Gig Reviews | Music Boats

Jeff Rosenstock live at Belgrave Music Hall review – songs to tear the roof off
6
May

Critically acclaimed punk rocker Jeff Rosenstock marked his return to the UK with an explosive, sweat-drenched performance in Leeds, packed with clever changes of pace, raucous singalongs and underlying anti-capitalist rage.

16 Undertone gig reviews deep, no act I’ve seen thus far has taken to a stage quite like Jeff Rosenstock did at Leeds’ Belgrave Music Hall. For most acts, their grand entrance onto the stage is hammed up as one of the most thrilling moments of the night. Be it dodie‘s gentle organ hum, Sam Fender‘s static fuzz or Jungle‘s interminable sirens, some sort of lavish musical fanfare usually marks the end of the hours-long wait for the artist on our tickets. Even less well-known artists like Larkins or The Beths dimmed the lights and donned facemasks to remain anonymous as they set up their own equipment onstage, attempting to save the big reveal for the giddy few seconds before the start of their first song. The Beths even had their own hoodies with words like “guitar tech” written on their backs in an attempt to fool the audience (stood right at the front and with prior knowledge of just how unusually tall guitarist Jonathan Pearce was, I wasn’t buying it).

It was a surprise, then, when Rosenstock and his band practically stumbled onto stage minutes after the phenomenal Fresh had wrapped up their supporting set. I once again found myself right at the front and within touching distance of the great man as he taped a scrawled set list to the monitor in front of me and wrestled with a mic stand that had become entangled in cables. When one of Rosenstock’s songs happened to come on as background music, him and his band even started briefly jamming along to the disbelieving delight of the crowd.

The lowkey start was indicative of punk music’s general lack of self-importance, and Rosenstock’s humility in particular. Before digging into furious thrash metal of opener NO TIME, Rosenstock announced that he was here just to play some songs. For a pop gig this might have sound like an admittance of creative laziness, but for Rosenstock’s endearingly homegrown brand of rock, “some songs” was all the performance we needed.

Rosenstock performing on his replacement guitar

It helped, of course, that Jeff Rosenstock happens to have one of the most lauded discographies in rock today. Since his solo debut in 2012, he’s released one outstanding project after another, peaking with 2016’s immaculately-paced WORRY., which gladly took up a significant chunk of the set list in Leeds. His latest effort, 2020’s bitter and cathartic NO DREAM, came to define the pandemic summer for me and close friend Ewan, who, just like me, was hardly able to contain his excitement as we waited near the front of the queue outside Belgrave Music Hall. I had donned my NO DREAM t-shirt whilst Ewan’s giant Rosenstock flag remained proudly hung up in his bedroom at home.

Despite the night being Rosenstock’s first UK performance in many years, he was in no mood for gentle reintroduction. Choppy Nikes (Alt) had fans pogoing early on, as we screamed about “staring down the barrel of our shitty future” and “looking for a dream that won’t morph into a nightmare”. Scram! – the finest single on NO DREAM – was just as thrilling, and there was something vaguely touching about a group of (mostly) millennial men coming together in a room to sing about how desperate they are to run away from all the myriad personal problems in their lives. Musically, the climax of Scram! is extraordinary, with a barrage of kick drum hits that wouldn’t sound out of place on a Slipknot track, before eventually giving way to a rollicking garage rock payoff.

Rosenstock held nothing back in his performance of every last song, convulsing and twitching towards the microphone during his most pointed lyrics, turning around and keeling over his guitar in the ecstatic pain typical of loud rock music during many vocal breaks. It was scarcely more than 15 minutes in by the time he started to get visibly sweaty, and another 15 minutes later I could feel the occasional speck of lukewarm sweat splatter onto me whenever Rosenstock got overly energetic in his dancing; such is the visceral experience of being at the very front of a Jeff Rosenstock gig. His poor guitar got so drenched that he had to swap to his ‘backup’ guitar halfway through, telling us a story about how he apparently sweats much more than the average person. We all believed him.

Fun and goofy-sounding up-tempo numbers like Hey Allison! and Monday at the Beach were even faster in the flesh, almost to a fault, although seeing Kevin Higuchi smack the snare drum at such a rapid tempo never got old. Festival Song was a clearer highlight of the night, with its bounty of singalong riffs and propulsive final chorus, elevated by the screech of Mike Huguenor’s guitar. Majestic You, In Weird Cities should really have closed the entire night, but it was still rapturously received much earlier in the set. Rosenstock’s saxophone antics of the song’s live version had Ewan and I excited, not least because keyboardist and guitarist Dan Potthast had been occasionally playing a tenor throughout the night. In the end we didn’t quite get the saxophone solo we had been hoping for, but an a capella singalong of the song’s awe-inspiring final hook nonetheless felt pretty special. f a m e, NO DREAM‘s grandest moment, was the only significant set list casualty of the night.

The hits continued with the restless N O D R E A M, which was a good excuse for Ewan’s first stagedive of the night to the ire of the Belgrave security guards and general approval of fellow revellers, although no one quite had the boldness to do any crowdsurfing of their own for the entire night. The absurd sight of my friend’s limbs coming in and out of view in the melee beside me enhanced the giddy excitement of Rosenstock’s noisiest tracks. After that first stagedive I wasn’t to see him for a good 30 minutes whilst I clung on to my spot at the very front, wary of crush injuries from the occasional mosh pit surge. I was close enough to Rosenstock for him to confer with me in bafflement when the inevitable “Yorkshire” chants arrived before the encore.

Rosenstock connected with the fans on the closing tracks

And what an encore. To the delight of Ewan and I, it was mostly devoted to the final five songs of WORRY., which are woven together beautifully into one remarkable ten-minute long rock opus. Every chorus set the mosh pit on fire, and in quieter moments Rosenstock was almost entirely drowned out by a crowd intent on screaming every last lyric. Exhausted, Rosenstock lay down on stage towards the end of the segment, dozens of hands pouring at his shoulders and willing him to push himself out above the heads of the audience.

