Dots & Dashes

On the Horizon: Hissing Husbands, Savages.

noreply@blogger.com (Dots&Dashes) — Wed, 23 May 2012 11:19:00 +0000

In all likelihood you're probably already well aware of intimidatory London noisenik post-punks Savages. Heck; you've presumably already caught them live. If not, they're up early on Eat Your Own Ears' stage at next month's Field Day, and they're a quite spectacular proposition within such a context. However on record, they've up 'til now be a rather less qualitative quantity. Husbands, one half of the quartet's debut single that is to be released digitally this and physically next month on lead vocalist Jehnny Beth's Pop Noire label, changes all that somewhat: a devastating twitch of rollicking drums plagued by pangs of bass-shaped paranoia, it's an unmistakably petrifying introduction for the as yet uninitiated. Beth vocally scowls quite gloriously too as the track climaxes, hissing its title as though the proposal of marriage were the worst eventuality supposable. She was plausibly left breathless in the wake of this final take and indeed it's an appositely breathtaking debut.

Savages.

Conceptual Leitmotifs to Sink Formentera, Teengirl Fantasy.

noreply@blogger.com (Dots&Dashes) — Wed, 23 May 2012 10:35:00 +0000

NYC duo Teengirl Fantasy's 7AM proved an intoxicating concoction of vigorous house and a discernibly D.I.Y. approach as they reinserted some honest musicianship back into dance 'music'. Motif therefore seems a quite appropriate reintroduction to the swirled-out worlds frantically spun about on loose-set axes by Logan Takahashi and Nick Weiss, as it comprises everything from minimal techno plops, the intimidating glint of Gang Gang Dance-styled synths and veritably Mediterranean drops robust enough to sink Formentera. This couldn't sound more like the essence of Sónar were you sat on the steps of the CCCB with a caña of Estrella in hand the first time you heard it...

Teengirl Fantasy's Soundcloud.

So Jealous. Alone and Stoned, King Tuff.

noreply@blogger.com (Dots&Dashes) — Wed, 23 May 2012 09:44:00 +0000

Out next week on seminal Seattle label Sub Pop is the sophomore, self-titled LP from schizoid garage rock prodigy King Tuff. A maddening bluster of pawnshop guitars, smutty grunge and superlative falsettos and screeches, King Tuff is a rough tumble of a record and Alone and Stoned serves as its immediate highlight. A potent whirr of nicely phased guitars serve as the undercurrent for Tuff's petulant lyrics of "All of my friends are all alone and stoned; all of my friends are on their headphones" like a grounded teen with an empty grinder. Dumbfounding.

Stream King Tuff in its entirety here...

Fest Bests: Bloc.2012.

noreply@blogger.com (Dots&Dashes) — Tue, 22 May 2012 14:12:00 +0000

Quietly, calmly moving along from its Butlins residence this year's Bloc. relocates to the similarly newly rejuvenated London Pleasure Gardens way out east somewhere along the DLR. Exchanging Centre Stage and Crazy Horse for German deep-sea fishing vessel MS Stubnitz and the imposing scenic surrounds of derelict warehouses, this year's festivities sensibly snub the Sabbath, a day that's traditionally as limp as a waterlogged Minehead hotdog stuck in the seashore as far as most festivals are concerned. Thus Bloc. is to take place on Friday, 6th July and Saturday, 7th July, and our scattily selected highlights are thus.

Actress

Who: Darren Cunningham to both progenitors and the police, Actress' R.I.P. proved an invigorating return on Ladbroke Grove label Honest Jon's.
Why: Having pulled an inexplicable no-show at Camden Crawl back at the turn of the month, wouldn't it be nice to this time experience its translation to live re-envisaging? Yes would be the correct response to such rhetoric.
When: Saturday.

Alva Noto

Who: Pristinely efficient German soundscape sculptor Carsten Nicolai.
Why: A Bloc. vet, despite the monumental grandeur of multimedial projects embarked upon alongside the likes of Ryoji Ikeda, Ryuichi Sakamoto, Blixa Bargeld and Robin Rimbaud Nicolai works best when lost within his sparse compositional structures; alone. Sure to be a concentrated pleasure in these newly renovated gardens.
When: Saturday.

Battles

Who: Quite honestly one of the best 'bands' about; active this summer or for that matter any.
Why: Quite honestly one of the best live 'bands' about; active this aeon or for that matter any. Whether they opt to meld together the melty genius of indispensable remix LP Dross Glop with the only slightly more orthodox Gloss Drop ought to add a substantial degree of intrigue too.
When: Saturday.

Clark

Who: Progressive, polymathematical Warp returnee Chris Clark.
Why: Iradelphic may indeed be considered the "looming, ambiguous, radiant. Glowing, whole, invincible, complete" opus Clark himself regarded it as being representative of. It's incontestably one of our records of 2012 thus far, and to witness the thing live can realistically only go one way...
When: Saturday.

Four Tet

Who: Text Records magnate, expert remix mogul (check that for Neneh Cherry & The Thing's cover of Suicide's Dream Baby Dream below), and a bloody decent and genuine bloke Kieran Hebden is doubtless one of the main attractions to this one.
Why: When Hebden DJs, an ultimate elation spins off his fingers as they skid atop jetblack discs yet when he enlivens with reconstituted edits of There Is Love In You material and the like he seems simply inimitable. A contemporary genius of an unflappably genial disposition, is he.
When: Saturday.

Oneohtrix Point Never

Who: At the forefront of Brooklyn's ambient experimentalism stands Daniel Lopatin, whose records under the utterly unpronounceable moniker of Oneohtrix Point Never have achieved releases via esteemed labels such as Editions Mego and Mexican Summer.
Why: A consummate combo of drones to drift off to and pallid visuals to die for, Lopatin may yet prove the unheralded hero of the weekend. Moreover, this one's booked in to be played out in the bow of the stonking MS Stubnitz.
When: Saturday.

Orbital

Who: Other Stage luminaries, the brothers Hartnoll recently returned to penning further entries into their Wikipedia discography page with superb comeback LP Wonky.
Why: Given the old hiatus they could be forgiven for having lost a little on the live show. They've not whatsoever.
When: Saturday.

Steve Reich

Who: The prime ruler over the Reich of minimal composition, celebrated neo-classical luminary Steve is a one-in-an-interminably-recurring-number kinda guy.
Why: A superficially obscure headliner, his set ought to proffer diverse scope and some divine deviation from the unremitting barrage of blips, clacks and throbs emanating from other areas of London's Pleasure Gardens.
When: Friday.

More info on this year's revamped and relocated Bloc. may be encountered here, whilst tickets may be acquired here as of now.

"I Feel Like Nothing". Codeine, When I See The Sun.

noreply@blogger.com (Dots&Dashes) — Tue, 22 May 2012 10:31:00 +0000

"I feel like nothing", Stephen Immerwahr deferentially proffers on the standout title track to the Barely Real EP and although NYC dreamweavers Codeine may never have made the seismic splash their featherweight, if stylistically and thematically hefty back catalogue – here remastered – indubitably ought to have, the very release of this here thing intimates a greater cultural relevance than perhaps initially envisaged and with it, a subsequent longevity extended beyond that which they may once have deemed. It's like an artist whose canvases skyrocket in value in the wake of premature demise although quite thankfully, the band still scuff heels upon the surface of our earth and better yet, they've just reconvened.

For to let these recordings fester in deplorably few record collections or embellish only the odd scarcely frequented webpage would represent an outright tragedy. Oft branded slowcore or sadcore effectively depending on the mood of any given track (the spectrum of emotion on offer over the course of this collection is relatively limited as it flickers from sombre to suicidal), theirs is a discography to transcend such frivolous categorisation in the same way that it emancipates itself from the shackles of temporal compartmentalisation. It is, and indeed sounds like, "nothing" else neither then nor now and is perfection etched into rigid ridges of blackened wax. These are records to let run; to smoulder slowly; to ignite the wicks of wild inspiration: were you to exhume a trove documenting the largely characterless decade that was the '90s, with the benefit of hindsight you'd feel pretty peeved were these not locked up beyond mud-encrusted padlock.

Approaching these unassuming opera in chronological order, up first is a full-length entitled Frigid Stars. A languid affair released via German label Glitterhouse Records back in 1990, slack could be more appositely affixed to its core although despite Immerwahr's first drawls concerning: "D for effort", it's an expertly accomplished deluge of comedown desolation. Terribly wretched, its cymbals sting; its guitars crash; its dilapidated bass rumble astounds as it teeters on the precarious verge of collapse. 3 Angels is a particularly enlightening slab of melancholic grandeur, whilst New Year's is fresher than the verso of the most verdant leaf. It couldn't be endowed with a more germane name.

