Despite being in desperate need of an extra bandmate or two, Orla Gartland had plenty of strong enough material to give the crowd exactly what they wanted in Leeds. Unlike her friend and peer dodie, however, her live act still has plenty of room to grow in the years to come.
Idouble- and triple-checked that my ticket proudly branded with the words ‘Orla Gartland’ in stretched all caps (a valuable souvenir to keep for years) was safely stowed in my wallet as I walked across the unsettlingly gloomy campus of Leeds University alone at twilight. It had been a difficult drive in and locating the venue wasn’t any easier. I walked into the modern, sterile white of the student union building with some trepidation, half hoping to bump into some old school mates that must have been no further than a mile or two away. Down a flight of steps and round a corner and at last I found the Orla fans slowly meandering around the cafeteria amongst students hunched over chess boards, iMacs and fast food. Only now did the dejà vu I had expected kicked in; I’d partied with this bunch of stylish, brightly-coloured teenagers not so long ago. As a close friend of dodie, Gartland shares much of the same fanbase with the uke-pop superstar, even if her sound has a decidedly more rock ‘n’ roll edge than anything dodie’s ever released. I recognised a handful of familiar faces from dodie’s showstopping Manchester gig, and overheard phrases like “At The Dodie Gig she didn’t start until 9:30!” or “I hope there’s some choreo like The Dodie Gig!” I wore my dodie mask again with the pride of a passionate football supporter, albeit not quite at the right match.
For all their similarities, it must be said that dodie is simply the more famous and more beloved of the two friends. If O2 Apollo was a Championship-level venue for dodie, Gartland’s Stylus had more of a League Two feel, and this time I had no issues in getting close enough to the stage to properly take in all the action. The venue size inevitably meant there was none of the fancy confetti or versatile lighting that made the dodie gig feel so once-in-a-lifetime – this was a straightforward gig where musicians play their music and nothing more. Gartland’s time on the big stages of Britain is most certainly still to come.
The obvious comparisons to dodie can only be taken so far. After a humdrum choice of opener Pretending, Things That I’ve Learned and oh GOD made a nice pairing with their unmistakably-Orla and risky odd time grooves that got the crowd shrugging along, even though dance moves are difficult to coordinate in 5/4. Sara Leigh Shaw was the right drummer for the job, clattering into the chorus on oh GOD with a laser focus. Tucked away slightly on the side of the stage, she looked uncannily similar to Gartland herself with her own mop of ginger hair that bobbed about in time to the stumbling groove behind that “I don’t wanna think about it” earworm. Gartland meanwhile looked ready to take on the world with her chequered green suit and matching neon green eyeshadow, commanding the crowd atop an inch or two of chunky Doc Martens. Rounding out the band was Pete Daynes. One of the standout performers of the dodie tour, his return was well received, with his enthusiastic jaunts wielding his P-bass around the stage earning him chants of “Pete! Pete! Pete!” on two separate occasions.
The problem was a lack of personnel. Often Gartland’s ambitious pop-rock creations demanded more than the three albeit competent musicians could provide. (Intriguingly, support acts Greta Isaac and Clean Cut Kid could have really done with at least two more performers each – probably another manifestation of the supply chain crisis or something.) Poor Pete often had to oblige with synth parts, backing vocals and a drum machine, and a cool yet unnecessary glowing drumstick wasn’t enough to distract from the fact that this man was born to leap around with his bass like the Easter Bunny. Restricting him to the keyboard rack on the gritty, earthy bomb of a pop song Bloodline for example was nothing short of criminal.
Gartland was an engaging and loveable frontwoman, delivering sure-fire crowd pleasers from the recent album like You’re Not Special, Babe and Over Your Head with guts and charisma. Indie rock gem Codependency sounded somehow even better than the studio version, with Shaw digging in on the sections of the chorus where all momentum was previously lost. It’s a testament to Gartland’s skills as a performer that the quieter moments of the set were just as powerful as the aforementioned rock singalongs. Madison was a joy – a perfectly written acoustic ode to Gartland’s therapist with an expertly crafted melody at its heart. Gartland took to the piano for the touching Left Behind, an achingly vulnerable piece that left the crowd desperate to give Gartland one big hug before she embarked on her last few numbers.
Sara Leigh Shaw leaped atop Pete Daynes to celebrate another successful night on tour with Orla Gartland
I Go Crazy soon picked things up, taking the role of Gartland’s almost-funk jam (see dodie’s In the Middle) and properly turning the pit into a dancefloor for the first time in the night. Daynes was sure to make the most of a bubbly bassline, whipping up the crowd whenever he could. Gartland ramped up the usual crowd participation routine as the set drew to a close. Difficult Things was a good opportunity for a two-part audience call and response section, and there was something vaguely profound and moving about a few hundred concert-goers repeatedly chanting “we never talk about difficult things” in unison. In contrast, synthpop foot-tapper Flatline was a chance for the obligatory “crouch for the bridge and jump up for chorus” schtick which, despite being somewhat painful in the knees after hours of standing in one spot, was impossible not to smile at. I didn’t even know the song, but something about bouncing around in sync with these young and happy strangers was life-affirming.
The encore was mostly reserved for fan favourites More Like You and Zombie!, although as far as I was concerned the gig had already reached its pinnacle. I may not have returned to my car with the giddy buzz that the best gigs give me, but it’s nonetheless hard to fault Gartland, who put in a good shift despite requiring some added support in the form of personnel and some more engaging staging and lighting. With that, I can safely stash away my dodie mask for a long while — or at least until Pete Daynes starts doing his own headline tours.
On her first UK tour since the release of her critically-acclaimed debut album, Nubya Garcia’s complex jazz creations were finally given time and space to be explored in their full glory, aided by a stunning trio of supporting musicians that might have even outshined Garcia herself.
It’s been a while coming, but as my friend Emma and I rocked up at Gorilla on a non-descript weekday night in Manchester, my concert-going muscle memory started to kick in. For obvious reasons, my gigging habit had previously stopped almost as soon as it began. I started by catching Parcels at Brudenell Social Club in 2018 (I was luckier than I realised; 3 years later and they’re one of my favourite bands of all), and managed to fit in American rock duo of mom jeans. and Prince Daddy & the Hyena before the world ended. Now with another half-dozen under my belt – including a scream-along special with Declan McKenna in Newcastle and an incredible, enthralling night with dodie in Manchester – I’m starting to feel like a bit of an old pro. At Gorilla it didn’t take long for me to suss out the bar and the messy hubub of thirsty people that it attracted in an undefined queue, and the staff were relatively efficient in supplying my usual pint of Coke and some disposable earplugs (much unlike my nightmarish experience at nearby Victoria Warehouse a few months ago). Then was the uncomfortable task of finding a satisfactory spot to stand in the crowd. For this, Emma proved to be an expert, and effortlessly weaved her way through the bodies, miraculously reaching a spacious spot an arm’s reach from the stage edge. There’s nothing quite like getting a spot so close to the stage you can practically worship the feet of the musician in front of you, especially when the musician in question is enigmatic jazz keyboardist Joe Armon-Jones.
