So here is the next installment of Musical Masterpieces. My original plan of posting one a day was rudely interrupted by a holiday to Dungeness. There's a nuclear power station there. It's lovely.
In this edition of Musical Masterpieces, I had the joy, pleasure and luck to meet and briefly chat to Emmanuel Nzaramba, the singer, and Alex Montgomery, the bass player from the South African John Wizards.
I was introduced to John Wizards by Rory via Sandeep (whose posts on here are deffo worth a read, much more so than mine) when Rory surprised me by coming out to Paris for my birthday. He said to me 'Sandeep likes this band called John Wizards. Whenever anyone wants to put on music, he always requests John Wizards'. I personally was sold at their name alone - I think the word 'wizard' could be up there with my favourites, So I said to Rory, 'what are you waiting for you sack of wine' and he put this on.
I don't quite know where to start with the sheer brilliance of this track. I then moved onto their album and was even more stunned. It would be easier to discuss the album as a whole instead of the singular track, as the genres they mash together are many. The key touchstone is without a doubt afro-pop, and the guitar line from Lusaka By Night could easily fit into that genre. However, the album doesn't stop there. Expect to hear house, R&B, electro, reggae, rumba and soukous, all fused together to create a vibrant masterpiece which many groups spend years trying to create - this is John Wizards' debut album. Every song on the album is different, but not so different it damages the album as a whole. It is pretty much flawless. Here's another brilliant track from it.
Having spent several months listening to virtually nothing but John Wizards, I wondered what their live show would be like. And as luck would have it, the cheeky chappies from SA were playing at the brilliant, wonderful and unmissable Primavera Sound in Porto, Portugal. I wish I had had the chance to write up a full review of that festival, as, like with John Wizards' debut, it was virtually flawless - great bands playing, cheap beer, cheap food - what more do you need?
So at around 1am, I stumbled over to the Pitchfork tent and caught my first glimpse of John Wizards. For a start there are about 8 of them, and all other than Emmanuel continually swapped instruments, weaving their fine fabric of musical mastery onstage for all to see. I went absolutely crazy for it. Live, they completely changed how the songs sounded - they became much heavier, even more danceable, and they all seemed to enjoy being onstage - Emmanuel was bouncing around, dreadlocks a-swinging, in a vibrant (to say the least) shirt, and John Withers, the head honcho behind this madness seemed to hold them all together like some kind of wild South African afro-pop Jazz man.
After the show, I was trotting off to replenish my beer and have a wee, when I suddenly saw Emmanuel surrounded by a gaggle of girls speaking very rusty English to him. I bounded over, barged through them all and tapped him on the shoulder. 'I like your show very much sir' I said to him. He responded by embracing me warmly. Before being interrupted again by the relatively insistent girls, I asked him to draw me a picture. Here is what he drew for me:
'What the fuck are you doing Emmanuel?' I heard from behind us. The bass player saunters over. 'Our plane to Serbia leaves in an hour'. 'Would you mind making me a picture sir?' I asked.
Here's Alex Montgomery's drawing:
And with that, they scurried off into the night, leaving a group of bewildered, confused and frustrated Portuguese girls who seemed to hurl some insults at me as I strolled off to have my wee and get another beer. I wouldn't know though as my Portuguese is non-existent. Though John Wizards. They're really great. Give em a listen, it may be the last day of the summer but John Wizards will keep summer alive.
So here is Volume 2 of Musical Masterpieces, featuring a lovely image drawn by the one and only Mac Demarco.
Most people are familiar with the odd-ball, gap-toothed, jaunty indie musician Mac Demarco, who came tumbling out of Canada with the album '2' featuring such hits as 'Cooking Up Something Good', 'Ode to Viceroy' and 'Still Together'. But his real glory came with his third album, 'Salad Days', which had Pitchfork drooling over him - they have recently made a documentary called 'Pepperoni Playboy' and had a large article all about him.
His music is certainly original - quirky, slightly de-tuned pop songs (in the sense of infamous Scottish label Postcard Records pop music) with lyrics, certainly on his first two records, about cigarettes, nightclubs and what I have always presumed to be cooking meth. He has somewhat matured with his latest album however, which features largely love songs and has him experimenting with keyboards, interspersed with his jerky style of guitar-playing.
