Review: Opeth's 'Sorceress' casts its spell

Soldiering on through their new growl-free era, Opeth have either musicially neutered themselves or continued to push progressive boundaries with quality music, depending on who you ask.

Splitting their fanbase down the middle with 2011’s infamous (but really rather good) Heritage album, guttural growls and heavy riffing went out in the window in favour of a greater emphasis on haunting, autumnal atmospherics and slight noodling, all drenched in 70’s worshipping prog.

This turned away a sizable number in disgust, with the rest (and music publications) praising the resultant music for what it was, rather than what it wasn’t: and crucially, it was really fucking good. 

The same was said of 2014’s Pale Communion, which tumbled deeper down the prog rabbit-hole.

The naysayers can be forgiven, however, for while both Heritage and Pale Communion were excellent slabs of music in themselves, there was certainly something strangely different. 

Where the likes of past albums Blackwater Park, Still Life and Ghost Reveries were genuinely awe-inspiring, almost maddeningly inventive works hitting a high clang on the how-did-you-do-that register, Heritage and onwards are merely really-quite-good in comparison, destined to occupy an interesting spot in Opeth’s gleaming back catalogue but never to knock the twin giants of Ghost Reveries and Blackwater Park off their (deserved) high perches.

With this in mind (and in one’s ears), 2016 brings us the mysterious Sorceress. Boasting a title-track with the first heavy riffing of any kind since 2008’s Watershed, this new gilded release, essentially, continues onward from Pale Communion – as it should.

A straightforward return to death-metal stylings would carry a 99% chance of being an obvious rehash and lazy genre-milking, so hats must come off to Mikael Akerfeldt and co. for having the confidence to writing from the heart with more deliciously classy prog-rock.

So to an extent, the listener knows what to expect – piano, acoustic guitar, tasteful flute, looming keyboards, etc – and is rewarded in kind with more achingly beautiful instrumentation, inspired passages, haunting melodies and Akerfeldt continuing to be one of rock and metal’s most favoured sons.

Simply put, the quality bar is still endearingly high and Opeth have reliably rewarded those deciding to stick with them in a brave new musical world. Their classic past albums will always exist for those who prefer them, and the band have long since earned the right to do whatever they damn well please, and the results are fantastic.

It's a strange, strange thing to be reviewing a Guns N' Roses tribute act in the knowledge that while you nod along to eerily detailed renditions of Civil War, You Could Be Mine et. al, the 'core' of the real thing are bulldozing through America on the will-they-won't-they reunion tour.

Before Axl Rose and Slash finally, finally buried the nuclear hatchet, the singular Guns alumni were, of course, in action in their various pursuits. Axl could be seen fronting enormodome shows under the GN'R name, from which drummer Frank Ferrer and stringsman Richard Fortus (10 and 14 years in the job respectively) have graduated to the current 'hybrid' reunion lineup. 

Slash, meanwhile, toured and recorded under his own name and Duff McKagan continued to be the coolest human being alive. But while the Great Trio can indeed be seen sharing a stage again, there's still no sign of a UK tour or even a London show.

Enter Guns 2 Roses.

It's been 14 years (geddit?!) of mirror-imaging the legendary Hollywood rock n' roll ensemble for this lot, and Bilston's Robin 2 - a routinely fantastic place to catch tribute acts - welcomed them back.

For Axl Rose has long been heralded and celebrated as having the most fearsome pipes in rock history, and I'll be damned if my wine-addled ears didn't hear Guns 2 Roses' frontman, who even has Axl's way of glancing at the audience nailed down, wail a long way up and down the holy fuckometer. 

Of equal attention-hogging ability is their Slash. Innumerable Halloween and fancy dress outfits over the years have proved just how easy it is do dress as the man, so ingrained in the rock n' roll consciousness , but G2R's representative actually has the right guitar strap as well. Oh, and he plays guitar really well and whatever.

No, really: he cranks a damn good sound out of a gorgeous Les Paul and Marshall amp - the inseparable rock n' roll marriage - for the duration and supplies, as Slash so memorably did (does?) wonderfully crunchy, warm tones and lets fly with excellently slick guitar licks. 

The evening is over all too quickly, and after a set that leans mostly on Appetite for Destruction material, it's tantalising to think what Guns 2 Roses might be able to do with a bigger room and a longer playtime - Estranged, maybe? 

"Fing is, they're not just one of the best tribute acts oi've seen - they're one of the best gigs oi've seen," blares a punter, and as I slip away during a spirited set-closing Paradise City to dash for the last tram back to Birmingham, I'm inclined to agree. 

Review: Steven Wilson, Royal Albert Hall

As far as victory laps go, Steven Wilson's hot-ticket successive sets at the prestigious Royal Albert Hall stand aloft like two giant middle fingers: for the humble bespectacled audio-wizard has enjoyed a fantastic new chapter in a musical career already jam-packed with the kind of accomplishments many musicians would kill for.

After impressing all concerned with 2013's rightly acclaimed The Raven That Refused to Sing, Wilson did it all over again with his latest, Hand.Cannot.Erase. The newer release carries a freshness and immediacy in stark contrast to Raven's lengthy, haunting proggy ghost stories, but not without hidden depths that only appear after the 99th listen.

