Maxïmo Park Interview

My interview with Paul Smith from Maxïmo Park appeared in Drum Media to coincide with their appearance at Playground Weekender. Here is is:YOU CAN RELY ON ENGLISHMEN MAXÏMO PARK TO GIVE THEIR ALL AT THE PLAYGROUND WEEKENDER, AS FRONTMAN PAUL SMITH TELLS ROB TOWNSEND

“It’s certainly a surprise to us,” Maxïmo Park singer Paul Smith tells me when I ask how it feels to have struck such a chord in Australia that the quintet has been invited to be one of the main acts at this year’s Playground Weekender. “We still live in the North East of England and we consider ourselves quite an independent band, so to play on the other side of the world was something we never anticipated at the start of things. I think as time goes on though you realise how similar people are. It’s almost a cliché; you end up on the other side of the world and the songs still mean the same things.”

Maxïmo Park arrives at Playground with a proven festival pedigree. Last year the band played at Glastonbury and blew headliners Razorlight and Red Hot Chili Peppers off the stage at the Reading Festival. Smith, whose charismatic live performances see him pull off all manner of acrobatic jumps that would give lesser men groin strains, says his group always aims to blow people away whether they are playing to thousands or just a handful. “I don’t know anybody who puts in as much physical effort as us. I don’t think anyone could ever say that we gave a lacklustre show or that we dropped the level in any way. At festivals we’re not trying to be these introverted, tortured artists. All of the tortured bits go into the writing of the songs and then after that they’re there for everybody. We’re not going to step on some guitar pedal and get the big stadium sound; we’re actually going to play some songs that have been built to move people in their structure, in the lyrics and in the way we perform them instead of relying on stadium rock tricks.”Anyone who has witnessed Maxïmo Park’s previous gigs in Sydney will understand why their Playground Weekender show is so highly anticipated. “We’re lucky because we get to play to enthusiastic crowds wherever we go,” Smith beams. “It’s something I am extremely grateful for. It helps us put on a great performance if the crowd is going nuts. In Australia there is the same intensity that we get at our English shows. The live performance is something we’ve worked really hard at; to be as tight as we can without losing that raw feel. I think it is quite a rare mix, to have a band that is quite serious about the music but that also has fun when we play live.”

While Maxïmo Park’s indie-pop melodies and boundless verve are indeed well-suited to festivals, they take great pride in the fact that their lyrics go deeper than the usual winning festival formula of simple, chant-along choruses. Smith is a lover of literature, which naturally leads to his lyrics being particularly carefully crafted and emotive. “Sometimes I wonder whether I have over-complicated matters by making the lyrics quite ornate, but I think when people watch our band they can say ‘This guy actually cares about what he’s singing about. He has taken the time to fashion something.’ I think it is something that endears us to people.”
Considering Smith is so passionate about the written word, it must be quite a feeling for him to see crowds across the globe singing his lyrics back at him. “I do get a lot of personal satisfaction out of it,” he admits. “But not too much because you’ve got to have a hunger to keep getting better. I feel like the songs are universal enough for people to really latch onto what they’re about but they’ve also got really specific personal things that give them a bit of detail. There is also something visceral and immediate about them.” In his Geordie accent, and with focus and enthusiasm, he continues: “We’ve always loved the fact that music can cut through to the core of a person; a song can come on the radio that changes your day. We want to try to get through to people like that, but if you want to get through to people in that manner then you’ve got to have something meaningful to say that feels fresh to the listener.”

And with work on the third album well under way, is there any chance that we will hear some brand new material at Playground? “We’ve just come up with a really straightforward pop song with big riffs and a garage band chorus so, yeah, there is a good chance that we will play one or two new songs in Australia.”

Nigel Kennedy in Kings Cross

On Thursday night I went to see one of the most iconic musicians in the world. In a pub in Kings Cross:“Please welcome onto the stage, the greatest violinist in the world,” are hardly words used in Sydney’s Kings Cross very often, yet, on Thursday night in an area more at home to strippers, ice addicts and baffled backpackers, something truly mesmerising and magical occured.