As a keyboardist myself, Joe inevitably got much of my attention for the night, but a more obvious performer to venerate was the woman on the ticket: Nubya Garcia, one of the headline artists amongst the much talked-about vanguard of contemporary British jazz. With a Medusa-like splay of dreadlocks and a wide stance, she was an admirably powerful figure on centre stage, wielding a tenor saxophone – alto’s musclier, more serious big brother. Ever since her debut EP Nubya’s 5ive was released in 2017, it seems like the general excitement around her ability to inspire a generation of new, young jazz fans has only grown and grown. Even the supporting players in that EP – Moses Boyd and Femi Coleoso on drums, Theon Cross on tuba – have also become major players in the new genre, bringing their own extensive range of bands and solo projects. Start researching and it’s easy to get lost in the proliferation of new, British (but, let’s be honest, mostly London) jazz, and as a young jazz player myself, it’s thrilling to watch. On walking into Gorilla, however, we were reminded that for all the growing momentum of UK jazz, it’s still far from the mainstream. Gorilla can only handle up to 700 jazzheads and the flickering LEDs behind the band hardly screamed high-budget. UK jazz is still jazz after all, with all its challenging harmony and abstract improvisation, and Garcia’s particular brand is hardly aimed at converting Ed Sheeran fans. Instead, her music digs into long and often noisy solos powered by splashy, busy drumming and colorful injections of dissonant harmony. Heads often only have slightly less improvisation than the solos themselves and hooks, while undoubtedly present, are hardly abundant.
With an audience of fans that get it (unlike Garcia’s recent televised performances at the BBC Proms or with Jools Holland), Garcia rightly had no hesitation in fully exploring every tune with epic solos and fluid song structure. Absorbing opener Source was a perfect example: the 12-minute studio version may be a bit much for some, but on the night it became a 20-minute jazz odyssey. Thankfully, it was difficult to get tired of the sticky, heavy dub reggae groove it its centre, underlined by a Daniel Casimir’s bubbly basslines and Tom Jones’ snappy sidestick. All four performers had plenty of time to make their introductions. Armon-Jones’ solo was captivating, segueing from a brief section of precise samba to a dense cacophony of glissandos and cluster chords. Daniel Casimir’s double bass solo was both the most succinct and successful solo of the bunch, adding more character and groove into his plucking than I thought was possible. A final, stupendous riff was greeted by a stunned applause, with Garcia noticeably reluctant to take back the lead.
As you can imagine, time went quickly and the band only had time to fit in a streamlined selection of six songs to play for the whole night. Garcia delivered some light-hearted and fun chat in between each tune. She had a tendency to get lost on a tangent about the origin of a song or the experience of playing her first tour post-lockdown, but even so it was lovely to see the obvious joy that performing her music to a crowd brings. “I’m in a good place right now,” she earnestly told the crowd at one point, to which we all cheered. If Queen Nubya was happy, then so were we.
The Message Continues followed a thought-provoking chat about Garcia passing on the ‘message’ of her heritage, which she encouraged us all to do too. The sparkling groove – one of Garcia’s most immediate and memorable – nods to her Guyanese and Trinidadian roots with a cumbia-informed bass riff and lightly shuffling drum work. Afterwards, Pace delivered a whole different world for the musicians to play in: a frenzied and overwhelming solo section was intended to mimic the stresses of constant touring and socialising with no rest. The eventual mayhem was made all the more impactful by what preceded it – a total bass solo from Casimir, for which the others left the stage completely. He was more than worthy of owning the stage for a few breathless minutes, each melody more beautifully adventurous than the last. I don’t think any of us wanted it to stop.
Another moment of surprising solace came with Stand With Each Other, a sparse combination of solo saxophone and tasteful afrobeat drumming. Here, Garcia’s outstanding tone was on full display; breathy, soulful and immaculately controlled. The saxophone really did seem to morph into a fifth limb – no longer merely an instrument, but a second voice through which to speak volumes more than words ever could. There was a spine-tingling sense of awe in the room as Garcia effortlessly faded out a long final note into silence.
Daniel Casimir’s solo at the start of Pace was one of the highlights
For all Garcia’s technical brilliance, it would be going too far to say her performance was flawless. Even Emma – an even stronger supporter of UK jazz than I am – admitted that her solos could get formulaic. Gradually building chromatically to ever higher, ever louder long notes seemed to be Garcia’s go-to game plan and, unlike Armon-Jones or Jones, there were few times we were wowed by her technical dexterity, even if her tone and command of her instrument is immense. A brief sortie into the squeaky and impressive-sounding altissimo range of her instrument during Pace was only partially successful, and certainly the more foghorn-like lower end of her tenor range had more impact during the big moments.
That said, Garcia doesn’t have to be John Coltrane to be an exciting artist, and seeing her and her friends create art in front of our eyes was a thrill unlike any of the over-rehearsed rock and pop concerts I’ve attended recently. As with most jazz performances, Garcia and her band of outstanding musicians were intent on creating something unique and impossible to replicate. Even Garcia’s chats were free-flowing and improvised, and the atmosphere in the room benefitted as a result. The venues and audience may remain relatively small thanks to the inaccessibility of her boundary-pushing style to the average listener, but Garcia deserves praise to sticking to what she loves. In an industry of Tiktok-pandering overnight millionaires and the same old chart-storming pop idols, a night at Gorilla was a pleasant reminder that this corner of fast-moving jazz well outside the mainstream isn’t going anywhere.
In a belated end to his UK tour, Oscar Jerome had enough strong material and bewildering virtuosity to compete with the very best of his UK jazz peers. It’s unfortunate he was let down by a patchy setlist, limiting instrumentation and questionable sound design.
For a moment I questioned whether I’d ever actually see Oscar Jerome in Leeds as we suddenly found ourselves at the front of a lengthy queue outside Belgrave Music Hall & Canteen. It wasn’t the first time; this gig in particular has been toyed with by the pandemic. It was postponed twice from its now quaintly ambitious original date in October 2020 and a third attempt a year later tragically coincided with a city-wide venue boycott amidst a completely seperate, equally uncontrollable epidemic of syringe spikings in nightclubs across the country.
It was only once we had been let in to the chic yet understated Belgrave Music Hall that reality set in for me and my friends Emma and Fionn. Despite arriving at a leisurely 8pm, we really had benefitted from a quirk in the queuing system, and sauntered up to a gloriously quiet and queueless bar like royalty before taking our pick of standing spot in front of the stage (in the middle, right at the front, of course). At one point Oscar himself even walked across the near-empty audience space (just a few feet away from us!), prompting palpatations. Shadowy in a trench coat and with his two emmaculate mirrored locks of hair, we had to check with each other our anticipation for the gig hadn’t led to hallucination. No, Emma’s astonished face confirmed, it hadn’t.
To add to our pleasant surprise, it wasn’t particularly long before the man himself was just a few metres in front of us, with his trench coat now cast aside to reveal a playful striped t-shirt behind a chunky Ibanez guitar. I’ve spent good chunk of the 18-month build up to the gig daydreaming about just how good inevitable opener Sun For Someone would sound and feel live. That purring bassline paired with Ayo Salawu’s nimble jazz-funk drumming could surely be nothing but electrifying in the flesh. Indeed it was, especially after meditative solo guitar musings of Searching for Aliens, which worked well as a calm before the blissful storm that followed.
In truth, I felt some niggling disappointment as Sun For Someone segued into the decidedly less exciting Coy Moon. The levels were all off. The kick drum and that bass line – however competently played by Tom Dreissler – swallowed up both Jerome’s guitar and vocals, leaving the melody often noticeably warped and the need for a bit of wishful thinking in order to hear one of Jerome’s finest tracks in its full glory. Whilst it was a recurring frustration on the night, on balance I think the main cause of the issues was in a lack of gigging experience from me, Emma and Fionn. In our front-of-the-queue giddiness we had inadvertently selected sonically the worst spot in the house, resulting in a face full of kick drum whilst Jerome’s dulcet tones were directed into the space behind us by speakers beside the stage. We might have been close enough to examine the glossy sheen on Jerome’s faintly dyed hair or assess whether he needs to trim his nose hairs (he doesn’t), but in return the sound would never quite feel professional quality throughout the night.