Having seen him at the Great Escape festival in Brighton in 2013, I got the opportunity to see him at the Green Man festival just last weekend. On the way over to the tent he was playing in, and having bought some very high-proof cider (the man in the queue next to us overheard our conversation about what to get and he said 'Get number 81. It fucks you up'), we staggered past the Rough Trade On Tour tent, which had a peculiarly large crowd outside it. As we approached, who did we see but Mr Mac himself, in a Simpson's t-shirt and Viceroy cap, looking mischievous. We darted round the side and effectively queue-barged every-one there, but I stumbled up to him and asked him to draw me a picture. 'Whaddya want man?' he queried. 'Sure' said I.
Here is what he drew for me:
It sort of reminded me of Keith Haring.
He played an absolutely dazzling show in one of the tents, and though he was certainly more coherent and better rehearsed when I last saw him, he still retained his weirdness, clambering into the crowd and leaping from one of the tents main supports whilst playing 'Still Together' - kind of like what happened here:
So after a few stops and starts with writing here, I finally pulled my trousers on and decided to actually do something about it. So here we go.
The story begins on a chilly night, way back in a year I have forgotten the name of, deep in the heart of Bristol. I had come down to visit my older brother and have a bit of a knees up as Mr Scruff was playing in the O2 Academy, and after drinking many cans of luke-warm cider (my brother was in 2nd year at this point) we stumbled out into the night towards the o2 Academy to get our groove on, as they say. Although, on a sidenote, tragedy did strike as I had bought a ticket and slipped it into my back pocket, and on the walk down to the venue the bastard slipped out of my pocket so I had to get a new one.
But anyway, Mr Scruff. He played, as expected, a dazzling set. I had only been told earlier that night about his 'wee bag' so he doesn't ever have to leave the decks, as well as how he only drinks tea during his sets, which certainly added to the wonder I experienced during the show. Those who have been to a Mr Scruff set will all agree upon his brilliance. He has been known to play music varying from disco, soul, funk, jazz and his own special blend of all of these which is exemplified in his brilliant album 'Ninja Tuna'. It was also probably the most bass-y show I had been to up to that point - I remember looking over at a glass of water on a table next to me and watch it judder across with each bass note.
Also in his shows he has a projector screen featuring all of his own hand-drawn animations which usually consist of fish or potato-like humans, but each one being customised for the town he is in - so for instance there were on-screen shout-outs to Clifton and St Pauls. It certainly adds a twist to the standard DJ set, and it makes it seem much more intimate.
After the show, he came down to the front of the rails and shook hands with folk, chatted and signed things for people, along with the mandatory poses for photographs etc, etc, etc. I decided to wander over, in quite a haze of cider and get him to sign me something.
At the last minute, however, I changed my mind. I handed him the leaflet and said 'Can you draw me a picture?'. Mr Scruff nodded in his approval, and the bald, toothless man next to me looked at me and exclaimed 'Fuckin' nice one mate. Any cunt can get a scribble of a name' and staggered off.
I can't really remember much of that night after that point, but I woke up with this in my pocket:
It has been creased and stained throughout the years, but that was the first drawing an artist did for me, and throughout the more recent years, I decided to continue this 'project' of sorts. I have now decided to post some of them up, hopefully over the next few days. I'm not going to say who else has done pictures because then it will be exciting. So get excite!
I realise now that the entire previous article didn't exactly fully address the event itself, and for this I apologise - however, for those Harvey-heads out there, I hope that our brief encounter with Mr Nick Cave titillated you somewhat. Hopefully, in this 2nd part of the tale, I will describe everything I saw and heard during our 45 minute slot in PJ Harvey's studio. So come with me, follow my beckoning finger and join Ben and I in the basement of Somerset House. All dialogue here is as I wrote it so it is actually basically what they all said. Honestly! Even the lyrics and the chords!
