Soil & Pimp Sessions @ Roundhouse, July 15 2008

Why?
I first saw the Soil & Pimp Sessions at the sublimely brilliant Garden Festival in Croatia last year (more on which soon, hopefully). I had never heard of them, and they blew my fricking ears off. I’m a fan of jazz, I guess, but in a fairly superficial way. I like the scene, and the clubs, and, yes, I guess I like the music. But it can sometimes be a bit wanky, no? The only jazz club I have ever frequented was Matt and Phreds in Manchester’s Northern Quarter, which was excellent, but on a number of occasions I found myself a little bored. I can appreciate the musicianship- which is as high as you can get on a popular level, before hitting classical- but as an experience, I’d take the significantly less talented bunch of indie kids who can put on a good show any day. But the S&P Sessions were one of the best live acts I have ever seen...playing hyperspeed “death jazz” in a perpetual frenzy, brass akimbo, racing around the stage and egging on the crowd. If this is jazz, then I’m in.

The Venue
The Roundhouse is a London institution. There’s a nice symmetry to its story, too. Back in the day, when trains couldn’t run in both directions, they would chug into the roundhouse after terminating at Chalk Farm to be swivelled 180 degrees and sent off in the opposite direction. It was a turntable! And then, in the 60s, it became a gig venue, and hosted a veritable cavalcade of big names...Pink Floyd played the opening night, then came the Rolling Stones, Jimi Hendrix, The Doors, Led Zeppelin, etc. The venue has been renovated over the last few years, and is once again one of London’s prime gig venues. The remodel is quite squeaky, so don’t expect must and punky ambience, rather well-dressed London indy media types, who have met for a few drinks before a gig on the nice terrace bar. The main space is excellent; under the old domed roof, with lights rigged in a hexagon on the ceiling supports. If you’re into that type of thing, there is something very satisfying about hearing very modern sounds in an antique setting. Death Jazz pulsating against bricks and steel and fittings notched together in the 1850s.

What they look like
Soil & Pimp sessions are a quartet of Tokyo hipsters, with all the flourishes. The sax player and the trumpet guy are the dapperest, miscellaneously attired as if fresh from a rummage in a Lower East Side second hand store. I think, although I can’t be sure, that the Tokyo equivalent is this place, if the two guys in the pic are anything to go by. And then there’s the pimp, The Agitator. He is dressed as a 60s boudoir pimp, podgy and jewelled. His role is to cajole. There is a self-referential Japanese thing about his vocals...wailing to the crowd through a loudspeaker, eyebrows curled, “Do you want MORE?!” The whole band, in fact, comes onstage in full Japanese robes before stripping off, again self-referentially doing the Japanese thing, as they know that that is their buzzword gimmick- that they are Japanese- despite being a million other things before simply just Japanese.

You’d be forgiven for thinking that The Agitator’s role, sans any musical instruments (apart from the occasional theramone solo!), is needless, but in fact he ties the room together, and maintains the frenzy. The saxophonist and trumpet player are brilliant to watch, playing solos with one foot mounted on a speaker, or playing one handed, or with their bodies arched backwards or buckled forwards as the scream down their instruments. When they finish their incredible solos, they shot “slam-dunk” looks as the audience roar their appreciation as if to say “Yeah? And what?” In between solos, they skip around the stage with their instruments slung around their bodies like guitars, jerking their bodies hip-hop-style to the beat. Very, very cool.

What they sound like
I have never seen a band with such a talented roster. Each musician- the saxophonist, trumpet player, pianist, and bass player- are nothing short of virtuosos. There is an occasional veering towards self-indulgence, and some of the free-form moments are lost on me, but then such is jazz. The music, self-styled “death jazz” is a kind of intense, 300 notes-a-second, sooped-up latino style jazz. It is incredibly passionate, intense, full-bodied sound, that by the end rendered me a little fatigued, in the same way as when you spend the whole day wandering around Rome, you get a little non-plussed by the 13th unbelievably stunning church you’ve seen in an afternoon. It’s like that with the solos, which make the whole experience, at times, more of a performance than a gig. But it really has to be seen...these guys are phenomenal. The last track involves the bass player repeatedly slapping his strings with a stick as the brass goes nuts and the crowd are instructed to chant “Soi!” over and over again to the beat. It feels a bit like a revolution.

Conclusion
For such a cerebral artform- jazz- this is as visceral as it gets. I can’t imagine I would listen to an album of theirs, as the music is not necessarily my thing, and there is simply no way that the live experience could ever translate. But as a performance S&P are near faultless, and manage to do that most important of things- move the crowd. Top marks.

