Squarepusher @ The Roundhouse

My head is fuzzy today, so I'm going to keep this brief.

All I really have to say about this bloody fantastic show is that I thought it was a helluva lot better than Amon Tobin's. It may be unfair, but the two shows are linked in my mind because a) they were both electronic music shows that used massive visual displays as a big part of their appeal and b) they happened within a few weeks of each other, duh.

For me, Squarepusher succeeded where Tobin failed because he got the audio/visual balance right. Tobin was musically weak and boring, and the contrast between the tame audio and the flashy visuals emphasised that lameness. Whereas Squarepusher was musically badass, and so the visuals and audio reinforced each other, as they're supposed to.

Even leaving aside the quality of the music, I actually enjoyed Squarepusher's visuals more than Tobin's despite them probably being (I'm guessing) less technologically advanced, creative, and labour-intensive. They were simpler, but more effective.

I've seen Squarepusher live at least three times now, the other two occasions I can definitely remember being at the Royal Festival Hall a few years back and as part of some ATP thing about 18 months ago. The Festival Hall show was fantastic, whereas I can hardly remember the ATP one - my mate had to remind me of it last night, and apparently we weren't impressed, as my memory failure attests. Anyway, my point is only that I don't have a  Squarepusher bias: even he has to put a shift in to impress, and last night he did.

The Roundhouse itself was also a great venue for the event. I think I'm right in saying that the stage was positioned more towards the centre of the room than normal, and with the room being circular, that meant that the stage could be wider than if it had been further back, and therefore so could the visuals. Presumably the capacity was reduced as a result, so hats off to the Roundhouse for doing it: it was an excellent decision.

Finally, we discovered that the downstairs restaurant bar sells bottles of Delirium Tremens, so we were able to enjoy some of Belgium's (and lets face it, that means the world's) finest while watching the show - an unexpected delight that explains why today my head feels like someone has asked me to solve the world financial crisis while juggling cats. Just don't go spreading it around: if too many people find out there won't be enough for me next time.

Mmm, Delirium.

Parquet Courts and The Men at The Garage

People turned out in force for Parquet Courts and The Men last night - The Garage was about 50% busier than I've ever seen it. This could have been due to the bands themselves, but I like to think it's because The Garage has ditched its Carlsberg-or-Tuborg-or-nothing beer selection, probably as a result of HMV's dire straights. Every cloud and all that...

Gig Buddy tells me Parquet Courts got equal billing with The Men for this gig. How can I illustrate how unjustified that would be?

Imagine watching the film of your life story, and finding out the director has given equal amounts of time to the day some guy turned up to read your gas meter, and the day that escort knocked on your door wearing nothing but a trench coat and lingerie, having mistaken your flat for Mr Lawrence's, whose wife was staying with her sister for the weekend. That should give you an idea.

Apparently, The Quietus and Pitchfork were in agreement on how good Parquet Courts' album is. In fairness, so is Gig Buddy, who insisted on giving me one of his download codes. I haven't used it yet, so I can talk about is seeing the band live, which was like watching librarians agreeing to color-code their clipboards and thermoses taupe this year instead of mauve. Not thrilling.

The Men, on the other hand, exploded out of the blocks as if intent on expunging all traces of their predecessors from memory – and, aside from what little I've recounted above, they succeeded.

I can't recall ever having seen a band give it so much for such a sustained period before. It was like they'd just found out they were all to be executed at dawn, and so they'd come out one last time in order to fuck the universe dry before shaking hands with destiny. The impressive buggers.

P.S.
I've just realised The Men were the first band I blogged about, just over a year ago. Aww.

Actress and Amon Tobin's Isam Live 2.0 at Hammersmith Apollo

I attended this more by chance than design. My mate let me know that he and his missus had tickets about 2 months ago, and he asked me if I was up for it. Fortunately I had the foresight to ask whether they'd gone for stalls standing, and it turned out they hadn't - they'd got seats, hence there was no chance of my sitting near them, hence I declined.

However, my mate's missus' sister then bought them tickets for Sigur Ros on the same night, and as they couldn't do both, suddenly I was back in the game.

My mate was very excited about Actress, who was already in full flow when we arrived. To be honest, I don't think we missed much. In fact, my mate felt sorry for the dude. All he had was a tiny setup in front of a massive white sheet labelled "safety curtain", which firmly seperated him from the main event. "Safety curtain", indeed - it was a "safety blind" if ever I've seen one...

