Jaz popped down to King Tut's Wah Wah Hut to interview San Diegans, The Soft Pack, for Q Magazine on a freezing Wednesday night. If anybody in Cyberspace knows some decent ice-breakers for approaching semi-esoteric raw post-punk bands who are battling with a bout of flu, send them on a postcard. Most of what Jaz knows about Los Angeles and punk-y scenes was gauged during a two week period working at Kerrang!'sGreen Day special. That's to say, very little. And for reasons related to Green Day and not because that fortnight was spent debating the respective qualities of various now discontinued chocolate bars, e.g. Texan vs. Wagon Wheel.
Before they played a straight-to-the-point, short and punchy set comprised of material from their eponymous debut and their earlier album under a much-maligned previous bandname, The Muslims, the foursome revealed their affections for hip hop, Barry Manilow and Prince. When it comes to their own three-chord garage punk sound, though, their motives are completely non-political:
"We're all about simplicity. I think it's partly by necessity. I can't really do much musically, so it's gotta be simple."- Matt Lamkin
Looking out the velux window this morning at the candy blue sunshine saturated sky I momentarily forget that last night the car's temperature gauge read -4°C post-Valentines Day (not the event - the movie, which was equally as torturous). I imagine a balmy breeze cooling my Havaianas-flopped feet before realising that I have, in fact, woken up to Glasg-Arctica once more.
Thank Zimbabwe (or, Hackney) for Tinashé then. The London via Africa troubadour charmed the socks off a Q crowd opening for Marina & The Diamonds a few weeks back with his suave demanour, butter-melting vocals and feet-shuffling guitar pop. I was in heaven... if heaven's a hammock on a white sandy beach in the middle of a turquoise diamond-and-pearl strewn ocean.
Jaz suggests you are promptly swept ashore by A-Liar: a jam that (without subtlety) reclaims Afrobeat roots back from Vampire Weekend's A-Punk while melding Arctic Monkeys' When The Sun Goes Down into pure reggae soul.Jack Peñate? Who needs 'im?
Also check out the drummer as he abandons his instrument in favour of the old hand clap. Love it.
Tinashé joins previously blogged about Tiffany Page on tour with the Noisettes. So if you're soon to watch Shingai Shoniwa do her rhythmic best make sure you get there early. Head to the mighty MySpace for more: http://www.myspace.com/tinashemusic.
Just say yes. Not to Snore Patrol, to Yeasayer. Jaz went backwards to go forwards on Wednesday night. Confused? So were we. Oran Mor, an old converted church in the heart of Glasgow University land, is difficult to navigate at the best of times with several floors, windy staircases and probably the odd secret passageway here and there. Brooklyn threesome Yeasayer, however, were there in earnest... somewhere.
Unprepared for a reconnaissance mission and without night vision goggles, Jaz feels about in the pitch black guided only by the dirge of 'Middle Eastern-psych-snap-gospel' (their words) in soundcheck. Eventually spotting the target, Jaz refuses to accommodate the "neat" suggestion of performing an interview travelling up and down inside an elevator for an hour due to past claustrophobic trauma of reliving Speed while trapped in a school lift for 45 minutes. As lead singer Chris Keating comments on Jaz's Scottish tones and informs that several formative years listening to rap resulted in his Method Man accent, Jaz gets ready for an evening of pseudo-geek hilarity.
Described by some journalists as the thinking man's pop band, bassist Ira Wolf Tuton (his middle name really is Wolf and he's not in Twilight) spends an hour theorising, analysing and criticising pretty much everything. But if you're looking for an explanation as to their name don't bother.
"If I had to do it again I'd probably pick AAAA and a bunch of exclamation marks. We're at the bottom of every list."
Playing a set to several hundred students who all look like they've walked straight out an MGMT/Empire Of The Sun video, Yeasayer's nonsensically infectious electro-psychedelic-indie-dance (to use my own ridiculous concoction) creates a hedonistic utopia of one-ness in the room. That is never more apparent than when a young war-painted jumping jack decides to share their stage and throw his own shapes. Why not?