It had been a show with little fanfare and little space for sentimentality, but at the very end Rosenstock gave us a morsel with the calming cooldown of We Begged 2 Explode. “All these magic moments are forgotten,” we all chanted as Rosenstock waved goodnight. If we had bothered to listen to the words we were screaming, we may have realised how fleeting emotional highs like these really are.

AURORA live at O2 Academy review – smiles all round
29
Apr

Norwegian popstar AURORA’s unending love for her audience was uplifting from start to finish on a heart-warming night in Leeds, even if her staging and set list left something to be desired.

“Ican already tell this is going to be one of those shows that makes me face hurt,” giggled lovably humble songstress Aurora Aksnes in front of her Leeds crowd, having bounced her way through the first few songs of the night. She was far from the only one in the room that would need to give themselves a face massage from all the smiling that the night would entail. Instantly, Aurora’s heartfelt connection to the crowd was apparent as she labelled us her “Leeds warriors” and appeared genuinely shocked as she cracked on with opener Heathens, as if she’d half expected to walk out onto stage and see no one at all.

No, the sell-out crowd confirmed, Aurora remains more popular than ever. Even my dad joined me for this one – his first concert in decades – and we were both surprised by the age diversity of the concert goers as we trudged towards the back of a queue that seemed to snake all the way back to the car park. A large part of that audience was likely to have been inspired to buy their tickets largely to see a single song – myself included. The nuanced folktronica of Runaway was a monumental moment in Aurora’s career, gaining sleeper hit status in 2021 when it found the favour of many millions of teens on TikTok, thus launching the Norwegian singer well and truly into the mainstream. The shimmering, nostalgic piece found a good match in last summer’s endless black and white clips of friends dancing in the rain or watching a particularly beautiful sunset, often paired with a caption that recalled pre-Covid days before the bliss of youth had been taken away from us. The promise of Runaway – and the dazzling display of golden light that I imagined would be paired with the soaring choruses – was easily enough to propell me into the Academy in search of goosebumps.

It was frankly a reckless decision, then, for Aurora to place Runaway in the inconspicuous slot of track three for the night. Her recent album was strong, yes, but it would surely take more spectacular material to rightly oust the closing slot that Runaway so deserved. On the other hand, Aurora may just be one of many artists that has quietly grown a distaste for her biggest smash. Indeed, telling the crowd “this one’s for you,” before starting the verse may have hinted that Runaway was only included at all to appease the hit-hungry fans.

Instead, emphasis was placed on post-Runaway tracks, and luckily Aurora has a good selection of material to pull from. The Seed was an early success, gritty and menacing with its pounding bass and Aurora delivering the line “you cannot eat money” in the style of a tribal chant. The message is nothing ground-breaking, but the empassioned performance nonetheless made The Seed‘s message of climate-sceptic greed one of the most impactful moments of the night. Earthy Blood in the Wine carried similar weight earlier in the tracklist, even if the song does flirt dangerously with Spaghetti Western clichés. Warrior was another early fan favourite, with the audience responding to Aurora’s empassioned performance with thousands of fists raised in time with the music.

Aurora’s numerous acoustic ballads were clumped rather clumsily in the middle of the set, resulting in a very significant drop in energy for a long 30 minutes. Blink-and-you’ll-miss-them mid-tempo ballads like Exhale Inhale and A Little Place Called the Moon formed the night’s musical nadir, and even listenable Exist For Love got sucked into the black hole of dullness. When bubbly dancepop number Cure For Me eventually kicked into gear, the overwhelming feeling was of relief that the show seemed to be back on track.

Aurora threw a large shadow on slower songs

It wasn’t just relief that made Cure For Me so electrifying witness – the song is unbelievably catchy, with a slightly silly chorus hook that would be the talk of any Eurovision season (Norway, there’s surely still time to switch…). Aurora relished in the song’s playfulness, flicking her hair from side to side and leaping from one corner of the stage to the other as flashes of bright green and red dazzled from the lights behind her. Momentum was maintained with dancey The Innocent and 80s-tinged hit single A Temporary High, which elicted the strongest reaction from the audience all night.

It must be said that the staging – mostly consisting of a large circle propped up behind Aurora – could have been better. It was at its best when projecting Aurora’s shadow for the night’s calmer moments, highlighting her immaculate armography in the process. Most of the time, however, the circle was an occasionally-flickering variety of solid colours that begged the question why a huge circle was even necessary in the first place. Minimalism is all well and good, but simple props require just as much purpose as the intricate ones. Instead, Aurora’s surroundings felt uncharacterically half-hearted.

Nonetheless, the crowd demanded an encore, although using up brilliant crowd-pleasers like Queendom and Running With the Wolves before scuttling backstage undoubtedly made the chants of “one more song!” more restrained than they could have been. A long preamble made largely-unfamiliar 2016 track Through The Eyes Of A Child inevitably anticlimactic, and there was no special lighting that the performance so desperately needed in order to highlight the beauty of the moment. A simple spotlight on a slowly rotating glitterball would have surely done the trick. Giving In To The Love was a similarly questionable choice to finish the night, but the run-of-the-mill electropop track was sold well with some vigorous hand-waving on Aurora’s part.

The second half of the main set may have had too many good songs to mention, but the true highlights of the night came between songs. For the whole show, the artist seemed infatuated by her audience, inspired by the crowd’s willingness to dance freely and to some extent open their hearts to her in return for her music. “I don’t want to leave!” she giggled during the encore, rambling her way towards her penultimate track with childlike giddiness. Other times she was more of a sage-like mother figure. “Never forget,” she assured us at one point, “you are so much better than the person that hurt you.” It felt almost as if Aurora had sat down with each and every one of us and listened to all our personal problems like a loving friend before offering her kindest, purest words of wisdom. If Aurora’s aim was to leave each concert-goer with a lasting smile and a warm glow inside, she succeeded effortlessly.

