Music Boats | Page 5

easy life live at O2 City Hall – indie pop stars get carried away
5
Mar

Hundreds of university students descended on Newcastle’s City Hall for an evening of singalong soft pop and RnB so unnecessarily injected with superficial rock and roll antics it made you wonder if Murray Matravers and co have chosen the wrong genre.

You know you’re in for a wild night when you find yourself on the frenzied brim of your second mosh pit of the night and the headline act hasn’t even appeared yet. Instead, it’s Archie Blagden, one half of Somerset hip-hop duo Sad Night Dynamite, that’s flinging himself around in the empty area in front of me, battle-ready with tinted goggles and aided by boomy 808s and scuzzy autotune. I had in some way asked for it – on the walk down to the City Hall I’d told my friend Izzie that I was eager for some full-throated mosh pit action now with the enthralling drama of cleopatrick’s heavy rock set last spring a distant memory. But to the sound of this grungy mess I was as reluctant as the rest of the peace-loving easy life fans around me when Blagden made his final orders to collide. Sad Night Dynamite worked hard during their set but eliciting such an extreme response from a set of fans that largely didn’t know they existed at lunchtime was always going to be an uphill struggle. As it happened, their set ended in a degree of ignominy, with the onstage Macbook crashing despite several midsong attempts at revival.

Thirty minutes later, and seemingly unperturbed by his colleagues’ struggles, easy life frontman Murray Matravers sauntered onto stage as if he simply hadn’t noticed the several thousand fans in the room loudly celebrating his arrival, still clutching his red plastic beer cup as he settled himself at a keyboard for the opening number. He was surrounded by a neat set mimicking the insides of a house – complete with fake, curtained windows and a prop door – to match the homely aesthetic of their second album MAYBE IN ANOTHER LIFE. A marked improvement from the debut’s rough edges and loose concept, it was that horns-infused second album that I was most looking forward to experiencing in person. Many in the room had affections for the quintet that long predated the 2021 debut album; easy life has supplied a steady drip of singles since 2017, and their disaffected, loose RnB style has already made them regular winning fixtures at festivals across the country every summer. Last year’s jaunt in Glastonbury was particularly notorious, with Matravers jumping several barriers to get down and dirty in the mud at Worthy Farm during skeletons. Through the TV screen, I could hardly believe what I was watching.

easy life’s staging was well put together.

Despite the reputation of their energetic live shows, more often than not it was the more laid-back numbers from the recent album that shone the brightest in Newcastle. Lazy funk head-thumper GROWING PAINS got the gig off to a good start with a display of Matravers’ endearing lackadaisical rap style and knack for an infectious groove. On serene OTT Matravers’ whiny and strained but oddly affecting vocals were also a highlight, doing well to avoid the autotune and instead opting for a stark authenticity that seemed to have the audience screaming along all the louder. No song was screamed louder than exquisite early highlight sangria, a song propelled by a deliciously groovy bass line and one of the finest chorus hooks easy life have penned to date. The refrain was so strong it made up for a pre-recorded Arlo Parks retaining her chorus for the live performance and some dubiously pretentious verses with lines like “euphoric but unbalanced, like two top-heavy fractions”.

The occasional horns that elevated the latest album appeared periodically in Newcastle as a three-piece tucked somewhat apologetically in a distant corner of the stage. It must be said that the musicians didn’t seem to be at their sharpest and on occasion big moments were fluffed by a dodgy note or lack of conviction, but they nonetheless delivered the goods for CALLING IN SICK‘s remarkable instrumental finale, their rousing melodies rising further and further into bliss. As questionable as the horn section’s performance was at times, they were criminally underused, and even obliged to exit via the prop door on songs where they were deemed surplus to requirement. A little more effort towards including them as part of the gang would have gone a long way – easy life’s jazzy pop inflections could suit an extra sophisticated instrumental edge. Besides, pop as a genre (like most things) could always do with more trumpet solos.

The horn section delivered the goods, their rousing melodies rising further and further into bliss.

easy life is a band that appeals to a very specific Gen Z audience, and I had arrived fittingly amongst a gaggle of a dozen university students eager enough to accept an hour waiting outside under the City Hall’s towering stone pillars before the gig. As a result, I found myself in the epicentre of a crowd of the most passionate easy lifers, and after the vigorous warm up of the support act I readied myself for battle, ensuring that the usual pint of Coke was fully consumed before the inevitable mayhem that would ensue. It was song four when I last caught sight of my friends, Matravers splitting the crowd for a booming rendition of BASEMENT. The song was a gritty highlight of the last album but the deafening, elephantine bass synth inevitably came out as a mangled, indistinct rumble from the overworked City Hall soundsystem. The muddy mix didn’t seem to help the audience enthusiasm, and there were audible groans when Matravers enthusiastically set up a second mosh pit for the third chorus. The screams that followed near me seemed more likely to be discomfort from the genuinely alarming crush than delighted exhilaration.

Frequent crowd surfing was both great fun and a major distraction.

The enforced fun didn’t stop there. skeletons was the climax of the night, with scruffy looking drummer Oliver Cassidy orchestrating a mosh circle before impressively extricating himself from the sea of bodies in time for the final chorus. To be fair, if any easy life song warrants such chaos, it’s this one, and performed with a little extra abrasive attitude than the originals the dirty synths and shouty hook gave a satisfactory reason to work up a sweat and inadvertently become intimately aware of the hair hygiene routine of the person in front of you. At other times, the rock and roll antics were simply uncomfortable distractions from unfittingly amiable pop songs. Matravers spent much of breakout hit Nightmares surfing the crowd and, as fun as getting a hand on his shiny leather coat was, I was too busy avoiding getting kicked in the head by the popstar to appreciate the song’s rock solid chorus. Later, an outrageously jazzy trumpet solo was demoted to background music as guitarist Lewis Berry also had a crack at crowd surfing, apparently twisting his ankle as he fell off the stage but getting stuck in regardless. It was telling that I only realised how good the instrumental section sounded when watching back through my jittery footage of the whole hullabaloo in front of me.