The first of the two shows feels like an extended Hand.Cannot.Erase. tour concert: Wilson and band glide through the entire album (sans Transcience, sadly, preventing it from being a complete end-to-end run-though), being an extremely well-oiled and rehearsed machine by now. Despite having taken this set to numerous rapturously-received shows throughout the year, they attack the new material with pleasing, spirited zest.

While Hand... is a multifaceted, genre-skipping milestone unto itself on record, hearing it explored live is nothing short of a treat, Wilson and band employing quadraphonic sound to fill the Albert with it. 

The material traverses almost all of Wilson's musical palette: the uplifting prog-rock of 3 Years Older, the nimble pop of the album's title-track, the wistful slow climax of Perfect Life, the monstrous riff-labyrinth of Ancestral before finishing with Happy Returns, expertly treading the cheery/sad balance. Three select choices will survive into the second night, squaring off impressively against older cuts: now, however, Wilson's self-belief in his fantastic accomplishment shines through.


With Hand.Cannot.Erase. put to bed, the second set of the first night provides the assembled disciples with a grinning bag of jewels and gems, starting slowly and ominously with the first ever performance of material from Wilson's collaborotion with Opeth's Mikael Akerfeldt. Drag Ropes, a wonderfully spooky and foreboding piece (to call it a track or 'song' would be a misjustice), is laid out across the Hall over the course of approximately seven days. 

Its sheer length may have has a slight pulse-weakening effect on some, but the sheer rarity of the event cannot be underestimated, especially when Akerfeldt joins the band on stage to provide vocals and animator Jess Cope's fantastically disturbing video accompanies it on the giant screen.

Wilson next reminds all involved whose name is on the ticket as he leads the bands through their reworking of Index, complete with synchronised statue-posed finger-clicking introduction, a fantastically surreal sight through one of Wilson's brilliantly darkest pieces, with suitably eerie visuals presumably from long-term collaborator Lasse Hoile.

How is Your Life Today? and the invincible Lazarus follow, respectively a not unwelcome oddity and one of Wilson's absolute strongest compositions, rapturously received.

A short speech from Wilson prefaces a particularly tasty showcasing of unreleased HCE material, titled My Book of Regrets. Part proggy length and catchy verse, it is reminiscent of the dreamy sections of Luminol crossed with the singalong 'Tree track Blackest Eyes. It will arrive on an EP in January: begin the countdown.

Harmony Korine, The Watchmaker and Porcupine Tree's Sleep Together follow, the latter two with the expected white sheet hanging before the band, with appropriately disturbing visuals projected onto it for Watchmaker. It is nothing short of spellbinding, a masterfully executed matrimony of sound and sight.

By way of eventual encore, the 'Tree's The Sound of Muzak's sincere lamentations precedes The Raven That Refused To Sing, a perfectly judged conjuration of storytelling and emotional power.

The first night wrapped, all speculation turns towards the second: making sense of what has taken place, however, will take a long time. Wilson and band admirably stepped up to deliver something far more than a simple recital, matching expectations by putting on a spectacular event. 




Night 2:

With the first evening being an extended Hand.Cannot.Erase. tour show, the second is a rarities free-for-all. The band members consecutively take the stage to contribute to a steadily growing No Twilight Within the Courts of the Sun. Wilson is the last to take the stage, to deserved cheers, leading it to its fantastically intense conclusion.

Fully assembled, the team tackle the first of several Porcupine Tree gems in the maudlin Shesmovedon, before returning to newer material in Routine. Guest vocals from Israeli singer Ninet Tayeb have been conspicuously absent from renditions of the song due to Tayeb's own inability to attend tour dates. For both of these nights, however, she is present to fill the Hall with the full force of her impressive larynx. Animator Jess Cope's heartbreaking stop-motion video accomapnies it as expected, and suddenly there is a demand for Wilson-themed handkerchiefs at the merchandise stand. 

A prog-rock stand-off ensues between Wilson's solo material versus more 'Tree tracks, to satiating results. "The only way to follow that is with some dumb heavy metal", quips Wilson in the aftermath of the emotional onslaught of Routine's unholy trinity of itself, Ninet's presence and Cope's aforementioned video. The 'metal' he speaks of comes in the form of Porcupine Tree's Open Car, with its itchy verses, gloriously epic chorus and the best guitar riff Matt Bellamy or Tom Morello never wrote. 

Don't Hate Me follows, before the two-part prog workout of Wilson's Home Invasion and Regret#9 - the former being a hydra-headed piece of volatile riffery, dreamy chorus and alt-rock swagger, the latter a truly fantastic showcase for the remarkable skills of keyboardist Adam Holzman and guitarist Guthrie Govan, who returns to the lineup tonight as a welcome guest, his recent absences ably covered by the superb Dave Kilminster (including these two nights). Govan and the band then revisit Wilson's wondrously fragile Drive Home, featuring Govan's jaw-dropping emotion-wringing extended solo.

Also re-joining for Drive Home is the humbly talented Theo Travis, providing woodwind instrumentation for a jog through more of Wilson's solo material: the crushing Sectarian, the dreamlike Insurgentes, No Part of Me, and finally a tastefully trimmed airing of sinister prog-demon Raider II. 

The first of two encores is a fascinating exploration of the first of three Porcupine Tree songs, the lengthy Dark Matter. Celebrated 'Tree sticksman Gavin Harrison receives some of the biggest cheers of the night, joining the band for a one-two of Lazarus and The Sound of Muzak.

