Regretfully, if this is the case, then openers Popstrangers fall into the latter part of the idiom. The New Zealand trio may have veered nonchalantly between visceral improv and hypnotic college rock on enticing debut album ‘Antipodes’, but its live reproduction feels about as well executed as an operation might, if the surgeon was forced to hold his scalpel with one of those giant foam hands. That said, there’s slight reprieve in the ever-dizzying hook of ‘Heaven’ – its infectious refrain still proving glorious despite Joel Flyger’s shoddy, muffled mic – but the rest goes to show there’s more to being Tame Impala than simply stabbing at stomp boxes with your big toe.

On the contrary, elusive B-town band Superfood – who’ve been plagued by the sort of pressurising buzz usually only experienced by fridge repairmen – certainly don’t lack charm or mettle. They kick off with the hedonistic, Britpop-indebted ‘TV’, which only reinforces their widely reported penchant for ‘Leisure’-era Blur – but there’s certainly more at play here. “Always meet me at the parking lot” growls Dom Ganderton mid-set, his vocal blend of irreverence and rasp owing equally to Stephen Malkmus, circa ‘Brighten The Corners’, and Kurt Cobain. Of course, it’s an interesting hybrid when coupled with Ryan Malcolm’s gritty guitar on eponymous closer ‘Superfood’, which could be the jagged racket of Rivers Cuomo and Gaz Coombes if they were forced to plug into the same amp. Needless to say, it’s rousing stuff; like a transatlantic 90s super group who settled their differences to soundtrack your hazy, wasted youth.

Of course, Splashh’s sonic intentions are similar and the excitement surrounding rousing debut album ‘Comfort’ (now due in September) means an incendiary performance in East London tonight is surely on the cards. Marking their biggest capital headline show to date, they emerge to a backdrop of mind-warping visuals, before dropping the woozy, sludge-pop of ‘Strange Fruit’; the sound of TOY, perhaps, if they were holed up in Great Yarmouth with nothing to snack on but sleeping pills.

It’s a strong start marred by a meandering prog-out called ‘Peanut Butter and Jelly’; the new song that reveals the Anglo-Antipodean’s worrying inclination towards the joylessly ostentatious. In fact, Toto Vivian’s bull in a china shop snarl, not world’s away from a certain beady Manc, is far better suited to the record’s direct earworms rather than anything too intelligently cosmic – the thrilling “yeah, yeah, yeah” of a thunderous ‘Headspins’, some tracks later, proving this point entirely.

However, the set turns sour when a whistling sound desk prompts Vivian to bellow “what the fuck is going on with my microphone?” after a kaleidoscopic jaunt through ‘Vacation’ is rudely interrupted. It then haunts again on finale ‘Need It’, which sees him sack off his vocal duties entirely and spearhead some rather tedious instrumental experimentation. Among the guitar belches and depressing stage invasion (honestly, one girl stays rooted by the monitors on her smartphone) it dawns; this isn’t actually that much fun at all. Splashh may have a handful of hazy anthems under their belt, but in terms of a summer-defining set, this barely makes a ripple.

READ THE ORIGINAL ARTICLE AT DIY

From the very moment they bound onto Koko’s stage, the sisters’ refulgent personalities and wild vigour spark unruly adoration, and a noisy twist on ‘Better Off’ only serves to fan the flames. Danielle pounds the guitar and delivers each “used to be” with pent-up angst, while big sis Este plays every bass pluck with a different facial distortion. The band even joins youngest sibling Alana in clouting  their individual drums in thunderous unison at its climax.

Not content with simply sharing cuts from their forthcoming debut long-player, however, the girls treat the ex-theatre to a scuzzy, impromptu jam, overspilling with enough trashy riffage, wailing, Lynyrd Skynyrd solos and floor tom-clobbering to make Deap Vally and The Black Belles down axes and recoil, red-faced. Of course, it’s this primal energy that only reveals itself when they have the amps cranked up for a packed room, similarly turning ‘Falling’’s irresistibly sleek R&B into a primitive, garage-ridden howl-along.

After some security guard shoulder-mounting, they then woo further with a rapturous ‘Don’t Save Me’, which is duly souped up to Springsteen proportions, before introductory EP highlight ‘Forever’ arrives to seal a special occasion in emphatic style. After a grinning and shoeless Este journeys across a wave of arms amid the euphoria and their return is verbally forced, the three sisters conclude with prowess that is rare, raw and unstoppable. They are, simply, an act to relish.

