It’s here that we catch the opening act of Friday’s line up in the shape of hard rockers Helhorse. Dedicating their set to recently-deceased Slayer guitarist Jeff Hanneman, this sextet waste no time kicking out the jams and blowing the ears off us. Blistering guitar solos and pounding drums pulverise us over the next half an hour, and by 4pm we are left in no doubt that this festival was not just going to be another synth-pop affair. Great stuff altogether.

After a bit of wandering around we take our place to the right of the main stage for Maria Apetri, better known as Fallulah. Taking to the stage with her band and sporting a rather fetching black and red floral dress she delivers a foot stomping version of ‘Dried-Out Cities’ from her latest album, Escapism, which peaked at number two in the Danish album charts. To say she’s got the dance moves down is the understatement of the year, and it comes as no big surprise to find out that she started her career as a dancer at a young age. The Duracell bunny comes to mind with her boundless energy and she really has got fine songs such as ‘Deserted Homes’ and ‘Superfishyality’ to back it all up. Her set is brilliant from start to finish and Irish promoters out there need to take note and sign her up for a show or festival over here, as this lady is set for much bigger things. One of the highlights of the entire weekend without a shadow of a doubt.

Time then for a stroll over to the Voxhall venue to catch Icelandic act Bloodgroup. Well, technically they are three quarters Icelandic as gadget man and all-round musical genius, Janus Rasmussen is Faroese. Keytars and kaos pads are the order of the day here as female vocalist Sunna Margrét Þórisdóttir, dressed all in black, as are the rest of the band, trades vocal duties with Rasmussen to deliver a brilliant set of hook-driven electronic pop. Magnificent.

With nothing in our schedule for the next hour or so we take a chance and wander into the large concert hall in the Musikhuset complex and take our seats just in time to see a gentleman by the name of Søren Huss stroll out in front of a full orchestra. Now, we had never heard of this man, but even before there was a note sung, we could tell from the crowd’s reaction that he was very well respected in Denmark. And rightly so. His album Oppefra og Ned charted straight in at number one in the Danish charts when it was released last October. We only get three songs here, but they are three magnificent songs, the last of which, ‘Tak For Dansen’, makes the hairs stand up on the backs of our necks. Sublime.

It’s back to the main stage area then for Lulu Rouge, an act whose members man the electronics while a cast of guest vocalists take their turn contributing to the house driven bass heavy groove. It reminds us of Icelandic group GusGus in places which is always a good thing. It’s a nice set which gets the whole crowd dancing and ready for the next act.

She’s the lady on everyone’s lips at the moment, and her name is most definitely not pronounced like a character in EastEnders. She’ll be making her Irish festival debut at Longitude in Marlay Park this summer, so we squeeze up the front to get a good look at Karen Marie Ørsted, better known as MØ. We are treated to the tropical pop magic of ‘Pilgrim’ and the brilliant ‘Glass’ with its cascading glacial synth line. It’s a good call getting her over to Ireland for a festival. Great stuff.

Four-piece electro-pop outfit When Saints Go Machine bring the nights proceedings to a close on the main stage to a packed crowd, showcasing songs off their new album, Infinity Pool. Having been up the very front for MØ we decide a spot at the back is the best option this time and are able to catch the full light-show complete with lasers. With the last chords still ringing, we steal away into the Danish night back to our hotel to rest up for another day’s festivities.

It’s gloriously sunny the next day and after a spot of brunch down by the canal we find ourselves back in the Musikhuset to catch Marie Key. We’re not the only ones with this idea as the concert hall is packed to the rafters at 2pm. It’s only with the help of the ushers that we manage to grab a seat. There’s plenty of on stage banter and laughter from the audience here, but as it’s all in Danish we just smile and pretend we know what’s going on. We get a nice half-hour of catchy pop tunes, however, and that’ll do us grand.

Our Vitamin D levels get a brief boost then, as we sit out on the grass taking in the sun and having a coffee before we plunge down into the dark depths of the venue known as headquarters to see the Wands. The windows in here are taped up with black plastic and it’s fairly hot and stuffy with the place full to bursting point. There’s a chap off to one side with an interesting looking overhead projector that throws up all sorts of psychedelic visuals as the four members of this Danish neo-psych combo take to the stage. Wearing flowery shirts, sporting long hair and with a twelve string electric guitar for good measure they let rip with ‘Hello I Know the Blow You Grow Is Magic’ from their EP of the same name. Cymbals are smashed, bass strings are plucked and the rack of pedals are pushed to the limit as we are treated to a brilliant set that could easily be taking place in 1963, never mind 2013. These lads have a great on-stage dynamic going on, and we have to say that we are totally blown away by how good they are. The highlight of the entire festival in our book. Give us some of that blow any day, baby.

We leave the venue briefly then to get something to eat and end up chatting to some people we know, and by the time we get back to see Mechanical Bird, the place is completely chock a block. Managing to score a seat near the back, but with no view whatsoever of the stage this folk collective, lead by Jakob Brixen, break out the banjos and harmonicas to deliver a blistering set reminiscent of Woven Hand at their finest.

Deciding then that our ears haven’t had a good blasting in at least an hour, it’s over to catch Norwegian band Deathcrush to remedy that particular problem. Named after an EP by black metal band and fellow Norwegians Mayhem, this trio sound more like Sonic Youth after a heavy weekend. The blonde-haired guitarist also has a penchant for wandering into the crowd while still playing and it’s funny to see big, burly, tattooed guys back away from this slight girl as she swings her axe wildly, all the time laying down ear-splitting riffs. This is punk rock at its finest, and as guitars are flung to the ground as their set ends and feedback howls through the venue, we decide our ears got the work out they were looking for. To paraphrase Shakin’ Stevens – lovely stuff.

Then it’s the worst named band we’ve ever had the pleasure of reviewing. Ladies and gentlemen we give you Complicated Universal Cum. Thoughts about their name are soon relegated to the backs of our minds, however, as a sonic sledgehammer hits us square in the face with the sheer power of this nine-piece outfit. Nine piece? Yes, you heard us right. Four guitarists, two drummers, two bassists and a guy on a MicroKorg is what we’re dealing with here, and, by God, it’s louder than Hell. One drummer starts while another wades in a minute later, with layer upon layer of window-breaking guitars crashing in like a tsunami of post-rock apocalypse. One ten minute jam is followed by another as the eardrums are blasted off every single person in the venue. Absolutely fantastic.

Two days in Aarhus then and it’s clear that there is a wealth of musical talent in this Nordic nation. We reckon there’s another Viking invasion on the cards. Bring it on, we say, bring it on.

The Big Reunion tour is all about putting real life on pause. They failed to become ever-lasting gold encrusted pop icons just as we possibly failed to grow up to become whatever we wrote down in a Sugar personality quiz. This is life in aspic, a night were the audience lets B*Witched think they were hard done by and Duncan from Blue still think he’s a Calvin Klein model and they in turn let the audience rewind to a time where there were no frightening bills, no boring desk jobs, no expanding waistlines only the fizzy fun of dance routines, kissing posters and all those endless three minute pop explosions.

So for one night only the 02 is a den of denial, where it’s perfectly acceptable to scream at a 40 year old man writhing around with his top over his head and to indulge in pantomime banter so cheesy it could have been removed from a hobo’s foreskin and there are none more cheesy than our own dancing bobble-heads B*Witched. The hydra-headed beast of denim bound onstage at the staggeringly early time of 8.30 meaning no-one has drunk a sufficient amount to be able to ‘enjoy’ their certain brand of cruise-ship pop. In the dimming evening light ‘C’est La Vie’ sets a worrying tone, yes everyone screamed and cheered at show openers 5ive like it was 1999 but they swaggered around the stage like the moody bad boys we remembered but this time they were casting wry smiles clearly in on the joke, unlike the grindingly perky intro of their biggest hit and the pushy-mother stance of Edele Lynch who is desperately trying to have a Beyonce moment in a song that is reminiscent of the Tellytubbies theme tune. It has the opposite effect of what this night is about, instead of remembering a quicksilver forgotten moment of brilliance it makes you want to leave the past far behind and adding in the obligatory shouts of ‘Ah Heyor ! Leave it Out!’ only makes their performance that bit more cringeworthy. As they exit the stage Tricolour grasped in the Lynch twins palms like bronze winning gymnasts , it is time for a mass exodus to the bar for some medicinal drinks as poor 911 take the stage.