For Steven Wilson, victory was secured long ago. With performances like this, he is reaching for something greater: immortality.

Review: Killing Joke - 'Killing Joke [2003]'

And there, in the title of this slab of pure fury brimming with intelligence, is the first warning to the uninitiated about the sheer size of Killing Joke’s colossal sonic testicles: that this is their second self-titled album.

This is entirely appropriate as a title, marking as it does a point of rebirth in the band’s history – a history that makes the story of your favourite band read like a council memo on lamppost legislation. The Joke are about as recharged as a musical act can be without actually spontaneously combusting: there is enough energy and sonic intent here to level cities.

Doubly interesting, then, that the band sound is completely stripped back, which pushes each instrument so far into your face that the collective aural beast manifests as a clenched fist. There is nowhere for the listener to take refuge, nor any let-up in the pacing. It’s the musical equivalent of a sound beating after spilling the pint of an intellectual.

And as usual, the forefront intellectual is Jaz Coleman – either a ranting, bug-eyed madman or one of the few to musically spew truth pearls into people’s faces in the hope that they’ll sit up and take notice (In this review, he is the latter).

Such is the skill, that fact is intertwined into memorable hook. ‘Five corporations earn more than forty-six nations!’ Coleman bellows on Blood On Your Hands. Total Invasion, meanwhile, has the sneering ‘Only fools won’t know, they haven’t been told/their empire’s run on the old black gold’. The sense of a shouted history lesson prevails.

The relentless barrage is also the great flaw of the album, one you don’t notice for a long time. Killing Joke pummel the listener senseless here, which is fine, as they do it with intelligence.

However, in concentrating on one of the things they do best, their other abilities are kept shut out, namely the talent in crafting danceable tunes and music with a sense of exploration and/or adventure, namely Bloodsport and Communion respectively as just two examples.

Nevertheless, for what Killing Joke is, it knocks out the competition with a swift knee to the balls and a diatribe on the state of the world. None do it better.

Ten Years On: The Darkness - 'One Way Ticket to Hell...and Back'

It's been a strange decade for The Darkness, having been through more ups and downs than the average rollercoaster, with more rock n' roll tales from ten years' worth of music than lesser mortals will endure in a lifetime.

Bursting into British popular music with shit-kicking debut 'Permission to Land' in 2003, the band enjoyed a hugely successful multi-faceted bullseye, totting up several victories in a short space of time: being the first unsigned band to sell out London's legendary Astoria and injecting much-needed life into rock's decaying corpse as it was being kicked around by indie hipsters.

As is often the case, a speedy rise ensures a similarly speedy descent, and the masses who bought into The Darkness' immediate popularity were suddenly nowhere to be seen for album number two, 'One Way Ticket to Hell....and Back'. A year after its release, frontman Justin Hawkins would underdo rehabilitation treatment for alcohol and coke addiction, leaving the band and leaving the remaining band to become Stone Gods. Hawkins, meanwhile, would return to action with the excellent Hot Leg.

While The Darkness are happily together again - albeit minus original drummer Ed Graham - history has a habit of passing (and pissing) over their unloved second album. Here, ten years on from its release, I wish to make the case for its recognition as one of the best British albums ever made.

Where 'Permission to Land' blew everyone's faces clean off with a giddily inspired mixture of snotty punk exuberance, near-perfect rock balladry, cannonball guitar riffs, Brit-wit and Hawkin's inimitable falsetto wail, the follow-up displayed a sense of world-beating maturity - but without losing the humour.

The impression from having listened to 'One Way Ticket...' more than my mother's voice is a disc where each gilded track stands impressively aloft on its own two flicked-v fingers, and still flows perfectly well in a single sitting. Where there was belligerence ('Get You Hands Off My Woman'), there was now a greater sense of scope and scale, with every single facet of the band sounding monstrously HUGE.

Hawkin's fantastic vocal range sears through each song in an impressive array of styles, a perfect narrator for chucklingly witty lyricisms. Who else can inspire childhood memories of school with the gorgeously anthemic 'Dinner Lady Arms'? The vocals are also produced to glossy perfection, with exactly the right amount of ghost-Justins popping up for sporadic backing vocals and harmonies.

Moving on to the music itself, there is the same subtle hints of serious guitar skills from Justin and brother Dan with considered deployments of widdly-widdly solos and acoustic flourishes, such as the verse to 'Hazel Eyes', which subsequently explodes into a chorus of mountainesque power chords and heaven-sent guitar licks, all the while punctuated with cannonfire drumming and powerful bass.

While almost every track is lyrically entrenched in lurve, the title track is a fantastically-told story of Hawkin's cocaine addiction: 'I always tried to keep my vices under wraps/but a coach-load of mutes would have been talkative chaps'. Setting the course for the rest of the album, there is spades and spades of sheer wit, catchy invention and polished-to-perfection balls-out rock.

There are absolutely no low points, perhaps except for when 'Bald' and 'Blind Man' get a little serious in tone. The sprawling gorgeousness of 'Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time' is this album's answer to earlier single 'Love is Only a Feeling', and is an excellent sequel of sorts. While these songs burst a few of the party balloons momentarily,they are surrounded by bollock-burstingly-brilliant hymns that, above all else, must be applauded for being something that precious few bands seem to manage these days: FUN.