Fast-forward four years and you may find yourself bathing in an only moderately more mature torrent of despondence: sit beneath The White Birch and you'll soon be weeping like some majestic deciduous, such is its unremitting power to incur some hindering paranoia over something inconsequential while under the influence of something soothing and soporific. Codeine itself, perhaps. Sea is awash with clunky, sketchily scribed nuances; twitchy impulses of guitar creep around minor key morbidity on Vacancy; and Kitchen Light sounds like the slow and painful corrosion of porcelain homeware set to song.

Their best intentions and the rawest of collective emotions are condensed down into the scatty brew that is the intermediary Barely Real EP however: whether it be the baroque portent of W., the heady shoegaze delirium of Jr, the Pixies-ish clank and plod of Promise Of Love or the gloriously impractical pop of Hard To Find that's propelled by some quite prosaic drones, it is unquestionably their finest recording. A doomy, drudgy work of impeccable beauty, this and indeed the entirety of the discography is startlingly excellent. Go overdose on these please...

Live: Thoughts Thunk. Human Don't Be Angry, Cargo.

noreply@blogger.com (Dots&Dashes) — Tue, 22 May 2012 09:54:00 +0000

Human Don't Be Angry came to represent a minor triumph of the most unassuming variety, and indeed tonight's a rather subdued affair for Shoreditch. You can hear the soles of Malcolm Middleton's trainers squelch as they stick to and unstick from this stage persistently splattered in viscous stuff. Whisky or the odd drop of Wallace IPA perhaps and despite the LP only being outed later on last month, over the wearying of said period it has already matured to a fine vintage.

A slight reluctance to gargle his gruff brogue down the mic accompanies an anticipated onstage reticence and somewhat traumatically album standout First Person Singular, Present Tense is scratched out after several false starts. "Someone's bin playin' about wi' me laptop", he gently contends as his MacBook wonderfully epitomises the recalcitrance of technology. In keeping with his mellowing in mind, music and projected demeanour for this particular project however, Middleton continues with profuse calm as he and his aptly voiceless troupe instead emit a languorous Jaded. Midway through he secretes a scintillant of a smile, seemingly genuinely at ease with his substantially more jocund actuality.

Thus the sounds excreted from his Strat oscillate serenely between taut Phil Manley-ish whipped, lashed and condensed stabs and slides (opener The Missing Plutonium), and a more slackened-tied, poolside Chris Rea aesthetic (H.D.B.A. Theme) and ultimately if the instrumental may have connotations of a negative variety; of the engendering of aloofness via the medium of nonchalance then Middleton has engineered a quite brilliant modus operandi. For he reengages intrigue through the expulsion of the sometime superfluousness of lyrics witty, snide or otherwise and with impetus firmly thrust upon these wordless works for reasons multitudinous, any Mogwai comparison is fortified like an exceptional scotch left to fester in some fusty cellar for what we mere mortals may deem an eternity. All topend bass flurries and preprogrammed plinks, After The Pleasuredome is a squirmy essential enhanced by a pastiche Bondian sense of suspense. 1985 meanwhile replicates the successes of the more serotonin-inspired moments of the Glaswegians' barnstorming Hardcore Will Never Die, But You Will of yesteryear.

Yet it's when he confronts his inhibitions and sings that any first night anxieties are banished to the obscured back of the room: whether it be the congruously clunky Dreamer that serves as both a nod to Middleton's past and to Scottish patriotism (its "Da-da-da-da-da-da" chorus quasi-redolent of The Proclaimers' one and only memorable number), or the gushing affectation of Monologue: River, or the protracted Asklipiio which, tonight rendered a tender post-rock behemoth, proves his pièce de résistance the boy with the Arab Strap flight case is best when breaking loose and bound to scotch those pesky preconceptions of crippling miserablism. Happiness abound at this one on this dim and dank May day and a fine reason to dispel any desire "to find a decent hole to sink into and rot away in."

Live: Watch The Throne. Jay-Z & Kanye West, The O2 Arena.

noreply@blogger.com (Dots&Dashes) — Mon, 21 May 2012 16:57:00 +0000

Let's set the sceptre rolling with a pithy adherence to the cult of celebrity. Who would you deem more famed: Jay-Z or Kanye West? About which would you rather read stories of fabricated salaciousness? Would you sooner christen your offspring Shawn or Kanye? Would you care? Indeed does anyone care? To quote Mr. West, "Do anybody make real shit anymore?" Watch The Throne was arguably, to clumsily paraphrase, really quite shit in places.

Fanciful inquisitions aside however, if this uniting to tour the record aforesaid ought to celebrate the coming together of two contemporary hip hop titans, this one's immediately a discernibly conflictual festivity. Perched atop towering virtual fishtanks at opposite ends of the arena (an inadvertent nod to the overall irrelevance of the individual perhaps, although probably not) as the pair swagger and spit to a stentorian Who Gon Stop Me, tonight may simply – if a touch scathingly – be reduced to a glorified MC battle fought out at the heart of this clangourous heckhole.

Such is the status and/ or skyscrapingly sizeable ego of each of these two rap luminaries that the supremely proficient backing band that ultimately enlightens the evening is thrust into practically backstage shadow; never to be referenced nor even so much as regarded. Nobody's clamouring for the perspiring abdomen of what at least sounds like some virtuoso guitarist to be scratched with immaculately manicured claws à la Gaga ostentation; acknowledgement via a flicker of some spotlight somewhere would certainly suffice. Similarly, the honey-drizzled vocals of Frank Ocean (on an irrespectively opulent No Church In The Wild) and the rather more indecorous squeals of the likes of Rihanna (on a despicably lackadaisical Run This Town) and Nicki Minaj (on a tragically nondescript Monster) are reduced to pale backing track imitations. There's a sense of utter neglect for anyone and everyone but themselves as they dawdle and dangle about in front of stars, stripes and other such patriotic tomfoolery. Yet somewhat bemusingly, the elaborate stageshow perhaps anticipated is similarly snubbed and although West must get a little hot and sticky around some parts beyond his leather pelmet once a spot of lukewarm pyro gets going (it resembles the crappy fizzle of off-license fireworks), the stage itself faintly resembles a deconstructed Darth Vader mask. It's just about the most disappointing thing that's ever been erected within The O2, inclusive of that atop which The Loud Tour was smuttily played out and it's consequently more conducive to the response of "come on" in place of "I like it like it".

Logistically, The O2 is a nonsensical setting for a rap show: every lyric here resonates spectacularly incomprehensibly and inherently awfully, with every witticism scrubbed out by hefty muffle and awkward echo. Of course when taken at face value the selling out of London's most sizeable may seem financially astute but realistically, it's a booking that's considerably more contentious than that of Jay-Z headlining the Pyramid Stage back in 2008. Jigga What, Jigga Who then proved a pantheon of explicit brilliance; here it's pathetically groggy, even if the heinous Americanisation of this monstrosity better befits his unmistakably NYC appeal. Thus it's deplorable that the sound isn't as lucid as the sweat-doused faces bumbling about onscreen, as instead it's about as murky as the cloud-caressing skyline of his hometown.

It's from a similarly lofty vantage point that we witness the show and if "the sky's the limit" as Carter and his Bootylicious beau once decreed, patience is periodically pushed to its respective upper bound. Moreover when West later airs Touch the Sky, the message feels overtly tangible: we're halfway there, and it reeks of carbon monoxide and greasy putridity. An unabashedly anthemic Empire State of Mind pertains to a similar degree of altitudinal pertinence (Alicia Keys is inevitably absent but fuck that; the bellowing of the crowd is as reverberant as München roar), although the amass of mangled forearms below makes for a rather glorious site. With that said, it's no longer all doom, gloom, disparaging comments and disproportionately extortionate burgers; for however many soaring choruses Jay-Z may unleash each one crashes and burns in the raging billows of West's most fiendishly twisted and darkest Fantasies.

The megastar of the piece or purely the megalomaniac? West is arguably both: he restarts Can't Tell Me Nothing, citing his desire to put on the best show possible. It feels a little halfhearted, what with him relying on a sonorous backing track as though it were stuttering pacemaker although whether wading through hazy oceans of strobe in messianic posturing to Jesus Walks or obliterating the filthy O2 canvas with a majorly laser-based Flashing Lights, the ball is indubitably located within West's court. He spanks out this curt medley (one reminiscent of those that punctuated Prince's interminable series of evenings here back in 2007) with affecting vim, also serving up All Falls Down and Diamonds from Sierra Leone before handing the initiative over to his wearied adversary.

For both wearied and weathered by age Carter appears: U Both Know still glimmers lustrously and momentarily eclipses thoughts of West's whereabouts although it's proceeded by another seamlessly choreographed, well-phrased interchange as his counterpart eight years his junior reemerges to boisterously thunder through a flawless Power which seems to harness the hi-NRG electricity of distilled lightning. And although West may be sweatier than his designer tee is shiny, the pace of Carter's delivery pronouncedly slows. At one point he even takes a seat stage-centre, Justin Vernon's Monster lyric of "I wouldn't last these shows" acquiring a grim realism. However most significantly, the comparatively older statesman's presence gradually diminishes: West's Stronger is batted back by the D.A.N.C.E.-preluded On to the Next One and although the former instantaneously sounds substantially more dated than its timeless electroclash origin (as does its token Bape reference), Yeezy appears all too forceful for Jazzy as the latter retreats, tail between legs.

