Prince Daddy & the Hyena live at the Key Club review – a hit and run blast of mayhem
1
Jul

Straightjacketed into a fleeting 45 minute set, this performance from the New York emo rockers was agonisingly defined by all the great songs they neglected. At least the berserk crowd didn’t seem to mind.

Standing in line outside the Key Club, it felt almost as if the pandemic never happened. Just like we did in 2019, me and my friend Ewan were discussing the latest developments of curiously named New York emo rock band Prince Daddy & the Hyena ahead of their performance a few hours later, shivering a little in the queue outside Merrion Street’s KFC. Seeing so many fellow fans of one of our favourite niche bands was still a thrill, as was the fact that Kory Gregory, a loveable frontman worth rooting for, was once again awaiting us somewhere deep within the building we stood next to. If it weren’t for my new Prince Daddy t-shirt or Ewan’s new hairdo it might have looked like nothing had changed at all in the intervening four years.

The Key Club brought a nice familiarity for us (we’d even both played an early Ewy gig on the Key Club stage) but it would perhaps be less welcome to Prince Daddy themselves, who have evidently made little forward progress in terms of popularity across the pond in recent years. Cosmic Thrill Seekers, a somewhat overambitious but nonetheless hugely rewarding concept album, felt like the talk of the town back in 2019 but in reality it struggled when it came to streaming numbers, perhaps due to the inaccessibility of an album made up of three through-composed opuses, each confusingly assigned three different names. Last year’s self-titled album was somewhat better received but the hard truth is that this band remains confined to the cosy Key Club, a suitably all-black underground dungeon of indie rock, with ceiling pipes low enough for crowd surfers to hang off during the most raucous performances. Even more humblingly, just as in 2019 Prince Daddy are still reduced to a split-billing for this evening’s show, this time playing second fiddle to labelmates Origami Angel (who haven’t even toured the UK before!).

(C’mon & Smoke Me Up )concluded with a deeply satisfying thump à la Beethoven.

A notably more excitable crowd than the group’s last visit to Leeds seemed to be the extent of their career progress. “You guys weren’t like this last time; I love it!” frontman Kory Gregory giggled early on. His surprise was understandable – the crowd this evening was remarkable. Virtually every song incited a riot: think limbs flying, mosh pits swirling, sweaty heads thrashing about in ecstacy. Even the slower songs gave fans the urge to climb up onto stage (refreshingly free of overscrupulous security guards) and leap outwards onto the hands of their comrades. At one point a mosh circle formed before Gregory had even started a song, before hilariously deflating when the song in question turned out to be the only slow ballad of the night. Plus, of course, there were plenty of garbled chants of “Yorkshire!”, seemingly shouted as much from Leeds tribalism as an attempt to confuse Americans for the fun of it (Jeff Rosenstock and cleopatrick have been similarly baffled on previous visits to the great city).

A boot to the head seemed the most likely injury during Prince Daddy’s blistering set.

Unfortunately for the average spectator, the main consequence of Prince Daddy’s recent mediocre self-titled album is that the big hits of their early albums are now spread few and far between in their live set. Ewan and I should have been worried when a fellow fan showed us the rumoured set list before the show: material from that latest album formed the bulk of a set, including several of the less remarkable corners of the Prince Daddy discography. Do we really need the forgettable, broad brush indie rock of Shoelaces or Jesus Fucking Christ? Did the utterly limp 90-second non-song Something Special really deserve a look in to an already selective set list? Sweeping ballad Curly Q was an inevitable inclusion but no less underwhelming, with a sickly sweet chorus so whiny and uninspiring it almost pacified the rabid crowd in the Key Club. Keep Up That Talk was the exception to the rule, boasting a whiplash-inducing finale that surely marks the most thrilling 40 seconds of guitar music Gregory has penned to date. It was that riff-filled rush that compelled me back amongst the moshers at the front after spending more songs than I would have liked waiting at the sidelines for a worthwhile banger to come along. Bouncing up and down in and embracing the chaos seemed the only way to properly enjoy a song that felt like hitting maximum velocity on a rollercoaster.

The problem for Prince Daddy wasn’t just that their set included so many middling songs, but that so many great songs were left unplayed. Only three songs from their debut album, I Thought You Didn’t Even Like Leaving, made the cut despite the fact virtually any song from that record could have maximised the bedlam in the Key Club. Expansive showpiece ballad Really? was featured somewhat grudgingly in abridged form, leading to palpable disappointment in the audience when the band swiftly moved on to another boilerplate cut from the latest album. I Forgot To Take My Meds Today still bites hard, but equally venomous sister tracks like Clever Girl, Pop Song or the delightfully named I Wish I Could Ctrl+alt+del My Life all were left neglected.

It had been barely 45 minutes, but the sweat-drenched faces in attendance resembled a few hours in the Amazon rainforest.

If anyone shared my disappointment in the room it didn’t show. It was lift off from song one, perhaps powered by the knowledge that the band would likely be gone for another several years in well under an hour. Enveloped in the mayhem, most of us were too busy to catch the detail of smartly constructed thrasher Klonopin or the even neater C’mon & Smoke Me Up, which concluded with a deeply satisfying instrumental cadence that landed with a thump à la Beethoven. El Dorado, lead single and obvious standout from the self-titled, was always destined to be compelling live, yet in Leeds the relatively sedate tempo – and awkward placement right at the end of the set – meant the crowd failed to ignite to Gregory’s punchy chorus. For a band with plenty of fiery candidates for closing number (not least two awe-inspiring album closers in Really? and Wacky Misadventures of the Passenger), this was a poor choice that left the crowd desperate for a proper finale that never came, regardless of how well executed El Dorado‘s breakdown was.

Virtually every song was greeted with stage divers.

