My Band T-Shirt

Marvellous writers and lovely people Ian Wade and Jude Rogers run a blog called My Band T-Shirt. It's been featured in The Daily Telegraph, The Guardian and has been Time Magazine's "Tumblr of the Week".

They've been kind enough to publish something I wrote for them, which you can read here. According to Jude, it made both her and Ian cry. I should point out that this is due to the content of the story rather than because of the standard of my writing...

2000 Trees

To paraphrase – not to mention use outrageous amounts of poetic licence – we were somewhere around Gloucester on the edge of a big field when the drugs began to take hold. And by ‘drugs,’ I mean‘excitement.’ There’s something about the drive to the first day of a festival which ratchets up the anticipation, even if you do barely know who any of the acts playing are. Initially, my arm had been twisted but now I couldn’t wait to get into the place. Hell, it even looked like the rain might hold off for the whole day (reader, it didn’t). This was new and underground music festival, 2000 Trees.

For the uninitiated, 2000 Trees started life in 2007 as a local festival with a capacity of only 1,000. That has since risen to the 4,500 people who attended the 2011 shindig at Upcote Farm in Gloucestershire. In an era where the festival market has reached saturation point and several events have been forced to cancel, 2000 Trees is flourishing.

So, a noon arrival on the Friday meant we were just in time to see Young Romance on second stage, The Leaf Lounge. Young Romance have featured on the hallowed pages of No Ripcord before, when they weretwee folk duo, The Momeraths. However, they’ve now ditched the stripy clothes and chamber pop aesthetic, and have significantly beefed up their sound. There was a part of me a bit disappointed to see they’d changed so dramatically, but their set was still a solid one and a great start to a festival.

One pint of lager later (at festivals, it is perfectly acceptable to start drinking before lunch) and we were over at the main stage watching The Anomalies. Unfortunately for The Anomalies, the world has moved on from nu-metal, so their very British take on rap-rock sounded horribly dated. A swift departure away from the main stage meant a first proper wander around the festival site. 2000 Trees takes place in a fairly compact area and actually has camping in the main site. This means you’re treated to the odd sight of paths between stages being lined with rows of tents. Tripping over a rogue guy rope is a serious hazard, but it all adds to the homely feel of the festival.

While taking a tour, we had a devil-may-care moment and went to metal stage, The Cave, to see a selection of songs from Witchsorrow. The schedule noted that Witchsorrow were on a mission to reclaim the concept of doom, and I wasn’t one to argue. Outrageously technically proficient, Witchsorrow also unfortunately demonstrated every heavy metal cliché you can think of. Unfeasibly long hair, screamed unintelligible vocals and denim waistcoats covered in sewn-on patches. Fine if you like that sort of thing, but far too Spinal Tap for my tastes.

On the way back from Witchsorrow, fellow Craig and I spotted a Sleeveface tent. Never one to turn down the opportunity for a stupid photo, we scoured the boxes of vinyl in the tent before settling on an album by Mrs. Mills and Geoff Love (no, me neither). The results from that particular excursion can be viewed here.

Time for more music, and post-rock combo Cats And Cats And Cats bounded onto the stage. When the lead singer is wearing Stars and Stripes shorts, a jacket featuring seemingly every world flag and a Native American headdress from a child’s dressing-up box, you know you’re in for an entertaining set. And so it proved, with a complex mix of hard rock, pop, folk and avant-garde. Cats x3 kept the crowd guessing throughout their entertaining show, and were impossible not to love.

Less so Bath quartet Out Like a Lion, who clearly put all their energy into their gig, but were an ultimately forgettable experience. By this point, the festival lull that always arrives halfway through a long day of live music was starting to set in. A respite was needed, and a perfect panacea was provided by Sidestep DJsover in The GreenHouse. More of a platform in a campsite than a stage as such, The GreenHouse was surrounded by bales of hay, and was the ideal setting to rest weary bodies while listening to a fine selection of old skool hip-hop.

Given a second lease of life by the restoring power of breaks and beats, we soldiered on to the main stage to see Tribes. Tribes are receiving a lot of attention at the moment and are hotly-tipped for success, with their bio describing them as a mix of Pixies and The Libertines. This seemed odd, as they’d apparently digested the Pixies songbook and assimilated the contents, but the only nod to The Libertines was a fondness for leather jackets. Anyway, Tribes were wholly under-whelming but they’re from Camden, they look good and are the kind of band you can imagine doing really well.

The same could be said of Scottish alt-rockers Twin Atlantic. Seemingly attempting to use Biffy Clyro’sslipstream en route to success, they also had little to offer in the way of invention and originality. Again, I’m already prepared to eat my words when they’re cleaning up at the Kerrang! awards in years to come.