Indeed dogfight imagery features to an extent that is more salient than it is subliminal: tonight is about Jay-Z's abdication and Kanye West's promotion to the head of hip hop's top table. Noticeably, as West croons through a dense clog of Auto-Tune, Heartless assumes an odd irony for his gutless surpassing as the proverbial crown is passed down seems just so. It's savagely brutal. Retaliation comes at a premium more exclusive than the velvetine-smocked V.I.P. section below: Izzo (H.O.V.A.), one of few successful collaborations, is concluded by a sly introduction to the "genius" that is Mr. West that feels like the politest of invitations to fuck right off (the look of begrudged substitution during crunch scrap splattered across Kanye's bright whites and glinting golds), whilst Carter proffers a parting shot as the show itself comes to a close as he petulantly hollers: "Roc Nation!"

But it's a losing battle he's fighting and he's already effectively been dealt the figurative floorer. That'd conceivably be a sumptuously emotive Runaway that, even though bolstered by an unnecessarily extended coda in which West attests insistently – and again over Auto-Tune – to the widely accepted preconception of the man himself being an "asshole", exhibits the chart-haranguing immediacy of his latest LP. He captivates with the click of his fingerless-gloved fingers, crooning: "If you love somebody tonight/ Hold on real tight." It's mawkish, robotic anti-sentimentality of the highest order and it somehow transports to another level: amidst All of the Lights and that, the baton of Power is transferred and the increasing amounts of excessive "bling" dangling about each respective neck demonstrate a sort of infantile playground oneupmanship.

Ultimately, it's the record that brought the pair quite so close together that suffers though as it pales into insignificance within the context of this ego slugathon. The brazen affirmation: "London: You are now Watching The Throne" is counterintuitively segued by Monster and although far from tonight's finest instance, it again illustrates West's supremacy at the very least in terms of lyrical surrealism and musical vision. It is he who delivers a sequined gauntlet's worth of klutz-handed MJ references, exhorting the "nigga dead" line on All of the Lights be blurted back at a volume exceedingly greater to that at which it's initially yelled. Acknowledgement of the man who never made it this far east (beyond that inexplicably perturbing press conference), if that was it then West's hip hop karaoke blitz is now.

By the show's closing moments he's looking so G'd – or Z'd – up you suspect he too loses count of how many times they ~~treat us to~~/ torture us with the throwaway blip and crap clatter of Niggas In Paris. Played again, and again, and again, and (I think) again it evokes painful memories of scarcely visible projections on the side of Shoreditch High Street overground on a particularly gelid February après-midi and irregardless of Will Ferrell's intolerable interjection, it's neither provocative nor pleasant even first time around. West's ebullience remains resolute however: "Pretend you're in the video!" he guffaws, prior to prompting the simulation of a club vibe. The desired effect is achieved yet it's a pretty disastrous ending to it all.

Ahead of HRH's Jubilee bash it seems apt that Carter would opt for this epoch in which to demit his position as hip hop monarch although maybe he's spent too much time making ill-advisedly named babes of late and not enough watching both his back and The Throne itself. West has been the bestest, even without the aid of sky-stroking cranes and Vernon's star turn and as they hop off, it is he who seems most hip as not only is Kim Kardashian the only thing allegedly coming between the pair; there's now a chasmic gulf separating these regal sachems of the genre.

Potholed Pathways to Perfection. Exitmusic, Passage.

noreply@blogger.com (Dots&Dashes) — Mon, 21 May 2012 11:49:00 +0000

Plucking out and bastardising a band moniker from Radiohead tracklisting is a risky business. Come good and you may well slip into a gushing stream of undying adoration; turn sour and the sullying of song title may inspire some unrestrained ire. So active and indeed enormous is their fanbase that blemishing of the band's rep ought spread like wildfire; like news of a new post-dubstep Thom Yorke rework alighting the entirety of the internet. Fortunately for Aleksa Palladino (of Boardwalk Empire, boxset buffs) and husband Devon Church however, who come together in a beautiful harmony to constitute Exitmusic, they oft better said song over the course of this momentarily sublime first full-length, Passage.

Perhaps thankfully – at least with regard to the ploughing of the pair's own furrow – comparisons with the Oxfordian masters of melancholia are few and far between: a polished version of The Modern Age glimmers with the doleful Starcaster flickers of Reckoner for a short while, yes, although such lacklustre and ultimately skewed parallel is soon spacked into a ludicrous universe of superfluousness by an explosive, outwardly astral chorus. The Night meanwhile twinkles with the breathy majesty of The Joy Formidable's A Balloon Called Moaning, the cavernous dual vocals of Stars contributing a similar redolence as they unite to linger within a guttural despondence. The title track sounds like the otherworldly gurgle of Perfume Genius, were Michael Hadreas primed for the soundtracking of that preordained final melodramatic moment to any which episode from any old sitcom; The City bubbles effervescently to the tribal hubbub of Wounded Rhymes; The Cold promotes a gelid suavity only thawed around the fringes by Palladino's heartwarmingly human warble.

However where Exitmusic falter – and it's surely never grave enough to incur the wrath of the innumerable Radiohead obsessives – is in the slight undulation in consistency. For although musically; vocally; (largely) lyrically Passage is almost absolutely immaculate, their songwriting capacities periodically obfuscate an otherwise transparent efficiency: histrionic and lamentably lengthy closer Sparks of Light for instance does every song aforesaid a palpable disservice given its languid nothingness. Like Nouvelle Vague clinging excruciatingly, knuckle-whiteningly tightly onto Asobi Seksu's Citrus amid a restless sea of shoegaze, it's utterly unremarkable. As is the immobile smoulder of The Wanting.

Thus if the consummate recording that was their From Silence EP may be considered the honeymoon phase – both brief and reflective of, yet never explicit in its evidencing of their deep affinity – then Passage may subsequently be regarded as the rocky patch through which all married persons must at some point stumble. Invigorating, yet not without its pitfalls and potholes.

Live: Bewitching Hour. The xx, Battersea Arts Centre.

noreply@blogger.com (Dots&Dashes) — Mon, 21 May 2012 09:57:00 +0000

"This has been our first week of shows for two years", says Oliver Sim as he glances over coyly at the packed Grand Hall of Battersea Arts Centre, "so you might have to bear with us." Since 2010, The xx have cemented themselves in the public consciousness as a force to be reckoned with. To say they’ve exploded would be an understatement, as performances at Coachella and Bonnaroo and a Mercury Prize win have demonstrated. But that was two years ago and since then, the musical landscape has shifted quite seismically. The group’s distinctive brand of dreamy R&B is now widespread, with countless imitators trying to recreate the perfection of the band’s debut. For The xx, tonight’s task is a daunting one: how do you improve on the album that changed everything?

Battersea Arts Centre is closer to a church hall than to the nearby Brixton Academy, with the imposing pipes of an organ towering above the stage. You may think the room were set up for a battle of the bands or community event were it not for two black cubes, each emblazoned with a single white 'X'. Even the audience tonight is out of the ordinary. After months of radio silence, The xx suddenly returned at the beginning of May with a unique proposition: three London gigs; minuscule venues. But there’s a catch: the tickets are only available via lottery allocation. Tonight's result is a venue filled with die-hard fans, all clamourous and choking on the very same inquisition: what would two years of touring and experimentation bring? The answer is nothing short of stupendous.

After the muffled vocals of opening act 2:54, Romy Madley-Croft’s delicate tones cut through the hall like a glistening knife. Beginning with a new song may seem a bold move although as the show wears on, it becomes clear that the show is as much about showcasing new material as it is about revisiting the old. The opener, untitled as with all new stuff thus far, aches with yearning as Romy’s repeated insistence of "being as in love with you as I am" is melded with languid shoegaze guitars, showing us a completely new side to the group. Let’s call it Beach House-wave slow jamz or something.

It would be impossible to discuss The xx of 2012 however without mentioning the group’s breakout star: Jamie xx’s unique brand of post-dubstep has dominated the past year, so much so that Drake borrowed his instrumentals from I'll Take Care Of You for a chart-bothering collaboration with Rihanna. Standing behind the mixing decks, he cuts a solitary figure yet his presence goes far from unnoticed. All the new tracks are influenced in some way or other by Jamie’s sonic experiments – the steel drums on one song are clear descendants of Far Nearer's West Indian stylings, while the strobing house beats of another reflect the dancier moments of We're New Here. Atop these nuances, Romy and Oliver's plaintive voices point to a more soulful direction; one that’s even more aligned with a great pop sensibility. Aaliyah has often been cited as a major influence, but only now does this truly shine through. Indeed if their second album is anywhere near as accomplished, haunting and involving as these few tracks then The xx are sure to enthrall us for the next two years, just as they’ve bewitched us for the last.

