The Invisible Blog

I wanted to point all Mark Eitzel and American Music Club fans in the direction of the wonderful Invisible Blog.

Shaun has done an amazing job of collating all manor of fabulous Mark Eitzel and American Club related information, MP3, sessions and videos. It’s the X on the blog treasure map for American Music Club fans like me.

It’s a goldmine of info. I had never heard of the film, I, Curmudgeon. Has anyone ever seen it? There are links to a wealth of wonderful video clips, interviews and some interesting reviews.

Go visit today its well worth the time.

The Invisible Blog

The Jesus & Mary Chain – Live on David Letterman

The Jesus & Mary Chain – Live on David Letterman

When I heard that the Mary Chain had removed for series of live dates this summer I was worried. I am always worried when my favourite bands reform. Where they going to piss all over their own legacy for a quick buck, a pension plan and a last chance to play the rock star?

Is it just the dollar signs that see them put aside musical and personnel issues? They imploded so violently, on stage and with flying fists. Stir in the intensity of a fractured sibling rivalry and the likely hood of a reunion looked slim.
For once I needn’t have worried. The Jesus and Mary Chain have returned, wired, bruised, lithe and punching above their weight.

They paraded their warped pop sensibilities on David Letterman. Unleashing the wonderful All Things Must Pass. Its built around a riff as taut as a junkies tourniquet. Jim Reid looked younger than he did ten years ago. His voice as beautifully frayed as ever. The lyrics pure Mary Chain, drugs, sex, violence let loose on prime time US TV. Smart ! William coaxed sheets of buzz saw noise from his guitar, his manic curly head down firing out that killer riff against a backdrop of tribal drumming.

After the terribly thin, lacklustre Stooges reunion record this clip is a relief. Now get in the studio and let’s have a new album soon.

To download the audio go here:

This is great new interview with Jim and William from the Guardian

Patrick Wolf - Live In Bristol

Patrick Wolf - Live In Bristol

I am sure I was dreaming when I wrote this so forgive me if I go astray. My notebook is a litany of wild adjectives, non sequirs and exclamation marks. My heart is full of relief. Relief, that Patrick Wolf has delivered on his tender promise.

Relief, that the new material is flushed with youthful vigour. The order of the songs may be jumbled, the images blurred, it was intoxicating and vibrant. A glance at my fervent scribbles: vivid, striking, gypsy chic, beats and Byron, cheeky, charming...

The Thelka is a converted tug afloat in Bristol docks. A dark venue, that can be cold and unforgiving. Tonight Patrick Wolf turns into a gateway to a shimmering future, he is an avatar for the pariahs, an author of outsider anthems. An extraordinary boy in a world of prosaic chancers. Yet somehow he is living in the margins and not dazzling the mainstream. Why do we seem to have settled for the anodyne when we could have androgynous? Settled for the ordinary boys, the Razorlights and Keanes of this world. Why revel in the bland when we could be luxuriating in the exceptional.

From the moment he bounds on stage an lurches into Overture it is clear that the evening is going to dazzle and delight. There is a skip in his step, a snap in his violin bow. With his gravity-defying ruby hair and glittering eye shadow, he is Martin Miller's Lux The Poet unleashed from the page.

Pop music is a powerful tool for reinvention. It can transform the awkward into heroes. On stage you can see the possibilities glinting in Patrick Wolf's eyes. As the set progresses I am reminded of Marc Almond, those bedsit tales welded to disco beats and phat basslines. To The Lighthouse pluses with the guttersnip beauty that fires Almond's finest work. His electronic duet with samples of Marianne Faithfull is as stark and touching as Antony and The Johnsons.

On Jacob's Ladder, Wolf is sat at his synth banging out a harpsichord melody shaded by a lone cello. It's a brief interlude before he is back on stage leading the crowd through a storming version of Accident and Emergency. The stifling heat results in him stripping down to a furry guliet. His skinny pale physique is not the only reminder of a young David Bowie. There is something in his blending of styles, his obvious love of the avant garde that are reminiscence of Bowie at his best.

The reading of Pigeon Song is achingly beautiful, the plucked violin strings and glistening melody framing his tale of loneliness on the streets of London. Special Position is a French kiss, a spiralling romp, its verses fluently flowing into its huge chorus. It could be the song that pushes him into the mainstream.

The eager crowd pull Wolf back for a second encore. He seems touched. Genuinely surprised by the warmth and desire of the crowd. A huge smirk breaking out across his boyish features, his eyes ablaze. A fervent fan has been badgering him all evening to play Wind In The Wires. He finally relents and produces a stunning rousing version. Backed only by his toy guitar his voice floats across the crowd and out on the waters of the Bristol docks.

