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.

LNSO live in Riga review – a spectacular symphonic feast
20
Mar

Presented with a once in a lifetime chance to witness one of Europe’s most renowned orchestras in all their pomp, Undertone had no choice but to grasp the opportunity with both hands. Still a relative newbie to the classical world, there is surely no better way to hear Mahler’s stupendous First for the first time.

It was mid-November and the stars seemed to be aligning. I had secured what was essentially a week off university (in my course, ‘reading week’ involved surprisingly little actual reading), and I secured myself a four day gap free from any obligations at all at the end of the week. One bored Saturday I was habitually clicking through Skyscanner when I noticed a convenient £30 return flight to Riga that slotted neatly into those four days and all of a sudden my stomach started to flutter with the excitement of borderline reckless spontaneity. A couple of hours later the parents had been called, Ryanair tickets snapped up and a well-reviewed hostel booked. To add to my giddiness, I checked online for any local concerts (just as I had done for similar adventures in London and Dublin) and found exactly what I was looking for: a proper orchestra in a proper traditional venue playing proper classical music (none of that trashy Four Seasons rubbish I had attended in London). I excitedly rushed through the booking process so quickly I misinterpreted the Latvian-language webpages and accidentally bought tickets for the following night of LNSO’s tour, which would have involved a eight-hour return train journey across rural Latvia; even I conceded that was probably an adventure too far. Still, the prospect of the Riga concert was so perfect I wasn’t as fussed by the unnecessary financial contribution as I perhaps should have been.

Even though the most well-known fixture in the evening’s programme, Gustav Mahler’s Symphony No. 1 in D Major, was unfamiliar to me, the feeling of trepidation as I joined the crowds approaching the ornate, immaculate cube of the Great Guild was electrifying. This was no Brudenell Social Club: I was given a funny look when I asked a suited attendant whether the cloakroom was free (it was, and the Latvian bourgeoisie had plenty of thick winter coats to be stored despite the unseasonably warm weather) and the small, glossy bar seemed to exclusively serve expensive wines, so I decided trying for some Coke was a non-starter this time. Feeling out of place by the unusually lavish surroundings and the older, far more sophisticated and well dressed concert attendees all around, I eventually worked out where my seat was, acquired a programme and took my place, smiling politely to the old lady who seemed to say something in Russian to me as she settled down into the next seat along.

Concertgoers approach the Great Guild in Riga, home of the LNSO

I had picked a good seat given the relatively affordable ticket price, and had an aerial view of the huge orchestra from my balcony perch. Andris Dzenitis’ Preludium. Light, a warm up opener by a local Latvian composer who was in attendance, gave an intriguing introduction to the collective musical might of the scores of instruments in front of me. Strange and deeply atmospheric, the piece started and ended in a whisper, but built into successive waves of enormous tension. Trumpets and violins strained and squeezed themselves ever higher, the clashing semitones piercing through an accumulating, earthy rumble of timpani. The eventual, ear-splitting crash from the cymbals was a reminder to stop holding my breath with enthralled anticipation. The piece lacked a clear melodic direction, instead slowly ebbing and flowing like tides, transitioning from a subtly unsettling flute solo to hideous cacophony and back again, the higher instruments always within opposition with one another. The few moments a huge, decisive chord was agreed upon by the orchestra felt monumental. Above all, the prelude was an apt introduction to the sonic capabilities of a top class European symphonic orchestra; no other genre of music can even come close to the range of volume and emotion within the realms of the group in front of me. Most excitingly of all, the night had only begun.

Osokins was not the sort of pianist to miss an opportunity to pointedly flick back his coattails at the start of a more involved section.