Pics: ArneCoomans, markhillary, volume12

Tags: soil & pimp sessions the roundhouse camden garden festival tokyo death jazz gig review matt and phreds jazz

Radiohead @ Victoria Park, June 25, 2008

Why?
Why did I go and see Radiohead? Why does a dog lick its bollocks? No explanation needed, really. But perhaps an interesting tale about how I went. I remember the Victoria Park dates being announced, and the furore that went with it. Anyway, people snapped them up by the bucketload. I didn't, somewhat foolishly. But I've been working in the office this week, and saw a dozen pairs of tickets go up on the noticeboards at various times. People not wanting to see them? Nope, when I picked both of mine up, it was because they had been bought in bulk, rightly predicting a swift sell-out. In hindsight, this wasn't a particularly interesting tale. Posterity, eh?

The venue
Victoria Park has probably been the park of the summer so far. This is probably due to three things. Firstly, it is a park in East London. Parks are cool; east London is cool. Secondly, and invariably related in the great zeitgeist of things, it seems to be on a bit of a musical roll. Victoria Park's summer in the sun started with the Love Music Hate Racism carnival, the genesis of which started in the very same spot thirty years earlier- read an interesting article on this whole thang here. Then, a few weeks later, there was the Paradise Gardens event, where the Women's Institute hosted a swing dance tent. Genius. Then there was Radiohead, and in a few weeks time there will be the Lovebox Weekender. This park is just soooo hot right now. P.s. If you're there when it's not being the coolest park in London, and just being a park, get some brekkie from the Pavilion, the lakefront cafe... excellent grub, using excellent produce.

What they look like
This was the first time I had seen Radiohead live, and two things grabbed me about their appearance. First of all, I didn't expect Thom Yorke to look like such a rock star. I'm not sure why. In my head, Thom Yorke wears a second-hand faded check shirt, baggy jeans and a skewiff, uncomfortable smile. In reality, he almost had a swagger about him, with tight red jeans, spiky hair and slightly crazed facial expressions. He looked like a rock star, and when he danced during Idioteque…he moved like one. An exhilaratingly awkward concoction of spasmodic snake hips and convulsing rhythm, there was even a touch of Ian Curtis about him. The second thing that grabbed me was Jonny Greenwood's hair, brilliantly suspended in a mid-nineties grunge band. Kudos. Forgive me if this is old news.

Finally, special mention to the lights… the dozens of tubular bulbs hanging above the stage almost stole the show, rippling and flashing and pulsating with an almost human responsiveness to the music. Once again, Radiohead are quietly on another forefront with this one, expect to see it copied elsewhere.

What they sound like
They sounded like Radiohead. I had a conversation with my buddy this morning over breakfast. He says we will never have a band like Radiohead in popular culture ever again. He's probably right. Shame.

Conclusion
Predictably, Radiohead were superb. Predictably, they didn't pander. They played a lot from In Rainbows, which is not a bad thing, of course. I'm sure I wasn't alone in wanting a Greatest Hits set, knowing full well that Radiohead will never play a greatest hits set. Betty Clarke summed it up well in the Grauniad review, saying that a lot of the setlist were "songs to have a one-to-one relationship with, not to be shared with 20,000 strangers." I love the Kid A stuff, and the Hail to the Thief stuff and even the Amnesiac stuff, but they aren't really singalong numbers. But they finished with Paranoid Android, which was enough for me. And one of many memories that I'm sure will endure was when, upon leaving the stage post-Karma Police and pre- second encore, the crowd spontaneously burst in to song, bellowing in unison... "for a minute there, I lost myself...". And for several minutes, I did. [cheese editor- enough of that, thanks].

Very little banter between sets, but this is part of Radiohead's thing, the thing that inspires fascination, and, yes, awe. I left wanting to know more about them, about the relationship between Yorke and Greenwood. But they don't give this to you. A good parallel is the quick-burn, bring-your-own-legacy approach pioneered by Barat and Doherty when the Libertines started out. Radiohead are better than that. Because they are the real thing… utter genius.

Pics: hidden shine, ejbaurdo

tags: radiohead victoria park thom yorke jonny greenwood love music hate racism lovebox paradise gardens the pavilion cafe

The Shout Out Louds @ Madame Jojo's, June 3 2008

Why?
The first time I heard the Shout Out Louds I assumed it was The Cure. It was on in the background. I assumed I was listening to The Cure’s In Between Days. So did the DJ, who announced in the outro... "that was The Cure with, sorry, that was The Shout Out Louds with Tonight I Have to Leave it”. There really is no getting round it. The two tracks are almost identical. The guy sounds like Robert Smith. The music sounds like the Cure. Sounding like The Cure is a good thing. I love The Cure. My buddy was going to see them, so I joined him. Simple, really.