Like an unloved gifted child who turns to heroin during a traumatic parental divorce, 'One Way Ticket...' lay weeping in the corner as The Darkness underwent their meltdown. An incredible record such as this deserved far better in terms of a stable line-up to support it. A fat (middle) finger must also be pointed at everyone who enthused about their debut - hipsters and midlife crisis dads alike - who couldn't be arsed to stick with the band just as they produced their golden egg. 

Since their reformation, The Darkness have produced two more albums of knockabout British rock n' roll, thankfully carrying their hallmarks and ensuring their continued existence as a functioning band. But for a catastrophically brief moment in their history, at their most fragmented, a once-in-a-lifetime album was born in the worst possible conditions for its deserved recognition.

If you love witty, loud rock n' roll with just the right amount of polish and heart, I implore you to pick up a copy of this tragically overlooked album. It may just be the best thing you've ever heard.

10/10

Review: Muse - 'Drones'

The world continues to resemble an appallingly-written sci-fi movie by every passing day, so it feels especially righteous to have a fresh slab of music from popular rock's most endearing riff-wielding commentators, Muse. 

Album number seven, with the band noting a marked return to the primal guitar-bass-drums setup of their earlier works, comes with its own narrative: indeed, Matt, Dom and Chris have even expressed enthusiasm for Drones to be adapted into some form of musical.

Possibly to nix the allure of potential album leaks, Muse have pre-empted the release of Drones with not just the expected slew of singles, but approximately half the album. Psycho was the first out the gate, providing a musical home for a guitar riff that Bellamy has been throwing around for almost all of the band's history. 

The Drill Sergeant barking that precedes it is one of two interludes on the album, recalling Tool's fondness for such between-song pieces that allow the listener to breath and take a detour through disembodied planes before stumbling directly back into the album's narrative. 

Dead Inside followed, despite this Undisclosed Desires-turned-nasty stuttering disco stomper actually opening the album, possibly to allay fears of Bellamy talking a load of bells about the supposed return to Planet Rock. When received by the masses, it prompted confusion - it wasn't pureblood rock, but wasn't meat-and-potatoes either, proving Muse hadn't lost their appetite for exploration.

Next up, in both pre-album releases as well as Drones' actual running order, cometh Mercy and Reapers, which history may pinpoint as the overall album's standout tracks. Mercy proudly shows off its musical lineage, carrying several elements from past songs such as Starlight, Follow Me as well as setlist cornerstone Stockholm Syndrome, juicing the ingredients into a fantastic slice of glittercannon pop-rock.

Reapers takes the madness further with a so-so verse that gives way triumphantly to Rage Against The Machine-turned-glam guitar work, featuring a fabulously jubilant  - and dare I say it, sassy - guitar solo with the greatest chorus of the whole album. A surefire gem.

The Handler sits stubbornly at the album's core, guitar riff reaching out in several directions like a drowsy belligerent octopus. It provides the uneasiest experience amongst the tracklisting, but not without showcasing Muse's songwriting prowess.

The second of the interludes, JFK, features the great man himself blathering before Bellamy and co kick the door down with Defector, (yet) another monstrously rocking track that wields its hammerblow riffs and Queen-esque backing vocals, Matt in a pleasingly defiant mood that contrasts with the negativity preceding it over the course of some of the album's first half. 

After the usual dizzying carousel of thick-stringed riffery, bombast and epic themes, Revolt is a not entirely unpleasant prospect but its city-stomping predecessors leave such a mark that it nearly drops the baton. It may please those who wish for a simpler song, but history may consign it to the dusty corner of unloved filler tracks (see also: Explorers and Guiding Light).

Then again, it may be the intention to wind down the musical intensity as the narrative reaches its conclusion. Aftermath almost recalls the woozy sway of past tracks such as Blackout and the three-part Exogenesis Symphony, but is slightly too watery and ultimately fails to make a meaningful impression.

Ten-minute-monster The Globalist pointedly defies any notion of bringing things to a gentle halt with a heady mix of unadulterated fearlessness, albeit with slightly wobbly execution. Whilst not the greatest thing Muse have ever committed to tape, it inarguably succeeds in marking out Muse as one of the most interesting acts to tap the Top 10 on the shoulder before lending it a copy of 1984. 

Closing this chapter in Muse's history is the album's title track, in which Bellamy clones himself and forces the assembled Matts at Manson-point to all sing at the same time. It's a strange soup of the man exploring the different levels of his still-brilliant voice, but also sounds like several vocal warm-up takes being played at the same time. As album closers go, only time will have the final word on whether it truly works or not.

A cabal of longtime Musers wait, agonised, for Muse to return to the form they built their career and legend on. Drones doesn't completely hark back to those times, because nostalgia is a backwards glance and Muse have never done anything else except march into the future. For that, they cannot be criticised. 

7.5/10

Review: The Darkness - Last of Our Kind

Remember The Darkness? Spandex, 2003, I Believe in a Thing Called Love, Love is Only a Feeling, and a sophomore album that nobody liked or bought (despite Kerrang! magazine breathing one of their few remaining gasps of sanity and awarding the album their highest score)?

No?

Well, now's an excellent chance to either re-aquaint yourself with them or roll over and take their special brew of brilliantly silly carrying of the sacred rock n' roll torch.

