Doug Stanhope: Edinburgh Playhouse, 27/3/12

 

Halfway through an 'unreasonable expectations' tour of the UK's most cavernous theatres, Doug Stanhope reflects on his relationship with Edinburgh. It was his hit appearance at the city's 2002 Fringe Festival that first earned him recognition on these shores and, according to the comic, he's been desperate to commit career suicide ever since. Unsuccessful on this front, he now vows never to return unless he really needs the money, weary of travelling and meeting the constant demand for new material. These claims would be taken with a pinch of salt if made by any other comedian, but Stanhope's act is based upon an unflinching, almost confrontational honesty. Whether audiences like him or not, there’s no doubt that they believe him; this may be our last chance to watch the American iconoclast in action, at least for some time.

Bemused by the British notion that comedy shows should have narrative arcs and thematic through-lines, we are promised an uneven set tackling whatever the performer deems worthy of discussion. Thus, he begins by justifying his vendetta against Telegraph columnist Allison Pearson with whom he is currently embroiled in a Twitter feud. His tirade against Pearson, who opposes a severely disabled man’s wish to terminate his own life, is fierce and compassionate, Stanhope expertly articulating the sheer horror of paralysed Tony Nicklinson’s situation. A startlingly frank routine on the part that he played in euthanising his ailing mother goes too far for some pockets of the audience, but is wholly consistent with the comic’s rational and pragmatic world view. When on form, Stanhope is as electrifying as stand-up gets.

The problem with tonight’s show is that there are two sides to his audience and, though he’d never admit it, Stanhope panders to both. Some admire his willingness to explore uncharted comedic territory and to express contentious viewpoints with conviction. Others simply enjoy his heavy-drinking, irresponsible persona. When laughs peter out following the aforementioned routines, he turns the gig around with some tedious but well received musings on why he likes to get drunk. Similarly, a divisive attack on the Occupy movement segues into several minutes on how he has nothing against gays, but doesn’t like to have their sexuality rubbed in his face, a declaration familiar to many an armchair homophobe. “Just be a real guy!” he bellows. Is Stanhope a lazy genius who refuses to shy away from cheap laughs, or a bar-room philosopher, incapable of filtering his worthy thought processes from the bad? After a relentlessly poetic and surprisingly patriotic conclusion to the evening, all that's clear is his mastery of the form itself. Whether his powers are used for good or for evil, we surmise, rests entirely on the man's own whims.

Vic Godard and Subway Sect: the postman always sings nice

This show took place last weekend but I don't think The Fly's gone live with the review just yet. I really enjoyed it and hope that my tone doesn't come off as condescending. I've loads of respect for Godard and regard him as one of the country's most underrated artists, a bit like Elvis Costello but without the naked ambition. I was so into the gig that I actually felt a little self-conscious standing next to a sceptical acquaintance who would eventually walk out, put off by an inebriated and sexually aggressive crowd more than anything. Oh, and, for what it's worth, The Sexual Objects were pretty good. It's too bad that Davey Henderson's between song patter seemed to sour everyone's mood.

Vic Godard and Subway Sect

Voodoo Rooms, Edinburgh

24/3/12

****

Whether they look up to him as an unsung punk innovator, genre-hopping pop craftsman, leading Hip Hop aficionado or one of the country's most celebrated postmen, the hoard of middle aged men packed into the Voodoo Rooms have a thing for Vic Godard. They love him unconditionally and tonight feels as much like a personal appearance and catch up as it does a gig, our hero cast genially adrift in a sea of loose fitting leather and denim. The night's insular vibe is compounded by the presence of former Fire Engines frontman and local hero Davey Henderson, whose current outfit The Sexual Objects play an unfathomably confrontational support set. He appears to be on first name terms with several audience members and, in the name of punk, The Fly hopes that they are not colleagues from his day job.

Of course, there's a thin line between a sad, under-promoted nostalgia show and a vital fringe event. If Henderson's sarky in-joking suggests the former, then Godard’s headline set goes a long way towards redressing this balance. Backed by a particularly tight Subway Sect, now comprising Felt and Sex Pistols alumni, the man born Vic Napper delivers a pounding set of snotty Northern Soul as vital as anything ever recorded by his feted late ‘70s peers.

A difficult character to pin down, Godard is riddled with contradictions. Still one of the sharpest lyricists around, his congested singing voice is suggestive of a dullard; though his music makes you want to dance, it is utterly sexless. It's these tensions between perception and reality that lend oldies 'The Devil's in League With You' and 'Holiday Hymn' their enduring appeal and ensure that their composer remains a subversive force to be reckoned with. Cuts from 2010's We Come As Aliens hold up against the classics and while this is hardly an amphetamine-fuelled all nighter, the energy in the room absolutely refuses to flag. To paraphrase an incoherent stage invader, this is really very good indeed.