The Venue
Madame JoJo's was once a seedy Soho strip club. There is something rather timely about being an ex strip club at the moment (actually, there's something rather timely about being in Soho at the moment, but that's another story). In a large part, it’s to do with the whole burlesque comeback and the general red light aesthetic, which we all seem rather taken with. Also, perhaps, it’s the electro-punk thing too- music imbued with a large dollop of sleaze and filth and sex has made anything visually akin cool by association. Thus Madame Jojo's works rather brilliantly as a gig-venue-of-our-times, clad in deep reds, velvet curtains, plush booths and deco prints on the walls. It feels like a swish/sleazy hotel bar from 1980s red light LA. A huge segment of the corner of the room has been dug out, dropping into a wood-floored pit and a stage raised by four feet or so. Excellent venue.

What they look like
When you know someone is Scandinavian, you see the Scandinavian in them. They are so well formed. The clothes they wear and their facial hair and their glasses and their haircuts seem to coat them rather than clothe them. The lead singer, pictured, is a dreamboat with a chiselled chin and crisp clothing. Take him home to your mum. Demure blonde on keyboard, slick slaphead on drums, lead guitarist slightly grungy, but only a bit.

The bass player, pictured right (brilliantly), made my week. Bass players are so often the default member of the band; the mate who learns the missing instrument quicksharp to jump on the bandwagon. Happily gurning along with the words and writhing and bass-slapping like it meant everything to him, he was the most exuberant person on the stage; a little chubby, with a flapping tongue, a bad neck beard, an uneven bowl cut, and a mouth that gasped like a dying fish. Excuse the soppiness, but seeing someone enjoy himself so much and being so into it was one of the most endearing things I have seen for a while. And it suited the music too- positive, upbeat, and a bit cheesy. What a don.

What they sound like
Inescapably and categorically like The Cure. With Smiths-esque strumming. Happy music that doesn’t want to challenge you, but instead wants you to flap your head from side to side and smile and dance. Fast major chords and simple, whimsical, catchy keyboards and synth xylophone rising up when the rest dips. Romantic music, with song titles such as “Your Parent’s Living Room”. The stage lights were highly appropriate... a concoction of turquoise blue and candyfloss pink. Unapologetic, daisyish, limp-wristed saccharine.

Conclusion
The Shout Out Louds are a brilliant throwback. If you’re going to copy The Cure, you bloody well better do it well. And they do. Thank the lord we live in an age when this is pop music.

pics: whiteheatmayfair on flickr, madamejojos, jay-oh

tags:the shout out louds stockholm white heat the cure madame jojo's scandanavian pop

Crystal Castles @ Camden Crawl, April 19 2008

Why?
The Camden Crawl is something of yearly summit for British indie. Each year over a Friday and Saturday in April virtually every bar and gig venue in Camden- British indie’s spiritual home- joins together to showcase a bounteous bill of newbies and up-and-comers. But more than is the case with most festivals, arranging your increasingly beer-doused self into some kind of schedule is tricky, especially when the headliners are all on at the same time at ten venues scattered across NW1. Thus the wise Crawler will pick a couple of acts, and do their best to beat the queues when it comes to it. I decided that my act would be Crystal Castles, because my mate told me they were good. That’s the kind of research that makes the blogosphere what it is, people! You’re welcome.

The Venue
Funny one, the Purple Turtle. I had never been to it before, and I have been to Camden many times. Perhaps this is indicative. There are probably 3289 more popular bars in Camden, but it takes the Crawl to crowbar the masses into a new one. It feels like a university indie club- a bit smelly, a bit dingy, and with a peculiar colour scheme (guess what colour predominates?). Above the dancefloor a couple of platforms are great for watching a gig (if you can get on them), and the dancefloor itself is perfectly sized...enough for a crowd, but not big enough for the atmosphere to diffuse towards the back. For the record, Orlando Weeks of the Maccabees was in the crowd, alongside his mucker Matt Horne from Gavin and Stacey. They were both ketamined up to their eyeballs and were snogging each other ferociously. Not really. Had a quick chat actually, and they seemed like nice chaps.