As rock finds itself in arguably its weirdest state yet, album number four crashes down through the ceiling. Sequinned boots kick in all directions as the glammy force of the band's favourite form of gloriously OTT rock n' roll cheerfully bash your skull in (and out, like a hokey-cokey with Marshall Amps sponsorship).

Where thank-god-they're-back previous disc, Hot Cakes, had more of a lairy feelgood, um, feel to it, Last of Our Kind appears to wear brass knuckles underneath the velvet gloves. Witness the one-two punch of the first two tracks, Barbarian and Open Fire, notably uptempo shitkickers that carry a slight snarl with the expected snigger.

Handclapping anthems sway to the tempo alongside supercharged slices of rifferama, and suddenly the prospect of there being a dimension not containing this band is enough to scare you into grabbing a ticket for their winter 2015 UK trek, for at least one more chance to partake in the time-honoured Darkness party.

On other fronts, The Darkness continue to wear their rival-beating talents on their nipple tassels. Justin Hawkin's inimitable force-of-nature wail is present and deliciously unapologetic, delivering their amusingly inventive lyrical games with the expected alacrity. In a musical landscape oversaturated with unpalatable identikit bores, it is all too easy to

However, having worked so hard to develop their own take-no-prisoners identity and zippily identifiable character, along with a songwriting nous that has set the bar giddily high for themselves (not to mention their catastrophically underrated second album), some tracks, perhaps inevitably, can't quite reach up to those heights.

It's an issue that permeated previous long-player Hot Cakes, a thoroughly solid romp that couldn't quite match the pure greatness achieved prior. Taken as a standard rock album, however, it was by no means without identifiable merit.

Whether Last of Our Kind can be deemed a victim of the same problem can only be determined with 999 more listens and the fullness of time. What can be immediately ascertained, however, is that it is another secured victory.

7/10

Review: Faith No More - Sol Invictus (album)

For longer than anyone would admit to remember, in a moment of feverish 'Christ, I'm old' panicked realisation, Faith No More have been enthusiastically leapfrogging genres and expectations required of the ostensible rock band. Effortlessly embracing funk, rap, metal and everything else and soldiering it into their own bizarrely unique yet entirely accessible package, they have consistently proved themselves lovably versatile.

Fans who still can't get the taste of Angel Dust out of their ears need to calm down, however, as Sol Invictus stylistically seems to carry on where 1997's Album of the Year left off. This isn't to say Faith No More are stuck in their own past - instead, this new effort sits all the more comfortably next to its bigger discographical brothers.

For there isn't the effortless shit-kicking genius of their most celebrated disc, enveloped in an otherworldly alt-sheen, but instead the sound is far punchier. Sadly this means less atmosphere-creating synths from keyboardist Roddy Bottum, reduced to piano jingling here. However, the band don't sound like they are transmitting from a dimension of their own dimension - on Sol Invictus they have both arms down your throat, and Mike Patton's hydra-headed range of voices and styles finds copious employment, always to startling effect.

Lead single Motherfucker almost collectively drew an 'Oh' moment, considering the long wait for new material - prickteased by the band's reformation and series of gigs from 2009 onwards. It's a dark, brooding track that is almost entirely composed of a great slowly swelling buildup that overshadows its payoff, dissipating like a fart. The track sits strangely amongst its brethren, an odd choice for the band's first single in 18 years.

And the brethren it sits amongst appears to form its own musical rock face, better heard and easier appreciated as a dark and twisted whole. Few cuts stand tall with both fists flicking the V's, save the manic groove of Superhero.

But for a sorely-missed band such as these, not only is any return to action a cause for jubilation, the added bonus of a comeback album that isn't complete doo-doo is an absolute boon.

Review: Muse - 'Mercy' (Single)

As new songs from Muse's upcoming seventh album Drones break out like laser beams burning through the brick walls of the muscle museum, Matt Bellamy's claims of stripping back all the Queen-preening operatics, theatrics and vocal acrobatics in favour of good-old meat & potatoes rock is slowly being met with puzzlement from ardent fans.

First up was Psycho, a long-awaited musical home for a guitar riff almost as old as Muse itself, frequently tagged on to the end of certain songs live. It appeared to fulfil Bellamy's announcements of a grand return to planet rock, but was derided in some parts by whinging twats for being boring. Evident that you cannot please every bastard - especially when you're at Muse's level and can level entire stadia in virtually city in the star system, recruiting innumerable followers with every squealing slice of gargantuan lightsaber pop-rock.

Following this was Dead Inside, seemingly an about-turn from Psycho's primal riffery. Sounding like Undisclosed Desires' evil brother with its stuttering drums and bass, with Bellamy's guitar arriving late to the disco, it promptly split a lot of onlookers down the middle: either a disappointing continuation of the electro-pop leanings that turned off a few fans, or a relief to hear that Muse were not about to cut off their musically curious side. Whatever indication it might have been of the eventual full-length, it was still pretty damn good.

Finally, we come to the very latest offering: Mercy. Referred to by one wag as 'Starlight Syndrome', referencing its gleaming pop sheen and teasingly chugging guitar forming part of the tapestry beneath Bellamy's ironically merciless soundcannon wail in the chorus, Mercy appears to perch between those two while clutching the severed central hook of Follow Me, air-punching single from previous long-player The 2nd Law.