The Beths live at Brudenell Social Club review – bubbly, light and a little safe
22
Apr

10,000 miles away from home, the fact that New Zealand indie rock outfit The Beths sold out Leeds’ Brudenell Social Club is remarkable in itself. What’s more, Elizabeth Stokes’ confessional yet light-hearted compositions were warmly received, even if her set lacked ambition.

Iam often amazed when I arrive at gigs to walk into a room packed full of people that all share a love of a single artist or band. When I’m with likeminded friends or at a gig the magnitude of something like Sam Fender in an arena it’s less remarkable, but when I’m stepping out of a cab in Hyde Park and joining a small queue outside the Brudenell for a rock band that has long been a private affection of mine, it’s a very strong feeling indeed. Having travelled from the other side of the world, the Beths were in our corner of Yorkshire for one night only and, ensconsed in the growing hubbub of bona fide fans, it felt like quite the occasion.

My surprise about the crowd should do nothing to belittle a band very much on the rise, not least in their home country, where they were one spot away from landing themselves a number one album with 2020’s solid Jump Rope Gazers. Sunny vocal harmonies help them stand out from the vast number of traditional four-piece rock bands around the world, as does their frontwoman Elizabeth Stokes, whose light, somewhat aloof vocal style is a surprisingly good match for her unfettered and confessional lyricism. Tonight her nonchalance is on full display, punfunctorily announcing her band name and their Aukland origin in the aftermath of screeching opener I’m Not Getting Excited. Even Stokes found it hard to stifle a smile as the crowd cheered and waved; an opening, repeated single guitar note is a well known rock trope, and on this song it was effective as ever in building anticipation for the first entry of the competent and confident performers around Stokes.

Only occasionally did the band regain the giddy heights of their strong opener. Cosy rock ballad Jump Rope Gazers was one highlight and perhaps the best singalong number of the night. Here Stokes’ vulnerable songwriting is shown at its most poignant. “I think I loved you the whole time, how could this happen?” she wailed to us heartbreakingly. The belting Uptown Girl – probably the punkiest two minutes and 43 seconds of the Beths’ discography to date – was an inspired choice of follow-up, with Stokes drowning out her sorrows and flexing her lead guitar muscles with one nut-tight riff after another. Throw in the sweet falsetto harmonies of Jonathan Pearce and Benjamin Sinclair, plus the furious snare fills of Tristan Deck and the result is the Beths at their exhilarating best.

Stokes’ songwriting may have been consistently good, but this routine showing did little to add to what we’d all already experienced on their two studio albums. Four-part vocal harmonies came at the cost of on-stage stasis, with every single performer tethered to the microphone set up in front of them. On such a small stage there’s little else they could have done, but any adaptation of the studio recordings whatsoever was sorely needed to make the gig feel like anything other than four musicians doing their job (albeit very well). Some endearing bandmate banter and compliments towards the Brudenell’s bespoke pastry offerings were about as special this set got.

Nonetheless, a band as rich in solid rock songs as the Beths can get away with not producing an all-round performance. It’s telling that even with the omission gritty debut single Idea/Intent and, tragically, Don’t Go Away (the best song from the band’s latest album), the set was not short on compelling songs. Po-faced guitarist Jonathan Pearce was suitably focused for the superbly squelchy guitar solo on Whatever before giving way to a chant of “baby, you’re breaking my heart!”. It was a hook so catchy and joyful the cliché lyrics only seemed to make the whole thing even more of a joy to experience. Little Death sounded much more impactful live, and the chorus spawned a surprisingly ferocious mosh pit that had me and the tamer fans around me periodically checking over our shoulders for the next time a crazed youth might barge into the back of us.

Jonathan Pearce and Elizabeth Stokes both gave solid performances on guitar

The set was not without lulls, not least an unnamed and unreleased song which on first listen sounded about as middle of the road as the Beths get. I remain unconvinced by the very risky and somewhat clumsy chorus on recent single A Real Thing and forgettable Dying to Believe was a disappointing closing number. It was the penultimate song, River Run: Lvl 1, that instead brought the emotional pinnacle of the night. Initially reflective and later propulsive, the song shifted between shades of Stokes’ raw emotions gracefully, with the sweet release of the chorus (“a river will run”) a surefire trigger for waterworks of a different kind amongst many of the fans around me. An awe-inspiring bridge was the one moment of the night where the four Kiwis managed to produce a piece of art that felt greater than themselves, and easily good enough to transcend the four walls of the Brudenell. For a few moments, I could well and truly lose myself in the flow of the music and, tellingly for the crowd around me, the reaction was calmed appreciation as opposed to manic moshing.

The Beths may be two full-length albums deep into their career, but there was a sense on the night that – to their credit or otherwise – bigger things are still to come for the Beths. The quality of the music is hugely promising, and a bigger, bolder performance from Stokes and her bandmates could easily turn the Beths’ live set into a force to be reckoned with. It may be years until they take another long haul flight or two back to the UK, but I feel certain they’ll be heading for grander venues armed with more remarkable sets. Let world domination ensue.

Lizzy McAlpine: five seconds flat review – indie-folk star raises the stakes
15
Apr

She may be yet to firmly establish her own distinctive sound, but Lizzy McAlpine strikes gold on several occasions on this sophomore LP destined to be one of the more compelling and consistent breakup albums of the year.

There’s a remarkable moment about seven minutes into Lizzy McAlpine’s second album, five seconds flat. After two verses and choruses with building menace, a bridge sees McAlpine’s belted vocals almost entirely consumed by a pair of battling, distorted synth lines that switch violently from one ear to the other and back again. Supported by the throb of an electronic kick drum and a gunshot-like snare sound, the result is a gutsy minute or two of industrial-leaning electronic music before McAlpine takes back control by way of an acoustic guitar breakdown, bringing the various musical strands of the masterful erase me back together for the big denouement. This meshing of acoustic and electronic instrumentation – often considered risky or plainly wrong by much of the modern pop industry – is totally uncharted territory for McAlpine, an artist much more used to the comfortable, folk constraints of an acoustic guitar and perhaps the occasional upright piano. Take her excellent 2021 project, When The World Stopped Moving, which unpacked the global trauma of the pandemic with intimate, acoustic solo recordings, putting a spotlight on McAlpine’s outstanding vocal ability in the process. To hear just a few moments of her now delving into electronic pop with such spectacular results is hugely promising.