I was too busy avoiding getting kicked in the head by a popstar to appreciate Nightmares‘ rock solid hook.

As the night wore on there was a growing feeling that those around me were growing tired of the theatrics too, and even the calmer moments of crowd participation felt jarringly superficial. Matravers had to almost beg the audience to get their lighters in the air for ho-hum new ballad trust exercises, and elsewhere vigorous hand waving from Cassidy only just got the crowd swaying along. There was of course plenty of joy to be had at this easy life for the band’s most faithful followers, but for those still needing convincing the boyband could have done well to tone it all down a bit.

I staggered out the City Hall at 10.30pm underwhelmed but inevitably sweaty and lingered around in vain for a sight of any of the friends I showed up with, having last seen them on the other side of BASEMENT. Grateful for the fresh air, I gave it five minutes before zipping home on an e-scooter, head ringing. I had been given the sticky, claustrophobic music workout I had half-desired before the gig, but it came at the cost of easy life’s music. This is no hard rock or metal band, and I left more confused than when I arrived as to why the band felt the need to turn up the volume on their relatively gentle indie pop so forcefully. Moshing is a worthwhile experience whilst we’re young, but there’s a time and a place. Next time I’ll be more careful what I wish for.

Herbie Hancock live at Jazz à Vienne review – world class musician meets world class venue
5
Mar

On a memorable warm summer’s night in Vienne, Herbie Hancock found himself a spectacular venue to deliver one remarkable rendition of his famous compositions after another. Jazz’s answer to Paul McCartney, the 82-year-old remains the unparalleled titan of his genre.

There was little to see onstage after Thomas de Pourquery wrapped up an impressive (if overly long) support slot, but the roar through Vienne’s magnificent Roman ampitheatre was as if a gladiator had just landed a fatal blow. An outlier in the multitude of paper airplanes had just been chucked stageward by the crowd from the upper reaches of the stands and was miraculously floating closer and closer to the stage, eventually plonking itself in front of a giant speaker stack before being scuttled away by a busy stagehand a few seconds later. It was a moment that ignited the match-ready buzz of anticipation in the crowd minutes before the great Herbie Hancock took to the stage, a man who can now quite reasonably claim to be the great living jazz musician on the planet. I had travelled to Vienne, near Lyon, with three friends and had already enjoyed one night of the festival (an improved, well-contained Cory Wong; a somewhat tired, cheese-laden George Benson). Tonight, however, was clearly the apex of the whole holiday – a reason for Fionn and I to crack out fresh, specially-bought shirts and douse ourselves in cologne for no particular reason other than “it’s for Herbie”. Now well informed about the dangers of sitting for two hours of more on unforgiving stone steps, I made my way uphill through Vienne carrying a pillow from our Airbnb, itself dressed in a fading Rex Orange County t-shirt to avoid stains. As we got comfortable in a spot high up in the ampitheatre – hardly a detraction as the view of the sunset over Vienne was remarkable – there was already a sense that nothing could ruin this night.

The sky had turned sapphire blue by the time Hancock strolled onto stage. “This place feels like home, I’ve been here so many times,” he told us as another paper airplane rudely made its way towards Hancock’s feet. It’s a phrase that may have sound like a boast from any other artist – the sheer number of people perched on the steep, curved stone steps around him was staggering – but from the mouth of Hancock it felt natural. Why should a man with such harmonic genius and jazz history (he was a crucial component of the Miles Davis Quintet, of course) ever feel overwhelmed by the occasion? A long opening medley – a bewildering tour of Hancock’s extensive discography including a journey through Textures performed with impressive attack and physicality considering Hancock’s old age – cemented the idea that Hancock has the ample experience required to play at the very highest standard in any venue he likes.

The nightly scene at Vienne’s Théâtre Antique during the festival

It helped that Hancock had populated his band with a cast of esteemed unsung heroes of the American jazz world. Guitarist Lionel Loueke was the easy standout performer, almost stealing the show on several occasions with dazzling solo works of wizardry, switching from gritty roar to silky smooth cantabile seemingly with the flick of a plectrum. His technically dazzling introduction to a somewhat disappointingly lightfooted Chameleon early on in the set was masterful. Trumpeter Terrence Blanchard, another extraordinary musician who could quite easily produce his very own sellout show of hits, took the spotlight for his own arrangement of the popular standard Footprints. Choppier than the original yet retaining the sense of nuanced constraint and control, the rendition was one of the many exquisite highlights of the night, not least thanks to Blanchard’s trumpet solo that soared up towards the highest ramparts of the Théâtre Antique like glorious morning birdsong.

It was hard to take in the occasion as, one by one, favourite tunes that me and my friends had played time and time again in youth jazz bands throughout our childhood were checked off. Cantaloupe Island, a song about as crowd pleasing as jazz gets, was one such moment with Hancock’s unforgettable chugging blues riff providing the first reason to those around me to get off their feet and get dancing. The rapid fusion of Actual Proof felt even more piercing when positioned directly after the relatively serene Footprints. The agitated basslines of James Genus found the perfect match in Justin Tyson’s dazzlingly busy and precise drumming, although the spontaneous harmonic whirlwind flowing out of Hancock’s Fender Rhodes inevitably, and deservedly, dominated proceedings. Oftentimes Hancock’s soloing felt like the stuff of legend, deserving to be plastered across YouTube as a viral video clip with a breathless, all-caps video title extolling Hancock’s general godliness. The extended, often wildly adventurous solos seemed to come and go distressingly quickly. It wasn’t that Hancock’s set was too short, but that his live, unrepeatable pianistic feats were simply too remarkable to hear once.