911, the back-flipping Chuckle Brothers and Lee the baby-faced singer, try their best to engage the crowd pulling out the Coldplay trick of requesting that everyone light up the room using their phones but when their first song is actually a medley of two cover versions and the crowd still don’t recognise them they shuffle off despondently with Jimmy mumbling something about Guinness and the threat of bringing out a new album. It looks like the promise of the Big Reunion live has amounted to an even more depressing version of those radio road shows from a windswept car park in Eastbourne. Thankfully the Honeyz remind us why dredging up the past is a good idea. With their insane inter-band scrapping and ever revolving members they were like the proto-type Sugababes and just like their scowly counterparts they had the giant tunes to go with it. ‘Finally Found’ prompts the first bout of mass bellowing and by the time they whip on their trademark blue coats for the swingbeat perfection ‘End Of The Line’ a blast of intoxicating nostalgia fills the air like the overpowering scent of Impulse on a summer night.

This is nothing compared to the arrival of Kerry Katona on the stage. With a montage of her best blubbing bits from the TV show preceding her arrival (including the classic I-was-going-to-be-dead-before-I-was-30) she gets the biggest reaction of the night. The crowd might have had Scott’s face plastered all over their school homework notebooks and Lee Ryan’s gimpy grimace on their walls but Kerry is something else. She is that nice friend you once had who went off the rails, that girl you went to school with that you never see anymore. Her breakdown was Britney-like in its levels of insanity but somehow more relatable in its commonplace sadness and therefore all the more poignant. As she joins up with Atomic Kitten colleagues Tash and Liz stumbling her way through the old dance routines with a massive smile on her face maybe all Kerry needed was an actual job rather than another reality show but before anyone gets too emotional it’s time for Liberty X to remind us all of Richard X’s cold steel production brilliance on ‘Being Nobody’ injecting some shimmering class to the evening that Blue manage to bulldoze their way through like an overcooked Christmas turkey.

Blue are the add on band no-one asked for but apparently everyone is pleased to see as the screaming for raisin-eyed Lee Ryan goes to almost Mark Owen-like levels of ear ringing. As the nonchalantly lean their way through the comical law infused lyrics of All Rise in their tracksuit bottoms and harem pants Blue feel too familiar to be here. There is no fuzzy-feeling of rebirth or remembrance this is a hollow, nasty bout of hijacking to promote their own greatest hits tour and new album.

It’s with this empty feeling that the show grinds to a halt for a ludicrous 30 minute interval (probably to get the Liberty X ladies into their catsuits) before everyone returns to supposedly bring out the heavy hitters, but with the Honeyz having dispersed with their greatest of hits at the beginning they only have the booming ‘Won’t Take It Lying Down’ left in their arsenal to offer before piddling away into insignificance on the forgettable ‘Never Let You Down’. The ballad heavy second half gives more toilet time with the likes of 911 and Blue ploughing through their yawnsome slow set faves and a truly disturbing version of ‘Body Shakin’’ it’s not until Liberty X and their peerless, Hearsay crushing ‘Just A Little’ and the re-emergence of 5ive that things start to get Top of the Pops thrilling again.

‘Keep On Movin’’ is an explosion of optimism, it is the bright Saturday morning, Smash Hits sticker swapping, ice-cream eating slice of fun that pop at its most joyous can bring. It is songs and moments like this that make The Big Reunion seems justified. As Abz throws his trucker hat into the squealing crowd and exits the stage there is a collective feeling of goodwill injected in the air that continues through to the grand finale of ‘Whole Again’ it is only fitting that The Big Reunion tour ends with the Atomic Kitten girls clutching each other and swaying on stage as this is a night not just about testosterone and beefcakes, it’s not a night to re-launch careers, it’s a night about nostalgia, about friendships forged and lost to be reunited, those faces may have changed but the songs remain the same.

Cork’s Young Wonder take the congregation immediately away from an acoustic church sound and you don’t even blink because Ian’s warm electronics suit the room perfectly. The choir make their first appearance of the evening, adding a beautiful weight to ‘To You’and ‘In Time’ and it seems as though this crazy idea just might work. Heathers, who admit to being nervous playing such hallowed halls, benefit so much from the silent and rapt audience. The siblings’ harmonies are beautiful in the room but when the choir join for ‘Forget Me Knots’ they raise the roof, set spines tingling and even the sisters seem in awe of what is happening to their own song.

Lastly, Ham Sandwich provide the full band set up of the evening. Niamh is even more magnetic than ever, framed centre of the nave. Podge is the usual loose cannon, more so given the sober nature of the surroundings, but once they are inside a song they’re a serious force. They already have a large and wide sound with added brass and strings, but the special arrangements for ’Models’ and a stirring ’The Naturist’ open the whole night up to become a mini-spectacular.

To close the UCD Choral Scholars line the aisle and, led by soloist Mark Waters, fill the cathedral with a version of ’The Parting Glass’ that could split the heart. The evening’s producer Annette Udell bids the congregation adieu, and ushers State to the pub to blow out our five candles.

Huge thanks go to all the bands; Des Early and the UCD Choral Scholars; Mark, Orlaith and Nuala at Christ Church; Tom, JC, Dave, David, Darren and Ross; all the DIT crew who helped on the night and Alison Curtis for her MC role.

Photos by Paulo Gonçalves.

It’s a smart beginning, the refrain of “I want to dance” accordingly met by the majority, not least backing band the Sleeping Souls, who, clad in white shirts like accountants on their night off, throw themselves about like they’re in a Dillinger Escape Plan tribute act. Note to the bassist: that one move where you act confused by your own instrument? Yeah, drop that.

There are bigger issues than dodgy shape-throwing, though. The Sleeping Souls bring verve, energy and admirable skill, but they also add a large amount of gloss and polish to an artist that works better without it. Million Dead is long in the grave and those who keep wishing for a return to such a style continue to miss the point in a most depressing way, but Turner is a man of conviction and raw confession, his musings more suited to a battered acoustic guitar and lone spotlight.

Alas, he’s not the maudlin type and though his songs are laced with barbs aimed outwards and inwards, Turner understands the release offered by live music and the community it can form for an hour or two. Tape Deck Heart, his biggest hit to date, features heavily. It stands as validation for all the years of graft, the sleepless nights, the weird accusations of “selling out”, the political bullshit, the kicking and screaming. And yet, despite the hero worship from those gathered, these new cuts barely graze, the bright lights of the evening sometimes exposing too much. ‘The Way I Tend to Be’ is nice but extremely basic, not terribly far away from the safety of a Mumford & Sons set. ‘Plain Sailing Weather’ comes with a typically self-deprecating precursor about having it all but “fucking it up anyway” and, again is just there. ‘Tell Tale Signs’ sees Turner mostly fly solo. Stripped down and earnest, the presentation is pretty, but it’s hard not to see a 31-year-old man awkwardly take on the mantle of his much younger self.

This is Turner’s third time in Dublin in the past six months. It’s show #1394, as we’re informed prior to a spirited rendition of ‘Peggy Sang the Blues’. It’s a strange time for him. He’s unlikely to sell out a stadium, but he wasn’t exactly out of place at the Olympics. He’s hardcore at heart but clearly applying more accessibility to his work. ‘Glory Hallelujah’ and its atheist shout-out works largely because of the die-hards, as does so much on display here. It’s tough to know whether Turner can marry his past and his present in the future, but tonight isn’t about that.

“I’ve had a really shit day today, and you guys have reminded me not to bury myself in my troubles”, he announces before ‘I Knew Prufrock Before He Got Famous’ glides over all, no time to really consider that burying himself in his troubles is the Frank Turner Way and that he’ll do this all again tomorrow and the next day and the day that follows that. It’s a knowing line that tells you everything you need to know about Frank Turner, if you’re willing to listen. The song holds secrets too; the bittersweet sting in the tail delivered with the right amount of resignation, the broad smile across the face of the man behind it more curious than ever before.

Main image by Paulo Goncalves. More images from Frank Turner’s gig at the Academy can be found here.