READ THE ORIGINAL ARTICLE AT THE FLY

There’s nothing intrinsically dreadful about this. After all, slap EP title track ‘Unkinder (A Tougher Love)’ on a playlist with Foster The People, Swiss Lips et al and you’ve got yourself a totally inoffensive jumble of peppy synth pop. But, that said, it’s hard not to wish that the Warks duo had foregone some of their imitative tendencies in favour of four tracks with punk choirgirls Gaggle, thus drubbing us with something truly bizarre. The antagonistic electro of their collaborative Bjork cover feels like lifting a toilet lid and being blasted with silly string; brazen and truly surprising. Alas, the remainder here, makes for something far more forgettable – like perching over the bowl, business as usual.

DOWNLOAD ‘Innocence feat. Gaggle (Bjork Cover)’

Sean Nicholas Savage ‘Other Life’ (Arbutus Records)

Is this perhaps the only example of a bedroom aesthetic that’s come full circle? Rhythmic, bedsit soul – probably composed whilst perched on a mattress – that seems sonically intended to soundtrack an intimate writhing session between the sheets. Either way, it’s the mark of Montreal’s Sean Nicholas Savage transcending his troubadour-on-warped-cassette sound (2011′s Flamingo) in favour of something honeyed, smooth and, at times, seductive.

Sleek and a little sexy, it’s a clear departure from his previous release (of nine) and quite understandably when you consider that, in the time since it dropped to an encouraging response, fellow Canadian and tour mate Mac DeMarco partially pilfered its approach, taking its skewed vision to another level. Subsequently, Other Life sees its creator turn genteel groover and arty, hit-maker (Phil Collins for people who dangle analog cameras around their scruff in the name of fashion), as if to reassert his savvy in a city overflowing with critic fodder.

The results are pretty consistent, but not always riveting; starting strong, but losing their grip as the track list unfolds like a drawn-out handshake. It, in fact, climaxes too early with the sublime ‘She Looks Like You’. Borrowing the chord strides of Cyndi Lauper’s ‘True Colours’, the opener explores its protagonist’s vulnerability; “Look in the mirror/What do I see?/I’m just a circumstance wearing a mask,” he coos, over sparkling keyboards and sparse thuds. It’s really rather affecting, especially when followed by the delicately ear-worming ‘Other Life’ and the Nelly and Kelly-ish ‘Lonely Woman’ – both coupling the sort of RNB percussion you might find lurking on a Toni Braxton ballad with his starkly confessional croon. Similarly, ‘More Than I Love Myself’(s) vague whiff of George Michael is easily the record’s most upbeat, whilst the Rodriguez-like ‘You Changed Me’ bridges the gap nicely between his previous incarnation and his new one.

Sadly, a few clangers mar the early progress; ‘Like A Baby’(s) opening gambit alone is sickly enough to have you clawing for the skip button, before the nauseating ‘Bygone Summer’ rears its head some tracks later. In fact, the latter is like the musical equivalent of a wrinkled elder interrupting the love-in with a pile of your freshly washed threads and a homemade toad in the hole; it’s quite unwanted and an instant moment killer. Equally, the consecutive meandering of ‘Look At Me’ and ‘It’s Real’ also stunt any well-built momentum with some needless styling and distinct lack of hooks.

In conclusion, Other Life feels patchy; a work in progress that initially offers a solid template, before getting bored of itself. Shame, because had he been able to mirror it’s first half promise, Sean Nicholas Savage may well have finally grabbed the plaudits he deserves for his considerable work ethic.

5/10

READ THE ORIGINAL ARTICLE AT THE 405

READ THE ORIGINAL ARTICLE AT THE 405

Throwing a BBQ this summer? Well, as your stooped below an umbrella, turning cylindrical tubes of charcoal for house-bound guests in the pissing rain, why not cue this up and fix yourself a large glass of something alcoholic and colourful. For even if it blurts from a polythene bag-protected portable speaker, Crystal Fighters‘ sophomore will transport even the most po-faced and dejected Limey to a place of untampered beaches, pulsating carnival sound systems and infinite, Day-Glo bliss.

