t had a stint, given that the cantankerous Mark E. Smith has shed more wives and bandmates than he’s put out records (not necessarily true, but we can’t be arsed to check). Let’s face it, you just need to lock yourself into one repetitive riff, and stay there until Smith is bored of slurring over the top. Here’s another more-than-competent line-up, tearing through ‘Sparta FC’. And it’s ace, but…

SPINTO BAND


…the most intensely irritating clash of the day forces us to leg it over to catch the Spinto’s. With xylophones, mandolins and kazoos jostling for space within their quirky, slightly geeky pop, they’re probably the sort of band MES would snarl at. Still, having twitched their frames through half a dozen albums before they’ve hit their twenties, ‘Oh Mandy’ finally rewards them with a feel-good hit of the summer.

CLAP YOUR HANDS SAY YEAH


Given the hype this sextet have had, you can almost feel the pressure on them to deliver and, to be honest, it takes a while for them to hit their stride, as a largely insouciant crowd testifies. Still, their woozy, Grandaddy-ish melodies (and ‘The Skin Of My Yellow Country Teeth’ in particular) nearly makes up for the sudden departure of The Shins from the bill.



TILLY AND THE WALL


“We say oh! – You say fuck! Oh-“ “Fuck!” “Oh-“ “Fuck!” Entering like grinning cheerleaders, Tilly play tambourines and bells and have a tap-dancer. They make wonderfully melodic folk-pop tunes that sound like rallying cries from a desperately hedonistic youth. By the end of the anthemic ‘Nights Of The Living Dead’, we’re smiling like loons and wanting to join those high-school kids passing out in the yard.



THE NOISETTES


Singer Shingai Shoniwa is writhing around the Carling Stage like a maniac. One minute she’s draped over her mic stand like some soul diva, next she’s in spasms on the floor like a punkier Karen O. Her band make a helluva racket too, and with ‘Scratch Your Name’ and ‘Don’t Give Up’, they’re holding us firmly by the knackers and they ain’t letting go.



TV ON THE RADIO


Having blown our minds at Reading two years ago, TVOTR are back with bigger Afros, more impressive beards, A-list chums (Bowie) and a strangely overlooked new album. Guitars are brought to the fore this time for some no-holds-barred spazz-out moments like ‘Wolf Like Me’ and a cataclysmic ‘Staring At The Sun’. Muse may be ploughing their live savings into their lightshow-cum-apocalypse outside, but its in here that spines are really tingling.



SHIT DISCO


You kinda feel sorry for bands that are shoved on while most of us are still desperately seeking something substantial enough to be termed ‘breakfast’. But by the time the ‘Shits get round to doing the one about Bobby Orlando coming round for tea, they’ve got a healthily-populated tent going mad for them. After showering us with glowsticks and launching into ‘I Know Kung-Fu’, it all kicks off exquisitely.



VITALIC


There’s plenty to escape from today. It’s hairy old metal day outside, Peaches Geldof is on the prowl, and then there’s the dodgy Britpop revivalists (of which there are at least 3 on the bill this evening). To the dance stage then, where the punk-disco bombs of ‘OK Cowboy’ haven’t withered with age. ‘La Rock 01’ drops by, drops out, and then builds up again, resulting in the most euphoric mosh-pit of flailing limbs in the house.



TAPES N TAPES


Like several bands this weekend, they’ve arrived following a certain amount of frantic blogging and industry hype. Using Pixies-like dynamics, they switch between the frantic shouty moments and the more subdued ones from ‘The Loon’ with ease. It takes a riotous ‘Insistor’ to really warm the crowd to their slanted and enchanted charms.



¡FORWARD RUSSIA!


“So is everyone looking forward to Pearl Jam?” asks singer Tom Woodhead. Um, yeah, about as much as being administered ketamine and lobbed bollock-first into the Slayer pit, thanks. With matching stagewear (slightly grubbier than last year’s, we noticed), this lot tear the roof off; schizophrenically chopping tempos like At The Drive-In or Blood Brothers, but so pumped full of adrenaline that the frantic pace never lets up.



DRESDEN DOLLS


Those hoping for a Brechtian cabaret display of white faces and costumes might have been disappointed to see the Dolls in practically civvies today. Nevertheless, they pound away on drums and piano like they’re playing the heaviest metal songs on earth (although one of them, ‘War Pigs’, obviously is). They do a great version of ‘Coin-Operated Boy’ and then behave like clockwork toys that’ve got stuck.