The vocal-following piano notes of Starlight are present, with a dazzlingly bright production lifting the proceedings into the air and into the raised hands of the tour-following disciples. It veers off from there, however, by simply being more up-tempo, with one hand firmly around the listener's neck and another on their balls. 

But is it rock? Pop-rock, yes. Those looking forward to the promised balls-out ROCK may have to hope there are riffy gems posted deep amongst the Drones tracklisting, because Mercy doesn't appear to fit that bill.

What it does do, however, is provide Muse with (yet) another OTT pop-rock monster that features traceable lines back through their dynasty of increasingly signature brand of this sort of thing, shooting glitter-guns in several musical directions at once: a worthy successor to Starlight and Follow Me, perhaps as Drones' grand continuation of their process.

Long may it continue - who else manages to sound this big nowadays?


'Drones' is released June 8th.
Muse will bring Christ only knows what to the main stage at Download Festival 2015 on Saturday 13th June.

Listen to Mercy below:

Review: The Smiths Indeed, The Robin 2, Bilston

Ah, the tribute band. A sad waste of musical ability pissed away on crowds of saggy-bottomed middle-aged fools who, for one night, pause the process of growing up - or, a harmless skip down the memory motorway? The deathless debate hangs in the air. If your tribute band is so good, why not pen some tunes of your own?

The curmudgeons' oh-do-cheer-up side of the argument is rightfully hit in the eye by gladioli chucked into the crowd by Jurgen Wendelen, The Smiths Indeed's Morrissey representative, as the four-piece shimmy into Still Ill.



A glance at The Robin's sizeable crowd, buoyant and resplendent in all manner of Smiths and Morrissey t-shirts, and the argument is swiftly kicked in the shins, a night of blissful indie memories well underway.

This is in no small part down to the masterful note-for-note replication of The Smith's timeless hymns, each shot through with sufficient verve to render them with a gratifying freshness. The skilfulness of their act doesn't just replicate, it channels the historic much-loved odes to love, loneliness and everything else.



Celebrating the 30th anniversary of The Smiths' No. 1 album Meat is Murder, every song from it is given spirited renditions, even the maudlin title track. For Panic, igniting a mass 'Hang the DJ!' chant in the room, Wendelen swings a noose around in one of many touches that superbly contributes to the act. He has the mannerisms, accent, weird dancing and, of course, the singing voice utterly nailed down.

Taking Bilston by the throat through just about every Smiths song you really wanted to hear (except your correspondent's favourite, Shoplifters of the World Unite - but no qualms here), we are fortunate to have a shit-kicking visualisation of what it must have been like to witness such a band in the flesh.



Representing those who sadly couldn't due to age (or lack of it), I am all the more grateful for such an eerily imitative experience that, for one night, opens a portal into hitherto inaccessible sonic territory that all the grainy YouTube footage in the world can't quite compete with.

The Smiths, indeed.

Photographs from the evening: https://flic.kr/s/aHsk7wpKHL

All photographs © JH Stokes 2015. Anyone found nicking these shots will be spanked with a wet plimsol. 



Bonus: short clip of Bigmouth Strikes Again -

Review: Morrissey - Birmingham Barclaycard Arena 27.3.15

It can't be easy being Morrissey. It seems that every return to the spotlight for him is marred (Marr'd?) by some near-catastrophic event, turning a relatively simple new album n' tour into a triumph over inexplicable odds and developments.

For his latest venture, Death himself has tapped Moz on the shoulder in a series of health scares that has resulted in particularly emotional renditions of the Smiths gem Asleep, with the ominous statement: 'Remember my face, but forget my fate'.

Back in the present, however, all notions of nature catching up with him are swiftly nixed as he and band tear through The Queen is Dead, followed by Suedehead in a sure-footed one-two punch that instantly satiates his considerable disciples, who are out in force tonight at Birmingham's recently rechristened Barclaycard Arena (and not a kind word was heard about the name change from the punters).

In a typically bullish move, the audience are then lead through a large amount of numbers from last year's excellent World Peace is None of Your Business album. Here, an age-old debate flares in your correspondent's dazed mind: to promote the admirably strong new effort, or reward the gatherers with the cherished hits? Tonight finds a lot of the former, Morrissey bringing inspired vocal performances to the proceedings.

It can't go on forever, and Speedway is whipped out - a stone-cold classic from the Mancunian's sizeable back catalogue, with a verse from Irish Blood, English Heart stylishly inserted in the middle. It's a welcome break that undoubtedly leads more than a few assembled down memory lane, and a reminder of just how long he has stalked the stage.

Things take an awkward turn when The Smith's Meat is Murder is played, for it is accompanied by a puke-worthy video of various animals being 'prepared' for eventual consumption. While this is an admirable effort by Moz to spread the word of vegetarianism, it leaves a strange taste (no pun intended) in the context of a gig: I'm left thankful I had beans on toast instead of a chicken curry earlier - something I may never, ever eat again, which probably means Morrissey has succeeded.

After well-received renditions of Scandinavia and One of Our Own, more new cuts, the ghost of The Smiths reappears in the shape of Stop Me if You Think You've Heard This One Before and What She Said, drawing perhaps the night's biggest cheers. It's a testament to the enduring affection for the classic Smiths tracks that Morrissey and band could probably fart Golden Lights and still woo the crowd; and while there are innumerable songs that would almost incite hysteria (How Soon Is Now?, for instance), any Smiths songs are still absolute treats.