We took an uneventful but somewhat excitable tube journey from Victoria to whatever station is nearest to Somerset House (I forget which one), riding high off our brief encounter with Mr Cave, and leapt off at the correct stop, smoking and hallooing our way to Somerset House by the banks of the Thames. If I have been to Somerset House before this event, I cannot remember when or what for, but it is a really lovely place - a beautiful building, and with a very fine interior as well. We were greeted, upon entry at the main gate, with this -
Due to our punctuality, we had arrived slightly early so we loitered about, smoked some more, and continued to talk about the surrealness of meeting a man who has birthed some of the most challenging and interesting music in all aspects of the word. Soon enough, 10:45 came round and we were ushered into this room -
(I hope no-one objects to the somewhat regular use of pictures, not only does it break the article up a bit, a somewhat wordy account of the recording process is imminent)
We left jackets, bags and other electrical equipment here, and had a brief browse of the gift shop which offered signed posters, postcards (both of which I got), handwritten lyric sheets and beautiful limited edition prints of PJ in and around the underbelly of Somerset House (which I believe were taken by the very accomplished photographer and close friend of PJ's, Seamus Murphy - who also made a video to every track on Let England Shake, like this one)
We were led off down some musty stairs, twirling deep into the core of Somerset House, and we are led through several corridors until we are presented with a door marked with the words 'M57'. It's unlikely it has anything to do with PJ Harvey other than the fact that that was the room she was allocated to record in, but there was a sense of anticipation as we faced it. No-one in the group of 50 people knew what to really expect (unless they'd been before) and I almost felt nervous. Were we going to be confronted with them sitting around chatting for 45 minutes? Or would they be running through the tracks? No-one knew, and that was something that was truly brilliant about this event - you couldn't predict what was going to happen or what you were going to see.
Soon, the door was thrown open and we heard muffled sounds emanating from the room beyond.
We entered an all white room... and there, in the centre, through 2 panes of glass making a small box in the corner of the room, was Polly Jean Harvey, resplendent, all in black. John Parish loomed in one of the corners of the studio, sulking over an altered drum kit, featuring what appeared to me to be Napoleonic war drums. Mick Harvey was there, as Mr Cave promised, seated behind a bank of various keyboards and effect pedals, thoughtfully strumming an acoustic guitar. Seamus Murphy was there too, scurrying around the studio, silently photographing the event. Flood (aka Mark Ellis), the legendary producer, with albums by (amongst many others) Nick Cave, New Order, Erasure, Warpaint, Sigur Ros and most of PJ Harvey's records to his name, was seated on one of the all-white sofas in the studio, along with another man who I didn't know (either a member of PJ's band or an assistant producer/editor or something...). All this we could see. But they were completely oblivious to our presence. It suddenly felt incredibly voyeuristic and very intimate - we were witness to a sight few fans have had the privilege of seeing, an accomplished band creating an album of entirely new songs. It was very striking indeed. We didn't see anything like this, but here's PJ at the mixing desk.
I was most intrigued by the instruments in the room - PJ's autoharp, which was used throughout her album Let England Shake, was in plain sight, along with an assortment of acoustic and Spanish guitars, a beautiful antique upright piano, a sackbutt and a trombone, various saxophones and, most wonderfully, a glorious-looking hurdy-gurdy, amongst dozens of other instruments, of various shapes and sizes.
They were all in discussion about a song, with PJ sat down, chuckling and chatting with the others. Flood was talking about 'just having the singing with the claps to get an emotional feel which was missing from the first take' and went on to discuss chanting and clapping along with it. PJ claps in demonstration. Mick Harvey then pipes up from behind his bank of machines that 'some form of pulse' would 'stay on the nail a bit' and that he wasn't sure about the structure. He says this whilst gently meandering around the neck of an acoustic guitar. PJ turns to John Parish and says 'the backing vocals sound quite stodgy' to which Parish replies 'I like those'. She goes on to say how she wants a young boy to take the lead and that she would shadow him on this track. We then suddenly hear a brief blast of music, a brilliant-sounding track which certainly seems like a logical progression from Let England Shake. 'Claps, no drums' she says after it's switched off, 'not even the rhythm, just the clapping', and turns to pick up a fender jaguar. She plays the chord sequence of G D E A C Am C Am Em with several strums of each chord. 'Does that sound right?', she asks Parish. 'No' he replies. 'I knew it was in the wrong key. How could you tell John?' she asks. 'By looking' says Parish. After a brief moment of chuckling, she adds a capo to the second fret of the guitar and plays G D F#m A E. She then asks for double time 118bpm clicks and plays D E D G D E D G and then D A D G Bm E F#m G (it would have been, and still is a challenge to read all that, even broken up. I apologise, but for those who might be interested, there it is). All through the 45 minutes we were there, Seamus Murphy was taking photographs of everyone, from various angles around the room.
