A lot of people are going to hate the new Kanye West album. I mean, really, really loathe and despise it.

Why? Because it doesn't have any rapping. Because Kanye "sings" the entire record through a computer. Because it is remorselessly downbeat. Because it is so far removed from hip-hop that it might as well be a Daniel O'Donnell record.

But the haters are wrong. 808s and Heartbreaks is astonishingly good. A rule-breaking, paradigm-shifting masterpiece.

You may already know the back story: Mr West's life was turned upside down when his mother died last November. Then, in March, he split up with his fiancee Alexis Phifer. He has, to put it mildly, taken this quite badly.

"So you walk around like you don't know me," he sings on Heartless. "You got a new friend, well I got homies. But in the end it's still so lonely." Later, on Streetlights, the star finds himself unable to sleep, alone, walking the streets, sighing "life's just not fair".

Throughout, West's voice is fed through autotune - a computer programme that corrects the pitch of your voice - helping him to sing when his vocal cords fail him. He uses it more sparingly than, say, T-Pain - who tweaks the controls to make it sound like he's Metal Mickey - so the effect isn't completely soulless. It may not be to everyone's taste but it really works: by stripping away the human qualities of his voice, Kanye shows how isolated and withdrawn he's feeling.

The sparse, desolate songwriting only emphasises his desperation. Minor key piano figures and spooky hallowe'en choirs feature big, while West laments his losses - "I’m exhausted, barely breathing," he exhales on Amazing, which recalls nothing less than Stevie Wonder's Pastime Paradise.

All of this is off-set with the 808 of the title, one of the earliest programmable drum machines, which West proves to be a master of. The drum patterns here are the equal of anything Prince has ever done - intricate, funky and a great counterpoint to the lovelorn melodies.

Of course, it wouldn't be a true Kanye West joint if it wasn't derailed somewhere by his monstrous ego - an entity so big it would move Stalin to say: "Blimey, this guy's a bit confident". Across the record, he chastises Phifer for being cold and heartless, while alluding to the fact that he was doing things "she don't need to know about" behind her back. The resulting (and understandable) paranoia apparently turned his fiancee into a variety of film bad guys, including "Dr Evil" and "the girl from Misery". I wonder why she left?

But it's this same self-belief that makes 808s and Heartbreaks such an audacious success. Who else would have had the confidence to ditch an award-winning formula and risk their huge fanbase to make a soul album starring a rapper who can't sing?

No-one but Kanye West.

Labels: kanye west, Music, Review

Beyoncé's third solo album, I Am Sasha Fierce, has just arrived at Discopop Towers... because I went out and bought it this morning. It emerges from is cellophane wrapping to reveal two CDs - one with six tracks and one with five (nuts to the environment, eh readers?)

Resisting the temptation to play both simultaneously in the search for a hidden satanic message, here's a blow-by-blow account of my first listen. Brace yourselves.


Disc One - I Am... (syrupy ballads)
1) If I Were A Boy
This still sounds like a gender-challenged update of Joan Osborne's One Of Us. The tune is essentially the same all the way through, except Beyoncé shifts up an octave for the chorus. Derivative, but super nonetheless.

2) Halo
This is one by Ryan "Bleeding Love" Tedder that Simon Fuller supposedly wanted for Leona Lewis - but Beyoncé gets the lead writing credit. Far be it from me to suggest that Leona's people put that story out to "position" her alongside the world's most successful female solo artist, but something smells a bit fishy here (possibly the smoked mackerel paté I had yesterday, which is repeating on me something rotten). This is actually very good, with big handclaps and an Umberella (ella, ella) style call-and-response hook.

3) Disappear
The word "beautiful" is clearly some sort of magic charm for this song's co-writer Amanda Ghost, who also did You're Beautiful and Beautiful Liar. Disappear does not contain the word beautiful, and is therefore rubbish.

4) Broken Hearted Girl
The lyric booklet consistently mis-spells "you're" as "your" during this song, which invokes an instant penalty of two points. Six more points are deducted because of the incredibly dated mid-90s R&B balladeering, and further one goes because they've put a stupid synth line over the chorus in an attempt to disguise this fact. So that's 1/10.

5) Ave Maria
The verse is lifted from Madonna's Promise To Try, and the chorus is lifted from religion's Ave Maria. Only slightly better than when Michelle Bass sang Pie Jesu on Big Brother Five.

6) Satellites
Sorry, I completely drifted off during this one. But look at this picture from the back of the album. How does she do that?



Disc Two - Sasha Fierce (the uptempo ones)
1) Single Ladies (Put A Ring On It)
Much better in hi-fidelity than it seems on Youtube, with loads of rumbling bass and a much more expansive sound stage. Feet are tapping...

2) Radio
This starts off with a piercing synth riff like Destiny's Child's Jumpin Jumpin - and it lives up to the standards set by Beyoncé's former band. A europop-influenced love letter to a DJ ("I fall in love with my stereo"), it is really very good indeed.

3) Diva
"Diva is a female version of a hustler," says B. Not according to my dictionary, it's not. It also reckons that a hustler is "a prostitute who attracts customers by walking the streets". Now I'm confused. Is Beyoncé saying she's the female version of a male prostitute? But isn't that just a prostitute? Either way, Beyoncé has been one since "she was 15 in stilettos" which is surely against all sorts of moral and legal codes. The song is bobbins, by the way.

4) Sweet Dreams
A good album track. Sounds a bit like Rihanna, but with decent vocals.

