A hedging of stacked tables and chairs created a suggestive vacant space at the Toff on Thursday night – a gentle ramming from behind to get us dancing. By evening’s end, however, the idle furniture had been plucked from these positions in a bid to minimise wasted space. Which isn’t at all to say that WOW and The Emergency aren’t dance-worthy, although I’m betting the meagre audience simply weren’t prepared for the onslaught of sound they were to be confronted with. I for one found myself staggering backwards into a sympathetic chair, initially struggling to absorb the apoplectic electro pop.
‘Electro punk’ might best describe the clamour that is WOW. A dramatic entrance from the Sydney duo was basically a television sci-fi climax circa 1980 (sans tin-foil). The Toff’s red curtain slowly surrendered to a heavy fog of smoke, while alien-blue lighting reveals two silhouettes standing at their respective synths: Matt Cribb and Bree Carter. An iconic apple stands glowing between them promising samples, mixes, mash-ups… something! While on paper the similarities make it tempting, don’t compare them to The Presets. I was disappointed to hear that, aside from an occasional sampling of old whodunit crime voiceovers ala Humphrey Bogart, WOW pretty much left their music to the devices of a screeching guitar (Cribb), a barely audible bass (Carter) and a whole lot of shouting. This, I guess, is their appeal. In a commotion of sirens, wailing synth and a mammoth dose of cowbell, WOW seems to evade any lazy categorization of their sound. A hint of a riff in Werewolf gives greater scope for dancing than the fit-inducing loops of No Aspirations, which left me dizzied at best. Icy Cold was clearly a stand out, harnessing an unhinged childishness from Cribb (similar to Victoria’s one-man act Muscles)which created some fantastic energy. Props for breaking footloose with that cowbell. Annoyingly, more often than not Carter crossed the ‘carefree’ zone and took a casual stroll through ‘who cares’ territory. Void of the energy needed to pull this kind of noise-music off, it wasn’t until she and her bass turned their backs to us and ambled to the back wall of the stage that she lost me entirely. This was the kind of gig I really wanted to enjoy, but… maybe it needs more cowbell?
If you want to compare Melbourne electro partnership The Emergency to The Presets, go for it. But don’t stop there. Throw in the languid vocals of Depeche Mode, a Fischerspooner rhythmic android pulse, and a little brooding sexuality from David Bowie before you call it a day. The Emergency are Milo and Morgan, and in spite of a 12” album launch they reek of humility. The Emergency boast an interesting title, contrasting with an incredibly controlled musicality; Milo’s unearthly, evocative vocals, supported beautifully by Morgan’s engaging technical solidarity. No sign of chaos here. As the ethereal electro of Something to Tell You booms into the Toff cosmos, The Emergency stand in complete concentration. So much so that I would almost believe they were manoeuvring their way through the galaxy, pinned in front of a space projection not unlike a Windows 95 star screensaver. With Shock Wave slowly shifting the audience in their seats, one by one we are moved to sway along with Morgan’s Tai Chi styling on stage. He encourages his counterpart’s impressive performance, exclaiming “Man, you’re on fire!”
In truth, they both were. Spending Time brought a little more bone to their beat, with clear funk influences spurring on the restless audience. Although at times a leaning towards loose experimental sound distortion may have detracted from their impressive foundations, The Emergency definitely staged a celestial launch.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Goldfrapp @ The Palais (26/09/2008)
Critiquing live music is always interesting. It seems the less you enjoy a show, the more you want to talk about it. Who knows why? Perhaps the best way to purge the memory in all its gory glory is to have a long winded bitch. Equally interesting is the fact that the pattern also operates in reverse: Great gig? Less to say. It makes sense, really. After all, how many times can you acclaim to your mates “It was SO awesome!”? With this in mind, it gives me great pleasure to preface that I aim for this review to be relatively short.
It has become a monstrous review-ism, but as we waited for Goldfrapp to take the stage the anticipation truly was palpable. The show wasn’t a sell-out, but a wild enthusiasm from the moderately sized audience seemed to fill the empty seats. It certainly contributed to the underground cultish vibe, which I first began to take note of when two goat masks and a giraffe head passed me in the foyer. The Palais was a perfectly theatrical venue for Goldfrapp. Strings of draping circus flags decorated the stage, which oddly enough I noticed before the pair of moose antlers raised high above a six piece orchestra. The space appeared to house something of a mediaeval celebration, accompanied by the swaying hum of bagpipes (of course…). Evidently even an empty stage can become a spectacle.
As our eyes adjust to the colourful sight, lights dim and a fanfare of applause welcomes six musicians lead by Will Gregory, each floating onto the stage in white pinafores. Following closely behind them, sporting her signature pastel pink silk poncho-sack complete with pom-poms, is Alison Goldfrapp. An ominous swell from Gregory’s violin cues the plucking of an elevated harp, and the set opens with the eerie Paper Bag; a favourite from their debut album Felt Mountain. Listening to Goldfrapp at home might have you convinced that theirs is a highly tailored, synthesized sound. You would be wrong. The precision of these musicians in a live setting is incredible, utilizing each instrument beautifully to create a uniquely imaginative result.
Soon after opening, Goldfrapp are interrupted by some minor sound difficulties which Alison extinguishes by addressing her audience, uttering “U-turn” into the mic as though it somehow explains the broken set? Good enough for me. They u-turn into another Felt Mountain venture Utopia, threatening to cast a spell over an audience who remain entirely seduced by Alison’s phenomenal soprano wailings. She stands pitched in front of a dizzying visual projection, holding firm to her microphone stand as though the storm of sound would otherwise carry her away. “We’re completely spaced out,” she shares. She was stating the obvious – the entire venue was completely spaced out. With that, the previous technical stumble was resolved and forgotten.
Pulling the plug on their spiritual vibe, Goldfrapp sucks the audience out from their suspension in space and escorts us towards the electro-pop of their third album, Supernatural, with KOKO. Again, Alison’s vocals are immaculate. She holds a kind of tormented expression as she stomps, paces and twirls on stage behind a wild mane of hair. Following through into the thumping Satin Chic, visuals of rushing lava hurtle over the musicians in blazing red and yellow light. Like a woman possessed, Alison crescendos into a fury of sound as the band deliver piercing trebles to accompany her vocals. There is something positively exorcising about the performance. In the spirit of no surprises, the audience absolutely ate it up.
It was after a short interlude of Seventh Tree releases Little Bird and Clowns that Goldfrapp seemed to think we were ready to dance, excavating their earlier rock sentiments with Number 1. Of course Alison tore it loose, void of any restraint as she worked the stage in her shiny pink tent. However it was Gregory that delivered a surprisingly stirring punch, ploughing away at his guitar and leading the classic audience clap. A blaze of white light illuminated hundreds of beaming faces.
“Do you guys know how to stand up?!” Ooh La La and Happiness keep our feet pushing on the floor for another stretch of Goldfrapp glamour-dance. It isn’t until the bass driven synth of Black Cherry’s Train that the aforementioned elevated antlers seemed to morph into a ritual animal sacrifice amongst an underground cult. The stage pulsed with sensuality fuelled by Alison’s electric performance, producing static soundwaves as she convulsed and spasmed playing with a magnetised frequency box. Although a certain childish innocence is threaded through Goldfrapp’s Seventh Tree, there can be no denying that Alison Goldfrapp hasn’t forgotten how to strut.
For an inevitable encore, Strict Machine picked up where Train left off. The performance was so hot it practically left welding sparks ricocheting around the stage. Surprisingly it was their closing song Some People which shone as a definite highlight. Alison might as well have been sitting at the end of your couch lulling you to rest, with a little help from a rolling cymbal and some angelic harmonies. Gentle purring from Will’s violin served as a parting kiss on the cheek. This one was stunning.
Well it would appear that there was plenty to say about Goldfrapp’s show. I suppose, to the detriment of my ‘measuring quality by quantity’ theory, I couldn’t help myself. It’s just that it was SO awesome!
It has become a monstrous review-ism, but as we waited for Goldfrapp to take the stage the anticipation truly was palpable. The show wasn’t a sell-out, but a wild enthusiasm from the moderately sized audience seemed to fill the empty seats. It certainly contributed to the underground cultish vibe, which I first began to take note of when two goat masks and a giraffe head passed me in the foyer. The Palais was a perfectly theatrical venue for Goldfrapp. Strings of draping circus flags decorated the stage, which oddly enough I noticed before the pair of moose antlers raised high above a six piece orchestra. The space appeared to house something of a mediaeval celebration, accompanied by the swaying hum of bagpipes (of course…). Evidently even an empty stage can become a spectacle.