Wednesday: my favourite day of the week. It’s that perfect point of no return and when it’s over you know you’re on your way to weekend whimsy. My buckling body, however, is screaming for a chiropractor due to belatedly feeling the effect of Monday’s Waitrose Workout.
Three days have passed and still I can’t find a clean cup, nor detergent to sanitise a dirty cup, anywhere in the vicinity. So I take drastic action charmingly requesting the use of a paper one from the canteen. Either due to my sub-par flirting or some sort of eco-friendly policy (I’m sort of hoping the former), I incur a fee of 8 pence. Who owns this place? Ryanair?
In my ongoing task to enquire about the whereabouts of myriad celebs for upcoming interview requests I realise I have access to a database of contact numbers for people’s “people”. What happens at The Times stays at The Times. Except I could have a photographic memory and I can haphazardly e-mail myself some vital digits… Caleb Followill’s agent’s mobile number and the like. Strictly for emergencies only, of course.
My filming efforts yesterday have become the talk of the Times. Everywhere I go are whispers of “Who Dat?” and how it’s “gone global”. I’ve never been very sure about what that means. After some research I learn that a “global” is just an internal e-mail that is sent to an entire company. So I won’t be “going to Hollywood” anytime soon then? But wait. The editor-in-chief likes it and is “making it HUGE” according to one queuing Costa patron. How “HUGE” can it get, I wonder. Will I be joining the Oscars race for Best Director at the last minute? Get on your bike James Cameron, what’s 3D when you’ve got men in Jaeger speaking hip hop lingo?
Several “informed” book blurbs later and I overhear the planned Beauty special coming to fruition. The problem? A lack of interviewees. Eureka! My entrapment in unpaid internshipdom has an escape hatch. Pixie Lott. She croons, she twinkles, she performs for Q tonight. The Times want an interview because I convince them they want an interview. One minor detail: I don’t have an interview. How hard can it be? Granted she’s banned all press, but I’ve got my “won’t take no for an answer” face on. The same face, I may add, that Adrian Chiles contended with at Q’s David Gray gig as I slipped him a copy of my CV. Suffice to say, I still don’t work for the BBC. Unpromising precedents aside, if I don’t get an interview it’s pretty obvious what Pixie Lott’s beauty secret is: she’s practically prepubescent.
Finishing her set I spot my moment and secure victory. It’s hardly Watergate but it’s a start. What’s more I get two interviews for the price of one by bombarding the support act, Tiffany Page, as well. I am nothing if not persistent.
To be continued...
Incidentally, Tiffany Page with her kohl eyeliner, just-rolled-out-of-bed-looking-hot attitude and Fender in hand has been pipped as the UK's (much younger) answer to Chrissie Hynde. Here she is covering Muse's Supermassive Black Hole. She is currently supporting the Noisettes on tourstrutting about stages all over Britain.
John Mayer isn't known in the UK so much for his love-centric guitar odes as he is renowned for his serial romanticising of Hollywood A-listers. For any valentines out there planning on dusting off one of his many non-distinct albums (I'm hoping a great deal of dust has accumulated) in order to woo your loved one, think again. Not only did he recently play a Q show during which he offered to indiscriminately impregnate members of the audience, the penman of love themes such as Your Body Is A Wonderland (pass the sickbag) has just likened ex-squeeze Jessica Simpson to "sexual napalm". Wonderland... Napalm... Vietnam warfare. It's not sounding too gooey now, is it? Jaz never usually vindicates this but if you are so inclined we propose you stick to your Westlifes and Manilows for minimal controversy. Jaz will probably be airing old Oasis albums. Having yet to commemorate their split last year, Valentines Day is a perfect occasion to appreciate music that is heady but nonetheless utterly meaningless. If you do choose to fall into the romcom trap, watch a decent one. Wedding-related titles are usually safe (bar the exception of The Wedding Planner) - My Best Friend's Wedding and The Wedding Singer are Jaz favourites. See Adam Sandler doing J Gelis Band's Love Stinks:
With the charm of a heyday-era Britney and the shimmying backing dancers of Winehouse (granted that’s probably the worst pedigree), she can carry a little forgetful tune but allegedly rates her legs as her best asset. Such honesty Britney could have used once...