It is the old tracks, however, that truly show how much The xx have evolved as a group: Crystalised is stripped of its characteristic bassline, leaving the two vocalists to carry the song until suddenly, unexpectedly, the hall is filled with expansive synths as the understated original becomes a melancholic floorfiller. The reworked version of Basic Space incorporates a meaty synth line and insistent percussion, whilst Infinity leaves the crowd breathless as it is in turn transformed into a raw and sensual slow-burner. As the band return for their encore, they could perform a Slipknot medley and we would remain captivated. Fortunately, their election is infinitely more interesting: in playing the opening and closing tracks of their eponymous debut (Intro and Stars), The xx appear to be bidding farewell to their first effort. And tonight couldn't have proven a more fitting goodbye...

Noah Jackson.

Competition: Win Weekend Tickets to GLADE with Dots & Dashes.

noreply@blogger.com (Dots&Dashes) — Fri, 18 May 2012 18:02:00 +0000

Now in its eighth year and now only a month away, this year's GLADE takes place in the luscious, sandy-soiled grounds of Norfolk's Houghton Hall for a second consecutive time. Sparked into existence down some remote nook of Glastonbury, over its comparatively concise history thus far it has become a standalone event in its own right; the sort to leave you legless and longing for another interminable break of a techno throb come the yolk-like crack of sunrise. Electroclash magnate Pascal Arbez brings his notoriously hefty Vitalic live show to the East of England this year, where he'll be joined by Ninja Tune heavyweight Daedelus, hip young ambient hopeful Max Cooper (whose superlative GLADE 2012 Live Podcast can be heard here), genre-flouting fellow Londoner Om Unit and underground trance progenitor and festival headliner, Sven Väth. The likes of Blawan, Brainfeeder affiliates Kutmah and Thundercat, Slugabed and Throwing Snow also feature on a monstrous headfuck of a line up.

Taking place between June 14th-17th, we're offering the chance to disengage the brain and lose it to the likes of the aforementioned with a pair of weekend tickets. Thus without further ado, to stand a hope in a mucky field, purely answer this heinously easy question:

What was the title of Vitalic's groundbreaking 2005 debut LP?

Email us your answer, along with a name, address and contact number and we'll pick out a winner come Friday, June 1st.

Further info on this year's GLADE can be located on the official site, whilst tickets are available here as of now.

Good luck etc.

Anything but Rusty, Perfume Genius.

noreply@blogger.com (Dots&Dashes) — Fri, 18 May 2012 12:57:00 +0000

Fresh from tickling tear ducts at an unspeakably sublime, festival-thieving showing at last weekend's The Great Escape Michael Hadreas has another quite fragrant aroma to waft this way. Indeed aired at the aforesaid show, Rusty Chains is another scratched out of the final Put Your Back N 2 It tracklisting that Perfume Genius has thankfully finally elected to douse us with. Yet more poignancy surges from his fingers as they trickle atop the synthetic ebonies and ivories of his beloved Nord, the song bulging with the glorious swell of many a Patrick Watson recording. His is a polished craft never to corrode, or so it'd contemporarily seem...

DOWNLOAD: Perfume Genius, Rusty Chains.

Interview: Schmoozing with Sharon Van Etten.

noreply@blogger.com (Dots&Dashes) — Fri, 18 May 2012 11:41:00 +0000

Lingering a smidgen of oblique street beyond the odious ostentation of Regent Street lies Liberty. Probably the finest shop of this fair city yet one that is somewhat inexplicably, somehow, in some way humble it therefore serves as a quite apposite location at which to first encounter Sharon Van Etten. For like Liberty, she is the lusciously remarkable gem lodged barely beneath the bloodthirsty claw of the mainstream – or indeed right beneath the nose of the maddening crowds beyond these practically antiquated, single-glazed shutters. "I never wanna shop but then when I go out, it's like 'danger zone'", she mutters between faint huffs and puffs. Her demeanour expertly unassuming; her voice slouchy, she is the epitome of humility and arguably the antidote to the brazen stupidity surrounding the cult of celebrity and the more generic world outside.

For although her status still remains more cult than celebrity, the proverbial beaks and rather more literal telephoto lenses have been irremovably jabbed into both her life and lifestyle since the release of third effort Tramp earlier on in the year. Has such slight intrusion become in any way problematic? "For the most part, um, no", she soothingly reassures. "I get nervous about it just 'cause there are elements of my past that are dangerous but... you know... I had a friend who lives in Tennessee that I used to work for and some press person called them to enquire about certain elements of my past, with specific people, and that freaked me out. That's kinda invasive, but for the most part there's no problem. It's weird to be out there; it's weird to be recognised."

By this point in time we've relocated to a cell in the backroom bar of the swankiest of swank hotels. Well and truly well padded, excluding the "cigarette ash"-stained, rock-blocked toilet in the corner every perch and pedestal is smothered in denim. Were the world "collapsing around us" right here would surely feel like the safest of havens. A mild irony does, however, invade our secluded situation: drinks of an intoxicating variety arrive, although their bearer fails to bat even a solitary eyelash at the presence of Van Etten. "You know, I'm not that known", she mumbles beneath a thick fug of exhale, swizzling glistening ice cubes with a straw gradually distorted throughout the duration of our time together. "It's still weird to sense any kind of acknowledgement whatsoever."

If she may yet be a paragon of modesty, there's undeniably a morbid attraction to the underlying tales of disgruntlement; of her jailbreak of sorts from the abusive and ultimately oppressive relationship within which she was snared. Against her so-called lover's every disparaging comment, her songs became the shovel employed to excavate an escape route, while they've also become the keys to a greater cultural consciousness. Again, we return to the topic of Tramp: amid the consummate amalgam of intriguing lyrical humility, brilliant musical simplicity and incontestably sublime vocal could the record be said to be born of a deep-seated resentment? "For me it was always about getting to be at peace with a lot of things. Namely, it was the first time I'd written about a host of different people as opposed to just one person. My first record was about that one person, whereas the second was about coming out of that and just moving on. This time it's about being OK with sensing resentment but also anger and sadness."

However irony here returns, for subjectively the back catalogue carries a great capacity to unite – amorously or otherwise – despite the relational tragedies, break-ups and make-ups intrinsically entwined. "I mean hopefully people connect to it. A lot of the reason that I write is that it's healing for everybody. I wouldn't wanna share anything that wouldn't benefit other people – otherwise it's kinda selfish..." Conversely, it has thus far been proven a joy to innumerable hordes: a greatly honest record (even down to its cover – "I didn't want it to be a pretty photo, you know?"), it stands out as a rare shard of unadulterated integrity within a current musical climate oft immoderately concerned by conceit and it is through candour that Van Etten achieves catharsis.

Yet one may anticipate feelings of having perhaps divulged a little too much... "Well, you know, it's easy to feel vulnerable when you're talking about your emotions but at the same time, a vital part of this record for me was that feeling of ownership. No matter what I wrote the songs about back then, me and my current boyfriend basically agree to not talk about it. So if he's like: 'Which songs are about me?', it's just like: 'No!' He'll never know. But if I ever felt that something was maybe too personal then I'd never share it: I think also that'd maybe alienate the listener. I think there are things that personally, I know that are particularly personal but I try and make them seem as though they're not. I think Give Out is probably the most personal song that I put on that record but I did that predominantly because I think it's good in that it has its own story and that's relevant both to where I am now and where I was at that point in time. But I don't think it's too personal. Hopefully..."

It's an intriguing and indeed stark contrast to the way in which she'll go on to introduce the song the following eve at a sold out Scala where it is introduced as a "story song" concerning her reconvening with the learning of love; with allowing herself to tumble back into its cloying, periodically mawkish clutches. However with the passing of time is spawned hindsight and somewhat significantly within the bristly writhe of Serpents ("a song written in my basement when pissed off having listened to too much PJ Harvey") lies the lyric of holding the mirror "to everybody else". Yet were she to divert its impenetrable gaze back on herself and reflect back on recent histories, would she have approached anything done in any way differently? "I would've spent more time with my parents; I'd definitely hang out with my family more. Over the past few years I definitely feel as though, because I've been so focussed on my music, I've neglected my friends and family to a degree. My career's great; my relationship's great, but perhaps because of all that I've not been a good enough friend. They understand, but...", her gurgled sentiments washed back down her throat with a healthy gulp of Campari and soda.

