Polly Scattergood - Polly Scattergood

More than a few listens in, and I still don't quite know what to make of Brit School graduate Polly Scattergood's debut album. Opener I Hate The Way begins with her delivering an irritatingly childlike vocal. "I hate the way I bleed each time you kiss me," she says. It's a worrying start, but things seem to take an upturn as a strong chorus belted out over post-grunge fuzzy guitars leads into a piano-led verse and back again. It's certainly interesting. But then it all goes horribly wrong again. The song - already nearly six minutes long - descends into a cringeworthy spoken word section during which she sounds like Morwenna Banks' Little Girl in Absolutely; "Maybe if I skip my dinner/Make myself pretty and thinner/Maybe then he'll love me and stop looking at the other girls." It's safe to say that Polly Scattergood is not going to be a breezy listen.

With Untitled 27 things continues to hurtle down this angsty route and when Scattergood sings, "Suicidal tendencies drain creativity," this reviewer feels like throwing the CD out of the window and jumping out with it. Sure, everyone loves a bit of misery in their music, but so far this is like reading a 15-year-old goth's diary. And not in a good way. At this stage of the album the constant woe, doom and neurosis haven't been counterbalanced by any shards of light at all. I mean, The Smiths could do self-loathing and misery better than anyone, but they did it with the kind of wit that made embracing them and empathising so easy. Here though, you just want to tell Scattergood to phone a mate/have a beer/put some Beach Boys on the stereo/jump on a tramopline/watch The Mighty Boosh/do anything - just cheer up and chill out.

However - and this is a big however - just at the point when this eponymous long-player seems unrescuable, a surprising thing happens; Please Don't Touch kicks in - all hooks and a clap-along chorus. It's still miserable-as-fuck in its subject matter, but it's catchy and gutsy and really bloody great. After this, the album continues as it started: lots to admire and lots to dislike. All the time Scattergood remains humourless, but the music is accomplished and edgy with its electro experimentation, elements of trip-hop, frenzied violins and soft pianos. And when she fully opens up her voice, the result is a pleasing mix of Kate Bush and Natasha Khan.

As well as having an awesome - and apparently given - name, Polly Scattergood is an unquestionably talented and really intriguing musician. And if she can go on to show dimensions other than the neurotic character that she seems so desperate to purvey then there could be very exciting things to come from her in the future. Indeed, one of the few times she steps out of her insular word - on the synth-ridden Bunny Club - she proves that she is a gifted, vivid lyricist. "You can spit on my French knickers/You can call me a whore," she says, on what is the best track on the album. More often than not though, the quality of her writing at the moment is hidden below a shroud of A-level-esque angst.

Gary Page - Folk Devils and Moral Panic

Having been doing the live circuit for a while now, as well as performing as part of David Ford's live band, Eastbourne's Gary Page releases his debut album of classically structured, largely acoustic pop songs.

With guest appearances from Ford, The Late Greats' Max Arnold and Stacey Pottinger from Hiding With Girls/District, the self-recorded and produced Folk Devils... is lyrically intelligent in a colloquial way, mixing introspective musings (Easily Unimpressed) with conspiracy theories (Fake Lunar Landing) and pot-shots at New Wave-loving scenesters (In Love With York). What is most impressive though is the way in which Page unlocks the songs with such utterly accessible tunes. You won't find the unexpected here - no ten-minute jazz noodling or mad acid house outros (which is perhaps surprising considering his adoration of Super Furry Animals) but you will get grown-up, acoustic indie-pop influenced by a love of the likes of Crowded House and Teenage Fanclub.

The quality of the record is such that standout live-favourite, the singalong anthem Breathing In, is not the obvious jewel in the album's crown. However, tucked away without fuss or fanfare at track three, it is still a pleasing end to an opening trilogy of pop songs. Next up, Portland Sky is the real gem on Folk Devils..., a nicely understated tribute to Elliot Smith with a sweet, gentle melody tiptoeing through delicate keys. This is indicative of Page - his songs - even the ones with the big Beach Boys choruses - have a pleasingly ruminative, slightly downbeat tone to them.

If you like your music with zero pretence but with plenty of honesty, then you should give Folk Devils and Moral Panic a listen. The good news for you is that you can download the whole thing for free by clicking on this link. And no, that's not me encouraging you to illegally download (especially after that chick got fined about $2m for uploading a handful of Beyonce tracks), but a free download link straight from the artist himself.