By the time we had reached that muted end it had been barely 45 minutes, but the sweat-drenched faces in attendance resembled a few hours in the Amazon rainforest. To discuss exclusively the performance of the band is to ignore half of the experience – and probably the most important half. To a large extent, the crowd was the main spectacle at this gig. Stage invasions got so frequent that Origami Angel had to halt their subsequent set to instruct the fans towards an open space on stage so people would stop treading on Ryland Heagy’s guitar pedals.

What was most clear throughout was the kindness in the crowd running just beneath the surface. Rock naysayers looking in from the outside may see it as a brutal, angry mess of primal emotion. To some extent it may be, but the act of collectively lifting a stranger above your head feels more obviously an act of communal human love. Over the course of the night, fans of all shapes, sizes and genders found themselves surfing the waves of hands, each one of them eventually lowered down with care to the ground wherever they ended up and often congratulated by the strangers around them with broad smiles and enthusiastic hand horns. Even when simply jumping into each other in the pit, the first rule of moshing is to immediately lift up anyone around you who falls over – an intervention urgently required on a few occasions this evening.

It’s difficult to know what might have unfolded had Prince Daddy been at their propulsive best. Gregory may well have concluded in advance that the rip-roaring, deafening metal of the brilliant Hollow As You Figured would have likely led to some sort of structural damage to the Key Club foundations. That said, the disparity between the band’s humble billing and the eagerness of the crowd was baffling. With a fanbase like this, could the New Yorkers really not fill out this smallish basement on their own with a more comprehensive 90 minute set? It may well be another four years before we find out.

easy life live at O2 City Hall – indie pop stars get carried away
28
Jun

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.

Fergus McCreadie Trio live at Sage Gateshead review – overlong wanderings through Scottish wilderness
24
Jun

In front of a room full of attentive followers in the Sage, McCreadie’s trio indulged in expansive tangents away from the source material that only occasionally struck gold, although the technical ability and telepathic musicianship displayed throughout were undeniably immense.

There’s something distinctly soothing about the way Fergus McCreadie takes to a stage. Stepping out in front of a few hundred seated attendees at the Sage’s pleasant but somewhat underwhelming secondary auditorium, McCreadie almost creeped onto stage, offering a stifled smile and wave of his can of Stella during a polite applause free of any of the usual whoops and screams. The audience was silent for several seconds before McCreadie nonchalantly got things started with a few bare, quiet opening chords, still getting comfortable in his seat as he played them. As someone that’s made a routine out of big, blockbuster pop and rock gigs of late, I found it a jarringly civilised display from all parties.

McCreadie spent several minutes languishing in the early stages of that opening song, The Stones of Brodgar, letting the theme develop organically from embryonic whisperings of piano, eventually hitting the accelerator as bassist David Bowden and drummer Stephen Henderson got involved. The zenith of the first epic build was a storm of rapid improv and angular chords that often decoupled themselves entirely from Bowden and Henderson’s underlying groove. It’s partly this virtuosity that has garnered so much attention for this understated 25-year-old now at the forefront of the modest but buzzing Scottish jazz scene. Hailing from a rural village 20 miles north of Inverness, McCreadie’s brand of jazz is indelibly tied to the beautiful wilderness of his homeland. His two studio albums thus far have been squarely about stone and earth respectively, and a cosy, timeless piano trio set up is central to his sound – seekers of the electronic cutting edge of UK jazz should look elsewhere. His colourful, enchanting second album Forest Floor earned him a Mercury Prize nod that could be seen as his big break; he didn’t take home the £25,000 cash prize, but scoring a performance alongside the likes of British radio mainstays Wet Leg, Sam Fender and eventual winner Little Simz may have been a prize enough for the up-and-comer.

McCreadie’s breakneck scalic runs flowed from his fingers like a ferocious Highland mountain stream.

His performance for the Mercury of course had to be an abridged version of his songs which feature a healthy number of adventurous solos and, with a willing audience and headline billing in Gateshead, McCreadie was given ample room to explore his songs to his heart’s content. Such depth had mixed results. The Stones of Brodgar was drawn out to an intriguing, patient 15-minute rise and fall of experimentation. The sense of direction was inevitably lost at times as McCreadie navigated his way through the song apparently without a plan, but it never took long for him to refind his footing in such a sprawling jazz behemoth. A blaring new middle section, for example, was a thrill to witness, with Henderson’s clattering free jazz drumming a perfect match for McCreadie’s breakneck scalic runs that flowed from his fingers like a ferocious Highland mountain stream. Other times, McCreadie served up a wall of sound with monstrous cluster chords, bashing out a few before leaning back, furrowing his brows in contemplation then blasting out another heady knot of chords. A menacing final section, with Bowden plucking out a guttural descending bass line, was a more palatable finale and evoked some sort of sinister supernatural happenings at the stones of the song’s title, which McCreadie described as “Orkney’s answer to Stonehenge.” Wrapping up the song at the Sage, a feeling of terror around something so ancient and mysterious was well conveyed.

Such was the diversity of musical moods generated by the trio, it was a surprise when McCreadie revealed that there had only been three songs in the first act. Even the most dedicated fans of the trio may have struggled to keep track of all the extended improvised sections that diverted wildly from the recorded material, and songs often flowed freely into one another. After much brainy free jazz roaring, the hall seemed to take a collective relaxed sigh at the opening of serene Morning Moon following an earnest description of the nighttime walk in the Cairngorms that inspired the tune. The atmosphere of the song was gorgeous and Bowden offered a graceful second melodic voice, leaning close into his beautiful instrument to reach the fragile high notes on the far reaches of the fingerboard. It was a shame that McCreadie’s fine opening refrain got lost in an excessively meandering middle section, only returning at the end as a reluctant whisper. I reached the interval hoping for McCreadie’s songs to refocus for the second half. The couple sitting next to me were evidently less optimistic, and left a glaring gap of empty chairs in the front row before the three men returned to the stage.

