Tonight, Jack Daniels looks to continue the, ahem, spirit with another novelty covers gig featuring local heroes in a collaborative framework. The Minutes, Delorentos and We Cut Corners are fresher faces than last year’s old hands, but youthful pizzazz and a songbook of classic Dublin tracks are a good spin on the equation. Put all nine in a rehearsal room for five days, chuck in Paul Noonan and Colm Mac Con Iomaire for special guest duties and the results are bound to as rewarding as last year. Right?

Opening with the blissed-out roar of My Bloody Valentine’s ‘When You Sleep’, the stage is a tapestry of guitars, mics and converse shoes. Bodies come and go, depending on which act’s selection is being played. Delorentos lead an excellent cover of U2’s ‘Out Of Control’ and there’s a kick-ass rendition of Frames anthem ‘Revelate’ as the showcloser. In between, We Cut Corners are joined by Noonan on drums and backing vox for a sublime cover of ‘Stay (Far Away, So Close)’ and get everyone else out for a fiery ‘Mandinka’.

What works less smoothly is the on-stage chat. The Minutes chief Mark Austin can’t utter a sentence without cussing (“So if you don’t fucking know what’s going on we’re fucking playing other people’s fucking songs etc”). Not edgy, not cool, he just sounds annoyed or like he’s had one too many bottles of complimentary Sol. He nearly redeems himself by leading the charge on Lizzy’s ‘The Rocker’ and hitting the best notes out of any of them on ‘Raglan Road’.

If Austin is the self-elected “cocky, sweary one” then Conall Ó Breacháin from We Cut Corners is the “meek but hammy one”. He says helpful things like “this is a song called ‘Stay’ by a band called U2” or “…’Mandinka’ by an artist called Sinead O’Connor”, as if playing to a room of Martians. Elsewhere, he’s getting a tad ‘Mariah Carey’ during his verse of the aforementioned Luke Kelly staple. Delorentos, thankfully, sit somewhere in the middle. They’re polite and brief, and also manage to make ‘I Don’t Like Mondays’ sound like an indie-disco stomper.

By the time ‘Lay Me Down’ comes around, it looks like a benefit concert; everyone is bunched up on stage, sharing mics and finding things to do. By way of encore, each act plays a self-penned song with their new friends (rather than everyone swapping, which would have been cooler), and the results are predictable. ‘Go Easy’ (or ‘Go fucking Easy’ as Austin calls it) is crushed under piles of drums and guitars and The Minutes’ ‘Fleetwood’ sounds, well, no different.

Ok, so tonight didn’t quite scale the heights of last year, but this is ambitious stuff to pull off – there was bound to be the odd slip up. At least they gave it a try.

Everyone claps to encourage her as if she was a newcomer just playing for an open mike evening. She looks stunned by such a warm welcome, and the respectful audience, gifting her most quiet tracks with a religious silence like on country-folk ballad ‘Kevin’s’ that she plays alone before the band comes in half-way. The band behind her can take credit, as a whole, for pushing Sharon’s songs into something more grandiose and heartwarming with an even more dense sound than on her albums; keyboardist and back vocalist Heather Woods Broderick is the one that stands out thanks to her pure and soothing voice. The complicity between these two is obvious and when a vocal harmony really works like on the beautiful and moving piano-driven ‘Ask’ , Sharon winks at Heather as if she was still amazed by their chemistry.

The gig ends with the fascinating drony duo ‘I’m Wrong’ and ‘Love More’, this time played not on her harmonium but with guitars (“a problem at the airport” she explains). Thankfully they sound as strong as their original versions can be, spreading in obsessive mantras as everyone’s attention is focused on every word she sings and the harmonies seem to stop time. For a first appearance on Irish soil, it’s a well-deserved success for Van Etten.

Last year’s Electric Picnic hidden gem were an intriguing four-piece, The Jezabels. Already stalwarts in their native Australia, band have quickly amassed a devoted Irish following since their festival debut here last year. The release of the bracing and ambitious album Prisoner has thus propelled them towards the Button Factory, and tonight it’s a room cloudy with anticipation.

There’s no doubting that Prisoner is an impressive, immediate and accomplished debut album, teeming with potential hits and anthems galore. Their big, radio friendly sound evokes a number of comparisons: a poppier Beach House, a gothic, modern-day Kate Bush, a grittier, more pained Florence & The Machine, a more angsty Fleetwood Mac. Mercifully, and with frontwoman Hayley Mary at tonight’s helm, these songs sound every bit as intense and evocative on stage as they do on record. Mary really is a wonder; stripped of the showy histrionics of many of her contemporaries, hers is a simple, clean but thoroughly mesmerising performance. Right from radio-friendly opener ‘Endless Summer’, each song is as brisk and revitalising as the last; from crowd-pleasing ‘City Girl’ and the epic indie power-ballad ‘Deep Wide Ocean’, to their arguable piece de resistance ‘Hurt Me’.

The Jezabels’ album is packed with dizzying highs and arms-aloft moments, and tonight they deftly fill the room with their sound. Forget hidden gem, surely ‘stadium band’ status is theirs for the taking.

Photos by Luis Faustino

And So I Watch You From Afar – Button Factory, Friday

Few bands seem to get better and better every time you see them live, but ASIWYFA are made of special stuff. New guitarist Niall Kennedy has filled the very big shoes of Tony Wright with aplomb, splicing a bit of his own DNA into the Belfast group’s catalogue. “We’ve had a fucked-up year, so thanks for sticking with us,” puffs Rory Friers towards the end of this typically replete set. Before him, the crowd heaves with amazement and perspiration while the ‘The Voiceless’ chimes out. As if their loyalty was ever in doubt. (Hilary White)

Bantum – The Mercantile, Saturday

Cork-born, Dublin-based producer Bantum has been steadily building up momentum over the last couple of years while displaying a knack for smooth stylistic shifts over the course of four EPs. His set in the Mercantile draws on those styles in invigorating fashion, backed up by some great visuals from film-maker/artist Paul Mahon. There’s the chopped up vocal samples and hyperactive, layered compositions of his most recent Lay Lay EP, the infectious, swirling rhythms of ‘Weak Weak Week’, and the throbbing electro-funk groove of ‘Slide’; while his Come On Live Long remix shows the spin he can put on other people’s material. That album can’t come soon enough. (Daniel Harrison)

Blacklisters – The Mercantile, Friday

Blacklisters come to Dublin with a reputation for being both great live performers and very, very loud and, as the crowd in The Mercantile will attest, both of these things are true. This show won’t be forgotten in a hurry, as the band moved their equipment from the stage to the floor and played a furious set of aggressive rock in the midst of the crowd. The very definition of ‘in your face’. (John Balfe)

Dam Mantle – The Grand Social, Friday

About three songs into a set of acidy electronica, house builds and 808 drum hits, Scottish producer Tom Marshell piped up, “I came the whole way from Glasgow for this.” Totally wrapped in the dense wash of trickling bleeps and sample choppery I thought there was a string of exclamation points at the end of his statement, looking ‘round to a near empty room I realised it leaned with sartalics. For shame. Dam Mantle is an exciting producer and an engaging performer, but the crowd was drawn elsewhere in the city leaving a lifeless room behind that was filled with clockwork beats and swirling arpeggiated synths. A great set, enjoyed by few. (Alan Reilly)

Dott – JJ Smyths, Saturday

Girls in summer dresses with electric guitars, Dott sound just like you’d imagine. It’s not so much the ghost of Belly, rather the new influence of Best Coast, Vivian Girls and more precisely La Sera, Dott and their canon of torrid garage pop shines on an almost windowless pub stage. When nerves subside, singer Nicola explains the romantic cost of life as a TEFL teacher (from the victim’s point of view) with that Galway charm, and her accented vocal on ‘Let’s Do It’ is surf pop from Ireland’s West Coast with the rays from its Californian origins. (Alan Reilly)

D/R/U/G/S – Grand Social, Saturday

One of the highlights of the weekend, this is immersive stuff from Mancunian Callum Wright and his anonymous partner-in-crime, all propulsive rhythms and warmly hypnotic grooves. The crowd – sparse at first – grows steadily throughout, both in terms of numbers and in terms of animation. Some great visuals provide the backdrop to Wright’s set, and it’s clear that he puts a premium on its live, in-the-moment feel. The buoyant ‘One Thousand Faces’ is one standout, but overall it’s a joyful, seamless rush. (Daniel Harrison)

