Damien Rice at the Enmore Theatre, Sydney

With just an acoustic guitar for company on the large Enmore stage, support act Fionn Regan’s lyrics were clever, but his melodies seemed somewhat directionless and one-dimensional. By contrast, Damien Rice suggested within the first three songs how surprisingly varied his set was going to be. The scruffy song-writer mooched onstage to perform a sombre solo opener at the piano, before being joined by a bassist and cellist, and of course vocalist/guitarist Lisa Hannigan, for a dreamy rendition of Cannonball. Next, he thrashed the living hell out of his guitar while belting out distorted vocals that practically ripped a hole in the roof.

The simple-yet-stunning light-show of primary-coloured backdrops enhanced an already atmospheric evening, and Hannigan, in her Irish peasant’s dress and with long hair covering her face, offered a vocal that perfectly complimented Rice’s, most notably on Volcano, which built to a spine-tingling crescendo.

The sold-out crowd hung on Rice’s every movement, but were disappointed that it took him over 90 minutes to utter a single word of acknowledgement in their direction. He may well have been letting his music do the talking, but surely a quick “Hello” wasn’t too much to ask. Still, this was nothing more than a minor grumble, as the singer treated his adoring audience to almost two hours of lovingly-crafted music.

While Rice disappeared for pre-encore break, the interim was filled by Hannigan and cellist Vivienne Long delighting the crowd with quirky comedy number, Random Man On The Motorway, which brought some well-timed levity to an incredibly intense set, and showcased the wealth of talent amongst Rice’s gang of musicians.

Tracks from the latest album, 9, which perhaps don’t translate so well on record, made perfect sense when performed live, not least the sorrowful The Animals Have Gone and the venomous Rootless Tree, while old favourites like Delicate still sounded astonishingly fresh. The highlight though, was unquestionably the heart-breakingly romantic The Blower’s Daughter, which was such an affecting moment that even this cynical reviewer found himself filling with emotion.

The evening was rounded off by the vocal duo serenading us in French, and Rice delighted his fans by finally thanking them for coming, before grabbing his glass of wine and cup of tea and ambling back out of our lives in the knowledge that he had just given us an intense, atmospheric, emotional and often breath-taking evening.

Review and picture by Rob Townsend.

Kaiser Chiefs - Yours Truly, Angry Mob

KAISER CHIEFS
Yours Truly, Angry Mob

Eight seconds. That’s all it takes for Yours Truly, Angry Mob to signpost its intentions. Opening track and current single, Ruby, instantly launches into some trademark “da-da-da-ing” and, before a single minute of the track is complete, we already have our first ridiculously catchy chorus. “Ruby, Ruby, Ruby, Ruby,” yells frontman Ricky Wilson, before the harmonising kicks in. Make no mistake, Kaiser Chiefs are back.

The sophomore album is a notoriously tricky one for many bands, especially following such a phenomenally successful debut, and so Kaiser Chiefs really ought to be commended for Yours Truly, Angry Mob, which retains the high standard set by their previous recording, Employment.

Unsurprisingly, this album hardly represents a massive departure for a band that positively revels in purveying bouncy indie-pop and, pleasingly for fans of the squillion-selling debut long-player, this new offering ticks all of the appropriate boxes. There’s witty lyricism that will make you smile wryly, as well as air-punching choruses, shouty vocals, harmonising and handclaps. However, rather than seeming hackneyed, Kaiser Chiefs sound energetic and effervescent, almost as though they are relieved to finally showcase some new material, having been touring the same old tunes for the past two years.

Indeed, it is also refreshing for us listeners to have some new songs to get our teeth into, having had I Predict A Riot and Oh My God pummelled into our brains for what seems like an eternity. Here, the theme of dystopia and drunken violence is reprised in The Angry Mob, while the pick of the bunch, Thank You Very Much is this year’s I Predict A Riot.

With its post-punk vocals and anthemic chorus, My Kind Of Guy is almost a straightforward, stadium-sized heavy rock track, and Love’s Not A Competition (But I’m Winning) sounds so gloriously 1980s that it comes across as some kind of odd lovechild of Depeche Mode and Spandeau Ballet.

Yours Truly, Angry Mob further suggests that Kaiser Chiefs never got the memo about Britpop being dead, but, if they keep on creating music as fun, witty and likeable as this, then you won’t hear us complaining.

