Patrick Wolf: Animal whimsy

 I went to this on Friday. It was a fun evening and a very different set to that which I saw the effete Londoner perform as Arcade Fire's support act about five years ago. It seemed as though the venue was issuing access all areas passes to everyone on the guestlist which, as you can imagine, made me feel extremely important. You know you've entered the big leagues when Patrick Wolf is practically begging you to hang out in his back stage area. That isn't a gay joke. It reads like one, but it isn't.

Patrick Wolf

The Pleasance Theatre, Edinburgh

8/2/13

Touring in support of Sundark and Riverlight, a double album comprising stripped down re-recordings of familiar material, 2013 is Patrick Wolf's jubilee year. A full decade has passed since the release of his debut and he's marking the occasion by casting a retrospective eye over his catalogue to date. At the ripe old age of 29, he can no longer be marvelled at as a precocious wunderkind, nor can he hide behind layers of electronic production, at least for the time being. Tonight finds him fronting an acoustic four-piece and performing with a clarity of vision largely absent from his previous work.

He may be heard pondering “what road to be choosing” on set opener 'The Gypsy King', surely an acknowledgement of the career crossroads at which he finds himself, but Wolf is undoubtedly enjoying the freedom and spontaneity that his current ensemble affords him. Backed by swelling accordion and fiddle, he's hit upon a rich vein of Weimar cabaret pop and excels in playing the part of a melodramatic troubadour. His voice has matured into a guttural growl reminiscent of Edwyn Collins' and he teases beautiful notes from his ukulele without a hint of twee gimmickry. His older material clearly retains a great deal of meaning to him and he approaches the songs with vigour and purpose.

Bare bones takes on the likes of 'Overture' and 'Pigeon Song' are brave and moving, but Wolf's willingness to delve into his past is balanced by a desire to reflect on his current circumstances. As such, unfortunate moments of saccharine sentimentality creep into the set, most notably on 2011's 'House', played tonight as a po-faced ode to domestic bliss. However striking it is to see Wolf in this context, it's during these moments of self indulgent sincerity that the audience finds itself craving just a little more artifice from the performer.

Lewis Porteous

Mike Heron & Trembling Bells: Heron addicts

I submitted this to The Fly a week ago. It isn't on their site, but should be soon. I love early ISB and once saw Mike Heron support Robyn Hitchcock. That was in 2010, I think. Anyway, Trembling Bells are ace and really made this Celtic Connections performance memorable. I had a painful headache on the evening but, like a true professional, neglected to mention this fact in my review. You know what else? I was only sitting next to the uncle of a member of folk instrumentalists Rura, wasn't I? A proud, proud man.

Two facts about Mike Heron:

1. Vinyl Villains is selling the majority of the Incredible String Band's discography and claims that each record was formerly Heron's personal copy.

2. The owner of my favourite record shop, VoxBoxMusic, once told me that Heron was so delighted to see a copy of his solo debut Smiling Men With Bad Reputations on display in-store that he returned with a small entourage hours later to point at it.

Mike Heron & Trembling Bells

The Mitchell Auditorium, Glasgow

24/1/13

Had songwriters Mike Heron and Robin Williamson split four or five albums into their career, the Incredible String Band's legacy would be immaculate. As things turned out, perception of their partnership has been tainted by knowledge of escalating animosity between the pair and their eventual foray into Scientology. Although the duo continued to produce interesting work as the seventies wore on, they came to embody the death of the previous decade's hippy dream and left many admirers disillusioned. Even long time producer and manager Joe Boyd now seems almost embarrassed by the duo, his memoirs suggesting that "Mike and Robin represent aspects of the sixties its survivors find most embarrassing... History has deemed ISB terminally unhip, forever identified with an incense-drenched, tripped out folkiness." What the Svengali failed to note is that for a horde of emerging psych folk stars, Joanna Newsom and Devandra Banhart among them, his former charges are as hip as it gets; they were never less than inventive and, at their best, made vital, forward thinking music.

