Holy Buggering Christ

Seriously. This can't be real. It just can't be.

If you love Christmas...

Yep - it's 35 days 'til Christmas, which is basically no time at all. I'm already getting excited, because I'm going to be skiing over Christmas, and then in Norway for the New Year, which means I'm essentially going to be having the most Christmassy Christmas ever, and that it's going to be AMAZING. So I'm writing about Christmas music, because... Well, because it's not all shite. And not everyone seems to know that.

First and foremost, the greatest Christmas song of all time - Fairytale of New York. It's got hope, it's got despair, it's got bitterness and bile, it's got the lyric "You cheap lousy faggot, merry Christmas yer arse - I pray God it's your last" - it's everything that's good and bad about Christmas wrapped up in a big drunk bow, and that's a wonderful thing.

Greatest Christmas album? Phil Spector's "A Christmas Gift For You" - the wall of sound has never sounded sparklier. Genuine Motown legends making Christmas glamorous and spectacular. It sounds like Christmas would sound in Back To The Future, which is two AMAZING things combined.

Or, if your taste is slightly more bourbon, then you can't beat "Christmas With The Rat Pack" - the sonic equivalent of hot chocolate with cream and marshmallows in front of an open fire. Santa's coming, and he's bringing you old-fashioned toys made of wood.

If you're looking for a quirky Christmas, you can't go wrong with Sufjan Stevens' "Songs For Christmas". Every December since 2001 he's recorded a short CD of Christmassy tracks (traditional and of his own composition) for his nearest and dearest, and last year he put them in a box and let us buy them, which was very nice of him. They're lovely.

And then, of course, there's the Christmas tracks that you love to hate/hate to love: Paul McCartney, who in having 'A Wonderful Christmas Time' ironically ruins everyone else's, year in, year out; Slade, who quite rightly point out that 'It's Christmas' every year when it is, indeed, Christmas; Wizzard, who do that song that I can't remember but which is clearly bloody awful; and Cliff Richard, who despite banging on about God at every possible opportunity, when it comes to Jesus's birthday chooses instead to carp on about mistletoe and booze.

At the forefront of the seasonal travesty brigade though has to be Ronan "The Pretty One From Boyzone" Keating's re-imagining of 'Fairytale...', where he chooses to replace the aforementioned lyric with 'you're cheap and you're haggard', which is nothing short of blasphemy. If Shane MacGowan weren't too drunk to notice, I'm pretty sure he'd have gone round and sorted him out.

I would have linked to videos of the travesties, but I didn't want to. Deal with it.

This is, incidentally, a post for people who actually like Christmas - the 'Soundtrack To A Snowy Festival Of Hate And Bile' will be coming soon.

The X Factor Is Starting To Upset Me

Simon Cowell, for once speaking for a nation

Somebody just informed the world, in a middle of another one of the homogenised 'tear-jerking' VTs that tonight, they would be 'wearing their heart on their sleeves and singing from the depths of their soul'. In 20 years time they'll announce that everyone involved in the show is an actor, and it's all been an extended episode of Beadle's About. And then they'll kill them all.

Does anyone know anyone who's been to a recording? I'd say it's pantomime, but when I last went to a pantomime they threw Curly Wurlies at the audience, whereas at the X Factor they just throw turds. The best thing you can say about this programme is that it looks like a Welshman's going to win it this year, but he's an utter tit so even that's out.

I'd finish by saying that this stuff is the opposite of music, but you already knew that. Watch this instead.

Bonfire Night At Ally Pally

Now whilst at first glance a post about fireworks might seem a little bit incongruous on what is to all intents and purposes a music blog (if it's anything), but it's not. Honest. (It is, though, going to be more of a random collection of thoughts and observations than is perhaps my norm.)

First off, Ally Pally is a great venue . If you haven't been, you should.

Secondly - and this is the crux of the matter - it is no longer possible to watch fireworks without a soundtrack. The key point here is that fireworks are AMAZING. They're as close to dragons as we're ever going to get, and that's something you can't say about many forms of entertainment. Whoever decided that they weren't exciting enough, and that they would really benefit from the addition of the Gladiator soundtrack or the music from the sodding X Factor is an utter tit.