As our eyes adjust to the colourful sight, lights dim and a fanfare of applause welcomes six musicians lead by Will Gregory, each floating onto the stage in white pinafores. Following closely behind them, sporting her signature pastel pink silk poncho-sack complete with pom-poms, is Alison Goldfrapp. An ominous swell from Gregory’s violin cues the plucking of an elevated harp, and the set opens with the eerie Paper Bag; a favourite from their debut album Felt Mountain. Listening to Goldfrapp at home might have you convinced that theirs is a highly tailored, synthesized sound. You would be wrong. The precision of these musicians in a live setting is incredible, utilizing each instrument beautifully to create a uniquely imaginative result.
Soon after opening, Goldfrapp are interrupted by some minor sound difficulties which Alison extinguishes by addressing her audience, uttering “U-turn” into the mic as though it somehow explains the broken set? Good enough for me. They u-turn into another Felt Mountain venture Utopia, threatening to cast a spell over an audience who remain entirely seduced by Alison’s phenomenal soprano wailings. She stands pitched in front of a dizzying visual projection, holding firm to her microphone stand as though the storm of sound would otherwise carry her away. “We’re completely spaced out,” she shares. She was stating the obvious – the entire venue was completely spaced out. With that, the previous technical stumble was resolved and forgotten.
Pulling the plug on their spiritual vibe, Goldfrapp sucks the audience out from their suspension in space and escorts us towards the electro-pop of their third album, Supernatural, with KOKO. Again, Alison’s vocals are immaculate. She holds a kind of tormented expression as she stomps, paces and twirls on stage behind a wild mane of hair. Following through into the thumping Satin Chic, visuals of rushing lava hurtle over the musicians in blazing red and yellow light. Like a woman possessed, Alison crescendos into a fury of sound as the band deliver piercing trebles to accompany her vocals. There is something positively exorcising about the performance. In the spirit of no surprises, the audience absolutely ate it up.
It was after a short interlude of Seventh Tree releases Little Bird and Clowns that Goldfrapp seemed to think we were ready to dance, excavating their earlier rock sentiments with Number 1. Of course Alison tore it loose, void of any restraint as she worked the stage in her shiny pink tent. However it was Gregory that delivered a surprisingly stirring punch, ploughing away at his guitar and leading the classic audience clap. A blaze of white light illuminated hundreds of beaming faces.
“Do you guys know how to stand up?!” Ooh La La and Happiness keep our feet pushing on the floor for another stretch of Goldfrapp glamour-dance. It isn’t until the bass driven synth of Black Cherry’s Train that the aforementioned elevated antlers seemed to morph into a ritual animal sacrifice amongst an underground cult. The stage pulsed with sensuality fuelled by Alison’s electric performance, producing static soundwaves as she convulsed and spasmed playing with a magnetised frequency box. Although a certain childish innocence is threaded through Goldfrapp’s Seventh Tree, there can be no denying that Alison Goldfrapp hasn’t forgotten how to strut.
For an inevitable encore, Strict Machine picked up where Train left off. The performance was so hot it practically left welding sparks ricocheting around the stage. Surprisingly it was their closing song Some People which shone as a definite highlight. Alison might as well have been sitting at the end of your couch lulling you to rest, with a little help from a rolling cymbal and some angelic harmonies. Gentle purring from Will’s violin served as a parting kiss on the cheek. This one was stunning.
Well it would appear that there was plenty to say about Goldfrapp’s show. I suppose, to the detriment of my ‘measuring quality by quantity’ theory, I couldn’t help myself. It’s just that it was SO awesome!
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Freakshow - Krafty Kuts (January 2008)
Break beats fans have probably noticed the recent Break famine in Australia, which seems to have been replaced by a wash of electro-house over the past year or so. With the re-release of his album Freakshow, saving grace and one man act Krafty Kuts ( Martin Reeves) could not have better timed his return to the table. The 2008 Big Day Out edition revives the original release, featuring a bonus remixed disk of his former favourites. However despite its anticipation, Freakshow doesn’t flourish in waving its cape wildly but rather slips in through the stage door. Krafty Kuts refrains from boasting his scratching skills in front of the other kids and seems to have adopted a less-is-more policy, providing his dancing audience with some solid beats to sink their feet into.
You could be forgiven for assuming the ass-grinding funk of the title track would set the tone for the album, but you would be wrong. We Do This and Keep Moving are sure to satiate any hip hop cravings, but if you’re after more of Krafty’s signature funk he’s got you covered with She’s Out Of My Head. In fact he appears to cover all bases – perhaps even stretches to reach them – as the album somehow seams together thick disco bass with heavy hip hop beats and some seriously refreshing percussive threads (tune into Bass Phenomenon). His skill is undeniable, so it’s disappointing when Reeves gets distracted and throws up the Back in 5 sign with an occasional stretch of uninspiring house loops.
Featuring more cameos than the Simpsons Movie, Tim Deluxe, Freestylers, Scratch Perverts and Dynamite MC are among some of the guest artists each adding their own flavour, so it’s not surprising that the album tugs in many different directions. You get the feeling that Freakshow would be better served as a compilation and probably prevents any development of a coherent album, but it sure makes for a bloody good dance.
You could be forgiven for assuming the ass-grinding funk of the title track would set the tone for the album, but you would be wrong. We Do This and Keep Moving are sure to satiate any hip hop cravings, but if you’re after more of Krafty’s signature funk he’s got you covered with She’s Out Of My Head. In fact he appears to cover all bases – perhaps even stretches to reach them – as the album somehow seams together thick disco bass with heavy hip hop beats and some seriously refreshing percussive threads (tune into Bass Phenomenon). His skill is undeniable, so it’s disappointing when Reeves gets distracted and throws up the Back in 5 sign with an occasional stretch of uninspiring house loops.
Featuring more cameos than the Simpsons Movie, Tim Deluxe, Freestylers, Scratch Perverts and Dynamite MC are among some of the guest artists each adding their own flavour, so it’s not surprising that the album tugs in many different directions. You get the feeling that Freakshow would be better served as a compilation and probably prevents any development of a coherent album, but it sure makes for a bloody good dance.
Hadouken! @ HiFi (07/08/2008)
I can’t be sure, but I suspect there was a school excursion to see Hadouken! on August 7. As a loose line of ten year olds (who had clearly excavated all the 80’s getup from their folks’ closets) nonchalantly lined up outside the Melbourne venue, I took my place next to the cool kids and folded my arms.
Opening for Hadouken! were supporting group Peacocks, who quickly caught the attention of many a hormonal ear with their booming FX of a female orgasm. Although in all fairness the rhythmic moaning was well mixed, it served as more of a band proclamation than a music intro: OUR MUSIC IS ABOUT SEX. It sure was. Clad in skin-tight lycra and drowning in glitter (with the inexplicable exception of drummer and almost hidden bassist), the group belted their lyrics about taking it all off, hitting it up, and doing it twice to a bewildered crowd. Each band member openly competed for stage space as they tentatively waded through harmonies, making their refusal to pay any attention to each other painfully audible. Peacocks’ statement was clear but ultimately missed the mark; lead vocalist Aaron Shanahan seemed to be channelling more Freddy Mercury than Jake Shears in his sheer leopard print tights and studded leather jock strap. For a group pushing their sexuality so much they should probably work on being more sexual and less crass. I guess the performance could be likened to playing music through two stereos at the same time. And parading around them in your underwear.
Thankfully, Mission Control dared to delve a little deeper. A kind of Primal Scream homage, Mission Control boasted hugely impressive hooks (particularly Innerspace) and clearly put a great deal of thought into their music. So much so, in fact, that vocalist Lodi Zambruno and bassist Tyrell Zuckerman seemed immovably affected – almost drugged – by it. Sparky Preston certainly lifted the energy on stage with his enthusiastic McCartney stylings on second guitar, although even the most energetic of performers would have had a tough time rousing the rest of the band. Aside from this minor lull, these guys are an exciting group to listen to and had their lesson in psychedelia down.
Finally, a herd of 80s cardigans packed themselves up close to the stage as Hadouken! threw greasy slabs of beefy bass against the back wall of the HiFi. From the first moments of their opening song Get Smashed Gate Crash , the band roused an army of convulsing go-getters practically wet with rebellion as they chanted along to “We are the wasted youth, and we are the future!” Massively surprising, though, was the extreme level of control that vocalist James Smith had over his performance. Motionless to the point of being stoic, Smith stood wrapped around the mic stand with his eyes closed as he hurled lyrics into the crowd with the ease of The Streets. Amazingly, he wasn’t lethargic. He was dramatic, as was the entire band as they hammered their fingers and fists into their instruments. Alice Spooner showed us some of the most aggressive keyboarding I’ve seen in a while! Having expected a bunch of bad-ass Brits arrogant with angst, I was hugely impressed. This measured intensity continued through obvious crowd favourites like Crank It Up and That Boy That Girl, boasting an assortment of tempered profanities.