After this sequence, I honestly felt the urge to applause, as being so used to concerts, tis the norm to applause. I quickly realised that this was probably definitely not allowed, so I rapidly refrained.
'Is that right?' asks PJ.
'I don't know' replies Flood.
'I don't know either!' retorts PJ.
She goes on to describe how she wanted the guitar to be stuttering, in a bid to try and replicate the stuttering of children suffering from post-war trauma.
She then played the chord sequence and sang the following lyrics to it. I know that the lyrics were all stuck around the room, but I wrote them as she sung them, so here they are:
They swept across the land
They did not leave a thing
They did not leave a person
A stone or a tree
A brief pause here as PJ coughs. 'Excuse me' she says 'you're not supposed to do vocals at this age. Fuck'. She makes a reference to 'all those gin and tonics' as well. Was PJ a bit hungover? She continued with the song:
They did not leave anything
They did not leave anything
All they left is sand
All they left is sand
I remember father
I remember him
Every minute I remember
Every moment
Now I hate everyone
Now I hate everyone
Before I used to love
One day God shall grow
One day God shall grow
From their graves
When they return
PJ sings absolutely beautifully. She has the most wonderful, dexterous vocal range, which is so incredibly unique.
'Cor blimey' she exclaims, clearing her throat.
Over their graves
I will be waiting
And when they return
I will be waiting
I will not leave a person
Standing
I will not leave anything
I will not leave anything
All I'll leave is sand
All I'll leave is sand
And then God shall grow
And then God shall grow
From their graves
When they return
God will be growing
Over their graves
I will be waiting
When they return
Thus marked the end of the musical segment, as the rest of the session was in discussion of the song when it came to the percussion - more specifically the clapping. I took this brief interlude to write down the song-titles and some of the notes written on a piece of paper tacked to the wall. They read as follows:
River Ana costia
Medicinals
Chain of keys (swing feel?)
Near the memorials to Vietnam and Lincoln
A dog called Money (man to sing)
The ministry of social affairs
The Age of the Dollar
The Community of Hope
The Wheel
Homo Sappy Blues (man to sing)
Imagine this
Ministry of Defence
The Boy
A line in the sand (clapping)
Dollar Dollar
I'll be Waiting
The Orange Monkey
Guilty (next to it was a rather odd picture. Here is my interpretation:)
I tuned back into the conversation they were having. They were discussing having layers of clapping, using as many people clapping as possible. I wrote down the clapping sequence but my interpretation of it is somewhat unintelligible. Everyone in the room clapped a rhythm to the song that PJ had sung and played guitar to. Everyone seemed very relaxed, everyone getting into the rhythm of the clapping. The song stops.
'Ow' says PJ. 'I'll have to clap in a different position next time'
There is a brief discussion about how ill the assistant producer/editor who was sat on the sofa looked. PJ removes a very dainty handkerchief from her black cargo-pants and wipes her nose. They then re-record the clapping beneath the song. What was most remarkable at this point is how human they were. It sounds extremely odd, but so often these musicians are over-glorified and practically deified, with most people's interaction with them being in a venue, separated by a barrier and a stage. But here, they were separated by a pane of glass. You could see the whites of their eyes. It was truly remarkable.
The song finishes and the cease clapping.
'Groovy' exclaims Mick Harvey. 'I suggest a throb'.
Then the sound cut out, and we were no longer in a studio but a white room, being ushered out quickly and quietly. It was a very abrupt end to a wonderful and absolutely fascinating experience. Up the musty stairs we go, towards the sunlight and the gift-shop. In quite a daze, we stumble out onto the street, laden with purchases, towards the seedy streets of SoHo. It was a truly incredible event and I personally can't wait to hear the album. It sounds similar to Let England Shake (from the song we heard) but with a bit more to it - in my opinion it is comparable to the difference between Grizzly Bear's album Veckatimest and Shields, in that Shields follows the rough blue-print of Veckatimest but has more going on, more experimentation. Lyrically, PJ Harvey is also becoming more political, which is clearly visible from the song-titles themselves. Overall, it's going to be a very exciting album (as are all PJ Harvey releases).