Anyway, the lack of imagination/effort devoted to staging his set meant that the audience was as detached from Actress as he himself was from whatever was hidden away behind him. Nobody was really moving, nobody was paying that much attention... He may as well have been muzak.

Inexplicably, about 40 minutes passed between Actress and Tobin. Building the anticiption I suppose. But that was ok, we were fortunate enough to have seats backing onto an aisle, so all we had to do to go piss or buy more booze was contort ourselves accordingly, not bother the poor souls either side of us. And vice versa.

Eventually the main event began. The "safety curtain" curtain rose. And there it was. The highly anticipated getup. Picture a slightly 3D version of Tetris tipped onto its side and plonked on a stage and you have a very good idea of what it looked like. I'm sure there are phtos somewhere online by now. It looked like Sports Direct just before opening.

Then the graphics kicked in. Now picture Cartoon Network being projected onto that Tetris-like stack of boxes, only someone has cleverly mapped the pictures to the contours. Drifting blobs, electric fingers, pistons, fireballs... It was a bit techy, it was a bit futuristic, it was a bit Star Wars and Alien ... but mostly it was a bit .... eh. 

It's not that it wasn't state-of-the-art. I'm sure it was. After all, this was a sell-out show, and it wasn't cheap. But it was progressively underwhelming. Amon himself was housed in a cube at the center of the display, and his first reveal was undoubtedly thrilling. But all he did was the usual electtronica flipping of swtiches and nodding of head, and as the show went on you realised that each new segment of graphics and each new reveal of the man at the centre of it all would be pretty much the same as the last.

The music took very much a secondary role to the visuals, which is weird for a musician, but regardless of where most of the effort went, neither the music nor the visuals were good enough. Part of the problem, I think, was in the choice of venue, or else the venue setup. To be transportive, something that isn't locomotive must be immersive, and at the scales involved here, Isam 2.0 simply wasn't. Had the same show been put on in a medium-sized club, 6 feet from my face, filling 90% of my visual field, I've no doubt it would have been absolutely amazing. But from 60 feet away, occupying 15% of my visual field, it all felt a bit 2005. It was like a half-hour break in an expo, where they stick something on just to keep you entertained before the next talk about the energy efficiency of thatched roofs or the transformative power of networking. The whole thing was just too puny to be affecting.

You might think our seats were to blame, and I'm sure those in the stalls had a better time of it, but actually we had a pretty decent spot. We were about 7 rows back from the front of the balcony, which meant we were about 43 rows front of the back of the room. There were certainly a hell of a lot of people further away from the show than we were. I couldn't help but think that I'd been better transported and engaged by far less gimmickry, like the simple pleasures of good music, or the laser show at Fire, or any electronica event that provided enough space for a bit of a dance.

I have a feeling that this is an early adoption problem. OK, Amon Tobin is probably supplying the best visual effects on offer right now. But how good will things be in 2, 3, or 5 years' time? Frankly, I fear for the 20-somethings of tomorrow. When visual effects like this find their right environment in conjuction with the requisite drugs, the combination is going to deliver people from their stupid earth-bound selves into some wonderous land the likes of which you and I have only glimpsed, and the harsh reality of those people's seated, sedate, drug-free 30s is going to crush them like paper cranes under a falling asteroid. The poor, lucky buggers.

Us? We'll have to make do with good music.

Aurora Orchestra at the Royal Festival Hall

The Royal Festival Hall put on this show - Dance of the Machines - as part of its The Rest is Noise series, which 'explores the most important music of the 20th Century'. I know, I know, it's all preamble until they get to Sting, right?

This part of the series is looking at Paris in the 1920s. On the schedule today were two jazz songs separated by a jazz piano solo, followed by a Stravinsky pianolo solo, and then climaxing with George Antheil's Ballet Mecanique.

The Festival Hall decided to limit the seating for the event to the stage platform and choir stalls only, to ensure a high level of intimacy between performers and audience. This worked a treat: the hall lighting dropped to just warm spotlighting over the audience and the enormous array of instruments assembled for the Ballet, and when pianist Iain Farrington and singer Gabrielle Ducomble entered for the first song - the latter attired in 20s' style slinky black dress and elbow-length gloves - you could very easily have believed you were in a cosy little club somewhere, as long as you averted your eyes from the glorious architectural features of the rest of the hall, still dimly discernible beyond.