Daniel from Time Out had been given a tip-off that English violinist Nigel Kennedy would be performing in the tiny Kell’s Bar in the Cross, so we went along, half expecting a wild goose chase considering how the man can fill arenas. Surprisingly though, within half-an-hour we were sitting on the floor of a small room with about 100 other people while the great man, still with punk hair, clompy boots and a rock n roll attitude (how many other classical musicians would refer to a CD they like as being: “a motherfucker of an album”?) dazzled us on an electric violin.Kennedy led a five piece band, including double bass, keys, sax and drums, through two lengthy sets of jazz numbers, many of which were improvised. The Brit (who had clearly had a drink or ten) could barely contain his excitement as impossibly impressive (and occasionally noodly) solos bounced off each other, while he waited to astound with his own turns which went from being delicate efforts using a loop pedal to ear shredding carnage more suited to a rock gig.

It should hardly be surprising that he was getting such enjoyment out of being on stage with four impressive musicians; to perform in a such a tiny bar for a couple of hours shows a real love of music that befits someone who, even after all these years, is still at the very top of his game.

Seasick Steve - Dog House Music

Here are a couple of album reviews that were printed in Drum Media:SEASICK STEVE
Dog House Music
Bronzerat/Inertia

If American troubadour Steve Wold, better known as Seasick Steve, looks like the kind of old hobo that sits busking outside the local train station it’s because that’s exactly who he is. Kicked out of home at the tender age of 13, this colourful character has spent more than his fair share of time over the past half a century sleeping on the streets or in various county jails. If anyone is qualified to sing the blues, it’s him.

His second album of droll, earthy blues, Dog House Music, sounds like it belongs in the Deep South sometime during the early half of last century, yet it still has recognisable reference points. For instance, as Fallen Off a Rock crescendos, Wold plays slide guitar like Jack White’s cool Dad. On Dog House Boogie he barks like Tom Waits and, not unlike Johnny Cash in his later recordings, his cracked yet warm vocal is that of a man who has really lived a life.

In a time when all music seems so contrived, it is refreshing that someone can create such raw beauty on an album that was recorded in mono in a kitchen in Norway on a shitty three-string guitar. Indeed, the intensely personal Dog House Music is such a compelling listen that it is little wonder Seasick Steve recently won the Mojo Best Breakthrough Act award. Not bad for a bloke in his sixties who used to literally have to sing for his supper.

Cass McCombs - Dropping The Writ

CASS McCOMBS
Dropping The Writ
Domino Records

While this is Cass McCombs’ third album, his debut release on Domino signals a slight change in direction for the American songsmith. His previous long-player, PREfection, was multi-layered, full of reverb and could have been accused of being a little ostentatious in places. While Dropping The Writ remains ambitious in some of its arrangements, it pleasingly shows the Californian offering a higher level of accessibility to his output.

Perhaps this album actually shows a shift in approach rather than a change in direction. This is still very much a Cass McCombs record, yet this time round the songs generally have a more folky feel to them. Acoustic guitars feature prominently and the lyrical content is much less obscure than in previous outings.

To illustrate this, the dreamy Pregnant Pause would surely have been drowned in sound had it appeared on an earlier recording, yet here its harmonica and perky percussion are wisely given the space to breathe to create something quite lovely. Similarly, the acoustic Full Moon or Infinity is eerily reminiscent of the gentle beauty of Elliott Smith. Elsewhere, there are shards of loveliness that wouldn’t feel out of place on a Shins record.

It is during moments like these that Dropping The Writ transcends the impressive yet slightly hollow feel of his previous offerings. One senses that, if McCombs continues to strip back his sound even further, we will have a genuine work of genius on our hands when his next album drops.

Narcissism and Greed: the Premier League's plan to go global

In this week's Argus column, I couldn't resist venting my anger at the latest money-making scheme by the powers that be in English football:I have been a lover of the beautiful game all my life, yet because I currently live in Australia, every weekend at the moment is a weekend free from live English football; although this might change if the Premier League has its way.

Of course I’m talking about the proposal that every Premier League team should play an additional match each season in another country. This contrived and ugly idea stinks of top clubs finding new ways to line their pockets and, while chairmen are seeing dollar signs, I’m pleased that this suggestion has been greeted with scorn by the vast majority of supporters.