Tonight Mike Heron shambles meekly on stage, his appearance calling to mind a shrunken Gerard Depardieu. He may not look the part, but it soon becomes clear that he's very much an artist re-invigorated. He's collaborating with Trembling Bells, Glasgow's leading purveyors of tripped out trad, and it's difficult to imagine more sympathetic allies. They encase the rickety likes of 'Greatest Friend' and 'Chinese White' in a shimmering, kaleidoscopic wall of sound and, while Heron's voice is initially lost in the mix, he becomes a gently authoritative presence as the evening progresses. Particularly impressive are 'Black Jack Davy''s freewheeling, fiddle led stomp, the rousing, unaccompanied harmonies of 'Sleepers Awake!' and the ecstatic, unfathomable 'Very Cellular Song'.

For their part, Trembling Bells' new arrangements of ISB tracks frequently surpass those of the originals and they respectfully leave their mark on a handful of Robin Williamson compositions, most notably the devotional 'Maya'. The mutual admiration between Heron and the group is obvious and the evening offers tantalising hope that the unassuming 70 year old may yet enjoy a long overdue second wind.

Lewis Porteous

Beach House: Interminable dullards

Owning the group's first three albums may suggest that I'm a Beach House fan, yet I've always been pretty sniffy about them. I thought seeing the group live would change my opinion but it didn't. I was actually anticipating some aggressive comments beneath my review on the Fly's site, but everyone seems to agree with me. Another failed shot at controversial glory!

Beach House

The Arches, Glasgow

29/10/12

If history teaches us anything about Beach House, it's that they're consistent. A haze of droning keyboards, programmed beats and warped slide guitar, the band's musical palette was clearly defined from the outset and needed only the involvement of producer Chris Coady to render it a marketable proposition. Employing a more assertive sound than before, 2010's Teen Dream album was a breakthrough hit and won a substantial international following. This year's Bloom served to consolidate their success but offered few signs of change or progress and the same can be said about tonight's show. Anyone watching Victoria Legrand and Alex Scally perform on stage could justifiably describe them as either at the top of their game or stuck in a rut.

Touring as a tight three piece with drummer Daniel Franz, the fullness of the group's music is initially astonishing. Legrand's organ playing is stately and glacial, while her blocked nose vocals alternate between ethereal murmurs and despondent wails. Scally contributes intricate guitar effects and angelic vocal harmonies as he bounces enthusiastically atop a stool, their sidekick pounding new life into each song.

Unfortunately, what seems striking at first feels repetitive over time. 'Lazuli' and 'Norway' are atmospheric gems when heard in isolation, but listen to them in close proximity and it's hard not to be struck by the similarity of their wordless choruses. Most of the new material aired carries the same weight of familiarity as the band exploits a winning formula to the hilt. The slow burning 'Irene' stands out with an extended instrumental passage, but it's a performance of 'Gila', from 2008's Devotion that best offers a reminder of how essential Beach House can be.

Lewis Porteous

Ray Davies: kink in the armour

Here's another recent review that I'm waiting for The Fly to post on its site. In 2007, Ray Davies put on one of the most enjoyable shows I've seen. He played loads of old Kinks hits and belted them out with genuine enthusiasm. His voice was spot on and all the new tracks, from his solo album 'Other People's Lives', sounded great. I saw him again years later and he was just going through the motions, tossing off the likes of Lola with all the enthusiasm of a man who's been obliged to play the songs for about 40 years. I decided not to pay to see him again and only covered this show out of curiosity. It was a fun night, but I should probably have passed on it and continued to think of him as he was in five years ago.

Ray Davies

Glasgow Royal Concert Hall

12/10/12

After sheepishly asking our permission to play new material, a surprisingly self aware Ray Davies retracts his request on the grounds that tonight's audience has turned up purely in the hope of hearing decades old Kinks classics. Gone, it seems, is the misanthrope who penned 1981's sneering 'Give the People What they Want', not to mention the music industry survivor with two stellar solo albums under his belt. The Ray Davies of 2012 is an unrepentant crowd pleaser and wastes little time before dusting off the hits.

Stripped down renditions of 'Sunny Afternoon' and 'Dedicated Follower of Fashion' arrive early in the set and prompt mass sing-alongs, as do inevitable full band performances of 'Lola' and 'Till the End of the Day'. However, while the crowd's goodwill toward the performer is infectious, there's no mistaking the fact that he's sleepwalking through the material. The lyrics to 'Autumn Almanac' are repeatedly fluffed, while an a capella link between 'Where Have All the Good Times Gone?' and 'Tired of Waiting for You' seems careless and unfocussed, Davies absent mindedly veering from hit to hit with little sense of purpose.

