It is rare to find myself in the situation of being rendered confused and virtually speechless by a live performance, unable to adequately describe the emotional response to a show but this is how we feel exiting John Grants gig.

It has been a strenuous journey to here for Grant. He had come closest to acclaim if not success with The Czars before descending into the kind of drink and drugs hell too long and clichéd to go into here, suffice to say, writing a batch of songs and going solo was the kind of redemptive episode we’ve seen over and over before. What came next was less easy to forecast.

His debut solo album  2011’s ‘Queen of Denmark’ came from seemingly nowhere to be met with universal acclaim and a spot, at or near the top of, every ‘Best Of’ list at the years end. It was and still is a melodic masterpiece, not just shrouded in but wringing wet with soft focus seventies style, arrangements,  and soul, closest in feel to the beautifully arranged and produced mini suites of Todd Rundgren (with some high end Billy Joel thrown in for good measure). It would be easy to end up with a weak facsimile of the time though. This isn’t, and backed up by Midlake you are placed square in the middle of dreamy 70’s west coast textures, not pastiche or even homage, this is the real deal.

It is fair to say though that even taking into account the brilliance of the sonic John Grant, it’s his Lyrics that make you fall for and then eulogise him. His heart isn’t worn on his sleeve; it’s stapled to his head surrounded by a giant flashing neon sign that says ‘this is my heart’. His lyrics are so unstintingly honest as to be almost parodic. Debut album ‘Queen of Denmark’ is writ through with paeans to his lover as well as songs bitching about jocks and having to grow up Gay in a straight religious American household. Nothing is left obliquely to the imagination; statements are made, and then translated into gorgeous melody and biting and often very funny lyrics.

Some of the confusion and displacement I felt on leaving the gig though stems from some of the new material on this years ‘Pale Green Ghosts’.

Stylistically, for large swathes of the new record you feel like you’ve been dropped into a dank Berlin basement where John Carpenter is finishing one of his sparse film scores using synth sounds considered too ‘synthy’ to be used on Queens’ Flash Gordon soundtrack. It’s a production summersault with an incredibly high tariff and an absolute aeon away from both The Czars and his debut. It takes some digesting live but my god, does he pull it off.

The digital, berlin basement tracks are bunched together in the middle of the show, and to my ears at least, it’s an uncomfortable aural shift. But there, in the middle of the noise, anchoring it all is that voice, so sonorous and mellifluous and those lyrics of loss and despair, probably most strikingly on ‘Ernest Borgnine’. Here Grant sings of his reaction to contracting HIV and the reaction of the doctor… ‘What did you expect? You spent your life on your knees’. I very quickly forgot my misgivings and realised that these were what I loved from before, John Grant songs.

Links to his previous sound can still be found on the new album, namely ‘GMF’ and the towering album closer, ‘Glacier’, both aired tonight.

You keep coming back to the lyrics. On the page, in the past and in interview this is a man wracked with self-loathing and doubt; at one point during an anecdote about Abba he reveals that he even considers clapping to be too optimistic an act. Here though, on this stage, and with this bravura performance, you would hope he is chipping away at that inner turmoil as the audience reacts to his every word and action with applause, laughter and a sort of giddiness you get when your falling for someone. You can barely take your eyes off him.

Back on for a three song encore, all taken from ‘Queen of….’, although it hardly matters to us what he sings, we just want another chance to drink in this live performance/confessional.

Down, down the stairs into a Rock basement, tucked snugly under the streets of Manchester’s Northern Quarter to welcome Matthew Houck, otherwise known as Phosphorescent. Houck is to all intents and purposes the whole band, he writes and records most of what you hear on record in isolation. Live however, Phosphorescent have become a 24 limbed beast, with two Keyboards, a dedicated percussionist as well as drummer (Those maracas won’t play themselves), bass and finally Houck’s’ Guitar.