The next act was The King Blues. I wasn’t familiar with their work beforehand and they immediately rubbed me up the wrong way with their faux-gangsta accents and easy political targets (guess what, boys and girls, extreme right-wing views are bad, who’da thunk it?). They certainly knew how to whip up a crowd, conjuring an enormous circle pit in only their third track, but I don’t like being preached to and patronised, so I meandered off in search of food.

Luckily, I returned in plenty of time for the day’s headliners, Dan Le Sac vs. Scroobius Pip. I was unsure as to whether socially conscious, literate hip-hop was the ideal way to close out a day at the festival, but my fears were allayed by Dan Le Sac’s scattergun attack of beats and bass. The limitations of their second album were exposed at times, but the hits were breath-taking. A full crowd chanting “just a band!” during Thou Shalt Always Kill while glowsticks waved frenetically is what festivals are all about.

The day’s live music over, we trudged back to the car and made our way back. We’d bought camping tickets but decided against pitching up due to one of our number living nearby and the fact that camping is the devil’s own pastime (my own views, not necessarily representative of No Ripcord as an organisation). It’s a good job we did too, because we awoke Saturday morning to torrential downpours and skies thick with dark cloud. As a result, we waited for a break in the rain before heading back to 2000 Trees.

This meant that the first act we saw that day was expansive Canterbury five-piece, Yndi Halda. The intricacy displayed in their ten-minute soundscapes was incredible, their songs exquisitely crafted from barely a whisper building up to a cathartic release of noise. The most obvious comparison here is SigurRos, but Yndi Halda look to be carving a niche all of their own – spellbinding stuff.

Next on the bill were Left With Pictures. I was curious as to why they’d drawn the smallest crowd I’d seen over the two days, but within five minutes I’d discovered the reason. Left With Pictures deal in the kind of chirpy, piano-based pop that’s reminiscent of a more facile Maroon 5 or Toploader with less substance. Musically, they were entirely competent, but the overriding feeling was that they’d been booked at completely the wrong festival. Plenty of people would love Left With Pictures, unfortunately for the band, none of those people were in attendance at 2000 Trees.

With that disappointment fresh in the mind, we dutifully made our way to the main stage with the intention of spending the rest of the day there. We were greeted by the thrilling racket of noiseniks, Three Trapped Tigers. I’d never heard a note of TTT’s music before, but was immediately enraptured by their stage presence and incredible sounds. Imagine an all-out assault of electronics accompanied by the most fevered drumming you’ve seen this side of Animal from The Muppets. TTT were a revelation, their songs have no vocals, they made my ears almost bleed, and they were comfortably my band of the festival. I implore you, investigate further.

Three Trapped Tigers were followed by The Twilight Sad, who didn’t particularly seem to be firing on all cylinders. Their reverb-drenched tracks failed to capture the imagination of the crowd and at times they sounded frighteningly like fellow Caledonians, Glasvegas. At one point, frontman James Graham impertinently threw something on the stage behind him, branding the crowd member responsible for its transit to the stage as “a bastard.” I never did discover what the offending object was, but it may have been the Frisbee I found an hour later, which had written on it a detailed list entitled “Why The Twilight Sad areshit.”

Next up came the band I’d most looked forward to seeing, Los Campesinos! Unfortunately, it seemed LC! weren't quite as excited to see me as I was them, and there was something oddly flat about their set. The bigger songs – Death to Los Campesinos!, Straight In At 101, You! Me! Dancing! – were formidable, but for too long it seemed they were running on auto-pilot. Lead singer Gareth Campesinos! was in a real self-deprecating mood, constantly thanking the crowd for their patience and seemingly on the edge of breaking down on more than one occasion.

Headliners Frightened Rabbit closed the festival with their measured brand of alternative music. My fancy was very much not tickled – think of a Scottish Snow Patrol – as Frightened Rabbit seem to be writing songs aimed purely at the stadium market. And good luck to them, they’re more than competent and unlikely to be put off their stride by not receiving my patronage.

We left part-way through Frightened Rabbit’s set. A poor showing, you might think, but the weekend didn’t stop there. After all, the festivities were set to continue in twelve hours, over 200 miles away…

My Night Out at Later... with Jools Holland

How much do you think it would cost to get into a Kings of Leon gig with a capacity of less than 300? And to be just a few metres from Caleb and the boys, how early do you think you’d have to get there? Oh, and you might want to factor into the equation that Eric Clapton’s going to do a few numbers, how does that change things?

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the world of Later… with Jools Holland. For the uninitiated, it’s a British television institution now in its 37th series. The premise is simple; a range of bands gather in a room and play a few of their tracks while the ex-Squeeze man compères. There’s the odd interview and maybe a smattering of archive footage, but the show really is all about the music. This may not sound special on paper, but seeing quality live bands on television isn’t that common. While new and exciting music is well-catered for on the radio (and, in particular, by the BBC’s stations), the screen is the airwaves’ forgotten cousin if you’re a music lover.