The very nature of this blog should demonstrate pretty quickly that I'm not averse to music (Snow Patrol is not music, and never will be) - rather I firmly believe that life is better with a soundtrack. But fireworks already have a soundtrack - excited people going 'ooh' and 'aaah' to the backing of a series of explosions. What they don't need is Robert Elms talking for TWO HOURS BEFOREHAND about how we were about to witness 'London's biggest and brightest fireworks display' (a lovely turn of phrase from one of London's biggest and dimmest tits), and demonstrating an almost preternatural inability to say 'ladies' without saying 'LAYDEEZ'. I tended to think of him as the sand that ends up in your swimming costume when you go to the beach, or the insects you have to put up with if you want to enjoy a picnic. Well, I actually spent most of the time working out whether it would be possible to kill him using his own voice. Grr.

(I should point out at this point that I'm not 100% certain that it was Robert Elms - he could have been another generic radio buffoon, so apologies if I'm unfairly maligning him on this occasion. He's still an arse though.)

The other thing I noticed was a disturbing lack of sparklers - instead, kids were waving glowsticks around above their heads, as if they'd got mashed up on smarties some kind of kindergarten rave. Again, I shouldn't have to say this, but sparklers are brilliant, and they should be compulsory. COI advertising from the 80s means that I know absolutely that if I'm not responsible with them, they will melt my hands and my face, and that just makes them all the more exciting. You can force me to listen to BLOODY Nessun Dorma if you like, but you can't take away my molten sparkling stick of fun, so don't bother trying.

That was a little bit of a ramble-rant. Apologies.

Charlatans at the Empire

It was down to Shepherds Bush on Tuesday to see the Charlatans. Now, this is obviously a band that peaked in the mid-90s, but that's absolutely fine - they're still fucking good live. They played some new songs, and nobody really cared, but then they played 'North Country Boy', 'One To Another' and 'Sproston Green', and they ripped the roof off the place. Tim Burgess has particularly curious hair, and he can still look a little bit like a slightly fatter Ian Brown from certain angles, but the boy can sing, and he's written some damn good tunes.

Essentially, going to see the Charlatans is a bit like going home to your mum's on the weekend - it's comfortable, it's predictable, and the Sunday roast fucking rocks. I'm not sure if that simile really works, but I like it. Oh, and this time Ben didn't have anything stolen, which if anything just serves to strengthen the simile.

The Maccabees at The Roundhouse

Julie Andrews told us that we should start at the very beginning; it is, by all accounts, a very good place to start. But I’m going to fly in the face of Maria, and start at the end, because that was when my friend Ben realised he’d been robbed, which was the only low point of a fucking awesome night.

There are few things more agonising than watching a band in a relatively small venue and realising that you’re probably never going to get that chance again. Some people might take pleasure in going to an arena gig and telling folk how they first encountered the band in a grotty underground bar in Camden; I don’t. I want these special bands to stay in the grotty underground bar where they can just be mine – where I don’t have to hit redial every 2 seconds at 9am on a Friday to stand a chance of seeing them.

If you can judge a band by their support, then the Maccabees are shit. If you can judge a band by their name, then the Maccabees are shit. If you can judge a band by their album art, then… Well, you can guess where I’m going. Fortunately, I’m not that superficial (when it comes to music at least) – and the Macabees, shit name, support and album art aside, are joyous.

It’s quickly going to become very clear that I’m no music journalist. I couldn’t tell you the setlist, nor even what they started with. I know they ended with Happy Faces, but I don’t know why I know that. My head’s a funny place. I can, though, tell you that I started the gig standing at the back, planning on a quiet one, and that I ended it at the front throwing sweaty seventeen year olds over the barrier, all the time resisting the urge to steal one of their shoes. The Maccabees are just that type of band. While Orlando Weeks sings as if he’s lost in (a) every word he’s singing and (b) his own Ian Curtis tribute, Hugo White leans out from the front of the stage as if he’s looking for his best mate amongst the crowd – and dammit if he doesn’t end up making everyone in the crowd feel like they’re the one he’s looking for.