Elsewhere on the singer-songwriter’s sophomore effort there are plenty more surprises to enjoy. all my ghosts, for instance, finds itself wading deeper and deeper into indie rock territory as the song progresses, culminating in a spectacular final minute. The saccarine sentimentalism of McAlpine’s debut album still lingers (“You got a Slurpee for free / I caught you lookin’ at me in the 7-Eleven”), but this time its accompanied by musical fireworks by way of sparkling performance from McAlpine’s band. By contrast, an ego thing‘s quirky minimalism wouldn’t sound out of place on a Billie Eilish record, with Eilish’s uncomfortably close ASMR whispers traded for McAlpine’s bell-clear, Broadway-ready vocals.

Besides showcasing risks that McAlpine’s debut album so sorely lacked, five seconds flat excels as an album clearly thought out and smartly executed. Halloween themes are established by stark opener doomsday and crop up throughout the following 13 tracks. It’s a strong, excellently produced opener, although the obvious extended funeral metaphor for the breakup in question comes across as somewhat lazy. The driving metaphor of reckless driving is even more laboured and uninspired (“Would you hold me when we crash or would you let me go?”), but an exciting crescendo to finish before a abrupt finish (presumably the car crash in question) partly saves the song.

Spacey follow-up weird feels appropriately like an exploration of the afterlife, and the intimate vocals and distant percussion and guitars lend it the same vaguely comforting feeling of a Phoebe Bridgers song with slightly less poetic lyrics. ceilings is a much better display of McAlpine’s lyrical ability, describing an idyllic young love that turns out to be entirely imaginary by the time we reach a devastating final chorus. The country-tinged instrumentation – complete with a beautiful strings arrangement – is utterly gorgeous, and McAlpine’s delicately sung melody floats above it all like a butterfly. Compositionally, it may be the least ambitious moment on the whole album, but it also happens to be one of the most exquisite acoustic ballads McAlpine has ever written – and she’s written many.

Just when the album begins to get a little emotionally heavy, McAlpine hits us with firearm, a power pop left hook that attempts the success of similar recent attempts at noisy rock from both Eilish and Bridgers. five seconds flat‘s rock moment is not quite as explosive or expansive as Happier Than Ever or I Know The End, but it does still pack a punch, with McAlpine at one point asking whether a breakup was over “fame or the lack thereof”, having been convinced that she was loved. As McAlpine returns to her usual acoustic guitar moments later, there’s a sense that the pure anger just showcased hasn’t gone away completely but has rather been bottled back up inside her, ready to be unleashed again whenever she sees fit. I can only hope McAlpine lets her inner anger out more often on future releases.

nobody likes a secret and chemtrails are much less stylistically interesting, but the latter is a particularly heartbreaking elegy to McAlpine’s father. “I see chemtrails in the sky, but I don’t see the plane,” McAlpine sings poignantly, reflecting on the impact her father has made on her, even after his passing. Wistful home audio recordings close the track, and the goofy “goodnight!” from a young Lizzy feels like a more permanent goodbye. Fast-pased indie pop track orange show speedway ends the album nicely, suitably restrained in its cheeriness in the wake of chemtrails.

Looking back on the album in its entirety, McAlpine’s musical style is consitently interesting and varied, almost to a fault. We are yet to hear McAlpine’s definitive sound or hear much to distinguish her from the plethora of similar female American singer-songwriters. That said, this female American singer-songwriter is producing more impressive songs than most, and the sharp stylistic shifts and attention-grabbing production decisions that crop up throughout five seconds flat deserve plenty of praise. Her full potential hasn’t quite been realised yet, but judging by her current forward momentum it won’t be long until McAlpine is producing records even more exciting than this one.

Cory Wong live at Manchester Academy review – utterly tireless
1
Apr

On his first post-pandemic UK performance the prolific funk guitarist aptly delivered a vast amount of music with flair, showmanship and boundless enthusiasm. A strong entourage of improvisers helped compensate for weak songwriting on a night when objective critique became difficult.

Perhaps I haven’t learnt my lesson. Just like a few weeks ago, I found myself sitting in a Mancunian branch of McDonald’s with a familiar posse of friends, fuelling up before another gig for an artist I’ve never quite been convinced by. I didn’t realise it at the time, but I should have seen a potential repeat of my middling experience with Samm Henshaw coming from a mile off.

One thing that I was certain of was that Cory Wong would give us a proper show and a proper horns section (Matt did well to spot the saxophone on stage ahead of time). The rubber wristed guitarist doesn’t seem to do anything but perform, be it on one of his extensive UK and US tours or on his own high-budget YouTube talk show. He’s already got a staggering six live albums under his belt (plus a not-too-shabby 12 studio albums). To keep this man away from any sizable venue for longer than six months – let alone the nigh-on three year gap since his last visit to Manchester – is no mean feat. Such a massive output of songs makes it hard to keep on top of it all even from a listener’s perspective, and even the most eager Wong fans amongst my friends happily admitted that listening to every Wong album was a level of commitment they were not quite prepared for. Picking out songs to watch for was made doubly hard by the fact Wong is such a frequent collaborator – standout tracks Golden and Cosmic Sans required surprise appearances from Cody Fry and Tom Misch which, despite our crossed fingers, never quite came to fruition.

There was nonetheless a strong lineup in support of Wong in the uninspiring black box of Manchester Academy. Kevin Gastonguay, for instance, was a machine both on his Nord keyboard and Hammond B3, his improvisations often adding a pleasant touch of adventurous jazz fusion to the set. Petar Janjic was also a standout performer on drums, delivering thunderous solos occasionally followed by a triumphant flip of the sticks or a knowing smile to Wong. Then there was saxophonist and former BBC Young Jazz Musician of the Year Alexander Bone (Wong claimed he was a local to the crowd’s delight, but after a bit of research I’m not so sure), the best of a three-part horn section. His solos steered clear of showy high notes of rapid passages, instead offering tastefully controlled builds that melded well with Wong’s compositions.

