LIVE REVIEW: Simian Mobile Disco, Southampton Guildhall (Date: 30.12.07)

I’m always a little bit sceptical when I’m about to see a dance act, even one prefixed, oddly, with the ‘indie’ adjective. There’s something Not Quite Right about seeing two guys playing music through a series of contraptions analogue and digital, LED-littered units and a mess of wires. They could just be playing their CDs under the desk, couldn’t they? They might have their iTunes library open, right?

Such pessimism often breeds a reluctance to go to this sort of gig. Some time ago a Chemical Brothers, Faithless or Fat Boy Slim show wouldn’t even have lightly pricked my interest. After tonight, though, I’m converted.

I’m a complete Simian Mobile Disco virgin. It took Justice to bring them to my attention, and they don’t even play that track tonight. Instead they blow me – and all and sundry – away with everything else. And they’re only the support band, playing second fiddle to Mercury winners Klaxons.

The visual show surrounding SMD’s bobbing twin bodies is almost as tight as the electronic beats: vertical bars of light flash between red, green and blue and guide white circles up and down around the two guys as they tweak their arrangement of equipment at the centre of the stage – it’s all very Radiohead at Glasto 2003, aesthetically. During each of the songs the two James’ are only visible by their silhouettes dashing between the beams, the ceiling cast in white light.

As expected the set is one long mix of tracks woven together with a joyous jauntiness that sends hands thrusting into the dry ice mist. But such descriptions inevitably fail to portray the display in all its real, malleable glory.

The duo continue to work their knobs, switches and buttons, bending bodies around in the darkness to the rhythm being generated. The use of the equipment as a percussion instrument is impressive, and with every thud of an open fist the songs alter and transform into the next track. Sound and vision is often said to be the sensory combination that inspires and awes, and this astonishes. This feels more of an event than a traditional gig, with subsequent DJs sending the crowd into a euphoric state of indie trance. Headliners Klaxons can only stand back and wish that their show was as electric as their support’s. An unfortunate position to be in, especially when you’ve supposedly penned NME’s Song of the Year.

Words: Dean Samways

Photos: neumagazine.co.uk

LIVE REVIEW: We Are Scientists, Southampton University Student's Union (Date: 18.11.07)

Great gigs that stay with you fall into two categories: epic or fun. Arcade Fire, Editors and Muse are epic spectacles that shake you to your very core and leave your bones resonating for an age. Bloc Party, Dirty Pretty Things and Dizzee Rascal are fun. Fun should not be confused with throwaway. These loosen the jaw and relax the bladder. They stun. They throw bodies into spins and send arms-a-flailing. We Are Scientists are of the latter category.

Bouncing on stage with a new drummer and guitarist, who are never really introduced, Keith and Chris promise to “fuck you up!”; by this they bring a little bit of entertainment and learning, and like an episode of Sesame Street where Big Bird is cavity checked by that doughy-eyed mammoth, they deliver. They hit the crowd hard with a lightning rendition of ‘Nobody Move, Nobody Get Hurt’ then flow straight into ‘This Scene Is Dead’, which is slower than its recorded counterpart but is as pounding as an assault of kettle drums. Now comes the banter: WaS seem to have an uncanny ability to be as funny as hell, but only if you’re in on the gag. This doesn’t detract from the understood japes being little nuggets of comedy genius.

After ‘Inaction’ an uneasy stride is taken into unknown territory. The first of the new songs is played for the crowd to get their ears around. Perhaps called ‘Patience’, it echoes Coldplay and is the first indication that maybe this ‘difficult’ second album will be more destined for the coffee table than the dance floor.

Another new one has a new romantic tone. Keys are given more prominence in the new repertoire as the tempo dawdles to an ambient, Rapture-like slow jam. It’s now that you ask yourself, “What’s happened?”