The show was pretty much a big fat crescendo from the word ‘fuck’. Hadouken! showed us their (surprisingly) insightful side with fiscal observations in Spend Your Life, and just as we may have thought Daniel Rice on guitar would have to bear the brunt of the moshing while his singing counterpart stood embracing a mic stand, Smith came to life like a budget Frankenstein movie and lifted himself onto two fallback amps, rousing wild stomping and cheering from below. It was bloody fun to watch. The rest of the set saw Smith freely throwing himself around the stage, climbing on and off the bass drum at his leisure.
Closing the gig, Hadouken! announced a cover of Breathe by The Prodigy (“…The best band in the world”). It was a big call, but after their seriously powerful performance pretty much everyone there was willing to believe it, no small thanks to a feat of drumming from Nick Rice. In case there was any more bouncing to squeeze out of the audience Hadouken! blasted some more heads with Liquid Lives as a surge of unbridled screams were heard from the moshing mass. Clearly a hugely intuitive band, maybe Hadouken! shouldn’t be dismissed as fresh anti-social teen meat just yet – although they’ll probably tell you they’re too cool to give a shit.
Opening for Hadouken! were supporting group Peacocks, who quickly caught the attention of many a hormonal ear with their booming FX of a female orgasm. Although in all fairness the rhythmic moaning was well mixed, it served as more of a band proclamation than a music intro: OUR MUSIC IS ABOUT SEX. It sure was. Clad in skin-tight lycra and drowning in glitter (with the inexplicable exception of drummer and almost hidden bassist), the group belted their lyrics about taking it all off, hitting it up, and doing it twice to a bewildered crowd. Each band member openly competed for stage space as they tentatively waded through harmonies, making their refusal to pay any attention to each other painfully audible. Peacocks’ statement was clear but ultimately missed the mark; lead vocalist Aaron Shanahan seemed to be channelling more Freddy Mercury than Jake Shears in his sheer leopard print tights and studded leather jock strap. For a group pushing their sexuality so much they should probably work on being more sexual and less crass. I guess the performance could be likened to playing music through two stereos at the same time. And parading around them in your underwear.
Thankfully, Mission Control dared to delve a little deeper. A kind of Primal Scream homage, Mission Control boasted hugely impressive hooks (particularly Innerspace) and clearly put a great deal of thought into their music. So much so, in fact, that vocalist Lodi Zambruno and bassist Tyrell Zuckerman seemed immovably affected – almost drugged – by it. Sparky Preston certainly lifted the energy on stage with his enthusiastic McCartney stylings on second guitar, although even the most energetic of performers would have had a tough time rousing the rest of the band. Aside from this minor lull, these guys are an exciting group to listen to and had their lesson in psychedelia down.
Finally, a herd of 80s cardigans packed themselves up close to the stage as Hadouken! threw greasy slabs of beefy bass against the back wall of the HiFi. From the first moments of their opening song Get Smashed Gate Crash , the band roused an army of convulsing go-getters practically wet with rebellion as they chanted along to “We are the wasted youth, and we are the future!” Massively surprising, though, was the extreme level of control that vocalist James Smith had over his performance. Motionless to the point of being stoic, Smith stood wrapped around the mic stand with his eyes closed as he hurled lyrics into the crowd with the ease of The Streets. Amazingly, he wasn’t lethargic. He was dramatic, as was the entire band as they hammered their fingers and fists into their instruments. Alice Spooner showed us some of the most aggressive keyboarding I’ve seen in a while! Having expected a bunch of bad-ass Brits arrogant with angst, I was hugely impressed. This measured intensity continued through obvious crowd favourites like Crank It Up and That Boy That Girl, boasting an assortment of tempered profanities.
The show was pretty much a big fat crescendo from the word ‘fuck’. Hadouken! showed us their (surprisingly) insightful side with fiscal observations in Spend Your Life, and just as we may have thought Daniel Rice on guitar would have to bear the brunt of the moshing while his singing counterpart stood embracing a mic stand, Smith came to life like a budget Frankenstein movie and lifted himself onto two fallback amps, rousing wild stomping and cheering from below. It was bloody fun to watch. The rest of the set saw Smith freely throwing himself around the stage, climbing on and off the bass drum at his leisure.
Closing the gig, Hadouken! announced a cover of Breathe by The Prodigy (“…The best band in the world”). It was a big call, but after their seriously powerful performance pretty much everyone there was willing to believe it, no small thanks to a feat of drumming from Nick Rice. In case there was any more bouncing to squeeze out of the audience Hadouken! blasted some more heads with Liquid Lives as a surge of unbridled screams were heard from the moshing mass. Clearly a hugely intuitive band, maybe Hadouken! shouldn’t be dismissed as fresh anti-social teen meat just yet – although they’ll probably tell you they’re too cool to give a shit.
Young Lovers @ Revolver (23/08/2008)
You know the feeling that it would have been way easier to ignore the fact that things were shitty before something really fantastic happens? Saturday night took a big dirty truth fish and smacked me across the face with that feeling. As I descended the Revolver stairs I realised that, at some point on the tuneful timeline, musicians seem to have become morbidly fearful of saying a humble ‘Thank You’. In a local pit of live music where so many kids are clawing at the rafters for a spotlight, common courtesy now seems a forgotten practice. Saturday observed that a little humility goes a long long way, and makes for a far more enjoyable listening experience. Young Lovers, Red Ink and Fire! Santa Rosa, Fire!, you see, are nice. Not too nice, mind, but they clearly understand that at no point did being an ungrateful become cool.
First up was Fire! SantaRosa, Fire!. These self-confessed Adelaideians have got the most fantastic attitude, together with rhythm to boot. Opening with a bit of a swaying dance and some angular pop harmonies, Bad Trip could probably have used an extra kick of energy to get things started. While the opening numbers were well performed, they were also pretty safe and it was clear that these casual-listening indies were the warm up act. After seeing what the band later delivered I have to say I don’t think they should need it. With the introduction of Lamborghini Dreams, Fire! Santa Rosa, Fire! finally let themselves push it out with a much needed lashing of attitude. Their grooves are absolutely charged, comparable to the percussive drive from Chk Chk Chk, while minimal lyrics leave you with the impression that too many vocals would break the momentum of this rapid ride. On that note, whoever said a tambourine doesn’t bloody rock out was lying. I’ve never seen a band play the shit out of a tambourine so convincingly! The charm of these guys, though, is their willingness to acknowledge that there are actually people standing three feet away from them. After thanking Red Ink and Young Lovers for playing with them, funny-man and lead guitarist Dave Williams declares “Let’s hear it for banter!” Appropriately, in a pulsing slab of bass and percussion, the set left the band and audience alike chanting “Audience par-ti-ci-pa-tion!” These guys really are, dare I say it, on fire! (Ouch.)
The next forty minutes introduced us to Red Ink. Wow. Picture a badger. He just broke up with his special someone. He’s pissed off. Put him in a cage with a guitar and watch him thrash around. …Red Ink sound something like that. The furious energy these guys bring to the stage is startling. After thanking Fire! Santa Rosa, Fire! twice (and receiving a compliment on his bowtie in return), vocalist and synth player John Jakubenko lead the group in an explosion of sound which was sustained through the entire performance. At several points I found myself wondering how much longer they could hold out, particularly Aaron Sim’s heart-stomping drumming. Remarkably each band member kept up, almost taunting each other onwards. Although aggressively emotive, Red Ink’s music is also particularly narrative and incredibly similar to The Killers; they really know how to tell a story. A performance of particular emotion came from Brendan Jones who practically drove his right arm through his guitar at times. It was well timed when Red Ink’s Foo Fighter-esque tension alleviated towards the end of the set, giving rise to a funkier line of playing driven largely by bassist James Munns. There is no denying that Red Ink know how to play with a bang. And a crash. And a bow.
Considering that the band had been mingling with the crowd and enjoying their supporters’ music, there was very little suspense to speak of before Young Lovers started playing. Or, more accurately, until they started playing. With the kinetic pulse of Rachael Jakubenko’s bass driving us into Feel Your Heat, it became clear that Young Lovers know how to move a beat. Well. While the rhythm section ploughs the way forward for lead vocalist and synth player Luke Carlson, it seems that the role of ‘front man’ is entirely divided five ways between the talented group. The electric charge of these songs are made evident as a group of punters shift an imposing couch to the side to make room for their dancing pleasures, jerking it out through Say What You Mean (showcasing Carlson’s fantastic baritone) and Take For Me . This song positively kicked, as Jakubenko and lead guitarist Jake Oliver practically bounced off each other’s chests in a brilliant ricochet of energy! Young Lovers work together as a tightly packed unit illuminating the stage, probably testament to the fact that they’re having a world of fun up there as mates as well as musicians.