Yet there is a sense that something isn’t quite right for this, their fifth Irish return (Cork and Belfast have also been on the agenda). After struggling in their less than natural environment of Oxegen, their last visit to the Olympia felt like a genuine event, a last chance to see them in the flesh. Two and a half years later, they’re still here. Or most of them at any rate. Following Jerry Dammers’ decision not to join the party, they’re now another man down after Neville Staple’s departure due to ill health. While the keyboard player and founding member was replaced fairly easily with a virtual doppelganger, the vocalist’s shoes are harder to fill. In truth, they miss his presence greatly – not only in terms of his exuberant live persona but also his musical contribution. Only when it’s gone, do you realise how important his toasting and Jamaican vocals were to the band’s overall sound. Thus there’s a feeling of imbalance tonight, despite Lynval Goulding’s best efforts on both fronts.

That’s not to say that this isn’t an awful lot of fun. How could it not be when you’re watching the Olympia lose its collective nut to ‘Gangsters’ and ‘Monkey Man’? Or secretly yearning for an age when pop bands could write songs as politically pointed as ‘Rat Race’ and ‘Doesn’t Make It Alright’? ‘Ghost Town’ is still one of the most messed up records ever to top the charts and sounds huge tonight, quickly followed by the unadulterated joy of ‘A Message To You, Rudy’. It’s certainly not, however, the dawning of any sort of new era. Unsurprisingly given their limited catalogue, this is essentially the same show as last time – the hits peppered with album tracks – and while there was a context around that 30th Anniversary trip, this is starting to feel as if we’re all going through the motions. Like Pixies and Blur before them, what was suggested as a one-off return has run and run and you hope that the magic doesn’t start to wear off. These reservations aside, there is a joy in watching musicians with this much history still enjoying their craft. Perhaps that’s why they’re still doing the rounds, unwilling to let go for the final time, but sometimes if you love something you have to set it free.

One of the most press-maligned pop stars of the past thirty years has got to be Adam Ant, his battle with Bipolar disorder, sporadic hospitalisations and court cases involving temper issues documented to high heaven in the media. It’s a tarring he can’t really escape, gig announcements always plagued by doubts about his attendance at said gig, the fact that his most recent album, Adam Ant Is the Blueblack Hussar in Marrying the Gunner’s Daughter, took seventeen years to appear adding to the scepticism.

So there’s a mixed crowd at tonight’s Custom House Square show. People who remember Adam from his early 80s heyday mingle with people who probably weren’t born until the 90s in full Ant regalia, smatterings of Steampunk scattered across the crowd with the infamous white stripe dominant within all age groups. There’s a fair share of naysayers here too though, people who bought a ticket for sheer curiosity, wondering if Ant will “do something mental”.

There might be mentalness here, but it’s all the right kind. Not a hint of unprofessionalism escapes in the just-shy-of-two-hours set. Instead, the only thing that oozes from the stage is coolness. Kicking off with ‘Marrying the Gunner’s Daughter’ and moving swiftly into ‘Dog Eat Dog’ with a segue into ‘Feed Me to the Lions’, the punks hearing exactly what they need to get them fired up, the dangerous edge carried off swaggeringly by Ant in feathered pirate hat, military-style brocade waistcoat over frilly white shirt and one inexplicable red glove. It’s an electric combination.

The clothes aren’t let down by his attitude either: his wide-eyed stare punctuated by the odd quirky leap which the audience respond to in kind, long-forgotten chants. Hand gestures that have gathered cobwebs from disuse soon begin, rusty at first, and then gaining momentum as a lusty sing-along begins during ‘Whip in My Valise’.
It’s all pop, of course, but curiously cross-bred with punk, 50s rock and roll and the earliest of early Britpop – the “la la”s of ‘Never Trust a Man (with Egg on His Face)’ sounds not unlike anything Blur produced in their cheeky-chappie days. The recent songs aren’t so different from the old although they’re missing a certain nonsense, a chantable refrain and the power behind them to keep such a chant going.

This is not Ant’s heyday, however, and some things fall a little flat. A well-versed audience know there are going to be two encores and start to leave after ‘Goody Two Shoes’ and ‘Prince Charming’ are played in the body of the set, at a loss to guess what will be played in encore number one, never mind the second. It’s not a sedate set by any means but perhaps not as frenzied as we were expecting. There’ll be no swinging from the chandeliers here and an attempted ‘Hey Jude’-athon of a sing-along to ‘Prince Charming falls rather flat, the crowd clearly delighted but seemingly unable to express their delight in song. PVC-clad backing singer Georgie Girl keeps it going longer than it should, with heavy-lidded abandon accompanying the famous Diana Dors dance moves.

A comeback, then, that doesn’t fall flat on its face like so many can. An audience walks away with their younger memories intact, those who have no memories of Ant come face to face with a genuine icon, one who has managed to maintain humour, charisma and a dandy dress sense. And the naysayers? Well, as Ant has been singing for years, ‘Ridicule is nothing to be scared of’.

Given that they only have the one album in the bag, Alt-J were never going to be able to produce a set of Springsteen-esque length, so to offer the concert-going public some bang for their buck they provided not one but two support acts. First out of the blocks, and as the crowd trickle in, are Hundred Waters. It is the first overseas show for this quartet and, unlike our local black stuff, this Florida-based outfit travel well. Indie-pop/electro sensibilities with male and female vocals and a bit of the auld flute thrown in on top make for an accomplished and engaging set. Their closing number has an outro which was a good old crash-bang-wallop-wig-out of an affair on the keys, drums vocals and flute. Good stuff from these guys and definitely an act we should expect to hear more about in the foreseeable future.

Next up, and coming to us all the way from New Zealand is electro-pop singer-songwriter Princess Chelsea and her backing band. This antipodean four-piece play an interesting enough brand of synthpop. They are at their most interesting when rocking the glocks and keys (glockenspiels that is, they hadn’t gone all gangsta on our asses) and when they leave the stage they are sent off with a warm appreciative cheer from the steadily growing masses.

The humpers and shifters take to the boards to remove the remnants of the support acts’ tools and what’s left is a very sparse stage, not even a backdrop is hung to detract from the main focus of the evening, the music. A now heaving Olympia greets the returning heroes with a deafening roar, they begin with ‘Intro’ (what else) and then proceed to work though the guts of their debut with gusto. ‘Tessellate’ and ‘Something Good’ are dispatched early on. The Friday night crowd are in the mood for a party and are given the soundtrack to do it to. By the time ‘Matilda’ arrives, the Olympians are in full voice and deliver a pitch-perfect performance of the track leaving Joe Newman pretty much redundant. He doesn’t seem to mind though. The first main section of the night is rounded off by a stomping rendition of ‘Breezeblocks’ and the band return for the encore as a two-piece to deliver ‘Hand-Made’ before the rest of them join to segue into a beautiful rendition of ‘Taro’.

Overall, though, the show consists of too many facsimiles of what is on the album. It’s almost a year since An Awesome Wave hit the shops and, having clocked up many miles on the road since its release, it would be a fair assume that the songs would loosen ad flex over the intervening period yet it isn’t until they play ‘Breezeblocks’ that things get musically interesting. All in all a damn good show but was it a great one? Was it an awesome wave? They were riding the crest of a wave alright, a breaking wave but it wasn’t the tidal giant that it should have been. It’s a fine evening out and if a lesser group had delivered this performance it would have been a great gig but an act of Alt-J’s musical ability and vision are capable of producing a more inventive performance. Bands of this calibre need to be challenged and to be challenging. We and they both deserve it.

Photo: Debbie Hickey

Arriving onstage at Dublin’s Vicar Street to a technical fault, his band play an expanded-intro version of ‘You Don’t Have To’ as the roadies go to work. Grant himself takes the time to stretch and flirt with the crowd. Apart from some giggles and a few wolf-whistles there isn’t a peep from the wide-eyed and expectant audience because when Grant finally opens his mouth to sing you get the sense that you are in the presence of greatness. More than a sense, you know it. Arguably John Grant possesses one of the most distinctive, powerful and peerless voices in contemporary music. And it is his voice that presents the next of his many contradictions. Unmistakably masculine and sounding something like chainsaw made by Steinway & Sons, yet delivering pithy, shallow and bitchy lyrics as quickly as he lays his deepest secrets out in front of him.