Dusk falls behind Herbie Hancock and his band

Hancock did well to resist the tempation to pack the setlist with somewhat overplayed greatest hits. Sublimely soulful deep cut Come Running to Me was an inspired song choice as dusk became nighttime and an excellent excuse for Hancock to take to the vocoder, an instrument he popularised singlehandedly during his period of technological boundary-pushing in the 1970s. A detour late on saw Hancock left entirely alone with his vocoder, repeating the crushing line “I’m not happy without you” through a cloud of dense, shape-shifting cluster chords. In a night of predictable, well-worn hits, it was a moment of striking sincerity and without doubt the evening’s emotive crux. Quite what emotion Hancock was unleashing was up to interpretation; an enlightening epiphany that could pave the way to happiness, or a grief-stricken realisation of love’s darkest consequences? The beauty of it all was the effortlessness in which Hancock moved from despair to hope and back again, each carefully chosen chord moving the piece forward in unexpected ways.

The absence of a proper, funky Chameleon aside, it had been a flawless evening. Thousands of raised hands clapped and cheered below us as the band took their bows, the time fast approaching midnight. The giddy feeling of being within eyeshot of such an indisputable living legend had not left me all night and 82-year-old Hancock was still triumphant and energetic as he made a final wave to the crowd following a blistering two hour set.

The roar continued right through to the encore, only stopping as Hancock arrived at the mic to speak. “Oh, one more thing,” he told us with a grin and faux nonchalence. Cue Chameleon once more, now with keytar and that stonking, immortal bassline. Hancock’s playing was stupendous: crunchy and risky synth slaps squashed up against virtuosic runs before fading almost to nothing in preparation for one last, showstopping buildup. With the pretty orange glow of the Rhône valley in view behind the stage and twinkling constellations now clearly in view, it felt like there was surely no better place in the world to be for those five minutes. If there was any doubt that Hancock could produce a set of music to live up to his staggering career in jazz, it had been well and truly put to bed. Who could possibly ask for more?

Samm Henshaw live at Gorilla review – pristine at the cost of personality
27
Feb

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.

Carly Rae Jepsen live at O2 Academy review – pure, perfect pop
25
Feb

She may be synonymous with the hit that first shot her to fame, but the party-ready fans that packed into Leeds’ O2 Academy knew Carly Rae Jepsen had more to offer, namely a flawless set of pristine pop with sparkling, singalong hooks at every turn.

Carly Rae Jepsen stands on a plinth at stage right, arms outstretched from a huge, glittery trench coat, watching the delight in her fans as a bridge gains momentum. With a turn of her heels she rushes into centre stage, skilfully directing an overlapping three-part crowd harmony before a final chorus takes flight, along with thousands of pieces of confetti. It’s the sort of over the top set piece that most bands would use as their crowd-pleasing set closer. For Jepsen, this is just song number three.

For many, however, Jepsen will only be known for one, ultimate crowd-pleaser. Back in 2011 the Canadian singer bagged herself the hit most pop upstarts can only dream of. Call Me Maybe wasn’t just a success, it was an inescapable summer smash, bagging a Grammy nomination and the attention of the world. As I write it is on the verge of entering an exclusive club of songs with over one billion streams on Spotify. Following up such a song was an unenviable challenge, and indeed Jepsen has never quite returned to those heights – we are at the 2,500 capacity O2 Academy after all, rather than the 13,000 capacity first direct Arena – but a listen to any of Jepsen’s four albums since Call Me Maybe reveals just how lazy her label of one hit wonder is. Magnum opus Emotion did indeed gain a cult following but deserved even more, and whilst follow-up Dedicated was generally well-received by critics it failed to find much traction in the charts. Nonetheless, the fans in attendance at the Academy had kept listening, and were in for a triumphant night of undervalued classics.

Jepsen’s music was sweet but never saccharine, retro but with crystalline production to ensure the songs were never simply disco pastiches.

What was most extraordinary about Jepsen’s show was that almost every song felt deserving of the confetti cannon treatment. Bouncing onto stage in a wisely-chosen pair of trainers, latest album opener Surrender My Heart started things with a bang, with shimmering synths and gorgeous backing vocals accompanying Jepsen’s characteristically unforgettable melodies. Follow-up Joshua Tree similarly lit up the room, and as one of her finest basslines rumbled through the air there was already a feeling this night could be a special one. “I need it! I feel it” we chanted along, anticipation building.

Occasional spots of choreography elevated the set.

For most of the night, Jepsen’s performance was a case of show don’t tell. Chat was kept to a minimum, and instead it was the quality of the music that did the talking. Whilst the audience banter may have been scant, Jepsen’s desire to maximise time spent on her songs was understandable – such is the depth of quality in her discography that a significant chunk of quality material (girly joy Boy Problems, slinky Anxious, funky Everything He Needs) was never destined to make it into the carefully curated 90 minute set. Julien was one song that deservedly made the cut, sounding tight, catchy and fresh and giving a good excuse for a spot of basic choreography with the backing dancers. It was a song that typified much of Jepsen’s appeal: sweet but never saccharine, retro but with crystalline production to ensure the songs were never simply disco pastiches.

Jepsen’s speciality lies undoubtedly in funky, party-primed pop songs, but there was a necessary offering of calmer, more nuanced numbers too. Go Find Yourself Or Whatever was the night’s most intimate moment and started with just Jepsen and her guitar, taking things in an unexpected country direction. Eventually the backing band joined for a subtle, blissful chorus and the sort of melody that gets crowds waving their phone lights along without the performer needing to ask. Gently swaying Western Wind, completed with an intriguing extended instrumental section to allow for a costume change from Jepsen, was also one of the finer quiet moments of the night. Gut-wrenching Your Type – apparently requested by a shrewd fan on Instagram before the show – was a bolder, more ambitious sort of ballad but just as powerful. “I’m not the type of girl you’d call more than a friend,” Jepsen lamented, and the refrain was so effective the pain of rejection was ours too.