When Later… is in the middle of a run, it’s broadcast twice a week: a recorded show on a Friday night preceded by a live broadcast on Tuesday evenings. In the studio, the pre-record is done first before the tiny studio goes live to the homes of Britain at 10pm. And it really is tiny - despite being stood in a corner at the back (and invisible to the viewers; I’ve already checked), I was only 20ft away from both Kings of Leon and Eric Clapton.

So, to the line-up. Later… is known for having a diverse range of up-and-coming and established acts, and this week was no exception. As previously mentioned, Kings of Leon and Eric Clapton were in attendance, and they were joined by hotly-tipped rock outfit, The Vaccines, a début UK television appearance from M.I.A. (backed by The Specials), eleven-piece folk act, Bellowhead, and relatively unknown singer-songwriter, Jonathan Jeremiah.

There were few musical surprises when the cameras started rolling - these bands are tight. The Specials have an incredible sense of rhythm that it’s almost impossible not to move to, Jonathan Jeremiah has a marvellous voice and Bellowhead are an incredible live proposition. In fact, Bellowhead were a revelation - think of a 21st Century Pogues but with a brass section and you’re on the right lines. Eric Clapton was the act of the night though, he may be 65 but he showed the stadium-baiting, anaemic Kings of Leon how it’s done and blew away the stodgy, meat-and-potatoes rock of The Vaccines.

Not being particularly au fait with the world of television, the most interesting part was seeing how it was all put together. There’s a large number of people constantly running around and even when acts are playing, there’s more activity at the other end of the studio to prepare the next song. I also had the opportunity to observe how musicians react to other musicians. It’s not often any of these acts stand around in plain view while their contemporaries ply their trade, but that’s the kind of show Later… is. I even devised my own game, “What does Clapton think?” where I looked over to see his reaction as events unfolded throughout the recording. My conclusion is that, like me, he’s now a fan of Bellowhead, but that’s little more than conjecture on my part.

At this point, I’d love to include some startling celebrity revelation that would have publicists tearing their hair out, but unfortunately, no dice. I passed Bellowhead’s Jon Boden in a corridor and saw soul singer Adele having a cigarette outside, but that’s hardly going to keep Perez Hilton busy.

What I can say, however, is how much fun I had and how much I hope to be able to spend another evening with Later… in the future. The show is only as good as its acts but in an age where there’s little music programming on television to speak of, Later… is a show we should appreciate, cherish and enjoy.

The Hold Steady: Live

The Hold Steady: Live at The Forum, Kentish Town

If you know a Hold Steady fan (which you surely do), the chances are they won’t just “quite like” The Hold Steady, they’ll be completely head-over-heels for them. I’ve always found their marriage of huge, crunching riffs and creative storytelling more than merely diverting, but it’s never really clicked. Whilst there are more than enough Hold Steady evangelists in this world, I’m something of a Hold Steady agnostic.

Standing in the Kentish Town Forum with the regulation pint of over-priced lager, I had two reservations about the impending show. Firstly, The Hold Steady is unpretentious, straight-up rock, so will they be able to maintain momentum for ninety minutes? Secondly, what elevates The Hold Steady above countless other guitar-heavy combos is the intricate narratives weaved by band leader Craig Finn. When confronted with a tri-guitar attack, will these nuances be lost in an enveloping wall of sound?

As the band sauntered on, it was immediately obvious they were nothing less than delighted to be playing music for a living. The trademark riffs rang out, the drums kicked in and Craig Finn flailed around, looking like an overly-friendly chemistry teacher who’d won a competition to front his favourite band for the night. Within around a minute, I noticed I had a big, stupid grin plastered over my fizzog, as had the guy next to me, and the guy next to him, and, come to think of it, the entire band. I’d been seduced so quickly I felt cheap.

That slightly manic smile stayed with me throughout. Finn is a mesmerising, if unlikely front-man who had the crowd eating out of his hand for the entire show. Yes, many of his words were drowned out by his band but he did his utmost to ensure we knew what he was singing about, with wild gesticulations and actions after every line. At times it was as if he were engaged in an impromptu game of one-man charades, as he charged up and down the stage like a guy who just couldn’t believe his luck.

The Hold Steady was having a party and we were all invited. Their relationship with the audience mixed with the communal football-chant nature of many of their songs to create the world’s happiest mob. Their overriding message is “Stay Positive” and as a sweaty and delighted crowd trooped out into a balmy, midsummer night - it really was a case of job done. They weren’t entirely preaching to the converted, but they’d certainly taught me the ways of The Hold Steady.

Hi, by the way, my name’s Joe. Did I mention I’m a really big Hold Steady fan?

