Aural Aggravation

Christopher Nosnibor

York, on a wet, windy night in November. The Ouse has breached once more, and it feels like the end of the world is nigh. Again. You’d expect northerners to be made of sterner stuff, but it seems the city’s gig goers have given in to the urge to hibernate, or otherwise trot out the wimpish ‘not on a school night’ line. It’s their loss, and it’s no doubt better for a band to play to a moderate, but enthusiastic crowd than to a larger indifferent one, and it does mean getting serves isn’t an issue (although deciding which beer to have is. It’s not ever venue that had half a dozen hand—pulled ales on at £3.40 a pint). And for me, given that Post War Glamour Girls have produced two of my favourite albums of the last three years, while proving themselves to be a consistently killer live band, missing this show was never an option.

Ahead of Leeds’ finest taking to the stage, relative newcomers to the York scene, Colour of Spring show us what they’ve got.

Now, it’s easy to knock ‘the kids’ for rehashing the music of my youth, but then, the very fabric of musical history is woven from the new generation raiding their parents’ collections. Replicating the sounds of the early 90s in 2015 isn’t really any different from bands in the early 90s ripping off Led Zeppelin or The Doors, or the whole Britpop explosion deriving from the first wave of British pop in the 60s. So, Colour of Spring are four gangly youths with a nice collection of beards, and who make jangling shoegaze. There’s a raggedness to their sound, and a tangible energy between the band members. ‘Sky’ is a perfectly poised recreation of a huge swathe of NME / Melody Maker / John Peel indie, and the last track of the set – which the bassist had to play without an A string – was nicely atmospheric and reminiscent of Slowdive, only with shouty vocals.

Colour of Spring

It may be the night before their launch gig for album number two in their hometown of Leeds, but this is no warm-up show. Post War Glamour Girls don’t do warm-ups or have a B-game, and they don’t do convention. So instead of playing a large chunk of the new album and wrapping up with a couple of crowd-pleasing oldies, they fire off the set with a slightly sped-up rendition of ‘Little Land’ from their debut before serving up an unreleased track.

It’s around this point my notes taper out, and what notes I have are illegible. Granted, my handwriting’s pretty dismal at the best of times, but I feel I must stress that it’s not because I’m one of those music journalists who gets trolleyed and scrapes together a vague, impressionistic write up that I let it slide: the simple fact is I was too immersed in the performance to take down the set-list and annotate my observations in detail. But what’s every bit as striking as their magnificent hooks and the overall tightness is just how much Post War Glamour Girls are in constant transition. James Smith exudes discontent and an all-consuming drive to keep moving forwards. There’s a strong sense that they’re not doing this for the glory or the money, but through a compulsion that can’t be satisfied and won’t abate.

Guitarist James Thorpe, now long-haired and bearded, lofts his guitar to unleash squalls of feedback. His presence seems more prominent than previously, and provides a perfect counterpoint to Alice Scott’s unswerving focus on laying down relentlessly solid grooves.

Post War Glamour Girls

The pairing of ‘Jazz Funerals’ and the thumping pop romp ‘Felonius Punk’ ratchets up the fury toward the end of the set, which at 40 minutes, is short, but they’re clearly keen adherents to the adage that you should always leave the crowd wanting more. They conclude with the slow-burning, multi-faceted, and multi-sectioned epic from Feeling Strange, ‘Cannonball Villages’, and finds Smith spewing vitriol as he paces in front of the stage while the band pour every last ounce of effort into a rousing finale.

Post War Glamour Girls

I’ve already lost count of the number of times I’ve seen Post War Glamour Girls in the last four years, but they still elicit the same buzz of excitement as the first time I caught them. While I usually endeavour to maintain a sense of critical distance, sod it, they’re one of the best, most exciting and one of the few truly unique bands around, capable of evoking a vast array of emotions as well as a pure gut response. They’re still on tour. The new album is belting. Go and see them, hear them: you won’t regret it.

Christopher Nosnibor

OK, so I’m something of a sucker for the old-school goth thing, but equally, have a deep-seated ambivalence to the scene in general. I love the Sisters, Bauhaus, Danse Society, Skeletal Family and a handful of others, but take issue with the majority of the rest of the bands, because they all sound, and feel so derivative. And while in my teens I was an immense fan of The Mission and still have something of a soft spot, I’m painfully aware of how bad Hussey’s lyrics are, and it’s a shame that many a great ‘goth’ tune has been marred by lyrics that are similarly built upon the blind recycling of cliché