Regina Spektor - Far

Three long years since her breakthrough long-player, Begin To Hope, Regina Spektor returns with an album that utilises no fewer than four producers. Across the thirteen piano-led tracks, the Russian-born New Yorker uses the production talents of Mike Elizondo, Jacknife Lee, David Kahne and ELO’s Jeff Lynne to fashion a polished continuation of where she left off last time.

Far sees the singer/songwriter accompanied by a full band, and the shimmering production does sometimes send things veering towards the middle of the road, but her unique personality remains strong throughout. Even though there is nothing here to match the best of Begin To Hope, there are still some really strong moments. Playing like a darker (and infinitely better) version of Joan Osborne’s What If God Was One Of Us, the sharp Laughing With stands out. “No-one’s laughing at God when it’s gotten real late and their kid’s not back from the party yet,” she sings.

A possible problem with Far is that it might be too polished for fans of her envelope-pushing earlier work while remaining too quirky for mainstream audiences. However, the inalienable truth is that, regardless of whether she is offering radio-friendly choruses (The Calculation) or doing dolphin impressions (Folding Chair), Spektor is an exceptional storyteller. Her lyrics manage to be everyday and fantastical all at once. Her vivid tales about a lost wallet, religion, a conversation between two birds and the result of a ‘human of the year’ competition are like beautifully intricate paintings. Regina Spektor remains a wonderfully weird treasure, even if her edges seem to be getting smoother.

Brighton Fashion Weekend

As a guest of the lovely folk at Brighton Frocks, I recently spent some time amongst the sartorially elegant and the beautiful at Brighton's Fashion Weekend. The annual event ran over three days and included a fashion emporium, special film screenings, open studios, widespread fashion installations and all manner of workshops around the city. The main event was a theatrical catwalk show at the Metropole Hilton on Friday night, featuring collections from Brighton's finest. I arrived in time for the dress-rehearsal (below).
Backstage before the show, things were exactly as you would imagine: an absolute frenzy of chaotic activity. It was a real buzz, as event organisers ran around barking one order into a mobile while simultaneously receiving another on their walkie-talkie. Meanwhile, photographers snapped away as models in varying states of undress queued impatiently around make-up tables. There was none of the cattiness that one might expect from such an event. All the - entirely amateur and voluntary - models were friendly and visibly nervous. While, front of house, punters jostled for seats or lorded it up in the VIP section, nails were being bitten backstage.



The next day, there was a lower-key show on a small runway in the same room as a fashion emporium. The scaled-down nature of this one (just a couple of collections and far fewer models) meant things were positively serene compared to the previous night. Before the show, models (who dwarfed all the normal-sized humans in the room) posed for photos and waited for things to get under way.



Despite the success of the previous night's show, there was no complacency amongst the models, some of whom found a quiet spot backstage for one last practice.The insanely talented Emma (below, left) from Owl And The Grapes was the official reviewer of the weekend, so you can read a much more insightful and entertaining account of all the fun and games here.

Lady Of The Sunshine - Smoking Gun

Lady Of The Sunshine isn't, in fact, a lady at all. This is Angus minus Julia Stone. Yes, temporarily sans his sister, the Australian singer/songwriter has spread his creative wings and put to use any scraps of spare time during his tours by putting together his first solo album.

Things start in very familiar territory. The opening two tracks are sweet and gentle and could easily have slotted onto the Angus & Julia Stone album, so it is all the more surprising when White Rose Parade kicks in with its Zeppelin blues and yelled (yes, yelled) chorus. It is like nothing we have heard from Stone before. With this, the laid-back, sensitive Aussie who can make a girl swoon from a hundred yards, shows that beneath his affable exterior, he has a slightly darker side. It's a pleasing dichotomy.

After a couple tracks more in keeping with the & Julia side to his music (in which the strings of Big Jet Plane are especially lovely), the album's title track elbows its way in, all heavy and Black Keys-esque with distorted vocals and even, if I heard it right, a rogue f-bomb. "Wake up, you've got the blues," Stone appropriately sings on Kings Black Magic before taking things back down and ending the long-player with the wonderful, dreamy, Lady Sunshine.

Regardless of whether he is opening up his lungs or barely whispering, the fact remains that Stone's voice is just beautiful. Smoking Gun is loyal enough to his well-established sound to please existing fans and also enough of a departure to prove Angus Stone to be an interesting and diverse artist. A success indeed.