He shouldn’t be allowed to sing lead though. He’s rubbish.

The Maccabees swing wildly between songs about fuck all (Latchmere) and songs about everything (First Love) but they make you care about each and every one of them the same. They’re lyrically smart, and melodically hummable, but so much more than that they care – Weeks doesn’t so much sing as bleed his lyrics for everyone to see. And they fucking love it. There are few things more frustrating than watching a band having more fun than you are, but with these guys it’s hard to draw a line between where they end and you begin. And that’s a lovely place to be. There’s a sincerity to them that makes everything ok.

High points? Toothpaste Kisses is so simplistically beautiful it makes me want to cry. And I may cry easily, but not normally at songs with a whistled bridge (Walk Like An Egyptian aside, obviously); About Your Dress is one of those pathetic, everyman kind of tunes that everyone wishes they couldn’t identify with and then sings along; and, with all due apologies, Ben admonishing the 19 year old who’d lost his phone before realising that he’d had both phone and wallet pinched was pretty fucking funny.

I’ve criticised the album before for not being as vital as the live show, but I’d like to shamelessly backtrack here – buy it, listen to it, wallow in its adolescent introspections, and then next chance you get go and see them and dance like a motherfucker.

I don’t want the Maccabees to be the next big thing. I want to keep them. So please don’t tell your friends.

CSS + Koko = AMAZING

Lovefoxxx is wonderful

Just a quick one - there's a chance to see the oft-mentioned and perennially fabulous CSS at Camden's palacious Koko on October 3rd, along with a bunch of other folk. Tickets are only a fiver, which just seems bizarre. Go. Buy them. Buy them now!

I'm a complete disgrace

This is me being sorry. In an impossibly cute fashion.

Yep, it's time for another one of those 'I don't post enough and I'm sorry' posts. That's that done. I hate awkward silences.

So - I think it makes sense to abandon my ambitious but ill-fated attempt to chronicle my entire T weekend. To summarise: CSS were lump-in-throatingly wonderful, The Killers genuinely (and against my better instincts) took my breath away, Razorlight were average and Jonny Borrell is at least as bad as everyone says he is (if not worse), the Maccabbees were Joy Divisionly marvellous (though there is a slight element of 'Thrills-esque' disappointment when the album narrowly fails to live up to the live energy), the Scissor Sisters were spingly-spangly ace, and leaving before Snow Patrol came on made me feel good inside. It was a great weekend - the best Festival of the summer, whatever anyone else says.

So - moving on. I've seen Cajun Dance Party, who were marvellous - I'm seeing them again in October. I've also discovered the achingly lovely Adele, who takes the folkiness of KT Tunstall, the soulful voice of Amy Winehouse (sans crack) and then climbs up a few rungs higher. It's pop music as pop music should be - three minutes of melodic joy that just lifts you and makes everything around you shimmer slightly. We like. Infuriatingly, she's playing in London on the same day as Cajun Dance Party (October 20th, the day of the RWC final...). I am annoyed.

Finally, this morning a friend recommended this chap, Patrick Watson - there's an element of quavering Jeff Buckley to him, and frankly we could do with a new one. He's playing in Shepherd's Bush in November. Promises to be delightful, in a teary way.

The posts will come more often now. Promise.

Another reason to love the Manics

Pretentious? Nous?

You didn't need one. You certainly shouldn't need one. But if you did, this should probably do it. Thanks to Jerry for spotting it...

T - Day 1 (Part 1)

Right. It's been a while. Apologies. So, where were we? Ah yes - drunk and going to bed. Brilliant. We woke up not that much later to the sound of hundreds of still-drunk scotsfolk queuing in the mud to use the loos. Hurrah. It was also bloody hot, which was extremely exciting.

Breakfast happened.

Breakfast. And some muddy trainers. It tasted better than it looks here.

Sated, we made our way into the main arena, retreading the unpleasant muddy path we'd stumbled back up a small while before. Well, I did - Zanna had forgotten her wallet. Or her keys. Or something. Anyway, she trudged back to the tent, and I forged onwards, arriving at the main stage just in time to fall in love with the Saw Doctors.