Erin Marshall at Ruby Rabbit

I was invited to Ruby Rabbit to see Erin Marshall play, and so I popped along to check out her stuff. I'm delighted to say that it was an entirely worthwhile evening.

Strapping on an acoustic guitar, the Sydney-based singer/songwriter played a polished set of well-rounded tunes which bounced between cruisey pop/rock and chilled out folk. Her songs spoke of matters of the heart and were delivered with an incredibly impressive vocal, which was always immaculately controlled and perfectly-suited to her mellow, acoustic, poppy sound.

Her infectious, intelligent music seems all the more remarkable when you consider the fact that she only picked up a guitar for the first time less than a year ago. In fact, with this gig only being the fourth time she has ever showcased her songs in the live domain, it doesn't take a genius to predict that the talented, affable, pretty and very marketable Miss Erin Marshall might very well be a record company's dream sometime in the not too distant future.

Angus and Julia Stone at the Vanguard, Sydney

Even though it is a lovely venue, I have a problem with The Vanguard. I don't like the way that support artists are drowned out by the din of diners eating their meals and chatting, and so sweet little Mebourne singer Pikelet's task was a tough one one. Thankfully though, dinner was over by the time Angus and Julia took to the stage, which was decked-out in illuminated paper stars. Julia looked typically immaculate and beautiful in an emerald-green dress, while Angus was his scruffily handsome self under a mop of hair.

The tone for the evening was set with opener All Of Me; a tender, yearning love song which instantly captivated the audience. Julia’s faultless voice was exceptional, and showed great dexterity, ranging from gentle to powerful and attention-grabbing. Meanwhile, Angus perfectly complimented it with his soft, laid-back vocal.

Their songs were succinct and perfectly crafted. Drums, bass and percussion were used when necessary to raise the tempo, and were always nicely understated. Julia broke out the trumpet and harmonica sporadically, and yet there was nothing superfluous within their sound, and no showing off from any of the musicians. Therefore, the result was simple and beautiful acoustic folk music at its most charming.

The musical highlight of the evening was unquestionably the yet-to-be-released Black Jacket, which saw Julia sitting at the piano and telling a melancholic tale. “I have a black jacket,” she sang. “It makes me look like I ride a motorbike, but in real life I’m frightened I’ll fall off and die.” It was a song of quirky, painful beauty on a par with my beloved Regina Spektor or Bright Eyes, and dropped my jaw to the floor.

The night ended with the heartbreakingly poignant Chocolates and Cigarettes, after which punters rushed to the merchandise stall to pick up copies of their new EP. Trust me... this is a band with a MASSIVE future.

Review by Rob Townsend (with Julia, above).

Jamie T, Panic Prevention

I recently reviewed Jamie T's debut album for The Drum Media. here is what I concluded:
London’s Jamie Treays is being touted by those in the know as The Next Big Thing, and it’s easy to see why he’s causing such a stir, as his debut album attacks the senses with a crazy mix of styles which confuse and fascinate as much as entertain.

After several listens to Panic Prevention [so called because of the songwriter’s childhood panic attacks], this reviewer is still scratching his head trying to work out how to describe the sound that is beating his eardrums into submission.

Essentially bouncing capriciously between indie, dancehall, punk and rap, Jamie T’s unrelenting tales of London life give a nod to Joe Strummer, and are told with an equal amount of wit and aggression. He also proves that swearing is big and clever, and litters expletives throughout his stories, which are as close to those told by Arctic Monkeys as they are to the caricatured efforts from The Streets.

To illustrate what a bizarre collection of sounds Panic Prevention offers, the opening track is a punky, acoustic bass-led rant, whereas Treays raps bleak lyrics over Sheila’s hip-hop backbeat, and Salvador sounds like it wants to drunkenly bash Bloc Party down a dark alley.

Panic Prevention is challenging, confrontational, unclassifiable and not always easy to listen to, but there is no denying that it is also utterly exhilarating. This album is a 50-minute panic attack, and one gets the impression that Jamie T doesn’t care if it makes any sense to you or not.

Let's Pretend

On Tuesday I got a last minute call to review The Pretenders at The State Theatre. I would be lying if I said I was anything other than a moderate admirer of the band (I only have the singles collection. Yes, yes, I know it's lame), but I went along knowing that, at the very least, I would get to see a living legend in action.