The set, which is predominantly taken from Pale Green Ghosts, Grant’s second and latest solo album, is a strange mix of electronica and balladry. Synth-heavy and pulsating as Grant sings about yearning, love and revenge and is backed by a nearly all-Icelandic backing band, who do not put a foot wrong as they move through ‘Vietnam’, ‘Blackbelt’ and ‘It Doesn’t Matter to Him’. The arrival of another head on stage surprises absolutely nobody in the crowd, despite Grant’s attempts to pretend Sinead O’Connor’s presence is a curveball. O’Connor reprises her role as backing vocalist on ‘Why Don’t You Love Me’ having covered ‘Queen of Denmark’ on last years How About I Be Me (and You Be You), and the pair have obviously struck up a solid enough friendship. The song is an emotional watershed over the course of the night as both Grant and O’Connor have both been through the wringer over their careers. Grant has famously battled through addiction, the break-up of his band, the death of a parent and recently announced that he was HIV positive. O’Connor herself having been subject to some harsh and unfair scrutiny whilst going through some tough times herself. The pair not only sound incredible together, Grant’s low, thundering timbre providing the perfect base for O’Connor’s high, shrill attack-heavy delivery, they both genuinely seem to be providing support for each other on-stage and hug, waltz and hotld each other during an emotionally charged and quite lengthy standing ovation.

O’Connor stays in-situ for a handful of tunes before Grant takes centre stage for ‘Sensitive New Age Guy’, ‘Caramel’ and ‘I Hate This Town’. Returning for ‘GMF’ and ‘Queen of Denmark’, O’Connor sounds in fine form and it would be a shame if the pair do not consider future collaborations. But the highlight of the night comes during the encore when Grant underpins exactly what makes him such an exceptional talent. ‘Where Dreams Go to Die’ and ‘TC & Honeybear’ are manifest perfection at the end of a sublime performance. Whoever this TC turns out to be, we may never know, but it really is unfortunate that they have brought out such hot-blooded personal missives. But for fans of Grant, and as long as TC plays the muse, the results are every bit as important as John Grant’s voice so he/she/they may just take it on the chin.

Soulful, rich and captivating from start to finish, the music is probably the first thing you would expect to be sacrificed in favour of histrionics. But that is not the case, each little chat between Rowland, Morgan and Williams (at one point dressed as a police constable) is there to drive home the musical sentiment. And for anybody familiar with One Day I’m Going to Soar – the theme of the album is falling in and out of love – what better way to depict that than acting it out on stage? The music, the performance, the understated stage design all in perfect harmony. Not even some ridiculously early calls for ‘Geno’ or ‘Come on Eileen’ from one or two in the crowd disrupted the band’s flow save for some barely masked daggers from Rowland’s eyes.

The set, which was fairly heavy with tracks from the band’s first release in over 25 years, played its part too. ‘Incapable of Love’, ‘She’s Got a Wiggle’, ‘You’ and ‘Nowhere Is Home’ feature fairly early and receive a standing ovation less than thirty minutes into the show. Calls of “Welcome home, Kevin” clearly resonating with the man who sings “take your Irish stereotype and shove it up your ass”. He is, in essence, Irish, but like everything else Kevin Rowland does, it is pretty much on his terms and played out as he wants it. “Thank you very much for this” he says as the crowd show no signs of sitting back down, “this means a lot to us, and to me, especially here”.

‘Don’t Stand Me Down’ receives one of the biggest cheers of the evening, as does ‘Geno’ when it is eventually wheeled out, but it is unfair to suggest that there was much of an “I’m only here for the hits” element in the crowd. And clearly the band are aware of this as they are indulged in their chats and theatrics. Watching Rowland on his hands and knees screaming “I’m burning! I’m Burning, Brenna” during ‘Plan B’ should probably have been emotional. But his little shuffles and shimmies around the stage keep things purely light-hearted before the reflective ‘It’s OK, John Joe’ turns on its heels into the comically uproariously refrain of ‘Free’. As long as the Dexys bandwagon keeps rolling along, we may all pray that Kevin Rowland never changes.

After the break-up of Passenger, the band that Mike Rosenberg founded, in 2007, Rosenberg opted to keep the name deciding to go the solo route with just his voice and his guitar for company. Sold out shows and the success of his album All the Little Lights now clear indicators that his new path was the right one.

He has the gift of the gab when it comes to idle busker banter, lots of interaction and unusual heckling from the love-fuelled crowd. Girls shouting “I love you” literally any time there is a lull. The bashful Rosenberg doesn’t quite know how to react to these declarations, so he just goes back to what he does best, playing his songs, like breakthrough hit ‘Let Her Go,’ and pleasing the packed-out Vicar Street.

He owns the stage, just himself coupled with some simple lanterns on stage, and nothing to distract from his gorgeously smooth voice. Some aspects to his folk and guitar playing style echoe Ben Howard’s soulful and sincere song-writing. He sings a new track called ‘Whispers,’ which silences the crowd (who keep the room illuminated and documented with smartphones ). He also pleases with renditions of ‘I Knew You Were Trouble’ and Haddaway’s ‘What is Love’.

As a musical grafter his songs are full of hardship and heartbreak – ten years of bands and break-ups, have left him humbled. He admits himself he never thought when he was writing depressing songs in Australia that he’d be hearing a packed venue singing them back. Rosenberg’s hard work is the catalyst of this success, the tour helping him to garner the deserved attention of the masses, and he’s earned himself a huge following. Songs like ‘27’ showcase the efforts of his journey.

He ends the show with an awkward track he and Ed Sheeran dueted on. It is sullen and underwhelming butnfollowed by a no-holds-barred rendition of ‘Holes,’ which gets the entire crowd joined stomping and clapping. The show finishes at a reasonable hour, mostly likely because the majority of the crowd has school tomorrow.

Death Grips cancelled last year’s tour and to come back without a drummer is perhaps a little brazen. One can’t help but ponder how incredible the whole night could be with Zach Hill driving the beats; if it wasn’t just the producer triggering samples from a beat up drum machine, in the corner of the stage. On a positive note, tracks like ‘I’ve Seen Footage’, ‘Get Got’ and ‘The Fever (Aye Aye)’, all from The Money Store, send fans into a tizzy of delight. Not many artists could invoke such a reaction on an otherwise uneventful Monday night. The controversial new album No Love Deep Web which saw them lose their contract with Epic is also familiar and much loved territory and warmly received.

All in all, the content is brilliant but the delivery is off and it’s desperately missing something. A drum machine is no substitute for Hill’s rhythmic genius, and the beats are far too low in the mix, somewhat drowned out by the hum of the crowd. They’re only kidding themselves if they think they’re getting away with it as a replacement. The rhythm section behind Death Grips is something that’s meant to be heard live and not as a sample and it’s hard not to let go of the disappointment of Hill’s absence. Sure there’s an impressive vocal delivery, but few could compensate for the absence of such a figurehead.

Yes, they’ve had a rough time with this album; sure, they’ve taken a while to get here, but that’s all the more reason to give it everything. No doubt, there are a slew of talented drummers out there that would gladly fill Zach Hill’s shoes, not to mention some of the Irish drummers out there that could easily do so. Recruiting a drum machine in his stead is a poor, and somewhat unforgivable, move and leaves us with a huge letdown.

The Dublin-based producer is a towering figure with hair to match the deep crimson of the curtain behind him; he spends the his set hunched over his samplers. He takes a few tracks to coax an audible reception from a still-growing audience who really do their best to ignore him and catch up with their friends. Eventually, the cavernous bombast and multi-layered rhythms of his productions manage to capture the crowd’s attention and he’s rewarded with a warm round of applause at the end. Nothing less than deserved but still at odds with what is to come.

Wolfe strides into view, wearing an ankle-length black skirt and a long-sleeved white top. She’s markedly slender and her face is largely covered by a mop of raven hair. With no drummer, she’s only accompanied by a violinist and a keyboardist/bassist. A small band will suffice for now as the set’s opening half takes solely from Wolfe’s 2012 album Unknown Rooms, a collection of acoustic songs that constitutes her most refined and affecting work to date.