I'd never come across them before, but they've been around for ages, and are the kind of band that makes you glad music was invented. A bunch of hairy middle-aged gits from Ireland, they sing songs called 'Never going to go on Bebo again' and 'To win just once' that make you want to ruffle their hair, buy them a beer and then drink whiskey with them 'til four in the morning. It's as if The Wonder Stuff had grown up, had children with Status Quo (but in a world where Francis Rossi isn't a twat) and those children had then grown up, got old, got grizzled and formed a band. A genuinely lovely start to the day.

As a quick aside, it's inevitable that some of the choices we made during the day are going to irritate people - as is always the way with festivals, there were clashes and occasions where Zanna and I wanted to see different people, and we'd made the decision not to split up. You may not always like the choices we made - hell, I didn't always like the choices we'd made - but it had to happen. Anyway...

The lovely old Irish chaps were followed by a trip to the Pet Sounds tent to check out Charlotte Hatherley. I've always had a soft spot for Ash (1977 is one of those albums that takes me back to almost a specific adolescent week) and so this was mostly a solidarity thing. I never really got the point of Charlotte when she was in Ash - it almost seemed to me to be more of a marketing thing than a musical one. (That said, everyone reading this knows what I do for a living, so perhaps I should just stop being a pompous arse...) She failed to set the world on fire, but was fairly pleasant in a 'girls-doing-it-on-their-own-if-you-like-your-pop-feminism-a-little-edgier-than-Spice' kind of way. And she still has extremely pretty eyes. That said, Zanna wasn't impressed, and if anyone's going to buy into that kind of tosh, it's her.:


It was then time for one of the best moments of the weekend - The Thrills on the NME Stage.

Don't laugh.

Listen to any of The Thrills' albums, and I promise you won't be disappointed - as long as you're expecting a middle-of-the-road Irish band that wants to be the Byrds, front by a singer with a quirkily attractive croaky voice, who sounds like he's always on the brink of tears. And proper tears, too, the kind leave you curled up on your own in the corner of the room, snot everywhere. Bless him.

I hate them for this - I really, really hate them. But only because they're so achingly good at festivals. Conor Deasy's voice, so reedy on record, becomes emotive and powerful in the middle of a field. Vaguely cuddly tracks like 'Don't Go Back To Big Sur' and 'Santa Cruz' take on a strength all of their own - they plead for you to love them, they need for you to love them, and somehow it works. It's like they're only truly comfortable when completely dwarfed by their surroundings - put them in a studio, or in an arena and they suddenly become painfully self-aware, and it just doesn't work.

But if you can see them at a festival, do - really do. As the first tempo change in Santa Cruz kicks in, Conor dances like a buffoon, and the sun breaks out from behind the clouds, then you'll be dancing like a buffoon too, and so will I. Just don't get over-excited and play their albums on the way home. That hurts.

So there we are. Three bands in. One perfectly lovely, the other two really quite special (albeit in a slightly odd way). The next band get their own post.

I'm in love.

Time for T Again - The First Evening

So. There we were. Tequila and Tennents-fortified, we made our way from the campsite to the main arena.


It. Took. Fucking. Ages.

I could probably have thrown a rock and hit the back of the main stage from our own personal mud-patch, but to actually stand on the other side of it involved trekking through the remainder of the vast, sprawling campsite, and then down half a mile of high-walled, regularly patrolled path to actually get to the arena. The floor was caked in thick mud, there was a light to heavy drizzle in the air, but everyone was still excited.

We were, after all, the lucky ones. By all accounts, there were still huge tailbacks outside, and certainly when we got back to the tent at about 2.30am, there were still people trying to put their tents up in the dark. Sympathetic though I obviously was, I couldn't help but think that they'd brought it on themselves - don't want to be late? Set off early. Don't want to get stuck in traffic? Set off early. Don't want to miss Bloc Party? Set off early. Set off late? Don't complain when you arrive late, get suck in traffic and miss Bloc Party. Anyway.

