Jimmy Eat World, The Automatic: Earls Court, London

April 29th

After losing AFI in the Sunday line up for the Give It A Name indoor festival, the organisers opted for The Automatic to replace them and open for Jimmy Eat World. Yes, that's right, Jimmy Eat World - the band of sensitive, civilised gents and modern-day pioneers of emo as we know it. Then there's The Automatic, a collection of children who escaped asbos (and a career in children's TV) for a life on the road, singing songs about monsters and the bloke they buy sandwhiches from.

The Jimmy Eat World fans aren't impressed. Waiting to rock and dance and cry to the classic emo anthems from breakthrough album Bleed American, they hurl shoes, water and green balls at the sweaty twat whose sole role in The Automatic is to say 'Awwwwwwwwwwww!, eeeeeeerreeeeeeeeeeek!' everytime a chorus approaches. To make matters worse, they cover Talking Heads before saying 'we're going to educate you'. All the crowd wants is someone to eradicate The Automatic.

Jimmy Eat World play a greatest hits heavy 50 minutes, while slotting in the odd newie like Butch Vig produced Big Casino which sees a retreat to big, pop anthems after the political intellectualising and bed-wetting of 2004's Futures. They're great, obviously and pause only to hand out water or congratulate the sound engineer. Relentless power pop is sandwhiched between the heartbreak ballads and sneering, angsty and brooding punk explosions. Jimmy Eat World might be polite and look about as rock as the dude from your local Blockbusters, but you can't argue with their pop genius. The Middle, Sweetness and Bleed American rock Earls Court. As the set comes to an end, The Automatic appear on stage again - a confused Jimmy Eat World realise they're the support band and sarcastically point at the one-hit-wonders desperately trying to pilfer some emo credentials before they get tossed by their label....

The Twang, James: Brixton Academy, London

27^th April

Noel Gallagher once put the success of Definitely Maybe down to the fact he thought it ‘offered something that was missing from peoples’ lives’ in 1994. There were no credible UK bands that could claim to mean as much to people as The Stones, The Beatles or The Who. The Levellers didn’t really cut it and James appealed to veggies, people who walked dogs via a tatty rope and sang the Greenpeace company song. With rave music disappearing into a ditch in a field somewhere off the A1 and the death of grunge looming, Oasis gave us a master class in song writing, riff stealing and a record to live life by on the eve of the fall of John Major and the rise of cheap alcopops, PlayStation and Loaded.

The Twang have only released an EP and one single, but their songs are the best to be produced in this country since The Libertines put down the guitars and lit up the crack pipes, Arctic Monkeys excepted. Like the Arctic Monkeys, The Twang offer something that mean as much to peoples’ lives as Definitely Maybe did in ’94. Songs about not being able to afford a mortgage, banging a milf while pissed and having it (like, large) while looking at your best mates’ girl are all part of the make-up of the baggy, playful champion rock of The Twang. While house prices are obscene, debt levels are skyrocketing and Deal Or No Deal is the newest revelation on TV, it’s hardly surprising that the UK music scene is exploding at a rate which goes off the Richter scale. And The Twang are at the epicenter. Their bloodline is unashamedly linked to the Happy Mondays, The Stone Roses and Oasis. The brummie swagger and potent delivery of slimey, twisted slang might seem like Mike Skinner in a more tuneful studio session but The Twang have killer hooks, primal sprawling riffs and great beats to boot.

So it’s a real surprise to see The Twang bomb at Brixton Academy. Phil Etheridge comes out swaggering like a featherweight fighter after ten pints of Stella, all excitement and slurred, punch drunk attitude. All of the EP is played, plus a new song from the forthcoming album yet the crowd look on, confused. They stare like a senile Saga induction meet, unsure why they are there and perhaps also forgetting why they even arrived in the first place. The gathered are here to celebrate the return (and death) of hideous, flower powered early nineties hippies James. Sure, James had a couple of decent songs but, Jesus, so did The Levellers. The Twang unleash The Neighbour, looping guitar coda, sublime harmonies and baggy punk attitude and there’s a few cheers, namely from people under 30. But there’s a massive contingent that are in attendance to celebrate 1990, the year that James played their natural homeland, Glastonbury Festival. The music seems secondary, the gathered milf and wankered partners can’t be stirred into any movement. Even beat led singalong Cloudy Room doesn’t raise a smile. Phil sings ‘look around, everyone’s havin’ it’ and no one is, bar the odd girl on the balcony swaying with a pint of Carling. Even an impromptu airing of Salt & Pepper’s Push It can’t penetrate the static crowd who have mentally transported themselves back to 1990 like time travelling tie-dye daleks.