Unleashing Call Me Maybe in the first half was a brave move but a wise one too. The song is of course great, but me and fellow Carly fans Thomas and Isaac were hard pressed to call it the highlight of the night as we made our way to a celebratory post-gig Maccies. To some extent, Call Me Maybe‘s main appeal in Leeds was simply how big of a hit it was. A sort of 2010s pop Mona Lisa, that cheeky, world-beating chorus provoked awe, as did the famous punchy strings sample that has been the inspiration of countless pop song since. Nine-year-old me had it on repeat on my iPod back in summer of 2012, and so hearing it in the flesh 11 years later reminded me just how lucky I am to have this opportunity.

I Didn’t Just Come Here To Dance was a late night club banger that tore the roof off an already ecstatic Academy.

So what songs could possibly surpass Call Me Maybe? As it happened, the list was long. I Really Want You was a strong contender, with every inch of the track a hook, every melody a winner. The delightfully silly chorus of “I really really really really really really like you,” annoyed pre-teen me when I first heard it on the radio almost a decade ago, but since then I’ve learned to give in to the fun of it all and appreciate just how strong of a melody it is. It wasn’t the only song to match Call Me Maybe‘s infectious sense of fun. Percussion-infused I Want You In My Room ended with a stonking sax solo that had Jepsen beaming from ear to ear and no doubt the whole audience too. Beach House may have been mocked by some for its corny spoken word recreations of Jepsen’s former dodgy boyfriends, but in Leeds it was enormous fun, with Jepsen and backing vocalists pointing their mics at each of the male band members for them to deliver lines like “I got a lake house in Canada and I’m probably gonna harvest your organs”.

Rightly, Jepsen chose to go big on confetti.

It was the songs that have had the most unjust neglect in the wake of Call Me Maybe that were packed into an exhilarating final 15 minutes of the show. Stunning When I Needed You was screamed back at Jepsen louder than any other song all night, the perfectly executed lyric “I wish that I could change but not for me, for you” owing itself nicely to some passionate finger pointing both from Jepsen and her fans. I’ll admit I was a little unfamiliar with perhaps mistitled I Didn’t Just Come Here To Dance before the show, but in Leeds it was love at first synth bass line. Easily Jepsen’s most dance music-oriented track, complete with vocal manipulations and a massive, piano-led drop, it was a late night club banger that tore the roof off an already ecstatic Academy. It may have even eclipsed The Loneliest Time which followed, Jepsen’s current hit and biggest commercial success since the Emotion days. Despite all the singing, the fans impressively still had enough voice left to belt out that song’s brilliant, TikTok-ready bridge (“I’m coming back for you!”). Golden light filled the stage, disco strings rushed out the speakers and we raised our hands with rapture to the words “In the morning, sun hits the water / Is this nirvana?”, for my money the most moving passage of lyrics and music of Jepsen’s whole career.

It had been a gig with too many highlights to mention, but as I munched on my already-cold chicken nuggets it was that first cause for confetti (two more loads were sent flying in the middle and end of the set) that stuck in my memory the clearest. The song was Run Away With Me, which featured the sort of galloping shuffle groove that compels a crowd to get airborne as soon as the first chorus hits. It was early in the set, but already we seemed lost in the music: the electrifying sax riff, the rippling synths, Jepsen’s rhythmic melody that neatly fitted into the gaps left by her accompaniment. “Take me! to the! feeling!” we belted, hands to the sky and feet off the ground, feeling that visceral thrill and inviting more. I caught my breath as the last strands of confetti fluttered down onto our heads, the fans in front trying unsuccessfully to catch the pieces as they danced in the air unpredictably. I couldn’t blame them for wanting to take home a piece of this magical occasion – two confetti cannons later and I couldn’t resist stuffing a few pieces of the coloured tissue paper from the floor into my coat pocket. They were dirty and scrunched up, having been danced on by similarly enthralled fans, but it didn’t matter. Nights like these are worth remembering.

Parthenope live at the Wardrobe review – the newest star of UK jazz
16
Feb

Returning to Leeds for a one-off homecoming, the Guildhall jazzer’s set was rough around the edges but oozed with potential. Aided by a stellar trio of groove-makers, Parthenope’s dexterity on saxophone in particular is already dazzling.

It’s no secret now that the new world of British jazz is fertile ground for fresh talent. Ever since a talented cohort of young jazzers emerged on the scene in the late 2010s (Nubya Garcia, Oscar Jerome, Shabaka Hutchings and Ezra Collective being amongst the most prominent), the growing popularity and newfound coolness of contemporary jazz has been a wonderful thing to witness, and the rise of the moment shows no signs of slowing. The vast range of instrumental and stylistic choices allowed within the vague confines of the word ‘jazz’ has made the characteristics of a new ‘UK jazz’ genre difficult to pin down. Groups could be anything from traditional jazz trios to huge, ever-changing collectives or odd-ball percussion-driven quartets (see the now disbanded Sons of Kemet), often with a refreshing splash of electronics or the earthy touches of ancestral Afrobeat.

Leeds born and raised and still a student at London’s esteemed Guildhall School of Music, Parthenope Wald-Harding’s take on modern jazz is, like many of her contemporaries, none of the above. In her music, soulful vocals meet intricately funky guitar backings, but the emphasis is always on her winding Charlie Parker-esque alto saxophone lines, which dance over each slinky groove like a ribbon in flight. As it stands, the 20-year-old has positioned herself as one of the most promising rising stars in the scene, having already snagged herself a spot in the illustrious Blue Note Re:imagined II covers compilation disc alongside now well established acts such as Franc Moody, Maya Delilah and Nubiyan Twist. Catching her this early – Wald-Harding is yet to release her first original song – brings with it the thrill of seeing an artist at the moment their career begins to blossom and, more importantly, the possibility of being able to gloat about seeing her live a few years down the line once having to explain how to pronounce her remarkable real name becomes a thing of the past (think “penelope”).

