Label With Love

London Fields # 72
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 9 December 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

There was a recent television history of British music that skipped straight from the second summer of love in 1988 to BritPop in the mid-nineties, as though nothing happened in the interim. In fact, BritPop and Dad Rock spelled the end of a much more interesting music scene. At the time, shoegazing was coined as a pejorative term, referring to guitarists staring at their array of effects pedals down from behind curtained hair while all-but-ignoring the audience. In the years since, the influence of that music has reverberated with another generation, and an ongoing renaissance has been steadily progressing, albeit without much mainstream recognition. While the whole concept of an impending shoegaze revival is a bit of a misnomer, what has changed is the general awareness and appreciation of the music, so that My Bloody Valentine can now pull audiences they couldn’t even dream of in their heyday.

Club AC30 celebrated their fifth birthday last April, and over the last weekend of November presented Reverence # 2, exhibiting just some aspects of the modern scene, over three nights at the ICA in London. Club AC30’s shows are different to the norm; Robin and Duncan (with Nick) have a genuine love of their music and every band has a reason to be on that particular bill. As such, an unknown opener could prove to be your new favourite band, which makes their nights special indeed. Reverence # 2 sees a mix of old and new, with two of the headliners reforming from way back when.

Air Formation‘s music promises that their forthcoming album could be a blinder; live however, they’re a little hindered by the vocals, although these improve immensely as their set progresses. I’ve always thought there was a link between shoegaze and the euphoric side of trance. Ulrich Schnauss doesn’t go near a guitar, but like trance, his music acts as a soundtrack to an internal journey, one where it’s possible to lose oneself in it and make freefall associations as though in a deep meditative state - but this is travelling without drugs or physical movement. As projections show a travelogue through the cities of Europe, I realise that this music isn’t about pedals or controlled feedback, but a state of mind. Headlining the night, Chapterhouse are probably a better live prospect now than they were back then. They stake a valid claim not to be forgotten, and Falling Down feels like a lost baggy anthem from Madchester. The following night Swervedriver play as though there’s some unfinished business and they’re trying to set it right. It’s a strange contrast – there’s warmth but a clinical edge, and the raw edge to the vocals makes me think of Chris Bailey. Earlier, The Depreciation Guild show that this music can be light, playful and joyous, but still carry gravitas. I confess Jesu were a bit heavy for me, or at least for my mood on this evening.

On the final night, The Tamborines are rather special - things fall into place like no other gig I’ve seen them play and they’re damn impressive. They’re followed by Ringo Deathstarr from Austin, Texas who mix fuzz pedal rock, dreampop and US garage punk - In Love being the standout of a strong set. The only disappointment of the whole three nights comes at the finale with The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart. Playing as a five piece, it’s more like The Heartbreak Of Playing Painfully Flat, and only Higher Than The Stars threatens to lift things, but even that crumbles when the singing starts. This C86 inspired mess is so bad a pastiche it’s almost offensive, yet the members of the audience who spent all of Ringo Deathstarr’s set taking photos of each other for Facebook seem mesmerised, so what do I know?

Although I’m excited by some releases by newer bands coming in 2010 (Exit Calm and When The Sun Hits for starters), there’s still some originals I’d love to return to show why they’re remembered so fondly. While Lush isn’t possible, and Slowdive more than unlikely, I can still hope to see Pale Saints or Bark Psychosis play again in some form. Meanwhile, the rumour mill whispers that a certain Oxford four-piece will choose not to Leave Them All Behind next year, so this is far from over.


© James McGalliard 2009

Decalogue

London Fields # 63
First published Inpress, Melbourne on 1 April 2009
NB: Each column has a name, but these do not appear in print; printed versions may differ slightly to those displayed here

There used to be simple rules of gig etiquette that everyone knew and understood. Recently these seem to have slipped by the wayside, and so the experience of being part of a large number of people crammed into a very small and poorly ventilated space is often an ordeal rather than any kind of pleasure. Now some of these codes of conduct have changed, or no longer apply. The conceit of never wearing a t-shirt of the band you are seeing seems to have passed into obsolescence. The smoking ban has relegated several others, but at outdoor events and guerrilla gigs erratic dancing can still result in cigarette burns in a neighbour’s clothing, or worse still, on their skin. While you may now come home from a gig without reeking of stale tobacco, the absence of smoke has revealed other odours that used to lie hidden in the haze. Principally is the seemingly new phenomenon of gig farters. We’ve probably all been quaffing away happily for many years – the difference is now you can smell it, and it can be overpowering. Indie gigs seem to be the worst – notable recent eye-watering instances have occurred at gigs by The Wedding Present, Wavves and The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart. Although you can’t really suggest Thou shalt not fart, the relentless onslaught throughout the performance sometimes makes me fear for the gastrointestinal health of those around me. I know I’ve written about gig talkers before, but they really are the bane of all but the loudest gigs. Put simply, they just show a complete lack of respect for both the performer and everyone else who has paid to hear the artist. There are other verbal annoyances, like the moron who yells out for a particular song after every song. Nick Cave has the best riposte to this “Yes, we’ll play anything you yell out. As long as it’s on that list (points to setlist). And in that order”. Yet some talk is good – like asking Excuse Me, rather than roughly barging a way through, But don’t use excuse me so that someone makes a space for you to squeeze through, only to stand in the space that was made for you as a temporary concession. Neither should you expect to find an easy road to the front if you arrive at the last minute. And if you want to be right against the stage, you may have to forego some other things. If you need to make six trips to the bar in ninety minutes then perhaps you should stand nearer the bar, so you don’t have to disturb people twelve times on your travels? Once you get to the bar, show some good grace. We’ve all had to queue for drinks, and we’re all missing something as we wait to be served. But when people push in, it just leads to aggro. At the front respect the rules of the mosh pit. If someone goes down, you stop and get them up, and out, if needed. Don’t go running full pelt into the periphery. We’re here to hear music, not to get into argy-bargy with someone spoiling for a rumble. Speaking of space invaders - take off your bloody backpack! You have no idea how many drinks you’re spilling, and people you’re bumping. If you must have your bag with you, then take it off your shoulder and put it on the floor. Or at least wear it on your front so you can see where it’s swinging. The final one shouldn’t even need to be stated, but sadly it does. Don’t steal - from other punters, or the venue, or the band. Piney Gir, in a recent MySpace posting, made a list of all the things that she’s had nicked from off stage in recent gigs, and it paints a pretty horrible picture of the state of play. Now I’m not for rigorous adherence to rules per se, and have probably broken many of them at some point (except the last). At one gig I was bailed up for talking. When I challenged this, he said that he couldn’t actually hear my commentary himself, but the microphone with which he was bootlegging the gig could. Another time a friend complained that the couple in front kept canoodling, and each time their heads pressed together, it blocked his view of the stage. Easy - you just move. Drink plays a factor in all of this, and there’s nothing worse that someone who’s drunk and obnoxious (unless they’re leery as well). But the loss of these abiding principals seems in some way to reflect a growing contempt of other people. So rather than a list of commandments, let’s keep it simple: don’t make your enjoyment of the gig result in ruining someone else’s. It’s simple - the tall bastard will stand in front of you just before the band come on, some idiot will spill your drink, or spill his over you, someone will yell out inanities, and someone else will treat you like crap. Yet sometimes the experience transcends all of this, and it is for these magic moments that we persevere. But if your pleasure is at the cost of someone else’s enjoyment, something’s gonna break. © James McGalliard 2009