We made it in, and stopped by the T Break stage, where we caught the last five minutes of a band called San Sebastian who are currently doing big things in the pages of the NME, if nowhere else.

San Sebastian. Meh.

Without wishing to be rude to the guys, as they seemed like perfectly nice chaps, they weren't particularly inspiring. The kind of chug-a-long-a-shoe-gaze band that 10 years ago would have been lucky to get a recurring slot in that pub round the corner, but that are now headlining stages with the word 'Future' in their title. Ugh.

Most people were, of course, sludging their way through the mud to see the Monkeys. The Arctics. Those cheeky Northern Scallies. Don't you just love 'em?

Well, I don't, particularly. As I've said before, '...Dancefloor' is a great song - as close to the perfect rock/pop song as we've come this century. I just wish they had something else. I'll be the first to admit that I'm a fervent rejector of hype, which is, in many ways, just as bad as following it (I refused to entertain the notion of the White Stripes as a band for ages, purely because Dominic 'Tw*t' Mohan told me that I should love them. My loss.) but there's something about the Arctic Monkeys that just winds me up.

The Arctic Monkeys, ladies and gentlemen. Note how excited the people in front of us are to see them.

We only arrived in time for the last two songs - traditionally the time when a band likes to really ramp it up, to send the crowd home on a massive high. Those cheeky, anarchic monkeys though had decided to dispense with tradition and send people home with a snooze, ploughing through a couple of seemingly interminable 'difficult second album' tracks. And so we decided to find our own high, and fucked off up the ferris wheel - they were much more fun from there:

And the Monkeys from the big wheel. So much more fun when they're blurry.

Apparently Alex what's-his-face then went and got off with Alexa Chung, the prettier but less funny one from PopWorld, which is about as pure an example of a singer having more fun than his audience as it's possible to imagine. What hacks me off most about the Monkeys is the constant eulogising of their wit - this isn't a celebration of a particularly clever band, this is an indictment of the idiocy of the majority of mainstream UK music at the moment. Go to Sheffield, Manchester, Bolton, Hull, Liverpool, any town in the North of England and you'll find yourselves surrounded and bombarded by the kind of acerbic wit that makes the Monkeys look like Antonia Quirke - it's just that the majority of 'music' fans in the UK choose to listen to neanderthals like Kasabian or hideous whiny travesties like Snow Patrol or Coldplay. Ugh.

Anyway, the first day was done, and the highlight was the Ferris Wheel. And the tequila. So we headed back into the campsite, where the party was just getting into full flow. I won't go into detail, because this blog isn't about me drinking and my sister failing to - suffice to say, three hours of drinking (Snakebite in a can! Snakebite in a can!) and dancing like twats to mid-90s indie classics ensued.

Two of the lovely people - Lisa and friend

There were lovely people there. We met them and danced with them and drank with them. It was awesome. And then at 2am, when they kicked us out, we went back to the tent, Zanna passed out, and I drank til 5.30 with the guys who were camping next to us - drunk Scotsmen really are the best people in the world. And that was that. Night night.

PS It's important to point out at this juncture, lest you get the wrong impression, that the first day was awesome, despite the weather, the mud, and the musical mediocrity. That's the joy of T...

A Quick T Break (last pun, promise)

A couple of quick dates for your diary, then back to the T talk.

First up, if you're at a loose end on August 7th (and if you're not, untie yourself) you could do a lot worse than heading to The Hideaway to check out a guy called Nicholas Hirst - keyboard player with The Conway Story - who's playing an acoustic set. It promises to be brilliant - his words, and also mine.

Secondly, with even more warning, on Friday August 31st you've got the Drowned in Sound 'End of Summer' party. They know their stuff at Drowned in Sound, and with Russian Circles offering their first ever London headlining slot, and more than able support from a couple of other topnotch other bands, it promises to be a hell of a night.

Hope to see you there...

What a life it would be, if you could come to mine for T...

Zanna drove. She's better at that than she is at drinking.