Eventually, the night (and the tour leg) is wrapped up with the clarion call of Everyday is Like Sunday, his undeniable anthem. Belying his advancing years and putting chart-bothering pop stars to shame, Morrissey admirably (still) belts out each syllable with absolute conviction and class, leaving many a ringing ear.

Heaven knows we're Mozerable now.

**** 8/10

Crappy self-shot footage can be found here, with more videos on the channel. Shot in glorious WobbleVision.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e_7gzGDOdG8&feature=youtu.be

Review: Steven Wilson - 'Hand.Cannot.Erase.'

Not one to either rest on his laurels or plough a particular musical direction ad nauseum, Steven Wilson has made a name for himself in energetically pursuing all manner of different styles and genres across various projects, spreading himself like peanut butter: a distinctive taste that is instantly recognisable against any background.

He is also keen on approaching music armed with a theme or story, as 2013’s magnificent The Raven That Refused to Sing proved: a haunting collection of musical mini-feasts, encompassing prog-rock, jazz, and based on ghost stories penned by the man himself.

2014’s Cover Version compilation was a perfect stop-gap between Raven and Wilson’s latest, being an unpretentious collection of covers (duh) and original compositions – reminding everyone of his ability to create intriguing and spellbinding music simply for the joy of doing so.

Having given his growing legion of disciples time to breathe, he returns with a concept that out-concepts most other concepts, the concept being (sorry) the story of a young woman who is swallowed up by the big city and is discovered dead in her bedsit, having tragically passed away years beforehand.

An interesting story in itself, a judder of significance permeates the proceedings when it transpires that the story is based on real events – an actual breathing, living, loving human named Joyce Carol Vincent. A documentary about Vincent, titled Dreams of a Life, had such an effect on Wilson that he took inspiration and ran with it – to the studio.  

We begin at the start of the album (where else?), the first of eleven intriguingly-titled tracks, First Regret. An instrumental piece, it sets the scene with seasick piano and electronic washes of atmosphere. Digital thumps appear underneath the piano, and more electro tomfoolery fills the space. It could have fitted on The Social Network’s soundtrack.

Sparse keyboard gently introduces 3 Years Older, a musically exhilarating rollercoaster of full-band adventures, a Rush-esque rush. As the track veers between exciting peaks and gentler troughs, it’s hard to not wish for a little more time to be spent exploring the various avenues that the piece hurtles down: it feels like a taster montage of songs from a full album. However, it is brilliantly weaved together – and tremendous fun.

The album’s title track then elbows its way to the front, with breezy pop-rock sensibilities. You can almost hear Wilson smirking as he reminds you that while he can drag the listener through twenty-minute prog epics (Raider II, from past album Grace For Drowning), he can ‘do’ pop with a flick of the wrist.

A further part of the unfolding story is illustrated with the wistful and subtle Perfect Life, where Katherine Jenkins narrates memories of the female protagonist’s former foster sister, over a gently building electronic beat that gradually reaches its full sonic height, revealing Wilson waiting in the wings to add soft vocals in the second half. The sensation of sad longing for a much-missed happy period abounds.

These first four tracks almost lull the listener into audio safety before Wilson drags you into the album’s meatier, if less hooky, core. The further you venture into the album (and thus the story), the further into madder musical territory you go. Thankfully, all those who trespass here will be rewarded.

Home Invasion takes a turn for the weird with a proper prog-out leading into alt-rock swagger, permeated by dreamy intersperses of Wilson’s distinctive layered vocals and guitar that floats along with him, before shazoomphing into Regret #9, essentially an elongated spacey guitar solo that never approaches the wrong side of indulgence.

In turn, it sets the stage for the fleeting and gentler Transcience, which simultaneously recalls the aforementioned Cover Version collection of mostly acoustic numbers, and even the wondrous past project Storm Corrosion, where Wilson teamed up with Mikael Akerfeldt and produced stunning atmospheric vistas that paid zero heed to established ideas of song structure, revelling in a tremendous sense of musical freedom.

We now come to the biggest bastard of the album, Ancestral, clocking in at thirteen minutes. Classical instrumentation shakes hands with more electronic beats, in a mixture that shouldn’t work, but Wilson bends unto his will and view. Like 3 Years Older before it, enough music is stuffed into it to fill a warehouse (or the last chunk of space on your phone’s microSD card).

Happy Returns, um, returns us to the piano melody in First Regret. This is the last we hear of Wilson’s female protagonist, and the lyrics alone are heartbreaking when thinking of the tragic Joyce Vincent’s final moments. Wilson is to be commended for helping the cause against loneliness, by imaginatively filling in the blanks for a life shared with nobody but Vincent herself. The track also recalls the slow climb and build of Perfect Life – it’s reminiscent of when non-linear films show the viewer a penultimate scene near the beginning, so when we reach that crucial moment, it is already strangely familiar.

If this is the case with Happy Returns, it works excellently. A musical sad smile shows as Wilson engages in lyric-free doo-dooing, acoustic in hand, before the whole piece dissolves into Ascendant Here On..., the album’s exeunt.  A gorgeously simplistic choir vocal is accompanied by considered piano notes, and the sound of children playing leads us out...along with the life of a young human being.  