Just as it seems all is lost and the Scientists seem destined to be locked up in the lab to find that secret ingredient of dance indie again, they leisurely thrash out ‘It’s A Hit’, ‘Lousy Reputation’ and ‘The Great Escape’ before coming back on to attack a somewhat disheartened crowd with another new one. This time it’s ‘70s punk, aggressive and just what was needed. Hope is restored and then cemented with ‘Cash Cow’.

“We had to finish on this… because it’s so fucking dance-able!”

Words: Dean Samways

Photo: Peter Hill

LIVE REVIEW: Dizzee Rascal, Southampton University Student's Union (Date: 08.11.07)

In the first year of university there was a big debate, never really settled and costing us a night out: “Is rap music ‘real’ music?” Two friends well versed in the strategies of argument, who, unfortunately for the opposer, were also fans of black music, took the discussion into the early hours. Needless to say my über-indie, whiter-than-white friend was shouted down and mocked until he buckled and compromised, “I only give rap music the time of day if it offers me something more than Fiddy and his gangster musings”.

I’ll hold my hands up: I’m a bigger fan of guitar music than I am UK hip-hop. In fact the last rap album I bought was probably The Sugarhill Gang best of, some five years ago. With Dizzee Rascal though you don’t just get a London MC with a powerful, bass soundtrack; you get a twice-nominated and one-time winner of the Mercury Prize who smashes down genres and musical barriers with a playful grin on his face. Needless to say this is my first gig seeing three guys on a stage with no strings or skins in sight.

Tonight is an assault. The three men on stage, two MCs and one DJ, set the pace for the ecstatic crowd with lightening lyrics splashed on top of tunes that rubbish everything that’s gone before them. The raw, vest-wearing enthusiasm that cannons through the entire set forces Dizzee and friend to take two interludes. The first comes after the Arctic Monkeys collaboration, ‘Temptation’, at which point homage is paid to the Sheffield scenesters with a snip of ‘I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor’ played over the PA followed by some Nirvana and Kaiser Chiefs. The second pause has a jungle theme, with classic cuts played from Dizzee’s days as a D’n’B DJ. All this gives the gig a different feel.

The show leaves me dumbfounded.‘Old Skool’, ‘Sirens’ and ‘Flex’ demonstrate amazing enjoyment in what the Londoner does, and the crowd revel in it. ‘Stop Dat’, ‘Fix Up, Look Sharp’ ‘Jus’ A Rascal’ blow everyone away as hands are raised and jumping breaks out. If there was ever a gig that changed a mind about a genre of music, it was this one. and

Words: Dean Samways

Photo: Fabric London Press Website

LIVE REVIEW: Kate Nash, Portsmouth Wedgewood Rooms (Date: 22.10.07)

The young grow up so fast. Glancing around there are small people who look lost without a conker and a hand full of Pogs. Youngsters line the barrier refusing to acknowledge an elder pushing through the crowd shouting: “When do you want to go home?”, “Do you want another Fruit Shoot?”

An act that attracts such a vast fan base should be celebrated and is, if only if it wasn’t for Rihanna and her pesky rain shield. Tonight Kate Nash has some props of her own. Red tied back velvet curtains, her name in pink neon, fairy lights draped over amps, artificial plants and china ornaments.

The secret behind this Harrow girl’s success is her ability to bring music down from near elite planes to poetry of the public. These familiar themes that line Nash’s music mushroom in significance for every single person. They can try to reach out to her through their bedroom music system but when she’s in front of them they reach out physically and verbally, and she so very kindly and happily reaches back.

The distorted drums of ‘Play’ crash into the room as the neon light sparks to life; the people’s musician arrives. ‘Mariella’, the opener, is an excellent showcase of Kate’s voice. It is amazing! Over exaggerated accent aside, the keys and tones, speed and elocution is dumb-founding. ‘The Shit Song’ is beautiful. The lack of electronic accompaniment helps the daydream of sunny afternoons and large glasses of booze. Non-album track ‘Stitching Leggings’ fills the set list to last the hour and half adequately before returning to stringless ‘Skeleton Song’ and a richly stripped down ‘Birds’. ‘Nicest Thing’ continues the gorgeous low tempo of the most touching tracks before the gears are cranked up for ‘Mouthwash’ and ‘Foundations’. The interchanging, the upbeat and the mellow, is seamless.

