I have to concede from the sheer sight of this CD I was expecting a really horrible metal band but instead it is a chunky sounding indie rock band where all instruments sound as if they have been recorded at levels too high in the mix which makes this pleasantly as far from crisp as is acceptable. Perhaps by mistake they have tapped into a sound that they should quickly make their own.

Labelling themselves as “gentleman amateur”, their own created genre of rock that surprisingly hasn’t been snapped up by the NME yet, the two songs plod along like from a quirky band you fear you might see playing in your local forever, until you get off your arse and leave your hometown. This is a band that you have to outgrow.

With a bass sound that sounds like moving furniture and a Hammond that sometimes sounds as if it is playing a different song this is almost a classic piece of indie rock that bands just do not seem to invest in making any more – the almost bombastic chorus hooks reminding me of earnest early nineties bands around the circles of Ned’s Atomic Dustbin and Mega City Four, music to some ears but not to others (and then I actually bother to look at their website to find myself confronted with mohawks!).

As I griped above this is not resoundingly modern music it is more the continuation of something that is waning more in popularity by the year. In times where indie rockers seem to be more interested in finding their beaten down white man blues sound from their middle class surroundings, the quirky celebration of student rock has never felt more rejecting. It would be fun for the Psychotic Reaction to find fame but not really likely.

Thesaurus moment: antediluvian.

The Psychotic Reaction

With an obvious penchant for New York, this lush sounding London five piece are of the female fronted indie pop breed looking to update on the Blondie. I would not say this kind of band is uncommon but it is rare you actually find an act that successfully manages to pull the feat off.

The band reminds me most of all of Sleeper, which is either a sound ten years too late or one just ready for a return/revival. Lyrically however the band are, dare I say, somewhat tepid revisiting grounded topics that have been ploughed to death through the seven ages of rock that there apparently are although the French twinge on the lyrics does lend them some kind of wonderful.

Ultimately though the guitars too dry for me not clean just bland lacking force and energy – this is pop music that is just not popular.

Thesaurus moment: barren.

Havana Guns
Cigarette Music

On the same day that I begin reviewing this record I find/buy an old Philistines Jr seven inch in Music And Video Exchange for 5p not realising that there is a relation between them and Mice Parade.

With a name that is derived from an anagram of leader Adam Pierce’s name, Mice Parade are something of indie veterans with this being their fifth album. And this is a tough record to review as it proves a really tranquil experience which unfortunately sees the music slipping into the background of my day.

A much layered affair, this is a relaxed and slow building selection. Playing out like a travel companion in the midst of some deep conversation, the swift time changes and insertions of any instrument at their disposal, The Mice Parade have produced a record that glides successfully combining elements of folk and noise with strongly crafted songs.

Listened to on a Sunday morning in the summer is when this record feels most comfortable, I find myself transfixed with the blessed ease the protagonists appear to have with life.

Featuring guest appearances on vocals by Laetitia Sadier of Stereolab and Kristin Anna Valtysdottir of Mum that perfectly compliment the almost Dando/Grohl-esqe pitch of Pierce, it is not too hard to envisage how this record sounds, not least with the knowledge that Doug Scharin (June Of 44/Rex/Him) can be counted amongst the band’s numbers.

Over the course of the nine tracks it ranges from the delicate dream state of “Double Dolphins On The Nickel” (sadly not some kind of Minutemen tribute) to the out and out drone of “Snow” and the very Tortoise/Sixtoo-esqe mathematics of “Tales Of Las Negras”, where Sadier makes her appearance.

An album of far flung beauty, in a world where so many are attempting folk-tinged electronica and falling flat on their faces, here is a timely reminded how sweet the cherry can taste.

Thesaurus moment: sumptuous.

Mice Parade
Fat Cat Records

With a band name that just screams aggression, the record doesn’t take long to mark a target and start a fight. Complete with something of a real bitterness, the character Billy Ruffian comes flying out of the tower blocks of Manchester, rant and raving all over what may or may not be something of a modern concept album about a dick.

Often sounding like Art Brut if they were tasty in a ruck, within a few songs Billy Ruffian has taken pops at the music industry, other bands, girls, anything it would seem before descending into some kind of flexing self loathing pose with a drink problem and obsession with death.

Musically rounded by fizzy guitars that sound like sirens, heavy bass lines and occasional brass section accompaniments, song writing that is true has an end product the often sounds like a mash of The Fall and Roxy Music on a budget fronted by Frank Sidebottom or at least his best friend at school. Later it also occurs to me that this is how the Sultans Of Ping (ask your parents or consult a history book) would sound were they played at the wrong speed slow.

The evident humour is often difficult to decipher as the songs play either hit or miss, reaching a low point with the Tiger Lillies-esqe “Ballad Of Billy Ruffian” which is a sad descend into cheese. Fortunately the sharp boiled lyrical content of the excellent “Music v Money” is the lasting recollection after the album has long passed. The lyrics are clearly crafted as narrations of turmoil and frustration, commonplace with any listener/observer that has ever been involved.