As the set came closer to an end no one took their foot off the accelerator, announcing a cover of the INXS classic Just Keep Walking. At this point Carlson allowed himself to detach a little from his central position and interact more with the (determinedly) powerful Scott Chalmers pounding at the drums, and Bill Winder who had previously been jamming solely with power-rocket Jakubenko. Although some harmonies struggled, the fun these guys were having hurtled out into the audience as couches were pushed further aside. Carlson overstated it as he later approached the subject, “We managed to put every instrument out of tune in that song.” Honestly, we couldn’t care less. It wasn’t until Yound Lovers performed The People that the exertion of the set caught up with them and left Carlson in particular sounding a little tired, although the lull in energy lasted about two minutes before a tight segue gave way to clear favourite Talking In French for one more leg flailing dance. Guaging the uproar of applause from the crowd as Young Lovers signed off, there was probably no need to thank everyone for their support. Which, of course, they did anyway.
First up was Fire! SantaRosa, Fire!. These self-confessed Adelaideians have got the most fantastic attitude, together with rhythm to boot. Opening with a bit of a swaying dance and some angular pop harmonies, Bad Trip could probably have used an extra kick of energy to get things started. While the opening numbers were well performed, they were also pretty safe and it was clear that these casual-listening indies were the warm up act. After seeing what the band later delivered I have to say I don’t think they should need it. With the introduction of Lamborghini Dreams, Fire! Santa Rosa, Fire! finally let themselves push it out with a much needed lashing of attitude. Their grooves are absolutely charged, comparable to the percussive drive from Chk Chk Chk, while minimal lyrics leave you with the impression that too many vocals would break the momentum of this rapid ride. On that note, whoever said a tambourine doesn’t bloody rock out was lying. I’ve never seen a band play the shit out of a tambourine so convincingly! The charm of these guys, though, is their willingness to acknowledge that there are actually people standing three feet away from them. After thanking Red Ink and Young Lovers for playing with them, funny-man and lead guitarist Dave Williams declares “Let’s hear it for banter!” Appropriately, in a pulsing slab of bass and percussion, the set left the band and audience alike chanting “Audience par-ti-ci-pa-tion!” These guys really are, dare I say it, on fire! (Ouch.)
The next forty minutes introduced us to Red Ink. Wow. Picture a badger. He just broke up with his special someone. He’s pissed off. Put him in a cage with a guitar and watch him thrash around. …Red Ink sound something like that. The furious energy these guys bring to the stage is startling. After thanking Fire! Santa Rosa, Fire! twice (and receiving a compliment on his bowtie in return), vocalist and synth player John Jakubenko lead the group in an explosion of sound which was sustained through the entire performance. At several points I found myself wondering how much longer they could hold out, particularly Aaron Sim’s heart-stomping drumming. Remarkably each band member kept up, almost taunting each other onwards. Although aggressively emotive, Red Ink’s music is also particularly narrative and incredibly similar to The Killers; they really know how to tell a story. A performance of particular emotion came from Brendan Jones who practically drove his right arm through his guitar at times. It was well timed when Red Ink’s Foo Fighter-esque tension alleviated towards the end of the set, giving rise to a funkier line of playing driven largely by bassist James Munns. There is no denying that Red Ink know how to play with a bang. And a crash. And a bow.
Considering that the band had been mingling with the crowd and enjoying their supporters’ music, there was very little suspense to speak of before Young Lovers started playing. Or, more accurately, until they started playing. With the kinetic pulse of Rachael Jakubenko’s bass driving us into Feel Your Heat, it became clear that Young Lovers know how to move a beat. Well. While the rhythm section ploughs the way forward for lead vocalist and synth player Luke Carlson, it seems that the role of ‘front man’ is entirely divided five ways between the talented group. The electric charge of these songs are made evident as a group of punters shift an imposing couch to the side to make room for their dancing pleasures, jerking it out through Say What You Mean (showcasing Carlson’s fantastic baritone) and Take For Me . This song positively kicked, as Jakubenko and lead guitarist Jake Oliver practically bounced off each other’s chests in a brilliant ricochet of energy! Young Lovers work together as a tightly packed unit illuminating the stage, probably testament to the fact that they’re having a world of fun up there as mates as well as musicians.
As the set came closer to an end no one took their foot off the accelerator, announcing a cover of the INXS classic Just Keep Walking. At this point Carlson allowed himself to detach a little from his central position and interact more with the (determinedly) powerful Scott Chalmers pounding at the drums, and Bill Winder who had previously been jamming solely with power-rocket Jakubenko. Although some harmonies struggled, the fun these guys were having hurtled out into the audience as couches were pushed further aside. Carlson overstated it as he later approached the subject, “We managed to put every instrument out of tune in that song.” Honestly, we couldn’t care less. It wasn’t until Yound Lovers performed The People that the exertion of the set caught up with them and left Carlson in particular sounding a little tired, although the lull in energy lasted about two minutes before a tight segue gave way to clear favourite Talking In French for one more leg flailing dance. Guaging the uproar of applause from the crowd as Young Lovers signed off, there was probably no need to thank everyone for their support. Which, of course, they did anyway.
Anika Moa @ The Toff in Town (03/09/2008)
It occurred to me as I sat at my Toff in Town table, warmed by wine and candlelight, that Anika Moa couldn’t have better timed her approach to Melbourne. At this time of year there always seems to be a kind of movement in the city as winter loosens it’s icy pry and we finally probe into Spring. Having heard very little of Moa’s music myself, I couldn’t think of a nicer way to loosen the mid-week tie than to leave my arctic coat at home and check out what the buzz is all about with this Kiwi songstress.
Threads of listeners who were evidently as curious as I was slowly entered the cosy Toff while supporting act Guy Blackman nestled into his keyboard, announced a nearby guitarist simply as ‘Jeff’, and began playing us some songs. A highly quirky duo, the two musicians resembled almost a father and son pairing in their matching knit sweaters and glasses. Technically both players were clearly talented musicians, giving a sweet face to what could otherwise have been garishly emotional lyrics. Singing themes of unrequited love, family and self understanding Blackman’s music has a very clear Big City / Little Man line of thought, from which he rarely digresses. Unfortunately, while his music was very pretty, the surreal performance distracted a little from the material. Framed by a theatrical proscenium decorated with lavish red curtains, the Blackman & ‘Jeff’ duo almost had me convinced that marionette strings were responsible for whatever limited movement was happening on stage. Considering the exposing nature of his songs, in particular Carlton North , Blackman seemed to have bypassed any emotional investment whatsoever and relied soley on the densely narrative lyrics to communicate with us. I wasn’t quite ready to work that hard on my own, instead finding myself transfixed by Blackman’s resemblance to a cube of fudge in his caramel and chocolate striped sweater. For something sweet to tie you over for a while, Guy Blackman will do the trick.
It didn’t take long to realise that there is nothing sugary about Anika Moa. Blunt, brash and unbelievably charming Moa has relocated to Melbourne, fresh from her New Zealand tour. Standing barefoot next to a bottle of beer (wearing her “bist driss” for the occasion), Moa slings her guitar around her shoulder and claims, “I’m not viry good, but i’m pritty” before launching into Wise Men Say. Seconds later the entire venue noted that not only is Moa pretty, she also has an incredible voice. The purity of her melodies are nothing short of captivating, winding her fingers around some beautiful hooks with a rare kind of ease. The simplicity of Moa’s lyrics form a wonderfully genuine performance reeking of sincerity through love songs In the Morning and Day In Day Out. What is truly endearing about Moa is her ability to leave one beautiful ballad literally humming in the space before taking a long swig of beer and belching past the microphone. She offers a half-assed apology. With a flair for storytelling that extends beyond the call of her music, Moa interrupts herself with constant comic styling and celebrity muso impersonations. Leaving the crowd in tight fits of laugher, the giggling singer barely takes a moment to compose herself and ploughs on. Of all her special moments on stage, the most remarkable was her performance of My Old Man and Mother, a kind of diptych which intimately communicates the rowdy life of her late father and the warmth and compassion of her mother. Highly intuitive and musically moving, these two songs were compelling to say the least.
Of course, love presents the most consistent string of songs for Moa. After a casual chat with the audience about the pains of one particular relationship, a nearby heckler shoots “Tell us his name!” at the singer, to which Moa replies from behind an amused smile, “...Who said it’s a ‘he’?” From her opening songs – hell, from her opening words – Moa’s music seems to me to be less about her sexuality than her femininity. It’s clear that there are no real statements or political plugs going on here; her music is offered as a largely personal journey. The repeated lyrics of Stolen Hill’s “I think I love you” which could easily sound trite somehow hurdle over the usual ‘unrequited love’ stick, in the same way that Running To Her refuses to be passed off as some kind of lesbian fantasy. Owing to Moa’s accuracy and honesty, this stuff is so accessible by any listener with a pulse.