Somewhat consolingly, it wasn’t just us. I overheard talk about the haphazard levels immediately after the gig had finished, and even in the middle of the set there was evidence that there was issues for the performers too. Jerome requested his mic to be turned up during and after Sun For Someone; Dreissler needed time to fiddle with his bass between songs later on and a misbehaving kick drum mic was a repeated concern for both Jerome and Salawu, at one point completely taking the limelight from a blistering Richie Smart conga solo. Whilst I’ve learnt my lesson that the front row isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, I’m sure there’s more the sound engineers could have done to make it a less significant drawback on the night.
If the jazz fans around me were annoyed by the sound issues, they didn’t show it. The mood in the room was one of celebration, with Jerome humble enough to engage with every slightly over-eager heckler. There was the obligatory marriage proposals (“I will if you can get me an EU passport,” Oscar offered) and an accepted request for happy birthday from a very possibly intoxicated fan. One man even managed to buy Oscar a pint and hand it up to him between songs. The resulting chant of “chug! chug! chug!” crossed a line. “I don’t do shit like that anymore,” Oscar laughed before taking a grateful sip.
Just as it had done for Declan McKenna, Orla Gartland and Nubya Garcia, the pandemic has created an unusually big gap between the release of Jerome’s strong debut album Breathe Deep and a subsequent tour. As a result, Jerome caved into temptation to devote a good deal of the gig to unreleased songs from the upcoming follow-up album. It’s a risky, and in my opinion a little impatient, decision to take, and the four new songs aired on the night proved to be a mixed bag. Groovy and hooky Berlin 1 was the pick of the bunch, but Feet Down South also provided a great opportunity for an arresting bass solo from Dreissler. Sweet Isolation, on the other hand, was the flattest moment of the whole evening: a drab, meandering track that did little to inspire movement from the audience beyond a polite nod of the head. Devoting so much time to new songs also meant less time for tried-and-true hits. Give Back What U Stole From Me and Fkn Happy Days ‘N’ That – both highlights from Breathe Deep – were the two most obvious set list casualties.
As the sound levels improved, the highlights came with the songs that relied most on Jerome’s guitar virtuosity. Joy is You, a heartwarming ode to his newborn nephew, saw Jerome have the stage all to himself yet still provide ample soul and colour with some dextrous plucking. “As the past slips through the window / The joy is you” he sang with a smile, revealing some tender vulnerability that was well recieved by the crowd. By contrast, sophisticated and dynamic Gravitate was powered by Salawu’s brilliant, stumbling drum groove, but still saw Jerome improvising at his scintillating best amidst sumptuous melodic bass playing from Dreissler. An extended guitar solo was the only opportunity Jerome had to display his full jazz solo prowess, developing a seed of an idea into an all-consumming spectacle before kicking into one last chorus.
Jerome’s lack of saxophonist was not as fatal as Orla Gartland’s lack of keyboardist a few months ago, but certain songs did lose a good deal of their original detail as a result. 2 Sides and fan favourite Do You Really sounded simply incomplete without the great hooks that had been offered by saxophone and backing vocals on the originals. The three of us certainly tried our best to fill in the melodic gaps with our own voices on the latter, but there was only so much we could do. That said, sax or no sax, Do You Really remains a career highlight for Jerome, and a strong chorus was rapturously recieved by the crowd, prompting demands for an encore, with which the band happily obliged.
There was mock horror just before the start of the gig when we spied on the setlist taped to the stage floor that underwhelming recent single No Need was scheduled to be the final song of the night. We were in for shock: No Need was easily one of the best tracks of the night, taking us from rapid swing to hypnotic funk and back again and at last turning Belgrave Music Hall into a proper dancefloor. Salawu’s tastefully played real drums and Jerome’s rhythmic guitar made perfect replacements for the studio version’s drum machine and wishy-washy keys, and the transition from jazz to dance was executed with a thrill lost on the original song. To my huge relief, Jerome assured us that the concert was being recorded; I’m already desperate for a second listen.
As he bid farewell with No Need‘s slap bass and pounding kick drum, I was reminded that Jerome, for all his outstanding musical ability, is still in the early stages of a very promising career. With little more than an album’s worth of material at his disposal, conjuring up a five-star set was always an uphill battle, and dealing with less experienced sound engineers at the smaller venues may just be par for the course. Even so, after having had a brief chat with him after the gig, the post-gig high was very sweet indeed. The three of us practically skipped through central Leeds and back to the car, jubilantly singing Do You Really with a tote bag full of signed vinyls swinging from my shoulder. At last, there was no gig left to postpone, no songs left to wishfully daydream. The long wait had been worth it.
The pioneering Welsh-language trio had plenty of quality material from their recent double album to dig into in Newcastle, although the scuzzy guitars and restless basslines were occasionally let down by Hollie Singer’s limited vocal performance.
It’s a gorgeous, starry night in Ouseburn, and from my vantage point high up in the valley the distant yellow lights of the Cluny could easily be sparkling campfire or a stray firefly. I walk down over the old cobblestone bridge that crosses the brook and, not for the first time, I’m awed by the looming giant that is Byker Bridge – a hulking red-brick symbol of the triumph and brutality of Victorian industry, which today conveys a steady flow of double decker busses some 100 feet above the valley floor. These days, of course, Ouseburn is known not as the centre of Newcastle’s heavy industries, but as a remarkable cultural oasis, with the Cluny as its beloved beating heart. This Tuesday night in February features a typically grassroots bill, including local dance-punks Fashion Tips (who deliver a rather incoherent set, despite the appeal of screaming frontwoman Louise Newman looking like a librarian gone wild) and buzzy Welsh-language post punk trio Adwaith.
In fact, these are exciting times for Adwaith and Welsh rock in general. The fact that the Carmarthen band choose to sing exclusively in Welsh is a laudably punk act in itself – any casual student of Eurovision will know English is the language of choice if you want to appeal to the broadest audience possible – but Adwaith clearly value the promotion of their language and culture over profits. They’re not shy about it either – their recent release, timed to coincide with the tenth anniversary of Welsh Language Music Day, is a 23-track, 75-minute behemoth that wilfully disregards the accepted wisdom that a steady stream of singles and EPs is that best way to grow your streaming numbers these days. Alongside Gruff Rhys and Tara Bandito, Adwaith are the brightest lights in a new wave of Welsh music revivalists hoping to meet and possibly surpass the success of the genre’s 90s figureheads Super Furry Animals.
What was so surprising about that double album, Solas, was not just its ambitious length, but how the quality of the songwriting remained so consistently strong throughout its testing runtime. “It cost us a bloody fortune,” bassist Gwenllian Anthony reminds us twice tonight, pointing towards the merch stand where t-shirts printed with the band’s glorious Welsh names (Gwenllian, Heledd and Hollie) appear to be selling well. Tonight’s set is essentially a front-to-back playthrough of Solas (minus of a few of the duller tracks), a choice which gives the set the meticulous sequencing of an album, although also leaves it feeling somewhat risk-free and predictable.
Opener Planed established quickly that the Welsh language was far from the only interesting thing about this band. Bubbly synths mingled with fidgety, vaguely Middle Eastern guitar snippets (inevitably pre-recorded and played as a backing track), whilst Anthony’s muscular bass riff contrasted nicely with Hollie Singer’s deadpan vocals – a juxtaposition that appeals on song after song tonight. Mwy and Gofyn were stompy early highlights, with Anthony wrapping her fingers around two elephantine bass riffs, the minimalist compositions ending up like warped approximations of Afrobeat and reggae respectively.