- Tony Heywood (C)

This is a wonderful live version of Bluebells from Patrick's series of Vodcasts

Dreamt for Light Years in the Belly of a Mountain - Sparklehorse

Dreamt for Light Years in the Belly of a Mountain - Sparklehorse

Capitol

Five years on from the last Sparklehorse record Mark Linkous has surfaced again. He is back with his static clouds of melody and warped country noir. If a week is a long time in politics then five years is close to a lifetime in music. Thankfully Dreamt for Light Years in the Belly of a Mountain is as welcome as January’s pay cheque.

Linkous has spent a large part of those missing years in combat with his demons. They were dark days for him. Despite or maybe because of this there is a gentle optimism that floats just beneath the surface of the songs. From the spectral 3am whisper of Return to Me to the wasp’s nest on a roller coaster of Ghost In The Sky the lyrics and music continually take surprising and uplifting turns.

The opening Don’t Take My Sunshine Away is The Beatles refracted through the shattered shell of a Cadillac on the highway to Twin Peaks. Its lush vocal harmonies and melody which are as big and bright as a harvest moon lost all wrapped up in a warm static haze. It’s the kind of cosmic American music that Gram Parsons was dreaming of. If Gram had lived in New York and joined The Velvet Underground that is.

Shade and Honey is the perfect metaphor for Linkous’ songs. Dark lyrics wrapped inside sugar-coated melodies. Melodies that are then dragged drunk and crazy through a junk yard at midnight. The chugging guitar riff opens into a sly and upbeat chorus.

The title track closes the LP in 10 minutes of instrumental melancholic delight. The guitar chords float across a piano part that is barely there, it seems to repeat itself like an eerie dream. It drifts off into silence before gently returning. Welcome back, Mr Linkous. Please don’t stay away as long next time, we’ve missed you.

Tony Heywood (c)

Avatar - Comets on Fire

Avatar

Comets on Fire

SubPop

Comets on Fire’s sound is a mess of dreadnought riffs, sky-scraping spherical freak out and tribal drums. A sound not unlike watching burning comets in the Mojave Desert wacked on mescaline. It’s a kool-aid acid test for the stoner generation.

They may stray a little too close to the world of prog for some tastes, but the sheer weight of the music and the dense knotted playing steals the day. Welcome to the wide open space of The Comets. Let them burn into the fabric of your mind’s eye.

Tony Heywood (c)

Low Lows - Five Ways I Didn't Die

Found this lovely live take of a new Low Lows track Five Ways I Didn't Die from their second LP Little Tigers . It has a kind of acoustic shuffle, its like a long lost Sun recording, a missing demo of a Elvis track with lyrics by Van Dyke Parks and vocals by Lou Reed. Lets hope of the whole LP is up to this standard. Enjoy !

Five Ways I Didn't Die (Live)

Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly Bristol October 2006

Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly

@ Academy 2, Bristol, 16 October 2006

Sam Duckworth aka Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly stands with his fringe soaked in sweat beaming like a Cheshire cat. He has just finished wowing the crowd with a rousing version of I Spy. The sleek and soulless Bristol Academy 2 has been well and truly rocked. Its low ceiling and black interior alive with the glistening faces of a hundred plus happy punters. The performance had started slightly aimlessly. The last two tracks that had pounded out of PA before he took the stage were The Clash's Train in Vain and Rock the Casbah. Whether it was statement of intent by Duckworth or a stitch up by the sound engineer, it's a fairly difficult pair of songs to follow. Duckworth, augmented by a small band, opened with the leading two tracks from The Chronicles of a Bohemian Teenager. It felt as if he was sizing up the crowd and that they were assessing him. A punk rock folk singer signed to a major label. Was he for real? Did he believe, did he have the drive and commitment? Well over 180 gigs in the past year strikes me as committed. From the arse end of nowhere to festival Stages, the boy just wants to play. Lean, taut and punching hard, this was a focused and sharp gig. He and his band are in fighting form. Much has been made of Duckworth’s politics and today he didn't shy away from attacking apathy, consumerism and racism. Yet much like Billy Bragg before the miners strike, the politics are personal more than party political. It's a humanist stance that he believes in. It seemed to gel well with the audience apart from the three twats in front of me who seemed to have wandered into the wrong gig. I think they where looking for Prince Harry’s girlfriend. To mock someone for their anti consumerism stance is okay if you have no soul. To openly joke about anti-racism is stupid, dumb and not something you should air in public unless you want a slap. The version of Glass Houses that follows burns with righteous passion Live, Duckworth's material had rougher edges. His vocals are pleasantly ragged, his voice becoming an emotional rasp. The energy levels never waned despite monitors being climbed and Duckworth dashing around the small stage with his acoustic guitar in hand. His love/hate relationship with his native Southend is laid bare in a mainly acoustic reading of Lighthouse Keeper. The desire to escape his McJob future written large in the way he bellowed: "Although the arcades shine bright, they don't have the glow of the city lights." These songs seem to have been torn from his psyche. The singles lifted from the LP provide the crowd with a host of sing along moments. I Spy is the Wonderwall dynamic stripped to its bones and rewritten for the No Logo generation. Call Me Ishamel takes flight, the crowd embracing the song like a long lost friend. The band come back and encore with a cover of the Steve Miller Band's Abracadabra and it brings the house down. Welcome to the world of Southend’s own musical superhero. Catch him before he soars up to much bigger venues. - Tony Heywood First Published on Music OMH Sam doing I SPY - In Yeovil