Wong himself, model-like with his pearly whites and showbiz suit that nicely matched his signature stratocaster, of course provided an impeccable performance on guitar, refusing to stop moving on even his softer, calmer tracks. His solos tended to be the most expansive and often headed for scratchy classic rock finales before slick transitions back to rhythm guitar playing. Home and Meditation were some of the more spectacular slow burners, even if the material Wong was basing his solos on was rarely particularly compelling.

Therein lies the problem with Wong’s music: attempting to put the texture-building discipline of rhythm guitar front and centre is a challenge he has never quite lived up to. Too often his guitar hooks are colourless and repetitive (take Lilypad for example) and his funk-by-numbers grooves tend to have few defining features. Often it took a standout performance from the rest of the band for the show to reach its best moments. Frenzied Assassin, for instance, was an exciting listen impressively performed by Bone, but tellingly a tune which saw Wong’s guitar sit behind the more interesting horns section. St. Paul was another highlight that nicely showed off just how unbelievably tight the rhythm section was, with its razor sharp stops and showstopping drum fills. Gastonguay’s bluesy piano solo was also one of the best of the evening. On no song did it feel like the band had even a frissen of sloppiness – this was funk at its most crystal clean, and the level of sheer talent onstage was dazzling.

Screeching guitar solos often had Wong squirming

The gig’s biggest challenge was just how long it was. In typical Wong style, we were dealt well over two hours of funk, which got tiring even despite the interval. The show wasn’t completely without light and shade, but much of the runtime was spent with so-so funk numbers that had a tendency to merge into one. It was all easy listening, but such a long show demanded a little more variety. Perhaps a solo number from Wong might have been what the evening needed; that or a larger selection of sure-fire hits, which Wong seems to be lacking, at least without the support of a surprise guest vocalist. What was impressive was just how well Wong and his band maintained their high-energy displays of musicianship. Never did it feel like any single player was tiring throughout the night, and Wong bounced around like an excited toddler both at the very beginning and very end of the performance.

I found myself struggling as the show grew to its finish, but not just due to my reservations about Wong’s performance. I was feeling increasingly ill and in need of water, and my nausea fuelled panic which fuelled more nausea. Once Wong had finished a particularly lengthy-seeming song I shouted an explanation over the loud applause in my friend Manon’s ear and queasily made my way to the bar, hands beginning to tingle.

Sitting on the floor in the nicely chilled foyer with a pint of water beside me I felt some relief, although I was missing the entire climax of Wong’s set. It took fifteen minutes and a familiar song to get me back on my feet and to the back of the crowd. If there was a bass line that could cure any ailment it would be that of Dean Town, a Vulfpeck cult classic and the ultimate crowd-pleasing set closer. I was a little sad as I watched the tune come and go from a distance, the audience singing the through-composed bass line note by note as is Vulfpeck tradition. It should have been an ecstatic highlight. Instead I was glad it was time to head home.

The crowd was jubilant as Wong and his band performed Dean Town at the end of the set

My aim is to keep my overall criticisms on Undertone as objective as possible, and I’m trying my best to ignore my minor illness on the night when I say that Cory Wong’s show genuinely won’t go down as one of my all-time favourites. The musical ability was undeniable, but more compelling songwriting and a much more concise set were needed if I was to have any hope of ignoring the increasing unease in my stomach. I can see why the crowd around me (and my friends in particular) seemed to love every second of it, but for me this night was one that will live in the memory for mostly the wrong reasons.

Cory Wong: Wong’s Cafe review – nothing new from a band in disguise
14
Mar

Cory Wong’s latest project is ostensibly Vulfpeck’s sixth album, and it’s perhaps telling that the band have avoided official recognition for their efforts – Wong’s Cafe feels rushed and uninspired from start to finish, and is home to some of the most unremarkable songs in the band’s history.

Approaching the end of my first listen of Wong’s Cafe, I couldn’t help but feel baffled. Why does this album even exist? Wong is now somewhat notorious in funk guitar circles for his relentless, somewhat overwhelming creative output. 2021 may have only brought a miserly four albums from Wong (2020 had twice that many), but to be fair he’s been busy pumping out online guitar courses, presenting his own talk show and larking about on an ice rink with his band. On paper, Wong’s Cafe is just yet more output from the Vulfpeck guitarist, and the album does indeed have a good deal of Wong’s ultra-clean rhythm guitar idiosyncrasies that helped him gain a name for himself as a solo artist during Vulfpeck’s recent hiatus.

Look just a little closer, however, and Wong’s Cafe has the fingerprints of Vulfpeck creative mastermind Jack Stratton all over it. All the beloved characters are back in action: Joe Dart’s neck is as flexible as ever, bobbing to the tune of some typically outstanding bass lines; Stratton is still plonking a piano and excitedly directing each tune; Theo Katzman spends the album cowering over a minimalist drum kit; enigmatic Woody Goss is as humble as ever with his jazzy keys embellishments. Joey Dosik even pops up at one point, contributing with his signature sax rasp. I felt almost emotional when the first studio clips of lead single Disco De Lune were released; it’s been too long since I’ve seen my favourite band jam together like that.

With such esteemed company, it’s strange how so often on Wong’s Cafe it’s clearly not Wong leading the show but Stratton and the rest of the band. Stratton-penned You Got to Be You, for example, sees Wong as nothing more than filler behind a passable, if rather derivate piano hook. It’s been confirmed that Antwaun Stanley had recorded vocals for the entirety of this track, but his input was scrapped when the band decided to keep Wong’s Cafe wholly instrumental. It’s a tragic loss – without any vocals, verses feel empty and directionless, and that piano riff lacks the Parcels shine that might have helped it get past the first chorus before growing dull and repetitive. The groove is so run-of-the-mill for Vulfpeck, even Joey Dosik’s best efforts in a closing saxophone solo can’t save it. The following Let’s Go! is a similar story, and ironically sees Stratton play the lead guitar riff in Wong’s place. Cheesy disco strings and a plodding drum beat would have been a little less nauseating had it not all sounded like a blatant rip off the 1983 classic Jump (For My Love). Goss is plonked somewhat uncomfortably on a cliché retro synthesiser, and his solo lacks the assured jazz improvisation skills so often demonstrated when Goss is on his home territory of Wurlitzers and good, old-fashioned upright pianos.