Whilst Singer’s quiet and restrained approach to vocals offered some nice contrasts to the gritty guitar music that surrounded her (her almost-whispered performance in frugging standout Y Ddawns was deliciously sinister), other songs demanded a bigger stage presence and a vocal commitment Singer never seemed prepared to offer. Coeden Anniben’s bratty punk strop fell flat with Singer standing largely motionless on stage, and it’s no wonder that there was never the faintest whiff of a mosh pit amongst the Cluny patrons (in fact, sometimes it felt like I was the only one dancing). Singer was upstaged when she swapped roles with Anthony for Pelydr-X, who duly wrapped the mic cord around her neck like a feather boa, planted a boot on an on-stage monitor and gave it her all. It was a theatrical performance that elevated an otherwise middling track, but it also highlighted how much better Adwaith could be with a little more charisma and chutzpah.
Sanas, the recent album’s exhilaratingly unhinged prog rock interlude, disappointingly didn’t make the cut for this show, but we did get its follow-up Miliwn. Easily the band’s most tightly written pop-rock composition, it was only at this point that Singer seemed to fully relax, digging into an anthemic chorus over a lively bassline (the fact that “miliwn” is a simple cognate of the English “million” allowed for a rare opportunity for an audience singalong in Newcastle). Heledd Owen was an engine on the drums at the back of the stage, and Singer’s hook is a knockout. One suspects more singles of this quality are only a matter of time for Adwaith, but for now Miliwn stands alone as their finest effort.
The applause at the end of the set lasted just about long enough to justify an encore of the band’s sleeper hit Fel i Fod and the sweetly sentimental Eto, before the trio were unplugging their guitars and hurrying over to man their own merch stand. I obtained a set list from Owen and happily strolled back onto the streets of Ouseburn and back under Byker Bridge. It had been a satisfying if unspectacular midweek fixture – the gigging equivalent to a 1-0 win at home – but I was reassured that I’d supported a worthy up-and-coming band, both with my ticket fee and my lonesome yet committed dancing at the front and centre of the crowd. I may not have understood a word Hollie Singer sang, but strolling back home along dark wooded lanes, I was left certain that Adwaith’s star is in the ascendance.
The Canadian racket-makers specialise in gloomy songs about hopelessness and self-loathing, but this exhilarating blitz of bangers in Leeds brought nothing but joy to an amped up crowd eager to throw their drinks – and each other – in the air.
About three songs into PUP’s Leeds gig hands are already sprouting up from the centre of the crowd between songs. It’s not out of music-induced joy, but requests for the paper cups of water the stewards in front of the stage are already handing out – such is the heart-racing intensity of this band’s mosh-primed punk tracks. By the time a much needed drink comes my way, the next song is already revving into gear, a volley of cymbals setting the people around me in frenzied motion. I end up drinking half of it and spilling the rest over myself and the poor woman next to me in the ensuing carnage. 90 minutes later, it will be hard to spot a concertgoer not drenched in an odorous mix of water, sweat and beer as they stagger out the venue and back into reality.
PUP have no doubt seen scenes such as these many times before. The Toronto quartet are now five excellent albums in to a steadily successful career in the business of laying their hearts on the line over high octane guitar riffs and pounding drums. 2016’s fan favourite The Dream Is Over and more polished follow-up Morbid Stuff were nothing less than classics of the genre, Stefan Babcock’s unremittingly grim lyrics about harsh Canadian winters proving a winning combination with his anthemic and gloriously catchy melodies. Those albums were a creative high water mark that PUP – and most rock bands, in fact – have struggled to regain ever since, although this month’s new release Who Will Look After the Dogs? proved Babcock’s appetite for catchy nihilism isn’t going anywhere soon (the very first lyrics read “Staring into the void now / You’re going down with the ship”.)
In fact, PUP’s numerous songs about depression, hopelessness and loneliness are so intensely bleak you can understand Babcock feeling a little uncomfortable singing them night after night to packed rooms of thrilled fans. “These songs are so depressing, but we play them and you guys look like you’re smiling and having a good time and it feels… good,” Babcock tells us touchingly at one point. Cue Sleep In The Heat, a song about living alone and “blacking out on my carpet” which sparks sheer bedlam. “You wasted away / And nothing I do is gonna save you,” Babcock’s lyrics admit, but the fans are more interested in belting the free-spirited “woah-oh” hook, one hand on their chests and the other in the air as if it were the national anthem.
Such is the remarkable power of music: write a good melody and even words written from the lowest depths of depression can feel paradoxically awe-inspiring, life-affirming and even hopeful. Time and again, PUP pulled off this artistic miracle in front of an anarchic crowd lapping up every last power chord. Totally Fine’s flirtation with suicidal ideation sparked a wave of crowd surfers, crashing over my shoulders every 30 seconds or so. Free At Last had us screaming PUP’s most brilliantly bitter lyric (“Just ‘cause you’re sad again / It doesn’t make you special”) as Nestor Chumak sprinted through a sinuous bass line and Steve Sladkowski delivered one of the night’s many exquisite guitar solos.
The up tempo bangers came quick and fast, and perhaps a more shrewd use of the band’s slower numbers might have resulted in a stronger reception for recent single Get Dumber – for my money one of the band’s most exhilarating singles to date, but during which I found myself pogoing mostly alone. Babcock apologised before playing his pet song at the expense of the fans’ wishes (a cacophonous PUPTHEBAND Inc. Is Filing For Bankruptcy), but really this show offered a generous helping of old fan favourites. Nine year old magnum opus DVP was breathless musically and literally – one person pinned hard against the barriers had to be hurriedly extracted by stewards mid-song. Babcock couldn’t help but smile when a huge mosh circle formed spontaneously at the grand climax of Scorpion Hill; PUP have long graduated from the days of verbally coordinating these things. All Babcock needs to do is give a quick plea for a baseline level of personal safety at the start of the gig, and the rest of the mosh runs like clockwork, limbs flying and bodies rushing towards each other with instinctive glee.
Like all the best gigs, there was a sense that even Babcock and his bandmates felt that this particular gig was a special one. “Leeds has always been kind to us,” he told us gratefully, and there was a glint in his eye as he romped through an apocalyptic-sounding Paranoid, the band given extra heft by two guitarists from support act Illuminati Hotties. Hotties vocalist Sarah Tudzin stayed on stage for a rendition of Reservoir and promptly missed her cue for the first verse. No bother – the crowd were screaming along so loudly the vocals were barely audible anyway.
Metal-leaning Full Blown Meltdown was an oddly non-anthemic choice of song to close on, and PUP admirably refused to go through the usual encore pantomime. I had moshed my way to the front and was shouting the lyrics back at Babcock when he locked eyes with me, jumped off the stage and grabbed my hands, urgently shouting something off-mic. It didn’t take long for me to get the message – I set about hauling him into the air, pulling at his jeans and then lifting up his Converses above the sea of bodies behind me. It turned out to be a textbook piece of surfing from Babcock, moving at pace around the room six feet above the floor in a smooth arc before washing up back on stage just in time for the end of the song.
With that, PUP left the stage and the crowd caught their breath. A woman collected her cardigan now in tatters on the floor beside me. A man stood alone in the centre of the room holding up a single leather shoe, searching in vain for its owner. Friends reunited and hugged tightly before recounting their own tales from the mosh pit. I beelined for the water stand then relocated my own friends to hug and brag to about my moment with Stefan. The whole gig had been an extraordinary mix of violence and tenderness, loathing and loving, depression and euphoria. In each case, it was the latter that stuck with us in the smelly taxi ride home.
How exactly does the art of music-making change when it becomes a small part of a much larger video game or feature film? And what makes the soundtrack of Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse so remarkable? Alex Walden is on hand to reveal all.