Unfortunately the earwormy folk melodies that made Forest Floor such a hit never quite materialised in the second half, either. The terrific, tireless left hand riff of Landslide and the rousing anthem of The Ridge never received an airing in Gateshead. Bafflingly, The Unfurrowed Field, with its charmingly delicate refrain, was excluded too, despite being deemed good enough for London’s musical elite at the Mercury Prize last year. We did at least get a stonking rendition of album highlight Law Hill, which was introduced by a gripping drum solo, Henderson’s hi-hat hissing with venom and snare crackling like a bonfire. The crashing arrival of the opening chords at the end of the solo was delivered with satisfying aplomb. Henderson was busy once more for the song’s finale, with McCreadie’s overzealous urge for improvisation this time tied down by a fiendish ostinato. Succinct and incisive, it was easily the most engrossing passage of music all evening.

Henderson’s drum solo was gripping, his hi-hat hissing with venom and snare crackling like a bonfire.

A lengthy lull in the set followed. Glade was sleepy but pleasant, although when drawn out to ten minutes of indistinct tangential musings it ground proceedings to a halt. A subsequent diversion into the more introspective corners of McCreadie’s debut album also contributed towards a somewhat tiresome second half which ended in a distinctly unsatisfying murmur of achingly slow piano. There was at least the encore of Cairn which woke the audience up with its joyful, sprightly refrain, but there remained much potential in McCreadie’s two strong studio albums that fell by the wayside.

It should go without saying that McCreadie’s command over the piano is formidable. Plenty of pianists can have a crack at the unbridled, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flashes of notes he produces in his most ambitious solos, but few can play with such sustained accuracy and clarity. McCreadie’s dexterity was matched by Bowden and Henderson, who each shined in their all too brief moments in the sun. Most impressive was the fact that the trio even had the ability to explore the DNA of McCreadie’s tunes with the thorough creativity they did. “We do every gig without a plan,” McCreadie says, a remarkable but utterly believable feat. How so much musical information can be conveyed in real time between players via a nod of the head or flicker of eye contact remains a particularly mystifying form of magic to me. Never did the trio seem anything but relentlessly in sync with one another.

In the end, however, the strength of the musicianship on display also turned out to be the performance’s biggest flaw. Just because one can produce 15 minutes of one-time-only jazz explorations loosely based on a theme doesn’t mean one should. McCreadie’s free flowing approach is admirable but set a high bar which his largely directionless ramblings often failed to reach. As McCreadie’s mind wandered through the infinite possibilities of harmony offered by each tune, so did mine, but instead I pondered what I’ll have for tea tomorrow, how I’m getting home and, most frequently, how glad I am to be sitting in a comfy seat.

Carly Rae Jepsen live at O2 Academy review – pure, perfect pop
19
Jun

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.

Florence + the Machine live at first direct Arena – cult queen reassembles her army
9
Jun

Florence Welch’s outstanding 2022 album Dance Fever dominated proceedings for a thrilling, theatrical Saturday night performance in Leeds. Knowingly the subject of cultish devotion, Welch’s return was a celebration of collective pandemic persistence.

Five songs passed before Florence Welch addressed the elephant in the room. “What the fuck is this?!” she asked, mimicking all the understandably baffled new Florence + the Machine fans in the room. “Is it a cult? Is it safe?” she bellowed with a distinctively melodious voice that has helped secure herself as a mainstay of British pop-rock for over a decade now. The confusion of the uninitiated fans she was gently mocking was easy to understand; virtually every other fan amongst the 13,000 that stood before Welch donned flowy dresses and delicate flower crowns that gave a certain Midsommar undercurrent to proceedings. The adulation in the room towards Welch was not the usual flavour of popstar devotion, but instead a deeper, softer sense of worship, with those that got a close brush with the star on her frequent jaunts off stage preferring to stare lovingly and intensely into her eyes rather than paw at her in desperation or lob a tampon à la Harry Styles. Often alone on the stage in a stunning, flowy white gown, Welch sang of grand Biblical images: resurrections, sacrifices, prayers, demons and societal collapse, her army of followers clinging on to every sharply crafted lyric. For all the new fans worried they’d signed up for some sort of indoctrination, Welch was quick to provide plenty of reassurance. “You’ll be absolutely fine as long as you do everything I say,” she informed us, letting a maniacal giggle slip out.

Experiencing such universal respect for one woman made it easy to forget that Welch’s cult didn’t form overnight. Since instant smash debut album Lungs in 2009, Welch (and it is, for all intents and purposes, just Welch – “the Machine” keep such a curiously low profile I didn’t realise they even existed before researching for this post) has been a regular in UK charts, her success powered by a handful of hits from that first album that hopped onto the broad late-noughties folk revival with its endearing hand claps and prominent harp plucking. Things turned up a notch last year in 2022 with the release of Dance Fever, a No. 1 album and probably her finest to date, with its gritty classic rock bangers balanced skilfully with introspective pandemic-era hymns.

Dozens of feathery white chandeliers rose about Welch during King

Much of the night was rightly dedicated to Dance Fever, the show opening with the fanfare-like chant of Heaven Is Here, Welch appearing with angelic spectacle thanks to the blinding white lights behind her. It was a spectacular start despite coming minutes after I’d assured my friend Isaac that the huge message of “CHOOSE LOVE” displayed on the screen beforehand was not just a message from Welch but the name of a second support act. Perhaps I still wasn’t mentally ready when spine-tingling album opener King kicked into gear, the soaring, earth-shattering finale not sounding as all-encompassing as I had hoped – at least from our perch at the first direct Arena’s third floor. It didn’t help that Welch’s mic cut out mid-song, shattering the sense of grand, serious theatre generated by Heaven Is Here. Welch of course had plenty enough poise to deal with the situation as a panicked stagehand rushed on to help – falling off stage and fracturing her foot didn’t stop her from finishing an entire show in November last year – but the gig had nonetheless got off to an unnervingly shaky start.

