LIVE ▼
covered in sweat or Americas favourite spread many would have left tonight in full agreement.
PONYTAIL The Lexington, Islington 10.03.2009 By Stuart Stubbs ▼
KASMs. Photography by OWEN RICHARDS
Apache Beat. Photography by ELINOR JONES
It’s a given that a new parent’s love for their spawn is so bias that they’ll ‘aww bless’ at everything their mini me does, while the rest of us refuse to tolerate the brattish screams of those we don’t share DNA with. Go and see Ponytail and you’ll get the idea. Oddly though, everyone at The Lexington seems to be claiming responsibly for producing cutesy lead yelper Molly Siegel, encouraging her cheeky, grinning face as she bounds around and lets out nonsensical screams. And, to begin with, we’re charmed into feeling the same, turning to those around us, practically boasting about how our princess even manage to say ‘Hobnob’ yesterday.The rest of the band are what keep us interested once the novelty of goading Siegel on has worn off (which it quickly does, 5 minutes in); completely bonkers as they speed along to Jeremy Hyman’s precise and brilliantly difficult drumming. And then the impressiveness of duel guitars sounding like zapping spaceships and math-rock-oncheap-whiz fades, probably hindered by the fact that Siegel now has Dustin Wong yelling double Dutch at us, just a ‘I-ayowww-eeeee’ away from throwing his stink at the wall. Don’t look at us; we’re not the parents.
KASMS Post War Years. Photography by TIM COCHRANE
South of the Border, Shoreditch 24.02.2009 By Polly Rappaport ▼
It’s nice and toasty down South Of The Border, and, as if it wasn’t sweaty enough already, things are about to get a lot hotter. Flaming red flapper dress springing to life, tassels sparking outwards, creating a
40
www.loudandquiet.com
▼
tiny fireball of bouncing energy, Rachel Mary Callaghan is truly the picture of a punk rock princess: poised, polite, gingerly demurring from the backwashed dregs of a proffered pint… and screaming like a crimson-bobbed banshee clawing its way up from the bowels of hell. This beautiful beastie and her band hurl tracks at the sweltering mass of sticky bodies like scalding tidal waves, scattering, congealing and drawing them in.The songs are peppered with urgent yelps, punctuating robustly sombre intonations, riding the spiralling current of bass growl and weaving gracefully through sliding wires of spider-legged guitar and coronary drum beats. Inspired by a few preliminary shoves within the throng, Rachel springs from an artfully exhibitionistic floorwrithe, straight over a few shoulders and into the roiling crowd. Shoving, clawing and shrieking, she then tidily returns to centre stage, says a quick “Hello” to her dad, glowing with pride and standing just clear of the human debris that is KASMs’ calling card. Buy the man a Mojito – his kid’s band is on fire.
JAMES YUILL The Cockpit 3, Leeds 28.02.2009 By Kate Parkin ▼
Huddled under the eaves of a corrugated iron tunnel that looks more suited to hoarding kegs or growing veg stands the solitary figure of James Yuill. Slowly he begins coaxing synths into life, laying down layer after layer of squelching beats on ‘No Pins Allowed’. Gently plucking his guitar through the Röyksopp stylings of ‘Over The Hill’ he seems slightly apologetic, bashful even. Buoyed up by the attentions of the crowd he slackens the reins and cranks up the bass.The crowd loosens up too and pockets of dancing spread out into full on grooving. ‘Sweet Love’ is given an interstellar facelift with shimmering keyboards attaching themselves to the looping chords. Feel good vibes and smiling at
▼
strangers become contagious as James plays the alchemist, mixing together different rhythmic combinations as ‘No Surprise’ morphs into a full-on ‘hands in the air’ disco number in this short but joyful set. Looking like the coolest science teacher on the block,Yuill’s songs have a naive quality that makes them immensely likeable but it’s his ability to combine this boyish charm with melodic electronic wizardry that makes them extraordinary.
WIRE Cargo, Shoreditch 24.02.2009 By Edgar Smith ▼
That Wire released a brilliant, seminal post-punk record in each of the three years following 1976 gives you some idea of the band’s structural know-how. Deconstructed when their founder and pub-rockish frontman hospitalised himself on a staircase, the band went on to reshape anything in sight; chopping up surrounding punk and new wave sounds and shuffling them into something to think about as well as dance and fight to. After an instrumental intro, it looks unfortunately like tonight’s show is going to focus on the music they made in more recent decades, mainly electronic-laden and impenetrably groovesome rock. Nonetheless, a Cargo filled with ageing punks loyally sings along. Halfway through though, they glide blissfully into ‘The 15th’ which gets the best reaction so far: the crowd boils and Blurt’s Ted Milton, standing deep in the middle of it, smiles and starts nodding-along. A drastically outof-tune solo from touring addition Margaret McGinnis ends the song and marks a welcome turn from jaw-dropping technical proficiency to unchecked immediacy. From there, they tear through old and new material and in three teasing encores (predictably the last is punk standard ‘12XU’) ‘Pink Flag’ numbers are played both with krautish extensions and at double (yes, double) speed. All hail.