After several encores (including an impressive effort at self-dubbing in a reggae cover of her own material!) Anika Moa picks up her beer and waves herself off the stage. A thawing Melbourne is glad to have her.
Wednesday 10th and 17th September will see Moa through a three week residency at the Toff.
Threads of listeners who were evidently as curious as I was slowly entered the cosy Toff while supporting act Guy Blackman nestled into his keyboard, announced a nearby guitarist simply as ‘Jeff’, and began playing us some songs. A highly quirky duo, the two musicians resembled almost a father and son pairing in their matching knit sweaters and glasses. Technically both players were clearly talented musicians, giving a sweet face to what could otherwise have been garishly emotional lyrics. Singing themes of unrequited love, family and self understanding Blackman’s music has a very clear Big City / Little Man line of thought, from which he rarely digresses. Unfortunately, while his music was very pretty, the surreal performance distracted a little from the material. Framed by a theatrical proscenium decorated with lavish red curtains, the Blackman & ‘Jeff’ duo almost had me convinced that marionette strings were responsible for whatever limited movement was happening on stage. Considering the exposing nature of his songs, in particular Carlton North , Blackman seemed to have bypassed any emotional investment whatsoever and relied soley on the densely narrative lyrics to communicate with us. I wasn’t quite ready to work that hard on my own, instead finding myself transfixed by Blackman’s resemblance to a cube of fudge in his caramel and chocolate striped sweater. For something sweet to tie you over for a while, Guy Blackman will do the trick.
It didn’t take long to realise that there is nothing sugary about Anika Moa. Blunt, brash and unbelievably charming Moa has relocated to Melbourne, fresh from her New Zealand tour. Standing barefoot next to a bottle of beer (wearing her “bist driss” for the occasion), Moa slings her guitar around her shoulder and claims, “I’m not viry good, but i’m pritty” before launching into Wise Men Say. Seconds later the entire venue noted that not only is Moa pretty, she also has an incredible voice. The purity of her melodies are nothing short of captivating, winding her fingers around some beautiful hooks with a rare kind of ease. The simplicity of Moa’s lyrics form a wonderfully genuine performance reeking of sincerity through love songs In the Morning and Day In Day Out. What is truly endearing about Moa is her ability to leave one beautiful ballad literally humming in the space before taking a long swig of beer and belching past the microphone. She offers a half-assed apology. With a flair for storytelling that extends beyond the call of her music, Moa interrupts herself with constant comic styling and celebrity muso impersonations. Leaving the crowd in tight fits of laugher, the giggling singer barely takes a moment to compose herself and ploughs on. Of all her special moments on stage, the most remarkable was her performance of My Old Man and Mother, a kind of diptych which intimately communicates the rowdy life of her late father and the warmth and compassion of her mother. Highly intuitive and musically moving, these two songs were compelling to say the least.
Of course, love presents the most consistent string of songs for Moa. After a casual chat with the audience about the pains of one particular relationship, a nearby heckler shoots “Tell us his name!” at the singer, to which Moa replies from behind an amused smile, “...Who said it’s a ‘he’?” From her opening songs – hell, from her opening words – Moa’s music seems to me to be less about her sexuality than her femininity. It’s clear that there are no real statements or political plugs going on here; her music is offered as a largely personal journey. The repeated lyrics of Stolen Hill’s “I think I love you” which could easily sound trite somehow hurdle over the usual ‘unrequited love’ stick, in the same way that Running To Her refuses to be passed off as some kind of lesbian fantasy. Owing to Moa’s accuracy and honesty, this stuff is so accessible by any listener with a pulse.
After several encores (including an impressive effort at self-dubbing in a reggae cover of her own material!) Anika Moa picks up her beer and waves herself off the stage. A thawing Melbourne is glad to have her.
Wednesday 10th and 17th September will see Moa through a three week residency at the Toff.
Ash Grunwald @ HiFi (12/09/2008)
With the music festival season fast approaching it was more than a little difficult to shake the feeling that Melbourne’s diverse crowd of Grunwald-goers were collaboratively doing their darndest to replicate a summery night of music within the HiFi on Friday night. The cavernous space appeared to be populated by a densely mixed crowd (testament to Ash Grunwald’s breadth of musical styles and supporters), eager to will the warmer months closer. As a carpet of fans sat cross-legged, talking excitedly and stretching out occasionally to enjoy the fictional night air, I realised I was witnessing the same festival comradeship you would find on a grassy slope in January. It was a sight.
First up to the bon fire was one-woman act Last Town Chorus. Sitting alone with her lap steel guitar, Megan Hickey announced herself politely and introduced us to her band: a suspicious looking iPod. In the absence of animate musicians, Hickey looked more than a little lonely on the eerily empty stage. Her music is an ambient concoction of grassy blues, psychedelic rock and folk – a combination of sound which becomes quite haunting when it appears to be played through one set of strings. Although at times I could see the steady swinging of hair in a slow-mo mosh circle, willing the music to keep up with their beating heads, this is unique music that stops just short of fascinating. While many musicians will tag the lap steel guitar as a finishing kind of ‘full stop’ to their sound, Hickey works the instrument proudly through her entire set – the result is quite breathtaking. Probably owing to the lack of musical relationship with her ‘band’, Hickey reverts to a stronger connection with the audience, at times singing directly to individual audience members in a plea for understanding of her iPod plight. In response, the crowd initially seesawed between an awed silence and gentle conversations before seemingly becoming tired of working to imagine the rest of the band and engaging in much, much louder conversations. I’m sure Last Town Chorus is an exceptional act, when everyone shows up.
Sauntering onto the stage in clothing you might wear to the local Fish & Chip store, The Sunshine Brothers work the philosophy of Cool like a tagline. The six brothers brought instant life to the stage with their dub reggae flair (hugely similar to Fat Freddy’s Drop) while brandishing contagiously wide toothy smiles from their opening song, My . These kids clearly know how to have fun and didn’t waste a second coercing our hips to sway. What made this set so enjoyable was that it didn’t really feel at all like a set, but a ribbon of music indefinable by lyrics or hooks, every inch of which was rhythmic and spontaneous. If it weren’t for an elated call of “Oh yeeeah!” from somewhere behind the drum kit every four minutes, you could almost get lost amongst the wails of trumpeting and consistent earthy baseline. The occasional vocals in TNT were sorely needed to kick a crowd hypnotised by reggae, setting the group apart from other dub acts with an uncharacteristically smooth voice from Cheeky, reminiscent of Sting in the early days of the Police . Their brotherly interaction on stage warranted a rousing response from fellow groovers, making it difficult to imagine their music anywhere outside of a live performance.
After strolling onto the stage it only took three steady thumps from his left foot for Ash Grunwald to drive any remaining campers to their feet and into the dance pit. Or more accurately into the stomping, bouncing, head twisting and arm-linking pit. There is something deeply primal about Grunwald’s music, which goes beyond his flailing dreadlocks or infectious rhythms. The singer tells a story. Whether this takes the form of simple traditional spirituals or lyrical contemporary social comments, Grunwald seems to have accessed our very bones in a way few musicians are able. What is it about this guy that makes everyone want to grab the closest rhythm sticks and dance in the mud?
Melting Hendrix guitar influences with rowdy percussions of Give Something Away, he follows with Rosie (not of JJJ, he assures us) demonstrating what percussive momentum is all about. Grunwald slows his expert picking down to a heavy trudge before stretching his head back to the ceiling, baring his teeth wide in a familiar grin, and pausing before hurtling us into fast and wild billy rock guitar. He even managed to work some fierce wolf howls in the obvious crowd favourite Devil Called Me A Liar, rocking a heavier riff that would surely satiate fans of Grunwald’s grungier sound.
As far as crowd participation goes, nothing could rival the roar of feedback heard as Money dragged a gritty hand along Grunwald’s guitar. Practically screaming back at their enlightener “We FEEL you, man!”, the audience shouted themselves hoarse. Finishing the set with a brilliant display of the power Grunwald holds over his crowd, Give Signs was probably the night’s highlight – if you could pick one. Singing “Do your thing, dance and sing”, the filtered vocals were received as less of a lyric and more of a stubborn instruction, leaving those of us lucky enough with enough room to kick a leg dancing and singing. We were happy to oblige.