Football clubs’ genuine identities have been diminishing for a while now in favour of corporate branding and profit forecasts. The sport which used to be all about loyalty and a sense of community is now just a cash cow for foreign businessmen who care not that the common man is no longer able to afford to watch the team he has supported all his life.

I’m not naïve enough to suggest that we shouldn’t embrace the fact that the Premier League is admired the world over, but simply bolting another game haphazardly into the middle of the season in order to bully our way into foreign markets and earn more TV money is surely a lazy way to do it, and it brings with it the possibility of unfairly affecting the final league table through the capriciousness of the pairings for this extra round of matches.

Sure, the chance to see Arsenal play Tottenham in Sydney would be very appealing to someone like me who only has the substandard Australian A-League for entertainment, but what if the luck of the draw decided that two less glamorous teams were pitted together? I’m not sure the residents of somewhere like New York would be queuing round the block to watch Middlesbrough take on Aston Villa. And, without being disrespectful, if Blackburn were playing Bolton in my lounge, I’d probably stay in my bedroom.

Depressingly, while fat cats rub their hands together at the prospect of an extra few million quid falling at their feet, poor old Bournemouth – a lovely, family club - has gone into administration over an amount of money that wouldn’t buy the left leg of a Premier League player. Where did football go so horribly wrong?

The level of greed and narcissism in the Premier League is now so high that half of me hopes this proposal goes ahead and is an abject failure. Maybe it would take English football imploding on itself to finally give the people that run the game a sense of perspective.

Australia says sorry

In the pouring rain, an historic event unfolded on a giant screen in Sydney's CBD, as Australian PM Kevin Rudd said sorry to the Stolen Generations. His wonderful speech received the applause and ovation it deserved. Here are just a few of his words:

"For the pain, suffering and hurt of these stolen generations, their descendants and for their families left behind, we say sorry."

"And for the indignity and degradation thus inflicted on a proud people and a proud culture, we say sorry."

There are calls for his apology to Australia's indigenous people to be endorsed by Gordon Brown, as the Britain Government was behind the policies that led to thousands of Aboriginal children being taken from their families. I hope he has the guts to do so.

Check out Daniel's photos, then read the full story here

Big Day Out, Sydney

Just like last year, I reviewed Sydney's Big Day Out for Drum Media. Here is what I thought:BIG DAY OUT
Olympic Park, Homebush
25/01/08

It’s remarkable how the loss of one big-name international act can suddenly give a festival line-up an entirely different perspective. As soon as Big Day Out had a Björk-shaped hole ripped out of it, the seemingly outstanding bill suddenly looked immeasurably less diverse and, subsequently, less interesting.

However, anyone mourning the last-gasp cancellation of Iceland’s favourite daughter would have at least been cheered up by the boundless verve of Operator Please. I’d never understood their appeal before, but everything fell into place upon watching their barnstorming performance. Maybe they offer little more than disposable fun, but fun is something which many bands forget to bring to the table at all.

Away from the main arena, the slightly bland nature of Josh Pyke’s laidback folk was followed by an altogether more dynamic and attention-grabbing performance from chirpy Londoner Kate Nash (below), who put on one of the performances of the day by juxtaposing biting lyrics with pop-tinged melodies. Meanwhile in the Boiler Room, UK grime trailblazer Dizzee Rascal had a pumped crowd eating out of his hand with his high-octane vernacular.Sydney was well represented on the Local Produce Stage, most notably by a majestic performance from teenagers Bridezilla (below), for whom frontwoman Holiday Sidewinder’s luscious vocal sounded particularly impressive. While a sizeable crowd was enjoying a band that are surely destined for a big future, over at the Blue Stage those intent on looking backward rather than forward were reminiscing with Grinspoon. Whether the rockers are still relevant or merely living on past glories seemed not to matter a jot to the shirtless hoards that moshed their hearts out.