I was fairly unfamiliar with his music, but it was somehow reassuring to hear fellow Brit Benjamin Britten making an impact so far from home with his 1938 BBC-commissioned Piano Concerto completing the first act. The musicians discreetly shrank in number for the less ambitiously orchestrated piece, allowing extra focus on Latvian pianist Andrejs Osokins, who gave an assured if somewhat ostentatious performance behind the keys. In fairness, flamboyance seemed to be exactly what Britten’s score called for, and Osokins’ fingers spent much of the thirty minutes blurrily fluttering up and down the keys, occasionally summoning pianistic thunder with a deft flick of the wrist when delving into the piano’s meaty lower register. There was a limited display of tenderness too, particularly in the intricate Impromptu, which was only appended by Britten seven years after the concerto’s original publication. Not the sort of pianist to miss an opportunity to pointedly flick back his coattails at the start of a more involved section, the attention was inevitably drawn to Osokins, although there was plenty to see and hear amongst his accompanists. Still a newcomer to the symphonic world, I was in awe of the comically large mute produced by the distant tuba section in the second movement, which returned in the finale to contribute to a regal march of horns. It was that final March that turned out to be the most orchestrally interesting too, with Osokins’ confidence finally finding its match in a muscular, pulsating final few minutes from the orchestra. A broad smile to the audience and the first of the night’s interminable applauses concluded an engaging first half. Despite the strong performances, it was clear the best was yet to come. Mingling amongst concertgoers during the break and wandering down the pristine corridors leading outside into the biting Baltic air, the sense of anticipation for the night’s main event was palpable. Leaving early was unthinkable.

Some attendees got some fresh air during the interval

Sitting on a bench in the picturesque Livu Square a few days prior, my pulse quickened as I read about the unfamiliar piece that would be the headline number on Friday night. As far as Tom Service was concerned, Mahler’s First Symphony was one of the greatest of all time, and a career high from a composer renowned for his groundbreakingly ambitious orchestral melodrama. I knew I was in for some “stunning symphonic shocks”, but Mahler’s First started, thrillingly, with a whisper. That spellbindingly quiet unison opening note – a seven-octave spread on A – provided the sort of magic that makes hairs stand on end when witnessed in the flesh. Exquisitely controlled, that initial drone provided a thin mist through which the symphony’s many memorable ideas gradually emerged. First came a slow, foreboding woodwind melody, then an incongruous brass fanfare that felt so atmospherically distant I briefly assumed the brass players were performing from a nearby practice room. An oboe gently mimicked a cuckoo above menacing low strings, its melody propogating out amongst the dozens of violins. Delicate pizzicato eventually established an image of cheery springtime forest in the early morning. It was of course entirely wordless, but the images conjured by this multifaceted first movement came to mind effortlessly. As the volume receded once more, a sublime, guttural long note from the tuba provided a seismic shift in mood towards the sinister before the movement built into its dazzlingly loud conclusion. Already, I was gripped.

The introduction of a mellifluous second theme in the oboes was so sublime a man beside me audibly gasped.

Part of the challenge with classical music is that, unlike pop, it requires a degree of effort from the listener to keep tabs on the various motifs as they are brought in and out of view in their many guises. However, sat in such a beautiful venue amongst other attentive listeners, getting familiar with the memorable, sprightly main theme of the second movement, for example, hardly felt like a challenge. It was at about this point that it became clear why Mahler had earnt a billing higher than that of Dzenitis and Britten; the intricacy of the exchanges between strings and brass in the opening felt more packed with detail than anything I’d heard all night, and the synchronicity of the strings in the bold, demanding scalic passages was spectacular, their bows rising and falling with the same breathtaking beauty of a densely-packed flock of starlings making a swift change in direction.

The third movement opened with one of the First Symphony’s most famous moments: a rare double bass solo outlining the tune of Frère Jacques in a haunting minor key. A chilling funeral march followed, made all the more grotesque by the repurposing of an innocent children’s nursery rhyme at its heart. The introduction of a mellifluous second theme in the oboes was so sublime a man beside me audibly gasped, prompting a furious shushing from a woman in the row in front. The skill in which Mahler twisted and manipulated that new melody, its sound echoing sonorously through the strings and deep brass before emerging high above in a shrill blast of flute and piccolo, was remarkable. Although technically the most straightforward movement and certainly the least outwardly theatrical, the third movement was one of the most compelling passages of the whole evening.

And so, the end was here. The fourth and final movement, it seemed, occupies a special status as one of the most spectacular finales in the history of music, and a monumental achievement from a composer renowned as a producer of classical at its loudest, stormiest, most earth-shattering. Fittingly, it began with a shocking crash of cymbals – a rude awakening immediately following the hushed finish of the third movement. The first three movements had been memorable in their own right, but if I was to leave the concert hall (and indeed, Latvia) with one lasting memory, it would be of the quite unbelievable 20 minutes that concluded the symphony. The three previously established main themes coalesced magnificently above the awesome din of 40-odd enraged violinists slaving away at their instruments, stray bow hairs flying wildly amidst the chaos. The monstrous passages were balanced by two delectable slow sections in which solemn low strings took the spotlight with a lugubrious melody. A final build into another apocalyptically loud section – evoking planets colliding or a battle between gods – was followed at last by fanfare and a rousing brass melody in a deeply triumphant major key. The sense of relief was so strong I still find myself welling up when I listen back to it.