Lewis Porteous

The Blood Arm: amputate these muthas

In my recent Mike Nisbet post, I mention being sent a few albums to review by The Skinny’s music editor back in June. This write-up made it to the paper, but in a slightly bastardised form.  I state in the original piece that an endorsement from Franz Ferdinand “decreases in value with each passing year”. As far as I’m concerned, this is an objective fact; the group aren’t as popular or influential as they were in 2005. That you can buy their three albums for a penny each on Amazon speaks volumes. They’re still an alright band and I’d rather they were viable chart contenders than the tedious Tory Folk practitioners that are so popular right now. But they’re not and must be aware of this themselves. So why change the line to “an endorsement which may or may not be decreasing in value with each passing year,” making me seem like even more of a spineless shilly-shallier than I already am? I can only presume that The Skinny, which seeks to promote Scottish ephemera, feels that it owes the band some kind of debt. God knows The Blood Arm do. Original review here.

The Blood Arm 'Turn and Face Me'
**
 As one would expect of Franz Ferdinand's favourite band, an endorsement which decreases in value with each passing year, LA’s The Blood Arm are pop-loving art rockers. Staunch Anglophiles, they draw inspiration from the mainstream British New Wave and are happy to wear their influences on their sleeves.

'She's a Guillotine' opens the album with a tribal beat clearly intended as a nod to Adam Ant, before exploding into the kind of aggressively melodic, keyboard coated power-pop that was once Elvis Costello's stock in trade. Somehow the song finds room for an impassioned call and response coda in the vein of Dexys before its two and a half minutes are up. At its best, as on this track, 'The Creditors' and the more thoughtful 'Forever is Strange', the group's music is invigorating and cleverly constructed. Generally though, it's too cluttered and self-conscious to make much of an impression on the listener.

Lewis Porteous

The Felice Brothers: a gushing review

Gig photos here.

I got to cover The Felice Brothers in Glasgow last Saturday. It was the fourth time I've seen them and they were typically excellent. I've nothing but good things to say about them. Still, the gig was marred by several factors outwith the band's control. These include my decision to engage James Felice in awkward chit-chat on the street 30 minutes before doors opened, the asshole who poured beer over my head as the set drew to a close and the painful cycling injury that made writing the review such a chore. The ache in the entire left side of my body has only just subsided and I like to think that my accident accounts for the fact that the piece doesn't read all that well. Additionally, there are few things more tedious than a wholly positive review.

The Felice Brothers
O2 ABC, Glasgow
17/3/12
*****



Their preoccupation with weird, old-timey Americana and tendency to indulge in beautiful, rough-hewn harmonies notwithstanding, The Felice Brothers' early career saw them dogged by unfair comparisons to Bob Dylan and The Band. In spite of superficial similarities to certain heritage acts, the siblings have always been distinctive songwriters and performers in their own right. This has never been more apparent than on last year's Celebration, Florida, a set characterised by wilful eclecticism and studio experimentation. While the album successfully defied preconceptions of the group, it posed significant questions relating to their future. Already at risk of alienating their more purist followers, there were fears that efforts to replicate complex new material would bring restraint to the shambolic live shows with which they made their name.


Easing the audience in with established set opener 'Murder by Mistletoe', it seems as though little has changed in the Felice camp. Their sound is as ragged as ever, Ian Felice's hoarse vocals and rudimentary guitar punctuating expressive bursts of accordion and fiddle, and it’s clear that the performers are happy playing toward their strengths. The following 'The Greatest Show on Earth', however, is a revelation. Its arrangement, now cluttered to the point of near collapse, hangs together so precariously that it can only be tackled by musicians who are acutely tuned in to each other. The musicians have been touring solidly for the last five years and it shows.


Though tonight's setlist is typical of the group, their particularly well-worn material is given a muscular sonic make-over. 'Ponzi' segues into a Krautrock-flavoured 'Take this Bread', 'Loves Me Tenderly' is rendered a deliberately discordant stomper and 'Hey Hey, Revolver' is glazed in icy ambience. Even signature tune 'Frankie's Gun' now boasts a propulsive, beat driven intro, Greg Farley having traded his washboard in for a sampler. 'Little Anne' and 'Her Eyes Dart Round' prove that the players still have a way with contemplative ballads, while the new songs sound fittingly organic in the live setting. Folk revivalists may sneer at the group’s recent innovations, but there can be no denying that the Felices have hit upon a sound and identity all of their own and are tapping into something very special indeed.

The Regretrospective: dance horsegirl, dance!

This piece was performed in the Roxy Arthouse which was my favourite Edinburgh spot for a whole year prior to its closure. I saw Nick Cave do a reading there on my 23rd birthday and eventually found myself stood right next to my hero and his entourage in the downstairs bar. The Scotsman recently reported that the Assembly Fringe organisation has bought the building for its own nefarious ends.

I can't remember much about the show, reviewed for Fest, except that I felt completely unqualified to critique it after the fact. I tried to compensate for my lack of knowledge with pithy irreverence, but I think it shows through that I have no real interest in anyone's dancing besides my own.