Dutch Uncles – The Mercantile, Friday

Manchesters’s Dutch Uncles’ bracing brand of indie-rock, coupled with singer Duncan Wallis’ spry dance moves, was one of the most enjoyable performances of the whole festival. Their profile is surging in the UK and after shows like this, as wells as Saturday’s repeat performance in the Grand Social, you can expect to hear a lot more from them very soon. (John Balfe)

Hands Up Who Wants To Die – Twisted Pepper, Saturday

Our good friends at AU (get well soon, guys) are being accosted by what looks like an Appalachian black bear when we join them. Hang on, the beast is wielding a microphone! And look, it’s braying confrontationally as it stalks through a grinning audience to a soundtrack of beautifully discordant thrash punk. This, then, is Hands Up Who Want To Die, the Richter Collective darlings who State is hereby dubbing this weekend’s kings of showmanship. (Hilary White)

Jape – The Village, Friday

Welcome home, Richie Egan! Only in the door and the two-time Meteor Choice Prize Winner is raising the tempo in the city, fisting the air and gurning with glee. Live, Jape is now full-on electro, with even older, more guitar-based tunes such as ‘I Was A Man’ and ‘Floating’ now given a slick digital coat of processed sounds. “Judas,” I hear you bleat? Rubbish – in fact, he sounds better than ever, even with technical gremlins popping their heads up. Catch him at a festival near you this summer. (Hilary White)

Jogging – Button Factory, Friday

‘For those of you who read in the brochure that we sounded like Mastodon, this mustn’t be working out so well for you guys’, shrugs Darren Craig, Jogging’s bespectacled, be-bearded guitarist. Not so! In fact, this excellent Richter Collective three-piece are a thrill to watch as they kick off the inaugural Meteor Camden Crawl Dublin, a tightly wound riot of sharp riffing, thrash energy and DC hardcore vocals. Masto- who? (Hilary White)

Kool Thing – Stag’s Head, Saturday

Playing in a sun trap made for a naturally dramatic stage setting up stairs in The Stag’s Head, the blazing glare a beautiful juxtaposition against girls dressed in black singing about nocturnal antics. Kool Thing have attracted their own crowd, it’s a struggle to wedge in the door but it’s worth being rude. Since their last jaunt around the city in December, Jon and Julie have acquired a live drummer and with him a rounder more relaxed form to their performance. With a spread of duties, the girls are free to project the cold harmonies of their keening electro-Goth. ‘Light Games’ is glacial and arcane and ‘The Sign’ are charging anthem. Kool Thing are making all the right moves to greatness. (Alan Reilly)

Last Days Of 1984 – Button Factory, Friday

The duo of Darren Moloney and Brian Rice are perhaps unfortunate to get an early Friday evening slot. People will continue to talk about the obvious debt they owe to Animal Collective, and rightly so: as well crafted as their tunes are, they still lack a distinctive, unique identity. However, originality is never the be all and end all (cf. Yuck, Echo Lake, etc); what’s more of a concern is that their general sound palette (Washed Out-alike vocals, shimmering textures, afro-beat flourishes) has been so well-trodden of late – it can feel like they’ve arrived to the party while everyone else is already battling the hangover. But that may be harsh: debut album Wake Up To The Waves nods to the dancefloor more than may have been expected, with an appreciation for rhythm that’s more akin to John Talabot at times than the chillwave clones. The duo drop the ball somewhat with their final song, which is drawn-out Instagramed-blandness, but (much like their album) they do enough here to make you do a double-take. (Daniel Harrison)

The Gloaming are still a new outfit, with barely a recording to their name, but already they are acting as a Rosetta stone for people like me who know little or nothing about Irish traditional music, but feel that ignorance ever more acutely, and want a way in. Caoimhín Ó Raghallaigh is probably the key member of the band for these people; over the last five years he has shown a willingness, even a need, to experiment with form and an ability to speak a language understood by those who have kept themselves at arm’s length from traditional music. He toured with Norman Blake and Euros Childs; he worked with Amiina; that kind of thing. So when he goes back to more classic forms, as he does here and with Martin Hayes in Triúr, we trust him and follow him, because he’s one of us.

In fact, I wrote something in State in 2009, now a bit embarrassing, to the effect that Caoimhín made a refreshing change from regular traditional musicians because his extraordinary 2007 album Where the One-Eyed Man is King did not stick “to the forms handed down like commandments over generations”, as if I even knew what those were. Don’t ask me to tell between a reel and a jig.* I even called Caoimhín “the most singular traditional musician of his generation”, which might imply that I had a list of singular traditional musicians, from which I had carefully chosen him. It wasn’t quite like that. Still, I was in Vicar St almost solely because of Caoimhín, so he is important if only because he has introduced the odd newbie to The Gloaming’s music, and by extension to the untold wealth of traditional music that’s out there, beckoning.

Martin Hayes, a self-described “adamant traditionalist”, seemed to understand that at least some of the audience was in the newbie camp. He introduced the sparkling reel ‘The Sailor’s Bonnet’ with a brief tutorial on the composition of traditional airs (“not too simple, not too complex”), then began by playing the tune slowly, pointing out its working parts, before the band clicked into gear and, in Hayes’s own words, tore away at it. (More howling.)

Hayes, a legend in traditional music for decades, emerged for me as the de facto leader of the band. He is already established as a brilliant thinker and communicator – his piece in the Journal of Music on 21st century traditional music is vivid and enlightening. Leadership duties here went as far as improvised storytelling to hold the show together during the encore, as Iarla Ó Lionáird went missing backstage in search of lyrics for a song by Peadar Ó Riada from Cúl Aodha (“Has he gone to Cúl Aodha to get them?”)

And it was ultimately striking how little of the pleasure of this show derived from any attempts at experimentation, or reworking, or what one might think of, misguidedly, as some kind of necessary modernisation of this music. The pleasure derived from the sheer beauty of the tunes and the awesome skill with which they were played; from Martin Hayes’s evident bouncing glee, and the stillness that overtook Caoimhín Ó Raghallaigh during ‘The Old Bush’ as he appeared to play without touching his violin, producing notes so delicate and fluid they sounded to have come straight out of the air; from Thomas Bartlett and Dennis Cahill’s mostly unshowy, subtle accompaniments; and from Iarla Ó Lionáird’s textured, aching singing of ‘Óró, Sé do Bheatha ‘Bhaile’, or ‘Samhradh’, or of the phrase “Ochón, trua”, from ‘No. 44′, a song of longing for love that might be twenty generations old.

It is an intoxicating thing to find that an entire culture from your own backyard that you have essentially ignored all your life is just sitting there waiting to be feasted on. The music Caoimhín and The Gloaming have re-introduced me to is a music I cannot wait to explore; an ancient music that does not age. Martin Hayes spoke about the music growing and evolving and changing, but never fading, as you live with it, and he has been steeped in this stuff for half a century: “After all this time, it’s better it gets.” Now that’s a thought.

*A reel is a dance tune played in double time (2/2 or 4/4) and a jig is played in triple time (3/2, 3/4, or 3/8)

And So I Watch You From Afar (The Electric Ballroom)

It takes a band with considerable presence to impact the vast cavern that is the Electric Ballroom, but of course ASIWYFA is that band. Any worries about the lineup change are quickly abated as the Belfast four-piece tear shreds out of the room, proving they’re the technical, cohesive machine their fans know and love. ‘Gang’, ’7 Billion People Alive All At Once’ and ‘Set Guitars To Kill’ stood out in particular but throughout it was all very much business as usual. (JC)

Barbarossa (The Earl of Camden)

Red-bearded (you know, like the name – it’s Italian) London-based singer/songwriter James Mathé played this brightly-lit Camden pub on Sunday afternoon as part of a Fence Records showcase. Like his labelmates, King Creosote and The Pictish Trail, Mathé creates carefully constructed folk. The analogue-loving musician is accompanied today by a band who provide soulful male harmonies, dancing the line between folk and casiotone pop sensibilities. (LM)

Belakiss (Dingwalls)