As it turned out, they were brilliant, and I am now a fully-fledged fan. Chrissie Hynde was one of the best frontpeople I have ever seen. She was in total control of the band and the crowd for the whole night, and proved herself to be affable, fiesty, funny and frighteningly cool.

For a 55-year-old woman to pull rock postures in skinny jeans could have been the worst thing ever if it had been done even slightly wrong. As it was, Hynde was the coolest person in the room by a fucking mile.

You can read my review in next week's Drum Media. Which reminds me, I'd better write it.

Big Day Out 2007 - review

More than happy to sidestep the Australian flag debate on the strength of being English, this particular reviewer (below) was keen to focus solely on the music rather than the politics at Big Day Out. The Butterfly Effect though, were full of patriotism. “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie,” they yelled before launching into a routine set of heavy rock, while people who prefer their rock to be less obvious and more brooding went to check out an impressive show by The Drones.

Lily Allen treated punters to witty and intelligent stories wrapped in bubblegum pop with hints of reggae and ska, and proved to be the perfect antidote to the plethora of bland pop stars around at the moment. Her tongue was typically sharp, and between songs she gleefully attacked George Bush and, slightly less obviously, Jet’s drummer, Chris Cester, who she had had an altercation with earlier in the week. “Fuck you Chris, and your rubbish band,” she yelled, to the amusement of a heaving Boiler Room.

Less controversial, but equally appealing were The Sleepy Jackson, who offered a grand and poignant display, before The Vines rolled onto stage. Anyone who thought The Vines were yesterday’s news will be surprised to learn that, just as they did at Homebake, they belted out a cracking set to a crowd that was practically turning cartwheels while hollering along to every word. Maybe it’s simply because they were playing on home soil, but there seems to be a bit of life left in the old dogs yet.

While The John Butler Trio offered the Main Stage’s most charming and eclectic set of the day, Englishmen Kasabian performed on the Green Stage with a swagger that suggests they are used to playing to European crowds who worship their every move. But, while their indie-dance set was well-enough received, they’ve still got plenty to prove on these shores before they are entitled to strut in such a way. Still, a little self-belief never hurt anyone I suppose.

Over on the Local Produce Stage, Dappled Cities Fly played to a criminally small audience, and those who stayed away missed some interesting, upbeat arrangements. Perhaps the reason that the crowd was so diminutive was because, at the same time, The Killers were drawing the biggest attendance of the day with an efficient set of crowd-pleasers. As the Americans left the stage, a massive chunk of the crowd dispersed while scratching their heads and wondering how the next performers, Jet, were afforded such a high placing on the bill when the likes of My Chemical Romance were relegated to a much earlier slot. Judging by the way the band pouted and postured their way through their set, it seems that Jet genuinely believe that they are the greatest band in the world, which is something that saddens me to my very soul, as this offering was nothing more than a clichéd collection of painfully generic rock songs so bland that they failed to connect on any level whatsoever.
Juxtaposing Jet’s hackneyed display with what followed from Muse made the barmy British prog-rockers’ performance seem all the more outstanding. Embellishing their relentless attack of hits with stunning visuals, this was a band clearly intent on rocking Big Day Out to within an inch of its life with their space-age opera. Frontman Matt Bellamy produced sounds, both vocally and from his effects-laden guitar, that ripped through the crowd like a cyclone, as hits like Time is Running Out and Knights Of Cydonia somehow made the vast arena seem intimate. It was a breathtaking and engaging hour, which attacked the senses to such a degree that it left most of us feeling the need for a little lie down.

There was no time for rest though, as, not prepared to let Muse pull the rug from under them, Tool immediately belted out what was essentially a greatest hits collection, which delighted ardent supporters and the uninitiated alike. Full of those trademark chunky riffs, their menacing prog-metal sound had fans from the very front row to the VIP boxes going totally nuts.

In an ideal world, the proceedings would have been rounded off by Lily Allen and Chris Cester resolving their differences with some kind of public dance-off, but this world is not ideal, and so the drunk and dishevelled crowd simply shuffled home, happy that the astonishing sets from Muse and Tool were still ringing in their ears.

Review by Rob Townsend