Cascading feedback-friendly Ice Cream Sunday is like a super-charged cover of the Roses’ Waterfall. It could have been sung by Ian Brown in 1990, but here it is tonight, given the genius touch of The Twang. Still there’s no acceptance. One bloke swaggering dangerously near the motionless mosh pit shouts ‘stupid fuckin’ NME band!’ but few people take any notice, politely moving away from the smelly drunkard with a few disgusted looks from women who perhaps have only attended a Take That reunion gig in the last decade. Sensing the lack of reception, Phil attempts to cajole the crowd into action, says he wants people to have fun, thanks London and says ‘NME are really into us, I hope you like us’. You half want someone to call out, confess undying love for The Twang and mobilize a newly discovered troupe of baggy warriors to jovially poke the rose tinted retinas of James fans. Sadly, this doesn’t happen.

Instead, we get 90 minutes of a frontman who throws himself around the stage, flailing like the slap headed host of The Crystal Maze dressed as Rupert Bear. It’s like Harry Hill doing Michael Stipe on Celebrity Stars In Their Eyes. The heady mix of shit 90’s nostalgia is palpable and it’s as crusty and rank as the 1992 Tour tees on the back of several fans. James have made a few concession to 2007, most notably using a laser show and taking advantage of new fangled projectors to plant colourful floral shapes around the stage. The set is dated, moldy and means nothing to anyone, bar the odd crusty, has-been hippy counting out his coppers to buy a pint of cider.

The Twang might not be the obvious winners tonight, but when James play Destiny Calling, you can’t help feeling their destiny is the dustbin and The Twang are on an unstoppable rise to achieve everything James wanted, but couldn’t quite manage.

Kid Harpoon feat Kate Nash, Electric Ballroom, London

Friday, April 20, 2007

If there's one thing the Camden Crawl needs, it's weird, innovate and downright strange fellows like Kid Harpoon. Headlining elsewhere in Camden on the same night is Amy Winehouse, Ash and The Bluetones. Indie retro fetishists may orgasm through their corduroy at the thought of Mark Morris and Tim Wheeler orchestrating karaoke singalongs of Now That's What I Call Indie '95!, but the Camden Crawl is about the new, the different, the foreheads annotated with neon crayons. Bollocks to shoe-gazing, bring on the electro acoustic wizardry and folk soaked jiggery pointery of Kid Harpoon… The important thing you need to know about Kid Harpoon is that it doesn't look good at first. Imagine James Blunt fronting The Kooks and cackling and pointing like Justin Hawkins on HRT. He points, he scampers, tap dances, jumps and behaves like a kitten on crystal meth. But despite the awfully polite, gap year Thailand travelling student appearance and enunciation, Kid Harpoon sings about picnic baskets and shopping trolleys before wailing like Jack Black doing his best devil impression. It's a scary, schizoid mix of Moz lyrics buried in their own Englishness, accompanied by roaring choruses played through the loudest acoustic instruments since Jack White picked up a banjo. Late for The Devil is the country singalong the Electric Ballroom has been waiting for all day, all summery emotions and infinitely moving rhythms full of rump shaking, finger clicking goodness. Fast forward to the festivals and this will echo through tents, courtesy of drunk troubadours playing out of tune guitars with tent pegs while doing wonky falsettos. You'll still singalong. You'll be forced to hunch and tip toe dance and do that Partridge 'I'm A Tiger!' roar and really not give a damn about those not experienced in the panto jive of Kid Harpoon. Kate Nash appears and sings in harmonies so sweet, she melts the hearts of a billion boys. When her mic stand slips down, you can hear the 'ooooh' of a dozen helpers on hand to aid little red riding hood, all pretty red petticoat and flowing brown hair. After just 45 minutes, Kid Harpoon and his cast vanish, leaving a happy crowd dreaming of the summer, practicing those moves, contemplating the olde English choruses laser etched into their brains.

