Few, if any, stand bigger in the pantheon of aren’t-you-dead-yet
pop stars than Paul McCartney. Having sold more albums than there are stars in
the sky, with a ready repertoire of the most enviable hysteria-inciting pop
hymns known to man, delivered by a backing band with more chemistry than a Breaking Bad binge, few have aged as
gracefully as Macca.
McCartney is currently carbon-dated at 72, yet all external
evidence defies this – the hair, the between-song sassy banter, and the sheer
energy put his heel-snapping protégés to shame: the marathon length of tonight’s
40-strong set clocks in at a buttock-numbing two-and-a-half hours.
He and band bring an infectious energy and gusto to the
proceedings, leading a hip-shaking conga through Beatles and Wings tracks
rarely, if ever, aired before. The brave decision to leave the first undeniable
gem until the third song – Can’t Buy Me
Love – allows the far-travelled disciples to find their seats without
missing the unmissable, but also sets a slightly sedentary precedent: with so
much time to fill, Macca & Co set about darting around furtively in his
glistening back catalogue.
Unfortunately, that leaves slight gaps between the
iron-clad hits.
The result sucks some of the momentum from the show. It is
the way of all musicians, a problem so great that someone even of McCartney’s
venerable statesmanship cannot escape: a shorter set of greatest hits, or a
longer one that finds room for forgotten songs?
Deep cuts please the obsessive fans, but they are
outnumbered by those who’d rather hear the immortal paens and go home again:
the polarity in mid-song audience response is irritating, but thankfully
allayed by rapturous arena-wild cheering after each song is put to bed.
Such quibbles are washed away when the immensity of a state
visit from someone as celebrated as Macca is taken into account, along with the
rarity of his visits (1990 – 2003 – 2015), and the sheer spectacle of it all. His
voice, one of popular music’s immortal crown jewels, is understandably slightly
ragged in parts. Thankfully, and in defiance of the natural ageing process,
McCartney still greets each song with due respect, to satiating results.
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.
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:
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.
For my BCU Media & Communications degree course, a 'cross-media' product is required. It is as follows:
The chance to meet an admired
musician is one that should under no circumstances be missed, and such an
opportunity was presented to me by accidental discovery of The Guitar Show, a
celebration of the ubiquitous six-stringed instrument (and its surly four-stringed
brother), and the realisation that a New Jersey guitar demon would be
appearing. But who is this maniac? Call his name to ten people off the street
and you will endure blank faces. Yet, to the initiated, he is one of rock’s
best kept secrets. Step forward, Ron ‘Bumblefoot’ Thal.
Rising to prominence in the 90's with his penchant for dazzling guitar pyrotechnics and a witty, almost cartoonish approach to songwriting, Thal would appear to get his big break when signed up to a modern incarnation of Guns N' Roses in 2005, joining in time for Axl Rose's 2006-07 comeback attempt. Nearly a decade of sporadic touring followed, with Thal gathering more disciples wherever Rose's rock n' roll carnival ventured.
It couldn't go on forever, and rumours of Ron being dissatisfied with the sluggishness towards Guns N' Roses recording fresh music gradually increased. For reasons never officially declared, it seems he has parted ways with Rose and his cohorts.
Whatever is actually happening
with Guns N’ Roses, Thal seems to be truly back in the saddle for his solo music,
with Little Brother is Watching his
first album under the Bumblefoot moniker since 2008’s Abnormal. “It’s just something I needed to do, to put everything
else aside and make that happen,” says Thal, who appears relaxed and
characteristically sunny. And so he should be, surrounded by guitars, amps and
innumerable associated paraphernalia from Marshall and Fender to Birmingham’s
own businesses, such as Fair Deal Music, Professional Music Technology and The
Little Guitar Shop.
Not only those, but Manson's offerings raised the guitar porn barrier considerably.
Little Brother is Watching seems to be the best possible album Thal
could put out at this juncture in his career. While there may not be the
variance in styles and jaw-dropping guitar instrumentals that Abnormal boasted of, Little Brother is Watching seems all the
better for it: the album takes on a streamlined feel, full of knockout
singalong melodical rock anthems. Plainly put, there is no room for
consideration, just Ron’s enviable mastery of the rock song form. In that
sense, it is perhaps closer to Normal,
his 2005 air-punching bag of hooks and wit.
He will later be found at the
D’Addario stand, noodling on a sample guitar. A small crowd slowly appears.
“Stop staring at me!” He wails, only half-joking. At the absolute last minute on the event's second day,
I apologise my way into getting a few words from him, going for the jugular by
asking Ron how it feels to be his own master again.
“For me, being creative is the
most important thing. Giving myself the time to produce other people, [and other projects like]
Art of Anarchy, the Generation Kill thing with Run-DMC, my own music, it feels
great. I just feel very good inside to be back in the studio, creating again." It’s especially
interesting to consider this with his Guns N’ Roses tenure in mind, where
around a decade of membership hasn't quite resulted in the new music
that Thal was rumoured to have been itching to write.
Cynical types painted him as
someone desperate to get his name on writing credits, thus securing royalties,
while those anxious to see GN’R as a revitalised musical force praised his intentions
of creating new Guns material. At the moment, his only recorded input to see
the light of day has been overdubbed guitars and reworkings of solos on Chinese Democracy.