And Pixie Lott told me honestly that she loves my spectacles last Wednesday. What a sweetheart. The interview will feature in The Times' Weekend beauty special in late February (links will be provided). In the meantime hop over to Who's Jack? to read the full Q The Music Club Live At Hard Rock Cafe London review:
5.10 am. I’ve gone and blown it. Why does alcohol do this to me? How did I think 5 cans was a good idea on an empty stomach? In what world did I convince myself that topping that off with “Shots!” of sambuca was recommended? Bollocks. I just about manage to get my arm into my glittery bolero, which I wear strategically to meld into the crowd for tonight’s Marina & The Sequins… sorry, Diamonds. I haven’t inherited any of those yet.
Check out my review of tonight on http://news.qthemusic.com/2010/02/day_4_marina_and_the_diamonds.html#post
If I could go further, I think Mar-ika would make the perfect "fag hag" pair. Also, if this girl does, in fact, not make a success of herself I’m sure all her “Oh My Gods” and “Obsessed”-ness would safely score her a career in the new West End production of Legally Blonde. Personally, I react to her like I react to celery. It’s completely unpalatable. But as I get home in time for Friday Night With Jonathan Ross and witness the nightmare that is Jedward I realise, love them or hate them, loathsome novelty acts are laughing all the way to the bank.
This was supposed to be recorded in real time. Unfortunately Jaz had to live in a bedsit with no internet access during the following events. Better late than never...
Five nights out on the trot, 14 artists, one venue: this is my quest. Mount Kilimanjaro isn’t in sight, Comic Relief haven’t been on the blower mistaking me for Gary Barlow’s cousin and I’m not yet experiencing the dizzy heights à la Cheryl Cole. No, I work under the auspices of no associated charity (aside from my own not-so-recession-proof ETTA: Employ The Tea-girl Already). I’m 23 and having a premature life crisis – staying in on Saturday nights with cocoa, mourning the completion of The X Factor and averaging a bedtime of 10.30. Reviving my inner jumping bean, however, isn’t the only motivation for my self-set New To Q Sessions-orientated challenge. I have an affliction worthy of many a philanthropist’s shrapnel. Whatever “It” is, I need to be on it. Treggings, Glee, the latest yoga/pilates hybrid – I must ride the wave of now. As I take up residence for the first night at Notting Hill’s Tabernacle where I shall worship at the altar of the latest signing I stop myself before sneering at the sea of Lyle Scotts with their side-gelled coifs. I am you (gender aside), and, I wonder, is your short-term memory as crippled as mine?
So there’s been the years of pre-exam crash revision, the relocations to three cities with complex transport systems, the constant conveyor belt of new faces/names met along the way and the brain cells bludgeoned familiarising myself with scores of office floors while slaving away at various internships… all pale in comparison to the damage caused by my bout of fingeronpulse-itus. In these www times filled by a constant release of “Next Big Thing”s who become passé the instant they’re announced as such, the briefest of cultural heart palpitations are undetectable and neurological breakdown is induced by the dreaded inquisition, “What’s on your iPod’s shuffle this week?”. Seriously: Marina & The Machine, Friendly Boots, The Big Black Kids, Broken Drums, Pixie Geldott… please make it stop! What does it even mean to be ‘new’ in music? Who qualifies for an NME cover? Next time I host a vintage throwback party, I’ll be toasting Daisy Lowe, remembering heady days of yore with all the classics from MGM.I.A. and those New York veterans Vampire Weekend, while screening Slumdog Millionaire and downing shots of wheatgrass. Florence, your dog’s had its day; time to get on your broomstick and fly away. La Roux, throw out your lemons, you can crack a smile now while nobody’s looking. I propose an indie social suicide pact. Until then, I shall squeeze the latest roster of up-and-comers into my shrinking skull.
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