And so it was that I felt a bit uncomfortable at times during Dead Eyes Opened’s set. Craggy-featured Spooks (ahem) is a compelling front man, with strong echoes of Dave Gahan about him. He seemingly embodies the tortured angst the lyrics convey, and they’re strung out over needling tripwire guitar lines, thumping bass grooves and quintessential mechanised goth drum patterns. Reaching forward, outwards… the audience just out of reach. Trapped by the theoretical confines of the edge of the stage but 4” high… The band calls to mind a number of the superior bands of the genre, not least of all Suspiria. There are also hints of the Lorries, and I keep waiting for them to launch into ‘Adrenaline’. What they lack in originality they compensate in presence and quality of material, and if sounding like Rosetta Stone is their worst crime, then they’re clearly doing something right. The drum sound crisp, with some good programming on display. There are Sisters of Mercy lifts aplenty, with the last track nabbing chords from ‘More’. A revelation? Not after all these years but a decent live act with some cracking tunes played well? Very much so.

Dead Eyes Opened

As for York’s own Berlin Black, singer Chris Tuke comes on channelling Bauhaus’ Peter Murphy – not just through the hair, but in his energetic stage presence. There’s no doubt that there’s a fair amount of booze involved, but he’s got charisma and presence and the element of unpredictability as he teeters on the monitors and various tables and other elevations around the room adds to the excitement of a dynamic performance.

It’s been a couple or so years since I’ve seen Berlin Black, and during that time they’ve evolved a fair bit. I’d also forgotten just how sharp a pop band they are, often calling to mind The Psychedelic Furs circa ‘82 to ’84. Tuke even straps on a keytar for a handful of songs, and on a lesser band it would be cringeworthy and cause for ridicule, but Berlin Black pull it off with aplomb. It helps that they’ve got some great tunes, which emerge from the chaos in pristine form.

Berlin Black

The live drums provide a distinct contrast with their touring partners, both sonically and in terms of flexibility, and Berlin Black feel a lot more spontaneous, thanks in no small part to the tautness of both their rhythm section (notable for former March Violet Jo on bass) and some intuitive guitar work. The combination of energy and a less derivative sound than many of their peers – not to mention less obvious lyrical tropes – are Berlin Black’s clear strengths, and it’s not surprising that at this hometown show, they go down a storm – and deservedly so.

Berlin Black

While half the city was out watching fireworks under heavy cloud cover, those who chose to celebrate the first Saturday of November by staying indoors with some decent beer and some decent bands for a mere fiver definitely got the better deal.

Christopher Nosnibor

Killing Joke’s renaissance may have begun with their eponymous 2003 album, but they’ve shown little sign of slowing the momentum since. It’s fitting: they’ve always been the band of the apocalypse, and as humanity under global capitalism seems set on accelerating toward its self-made demise and ultimate destruction of the planet, so Killing Joke are the band to provide the soundtrack. If latest album Pylon is a little more accessible, melodic and less full-on than since of its recent(ish) predecessors, it certainly isn’t a sign they’re softening. And while there are infinite angry, harsh bands out there, Killing Joke still offer a unique proposition – more articulate, both lyrically and musically than pretty much any other band you’ll find railing against the system and the man, their brand of heavy isn’t about raging overdrive, but something more impenetrable, industrial. And it’s live where the full force of their sound really comes across.

Never mind saving the oldies for the end: the set opens with ‘The Wait’ before they get swiftly to the new material, hammering out the bleak ‘Autonomous Zone’. Immediately, the power of the original lineup is apparent: they’re tight, assured and seriously loud. ‘Eighties’ is also thrown in early, providing some light relief and cause for a fair few down the front to bounce around like it’s still 1985 (and yes, I was nine when this album was released: seeing them on Top of the Pops was my first introduction to the band, and even then, I was intrigued and scared in equal measure).

Like another of my all-time guitar heroes, Swans’ Norman Westberg, Geordie Walker doesn’t go for heroics. No fancy fretwork. No posturing. As unassuming a performer as you’re likely to see, strolling – it’s not even a pacing, that would suggest some kind of agitation – a small space near the edge of the stage, he peels off layer upon layer of churning, sheet-metal guitar noise. Its power lies in the sheer density of the sound. Youth, sporting a crumpled white blazer, buttoned, and a sun visor over which tufts of thinning, matted hair stick, is similarly un-showy in his presence, rocking back and forth and grinding out bowel-shaking basslines that weld perfectly to Paul Ferguson’s thunderous drumming. I ponder, briefly, the number of albums the members of this band are credited in some capacity, Youth in particular with his vast catalogue of production and remixing credits. I also can’t help but be amazed that a band comprised of four middle-aged blokes (and a younger dude on synths) should be one of the most vital and relevant acts I’ll get to see this year.