“We’re Belakiss!”, one or other of the two guitarists in this high octane rock band shouts after each song. Despite some Spinal Tap-esque banter – maybe it’s the accents – this north-west London quartet have got the rifts and the moves. With plenty of posturing swagger, it’s not hard to tell that these three lads and gal are fresh from a tour with Kasabian. They have the same apparently rough yet perfectly polished demeanour, backed up with a couple of storming, guitar-heavy songs. After a relatively laid-back day, it’s surprisingly nice to be blasted with a bit of proper rock. (LM)

Cymbals (Underworld)

A room will seem half empty or half full depending on whether the crowd languish at the back staring into their pints or cram to front spilling said pints on their shoes as they dance about. Cymbals’ joyous noise facilitated and received the latter effect. They abate the charge that indie pop is a stale format, playing a set of fresh and catchy tracks with charm and confidence. ‘Summer Escaping’ is a particular standout, bringing their knack for a memorable melody to the fore. (JC)

Disclosure (The Monarch)

Leading the vanguard of youngsters who grew up on Kaos pads instead of guitars, these young south London brothers are the hot rave act of the day. Initially The Monarch’s relatively wee dance floor seems limiting but one or two songs in and the crowd are moving as one to the electronic grooves being conjured from an arsenal of sonic weaponry. Tracks such as ‘Blue You’ and ‘My Intention Is War!’ are staples on London dancefloors and are a delight to hear recreated in what’s turned into a little boutique rave. Expect greatness from these dudes. (JC)

Dutch Uncles (St Michael’s Church)

Appropriately enough, there is time for a little bit of church on a Sunday. Manchester’s Dutch Uncles play in a tiny alcove in this not particularly formal church on Camden Road (there’s a record fair & posters on sale where you’d usually expect some pews). The alcove is filled to bursting and people peer over walls and stand on chairs to catch a glimpse of quirky goings-on within. Though dressed like a New Romantic, frontman Duncan Wallis leads the band in a performance of atypical time signatures, swooping prog-pop and abandoned dance movements. New material is showcased alongside second album songs such as ‘The Ink’ and ‘Cadenza’. “That song is actually about being in a church,” Wallis notes afterwards. “Well, about trying not to have pornographic thoughts in a church,” he elaborates with a smile. Afterwards, it’s hard not to feel energised, that is unless you’re the possibly homeless fellow having a snooze down the back, but there’s a little something for everyone at the Crawl. (LM)

Fever Fever (The Monarch)

Hearing hype about girl bands “with balls” ruins any proper discourse on bands with girls in them that play heavy music. Fever Fever created a gritty racket that shook The Monarch and had the usually stoic London crowd moving as a mass unit. While new single ‘The Chair’ is subdued in parts, the majority of the set features poetic shouting, distorted rumbling guitars and and powerful rhythm section. Singer Rosie shouts and sings in a strong English accent that will grate on some listeners, but all the more power to her for adopting a more palatable drawl. If that’s not an issue and an abrasive punk attitude aren’t an issue Fever Fever should do the business for you. (JC)

Fiction (Roundhouse)

In London at least, this tropicalia-tinged indie four piece have been making waves among the taste makers. Playing the first of two shows over the weekend, this early evening slot in the Roundhouse is a perfect opportunity to see the band in a not so crowded room. Catchy guitar pop such as last year’s ‘Big Things’ sits well alongside the Caribbean sounds of a newer track, underlined by the fruity, calypso of a steel drum. Except of course it’s not an actual steelpan rather a keyboard that mimics the sound, but it’s fine – Fiction still manage to drop in a touch of the exotic to what would otherwise be pleasantly straightforward indie. (LM)

Jape (The Cuban)

Bopping back and forth like a nodding dog on speed, an ecstatic Richie Egan storms through a supercharged set of tracks from all three of his albums. He and his band managed to make each well-known song sound like a completely new club track fresh for the Crawl. It seems a bit of a corn to declare one of our own to be one of the best acts of the festival but simply put, he is. A group of girls push to the front to dance manically to ‘Floating’ while an older couple sway back and forth to ‘Ocean of Frequency’. A new tune, ‘Ribbon Ribbon Ribbon’, fits in perfectly in a set that Egan claims to be his best ever London performance. (LM)

Johnny Foreigner (The Wheelbarrow)

In the packed, and not wholly-appropriate surroundings of the Wheelbarrow, it’s hard to tell where the CD ends and the band starts. There’s a soft tinkling and some kind of quiet commotion going on down the front, but unfortunately we’re too short to see it. Alexei Berrow and Kelly Southern of riotous indie-punk trio Johnny Foreigner are on the floor amidst the crowd singing their little hearts out in a slightly a capella fashion. Such a gimmick would be fantastic for those up front but for the majority of us at the back, it’s a touch weak. But strikes a furious contrast for when those guitars kick in, Berrow & Southern growling down the microphone. There’s a touch of Seafood, a smattering of Blood Red Shoes and a hell of a lot of energy pounding from the three-piece as they shoot through a noisy set. Three albums in and the hype is building for the Birmingham band – barely five o’clock & there’s a jostling queue pressed against the windows of this tiny venue. (LM)

Micachu And The Shapes (Jazz Cafe)

Within the sterile confines of the Jazz Cafe the crowd is suitably subdued. That they remain so throughout Micachu & The Shapes set doesn’t surprise. Their sound lends more to standing in appreciation at how strange and strangely compelling they are as a live act. Their set is comprised mainly of more recent material, which has really nailed the narrow line where pop intersects with rampant experimentalism. Bjork recently announced that she’s a fan which makes perfect sense watching them noodle through bursts of two minute blastbeat art pop songs. (JC)

Rubberbandits (Purple Turtle)

That Blindboy Boatclub and his mate Mr Chrome ever transferred their humour out of Limerick county never mind to the UK is always something of an astonishment. But to see the hip-hop duo, alongside sidekick Willie O’Dea J, receive such a rapturous response in London is immense. Perhaps it’s a touch of the émigré syndrome that gets this ex-pat – and indeed the mainly Irish crowd in the Purple Turtle – going, but the atmosphere is fizzing. “Play ‘Horse Outside,” cries a girl in the crowd, before she is berated by our foul-mouthed twosome. The equine-powered love song gets a spin but not before a rattle through Bandits’ such as ‘Black Man’ and ‘I Wanna Fight Your Father’. There’s even a song for the English, a lovely ode to hardman, Danny Dyer. Charmingly offensive lyrics, occasionally a front for social commentary – though it’s hard to consider the likes of ‘Bags of Glue’, satire – bounce over derivative, funky beats as Willie O’Dea J drops his pants in the corner, and snake-hipped Mr Chrome shakes sweat from his bagged face. Basically, it’s wonderful. (LM)

Stealing Sheep (Barfly)

Steeped in a ’60s mythology of psychedelic guitars and droning synth, this Liverpool trio blend pastoral folk with haunting harmonies. They stand in a line onstage – keyboard, drums, guitar – no one more or less important than the other. The hypnotic female three-piece are charming and understated, allowing their surreal, Wicker Man-esque melodies to speak for themselves. This is a band who have perfected their sound through extensive gigging, favouring the live experience over studio repetition. Previewing their new single, ‘Genevieve’, a sweet, contemporary electro-folk ditty, the band find the song slips easily into glorious set awash with resonant guitar and enchanting vocals: ‘Bats’ and ‘I Am The Rain’ two perfect examples. (LM)

Toby Kaar (Heroes)

Initial technical issues and an initially nonplussed crowd didn’t seem to phase Toby, who once underway is ducking and jiving behind his mound of pads, mixers and buttons. In no time the pub packs out and a genuine excitement takes hold, unsurprisingly given the quality of what he plays, chopping between fuzzy electronics, Afro-beats, sax lines and house rhythms while maintaining a warm and comforting aura. More than once I spot folks turning to friends with an excitable look on their faces, like they’ve happened upon something very good, because they have. (JC)

Reports by Louise McHenry and Josh Clark.

The ensemble band performing alongside Flannery tonight are fantastic – a trio of brass musicians, a string quartet, percussion, lead guitar, and bass compliment as he himself takes the lead alternating between guitar and piano. Yvonne Daly is joined intermittently by Flannery’s mother Elaine to provide haunting backing vocals. The setup varies throughout the set depending on the song in question – for example the brilliant ‘Wish You Well’ from 2008’s White Lies gets the blues treatment, as strings and brass make way for an amped-up extended rendition complete with sprawling instrumental outro. Likewise for ‘What Do You See’, and ‘Tomorrow’s Paper’ – which even manages to get a brave trio on the balcony up off their seats for a dance. The trio of ‘Gone Forever’, ‘Red to Blue’, and ‘No Way To Live’ from the latest album sound even better played out live – the latter being the closest thing to an anthem we’ll ever hear from Mick Flannery. However it’s the moments for which the ensemble are in full attendance that impress the most – the collective performance of ‘Heartless Man’ early on in the set is simply stunning.