Cave Rave, an album that the band retreated to the remote Basque Hills of Spain to produce, certainly feels, as its name suggests, like an exclusive party on a hot pile of rocks; the kind where everyone’s sun-beaten, freaking out and eventually reflective in a youth-defining way. Opener, ‘Wave’ is, in fact, their most hallucinogenic and fizzy track to date, evoking the sort of trip that might see a vivid, slow-motion crab noshing a Solero and serenading bronzen merrymakers on a uke simultaneously. Aptly, its chorus is in keeping also – washing over like a shore-destined ripple that caresses a shallow-paddling, swimsuit-clad tourist. Although, if this is the record’s most sleek and well-groomed beach poser, then highlight ‘LA Calling’ is far less conscious or cold-blooded. On the contrary, its breezy balearic hooks and package-resort terrace chants have far more in common with the lobstered 18-30, slumped sloppily aboard a deflating blow up crocodile. Not actually as crass and demeaning as this suggests, it ultimately makes you think – who needs the burden of a weighty brain when you’ve got air in your lungs, heat on your skin and a whopping grin across your chops?

Weather-spoilt imagery aside, their USP has always been their ability to seamlessly coalesce the traditional with the contemporary and their undeterred faithful will be pleased to hear that, in this department, they are more dependable than ever.

Crystal Fighters have also now realised their potential production-wise too, as – in lieu of ‘Star Of Love’(s) loveable amateurism – it’s follow up is fully-formed; slick, unadulterated fun. They channel their most sugary side on ‘You & I’, which goes hand-in-hand with ‘Plage’(s) syrupy romanticism, before conjuring the climbing disco pop of Jarvis Cocker & Co on ‘Separator’. Then the bittersweet ‘No Man’, with it’s scuttling, vaguely Johnny Cash drums, arrives to rouse, juxtaposing with the more brash synths and immediate, bouncy refrain of ‘Are We One’. Although, they also discover a penchant for slow builds on the record’s quieter moments, which veer, contrastingly, between festival euphoria (‘Everywhere’) and over-droopy, clean cut balladry (‘Bridge Of Bones’).

Fortunately, the latter is a minor blip on an otherwise solid listen; a bottle cap in the sand that’s rather uncomfortable as it presses into the ball of your foot. Ultimately, though, ‘Cave Rave’ is more of the same from the band; it is not an album of fierce innovation, but a perfect companion for sizzling meat and endless sunsets.

7/10

READ THE ORIGINAL ARTICLE AT THE 405

Set to a backdrop of the LP’s psychedelic, “river delta in space” artwork and sporadic, blinking beams, Alt-Jfurther validate the hyperbole and their premature tag as the ‘new Radiohead’, merging eventually into a wondrous ‘Tessellate’. Its brooding undertones and winding structure are, as expected, enthralling in the overspilling academy, although it’s slightly perplexing that its inconspicuous hook (“Let’s Tessellate”) is suddenly elevated to a kind of crowd singalong. However, this puzzling knack is to their testament and their ability to be both bizarre and crowd-pleasing. Live and in the studio, it seems to now place them on a level of communication way above their early, art school peers.

Their full-length’s subtle charm and sheer depth means that even their weirdest forays garner a silly amount of approval in the flesh tonight; ‘Bloodflood”s block, harpsichord keys and sleepy-eyed progression woo with captivating aplomb before the twinkling xylophone and eccentric, Wild Beasts falsetto of ‘MS’ prove emotionally priming. They naturally conclude their encore with poignant and reflective album closer ‘Taro’, welcoming back a string quartet to stir up its elegantly maudlin core and infinitely sad, Bollywood arrangement. Though it’s notable that Newman steps back from the mic and takes an overwhelmed deep breath as its climactic “oohs”s are howled in unison, the whirlwind shows no sign of letting up and nor should it.

READ THE ORIGINAL ARTICLE AT THE FLY

Minnesota trio Low have long been heralded purveyors of quiet, crawling despondency – miserable precisionists, if you like, who have soundtracked and soothed several generations-worth of melancholy-gripped minds since their early-90s inception. So it’s no surprise that this Barbican set – rammed with cuts from new album ‘The Invisible Way’ - is a masterclass in their much-lauded restraint, sadness and minimalism.

From the off, the whole thing is elegantly mournful; a halted countdown clock on two mirrored projectors (suspended above their trademark primitive setup) is all that awaits the three black-clad figures, as they stroll nonchalantly onto the spacious stage. The pindrop-silence and hushed murmurs are then killed cold by Alan Sparkhawk’s delicate intro to ‘Plastic Cup’, which proves hypnotically reflective, coupled with grainy footage of Ferris Wheels.

It’s a tone-setting introduction that only reaches new heights with ‘Just Make It Stop’; the song’s steady brushed-symbol and Mimi Parker’s beautiful, disaffected coo, combining perfectly alongside an array of retina-dazzling mirrorballs.