With this in mind, Thal seems all
the better for almost picking up where he left off – releasing his own music,
playing with other bands, producing, teaching, making appearances such as
these, and even selling his own line of hot sauces. There is a slightly
touching moment when, after the first of his two guitar demonstrations over the
weekend, he diligently sets out each sauce on a table and explains the ingredients
of each, along with his recommendations on their culinary utilisation.
After all, if Iron Maiden can
flog Trooper Beer (and almost every conceivable item with Eddie’s scowling
fizzog plastered on it), why can’t a self-made guitar wizard from New Jersey
manifest his love of spicy food and combine it with his own artist-brand?
Back in Hockley, a bemused crowd
fidget with their cameras, phones and bits for Ron to sign as he takes them
through his range of sauces. Accidentally being the first in the queue, I whip out a CD inlay for Thal’s Hermit album (his second, released 200 years ago and now out-of-print) and get the treasured grunge-shred artefact anointed with Ron's scribble:
Charmed by Ron's entrepreneurship, I plump
for a bottle of ‘Normal’ sauce, as it is named after the first Bumblefoot album I
ever owned and it might not pack as much of a rectum-ripping punch as, say,
‘Bumblef***ed’ (his hottest) might. I hope to lead by example in supporting
Thal’s sideline, and when he appears at the Vigier Guitars stand the next day
for the Sunday signing session, his boxes of sauce look noticeably emptier.
Sauce in hand, I and my friend have another
wander around the event. I brilliantly fail in finding entry-level left-handed
guitars to rehome, and am soothed by having a go on a Fender Telecaster and modified
jazz bass, later discovering they are both worth over a thousand pounds. Gulp.
Left-handed guitars, as usual, are rare as hen's teeth. Thankfully, Fender delivered the goods.
Due to the rarity of favourite
musicians turning up on my relative doorstep, I make my way back to The Guitar
Show the next day. This time I elbow my way to the front of Ron’s guitar
masterclass, getting an excellent view and blocking small children. After
yesterday’s tragedy I would leapfrog my own nan to get a decent look at Thal,
and in particular his frantic-fingered fret-fuckery.
As with the day before, he plays
a selection of his more indulgent guitar pieces from his solo career, kicking
off with the epic Guitars Suck, where
he just about hits every note on the fretboard, twice.
And it’s a Vigier guitar he
plays, embodying a long-time involvement with the luthier Patrice Vigier: Vigier have built guitars either directly for Thal, or heartily used by him, including his perhaps most
visually striking, the Flying Foot. As the name implies, the body is in the
form of a foot, with bumblebee stripes, complete with wings that emerge when the guitar's whammy bar is used.
Ron letting rip. Spellbound room of punters just out of shot.
Sadly it's not present here, but Thal nevertheless impresses with a particularly sexy golden double-necked axe. The bottom neck is a conventional six-string, while the top neck is a 'fretless' - allowing Ron the freedom to instantly switch to the limitless landscape of a guitar neck without any fret markers in the way of his fingers.
Enthusing about the guitar in the Q&A session, he chirped: ‘It’s like playing a stick of butter. Cold, shiny butter!’. As with yesterday's showcase, the packed room is entertained with stories from his childhood, experiences in eventual mastery of the guitar, and detailed descriptions of how his double-neck works. He is both illuminating and endearingly self-deprecating, with a seemingly endless enthusiasm for just about everything around him, and diligently signs everything thrust under his nose while grinning brightly for every photograph.
Ron's flagship composition and technical showcase, 'Guitars SUCK'
Eventually, the whole event draws to a close, with Ron Thal packing up his gear (and his sauce) to travel to Oxford, for the next stop on his string of UK appearances. However humble and low-key these sessions are, his star is in the ascent, and deservedly so.
Listen to some of the chat with Ron here on the BrumRock podcast :
Ron Thal's latest album as Bumblefoot, Little Brother is Watching, is out now.
Being an avid fan of post-civilisation noiseniks Killing Joke, it was only natural that the semi-autobiographical tome from their lead visionary, Jaz Coleman, would wind up in my possession (and in turn, I in its possession).
Having spent over thirty years fronting a cross between an influential post-punk British institution and a secret society, as well as doggedly pursuing his own ideas of spiritual destiny, it was perhaps inevitable that a life built of up a thousand interesting stories would make for a fascinating one written down.
It's the exact kind of work you'd hope for from Coleman: Robert Anton Wilson's Cosmic Trigger with sprinkles of The Dirt-esque rock n' roll insights. The man warns that readers hoping for a straightforward (not a word ever associated with Killing Joke) rock n' roll autobiography are to be disappointed, as the book's focus is more towards Coleman's personal spiritual journey.
Yet, KJ fans will still lap up fascinating recollections of recording in Berlin during the cold war, inter-band fracas, science-fiction-esque individuals and drugs, drugs, drugs, all seen as they are through Coleman's kaleidoscopic self-effacing eyes. These flashes of memories contribute in no small ways towards illuminating the backstory of a band most deserving of insight, as their story trumps most for eye-popping revelations.
For the occultly uninitiated, Coleman's casual referrals to such things as the Quabbalah and Gematria may prove either baffling or enlightening, spring-boarding them into new territories (or in my personal case, re-igniting some research desires) as his story weaves on.
It all points to one undeniable fact: Killing Joke are, simply, the most interesting band of all time. There is something to them that far transcends the music, and Letters From Cythera lends some semblance of understanding to this beast directly from the figure at its still-beating heart.
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