“So I went over to America for a while to depress a few people over there…” is the preamble for piano ballad ‘Boston’, as Flannery recounts the tale behind the closing track of Red to Blue. “How’s my stage presence?” he muses afterwards. “I’ve been going to classes…” It seems that his chronic shyness onstage is finally beginning to fade into the background – tonight, he appears to be engaging with his adoring audience more than ever, and has even learned to crack a joke or two at his own expense. “That had a nice summertime feel to it, eh?” he quips after an acoustic rendition of the misery-laden lament ‘Keepin’ Score’.

The gradual build of ‘Up On That Hill’ as executed by the full company of musicians to close out the main set is exquisite – the rapturous applause which follows coaxes Flannery back onstage in mere seconds. White Lies duo ‘California’ and ‘Safety Rope’ have been reserved for the encore, and what a treat – the middle eight of the latter still proving as powerful as ever. Such is the reception for it that it would’ve been rude for him not to do a second encore – it’s just him, his guitar and his mammy for ‘Arise Now’ to send the Flannery Faithful off into the night. He may continually be a man of few words – but Mick Flannery lets his music do the talking, and truth be told as he has shown tonight it speaks louder than anything he could ever say.

It’s a very static stage show, the quintet arranged like a coffee shop acoustic act with movement reduced to a minimum. Everything Merritt does is considered and deadpan, down to the brandishing of his kazoo. Almost despite himself sometimes he becomes animated and then checks himself, forcing his hands back into his pockets. The show is a curious mixture of pathos and wit, songs falling into two categories: One being the laugh-out-loud comedy song with the clever rhymes and often abrupt punchline denouement, usually sang by the girls; ‘My Husband’s Pied-A-Terre’ being the perfect example. Many songs are simply throwaway pop, two minute songs that could have been created at a drunken party at 4am.

Of course, all this joking around distracts from the heart of the matter; that there is actually serious songwriting at work here. Different genres are experimented with, the girls changing their voices to country drawls here and there, the ukulele lightening moods and bringing a bluegrass edge to some songs, an edge that is expanded upon by some very clever female harmonies and guitar picking. In fact, the ladies are the unsung heroes of the night, providing subtle, well-judged echoes here and there – most notably to ‘All My Little Words’ – adding just enough harmonies to add depth, but not enough to overpower Merritt.

The second category is harder to pin down but can be defined by the pin-drop silence of the audience, each member leaning forward in their seat to hear something small they might miss in these tragically sincere tales of woe. Often stripped down to ukulele and vocals every subtle nuance is heard. Most significantly, these songs last beyond the usual two minute curfew the band seem to have imposed on themselves. They don’t fear repetition of a chorus because a surprise punchline is not the objective; the objective is to create a piece of music that develops with each repetition, the strange dark beauty of the cello adding a sinister edge to lyrics and a voice that already drip with menace.

A curious affair, all in all. Laughs were had, but the moments that will likely stay with the audience are the mesmerizing stillness created by ‘The Book Of Love’ and the unexpected strength of Merritt’s voice live. It is only as the we begin to leave that the realisation hits that there were no drums at any point during the performance. They were not missed.

Photos: Paulo Goncalves

The crowd pour in slowly during the catchy jangle of the support band, The Lonely Forest, and there’s a cooling breeze running through the warm room. Right from the off, as the baubles pop to life, the five-piece get straight into ’All Your Light’, no teasing, all action. With the vocals shared heavily between the two frontmen John Gourley is tucked away to the left of the stage but the more energetic Zachary Carothers cuts a fine figure of energy center-stage. Coupled with the dancing lights, the mood is like turning the switch for ’Friday’ from off to on.

Three songs in and ’So American’ starts with some seemingly mis-timed drums but soon recovers to hands-in-the-air levels. With the main singing in ’So American’ being done by Gourley on the dark left side, there’s something missing from the spectacle but you could not fault the energy firing from stage to crowd, and these levels were only just beginning to climb. ’Devil’ quickly turns into something seemingly familiar and soon we’re knee-deep in The Beatles’ ’Helter Skelter’, ripped apart, reconstructed and put on steroids. It sonically tears the house down and it is really, really loud. Proper order.

And on it goes. There’s hardly a break taken to tune guitars, and no energy-sapping chatty bits in-between, they careered through 20 songs and were sometimes drowned out by the fired-up crowd especially as ’Sleep Forever’ closed the set twisting into the final chorus of ’Hey Jude’ which sparked a rapturous sing-along. The crowd here are givers, singing as much as they can, piled in around the front and punching the air till the blood runs out of their arms, they are perhaps 51% of the gig. A cheery stage-diver is safely caught while security remain sensibly invisible.

Coming back for one more (that’s how to do an encore, kids. Put everything into a 19 song set then, if they reeeeallly want it,have one more song up the sleeve) the pace is calmed somewhat with ’And I’. While the band are closing off, in a most surreal episode, a grey-bearded skinny dude walks his way through the crowd past us heading for the back with a large plate of fresh cheese and grapes out in front of him. It’s a look-at-the-guy-beside-you-to-see-if-that-really-happened moment.

Leaving on a high it’s now time for the bars of Willamsburg or the L train to soak up the parting crowd on the night the locals call 20-4, an unofficial day of the stoner by all accounts. A glorious Friday show, the humming of ’Helter Skelter’ saw us all the way home.

Photos by Sean O’Kane

On the other hand, considering Tricky’s reputation for wilful contrarianism, it isn’t a massive shock to witness the man showing scant regard for his most seminal of releases, in tonight’s wayward exhibition of unpredictability and improvisation, resulting in mass exasperation from the band and the audience.

It wasn’t simply the prospect of Tricky performing Maxinquaye in its entirely which was the attraction; the man was also billed as ‘re-united’ with Martina Topley-Bird, she who provided the smooth, sultry counterpoints on the album. And it was her initial appearance on stage that provided the current to direct and sustain the first half of the performance, particularly as Tricky appeared to be busy leading his guitarist in a sing-along unrelated to the night’s events – until he signalled for the band to begin and we were immersed in the triple whammy of ‘Ponderosa’, ‘Overcome’ and ‘Black Steel’, Topley-Bird’s vocals at once stately and hushed, Tricky all sinewy and kinetic, topless and frantic.

And then, he was gone. At some point during the warped samples of ‘Abbaon Fat Tracks’, the man vanished and the band soldiered on without him. It wasn’t so much that his vocal prowess was necessary, what ensued was that the presence of his absence was palpable. No one seemed quite sure as to what was going on and while he returned for ‘Hell Is Round The Corner’, the rhythm of the evening was unceremoniously halted. Welcoming his brother, Marlon, to the stage, the younger sibling along with a Bristolian cohort, took the mic for ‘Brand New You’re Retro’, rapping for at least 15 minutes before the floodgates opened and Tricky implored everyone to come up on stage for a mass gathering.

By now, any intimations that a full performance of Maxinquaye was going to be realised seemed ludicrous. ‘I’m having one of the best nights of my life’, declared our man from the stage. ‘I wasn’t really enjoying that first part’. And, truth be told, anyone that had clambered up seemed to be having an awfully good time as well. As the band jammed – punctuated by repeated thumps as Tricky seemed to be forever abruptly dropping his mic – people took turn to sing, shout, even orgasmically moan. Martina was still on stage, gamely trying to keep things going as the jamming appeared to extend on into infinity and the remaining audience appeared to dwindle.

Tricky singularly failed to live up to his billing of performing Maxinquaye. Of course, it’s simple then to castigate the man for not treating his audience with the respect they deserve. Alternatively, perhaps Tricky endowed everyone with the utmost honour through his exhortations to join him and his band on stage. And on tonight’s performance alone, it seems there is a very line, for this mercurial artist, between natural mystique and mindless pastiche.

Photo by Brian Madden.