The day began sodding early. I'd planned to head up to my sister's the night before after a couple of quick drinks at my friends' engagement party, and sure enough, after a couple of quick drinks at my friends' engagement party, my friend Jerry punched me in the plums, I had a few more drinks, and went home to bed. But that, children, is another story.

And so, the next day, I got up extremely early, and was on the 07.20 to Warwick Parkway, where my sister was due to meet me at 9.30 so we could start the [insert spurious number of your own here - we certainly didn't know] hour journey up to Kinross. She turned up at 11.30. We were off to a fairly mediocre start, but at least my balls weren't aching anymore.

And the journey...? Well, there's not a huge amount to say about most of it. We didn't take the M6 toll, we just took the M6, and England sped past - England at its best, you might say. It leathered it down with rain sporadically, and whilst spirits remained fairly high, the thought of camping in the Scottish mud was starting to weigh us down a touch.

But the sight of Edinburgh and the Forth Bridge ushered all negative thoughts away. It's a city I've always adored, and the fabulous span of the Firth of Forth always gets my pulse racing - particularly when it means that Balado and T are but an hour away.

Or so we thought.

About three miles from the front gate, we hit the traffic. By Christ, did we hit the traffic. There's always something slightly surreal about the incongruity of a country road traffic jam
- your classic M25 jam is characterised by beeping horns, shouting and furious lane changing in the desperate hope of gaining an extra couple of yards. Your country jam, however, is normally inordinately peaceful - broken only by people wandering over to the car in front for a quick chat, and, in the case of the Tennent's-soaked T-bound hoards, people nipping out to the bushes to have a piss. Bless.

We really weren't going anywhere, and a quick walk ahead revealed the blue domes of King Tut's Wah-Wah tent in the not-too-distant distance, so I suggested that I walk on, set up the tent and then come back to meet Zanna when she'd parked the car.

It was fucking miles. And it was raining. And as such, I am forever grateful to three people - the tractor driver who gave me a lift for about half a mile through what was (at that point at least) the worst of the mud, and who was the most Scottish man I've ever met (I'd tell you his name, but I couldn't understand a single word he said) and the first two people I met while I was setting up the tent, who, to cut a short story shorter, gave me tequila (I'd tell you their names, but I can't remember them. They gave me tequila.).

So eventually, the tent was up, the car was parked and I met my sister with a pint of Tennent's in each hand. At this point, we'd already missed Lily Allen, The Coral and Bloc Party on the main stage - we'd also met a bunch of strangers, got fucking muddy and drunk free tequila.

It was muddy, and it was grey. But we were drinking.

Our Festival experience was already paying off. Hell yes.

Back from T...

The Ferris Wheel. Awesome.

And so we're back. And it was phenomenal. Some bits were better than others, obviously: the last leg of the journey there sucked, in a very real way, and Razorlight were always going to happen, but we left before Snow Patrol, Amy Winehouse didn't bother to turn up (don't you just LOVE her?) and it was sunny throughout. You're not going to hear me complaining.

I'm obviously not going to write one monster post on the Festival as a whole - that would make for some very dull writing, and some even more dull reading, which nobody wants. So I'll break it up - bit by bit, band by band, day by day, that kind of thing. One post may even serve as a eulogy to the English countryside , which is not something I ever saw myself writing. Hey - turns out life can surprise you.

And I've come back pretty excited about music, which can only be a good thing - I'll tell you why as we go. I've also got a few concerns - more on that later. But, overall, it was a completely joyous experience, - T remains, in my humble view, the best (and certainly the sunniest) festival in the UK. Let me tell you why.

Snow Patrol vs Simply Red

I had a bit of an odd conversation this morning, and I thought I'd share it with you, because I'm (a) nice like that, and (b) a little self-important.

Essentially, a friend announced that she'd had the opportunity to go and see Snow Patrol at the O2 Arena (or whatever they're calling the dome nowadays) last night, hadn't been able to, and had thought of me. She knows my views. She was joking. I find it hard to joke about Snow Patrol. I should probably get over myself. But I don't particularly want to quite yet. Moving on...