First up to the bon fire was one-woman act Last Town Chorus. Sitting alone with her lap steel guitar, Megan Hickey announced herself politely and introduced us to her band: a suspicious looking iPod. In the absence of animate musicians, Hickey looked more than a little lonely on the eerily empty stage. Her music is an ambient concoction of grassy blues, psychedelic rock and folk – a combination of sound which becomes quite haunting when it appears to be played through one set of strings. Although at times I could see the steady swinging of hair in a slow-mo mosh circle, willing the music to keep up with their beating heads, this is unique music that stops just short of fascinating. While many musicians will tag the lap steel guitar as a finishing kind of ‘full stop’ to their sound, Hickey works the instrument proudly through her entire set – the result is quite breathtaking. Probably owing to the lack of musical relationship with her ‘band’, Hickey reverts to a stronger connection with the audience, at times singing directly to individual audience members in a plea for understanding of her iPod plight. In response, the crowd initially seesawed between an awed silence and gentle conversations before seemingly becoming tired of working to imagine the rest of the band and engaging in much, much louder conversations. I’m sure Last Town Chorus is an exceptional act, when everyone shows up.
Sauntering onto the stage in clothing you might wear to the local Fish & Chip store, The Sunshine Brothers work the philosophy of Cool like a tagline. The six brothers brought instant life to the stage with their dub reggae flair (hugely similar to Fat Freddy’s Drop) while brandishing contagiously wide toothy smiles from their opening song, My . These kids clearly know how to have fun and didn’t waste a second coercing our hips to sway. What made this set so enjoyable was that it didn’t really feel at all like a set, but a ribbon of music indefinable by lyrics or hooks, every inch of which was rhythmic and spontaneous. If it weren’t for an elated call of “Oh yeeeah!” from somewhere behind the drum kit every four minutes, you could almost get lost amongst the wails of trumpeting and consistent earthy baseline. The occasional vocals in TNT were sorely needed to kick a crowd hypnotised by reggae, setting the group apart from other dub acts with an uncharacteristically smooth voice from Cheeky, reminiscent of Sting in the early days of the Police . Their brotherly interaction on stage warranted a rousing response from fellow groovers, making it difficult to imagine their music anywhere outside of a live performance.
After strolling onto the stage it only took three steady thumps from his left foot for Ash Grunwald to drive any remaining campers to their feet and into the dance pit. Or more accurately into the stomping, bouncing, head twisting and arm-linking pit. There is something deeply primal about Grunwald’s music, which goes beyond his flailing dreadlocks or infectious rhythms. The singer tells a story. Whether this takes the form of simple traditional spirituals or lyrical contemporary social comments, Grunwald seems to have accessed our very bones in a way few musicians are able. What is it about this guy that makes everyone want to grab the closest rhythm sticks and dance in the mud?
Melting Hendrix guitar influences with rowdy percussions of Give Something Away, he follows with Rosie (not of JJJ, he assures us) demonstrating what percussive momentum is all about. Grunwald slows his expert picking down to a heavy trudge before stretching his head back to the ceiling, baring his teeth wide in a familiar grin, and pausing before hurtling us into fast and wild billy rock guitar. He even managed to work some fierce wolf howls in the obvious crowd favourite Devil Called Me A Liar, rocking a heavier riff that would surely satiate fans of Grunwald’s grungier sound.
As far as crowd participation goes, nothing could rival the roar of feedback heard as Money dragged a gritty hand along Grunwald’s guitar. Practically screaming back at their enlightener “We FEEL you, man!”, the audience shouted themselves hoarse. Finishing the set with a brilliant display of the power Grunwald holds over his crowd, Give Signs was probably the night’s highlight – if you could pick one. Singing “Do your thing, dance and sing”, the filtered vocals were received as less of a lyric and more of a stubborn instruction, leaving those of us lucky enough with enough room to kick a leg dancing and singing. We were happy to oblige.
Fleet Foxes - Fleet Foxes (2008)
It’s rare to find album art which so accurately depicts the music it encases, but surfacing Seattle group Fleet Foxes have managed to provide the perfect face for their debut self titled album. The cover offers a vibrant renaissance painting depicting a colourful array of characters in a busy street scene, fronting an almost hidden natural hillside. The chosen artwork is apt as it bears striking resemblance to the ‘Baroque Pop’ sound which vocalist Robin Pecknold has weightlessly produced together with Skyler Skjelset, Bryn Lumsden, Nicholas Peterson and Casey Wescott. The album is an uplifting, if not enchanting collection of music boasting some seriously dense imagery and stunning harmonies that would do Simon & Garfunkel proud.
Fleet Foxes opens with an A Capella intro, almost a kind of provincial spiritual, kicking off with the genuinely pure vocals that follow the album through its entirety. White Winter Hymnal is beautifully arranged complete with Garfunkel-esque tympani and tambourine, casting a captivating snow scene of children playing. Tiger Mountain Peasant Houses follows close by, with the kind of butter-melting fingerwork from Pecknold and Skjelset on guitars that you might find from Neil Young circa Crosby, Stills & Nash. The optimism of this album is incredibly warming, permeating even the concluding death ballad Oliver James with the band’s joyful musicality. This stuff is so sunny.
As serene as much of their music is, however, Fleet Foxes allow for a great deal of movement in the album and clearly exercise restraint in maintaining a rough three-minute song length, despite clear scope for eight-minute musical showiness. Covering narrations of families, lost lovers, natural wonders and death beds, Fleet Foxes has been tightly produced and is at no point sloppy or lacking in direction. Although it holds the potential to have easily become a bit of a Joan Baez wandering-minstrel cover album, it holds its own style and pulls the folk era successfully into 2008 – a kind of Shins-meets-Sigur Ros answer to their 1960s predecessors. I bet Joni would love this album.
Fleet Foxes opens with an A Capella intro, almost a kind of provincial spiritual, kicking off with the genuinely pure vocals that follow the album through its entirety. White Winter Hymnal is beautifully arranged complete with Garfunkel-esque tympani and tambourine, casting a captivating snow scene of children playing. Tiger Mountain Peasant Houses follows close by, with the kind of butter-melting fingerwork from Pecknold and Skjelset on guitars that you might find from Neil Young circa Crosby, Stills & Nash. The optimism of this album is incredibly warming, permeating even the concluding death ballad Oliver James with the band’s joyful musicality. This stuff is so sunny.
As serene as much of their music is, however, Fleet Foxes allow for a great deal of movement in the album and clearly exercise restraint in maintaining a rough three-minute song length, despite clear scope for eight-minute musical showiness. Covering narrations of families, lost lovers, natural wonders and death beds, Fleet Foxes has been tightly produced and is at no point sloppy or lacking in direction. Although it holds the potential to have easily become a bit of a Joan Baez wandering-minstrel cover album, it holds its own style and pulls the folk era successfully into 2008 – a kind of Shins-meets-Sigur Ros answer to their 1960s predecessors. I bet Joni would love this album.
Karm-Huh?
I will now excercise my right to stage an uneducated bitch about songs that make no lyrical sense. Granted, even the most celebrated artists can get their cogs rusted when pinning together a musical sentiment. In crafting the next heart-stopping hit lyrics are often bent, stretched and welded into place to cut down syllables, rhyme a phrase or match a beat. In many cases we choose to ignore the masking tape and turn a blind eye to a complete lack of cohesion for the sake of an awesome hook or infectious bass line. We tend to be less forgiving when a not-so-celebrated artist uses the same lyrical tactics to take a swing at being mysterious, and instead find themselves in a big fat spotlight of ambiguity.
Today’s example: Use of the concept ‘Karma’ to signify any level of discomfort, confusion, heartache or morality. Can someone please invest in a dictionary? Dissecting both the musical Genius and Joke alike, the following is a listing of my Top 5 Karm-huh? songs.
5 – Karmacoma (Massive Attack)
I love this song. This is because I feel positively cool listening to it. You try singing along with Tricky, cutting off the ends of your words as you pluck away at invisible base strings, and tell me you don’t feel like Bob Marley. With this in mind you can imagine I was especially crushed when years ago I realised the lyrics weren’t, “Calm a coma, ya make it roam-a.”, but were in fact “Karmacoma, Jamaica’ aroma.” I was devastated. My heroic super-team had somehow managed to dodge the boundaries of meaning, making even less grammatical sense than I. At what point was karma lost in coma? Would karma awake again? When did karma relocate to Jamaica? Should someone tell Richard Gere? Being at a highly impressionable age, I wasted no time in seeking an explanation; some kind of loose thought pattern that might explain this jargon chorus! My findings were less than satisfying: “Deflowering my baby, aiyee my baby me. I must be crazy, see I’m swazy.” ...I’ll give my spell check a rest and move right on to what really had me confused: “When there’s trust there’ll be treats. And when we funk we’ll hear beats.” Perhaps this was some kind of promise of post-trust candy? Or the act of funking? An after party? It was a lot to grapple with, and my tender brain just wasn’t up to the challenge. Feeling a little swazy myself, I settled on concluding that when you’re as cool as these guys you probably don’t need to worry about perfecting sentence structure. Or the English language.