The Bianca Story and Temper Trap at Magnet, Berlin

THE TEMPER TRAP
THE BIANCA STORY
Magnet, Prenzlauerburg, Berlin

It was an evening that would, kinda inevitably, end with two stony-faced men dressed in black - one smoking - playing cold, minimalist electronic pomp. This was, after all, Berlin. Before stereotypes took hold though, two foreign acts would play sets that made the smallish crowd dance their little German socks off.
Boasting a keyboard/synth/laptop/sampler/nondescript-mad-electro-invention set-up that engulfed half the stage, The Bianca Story (above) vomited forth whopping great big choruses. These five weirdos from Switzerland were led by the twin vocals of a super enthusiastic, tall beardy man with a voice like The Divine Comedy's Neil Hannon and a girl dressed like an 80s prom queen and wielding a keytar. And if that isn't a recipe for awesomeness, then I don't know what is.
I've written enough gushing words about Temper Trap's (above and top) live shows on these pages recently, but suffice to say this was another winning set. Their sound seems to get more and more imposing every time I see them. The four-way vocal barrage of Down River was a perfect example of this. After a familiar set-list and a typically tighter-than-a-duck's-bumhole performance, the quintet packed up and headed to the Amsterdam to continue promoting the upcoming release of their debut record. Expect a review of it here soon.

Back soon....

Apologies for the lack of updates of late. I am currently in Berlin, having spent the last couple of weeks in Santander and Frankfurt. I am laptopless.

Normal service will resume next week though, with some more reviews, including the new Regina Spektor album (arggh, I'm too excited) and Lady Of The Sunshine.

In the meantime, here is some genius to keep you entertained. Sorry about the douche at the beginning.

Jarvis Cocker - Further Complications

Britpop was a strange spell for music in Blighty. At the time it seemed like a wonderful celebration of a new dawn in the country - unapologetic and exciting. Looking back though, it was actually narcissistic, coke-fuelled and wrapped in hideously brash lad-culture. However, while the likes of Blur and Oasis disappeared up their own arses during this time, there was one band whose album (Different Class) connected perfectly with the life of the underdog, the indie underclass who avoided Loaded in favour of Melody Maker. It shouldn't have been surprising that Pulp came out of that era with more credit than most. They had already been around for donkeys' years and, in Jarvis Cocker, had a captivating frontman who wrote stories that were gritty, witty and true. While others concerned themselves with big houses in the country, Pulp's world was one of bedsits with piss-stained lifts.

Over a decade on, Cocker is still telling such stories, now as a solo artist. His first album, The Jarvis Cocker Record, went down a storm with critics, so it is with much excitement (especially to a reviewer like me who considers the man close to Godlike) that Further Complications lands. Despite looking beardy and distinguished on the cover, the album takes on a raucous, occasionally Stooges-esque direction. Fitting to this reproach, legendary grunge producer Steve Albini was brought on board. Anyone who knows about Albini will be aware that crashing drums and big guitars are part of his game-plan, while vocals stay low down in the mix.

And, if there is a problem with Further Complications, it lies here. Rather than being complimented by the turned-up-to-eleven sound, Cocker's genius wordplay is often drowned out, as he finds himself yelling just to be heard. While I'm sure songs like Pilchard and Angela will be fantastic fun played live with Cocker shuffling his gangly frame across the stage, all arms, legs and glasses, on record they just seem to lack the nuances that make him such a revered songwriter. Indeed, it is no coincidence that the album's high points all occur when the noise abates (and the sax solos are nowhere to be heard), like the beautiful Leftovers, which is a love song that perhaps falls closest to his This Is Hardcore-era Pulp days. Viced by reality, yet painfully fragile, he croons: "Trapped in a body that is failing me/Well, please allow me to be succinct/I wanna love you whilst we both still have flesh upon our bones/Before we both become extinct." There is more gorgeous wordplay on I Never Said I Was Deep, where he tells us, "I never said I was deep/but I am profoundly shallow/My lack of knowledge is vast/and my horizons are narrow."

When Further Complications is good, it's great, and the fact that it's slightly disappointing in places is probably just down to the high standards that Cocker has set himself. And if there is a lesson to be learnt here, it's that when you have as much to say as Jarvis Cocker and can say it so eloquently, you shouldn't go drowning it out. Cocker's is a voice that needs to be heard.

Lily Allen - It's Not Me, It's You

Sometimes, an album comes out of the blue and belies all preconceptions. Alright, Still, Lily Allen's debut, was one such record. On the surface, a collection of bubblegum pop songs from the daughter of odious celebrity ligger Keith Allen didn't appear to be worth bothering with, but, upon closer inspection, it burst with wit and honesty (not to mention radio-friendly, ska-influenced tunes) in its stories of the trials of modern life. It was like a breath of fresh air, and certainly one of the albums of 2006. Following that unexpected gem, Allen's new album is burdened by the considerable weight of expectation.