The Decemberists: Live

The Decemberists: Live at The Coronet, Elephant and Castle

How would you define confidence? The first entry on dictionary.com lists confidence as “full trust; belief in the powers, trustworthiness, or reliability of a person or thing”. Urban Dictionary states that confidence is “absolut could-care-fucking-less-what-every-fucking-body thinks” (well, they would, wouldn’t they?). But of all the myriad definitions, surely this ranks pretty high: how about releasing the album of the year, going on tour and then playing said album in its entirety as a warm-up to your own gig? Yep, The Decemberists sure have confidence – such an act fits both the definitions above – and on the evidence of their show at The Coronet, it most definitely isn’t misplaced.

The Elephant and Castle Coronet in South East London is primarily used for club nights rather than live gigs and only holds 2600. It seemed a pretty small venue for a Decemberists show, especially seeing as it was a sell-out weeks in advance and was one of only two London performances to promote The Hazards of Love (the other being at the even-smaller Kentish Town Forum).

The show opened – unsurprisingly – with Prelude, and cheers and whoops reverberated round the theatre as the various band members gradually wandered onstage. Colin Meloy’s guitar rang out the opening riff for The Hazards of Love #1 (The Prettiest Whistles Won’t Wrestle the Thistles Undone) and from that point on, it was non-stop. The Decemberists performed all seventeen tracks of The Hazards of Love without pause and without hesitation. The delicate, tender tracks (Isn’t It a Lovely Night?, The Hazards of Love #4 (The Drowned)) were given even more consideration and attention, while the more upfront, rock numbers (The Wanting Comes in Waves/Repaid, The Rake’s Song) were raced through with an urgent intensity. On Won’t Want for Love (Margaret in the Taiga), drummer John Moen went hell for leather, attacking his hi-hat and snare with both sticks simultaneously.

If you’re unfamiliar with The Hazards of Love (and if so, seriously, where have you been?), it’s basically a concept album. There’s a narrative arc throughout, centring around four main characters: two of which are voiced by Meloy, and the other two by guest vocalists Becky Stark of Lavender Diamond and Shara Worden of My Brightest Diamond. Just to make it clear who’s good and who’s bad, Stark wore white and Worden wore black throughout the show and they were in fine voice, Worden in particular performing some applause-worthy vocal gymnastics on Wanting Comes in Waves/Repaid.

As the final strains of The Hazards of Love #4 (The Drowned) died out, the crowd rose as one to give an ovation and Meloy said, “Hi, London, we’re the Decemberists,” before the band left the stage. People in the crowd were looking at each other in amazement as if to say “there’s more?!” and it was hard to imagine how such a spectacle could be matched.

The second half showed that, as well as being writers of extended pop fiction of the highest order, The Decemberists are the jauntiest band in music today. Their songs seem to trigger a Pavlovian response, where you can’t help but move in time to the bass, which is almost oompah-like at times. After an hour of solid music in part one, Meloy and the rest of the band engaged with the audience extensively in part two, and displayed their acumen as traditional all-round entertainers. There was a story of how violent The Elephant and Castle pub in Portland, Oregon is, which ended with the payoff, “so, really, I think you guys could’ve picked somewhere better to name this area after”, there was jazz improvisation between songs and there was even a singalong, where Meloy divided the crowd up (“hey, you there, yeah, you, step left, hey, everyone, this is Dennis, we take him everywhere”), got them to harmonise and then shifted the dynamics like an orchestra conductor.

Oh yeah, there were songs too: great, great songs. The Yankee Bayonet, O Valencia! and Sixteen Military Wives all got a great response. Admittedly, they didn’t play my favourite (We Both Go Down Together, since you’re asking) but I was too busy enjoying myself to really care. After what seemed like not long at all, they retreated backstage once more, leaving the baying crowd hungry, despite the fact an obvious return was imminent, as it always is in these situations.

Meloy returned solo and performed a heartfelt rendition of Eli, The Barrow Boy which had the packed venue almost silent in reverence before the other Decemberists returned. Meloy subsequently announced that for their last song, the crowd would need to “scream as if they were in the belly of a whale”, which triggered possibly the loudest cheer of the night. All five band members stood stage front (plus an inflatable killer whale, courtesy of some industrious soul in the crowd) and ripped through a high-energy version of The Mariner’s Revenge, which was a culmination of everything that had occurred over the previous two hours. There were highs, lows, noise, silence, screams, dancing, slow bits and fast bits, Russian Cossack dancing (evidently quite difficult whilst playing a double bass) and such ferocious drumming that by halfway through the song, the stage was strewn with drumstick and tambourine debris.

A shellshocked, buzzing throng then emerged into the autumnal London night and went their various ways home, all united by what they’d witnessed. That was my night with The Decemberists; they’ve finished their A Short Fazed Hovel (an anagram of The Hazards of Love) tour, so, um, sorry… you really should’ve been there, these paltry words are nothing like an adequate substitute.