At some point in the early days of January, deep in the midst of essay-season, Polly-Jean Harvey, 2 time Mercury prize award-winner (and the only person in the history of the award to win it twice), Queen of alternative music and one-time girlfriend of the mighty Nick Cave, announced a truly unique series of events. From the 16th of January until mid-February, PJ was to take residency in Somerset House in London, to record her new album live in front of an audience, offering 4 sessions of 45 minutes a day. She was to be enclosed in a fully-equipped studio with her band, with 2 walls made of one-way glass - we could see and hear her but she couldn't see or hear us. The Somerset House website described it as a 'mutating, multi-dimensional sound sculpture' and described how 'visitors experience exactly what is happening at a particular moment in the studio, as Harvey and musicians, together with her longstanding producers Flood and John Parish, go through the creative process of recording an album of songs.'
I remember distinctly when I hear her last record, 2011's 'Let England Shake' for the first time, and gob-smacked, mind-blown and utterly astonished don't really come close to what I thought of it. I happened to be in Paris back when it was released and she was to play a concert at the Olympia, and I came within a hair's breadth of spending 240 euros on a ticket from a rather unpleasant man outside. I didn't which was probably a good idea, but I got to see her twice that summer which certainly made up for it.
So when I saw that these events had been announced, I felt it was an unmissable experience, a wholly unique concept and just a really great idea. Alas, within 40 minutes of tickets going on sale, it was sold out. 'Booooo' I inwardly roared to myself as I cycled home, and I thought no longer upon the matter.
Fast-forward to Monday, the 26th of January. Whilst enjoying my morning bowl of cornflakes, I was scrolling through the depths of the internet and stumbled onto the Somerset House website once again - and tickets were available for Tuesday the 27th at 11am. So me and my housemate Ben both snapped one up. Great excite!
Tuesday morning staggered round, and at the crack of dawn we were up and on our way to London. However, whilst in Brighton station buying a coffee, Ben suddenly and rather urgently exclaims in a hushed voice 'Nick Cave is over there'. 'Bollocks!' I retorted, and looking up, who should I see but the Prince of Darkness himself. My jaw hit the floor. There he was, looking as he always has, with slicked back, jet-black hair, a dark blue suit coupled with a large-collared shirt and a variety of rings and necklaces. We couldn't quite believe our eyes.
Panic ensued. What should we do? We followed him at quite a distance through the barriers and discovered that he was going to be on our train. Mr Cave is also very savvy with Victoria station, as he walked to the very front of the train to ensure he could vanish into the pulsing bowels of London with great ease upon his arrival. We got on the same carriage as him, desperately discussing our plan of action - should we approach him? Should we leave him alone? What should we do? The seats all being taken up, we stood in the doorway - Mr Cave sitting less than a metre away from us. Throughout the journey our conversation loudly perused the greatness of Tom Waits, Leonard Cohen, Shane McGowan and The Fall. As well as continually deliberating what to do.
We decided to write him the following note and present it to him upon our journey's end.
The journey wasn't over however - as we went through East Croydon, an elderly couple boarded. Seeing there were no seats available to them, Mr Cave is the only person in the whole rail carriage to offer them his seat. A true gentleman. He then came and stood next to Ben. I could see Ben visibly tense up, all the blood rushing from his face as he looked across at me with a mixture of fear and wonder. Soon we arrived, and as we got off the train we approached him. I'll try my best to type out the exchange we had with him during the 100 metres from train door to barriers.
Ben: We didn't want to disturb you during your journey so we wrote you this (gives Mr Cave the note)
Nick Cave: Oh, thanks guys. How you doing, you guys good? (Claps Ben on the shoulder like he's an old friend)
Ben and I mumbling incoherently, wide-eyed with awe: Yeah, we're pretty good, yeah sure.