What they look like.
Crystal Castles are a two-piece boy-girl band from Toronto. Ethan Kath was at the back drumming. Alice Glass was bloody everywhere else. Waif-like and mascara-caked in a knee-length black dress and a sweatshirt, she bounced and flapped and clenched and writhed and bent double and bent backwards with aplomb. She’s got the Wednesday Adams: The Elctropunk Years look nailed, but with a bobby bowl-cut. She looks like the kind of girl who wakes up in the morning and eats a pubescent boy whole. Sexy in an extremely scary way. In my beer-compromised state I found myself wandering if Alice Glass is the quintessential front girl of the electro-punk age. Don’t quote me on that, because it could be total rubbish. Still, though.


What they sound like
Alice Glass comes from a semi-obvious vocal lineage. Less soulful than Karen O but with similar snarl. Ecstatic like the lady from The Rapture, attitude like the lady that sings with Bumblebeez. Perhaps the closest match is the high-pitched yapping of Le Tigre (if you only click one link on this page, make it this one...what a darn good song it is). But her style is tempered by the music, which is a sort of anthemic electro, with sparsely placed, widely undulating chords that sound snatched from the backing music of an old Atari space battle game. If you want to send me hate mail for using the word anthemic, I fully understand. To be honest, when you listen to the tracks on their own, they aren’t spectacular... there’s a lot of similar stuff out there at the moment. But this is heat of the moment music at its best.


Conclusion
And in the heat of the moment, Crystal Castles were superb. They came on stage, kicked the shit out Purple Turtle for little over half an hour, then left. No encore, which seemed quite sad at the time, but in hindsight makes sense. If you’ve been jumping around like a feral musical harpy for half an hour, making out like what is coming out of your throat is an immaculate and immaculately-timed primal scream, you don’t then come back on and do it at the crowd’s request. This shit aint planned, you know! They just happened to be driving their electro truck filled with decapitated doll’s heads and bondage gear around Camden and decided to storm a stage and let rip! Bravo.

pics: my crystal castles set

tags: crystal castles camden crawl purple turtle the maccabees matt horne gavin & stacey alice glass ethan kath electropunk karen o bumblebeez the rapture le tigre

Dan Le Sac Vs Scroobius Pip @ KOKO, April 14, 2008

Why?
Let’s begin with a short, sad story. XFM used to be good, now it is rubbish. The end.

But, such is the sorry state of (non-digital) music radio, I will inevitably listen to it in my car from time to time, and inevitably be vexed by it. But something funny happened the other week. I was driving on a Saturday night and found myself listening to Jon Hillcock’s show. It was really very good. In fact, his playlist that night has already directed me to a gig (before I started this blog), where Lykke Li sung like a sweet, ethereal Scandinavian whilst dancing like a hussy at the Hoxton Bar and Kitchen. But back to that night in the car. Hillcock also played “Letter to God from Man” (see link at foot of blog) by Dan Le Sac vs. Scroobius Pip, which was excellent. A few days later I watched “Thou Shalt Always Kill” on YouTube- which is superb. Thank you Mr Hillcock, your show is a musical diamond on an increasingly rough station.

The Venue
KOKO is one of the best music venues in London. But before it became KOKO, this Grade II listed building was being gloriously wasted as the Camden Palace, hosting wannabe rudeboy fests such as the regular Cookies and Cream night and “balls” where 15-year olds would notch up as many snogs as possible before midnight doors. Admittedly, I plead guilty on both counts. Beyond the Classical stone facade, the interior remains sculpted as a grand old theatre, with boxes lining the flanks and maritime ornamentation centred above the stage. KOKO’s makeover is simple but startling; with almost every surface painted in a deep, blood red, with fringes coated in gilded copper. Thus it still feels like a grand old theatre, but a slightly evil grand old theatre glowing in dim, bawdy rouge. A succession of tiers stretch up to the rafters, sheltering a number of half-covered bars as they rise. And tonight, as this is British hip hop, they are teeming with middle class white boys.

What they look like
Before messrs Pip and Le Sac arrive, the support band’s stuff is whisked away, and replaced with a small, compact theatrical set. An old TV, a couple of wooden cabinets, a coat stand, Constable painting and transistor are distributed to resemble a standard British living room. The intended effect, I suppose, is to symbolise everything that Scroobius Pip’s lyrics rail against- relentless mediocrity, dull and ordinary British homogeny, the rat race etc. And, of course, when Pip enters, he looks everything but ordinary. The guy must be about 6’8”, with a long, skinny frame, a black suit, New Era cap, and his trademark huge beard. Imagine a hipster version of a Hasidic Jew. In fact, imagine Matisyahu, but tailored better. I feared annoying rudeboy skipping and imaginary gun waving as he rapped, but there was none. Occasionally his legs jerked awkwardly during emotional peaks, at times he sat cross-legged in the on-stage armchair, but mostly he stood in front of the mic and barked. Part of me would have preferred the rudeboy act.