The album ends with “The Last Day”, a satisfactory way to end an album, working like the speech of somebody lying on their death bed (maybe Mr Ruffian). Unlike other things from Manchester, this is educated and very much underdog in its making but full of potential to equally ruffle feathers.

Thesaurus moment: sly.

Billy Ruffian
Filthy Little Angels

I have truly been fucking shocked at hearing this record on daytime Radio One. I could literally not believe my ears as the old school emo hardcore flew out the FM and I was transported back to the future.

It is nearly ten years now since I was buying seven inches by bands that don’t just sound a little like this band, they sounded EXACTLY like this band (well, this single at least). Actually the reality is that Gallows sound exactly like such DIY heroes from back in the day as Bob Tilton, Tribute, Beacon etc etc. At one point, if you went up to Leeds it seemed like bands sounding like this were growing on trees and Subjugation Records were selling their records through their distro.

So what on earth has happened? I feel it is a truly strange climate these days that sees bands in the (near) mainstream sounding like bands from “my roots” and I truly cannot decide if this is a good thing or a bad thing. And at the end of the day, who is it that can claim to have won the war? Did the majors get wise to the innovation of the DIY indies (ho ho) and cash in on it? Have the underground labels been ultimately proved right in their ideas as to where music (especially rock) was going? Regardless, I know which demographic will be sleeping on a big pile of money tonight as opposed to sleeping on the floor.

I suspect I am the last person at the party to hear this record as I understand the album was originally released on such an indie (in Nottingham?) is now being majorly overhauled by Warners (all for a price). At the end of the day however it is just still really distracting to hear my record collection from ten years ago being played on daytime FM when I thought that was the most cutting edge sounding shit that would forever remain marginalised. Truly, where is the (music) world heading? Kids today!

Thesaurus moment: disconcerting.

Gallows
Warner Music

With a pleasantly fuzzed up dirty Soundgarden-esqe guitar sound, this Myspace approaching band sustain my attention for exactly 22 seconds until the Ian Astbury style vocals kick in and spoil the show, reducing proceedings to little more than dated hair band cock rock middle class white man blues grunge rock of the most hormonal kind. That surely can’t be a good thing.

With a name that I keep confusing with Deidre (Barlow?), The Police lifted “S.O.S.” insertion into the first song only serves to extend the painfully commercial aimed intention and unoriginality of this CD. And then track two sounds like the Manic Street Preachers in the most AOR of modes.

Deride are a managed band destined to play pubs and rock clubs for eternity. I could go to the rock bush outside right now and pull two or three of them of the vine in a moment. Actually I am currently shitting a band like this out of my arse right now!

Sent by their management company (they’re managed!), unfortunately I was not supplied with a bio sheet to go with this CD so I have to make my own up with my imagination. And my limited imagination only serves me to believe that in their part time these guys are bricklayers after being the kings of the school in their formative years. Their record collections contains every CD Kerrang has given five Ks to in the past ten years. And with a demo cover that features a strewn bottle of Jack Daniels, packets of fags, unused Durex, some bird’s bikini top (or undies, I just can’t tell the difference these days), a rolled up twenty pound note and a circle of powder that may or may not (probably not) be blow – I don’t think you could mistake these guys for being emo. I wish I had never been sent this.

Thesaurus moment: obsolete.

Deride
MepWeb Management

This is the most exciting new band I have discovered so far in 2007, an act so refreshing whilst also being so crisp and concise in the wearing of its influences on its sleeves. In a time where the past few years indie music has threatened to give into pant swinging neo-hippy folk types, pointless and aimless noise acts and a full on thrust of grunge nostalgia……basically here is a band THAT FUCKING ROCKS!

Well, “rocks” in an experimental and angular Sonic Youth inspired manner but still it should just what the indie rock doctor is ordering. The music of the Muggabears is immediate through a familiarity of its genre and sheer frenetic dynamism of its playing. It evades me as to just how many times I have heard music like this but bands are still discovering methods with which they are able to make it still sound fresh and inventive.

With obvious nods to Sonic Youth (the band having transplanted from Oklahoma up to New York) it often also resembles Unwound at their most positively dank and dense whilst sporting/rocking a lineup dynamic akin to Blonde Redhead, which at the close of proceedings is a very exciting proposition (in theory).

The choicest track on offer is the elevated “The Goth Tarts”, a towering delivery of menace that builds with the most sinister of intros into a song that literally feels young coupled with a severe sense of guilt and (un)healthy dose of darkness in its mood being fairly nihilistic in its message (“you shouldn’t have children, you shouldn’t read books”).

Night Choreography runs in at seven songs over 24 minutes and there is something of an inconsistency in the offerings as “Automatic Others” appears to fall apart as the singer experiences something of a breakdown (probably of intention) and “Dead Kid Kicks” cheekily lifts heavily from “Purr” by Sonic Youth, something they will be given the benefit of the doubt for for only so long.