Babyshambles, Studio 88, Camden, London

Thursday, April 19, 2007

Following his solo 'An Evening With' gigs last week, Pete Doherty led his band into the middle of the UK's most indie, most debauched, most sweat soaked music jamboree in London. Yes, The Camden Crawl kicked into full swing today with a secret MySpace gig at the Studio 88 pub… 100 random fans were plucked from bowels of Camden, given a unique tee and given a taxi ride to Chalk Farm Road. After a brief sound check which saw a relaxed Pete play through just four songs in front of new fiancé Kate Moss, the fans piled into the already cramped rehearsal space. The set list included Fuck Forever, The Blinding and Kilimangiro. The 30 minute sweaty fuckfest saw Pete jump into the crowd and chuck the whole fucking set into the audience – mic, guitars, himself and even the drum kit. No sign of recently befriended Libertine Carl Barat, just Kate Moss and some startled associates. Has he lost it, is he rallying against selling out to MySpace or is he just a bit pissed off that his beer is warm? The camera phones loom, Pete turns away. 'The vocals are shit' someone says. 'Well you better start fucking singing then' shoots back Pete, oblivious to the teenage beauty queens and the odd pork pie hat clutching for his ankles. Yes, it was good - you're already wishing you were there. Yes, the sound check was better – but did Pete really want to be there? Did Kate drag him along to see new bands while prancing about like a coke fuelled infant, sniffing the crotch of any borderline anorexic Camden waster while quaffing Kristal and Evian in equal measures? I'm not sure. He doesn't like turning up to every gig he's ever done, for sure. All I know is that my head hurts. I had one pint. It was the drumkit to the face that did it I think. I need to walk about a bit to see if I feel dizzy. Pictures will follow. Of the band, not my head. Does anyone have the number for Injury Lawyers 4U?

Kings of Leon, 100 Club, London

Thursday, April 12, 2007

People love talking about the Kings of Leon. Recently, they've been described as a bunch of Calvin Klein models doing Creedence Clearwater Revival covers and had their nuts and tight jeans talked about so much, it's impossible not to imagine front man Caleb's testicles as some rare denim encrusted dish that you might find on the menu at The Ivy. Tonight, at the 200 capacity 100 club, radio competition winners and photographers jostle for position to hear tracks from the UK Number 1 album Because of The Times as well as the hits – it is a live radio show, after all. A nervous Caleb steps up to the mic, closer to the crowd than he would like and looks towards the floor, mentally counting himself in. "We're tired of all the stories and celebrities showing up at gigs" Caleb recently admitted and it shows. Close enough to toss used plectrums at the skulls of at least ten peroxide blondes gripping the stage, Caleb winces, closes his eyes and kicks off a brooding set full of enough bluesy venom to blow away the paparazzi and turn onlooker Alex Zane's curly hair straight. Because of The Times isn't loaded with must-buy iTunes downloads but tonight the songs fit snugly between the honkey-tonk shindig of debut Youth & Young Manhood and are allowed to become much bigger than the album itself. Sloppy, chunky riffs match the primal beats and it's impossible to believe that these tunes came from anywhere else than whiskeytown, USA. New single On Call turns into a rumbling exercise of call and response crowd participation, managed with the kind of care that wraps everyone in a celebratory hurricane. The pleading, worn chorus and screeching bare boned riffs lead to the single note bass solo and it's clear that the Kings have come of age – this is the elegantly designed nuclear comedown. Losing the beards and country farmhand look isn't a mistake – they want to blow apart the image of being coke-snorting pretty boys from nowheresville and be judged by their songs rather than the cut of their jeans. The somber rumble of On Call gives way to unashamedly hick ho-down Black Thumbnail. The crowd dance, swing and jive like a line dancing disco gone wrong. There's head bangers, girls dancing in circles and seedy blokes circling like predators. It's like the club scene in Thelma & Louise orchestrated by the guys on stage who appear to have arrived from Brokeback Mountain. Molly's Chambers turns into a high kicking stallion, and sees Caleb regain his stride, ditching the nerves and baiting the blondes with taunting gestures before instantly turning back to the job at hand. He screams, he mumbles and he delivers lines with more man-don't-give-a-fuck machismo than Snoop Dogg driving an Enzo the wrong way down a one way road in Romford on a Saturday night. If you ever thought they didn't mean it or cared more about their Calvins creeping over their 1972 Levis, you've been proved wrong. Because of The Times has one standout single on it but it no one gives a shit. Tonight, the Kings are both fast and slow but as free and liberating as drinking a bottle of Jack in front of your teacher and fuck, it feels good.

