All the young dudes

Liverpool Sound City is now 75% over. More boo! Last night I went to see Hercules & Love Affair. Doors were advertised as 7.30pm, so I rolled up at half 8. But alas, Late of the Pier and Esser would not be appearing, pushing the doors and stage times back by a few hours. So I sat in a bar drinking Carling. By the time Telepathe made it on stage I was already a bit drunk. Florence and the Machine has a nice voice, but a few years ago wouldn't she have been in an aspiring girl group, trying to be the Sugababes?
The Field also appeared, but were not as much fun as ATP. Thir live set belongs in a cool club, not a Thursday night in Liverpool Barfly. They are still my best Swedish friends because I am dead cool and talk to dead cool bands and all that.
Once Hercules and Love Affair appeared, it was after midnight and my insides were churning with cheap lager. They put New Young Pony Club to shame with their funky disco beats and brass section. Well, trombone and trumpet.
So, it was officially a good gig. A bit late for a Thursday, for me at least. It was full of students shouting 'I've just handed in my disseration!' and snapping photos, so I must be a gormless figure in the background of approximately 287 pictures uploaded to Facebook today. Well, good for them, ready to party (sorry, RAVE) all night long. But I think daytime is for work, nighttime for sleep and evening for hobbies. Is that because I'm not a student or because I'm a tired grump?
The photo is of my handbag. It came from an overpriced souvenir shop in St Petersburg, not that you'd be able to guess it's from Russia.

Krazee-Eyez Killa

I love Timbaland. He's given the world so much pop perfection (Nelly Furtado's Loose and Justin Timberlake's Future Sex/Love Sounds). But all his gurning is descending into self-parody. The evidence is Flo Rida's Elevator, co-written and co-produced by Timbaland. But that's not enough for our Timbo. Oh no. He has to pop up in the video and contort his face. Start screen grabbing!

In conclusion: Elevator is an OK song, based on an odd penis-as-elevator metaphor (because, er, they both go up). Timbaland needs to chill out with a smoothie. He's produced about 552 albums this year (so far). You can't do everything, Timbaland! Take a break, or you'll find your agreeing to produce an album for the first Big Brother reject, so deluded by your own hype that you actually believe your knob-twiddling and vocal percussion can make a global superstar out of an aspiring glamour model from Wakefield.

(Weird formatting, I know, but I don't have time for too much image fiddling).

Santogold

Liverpool Sound City is already 50% over. Boo!There's a lot of exciting gigs happening, but I can't be in four different places at once (presumably watching three changeovers and one band). Last night I saw Santogold at Alma de Cuba, a converted chapel turned den of glamoluxe iniquity. It's usually a favourite drinking establishment of footballers, Hollyoaks 'stars' and glamour models.

It was a bit too dark for photos of the stained glass and chandeliers made out of antlers. So I took a photo of my feet instead. Those neon tights are starting to look a bit old rave.

Anyway, support from Alice Klar, The Real Heat and Ladyhawke (slightly odd, as Cock N Bull Kid, Cadence Weapon and Ladyhawke were advertised), Santogold took to the stage well after midnight. The hipster kids loved it, hoping that some of that New York cool would be passed down from Santi White and we could all forget the Liverpool murk outside. Backed by a DJ and two dancers, Santogold successfully straddled that chasm between pop and cool. Because pop music on its own apparently isn't cool, but only when presented by a Lower East Side hipster.

The dancers were ace, much better than hiring in some session musicians to play over a backing track. Dressed in identical white outfits with white framed sunglasses, they posed with military precision. It was very... gestural. Everybody went crazy for LES Artistes, she ended with new single Creator. And then I went home.

Current obsession - Lykke Li

I love Lykke Li. Maybe it's because I believe Sweden to be a wondrous paradise where the trains run on time, the elderly are respected and so on.
She just seems so lovely and untainted by trends: she can sing and write songs that are a bit kooky, but not too kooky. I haven't seen her live, but she strikes me as the sort of young lady who whips out a melodica mid-set. I fell in love when I first heard Little Bit (a restrained, I'm-not-in-love-if-you're-not-in-love song) last year. When debut album Youth Novels had a Swedish release in January, I had to snaffle it up. It's patchy, but the beautiful moments are beautiful. Perhaps with a little more time spent with Peter, Bjorn and John and she'll hit the songwriting nail on the head for the second album. Because Sweden is a wondrous paradise where you don't get dropped if the first single doesn't 'perform' chart-wise, you get nurtured. (That's how it looks from the outside.)
Here is a video of Lykke singing I'm Good, I'm Gone, with about half of the Stockholm music scene (or STHLM, if you're cool like that). Including Robyn. Yeah!

