GIG REVIEW: The Cribs - O2 Academy Bristol, 25th October

for fans of: The Courteeners, The Enemy, The Libertines

the cribs at glasto earlier this year
(photo creds: nme)

Despite playing to a noticeably under-capacity venue, Wakefield trio The Cribs luxuriated their place on the Bristol stage. Constantly telling the sweating bodies of the O2 Academy that this was the best show they've ever played in the city, they failed to crack a smile, but nonetheless succeeded in delivering their trademark dynamic garage rock. What the Jarman brothers - Gary, Ross and Ryan, complete with their Beatles-inspired drum skin - lacked in crowd connection and a special kind of onstage charisma, they made up for in a cavorting catalogue of classics.

It may have been a Sunday night, but The Cribs' show made for a wayward night of unforgettable throwbacks; the loom of a new week was pushed to the back of the mind. Though they are currently touring on behalf of their sixth album For All My Sisters, which reached the UK top 10 earlier this year, their set seemed to be a non-stop barrage of the tracks that have cemented their 11 year career thus far. Perhaps this is why the audience was almost entirely made up of riotous, balding 30+ males in chinos and one distinctly older gentleman who just had to crowd surf.

(photo creds: digital spy)

Though The Cribs have achieved relatively little mainstream commercial success, they have garnered what can only be described as a cult following. Legions of dedicated fans, such as those at the Bristol leg of their tour, respond tremendously to anything the band throws at them. A 21-strong song setlist is a difficult thing for any musician to pull off (unless you're, like, The Rolling Stones or something) - to inhibit an audience's attention from wavering elsewhere is a craft that The Cribs have (almost) perfected. It's true that new single Summer Of Chances failed to inspire much passion, yet this instance was very much an anomaly.

From their sprawling collection of hits, it's likely that The Cribs would have played your favourite song (EXCEPT there was a horrible omission of the early 00s masterpiece You Were Always The One, which I found to be seriously upsetting). Opening with Ancient History and making their way through classics - both new and old - such as Moving Pictures and super-charged self-confessional I'm A Realist, there were a million moments to shout along to: Hey Scenesters!, the haunting thrills of Be Safe, and, of course, Men's Needs all immediately come to mind. The true diamond of the set (yes, it's one of my favourite songs ever so, yes, I can be shamelessly biased about it all) was You're Gonna Lose Us - the infectiously delusional, essentially Northern 2005 b-side. All anyone wanted to do was roar the chorus back to them: When I'm drunk I can be an arsehole / But that don't mean I've got no class though. Truer words have never been spoken (but I guess the claim that I have class, especially when drunk, is a much debatable one).

It is a rare occasion to leave a venue so satisfied with the artist's choice of showcased material as I did post The Cribs' Sunday night disco.

keep an eye out for our upcoming interview with swim deep on burst radio! i've also been working on pieces for the student newspaper, coming very soooooooon x

GIG REVIEW: Mac Demarco - The Roundhouse, 9th September

for fans of: Unknown Mortal Orchestra, DIIV, The War On Drugs

from a festival performance earlier this year
(photo creds: fame images)

Crossing the bridge at Camden Locke, it began. First they were in small quantities then, like a plague of locus, they multiplied and were everywhere. Walking down the street sporting cans of Red Stripe, they were greeted with more of their kind congregated on the grassy slope outside Camden Morrison's or lingering outside bars (which they probably hadn't even been into) on Chalk Farm Road smoking roll-ups. Then, Mecca is reached. And there are, what seems like, millions of them. The Mac Demarco clone squad is out in full force.

It was almost like a convention; the annual meeting for all who seek to emulate the style and aesthetic of Mr Demarco from head to toe. This was no exaggeration: a good 85% (an extremely mathematical estimation) of those who flocked to the Roundhouse to witness their idol in the flesh were living breathing cliches. The majority were clad in baggy t-shirts/sweatshirts/button-ups, jeans with the cuffs rolled up, sport socks pulled up to their ankles and any of the stereotypical footwear deemed acceptable to such a crowd. Many even went as far as to complete their look with the staple Mac accessory: the 80s flat cap (exemplified on 3/4 of his album covers thus far). It was fair to say that my second-hand embarrassment had seldom been so fierce. But at least no one had tried to imitate his iconic tooth gap: get the Demarco look.

