This is our list of stuff to do at Incubate! Obviously we'd love you to come to our residency at the Extase - and encamp there over the weekend - but it's your time and you've spent your hard earned on a ticket so who are we to tell you what to do?
I’m paraphrasing here but one line the girl bawled out, “My boyfriend likes me from behind/and you know I don’t mind” actually got the crowd hollering and bouncing along, it was extraordinary.
“A guy crowdsurfs through a sea of balloons with a George Michael mask. This is Diagrams, this shouldn’t be happening. They’re going bananas and it seems Mr Michael impersonator isn’t ever going to come down”.
Beal screamed out his torch songs, with a taste for in yer face drama, he indulged in a whole variety of props and poses; covering up in a cape, waving the mic stand like a Claymore, taking off his belt and whipping the floor like a sex crazed fetishist…
Shallow Dave? Shallow? I expect you to eat that rather odd Cossack hat you favour, and a huge slice of humble pie. I'm glad I shot your dog. It wasn't an accident. You know where I live.
A lapsed Rosarian, Stephen Watt was happy to proclaim – especially to his ticket-holding brother-in-law – that the Stone Roses' reunion was a purely commercial venture. But, when fate, an ‘anonymous’ tip off and the arrest of an associate conspired to provide him with a ticket, he swallowed his pride, put on his bullet-proof jacket, slipped his Glock 17 into his waistband and headed off to where he first saw the light. Would a pilgrimage to Madchester resurrect his passion or be a journey into the heart of darkness?
Betraying an umbilical link to some bug eyed kids programme soundtrack from the late 60s/early 70s (yes they were like that, trust me), it’s possibly their most pop release to date and deserves your time and attention. Oh and a predictably cracking cover from artiste du jour, Viktor Hachmang; NL’s very own Barney Bubbles.
The glowering tower block near Leiden station, a veritable blot on the landscape for the authorities was transformed – for one evening only - into an impromptu centre for all things Carnival and Saturnine.
There’s a sense of drama here that is driven by some bravura editing and a reckless attitude that stands that deeply boring Gallic perfectionism on its head: all of this makes it a superb listen. It’s also infused with a dramatic and overblown melancholy not seen since the French Gothic. Highly recommended for noise and atonal freaks everywhere.
The great thing is that you never feel you’re being conned. Unlike all those awful, gauche attempts at amateurism churned out on nice little labels this past decade...this is a proper band, with a beat, with sex appeal and a sort of weird focus.
Sometimes there is just a slab of noise without any noticeable trickery: Petrified Spirits is a tribal rallying call, an exploratory drill for the sort of Psychicke energy lines that lie deep beneath the surface of Albion. Or a bloody atonal racket. It’s equally inspiring and revolting.
...it all feels about 30 years too late, it’s the sort of music that Ultravox, Big Country or The Alarm used to chart with in the early 80s. I wonder what people – outside of your weary scribe - think now.
You can imagine this lurid, restless music being a hit with film buffs and other solitary types… though it has a lot of space and a sense of occasion. Just don’t play it at business meetings.
It’s old fashioned pop that manages to capture an audience without any ego or bluster. The singer has something of Marc Almond’s theatrical delivery too.
Imagine the ghosts of Flanagan and Allen brought to life - albeit their gentle vibe as pictured by a bunch of speed freaks.
The difficulty is with this sort of music – good songs or not - is that there have been so many bands ploughing this particular sonic furrow this past ten years. And it’s often difficult to pick out the ace in the pack. There again the LP is stuffed with good quality teen pop and I shouldn’t be looking to set agendas in reviews.
Like trying to get some surly teen to tidy their pit, you won’t get much change out of the enterprise if you don’t have a fair old vat of patience and understanding.
Just like Divine or Lisa Stansfield, this music is not looking to beg or win any prizes, and that’s important in this Salem-like age of timidity.
I suppose that the absence of any considerations apart from trying to make the best noise they can is what makes this music tick.
Fergus and Geronimo do seem to have a thing about the Romans; no less than three tracks are named after them. The same with aliens… both are depicted on the cartoon on the inner sleeve. I quite like this sketchy, Clinton-style daftness.