It’s an impressive line up with a real commitment to recreating live, the sounds Houck generates inside his head. The band present a rich tableaux and similarly to the Matthew E White gig a week or two ago, the band is superbly drilled and tremendous when they lean back into extended jams, especially ‘The Quotidian Beasts’. The Keyboardists are on opposite sides of the stage one equipped with Piano, the other with a mix of Hammond and Synth, they face each other in what could be a battle of the ivories. Hands down, the piano player wins, as he bashes the thing with the vim and theatre of Jerry Lee Lewis.

Card’s on the table though, I had fallen in love with the easy and languid charms of last album, 2011’s ‘Here’s to Taking it Easy’, and had been blown away by a live performance on that tour, this comes close (Houck admits to he and band being at the tail end of some Jetlag). The audience are onside though and are never less than reverential throughout.

Houck’s Voice is a curious instrument. You would never say it was good or strong even but he can channel a sense of yearning with it that takes you straight into his heart. It’s a melancholic, wounded Angel type of noise that rarely rises into the higher registers, staying almost conversational. Not knowing the lyrics to much of new album ‘Muchacho’ makes his voice sound somehow better, as the words remain unknown but the meaning clear.

The gig reaches its high point in the encore as Houck comes back for a solo rendition of ‘Wolves’ and I am taken back to the magnetism of the earlier show as the song beautifully meanders to a climax adorned by looped vocal and guitar. The mood remains plaintive for show closer, a duet of country standard, ‘Storms Never Last’.

And then back up the stairs into the Mancunian air from an absorbing gig but one that never truly takes flight.

It has been almost exactly 4 years since they last played a show in the UK. This, Karen O tells us from the stage, dressed from Shoulder to thigh in what looks suspiciously like a bright yellow version of the Nudie Suit Gram Parsons wore at the peak of his powers. There is no hint of Karen O and the rest of the band following in Grams country rock roots here as the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s blast their way back into our consciousness with a 75 minute exercise in scorch and burn Rock and Roll that tells us, they are definitely at the top of their powers.

They open, and bearing in mind what is to come, with a relatively genteel version of ‘Sacrilege’ 2013’s most convincing Madonna impression committed to record and lead single from the album they are here to showcase, ‘Mosquito’. Energy levels remain relatively sane until song 3 when they play the singular example of ‘Mosquito’, a punchy, spiky Sci-fi punk number, starting the ascent through the gears.  These early exchanges are punctuated with glitter bomb explosions to give the crowd an extra stir toward a fevered state.

Next it’s an atmospheric ‘Under the Earth’, sounding just as much like The Clashes ‘Straight to Hell’ live as it does on record. If there is a low point, and this is debatable, it comes when they follow ‘Maps’ form their debut album and something of a calling card with the sonic art experiment ‘Subway’ from the newest release. It sucks the fire out of the room just when it had reached a scorch.

No matter, as we climb back on the rising energy slope and it’s not long before the bellowed whoop a long’s of ‘Gold Lion’ and we are all back in the room. It’s Karen O’s room though. She is a truly cosmic presence up front with a mix of geek sexuality and goofy-ness, charisma pouring from her every move or utterance. She is a most startling focal point.

It is also a pleasure to be in close proximity to that voice, which leaps from whisper to controlled yelp, filling the sonic spaces left by Nick Zinner’s waving, chiming guitar lines and to know it is not a studio trick.

The final run up to set closer ‘Heads Will Roll’ (as perfect a blend of dance music production and rock band smarts as there is) is an exhilarating rush and all we are left with, is a two song encore ending with a riotous, fire breathing,  ‘Date With the Night’, an appropriate place to end.

If this is the kind of fight Karen O puts into every live show, it is little wonder she needs a 4 year hiatus in-between times.

Outstanding.

If there was ever to be a problem with a live recreation of Matthew E. Whites debut album and instant Southern classic, ‘Big Inner’, it was going to be making the translation of the fully fledged, fleshed out sounds from his Space bomb studio in to a satisfying live experience, using only debut album tour budgets.