The encore finishes the crowd off. A night of banter, smiles, laughs and sweetness is punctuated with Kate lonesome on the piano for ‘Little Red’ and then joined by her band for ‘Pumpkin Song’. The former has a crescendo that would be fitting for any classical concert but the rings of “I just want your kiss boy!” puts ridiculous smiles on every face, Kate’s included.

Words: Dean Samways

Photo: Adam John Miller's MySpace

LIVE REVIEW: Maximo Park, Portsmouth Guildhall (Date: 08.10.07)

“It’s their biggest tour to date!” chirps the pop pixie next to me, coiled like a spring. Her face is smouldering with anticipation that will only be outdone by the rubbery-faced theatrics of Paul Smith. Spanning Anglo, Germanic, Austro and Yankee soils, the five Geordie boys are certainly looking to become global. And why not?

Maximo Park are notorious for having an educated electricity; a literary richness to their music. On top of this the poetic anguish there’s lust and love that rings like a new age Morrissey, where every scribble in the lyric book offers foreigners an insight into British culture. These hymns of modern life would fail to penetrate the hearts of the hordes though without the expressive drama of the band’s live show.

Their energy, especially Mr Smith’s, seems inexhaustible. This performance, like every one before and after it, will be loaded with cries and expressions of emotion that tear you between standing sombrely still and dancing your clothes off to the indie disco.

In one vigorous movement the band bounds onstage as high as kites on the Yorkshire dales. ‘The Coast Is Always Changing’, ‘A Fortnight’s Time’ and ‘Girls Who Play Guitars’ are belted out without hesitation or interruption. The trillion expressions that race across the singer’s face announce instructions like a flashing applause prompt; a signal for the crowd to go mental. Anger to coy, happy to bashful. The many faces of Maximo Park infect the crowd as they imitate the passion on stage. It’s contagious.

Yells of “COME ON!” lift the crowd further and further into pleasure not known on this world. Caught up in the pandemonium you fail to twig that ‘I Want You To Stay’ and ‘Limasol’ sound as fresh as ‘Parisian Skies’ and ‘By The Monument’. Two LPs married in mayhem.

There is perhaps only one purely sentimental moment that demands your full non-bouncing attention. It comes as they return onstage for the encore. ‘Acrobat’, with stripped-down synthesizers and measured tempo, brings pained prose to close what’s been a vigorous assault on the senses. But not before leaving the crowd with an impatiently hasty and brutal rendition of ‘Graffiti’. Godspeed, Maximo Park.

Words: Dean Samways

Photo: Shirlaine Forrest

LIVE REVIEW: Bloc Party, Brighton Concorde 2 (Date: 23.08.07)

The heat is unbelievable in here. On arriving, some two hours ago, the initially spacious bar in the Concorde welcomed some 250 fan club members with a blast of cool air, but that didn’t last long. The sun was low but still punished the early birds on the outside; not that you’d know from the heavy black curtains separating the casual drinkers from the late afternoon.

And now that dry heat has been replaced by the wet heat of bodies stood side by side, well within each other’s personal space; they’re all on tiptoes, booming heartfelt cheers in the direction of an empty stage. It doesn’t remain deserted for long, though, and the cheers turn to roars as the first, second, third and fourth pair of denim-clad legs stroll casually out.

Tonight might have been advertised and sold as a fans-only event, but it’s a Carling Weekend warm-up too. This doesn’t put off the punters thinking that this is all just for them, and why should it? Kele, Russell, Gordy and Matt all individually interact with the crowd to give the feel of a private performance. The songs are the focus, though, and when they’re played sound fresher than ever.