While the kids bounced with abandon to the entirely mediocre hip-hop offered by Hilltop Hoods, the more senior members of the crowd took their increasingly aching limbs off to the Essential Stage to see Englishman Billy Bragg, who offered the most engaging between-song banter of the festival. The veteran’s impassioned left-wing sermonizing took in the following subjects (deep breath): fascism, racism, sexism, John Howard, Kevin Rudd, George Bush, education, healthcare, Tony Blair, third-world debt and, oddly, Ricky Ponting. Bragg’s charisma was such that the world felt a slightly better place for the duration of his folk-rock set, which was drenched in working-class romance and humour.As the evening drew in, all attention turned to the main stages. The many members of Arcade Fire were originally scheduled to play before Silverchair’s crowd-pleasing show but Björk’s absence afforded them the opportunity to demonstrate their striking art-rock under a setting sun, which created a perfect atmosphere as a captivating mix of strings, keys, guitar and all manner of percussion swept through the crowd. At any one time a melee of enthralling activity ensued on stage, especially from multi-instrumentalist Régine Chassagne, whose playful charm and elegance perfectly personified the band’s appeal. This beautiful performance surely cemented their place as the best group around right now.

I could probably count on one hand the things that would cause me to miss the hauntingly beautiful ballads of Sarah Blasko, but one of those things is a time-clash with Rage Against The Machine, for whom the sense of anticipation was tangible as a massive crowd poured towards the Blue Stage. From opening track Testify each song was greeted with euphoria and every word was hollered back at the four-piece, who were drenched in sweat within seconds of stepping onstage. Any fears that the band would have lost its vigour were soon allayed as hit followed hit and absolute carnage ensued in a moshpit that spread the entire length of the field. Frontman Zack De La Rocha bounced around stage as he spat bile-fuelled lyrics with the same wrath he displayed 15 years ago, yet he was unable to prevent a smile from cracking his face as he looked out on a sea of fans still going absolutely ape-shit to the likes of Bombtrack, even after all these years.This pulsating show was a million miles from the languid comeback that many bands would offer after an eight year break. Indeed, the songs sounded even more relevant than they did the first time round, although it’s questionable whether their deeply political subject-matter made any kind of meaningful impact on a crowd largely intent on beating the hell out of each other. Regardless, Rage Against The Machine’s long-awaited return, which ended - of course - with Killing In The Name, was an unforgettable event.

But, as expected and in spite of the magnificence of the two main acts, the line-up lacked the kind of colourful eccentricity that a certain Icelandic pixie could have provided. Were it not for those pesky swollen vocal chords, one suspects that a fairly good day out would have been a bloody amazing day out.

Kate Nash at Oxford Art Factory

I took in Kate Nash twice in three days. Here is my review of her gig in Sydney, as featured in Drum Media:KATE NASH
Oxford Art Factory, Darlinghurst
23/01/08

Landing somewhere between the delightful kookiness of Regina Spektor and the mockney wit of Lily Allen, Kate Nash received a rapturous reception as, in her distinctive London twang, she told stories of everyday 21st Century life that jumped from being laugh-out-loud funny to heartbreakingly poignant in the blink of an eye. Accompanied by her band - although her violinist was disappointingly absent - she belted out a collection of piano-led, upbeat romps from her debut album, Made Of Bricks, including Mariella and Skeleton Song, before grabbing an acoustic guitar and bringing the pace down a notch.

While she can pen a perky pop tune with the best of them, Nash’s true strength lies in her delicate balladry, and her ability to paint vivid pictures with words was best illustrated by standout acoustic song, Birds. Singing of a young couple’s failure to articulate their love for each other, she managed to tell a more interesting tale in four minutes than more revered songwriters do in a career. Her ability to craft believable, three-dimensional characters with true depth is reminiscent of the master of succinct storytelling, Tom Waits. And compliments don’t come much higher than that.That’s not to say the singalong moments weren’t delicious as well. Tales of simmering discord, Dickhead and Foundations, were greeted with predictable vocal fervour, while an unexpected highlight came when she was joined on stage by the legendary Billy Bragg for a charmingly ramshackle version of his classic track, A New England.

Hidden behind a savvy façade, Nash’s songs spoke of insecurity, yearning and confusion. In her creations, boyfriends are, like, total dicks and relationships are invariably doomed to fail before they have even begun. And while her detractors huff and puff and accuse her of being contrived, anyone that has ever been in a shit relationship or fancied the pants off someone unobtainable understands that Nash’s appeal lies in her ability to perfectly soundtrack their lives, and to do so with humour, charm and honesty. Ultimately, tonight’s triumphant performance proved that, when it comes to well-observed stories of the zeitgeist, Kate Nash is as good as anyone.