5) Video Phone
This is one of those songs Beyoncé seems to be able to turn out in her sleep - all syncopated rhythms, sparse instrumentation and tricksy backing vocals. A close cousin of Get Me Bodied on her last album.



Conclusions:
There is already a special edition with five extra tracks. To be honest, I'm glad I didn't bother spending the extra £2...


Update - 12:36 I've just tried playing both albums simultaenously. It was actually something of an improvement.

Labels: Beyoncé, Review

Plonk! A four track album sampler has just landed in our inbox. It's attributed to a band called Hoxton Bar, but from the second Mark Owen lisps the first line, we're wise to the "clever" PR sleight of hand. It's only bloody Take That and their Circus album!

We have listened to it twice now, and it is very pleasant in a "would make a nice Christmas present for your mum" kind of way. Here is a more detailed breakdown:

1) The Garden
Take That's last album finished with a song about going out to sea in a Wooden Boat, and this album opens with the lyric "And the fisherman came back across the water". It's a continuing narrative, just like Quantum Of Solace! And, to further the parallel with James Bond, Take That are surrounded by "the sound of sirens" and "the scent of burning oil". Yikes!

At this point, you will be wondering "why are Take That banging on about the environment" but then the chorus kicks in with some old nonsense about "laying down in the garden" and ranks of stirring, staccato strings. By the end, you'll have forgotten all about global warming, and decided to have a berry burst smoothie with Howard Donald.

2) Greatest Day
You know this one already. It's basically Patience without the chorus.

3) Said It All
Someone has forgotten to change the settings on Gary Barlow's song-o-matic compositional machine, as this is yet another piano ballad with a soaring chorus and "meaningful" lyrics about the end of a relationship. The middle section steals the guitar riff from Coldplay's Yellow. Next!

4) Up All Night
This has an oompah brass band in it. Once you've got over the shock, it's quite a catchy little number in the vein of Shine - with a double-tracked Mark Owen singing about sexual frustration (?) while the rest of the band do their very best ELO harmonies.

The middle eight is brilliant: "I met this girl last night and she said 'why won't you marry me'? Well I'm too young for that, too dumb for that, too broke for that, too tired for that, too proud for that and I'm too gone for that.

"But would you like to come back to my flat?" Amazing.

Conclusion: Bring back Lulu!

Labels: Music, Review, take that

"Any critic who has the audacity to subtract even half a star off this show will be smacked in the fucking face," opined Kanye West as his two-hour set at the O2 drew to a close. He then defied anyone in the audience to name another concert that even approached the untrammelled genius of his stage spectacular.

Well, since he asked:
1) Prince - Lovesexy
2) Madonna - Reinvention tour
3) U2 - Zooropa
4) Jay-Z at Glastonbury
5) Sly and the Family Stone at Woodstock
6) Etc, etc

So what went wrong for Kanye?

First of all, despite hiring what he boasted of as "the best lighting designers in the world", there were no spotlights to follow the on-stage action - the result being that Kanye spent most of the night shrouded in silhouette. Even on the video screens. The tour was called Glow In The Dark, not Alone In The Dark. Strike one.

West also described how hard he worked to give the concert a narrative with "artistic merit". The plot, however, was a sub-Ed Wood space fantasy about Kanye being stranded on an alien planet with only a randy computer called Jane (!)for company. Strike two.

Lastly, the evening contained the most baffling, disorientating 15 minutes I've ever witnessed in a live show, as Kanye embarked on a semi-improvised, semi-musical, semi-coherent lament to his late mother.

Over a sparse bass figure, he shouted down God for robbing him of his soulmate, while making detours to discuss the paparazzi, the costs of fame, stage fright, his fractured relationship with Jay-Z, bloggers, the economic dowturn, Barack Obama, trying to sell his house in LA, the possibility of space travel and, frighteningly, the fact that he had recently been "a week away" from comitting suicide. All while staring sullenly at his shoes. It was by turns touching, upsetting and terrifyingly bonkers.

Strike three? Well, not quite...

Having got all tha bile off his chest, West's spirits seemed to pick up and he attacked the show's hit-heavy final segment with frantic brio. Hearing the likes of All Fall Down, Through The Wire, Gold Digger and Stronger performed back to back with such gusto makes you realise what a prolific and accomplished songwriter Kanye is. His earlier assertion that music was the only way to drown out his demons added an extra layer of emotional resonance to the final half hour of the show.

So, while it wasn't the earth-shattering, boundary-breaking audio-visual feast Kamye believed it to be, Glow In The Dark was still a remarkable, memorable and monumentally conceited pop concert.

Verdict: (And I am ready for my beating now).



Best bits: The extended singalong on Can't Tell Me Nothing; Estelle's surprise appearance for an encore of American Boy.

Worst bit: Four 'aliens' (lampshades) telling Kanye: "You're the most famous person in the universe."

Labels: kanye west, Music, Review

After last year's Tangled Up, Out Of Control marks phase II in the project to rebrand Girls Aloud as a mature, credible pop band. The former gift-wrapped kitty kats now sing about broken hearts while bathing in mid-tempo electronic melancholia. By the end of the album, they're even thinking about leaving behind the bright city lights for a house (a very big house) in the country.

Given the band's new, world-weary attitude, it's no surprise to find the Pet Shop Boys contributing a song. The Loving Kind is prime example of Neil Tenant's talent for kitchen-sink psychodrama, as the girls dissect a loveless relationship over a bottle of wine. It's a pop masterpiece and, presumably, a future single... but it's not necessarily the towering achievement you'd expect from combining Tenant, Lowe, Xenomania and GA.