When Silent Alarm is played alongside A Weekend In The City in an environment that commands cohesion and harmony, the vast differences in the LPs are smoothed out and a guitar disco follows. ‘Banquet’, ‘Helicopters’ and ‘Price of Gasoline’ deliver a high-tempo, enthralling, impossibly passionate pounding that throws fists uncontrollably toward the wet ceiling. The enjoyment is acknowledged in the ridiculous smile that breaks out across Kele’s face every time there’s a lyrical break. Newer songs: ‘The Prayer’, ‘Waiting For The 7.18’ and ‘I Still Remember’: each deals a calmer dance, but a dance still. The build-ups are fantastically frustrating. The boys on stage know they are holding you in delayed ecstasy, and they love it.

Tonight is about embracing every single Bloc Party track, screaming the lyrics of every one of them and dancing your feet off without the threat of having an unknown tune thrown into the mix. And it’s a memorable occasion.

Words: Dean Samways

Photo: Dean Samways

NEWS: Mercury Music Prize 2007 - The Result

The Klaxons walk it with the crowd basking in the Winehouse show

The winner has been announced and the runners-up given a sympathetic tap on the back. The Klaxons walked away with the accolade, claiming that they won it because they embodied genuinely new music whereas other contenders simply regurgitated older genres. This was no doubt pointed towards Amy Winehouse. They said: "The Mercury is about pushing music forward and we think that's what we did with this album."

Despite Amy's defeat she stole the show and silenced the crowd with an amazing live acoustic performance after much bewilderment over whether or not she would turn up. It was also her name that was splashed more liberally across the column inches than the winners title, thanks to her drug problems and the media's apparent obsession with such anti-social behaviour.

BBC news suggested that the judges edges away from the idea of handing Winehouse the gong in an effort to show her that she has the capability of winning but that they were not prepared to celebrate a musician with such problems. This raises many questions like, shouldn't the award just be presented on artistic merit and ignore such sub-matters?

Whatsoever maybe the politics surrounding the event, The Klaxons are deserved winners for their stormy cross genre sound and Winehouse shouldn't feel hard done by. All the alternate praise for her performance and appearance should be enough to please her and the label, all things considered.

Words: Dean Samways

Photo: thisislondon.co.uk

NEWS: Keith Richards admits doping up on Daddy

And you thought your parents get up your nose. Rolling Stoner Keith Richards has fuelled rumours that he snorted his dad’s ashes. According to website Ireland On-Line, Richards embellished on the well-publicised comment made during an NME interview by saying: "The cocaine bit was rubbish (not true). I said I chopped him up like cocaine, not with. I'd opened his box up and said, 'Jesus, I've got to do something with dad, y'know, plant the oak tree.

“I pulled the lid off and out comes a bit of dad on the dining room table. I'm going, 'I can't use the brush and dustpan for this'. So you just gotta like, put it together.

“What I found out is that ingesting your ancestors is a very respectable way of... y'know, he went down a treat."

In the original NME article, the guitarist was reported as saying, ‘ I snorted my father. He was cremated and I couldn't resist grinding him up with a little bit of blow’, when asked what the strangest thing he ever snorted was.

It's probably not the first thing that pops into your head when you accidently dust your coffee table with a relations' remains. But apparently combing the area with a dyson and emptying it out at the foot of an oak tree doesn't cross the chemically suffocated mind of a rock'n'roller.

I suppose substituting white crystals for grey carbonised father maybe works in the same way as those nicotine lined puffing pens to a chain smoker. Maybe...

Words: Dean Samways
Image: Google

NEWS: Mercury Music Prize 2007

9 out of this year's 12 nominees are new musical express lovies

2007's Mercury Music Prize shortlist was published this week. In past mercury award ceremonies the selection resembles a puddle of vomit, the result of excessive musical taste mixing, spat from the HMV database. This year, however, the chosen few look like they've been enthusiastically plucked from the pages of the popular music press by a swaggering floppy haired Topman shopper.