The sense of relief was so strong I still find myself welling up when I listen back to it.

For a brief moment before that final chord the room was filled with nothing but percussion – timpani boiling over, a shimmering snare, the sparkle of a trilling triangle. The final note landed with a decisive thud, like the closing of an epic fantasy novel once and for all. A man behind gave an apparently involuntary shout of “bravo!” in the instant before we began clapping and cheering during a lengthy but deserved standing ovation. The LNSO had done it, and done it in style. A formidable masterpiece was over, and a precious memory had been made. Live music doesn’t get more magnificent than this.

Cassia live at NUSU review – sunshine pop trio deserve more
18
Mar

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.

Sigrid live at O2 City Hall review – uninhibited pop joy
12
Mar

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.

Sigrid hardly stood still all evening.

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.

Jockstrap live at Belgrave Music Hall review – a delightfully dark fever dream
20
Feb

At their best when basking in strobe lights and stage smoke, Jockstrap proved their credentials in Leeds as artists at the cutting edge of electronic music. No other artist can even begin to sound like them.

Walking into the main concert room of Belgrave Music Hall shortly after doors opened, I was confronted with a disconcerting scene. Smoky and lit a pungent blood red, the room was almost entirely empty save for two lone figures stood beneath the stage and several more sat ominously on seats by the walls around me. Strangest of all, an eerily serene Tchaikovsky string quartet played loudly through the speakers. Such gentle music felt like a poorly disguised lure into some supervillain’s lair, and I took a minute or two to wait on the benches as the crowds built before taking the bait myself and finding a spot at the front.

The background music was an aptly unsettling way to set the tone for the night ahead. Jockstrap’s music may often involve instruments we all know and love – piano, acoustic guitar, strings – but quite how the duo stitch these raw materials together varies wildly, although a meticulous, avant garde approach to electronics usually has a part to play. Underpinning it all is a knack for sinister lyricism and haunting, half-whispered melodies to match the alien concoction of sounds. Talented vocalist Georgia Ellery doubles as violinist in cult chamber rock group Black County, New Road, but the endlessly creative production of Taylor Skye ensures that Jockstrap’s sound is starkly different to her other project: darker, harsher and altogether even less accessible. Ants From Up There turns out to be excellent gateway drug to Jockstrap superfandom.

Ellery occasionally took to violin and acoustic guitar, whilst Skye crafted the beats

They may not sound quite like BC,NR, but the thirst for creative, eyebrow-raising songwriting is the same. On the duo’s slightly more straightforward tracks, this manifested itself in adventurous harmony, like on the shimmering Greatest Hits. Perhaps the closest thing Jockstrap have got to a pop singalong, the catchy “I believe in dreams, do you?” hook had the crowd on the pair’s side early on. There was of course no real drummer for the outstanding percussion break in the bridge, but Ellery was comfortable enough dancing impressively on stage, maintaining the excitement. All night, boredom was an impossibility. Even during these instrumental breaks, Ellery seemed laser focussed on the task at hand, be it decoratively splaying her hands in the air or squatting and clutching the mic stand like a predator in some of the more menacing passages of music. Further away from me, a shadowy Skye cowered over his synthesisers, the humble mastermind behind Jockstrap’s compelling soundworld. The occasions he peeked out his shell for a moment singing lead vocals on the apex of a few songs felt momentous.

Most of the time the genres were harder to define than Greatest Hits‘ retro soul or Acid‘s sumptuous R&B. Debra, for example, sounded like a deeply disturbed Macarena, technical vocal melodies meandering over stuttering, harsh drum grooves. A lyric as heavy and profound as “grief is just love with nowhere to go” was immediately followed by a gleeful “press Y for a party!” and, stood right next to the booming speakers, it felt like I’d dived deep into a dark fever dream where the music made no sense but compelled me to move with the group nonetheless. By the time the utterly bizarre (yet inspired) Bollywood strings entered, it felt like I could have been on another planet entirely.