Bleurovision

The best song won, right? If you like power ballads so mawkish they are slapping you into submission.
I stopped clutching my betting slip early on, because my chosen punts on Ukraine and Armenia obviously wouldn't be paying out. But Eurovision's not all about spending money in William Hill, and I'm sort of happy for Russia (but would have been happier for Ukraine). I once spent 30 days in Russia, so I feel some sort of deep connection to the country. Not that it cares about me.
The performance was, of course, ridiculously overblown. Dima sexing it up in white shirt and trousers was not enough for Russia. Oh no. He also needed Olympic figure skating champion Evgeni Plushenko and Hungarian violinist Edvin Marton. Playing a Stradivarius. The performance felt like it was shouting 'this clenched fist - it's emotion! This miniature ice rink - it's passion!' and so on. Perhaps such obvious signifiers are necessary when English is a second language for the majority of the ESC community?
Why did Russia win? Maybe, after 53 years of Eurovision, it was their turn. Maybe all those former Soviet states didn't want to enrage Gazprom, as Terry Wogan suggested. Maybe the power of Dima's non-threatening sex appeal is too irresistible for Europe.
Oh well. Here's to Moscow 2009.

Weekending in a Velvet Underground song

Last weekend (so long ago, but I haven't had chance to write about it until now) I went to All Tomorrow's Parties curated by Explosions In The Sky at Minehead Butlins. This is not to be confused with All Tomorrow's Parties at Camber Sands, because that one was curated by Pitchfork. And is at a Pontins, which is like the weird cousin nobody likes to talk about of holiday camps. Butlins, however, is posh. It's true! Pubs, eateries, go-karts, a high-ropes course...
The line-up was like Metacritic's best of 2007 albums, including The Field (sample-heavy Swedish ambient techno!), Stars of the Lid (guitar-heavy ambient drones!), Battles (guitar-heavy tribal post-rock!) and Animal Collective (um, samples, guitars, drones, Beach Boys!).
Out of all the festivals I've been to, ATP is probably one of the best. It's all about the MUSIC. Well, more about the music than most festivals... and because you get to sleep in a chalet, you don't have the problem of accidentally camping next to a group of morons who stay awake all night boasting about how many drugs they can consume during an average night out in Barnsley. Er, drugs! Illegal! Well done!
Between all the over-priced Carlsberg and vodka & ginger beers, here are my highlights of ATP vs EITS...
...A Hawk And A Hacksaw were lovely, although a little lost on the Pavilion stage on Saturday afternoon. It's a bit too massive for their Balkan fiddle and accordion twiddlings.
...The Field were a perfect end to dance out the weekend between 1.30am and 2.30am on Sunday night. And I'm not just saying that because Pitchfork gave his album 9 out of 10. Strange that all weekend most people looked like post-rock fans, but as soon as the 4/4 beats and laptop appear they start shouting 'RAVE!!' and 'THIS IS JUST LIKE SKINS!!'.
...Battles played twice, and I never realised there was such demand. Sunday night was a mere 45 minute hit parade, but Saturday night's set was for the fans. Until 3am (bit late, isn't it?). But I realised that I love them, so I don't mind that it was long past my bedtime. Don't laugh, 3am is late for a gig.
No photos, sorry, as my camera didn't travel with me. :(

Florence and the Fuhrer

I had another inspection of the Liverpool Sound City guide, and discovered the most inappropriate sentence under the blurb for London folky-dolky Florence & The Machine:
'She also has almost as much stage presence as Hitler'.
Honestly. Who thought that was an acceptable use of language? And one mention of Adolf apparently wasn't enough, as it continues:
'She's like a funny, sexy popstar Hitler without the despotism and with more beautiful songs and the utmost love and respect for Jews and gays and gypsies.'
There are some words I don't think belong as adjectives in music writing (such as anorexic or schizophrenic), but using such a feared dictator in a simile is just wrong. Mitigating it with the 'respect for Jews and gays and gypsies' does not make this even slightly OK. It's not even constructed elegantly: there are five uses of 'and'.
I hope it's a fan-written ode copy-and-pasted from her MySpace blog. It must be, right?

Erroneous apostrophes

Somebody decided that Liverpool needs a music conference. And so, 27-30 May will be the inaugural Liverpool SoundCity! It is a music conference so exciting that it comes with an exclamation mark attached. 'Music conference' basically means a load of gigs over four days, with industry bods giving a few talks. Well, it gives Midge Ure a job.

Festival director David Pichilingi writes in the introduction that 'it is hoped that by being in the early part of the year SoundCity! can become as important in the UK as SXSW is in the States'. Well, maybe, given time and investment. But such a sloppy approach to spelling, grammar and punctuation in the festival (sorry, conference) guide is a poor start.

It's a nice design, courtesy of a Fact Magazine template. But asking bands to write their own blurb is asking for trouble. Some of the more ridiculously overblown statements, gleaned from the 'unsigned' section, are below. Somewhere, an underpaid and overworked editor is weeping.

-'This lot just write songs that soar forever and want you to stop what you are doing and change your life... forever'. (Man From Michael) Doesn't that sound a bit cultist?