The dust of the unsure opening settled to reveal a beautiful, neatly choreographed 100-minute set. Perhaps most beautiful was the stage itself, which had been adorned with an elaborate gothic altar of feathers and bleached white flowers that nicely highlighted the golden sheen of Welch’s silky dress. Thin black sheets of fabric that descended from the roof to surround the isolated singer during Big God were less effective; not opaque enough for a sharp, backlit silhouette but thick enough to leave her peculiarly obscured from view and separate from the front row fans that so craved some sort of personal connection with their queen. It was Welch herself that offered the most visual drama, throwing up her fists (and enormous sleeves) with malice in time to the strobe lights in an awesome rendition of Daffodil or spinning around with glee on dancier numbers like appealing slow burner Choreomania.

It was the Lungs era hits that invariably got the crowd around me up on their feet with the immediate willingness of devoted followers

As enthralling as Dance Fever‘s melodramatic offerings were, it was the Lungs era hits that invariably got the crowd around me up on their feet with the immediate willingness of devoted followers. Dogs Days Are Over was the evening’s first real party starter, a gently plucked opening harp prefacing the stomping folk rock chorus to come. There was subtlety too, with Welch shushing the revellers just in time for a impressively elastic vocal delivery of that fiendish second verse. Isaac and I looked at each other in thrilled shock when original Florence megahit You’ve Got the Love made a surprise appearance later on, even if these days the song doesn’t quite have the same glorious freshness it had when it became a soundtrack to our childhoods. It was also a slight shame that You’ve Got the Love‘s inclusion came at the expense of recent stormy Fleetwood Mac-esque belter Cassandra, which formed the highlight of the latest live album with a bruising new extended cut.

The numerous louder danceable numbers were the most suitable vehicles for Florence’s barnstorming vocals. Hooky singalong Ship to Wreck was an early highlight, and good old fashioned blues rock stomper Kiss With A Fist refreshingly broke out of all the heavy religious imagery with a healthy dose of rock for rock’s sake. Dance Fever standout Dream Girl Evil reached its climax with an astonishingly long vocal note, Welch putting to bed any idea that her distinctive, soul-piercing wail is nothing but exceptional as slippery guitar riffs and a menacingly chugging bass engulfed her. It might have been even more powerful had Welch not spent the entire song holding hands with stunned front-row audience members – touching at first, but static after a few minutes, particularly for the guy watching from the third tier. Welch’s pained cry of “I am nobody’s moral centre!” demanded some suitably monumental shift in staging or lighting that never quite materialised.

Almost all of Dance Fever was given a long-deserved airing in an arena setting. Gently bubbling Free‘s chorus (“picks me up, puts me down”) leant itself nicely to some coordinated crowd hand movements. “You’re too sensitive they said / I said okay but let’s discuss this at the hospital,” Welch delivered with a knowing smile, ceding to the audience to scream those final words back at her in affirmation. An extended version of scintillating dance pop hit My Love turned out to be the highlight of the whole night, with Welch’s onstage dancing and gorgeous chorus melody both delightfully uninhibited.

Morning Elvis was so profoundly serene that one fan near the front fainted.

As strong as Welch’s voice may be, she offered an exquisite softer side too. We were, after all, encouraged to “choose love” and embrace the “collective experience” which, in practical terms, meant Welch imploring us between songs to put down the iPhones and focus on living in the moment. She was, of course, largely obeyed, and the result was an emotional intensity few artists can pull off. With thousands listening in intently, gentle ballad Morning Elvis was so profoundly serene that one fan near the front fainted. Welch’s framing of the song as a mid-pandemic prayer – a manifestation of the very 2020 fear that nights like these may never come again – understandably made the song too poignant to bear for one of us. What’s more, Welch had plenty more affecting ballads up her immaculate flared sleeves. We were encouraged to hold on to each other to absorb the stunning melody at the heart of June, while The End of Love offered a breathtaking strings section. By the time it came to the encore, Welch had to briefly halt proceedings as stewards lifted several stricken superfans over the barriers, cheerily waving goodbye as they left in total awe of their popstar.

It all culminated, naturally, in a mass sacrifice. “We are so well fed this evening!” Welch crooned as fans climbed onto one another’s shoulders as “human sacrifices” before a stellar blast through underrated early hit Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up). “Leave every last piece of you on the dancefloor tonight,” came Welch’s final dictum before a spine-tingling, arena-sized dance piano riff saw the concert home. Far beneath me, thousands of heads bobbed and hands clapped, enthralled and with their phones now long forgotten about. Even up with Isaac and I, many including myself pogoed along, our euphoria tempered slightly by the several-storey drop in front of us (one man near us had already taken a tumble a few feet down the stairs amidst the joy of You’ve Got the Love).

With a final flutter of harp Welch floated off stage, her spell successfully cast upon another arena of worshippers. In the few times she had broken her cult leader persona, Welch had powerfully reminded us that not so long ago this precious, quasi-religious gathering of like-minded souls we call a pop concert had been under threat, and even temporarily destroyed completely. Seeing the ease in which Welch spread a deeply human sense of belonging and loving connection around Leeds Arena reminded me just how important concerts can be in bringing people together. This Florence + the Machine gig had been an excuse to party, yes, but more importantly a chance to heal the scars of loneliness left by the pandemic for all in attendance. That is, all that could remain conscious for the duration.