Nick Cave: What are you guys up to in London?
Me: We're going to see PJ Harvey record her album at Somerset house.
Nick Cave: Oh really? Ah.... that's funny. I think Mick Harvey [ex-guitarist of the Birthday Party and the Bad Seeds] is going to be there too. That's funny. Are you guys musicians?
Ben: Aspiring
Me: Sort of.
Nick Cave: Cool. Well good luck.
Me: Have a nice day
And that was it! We staggered off giddily to the tube station and burrowed our way to Somerset House.
Is guitar music dead? This has been a pervading question for several years. Many, many journalists, musicians and other people who perhaps think they know better (not that I know better, but clearly these people haven't been looking hard enough) have moaned and grimaced over the demise of guitar music. Sure, what with technology becoming what it is, it's much simpler to download some software, click the mouse a few times and hey presto, you have a trap beat to rival most of the drivel in the charts. But that doesn't mean that guitar music is dead.
And neither is the London music scene. Many have repeatedly whinged about the death of music in London, how there are no longer any scenes, how no-one is doing anything original blah blah blah. Clearly their writers need to unstick themselves from their Macs in their Dalston bedsits and take their fixie bike down to the Windmill in Brixton - the unofficial home of the ludicrously marvellous Trashmouth Records events.
Trashmouth Records is a label established in 2002 by brothers Luke and Liam May, who both form the DJ duo Medicine 8. They signed the Fat White Family back in 2012 (or 2013, my facts aren't entirely straight) and after the release of 'Champagne Holocaust', Trashmouth started to gain more traction. Yet it is not only the Fat Whites who dazzle on their roster. They have Meatraffle, described by Saul from the Fat Whites as 'the best band ever', No Cars, an all female Japanese pop-rock outfit (Knutsford Hanoi writes 'You are stupid if you pass up the chance to see No Cars. Stupid.'), Pit Ponies (who's music has a 'shabby magnificence' and who describe themselves, quite rightly, as 'Upminster soul') and Bat-Bike, a trio of brilliant young chaps who play ear-shattering surrealist rock'n'roll, to name but a few. This article will aim to elucidate the vibrancy and magnificence of the bands on Trashmouth Records, and hopefully make people realise that guitar music in London is very much alive and kicking.
Trashmouth Records use the Windmill as the hub of a large proportion of their events. I have been to several events hosted by these titans of music, for a Fat White Family show, for the Warmduscher (a band who will be featured later on in this article) album release party, and several others. However it was at the Warmduscher album release party where I realized that these chaps were on to something. A line-up featuring Madonnatron, Bat-Bike, Pit Ponies, Meatraffle and Warmduscher, all for £4, also featuring the frontman for Childhood on the door. That's less than a quid per band. Plus the beer isn't too expensive either. Plus it's always an absolute riot.
So let's begin!
Fat White Family
For those who have a) been living under a rock, or b) have no interest in music, I will commence with the Fat White Family. I came across the Fat Whites (or at least heard of their genesis) way back in first year, as my housemate and room-neighbour Tom was cousins with Saul, the guitarist and singer. He occasionally did artwork for their shows, and at that point they seemed to largely be a Charles Manson tribute band (dubbed the Fat White Manson Family). I first got to witness their live show at the Brighton Arts Centre, which is basically an art gallery. At the time they had an exhibition focusing on vaginas and the clientele were a curious bunch. Most of my friends had made up the audience (there were about 20/30 people there), and there being no bar, we grabbed some tins from the off-licence down the road and admired the art. At this point, I hadn't actually heard any of their songs, so when they shambled to their instruments (there was no stage) I had absolutely no idea what I was in for. Lias, front-man extraordinaire, was topless before the show began, and you could smell him from 20 paces. The bassist had no strap for his guitar so was slumped in a corner. The keyboardist ran out of the venue mid-song to have a piss. And during one of their tracks, Tom turned to me and said 'this song is called Cream of the Young'. 'That's absolutely horrible' I replied. And they were. But they were truly, totally and utterly magnificent, and it remains, hands down, as one of the best shows I have ever seen. Afterwards, my friend Rory bought their album, Champagne Holocaust and asked them all to sign it, and they left some of the most magnificent scrawls I have ever seen (I believe one of them wrote 'slap your mother's dirty tit' along with 'struggle on'). We hung around with them a bit afterwards but they quickly vanished off to find a ketamine dealer and go to Volks, so we sauntered home. Find out more about them here, in one of the most brilliant articles I have read. Plus, their second record 'Songs for our Mothers' is about to hit us round the faces, so keep your eyes and ears skinned!