Parthenope and her band were warmly received at the Wardrobe

Wald-Harding’s career in music may just be dawning, but a one-off homecoming concert in the cosy Wardrobe successfully pulled in an encouraging crowd of local fans already well aware of her talents. Her set may have lacked familiar tracks, but there were plenty of highlights to get excited about for 2023, with What You Wanted an assured and instantly danceable opener. On this and many other songs, Wald-Harding’s skill as a musician was more than matched by the trio of Guildhallers that completed the band, in particular laser-focussed drummer Tom Potter, whose complex, nuanced funk grooves managed to be engaging but never obnoxiously technical, a feat not all of jazz drummers can pull off. Solos were dished out liberally amongst the band, and it was guitarist Toby Daintree provided the standout improvisation of the bunch with his restless riffing over strutting Pigeon Park.

As a singer, it must be said, Wald-Harding tended to come across as somewhat tentative, never quite willing to go all in on a vocal even when Kinzan Mu’s outrageous bass fills urged her onwards. With a sax reed at her lips, however, Wald-Harding was a force of nature, her solos direct and startling, often whizzing up and down the instrument’s full range before letting out a fearlessly long high shrieks as the crescendos summited. Her habit of standing still and shutting her eyes in concentration for each show stopping solo occasionally made it seem as if the saxophone was playing her, and her ability to only so much as twitch as her unrestrained melodies soared skywards was almost as remarkable as the playing itself.

Parthenope’s saxophone solos were often remarkable

Aptly-named Dynamite, an interpolation of the Roots’ tune of the same name originally performed by drummer Nate Smith and his band, provided both the simplest and most effective head, with Wald-Harding’s dexterity giving way to straightforwardly brilliant jazz-funk songwriting. Equipped with an outlandish chord progression and almost comically plodding bass line, the song was the boldest number of the night, and the wait for an inevitable studio recording of the track begins now. Potter’s ludicrously groovy closing drum solo alone was simply too good to hear only once.

It was a surprise that Wald-Harding’s only public release to date – a dreamy, tasteful cover of Nora Jones’ Don’t Know Why – was one of the night’s less remarkable numbers, her sax lines perhaps inevitably lacking the crystalline sheen of her career-launching recording. There were rough edges to be found in the rest of the set too – head re-entries that lacked conviction, intros that had bandmates seemingly looking to one another for reassurance and good songs that underwhelmingly fizzled into nothing at their conclusion (Dynamite included). Each of Wald-Harding’s band are most in their element when deep into a glorious, attention-grabbing solo, but a little more attention to detail elsewhere would have more convincingly sold the band as a group of emerging professionals.

Yet, with the impressive turnout and clear strength of Wald-Harding’s songwriting ability, the night had been a resounding success and well worth my tiring end-of-season journey to Leeds and back. That said, I was very pleased to see the band wrapping up shortly before 10pm, if it only meant I could grab an earlier train home after my original train had been cancelled. I even had time to nab a set list from the stage before embarking on a brisk walk to the station, only to find the train I had rushed for was indefinitely delayed. I may have ended up stranded at York station as midnight approached but, even then, regret about making the effort to see Parthenope was never on my mind. In many ways, seeing upstarts as genuinely talented as Wald-Harding at the start of their career is just as exciting as seeing well established pros dish out their tried-and-true hits. There’s something smug about hearing so many unreleased songs, especially when the vast majority of them seem like the sort of thing a whole generation of young jazz fans would go nuts for. I’m certain bigger things are coming for Parthenope, and when they do come I will be insufferable.

Cassia live at NUSU review – sunshine pop trio deserve more
7
Feb

Stuck in an under capacity students’ union and struggling to whip up excitement in the crowd, Cassia’s catalogue of uplifting indie pop tracks will have more successful airings than their trip to Newcastle. Patches of effervescent Mancunian calypso gave a taste of just how brilliant the trio could be.

Showing up to Newcastle University’s gloomy students’ union buildings an hour after doors opened for Cassia’s gig, the near silence on campus was a cause for concern. I had seen online earlier that there hadn’t even been enough ticket sales for the stocks to be marked as ‘low’ on the band’s website, and frontman Rob Ellis had taken to Instagram to remind any last fans in the city that there would indeed be plenty of tickets available on the door. After meeting friend Lily – who I hadn’t been to a gig with since the time we foolishly missed Wet Leg play as support act mere weeks before they became one of the biggest bands in the country – there were so few people we struggled to even find out where the actual venue was. Finding ourselves in an abandoned Co-op, I had to resort to asking a security guard for help.

Of course, there was little queueing when we did locate the venue, which turned out to be a rather uninspiring black box two storeys underground, with a barrier two metres in front of the stage ensuring there would be none of the can-practically-touch-them intimacy I love with small venues. A bar was plonked at the back and a large empty space out of view of the stage occupied one half of the room. There wasn’t even a glitterball. In fairness, the audience steadily grew as the night wore on, although not before two support acts had been and gone. For a relatively small band, you begin to hope that this tour will be financially worthwhile for the musicians.

It was a shame because Cassia produce the sort of joyful music that comes alive in front of a large, receptive audience. The band started out as a curiosity, selling themselves as a unique Mancunian calypso-pop band, bringing the carefree, sun-kissed sounds of the Caribbean home to the drizzly northwest. Since their easy-going debut Replica they’ve morphed into a more traditional indie pop boyband, delving into a trendy if somewhat overpopulated genre currently led by the likes of Foals and easy life. It’s true that in the process the band has lost a lot of their original flair and uniqueness, but the good news is that Cassia’s pop songs are often very solid with their litany of watertight hooks and lyrics that invariably look on the brighter side of life.