The Boyfriends - The Boyfriends

The Boyfriends - The Boyfriends

A certain Mr Steven Patrick Morrissey hand picked the The Boyfriends to provide the support on his UK tour. From the opening bars on their eponymously titled debut LP is easy to hear why. Martin Wallace's croon bears a striking resemblance to the bard of Manchester's own weary tones. The band punch their instruments with the passion that fired The Smiths.

There is a crackle, a swoon, a thump that rushes out of your speakers in vaguely 1980's indie style. But are the Boyfriends more than a bunch of Handsome Devils, a gang of Charming Men? Does the music oscillate wildly or is it a pale imitation or a well thumbed record collection? Are The Boyfriends a miserable lie?

Well, strike me down with a feather, hang out the bunting and turn off your phone. This is something to treasure. Despite my huge reservations and my obsession with The Smiths, I am smitten with this record. There is more than enough invention, wit, wisdom and zeal here to mark the Boyfriends out as something special - a rare band, even. Wallace's words are by turns heartfelt, funny, clever and well observed.

Thankfully all the quick word play is not lost in a stew of Albion skiffle. That fragile indie sound that has ruled the roost since Pete and Carl split is nowhere to be seen. The lyrics soar across the ominous mechanical throb generated by the band. If you were looking to The Smiths for reference then this would be them in their post The Queen Is Dead glory. This is not meek or delicate - the guitars lash like Bernard Butler jamming with The Who.

The opening Brave Little Soldiers is a bold statement of intent. A set of chords ripped through with glorious abandonment, the rhythm snarls with dark intent. The lyric a call to arms, a plea to keep your dignity and your individuality in face of indifference. The guitar riff is as catchy as a common cold. British Summer Time opens on a reverb heavy riff that builds slowly to its Graham Coxon style fractured melody.

When Martin Wallace sings "It is far too a nice day to be in playing scrabble, let's slap on some factor 15 on and join the half naked rabble..." I can't suppress a smile. The picture he paints of London hanging out in the summer time would make Ray Davies proud. It could be a Blur classic apart from the fact that Wallace displays empathy for his subject matter and not misplaced scorn. The military drum rolls match the mood delightfully.

The bassline and toms that open Adult Acne provide Richard Adderley the space to show off his chops. From atonal sparks, via wah wah funk to the chiming chorus, the playing is a master class in precision; mind your backs for a new guitar hero. Adderley further enhances his reputation with the dissolving chords that open I Love You. An aching plea, a declaration of love that pricks the skin like a tattoo needle, leaving an impression long after the sensation has faded. The guitars are like whiplash on the bullet train. There is Always Hope closes the LP in a slowly drifting maze of melody and noise. Eight minutes of melancholy bliss.

Everything here is disciplined and succinct, nothing over stays its welcome, the whole collection hums with purpose. The only thing that stops me declaring it a stone cold classic is a certain lack of variation. It's nick picking really. This is music of passion and soul. If you miss this you're a fool.

- Tony Heywood (C)

Fire on the Bright Sky - Low Lows

Fire on the Bright Sky - Low Lows

Monotreme Records

The Low Lows have arisen from the ashes of NYC dream pop band Parker & Lily. I have to whisper it quietly. I can’t quite believe what I am hearing. The ghost of Galaxy 500 haunts the grooves of this record. The mesh of melody and noise, the languid grace, blissed out chord progressions and dark undertows. Think the Velvet Underground drinking with Big Star. These songs hang suspended in heavenly reverb. PL Noon’s weary croak slides in-between the guitar storms and organ flashes. Restless, burnished, bruised and beautiful.

Tony Heywood ©

Originally published in Mercury Moon

Beast Moans - Swan Lake

Beast Moans

Swan Lake

Jagjaguwar

Swan Lake are a supergroup formed from various leading lights of the Canadian indie underground. They blend aspects of the new weird folk of the Akron Family or Espers with a fractured post prog stew. Melodies take sudden left turns; vocals are processed to oblivion, jarring instrumental passages are grafted onto sunshine strumalongs. Odd for the sake of it. Yet All Fires rises above the convoluted chaos through its sheer emotional weight and conviction, and Swimming In Her Pools has a certain naïve charm.