Another great quality to Tramp is, arguably, the sort of fictitious friendship with she that it seems to kindle. So open and acute are its emotions that they lead you to believe in some deep and enduring affinity; as if you were round Kevin's back when the track was written or something. It has a distinctly homely feel to it and there is a quite discernible difference between now and then, then being the record and the process of. She'll later admit to still being within another process of discovery; of finding out that vast numbers have been and of course still are enjoying her latest effort immensely, even if she is ultimately aware of its facilitating of "more touring, there's more reach, there's more interest, there's more attention. Yes, there's been all those things. I don't know; I feel pretty lucky right about now", she proposes. However the manifest variance on circumstance would be that she now has a place to call her own. Over in Brooklyn, "it's pretty far and away from everything 'cool' – it's kinda out in the suburbs", she volunteers a little self-effacingly. "It's peaceful; there are plenty of trees; it's quiet! It's everything I needed."

Her jejune ebullience, albeit perhaps momentary, is entirely infectious and regarding her domestic setup she suggests: "It's like being an adult or something." Does she not feel like an adult? Not that the question of age is ever posed but at thirty-one, she nigh on triumphantly proffers: "In some ways yes, and in some ways nope. I now know when I need to slow down and when I need a rest. But I mean I can hang out and have fun, and I can do music, and think about my future and all that stuff. I'm doing what I want and I think I'm helping other people, and that's it." And "all that stuff" of course entails these sorts of interviews and a thankfully increasingly frequent stream of UK shows in venues increasing exponentially in capacity (although she contends that "bigger does not mean better"). Thus another irony arises with Tramp being the record to drag Van Etten out of house ("a place to rest") and (the place where she spends the majority of her time stateside: her boyfriend's) home.

Transmogrified once again into journeying vagrant – albeit one who "can afford an apartment and still be able to tour" – she subscribes to some quite delightfully ethical touring habits: "I wanna treat my band with respect as I know that both physically and mentally, you can't just keep doing this. I mean we've all toured a lot, both separately and collectively, but we try to do tours no longer than three weeks; no more than five nights in a row; having at least two weeks off in-between tours. You know, I wanna be intense and touring's the most important element of connecting with people; of having them hear your music. As it's so important I'll keep doing it whenever I can but I absolutely don't want anyone to resent me", the theme slipping back into conversation rather congruously.

The word signals a return to the inescapable subtext that has become all but inextricable from her waking realities. Certainly at the subsequent Scala showing Don't Do It is delivered via an utmost vitriol, sounding as though spat from snarled lip. It has, seemingly, become a little too prominent. "Well I guess this was the first time that I wasn't writing about that", an air of slight groan pervading the pronoun. "On the one hand, people are gonna read into it what they want and then they can talk about whatever if it keeps them happy. I mean it's obviously about relationships but for the most part, it's about a variety of different people. It's categorically not about one person, but about me moving on from that one person", her reiteration of such sentiment to a certain degree responding to the inquisition in tone alone. "I don't know; I just wanted to document going through being in a relationship and how that makes you feel. People will always then drag things out of proportion. I don't even know what people are saying about this sorta stuff, apart from when I hear things back during interviews..."

Another inescapability is Van Etten's inclination toward love, or anti-love song. The reasoning behind such proclivity however is a little less lucid: "You know, I still don't get why I naturally gravitate towards that. I mean love's obviously a pretty universal thing; everyone has somehow experienced it. I just love classic folk and classic rock, and I've always loved the romantic ideas involved but most emotions come purely from being in a relationship, whether that be with a friend or with a lover; whatever. I usually write when I'm going through a hard time, which is usually when I've just come out of a relationship. It's the best way I've found to deal with it." From indignation, through discontent and eventually arriving at acceptance, her lyrics are particularly shrewd when it comes to the appraisal of she herself and the role she may have played in the dissolution of romance, and certain intricacies are nigh on impossible to neglect as a consequence. Take Leonard for instance, on which she insists upon being "bad", and then "bad at loving", and finally "bad at loving you". Even through puffed and teary eyes her vision remains worldweary; her articulation astute: "That song is a combination of me talking to myself and talking to somebody else. It was basically an admittance to myself that it wasn't me; that I wasn't a bad person. 'Cause I've definitely gone through feeling that way: 'we all make mistakes'; we move on; we do what we can." A slightly idealistic approach perhaps, although one she's had to dedicatedly instruct herself to assume: "If you're trying to get out of a really bad situation, it's hard to be idealistic and positive. And it takes time. I mean it took me five or six years to find peace with certain things that happened. But if there's anything I've learnt it's that there's not enough time in the world to dwell in these negative moments. It is maybe idealistic although I'm kinda living in a dream world anyway at the moment..!"

Given our insatiable thirst for the latest this or the newest recording of that, artists operating concurrently are arguably compelled to produce and reproduce with relative haste. For the compulsive creative that Van Etten is, how are things sounding within this purported "dream world" she's currently inhabiting? "Well, I'm just always writing although for the first time I'm really excited to get home and restart writing properly. I've never written nor recorded as a band proper before and I want us to feel as though we belong together rather than just being a touring band per se. But at the moment new stuff's all over the place: like I have piano songs, and I've got some more electronic stuff I've written whilst on the road. I dunno... what it's gonna be like... I always wanna push myself and attempt new things though; I don't ever wanna put out the exact same record..."

Few could plausibly contend even the slightest qualm were she to follow up Tramp with a recording analogous in all but name and there were some big names inscribed into the credits of that one. The likes of Julianna Barwick, Aaron Dessner, Zach Condon, Jenn Wasner and Matt Barrick all thrust a hand or two in to varying depths of involvement although not only has her approach to the scribing of the follow-up seemingly been altered irrevocably, but she voices minimal intention to reproduce the record as was. "Pretty much the most fun part of playing live is that it's not the record. I mean I think there are certain things that I miss about it but the more I think about it, I just wanna let the record be the record. I hear some of that sorta stuff in my mind but, you know, the enjoyment in playing a show is that it'll never be the same ever again. You don't know how you'll respond to any which crowd; you don't know how you're' gonna be connecting on whichever night. No one moment will ever be the same. I'm really happy and really excited by how things have turned out in terms of reinterpreting and recreating the record right now. At any rate to fly out, like, ten people..? Have a reunion of sorts..? I've thought about getting down a bunch of people just for like one New York show" she defiantly affirms, an unabashed confidence accenting her voice for the first time. "But as a normal thing, it's not exactly practical. Logistical nightmare."

However, again there's a both admirable and inevitable deference at play: she drops not a solitary name; none of that frivolous nonsense. Sharon's selling your nearest and dearest venue out without ever selling out: "You know, when I started out it was just me and a guitar so Epic was a step away from that a little bit, whereas now I'm using instrumentation to help my vocals out much more than I have in the past. And obviously with Tramp there were a lot of friends involved so there was a lot more support for the sound." She continues, her attentions shunted to the evident impetus she places upon the live aspect: "It's not just support either; it's about connecting with people that understand what it is that you're doing. It's about keeping the show on the road; about the ability to mix things up when you're onstage. It takes a while to figure out though! Like Nick Cave's had his band for like thirty years, you know? And the first step is to find people that you trust. I'm just building and hoping everything doesn't then all fall down."

"I'm still kinda like a baby when it comes to playing shows; I'm still learning. I get nervous... I disguise my fear with comedy: if the audience is really great then I get freaked out but at least if the audience is great it gives me material and I can start riffin' or whatever." Witty "banter" is certainly becoming a cornerstone of her performances and her voice resounds at ever greater volume as this interview progresses. A method of deflecting the hefty emotivity located within each and every song aired each and every night of her seemingly excessive touring of our verdant counties perhaps and the next night she's insolently urged to shut up and sing by a faceless, quite feckless heckler. However confidence is building: "Balls-out London!" she yelps, taken aback yet seemingly prepped to take to task. For if she may be slight in stature and this afternoon in attitude too, Sharon Van Etten effortlessly magnetises attentions and unites opinion. With next to none polarised, Tramp is the record of the year thus far and it looks as though such statement shan't crumble prior to the interminable listomania of December. So with the house in order and now an apartment to her name, any construction embarked upon ought not "fall down" for the foreseeable.

Fest Bests: Sónar 2012.

noreply@blogger.com (Dots&Dashes) — Thu, 17 May 2012 15:02:00 +0000

Hot (Maya Jane Coles) and heavy (deadmau5), as ever this year's Sónar looks to be a heady mélange of all things musical and multimedial. Hacked into what are effectively two festivals (Sónar de Día amid the grandiose surrounds of the Ciutat Vella and the post-apocalyptic stylings of Sónar de Noche out in the conference centre hub-cum-hedonistic haven of L'Hospitalet), both better most things you could even envisage frequenting throughout the coming summer months. More pertinently however, it also happens to be the latest stop on our trawl through a selection of the finer festival happenings of this imminent estival season thus without further ado, below are our Sónar 2012 Fest Bests...