Songs for solitude: alone on a mountain with Phoebe Bridgers’ Punisher
28
May

There’s loneliness and there’s simply being alone, and as I plodded up the final steep slope to the minor peak of Froswick in the Lake District one evening last September, I only felt the latter. I hadn’t seen a soul since leaving the valley earlier that morning, locating with difficulty a faint path that guided me through dense bracken and up a ridge that rose gracefully above the glassy expanse of Haweswater behind me. Even on reaching the summit of High Street, the most significant fell in the area, I could eat a celebratory Wispa with only the company of a handful of disinterested sheep. Having spotted a sharper fin of lower peaks a little distance away from the barren plateau I had arrived at, I had diverted in their direction, enjoying the gloriously gentle wide ridge (High Street was once indeed a passageway for horses and carts, and a spectacular one at that). I found a picturesque tent pitch on Froswick for the night and wondered whether the tiny, potential outlines of people I’d seen earlier on the hill’s larger neighbour Ill Bell had been imaginary.

There were two reasons why listening to the second studio album from Californian singer-songwriter Phoebe Bridgers felt like the natural thing to do after I’d settled down that evening. The first was fear. I hadn’t seen anyone all day, but something about the prospect of a stranger approaching – particularly without me spotting them in advance – in such an exposed, vulnerable location scared me more than it perhaps should have. After all, I’d met a friendly enough fellow solo camper on a similar overnight trip up Helvellyn last year, and that night spent the first hour of darkness watching specks of headtorch light weave their way up the ridge I was sat on, willing them to turn away from me at the crest perhaps for the sake of a little more solitude. There were no such encounters on Froswick, although I heard the chug of helicopter blades from my tent later that night, which is surely one of the most inexplicably terrifying sounds you can hear when alone in a tent in the middle of nowhere, made worse when accompanied by a search light (camping is, after all, technically illegal in England, but not that illegal). For me, thankfully, there was no such light, and I breathed a sigh of relief as the sounds of the rotor promptly faded into nothing.

The view of Froswick and Ill Bell from the summit plateau of High Street was enticing.

The familiar sound of Punisher was, therefore, a vital extra comfort blanket over my icy sleeping bag and copious layered fleeces. The album exhibits a calmness so intense it can be easy to dismiss the whole thing as insubstantial or boring on first listen. The exceptional quietness of most of the songs invites deeper listening, and meticulous production provides plenty of hidden gems to uncover: alien electric guitar mumblings, minimalist and thoroughly intentional muffled drum grooves, the occasional frissen of electronic vocal manipulation. Bridgers’ vocal performance in particular encourages this tranquil, deep listening. Lyrics are recited patiently and deliberately, and Bridgers’ outstanding poeticism shines as a result. Seemingly one-dimensional lines like “if I could give you the moon, I would give you the moon” are rendered gut-punchingly poignant by Bridgers’ poised delivery, pausing several times for effect before ushering in a final rush of backing vocals. There’s no rush in Punisher, and neither was there in my wonderfully spare few hours atop Froswick.

Cars like fireflies occasionally made their way up the valley beside me, their full beam headlights clearly visible in the gloom.

The other reason was that Punisher seemed to fit the occasion in a way no other album could. Far from a distraction from the beautiful view in front of me – standing on Froswick’s modest summit, Windermere stretched out into the distance towards the barely-visible wind turbines of Morecambe Bay – Punisher is an album pristine enough to enhance that feeling of wonder. Kyoto, for example, includes a rousing trumpet melody that, completely independent of the lyrics, inspires pride and awe that I can quietly indulge in having made it up to the heaven of a Lake District fell entirely on my own steam. Other times, Punisher has an ability to transport me even further away from the problems of the real world than my rural location. Garden Song is one such escape, with Bridgers describing a surreal dream beside a single reverb-soaked guitar, her plaintive melody doubled by an eerie deeper vocal. “What if I told you I feel like I know you / But we never met?” she asks uneasily a few songs later. Nothing quite makes sense, but nor should it. Punisher feels like its own fantasy world with its own rules, and perhaps that’s why its meditative qualities resonated with me so strongly as day became night on Froswick. My perch on the summit gave a god-like perspective of the flat plain below. Cars like fireflies occasionally made their way up the valley beside me, their full beam headlights clearly visible in the gloom. Gradually, the residents of Windermere turned on their lights, which flickered gently as they proceeded with their Wednesday evenings. Being so high and so alone with my magnificent view of the land already felt blissfully unreal and gave a chance to momentarily untangle myself from the constant preoccupations of day-to-day life; Bridgers’ vivid world of strange, purring guitars and ghostly strings felt like just one step further into unreality.

Standing from the summit of Froswick, Ill Bell loomed over my tent, which looked out towards Windermere and the distant lights of Morecambe.

A sheep brought me back down to earth during Chinese Satellite, giving me a start when it appeared a few feet behind me, calmly munching some grass. It was a good prompt to stand up and turn towards the mountain range behind me for a few songs. Together we watched the colossal, boulder strewn slope of Mardale Ill Bell during Moon Song, the mountain’s valley base more and more thrillingly abyss-like as the darkness thickened. I was reminded why the song was one of my favourites of the album, largely thanks to Bridgers’ deeply evocative lyrics that offer a searing edge of resentment and melancholy to the lilting melody. “You pushed me in and now my feet can’t touch the bottom of you,” she tells us, apparently pointing out how comparatively tiny I am both amongst the mountains and the towns of people below, as god-like as I may like to feel. Being a mere drop in the ocean can be just as liberating as omnipotence, I was reminded.

A sheep brought me back down to earth during Chinese Satellite, giving me a start when it appeared a few feet behind me.