This, of course isn't such a bad thing for all those who thought the Mercury Music Prize was nothing more than an excuse for head honchos at sony bmg to lavishly stroke the fat cat's at time warner. an event where praise is thrown hithe and tithe between label bosses before the head back to their offices the next day to plot each others demise. at least this year a large section of the audience will actually know who the acts are. however, this is not so good for smaller acts who, once nominated, received a spike in album sales thanks to massive publicity and those tiny branded stickers splashed all over their album covers.

although smaller acts may have been tossed to the wayside this year, a quarter of the nominations remain harvested from some of the most flamboyently off-kilter musical landscapes, stretching for acres and acres across every genre. according to the bbc these are;

fionn regan, the token irishman who writes, sings and plays folk akin to bob dylan;

maps, or james chapman. probably the most impressive undiscovered artist working off a 16-track recorder in his northampton home before having his ambient and euphoric ode to spiritualized polished by bjork's producer valgeir sigurdsson and arranged by sigur ros mixer ken yhomas in iceland, and;

basquiat strings, a collection of classically trained, jazz mmersed musicians who play as session instrumentalists on top of recording their own material.

excluding arctic monkeys, basquiat strings are the only group to receive a second nomination in the mercury music prize's history, but unlike the snowy apes they didn't actually win it last time around.

and so it seems that as long as the majority of genres are catered for and some of the little people are getting a piece of the greater-record-sales-pie pie, those clever people at the mercury music prize can throw into the hat any tom dick or alex whom has appeared on a nme awards tour/show. still we might be on for a bit of drama in that if the yorkshire quartet do manage to bag a second consecutive award it will be the first time in the near pointless awards history.

pointless? surely not you say? the people behind the prize state it exists solely to champion UK music by promoting the 12 albums of the year by british and irish artists. this is all very well and good but who decides what are 'the 12 albums of the year' across every musical niche imaginable? a bunch of number crunching accountants at the event's sponsor, nationwide? i doubt it. who are the people behind the prize anyway? how do we know their opinion is valid? after all in 1997 when roni size reprazent won the gong they had also listed the spice girls debut album.

then there's the prize. not a record deal as 99.9% of the artists are already signed. Or anything of any real worth for that matter. the artists recieve a sum of money in the region of 70,000 squid. that's £70,000 that won't even touch the sides of the band's by now vast trouser pockets as they jingle already fat with brass. for this reason it's even more pleasing when a relative unkown wins the accolade.

so here's to hoping that the mercury won't become the music industry's booker prize anytime soon but that it does become a little more transparent in it's workings. let's also hope that the view's happy go lucky underdog anthem, 'a song for the buskers', will motivate the judges to vote away from the nme centrefolds and divert the prize money elsewhere rather than toward the spitting amy winehouse.

A suggestion: Make the mercury music prize an award to champion brand new leftfield acts taking their first baby steps in the lion pit that is the music business.

the 12 acts and albums nominated to recieve the mercury music prize 2007 are:

Arctic Monkeys - Favourite Worst Nightmare
Basquiat Strings with Seb Rochford - Basquiat Strings
Bat For Lashes - Fur and Gold
Dizzee Rascal - Maths and English
Klaxons - Myths Of The Near Future
Maps - We Can Create
New Young Pony Club - Fantastic Playroom
Fionn Regan - The End of History
Jamie T - Panic Prevention
The View - Hats Off to the Buskers
Amy Winehouse - Back To Black
The Young Knives - Voices of Animals and Men

Words: Dean Samways
Images: Google

COMMENT: "Who are you? Who, who, who, who...grandad?"

Glastonbury Festival organiser, Michael Eavis, today admitted what many younger festival goers have suggested for many years, the five day summer event is too middle aged.

Telegraph.co.uk and Radio 1 are just a few of the news outlets who have been running this story all day. In all these pieces Eavis is quoted as being worried by the changing demographic of the Glastonbury crowd and worried about the lack of the "NME crowd" despite the current punters being "fantastically well mannered and polite and respectable".