Applauded back after the equally breath-taking ‘So Blue’, the gig is hit with a rogue wave of rowdiness; “Thank you so much, we’d love to play some more songs”, Sparhawk announces, before a ricochet of heckles attempt to sway his next choice. The following foray into their formative years (‘Over The Ocean’) and a spine-tingling ‘When I Go Deaf’ are met with the mute captivation they deserve however, before a rare-airing of their Dirty Three collaboration, ‘I Hear… Goodnight’, provides a fitting climax. Of course, the encore’s utter poignancy only further demonstrates the tight reigns this band have on a room-full of hearts.

READ THE ORIGINAL ARTICLE AT WHO’S JACK

As year’s go, Matthew E White‘s 2013 has already been pretty special. After all, debut album, ‘Big Inner’, received a near-unanimous tip of the hat upon worldwide-release in January and now his European Tour is capped with this, his biggest headline show to date.

With that in mind, you’d expect the whirlwind of emphatic reviews and globe-trotting to leave him visibly stoked and such glee is predictably wiped across his bearded face during opener ‘Will You Love Me’; a hairy perma-grin and poked tongue greeting its brassy, feel good refrain. Sadly, his hoarse whisper throughout the leisurely, Randy Newman-ish verses doesn’t entirely fill the big room, but the musicianship is so slickly gripping it more than makes up for it – him and his band displaying the sort of virtuosity that you’d imagine plays on loop during Jools Holland‘s dribbliest slumbers.

If it wasn’t sonically obvious from the off though, the sound in the Queen Elizabeth Hall is suitably excellent from then on and his self-proclaimed “mover and shaker”, ‘Big Love’, even pulls a fair majority of seated-onlookers to their feet – such is its praise-worthy, gospel-tinged groove and impeccable, record-quality execution. The honky tonk licks and rumbling conga that hurtle towards its climax even provoke an overzealous cluster to run to the front flailing their arms, as if the host is orchestrating one of those barmy, Pentecostal spasm sessions.  ”I am a hurricane,” he then repeats, as the visceral, improv jam reaches fever pitch, with a face-distorting gust of trumpet and caterwauling slide guitar.

After a heart (and throat) warming ‘Hot Toddies’, they conclude with the percussive and epic album finale ‘Brazos’, which is as face-achingly triumphant a curtain call as could be hoped for, playing out like a fantasy hook-up between Jimmy Cliff and ‘Screamadelica’-era Primal Scream. With one final flourish, a standing ovation and a bow, the vastly talented Virginian vacates – a superb year and suitably superb show to boot.

READ THE ORIGINAL ARTICLE AT WHO’S JACK

If you’re not already aware, Clean Bandit are on the brink of the big league. The member-shifting collective are an eclectic, dynamic and surprising pop juggernaut in waiting; the kind that you could loudly foresee filling a Basement Jaxx-shaped hole in years to come, without being accused of doe-eyed hyperbole. After-all, their new single ‘Mozart’s House’ peaked at Number 12 in the UK Singles Chart and tonight’s show is their first as headliners; all off the back of a few minor releases and fervent word of mouth.

The early infatuation is totally understandable though, as live they ooze ideas and reek of professionalism, with the cast ever-changing and the hooks dressed up in a melange of weird and wonderful ways. They initially woo with a string of SBTRKT-ish, Makeda Moore-fronted synth bangers, before slowing it down – vocalist Nikki B lending her smooth croon to the throbbing bass of spine-tingling early B-side ‘Nightingale’, in sync with a backdrop of their artwork’s hypnotic, primary coloured shapes. Though, they ramp it back up again with the pulsating and ever-infectious ‘A+E’, which jerks the room into life; its maudlin string intro is the spark for arm-waving and, then, crowd-directed microphones; a moment of wide-mouthed, electro euphoria that even the Electrowerkz’ knackered sound system can’t scupper.

If their Classical RNB doesn’t already have the room swooning, the arrival of MC Ssegamic and their chart-dwelling new release certainly does. “I don’t know, skip a beat,” he bellows into the front row, to a wall of approval; its wonky, orchestral progression igniting the dancefloor alongside brain-warping, Tetris-like graphics.

“This is our first headline gig! We can’t leave it like that”, he announces, before the band air a taste defying, Dario G cover to close. Of course, ‘Sunchyme’ feels like shiver-inducing nostalgia for tonight’s demographic, evoking all the same fuzziness as the version to be found on a boot fair-flogged Now 38 cassette. They depart, without encore – much to the baying crowd’s frustration – but, nonetheless, it’s a short and tantalising showcase from a band that seem to be irrepressibly shooting skywards.

READ THE ORIGINAL ARTICLE AT WHO’S JACK