Jet, The Blue Van, Hammersmith Apollo, London

Thursday, March 08, 2007

"Hey, ladies, you know he's sinnggllllee!" These are the opening words of Danish support band The Blue Van. The statement sounds so desperate and you think that the poor sods see Jet frontman Nic Cester shower groupies from London to Tokyo with special rock spunk every night of the 50 date world tour. The Blue Van are a carbon copy of Jet, with different accents but identical scarves, feather cuts and matching Who pins picked up from the same stylist that creates the stereotypical Rock Star makeover for the Aussie sloths in Jet. The frontman is like Brian Molko in Paul Weller's body. The keyboard player is a size zero Kings of Leon wannabe who delicately thumps at his wobbling keyboard like a bearded Victoria Beckham. As the keyboard rocks back and fourth, he screams like a pranged-out waif, pausing only to spit beer and take control of his super-conditioned locks. Their sound is so basic, so derivative, that it makes Jet sound like the most innovate band of the decade. Think Placebo doing Oasis covers while pissed and doing it all in the name of Comic Relief. There's even a compere that excitedly introduces both bands, as if it's some kind of wet tee shirt competition at the local Walkabout pub. By far the most preposterous figure in The Blue Van is the bassist. Think Spike (Rhys Ifans) from the Notting Hill flick, dressed in skintight denims and mounting amps, speakers and anything he can find on stage. When on top of an object, he gurns, does a bit of guitar playing and then performs a dance worthy of the top strippers at Stringfellows. At one point, you wonder if he might actually place a hand on the floor, rip his jeans and show his starfish to the world while trying to play his guitar behind his head. He's nothing more than a stonewashed anus on boney stilts. Jet arrive on stage with flashing lights, big sample intro and the most self indulgent backdrop of their giant, hairy faces smeared across the hanging fabric like moldy Marmite. Put simply, the good time rock and roll ethic of Jet effectively makes them a tribute band and if you treat them like a calorie free version of Oasis staffed by stoners found outside a Melbourne Job Centre in 2001, you'll be fine. On the other hand, if you believe that all rock and roll is piracy and all good music is stolen, switched and infused with something original to create a brand new style of sound, you'll hate Jet. There's nothing new here. Even the song titles (as well as the bass lines) are nicked from Oasis – Put Yer Money Where Your Mouth Is. Yes! Fuck Supersonic, Live Forever or Definitely Maybe era influences, the light fingered chaps in Jet have happened upon Oasis' 1997 drug fuelled mishap Be Here Now. The big, slow, lolloping anthems sound like Bon Jovi and it's becoming apparent that Jet only have one decent song, the Vodafone endorsed Are You Gonna Be My Girl? The problem with giving your best song to an advert is that it creates an accidental fanbase and one that, tonight at least, resembles the people in the advert. So the Hammersmith Apollo is rammed with fresh faced, smoothie-slurping vegetarians obsessed with recording every second on their camera phones. They couldn't look less rock if they tried. There's a 22 stone man in a tee shirt which says The Feeling on the back. He's dry humping his slender wife from behind while sipping on a bottle of water. "I want them to play them the one from the advert" he whispers in her ear. When Jet shoot the motherload and strum the opening chords of his fave song, the crowd go mental. 22 stone Feeling man grabs his wife and rocks backwards and forwards like Bungle from Rainbow penetrating a live human for the first time. At this point, I decide it's time to go home. (An extract of this review is published by In London magazine http://www.inlondon.com/News-and-Sport/News/Jet-Suck.cfm)