What they sound like
Scroobius Pip’s raps like an angry, snarky middle class white boy. Like many before him (cf. Mike Skinner, Lilly Allen et al) he cashes in on the popularity of vernacular in British music- singing and rapping in regional accents, rather than American ones. The lyrics, however, make him stand out. His themes range from people’s obsession with music , religion, self-harm, growing up and even the Periodic Table. There is a very clear, perhaps overly hammered emphasis on intellectualism. I often find the ‘life is rubbish and commercial and capitalist and soulless’ school of lyricism a tad tiring, but Pip’s lyrics are clever enough to stop just short of this.
Le Sac lubricates the proceedings with squelchy synths, occasionally Radiohead-esque ambient electronica, and big beat hip hop that make things sound like a less club-focussed version of the Audio Bullys. But the music rarely takes over: Pip’s lyrics are the intended focus. If I may, the audience might have been thinking... “Whoa, that tall bloke is saying some clever shit yo! Can we start dancing yet?”

Conclusion
I think I am destined to be permanently disappointed by British hip hop. When you watch a Scroobius Pip video, or listen to a track, it can be fantastic. When delivered live by nothing but a live PA and a DJ, it doesn’t quite match up. This is the umpteenth time I have gotten excited about seeing a live Brit hip hop, only to be disappointed with the live show- the same happened back in the day with Task Force, Jeh5t, Skinnyman, and even Roots Manuva.

British rappers all think they are philosophers- and Scroobius Pip has got more right to think this than most- but methinks lyric-based rap is better watched on video, or heard when fully produced. When the music takes the lead, the live effect works: the two best hip hop gigs I have seen were The Roots and Arrested Develpoment, where the music is as important as the lyrics, however brilliant the latter are. If the lyrics are the thing, as is the case with British hip hop, there is little point throwing them into the corners of large theatres. All in all, this is probably the best way to hear Scroobius Pip.

pics: me, KOKO, get weird

tags:xfm jon hillcock lykke li dan le sac scroobius pip koko camden palace matisyahu mike skinner lilly allen audio bullys task force jeh5t skinnyman roots manuva

DeVotchKa @ The Scala, April 9 2008

Why?
A few weeks ago, upon returning from a work trip to Japan, I found myself up at silly o’clock in the morning listening to the radio. As has been my radio obsession for some time now, my station of choice was the totally brilliant 6music. The through-the-night DJ is Chris Hawkins, and he slipped on a DeVotchKa track. The gypsy(ish) sound was a more refined version of Gogol Bordello, folky mariachi in a Calexico kind of way, with a touch of spaghetti Western, and a bit of American soft indie. Sold to the slightly loopy jetlagged bloke in the dressing gown! I booked tickets there and then.

The Venue
Of late, there has been something of an institution cull on London’s gig circuit. The Hammersmith Palais has shut its doors, Turnmills is no more, The Spitz is gone, and the death knell has sounded for the Astoria too. The Scala in Kings Cross is still going strong. Originally built as a cinema, then used to manufacture airplane parts during the first world war, the Scala is one of London’s oldest gig venues and alternative movie spots. There are cracked stone floors, high brick ceilings, and strips of mosaic. Regular club night take place in the bar area, with a nice big window looking down over Pentonville Road. The gig area is medium sized, with a smallish pit, and staggered raised areas stretching to the back

What they look like
The band look like musicians, which is what they are. Despite the Gogol-esque sound, there is no caricatured gypsy outfits. The singer, Nick Urata, wears a black shirt and suit, and takes slugs from a bottle of red wine during the set. Very cool. The violinist (and accordion player and pianist) looks like all good violinists; a bit gawky. When he is spotlit from behind, with broken bow strings swinging in silhouette, the effect is superb, like watching a gypsy peddler in a jazz club. The double bass player (and sousaphone, and vocals) looks like all good bass string players- brunette and frumpy.