Warmduscher
Now mentioning Warmduscher here is something of a continuation of the Fat White Family as it features nearly half the band. But they still deserve the mention as they are truly remarkable. Saul (guitarist and singer of Fat Whites) plays bass, Jack (drummer) plays drums, Dr. Rapefingers plays Monotron (I don't know his real name/if it is his real name) and Clams 'Grief Bacon' Baker (from Paranoid London/Mutado Pintado) is the vocalist. They are occasionally joined by Ben Romans-Hopcraft (from Childhood) on guitar for live shows as well. It's probably best to put their own description of themselves as it's nearly impossible to describe their sound. It's sort of garage-y, psych-y, dada-ist, proto-sexual sleaze/sweat punk. Here's what they write:
Gentrified executions, color coded colostomy bags, and mayonnaise dripping off the chin. A subway sandwich ride to heaven, kisses on the pink parts. WARMDÜSCHER want it all.
To be quite honest, that kind of nails it. Here's one of their best:
Meatraffle
Meatraffle have been around for quite a while now, but have just released their debut, pictured above, and it is rather special indeed. The first time I heard any of their music was when they supported the Fat White Family at the Windmill back in January, and I was confronted by a bald man with a hammer and sickle tattooed on his arm playing the trumpet in sunglasses. This was the first time I laid eyes on the near-legendary Zsa Zsa Sapien, the guitarist Tingle Lungfish (who, after I said I admired his style of guitar playing, admitted that he knew no chords), Cloudy Truffles the bassist (who I believe is married to Clams Baker), Chris OC the keyboardist (who also features in Pit Ponies AND Phobophobes) and their drummer Fats McCourt. Their music I would describe as Marxist post-punk jazz reggae, but the genres they supply are far more oblique -
Personally, I say just listen to them. They're brilliant. They are also on the latter half of a tour with the Fat White Family around England, so check if you can go see them.
Pit Ponies
Pit Ponies are formed from the ashes of The Bombers, and feature Euan on vocals, Matt on guitar, Chris on keys, Dean on drums and Drew on bass. They describe themselves as (aforementioned) 'Upminster soul' and that just about gets it - from Chris' 60s organ squelches to Matt's Malkmus-esque guitar licks to Euan's honesty in his vocal delivery, underpinned by the power-house duo of the unequalled Dean and Drew, it is soul music for modern day London. The music they make is just incredibly joyful and epic, which is clearly heard throughout their album 'Magnificent Second Occupation' released earlier this year. The 10 tracks whizz by and instantly become familiar favourites, and closer 'Chasing Skirt' is one of the most magnificent pieces of music released this year (in my opinion). Hear below!
Bat-Bike
Bat-Bike could be the most prolific artists on Trashmouth Records, as I believe they have recorded and self-released 9 full-length albums and several EPs and singles. Their 'first', officially Trashmouth Records released album is going to drop on the 29th January and apparently we're in for some surprises. It's again difficult to know where to start with Bat-Bike. Josh, Tim and Alan veer from straight up garage-grunge to proto-techno via soulful ballads - all genres they seem to master. They are absolutely phenomenal live, switching over instruments with ease and sharing vocals. Choosing just one of their songs is nearly impossible as they probably are nearing the 100 mark with released songs, but this one is a definitive cracker.
I could go on and give you info about Taman Shud, Lewis Idle, Madonnatron, David Cronenberg's Wife, No Cars and others who have appeared on the various compilations (such as the magnificent 'Thinking About Moving to Hastings' compilation released earlier this year) but I hope the brief introduction to these few bands gives you some idea of the musical diversity and brilliance represented by Trashmouth Records. These are all bands who have passion, personality and who do what they want to do. And Trashmouth Records are right behind them, supporting them all the way, putting on countless gigs across London for next to nothing, keeping the independent torch burning brightly. Guitar music is alive and well, and if you disagree, go to a Trashmouth night, drink some beers, watch some bands, buy a record and regret nothing. London is alive and kicking. And that's largely thanks to Trashmouth Records.