It was so dark by the time I reached louder, anthemic standout ICU the outlines of the great Cumbrian peaks to the west that I’d enjoyed during the day were beginning to become difficult to pick out. Truthfully, I grew so tired that the great musical explosives of closing track I Know The End washed over me. Beginning to shiver, I shuffled through the two fabric doorways of my tent and wrestled with my sleeping bag as Bridgers finished her finely crafted masterwork not with more acoustic musings but with a shocking, chest-rattling scream over a soul-stirring horn melody.

I would have preferred for Bridgers to somehow have continued through the night; even after many uneventful nights camping, the wind’s uncanny ability to shake the tent fabric in a way that sounds exactly like a sheep gnawing at guy ropes or, worse, footsteps of a wayward stranger, has always unsettled me. Of course, the logical part of me knew there was no one else nearby, and likely no one else on the entire mountain range. I couldn’t have been further from the buzzing confines of Leeds’ Brudenell Social Club, where Scottish new wave/post-punk band Altered Images were wrapping up their headline set to a no doubt rapt, sweat-drenched audience. Places of community like Brudenell give music their own ritualistic edge, whether one is hamonising as a collective in an improvised choir or colliding with bodies in a cathartic mosh pit. But on Froswick I learned that experiencing music in total solitude can feel every bit as life-affirming and vulnerable. It was quieter and more personal, but hearing Punisher that night provided all the feelings that come with a brilliant live gig: euphoria, awe and an unstoppable sense of freedom.

Vulfpeck: Schvitz review – scattergun sixth lacks inspiration
22
May

A return after a prolonged hiatus could have spelt creative reinvention for Ann Arbor funk group Vulfpeck. Instead they continue to underwhelm on a sixth album let down by vapid hooks and lazy rehashes.

After some years spent climbing the pinnacle of the undersaturated genre that is contemporary funk music, Vulfpeck reached the summit on 28th September 2019. Having successfully resisted the temptation to sign to a record label ever since the group started up in an Ann Arbor basement eight years prior, the endearingly nerdy five-piece delivered a career-defining set at a sold out Madison Square Garden in New York, being only the second independent act to do so. The 100-minute whirlwind tour of the band’s discography was a glorious achievement duly immortalised in a live album and film, featuring a host of special guests and multiple unforgettable performances (see Woody Goss’s spectacular baroque organ improvisation or Dave Koz and Chris Thile’s saxophone-mandolin duel for starters). 2020’s The Joy of Music, The Job of Real Estate soon followed and featured a handful of standout tracks amongst inconsequential instrumentals. Since then Vulfpeck have taken their first hiatus, with Cory Wong and Theo Katzman finding considerable success in their solo careers and eccentric frontman Jack Stratton apparently hunkering down in his Los Angeles home, masterminding the next era of Vulf.

Few could have guessed Stratton would return quite like this: drumming in a steamy sauna and dressed in a white towel robe and sauna hat alongside half a dozen similarly barefooted bandmates. It’s certainly a concept, but quite why the aesthetic was chosen beyond a good album cover and clickable Youtube thumbnails is anybody’s guess. Disappointingly, saunas are almost entirely irrelevant in the ten tracks that make up Schvitz, but perhaps that’s for the better.

Stratton’s nasally vocals as ‘Vulfmon’ are nothing but unbearably irritating

More pertinently, Schvitz also marks the return of ever-lovable guest singer Antwaun Stanley, who takes lead vocals on five of the ten tracks and is often the album’s greatest asset. He’s radiant on chirpy highlight New Guru, joyfully riffing his way through the verses and digging into a catchy classic funk chorus with gusto. He also elevates well-written Simple Step alongside a pleasingly crunchy upright piano and Joey Dosik’s smoky sax hook. The lyrics, as often is the case for fun-loving Vulfpeck, are simple placeholders for a melody and demand little attention (Simple Step focuses on describing a single dance move), but the quality musicianship does well to smooth over any deficiencies in Stratton’s penmanship.

Elsewhere, Vulfpeck are less lucky. Earworm lacks both lyrical depth and musical interest, and Stratton’s nasally vocals as his alter ego ‘Vulfmon’ are nothing but unbearably irritating. It’s a song told excruciatingly from the perspective of an earworm (“I’m not in your stomach / I’m not in the ground”) but critically lacks an earworm of its own, with Katzman’s slurred hook too convoluted to live long in the memory. By no exaggeration, it all amounts to the most insufferable two and a half minutes of Vulfpeck’s career. Curiously sleepy closer Miracle is marginally better and features a corny chant of “all life is a miracle”, which lacks any self awareness of its own soppiness. There’s hope Joe Dart’s smooth bass line might lead to something more interesting, but it simply doesn’t besides a clunky key change. By the time the lyrics nonsensically start discussing Pokemon, all hope is lost.

For now, Vulfpeck seem to be settling into their life as former world-beaters now past their prime a little too easily

Antwaun may be back, but what hasn’t changed is Vulfpeck’s distinct lack of genuinely new songs. Theo Katzman’s quite sublime solo tune What Did You Mean by Love? gets a remake, and the clever chord progressions and neatly crafted lyrics prove incongruous on Schvitz. Stanley gives a strong performance, but the changes from the original are so minor there’s nothing to recommend the Vulfpeck version above the original. Joey Dosik’s delightful In Heaven also gets a cover and the switch to sparkling acoustic guitar for the cheerful hook is a welcome one, although there’s a niggling feeling that Vulfpeck are rapidly running out of ideas for new songs. A faithful but uninspired reproduction of Bob Dylan’s bluesy Serve Somebody drives the point home.