GOOD SHOES


Exactly one year ago we left Good Shoes trying to scrape together enough change for their train fare home from Waterloo, after Disorder had persuaded them to dish the dirt in one of their first ever magazine interviews. Today, the likes of ‘Nazanin’, ‘Small Town Girl’ and ‘All In My Head’ have extra muscle to flex in front of a sizeable crowd. In short, they’ve grown balls and we love their spiky pop tunes more than ever.



ANIMAL COLLECTIVE


OK, we’ll confess to being beered to the gills by the time Avey Tare, Geologist, Panda Bear and Deakin hit the stage, yet we couldn’t have wished for a more mental finale. It all whizzed by in a slightly disorientating kind of blur, full of pounding beats, echo-laden vocals, screams and crashes. Their wonderfully eccentric twisted pop tunes like ‘Grass’ and ‘The Purple Bottle’ all combined to make having to return to the ‘real’ world on Monday morning that little bit more painful.

PATRICK WOLF - LONDON ASTORIA

(Gig review, unpublished, 2007)

When we first set eyes upon this vulnerable, unkempt street urchin five years or so ago, he was sitting awkwardly in the corner of a small room, nervously reciting his lysergic fairy tales. Several jaws must have collectively dropped then, at the bizarre spectacle of Patrick Wolf sharing sofa with Avril Lavigne and Lorraine Kelly and duetting with Charlotte Church on Friday night TV.


These days, a full band bolsters his virtuoso collection of songs, although the faithful Apple Mac still resides centre-stage. Launching straight into ‘Get Lost’, Patrick dominates the Astoria stage tonight, and this show immediately has the spirited atmosphere of a homecoming performance. There’s a typically snarling ‘Tristan’, he’s joined by support act Bishi (sadly, not Marianne Faithful) for the delicately dense gloom of ‘Magpie’, and even injects a few lines from ‘Sexy Back’ into the glorious ‘Blackbird’. The dark, brooding moments of insularity are counterbalanced by some sprightly, joyous outsider anthems, just as they are on his records. The nearly-hit (the strutting Motown-esque ‘Magic Position’) is saved for last, and it’s an unashamedly celebratory moment. You’re left enthralled, and with a genuine feeling of wide-eyed optimism.



“I think that Patrick will be the next best thing in music,” texts an Italian friend who flew in especially for the show. “Something like Bowie. But now he’s too young. When we’re old he’ll be an idol.”



So, should we really feel resentment towards this public lurch for the mainstream? . Let’s face it; you wouldn’t blame him for resenting the instant success of the vacuous Mika and a record-buying public that seem intent on reviving the most hideous aspects of the 1970’s, would you? His frustration manifests itself just a few days later, when he plays at the launch party of an appalling new youth magazine, in front of corporate blaggers who really only care for the free booze. He kung-fu kicks someone in the chest, snatches someone’s glass of champagne and smashes it onto the floor, before telling us all to “…fuck off home, have sex and die of AIDS.” Sweet!

Still, back in the Astoria, there’s a sea of warm, smiling faces, intensely spellbound by the lithe, sequined, preening disco queen on stage, oozing charisma from every pore and dancing himself dizzy to a camp-as-tits version of Kelly Marie’s ‘Feel Like I’m In Love’. Come on people, why revel in the bland when you could be luxuriating in the exceptional?

BATTLES - 'MIRRORED' (WARP RECORDS)

(Album review, unpublished, 2007)

A cursory glance at the artwork on this release reveals the full scale of Battles’ arsenal of guitars, keyboards, mixing boards, drums and Marshall amps, set up inside a small room. The mirrored walls create the illusion of an endless quagmire of machinery and interconnecting cables. Put succinctly, it’s an accurate indication of what’s to come once you hit ‘play’ on this extraordinary record.


Firstly, anyone who stumbled across their first couple of EP’s and dismissed them as po-faced math-rock experimentalists will be forced to think again. Despite their post-rock intricacy, this album is an ambitious, rhythmically thrilling beast, mainly due to the military-precise pounding of ex-Helmet sticksman John Stanier (most evident in the Glitter Band stomp of ‘Atlas’, or the giddy, convulsive disorientation of ‘Tij’). However, the most striking difference between this new collection and their earlier work is the addition of Tyondai Braxton’s vocals. Not actual decipherable lyrics, you understand, but his eerie whistles and hums are manipulated and pitch-shifted into something dehumanised; like a mutant gang of Teletubbies on a happy-slapping spree.