Azari & III

Who: Torontonian house pop purveyors whose impeccably urbane self-titled debut may well have been heard wafting out from any which Urban Outfitters any time since release.
Why: A little like a contemporary Village People if the above JPG is anything to go by, expect a vigorous workout from these macho men in slashed shorts and jetblack shades.
When: Saturday, 2.00 am, SónarLab.

Flying Lotus

Who: Californian superproducer Steven Ellison, who dilutes the jazz that courses through his veins with a glitchy, schizoid hip hop hybridity. Head honcho of Brainfeeder besides, the discographic home to the fellow Sónar-bound likes of Thundercat & Lapalux & Kutmah, all aforesaid combine to feature alongside the founder as part of a showcase come Thursday.
Why: FlyLo has some quite memorable previous with the Barça bash, namely thieving Friday night back in 2010. Having honed them skills yet further, both sets could and should prove special.
When: Thursday, 7.30pm, SónarVillage / Friday, 5.30pm, SónarDôme.

Hot Chip

Who: Quirky popsters it's becoming increasingly implausible to overlook.
Why: Reconvened for fifth full-length In Our Heads, the south-west Londoners' Sónar showing will proffer an almost premature insight into its translation to the language of live music.
When: Saturday, 1.30am, SónarPub.

John Talabot

Who: Local chico John Talabot's ƒIN may have seeped online amid a rather bleak midwinter although its tropiphoric humidities and Amazonian intricacies ensure it has come to embody an indubitably enduring listen.
Why: Con o sin compatriot [sic] Pional, Destiny may be the subtle house-y palpitation thudding away within many a cranium come Sunday morning.
When: Friday, 8.30pm, SónarHall.

Lana Del Rey

Who: Seriously..?
Why: Whether she positively belts or hesitantly blurts the likes of Carmen, Blue Jeans, Born To Die and so on and so forth already seems to have slipped into irrelevance. This one's an absolute must-see and the thought of an unapologetically stentorian National Anthem clanging about the monumental halls and hangars of L'Hospitalet is breathtaking in essence alone.
When: Friday, 11.45pm, SónarPub.

Metronomy

Who: Pop wonkier than a maimed crowbar, Joseph Mount's Metronomy will provide apt, if equally energetic respite from the decks and drops.
Why: Finally filling out the sorts of venues Nights Out was preordained to plaster with its suave lo-fi disco, watch the Southern England outfit set Sónar de Noche alight.
When: Saturday, 11.30pm, SónarLab.

Squarepusher

Who: If V Festival may perceptibly be considered the worst thing to have ever occurred involving Chelmsford then D'n'B pioneer Tom Jenkinson may comparably be viewed as its saving grace.
Why: Loosen some limbs and free up some headspace for Ufabulum, out now.
When: Friday, 4.30am, SónarClub.

The Suicide Of Western Culture

Who: Enigmatic pairing who are to this gritty city what Fuck Buttons are to their respective West Country grot hole.
Why: When in Rome – or indeed Barcelona – best witness what it is that los barcelonés do. This duo are up to some retrospective, '90s-soused mischief that never concedes to pastiche nor cliché but rather comes across as the unremitting upset of Godspeed You! Black Emperor rewired through knackered Casiotone keys.
When: Saturday, 8.30pm, SónarHall.

This year's Sónar Barcelona takes place throughout various nooks, crannies and airplane hangars of the Cataluñan capital between June 14th-16th. More info is available here, whilst tickets may be adquiridos por aquí.

Live: Vulnerable Gurgles & Spectral Warbles. Exitmusic, Scala.

noreply@blogger.com (Dots&Dashes) — Thu, 17 May 2012 11:23:00 +0000

Ambling onstage to the sound and invasive smell of lethargic poofs of dry ice whilst the equally, intrinsically languid garble of Nicolas Jaar pervades the place, enter Exitmusic. A little up against it perhaps – and indeed support slots in themselves are oft notoriously tough stuff to crack – thankfully opening up for Sharon Van Etten, who seems to sell out every last show she trundles on over for and attracts a delightful cross-section of society predisposed to enlightenment, ensures any initial ambivalence or apathy toward the situation is instantaneously equilibrated. However if the unpleasant sensual assault aforementioned may fabricate a threadbare strand of brood, it purely forebodes the glum brilliance to come...

Exitmusic is the converging both musical and marital of two spectacularly named kindred spirits, Aleksa Palladino and Devon Church and, for want of a more intricate vernacular, when they collide sparks flicker and the proverbial walnuts previously intimated toward are shattered open like the most brittle of spines. Coincidentally, whilst Van Etten coos and shoots for the heart with her love (or at times anti-love) songsmithery, it's the rachis Palladino and Church centralise their efforts upon as they rake their swoonsome melodrama up and down every quivering notch like cans clanking across the steely imprisonments of any old Death Row.

Yet for a band arguably swimming against the tides of convention, theirs is a sound and set that proves enticing to the point of a figurative ensnarement within an irradiate stupor: iPads and a general guitar unorthodoxy (Church seduces the odd satanic screech from his Telecaster with what seems a heavily rusted slide) insinuate the former, whilst the aqueous howls of The Sea captivate as they fish for a sense of the latter. Palladino's voice is reduced to a vulnerable gurgle on The Night; elevated to a spectral warble on a tumultuous The City; swept into a cleansing wash of ebbing dolour on Sparks of Light. However her throaty manipulations are underpinned most provocatively by Church's supernaturally wonderful musical versatility, with elements of spaghetti western soundtrack tangled up in there somewhere amidst the searing barrages of tremolo and oozing gushes of staccato. She helplessly pleads: "Give me back the hours that went to waste" on an utterly heavenly The Hours and although theirs is but half of one such sixty, there could be few ways to have better spent it. Van Etten later thanks the pair profusely, affirming that she's impatiently awaiting the opportunity "to hang" and seemingly once their immaculate debut full-length Passage is outed into the bright, wide world next week you'll be powerless to its darkened potential; desperate to cling to and linger about its superbly polished fringes. The holiest of matrimonies in its every essence.

Tears of Pearls, HEALTH.

noreply@blogger.com (Dots&Dashes) — Wed, 16 May 2012 15:37:00 +0000

Forget the defecating of golden eggs; LA peddlers of a woozy sludge HEALTH can seemingly secrete Tears of pearls on demand. This one, penned for Rockstar Games' Max Payne 3, is an urgent, unintelligibly slurred throb of a thing that trickles rather than thunders from the same reddened and raw ducts from whence came the likes of Die Slow and Death+. Can now but hope for a track a day to keep the obsessive at bay...

Rockstar Games' Soundcloud (never even so much as envisaged that phrase featuring here...).

Live: Rendered Resplendent. Lower Dens, Madame Jojo's.

noreply@blogger.com (Dots&Dashes) — Wed, 16 May 2012 15:10:00 +0000

Nauseating splatters of discoball speckle the floors of Madame Jojo's as fairy lights add yet more glisten beyond an arsenal of elaborate equipment. 'Tis a setting as picturesque as any opaque, barely starry and scarcely black night draped over the capital although this evening's White Heat rundown is a little less idyllic. It's an odd combination of flavours and one you assume few would have the necessarily acquired taste for. For having Jana Hunter's eruditely wistful Baltimore clan Lower Dens slopped on the same plate as Porcelain Raft and Trust is a little like the sonic equivalent to a hurriedly prepared platter of an alloy of marshmallow and tin that's then drizzled with Campari. That Hunter headlines prior to Mauro Remiddi's stint means many digest this one before the bitters drown out the other incongruous flavours involved in this mess of a mélange.

And a mess is precisely what Trust prove to be: ranted over and raved to at last weekend's The Great Escape, this heinously nonchalant trio – leathered of trouser and vapid of expression – sound as though writhing about awkwardly with Heartbreak's Italo-disco pastiche beneath a dense cloak of witch house. Anti-charismatic, their half hour is ashamedly cheaper and trashier than Ethan Kath fishing for wishbones amid the bins round the back.

Which renders Lower Dens all the more resplendent in comparison: opening with I Get Nervous, if a slight patina of anxiety clings to Hunter's face it oughtn't for its typically lethargic, if luscious plod serves as the consummate reintroduction to both the band and the band's debut full-length Twin Hand Movement. Indeed her band is these days discernibly different to that which last trudged up and down the country, as the Texan freak-folk polymath has conducted some significant surgery on its genetic makeup in the interim period although the segueing Alphabet Song demonstrates an already established collective deftness as they scamper from I (Get Nervous) through B(rains). The latter sees the five-piece finally canter and whilst thrillingly tight, simultaneously the sound remains incredibly loose. It's a confounding reality yet the result proves utterly dumbfounding and, tonight transmogrified into an irrefutably monstrous epic, it is the singular Nootropics moment to even so much as touch certain elements of its predecessor. And in fact given the comparative negligence of such stuff this particular Soho soirée feels more showcase than show; more evolution than revolution. Which perhaps, given the title of her latest, is precisely the intention.