Sadly, the rest of the album is similarly underwhelming. The little musical flourishes and scattershot melodies we've come to expect from Girls Aloud are suppressed by the record's sombre tone. It's almost as if Xenomania have reached a dead end, unsure of where to take their charges next. At one point, they even make Nadine sing the line: "We're beautiful robots dancing alone". Ouch.

Interestingly, when the band themselves get involved with the writing, things pick up. Miss You Bow Wow has a schizophrenic, anything-goes structure and the album's best lyric - "20 minutes in a hotel bar / Then I slip into your girlfriends jeans". Live In The Country is silly and fun - a spiritual successor to the likes of Racey Lacey, Swinging London Town or Grafitti My Soul.

Elsewhere, the six-and-half-minute Untouchable has the potential to be a massive hit if it's given a peppy single remix, and Rolling Back The Rivers In Time has a "woah-oh" chorus as catchy as the song's title is awful. Love Is Pain, on the other hand, is the worst Girls Aloud album track since their debut.

Last year, I declared Tangled Up as the pop album of the year, and noted that 2006's Greatest Hits album had given Girls Aloud and Xenomania 12 months to "refocus and recalibrate".

It sounds like they need a similar break next year.



UPDATE: It's growing on me.

Labels: Girls Aloud, Music, Review

A Capella is a much maligned art. It's only real proponents these days are boy bands desperate to prove they can "cut it" live and Bjork's Medulla album - the sound of forty people hiccuping over a click track.

So French singer Camille Dalmais' show at Camden's Roundhouse is a revelation. There may be eight musicians and one instrument (a lone grand piano) but it's unexpectedly, utterly brilliant.

Every other noise in the two-hour show is produced either vocally or by rubbing one part of the body against another. Harmonies dive, weave and float in and out of the ether; Chests are thumped in lieu of drums; and two of the backing band tear up the stage in a thrilling improvised beatbox battle.

The audience, awed into reverent silence during Camille's solo opening, are soon employed as part of the extended band - providing foot-stamping percussion on Katie's Tea and canine backing vocals during the hilarious Cats and Dogs.

Camille herself is a force of nature. Or several of them. She growls like thunder, snaps like lightning and whispers like the wind, but always in service of the melody - unlike the ridiculous warbling of Whitney and Mariah, whose 42-notes-where-one-would-do "technique" Camille lampoons in the wicked and funky Money Note.

Yet, for all the vocal acrobatics, the night's most affecting number is it's simplest. For her first encore, Camille sits at the piano and delivers an impassioned version of Winter's Child, every inch the tortured torch-song Chanteuse.

If there's a dud note in the two-hour show, it's all Jamie Cullum's fault. The perma-grinning jazz twat is invited onstage for a faltering, improvised duet which tests the very definition of the phrase "fucking awful". Luckily, it's over quickly and Camille has the crowd back on their feet and barking like lunatics all the way home.

Or was that just me?



PS: Words don't really do this amazing concert any justice. Here's a few videos to show you just how awesome Camille really is...

Camille - Gospel With No Lord (live)


Camille - Home Is Where The Hurt Is


Camille - The Monk (now with added spaniel)


[Pictures courtesy of Phoemail on Flickr]

Labels: camille, Music, Review

It may have taken 18 years, but Elbow have finally made it: A top five album, a Mercury Music Prize, and a three-night stint at Camden's Roundhouse. "We've never done a residency before," says Guy Garvey as the gig gets underway, "I could get used to it... We could open a little bar in Spain and call it El Bow."

I'd rather they stayed put in Camden. The intimate atmosphere and perfect acoustics at the Roundhouse (formerly a shed used to turn around steam trains, fact fans) provided the perfect setting for Elbow's delicate, heartfelt ballads. And the atmosphere on Saturday night was simply beautiful - with the entire audience seemingly there to celebrate and share in the group's belated success.

"It's just occurred to me that this gig sold out before the Mercury," noted Garvey with obvious glee.

The set focused on the new material, which was brought to life with a powerful, yet understated, sincerity. It was one of those gigs where you don't want to watch the band at all, just close your eyes and be swept away by the tidal highs and lows of the music. The wistful Some Riot and majestic Mirrorball stood out as highlights, as did the rousing sing-along of Grounds For Divorce - one of the few moments where the band really let rip.

Garvey was a genial host throughout, introducing the crowd to his mother and continually inquiring after the audience's wellbeing. A minor technical fault led to an impromptu Q&A session, with the singer fielding questions on the world's largest land mammal and the temperature on stage [there's a clip on youtube (youtube)]

The show's climax came with One Day Like This, probably the most criminally underplayed single of the year. The song's rousing, extended crescendo - "Throw those curtains wide / one day like this a year would see me right" - rang on and on after the band left the stage, providing the best alternative to shouting "more" or "encore" I've ever heard.

All in all, it was a magical evening. One that provided a real sense of northern community in a town known for its stand-offishness. If Elbow can translate that warmth and humanity to their arena gigs next year, they'll deservedly become one of Britain's best-loved bands.

Elbow - The Loneliness Of The Tower Crane Driver (live)

Labels: elbow, Music, Review

The audience wants the shouty ones.

When the Ting Tings' Katie White (that is actually her name) does her screechy war cry and Jules De Martino pounds away on his drums, everyone at the Shepherd's Bush Empire is happy.

But when the band attempt a stripped back version of Traffic Light - the closest thing they have to a ballad - the crowd's enthusiasm drops with the tempo.