4- Karma Wheel (Sammy Hagar and the Waboritas)
I still maintain that this song should have trumped Aerosmith for the title of the Armageddon film theme song. This thing is epic. Sammy’s rock guitar pulling slowly at screeching notes over dramatic, thumping tom-tom fills, not to mention a ‘Change The World’ motto that’s almost cheesy enough to match Bruce Willis’ slow mo strut into a space craft. It could have been beautiful. Undoubtedly the executive producers for the film only overlooked Sammy Hagar on account of the extreme monotony of his repeated lyric, “Roll the karma wheel, roll that karma wheel.” Or perhaps it was the incessant rhyming? “Head in a hole...out of control.”, “Seems so real, this karma wheel”, and my personal pick, “Edge of depression, no need for compression” all evade any real meaning at all, because the listeners are stuck on one tiny detail from the opening of the song: What the hell is a karma wheel?
3 – Karma’s Payment (Modest Mouse)
In their song Karma’s Payment, Modest Mouse tell us the tale of their participation in an uh-oh-down-low time in the United States, beginning on June 14th. Minithin pills caused them two days of sleeplessness, followed shortly by a car crash. The group then proceed to travel via road down to California, and signed themselves into some sort of Karma Payment Plan – presumably to cover the damages of the prior night’s car collision. Unfortunately, their financial problems continued when they realised their radiator was busted. In several drug induced conversations with an anonymous car mechanic, Modest Mouse inform the repairman they are on the Karma Payment Plan, which interestingly also paid for the speed they then consumed at the mechanic’s house. The mechanic is interested in this limited offer and asks Modest Mouse if he, too, could sign up for the Karma Payment Plan as he had an outstanding deed to repay. After the nice man offers to fix their car, the group (rudely) take off and return for their van the next day. Again, they manage to plug the Karma Payment Plan. Modest Mouse then proceed to LA for some more substance consumption. But here’s the best part – the song concludes with the lyrics “I can’t tell you, it’s a long story.” WE KNOW. YOU JUST TOLD US.
2 – Karma Chameleon (Culture Club)
"I’m a man without conviction. I’m a man who doesn’t know how to sell a contradiction. You come and go. You come and go.
Karma Karma Karma Karma Karma Chameleon.”
The person who deciphers what the shit this song is about deserves a commemorating public holiday in their favour.
1 – Karma Police (Radiohead)
For fear of being lynched upon next exiting my home, I’ll buffer this one by acknowledging the song is a classic. Radiohead themselves are most likely the divine deity upon which all spiritual harmony is based, and therefore the very concept of Karma should be theirs to do with what they will. Even so, take a moment to decipher these lyrics: “Karma Police, arrest this man... Karma Police, arrest this girl... This is what you get when you mess with us. This is what you get when you mess with us.” Is it just me, or is anyone else a little threatened by that? Now, my tentative critique isn’t probing musical content at all, but rather aims to address a vast misunderstanding of the song. Clearly Radiohead know what they’re doing – Karma Police is wonderfully crafted and has a typically effortless focus. Not surprisingly, Radiohead do understand the notion of karma. ...A little too well, perhaps? I can’t help but feel that the song’s swell of emotion allied with a culmination of chanting “I lost myself” is too easily dismissed as a foreboding tale of social conduct. I actually think the boys know exactly what they’re saying, void of any subtext at all. There may of course be some undiagnosed psychosis brewing within the group, however it is my belief that Radiohead legitimately own the karma police. Don’t say you weren’t warned.
Today’s example: Use of the concept ‘Karma’ to signify any level of discomfort, confusion, heartache or morality. Can someone please invest in a dictionary? Dissecting both the musical Genius and Joke alike, the following is a listing of my Top 5 Karm-huh? songs.
5 – Karmacoma (Massive Attack)
I love this song. This is because I feel positively cool listening to it. You try singing along with Tricky, cutting off the ends of your words as you pluck away at invisible base strings, and tell me you don’t feel like Bob Marley. With this in mind you can imagine I was especially crushed when years ago I realised the lyrics weren’t, “Calm a coma, ya make it roam-a.”, but were in fact “Karmacoma, Jamaica’ aroma.” I was devastated. My heroic super-team had somehow managed to dodge the boundaries of meaning, making even less grammatical sense than I. At what point was karma lost in coma? Would karma awake again? When did karma relocate to Jamaica? Should someone tell Richard Gere? Being at a highly impressionable age, I wasted no time in seeking an explanation; some kind of loose thought pattern that might explain this jargon chorus! My findings were less than satisfying: “Deflowering my baby, aiyee my baby me. I must be crazy, see I’m swazy.” ...I’ll give my spell check a rest and move right on to what really had me confused: “When there’s trust there’ll be treats. And when we funk we’ll hear beats.” Perhaps this was some kind of promise of post-trust candy? Or the act of funking? An after party? It was a lot to grapple with, and my tender brain just wasn’t up to the challenge. Feeling a little swazy myself, I settled on concluding that when you’re as cool as these guys you probably don’t need to worry about perfecting sentence structure. Or the English language.
4- Karma Wheel (Sammy Hagar and the Waboritas)
I still maintain that this song should have trumped Aerosmith for the title of the Armageddon film theme song. This thing is epic. Sammy’s rock guitar pulling slowly at screeching notes over dramatic, thumping tom-tom fills, not to mention a ‘Change The World’ motto that’s almost cheesy enough to match Bruce Willis’ slow mo strut into a space craft. It could have been beautiful. Undoubtedly the executive producers for the film only overlooked Sammy Hagar on account of the extreme monotony of his repeated lyric, “Roll the karma wheel, roll that karma wheel.” Or perhaps it was the incessant rhyming? “Head in a hole...out of control.”, “Seems so real, this karma wheel”, and my personal pick, “Edge of depression, no need for compression” all evade any real meaning at all, because the listeners are stuck on one tiny detail from the opening of the song: What the hell is a karma wheel?
3 – Karma’s Payment (Modest Mouse)
In their song Karma’s Payment, Modest Mouse tell us the tale of their participation in an uh-oh-down-low time in the United States, beginning on June 14th. Minithin pills caused them two days of sleeplessness, followed shortly by a car crash. The group then proceed to travel via road down to California, and signed themselves into some sort of Karma Payment Plan – presumably to cover the damages of the prior night’s car collision. Unfortunately, their financial problems continued when they realised their radiator was busted. In several drug induced conversations with an anonymous car mechanic, Modest Mouse inform the repairman they are on the Karma Payment Plan, which interestingly also paid for the speed they then consumed at the mechanic’s house. The mechanic is interested in this limited offer and asks Modest Mouse if he, too, could sign up for the Karma Payment Plan as he had an outstanding deed to repay. After the nice man offers to fix their car, the group (rudely) take off and return for their van the next day. Again, they manage to plug the Karma Payment Plan. Modest Mouse then proceed to LA for some more substance consumption. But here’s the best part – the song concludes with the lyrics “I can’t tell you, it’s a long story.” WE KNOW. YOU JUST TOLD US.
2 – Karma Chameleon (Culture Club)
"I’m a man without conviction. I’m a man who doesn’t know how to sell a contradiction. You come and go. You come and go.
Karma Karma Karma Karma Karma Chameleon.”
The person who deciphers what the shit this song is about deserves a commemorating public holiday in their favour.
1 – Karma Police (Radiohead)
For fear of being lynched upon next exiting my home, I’ll buffer this one by acknowledging the song is a classic. Radiohead themselves are most likely the divine deity upon which all spiritual harmony is based, and therefore the very concept of Karma should be theirs to do with what they will. Even so, take a moment to decipher these lyrics: “Karma Police, arrest this man... Karma Police, arrest this girl... This is what you get when you mess with us. This is what you get when you mess with us.” Is it just me, or is anyone else a little threatened by that? Now, my tentative critique isn’t probing musical content at all, but rather aims to address a vast misunderstanding of the song. Clearly Radiohead know what they’re doing – Karma Police is wonderfully crafted and has a typically effortless focus. Not surprisingly, Radiohead do understand the notion of karma. ...A little too well, perhaps? I can’t help but feel that the song’s swell of emotion allied with a culmination of chanting “I lost myself” is too easily dismissed as a foreboding tale of social conduct. I actually think the boys know exactly what they’re saying, void of any subtext at all. There may of course be some undiagnosed psychosis brewing within the group, however it is my belief that Radiohead legitimately own the karma police. Don’t say you weren’t warned.
Music Tastes
Ever heard someone say they loved something so much they could swallow it whole? Eat it up? Devour it? Sure you have. Anyone who has ever tuned in to ‘At the Movies’ will have heard Margaret Pomeranz excessively use the adjective delicious. Delectable. Scrumptious. Mouth watering. The sense of taste is so often used as a kind of bench mark to measure elements of our daily lives. If you’ve had a particularly crappy day, your face might look sour. Pretty much every participant on A Current Affair could be described as bitter. A surfer will frequently boast about riding a sweet wave. Or, less frequently, about riding a salty wave. So what are your tastes in music? You might want to grab a napkin.