However whilst Hunter may now be backed by several new faces it's the bewhiskered, previously acquainted visage of bassist Geoff Graham that is – perhaps as a direct result – promoted to a far more focal role. His bass too has been afforded a greater spatial realm into which it may boisterously roam, and it does so to invigorating effect on a totally prime Completely Golden, a track all but entirely dictated by the lavish instrumental narrative that drives its chorus. Yet vocally the pair have grown together, their sexless dual tones enwrapped tightly around one another like strands of particularly clingy double helix and although the here and now may seem somewhat transitional (Hunter periodically looks perplexed by her own pedalboard tomfoolery; tomfoolery to have even the beardiest of bods chin-stroking down to the bone) Batman, a track released in-between days as it were, serves as a superb example of aural substance over sartorial style. For if they may look a little sloppy, they almost overcompensate on the elaborate stuff that gurgles through and grinds against these rickety old speakers thus to paraphrase a band oft ill-fittingly cited with regard to this Hunter of a rampant melancholia, it's evolutional.

Hyper Cyber-Balladry, Yeasayer.

noreply@blogger.com (Dots&Dashes) — Wed, 16 May 2012 08:24:00 +0000

At long bleedin' last Yeasayer hath returned. With physicals of this one, Henrietta, shipped out to the band's mailing list a short while ago all of a less eager and/or engaged disposition may now indulge via the below stream (ta, We All Want Someone To Shout For). It's immediately seemingly pretty evident that the genre-bounders have been listening extensively to fellow New Yorkers Battles' Gloss Drop/ Dross Glop (either/ or) although it's a wholly effervescent fizz of hyper, cyber-balladry irregardless and a quite wondrous reintroduction to bona fide pioneers of our times. Almost enough to engender the desire to change your name to Henrietta by deed poll...

Yeasayer return to these shores come July for this year's Latitude...

On the Horizon: Reflective Resonances, IO ECHO.

noreply@blogger.com (Dots&Dashes) — Tue, 15 May 2012 16:13:00 +0000

Irregardless of what the moniker IO ECHO may intimate of Italian origin the LA-based, "New Orientalism" pairing comprising Ioanna Gika and Big Pink bassist Leopold Ross effectuate something eerily devoid of both place and time on When The Lilies Die. Like a sinister Pet Shop Boys predatorily gnawing a chink in The Jesus & Mary Chain, it's a recording that is barely short of perfect.

Io Echo's Soundcloud.

Arisen from Slumber. Sleep, Dopesmoker.

noreply@blogger.com (Dots&Dashes) — Tue, 15 May 2012 08:12:00 +0000

Doom metal opuses are a quite rare breed. It's not to say that they've become obsolete nor extinct – the first in Ufomammut's ORO series ought to attest convincingly enough to that – although there undoubtedly aren't enough hour-long songs indebted to doobies out there concurrently. San Jose stoners Sleep's Dopesmoker of course can't exactly be classed an A-grade example within such a context – this remastered edition was originally released back in April 2003 – although especially if indulged in when under the influence of heftily scented narcotics, even now it sounds no more dated than that last soporific hallucination you've already almost undoubtedly forgotten.

Doomier and gloomier than DOOM in a darkened room stripped of all possessions, pot inclusive the song that is the album that is the song Dopesmoker is precisely what you'd desire and deem expected from a lucid, loosely intoxicated listen: more stream of (barely) consciousness than song per se, it drifts manically and at times maddeningly in and out of stodgy time signature and one heavily crunched chord pattern. And yet you sense that Sleep somehow manage never to fully overindulge as they quite so evidently have their lungs, for if an intensely potent experience it provides it never loses itself up the preferred orifice of any which Class B smuggler and nor does it partake in any form of artistically perilous overdose. Al Cisneros et al. know their limits and push them to extremes that momentarily feel somewhat excruciating although their intentions and instrumental breakdowns remain both focussed and, ultimately, utterly fucked.

If not lost somewhere down in the deepest and darkest profundities of comatose following its 63-minute onslaught then you'll stumble into a rendition of Holy Mountain caught at San Francisco's notorious, now-defunct haunt I-Beam and subsequently ensnared on record. In comparison, it seems shorter than most sketchily composed Daniel Johnston jobs although it's still heady enough to send even the most well-oxygenated of stoner brains into the wildest strand of puke-drenched whitey and again, despite the venue definitively slamming its doors shut just the one solitary year after the record's initial release, this one too stinks of the finest contemporary relevance. And holy smokes it's good to have Sleep reawakened from slumber, back in the here and now to advocate yet more stoner metal abuse...

Back at the Pinnacle, Gold Panda.

noreply@blogger.com (Dots&Dashes) — Mon, 14 May 2012 14:26:00 +0000

Look who's back from masticating on the figurative bamboo shoots of whichever wilderness he may have been inhabiting-slash-the studio where he may have been engineering new Frankie & The Heartstrings schtuff? Out digitally this week via his very own Notown label, here are both sides to Gold Panda's forthcoming 7" single (out June 11th). Financial District is a bold and bubblicious globule of great effervescence, laced with Derwin's infatuation with all things East Asia.

However it's the out-there ethnic persistence of Mountain that's at the pinnacle of these things novel and new, all shimmering synths, simmering humid ambience and crappy synthetic drum fills.

Gold Panda plays both next month's Field Day and September's Bestival...

Life in Full... Beach House, Bloom.

noreply@blogger.com (Dots&Dashes) — Mon, 14 May 2012 13:58:00 +0000

Constructing upon the critical acclaim garnered by previous long-player Teen Dream may be one thing – and one that Bloom achieves with the unhurried ease of their finest output itself – although the Baltimore pairing comprising Victoria Legrand and Alex Scally have vocally established their intent to mature; to continue to mould that woozy signature sound. Like the barely legible yet perfectly smooth and somehow utterly beautiful scribble of a slowly fossilising being in the red-eyed throes of a mildly berserk hallucination, the very sound of Beach House has become an inimitable entity and one that engenders an instant affection for and endearment toward. It's like the numbing comfort inescapably linked with the fashioning of snowballs from gelid slush; like the inexplicable joy of pins and needles: a thing of unfathomable, big time sensuality.

This nigh on tangible loveliness is apparent from the off: you'll have doubtless heard Myth and consequently you'll doubtless already adore Myth although the snuggly guitar tones and cruddy rudimentary drum machine thuds of Wild ought to incrementally enhance that blossoming sentimentality sensed for the pair. It is of course a tame beast for such designation – indeed much of Bloom ambles along at the same torpid pace – although the expected absence of savageness is recuperated in their great sagacity: why dash about hastily when you can slumberously saunter? Why pain yourself on prickly things when you may recline atop the comparatively lo-fi lusciousness of Lazuli?

Rhetoric aside, not every track flowers fully: New Year sounds as though a bud prematurely snatched from stem as it pitters and patters about helplessly in the variegated mundanity of Mylo Xyloto like a beached carp (albeit one smooched by the incomparable Legrand), whilst The Hours is she and Scally painting by pretty insipid numbers. However they know what they're doing and when they do it well, by God does Bloom veritably erupt in spurts of polychromatic vividness: whether that be the doleful swoon to Troublemaker or the petrifyingly unsteady creak of On The Sea – during which Scally's guitar palpably bawls; let alone weeps – moments of soaring majesty are rather omnipresent. The latter is to Bloom what Gila was to Devotion; what 10 Mile Stereo was to Teen Dream: an aurally picturesque moment of consummate perfection. It is concluded by the harsh gusts and lapping tides of tempest as it slowly melts away into the oneiric waft that is Irene. Although not quite the fifteen-plus epic to which its tracklisted running time intimates, it shatters that figurative mould aforesaid to a certain degree in that it serves as a relentless gush of crescendo that requires the seven-odd minutes of silence that procede it as respiratory respite, such is its overwhelming and empowering allure. It's Beach House at their most breathless, and so too is the gloopy sloop of Other People.

Alex Scally may purport to Bloom sounding like "an entirely different world" to their anything previous and although such affirmation is certainly contestable, the undeniable waking reality is that Beach House, right now, are in a world of their own.

Live: Teary of Eye; Bereft of Speech. Perfume Genius, St Mary's Church Brighton.

noreply@blogger.com (Dots&Dashes) — Mon, 14 May 2012 11:17:00 +0000

Sacrilegious or sardonic as it may be on behalf of the bookers of Brighton or elsewhere (re: the latter tonight's spotlights are of exclusively satanic hue), whether ardent believer, agnostic or outright atheist there's incontestably no better venue than your local House of the Lord. Yet a four pack ring strewn before the altar and a bar at the back demonstrate a slight disregard for location and indeed this divine setting ensures the unshakably uncomfortable sensations of any given Sunday are immediately imitated upon entrance. That hideous gut-wrench signalling an imminent return to the institutionalised authority education provides; the disintegration of any diversion over the following five days at the very least. However in amongst the harrowing desolation and despondency of Perfume Genius' lamentably breviloquent set at The Great Escape was located an intense delight.