The Music
Urata’s voice is the thing. On one song he wails like a lovestruck mariachi in the desert; on anther like pining Balkan father; on another with a sweet quietness that makes you want to sway from side to side with a smile on your face. He glissandos from low to high, with a tight, warbling vibrato. He sounds a bit like the guy from Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, and a bit like the Baby Bird singer (“Because yooooou’re gorgeous so on and so forth”) but, well, better. DeVotchKa’s Romani/ Balkan-syle songs bounce like a sooped-up oom-pah band on holiday in north Africa. The Mariachi numbers bring in the trumpet and sway appropriately, occasionally the drumming transforms the music into jerky ska. At times the delicateness of the violin is lost, and the sousaphone noise a bit inconsistent (but this is understandable, the horn was about five times the sound of her head), but Urata’s voice remains enchanting throughout.

Conclusion
Despite the utter beauty of the vocals, to some extent DeVotchKa sell themselves a little short. Because they are multi-talented, multi-instrumental supermusos, they alternate the instruments between tracks, meaning there are only ever four instruments playing at the same time. I wanted more. With a bigger band the joyous songs would be more joyous, the excitable ones more exciting. And part of me wanted them to dance around a lot more, especially during the high-tempo gypsy songs...but when you are trying to negotiate a dozen instruments between four of you, this will always be tricky. The music is exceptional, but the live experience is slightly underwhelming. Blimey, though, if this band had the size to match some of their songs, the effect would be incredible.





image: mog

tags: devotchka the scala kings cross gypsy mariachi gogol bordello romani calexico clap your hands say yeah baby bird 6music chris hawkins hammersmith palais astoria the spitz Nick Urata

The Argonauts @ Gramophone, March 13 2008

Why?
I was in Liverpool writing a piece for an exciting publication (ooh!) loosely based on the music scene there. Thus I found myself in 3345, the private(ish) members club attached to the Parr St Studios, managed by the lovely Thom Lang. Every Thursday they run an acoustic night there, and The Argonauts were topping the bill. Somehow or other, their manager saw me scribbling in my pad, and must have assumed I was some kind of music journo. Either way, he managed to get my email from somewhere and send me a message saying hello. He even sent me their album, and invited me to see them, plugged in, in London. Which I did.

The Venue
This was my first time at The Gramophone. A very odd place indeed. A weird amalgam of lovely brick arches and annoying hotel mood lighting. The crowd were of a default Top Man art school stock. A really nice space done badly- a little too much slick. Truth be told; there are dozens upon dozens of better pubs in the East End...such as the 10 Bells and Commercial Tavern on the same road. But the downstairs gig space is a good one, with more brick arches wrapped around columns; space for 100 at a guess. Small rooms mean tricky acoustics and lost vocals, but give me a small cellar over a huge hall any day. There were about 30 people there.

What they look like
The Argonauts are three Home Counties boys who have known each other since they were six. And they look it. The drummer, Terry Swain (above, centre), is a Boy Next Door with a tight t-shirt and strangely captivating lips that protrude and curl when he sings. Daniel Fell (left), the bass player has geeky shoes worn on feet perennially at 90 degrees to each other, a music teacher foot-tap, and a bit of a gait. The guitarist, James Eaton (right), looks like he cares more than the other two, and wears a check rockabilly shirt. The effect is rather refreshing and, like their music, shows that the Argonauts don't think they are cooler than you. Give me this over a troupe of skinny-jeaned Doherty-a-likes any day.

The Music
The Argonauts are far from the modish crowd, playing poppy Beatles-style melodies with early Beatles-syle harmonies over the top that sound superb when they click. Rhythm and Blues in the purest sense, I guess. And at times there is determinable soul, of I Want You (She's So Heavy) ilk. They aren't trying to pander, they are playing what they enjoy listening to. Most of the time they all sing simultaneously - something you don't see too often these days. There is very little banter in between songs (this is ok- I suspect it would be bad), and they lead into a track with the last chords of the previous. Everything is very much driven by the bassist and the drummer- who at times is a virtuoso. One of the best drummers I can remember seeing actually- the fills were very tight. Occasionally they go a little flat (forgive them this- singing harmonies in tricky acoustics isn't easy), and occasionally the bassist's voice sounds a little American teen-angsty, where by “I'm here” becomes “I'm heee-yah”. Beautiful Innovator is the best track, and their finale sounds almost psychedelic, evoking The Who's Quadrophenia.

Conclusion
The Argonauts are very endearing. The music is really nice, harmonious stuff. They aren't trying to challenge you, pander to trends, or adhere to fashion. Which is why, tragically, they probably won't get anywhere. Anyone looking for a drummer?

the argonauts gramophone ten bells commercial tavern live review thomas lang 3345 parr st studios