My dread and hope were about equal before Ms Ducomble opened up, but I needn't have worried. Subtly sexy rather than overtly lewd, she hit the perfect note for an audience that included plenty of kids (all of them thankfully very well behaved). The song was in French, and although the meaning of its title - J'ai Deux Amours - was obvious even to me, I felt a bit like Morgan Freeman's character in The Shawshank Redemption after Tim Robbins plays opera over the prison PA system (moved but forever wondering). Nevertheless, I thoroughly enjoyed the performance.

Between pieces we were treated to short films showing either real or recreated footage of 20s Paris. The first featured narration from Ernest Hemingway's Fiesta over clips of girls with more of those slinky dresses and some dapper-looking gents, reminding you that this was what Fitzgerald would later termed 'the jazz age'. These films were brief but added some welcome variety, and were used very judiciously.

After that came the piano solo and another song, but it was the final two acts that had put arses on seats. We were informed before the show that this was to be the first time than a pianola had appeared on stage at the Festival Hall, and so the sense of occasion was palpable. From what I gather having seen one in action, a pianolo is a mechanical piano that somehow converts holes punched through a scroll into the striking of corresponding strings, using the power supplied by a willing volunteer via foot pedals (although I think the player has a bit more to do than just that). It certainly looks like an odd beast, with the back end of a piano but a front end that resembles a scroll-top desk with a typewriter afixed. Even more singular-looking was the pianolist, one Rex Lawson, sporting the best beard I've ever seen in the flesh. And sure, the performance was a sight to behold, but I'm not convinced by the pianolo. To me it sounded like a piano falling down a very long, randomly sized flight of stairs. Maybe it was this particular piece, I don't know.

So to the finale, and the piece that leant the Dance of the Machines its name. The show notes stated that the Ballet Mechanique was a piece that had proved to be literally unplayable, as the sheer number of instruments intended to be involved simply cannot be coordinated, requiring all performances to involve a degree of compromise. It didn't look as though much had been compromised here, however, as alongside the previously featured piano and pianola were a second piano, five glockenspiels, two drum arrangements, what looked like ten doorbells glued to a plank of wood, two whirligigs, three propellers, a gong, a siren, and more besides, requiring a total of 14 performers and a conductor. Just the sight of all that lovely looking stuff on the stage was worth the ticket price in itself.

And credit to the Aurora Orchestra, they put on an extremely impressive performance, all very finely coordinated and rehearsed. I doff my cap to them. Unfortunately, the piece itself is dreadful. Aside from some nice moments with the glockenspiels and some of the drums, and some fine work from the very handsome chap with the propellers (he ratcheted them around and they made a, um, ratchety noise), it was an exercise in pointless noise-making. I began to dread the drone of the pianola, and believe me, doorbells have no place in entertainment unless Jonathan Demme is involved. Ballet Mechanique is the best illustration I've yet come across that something should not be done just because it can be. I could fill my washing machine with cutlery and crockery and climb inside for the experience, and that would be a once-in-a-lifetime event too, but I'm not going to do it any time soon. And if the event in question requires a gargantuan effort, well then it's better left alone.

I'm certainly glad I attended, but I'm not sure I'd be saying the same if I hadn't had the songs and the films and the sight of all that lovely, yet-to-be-abused stuff to make me happy before the cacophany. Clever old organisers, mixing it up like that. But please, invite the Aurora boys and nice old Rex back for something a bit less teeth-eroding next time, OK?

Jumping Jack and High on Fire at Islington Academy

When we walked into the venue, I figured Jumping Jack had to be winding up their set, they were giving it so much effort. I assumed I was seeing their finale. But actually they must only have been a song or two in, because they played on for a good 20-odd minutes more after that, all of it at the same admirable level of intensity.

Admittedly towards the end they started to become just a little bit samey, but throughout they walked a fine line between being satisfyingly heavy and OTT theatrical, and just about managed not to fall off. Their drummer was great, and seemed to be having about as much fun as I've seen anyone have on stage, although he really needs to learn how to catch the sticks he tosses in the air.

And, as my gig buddy pointed out, that name - good Christ guys. Still, sterling effort.

High on Fire, needless to say, were in a dimension all their own. I'd seen and loved them once before, supporting Fear Factory a year or two ago, but teasingly briefly given that they were the only reason GB and I were there, and we walked out of FF after about 10 minutes.