To fill you in, White has spent these last year’s creating a house band/studio based collective in the grand tradition of Motowns Funk Brothers, or more pertinently for his time warped southern gothic style,  Muscle Shoals. A place where a musician can come and have their ideas stretched from kernel to a satisfying whole. ‘Big Inner’ is the first release and acts as both calling card and advert for Whites, up until now, studio based talents.

For an album drenched in the musical traditions of the American south from Van dyke Parks and Tony Joe White to Bobbi Gentry and Little Feat, there is an obvious answer, replacing the relaxed horns, strings and steady funk with a saturation of Pedal steel and fuzzy Rhodes piano. It is an entirely successful strategy as White and his band relax into insistent jams to add body to some of the shorter tracks on display.

Proving that the high quality of the songs on ‘Big Inner’ is no fluke, we are treated to a new composition ‘Human Style’, a song written specifically for this tour so his debut UK shows would last more than 45 minutes (Big Inner is a pleasingly brief 40). Allied to a cover of Randy Newman’s ‘I’ll be there’, it’s in this early phase that White and his band are at their Little Feat shuffling beast, best.

While everything else from the album is transferred effortlessly, the thrusting funk genius of lead single ‘Big Love’ is less successful. There is a pleasing percussion wig-out in the middle framing Whites mumbled ‘I am a barracuda, I am a hurricane’ with an assault of maracas and tambourine, however it’s rolling, unfolding charms are lost somewhat as it is spat out by what sounds like Elvis’s amphetamine fuelled, Vegas band in a rush to get it over and done.

After an almost fire light reading of ‘Hot Toddies’, the finale is album closer Brazos, a song that has been misunderstood in some quarters as purely religious with its final coda and refrain of ‘Jesus Christ, is our Lord, Jesus Christ, is your friend’ that could make an increasingly secular UK audience blanche but it’s a song about slavery and the testing of faith and it’s a genuinely transcendental moment here.

It may be easy to accuse White of looking backwards, so much of what is on show tonight reminds me of the Country Got Soul compilations that first introduced me to this genre of Country/Funk/Soul, but it sounds fresh and real and is certainly not lacking in quality.

I’ve been a Black Crowes fan for many years and finally got to see them two years ago on their ‘Say Goodnight To The Bad Guys’ tour, a tour that wasn’t just a funny name, it was their way of saying goodbye as they were going on an indefinite hiatus. They were amazing and I was gutted that there was a chance it would be the first, and last chance I got to see them. I was so desperate for them to re-form that I was checking their official website on a fairly frequent basis,  in the vain hope that they would make the announcement that the hatchet had been buried, and they would soon be on the road again. And so it continued, same website, same ‘on hiatus’ news, when all of a sudden, upon opening the page, I noticed that things looked a bit different. Different colours, different background. The words ‘Lay Down With Number 13’ emblazoned across the screen and a smile spreading across my face. Could this be it?

And there it was, ‘The Black Crowes to kick off new tour with dates across Europe, starting in Manchester! Tickets on sale Friday 13^th, at 10.13am.’ They were back!

From last time around we knew that there wouldn’t be any support and that 8.00pm show time actually means 8.00pm show time. The smell of incense (yes, they are hippies at heart) filling the Academy, somehow overpowering the odour of 2000ish (mainly bearded) men and the 9 women whom had packed into the venue.  Then the opening bars of ‘Jealous Again’ rang out and we all went nuts! The band flicked back and forth between their incredible upbeat, Rhythm and Blues rock and their wonderful ballads, like ‘Sister Luck’ and ‘She Talks To Angels’ that genuinely make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. They even threw in ‘Whoa Mule’ off the Warpaint album, a song that wouldn’t sound out of place on a chain gang, with its close harmonies and simple drumming. This was Southern Fried Rock at its finest-beautiful vocal harmonies, acoustic guitars sitting hand in hand with crunching electric guitars and the sweeping Hammond organ binding it all together. Then with a rousing rendition of ‘Soul Singing’ they were done. At least, they were off stage for a few minutes to regroup their beards, swig a beer or two, or whatever it may be that bands do before returning for an encore.