The three most recent songs come from 1971's underrated Muswell Hillbillies album and are played with refreshing conviction, 'Oklahoma, USA' in particular. The ironic triumphalism of 'Victoria' feels especially pointed following the singer's turn at the Olympics' closing ceremony, while 'Waterloo Sunset' is presented before us with the love of a proud parent. Davies is clearly still capable of hitting the mark whenever the mood strikes him and, churlish as it may seem to complain about too nostalgic a set from one of the greatest singles acts of his time, sells himself short by bowing down to obligation. Not that tonight's audience notices, bellowing out each word with evangelical fervour. Whatever the evening's shortcomings, Ray Davies has earned himself a lifetime pass and, for most, just to be in the same room as him is an honour in itself.

Lewis Porteous

Grizzly Bear: the spirit of Prog

I've a backlog of live reviews that are yet to go up on The Fly's website. The advantage of posting content online is the immediacy with which it can reach people, but I supppose everything has to be vetted by busy editors. Anyway, since no-one reads this vanity site, it's OK for me to post the pieces here in the meantime.

This is the latest review, of last weekend's Grizzly Bear show.  My girlfriend had a ticket for this, so I covered it as a way of accompanying her. She describes the concert as the best thing she's ever seen, but I wouldn't go that far. It was good though, just lacking in any sense of spontaneity or real excitement. It was almost like prog rock in places, which surprised me coming from such a hip band. It's as if punk never happened. Ultimately, I enjoyed it but didn't have much of an opinion of the night, hence my stalling for time intro.

Finally, this was the third time I've seen Ireland's Villagers perform as a support act. Still the most utterly risible and pretentious lyricist I've ever encountered.

 

Grizzly Bear

The Barrowlands, Glasgow

20/10/12

The Fly is pulled aside to undergo a routine bag inspection immediately upon arrival at The Barrowlands. After some vigorous rummaging, a sealed pack of moth balls and bottle of Vicks Nasal Spray are uncovered. The security man holds them aloft with an inquisitive look on his face, before wearily concluding “At least you're not a fucking hipster.” What does he mean by this? We head upstairs to find out and are greeted by only a modest number of ironic moustaches and 90s Hip Hop t-shirts. People of all demographics have shown up and the atmosphere couldn't be more pleasant.

If the world is intent on proclaiming Grizzly Bear the quintessential hipster band, it's mainly because they're based in glamorous Brooklyn. It helps that their records sound slightly clinical and detached of course, but to suggest that the group make anything besides creative, accessible pop music is a bit of a stretch. Tonight's performance is that of a combo whose avant garde edges and wilful eclecticism are indications of increasing confidence and artistic maturity, rather than nods to prevailing trends.

Lifted from this year's Shields album, opener 'Speak in Rounds' is played with a forceful dub undertone and stuttering sense of momentum. The following 'Sleeping Ute', an already ragged slice of folk rock, is stripped of electronic embellishment to emphasise its rootsy core. When things are eventually slowed down as on 'Foreground', the band's hold on the audience becomes apparent. Their playing is hypnotic even when they shy away from overtly complex arrangements. The fact that fan favourite 'Two Weeks', requested many throughout the show, survives its own hype is testament to the substantial nature of their songs. In fact, it's a stunning acoustic take on 'All We Ask' that illustrates the full extent of the Grizzlies' versatility and proves that less is often more with these restless musos.

Lewis Porteous

Mark Little- THEbullsh*tARTIST

Of all the reviews I wrote during this year's Fringe Festival, this is my favourite. Normally it's a bit of a drag having to attend potentially rubbish shows alone on a Saturday night, but ticket prices were so expensive for Mark Little that I felt almost priviledged to have been allocated his. Besides which, he's a sort of minor celebrity and there's nothing more thrilling than seeing one of them in person. The show was baffling and watching it felt like participating in a psychological study.

I like the review mainly because I got to write the word 'cunt' next to the show's pathetically censored (probably not by Little himself, to be fair) title.