- 'Like a well travelled suitcase, their music wears faded stickers which say Reggae, Dub, Punk Hip-hop and Rap alongside the more sober emblems of Blues, Western Surf and Rock.' (Daniel Orlick & The Diplomats) So you're like a battered suitcase? And music genres are not proper nouns.

- 'Each live performance serves as an exorcism, and with songs as rich as maple, you'd be wise to watch'. (The Pedantics) Unsettling, mixed exorcism/tree metaphor.

- 'Here is a band, with poise like no other, who simply aim to sing about what's right to them, whether good or bad. Whose tunes raise drowned heads'. (The Vagabonds) They resurrect the dead!

The lesson here is that bands should concentrate on music. And that editors should be given more than ten minutes and payment in Doritos to edit this bollocks.

Saturday night in The Barfly

On Saturday night - which already feels so long ago - I bumbled down to Liverpool's Barfly for Los Angeles party-starters The Mae Shi. I'd only heard their name in passing and mainly went to watch Birmingham trio Johnny Foreigner. I can't know about every band. Or can I?
There was a local band on the loft (e.g upstairs) stage when I arrived, and I didn't catch their name. Rude! I'm glad that young bands can get support slots to try out their songs and possibly hone their talent. But that doesn't mean I want to hear them thrashing through attempts to sound like The Strokes/Libertines/Joy Division. This band, whoever they were, weren't particularly bad or particularly good. They were particularly mediocre, which is the best a first-band-of-the-night can hope for. Strange to think that every night of the week in every city and large town there are similar bands playing similar songs, while their friends snap camera phone pics for the MySpace. Such is life.
The Lionheart Brothers were the next support. Who needs two supports? Honestly. The guitarist was wearing a glittery headscarf, fiddling with a wah pedal and looked a bit like Naboo, so I feared a psychedelic wig-out. I assumed they were Norwegian, because there were lots of LIPA students in the room. Norwegians love studying at LIPA. I haven't discovered why. Anyway, The Lionheart Brothers (proof that all the good band names have been taken) were actually rather good. Psychedlic, yes, but not but without too much noodling around. The singer looked like a bargain basement Steve Buscemi.
Johnny Foreigner were good, and just as sweaty as their previous Barfly gig just after Christmas. My heart really likes them and for them to do well, but my head tells me their songs are too chaotic and unlovely for them to make the jump from good NME reviews to success (e.g earning a decent living from being a band).
The Mae Shi were good, although a bit self-consciously wacky. They started and ended their set from within the audience, which was like, dude, challenging. It was a fun-filled half hour involved an omnichord, fractured pop and a large sheet waved above the audience. So that was it, another gig. And then I went home.

The Last Tycoon by Peter Moren

Here's another album review for This Is Fake DIY. What a lovely chap that Peter is etc:

Taking a sabbatical from his day job as part of Swedish spook-pop superstars Peter, Bjorn and John, Peter Morén releases a solo album of intimate, folk-influenced songs. Largely written and recorded over several years while touring with PB&J, The Last Tycoon is a glimpse into Peter’s individual talents as a songwriter. The title is lifted from Elia Kazan’s 1976 film, itself an adaptation of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s final, unfinished novel. Nobel laureate Harold Pinter wrote the screenplay, so we must conclude that Peter knows all about culture. Tempting though it may be to draw comparisons between Peter’s songwriting and the film’s plot of an executive losing the, ahem, plot, any hypothesising would be tenuous. The Last Tycoon (film) is about the impossibility of the American dream; The Last Tycoon (album) is about failing love affairs and working as a music supply teacher (on Social Competence: ‘when I do my best to get a minute’s rest there’s always someone trying to exhaust me completely’).
There is less variation than PB&J’s genre-hopping Writer’s Block, as Peter relies on domesticated folk. Mainly backed by an acoustic guitar, a medley of instrumentation adds a homemade quality throughout the album, including handclaps, theremin, piano and violin. Surrounded by a warm crackling, Old Love is like a near forgotten memory rediscovered in an attic. Missing Link is a summer afternoon daydream, while Twisted spins out over a music box piano riff. Single Reel to Real begins like a jaunty round the campfire song which briefly hits a dark interlude of tolling tubular bells (‘who wants to be real? Nobody I know’). All charming stuff.
Over ten tracks, Peter’s vocals become tiring as they strain to reach the higher notes: 40 minutes is a long time to spend in the company of one closely microphoned Swede. He seems like such a lovely gent, always well turned out, that you just want him to succeed. And however appealing it is to speak of Peter Morén as on the same level as Leonard Cohen or Robyn Hitchcock, the comparison simply isn’t true. The songs are gentle reflections on his life, composed in snatched moments between band commitments. The Last Tycoon does confirm what anybody who fell head over heels with Young Folks already knows (so that’s just about everybody, then): Peter is a talented and versatile young man. The Last Tycoon is a pleasing diversion until the PB&J follow-up to Writer’s Block.