During my time wading through the Somerset fields this summer i must say that, yes, there was definitely a high number of 30/40-somethings sat in foldable chairs with cold beers and warm ciders precariously placed in the cup holders. The nicely pleated ponchos and vast golfing umbrellas are not the gig attar you would expect of people going to see The Klaxons, even if the ground below your feet is more water based than vinyl floored.

Mr Eavis is on record as saying that the way to solve this is to make more tickets available over the phone lines next year. Plans are afoot to dedicate 40% of the 2008 tickets to telephone orders so that teenagers "will be able to use their mobile phones to get tickets."

It's seems to me though that there are several factors that the organiser might be overlooking:

1. £145!!!

When i first went to Glastonbury in 2000 tickets were 80 squid which was amazing value for seeing David Bowie do a hour set. 145 big ones to see two headliner acts who have only just released two albums and another who are touring their asses off trying to get their over-rated back-catalogue back on the turntables of their now vintage fans seemed a bit step.

If Eavis wants to attract a younger crowd he needs to bring the cost of tickets into the pocket-money-market brackets. Yes of course a middle of road career ladder climber can afford a small fortune but an NME reader can hardly afford a decent music magazine let alone half the monthly rent of a inner city flat.

2. MCR not DSB

Eavis' words suggest he's after lynching all the music fans that save up their haribo money to basking in the August sun of the reading festival, if this is the case, and I hate to say it, he's gonna have to cater for their ears.

This isn't to say that I'm suggesting My Chemical Romance should headline every one of the 70 stages at next year's fest, nor am i saying that Dame Shirley Basey should be banished from the fields of Avalon forever more, especially as I'm told she was amazing. What I am suggesting is that, maybe, just maybe, Glastonbury needs to attract bigger bands. Instead of The Pipettes on the Pyramid Stage during the day, improve the line-up so much that Snow Patrol find themselves relishing in that slot. That's a near perfect outcome I know but you see what I'm getting at.

Clearly Glastonbury is intended to be the most diverse festival on the face of the planet and it really is. Nowhere else will you see Arctic Monkeys and The Marley Brothers on the same stage while a jazz world stage blasts out tropical tunes that are so fresh to everyone you are pulled to experience it. Throwing more and more mainstream acts into the mix simply won't work. The festival is perfect as it is...please don't bring in Marilyn Manson...Smashing Pumpkins yes, Manson no!


3. Acid fried the hippies...and that's why they dead!

Eavis has got to realise that he will not be welcoming the travellers back with open arms. Hippies, like the potential younger audience, can't afford the price tag to attend the sometime annual event. This is a unattainable goal if this is indeed really what organisers are hoping. What additional joy and youth would these fence hoppers bring to the festival anyway? Free love now costs stis (or stds) however you want to say it, and the festival costs an extra couple of decimals of debt.

All this doesn't really drag many conclusions. What we can take away is that the festival must only see minimal changes. A big band here, a younger act there, while still staying true to the charitable nature of the event, if that means refusing to pay Jagger and his band of pirates a million pounds then fuck 'em.

Making more tickets available through the phone lines will not mean that more younger people will attend. Many of the people the festival want to attract know the internet like the flatplan of Kerrang and more have broadband. They'd rather sit at a computer hitting refresh instead of holding a warming carcinogenic device up to their temples only to keep hitting redial.

Improve the headliners, attract the bigger acts and the audience demographic might just change but the Glastonbury Festival's cultural identity is so stubborn and leftfield that it won't stand for any efforts to force change...not even from it's Father.

Words: Dean Samways

Image: Google

LIVE REVIEW: Kings of Leon, Bournemouth International Centre (Date: 04.07.07)

Much against the GMCs advice, a pinch of salt should always be administered when a band is heard horribly wooing a crowd with lines like, ‘you’ve been the best crowd ever’, or ‘you guys are amazing’, and even, ‘we’ve done 30 shows now and none of them compare to this one’. Because of this forever-spewing banter from stage to dancefloor, it’s a relief to hear a sincerity normally absent from a rock band’s dialogue as they stand up on their pulpit preaching the sins of rock ‘n’ roll.