Elsewhere, muscular riffs crisscross and intertwine without ever really coalescing. In fact, this is dance music made with brute force by a rock band that you can’t really dance to. Bear with it though. Repeated listens do allow the record’s unorthodox melodies to take root, and it’s carefully executed ferocity and intricately arranged constituent elements begin to produce an oddly accessible, coherent listen.


After nearly twenty years of otherworldly releases from your Aphex’s and Squarepushers, Warp have unleashed another landmark album. Except that this one sounds indisputably invincible.

BAND PROFILE - MY PASSION

(Disorder Magazine, 2007)

Out in the sticks in October 2006, a rusty old minibus careers out of a concrete nowhere-town in England’s green and not-so-pleasant Commuter Belt. Inside, amongst the discarded fast-food wrappers, torn-up road maps, vast quantities of Boots cosmetics and Rage Against The Machine CD’s, are five rake-thin, photogenic young men intent on wreaking havoc in venues as far-flung as Barcelona, Paris and, er, Welwyn Garden City, as well as attracting a few hostile reactions in late-night service stations along the way. Deciding to name it ‘The Fabulous Blood Disco Tour’, it was set to become a sort-of touring version of their well-established Style Suicide club. An irregular night based in their Hitchin local, it’s a safe-haven for the beautiful and disaffected misfits that desperately try to wash away the grey of the car parks, pylons and dead-eyed pram-pushers and suits that keep them captive in London’s suburban playground. It’s also where, on the decks at least, AFI and Thrice rub up against Justin Timberlake.


Laurence Rene (mad-eyed frontman with a tendency to swing from sprinkler pipes and kick his way off table tops), Jonathan Gaskin (drummer, also responsible for “hooligan vocals”), Simon Rolands (armed with a bass so powerful he can detonate nearby car alarms), Harry Wade (the ‘mad scientist’ who’s usually hunched over a bank of electronics) and John Be (who’d “rather lose his limbs than indulge in guitar solos”) sound like Lostprophets if they’d grown up in the Blitz club, or The Human League with infectious, emo-sized choruses. Intent on attaining global domination on their own terms (or, at the very least, releasing their album ‘Hot In The Dollshouse’ on their own label this year), Disorder reckons My Passion might just be a band worth obsessing over.



Tracks; ‘Make Me Butterfly’, ‘Bitter Too’, ‘Tomorrow Girls’



MySpace URL: http://www.myspace.com/mypassionmusic

BAND INTERVIEW - XX TEENS

(Disorder Magazine, 2008)

"So do you like the new album then mate?"
Well, yes...

"Oh. Do you think we've gone a different way and perhaps you're not sure about some of the newer things?”

Er, no.

“You're not allowed to give one-word answers. Come on, you've got to type this up later.”

Honestly, we really like the album.

“You looked away AGAIN!”


Disorder is suffering interrogation by having it's own embarrassingly cheap and barely functional recording device thrust in our face by Rich Cash and Anthony Silvester. Attempting to make ourselves heard above the perpetual chatter of the after-workers in a London boozer, they don't seem convinced that the press actually like them at all.

"The results from the focus groups are very positive though,” they smirk.



The debut XX Teens album arrives fourteen months since they last (dis)graced our pages. Then, a rather unnerved, ashen-faced scribe reported back on the necessity of Ryan from The Cribs to rub ice cubes over his nipples, babbled something about dogs on skateboards performing dance routines to covers of 'Cotton Eye Joe', and was repeatedly played mega-mixes of Winston Churchill’s speeches.

“Oh my god, we felt really bad about that," recoils Anthony. "I had to go to confession afterwards.”

“We were drunken, laddish fools,” agrees Rich. “She phoned at 11 o’clock at night or something. I think she was quite young as well. She was under the quilt going ‘Keep the noise down. Don’t swear, my Dad will hear,’ ha-ha.”

Anthony: “We weren’t very nice to her. Do you know her? We should write a letter of apology. We did write a song about her.”

Rich: “Yes. It’s an instrumental though.”



At our first encounter we knew they had scant regard for conventional song structures or production quality, had adopted amusing monikers like ‘Rich Cash’ and ‘Danny Fancy’, and tended to restrict themselves to just the one riff per song. Frankly, they weren’t taking this music business very seriously at all. Since their debut Disorder appearance they’ve changed the band line-up twice, made some absurdly surreal videos, and performed to a handful of early arrivals on the recent Long Blondes tour.

“I made the effort,” Rich claims, undeterred by the often-indifferent response. “I even put on a beret to try to reach their target audience.”