The opening strains of ‘Appalachia’ usher the set into life and slowly gather momentum. At this point, everyone has found their spot to sit or stand and ended their conversations. Attention needs to be paid when a performer is so willfully quiet, but such reticence only focuses the audience’s attention. ‘Spinning Centers’ [sic] is the sound of the big bad wolf beckoning naive children deeper and deeper into the forest, which is appropriate, as Wolfe and her two backing musicians have that same creeping magnetism and eerie charisma.

It’s hypnotic at times, and the wonderful one-two punch of ‘Flatlands’ and ‘Boyfriend’ is truly flooring. The former is very simple in construction but undeniably effective in execution and builds with gloomy inevitability towards its spine-tingling chorus. You wonder why songs like ‘Flatlands’ haven’t been around forever; they just seem so obviously great that it seems stupid that nobody wrote them sooner. ‘Boyfriend’ does a great job of following-up, however, and never once lets go of a captivated audience, but shakes loose of acoustic limitations with a boggy, plodding keyboard line at its end. With that and a brief, violin-led interlude, Wolfe and co. exit.

A full band returns without that bewitching violinist, unfortunately, and the set’s second half is far more raw, taking from Wolfe’s first two albums, Apokalypsis and The Grime and the Glow. Although the second half may be more sternum-shattering in its intentions, it by and large fails to match the impact made by the first. Sure, the drummer makes his presence known on ‘Demons’, but it is not until the raucous ‘Moses’ that brute force prove as indelible in their breathless impact as earlier peaks.

‘Movie Screen’ is wispy and meandering allowing everyone a few minutes to breath before the finale, ‘Pale on Pale’, which matches ‘Moses’ for volume and aggression, adding its own disorientating intensity. It’s over suddenly and a focused atmosphere dissipates in an instant as some move to front to converse with Wolfe and her band. Meeting a musician tends to rid them of any enduring mystique they might have, replacing perceptions with an actual person while generally highlighting their on-stage ability. Wolfe is polite and humbled in person and anything but on stage.

Set in a former 19th century courthouse, a stone’s throw from the river, the festival launch takes place at the Dock Arts Centre. Upstairs, in a large gallery space, we listen to Donal Dineen give a nice speech and are treated to some live painting accompanied by Kate Ellis on the cello. Shortly after, producer WIFE plays a short set accompanied by a backdrop of visuals on a huge screen and smaller screens strategically placed around the space. It’s a nice set of blissed-out electronica.

There are three stages set up for music here, one outdoor stage and two indoors. It’s down the stairs then to the stage known as The Space to check out CoEx. This is the project of a gentleman called Klaus Vormehr, a German who has been living in Ireland for many years. Here he is joined by four young band members who take their turn augmenting his compositions on fiddle, melodica, banjo and electronic drums. This result is a virtual United Nations mixing of styles with elements of samba, reggae, bossa nova and trad, often in the course of the same song. Wailing fiddles soar over electronic soundscapes to great effect while the percussion drives the whole band on their journey. It’s easy to see the enjoyment they get from playing their music from the smiles on their faces. We don’t want to write about this band, we want to be IN this band. A sheer delight to watch. Next up are Sounds of System Breakdown, who start their set with a song called ‘Vinegar Joe’ and get a nice dynamic going with their combination of synths with  guitar and drums. Songs such as ‘Neon Cocktails’ and ‘Nomad’ follow and get us in the mood for dancing.

We decide to take a wander after this and end up going to the second inside stage which functions as gallery number one when the arts centre isn’t pounding to the beat of kicking tunes. There’s no overspill with the sound either, even though both stages are so close, which is great. A bit more investigation reveals a smaller room off this with some live footage and installations for our viewing pleasure. After this it’s time to get analogue. This means heading back downstairs to check out Polydroid aka Brian O’Malley. Here he is joined on stage by Empire State Human frontman Aidan Casserly and the holy synth trinity of Messrs Korg, Roland & Moog. A selection of cracking tunes from his Imposter EP follows, most notably ‘Day of Rest’ and the magnificent ‘Ode to an Android’. This is old school electronica at its best. Absolute quality.

Le Galaxie are up next. We heard that they had chartered a boat and had sailed upriver to get here. Just to clarify: there was nobody called Fredo on board and no one got whacked. They aren’t too shy in whacking out the tunes tonight however, with floor fillers like ‘Midnight Midnight’ and the brilliant ‘The Night Caller’ belted out with gusto. It’s a cracking set that gets the whole crowd dancing and sweating. It’s the outdoor stage then for tonight’s headliner Ulrich Schnauss. We’re not too convinced that an outside stage in Ireland in early April is a good idea, but luckily there’s not a drop of rain, just a bit of a chill in the air. Herr Schnauss serves up a delicious set of ethereal electronica including the awesome ‘Borrowed Time’ from his latest album A Long Way to Fall.

We’re up bright and early the next morning for breakfast and its back to the Dock we go for a master class in Ableton Live by producer Zoid aka Daniel Jacobsen. This is part of the series of informative classes that are running during the festival. A class in circuit bending where children’s electronic toys are manipulated in such a way as to produce weird and wonderful sounds is also taking place. We leave the Ableton class after an hour and a half feeling more enlightened and in search of the best coffee in town to kick start the rest of the day.

After a couple of hours delay the rest of the evening’s schedule starts at 6pm with the Violet Roadkills. This four-piece have some great tunes, in particular the track ‘Subotnik’ with its rolling bassline and crescendo building synth line. Here they play a selection of tracks from their magnificent Ep Tetramer and really build up a wall of sound over the next half an hour. We are really looking forward to hearing more from these guys. Upstairs Futuresquer is spinning vinyl with a top twenty countdown of Irish producers as voted by the public in an online poll, while Roscommon DJ Alan Kelly is banging out the tunes on the outdoor stage. This brought back quite a few memories as we used to see him playing various clubs and parties around this area 12 or 13 years ago. Where does the time go?

It’s time to check out Sunken Foal after this which is the project of a fella by the name of Dunk Murphy. It actually looks like this is a two man operation but the other guy on stage is actually in charge of the visuals that are projected onto the big screen and quite ingeniously, onto the t-shirts of the protagonists. Images of moths, butterflys and cartoon soldiers flash in time to the music while we are treated to a fine set of tunes from his latest album Friday Syndrome, Vol.1. Great stuff altogether.

Outdoors German duo Coma, who are on the famous Kompakt record label are lashing out the tunes and we have to take a few steps back as it’s simply too loud near the stage. We noticed the same thing during Ulrich Schnauss set yesterday on the same stage. Relocating to the back solves the problem however and we enjoy a good portion of their set until the first rain of the weekend arrives and forces us back indoors where New Jackson are midway through their set. This is a duo comprising of David Kitt and Diamond Dagger who have their own distinctive blend of house driven jams and have tunes such as ‘The Night Mail’ and ‘Sat Around Here Waiting’ in their arsenal. We never thought we would be glad of rain but if we had missed this we would be raging.

Time then for the main man and the undisputed king of ambient music. We are talking of course about Norwegian musician Geir Jenssen, better known as Biosphere. Responsible for such masterpieces as 2006’s Dropsonde, 1997’s Substrata (voted the best ambient album of all time by the Hyperreal website) and our own personal favourite, 1994’s Patashnik, Biosphere is quite simply a genre unto himself. Hailing from Tromso, 350km inside the Arctic Circle his music comprises of long ambient passages often making use of sci-fi samples and loops. We nearly lose our minds when he plays ‘Startoucher’ from the aforementioned Patashnik. Think ‘Little Fluffy Clouds’ without the beats. Donal Dineen is proving the visuals tonight to great effect and the various images fit very well with Biosphere’s music. ‘Genkai No. 1′ from his latest album N-Plants follows and he rounds his set up with his remix of Ane Brun’s track ‘Temporary Dive’. The set is flawless and we consider it an absolute privilege to have had the opportunity to see him live. Major kudos must go to the festival organisers for bringing him over.

It’s a DJ set from Donal himself then and afterwards LTJ Bukem and his distinctive glasses close the weekend with a fine set of drum and bass that have the sweaty masses filling the dancefloor. All in all, a great weekend of top quality music and here’s hoping there will be a Phase Two next year so we have an excuse to visit lovely Leitrim once again. Maybe next year we’ll hire a boat.

Main image by Rebeccah Farrell.