Schvitz may not completely devoid of highlights, but it is nonetheless an album that tests the patience of even the most dedicated Vulfpeck fan. Covers and joke songs are all well and good, but they largely end up hiding a lack of ambition that could drive the band on to new heights. Songs with more spectacular musicianship and lyrics that dig deeper are entirely within the realms of possibility for Vulfpeck (Katzman has long proved himself as an outstanding lyricist), but for now the band seem to be settling into their life as former world-beaters now past their prime a little too easily. Madison Square Garden was fantastic, but there are more hills to be climbed. In this album, Vulfpeck seem to have stopped trying.

Parthenope live at the Wardrobe review – the newest star of UK jazz
28
Apr

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.

Phoebe Green live at the Cluny review – strong material fails to come alive
12
Apr

Touring the UK on the back of daringly original debut album Lucky Me, Phoebe Green’s attention-grabbing pop creations deserved a keener reception in Newcastle. Seemingly put out by the poor attendance and lacking in conviction, Green’s performance struggled as a result.

It was an inhospitable, wintry Monday night and in the valley of Ouseburn, a mile east of Newcastle’s city centre, the dense fog was spectacular. The enormous road bridge I’d descended from looked otherworldly, its graffiti-strewn brick columns almost disintegrating completely into the streetlight-stained sky above. Cars rumbled above and a stream trickled below, both hidden from view but making their presence known as I approached the sanctuary of the pub I had been looking for. I was unfamiliar and unsettled by the street’s quietness, but eager to explore a part of town well-renowned as a funky cultural highlight of the city, with welcoming studenty bar and popular little venue The Cluny at its heart. Only two people walked in before me as I approached the venue shortly before Phoebe Green’s headline show, and both of which apparently knew the bar staff personally. The place felt cosy and communal, but with a distinct lack of clientele (it was, of course, a Monday night, and one lacking in a tasty World Cup fixture) it was clear I wasn’t seeing the Geordie institution at its best.

Two Phoebe Green fans approach the Cluny in foggy Ouseburn

A dispiriting lack of punters came to be the theme of the night. The ticket steward seemed to be nodding off as I approached him and Green and her band ended up constituting a big portion of the front row watching support act Nell Mescal, who tried and failed to get some audience participation going for one song. In the end, a big synthy intro for Lucky Me to start Green’s set felt incongruous without the added sound of at least a few dozen fans cheering in excitement. In a night that should have been full of sweaty dancing and passionate singalongs, the onstage cooling fans weren’t used once, and for the first time at a gig I had no problem keeping on my thick coat for the duration.

Of course, the lack of atmosphere wasn’t entirely Green’s fault, and she was always facing an uphill battle at the Cluny. It was a shame because there’s lots to enjoy in her music, not least that incisive bass riff that tore through the opening number. Sweat had a catchy bounce, and like most of Green’s songs gave her sister Lucy plenty of work to do on synths, but she always seemed completely in control of vast range of sounds her keys produced in every song. Leach was the sort of song that might have whipped up some moshing in front of a more enthusiastic crowd with its restless bass synth and pounding kick drum. A noise rock finale with a wonderfully messy guitar solo played ludicrously fast was one of the night’s highlights. It was early single Easy Peeler that turned out to be the best of the bunch and one of the few songs that sounded as manic and wildly creative as Green’s studio performances. Any of Green’s reluctance to commit to the performance momentarily vanished for the rough-and-ready alt rock track, with the crunchy bass lines penetrating beneath the clutter of competing distorted synths and guitar. It was the sort of simple crowd-pleaser that the rest of Green’s set sorely lacked.

The turnout at the Cluny was disappointing.

Elsewhere, Green’s performance seemed to suffer due to the tepid audience responses. Pulse-raising album highlight Crying in the Club now had frustratingly mumbled spoken vocals that crucially lacked confidence and ended up buried under a heavy kick drum. Green’s vocals when singing were also mediocre, and the somewhat high notes on the chorus were disappointingly swapped for an easier, lower edit. Diediedie was another track that wasn’t helped by Green’s unimpressive vocal performance and, as sharp as Green’s lyricism may be, any sense of building menace on the original was lost in the one-dimensional recreation at the Cluny.

Even Just a Game, on paper the best song from the debut album, felt lacking. A euphoric up-tempo number, the song needed conviction from Green to get the most out of it, but instead there was more mumbled vocals in spoken sections that felt like an afterthought and a tendency to cling onto the mic stand, barely swaying to the energising percussion groove. A clearer duet partner to sing the vocal harmony so integral to that anthemic chorus would have also really lifted the track. The original may be brilliant, but it was remarkable how Green and her band managed to make Just a Game sound like nothing more than bland set-filler on the night.

An encore was clearly out of the question. In fact, it was all wrapped up in a half-hearted 50 minutes, making it undoubtedly the shortest gig I’ve attended to date. The end of relatively strong closer IDK came perhaps as a relief for all involved, and Green was prompt in hopping off the stage during the polite applause. It had been by no means a car crash of a performance and Green’s potential is huge, but there was a lingering disparity between the Green’s in-your-face, delightfully idiosyncratic debut album and the somewhat timid performance she gave in Newcastle. The music industry is brutal and despite some mainstream attention, it seems Green’s days of filling out a buzzing Cluny are yet to come. Until then, I think I’ll stick to Spotify for my Phoebe Green fix.

Bellowhead live at O2 City Hall review – somehow still dancing
24
Mar

Bellowhead’s golden years as spearheads of an English folk revival may be well past them, but the strength of their blockbuster renderings of centuries-old tunes remained for an evening coloured by the recent passing of a founding member, Paul Sartin.