It all ends in a heart-stoppingly awful moment when, during a "dramatic" pause, the band discover that the audience are just talking amongst themselves. For those of us paying attention, there was the pitiful sight of Jules and Katie standing uselessly at opposite ends of the stage, looking for all the world like the unwanted chess club nerds at a teenage house party.

And this is wrong, because the Ting Tings are cool; the acceptable face of pop. We know this because the NME told us so.

The problem here is that the holier-than-thou NME crowd have now turned up for the gig, all black denim and feigned ennui. They're determined not to be impressed, no matter how much effort the Ting Tings put in.

But the band only have themselves to blame as long as they try to be pop's answer to the White Stripes. Katie, clad in disastrous forest green Robin Hood leggings, should be jumping around the stage like a mad bag of eels, not proving her indie credibility with a neverending parade of expensive guitars she can barely play.

When the singer stops posing and lets rip on Shut Up And Let Me Go - clambering on top of the monitors; spanking her microphone stand; thumping a big bass drum - she has the crowd in the palm of her hand, momentarily forgetting they're supposed to be above this sort of thing. The fulsome cry of "hey!" that ends the song shakes the tiny venue's rafters.

Other highlights include a strident We Walk (no pun intended), the always-rousing Great DJ and a surprisingly ballsy rendition of current single Be The One.

But then, suddenly, it's all over. The Ting Tings have played all 10 songs from their debut album and scarpered - after less than an hour on stage. Which is a bit of a rip-off for £16.50. Even more so when we know they have a few cracking cover versions up their sleeves (Altered Images' Happy Birthday and the SOS Band's Just Be Good To Me to name just two).

The band have just announced they're recording new material next year. Let's hope that, next time they head out on the road, they ditch the lo-fi indie aesthetic, hire a proper band and play a few more songs.

The shouty ones go down best, apparently.



[Photos from various gigs, taken from Flickr courtesy of (1&2) Shirlaine, (3) RedMar and (4) Tractor Boy. Thank you!]

Labels: Music, Review, ting tings

"Everything we write is the truth," announces Lovefoxxx halfway through CSS's set at the Shepherd's Bush Empire. "So this next song is based on a true story."

The track she's introducing is Music Is My Hot Hot Sex - which details how the singer is rather fond of music.

It is hardly the sort of narrative that will make a "compelling" late-night drama on Channel Five. But it is, I confess, the story of my life.

It also explains why CSS are amazing: They are completely consumed by their hedonistic passion for pop and rock and dance and indie and grunge and acid and electro and pop (again). What's more, they spare no energy in communicating that feeling to their audience.

Last night's concert was a case in point. I was this close (indicates something very close, like a pen or a fingernail) to skipping the show, after a gruelling seven-hour drive down to London from Newcastle the night before. And yet, by the second verse of the opening song, Jager Joga, I was jumping up and down like a tigger on a trampoline.

This was largely due to Lovefoxxx, who frequently threatened to vapourise with excitement. Never the most tuneful of singers, her greatest asset is her voluptuous mane of raven black hair, which she tossed around like she was the star of a Pantene commercial on fast forward. Her bonkers barnet also acted as a conduit for the band's ebullient party vibe, whipping the crowd into a frenzy as much as their dopey, upbeat singalongs.

Musically, the Brazilian six-piece were ten times stronger than when I saw them at last year's Wireless festival, attacking songs like Alcohol and Rage with tremendous gusto and (thankfully) roughing up the smooth edges of this year's over-polished Donkey album.

By the final one-two sucker punch of Let's Make Love and Alala, the entire crowd was sweaty, exhausted and happy.

Lovefoxxx, stripped down to her trademark technicolour catsuit, finally flipped, screaming "Where's my bitches at" at the top of her voice, before the gig climaxed with with a euphoric group hug and a squall of feedback.

True story.




[Pictures from Flickr, by crazybobbles (band) and machartu (setlist)]

Labels: CSS, Music, Review

The last time Madonna went on a stadium tour, with 1993's Girlie Show, it was a creative and critical flop. So much so that it would be eight years before the Queen of Pop returned to the stage. When she did, it was in the smaller and more controlled environment of the indoor arena, where she could better realize the intricate, theatrical extravaganzas she's now become famous for.

So it was with some trepidation that I travelled out to Wembley for the Sticky and Sweet show. Would the acrobatic drama of the Reinvention and Confessions tours translate to such a huge venue - or would it be swamped by the scale?


I should never really have doubted the Queen of Pop. She has enough personality to fill three Wembley Stadiums - and the technology behind these massive concerts has progressed light years since 1993. Flanked by two massive "Ms" and about seven video screens, Madonna could project her (Blond) ambition into space if she wanted.

Highlights of the show included Into The Groove's double dutch skip-along, a ballsy hard rock version of Borderline and a gypsified La Isla Bonita. Practically every song had a new visual theme, and the choreography was almost entirely devoid of cliché. My particular favourite was Heartbeat, in which a "crippled" Madonna was posed and manipulated by her dancers like a marionette - a sly dig at the critics who claim she's getting too old for this pop lark.

And, while we didn't get the skateboard ramps or multi-story climbing frames of her recent tours, there was plenty of visual splendour for the audience's hungry eyes. Dancers donned classic Madonna costumes - the conical bra, the Like A Virgin wedding dress - for She's Not Me; while Devil Wouldn't Recognise You saw the Queen Of Pop enveloped by a curtain of lights.