Jaz Coleman provides the focal point, of course. Sporting one of his customary boiler suits, hair grown long, he is the embodiment of the manic messiah. It’s often hard to tell if he’s grinning or twisting his craggy face into a terrifying grimace – both are equally scary, and he doesn’t do between-song chat. He’s wired, dangerous, focused. He doesn’t sing the songs, but channels them. He is the virus. He is a ball of fire, coming in from the void. And yes, ‘Asteroid’ is fierce, relentless, explosive. But then, the set’s brimming with highlights from the back-catalogue. Extremities, Dirt and Various Repressed Emotions has long been a favourite of mine, and to hear ‘Money is Not Our God’ attacked with such ferocity was truly exhilarating, and ‘The Beautiful Dead’ was also a welcome inclusion. Meanwhile, ‘Exorcism’ was nothing short of immense, the absolute definition of catharsis. ‘Wardance’ and flipside ‘Psssyche’ inevitably pleased the faithful, the latter wrapping up the main set.

They’d saved ‘Love Like Blood’ for the encore (having seemingly dropped it for a number of previous shows, if the info on setlist.fm is accurate), but not until they’d powered through ‘Turn to Red’. Wrapping up with a powerhouse rendition of ‘Pandemoneum’, the refrain ‘I can see tomorrow / I can see the world today’ resonating as vindication of the band’s existence and continued rejuvenation. Coleman and Co aren’t sitting back smugly saying ‘I told you so,’ and instead remain intent on spewing vitriol against capitalist greed and environmental destruction, but the pre-millennium tension of their 90s releases seems devastatingly prescient in same the way JG Ballard’s texts portrayed the future by scrutinising the present. That future is now upon us.

The Basement, York, 17^th October 2015

Christopher Nosnibor (Text)

Sam Himsworth (Images)

So I turn up a song or two into Ola Szmidt’s set and am immediately impressed. Accompanied by a bearded bassist, her delicate songs bring a new dimension to the well-established loop-layering style. With acoustic guitar, harmonies and subtle rhythms these are ambitious songs delivered with poise, the understated performance placing the spotlight on the material over the duo on stage.

Actor are the reason I’m here. Having launched themselves with a compelling performance at the Brudenell as part of Live at Leeds in May, the trio have been making waves with debut single ‘Feline’.

The Cure meets Kate Bush poptones of ‘Uppercut’ opens the set, and after kicking out one of their strongest songs second (sadly its title escapes me), I wonder if they’ve shot their load prematurely. But no: new single ‘Baby Cries’ is another slice of evocative, drifting post-punk dream pop defined by crystalline guitars and a rolling rhythm. Louisa is pristine, but her dialogue with the audience? She seems, unusually, stilted, and doesn’t quite build the connection in the way she’s very much able to. ‘Swim’ has been revamped, slowed down, and feels a shade lifeless, although largely it suffers from Chris’ guitar being too low in the mix – and perched at the extreme right of the stage and toward the back, it seems his contribution is somehow diminished, or as if he’s trying to step further back into the shadows to allow all of the focus to be placed on Louisa. It’s fairly clear that this is how they’re being marketed, and fair play: however, as compelling a front woman Louisa is, I can’t help but feel it does the other band members, who rarely even feature in the band photos, something of a disservice.

Actor

Polo are very much about the synths: dark, reverby synth pop is their thing, and they do it well. It’s a slick, sleek, dark but shiny, obsidian sound. It’s an extremely marketable package, not least due to Kat Mchugh who’s utterly faultless. They’re a band out of time, but their anachronism is very now. The wooden click of drum sticks before the last song seemed incongruous with their sleek synthesized sound. Think perhaps a bit Maps, a bit Cults, but stripped back think and stark. Think Warpaint. Think Portishead without the nostalgia-evoking surface noise or noir sensibility. You could – and might hope to – see them on Jools Holland. For all that, or perhaps because of it, I struggled to relate. Perhaps again it was end of tour fatigue, the venue, or just the night.

Polo

For all that, all three acts have unquestionably got the songs and the presence to go far, and while tonight may not have been the best showcase, they all very much deserve to.

Christopher Nosnibor

When it comes to writing about music, I often do so as a fan first and foremost, and this is particularly true of The Sisters of Mercy, a band I’ve seen more times than I can count, and whose comparatively slight body of work accounts for a disproportionate segment of my record collection. But I do appreciate that The Sisters of Mercy probably shouldn’t exist in 2015. It’s now a full quarter century since their last album, and their sporadic tours are often met with a mixed reception. The press don’t go near (although in fairness, the press aren’t invited or welcome). They may have some of the most dedicated fans you’re likely to meet, but those selfsame fans are often amongst the band’s harshest critics, and the last 25 years have seen forums packed with debate over how Eldritch’s voice is shot, how the reworkings of old classics are inferior, how the new material doesn’t hold up against the old, how whatever lineup is touring lacks this, that, or the other. But of course, it’s because of those fans that they do still exist in 2015, and several of the shows on this five-date UK tour were sold out in advance.