Operating a BYOB policy, there was a substantial crowd filling out the downstairs of the GAC immediately after doors opened, sipping cans of beer and mingling with the bands. The space lends itself a lot better to a live gig than I initially thought it would, and the full sound set-up worked a treat as the acts finished their sound-check.

Several other nice touches gave the night a special air: the upper room laid aside for DJs Laminator and ADULTROCK had a projector splaying Russ Meyer’s Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! across the room, with passing punters’ shadows intermittently obscuring the images; the tall window frame the bands were placed in front of gave foot traffic on Dominic St a bird’s-eye view of the acts in session and turned quite a few curious glances into paying custom as Oh Boland rocketed through their set.

With vocals that sounded like the rowdy offspring of John Lydon and Shane MacGowan, they seem to throw the sound from their instruments, with every strum, kick and howl belting the audience. Energy by the bucket load drove their loyal fans front and centre – and on one occasion, nearly over the monitors – but even those opting for the safer vantage point at the back of the room failed to resist and were drawn forward to witness a purely kinetic performance.

Cave Ghosts brought the mood to a more even keel. Mixing equal parts 60s girl band and stargazing pop, their music is like a snapshot of a hazy summer evening free from responsibility and full of two-piece female harmonies that add to the evenings almost house-party vibe.

Wandering the halls to the upstairs room, I am greeted to a much more chilled atmosphere. Galway-based Laminator had the few revellers that had explored this far into the building spellbound with his mix of clipped and ambient selections. It was a shame more of the gathered crowd didn’t venture into his space – the choice and mixing of the chosen tracks deserved more interest than they were greeted with. Later, ADULTROCK gathers a larger crowd with his mix of music travelling from his trademark shimmer-house to a late spin of Beastie Boys, the black-and-white films still shining past the dancing audience.

The crowd were back into pogo mode as Hunk finished what was a lively, if somewhat maligned set. Their brand of garage rock didn’t hit home on the night mainly because their liberal use of reverb drowned out the vocals which sounded worth hearing during the quieter moments, although they definitely deserve a second listen if their inventive song structures are anything to go by.

Uniformly dressed in polka dot dresses, the female contingent of Dott “ooh” and “ahh” their way through perfect harmonies and solidify their place in the crowd’s hearts. Their lyrical prowess never ceases to impress (“waistbands low and spirits high” from ‘Leave Tonight’ a prime example) but their sound has become tighter since the release of their debut EP last year. Never missing a beat (even when a mic briefly gave up the ghost) they are assured in their musicianship and nail the delivery – ‘Let’s Do It’ seems to sound better with each listen, but live it is the most enjoyable three minutes of my weekend. With personalities to match the bright nature of their music they round off the night with a sense of fun and kinship, leaving the feeling that tonight’s proceedings may return bigger, better and sooner than we think.

Still, when Chuck D finally emerges he is in fine fettle and that voice still booms with authority. As is custom he goes it solo for a couple of numbers, before Flavor Flav joins him and the atmosphere really kicks off. The pair aren’t young bucks anymore, both into their fifties, but they are still an odd and engaging couple. They’re joined by DJ Lord, a pair of S1Ws doing camp little dance steps in their desert fatigues, a tight three piece band, two blokes nodding on either side of the stage, our friend from the sound check and, at one surreal point, a woman with a supermarket bag for life and a bunch of towels. If that all sounds a touch chaotic then it is, with the show meandering from moment to moment – occasionally dipping but more often than not brilliantly thrilling.

For a band who were once seen as a threat to society, it’s a warm experience too. Flav is still the clown prince and the bond that they share with their audience is quite touching – especially when they pull a young lad on stage to contribute to ‘Don’t Believe The Hype’. He plays his part perfectly and spends the rest of his moment hugging the two frontmen, who indulge him sweetly. It’s also their first show since being inducted into the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame in LA and the pride all involved feel is clear. As indeed is their affection for Dublin, with constant references to their first visit in 1987. Chuck addresses politics too, although his speech on oppression and dungeons feels a little light on modern detail.

They’re on far safer ground when looking at their own world and history, with the night becoming a celebration of an incredible career. The songs that defined a generation come thick and fast, sprinkled with newer material (some of it still unrecorded) and delivered with a passion and belief that a lot of younger artists – of any genre – could learn from. Sure they’re not the lean, mean machine of yore but it still hits all the right spots. They leave us with a frustratingly short snippet of ‘By The Time I Get To Arizona’ before ‘Harder Than You Think’ sends the place wild. And that’s that. Except it’s not. While the band start packing up, Flavor returns for a ten minute speech that takes in Margaret Thatcher, God, the Hall Of Fame, Elvis (“I’ll shit on his blue suede shoes”) and a moment’s silence for the victims of the Boston bombing and the earthquake in Japan…er China, followed by a reminder that T-shirts are on sale in the foyer. Public Enemy – still taking care of business.

Tonight’s appearance at the Twisted Pepper – in celebration of Record Store Day – marks a sort of homecoming for the instrumental sextet, having spent the winter months holed up in the Czech Republic assembling their forthcoming debut album. Having scrambled onto the stage and offered the briefest of introductions, it’s apparent that there’s little time for fanfare, but who needs it when the strains of ‘Pigonometry’ take hold so quickly and effectively? A relatively short track by Overhead’s standards – clocking in at around five minutes – it’s nonetheless spellbinding, a tight distillation of what these guys are about: patient builds, subtle teases and enthralling crescendos.

As with any post rock outfit, it’s easy to spot the influences, and while there are traces of Godspeed You! Black Emperor, This Will Destroy You, Russian Circles et al on display, Overhead deftly avoid sound-alike status. Patience is a virtue when it comes to this style of music – the lack of catchy vocal lines and conventional structure always going to represent something of a barrier to those who don’t drool over effects pedals and tremolo flourishes, but Overhead never go in for shoegaze-y self-indulgence. Their power lies in the collective, both the union of their own individual skills and the inclusion of the audience every step of the way.

In lieu of a traditional frontman, bassist Joe Panama makes for a cheerleader of notable charm, urging the crowd on through sheer force of will, often drawing on his days in Dublin metal outfit Red Enemy via a succession of determined, ridiculous and determinedly ridiculous facial expressions. His – and that of his cohorts – boundless enthusiasm is something to behold, elevating intricate musicianship throughout. New track ‘Telekinetic Forest Guard’, offered up in memory of recently departed Deftones bassist Chi Cheng, comes with the standard, “It’s our first time playing this live” boilerplate but sounds as ambitious as anything else on show and acts as a nice teaser for the eventual album release. Elsewhere, ‘Think Thank Thunk’ remains one of the quickest near-ten minute tracks you’re ever likely to hear, gliding past with precise grace while live favourite ‘Flu Birds’ provokes a huge roar, but not quite the loudest of all.

“Sing along if you know the words”, announces Panama before launching into ‘Footprints (in the Blood Soaked Snow)’, the intro prompting knowing grins from those who’ve experienced the band’s coup de grâce in the past. By the time the track hits its sweet spot and Overhead join voices with their acolytes to scream along with the now-customary closing victory chant (think the refrain of Arcade Fire’s ‘Wake Up’ multiplied by ten), it’s all you can do not to punch the air in triumph. A natural, sustained roar that those caught unawares will not soon forget. It’s that rare, truly transcendent moment that makes you feel ten feet tall. And not a raised iPhone in sight. Glorious.

Autumn Owls, give a fitting miserablist solo show in support, all minimal plucking an emotive drawling. It’s not quite as fitting as playing Joy Division over the P.A. just before the band take the stage, mind you. They play road-tight and intensely, under red lights that take on a sanguine hue, each member very much in his own world as the show begins to reveal itself. James Graham’s voice is far more ominous than the man himself looks, and when he talks to the crowd, it’s pretty clear the accent isn’t an affectation. It is a terrific tool he has.

There’s a moment during ‘Don’t Move’ when I begin to think that hidden within the walls of densely packed noise and the shimmering keyboards that, like almost every other single Scottish band before them (the Exploited aside), there’s some kind of arena-bothering mega rock wanting to emerge. It seems, watching them here in this bijou venue, that they should be playing to so many more people, in much bigger venues. There’s something about them that demands attention. I’ve no doubt that if they keep at it, in this vein, and with this kind of conviction, actual grandness may occur.
They may not even have to get the acoustic guitar out and write the song about the trails and travails of the ordinary working person on some bleak housing estate. When it happens it won’t be some Biffy Clyro scenario. Really, you can’t picture a gang of friends wailing Twilight Sad songs in awful unison as they stumble home from the pub. For a start, you can’t understand any of the words.