Song-wise, the show was a bit too Hard Candy heavy - opening with the underwhelming Candy Shop and closing with a slightly muddled Give It 2 Me. At the same time, those new songs, which sound a bit anaemic on CD, were given some much-needed muscle by the fantastically accomplished band. Madonna wisely threw in a few hooks from her older hits into the mix to keep the fans happy, too.

In fact, Madonna's willingness to rejig and refresh her music is one of the things I admire most about her. It shows a real creative hunger in comparison to the "wheel out the old hits" mentality of most performers of her stature. One truly splendid example was Like A Prayer, which was transformed into a thumping rave anthem by virtue of a mash-up with Felix's Don't You Want Me.

It was so good, in fact, that the crowd forgave her en masse for singing completely the wrong words - which made the pre-recorded guide vocal somewhat obvious.

There have been a few gripes about the ticket prices for the Sticky and Sweet Tour but I honestly believe the show is worth the price of admission. Compared to similarly-priced events by the Rolling Stones or the Police, your cash investment is clearly being spent on the creative endeavour, rather than Sting's yoga lessons.

However, can I make one heartfelt plea to set designers around the world? If you could raise the stage a mere three feet higher off the ground, then short-arses like me could see the whole thing, rather than paying £75 to watch a giant TV for two hours.

Thankyouverymuch.



Setlist
Candy Shop
Beat Goes On
Human Nature
Vogue (with 4 Minutes, Give It To Me, Last Night a DJ Saved My Life)
Die Another Day (video interlude)
Into the Groove (with Jump, Double Dutch Bus, Toop Toop)
Heartbeat
Borderline
She's Not Me
Music (with Put Your Hands Up 4 Detroit)
Rain / Here Comes The Rain Again (video interlude)
Devil Wouldn't Recognize You
Spanish Lesson
Miles Away
La Isla Bonita (contains elements of Lela Pala Tute)
Doli Doli (dance interlude)
You Must Love Me
Get Stupid (video interlude)
4 Minutes
Like a Prayer (with Don't You Want Me, Feels Like Home)
Ray of Light
Hung Up
Give It 2 Me

Labels: madonna, Music, Review

Last time I saw Annie in concert, she was flailing about aimlessly behind a DJ while a largely indifferent St Etienne audience drank beer and talked amongst themselves. The Norwegian popster even walked off the stage a couple of times, such was the indifference of the crowd.

At the iTunes festival on Monday, there was evidence both of increased interest and that she'd stepped up as a performer - although she sometimes has the air of a head girl miming to her favourite Girls Aloud songs at the school concert.

The set began brilliantly, wrong-footing the audience with a grinding synth dirge (exactly the sort of thing that you'd expect to hear as Radiohead's warm-up tape) that transmogrified into skippy pop ditty Chewing Gum. Sadly, although the three-piece band was giving it their all Annie's wispy voice, awash in delay, never really managed to punch through.

Things got very odd with the appearance of What Do You Want (For Breakfast), an utterly baffling song which consists of Annie repeating the inquisitive title ad nauseam over a plonky techno beat.

Sadly, no-one shouted out "muesli" or "croissant" in response to her query.

After a couple of songs, however, things began to warm up. The deliciously dark stomp of I Want You To Take Me Home was the turning point, with the band settling into a groove and Annie striking a series of convincing rock chick poses with her mic.

Songs Remind Me Of You, the highlight of her forthcoming new album, was similarly the stand-out track of the live show - proving once and for all that it should have been the lead single, rather than the underwhelming I Know Ur Girlfriend Hates Me (in with a bullet at, er, number 54).

All in all, it was an uneven set and one which can't have won over many new fans. Which is a real shame because, while the hipster critics love her, the lack of airplay means the live arena is the one place she can connect with an audience.

[These beautiful photos are from Paul Jay's Flickr Stream]

Labels: annie, Music, Review

Last night we ended up in the place that used to be seedy Soho strip club Raymond's Revue Bar to watch Bryn Christopher 'showcase' his new 'material' (this is music industry jargon for "playing some of his songs", fact fans).

Disappointingly, there were no Pringles or vol au vents, but Bryn and his T4-esque good looks managed to distract our attention from the shoddy catering arrangements for a good 45 minutes or so.

In a nutshell, here's what you can expect when his album comes out later this year:



The highlight of the night was his current single The Quest - the lyrics of which, I recently discovered, are based on his brother's experiences fighting with the British Army in Iraq. This came about five songs into his set, and it marked the point where Bryn really came to life. He stopped prowling the stage and stood firm behind the microphone, belting out the lyrics with the amazing set of pipes he was hiding underneath his Fred Perry t-shirt.

Unfortunately, he didn't seem to have the same emotional investment in the rest of his material - churning out some pretty anaemic funk throughout the course of the evening. But when he gets the right material - one song called Stay With Me* was worthy of Marvin Gaye - he's definitely one to watch.

The Quest is out this week - here's a reminder:

Bryn Christopher - The Quest


* Or maybe not. There may have been drink consumed by this stage.

Labels: bryn christopher, Music, Review, video

For a man whose lyrical preoccupation is alienation ("We don't have any real friends"), it is hardly surprising that Thom Yorke doesn't spend a great deal of time in communion with his fellow human beings. During two hours on stage with Radiohead in East London's Victoria Park he barely registers his longtime bandmates, while banter with the 40,000-strong audience is kept to the bare minimum.

But maybe this solitude is not a bad thing. Rather than mess around developing showmanship and 'patter', Yorke puts his head down and concentrates on the music.