With all due respect to Mark Little, the man is a dinosaur. He's been performing comedy since the early 80s and retains some of the era's incendiary spirit, but his first Edinburgh show since 2005 is a relic from a bygone age. Ignorant of the industry's current climate, he damns contemporary acts for their perceived tendency to insult audiences and posits himself as some kind of approachable, right-thinking alternative. The former Neighbours star may shudder when uttering David Cameron's name and repeatedly brands Rupert Murdoch a cunt, but despite THEbullsh*tARTIST's often honourable intentions, he seems more confused by the present than he'd ever care to admit.

Essentially delivering a 40 minute preamble followed by a meagre helping of solid material, Little rails against a world of lies and bureaucracy with no focus whatsoever. Though he acknowledges that his allocated hour is hardly long enough for him to make an impact on the audience (he says that it takes him at least 30 minutes to “get to know everyone”), he nevertheless wastes half this time engaging with tedious drunk latecomers and probing us for irrelevant information. Keen to appear as an intellectual and an everyman, the comic struggles to reconcile both sides of his character and subsequently fails to do justice to either.

Does Little support the Occupy movement referenced many times throughout the hour, or is he an armchair pundit who thinks all that's needed to solve our problems is old fashioned common sense? We're still unclear as we exit the venue, the comedian's closing line “Take it outside, let's get stuck into them!” ringing meekly in our ears.

Chris Martin- Spot the Difference: who edits the editors?

Since graduating, I've submitted copy to a variety of publications, often thanklessly and without payment, in the hope of creating a strong folio of work under my name. I'm now happy with the standard of my writing and look forward to seeing each piece in print or online, a far cry from how I felt when I started out. I'm getting better then, not that you'd necessarily be able to tell from reading the publications themselves. You see, occasionally an editor, who cares less about your name being tarnished than you do, will make changes that are objectively detrimental to your writing. They're often very busy and can't be expected to pay as much thought to all submissions as you do your own, but it's frustrating whenever this happens.

My recent review of the comedian Chris Martin is a case in point. Here's what I submitted:

The performer cuts a trim figure on stage, sports a fashionable t-shirt/cardigan combo and leers at us from behind neatly cultivated facial hair. He speaks of relatable, everyday phenomena. Backed by a major promoter, he is being bred for success and will go far so long as he continues to share his name with an existing mega-celebrity.

It's tempting to dismiss Chris Martin as a generic young standup, lacking in originality yet poised for national success. Outside of a significant poster campaign, there's little to distinguish him from countless other hopefuls, each desperately clambering for a slot on Live at the Apollo.

A tricky proposition to market, the superficially bland 26 year old shines in the quality of his frequently mundane material and takes time to reveal his considerable strengths.

An opening routine concerning a squirrel-triggered epiphany is too far fetched to impress, but Martin soon changes tack. Dwelling on culinary politics for much of Spot the Difference, his observations are so broad and universal that he seems to conjure solid material out of nothing. Emitting the verbal tic “but food is weird, I'm obsessed with food,” between each gag, he appears to act outside his own will, musing on vegetarianism, biscuits and cheese like a man possessed. Only when he reads from his father's food diary, an interesting idea in itself, does he slow down and relinquish his command of the audience. Frequently inane but always good natured, the hour flies by.

So there you have it. Eagle eyed readers will notice that I don't name Chris Martin until the second paragraph. Why? Because I'm emphasising his superficial blandness and generic qualities. The opening is deliberately inspecific because at first glance he could be any mid-20s comic on the circuit. Whether you think the way the review is structured is clever or not, you can't deny that it has a structure.

Now, imagine my disappointment when I see the fruits of my labour in print:

Chris Martin cuts a trim figure on stage, sports a fashionable t-shirt/cardigan combo and leers at us from behind neatly cultivated facial hair. He speaks of relatable, everyday phenomena. Backed by a major promoter, he is being bred for success and will go far so long as he continues to share his name with an existing mega-celebrity.

It's tempting to dismiss Chris Martin as a generic young standup...

It now seems that I am obsessed with Chris Martin, describing his appearance in too much detail and repeating his full name too frequently. Do dear in mind that the text pasted above appeared under a bold heading which stated the man's name.

Once more, a decent piece of work instantly becomes a source of shame. Getting paid for it was admittedly some consolation.