One of the things that I love most about music is that it’s entirely subjective. There’s no genetic influence on what type of music you enjoy or what you look for in music; it’s completely down to just what your brain likes and that’s what makes it so unique. There’s complete freedom over what songs you like, what you like about music and what music you prefer to listen to while experiencing specific emotions. Take me for example: I can go from Kanye West to Nirvana straight to Jorja Smith like its nothing. Music’s ability to merge its way into any and every situation in life is one of the best things about it. So, what happens when entertainment corporations begin to realise this? The simple answer is that you get soundtracks, a collection of songs which feature sometimes extensive lists of artists from the same genre who are recruited to essentially convey to you how a project should sound. If done well, these soundtracks can become a great way to further indulge yourself into a corporation’s project. But what makes a soundtrack so good? By looking at some of my favourite examples I hope to give you an insight into exactly that.
DOOM and the ability to immerse To this day, the pair of unbranded plain grey headphones that my father bought for me as a Christmas gift years ago remain one of my essential items. The main reason for this is that they come with what was at the time a new feature known Active Noise Cancelling. Although I found this feature amazing when I first experienced it, it made me appreciate the idea of having music as background noise more. For example, as I’m typing this right now on my busted AirPods at about 60% volume in my silent room I can still hear the tapping sound of my fingers on my laptop, which is helping me from becoming completely focused on this Slum Village album, whilst helping me focus on what I’m writing. The addition of music is sometimes the crucial piece needed to allow a consumer to become immersed in entertainment and Mick Gordan’s DOOM soundtrack is a prime example of this.
For those who don’t know, DOOM is a video game series which has been going since 1993. What started out as a simple arcade-style shooter has gradually progressed in recent years to become one of the most intense games ever released. You can only imagine how intense a game set on Mars with your primary objective to kill everything in sight in increasingly gruesome ways could be. Filled with fast paced action and highly detailed combat sequences, this game series has earned its place as one of my favourite game series to play. The game itself may be great, but the soundtrack is the driving force as to why this game is so special.
DOOM‘s original release dates back to 1993
As you tread through the game’s map you are given a subtle warning as a stream of white noise and bass tones hit you. In addition these sounds have been completely transformed by an extensive list of phasers, pedals, distortion boxes, reverb effects and many more. These short stretches of music are known as stems and are designed to give you an uneasy feeling of dread. It forces your brain to tell you “I don’t know what’s up ahead but whatever it is, it’s going to a be a lot”. As soon as the combat starts, the game’s techno-based sounds are completely thrown out the window, now replaced with no-nonsense metal. The addition of heavy metal music which accompanies a swarm of demons as they head directly towards you forces your body to produce a surge of adrenaline as you try fight your way through the horde.
Mick Gordon’s idea of combining metal with electronic sounding drums and heavily altered stems is not only genius, but also extremely difficult to pull off. Metal music has always been a violent badass and extremely niche category of music. It’s aggressive, fast paced and resembles everything about this new generation of music that your grandma hates. However, the fact that metal is so niche that can be its downfall sometimes. There are occasions metal fans don’t like when their genre is mixed in with more cliché genres such as techno. They feel as if their music is being watered down or that the people who make it are just doing it for money, not just the love of music. Yet Mick Gordon is able to use just the right amount of techno influence in extremely heavy basslines to add that extra kick that makes the music hit that bit more. I mean seriously – the drums and guitar riffs in this game are completely unmatched. It sounds something far beyond the capabilities of some video game composer from Australia.
Sometimes I need to pause DOOM… either I need to turn my volume down or I feel way out of my depth.
There have been times when I’ve had to pause the game while in the middle of a combat scene. This is always because of two reasons: either I need to turn my volume down because I can feel a headache coming on, or I just feel way out of my depth and need a minute to gather myself before I jump back into the game. That’s why I love DOOM so much. I’ve never played a game where I feel as if I’m being mentally dragged right out of my comfort zone, pushing myself to my limits as I try to comprehend everything around me while also trying to stay alive. I assure you that without a soundtrack, this game wouldn’t feel the same. (No seriously, I’ve actually played the whole game on mute while I watch a show in the background). But with Mick Gordon’s remarkable background music blasting through my ears, my mind constantly bounces back and forth between the thoughts of how amazing a song is and how I’m currently flirting with death in my game right now. It’s as if the game is able to control my brain, messing with me so that I’ll find it all the more challenging to complete.
Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse and the construction of fictional universes
It’s time I let you into my lives a little more now. I have to admit I’m practically in love with the Post Malone and Swae Lee song Sunflower. Ask anyone who knows me and they’ll tell you I have a borderline unhealthy addiction to this song. At the time of writing this, Sunflower is my most played song on Spotify since I created my account (that must say something considering that this I discovered this song 5 years after I first created my account). If I’m honest, I could easily write a whole dissertation level paper about how the movie, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse, is a perfect movie but for now I’m going to attempt to restrain myself and try to only talk about why the soundtrack is able to help construct a fictional universe for the consumer.
Spider-Man: Into the Spiderverse received widespread critical acclaim in 2018 for its creative storytelling and hit-filled soundtrack
Spider-Man Into the Spider-Verse is, in my opinion, the best spider-man film made to date. The story follows Black and Puerto-Rican teen Miles Morales as he begins his journey at the Brooklyn Visions Academy. It’s clear from the beginning that Miles isn’t a huge fan of the academy and feels pressured to live up to his father’s expectations. However, while hanging out with his Uncle Aaron, Miles’ entire world gets completely flipped upside down when he gets bitten by a radioactive spider. I’ll spare you my synopsis of this film, but seriously there’s practically and endless list as to why I love this movie so much. One of the key things I always notice is that like most teens in this day and age, Miles gets anxious and things can feel mentally out of his control very quickly. It’s through music that Miles is able to calm himself down, which I know is a very common practice for people who struggle with anxiety, so we naturally relate to him because we see he’s just a kid underneath the mask.
One of the best decisions Marvel made was constructing this specific movie soundtrack. We feel as if we’re being brought into Miles’ world. With tracks like What’s Up Danger and Start a Riot we get the textbook high energy songs that let our minds wander and draw up our own Spidey-themed scenarios in our heads, but with tracks such as Sunflower, Invincible and Scared of the Dark we’re brought into Miles’ personal life. Behind all the vigilante stunts, he’s really just a kid from Brooklyn. It’s through this that were able to build a connection with Miles and we feel as if we actually know him – after all, we know his music taste, his character traits, and his biggest secret.
It’s through the soundtrack that we’re about to build a connection with Miles. We see he’s just a kid underneath his mask.
One of the most common issues with movie soundtracks today is that, although companies tend to recruit artists who are in the mainstream scene at the time, it often sounds forced and cringey because let’s face it, the number one rule with any creative passion is that it shouldn’t be forced because everyone can tell when it’s not from the heart. I’ve even read up on cases where artists have been paid to name drop specific brands in their lyrics. People can tell if you have a genuine passion for something or if you’re just doing it for clout. But with Into the Spider-Verse’s soundtrack, Marvel managed to group together artists who fit quite well in the hip hop and pop rap categories, so for them this was just another song for them to write. In particular, you can hear how good the genuine chemistry is between Post and Swae throughout the song Sunflower. It’s probably why Post decided to take Swae Lee on tour with him after the songs release.
mid90s and cultural representation
If you would’ve told me when I was a kid that hip hop would become one of the most popular genres of music in the future, including the number one in America at one point, I would’ve thought that you were talking complete nonsense and I’d have fair reason to. Up until 2016, hip hop was seen as the outcast genre. It was viewed as the genre which your kids should avoid and hip hop artists were deemed to have no valid musical talent. One of my other favourite hobbies as a kid which also got a bad rep was skateboarding. I grew up in the era of skateboarding where the days of kids watching Tony Hawk blast off crazy huge ramps and go around pools were starting to fade as street skating grew in popularity. This obviously led to skateboarding being viewed as a reckless sport which some people even saw as a crime. The representations of these two interests of mine are why they used to be home to quite niche communities, which is the same reason they ended up getting represented so poorly in mainstream media, because the people who write about it often don’t know anything about it. Despite this, there is the odd moment where it’s done well and mid90s is a prime example of how it’s done perfectly.