Some of the ever-critical fans may have questioned the choice of support: on the face of it, Sabbath-inspired riffers Black Moth aren’t a very ‘Sisters’ band. But The Sisters of Mercy have a long tradition of playing with incongruous acts, both in their early years as a support themselves, and latterly as headliners. With Black Moth, well, it’s probably a Leeds thing: Eldritch has never lost sight of the band’s roots in the city. Moreover, Black Moth are an outstanding live act, and at tonight’s homecoming show, they own the stage. New guitarist Federica has slotted in nicely, and the barrage of riffs hits with full force. Harriet’s performance – both in terms of vocals and presentation – is hard to fault, making for a strong set.

Black Moth

A looping electro track – none other than ‘Shut the Fuck Up’ from the Sisters / Not Sisters ambient techno album ‘Go Figure’ by SSV – prefaces the emergence of three shadows on stage amidst a dense smog and blinding white, pink and blue lights, to a jubilant cheer. Jesus loves the Sisters, and so does Leeds. They open in vintage style with ‘First and Last and Always’. It’s a rousing start, and it’s immediately apparent there’s an energy not seen in a long time. ‘Ribbons’ is swiftly dispatched and the customary ‘Doctor Jeep / Detonation Boulevard’ medley gets a good thrashing. If ‘Crash and Burn’ suggests business as usual, then business is good, and fact ‘Body Electric’ gets an airing, immediately followed by ‘Alice’, means things step up a gear remarkably early.

Eldritch doesn’t so much struggle with the high notes as avoid them completely, but those who decry the loss of his vocal range fail to take into account the fact he never really could sing especially well in the first place, at least not in technical terms. I’d suggest he’s simply learned it’s a lesser aural affront to go low or otherwise sing within a ‘safe’ range than hit duff notes all over the place (and let’s face it, the countless bootlegs of the band’s ‘classic’ era circa 83-85 attest to myriad howlers, not to mention missed cues, drop-outs and general ropiness on behalf of not only the front man but the band as a whole). In fact, tonight found him in fine voice, that resonant baritone rumbling out from the fog while you wonder if he’s lurking toward the back of the stage or actually having a crafty fag somewhere in the wings (I suspect both happened at various points during the set).

The Sisters of Mercy

‘Summer’ was always one of the strongest of the unreleased songs and tonight its lean, wiry and taut in execution. Meanwhile, ‘Arms’ feels more developed, and the band sound more confident playing it than on previous outings. In fact, while Ben and Chris respectively pose and bounce around and Eldritch prowls the stage, they seem not only to be on top form, but to be enjoying themselves.

The surprises and rarities invariably provide the highlights of any Sisters show, and ‘No Time to Cry’ and ‘Blood Money’ played back to back – and done justice – is definitely cause for excitement. A boisterous take on Larry Willis’ ‘I’m a Police Car’ provides the customary cuckoo cover, but it’s the pairing of ‘Valentine’ and an instrumental guitar-led rendition of ‘Jihad’ (‘I have nothing more to say on the matter,’ Eldritch says before leaving Ben and Chris to it.

The Sisters of Mercy

“You’re gonna hate this”, Andrew forewarns us before a synthesized piano tinkles the intro to ‘1959’. And then… they play ‘1959’. Reworked as a slow-building power ballad. Yet for all that, quietly contained yet quavering emotion of the studio version, is retained in the vocal delivery – before a big guitar break even Jim Steinman would consider audacious, and Eldritch cracks a smile as he revels in the glorious absurdity of it all.

Where do you go after an encore containing ‘Temple of Love’ and ‘This Corrosion’? Home? Not the Sisters, who return for a second encore consisting of the most muscular take on ‘Lucretia, My Reflection’ I’ve witnessed in all the years I’ve seen them, ahead of and an all-guns-blazing version of ‘Vision Thing’ and a stormingly ferocious ‘More’ to finish.

Instead of rushing from the stage, they hang around, hugging and waving, with even the nurse to the Doktor coming to the front to receive the ovation. It’s overtly rock, and on any other night you’d be forgiven for thinking it was just another ironic gesture, a parodic posture derived from the cliché canon the Sisters so love to plunder. But while such camaraderie simply isn’t in the Sisters’ repertoire, it looks and feels absolutely genuine, Eldritch cracking yet another grin. And rightly so: having turned in one of the best performances in some 20 years, he’s got a lot to smile about.