Under Byen (Under the City) were the opening night band in the Theatre Bremen. Their cinematic, ambient rock sound was played from behind a mesh screen with constant video projections from moving traffic to flames. On paper it sounds like overkill but in reality it worked extremely well, the music making a 50/50 split with the visuals for our attention and with the outrageously beautiful lead singer’s voice also becoming more of an instrument, it was only near the end we realised she was singing in Danish.

As traditional as Carlsberg is as a Danish institute, the workman’s club of Carlsberg is an institution within an institution. Gingham tablecloths and a wall of trophy cabinets in a small, square room was the unusual setting for Cph locals Ulige Numre (Odd Numbers). State arrived uncharacteristically early and were told when ordering a beer that for 20 kroner more we could go shooting. As this conversation took place in Danish we assumed there had been some error, but went to the basement with our tickets anyhow. Low and behold, there in the basement was a four-lane shooting range and a helpful gent handing out air rifles to the early arriving gig-goers. The smoking ban didn’t apply in the basement so while the support band were electro popping upstairs, we were witnessing lipsticked and high-heeled ladies shooting targets with a beer beside the bullets and a fag hanging out of their mouths. Both State representatives have seen a lot of strange things at gigs in our time, but this went straight to no. 1. Bullets and Marlboros exhausted, we went back upstairs to enjoy what was an energy-filled gig, a cut above your standard indie-rock. With some nice melodic twists to their sound, hats off to Ulige Numre for sticking to the Danish language when it’s deemed too restrictive for your audience by most local bands.

Sadly Clap Your Hands Say Yeah‘s intimate show was cancelled due to some odd bus trouble in Amsterdam but it seemed the most interesting gigs were the Danish ones and apparently Sleep Party People‘s evening amongst the stuffed apes of the Zoological Museum was a spooky and curious night.

Our next trip was to the Botanic Gardens’ Palm House for Frisk Frugt (Fresh Fruit). The ambient drone we heard on entry was in fact a miked-up palm tree making that tree the most unusual support act ever. With only 80 tickets available, and the band setting up in amongst various trees with no traditional stage-audience arrangement, people just wandered around the beautiful glass house. Beer and cocktails were available, as was access to the iron spiral staircase leading up and around the gantry at the domed roof.

Slowly the band took up their instruments, many of which seem homemade such as a fascinating wooden pipe organ. Far from traditional in arrangement, the music suited the odd setting and the audience’s wandering around and it moved between a proper rock-out to acoustic guitar songs as well as the more avant garde parts of the night which saw the musicians appearing, after a break, from all corners of the palm house playing various odd items. Wonderfully bizarre.

While Wilco were definitely a draw for the festival, tickets are on a gig-by-gig basis so in a few years perhaps the festival won’t need the bigger names in the less interesting venues. The Wilco gig was in one of the biggest concert halls in the city and was more notable for the yell from the normally polite crowd after the first song. For no apparent reason a punter roars “fuck you, Tweedy” and it seemed to set the concert on an odd angle. A drunk guy slow-dancing with himself up the front of the seated crowd took the biscuit and we left the pedestrian, seated gig.

To finish the festival, Wy Lyf played a sold-out show in the re-opened Pumpehuset – a black, sweaty room near the town hall. The five-piece play like a Vampire Weekend who’ve been beaten up by Jocks, have had all their clothes stolen or ripped and their voice box damaged. Their angular, alternative guitar pop iis notable for the gruff singing voice of Ellery Roberts who even talks like sandpaper between the songs. They begin with swagger but it very soon turns to a lazy attitude and songs are mis-started, mis-finished and generally sloppy. Nothing like some band in-joking to alienate a crowd, by the time Roberts let the mask fall and spoke to us with his perfectly smooth regular voice near the end, the goofing around had got too much and even the banger ‘We Bros’ couldn’t save them from their own arrogance.

All told, if you ever find yourself in Copenhagen during this well run and most curious of festivals be sure to seek out the Danish bands in the obscure venues. There’s some meaty, surreal gig-going to be had there.

Photos by Jakob Bekker-Hansen

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As deftly as they hop from toe to heel, drop shoulder and kick-back, THEESatisfaction skip through R&B, hip-hop, jazz, disco, and funk – channeled by poised divas with a modernistic aesthetic … and a uniform stoic gaze. Ice-cold and mysterious both glare with a zoned-out focus, their warm human side spills out through spoken-word style sing-talk. They can be playful: “Sweat through your cardigan”, urging to “bring yourself” on ‘Queens’. They can be political: “Hitler stashed Obamas wearing army colored sashes/ rainbow flags blowing, burning crosses, sprinkled ashes/ in the oiled waters of the dollars dropped on masses/ THEESatisfaction could give a fuck about a fascist” on ‘Earthseed’, (a throwback to activist songs from the ‘70s.) They can also be playfully political, “the world is flat/ flatter than your ass”, decreeing black power on ‘Deeper’, “if a monster were to attack/ it wouldn’t find me at night/ because I camouflage to black.”

To the grooves of afrofurturism the set spirals around nu-soul harmonies and trickling jazz rhymes taking in new album tracks and older material – the quality of which indistinguishable, both production-wise and infectious catchiness. ‘Bisexual’ is lifted off Snow Motion. ‘Oh THEES Bitches’ spits out over rimshot cracks, ‘Icing’ is smooth Baduism and ‘Enchantruss’ shoots gunshot beats and spacey melodies delivered in stereo.

There was no time for chatter from the girls on stage. No crowd-pleasing Guinness quips or lofty God praising. THEESatisfaction’s place of worship is an intergalactic church. Their charm comes solely from their projection as performers and the world they have created and are believably absorbed in. A world so vividly painted the lines with reality are blurred, fighting an ‘Astronomical Warfare’ the girls question it themselves, “I don’t trust myself / Sometimes I touch myself to see if I’m real.” A world that is indeed awE naturalE.

Thankfully, teenage girls know a thing or two about pop (see the Beatles) and took The Lemonheads to their hearts playing their seminal album It’s A Shame About Ray until the tape warped and waited for the boys to catch up. When they did they realised that it wasn’t all sunshine and spliffs in Dando world, if anything It’s A Shame About Ray squashes more anguish and apathy into its 30 minutes than Billy Corgan managed to do in his whole career.

It’s his unnerving knack for creating effervescent melodies which bloom sadness and heartbreak that attracts the half stunned crowd in the Academy. Breezily knocking out a selection of acoustic numbers from ‘Being Around’ to Victoria William’s heart scorching ‘Frying Pan’ it’s heads down and on with the show. With hardly a chance to take a breath or grab a tissue, Chuck and Fred join him to hurtle us headlong down memory lane for the full performance of It’s A Shame About Ray. Blitzing through ‘Rockin’ Stroll’ and ‘Confetti’ at lightning speed it would seem that Evan is on autopilot, churning out the hits till he can exit the stage. It’s only when they hit the title track that the pace is slowed and buttocks are unclenched but the true magic has yet to happen.

For all its knockabout charms the real beauty of the album lies in its dingier elements. The bleakness of a life under the shadow of addiction, the pool of sadness shored up from parental marital problems to private relationship breakdowns. As Evan hollers out the repeated refrain of ‘hope in my past’ from the aching, anxiety ridden ‘Rudderless’, he is exorcising all our past demons in the darkness, our teenage dreams half remembered but not fully erased. There is a rush of communal memories echoing out through the crowd which is finally acknowledged from the stage with a genuine smile and a brief pause. From there on Evan truly awakens to deliver a soul squelching version of ‘My Drug Buddy’ and the blissed out beauty of ‘Turnpike Down’, every song a greatest hit, every pure, distilled thought leaving Ryan Adams on the balcony scratching his head in wonderment. In that triptych lies the albums essence, the loneliness, the rawness, the unique bravery of exposing the worst of himself, they are the albums bleeding heart, completed with the bruising ‘Hannah & Gabi’ there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

What Dando is trying to achieve with this nostalgia fest is anybody’s guess, nary a newer song is performed, maybe he’s delivering the album back to those who once screamed and who can now nod in agreement, for the bedroom boys too shy to say they were a fan or the ones that missed it all first time around, showcasing what is now with blessed hindsight believed to be one of the defining albums of that era.