Smokeshow and Sweet Potato Pie deserve some praise for experimenting beyond the retro funk and disco genres the band have churned out for over a decade now, but neither track offers much appeal beyond a first intriguing listen. Smokeshow is an attempt at sexy, catwalk-ready 90s house music, but the bumbling groove behind Eddie Barbash’s breathy saxophone seems to run out of ideas halfway through. Sweet Potato Pie is bizarre bluegrass jazz that might have been bareable had Wong’s acoustic guitar hook not been so unoriginal and bland. A series of rapidfire solos are competently performed, but the return of that nauseating original melody does well to snuff out any building momentum.

There are more oddities later on in a tracklist that has a habit to fly by unnoticed. Vulfpeck’s brilliant Radio Shack (released to great acclaim less than two years ago) gets a needless redo, this time minus all the authentic charm of the cheery original. Over-production and a few unnecessary instrumental additions bog down the track a little, but the truth is Radio Shack (Wong’s Cafe Version) is remarkably similar to the original and as a result feels completely redundant. Any new song would have been much preferable to this, in spite of the fact that the original Radio Shack is one of Vulfpeck’s best songs in recent years.

The times when Wong does take full control of things happen to be when Wong’s Cafe is at its most unremarkable. Guitar musings like Memories and the throwaway closer Kitchen Etude leave no impact on the listener at all, barely passing as background music. Then there’s Guitar Music, a 70 second loop of one guitar chord that marks the nadir of Wong’s career to date. A song uniquely devoid of any ideas whatsoever, quite how fluff like this managed to make it onto an official album by a professional musician like Wong is beyond me. He should have tried much harder, or better, not released the song at all.

For all its failings, Wong’s Cafe is not completely lacking in redeeming qualities. Disco De Lune is the album’s most promising moment, with a fresh and genuinely original take on Debussy’s famous dreamy piano harmonies. The outro builds up a good head of steam, giving Dart a chance to flex his still-extraordinary bass guitar muscles. It’s a shame that all the seven tracks that follow lack Disco De Lune‘s albeit modest confidence and flair.

Whilst it’s technically only a Cory Wong album, Wong’s Cafe is an unfortunate return for the Vulfpeck lads. The heady heights of the band’s unbelievable, seminal live album seem like a long time ago now. Try as Stratton and Wong might, the magic is fading. A distinct change of direction and some fresh ideas is essential for the next album; half-baked songs like these just won’t cut it.

Samm Henshaw live at Gorilla review – pristine at the cost of personality
11
Mar

With a lack of the real horns and backing singers that his densely-layered pop-soul hits demanded, Samm Henshaw was always fighting a losing battle on an underwhelming opening night in Manchester.

Chowing down on a barely-warm double big mac in a central Manchester branch of McDonald’s minutes before completing my second journey to Gorilla in the space of three days, it’s telling that my main anticipation was about whether or not the bouncer would allow me to enter the venue with a half-filled bottle of water. I should have been buzzing with excitement, but the truth is the main reason I had found myself with a ticket to see on-the-rise Londoner Samm don’t-forget-the-extra-M Henshaw was that five of my friends happened to have one too. There was a faint hope, too, that the occasionally bland easy-listening soul that populates Henshaw’s recent debut album Untidy Soul would have new punch and purpose when played at loud volume in a room full of genuine fans. If it worked for Larkins it should work for Samm, right?

It’s perhaps telling that I showed up on a Monday night under the arches at Gorilla in a group of five after struggling to muster similar company for the mighty Sons of Kemet on the preceding Saturday. There is nothing like the challenging modern jazz compositions of the Sons in Henshaw’s music. Instead, there’s well earned mass appeal by way of polished funk grooves, playful lyrics and injections of soul and gospel sunshine. His concise, catchy tracks are often perfect for trendy Spotify playlists, where listeners glide from track to track without needing to engage with any broader message beyond love or vague optimism. That said, as I like to think with my favourite band Vulfpeck, sometimes lyrical depth isn’t necessary when the musical backing is rock solid. Henshaw is no Jack Stratton, but he sure knows how to write a catchy pop single.

The crowd in Gorilla seemed to match Spotify’s core demographic: young, diverse and happy and spontaneous enough to go out and party on a random Monday night in February. Our group had made it in – water bottle and all – with no hitches, although Fionn was disapproving of the ale selection and our disappointing position behind tall heads and far from the stage took some getting used to for poor Manon, both the most excited and shortest member of the group. “I hate to say it,” Fionn mentioned to me as the final preparations for Henshaw were being made on stage. “It’s not looking good for horns, is it?” He was right – one vocal mic wouldn’t cut it for the saxophones and trumpets we had our fingers crossed for. Backing vocalists, vital for Henshaw’s gospel edge, also seemed out of the question.

In the end, Henshaw’s eventual entrance (hopelessly obscured by the already-drunk man lumbering around in front of us) brought with it more disappointment than anticipation. Opener Thoughts and Prayers set the tone for the things to come. It was a pleasant if hookless start, but the tasteful trumpet lines of the studio recording just weren’t cutting through when played through the speakers. Follow-up Grow would have been a completely different ball game had some backing singers showed up to sing the hook, but instead the band let a recording we’d all heard before do the honours.