I suggested gently that there might be more exciting opportunities around than going to a point in London about as far away from where I live as possible to watch one of the worst bands ever - she took this as a challenge, quickly suggesting that to label Snow Patrol as the worst band ever was a touch harsh. She cited M People and Simply Red as evidence.

We quickly dismissed M People as a disease rather than a band (What have YOU done today, Heather? Seriously? Now sod off.), but the Simply Red argument detained us a while longer. Yes, Mick Hucknall is an incorrigible twat (Jerry, I know you told me not to swear, but it's Mick Hucknall) but dammit all, Simply Red are a better band than Snow Patrol. Song for song, album for album, pound for pound, it's a walkover for the ginger Manc and his assorted bored-looking session musicians. Even when Hucknall's dancing.

Which got me thinking - how many other bands that you instinctively think of as utterly dreadful are, in fact, when you actually stop to think about it, better than Snow Patrol? All thoughts welcomed...

Klaxons - Myths of the Near Future

I've always been fascinated by music-writers' fascination with where bands come from. Rarely an in-depth Q Magazine interview goes by without the interviewer drawing a parallel between the personality/style/sexuality of the singer/group in question and the town where they grew up. It all feels a bit like Horoscopes to me - if that's what growing up in Athens, Georgia does to you, why isn't everyone REM? Or, to look at it another way, Klaxons are from the midlands - so are UB40.

Klaxons are part of the NME-embraced (sponsored) Nu-Rave wave, the movement that (as they put it) "started as an in-joke and became a minor youth subculture". Two of them went to school together, and they all grew up in the same place, but I'm listening to Myths Of The Near Future as I write this, and dammit, it's not from anywhere. And if it is, it's certainly not the fucking midlands.

The opening track, Two Receivers, is relentlessly, stubbornly spiralling, embracing and enthralling you before you've even realised what's happening. The whimsical, breathless harmonies put you in mind of a balletic punk - too beautiful to avoid, but too fucking stubborn to do it properly.

And once you're in, you're in - the remainder of the album doesn't let you go, from the angry vibrancy of Golden Skans to the anthemic crowd-pleaser that is "It's not ever yet", which brings to mind the Dandy Warhols kickin' it for Vodafone. This is an album of contentedly angsty pop songs - three minute encapsulations of aching 'what the fuck?'

It's too joyous to be angsty, and too panic-ridden to be happy - it's like they're as caught up in it all as much as you are, and just can't stop what they're doing. This is pop music on the edge, with the electro-wall constantly threatening to overwhelm the often tremulous vocals, before suddenly the roles are reversed - gaily furious pop songs of attrition.

And no, it's not perfect. It sometimes feels too studied, a little like Bill and Andie's fifteenth first date in Groundhog Day, but it feels somewhat churlish to criticise for that. So what if Klaxons have called all my mates to find out exactly what I like? (And who the fuck told them about The Bangles, by the way?) If only all bands cared that much. This album feels like it was recorded by a school rugby team that decided to beating the shit out of the choirboys, and record some tracks with them instead - it's the glorious battle of extremities that lifts the best songs towards somewhere remarkable.

And I'm seeing them live in just over a fortnight - if they're as liberated and explosive on stage as I'm led to believe, and they can unleash all the energy this album threatens, it's going to be quite an experience. I can't fucking wait. I may even forgive them for using the phrase 'minor youth subculture'.

Anyway - what do you think?

What Dan Did Next

Ok, just a quick one - I have a plan.

In the run up to T, I'm going to do a series of album reviews of some of the bands I'm going to be seeing at Balado. That's the tenuous theme of the next few posts. I hope you're as excited as I am.

T In The Park

This weekend has been astonishingly exciting. And it started with one of those 'Royal Mail attempted to deliver...' cards. I fucking hate them. But that's not important right now.

What is important is that I received one on Thursday. In fact, I'll be honest, that's not even that important. What IS important is what arrived once I'd rearranged delivery; two camping tickets for T In The Park - two tickets that I'd ordered nearly a year ago, and completely forgotten about.

I love surprising myself.