The remarkable Robert pushed Jockstrap’s craving for musical rulebreaking to its logical extreme. Baleful deadpan spoken vocals (“you’re provoking me, Robert,”) were all the more potent over Skye’s earsplittingly loud synth bass, before a tumult of rapid hip hop, screeching sirens and clanging percussion. “I am very impressed,” Ellery spoke during one gap in the melee with ice cool nonchalance, and witnessing it all, it was hard not to be impressed by the sheer intensity of the performance. It was a nonsensical cacophony, but helped by Ellery’s earnest performance, it was a treat to dive into the chaos.

Ellery’s stage presence was strong throughout

Despite all the full-throttle weirdness, the calmed, reassuring sound of real instruments on the classical music that began the night wasn’t completely inappropriate for an act as sonically varied as Jockstrap. Glasgow, for example, ends with a stunning passage of soaring strings alongside a sorrowful acoustic guitar melody that was loudly belted out by the keen fans behind me, and an opening harp played on keyboard by Skye was just as pretty. Similarly beautiful guitar ballad What’s It All About? was one of the highlights of the duo’s recent debut album and here the luscious strings accompaniment remained charming, as did the inventive harmonic progressions. It was a shame that this time an overbearing bass sound was a detraction rather than a benefit for such a light, serene track. Neon‘s transition from ominous folk to head-banging noise rock was exciting to witness in the flesh, although the big moment was crucially let down by mistimed lights and Ellery’s guitar strap slipping off.

It wasn’t until the transcendent Concrete Over Water near the end of the set that Jockstrap finally struck that perfect balance between chaos and calm. A serene, sparse verse gave way to a strangely affecting, sporadic synth hook that was miraculously controlled by Skye who, head bowed over a synthesiser, resembled a wizard casting a powerful spell. Throw in a stuttering, militaristic snare beat and haunting strings, and the result was one of his most alluring amalgomations of sound to date. Ellery also had plenty to give to the track, namely through a truly remarkable set of lyrics that shone brightest during the stark and vulnerable piano-led middle section, her melodies reaching for the heavens. As the song gathered pace for a final chorus and Ellery took to her violin for a spectacular instrumental, it seemed Jockstrap had discovered the perfect song to cry or dance to. I’m sure many in the audience were doing both.

Intense stage effects were a key element of the performance

And still, the pair had an ace up their sleeves before their brief encore and departure. 50/50, indisputably the biggest banger of their career, began with a brutal pummeling of dance bass and swirling synths, repurposing Belgrave Music Hall into a nightclub from hell. Soon enough we were chanting away to the non-sensical, yelped lyrics (“ah! eh! oo! ee! ah!” was one of the best vocal earworms) before Skye’s choppy drum machine intensified yet again. The mere act of the musician jumping from behind his keyboards and throwing his arms up in the air expectantly was the spark that ignited Belgrave. Soon enough I was engulfed in a viscious mosh pit, our hands reaching up to a furious looking Ellery as she reached back, our fingertips inches apart. Bodies collided and sweat flew as Ellery, doused in stage smoke and flickering in and out of view under kaleidoscopic strobe lights, bent double and screamed the words almost directly into our ears. The catharsis was so strong, any understanding whatsoever of the words we were yelling was unnecessary. My experience of live music had never been so intensely visceral.

50/50 was so all-consuming, returning to the real world outside after follow up I Want Another Affair felt like a shock. It felt like such an experience needed to be somehow mentally processed before I moved on to the task of finding my way home. Fellow fans clutching bright pink signed vinyls on the train platform seemed understandably too stunned to speak. Committing to a song so completely takes its toll, both physically and emotionally. In one sense, Jockstrap’s music had been a challenge to my musical open-mindedness, with its jarring electronics and unpredicatable chord changes (if indeed there are any chords to speak of). However, stood a few feet away from a spellbinding Georgia Ellery, loving their music was easy, a simple act of letting go and allowing whatever feelings that arise – be it rage or peace, joy or pain – to manifest themselves. As the lights dazzled my eyes and the copious mist washed over me, it felt only natural to lean into the beautiful chaos. Lost in it all, I’ve never felt so alive.