‘Descending’ was the tune to bring them back on. A melodic, piano-led ballad of such epic proportions, it could thaw the blood in the coldest of hearts. And then into ‘Hard To Handle’ the Otis Redding cover that pretty much launched them into the spotlight some 23 years ago. Most popular music acts these days have vanished into obscurity before they even reach their 23^rd birthday, let alone having a career last that long. From ‘Hard To Handle’ the Crowes seamlessly blended into ‘Hush’ the classic Deep Purple tune (or Kula Shaker if you prefer, Simon Yardley) and back into Otis Redding again. This was incredible. We were ecstatic. To draw proceedings to a close, the Black Crowes traditionally finish with a cover version, so we figured that was our lot. But they had one more surprise up their sleeve: ‘Willin’’ by Little Feat, an amazing bluesy ballad about a truck driver, struggling and smuggling across the border. Incredible when sung by Little Feat, dare I say it, even more so when the Black Crowes got their teeth into it!

In the decade that has passed since YeahYeah Yeah’s released their debut to mostly ecstatic reviews, their one time New York and beyond contemporaries, White Stripes, LCD Soundsystem and The Strokes have either ceased to exist in the case of the former two or have passed on into creative bankruptcy in the case of the latter leaving Karen O’s gang as last band standing.

On this fourth release, YYY’s whilst still sounding energetic and brimming have u-turned somewhat stylistically to sound something like their 2003 selves. They had been evolving away from the New York dungeon sounds of ‘Fever to Tell’, adding gloss and better song writing chops on ‘Show Your Bones’ and finally adding Dance/Disco textures and a healthy dollop of commercial zeal to ‘It’s Blitz’.

We are squarely back in the dungeon with ‘Mosquito’, a Bubble-gum/Sci-Fi/Garage record filled with Karen O’s mixture of Breathless and squawking vocals and Nick Zinner’s nimble, affecting guitar lines (asked in a recent interview to name some favourite guitarists, Johnny Marr named Zinner). It’s unashamedly brainless and fun in parts, title track ‘Mosquito’ is the most regressive thing here with a fairly rote guitar riff and a chorus refrain hollered in Karen O’s schlockiest vocal styling’s.

The antidote to the inspiration stall is second track, ‘Subway’ an almost meditative ballad propelled along by the actual sounds of the New York underground.

Other highlights are ‘Buried Alive’, produced by James Murphy (the rest of the album is taken care of by TV on the Radio’s Dave Sitek), ‘Slave’ and album opener ‘Sacrilege’ which punches into your consciousness like the Indie/Garage ‘Like a Prayer’ it is.

There is the odd misfire, Area 52 aims for The Stooges ‘I Wanna be Your Dog’ and misses  whilst the album cover is a bad Sci-fi facsimile of Nirvana’s Nevermind and is surely set to be one of the years worst.

Minor quibbles though on an album that comes with the New York kite mark of quality, whilst returning to base camp stylistically.

It’s the sad songs, the repetitive references to radios, Maria and diners. The nostalgia. I joke about the Gaslight Anthem quite a bit, but this is what they’re about and why I’m such a fan even though I have never stepped foot in their beloved New Jersey; they hold the power to take you back and make you feel it with just a two hour set.

And they don’t just use the back to back anthems and ballads that keep your feet from touching the floor. The set is reminiscent more of the bedroom you used to listen to your records in. Stage amps covered with old toys and hanging football scarfs. Candles and incense burn by the waiting guitars, the smell reminding you of something you won’t remember till you leave and the night air hits you.