When the heavy bass of “Now I’ve Got A Sword” swoops in, the basic eruption and destruction coupled with distorted insane vocals and bloody hooks happily provides proof/evidence that time spent on this band is time well spent. Perhaps not the finished item, there is a mass of exciting indications to be taken from this record that time will hopefully be fulfilled in its promise.

Thesaurus moment: capable.

Muggabears

This was a random LP/twelve inch that was just sent to my flat addressed to No Pictures last summer, something which I have to admit freaked me out because I have no idea as to just where they got my current address from. Hmmm……..

Big Nurse are something of a terrifying proposition, a pulsing and repetitive excretion of sheet metal white noise all in the name of ferocity. Upon first listen a person could be forgiven for dismissing this as just noise and they would be right but it is also so much more.

The sounds coming from stereo (people please send me vinyl and more of it!) reminds me of recent acts I have seen such as Chris Corsano and Rocket No 9, improv infused monsters looking to push boundaries further and further with each onslaught and performance. This music comes straight out of the heart of Sun Ra whilst being conceived and performed by/from standards set out by punk. As the first side of the record comes to an end sound akin to the din made by a cutlery drawer falling down several flights of stairs of a council building, I make myself a cup of tea and ask God “just what else can I expect from this act now?”

I think American Waste is the perfect title for this record; the heady din is very industrial, like a factory in the middle of nowhere producing the middle of nothing, a pointless industry that can seemingly only be found in downsized America and the broken working classes. The pain I feel from this record is akin to the latest worker to miss a meal through failing to have employment. The whistles on the record say it all.

Side two begins with more drilling and a relentless patter exhibiting much more energy than the previous slab – imagine Lightning Bolt covering “Revolution” by Spaceman 3 and suddenly we are live from Planet Load Records. Out the blocks however, the “tune” does not sustain and again the assault becomes overwhelming and difficult to live with, which is exactly the kind of response you suspect Big Nurse wish to treat you with on a big scale. As a Dick Dale sound-alike subtly invades the “song” towards the close it all ends with a painful crash and I am able to go back to my life (and watching “How To Look Good Naked”). If you need a party cleared soon, this is the record to do it with.

I will never play this record ever again.

Thesaurus moment: throbbing.

Big Nurse
High Density Headache Records

This is a vindictive little record aiming true at the current crop of “indie” acts buzzing around London A&R circles. And equally I feel quite the victim myself as I hand over my hard earned fiver at Rough Trade’s Talbot Road shop for a copy on “limited” pink vinyl which keeps skipping, over and over and over (piece of shit).

Having created something of a buzz in itself on Myspace, the targets in question are perhaps the first wave/generation of Myspace acts to transfer from the computer screen onto the big screen (whatever that is).

Of the acts assaulted some deserve it and some don’t (well, no one is really innocent) but it is hard to fault anyone to who refers to Miss LDN herself as “Lily Keith Allen”. It’s snotty and cynical but you can’t help but laugh at the cattiness of it all because in actuality it is generally pretty spot on in its statements.

I think I have had a taster of the “scene” addressed here first hand as I have sat and watched at work for a year a young lad that looks like Alex Zane act as A&R in the publishing department where I toil, displaying neither any real musical taste/knowledge or with any hope in hell of actually getting anything signed. He may be mates with The Kooks but in reality the fact he just spent all day staring at one particular website earned him the name “Myspace Boy.” I say “spent” as in the past tense because he has fucked off now as the publishing function has now been downsized to next to nothing. “Bye bye A&R you’re not needed here any more.”

Musically the track, complete with Nathan Barley sample at the close (point made), consists of pretty standard beats relying on witty snipes by it’s inventors and whilst it is hardly likely to change the course of music history I certainly feel it gives a good lesson.

For what it’s worth it sounds like the work of Peckham’s DJ Rubbish to me.

Thesaurus moment: cocky.

LDN Is A Victim

Packaging wise this is an interesting CD as it has a barcode but doesn’t actually have any kind of record label attached to it, it would seem. Is this where the industry is apparently heading – where bands/acts are now self released brands and record labels have been made unnecessary and redundant. Regardless though the cover artwork looks fantastic, like some kind of explosion taken from a Golden Age Marvel or DC comic.

Initially the record reminds me a lot of a long lost band called Letters To Cleo although the occasional vocal quirk does suggest a penchant towards Alanis Morissette combined with a chorus that could be straight out of The Corrs back catalogue.

For a girl (soft) rocker there feels a distinct lack of a rebellious edge, this is all so horribly well adjusted, agonised but in that soft victim way. Comparisons aside, judged on its own merits the songs are very clean and competently created but not really pushing any boundaries.

By the close of the record ultimately I just cannot judge nor decide as to whether the true leanings sway towards alternative rock or full on pop. Certainly at times I am reminded of The Cranberries and very much an Irish Alanis Morissette (with a dab of Avril Lavigne) but having made such trite comparisons I would really hate to come to release that I am acting listening to (dealing with) some haggard old punk trying to play it straight.

There is a lot in this record for people to take and enjoy, those people just happen to be either elderly and/or very dull.

Thesaurus moment: duplicity.

Lori Steele