BITTER:
Facing tight competition between bitter 90s songstresses, Liz Phair seems to take the lemon. Her 1993 debut Exile In Guyville pretty much sparked indie-alternative angst for the remainder of the decade, leaving that distinctive tang embedded in our music mouths. Spitting out material which basically covers every unpleasant angle of relationships, Phair doesn’t bother to sand down the edges as she sings her homage to bitterness: Divorce Song. Close behind in the acrimony polls are Fuck and Run, Polyester Bride and Shitloads of Money. Not suitable for people with sensitive teeth.
SOUR:
The absolute warhead of sour songwriters, Leonard Cohen brings poetry to the term ‘morbid, sombre intellectual’. AKA: Folk Singer. With countless covers of his material, Cohen has etched his name deep into the history books as a remarkable writer and deeply moving musician. In his most successful release Songs of Love and Hate, Cohen presents an almost monotone voice which practically weeps with heartache and genuine sorrow. The acidity of this stuff is positively corroding, particularly in the classics Hallelujah and Suzanne. Like chewing a fist full of warhead candies, no mortal can walk away from this guy dry eyed.
SWEET:
Originally named Carl and the Passions, is it any wonder The Beach Boys have such a squeaky-sweet musical image? Sporting candy striped shirts and the occasional NAVY headwear in perfect imitation of five walking lollipops, The Beach Boys’ musical content pretty much covered hot rods, babes and Californian warmth with titles such as Then I Kissed Her, Smiley Smile, Summer In Paradise and Wouldn’t It Be Nice. Considering the sugar intake each of the boys would have had to endure in recording this stuff, it is my opinion that their teeth are far too white. Keep your insulin handy when playing a Beach Boys record.
SALTY:
Björk Gudmundsdottir is weird. We get it. We’ve all heard the good old, “I like her, but I can only listen to her in small doses.” Brash, intricate and hugely exposing, Björk’s music seems to skin us like a chemical peel – I guess whether that’s a good or a bad thing depends on the listener. Her vocal gymnastics plough through an absolute warehouse of musical influences and somehow she finds herself sandwiched between jazz ballads (Possibly Maybe) and punk hostilities (Army of Me), adding her eccentricities to each style as opposed to identifying solely with any one subgroup. Regardless of your musical tastes, in varying quantities Björk is pretty much essential to any dish.
BITTER:
Facing tight competition between bitter 90s songstresses, Liz Phair seems to take the lemon. Her 1993 debut Exile In Guyville pretty much sparked indie-alternative angst for the remainder of the decade, leaving that distinctive tang embedded in our music mouths. Spitting out material which basically covers every unpleasant angle of relationships, Phair doesn’t bother to sand down the edges as she sings her homage to bitterness: Divorce Song. Close behind in the acrimony polls are Fuck and Run, Polyester Bride and Shitloads of Money. Not suitable for people with sensitive teeth.
SOUR:
The absolute warhead of sour songwriters, Leonard Cohen brings poetry to the term ‘morbid, sombre intellectual’. AKA: Folk Singer. With countless covers of his material, Cohen has etched his name deep into the history books as a remarkable writer and deeply moving musician. In his most successful release Songs of Love and Hate, Cohen presents an almost monotone voice which practically weeps with heartache and genuine sorrow. The acidity of this stuff is positively corroding, particularly in the classics Hallelujah and Suzanne. Like chewing a fist full of warhead candies, no mortal can walk away from this guy dry eyed.
SWEET:
Originally named Carl and the Passions, is it any wonder The Beach Boys have such a squeaky-sweet musical image? Sporting candy striped shirts and the occasional NAVY headwear in perfect imitation of five walking lollipops, The Beach Boys’ musical content pretty much covered hot rods, babes and Californian warmth with titles such as Then I Kissed Her, Smiley Smile, Summer In Paradise and Wouldn’t It Be Nice. Considering the sugar intake each of the boys would have had to endure in recording this stuff, it is my opinion that their teeth are far too white. Keep your insulin handy when playing a Beach Boys record.
SALTY:
Björk Gudmundsdottir is weird. We get it. We’ve all heard the good old, “I like her, but I can only listen to her in small doses.” Brash, intricate and hugely exposing, Björk’s music seems to skin us like a chemical peel – I guess whether that’s a good or a bad thing depends on the listener. Her vocal gymnastics plough through an absolute warehouse of musical influences and somehow she finds herself sandwiched between jazz ballads (Possibly Maybe) and punk hostilities (Army of Me), adding her eccentricities to each style as opposed to identifying solely with any one subgroup. Regardless of your musical tastes, in varying quantities Björk is pretty much essential to any dish.
Smells Like Seattle
Melbourne smells like Seattle.
It's a big call, I'm aware. But I stand by it. Granted, the southern city is much smaller - I don't presume to compare Myer to Nordstrom. Despite our need to rethink a dangerous lack of hot dog stalls, however, I think the similarities are considerable.
Both cities share a grounded appreciation for good coffee (yes, grounded). We both seem to have a revered respect for market stalls and second hand record stores, and it has to be said that we both boast killer city art. I now not-so-subtly lead the discussion towards the two cities' kitty-corner musicians, who tirelessly provide passers by with a beat to strut to. Fashioned from a worn guitar and a set of spoons. Our own personal soundtrack. Buskers.
These buskers hand deliver that audible buzz that propels down Swanston Street, brought to us care of the latest musical enthusiast baring the lining of their hat to the city. Acoustic performances dot the city centre like Seven Elevens, granting a mobile audience access to the broadest of influences from the didgeridoo to the percussion box. Accordions. Guitars. Harps. Cajon rock boxes. Triangles. Tapping boards. Washing boards. If you can hit it with something, chances are it's earned some Melbourne minstrel a gold coin donation. And this is just in the street; the complete beauty of this place is that you can walk to a gig venue and enjoy two or three supporting acts on your way there!
The Seattle smell I refer to is the smell of beer stained carpets in bars. Greasy late night hamburgers. Dirty denim crowded deep into an icy alleyway, just to be first in the line up for the 9pm doors to open. Live music. This is my point: Melbourne and Seattle don't have to endeavour to support the production of live music because both cities reproduce it in drones, propelling the stuff forward with a childlike enthusiasm which is difficult to keep up with.
I'm a big fan of looking backwards and musing over the past. The 90s era pegged as the 'alternative' movement was good enough to deliver the world with a heavy dose of the Seattle sound, and it's no overstatement to say that rock is seriously indebted to these guys. For what it's worth, I also believe a lot of ground shaking music is thrashing around today - music that will earn some neck craning of its own in years to come. And I'm willing to bet that Melbourne has its fair share of things to say about it.
It's a big call, I'm aware. But I stand by it. Granted, the southern city is much smaller - I don't presume to compare Myer to Nordstrom. Despite our need to rethink a dangerous lack of hot dog stalls, however, I think the similarities are considerable.
Both cities share a grounded appreciation for good coffee (yes, grounded). We both seem to have a revered respect for market stalls and second hand record stores, and it has to be said that we both boast killer city art. I now not-so-subtly lead the discussion towards the two cities' kitty-corner musicians, who tirelessly provide passers by with a beat to strut to. Fashioned from a worn guitar and a set of spoons. Our own personal soundtrack. Buskers.
These buskers hand deliver that audible buzz that propels down Swanston Street, brought to us care of the latest musical enthusiast baring the lining of their hat to the city. Acoustic performances dot the city centre like Seven Elevens, granting a mobile audience access to the broadest of influences from the didgeridoo to the percussion box. Accordions. Guitars. Harps. Cajon rock boxes. Triangles. Tapping boards. Washing boards. If you can hit it with something, chances are it's earned some Melbourne minstrel a gold coin donation. And this is just in the street; the complete beauty of this place is that you can walk to a gig venue and enjoy two or three supporting acts on your way there!
The Seattle smell I refer to is the smell of beer stained carpets in bars. Greasy late night hamburgers. Dirty denim crowded deep into an icy alleyway, just to be first in the line up for the 9pm doors to open. Live music. This is my point: Melbourne and Seattle don't have to endeavour to support the production of live music because both cities reproduce it in drones, propelling the stuff forward with a childlike enthusiasm which is difficult to keep up with.
I'm a big fan of looking backwards and musing over the past. The 90s era pegged as the 'alternative' movement was good enough to deliver the world with a heavy dose of the Seattle sound, and it's no overstatement to say that rock is seriously indebted to these guys. For what it's worth, I also believe a lot of ground shaking music is thrashing around today - music that will earn some neck craning of its own in years to come. And I'm willing to bet that Melbourne has its fair share of things to say about it.
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