Though Allen is truly now a marketable pop star with an army of teenage fans to cater for and record company sales forecasts to deal with, It's Not Me, It's You stays pretty loyal to the uncompromising nature of her debut. Swear words are still unapologetically littered throughout and she deals with issues that other pop acts wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole. While subtlety is sometimes absent as she wallops us over the head with her words, her occasionally overt morality is still applaudable and there is pleasing wry commentary. Opening track Everyone's At It is a lament to drug taking, while The Fear offers lines that are equally straightforward and knowing digs at the culture of celebrity: "I’ll take my clothes off and it will be shameless/Cos everyone knows that’s how you get famous." There are other acerbic moments, like the line-dancing Not Fair, which treads the familiar ground of a lover's ineptitude in bed.

Even though there is nothing on It's Not Me, It's You to match the quality of the best parts of Alright, Still, it is still a slickly produced album of catchy-as-fuck pop, and Lily Allen's personality shines through enough for her to to easily leap the Difficult Second Album hurdle. One gets the impression that, if you went for a beer with her, you would encounter exactly the same cheeky, witty, gutsy, truthful character you hear in her songs. For a mainstream pop star, Lily Allen is as genuine as they get.

Kimya Dawson at Komedia, Brighton

Fresh from seeing one legend of the New York anti-folk scene in Paris last week, I saw another in Brighton this week:KIMYA DAWSON
ANGELO SPENCER
Komedia, Brighton 19/05/09

Angelo Spencer was naked at The Komedia. Not literally, of course. The skinny Frenchman was very much clothed, but, due to a lack of a van to carry his kick-drum, high-hat and bass, the one-man band was forced to appear with just his electric guitar for company. While he struggled to adjust, he still made a raucous noise and, as is his way, stopped songs midway in order to explain something about the lyrical content or - more likely - to go off at a random tangent about hiking.

Spencer's wife, Kimya Dawson, has come a long way since I first sat cross-legged to see her in the tiny Freebutt a few years ago. Post-Juno, the venues have grown and so have the crowds, meaning it was standing room only. I'm not a snob when it comes to artists becoming successful, especially when the growth is organic and, like Dawson, the artist stays 100% true to their roots, but with larger crowds comes the inevitability that the idiot count will rise amongst the audience. Back in the day, crowds at Kimya shows would consist of meek nerds in cardigans and appropriately indie t-shirts. And, while the vast majority of people last night were simply music fans who acted with perfect etiquette considering the intimacy of the show, there were also too-cool-for-school, oh-so-kooky and leftfield 'I'm mad, me,' kids (like the ones that stood directly behind me) who insisted on chatting loudly and shouting comments that were inappropriate considering the solemn nature of the show (more on this later). Never mind that one of the most honest songwriters in the world was playing gentle acoustic music a few feet in front of them, these idiots wanted to be the centre of attention. Okay, Kimya's shows are often best when there is a constant exchange between her and the crowd (indeed, until recently, she didn't even bother writing a set-list, and just waited for requests), but talking loudly throughout while hardly listening to a word Kimya sang was disrespectful to her and the rest of her audience.Anyway, rant over. Thankfully, despite the bigger venue and the speckling of morons, the show was as intimate as ever. Kimya had a couple of friends on stage with her who, through strings and xylophone, added depth to her simple thumb-strumming. While typically shy and amicable, she had a decidedly different tone to the hilarious between-song banter she offered last time I saw her in Sydney. "You know I love you Brighton. I'm just not feeling very chatty today," she told us. Soon, she explained why. The day before the show, a good friend had died. She had spent the previous two days at his bedside, singing songs to him. He was cremated in the t-shirt she had made him. All of a sudden, her sombre mood made sense, and songs like Underground and It's Been Raining took on a whole new perspective and had even greater weight than they already did.

That's not to say that the show was a miserable one. She laughed and joked with her backing band and told a weird tale about triplets conceived four months apart and about trampolining on Brighton Pier while needing a wee. There were songs from Alphabutt, her kids album, as well as old favourites like The Beer.

Typical of Kimya, she played until the venue basically kicked her off stage long after the curfew had passed. This is the seventh time I have seen her and, having been a fan since The Moldy Peaches days, it is hard to keep perspective on how good this show was, so will sum up with the words that Emma from Owl and the Grapes said to me at lights-up: "Kimya made me want to live more. Her songs made me happy and sad at the same time."