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see all the photos from this concert here
Remember the good old days, when we used to get all worked up about megastars like the Rolling Stones or Michael Jackson accepting sponsorship from top consumer brands such as Levis or Pepsi? Oh, how we sneered at the machinations of the corporate rock behemoth from the purity of our cool alternative scene. Well, that was then, and this is now. Today, sponsorship is everywhere, yes, e’en unto the very portals of the alternative music world. The suits have tumbled to the fact that alternokidz are consumers too, and even relatively small-scale indie venues are now routinely festooned with logos and brand names, for everything from leisurewear to mobile phones, radio stations to websites. Here at the Barfly - one of London’s classically scuzzy small rock ‘n’ roll holes, all matt black paint and sticky floor - the major sponsor is Carling, multinational manufacturer of that ghastly yellow fizzy stuff which passes for beer in certain unenlightened quarters. There’s a big, bold backdrop behind the bands, ensuring that we all know who’s bringing us tonight’s entertainment: ‘CARLING LIVE SESSIONS’. Soak it up, folks. We’re all dutiful consumers now. Gamely trying to cling on to independence
in the face of the corporate-sponsorship juggernaut, I opt for a pint of
Murphy’s Irish Stout at the bar, and then worm my way to the front for
Dirt Candy. They’re a very ‘now’ band in that they’ve taken that minimalist
punky blues thing made popular by the White Stripes and friends, and given
it their own spin. The guitar is loud and dirty and driving, incongruously
played by a reserved, impassive girl who seems utterly unaffected by the
great sheets of noise she’s unleashing What’s this? A roadies’ convention? Suddenly,
the stage is swarming with blokes in blue jeans and black T-shirts. But
these aren’t roadies - this is a band. Sevenball seem to have some sort
of ‘ordinary blokes’ thing going on, to the point where they’ve all dressed
down in a self-consciously ‘everyday’ uniform of none-more-plain clothes.
That’s fair enough, but it does make for a rather bland visual spectacle.
Still, the music packs more of a punch than the band’s non-image might
at first suggest. It’s a wide-screen rolling blues, played with great care
and attention by musicians who obviously take their craft very Did I mention the out-of-control zone?
As if on cue, here’s Black Wire. Three skinny garage-punk urchins,
a couple of combo amps, a drum machine, and an all-or-nothing attitude.
Essential ingredients present and correct. Black Wire are a relative
newcomers, fresh out of Leeds with only a couple of seven-inch singles
to their name. Their efforts received an unexpected boost a while back
when the NME, getting its finger uncharacteristically close to the pulse
for once, made the band’s debut release, see all the photos from this concert here Black Wire: http://www.blackwire.tk Sevenball: http://www.sevenball.co.uk Dirt Candy: (No website) Trackmarx webzine - check out the Black Wire interview: http://www.trakmarx.com Website of the Barfly club in London: http://www.barflyclub.com/london Main Barfly site, containing info on all the Barfly clubs around the UK: http://www.barflyclub.com A word from our sponsor:
Reviewed by Uncle Nemesis: http://www.nemesis.to 09/12/04 |
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her six strings and box of effects. Over on the other side of the stage
there’s a drummer; flailing, hammering, and generally giving it the full
Rat Scabies. And centre stage, leaning into the mic and contorting himself
in rock ‘n’ roll agony, a vocalist in a kind of desert rat version of grungewear
shrieks wildly in a hellhound wail. There’s no bass guitar, and no
need for any bass guitar. The sound is gutsy and raw and thunders along,
the pace forced by those ever-pounding drums, the guitar breaking over
the top like waves. It’s such a big, full, sound that the stripped-down
line-up of the band just isn’t noticeable until you glance around in search
of the other members, and realise that there ain’t none. The singer rips
out his lyrics in a reedy, fractious, keening feak-out of a voice that
sounds at once incongruous and appropriate. Over any other sort of music
I dare say his style (or anti-style) of singing would grate, but amid Dirt
Candy’s mad racket it somehow works. And then, just when you’ve more or
less got your head round the band’s minimal mash-up, they strip it down
even more. There’s a song in which the guitar drops out altogether - the
guitarist just stands there, having a zen moment with her effects pedals
- and it’s all down to just the caterwaul of the vocal and the rumble of
the drums. It’s crazed and cool and it really does work. Yes, I shall definitely
be checking out Dirt Candy again. Music for torching cars at the crossroads
at midnight.
seriously.
The bass player screws his face into a series of alarming muso grimaces
as he rolls out his basslines, but the most enthusiastic person on stage
seems to be the guitarist over at stage right, who spends most of the gig
gleefully wrenching a bluesy wail out of an acoustic guitar, played lap
steel style from a sitting position. He ably demonstrates that it *is*
possible to rock out while sitting down, and his guitar sound - assisted
by a bottleneck and a Crybaby - has an effective (although, in this ultra-indie
venue, a little incongruous) deep-fried southern blues feel. But by and
large, this is a band which plays it very straight. There’s no punkish
bash-it-out-and-damn-the-torpedoes attitude here. Sevenball mean serious
business. I dare say they all go home and listen to Cream albums to get
that vintage British blues boom sound just right. All this doesn’t mean
the set is a pedestrian experience - the band certainly know how to flam
it up and put some fire into their sound. But the overall impression I
get is that here’s a band which, above all else, takes *care* with the
music. Sevenball just aren’t in the business of pushing things into
the out-of-control zone, and there’s no shame in that. It’s just that the
out-of-control zone is, for me, the place where it all gets interesting.
‘Attack!
Attack! Attack!’, single of the week. That accolade might not mean quite
as much as it once did - the days when the NME had a sweeping influence
on the music scene at large are long gone - but it nevertheless gave Black
Wire a sudden burst of attention at a stage when otherwise they’d probably
have remained an unknown Leeds phenomenon. But one NME review doesn’t make
for an instant career, so Black Wire are on the tour circuit in a bid to
build up an audience in the traditional way, gig by gig. They twitch with
energy and seethe with the righteous juice of ramalama rock ‘n’ roll as
their set kicks off - the drum machine battering out a minimalist tattoo,
the bass rumbling like an approaching bulldozer, and the guitar stabbing
and thrusting its way into the rhythm like it’s making musical fencing
moves. It’s a nervy, staccato racket, all angles and sharp points,
every song fizzing like a shaken-up can of (Carling) lager. The singer,
in a hairstyle stolen from the young Rod Stewart, is the focal point of
the on-stage melee. He jumps and lurches and staggers about, divesting
himself of clothes as he goes. In the moments of quiet between the songs
he addresses the audience with sardonic wit. ‘It seems that standing at
the back,’ he observes, looking out over the audience at the unconvinced
bar-huggers keeping a safe distance, ‘is the new dancing’. Someone hands
him a crumpled flyer. ‘Oh, a gift!’ He exclaims in delight, before feigning
disappointment: ‘I thought it was a poster of Franz Ferdinand!’ And then
the band kick it all off again, rattling and colliding like a train of
goods wagons on a downhill gradient. They throw in their latest single,
‘Hard To Love, Easy To Lay’ (these boys have a way with titles) and the
vocalist throws himself into the audience. It’s over too quickly - the
band keep the set short and sharp, but then everything about Black Wire
is short and sharp. Thanks, goodnight, applause, they’re gone. Excellent
stuff; a much needed dose of gloriously ramshackle energy. Black Wire kick
the zeitgeist up the arse, and wear gleeful grins as they do it.