They walk on stage at the Manchester Academy for the first of two nights to the Motley Crews, ‘Kickstart My Heart’, Fallon donning a Who shirt (as he fully intends to end the set with a wall echoing cover of ‘Baba O’Riley’) and his ever infectious smile. Opening hard and fast with, ‘High Lonesome’, the crowd don’t hesitate in yelling every word, ‘I always kinda’ sorta’ wished I looked like Elvis!’.

The set list evenly distributes hits from The ‘59 Sound, American Slang and latest album Handwritten, with a few surprise tracks from Sink or Swim. The band look elated when this doesn’t deter the fans as they indulge in punk rock with the more unusual zombie heavy anthem, ‘We’re Getting a Divorce, You Keep the Diner’.

Checking Twitter the next day before the second gig, I was surprised to find Brian Fallon receiving complaints, many unreasonable, from fans. He re-tweeted, done with the same playful bravado he used the night before when bantering with the present Manchester football fans. It’s evident on the second night that the band have kept this in mind as they play with their audience, asking which songs they want to hear and Alex Rosamilia playing the requested quieter ballad, ‘Here’s lookin’ at You, Kid’, with a red rose in his mouth.

Gaslight played the backlash to their advantage, listening to fans but never letting them defeat. They end their last night in Manchester with another request, ‘The Backseat’, the last track of the 59’ Sound, ‘as we’re just trying to find some room for our knees!’

I don’t think you could say I was truly excited about this gig in the build-up and this led to something of a cock up. I was offered the tickets by a friend who couldn’t attend. I had fallen for the defiant charms of ballad ‘I and love and You’ but hadn’t found the time to dig deeper into their recordings and new only one other song. The tickets were bought on something of a whim you could say.

The casual nature of the purchase led to me not checking the tickets for anything other than the day and date, and not the time the doors were due to open. As every committed gig goer knows, the doors open at 7, don’t they?

Well sometimes they don’t and as we ambled up to the doors of the Ritz we were met by a notice, ‘Avett bros 8pm, 10pm curfew’. Firstly, it was a little after 9pm and secondly, shit.

With a shrug of sanguinity, we entered the hall for 30 mins at best. We needn’t have worried.

Is there an argument to be had about realism in music? Yes there is, and may I offer Mumford & Sons v The Avett Bros. I cannot attest to the realism or validity of M&S’s connection to this form,  watching a YouTube video of M&S and The Avett Bros backing up Bob Dylan as he played ‘Maggie’s Farm’ at the Grammy’s in 2011, god knows they all look as if they mean it but just knowing from whence they came ruins it a bit for me. I suppose it was ever thus, The Rolling Stones have been shipping Rhythm & Blues back across the pond for 50 years and I couldn’t and would never doubt how much its meant, however, it feels a bit tacked on with The Mumford’s. I don’t suggest you have to live within spitting distance of the Appalachians to be able to pull this stuff off but watching The Avett Bros for a mere 30 mins, it is impossible not to be totally swept away by the duelling energy of the brothers as they leap from mike stand to piano to banjo and inhabit this deep southern bluegrass.

Vocally, it’s wonderfully diverse and as you reach for the genre sandbox, they effortlessly imbue these songs with, punk zeal, 70’s rock sweatiness or a kind of Sunday afternoon radio tenderness as they huddle round an ancient looking radio mike for a subdued pair of songs. A riotous emitting of ‘My Kick Drum Heart’ seems to swing through all 3.

The spleen venting splurge of lyrics that signal the start of ‘Talk on Indolence’ followed by ‘I and Love and You’ mean I get what I came for but by this time, the energy pouring off the stage, through the crowd and back up to our magnificent entertainers is more than palpable and it’s impossible to imagine there is anyone in the crowd who didn’t get what he or she wanted.  It would be impossible to rule out a cheer if they encored with a run through a 1974 copy of Bradford’s phone book at this point.

As it is, they finish off with, ‘Shame’ and ‘Life’ and the joint love in continues. Lord knows, it was an exhilarating a 30 minutes as I’ve ever had at a gig. I only wish I’d read the bloody ticket.