And so I'm going to T In The Park, which is, as everyone knows, AMAZING - the best of the festivals, and one of the few that manages to remain joyfully grubby. It's in such a beautiful place, nobody loves drinking and music quite like the Scots, and the line-up is just awe-inspiring. Arcade Fire, Camera Obscura, Brian Wilson, Mr Hudson & The Library, Rufus, The Klaxons, CSS, The Kings of Leon, Scissor Sisters, Gogol Bordello... Fuck me, it's just silly.

The only downer is the final act on the main stage on Sunday night - yes, as if to spite me, those winsome Scottish troubadours Fucking Snow Patrol will be closing the festival. But the joy of T is that there will be someone INCREDIBLE playing somewhere else, and I'll be too drunk to care anyway. Bring it. The only thing to be aware of is that the last time I went to T I got over-excited and booked tickets to see Elton John in Las Vegas; I then woke up the next morning and realised that I was going to have to go to Las Vegas. But that's probably a story for another post...

So there we are. I've got tickets and a tent - now I just need time off work, transport to Balado... oh, and someone to go with. Easy.

I don't post enough

And I apologise for that. It's rubbish of me.

I've been listening to Gogol Bordello. They're awesome.

I'm going to write more soon - I promise.

Most exciting news is that a friend of mine is at the Isle of Wight Festival this weekend, and has promised to kill Snow Patrol. Well, she didn't exactly promise. In fact, she said she wouldn't. I'm texting her constantly though - I live in hope.

I'll keep you posted.

Just trying something...

...and, if it works, linking to the End Of The Road again. Which is no bad thing.

I think it's going to work. Hurrah. I'm getting better at this blogging lark all the time...

End Of The Road

You see, there is reason to be happy. Festival season is upon us, and while Glastonbury is now rivalling V and Reading for 'Corporate Fuckfest Of The Year', the gems are still out there. And you know it.

T In The Park remains delightfully grubby (though tickets for 2009 have probably already sold out), and Bestival and the Isle of Wight are once more furiously lovely. Again though, you're probably too late. I probably haven't helped there. Sorry.

Where I can help though is by recommending The End Of The Road Festival:

www.endoftheroadfestival.com

This is the second year, and it promises to be just as sparkly as last time round. It's delightful, the line-up is a joy and they're such lovely people they even play lovely music when you're on the website. Only one song, granted, but it's pretty joyous nonetheless. It's things like this that make me believe it's all going to be ok. The whole event, I mean, not just the site soundtrack.

Go. Book tickets. I'll see you there.

It makes me feel like dancing...

I quite like music. In fact, I really like music. In fact, more than that, I think it's fucking important. You're on my page now, where I'm going to be writing about it, in all its wonder.

To clarify before we start: this isn't going to be a massive collection of rants about the myriad sub-Keane bands (hands up who didn't realise that 'sub-Keane' existed as a genre?) that now infest our airwaves. Naturally, there will be a bit of that - Snow Patrol are dreadful. Really dreadful. And apparently the world needs to be reminded. Predominantly, though, this is going to be a positive experience - this is going to be a reminder that music doesn't have to be monotonous, 'oh-my-god-if-I-can't-be-Radiohead-can-I-at-least-be-Muse' shite.

We're going to talk about CSS, who are, by the way, your new favourite band; we're going to talk about Cajun Dance Party, who are young enough to make you cry for a lifetime lost, but good enough to make you cry again, in a much better way; we're going to talk about The Shins, who have been around forever, are fucking brilliant, and have still sold fewer albums than Gary Lightbody has friends; and we're going to talk about the hideously monikered Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly. who, despite being a bit of a baby-Bono pious twat, and having saddled himself with one of the worst band names in history has managed to create an album of (mostly) heart-breaking beauty and sincerity. And he's even better live.

So check your cynicism and your Coldplay albums at the door, and come on in. This is Liverpool in the 60s, London in the 70s, Manchester in the 80s and Wales (yes, Wales) in the 90s. It's a fucking party, and it's going to be top. Welcome. Come in. Chuck your coat in the bedroom. Grab a beer. Let's get mashed and dance like twats. Hurrah!