Jonah Hill gave all the kids on set real iPods to listen to 90s hip hop on. As someone who skates, this is a major victory.
The story of mid90s is relatively simple. It follows 13-year-old Stevie (Sunny Suljic) as he navigates his way through summer accompanied by a troubling home life and a group of friends he meets at the local skate shop. What I like most about this film is that it accurately represents the skate community by showing all skaters are different; hell, some of the skaters in this film are in their teens while some are just kids. It’s not just some attempt at seeming edgy for a money grab. In fact, all the people who play skaters in mid90s were skating way before they were acting. You can find them on the Illegal Civ YouTube channel which is what makes this movie so comforting to watch you feel as if you’re just watching some kids skate. It doesn’t feel like you’re watching some scripted attempt at making skating seem rebellious and edgy.
mid90s marked Jonah Hill’s directorial debut in 2018
One of the best aspects of this film is that it features music from the time that the film is set. As a matter of fact, director Jonah Hill gave all of the kids on set iPods which were all filled with songs that he used to listen to growing up in the 90s. Many of the songs on these iPods were from artists such as Pixies, Wu Tang Clan and The Pharcyde who were also featured during the movie. Now, to the average viewer this would just be seen as a method to help add to a scene, but as someone who skates this is a major victory. I remember hearing 93 ’til Infinity by Souls of Mischief and Put It On by Big L and feeling surprised that a movie about skating was using songs that actual skaters listen to. My friends and I actually listen to some of these songs on the regular and I’m hearing it in this movie? It felt weird at first but then it felt great realising that the director, who had decided to bring quite a small sport to the big screen, had actually nailed the portrayal of skaters and had taken the steps necessary to do so. Not only that, but thanks to mid90s I was able to discover loads of new artists and songs. After watching the movie, one of the first things I did was find a Spotify playlist with all the songs featured in the movie. I was blessed with Spotfiy’s own official mid90s playlist which even included small anecdotes from Jonah Hill himself. It was through this playlist that I was able to discover golden era hip hop and how as well as good music, it doubled as an awesome soundtrack for skating. I remember trying to skate around my neighbourhood while listening artists such as Raekwon, Nirvana and, now one of my favourite groups of all time, A Tribe Called Quest. It was through times like this that I was able to explore skate culture which has become one of the best parts about my daily life. Of course, there were other instances as to why I had discovered skating, like the famous Tony Hawk games, but I feel as if it weren’t for mid90s I wouldn’t have been able to link together this fun hobby with one of my favourite things in the world, music, which has led to skating and skate culture becoming a huge part of me.
So there you have it: three examples of how a soundtrack can become a valuable feature of any project. I feel like often soundtracks can get overlooked by some who just view it as an accessory and I will admit that sometimes it can fit that description if poorly constructed, yet I hope that these three examples of iconic soundtracks have helped you realise that soundtracks can often be underrated. Maybe it’s just my habit of having a particular interest the little things and small details talking for me, who knows? What I do know though, is that next time you go watch a movie or play a video game or even go somewhere with your friends or family and you feel some extreme emotion whether it be joy, sadness, anger, or any other variation of mood, pay attention to what music is playing in the background or the songs that you play that day. You might make some amazing memories which you can then attach to a specific song. That is what makes soundtracks so amazing.
Ichiko Aoba’s virtuosic guitar playing proved the main draw for a night of deeply beautiful experimental folk pieces from Japan, prefaced by one of the most extraordinary support acts I’ve ever witnessed.
It’s a blowy Friday night on the cusp of spring in Gateshead, and looking down towards the Millenium Bridge from my beloved Glasshouse, spying a dance troupe recording a video in front of the old Baltic flour mills and smartly dressed couples arriving for drinks at the glassy bars across the water. It’s no surprise I’m not the only lone figure wistfully looking out over the city ahead of celebrated Japanese songstress Ichiko Aoba’s performance – Aoba is the ultimate introverts’ artist. She makes gossamer experimental folk decorated with shimmering guitars and dream-like pianos and propelled by breathtaking vocals that flutter and dance with all the grace of a kite in flight. The staging on the Glasshouse’s second, more intimate stage was suitably homely and minimalist – a large silk lampshade, an elegant mahogany chair, an upright piano sitting patiently to one side. It seemed a blissful evening of music was ahead.
But first, a shock. I don’t usually mention support acts on this blog, but Julien Desprez’s performance of his 2020 work Agora was simply too extraordinary to omit. It started innocuously enough, Desprez somewhat awkwardly walking onto stage in silence and meekly introducing himself. An opening section on keyboard, with Desprez singing sombrely in French, was pleasant enough, although the ever-present dentists’ drill-style synthesiser in the background provided an undercurrent of unease. Soon that undercurrent became a raging torrent, Desprez picking up his guitar and launching into Agora’s punishing passages of bowel-rupturing electronics, flashes of intricate slap guitar interspersed throughout an assault of apocalyptic screeches. His feet moved furiously the whole time, rhythmically mashing away at his extensive pedalboard, a technique which the programme rather romantically links to the French-Canadian folk tradition of podorythmie. Only 20 minutes later did Desprez’s wall of sound finally let up. Just sitting through it required perseverance. To Desprez’s great credit, I’ve never experienced art so profoundly awful.
Much of the unease I felt during Desprez’s fearless performance wasn’t just to do with the music, but the fact that I was sat in a room full of fans of a famously quiet and delicate Japanese singer-songwriter. It would be hard to think of a support act more diametrically opposed to Aoba’s style. Predictably, Desprez soon had people clambering out of their seats and for the exits despite the minimal legroom. A woman on the row across from me was in such a hurry to leave she loudly dropped her phone on the floor. Others put their heads in their hands. On one particularly gruesome sonic explosion the man next to me threw his head back, either in awe or disgust. I was half-worried there might be boos at the end of the performance, but instead the Aoba fans politely clapped, then slowly filed out for the interval in a stunned hush.
Remarkably, Desprez had been chosen by Aoba herself. During one break in her set she teased a knowing chuckle from the crowd by struggling to define what sort of art Desprez made. Was it even music? “I really love Julien’s… dancing,” she settled on, before briefly giving her own version of Desprez-style noise-making by pulling at some random strings on her guitar. Desprez’s selection is a testament to Aoba’s unique eclecticism. A first listen to her catchier tunes may recall Phoebe Bridgers or Lizzy McAlpine, but this is by no means your standard-fare indie folk singer. Instead, Aoba pushes the limits of musical serenity with patient, drawn-out pieces and evocative field recordings from her home on the Ryukyu archipelago of southern Japan. Her artistry culminated in 2020’s magnificent Windswept Adan, a concept album that described a mythical, isolated tropical island by way of meditative guitars and rich orchestral instrumentation.
Of course, there’s only so much Aoba can do sat there alone on the Glasshouse stage – and as a result tonight’s rendition of Windswept Adan’s majestic highlight Dawn In the Adan feels sadly diminished in potency – but by and large Aoba’s compositions are strong enough to stand up to the scrutiny of a bare guitar-and-vocals set up. It helps that Aoba is an exceptional guitarist; Sagu Palm’s Song’s layered guitar plucking had Aoba’s right hand moving in a blur, but the resulting music sounded effortless. Murmurs of smooth jazz came and went throughout her set, particularly on opener Kokoro no Sekai, the sort of dignified waltz you might expect to overhear walking along the banks of the Seine on a summer’s evening.
Aoba’s technique was almost as virtuosic on keyboards, too, drifting gracefully across the keys during the atmospheric Coloratura, a song which winningly ends with Aoba evoking a far-flung seashore with soft whooshing sounds into the microphone. Sonar’s sturdier piano chords and lullaby-like melody was so trance-like it seemed to warp time. I could have sat there listening to it happily for hours.