Mojo Gig Club is our way of helping you extend the pleasure of attending a Gig in Leeds, Manchester or Liverpool. It’s a club we want you to talk about.

We have compiled a list of all the gigs this year, by all the bands and artists that we like. If you come down to see us either pre or post gig and show your ticket, or ticket stub, we will shoot you an approving look and offer you a deal. 2 drinks for the price of 1!

In addition to the chance of consuming some of our fine elixirs for half the price, we will also be tailoring the music to reflect the Gigs in the city that night. So if you are still buzzing when you leave, we will be mixing (insert name here) into our usual Witches brew of high voltage Rock and Roll.

Come and join us……

April

Yeah Yeah Yeah’s     Manchester Apollo, 1st

Yeah Yeah Yeah’s     Leeds O2 Academy, 2nd

Liverpool Sound City    Various, 2nd – 4th

Seasick Steve   Manchester HMV Ritz, 4th

The Strypes    Leeds Cockpit, 3rd

The Vaccines     Leeds Millenium Sq., 5th

Phosphorescent   Manchester Ruby Lounge,  7th

Alt-J    Manchester Academy, 9th

Shuggie Otis   Manchester Band On The Wall, 9th

Alt-J     Leeds O2 Academy, 10th

Alt-J     Liverpool Academy, 11th

Eric Clapton    Manchester Arena, 14th

The Specials    Manchester Apollo, 15th

Bob Mould    Leeds O2 Academy, 17th

The Specials    Liverpool Olympia, 18th

Mark Knopfler   Liverpool Echo Arena, 19th

Bob Mould    Manchester Academy, 20th

Journey/Whitesnake    Manchester Arena, 23rd

Dot to Dot Festival    Manchester Various,  24th – 26th

What are we to make of the ‘Heritage’ Rock scene?  Along with ‘Classic’ it’s become almost a pejorative term when coupled with ‘Rock’. Up at the snooty end of the Rock Journalism tree, I’m not sure a band hawking round their few hits every couple of years is viewed as being any better than a covers band or tribute band (Garage 6?).

Where does that leave bands like Shed Seven? What if you still have Musician down in your Passport as your occupation? What if you still want to be in a band but the new material has dried up?

The economics of the Music Industry are no longer strong enough to support Record Labels and Record shops never mind a band who were, at best, second tier during the Britpop boom of the Mid-Nineties. They didn’t have the depth of songs of The Charlatans or James and didn’t sell nearly, nearly enough records to sit back and live off the royalties.

It used to be very different.

My attention was recently brought to the existence of early 80’s Rocker Billy Squier (no, me either), who’s 1981 release, ‘Big Beat’ has been sampled by Jay-Z and Dizzee Rascal (amongst others). When asked for his opinion on this he commented simply, ‘I’ve done very well out of that song’.

Lee Mavers reportedly earns enough from The La’s meagre recorded output to never have to work again.

And even now, in Olympic year, Witter and his band can’t catch a break as he sardonically refers to the lack of  call from the BBC to use ‘Going for Gold’ in its wall to wall London coverage. ‘They called Gary Kemp again though, didn’t they?’

You may say that they never had a song as defining as ‘There she goes’ or had a back catalogue good enough to fill a huge selling ‘Best of’ like James did, and you may well be right. Looking around the Parr Hall tonight though, there are enough men and women (mostly men) to keep the mortgages paid and the economics of Shed Seven viable for the time being.

They play with gusto, verve and honesty admitting to being truly humbled that they can come out in December and play to a full house with no new material.

There are no curveballs just a vibrant run through their hits, ‘Bully Boy’, ‘On Standby’,  ‘Speakeasy’, ‘Going for Gold’, ‘Disco Down’ leading to the inevitable climax of a full throated, roof raising ‘Chasing Rainbows’.

They may not win over many new fans but they have kept this riotous bunch happy for another year.