Whatever the reasons, that fact that he is able to reach into a back catalogue that features such faultless pop moments as ‘Down About It’, ‘Hospital’ and the mesmeric ‘Mallo Cup’ makes us grateful to have his music as a soundtrack to our lives no matter how shiny his hair is.

Photo by Sean Conroy.

Tumble forward 14 years to New York’s grand Radio City Music Hall this past week and the recently reformed Pulp (that of the vintage Different Class lineup) is rapturously received as rock royalty for two sold-out, buzzed-over shows. The adoring New York embrace of Pulp’s resurrection is a grin-worthy shocker for this esoteric, very English band that, even during the heyday of Britpop, never really broke Stateside in a splashy way.

At Wednesday night’s show, the second of two nights, the band effortlessly picked up from where they left off a decade and half ago for, as Cocker observed, a “hardcore” audience of not only middle-aged, yes-we-remember cognescenti, but a far younger pool of twentysomethings, small children in 1995, for whom Cocker has become an iconic figure of bespectacled cool. Even more fascinating was the realisation that Cocker’s lyrics, from the sly menace of ‘I Spy’ to the aggravated anthem ‘Common People’, seem even more suited to these anxiously observant, overtly-sexualised, socially isolated and celebrity-obsessed times.

The brisk, beating heart of Pulp is, of course, Jarvis:  one part irreverent Gumby and two parts sexy Pan-with-a-Ph.D.. Bounding across the stage like a series of exclamation marks and ellipses, Cocker swayed atop monitors, prowled between his bandmates and swiveled his hips with a cheeky verve that left Elvis Presley in the dust. Or nearly so, as Cocker, athletic but always slightly awkward, caught his breath between the seductive lines of ‘This is Hardcore’ or ‘Underwear’ with cheerfully verbose chats, celebrating songwriter Richard Berry’s birthday by wailing a few lines from ‘Louie Louie’ or noting Kurt Vonnegut’s passing that day in 2007.

Reportedly, Tuesday night’s show featured interludes pulled from The Great Gatsby and chocolate bars tossed into the front rows (Jarvis did fling one handful of candy to the crowd early in tonight’s set). It was if Cocker, taking a hiatus from his BBC 6 Music show, Sunday Service until early September, brought the learned, laid-back spirit of that show and his radio presenter chops with him, front-selling songs with murmured witticisms: “Relationships don’t always work out, that’s why we have songs,” he observed before launching into a surprising encore of ‘Bad Cover Version’, from 2001’s We Love Life.

Significantly, Cocker and his Pulp mates didn’t just spew a batch of hits at the audience, but sought a tangible connection to every song in their set, from ‘Babies’ to ‘Disco 2000′ to ‘Sunrise’. The week prior, Cocker had performed at the Whitney Museum in his side project, Relaxed Muscle, to accompany the Michael Clark dance company and he brought the dancers onstage at Radio City for ‘F.E.E.L.I.N.G.C.A.L.L.E.D.L.O.V.E.’ ‘Something Changed’ was warmly dedicated to a pair of newlyweds and Cocker hailed the Bowery Hotel and friends the Venture Brothers and DJ trio Misshapes prior to Pulp’s nightcap of ‘’Mis-Shapes.’

Pulp was very overdue for an assignation with New York and the experience was a delicious, dirty romp between the sheets with a fond note, and a wee Snickers bar, left on our pillow the next day. And yes, we’re applying our lip gloss, slipping on a pencil skirt and patiently waiting, hoping that Jarvis, Steve, Candida, Nick and Mark call us back and don’t keep us waiting sadly by the telephone for another decade.

Photo by Damien McGlynn for last year’s Electric Picnic coverage.

Setlist for April 11, 2012:

Do You Remember The First Time?
Monday Morning
Razzmatazz
Pencil Skirt
Something Changed
Disco 2000
Sorted for E’s And Wizz
F.E.E.L.I.N.G. C.A.L.L.E.D. L.O.V.E
I Spy
Babies
Underwear
This Is Hardcore
Sunrise
Bar Italia
Common People

Encore:
Like a Friend
Bad Cover Version
Mis-Shapes

Respectably upholding the great tradition of gifted balladeers that came before him such as Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger, and Luke Kelly, Moore continues to produce a distinctive voice that gesticulates to a collective consciousness: it speaks to the soul, to posterity, to the living, and the dead, screaming out the injustices of the world, in full knowledge, that to sing, to make a sound together, perhaps is our only hope of coping with the great tragedies that we encounter in life.

Despite Moore experiencing something of a “national treasure” phase of his career, the message he delivers remains as clear as it was when he first began to frequent small folk clubs across Britain in the mid 1960s. Songs of solidarity, like Guthrie’s, ‘Sacco and Vanzetti’, or his own, ‘Viva La Quinta Brigada’ are history lessons disguised in song form, polemics dressed up as folklore.

Indeed the surroundings of The Southbank Centre tonight feel a tad bit plush to be hearing tales of communists fighting for a more egalitarian society. Unlike other champions of The Left in the music business, such as Billy Bragg, Moore doesn’t use his singing career as a platform to preach, or to talk politics; his coyness and slick delivery of mixing the back catalogue with a gentle poetic quality, as well producing a fiery and raucous sensibility, is perhaps the reason he’s successfully become such a darling of the mainstream, who has continued to ride a tidal wave of commercial success for decades now.

There are few singers that can move from pathos to humour in the flick of one guitar chord, but Moore does it with ease, accompanied by Declan Sinnott, who adds a more nuanced texture to the basic structure of their songbook. We encounter tales of emigration and heartache in ‘Missing You’ and ‘City of Chicago’, and we’re back to cabaret style with ‘Honda 50’ and ‘Lisdoonvarna’. He even dedicates ‘Joxer Goes to Stuttgart’ to Irish footballer, Damien Duff, who is sitting in the audience.

Moore, much like the audience, seems to be savouring the show like it could be the last. It was to London that he travelled in 1966, finally taking a leap of faith to become a full-time musician, changing his potential destiny as a life-long bank clerk, to one of the roaming vagabond.

Just before he sweetly serenades us with ‘Sweet Thames’, we’re told of a gig in King’s Cross, many moons ago, where he first played this number, accompanied on stage by the man who wrote it, Ewan Mac Coll. Moore tells us “it remains, still to this day, one of the happiest moments of my life.” And so it goes: the songs inseparable from both the people, and history from which they’re gleaned.
He leaves, as humble as he arrives, bowing to the audience. Perhaps it should be the other way around, but he’s disappeared before we’ve the chance to attempt to pay our respects.

Formed in 1986 in Stourbridge, England, the Poppies were sample-loving chaos-infused young ’uns flirting with indie, industrial, and dance beats. Film-scoring maestro Clint Mansell is the band’s better known member, but it ain’t him spewing rhymes and bouncing across the stage, but his co-songwriter Graham Crabb.

A paunchy middle-aged fellow, Crabb throws himself about the stage with utter abandon, cheerfully crashing into Mansell stand-in, Mary Byker, of ’80s psych-rockers Gaye Bykers on Acid. He’s not the only one getting on in age. Most of the punters here were probably bopping students first time round and they certainly haven’t forgotten how to move.

The atmosphere is warm, jubilant and nostalgic. From the off, the crowd shakes into movement, bouncing and dancing, and gleefully singing along. Crabb’s setlist is admirable – he whisks up the mood with classics like ‘Def Con One’, ‘RSVP’, and ‘Preaching to the Perverted’ while dropping in the occasional new song from last year’s New Noise Designed By A Sadist album. The pace never drops. As soon as a recent track is played – the pop-punk efforts are surprisingly well received – then the band rattle into another old school hit.

Mansell’s influence is referenced – Byker introduces the anti-racism battle cry ‘Ich bin ein Auslander’ with a nod to its creator and a swift word that he expects everyone in the room to believe in its sentiments. The dark industrial song still sounds like a killer – even if it wasn’t so well received by Gaybo on the Late, Late stage many moons ago.

A growling and heavy rendition of ‘There’s No Love Between Us Anymore’ starts up a swirling pit, but it’s a disappointment to hear an incredibly mushy version of ‘Wise Up! Sucker’, which doesn’t sound like anything except for rambling vocals over indistinct guitars.

So all right, Crabb may be trading on a past name to get a little bit more recognition for his recent musical endeavours, and on paper, it does seem a bit tribute band, but to be blown away back to the ’90s in one fell, heavy, sample-driven swoop, to that, we’ll willingly pay tribute.