Inside the venue itself, the atmosphere of the unmistakably try-hard crowd tiptoed into hysteria. Through the mist of marijuana (yes, people really did stoop to those depths to emphasise their "ultra-hip youthful rebellion") Demarco emerged to a vehement roar. It's clear from the get-go that these fans worship the holy ground he walks on.

Brooklyn's zaniest export has ascended from relative obscurity to against-the-tide hero status. His music is generally gentle soft rock slurs with the occasional doo-wop or quirk - intimate vanilla tunes that, remarkably, are able to keep themselves far away from bland territory - so what is it that's been able to charm the masses?

Mac during saucier times
(photo creds: tumblr)

I believe there to be a sort of illusion surrounding Mac Demarco. Because he engages in two-minute-long screams onstage in between songs and because it appears he has minimal responsibilities offstage, many consider him a pinnacle of hedonistic eccentricity. Often photographed surrounded by his beloved Marlboros or wearing a silly billy facial expression, it's easy to see why some perceive him as a bizarre nutjob. In reality, I judge him to be pretty normal. His antics are nothing short of happy-go-lucky banter. He's like a lad, except he's actually funny (e.g. when he strikes a multitude of poses while chanting "John" in honour of one of his new band members) and seems to be suffering from a bit of an identity crisis.

September 9th marked the second of Demarco's sold out shows at Camden's Roundhouse where he demonstrated a set heavy in his latest material from his newly-released mini album Another One. While songs like title-track Another One and The Way You'd Love Her created an aura of magnetism, others such as A Heart Like Hers fell onto deaf ears. His showmanship, however, was not the cause of this, but rather the crowd's bawdy restlessness.

Pictures of Mac Demarco gigs have always shown them to be artistic interpretations of feeding time at the zoo. Honestly, the pits are actual mad ting considering the nature of the music. From fists in faces to the current pulling fans under, it was clear that the mellow slacker smoothness in Demarco's catalogue was unmatched for the fans. The lawlessness reached its peak early in the set as soon as Demarco croaked the lines "As I'm getting older..." and everyone in the crowd screamed the entire song (which is, of course, the lazy boy anthem Salad Days from the 2014 album of the same name) back to him.

While the crowd's energy seemed to die somewhere along the halfway point, Demarco and his band steamrolled through the set like Duracell bunnies until the very end. Every song was the same classic that everyone had heard again and again while their Mac Demarco Spotify sessions played on loop, except live they're beefier and better. With an almost nitty gritty edge to his easy breezy freshness, he incited anarchy with favourites Freaking Out The Neighbourhood and Cooking Up Something Good. Perhaps the more rugged sound emanated from the Roundhouse's hideous sound system which meant hearing any spoken word from anyone onstage was literally impossible. Nonetheless, Demarco and his band seemed to slip into the spotlight of their biggest British stage to date with comfortable ease.

Mac and his Vans crowd surfing last year while they were
stiiiiiillll tooooogeeetttthhherrrrr
(photo creds: NME)

In his grand finale, Demarco ended with his cozy love serenade to long-time girlfriend Kiera (who he's waking at the end of the studio version - he's not calling over a cat as I originally thought). Still Together's shrill but in-tune wailing has a kind of Lion King-esque vibe going down and the live version has real gusto. While the band members onstage engage in an indulgent instrumental, what else can we expect from Demarco except for him to dive head first into the crowd only to emerge five minutes later utterly battered and bruised. Hobbling back onstage in a Sonic Youth shirt now ripped to shreds and unsalvageable, he mildly threatens to beat up whoever stole one of his red Vans before completing the howls of "stiiiiiillll tooooogethhherrrrrr". Apparently he was so pissed off at this that he refused to encore his usual Metallica cover. A bit of an ironic reaction considering he was detained by police mid-performance last year in Santa Barbara, CA for climbing the venue's scaffolding. I guess there's one thing you can learn from these experiences, Mac: don't feed the hipsters.

twin peaks: probably the most important band in the galaxy

...dissecting the politics of the music industry and championing underrated bands one step at a time...

(photo creds: Pooneh Ghana)

Twin Peaks are the generation-defining band that most of the generation hasn't heard of...yet. The cheeky chaps from Chicago (I already regret that alliterative combination) are set to do what The Strokes did for riotous indie rock in the previous decade - shatter any previous misconceptions and spearhead it into a a new, restored direction.