The current state of Cassia was well captured in set opener Drifting, a track that gently hummed away with its relaxed clean guitars and unobtrusive bass, plus a chorus good enough to get the handful of Cassia superfans at the front singing early. Do Right, with the typically heartening Cassia-esque lyric “do right and let the rest follow” at its centre, was even better but struggled to inspire much in a largely static crowd. Perhaps the fans were waiting for tracks from the latest album, but with Do Right‘s effortless vocalised hook and clattering cowbell, I found little to dislike in the song. Powerlines was less contentious thanks to Lou Cotteril’s muscular bassline that, amplified to concert volumes, resulted in a song one falsetto flourish from unadulterated funk. Ellis seemed to feel the funk too, launching into a quick guitar solo at the end and perhaps getting a little excited, tangling himself in knots with a fuzzy mess of indistinct twanging as he attempted a climax. The intricate instrumental jam section that followed offered a much better display of his skills, sounding pleasantly Parcels-like in his dexterity and tight connection with Cotteril.

A bit more of that spirit of experimentation would have helped add variety in a set where the band’s vast number easily digestible, upbeat pop songs slowly began to feel stale. Piano ballad Boundless was “Cassia’s one sad song” in Ellis’s words and was rolled out in Newcastle by necessity. Vaguely pretty and as inoffensive as the rest of the band’s tracks, it was inevitably talked over by the audience, although the delicate vocal harmonies were worth listening to. A mid-set slump promptly ensued. Cumbersomely titled 16-18 – Why You Lacking Energy? had potential on the album but fell flat in the flesh, Ellis’s scratchy guitar having none of the earthy bite that was required to help the track stand out from a set of smooth guitar pop. Other songs, like Dreams of My Past, might have gone by entirely unnoticed had Ellis not tried so hard to get the crowd somewhat involved, instructing us to clap along and throw our hands in the air at one point. As the band’s good tracks seemed to be running out and mid-track chatter amongst the crowd grew louder, Ellis asking “Newcastle, are we still there?” sounded perhaps more desperate than he’d intended.

Cassia built momentum towards the end of their set

The night wasn’t a complete lost cause, however, and the solution to the dullness turned out to be a return to Cassia’s calypso roots – exactly what separates Cassia from the mass of the UK’s other radio-friendly pop boybands. Moana, the band’s 2016 debut single, landed like a breath of fresh air, Ellis’s acrobatic guitar riffs as cheerful as morning birdsong over Jacob Leff’s gently simmering cauldron of bongos. The harmonies on the chorus were gorgeous and Cotterill’s energetic bassline was finally getting the crowd moving. Within seconds, teens clutching empty beer cups were aloft on the shoulders of friends, much to the disapproval of party pooping venue security staff. An exciting percussion break gradually introduced the delightful reggaeton of Small Spaces, perhaps early Cassia at their compositional finest. All of a sudden, keeping both feet still on the ground was very difficult indeed.

Momentum continued to build for a very strong finish. Right There, objectively the best of the pop side of Cassia’s discography, was given the late billing it deserved, and at last Ellis didn’t seem to have to try hard to get the room singing along for the song’s final build. The breakout hit 100 Times Over rounded off the evening and at last found a sweet spot neatly between calypso and pop. A song that I have returned to again and again over the years as a sure-fire mood booster, the effect was magnified in person, filling the room with very happy young music fans dancing the night away. “Freedom, it is all around me / Get up, sit down,” we sang together, hand gesturing accordingly. No Cassia song leaves quite the same residual feeling of joy as 100 Times Over, regardless of where you’re listening to it.

“Goodnight Newcastle, you’ve been unreal,” Ellis told us before skipping off stage with his bandmates. Had we, really? The trio had indeed figured out how to appease the NUSU crowd for the final fifteen minutes, but for much of the night Ellis’s showmanship had been tested, resulting in plenty of forced “make some noise” and “how we feeling?” moments that felt a little grating. True, it was a tough crowd, but some greater variety in the set list – some sort of meaningful way to break up the glut of samey mid-tempo pop songs – would have helped the show progress a little less precariously. Sunshine pop is all well and good, but unless the genre is absolutely nailed, a wider range of emotion is needed to add some more interest. A bigger, fuller, less utterly lifeless venue would help too. At the very least, next time they ought to book somewhere with a glitterball.

Bass Albums That Make a Workout Feel Cinematic
5
Feb

Bass Albums That Make a Workout Feel Cinematic looks at how music and entertainment become more rewarding when you listen for detail instead of just chasing the newest release.

For bass albums and movement, the useful question is not whether something is fashionable this week, but whether it holds attention after the first impression.

The best notes often come from pacing, texture, arrangement, and the way a performance changes a room. Those details help a playlist, album, or scene stay memorable.

Choose records with momentum, not just volume.
Look for low-end detail that stays clean on headphones.
A strong album arc can make a routine feel less repetitive.

Use this as a starting point, then return to the track, record, or score in a different setting. Good music usually gives back more when the second listen is slower.

House Music Singles That Still Feel Like Summer
30
Jan

House Music Singles That Still Feel Like Summer looks at how music and entertainment become more rewarding when you listen for detail instead of just chasing the newest release.

For house music singles, the useful question is not whether something is fashionable this week, but whether it holds attention after the first impression.

The best notes often come from pacing, texture, arrangement, and the way a performance changes a room. Those details help a playlist, album, or scene stay memorable.

Use a bright opener with an immediate groove.
Keep the middle section warm rather than aggressive.
End with a track that still works outside a club setting.

Use this as a starting point, then return to the track, record, or score in a different setting. Good music usually gives back more when the second listen is slower.

Sigrid live at O2 City Hall review – uninhibited pop joy
26
Jan

Bursting onto stage with trademark energy and buckets of charisma, when Sigrid found her stride in Newcastle she had the place well and truly bouncing. It was the more tender numbers that needed the most refinement.

Since arriving in the city two months ago, I’ve learnt one thing: Newcastle loves football. Walking through town on a Wednesday evening I soon found myself fighting against a thick swarm of many thousands of black and white shirts, bypassing overflowing pubs and cars plonked onto pavements presumably by fans who concluded the parking wardens must be going to the game too. It seemed a fair assumption, given that everywhere else outside the immediate vicinity of St. James’ Park was so eerily quiet. Even the streets leading up to O2 City Hall that I remembered had been so packed with punters when Declan McKenna was in town had no queue to speak of, and I breezed through the security and tickets checks in a matter of seconds. Inside I found what seemed to be the remaining few Geordies that had managed to pry themselves away from a Newcastle United home fixture for the sake of their chosen popstar. An hour before the evening’s two events took place, that crowd of outliers numbered only a few hundred.