Kings of Leon have a reputation that makes one assume they would be void of any such deep seeded earnestness. A reputation lavishly decorated with stories of womanising, alcoholism and generally advocating a lifestyle of excessive bathed in debauchery. As tonight’s gig starts it seems that this very lifestyle may have eroded any such solemnity from the group’s character. At the Bournemouth International Centre, on Independence Day, the Nashville brothers and cousins plough unrepentantly into their set playing three songs without stopping to chat to their public. Just when murmurs start circulating the crowd in the vicious vein of, ‘they’re not going to talk to us are they the bastards?!’, the guitar playing takes an extended break. After the downright dirty chords and filthy melodies of 'King of The Rodeo', Caleb looks up to the some 8,000 people and speaks for the first time in what will turn out to be a surprisingly honest string of comments that sends the crowd into yet louder cheers of appreciation.

“Good evening we are the Kings of Leon”, “I’ve got something to say…Firstly happy fourth of July, and secondly, you guys are honestly the best crowd we’ve played to on this tour”, “Thank you guys for showing us such great respect”, “You know? They all told us that this was an old people’s town but you guys are proving them wrong” and “This is the biggest crowd we’ve ever for and thank you for making it the so special.”

Normally such comments peppering a show are brushed aside as rehearsed, overly gratuitous dribble that falsely heightens the crowd euphoria and is obviously intended only to get the mob jumping an inch higher and miles more joyously. Caleb’s words however, under the modest backdrop of unspectacular lighting and a single plain black banner portraying the smashing light bulb taken from the band’s new album, you can’t argue that the Followill boys’ modesty is anything but heartfelt. However, honest or not and crowd pleasing nuggets of emotion aside, the music remains as grungy, bluesy, dirty and as fantastically violating as the first time you heard the sexual deviation of 'Molly’s Chambers'.

It was written in a recent review of Because Of The Times that Caleb (lead vocals, rhythm guitar), Jared (bass), Matthew (lead guitar) and Nathan (drums) sound like they are all just trying to make more noise than each other at the detriment of the music. What the review should have said was, yes instruments are being played to melting point but the delightfully deafening din is so carefully orchestrated that each track sounds like Butler and Chassagne of Arcade Fire could have written them. They twist what is known as the Kings of Leon sound from sexy grunge pop into angelic ethereal pieces of minimalist yet rich substance. The drum sequences alternate to texture the fresher, newer songs with a vast landscape of sloping and rolling peaks that intricate guitar melodies march over with a pouting arrogance manifested in the bearded faces of the Southern American guitar heroes. It’s amazing to think that when the four Nashville boys started out in 2000 lead guitarist Matthew was only 18 and yet he was able to string together such complex solos. Tonight his fingers were hard at work again blisteringly tearing up his strings alongside bass lines that ebb and flow almost as hurriedly.

At what Caleb assures the horde is the bands biggest ever gig (assuming that means subtracting festival appearances from the equation), Kings of Leon have finally become a band with a full back catalogue. The 13 new tracks add a rusty but sterilised sound with an eclectic edge to add to all those highly favoured polished pop songs of Youth & Young Manhood and Aha Shake Heartbreak. The foursome tease the band with a slower, fresher track like 'True Love Way' that builds and peaks and peaks and peaks and plummets with such amazing grace before throwing down a filthy dance classic like 'Four Kicks'. The KOL collection would seem complete and yet they are only three albums into their illustrious career.

Take new track 'McFearless'. This three minute 11 second pant creamer maybe the closest song to the older, grubbier Kings of Leon pop offerings yet the unparalleled TLC that went into its creation is absent in the earlier material. The Followills send out each contemporary track with a caress lacking in a conceited swagger and heavy in free love. When it’s the turn of 'True Love Way' to receive a south coast airing the band release it with as much love as a mother waving her first born off climbing the school steps for the first time. 'True Love Way' radiates an adorable loving poise as it battles not to peak early and yet deliver it’s message to it’s intended listener about escaping away and finding happiness alone, far from the maddening crowd. The combination of this instant new hit played alongside blatant bone-ing soundtrack 'Spiral Staircase' really shouldn’t work, but when they are both strummed out with no less the same manic filthiness as the first time Milk was pumped out inside a Tennessee music hall, it’s musical arousal.