And there is no doubt that Radiohead are one of the most accomplished rock bands on planet telex. Like a heavyweight musical wrestling team, they can grapple anything - be it the angular power chords of Airbag or the syncopated jerk-rock of 15 Step. Even when they teeter on the brink of scribbly electronic nonsense, the whole enterprise is rescued by Colin Greenwood's much under-rated bass riffs - some of which veer towards (dare I say it?) funk.

Nonetheless, it is the simpler, melodic tracks of In Rainbows that work the best in this set. Faust Arp is the transcendental lynchpin of the set, its falling acoustic arpeggio recalling the delicacy of the Beatles' Dear Prudence. Recalling their dawn performance on TV special Scotch Mist earlier this year, Yorke and Greenwood stand face to face to perform the track to an enraptured audience.

But without making eye contact, obviously.

Elsewhere, National Anthem has lost none of its grinding power, and Pyramid Song ushers in the dusk with menacing discord. Bizarrely, a Chinook helicopter flies over the stage just as the drums kick in. A mere coincidence? We may never know...

The night's setlist is largely drawn from the arty post-OK Computer era - including all but one of the tracks from last year's In Rainbows album - at the expense of crowd pleasers like Karma Police, The Bends or Paranoid Android. But when the group do venture deeper into their back catalogue, things go somewhat awry. Either through boredom or repetition, Just (to name one example) has acquired some unnecessary flourishes and vocal tics which rob the song of its elemental power.

But the audience - maybe the whitest gathering ever seen in Hackney - don't seem to mind. Dressed in a uniform of looks-second-hand-but-is-really-very-expensive-designer-corduroy and carefully messed-up facial hair (yes, even the girls), they bob their heads up and down in unified appreciation of the arty noodling.

At times, it looks like a convention of nodding dogs.

When the crowd finally remember they're at a rock concert and sing along to Planet Telex, Yorke (who is known for forgetting the words to this particular song) is suddenly moved to say something.

"Tonight I was fucking terrified," he admits, "so thank you for the good vibes".

You see? Even introverted, reluctant rock stars need a little of the human touch now and again.

Aw, diddums.

Setlist
15 Step
Bodysnatcher
All I Need
National Anthem
Pyramid Song
Nude
Weird Fishes / Arpeggi
The Gloaming
Dollars and Cents
Faust Arp
There There
Just
Climbing Up The Walls
Reckoner
Everything In Its Right Place
How To Disappear Completely
Jigsaw Falling Into Place
Videotape
Airbag
Bangers and Mash
Planet Telex
The Tourist
Cymbal Rush [Thom Yorke Solo at Piano]
You And Whose Army
Packt Like Sardines In A Crushd Tin Box

Labels: Music, radiohead, Review

Riding high on the euphoria of a top 10 hit, Sara Bareilles was like an excited teenager at the Bush Hall in West London last night. She bounded onto the stage, eyes wide with puppyish enthusiasm, and started chatting away to the crowd about London, the temperature, the fact that she had come "dressed as Dorothy from Wizard of Oz".

Sartorial disasters aside, her set started out energetically with US single Bottle It Up. Sara's "thing" is to hide stinging, bitter lyrics inside radio-friendly melodies and this one is about the music industry putting pressure on new artists to ape the chart-bothering antics of established acts.

It's not something her record company needed to worry about, mind you, as Sara already sounds exactly like a whole host of other big-name FM radio songsters: Sheryl Crow, Fiona Apple and (especially) Maroon 5 come immediately to mind.

Like them, several of her songs meander dangerously close to the territory marked "innoffensive but unmemorable" (catchy name for a territory, huh?). Similarly, when her songs shine they do so with a sparkle that mesmerises the tiny audience into reverent silence. Love Song, the hit, is one of them - but special mention should be made of Vegas and Come Round Soon, too.

However, the gig really comes to life when the singer abandons her piano for a low-down bluesy rendition of the Beatles Oh Darling accompanied solely by her guitarist Javier Dunn... Here's a similarly powerful version from a gig in Dallas a couple of months back:

Sara Bareilles - Oh Darling


On this evidence, Sara desperately needs to shun the polished, session-musician sheen of her current album in favour of this raw and gutsy sound.

It would be the making of her.

Labels: Music, Review, sara bareilles

Disclaimer: This review is based on having seen four whole songs, as I also had to see Avril Lavigne at the O2 (and the less said about that fiasco, the better). Accordingly, here are my impressions in bullet point form:

Duffy's hair is entirely independent of Duffy herself

Duffy was wearing ruby slippers like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz.

Consquently, it looked like Judy Garland had been eaten by an Afghan Hound.

Which led to the following image in my Guinness-fuelled nightmare last night:

Nonetheless, the singing Afghan was very good (she didn't bark once)

Set closer Distant Dreamer was the stuff of legend. Proper tingles went up my spine.

It should be the next single, not Stepping Stone or Serious, despite what her record label thinks

I have never seen a crowd leave a venue so quickly in my life. I suspect they had to get home to pay the babysitter before 11.

The end.

Labels: duffy, Music, Review

Last night, we ventured out to the Emirates Stadium (apparently it's got something to do with football) to witness Bruce Springsteen do his rock "thang". There was plank spanking, there were extended "axe" solos, there were pensioners in jeans.

It was ace.