Fans of Greek mythology will likely leave The Regretrospective disappointed that the 'half-human half-horse' promised by the show is not a centaur, but rather a woman wearing a paper-mâché mask.
Those who are interested in both dance and multimedia art- an admittedly more lucrative market- are bound to find the show more satisfying.

Juliet Aster, the piece's creator, plays the equine protagonist. Surrounded by a mound of rubbish, she despondently peels a carrot in front of a TV when her gaze is caught by a tiger. Invigorated, she attempts to woo the static love interest through flamenco influenced dance, depicting attempts at bribery and physical threats along the way.

Combining audio, animated video and physical theatre, the piece is to be lauded for its ambition and execution. Unfortunately, its tone is too similar throughout and it drags toward the end as the novelty of the premise wears off.

Mike Nisbet: vague rant

When I contacted The Skinny's music editor last summer, he agreed to let me to cover some new releases with such haste that he couldn't possibly have read any samples of my work beforehand. He asked for a list of records that I'd recently bought and sent me some stylistically similar promos. Least exciting of them all was the debut album by Mike Nisbet which was already out by the time I received it. The review was never published to my knowledge, and sank without a trace just like Vagrant itself. Here it is. It's nothing too interesting, though I'd have been proud to have slipped a mention of Fred Neil into the paper.

Mike Nisbet 'Vagrant'
***

Recording his debut album under the auspices of Marcus Mackay, Mike Nisbet appears primed for a commercial breakthrough to rival those of the producer's previous clients Snow Patrol and Frightened Rabbit.

Funded by Creative Scotland, Vagrant is a largely low key affair, the artist striving to present his songs to the listener in as direct a fashion as possible. It can't be said that Nisbet is a singer/songwriter endowed with a particularly unique world view or approach to composition. Indeed, 'Free Man''s persistent, nagging chorus is particularly uninspired, while the monosyllabic rhymes of 'El Frida' suggest a lyricist working on autopilot. Nisbet's strength instead lies in his performances, his shimmering guitar work and robust vocals exuding an authority rare in someone of his relatively young age. When combined, these assets render the self-aggrandizing 'Indestructible' charming and elevate prime material such as 'Not Long' and 'Rolling Thunder' to levels of breezy intensity that call to mind the great Fred Neil.

Lewis Porteous

Joan Baez: Glasgow Royal Concert Hall 29/2/12

 

In The Other Side of the Mirror, Murray Lerner's brilliant record of Bob Dylan's three consecutive appearances at the Newport Folk Festival, Joan Baez is interviewed following an encounter with some young autograph hounds.

“I like kids, you know? It's just idolatry's a little weird, that's all, because it doesn't mean anything. I don't think it hurts anybody... I don't think it hurts those kids, what they're doing and the fact that they ask for 'We Shall Overcome' and they know what it's about, most of them. The ones who ask know what it's about. I think that's wonderful, you know, and I don't mind if they act like a bunch of monkeys like that. They're sweet!”

That was 1964 and if blind devotion made the gawky songbird a little uncomfortable then, she seems less concerned by it tonight. At one point, a man in the front row approaches to hand her a T-shirt. It features a picture of him standing alongside his hero and is emblazoned with the slogan “Lovin' Baez since '62 and always will,” words which prompt a thunderous round of applause when read aloud on stage. Many of the greyhairs gathered in the auditorium have clearly been lovin' Baez for over four decades and have all but abandoned their critical faculties at this point in the game. They've no intention of changing their minds and she can get away with anything, as is proven by a saccharine rendition of John Lennon's 'Imagine'. “Boy, you're making it easy!” she remarks, flattered.

Fortunately, the 71 year old still possesses talent in abundance. She remains capable of summoning the striking soprano heard on her early work and performs the protest numbers for which she is best known with rare conviction. Highlights 'Farewell Angelina' and 'Love Is Just a Four Letter Word' are played to perfection, their strident verses counterpointed by unexpected, fragile key-changes. Donovan's 'Catch the Wind' and 'Be Not Too Hard' sound impossibly wistful and elegiac, as they should, while her excursions into the songbooks of Elvis Costello and her erstwhile producer Steve Earle indicate a healthy willingness to expand her repertoire. The latter's 'God Is God', a slice of repentant junkie schmaltz in its writer's hands, attains profound global significance when Baez plays it, proving her still capable of bettering those whose work she interprets.

Like any elder statesman-or-woman, Baez's standards of quality control aren't as stringent as one would hope and she fires a few blanks throughout her set, 'Imagine' and 'I Need You Just the Way You Are' being the worst offenders. The main problem with the concert as a whole, however, is the extent to which she is preaching to the converted. The kids that followed her during the sixties, one suspects, have long forgotten the context in which they originally fell for her. In these less idealistic times, it's doubtful that anyone sat in the Concert Hall still believes in her music's ability to inspire change in the world. They're just happy for the opportunity to watch an icon from their youth run through a generous number of songs, most of which have some kind of nostalgic resonance for them, at £40 a ticket. This makes for a pleasant, even moving, atmosphere, but it's hard not to notice the cloud of complacency and resignation that looms over the evening.