All this makes the flicking through the band’s history all the more paper cutting fun. Glancing into the future of the band and reflecting on its past, the fluctuation between newly found stringed ecstasy and gritty nailing of classic harmonies continue through the set to it’s conclusion. 'On Call' neighbours 'Milk' and 'Arizona' cuddles up in 'Molly’s Chambers' and new is mixed with old in true aural intoxication.

Of course all this isn’t to say that the Kings have completely abandoned their highly sexed pastoral musical pedigree. When it’s the turn of 'Black Thumbnail' all four band members adopt aggressive stances to lay down some violent instrumentation abuse

Normally only displayed during 'Pistol of Fire'. According to a Rolling Stone interview this song, one of the heaviest on the new record, is about a cousin who had dabble on the wrong side of the law. This anonymous relation was once asked if he thought his ex-wife had a heart to which he apparently replied, ‘Yeah, it's about the size of my thumbnail and black as coal’. This hatred and bitterness for the former spouse is transposed tonight in a ferocious display of testosterone topped with back arching effort in tearing up bass strings and hands so closed around pick-ups on guitar solos that the great welcoming volume and depth of the noise defies what you’re seeing. The display is purely and completely immense.

After announcing the band will be generously putting on fireworks down on the beach and that ‘it’ll be great if you could join us’ the leather clad gang of guitars and skins catapults into a lengthy version of 'Knocked Up'. With a casually raw build up the simplistic drums and bass lines coupled with only a few chords from Matthew tantalise for a final time before raining down heavy drum cycles, erratic lead strings and distant echoic rhythm guitar. Singing about having babies and escaping claustrophobic townships this is a complete escape from the Kings of Leon as we knew them during Youth and Young Manhood and Aha Shake Heartbreak. If this comes as unwelcome news it shouldn’t. Progression in any vocation, any walk of life, any back catalogue of music is nearly always a good thing and if the NME interview with Caleb is anything to go by, the Kings will soon have a new LP baby hopefully with all the same electric traits as their last. This can’t be a complete band already…can it?

Words: Dean

Image: Google

NEWS: Glasto set to be a mud bath...well, why wouldn't it be?

Following weeks of visiting the BBC's monthly forecasts weather page it's now time to face the unavoidable truth: Glastonbury 2007 will be wet. judging from recent news reports we're not looking at playful rainy patches and with teasing sunny spells, on friday night campers in Somerset will be sitting in their tents looking on as unrepentant thunderstorms throw down a massive amount of water in an attempt to dampen the Glastonbury spirit. And I'm one of those lucky music loving punters.

When I say lucky I mean it, to some maybe surprising, sincerely. When you consider the fact that some 175,000 people across the globe managed to buy one of the musical golden festival tickets and many, many more actually registered merely in the hope of getting their anxiously sweaty palms on them, I am bloody lucky!

Besides, the wet stuff isn't normally something that puts me off the festival and indeed the legendary Glastonbury Festival spirit. with the line-up as unbelievable as it is (although maybe lacking in one or two massive stand out bands (see David Bowie 2000, Radiohead 2003, White Stripes 2005) the precipitation will be pushed forcefully into the background as we march through the glorious mud baths undoubtedly occupied by some brave souls looking to the mixture of soil, H2O, human, cow and Pete Doherty excrement to provide some miracle anti-ageing moisturiser, or maybe just because the pear cider told them to dive in, to get to the next big thing.

I'll tell you this met office, the rain on my face won't be as much of a feature as the ridiculous smile stretching easily from ear to ear.

Words: Dean Samways

Images: Google