The crowd warm to the show as it goes on. Graham’s intensity helps. The lad is seriously into it, yelping off mike, so loudly that he can still be heard at the back of the venue. There’s no room on that stage, so he prowls and convulses a tiny part of it, mostly within himself. It’s no performance as such, it’s no Beyoncé, but allowing yourself to be so taken with your music is at least as spectacular as learning a plethora of dance steps and having a light show that costs half a billion quid. It’s better than that, much better. We, the audience, have invested in this music too, and it’s great to see that our investment is doubled, tripled, whatevered, by the guys we’ve come to see. This clearly means a lot to them.

Although, apparently it isn’t always the case. Graham tells us that last night’s gig was “shite” and that we’ve made up for it (Last night’s show was in Cork, since you’re asking.). They seem genuinely humbled that anyone in Dublin gives a crap about them, having not played here in five years. But everyone has enjoyed it, and they leave the stage to a great ovation. There’s no encore, which seems just about right. This was a good show, perhaps a little quiet given their past reputation for being loud, and despite the dark, incomprehensible nature of the music, the band seem eminently likeable. What gives, Cork?

The band, formed back in the mists of time (somewhere in the 60s apparently) unceremoniously take to the stage, numberingnumber five tonight – we seem to have lost a likembé player somewhere along the way. There’s a bit of faffing about with the backline – I guess technical difficulties and idiosyncratic sound systems go hand in hand. Holding it all together at the back are a hoppity drummer who can’t seem to sit still on his seat – that dude’s got a serious case of ants-in-the-pantsitus – and a conga slapper par excellence. Between the pair of them they keep the trance driving onwards and upwards – never flagging and laying down the ground for the likembé and vocals to work their magic on. These guys, given away by their youthful looks and exuberance, are recent additions to the line-up. The original Konono N° 1ers rightfully take position front of stage. On the left and right we’ve got two likembé players, while holding court in the centre is Queen Pauline knocking out rhythmic lines on her scrap salvaged cowbells. All three share vocal duties and fuck knows what they are singing about but it sure is pretty sweet sounding.

The likembés buzz along played at levels where they’re just beginning to breakup. It is quite an ear-opener to hear the tones, textures and colour emitting from these elementary instruments. At times you’d swear they have a clavichord or a Hammond organ stashed somewhere, filling out the sound. The players thumbs are all a blur as they pick out the notes looking at times like they’re texting each other on some antiquated forerunner of the mobile phone.

The songs play on building in intensity as the dancing breaks out in waves throughout the audience; this is one nation under an Afro Groove. Brothers and Sisters, Africa and Eire, Democratic Republic and Irish Republic united – getting their freak on. Hips gyrate ‘n’ booties shake. The room is sweating, from the windows to the walls. This is planet trance, this is the real United Nations. I’m pretty damn sure I saw someone combust, going off like a Roman Candle shooting ever higher, transported by the groove, transcending time and space, joining Mr Kurtz on his journey up the Congo. But there’s no Heart of Darkness here, no Horror to be found. Faces on and off stage are beaming, whatever it is we’re all caught up in we’re all in it together.

The dreaded Gremlins visited us again towards the end of the night and as a result we are flying on just one likembé for the last 20 minutes or so but nobody seemed to notice, or if they did no one seemed to care because at that stage of the game we were beyond caring. But it does raise the question of how much more intense the gig would’ve been if we’d been treated to the full complement.

Promoters U:mack did a sterling job getting Konono N° 1 here in the first place but somebody needs organise one a return visit for one of the upcoming summer festivals. We need to experience this again sometime somewhere in the summertime in a field under the stars as God intended. Until then those damn likembés are still a-ringing and a-buzzing in my ears and man they still sound pretty damn fine.

When State drops in on the second of three nights, that element is certainly in place. As ever, there’s a televisual element to proceedings (it’s being streamed live on various sites) but, apart from a cheery floor manager and the still bafflingly wooden Aidan Gillen, the music does the talking. Which is more than Kevin Rowland does. Dexys these days are all about the present rather than the past but the sight of them lined up at the back of the stage resplendent in flat caps and over coats still sends a rush of recognition. Fittingly given the venue they soon move from pop music into the theatrical, especially when vocalist Madeleine Hyland joins them to swing her hips through a double of ‘I’m Always Going to Love You’ / ‘Incapable of Love’ that reminds of Meat Loaf’s ‘Paradise By The Dashboard Light’ in a strange sort of way. The only nod to history comes in a samba style version of ‘Geno’ that throws you off guard a little when you reach for the chorus yet this is still a classy way to spend a half hour.

Villagers are doing more than most to fly the Irish flag these days and, given that Conor O’Brien thinks this is about their “seven millionth” Other Voices appearance, they should feel right at home. It’s a duo performance tonight with Cormac Curran on piano and it is, unsurprisingly, mesmerising. Stripped of studio trickery the {Awayland} tracks adopt a simple beauty and O’Brien is far from the shy performer he once was, although he still exhibits a charming vulnerability. Truly a band in their natural setting.

By the time we return from waiting for the curly mustached barman to finish mixing yet another cocktail, the previously sparse stage is awash with various bits of equipment. As well as gear, there’s an awful lot of love in the room for John Grant. It’s easy to see why. He’s an engaging character with the air of a fighter about him – bloodied but unbowed by experiences of life and career. However in an opposite move to Villagers before him, the natural grace of his music is rather lost amongst the myriad of loops and electronics. It’s all a bit Depeche Wainwright but, as a seasoned OV goer points out to us later, the beauty of this format is that you never know when one of those magic moments might just appear. It comes tonight when Grant introduces O’Brien and the pair duet on ‘Glacier’, the Irishman lost in the music around him while his host gazes on with pride. Watching Other Voices take to the London stage with such success, it’s hard not to feel the same.

Photo: Richard Gilligan

Setting the tone by pulverizing their lackadaisical ‘How Do You Do It’ into a frenetic mash of beats complimented by lights and then using ‘Night and Day’ to lull the audience into a rhythmic trance meant that by the third track people were hysterically cheering even the most incomprehensible mumblings of Joe Goddard. While a lot of Hot Chip’s reputation for live concerts comes from their barnstorming slots at festivals, when confined to a decrepit ballroom bending with sweat and anticipation they know just to spin enough joy from repetitive beats to start a rave. The lightly inflating synth of ‘Flute’ is replaced by viciously hammering percussion while later during a euphoric encore a foreboding, almost Reznor-style pulse substitutes the soft steel drums of ‘I Feel Better’. But this is also tempered by quieter, more subdued moments on tracks like “And I Was A Boy From School’ and the sentimental closer ‘Let Me Be Him’ that leaves the audience demanding a second encore.

It sometimes feels as if Hot Chip are covering themselves, remixing their own tracks almost on the fly by gauging audience reaction. Although the clearly exhibited concentration (the band only ever seemed to look up from their instruments when they are swapping them for another) means that it’s more likely they focus just as much on their albums as they do prepping for their live shows it nevertheless creates an atmosphere of participation. Their ability to keep an audience spellbound rests in their capacity to play with their canon and surprise, substituting and redefining even their most recognisable tracks so that the end result is a rare live music treat; they are playing songs you know, just in a way you’ve never heard before that makes them even better.

Earlier tonight, at exactly 9:15, Goulding took to the stage launching directly into ‘Don’t Say a Word’. A black glitter-encrusted drum and drum machine are positioned at the front of the stage for bouts of solo drumming throughout the show. The audience is immediately on board as the set continues with ‘Halcyon’ and ‘Figure 8’, the chorus of which is chanted throughout the venue. During the outro she even pulls off an air-guitar solo that isn’t completely cringe-worthy. “You’re a very polite audience”, she says. The crowd responds with a loud cheer as if offended by the accusation.