I was brought up with The Boss as a constant soundtrack in my dad's Vauxhall Cavalier, with the consequence that I never really got into his music until I left home and was allowed to discover it for myself. I still wouldn't admit to being an out-and-out fan, mind you. Too many of Springsteen's songs plough the same over-earnest furrow and his melodies can be aggravatingly similar before he throws down one of those trademark anthemic choruses.

And, for a relative novice like me, it was the widescreen, crowd-pleasing refrains that won the night. Opener Out In The Street has a big, dumb "woah-oh-oh" bit that got everyone on their feet and Bruce milked it for all he was worth.

The 58-year-old scampered around like a man with a weasel up his bottom, striding up and down the front row, shaking hands, taking dedications, and throwing demigod poses before collapsing in fits of laughter. I see where Bono gets it from now.

Springsteen's long-term backing group, the "heart-stopping, pants-dropping, hard-rocking, booty-shaking, earth-quaking, nerve-breaking, history-making, legendary E Street Band!" were in fine form, too. A working example of the less is more school of rock, they only came centre stage when the music demanded - despite the fact that many of them are as recognisable as the frontman himself.

But Emirates is in a built-up residential area, so the finer points of the band's music were lost to the breeze as the sound limits placed on the PA system left them struggling to fill the stadium. For first-timers, like mrsdiscopop, the lyrics - an essential part of Springsteen's music - were barely audible.

It didn't help that it was a rather fan-orientated set, either. The only big-hitters were I'm On Fire, Born To Run, Because The Night and 4th of July, Asbury Park (Sandy). Which was a shame, because the previous night's audience had heard the likes of Dancing In The Dark, Glory Days and Thunder Road. The rotters.

But I'd unreservedly recommend a night out with Brucie. I've seen musicians half his age who have half of his energy, commitment and enthusiasm. A more intimate setting would be high on my list of priorities, though.



Setlist
Out In The Street
No Surrender
Darkness On The Edge Of Town
Gypsy Biker
Radio Nowhere
4th of July, Asbury Park (Sandy)
Growin' Up
Downbound Train
I'm On Fire
Because The Night
She's The One
Livin' In The Future
Mary's Place
The Promised Land
Backstreets
The Rising
Last To Die
Long Walk Home
Badlands

--- Encore ---
Jungleland
Born To Run
Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out
American Land

Labels: bruce springsteen, Music, Review

The Tangled Up tour is Girls Aloud's fourth jaunt round the UK in as many years, and it's by far their most professional show to date.

It's got pyrotechnics, moving walkways, costume changes, wire tricks and five (five!) video screens. But a large part of the girls' success has been down to their scrappy charm, so could all this polish smooth out their charmingly rough edges?

The answer is yes. And no.

The fivesome rose to the challenge of the show with ease - hitting all their marks and cramming personality into the increasingly complex routines. But their backing band was trying too hard. All of the intricate detail of Xenomania's songs was scrubbed out in a squall of noise, including several unnecessary guitar solos. Worse still, the fussy arrangements frequently drowned out the melodies. Musically, it was an utter mess.

By now, however, Girls Aloud are old pros - and occasionally managed to rise above the bombast to get the show moving. Close To Love was an early highlight, the saucy dance routine clearly a tour favourite. A cover of Salt & Pepa's Push It was a riot, too, with Kimberly revealing herself as a surprisingly talented MC.

Walk This Way, conversely, was spolit by deliberate feedback, while Wake Me Up suddenly developed a funk guitar line completely at odds with its riff-tastic origins.

One thing that proved to be a constant throughout the evening was the group's boundless energy. Nadine was clearly revelling in being in front of a crowd, laying rest to the persistent rumours that she's abandoning her bandmates for LA. Sarah bounded around the stage like a dog released from the trap, and Cheryl has become a demon of dance, throwing herself about like a woman possessed by Mexican jumping beans. She looks frighteningly thin, though - her once magnificent bum a shadow of its former self.

A ballad section performed, as Nadine put it in her beautiful Irish brogue, "in the muddle of the crowd" was another highlight. Their version of Robyn's With Every Heartbeat was heartfelt, if oversung, and Whole Lotta History was magnificently rousing.

All in all, then, an uneven concert that will have pleased the band's less critical fans, but which would have been improved by giving the girls more freedoms, while reigning in those allowed to their band.











Setlist
Sexy! No No No...
Girl Overboard
Sound of the Underground
Close to Love
Can't Speak French
Love Machine
Black Jacks
Biology
Whole Lotta History
With Every Heartbeat
I'll Stand By You
Fling
Push It
Wake Me Up
Walk This Way
Control of the Knife/Trick Me
Call The Shots
Jump

-encore-
Something Kinda Ooooh

(Yes, that's right - no sign of No Good Advice. For shame)

Labels: Girls Aloud, Music, Review

Worried about listening to Coldplay's new single, Violet Hill, at work?
Have no fear, for here it is in text form:

0:00 - 0:41 Here is some pleasant ambience noise which will take the running time over the crucial three minute mark.
0:42 - 0:46 Chris Martin's vocals have got "slapback" reverb on them, just like the Beatles used to use.
0:46 - 0:50 He sounds more like Liam Gallagher on All Around The World, though.
0:50 - 0:52 "There was snow," exclaims Chris. "White snow" What other type is there, you buffoon?
1:00 - 1:05 This bass line is actually very funky
1:18 - 1:23 THE CHORUS "If you love it, won't you let me know?" That's all you're getting, by the way. One solitary line.
1:46 - 1:48 The word bible is rhymed with rifle. Controversial!
2:14 - 2:16 Is the record stuck?
2:17 - 2:48 No, it is not. And here is a guitar "solo" (the same riff repeated over and over again for 30 seconds)
3:09-3:49 Piano coda. Chris does his trademark singing-like-a-wounded-animal "schtick". Then it stops.