It took HoF few minutes to get going this time around, but they - ahem - broke the ice with the gargantuan Frost Hammer, and from there on out it was unadulterated awesomeness. Frost Hammer was followed by the even greater 10000 Years, and I thought the guys had peaked with Rumours of War, until the penultimate pre-encore track (a slower one: I don't know what it was but would love to be told) stepped it up even further, and then Snakes for the Divine all but swept away all that had gone before, so shining and stunning was its brilliance.

High on Fire are all about the guitar. Of course, they're a tight as hell unit and every part of them comes across with perfect clarity, but by God does Matt Pike own that fucking instrument. Not since Mastodon last year have I had so much to enjoy in that respect. High on Fire are a lesson or a privilege or a parable, or something. They're more than just an awesome band, they are a thing to be witnessed and savoured, and everybody there knew it.

Next-morning P.S.
I was surprised by the venue. I guess there must be another area to it, upstairs or something, because I'm sure I've been twice before, but I remembered a long and narrow room, not the decent medium-sized space of last night. I'm sure it was there that one of the guys from Cancer Bats jumped from the stage to the bar and then ran the length of it, and he'd have needed to be Lion-O to have done that in last night's room.

The bigger space is decent, but these Carlsberg-only places seriously need to get their act together with their bevvies - the Export on tap last night was not right at all. Thankfully there was the option to switch to cans, but come on guys, sort it out.

The Austerity Program

If I were to promise you that you'd love The Austerity Program's Backsliders and Apostates will Burn EP, would you trust me enough to buy it, or at least check it out?

http://www.austerityprogram.com/audio/index.htm

Under most circumstances you shouldn't take anything I say on trust, because I don't know what I'm talking about, but in this case you definitely should.

Musically it's very very satisfying, but it also features some of the best lyrics and delivery I've encountered in heavy music.

And they have a new album coming out later this year. This excites me.

Unfortunately they rarely leave the US, so I'll probably never see them live, but I'm grateful for what I can get.

Just listen, OK?

Metz at Birthdays

I spent twice as long getting to this gig as Metz spent playing. 

We'd intended to catch the support too, but there were six of us and you know how that goes. We tried going to Jan's Bar for some Belgian beers early on, but the place appears to have shut down without bothering to say anything on its website. Which is helpful.

So then we went to the Jolly Butchers, which Gig Buddy had previously seen listed as one of the top ten pubs in the UK. And rightfully so. They have a selection of beers the likes of which I've never seen, and decent seating to boot. It's a hell of a pub.

Which might go some way to explaining why we were about an hour later than planned for our curry at Rasa, which in turn explains why we were late for Birthdays. Damn you excellent beers and superb food!

So we arrived at Birthdays about five minutes before Metz began. I'd never heard of the place before, and neither had GB. And no wonder, frankly. Having made straight for the bar on arrival, I turned around once I'd been served, only to discover that where I was already at was as close to the stage as I would be getting, given the layout.

Now, the blame is no doubt ours, for dwelling on our pre-gig beers and south-Indian food for far too long, but Birthdays as a venue is nothing more than an oblong hole in the ground. It's like a shoebox with the band as the toes and you as the scrunched up paper stuffing the holes before the feet come in. It's a tunnel, in other words.

I may be partisan. Birthdays could be to a Stokey resident as my beloved Brixton Windmill is to me - a place that exceeds its immediate charms by virtue of delivering a certain standard of music night after night after night. But it's hard to guess at that. For me, Birthdays was just a long hole where, after traveling 80 minutes, I then stared at the back of people's heads while a band played for half that time.

In fairness to Metz themselves, they were pretty damn good. If you like reverb-heaviness - and who doesn't - then you'd certainly have dug them. They were a bit noisy and had a bit of attitude and got things a bit rowdy - from what I could tell way back by the bar.

And alright, I may actually even be doing the venue a disservice. My mate and I ordered some thing called Briska initially, which turned out to be a cider rather than a beer, and that soured things right off. But the place allowed us to rectify that mishap and then some by stocking some SF Liberty Ale, and where else sells that? No other venue I could name.

But then I'd hoped to at least be able to pick up some music by the support bands from the merch station afterwards, and that was another disappointment, by then at least if not earlier too, as it offered nothing but Metz stuff. The support were apparently Fair Ohs and The Wytches, and I will check them out  tomorrow when I sober up a bit. And maybe I'll try listen to Metz's album again too, given that in this environ I'll actually have a clue what's going on....