Aoba, largely expressionless under a low fringe of thick black hair, might initially strike an overly serious, contemplative figure, but this performance proved that musical beauty need not be as stuffy and rigid as the formal Dvořák concert happening across the hallway in the Glasshouse’s main venue. In the silences as she switched instruments Aoba took to humming merrily and skipping across the stage like a fairy. When a persistent phone ringtone interrupted a particularly peaceful moment, she simply mimicked the melody on the piano Jacob Collier-style, causing some of the loudest audience cheers of the night. And then there was the adorable encore number Sayonara Penguin, which featured Aoba singing in a squeaky voice from the perspective of her feathered friend. It was gloriously stupid, and I was left wanting more.
Billed as both his most chaotic and “solid” record so far, Jeff Rosenstock’s seventh full-length is neither, but still provides its fair share of satisfying if familiar punk rock hits.
There are few acts in rock today that can depict this era’s lingering sense of apocalypse (the broken machinations of late-stage capitalism, the corrosion of American democracy, the imminent decay of the whole planet above all) quite as sharply as Jeff Rosenstock. The veteran New York punk who started his career in an unhinged DIY collective called Bomb the Music Industry! (exclamation mark mandatory) has now spent over ten years dissecting his converging personal and global worries in the form of an increasingly lauded and hit-dense discography, peaking perhaps with the smooth-flowing masterpiece of angst WORRY., an album so definitive it deserved a full stop in the title.
This year’s promisingly titled HELLMODE was hailed by promoters and early reviewers as his most chaotic, anarchic and, in Rosenstock’s own words, “solid” record yet, so it’s something of a disappointment that it ends up sounding more or less like the six albums that preceded it. The good news is that any Jeff Rosenstock album is a good one, and his knack for sticky hooks and pithy distillations of a very millennial form of pessimism isn’t going anywhere. HELLMODE is front loaded with tightly written numbers. Exhilarating opener WILL U STILL U is packed with instrumental left turns and belting gang vocals that wouldn’t sound out of place next to the 40-year-old’s very best. Lead single LIKED U BETTER winningly pairs a jaunty keyboard earworm with that sinking feeling of being able to escape your own anxieties. DOUBT follows suit, nurturing a false sense of ease before erupting into a screechy, cathartic polemic. Oftentimes Rosenstock’s dismay at the state of the world – the climate crisis in particular looms over this record – veers towards a relatable defeatism. “The world doesn’t owe you,” he concludes powerfully in standout FUTURE IS DUMB, thus summarising ten years of intense creative output in a single harsh truth.
It’s a shame that Rosenstock couldn’t quite maintain his momentum, especially when it comes to album centrepiece HEALMODE, which does away with the rest of the record’s nuance and undermines the prevailing sense of gloom with the tired, sickly sweet message that love alone can save us from unmitigated disaster. It doesn’t help that the clichéd lyrics are delivered with a cautious softness by Rosenstock, whose voice is much better suited to angry ragers about the constitution than cutesy love songs with an acoustic guitar. Hookless LIFE ADMIN follows, which stands out as one of the limpest tracks Rosenstock has released in years.
As is customary for a Rosenstock album, it all ends in a somewhat theatrical seven minute epic, although there’s very little in 3 SUMMERS that can outdo the much more memorable closing numbers in Rosenstock albums of years gone by. Above all, that’s the key limitation of HELLMODE: with the exception of flawed moment of calm HEALMODE, there’s little invention to be found here, and this distinctive form of volatile rock is better served by most of Rosenstock’s previous releases. True, this is a competently delivered album by an artist who clearly knows how to set a room alight with blaring guitars and verbalised deep-seated dread. It just helps if you don’t know what you’re missing out from the rest of Rosenstock’s oeuvre.
Sturdy trainers were indispensable for a night of moving and shaking in one of the trendiest little venues in Newcastle. Armed with an arsenal of percussion, it was Los Bitchos’s touching onstage chemistry that turned a good show into a fabulous one.
It’s been a wild week, but something about stepping into the modest crowd inside the Star and Shadow felt like home. I’d been slightly nervous on the bus journey across Newcastle city centre – perhaps a sign that my solo gigging confidence has been lost somewhere in an almost concert-free summer – but seeing the lights and the staging and feeling the atmosphere of anticipation reminded me why I love live music so much, with company or otherwise. It helped that the Star and Shadow turned out to be my sort of venue. Cinema by day, the small complex is proudly independent and volunteer-run, and it felt like it with its artsy handmade signs and exposed overhead ventilation ducts that butted up against a mirrorball hung up by string, giving the place a cobbled together feel, albeit lovingly. No one I had asked since moving to the city three days earlier had even heard of the venue, which was small enough for the merch queue to be almost non-existent and the bar queue an unusually polite single line leading to one side. The typically awkward task of wrangling my way to the front was a cakewalk; in fact I did a little too well, and my spot front and centre with some space around me was a bit more of a challenge to my shyness than I had bargained for. Being the only member of the crowd in a fresh, bright tangerine Los Bitchos t-shirt admittedly didn’t help me blend in.
The Star and Shadow seemed to suit Los Bitchos too, a somewhat underground four-piece from London whose remarkably niche style of guitar-driven ’80s instrumental cumbia (Latin-American dance music with roots in Africa) has gained them some notoriety as the queens of their genre in the Big Smoke. To call Los Bitchos Londoners is to discount the improbable variety the band members offer. Australian former drummer Serra Petale plays lead guitar and acts as frontwoman; Swede Josefine Jonsson, formerly of a garage rock band, takes bass; Uruguayan model Agustina Ruiz plays synthesiser and born-and-bred Londoner Nic Crawshaw both plays drums and is a working physiotherapist in the NHS.
Despite their disparate origins, as soon as the music started Los Bitchos were one inseperable unit, and the undeniable chemistry between performers was a joy to witness. Whether performing coordinated footwork (the band simply having too much fun for it to come across cheesy) or sharing swigs of tequila between songs, the four women were clearly keen to share the spotlight as evenly as possible. Leading the charge was Petale with her slinking, frictionless guitar lines and carefree dancing which was well replicated by an energetic audience. Jonsson was an authority on bass, her riffs heavy and thumping, and Crawshaw was an engine at the back on kit, her kick drum providing an everpresent thwack that got the crowd’s feet moving. Percussion is an essential part of Los Bitchos’s appeal, and every member had a crack on some sort of percussion throughout the night. The several exhilarating drum breaks involved a flurry of clattering cowbell and rippling bongos, a tapestry of sound too detailed to fully appreciate in the moment. In the midst of it all, the four of them looked like they could hardly be having more fun. Even Ruiz, tasked largely with holding down long notes on a relatively quiet synthesiser between sorties on an egg shaker, rarely stood still amid the frenzy.
I had quietly hoped that a live show would give Los Bitchos – and Petale in particular – time to explore their tracks with some improvisation, but instead songs largely stuck to their original blueprint, with Petale’s guitar playing never beyond the remit of your average intermediate guitar player. Instead, the smartly crafted ostinatos were performed with purpose and passion by Petale, who often seemed utterly lost in the groove. At her best, like on impulsive plodder Pista (Fresh Start) or hopelessly earwormy The Link Is About to Die, Petale’s hooks felt inevitable, and quite capable of being played over and over for many minutes without losing any of their appeal. Throbbing Tripping at a Party, which at times sounded like a quaint cumbian Benny Hill Theme, was another example of Petale at the top of her game both in terms of songwriting and performance.