Much has happened in the 20 years that have passed. The Franks, (as they are affectionately known to their hard legion of followers) became a cult band that put out an album every few years without too much fuss from the music press outside of Ireland, and the band from Oxford? They did all right apparently.

Substituting a BBC television studio, for a dingy basement called The Borderline in Soho doesn’t seem to bother the four Cork men just one bit as they walk on stage tonight. Dressed impeccably in bright orange shirts, with matching ties, these guys have just beaten Interpol in the suave department.

So how do their music match up to their clothes? There is a fine tightrope for groups that play this heart-on-sleeve-indie pop music walk: you either fall flat on your face, and come off looking like a sentimental cheese-merchant, or you bring swarms of fans close to tears as they wave pints of lager in the air and sing like their life depends on the heart-felt anthems you have created. The Franks fall into the latter category.

Maybe it’s the natural, effortless delivery of Paul Linehan’s vocals, or perhaps it’s in the quality of the great pop songs they write. Something this band isn’t short of. The classics include: ‘After All’ and’ This is Not a Song’.

While many of the fans may have come here tonight on a nostalgia trip, new tunes such as ‘Indie Love Song’ and ‘Trust in the Future’ prove that The Franks’ current album, Greenwich Mean Time is as good as anything they have released hitherto.

There are very few pop bands that are in possession of their own football chant, and by the looks of it, we may well continue to hear the chants of “We are, we are, we are, we are, we are The Frank and Walters” for quite some time.

The songs essayed from Sweet Heart Sweet Light are: lead single ‘Hey Jane’, ‘Headin’ For The Top Now’, ‘I Am What I Am’, ‘Mary’ and ‘So Long You Pretty Thing’. (I know this because I nabbed a setlist.) Folk/blues standard ‘Life Is A Problem’, long a live staple and now enshrined on the new record, is inexplicably and capriciously passed over.

However, it’s an alienation effect that is not noticeably unpleasurable, and may even be what any Spiritualized performance is ultimately striving for: cool distantiation coupled with the equal and opposite creation of a warm atmosphere of community and fellow-feeling, a kind of gospel meeting outpouring heightened by the slow layering of sound over repetitive riffs and rhythms, which simultaneously circumvents any trace of sentimentality. And the unfamiliar new material is not the only constituent of the overall oddness: the are outings for other songs which are rarely performed live, like Ladies and Gentlemen’s’ ‘Stay With Me’, Pure Phase’s ‘Born Never Asked’ and ‘Electric Mainline’, and Amazing Grace’s ‘Lord Let It Rain On Me’ and ‘Oh Baby’. These feature at the expense of jettisoning regular crowd-pleasers like ‘Walking With Jesus’, ‘Take Me To The Other Side’ or ‘I Think I’m In Love’. The encore consists of the risky instrumental ‘Electricity’, and the dreamy plod of Ladies and Gentlemen’s closer, the John Prine lyric-sampling ‘Cop Shoot Cop’.

This is not to suggest that there is a wilful disregard of audience expectations. The show kicks off with Ladies and Gentlemen’s title track, and still includes warhorses like ‘She Kissed Me, It Felt Like A Hit’, ‘Rated X’ and ‘Lay Back In The Sun’, and achieves a climax of sorts with ‘Come Together’. Other familiar features also remain intact. Jason still relinquishes the centre stage frontman spot in favour of lining up stage right, creating a void into which the audience can project itself. There is the habitual guitar interplay with Doggen, stage left, and the backing singers still add lush harmonies. Starting at 9pm with no support, it’s a solid two hours’ immersive experience. At least you can’t accuse them of always doing the same old thing.

PHOTO by Kieran Frost.

Drake’s appeal is obvious. He has communicable charm; strains of Kanye’s ego, Usher’s schmaltz, JT’s moves and, above all, Jay-Z’s ambition – Drake is a myopic hybrid of his peers, aptly channeled for mass appeal. He’s a living embodiment of what makes a modern rap R&B star. In as much as he’s living in the moment, Drake is in for the long haul. To be a R&B or rap star is to be a global star. Maintaining that and hosting an arena tour is another matter.

The stage set up for the Club Paradise Tour in The O2 has the massive screen backdrop, dazzling light show and theatrical setting needed for the bombardment of ‘Lord Knows’, ‘Underground King’, ‘I’m On One’ and the chest battering ‘Shot For Me’. Cleverly designed though, it funnels the suspenseful intimacy necessary for ‘She Will’, ‘Thank Me Later’ and the heart battering ‘Marvin’s Room’. At the apex, ‘Crew Love’ is the admix of pounding club-banger and emotional outpouring, and Mr. OVOXO is adept at both.

In as much as you can in a large capacity arena, Drake and his band preserve the atmospherics of his records; keeping the murky beats and synth textures that dominate Take Care. And, OK. So Rihanna does pop up. But in voice-sample only. Her vocal is a key identifier to Drake’s version of ‘I’ll Take Care Of You’. Hearing Gil Scott Heron sung by thousands of people is as surreal as it comes.

While Shabaaz Palaces, SpaceGhostPurrp, Danny Brown, SBTRKT, Araabmusik, Clams Casino, THEESatisfaction and Schoolboy Q – not to mention A$AP Rocky and Kendrick Lamaar (ahem!) – are pushing forward with electronica, R&B and rap, they are being watched. For all the groundwork they do and break, it will be Drake (or someone like him) that will take it (or at least an impression of it) to a wider audience. This is what stars do.

Photos: Luis Faustino.

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The Mercury Lounge is about the size of Whelan’s, but despite being a Bowery Ballroom spin off venue, a bit of a dive. The concrete décor of the gig room and sweatbox feel seems an apt backdrop for the duo, who open with ‘Anthony’s Eye’, which just about reaches that dubious chorus line before all hell breaks loose, and continues to unfurl until the final notes of ‘Spastic Hawk’ ring out. The boys are on top form, breaking out the rave dancing, drug-induced speed races (no actual drugs involved, just an experimental ‘politician’) and stronger stab city accents and welfare-isms ever. Never have the words ‘gas c*nt’ been used so much in quick concession.

What really seems to impress the local crowd, though, is that what they’re watching clearly isn’t just a novelty act. Their impressive backing tracks and ability to rap like the entire thing’s far from a joke is comfortably their most impressive live asset, and with the album seemingly yet to make it over to the States in any major capacity, the likes of ‘Up Da Ra’ and the Irish version of ‘I Wanna Fight Your Father’ – the ones that can only be found in the darker recesses of YouTube – become the unexpected highlights. Not that the singles don’t strike home, too: ‘Black Man’ in particular seems to evoke a mix of wide-mouthed outrage and badly-stifled chuckles in a city where racial divisions seem to permeate everyday life. When ‘Spoiling Ivan’ is introduced as “a song about a six year old boy” shortly afterwards, the hilariously syrupy ballad’s title evokes worried looks; what follows is all the more hilarious for how it contrasts with expectations.

Things, clearly, are messy. New York doesn’t go easy on a Saturday night, so much so that the 2nd Avenue subway station has descended into a rave to some beat-backed steel drum techno, and the gorgeous Rockwood Music Hall (where Duke Special played a fabulous set full of odes to old photographs to an almost empty room earlier in the same night) is rammed to the rafters come 8pm. Things just don’t stop here, and the entertainment levels, frankly, are of ADD-inducing proportions. An Irish rap act very much intent on ripping our own culture a new one can only be proud of pulling so many in.

We’re almost disappointed to have spotted Blindboy Boatclub drifting around the front entrance entirely mask-less pre-show, but perhaps even these lads wouldn’t try and tackle the crowded streets of a New York Saturday with a Spar bag on their heads. They do, however, leave a trail of very happy expats, the odd Dublin holiday-er who just couldn’t resist and a sweating throng of half offended, half converted locals in their wake. Proof, if it were needed, that Limerick’s most wonderfully ridiculous output really might have a more global market.

The atmosphere therefore is electric right from the off. It’s as if they were walking out onto an awards show stage to receive another prize. The fervor from the audience, is soon matched by the genuine chemistry and warmth that these two have in their performance. Armed with nothing more than two voices, one guitar (and the occasionally use of the keyboard) this is a very simple set up, but what comes through is the spark that these two have.