The farewell tour began in 2015. After 11 years as part of folk phenomenon Bellowhead, frontman Jon Boden had decided to call time on the project, wrapping up with a grand double tour of the country, culminating in an intimate return to Oxford Town Hall, where it all started for the band. Aged 13, I caught them in Harrogate alongside my mum on what would probably be my first and last gig in the provincial town, having been introduced to the band by a primary school teacher. I remember it was a lively one for such a grand and formal setting, but my residing memory was getting doused in red wine by a lady next to me whose hand-eye coordination was muddled by a combination of a little too much alcohol and one too many of Bellowhead’s stomping sea shanties. A one-off, final reunion came four years later and, like so many concerts that year, was limited to the form of a pay-to-watch video recording, which I lapped up nonetheless.

And yet, another two years later, the inimitable 11-piece are back for a final, very last, definitely-just-a-one-off reunion tour to mark the tenth anniversary of one of their most popular albums, Broadside. The band’s gradual demise seemed so drawn out that at last seeing them appear onstage more or less the same as they’ve always been was something of a shock. Settling down in the cramped folding seats was bearable given the promise of a final few numbers that would undoubtedly raise the audience out of their seats, even if the demographic seemed markedly older than the sort that might turn up at the City Hall to see Sigrid or Declan McKenna. Bellowhead’s music includes almost exclusively traditional tunes that have been passed down through many generations, and when it comes to danceable crowd pleasers it is only the real firecrackers that have passed the test of time. In the words of outstanding fiddle player and support act Sam Sweeney, “if you still have a jumper on after we’ve finished… you’re crazy.”

11-strong Bellowhead’s ability to stir up a crowd remains formidable

That said, the first half was naturally reserved for a selection of Bellowhead’s slightly more laid back tunes, even if it did start with a sequin-suited Sweeney performing a piercing bagpipe solo from atop a plinth. Stormy Byker Hill was a fitting opener with its references to the original coal mining days of Newcastle’s east end, but it along with a handful of other early numbers was severely limited by poor mixing which found Pete Flood’s booming kick drum drowning out a weak-sounding woodwind section. Things improved for Jack Lintel, a surprising but worthy inclusion in the set, with a scintillating three-way fiddle showdown rightly stirring up the crowd. Unapologetically pop-ish Betsy Baker remained one of the band’s finest numbers. A mawkish and clichéd love song it may be, but quite how the various accompanying melodies in the strings and woodwind overlap one another beneath the charming melody is undeniably very pretty indeed. Boden seemed to revel in that not-so-faint whiff of cheese, proudly professing his feelings for dear Betsy with hands held high and head tilted towards the sky before taking a seat in admiration of a particularly delightful instrumental section.

The evening’s main drawback was the fact this was a Broadside concert, and the material within the album in question had its limits. Increasingly I longed for more from Hedonism, Broadside‘s superior, best-selling predecessor (and an integral member of my mum’s modest car CD collection). That said, some of Broadside‘s deep cuts stood out, namely Black Beetle Pies, which might have been forgotten had Benji Fitzpatrick not appeared with a wearable xylophone, with Boden now belting the vocals through a loudspeaker. Thousands Or More was much more tender, and its well-delivered group vocals were one of the night’s most heart-warming moments. Elsewhere there were more questionable setlist decisions. Deservedly obscure Fine Sally over Desert Island Disc-worthy zinger Parson’s Farewell? Fakenham Fair over their disturbing, rousing take on Amsterdam? Cross-eyed and Chinless, a Hedonism standout as fun and memorable as its title was the most surprising and disappointing omission.

Personal gripes about setlist choices were totally irrelevant for the song at the heart of the evening, which was a tribute to one of the band’s most recognisable and founding members, Paul Sartin, who died suddenly in September. After a minute’s silence, Boden introduced a devastating recording of Sartin singing Brisk Lad alone, his baritone vocals stunningly clear and intimate, his words (“I am a brisk lad though my fortune is bad”) heavy with newly implied meaning. After a few verses the band joined with a tasteful accompaniment, ending united in unison a cappella. The entire assured performance of a song sang through many generations of the Sartin family was deeply moving. The spontaneous standing ovation continued well into the next song.

The audience stood throughout the show stopping finale

The transition almost immediately into merry fiddle-led jigs like Dockside Rant / Sailing on the Tide at first felt uneasy after such a heartfelt tribute, but as the crowd pleasers kept coming it became very difficult not to get swept away in the ensuing joy. It all culminated with a raucous one-two of old favourites New York Girls and a triumphant Frogs’ Legs and Dragons’ Teeth, by which point virtually the entire audience had been up off their seats and clapping along for a good 20 minutes. It would have been an even more joyous atmosphere had stewards not tightly policed the aisles, approaching revelers that were having too much fun dancing down the aisles. Quite why dancing was forbidden – surely an essential aspect of this form of old-fashioned dance music – was beyond me. Fortunately no such rules applied to the performers, and Sam Sweeney was particularly energetic, at one stage jumping around the pirate ship set with such enthusiasm he fell face first onto the deck, impressively only missing a few bars of fiddle playing. Lindsey Stirling would be impressed.

A dozen undoubtedly exhausting back-to-back shows into their tour and as many years playing the same set of uptempo winners, it was reassuring to see that Bellowhead still have the ability to ignite a frenzied ceilidh wherever they go (jobsworth stewards aside). Decades may have passed since their inception in Oxford, but there’s still no clear contender to fill their space in the English folk scene, and it seems likely to stay that way. Bellowhead, with their daring and vivid reinventions of old songs and their unusually large number of instrumentalists, are a one-of-a-kind, and the English folk resurgence they spawned alongside the likes of Kate Rusby and Laura Marling is already dwindling without them. Whether this tour really is a final reunion is now anyone’s guess, but in Newcastle Boden left us with a tantalising tease. “Perhaps we’ll see you again sometime,” he smirked, before hoisting up his fiddle one last time for a roof-raising final refrain. Whatever happens next to this wonderful band, I’m still not ready to see them go.