Drum breaks were amongst the show’s highlights
Wisely given the billing it deserved, Las Panteras was an ecstatic, roof-demolishing set closer. A final build – faster, louder and even more thrilling than the original – had the crowd in raptures. The end result was a room of invariably hot and sweaty revellers begging for more; poor Star and Shadow lacked the air ventilation to deal with such an invigorating dance number. Tequila, fulfilling the wishes of several crowd members, was the fated encore follow up. Changing the formula for possibly the only Latin-American surf rock standard in Western popular culture was a necessity, and Los Bitchos’s Tequila was refreshingly intense, Ruiz belting out Spanish into the mic with the force of a pop punk star behind a wall of rock guitars. An uninhibited yelp of “Tequila!” from everyone in the room marked a fitting end to a deeply lovely night of joyful music from musicians that didn’t take themselves or their art too seriously. Such an act isn’t always easy to find.
I walked back onto the quiet evening streets of Shieldfield glowing with that addictive post-gig high, not before taking an opportunity to thank Ruiz and Crawshaw who were already calming down with cigarettes on the entrance steps. A Los Bitchos gig had been a strange way to come to terms with the big week of change in a new city, but it had worked wonders. I couldn’t have wished for a more delightful inauguration.
A new wave of indie music has been brewing and the potential isn’t barred by any limits. Indie music has been huge in the UK for as long as I remember, but new factors are changing the sound of the new up-and-coming talent into something completely different. By Matthew Rowe.
Indie music has often been praised as the voice of the younger generation, and you will often find that the youth will associate themselves with the sound of the ever-recognisable tunes of the Arctic Monkeys, the Strokes, and Pulp, just to name a few. These are big household names who have helped develop and create their own indie sound, one that will certainly never be forgotten. However, more recently, there has been a huge burst of creativity within the indie scene, with a lot of new talent alongside it. These new artists are helping preserve the meaning of indie while putting their own twist on it.
As a genre, indie music has a massive cultural significance that can’t be ignored. For one, the university experience I’ve enjoyed wouldn’t have been anywhere as good without it. You can’t go to a party without soaking up indie music and its culture. My personal favourite venue, The Leadmill, is host to many indie nights out and so many great gigs; it is truly a hub of musical exploration and a place to have a damn good time (bless the £1.50 doubles).
If I had a pound for every reference to the Tories in indie songs, I’m be deemed a Conservative.
The sound may be developing but some things in indie don’t change. Themes in indie songs still follow consistent themes and messages. If I had a pound for every reference to how bad the Tories are in an indie song, I’d be deemed a Conservative voter. But this is what it’s all about: the voice of the youth expressing their opinions on a vast amount of issues both inside the UK and globally, one example being Declan McKenna‘s British Bombs, a modern-day cult classic that is recognisable instantaneously. The standard themes are being followed but some have rightfully been pushed further than others. Ideas of identity, self-worth and female empowerment have been made so much more vocal, creating an insight into issues recently pushed into the public’s eye, often to the distaste of the older generation. Two songs that I think show this beautifully are Lime Garden’s I Want To Be You and CMAT’s Whatever’s Inconvenient. The sounds of the greats don’t lose their value and are often replicated by bands wanting to reach the great hits their predecessors had. This is shown by Sheffield-based band The Reytons, who have adapted local legends and the Arctic Monkeys sound relatively successfully. If you are ever on a night out, it’s unexplainable, but the atmosphere will become electric whenever an indie banger comes on.
These developments can’t purely be put down to indie music; the music scene as a whole has shifted in recent years. Huge developments in UK jazz, post-punk and rap have all had their impact on the genre, elevating it to a whole new level. This allows a level of creativity and it shows. Post-punk has had such an amazing impact; artists such as BC,NR have had such a huge impact, and other bands in the crank wave subgenre are interchangeable with indie. Hard-hitting indie bands Do Nothing, Dry Cleaning, and Courting are great examples of the development of indie in the post-punk direction. This isn’t the only way the scene has developed; spoken word has snuck its way in almost seamlessly. Leeds band Yard Act are a great example of this, often leaving the preconceptions of how an indie song should be laid out, allowing them to both create standard songs with funky hooks but also much more solemn monologues. This sound is also shown by the much more popular Wet Leg.
The impact of other otherwise irrelevant genres is not to be understated
Outside of the UK, very unexpected artists have been entering the domain. Rapper Lil Yachty gained a reputation for creating rap songs such as iSpy, but last year he took a huge risk by entering alternative indie with the very influential album Let’s Start Here. This was a complete change in vibe for the American artist but it paid off. The song Drive Me Crazy! is a perfect example of this new experimental feel he was going for, creating a perfect example of how the genre of rap has been infused into indie. The concept has been around for a while. Years ago, Arctic Monkeys collaborated with British icon Dizzie Rascal to create Temptation Greets You Like Your Naughty Friend. Bloc Party is known for mixing the two consistently, but it’s incredibly promising to see otherwise unexpected artists entering the subgenre.
Here are some songs by the insane new talent that you need to hear:
I Want To Be You – Lime Garden (Single)
This song is a perfect embodiment of how the standards held by those famous on TV lead to innate jealousy and a desire to change their body and lifestyle, highlighting the huge issues of being surrounded by these fake idols. This is consistent in Lime Garden’s music, a girl band who seamlessly expresses modern issues in their songs
Nearly Daffodils – English Teacher (Nearly Daffodils)
Heavily post-punk inspired band English Teacher often takes a heavier, rock feel to indie, especially in this song sounding akin to a hybrid of Fontaines D.C., Dry Cleaning, and Wet Leg. The singer, ironically named Lily Fontaine, bridges the gap between a harsh, brutal instrumental and a much more melodic and soothing voice, despite still being able to shout out to drive home the whole point: “You can lead water to the daffodils, but you can’t make them drink.” Fontaine’s range is shown in their discography, with much more melancholy compositions like Mastermind Specialism and a poetic start to Yorkshire Tapas.
R Entertainment – Sports Team (Gulp!)
It wouldn’t be a list of indie recommendations if I didn’t mention Cambridge-formed band Sports Team, who gained notoriety in 2020 with their debut album Deep Down Happy and many of my favourite indie rock songs, such as Stations of the Cross. They haven’t slowed down since, going on several tours or releasing a second album, Gulp!. This album hasn’t gained as much traction as their debut, but in my opinion it has songs of the same or even better quality. R Entertainment is my pick from this album, a commentary on how desensitised the general public has become to otherwise shocking content and how war, homicide, and car crashes have become almost trivial to us. “They’re mowing us down, for R entertainment.” The slang just emphasises how much of an issue it is in the UK.
I Wanna Be a Cowboy, Baby! – CMAT (If My Wife New I’d Be Dead)
CMAT has one of the most impressive voices I have ever heard. Hailing from Ireland, she doesn’t hold back with her loud, passion-filled choruses. I had the pleasure of seeing her live recently, and I was amazed her voice hadn’t died by the end of a nearly three hour action packed and downright fun set. Her song I Wanna Be a Cowboy, Baby! covers so many issues while being an incredibly catchy banger. Several people in the crowd donned cowboy hats for the gig. Issues of self-identity and empowerment are covered here with lines such as “But I break down every time I’m on the scales” and “My style icon is the wolverine / Between each finger lies the key / To getting home without a buckaroo.” These lines emphasise issues of body standards as well as how society and men will often go out with the pure intention of going home with someone and view women as objects, the keys referencing needing self-defense on a day-to-day basis. Her discography covers so many deep issues while maintaining high quality and listenability.
The British music scene and indie as a whole are in great hands; these new talents have already achieved brilliant things, from widely acclaimed albums to supporting huge global talents to having their own national and international tours. I can’t wait to see what they are capable of and how other genres will continue to influence both new and established artists. The Arctic Monkeys delving into more lounge and art rock is a great example of this. To conclude, please give the new indie scene a listen, specifically the songs mentioned above.