Sigrid may not have been the biggest act in town, but sure enough the O2 City Hall filled up nicely as support act Tommy LeFroy’s set came and went. Like her Norwegian peer AURORA, Sigrid has found a second home over here in the UK, and a string of feel-good hits in recent years has earned her regular appearances in the UK Top 40 and popular repeat appearances at many of Britain’s biggest summer festivals. Where AURORA is an artsy and occasionally experimental Björk descendent, Sigrid deals squarely with no-nonsense, party-ready pop hits. At her best, her exuberant hooks and uplifting lyrical themes of love and self acceptance are easily good enough to overcome any need for added profundity; any critic who listens to sure fire pop bangers Strangers or Mirror and bemoans a lack of lyrical depth needs to go out more.

A huge part of what makes Sigrid such dynamite at those summer concerts is her radiant stage presence. Never one to stand still, her renowned tirelessness was in full display at Newcastle as she skipped from one side of the stage to the other, hopping on and off monitor speakers and boogieing alongside bandmates with more hip movement than a Strictly final. Her connection to the audience was ever present, often dishing out knowing winks or discreet waves mid-verse to specific concertgoers, invariably triggering an adorable little forest of arms vigorously waving back in the dizzying excitement of being looked in the eyes by Queen Sigrid. The result was a lovely, congenial atmosphere in the City Hall, as if the universally liked friend had gone up in karaoke to sing our favourite tunes along with us.

And, as karaoke singers go, Sigrid turns out to be a pretty great one. She was already belting out an unscripted high note in punchy opener It Gets Dark, her voice piercing and crystal clear, with a well judged hint of grit when the soaring melodies demanded it. Early highlight Mistake Like You also provided an example of Sigrid’s vocals at their genre-leading best, and a dynamic performance from her backing band helped elevate the ballad well beyond its lacklustre studio recording. By far most extraordinary aspect of Sigrid’s performance was how well she managed to keep the standard of vocals so consistently strong in spite of all her onstage athletics. Attempting to sing along to the hits whilst bouncing along in the crowd, I can vouch that breath control like that takes serious skill, and far from all popstars possess it.

It helped too that Sigrid’s band are not your typical karaoke backing track, and clever edits often turned good songs into great ones. A deserved reprise of It Gets Dark‘s deliciously scratchy guitar solo gave guitarist Sondre Berg Abrahamsen – who spent much of the night humbly lurking in the shadows of stage left – a few more glorious seconds to twiddle away till his heart’s content, and the crowd rightly lapped it up. Burning Bridges, the finest example of Sigrid’s punchy, 80s-hinting brand of pop, had an even more surprising edit with a new outro driven by a pummelling techno synth. A track blessed with an anthemic chorus and a sensational strings melody, placing Burning Bridges at track two of the evening set a very high bar that was never quite overcome for the remainder of the show.

Sigrid took to the piano for a selection of acoustic ballads

Her opening numbers may have been a bit too good for her own good, but the momentum was never completely lost. Even the piano ballads at the show’s heart offered a nice change of pace, and Sigrid’s choice to accompany herself on piano, alone under the spotlight, added a degree of drama and earnestness on a night of straightforward pop earworms. Dynamite was poignant but a simplified piano part made it rather unmemorable, and follow up three-chorder Bad Life lacked any of the songwriting or lyrical quality necessary to stand up to the scrutiny of the solo piano treatment. Drab and trite throughout, the song remains easily her most overrated. The inclusion of Bring Me the Horizon’s clichéd pop punk guitars found on the original would at least have added an iota of interest. Unremarkable Dancer followed and lacked an emotional climax for it to stand out amongst the pack of similar pop songs. Sucker Punch was more warmly greeted by fans but – let’s admit it – its verse, with its bumbling, unintentionally comical synth bass and cheap-feeling drum machine, already feels hopelessly dated. Perhaps the song belongs to an era of pop that sounds deeply uncool now but will be in vogue once the early 2010s sound begins to be considered ‘retro’, but, listening in the year 2022, something about Sucker Punch just doesn’t quite work.

Luckily there was still plenty of safer hits in Sigrid’s locker to deploy in a breathless final few tracks. Don’t Feel Like Crying was a quintessential Sigridian self empowerment anthem and surely a direct offspring of Call Me Maybe with its sprightly strings chords. Old faithful Strangers was improved further with some monumental fills from Kasper Waag, who was enjoying his best moments of an outstanding overall performance behind the drum kit. Even relatively unknown encore track Grow was a success, serving as Sigrid’s most affecting love song by far. “Take me anywhere… I’m home,” we sang together softly under the light of our own phone torches, Sigrid’s hips no longer gyrating but instead swaying gently to the reassuring lilt of the acoustic guitar. Basking in the warm glow emanating from behind Sigrid, the only disappointment was that the ballad had to eventually draw to a close.

Unquestionably the song of her career so far, flawless pop smash Mirror was the only choice for the evening’s set closer. “I love who I see looking at me in the mirror” was Sigrid’s simple but effective self love philosophy distilled into the perfect chorus hook, and a wonderfully uplifting mantra to live by. Unfathomably still with plenty of dancing energy left in the tank, Sigird’s passion had those in the stalls jumping up from their seats and bobbing along with the rest of us amidst a dazzling multicolour light show.