All in all, it is rather good. Goddamn them.

Get your free copy on the Coldplay interwebshop.

Labels: coldplay, Music, Review

Plop! Look what has landed in the Discopop Towers letterbox. It's a sampler for Annie's sophomore album - and major label debut - Don't Stop. Four years in the making, it has left the poor dear looking a little bit worse for wear:



Don't Stop isn't out 'til July, but here's what we learn from these first five tracks.

I Know UR Girlfriend Hates Me
Ugly text-speak typography aside, this a a great little pop nugget. A sonic sister to Annie's Chewing Gum, it suggests that writer/producer Richard X hasn't progressed much since Some Girls in 2004. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing. The song climaxes, for no apparent reason, with the sound of an ice cream van.
Key lyric: Ring-a-ding-a-ding-ding-ding-ding, Ring-a-ding-a-ding-ding

My Love Is Better
There are no liner notes on the CD, but I'm willing to bet my right arm that this is a Xenomania track. I've always found the team's non-Girls Aloud songs rather anonymous, but this one perfectly captures the feisty funk of the former Pop Stars finalists. The lyrics are basically saying 'I'm better than you, so ner ner ner' and, if I'm not mistaken, the actual Girls Aloud are hanging around on backing vocal duties.
Key lyric: Betting that your bark has nothing on my bite.

When The Night
Annie is experiencing some nocturnal angst, like dracula but without the blood lust. A classy, understated ballad that wouldn't sound out of place on the Pet Shop Boy's Behaviour album.
Key lyric: I'm burning like a moth attracted to the flame, but better that I burn than slowly fade away.

Marie Cherie
A song about nobel prize-winning radioactivity pioneer Marie Curie [are you sure about this? - Ed]. Another dramatic ballad, replete with sweeping strings and whispered harmonies. Serge Gainsbourg would be proud. And so would St Etienne. Me, I'm not so sure...
Key lyric: Her skin's like velvet cream. She never made a sweet sixteen.

Songs Remind Me Of You
The only track on this sampler that brings to mind the extended disco magnificence of Come Together from Annie's debut, Anniemal. Focused around a bubbling Giorgio Moroder bassline, the song is addressed to a former lover whose songs haunt Annie's every waking minute. It ends with a gong, as all great pop songs should.
Key lyric: How does it feel to hear your songs on the radio?

Can't wait to hear the rest of the material... You might be able to catch some of it at Annie's forthcoming UK DJ shows. Details on her Myspace page.

Labels: annie, Music, Review

The last time Goldfrapp played live, their intro music was Cerrone's 10-minute disco odyssey Supernature. Last night at the Royal Festival Hall, it was Greensleeves.

Yes, Alison and Will have gone all pastoral, as further evidenced by their band's set-up, which included a harp, a 16-piece string ensemble and, by the end of the gig, six female choristers.

Dressed in white nightgowns (except Alison, in pink), the group concentrated mainly on the dreamy psychedelia of current album Seventh Tree and the more cinematic moments from debut release Felt Mountain. Utopia was an early highlight, with the string section lifting an already euphoric song into the stratosphere.

Similarly, You Never Know was particularly suited to the austere surroundings of the posh-nobs venue - with its staccato string stabs punching all the way to the back row like a fist in a velvet glove.

When they turned to the more upbeat numbers, though, Goldfrapp faltered. Bringing out the synths for the bouncy music-hall groove of Satin Chic, the sound balance was oddly uneven. The drums, in particular, sounded like they being played in a school practice room - making a band that's renowned for its perfectionist soundscapes seem a little amateurish.

Fittingly for the surroundings, it was mostly a sit-down concert. Until, that is, we got the opening strains of Number One. At which point a lone man in the upper balcony was so moved by pulsing bassline that he left his chair to dance wildly in the aisles, half-finished pint in hand. A steward predictably tried to get him to sit down but was met with a disapproving chorus of booing. Then five supporters got up to show solidarity in dance. Then ten, then fifteen... The steward retreated, defeated.

"Don't let them make you stop dancing," said a clearly delighted Goldfrapp as the song ended, before launching into electro glam disco stomper Strict Machine, ensuring even more feet on the floor. It was a great moment - and one that clearly touched the singer, who had expressed concern that the audience wasn't connecting with the music earlier in the show ("I can't see anyone, I'm not used to people sitting down," she complained)

The show drew to a close with two sonic experiments - Ooh La La as a hillbilly country song, which failed miserably, and a performance of Happiness with the entire audience humming along on kazoos, which was magnificent.

Despite a few minor mis-steps, then, it was a great gig. Alison Goldfrapp seems more comfortable as a frontwoman this time round, leading her band like a dreamy, ethereal pixie, rather than the sexualised disco vixen of the Supernature tour. And, with those sound issues sorted out, they're going to be an amazing experience under the stars at this summer's outdoor festivals.

9/10

Goldfrapp - Happiness (live, fan-made video)




Setlist
Paper Bag
A&E
Utopia
Cologne Cerrone Houdini
You Never Know
Road To Somewhere
Eat Yourself
Little Bird
Satin Chic
Number One
Strict Machine
Monster Love
Caravan Girl
Clowns
Ooh La La (Hillbilly)
Happiness (Kazoo)
(via Goldfrapp messageboards - thanks)

Labels: goldfrapp, Music, Review, video