As a live entity, XX Teens are generally known for discarding clichéd rock-star gestures for barely acknowledging the audience, rolling up their sleeves and just getting on with it. Perhaps a reluctant frontman, Rich often positions himself behind the drum kit, hidden behind black shades, and adopts a suitably muted expression.

Anthony: “I think that all-in-a-straight-line thing was a mixture of...”

Rich: “…Maybe some sort of equality issues where it’s a case of well, who’s going to step forward?”

Anthony: “A bit, yes. I think we also liked the idea of being a bit like a boy band.”

Rich: “Yeah, to begin with we all had stools. Not just the drummer.”



Perhaps there are now a few more kindred spirits around (they cite Ipso Facto as particular favourites), but they still feel isolated from much of what’s going on.

Anthony: “We never really fitted in with anyone. We’re not in a gang or anything really. It’s always a very attractive exercise for certain people to draw links between people who are doing certain things at the same time, but they’re usually very tenuous.”

Rich: “Like 'The-Bands-Who-Come-From-A-Seaside-Town-Scene'. Or bands who all wear a certain hat or something.”



Lest they threaten the global economy by causing a detrimental impact on the sales of photocopying machinery, they’ve also had to change their name since our last encounter. Obviously there are legal requirements which prevent them from discussing this enforced arrangement in detail… but what the hell?

“We exchanged a few angry letters with them,” Anthony explains, prior to Xerox issuing their ultimatum.

“It’s called a Cease And Desist order,” continues Rich. “It’s a letter that says you can’t afford to fight so just stop it.”

So why XX Teens?

Rich: “It was a happy coincidence because we could be a bit juvenile about it…”

Anthony: “In a perverse way it does reflect the change of the band as well. You know, the two are different bands.”

Rich: “There’s still a sort of mock hysteria (surrounding porn). Privately no one’s offended in the slightest but publicly we have to abide by a sort of mob rule. If it might offend one person out of a hundred then it should be covered up. It leaves us with an unhealthy obsession with youth and perfection and purity. So we chose XX Teens because it sums up… the idea of youth being something both alluring and forbidden.”

Anthony: “If Xerox Teens was about kids blindly buying into styles and adopting attitudes, then XX Teens is about youth itself being a commodity.

Rich: “It’s streamlining. We cut out all those extra letters. It’s more to the point. And that’s what we’ve done with the band.”

Ah, the rumoured internal conflicts which resulted in a personnel re-shuffle…

“We can’t really talk too much about it because I think it’s a bit unfair,” says Anthony, uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t want to read of someone speaking ill of me.”

Rich: “So these are the things you can’t put in,” grins Rich, eyeing up Disorder’s thoroughly researched and carefully prepared list of questions. “So what have you got so far?”



‘Welcome To Goon Island’ is the title of the debut album and it’s a rollicking ride; from full-on balls-out guitar assaults to “big psychedelic mash-ups”, and the moving speech from Parliament Square’s permanent anti-war hero Brian Haw towards the end. The Teens still bark out ‘Darlin’ like they’re in some seedy Shoreditch dive which has suddenly re-surfaced in the middle of a set by some steel band at the Notting Hill Carnival. The sinister swagger of ‘My Favourite Hat’ could be The Birthday Party doing ‘Summertime Blues’ over the top of ‘The Man Whose Head Expanded’ by The Fall. Well, perhaps.

Originally the name of an aborted project with artists and video directors, Goon Island became “…like a magical holiday destination to keep thinking about. And then with everything that’s happened it all felt fantastic, so I guess we’d arrived.”

We thought that perhaps it could be interpreted as a metaphor for England as well?

Anthony: “There are definitely elements of the album which are actually documenting the time right now and so therefore it does work in that respect.”

So who exactly have they made this record for?

Rich: “We had our own label so we could put things out into the world that we really wanted to make, and that was always our attitude rather than worrying about who was going to buy it. Luckily Mute have been quite receptive to that. If people don’t buy it then, er… they’ll melt them all down and make them into Nick Cave CD’s I suppose. Or Depeche Mode’s.”

Anthony: “We’ve been told by our manager that absolutely no-one will. I think it’s because a journalist - probably you - is going to upload it onto the Internet this week and everyone will have it by next week.”

What? We’re a respectable publication. We wouldn’t stoop to such corrupt practices.

Anthony: “You say that now but you look shifty to me.”

Harrumph.

“I think you can only make something that you’re proud of,” he concludes as we’re packing away. “And then that’s it isn’t it?”