The obvious fact that Henshaw’s band were sticking tightly to a pre-orchestrated track for the entire night blunted the experience of live music. Each musician performed with the confidence of the seasoned pros they no doubt are, but their precision was at the cost of authenticity. The drums lacked some soul, with fills hammered out precisely on the beat, bridging the gaps in Henshaw’s melodies with unnatural perfection. The bassist and keyboardist – who had the advantage of a strong selection of riffs to bash out – were even more faceless, and a single guitar solo plonked towards the end of the set came and went without any of the fanfare it deserved. For the lightheartedness of the frontman to fully come across, an element of playful improvisation was essential. Instead, Henshaw found himself singing elaborate karaoke.

Even so, the set wasn’t without its highlights. Slick hip hop number Chicken Wings was the first song to deliver a great singalong chorus despite its total lyrical banality. Later on, the creamy R&B of East Detroit ended a long, dull patch of slower duds, providing an excellent chance for Henshaw to demonstrate his exceptional vocal ability. It was Church, however, that was the night’s surprise of the night, with a winning piano riff propelling the track to joyous highs. Henshaw’s energetic demand to “wake up and get yourself to church!” had the crowd bouncing in double time, no extra gospel singers required. A lack of hip hop duo EARTHGANG for a guest verse left a hole in the middle of the track, but a final bubbly chorus helped ease the pain of Henshaw’s reliance on a backing track.

Attempts to work in the multiple interludes that appear on Untidy Soul achieved mixed results. The voice memo intro to Loved By You was a well-coordinated change of pace, whilst Keyon was almost embarrassingly played over the speaker, the tasteful muted trumpet solo of the Keyon in question painfully absent. Broke – Henshaw’s biggest hit and his best song by some distance – was somewhat clumsily thrown into the set just a song or two later. As far as I was concerned, the effortlessly funky opening groove had been destined to be greeted by frenzied cheers from the crowd after Henshaw and his band had made a false exit. Instead, Henshaw prematurely gave his concert a highlight that he had no hope of topping. He did at least milk the moment with some good old-fashioned call and response.

Joy was the song of choice, then, for the finish. The heartfelt ballad about Henshaw’s search for happiness came dangerously close to being sickly sweet (“this one ‘gon leave you teary eyed” Henshaw promised over the first few bars, before encouraging us to hug our friends and sing the lyrics to one another) but most of us were happy to follow along with it. In fairness, the simple singalong finish proved a hit, and there was a brief feeling of heart-warming togetherness as we sang “don’t you worry what tomorrow will bring / ‘cause we got joy” over and over. It was the sort of contradictory platitude that album reviewers rightfully scoff at, but when played in earnest to a receptive audience it was easy to sense the kind heart and good intentions behind the rushed lyrics. For all the show’s flaws, I left with a smile.

I tried and failed to catch sleep on the hopelessly slow 2307 Trans-Pennine Express back across the moors as Fionn enjoyed what looked like some good shuteye slumped over the table in front of me. I couldn’t help but question whether buying the gig ticket in the first place was a wise move. Despite the night’s great company, a 7:30am alarm call was approaching like the grim reaper. I decided it’s time to give Gorilla a miss for a little while.

Sons of Kemet live at Gorilla review – a tour de force of British jazz
4
Mar

In an almost entirely wordless opening night, the boundary-pushing quartet chose impulsive danceability over the political potency they’ve become known for. The result was a thrilling set that seemed to fly by in a matter of minutes.

Ialmost never saw UK jazz trailblazers Sons of Kemet in Manchester. It wasn’t due to Covid this time, but rather the fact that a two hour journey seems all the longer in prospect when fat snowflakes are falling in their millions outside your bedroom window. It was with some reluctance that I scraped the snow off the roof of my car and accepted the kind offering of blankets, a shovel and a bar of chocolate from my worried mother. Only by the time I was diving in and out of thick fog on the upper reaches of the M62 did I realise that this would be my first trip to Manchester completely alone. After a busy week at home, was the promise of somewhat well-known contemporary jazz band worth it?

There were two things that propelled me over the darkening Pennines and onto a delayed and noisy tram headed for the centre of the city. The first was the fact that Sons of Kemet are not your average modern jazz band (although in reality the UK jazz scene is so diverse, an ‘average’ band is near impossible to come across). The four-piece’s USP is without doubt their unique lineup: one tenor saxophone, one tuba and two drummers. And that’s it. Harmonic detail that may have been brought to the table by a guitar or keyboard is replaced by an abundance of percussion, with drummers Eddie Hick and Tom Skinner making full use of their arsenals of cowbells, shakers and cymbals. Tubist Theon Cross and ringleader saxophonist Shabaka Hutchings present a similarly intriguing instance of musical symbiosis; neither instrument takes precedent over the other. Sons of Kemet’s music simply has two concurrent melodies: one high and one low. To listen for hooks in one over the other is to miss the point completely.

The second reason was simply for the sake of adventure. Manchester still feels like it’s own exciting new world to me, and Gorilla is increasingly becoming a familiar haven tucked under the Oxford Road arches. As I walked in wide-eyed and feeling accomplished having completed my grand journey, memories of Nubya Garcia last November came flooding back. Just like I had done that night, I promptly purchased an obligatory half-pint of Coke, slid my way through the crowd (once again ending up miraculously close to the stage) and steeled myself for the several hours of standing up to come. A lack of support act made the wait feel long.

Sons of Kemet ended up sauntering onto stage with little fanfare, the 400-strong crowd greeting them more like old friends than disbelieving megafans. The two frontmen simply smiled, somewhat crudely taped vocal microphones as deep as they could into the end of their instruments and got to work. Plodding opener My Queen Is Doreen Lawrence eased the audience in gently, opening with a repeated kick drum pattern and crackling rimshots before Hutchings added his own tasteful saxophone melodies. There was a huge roar from the crowd when Theon Cross made his entry on tuba – an almighty entry at that, his majestic instrument so rich and powerful in sound it felt as if the ground was shaking beneath us. I found myself in the perfect position in the crowd for a faceful of tuba, the shining mass of muscular brass tubes and valves almost within touching distance. Cross later got into the habit of leaning forward with one boot on the monitor in front of me in such a way that his face was entirely blocked from view by the tuba’s enormous bell, leaving only his legs and his rapid fingers visible. Not in all of my recent gigs has a musician and their instrument looked so awe-inspiringly magnificent working in tandem.