Albeit a sombre affair fit for the most hallowed of Seventh-day Sabbaths, Hadreas constructs a wall of immovable, absolutely impenetrable emotivity that floors you (quite literally in umpteen cases – pert buttocks perch atop many a corroded tile); leaves you there whimpering for a little while; then picks you up, dusts you down, and whisks you home. Quite pertinently, the gospel-fringed grandiosity of Take Me Home torments the mind throughout the subsequent traintrack trundle, gradually seducing the thing back to bed.

Situated in the so-called 'gay quarter' of Kemp Town, St Mary's Church is an ever more intriguing setting from which Hadreas may enthral: his widely documented homosexuality plays an entirely formative role within his sparse, subdued and sumptuously dark lyrical twists and turns and here it consequently seems if not antagonistic then inherently problematic, given the antimony of the Catholic Church toward the acting upon his sexual orientation. Thus as he pleads: "Please pray for me" his words are imbued with an almost supernal poignancy for however full Heaven may be or indeed however sinful Hadreas may have been according to the scriptures and tables of stone of yore there can't not be room for this particular number. 17 too, with its lyrics of stringing things up on fences and dousing them "with semen", assumes an astonishing, unspeakably dumbfounding discomfort. For want of a more applicable terminology, it's rather apparent that Hadreas couldn't give a toss about the powers that be, celestial or otherwise.

From the hymnal rumble of No Tear, to the sullen anthemia of Hood, to the playful, puppy-like refrains of Learning it's an intensely affecting show and one that ideally exhibits Hadreas' wide-eyed naïveté. His eyes blackened and pupils possessed, they're surely more sizeable than "grandpa's eyes" and could questionably be more inviting than "the hands of God" even when coated in that glistening patina of great comfort, as referenced on an emotionally commotional Dark Parts. Reduced to a shivering, quivering wreck with legs ungainly sprawled across chilling floor All Waters and Sister Song tickle bulging tear ducts as both provide the consummate sonic perception of the utmost loneliness, Hadreas seemingly ever so jejune and essentially a little petrified by the devastating power he now musically wields. Although I feel somewhat hesitant to delve down blasphemous pitfall, well, Hadreas merits this sort of gay literary abandon: if Jesus died for the sins of men then he this evening went some way to justifying said great carnal sacrifice.

Festival Frolics: The Great Escape 2012.

noreply@blogger.com (Dots&Dashes) — Mon, 14 May 2012 09:52:00 +0000

The South Coast's equivalent to SXSW, queues aside, last weekend's The Great Escape down beside the seaside was as jubilant as any Jubilee hyperbole. What of those snaking lines? Well, that for Claire Boucher may most probably have been spotted somewhere off the coast of Normandy whilst that for Friends was washed a little more literally out to sea as they played the decadently delightful Horatio's Bar atop Brighton Pier. Here's who we saw and what we thunk in fortunately concise format...

Thursday
I Ching
Lovably gawky, the Finsbury Park pairing fall a little heftily on the old ears down in the grubby doldrums of Sticky Mike's Frog Bar. Hot & heady however on Suuns-indebted should-be-smash It's Me.

La Femme
Surfing against the tide toward a futuro-splattered pseudo-reality, La Femme continue to cleanse with their Para One-backwashed-in-time schtick. Here at least geographically well beyond "la plage" and "le sable", reduced to 'Femme singulière and with a hapless racaille at the back thwacking things inessentially this is far from their finest configuration.

Peace
Please don't give this kinda Peace a chance, nor even a second thought.

Friends
The foxy ladies (it's the ears) and bedraggled blokes of Brooklyn inspire moves dodgier than the jolt of the ubiquitous claw cranes that line the pier with their grubby funk hybrids. Inconceivably better than they may be on Manifest!, the debut that'll indubitably disappoint you.

Cloud Nothings
With a clamouring throng spewing out onto the nippy streets like chish 'n' fips hocked up after a round on an ill-advisedly ludicrous seafront ride, Cloud Nothings were tonight elevated up to another all-new altitude.

Friday
My Best Fiend
Laddier than an insurmountable ladder of Carling cans, M here seems to stand more appositely pour Manchester than Montréal. Ultimately, a Wonderbore.

Half Moon Run
A bizarre and utterly bemusing half-hour, Half Moon Run come across as Maroon 5 snarled through the sweat-drizzled locks of Simon Neil one moment; then like reconstituted Foals diced up over yonder, beyond la Manche; then like Two Door Cinema Club tinged with the symphonic splendour of something Bachian. As disquieting as an unforeseen lunar eclipse.

Grimes
The genderless hype-monger all eyes – or at least lenses – tonight converge upon panders to the ocular spectacular as zombified, completely anti-choreographed backing dancers distract from her lamentably sludgy womp. Ears meanwhile are veritably bludgeoned by thumps of bass clangerous enough to bulldoze down the house that David Guetta built: Visions' every intricacy shaken loose like crumbled brick, the impression of what could and should've been the set of the weekend is shattered by this reality constructed around recalcitrant gear and precarious reconstructions of the likes of Be A Body, Genesis and Oblivion.

Daley
Like a Boy lost in time having never made it II his fellow Men, he of Manchester and miraculous hairdo seems to have the right 'Voice'; it's perhaps purely caught in the wrong mouth.

Lianne La Havas
Equivalent to a credible Corinne Bailey-Rae or a contemporary songbird of Eva Cassidy's ilk penning paeans to older men, however she may be branded she's irrefutably impeccable whilst backed by nothing more than her weathered electroacoustic. Personable? Certainly, although personally her irksomely mawkish badinage reeks all too much of cretinous CBBC presenter.

Saturday
Jethro Fox
Tonight's first show in the resplendent St Mary's Church is entirely usurped by the morally dubious airing of Poker Face and Pass Out prior to. Eloquent, if infuriating Scouser Jethro Fox then does little to differentiate himself beyond the monotony of interminable evensong, or indeed silence itself.

Karima Francis
Remember Alanis Morisette? No? Well, there ain't owt to intimate any remembrance of excruciatingly reticent Blackpool singer-snoozewriter Karima Francis either. Her attitude may be suitably deferential in these sublime environs although her sensational eyebrows look as though they may shoulder more artistic weight than anything here accomplished.

Loney, Dear
Whether cycling down the aisle or stuffing as much humble, fleecy warmth into thirty minutes as possible Emil Svanängen's is like a drawer filled to overflow with your most favouritest sweaters. Unmistakably homely, his tones are gloriously human despite the inextricable pedalboard processing involved whilst he extracts innumerable effects – both emotive and aural – outta just twelve strings. He then turns choirmaster to lead we, his initially apprehensive disciples through a quietly overwhelming Young Hearts before we together cobble a celestial surround sound to the lonesome majesty of Largo. Genuinely exciting and periodically ingenious, it's surely for this sort of thing that we're all here congregated in the first instance...

Perfume Genius
Blissful, blissful rapture. Still teary of eye and bereft of speech, Michael Hadreas' St Marys Church showing was not only the weekend's saving grace but something to savour for ever and ever; Amen.

On the Horizon: Pallid kinda Perfection, White Blush.

noreply@blogger.com (Dots&Dashes) — Fri, 11 May 2012 11:08:00 +0000

Carol Rhyu is endowed with one of those spine-tickling voices that truly astounds from the off; one that's more than capable of commanding helpless admiration the moment it gushes down attentive lugholes. Irrevocably redolent of the previously peerless Yuki Chikudate Without You, Rhyu's debut single under the guise of White Blush (a moniker she shares with producer John Ho, a man to have twiddled knobs for anyone and everyone from Boyz II Men to Korean "heartthrobs" SHINee), is a subtle masterpiece imbued with a zen-like serenity and a life-affirming, hope-restoring majesty. Lucid yet loose, although Rhyu may view 'commitment as a means to an end' rest assured we'll be sticking with this lot...

<a href="http://whiteblush.bandcamp.com/track/without-you">without you by white blush</a>

White Blush's Soundcloud.

On the Horizon: The Way to Poledo.

noreply@blogger.com (Dots&Dashes) — Thu, 10 May 2012 11:43:00 +0000

Poledo doesn't particularly sound like the work of an artist from anywhere just off the M4 although Andrew W.K. doesn't sound like the kinda guy to shift a shit-ton of records either. This lo-fi loveliness courtesy of Evan Clements is unlike the sanguine musical outpour of W.K. in almost every sense although Death Of A Friend (At The Hands Of Evil Robots) is the sort of jam you'd want to have smeared all over you at any and indeed every party frequented over the remaining course of this swiftly evaporating annum. Recorded in the cleverest of stereo, its nonchalant guitars swoop from one ear to t'other in accordance with the lackadaisical sway of the song. Don headphones and indulge therefore.

Poledo's Bandcamp.