I raise my glass of Buckfast to Liam and Luke.
So what are you waiting for? Head over to the Trashmouth Records Bandcamp, have a listen to the music (all of it preferably), spend all your money and regret absolutely nothing.
At around half past six this morning, the news broke that David Bowie had passed away last night after an 18 month battle with cancer, at the age of 69. Renowned for radically changing his musical style with each of his 27 albums, his often dazzling stage set-up and costumes, and sharing the studio and stage with a variety of musicians from Luther Vandross to Freddie Mercury via Iggy Pop, Bowie has always been a cause for intrigue and undying fascination. From the lush folk-stylings of his debut in 1967, to the jazz-infused skronk of his latest release, Blackstar, released just two days before his death, Bowie encompassed nearly every popular genre throughout his 49 year career – from glam to funk, pop to krautrock and everything in between. Combining music, theatricality, fashion and sexuality in a defiant and unpredictable manner incomparable to any individual past, present or future, David Bowie irreversibly altered the course of music of the past 49 years, and his influence will be felt for generations to come.
He was frequently described in the media as a ‘musical chameleon’ which does no justice to his originality – a chameleon changes according to the background, but Bowie changed the background to fit around him, influencing countless musicians along the way, always one step ahead of everyone else. Not only did he experiment vastly with music, the theatricality of his general demeanour was also integral to his career – from acting on the stage to performing in numerous films. Having studied Japanese kabuki theatre and the Italian farcical comedy genre, Commedia dell’Arte, he frequently incorporated many of these ideas into his music, using his background in theatre as the key influence in the creation of many of the different personae he created for each of his records and tours. From Ziggy Stardust to Alladin Sane via the Thin White Duke, every character he created was as important to the albums and the tours as the music was, with each persona mirroring the music and lyrics. These characters were often killed off at a moment’s notice, frequently leaving his fans in the dust – gig-goers attending his post-Ziggy era shows dressed in the Ziggy Stardust jumpsuit and make-up were often distraught to find he had ‘transformed’ into the Thin White Duke, dressed quite plainly in a white shirt and waistcoat.
From the ‘plastic soul’ stylings of his 1975 record ‘Young Americans’ to the avant-kraut electronic stylings of his Brian Eno-produced Berlin ‘trilogy’ (‘Low’, ‘Heroes’ and ‘Lodger’) via the new wave-indebted ‘Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps)’ and the pop smash hit of the Nile Rogers-featuring ‘Let’s Dance’, he never ceased to dazzle and amaze. Madonna, Billy Idol, Kanye West, Marc Almond, Edwyn Collins and numerous other musicians including longtime collaborators Tony Visconti, Brian Eno and Rick Wakeman have all paid their respects to this titan of musicality and originality, describing him as ‘the Picasso of pop’, an innovator and a genius.
Frighteningly, his latest record ‘Blackstar’ did seem to almost be a premonition. ‘Something happened on the day he died, Spirit rose a metre and stepped aside, Somebody else took his place, and bravely cried, I’m a Blackstar, I’m a Blackstar’ as the title track declares. Even the track ‘Lazarus’ features some creepy moments – ‘Look up here, I’m in heaven, I’ve got scars that can’t be seen, I’ve got drama, can’t be stolen, everybody knows me now’.
I distinctly remember phoning a close friend the day he announced ‘The Next Day’ early in the morning on the 8th January 2013. It was his first album in over a decade and having grown up listening to Bowie, I couldn’t have been more excited. Fast forward a year or so and I was gearing up to apply to a broadcast journalism course – when I was accepted onto the course, I vowed that I would eventually interview David Bowie, no matter what the cost. A line from his song ‘Ashes to Ashes’ summed up my reaction to the news this morning – ‘I heard a rumour from Ground Control, Oh no, don’t say it’s true’.
The starman fell to earth. He will live on, but as Tony Visconti wrote in his tribute to this titan of music, ‘for now, it’s appropriate to cry’.