CLUB REVIEW - REBEL REBEL

(Disorder Magazine, 2006)

There are three reasons why tonight is a bit special for the organisers and revellers of Rebel Rebel. Firstly, it’s one year since this club night was born out of the frustration felt by Tony Fletcher, Anthony Crank (from T4) and a few of their mates at not having anywhere decent to go in town on a Saturday night. This neatly coincides with Europride day and its ensuing festivities. Always worth joining in of course, if only to witness the look of horror and bemusement on the face of your weekend shopper as the area becomes engulfed by a heaving whistle-blowing mass of flamboyant costumes, glitter, gimp masks and well-oiled pecs (and that’s just Big Gay Alf kicking and punching his way to a weekly shoplifting spree round Selfridges). Thirdly, and most significantly, they’re getting that much sought-after Disorder club review. We’re guessing they’re fucking chuffed.



“When we first opened the doors a year back, the last thing on our mind was our first birthday,” promoter Fletch told us. However, darting round the back of John Lewis on this uncomfortably sticky summer evening, we’re confronted with an already substantial queue of immaculately queer misfits; all floppy fringes and best party frocks, and all eager to ensure entry. What’s immediately apparent though, is how refreshingly unpretentious and friendly this gaff is for a night on the tiles in the capital. Wanna blast your brains with amyl and then skulk around to that unreleased Morgan Geist mix? Then be off with you to Shoreditch, m’boy. Nope, tonight has more of a student union vibe with the emphasis placed firmly on drinking, dancing and good-time rock ‘n’ roll. And yeah, while most people make an effort and dress up so that they don’t look like they’ve just been hurled arse-first into the 3 quid racks at Peacocks, they never leave their dancing shoes at home.

“With Rebel, we’ve been clear in our own minds from Day One that it shouldn’t be constantly changing to suit this week’s new fad,” Fletch continues. “We’re a gay indie disco and it’s as simple as that.” Calling all Nancy Boys and Queen Bitches, Wild Ones and Teenage Whores… Tonight is yours.



Being in the basement room of a pub, the venue’s not exactly geared up to meet the demands of a club night (lengthy waits to re-fuel at the bar can be somewhat laborious), suggesting that Rebel Rebel may have already outgrown its existing home. Fletch admits that they’d “love to tunnel under Oxford Street and increase its size ‘cos we love the venue”. Nevertheless, a large space is cleared for the dancefloor, with some less-populated hideaways at the rear. The DJ’s drop the indie, Britpop, Baggy and a generous helping of cool party-igniters meaning that the Long Blondes, Elastica and Althea & Donna all get a spin. Mark Morris of The Bluetones, Kele Okereke and Hedi Slimane have all graced the decks at some point, while the Pet Shop Boys, Simon Amstell and even Will Young have been known to stop by for a boozy cruise and to hear Tony drop his secret DJ battleweapon; a blast of Cher’s ‘Gypsies, Tramps And Thieves’. And Fletch’s ‘dream’ guest DJ?

“David Bowie, of course.”



Hot tramps! We love you so…

LOVE IS ALL - 'NINE TIMES THAT SAME SONG' (WHAT'S YOUR RUPTURE?)

ALBUM REVIEW (from Disorder Magazine, 2006)



A truly exceptional record ought to remain as loyal to you as a best friend during your every waking hour. It should be there to turn to in times of psychological turmoil, and there to share in your moments of mad-eyed glee.

So, in the case of this debut album, if we feel like kicking the dishes aside and leaping off the kitchen table whilst screaming into a bottle of vodka, we simply chuck the sax-fuelled garage-pop of ‘Ageing Had Never Been His Friend’ or the party-igniting ‘Spinning & Scratching’ on the stereo. Or, there’s ‘Used Goods’ which is ideal for when making that break from mundane domesticity and heading out for an intense night of boy-hunting.

And when we awoke from the-night-before to a familiar scene of mental and physical devastation (you know, when it’s all smudged lipstick and fag ends, upturned empty bottles and vague recollections of late-night phone calls that shouldn’t have been attempted?), then we got ‘Make Out Fall Out Make Up’ or ‘Turn The Radio Off’ to lock ourselves away with and snuggle up to.

This album sneaked out on import back in the winter when we spent our evenings in grotty pubs, tried to make a pint last for 3 hours and argued over which Horror we’d most like to suck off. Months later, there’s still only one record that’s dragging us out of bed, forcing us to party, and easing us out of some moments of despair. This is it.

Well, it wasn’t going to be sodding Razorlight, was it?