As the world becomes more and more connected but increasingly impersonal, future generations would do well to recognize Hand.Cannot.Erase. as a commentary on our increasing social coldness, and the effects it has on our fellow selves, most of which go unseen by the absolute majority.

It’s a bewilderingly beautiful kaleidoscope with which to view the social network age; few will ever capture it so vividly. 

Review: Gleam - Isn't Real

From the ashes of Wide Eyed, two of its cohorts find themselves busy with a new outfit, Gleam, with Isn’t Real their debut offering.

Dreamy vocals pierce a constant waterfall of tastefully distorted guitar. A concern arises: as all music is doomed to lose a certain polish and, er, gleam when performed live, the gleamier the gleam, the rougher the track will sound when unleashed in a live setting?

As lush as the vocals are, it’ll be interesting to hear how the Birmingham four-piece present the song in a live setting (supporting The Sundowners at The Sunflower Lounge, Sunday February 15^th). A focus on creating a soundscape for the listener to get lost in surrenders some catchiness, but it is all the better for it, and a treat.

Link: https://soundcloud.com/gleeeam/isnt-real-1

Gleam play Birmingham's Sunflower Lounge Sunday 15th of February, supporting The Sundowners and She Drew The Gun.

Review: The Imitation Game

The Imitation Game is a sharp, well-paced piece that relies solely on the excellent performances of its leads and the dramatical background of the ubiquitous threat of the Nazis. Cucumberpatch excels; as is this man's remarkable ability, he is completely lost in Turing - then again, I don't believe there are any surviving recordings of his voice, so perhaps it is best to congratulate Bumpersticker Crashbandicoot on his eerily thorough resurrecting of Turing. 

The CGI is slightly television-grade, but is only used when absolutely necessary, and looks disappointingly odd. But the pace is even throughout and there is no room for contemplation, as we are whisked between 1951, following Turing's tragic arrest; his schoolboy days, and his time in employment of Her Majesty's Bastards at Bletchley Park or wherever it was. 

In a way, the film feels like the grandfather of The Social Network: a socially awkward protagonist overcomes pig-headed opposition and invents something that impacts on the lives of literally millions (albeit in very, very different ways). Sadly, as biographical films are wont/forced to do, the film selects a version of events to portray.

Thus there is no room for the speculation that Turing didn't actually kill himself - two other proposals are that he was assassinated due to his remarkably high security clearance (and the US considering homosexuals to be a security risk due to their being most susceptible to blackmail) and sheer knowledge of state and intelligence 'methods'.

The other idea is that his death was merely accident - he had been working around cyanide and may have simply inhaled or otherwise consumed some inadvertently.Whether either one of these is true or codswallop, it is also apparent that the man had theatre tickets and, according to some biography from which I'm lifting this, 'seemed to be getting on top of things'. This it at odds with the admittedly tasteful and lightly heartbreaking finale of the film, where the suicide story is handled with extreme care and diligence. 

But as I noted in a lengthy essay for my HND course, biographical films may always carry that flaw of being forced to choose a certain interpretation (etc) of the individual's life as the film has two purposes: 1) to inform and 2) to entertain. The film's portrayal of Turing's possible suicide is absolutely visually wonderful and wraps up the story rather well - and we can't have the serfs thinking that their own Govt spooks would willingly bump off a war hero just because he was a dodgy butcher, can we?

Then again, there is the synthetic oestrogen, also handled tastefully (although the breasts they gave him don't appear). (Here's a thought: wouldn't oestrogen make you more feminine?) But don't listen to me, go and see one of the slickest British biopics since The King's Speech and be entertained - and reflect on a wholly stupid attitude to homosexuality and an imbecilic response to a man saving countless lives, all for £100,000 and the passing ire of his lesser colleagues.

Review: Gojira - Les Enfants Sauvages (CD/DVD)

For a band with a planet-sized sound (that is probably as heavy as one, too), it’s only fair that they should have larger and larger venues to turn to dust. And it’s here, in Brixton’s cavernous Academy, that Gojira prove once again that they are one of the genre’s most exciting bands.

The term ‘heavy’ appears everywhere like a bored child with a label-making machine, but the French foursome manage to exceed the term with this slightly short set of tantalisingly tight rhythms, titanic guitars and Joseph Duplantier’s guttural vocals that still retain a sense of melody – and are intelligible as well as intelligent. Indeed, Gojira’s awareness of the world around them, articulated amongst the barrage of thunderous riffs and kick-drum beats, also helps them to stand out even more.

A tripping point for many bands can be whether their sound can translate well enough to the live setting – see Muse, but perhaps not System of a Down – but an excellent mix and a slick band sound bring as much of the studio as possible to the stage, while adding some more to it.

This cements them as a must-see live act (I dragged a friend to their Birmingham Barfly gig in 2009 – knowing nothing about them and not preferring heavy music, he came away impressed), and will hopefully be yet another facet ensuring their longevity.

And to top it off, the packaging for the CD/DVD combo is in a hauntingly beautiful hardback book. Filled with monochrome tour photography of the band on stage and on tour, this helps to cover for the slight disappointment of a lack of DVD extras. 

As if it weren't already obvious, Gojira have reminded us again via a wallop to the ears that they are ones to cherish.