My gripe with modern 'indie' (besides the fact it is a truly awful world that should be used only to - ironically, of course - describe twatty teenagers) is that it fails to live up to its namesake. Indie is, in the classical sense of the word, associated with independent labels that traditionally churned out the kind of music of which this genre originates. However, could this also be translated into a more independent movement of music; one that nudges boundaries, challenge its peers to do better and gets audiences excited just because they can be. Transecendal electronica from Jamie xx and FKA Twigs and underground grime from JME and Skepta are doing this. Apart from the few exceptions, indie rock is not.

As I believe I've mentioned in previous blog entries, I feel that most of modern indie tends to mesh into one. Of course big sing-along choruses are fun, and boppy riffs act as ammunition for festival mosh pits, but what separates decent bands from those of potential heroic status? Indie seems to have lost its roots along the way and it's time that Twin Peaks brought it out of the woods.

Returning to The Strokes comparison; both bands capture rock music in its purest form - (seemingly) unfussed about delicacies, unsubtly advertising a passion for noise and pledging allegiance to their art. This Is It is a landmark in music history, so it should be noted that Twin Peaks' ascent into rock and roll fame won't be as quick as their apparent counterparts. However, who's to say that this quartet can't be as equally meteoric? It could be suggested that The Strokes achieved success so early in their career because they are associated with prominent labels and don't look like they play fight on an hourly basis. On the other hand, Twin Peaks are messy, marijuana obsessed teens, yet the latter's releases are significantly and seriously overlooked which is certainly not down to the quality of their first two projects.

Sunken - their debut mini-album - bursts with feverish colour. Erupting with serious DIY garage rock, it's over quicker than you can bat an eyelid. From the musty vocals to the explosive stifle of the percussion, there is little time for pause in a record that runs for less than twenty minutes: it's lo-fi scuzzy rock and roll in its most natural form.

The urgent immediacy in Sunken is endearing; almost every track fades into one another, giving it a more vintage touch and making it perfect for vinyl (apologies for the pretentiousness but I own it, and it's honestly amazing). There's also something strangely wistful about their lyrics (a la Natural Villain and Ocean Blue) even if they still spiced with youthful slang (particularly my favourite Stand In The Sand - an ode to their holy grail).

Clay of Twin Peaks (photo creds: unknown)

The boyish essence Twin Peaks captured on Sunken lingered into 2014 when they released their sophomore effort Wild Onion. While Sunken trembled with a this-is-an-extended-jam-session vibe, they truly wore their influences on their sleeve during the recording of Wild Onion (perhaps somewhat of a modern masterpiece, but that's just my opinion). These roots of inspiration lay the foundations for a great record and are most obvious in the album's title and artwork which mimic The Beach Boys' Wild Honey. Not only is the title of Twin Peaks' second record a nod to the 1967 album (both compromising untamed vegetation of some kind), but there are also similarities to be found in the fonts and positioning of the two album titles as well as the floral aesthetics - undoubtedly a homage on Twin Peaks' behalf. However, this is not where the Wild Honey influences come to a halt. Throughout Wild Honey there is a hedonistic thrill and buoyancy, particularly in Darlin' and the album's title track, that can be found to be so tightly intertwined in Wild Onion. Though the latter may be without the prominence of keyboards and organs to add that punky edge, the lazy carelessness of each respective band's vocals are uncanny.

i spy the similarities?

The Beach Boys aren't the only sixties/seventies swingers that Twin Peaks emulate. Particularly on Wild Onion, a lot of the tracks have a definite Rolling Stones air to them. From the Mick Jagger-esque yelps of Making Breakfast to the Stones style climaxes of I Found A New Way, it's blatantly obvious that Twin Peaks had Sticky Fingers on rotation whilst recording. The entire album works as a juxtaposition of the forceful garage gnarl (Flavour, No Way Out) with the delicate soft rock (Mirror Of Time and the ambrosial stoner daze of Ordinary People), something akin to The Kinks spectrum. Where Wild Onion truly succeeds is the harmonious balance of both, in tracks such as the uptempo euphoria of stand-out Telephone.

Where Twin Peaks triumph and other bands falter is the way they've coined their inspirations. Their body of work is less of a recycle of what we've heard in the past but more of a leasing of new life into the ways of the old classics. Through wicked live performances and songwriting that's beyond their years, it's clear their ethos is modernisation instead of imitation - and this is why they will reign supreme.

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