Performing the vast majority of their debut full length album Barton Hallow, they drop some of their much lauded, cover versions, including ‘Sour Times’ by Portishead and their own take of ‘Billie Jean’. Before they play a track of their own, ‘To Whom it May Concern’, Joy mentions that she is expecting her first child, and John Paul quickly jokes that it’s the only way that they could ever get some time off from touring and that, “Joy is now contractually obliged to have a baby every album cycle” (much to her protest.)

Their banter with the crowd continues with some entertaining between-song ribbing between the duo and the crowd about a UK tour, Twitter and ending the tour in Dublin. These two certainly know how to entertain and get a crowd on their side. How they will scale the amazing intimate feeling that they have with the crowd in The Academy, up to the bigger Olympia later in the year, will be fascinating, but with these kind of personalities and this kind of talent, it’s not hard to imagine them only getting bigger and bigger.

Photos also by James Goulden

Civil Wars, Academy by James Goulden

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Hannigan’s band must be introduced, for they play almost as integral a part to the magic that follows as the leading lady herself. Somewhat of a super-group of accomplished musicians – John Smith on guitar, Gavin Glass on piano, Ross Turner on drums, Shane Fitzsimons on bass both double and electric, and Donagh Molloy on trumpet and everything else in between – there’s such an air of class about them as a unit, and that’s before pointing out that they’re all dapperly clad in suits. The charm of debut album Sea Sew is still alive and well with ‘Venn Diagram’, ‘Lille’, and in particular the melodic beauty of ‘Ocean and a Rock’. The intensity of Passenger duo ‘A Sail’ and ‘Paper House’ played back-to-back is magnificent – Hannigan’s banjo skills shining bright on the former, and the gradual build towards the climax of the latter executed to perfection by all. John Smith takes over Ray Lamontagne’s vocal duties on ‘O Sleep’ to great effect, the velvety gruffness of his voice in sweet harmony with Hannigan’s soaring falsetto. A surprise standout comes in the form of Sea Sew album track ‘Teeth’, a powerfully raw performance which sees her exploring every nook of her vocal range. Sing-along favourite ‘I Don’t Know’ and the hoedown throw-down of ‘Knots’ finish the show on a high, Hannigan and band departing stage-left to deafening applause. Having closed out the main with her two biggest songs to date, what could she possibly have left in reserve for the encore?

As it transpired, plenty. Hannigan returns accompanied by John Smith and his acoustic guitar for a duet of the classic ‘Tonight You Belong To Me’, complete with comedic mouth-trumpet solos. Passenger bonus-track ‘Oh Undone’ – a “new old song” – finds its rightful place in the spotlight, before a compelling harmonium-driven interpretation of Nick Drake’s ‘Black Eyed Dog’. Something old, something new, something borrowed – and finally ‘What’ll I Do’. A brilliant encore set to round off a mesmerising evening of live music from Lisa Hannigan and band, and fully deserving of the standing ovation that bids them adieu.

Photos: James Goulden

Lisa Hannigan, Vicar St by James Goulden

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An impassioned rendition of new track ‘I Am So Tired Of That Line’ follows, Wallis addressing her frustrations with the auto-answers of the powers-that-be in modern society. The next segment of the show allows time for the more understated tracks of the new album to shine – the brilliantly atmospheric ‘Ghosts of Memories’ is stunning, aided superbly by Aoife O’Sullivan’s violin. But sadly, the all-too-common problem encountered at gigs in Ireland of idle (yet audible) chatter presents itself to spoil the end of the song.

Last May, Wallis Bird played an acoustic show in Whelan’s. Musically, she was in top form – but the gig was marred by a minority of incessant chatters, eventually leading to Bird stopping mid-‘Measuring Cities’ to pose the question in their direction as to why they had bothered to pay in to the venue to see her, when they could’ve gone into the front bar for free to have a chat? Not an outburst, by any means – she was only saying what the rest of the audience were thinking. Tonight in The Academy, there IS an outburst. “I’m always nervous playing in bigger venues, I feel you lose intimacy, ya know?” she muses, met by a cheer of approval – “Well, shut the f*ck up while we’re playing then!” Quite the statement to make to one’s fans… Was it necessary? Well, actually yes it was. Could she have worded it better? Probably. Either way, the subsequent duo of ‘I’m Still Here’ and the impossibly sweet ‘Feathered Pocket’ are met with the respectful silence they deserve as Wallis pours her heart and soul into each – the reward being the follow-up of an emphatic performance of ‘To My Bones’ which lifts the mood right up to the roof, before latest single ‘Encore’ proves its worth by closing out the main set on a high.

It’s a very short break for Wallis & band as they barely reach the bottom of the steps side-of-stage before returning to thundering applause for ‘Blossoms in the Street’, the leading lady’s energy and zest for her guitar playing hitting its peak – at this stage it’s not so much an instrument as it is an extension of her person. “We’re gonna do something we’ve never done in The Academy”, she declares – and with that the band down tools and clamber into the centre of the audience, before Wallis crowd-surfs her way to join them. It’s time for ‘In Dictum’ – the wonderfully moving examination of conscience that has been a long time live fixture and has now found its way onto album #3. No microphones, no amplifiers – just a lone acoustic guitar for accompaniment as Wallis belts it out from the middle of the floor with the capacity audience joining in on backing vocals for the refrains. It’s certainly a unique way to close a show – and judging by the amount of people who chose to enjoy the moment through the screens of their raised smart-phones, one that won’t be forgotten anytime soon.

Photos: Luis Faustino

Wallis Bird at The Academy, Dublin by Luis Faustino

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Weeks, head down, tapping on his chest as the rhythm gets faster, has a magnetic yet autistic charisma, reminiscent of Thom Yorke and Ian Curtis. His vocals strike even more powerfully live and it’s easy to get goose bumps from these heart-felt interpretations. As hit-single ‘Pelican’ ends the gig in a big uplifting blast, it only takes two minutes for the band to come back as the crowd cheers resonate around the venue. ‘Unknow’ restarts the engine nicely but ‘Precious Time’ and ‘We Grew Up At Midnight’ offer the great final fireworks everyone is waiting for. It’s the end to the kind of night that feels like something big – a rock band getting the confidence and maturity of their models, all the tools to become huge without compromising their personality.

Photos: Kieran Frost

The Maccabees at the Academy by Kieran Frost

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Twenty-odd years after their first album, around 30 musicians have gone through the Lambchop revolving door but the one constant is songwriter Kurt Wagner, an unlikely cult hero with a cryptic take on skewed country and soul. Back in 2000, Wagner was dragging 19 musicians around with him touring Lambchop’s breakthrough album Nixon, whose sweeping arrangements and deadpan poetry nicked the best bits of Nashville country, orchestral pop and soul, and landed the record on most of the top 10 lists that year. The touring group’s been whittled down to six these days, and in Vicar Street we get the backbone of Wagner (as always in beat-up shirt and trucker cap), pianist Tony Crow and Mark Nevers on ambient feedback and electronic production, along with bass, pedal steel guitar and harmonies from Cortney Tidwell.

They stick with Mr M for most of the 90-minute set, their 12th album that meets Nixon and its stripped-down follow-up Is A Woman somewhere in the middle, with Wagner’s restrained finger-picking and craggy croon mapping out his abstract suburban hymns – invoking coffee machines and “wine in the basement” one minute, offering spiky mea culpas the next: “I was the big prick back then,” on ‘Buttons’.

There’s plenty of goodwill for Lambchop but it’s often said they’re no one’s favourite band. The guy heckling at the back blows that idea out of the water: “You’re the greatest band in the whole wide world… ever.” He’s not satisfied with the pristine takes on ‘Betty’s Overture’, ‘Gone Tomorrow’ and ‘My Blue Wave’. He’s roaring ‘The Man Who Loved Beer’ between songs, begging for their 1996 track and not just describing where his own head is at. He even begs for the song again, after Kurt and co indulge him. As the lurching motorik rhythms of the encore ‘Up With People’ kick in, the class clown walks to the stage, arms outstretched, lapping up the crowd’s cheers. He’s bundled out the side door by a burly bouncer though – in Lambchop terms this is the equivalent of the Altamont riot. Nashville’s most fucked up band upstaged by their most fucked-up fan. There’s always one.

Photo: Colm Kelly