The piano ballads ‘Joy’ and ‘Explosions’ seem like an abrupt change of pace but the pitch perfect high notes make both beautiful to listen to. Strapping on a guitar, her acoustic version of ‘Guns and Horses’ is a highlight, with the audience sounding surprisingly in tune during the chorus. “The sweat, this bloody hair” she says while fixing the long blond mane which she fiddles with constantly throughout the performance. “The sweat” is the result of her high energy performances of up-tempo numbers like ‘Under the Sheets’ and the bubblegum pop hit ‘Anything Could Happen’, during which we are all invited to jump.

There’s no doubt the girl works her ass off on stage, the tribal percussion and house inspired hook of ‘Without Your Love’ gives way to Carribean-style hip rolling while during the techno-influenced ‘Animal’ Goulding encourages constant waves of movement within the audience. While it’s unfortunate that at times the big beat tracks almost swallow her delicate, husky vocal, the atmosphere remains fantastic. Her voice, although beginning to sound overworked, carries off ‘Starry Eyed” and ‘Lights’ as the encore pleasing her fans. Overall, an energetic and captivating performance by the UK electro-pop pixie.

Main image by Debbie Hickey. You can find more images of Ellie Goulding and Charli XCX from Sunday’s gig here.

There’s no doubt that Caitlin has a country heart but tracks like ‘Only A Clown’ and ‘Silver Sings’, with its Tom Petty-esque twangs, have the word ‘HIT’ engraved down their centre. The poppiest track on Rose’s new long-player, ‘Waitin’’ deservedly gets the biggest cheer of the night. That album, The Stand In, is a record full of beautifully-crafted three minute tunes which you expect to hear in some half-empty Southern bar as a tray-carrying waitress takes your order. And, yes, this is America but the Mercury Lounge is sardine-squished and getting to the bar involves ruptured ribs and Bud-stained clothes. There’s hardly anything revolutionary here, but the crowd didn’t come to hear cosmic dubstep – it’s just a girl with a gorgeous voice singing well-written songs with a bunch of blokes who really know how to play. Sometimes that’s all you need.

Speaking after their song ‘Many Of Horror’ was treated to some glittery karaoke sonic airbrushing at the hands of an X-Factor winner, Neil was moved to worry that some of the fans might not forgive the band. Not that Biffy Clyro had anything to do with the re-release, but for a band who so delicately skip between mainstream and underground followings, association with such an enterprise could see them lose a considerable amount of that one, elusive currency; credibility. But thankfully his concerns were unfounded and the band have gone on to much bigger and better things with or without the help of music’s answer to franchising.

Arriving onstage at around 8.30 to a surging and throbbing mass with ‘Different People’ (already stripped to the waist) the band, the song and the crowd burst into life within seconds. And for a band so keen to wear as few items of clothing as possible, the huge model of a human nervous system replete with throbbing organs seems a perfect choice. If there’s one band who can be both raucous and emotive at the same time it is Kilmarnock’s finest: a band who truly wear their musical hearts on their sleeves.

But perhaps Biffy Clyro’s most powerful live weapon is their use of dynamics, rather than pathos, to generate responses from the crowd and not in a cheesy or cack-handed way. They manage to include the right level of fist-pumping fodder and reflective ‘quiet’ in their songs to ensure the crowd generally don’t need to be coaxed into either. Just watching them go from subdued to all-out riotous is nothing short of spectacular and ads something to the shows which clearly feeds the band in some way. Perhaps this is true perpetual motion, or just very shrewd songwriting. ‘That Golden Rule’, ‘Justboy’ and ‘Living Is A Problem Because Everything Dies’ providing some further moments of excitement for those watching the crowd as much as the band.

As the band barrel their way through the set, Neil draped in a tricolour at one point, they prove once again to be a precise, fierce and as tightly wound as you would expect after eleven years and six studio albums. ‘Many Of Horror’ comes and goes and gets the response it deserves, but for the majority of the crowd who make their presence felt every bit as much as the band the night was is much a triumph as an exercise in affection. Neil speaks more than once about how valuable the band’s fans are to them and even the one person overheard remarking on how they had “never heard of him other than the X-Factor song…” followed by an incredulous “what, Biffy Clyro is a band?” cab not have left without seeing some proper respect and between a band and their following – he old-guard punks mixing it with young pretenders all in the name of mutual appreciation. Finishing a fine set with ‘Mountains’ (and a few in-vain choruses of “Mon the Biff” from the crowd), more of the band’s mature musical understanding is most definitely welcomed.

Photo: Debbie Hickey (see more here).

The moral of the story being no one wants to look at some skinny lost soul feebly mumbling their way through ‘Rocks’ of a Saturday night unless you’re actually IN Primal Scream and are getting paid to do so.

So Cocozza had disappeared, destined to be an answer to an obscure pub quiz question. Or so the whole of human kind thought, but never discount the boiling mass of insanity that is the brain of a teenage girl. Teen girls have propped Cocozza up (possibly literally); they have given him a million (yes ONE MILLION) hormonally-challenged followers on Twitter; they have pushed him into a solo career, into actual live shows where they can scream their heads off at him nightly. Tonight in the Academy 2, almost four hundred Boots-approved girls have put on their nicest outfits, did their hair to its hugest, set their pouts to ‘duck face’ and screamed their beautiful visages off.

Before the night had even begun, anticipation reached fever pitch as a girl sank to the floor overwhelmed by the prospect of the Cocozza in the flesh or maybe just in need of a Bounty bar and a bit of a lie down. When the Weetabix-headed one did eventually arrive, the damp, cold air filled with decibel level-crushing screams masking the sound of a tiny, dying mouse scratching against a matchbox.

He’d barely made it to the first chorus of subtle metaphortastic ‘She’s Got A Motorcycle’ (sample lyric: “She’s got a motorcycle/A big bad motorcycle/She knows how much I like it/But she won’t let me ride it”) before his wheezing tramp vocals gave up altogether ready to be drowned out completely. Cocozza’s music is where Olly Murs meets Northern Uproar (ask your Dad), on record ‘Catastrophic Casanova’ skiffles about with Frankie half-talking over tinkly keyboards and S Club 7-style beats but live with his band, this brand of ersatz drivel morphs into badly executed guitar nonsense that is haphazardly moulded into some kind of pop form. They have created a monster, one that can go nowhere, trapped in a prison of the cartoon image of a ‘bad boy’ one who stands on stage in the Liam Gallagher pose but sings songs that even Brian McFadden would turn his nose up to.

But bless him, he tried, he managed to mumble a “Fanks Dublin!” before launching into a misguided cover of Rihanna’s ‘What’s My Name’ thrilling the audience like a big-haired iPod come to life.

This is the essence of Frankie Cocozza: a boy made famous by having a challenging haircut who sang covers on telly and who has tattoos of random girls’ names on his arse. He’s a trinket for these girls’s, a stop-over on the way to a destination more exciting. A shaved wookie who does a bit of wailing on the side, something to be distracted by and someone who’ll sing some familiar songs before something or someone else more interesting who deserves the devotion comes along. It is telling that the only bit of merchandise available is a t-shirt with the outline of Cocozza’s hair on it. The biggest cheer of the night was when he removed his hat to let his barnet flow free. Hair is the only reason we’re here. Sadly there are no secrets hiding in this tangled thatch just the grim legacy of Cowell’s Saturday night singing Colosseum.

Electronic material features too, first with ‘Forbidden City’, and then during the encore ‘Getting Away With It’. Other Smiths’ songs given an airing are the relatively obscure ‘London’, ‘Bigmouth Strikes Again’ (dedicated to ‘Ger’, a fan who throws a Django Reinhardt t-shirt on stage as a gift), and culminating in the encore, which kicked off with a run through of Bobby Fuller’s Clash-tinged ‘I Fought The Law’, before ‘How Soon Is Now?’ and ‘There Is A Light That Never Goes Out’ send the crowd delirious.

If this all sounds like a mere exercise in nostalgia, it shouldn’t: the new material holds its own with the old, and Marr has transformed himself from sideman to frontman. Highlights from The Messenger are ‘Upstarts’ and Lockdown’, and kudos should go to the tight backing band, who Marr informs us are “…brilliant musicians, and my friends: no boring session guys for Johnny boy.” Still, I haven’t seen so many silly grins on Mom’s and Dad’s faces when departing a gig in I don’t know how long.

Photo: Debbie Hickey