Mirror marked a triumphant finish to a somewhat imbalanced performance. Nonetheless, the buzz of deeply satisfied fans in the room after Sigrid had left the stage was heart-warming. Squeezing onto a packed double decker on my journey home was one of the more brutal returns to reality after a gig I’ve experienced. Thickly-woollened men thoughtfully discussed why exactly Miguel Almiron didn’t take that penalty whilst scantily clad young women loudly replayed endless recordings of the Sigrid back catalogue on their phones. So, which was the more fulfilling occasion, an uplifting night dancing the world away to the tune of rejuvenating self affirmation or a 0-0 draw with Crystal Palace? For me, it’s a no-brainer.

Skylights live at Whelan’s review – lads on tour have the place bouncing
22
Jan

Carried by a wave of support from a large and boozy entourage of travelling fans, Leeds locals Skylights seemed to be having the time of their lives on a one-off night in Dublin. Who cares if their music wasn’t very good?

Iknew I was out of my depth as soon as I asked for a drink at one of the many bars in the gloomy upstairs quarters of Whelan’s, one of Dublin’s most renowned drinking and live music establishments. “J2O? What’s J2O?” the bartender replied, appearing genuinely baffled by my request. “And first of all, have you got a ticket?” he followed, pointing at the visibly annoyed ticket steward behind me that I had just unknowingly sauntered past. I apologised and awkwardly loaded up the ticket on my phone. Back at the bar, I settled for a Coke (not available by the tap, but a few bottles in stock), relieved that at least this beverage did indeed exist on this side of the Irish Sea.

A general feeling of discomfort stayed with me for the whole night. I had spontaneously taken a cheap flight out of Leeds Bradford Airport that morning, embarking on my first ever trip outside the UK alone mostly for a thrilling but comfortingly short new adventure, although there’s surely no more familiar and pleasant foreign destination for a Brit than Ireland. Standing alone in a dark corner of Whelan’s cradling my glass of Coke, I began to feel my age as the Guinness flowed around me, the drinkers invariably twice my age.

Yet, I waited in Whelan’s with the credentials of one of the main act’s ultra fans. Skylights are Acomb, York lads after all (although their allegiance these days lies much more strongly with Leeds, and Leeds United football club in particular), and I even found myself falsely telling Belfast support band Brand New Friend (after an exceptional performance) that I had travelled abroad just for my beloved Skylights, just like the many men around me who were already warming up with chants of “Leeds! Leeds! Leeds!”. The chants only grew louder and the men more lairy, culminating in a roar as the four Skylights lads appeared from the side of the crowd. Raised beers replaced the raised iPhone cameras I had become used to seeing at the bigger gigs I had attended back in England.

The four-piece wasted no time bashing out their hits, endearingly excited and pumped up for their first ever gig outside of the UK and a rare outing beyond the realm of Leeds’ vibrant indie music scene. Particularly with so many football fans around me, the gig felt bizarrely like an exciting non-league cup tie – Whelan’s is hardly Wembley, but this was still the beloved hometown heroes making the journey to the big, unfamiliar city, kept company by their most loyal followers. Skylights are certainly non-league musicians; bassist Jonny Scarisbrick works at a building society during the day, guitarist Turnbull Smith is an electrician. The surreal thrill of travelling to a different country and playing your homemade songs for a modest but enthusiastic crowd of 100 was evident on the musicians’ faces, not least Smith, who seemed to spend the entire gig beaming from ear to ear. Frontman Rob Scarisbrick was the most outwardly nonchalant of the group, only releasing a smile on the many occasions a tipsy man emerged from the crowd to give him a fist bump mid-song.

Amongst all the boozy fervour for the band in that cramped room in south Dublin, it would have been easy to overlook all the musical flaws had I not been standing aside from the main action in the crowd, arms crossed with my 330ml of Coke. The truth is, Smith only really seems to have one guitar riff up his sleeve: a sort of washed out, Oasis rip-off that felt tired from about ten minutes into the set. Scarisbrick was hardly charismatic as a frontman, often taking breaks in vocals to stand well back from the mic and stare blankly into the mid-distance, waiting for his next cue and extinguishing all the on-stage energy in the process. It was a relief on the occasion he picked up a tambourine and gave it a bash to keep himself occupied in the breaks. Drummer Myles Soley was undoubtedly the most technically accomplished member of the group, but got into a habit of overplaying just to prove it: too loud, too many fills and not enough solid groove to bring out the best from the three men in front of him.

And yet, of course, no one seemed to care, and excitement amongst the crowd built steadily through the band’s catchier numbers like Enemies and What You Are, culminating in a glorious finale of dancing and beer sloshing. I’ve never witnessed an atmosphere at a gig quite so merry; this is what indie venues like Whelan’s live for. The band’s debut single YRA in particular tore the roof off, and for once I could begin to understand why. With a bit more mainstream attention, Scraisbrick’s straightforward, instantly unforgettable hook could quite easily find its way into the chanting repertoire at Elland Road, and Whelan’s was certainly packed with fans who had already learnt all the words by heart. A simple song structure and even simpler three chord loop leant the song the same appeal as a cheesy but loveable Eurovision entry – everything in me said I should dismiss it like all the other forgettable Britpop songs in the set, but I found myself soon getting swept up in the mindless joy of the music. YRA would certainly flop in the professional jury vote but dominate the televote, and I wasn’t complaining when the band decided to milk the adoration of the crowd and reprise the song for the end of the show, in probably the first genuinely unrehearsed encore I’ve ever seen.

With the gig wrapped up, Skylights headed for backstage via the audience right in front of me (it was that sort of venue) and I had time to give them a quick pat on the back, ditch my empty glass at the bar and swiftly take the next bus back to my hostel, keen to spend no longer than necessary in the uncomfortable surroundings of people in their forties getting plastered (Scarisbrick promised a long night of partying ahead as he left the stage). It hadn’t been an altogether brilliant night – I tended to watch all the action rather than attempt to get involved in the mayhem as I would usually do with familiar company in more familiar venues – but, as my solo adventures tend to be, it was a great way to make new memories and venture a little out of my comfort zone. I may not be the Skylights superfan I professed to be but, as the band’s following continues to grow, I’ll still be proud to say that I was there the night our York lads played Dublin.