Theon Cross delivered an outstanding performance on tuba

Besides the lineup, the extraordinary thing about the evening’s performance was that the musicmaking started from Doreen Lawrence and hardly stopped until the four of them left the stage for good. As a result, it all began to feel like one, epic piece of jazz, with each song contributing to the general ebb and flow of the performance rather than existing as pieces of art in and of themselves. Pauses for applause felt like obligations to conform to concert traditions rather than necessary breaks, and over an hour had passed before Hutchings first spoke into the mic, albeit only to briefly introduce his bandmates during a song. To my surprise, Sons of Kemet’s pro-BLM, anti-institutional rage that had been so integral to their fiery latest album Black to the Future was entirely limited to their instruments. There was nothing of viscious beat poetry that peppers the album, but in its place we recieved a range of Afrobeat grooves that highlighted the fact that jazz – and a vast portion of modern culture and broader society – originates from the work of black cultures in Africa and around the world. In the end, the band’s key message of respect and understanding was conveyed perhaps with more eloquence than words could ever muster.

In truth, comment about Sons of Kemet’s thoughts on race relations or their feminist slant on black history (many of their songs are named after unsung black women throughout history), was only a minor detail of their performance. As the pumped-up group of fans around me in the front row demonstrated just a few minutes into the band’s set, dancing is a more immediate aspect of the band’s appeal. Early highlights Pick Up Your Burning Cross and the pulsating My Queen Is Albertina Sisulu whipped up a storm in the crowd, with Skinner’s kick drum pounding hard and heavy on every last downbeat. It was striking how often the repetitive, bass-heavy drums grooves resembled EDM or trance music in its ability to compel an audience to lose themselves in the beat. We all seemed to bounce up and down accordingly, the thumping kick drum and hypnotic bassline helping us dismiss any question of fatigue or boredom.

Watching exactly how Skinner and Hick deal with the logistics of two drum kits was fascinating. It seemed to me there tended to be a split between one drummer laying down the basics of a groove and the other adding tasteful splashes of snare and cymbals, although it wasn’t always obvious who had been delegated which role. Each drummer also had a slightly different set of gear at their disposal: Skinner was treated to the bigger, louder of the two kick drums, whilst it was Hick who had been given cowbell privileges. Regardless of the specifics, the end product was an immaculate, exceptionally detailed layer of percussion that both drove the two horn players to ecstatic highs and offered moments of peace and relaxation in the evening’s more thoughtful passages.

It was Theon Cross’s performance, however, that stole the show. A man that has seemingly devoted his life to proving once and for all how phenomenally underrated his instrument is, Cross was a force to be reckoned with, blasting out thundering bass melodies and sweating profusely under the effort demanded from him by the music. Every occasional squeal into the tuba’s extremely loud and surprisingly alarming upper register – sounding somewhere between a revving motorbike and charging elephant – was a thrill that illicited a cheer from the audience, especially when the sound was unleashed at unexpected moments of relative quietness. A three-minute solo piece performed by Cross in the middle of the set showed him at the peak of his powers and in total, virtuosic command of his instrument.

Cross let out a coy smile and dried his sweat-drenched face as the crowd cheered in enthusiastic approval of his solo before beginning another piece completely alone. This time his performance blossomed into the throbbing My Queen Is Harriet Tubman, a blistering, relentlessly volatile piece that remains the band’s best song to date. It took genuine restraint to stop myself from singing along to every last squeal of Hutchings’ sax line which I had learnt by heart – I sensed from the largely quiet dancers around me that screaming along wasn’t the done thing at jazz gigs. Instead I found myself jumping up and down with glee to a tumult of cowbell as both Hutchings and Cross fired off one killer riff after another. Hutchings, bandana-clad and ready for battle with his sinewy biceps bulging from the sides of a sleeveless shirt, ruthlessly attacked every last note like a boxer fighting for the world title. Cross bobbed up and down just a couple of metres away from me, cheeks puffing under the strain of an almighty bass line as Hick swayed along in time behind him, his remarkable dexterity on percussion filling the room with noise. About a dozen gigs in, this surely ranks as my most thrilling live music experience to date.

From there, it was a victory lap for the quartet who were clearly enjoying an audience that would gladly stomp their feet at every last thump of Skinner’s kick drum. There were moments of delightful experimentation – Hutchings took to what looked like a recorder at one point (an atenteben would be my guess after a bit of Googling) and Cross added atmosphere to My Queen Is Nanny of the Maroons with some conch playing. Frustratingly neither instrument had been amplified at all, so the effect was more of a mood-setter rather than an attention-grabber. Nonetheless, it added a needed element of light and shade to the evening’s performance. To Never Forget the Source turned out to be a slightly perculiar closer as one of the more downtempo and less remarkable numbers from the band’s latest album. The choice to use an improvised solo piece from Hutchings as the encore was stranger still. His playing was nonetheless mesmerising – a song with a bassline, melody and percussion all conjured up by one man and his saxophone – but it was far from the crowd-pleasing finale I had come to expect.

It was barely 10pm by the time I left Gorilla, but there was a sense among the crowd that we had just experienced something special. Someone next to me remarked that the 90 minutes had flown by. It was true that with virtually no speaking let alone the inter-generational racial hatred I had anticipated, the gig had run like a particularly good concept album: seamless, beautifully crafted and with a vague sense of a journey. Like all the best gigs, I took home a resounding feel of awe – both at the incredible musicians I had come face to face with and the fantastic pieces of music they had brought to life. The long journey had been undoubtedly worth it in the end. What’s more, I didn’t even need to use my shovel.

Orla Gartland live at Leeds University Stylus – great songs worthy of bigger occasions
31
Jan

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.

Nubya Garcia live at Gorilla review – a gripping jazz odyssey
22
Jan

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.