Hellfest has almost come around again, and this time its bigger then ever. Its even got it’s own APP for devils sake!

Beatmag has been in attendance for 3 years now, and we have developed a real soft spot for this gathering of head-bangers in Clisson, France. Each year, the promoters manage to pull off some seriously heavy weight line-ups, and this year they have really outdone themselves. Iggy and the Stooges, Ozzy Osbourne, Scorpions, Thin Lizzy, Judas Priest, Down, Rob Zombie and Diff Mac Kagen are among the headliners who will be tearing up the main stage, while some other Beatmag favourites that will be grinding their axes include Kyuss (lives), Municipal Waste, Hawkwind, Electric Wizard, Grand Magus and Bad Brains. But we could go on…. and on…. and the quality still wouldn’t wain. As far as metal festivals go, this summer is looking very strong. With Sonisphere landing the “big 4″ and Download pulling out some big guns, its going to mean strong competition. But if we had to choose one rock festival to attend?… I think it would have to be Hellfest every time.

Buy your Hellfest tickets here: http://www.hellfest.fr/

Download the Hellfest iPhone app here: http://itunes.apple.com/app/hellfest/id416091706?mt=8&ls=1

Download the Hellfest Android app here: https://market.android.com/details?id=com.greencopper.android.hellfest

This weekend is the 8th annual Supersonic festival, in Birmingham’s Custard Factory. The lineup is quite wonderful, featuring a smorgasbord of delicacies such Napalm Death, Tweak Bird, Melt Banana, Drumcorps, Swans and the wonderful Demons (from my home town of Portsmouth).  A full platter of pics and review coming next week but for now, in the words of the organisers….

Capsule the brains behind Supersonic Festival are curators, promoters and fans of the finest music, revealing the otherwise indescribable connections between contemporary music and art, crafting extraordinary events for adventurous audiences. Now in it’s 8th year, the event will once again take place at the Custard Factory in the heart of in the heart of Eastside of Birmingham, utilising converted factory warehouses and art galleries and offering up-close, intimate settings to showcase some of the most exciting music out there. Capsule’s passion for genre bending sound and performances is at the heart of all their events – there are not many places where you can listen to funeral doom, prog, folk, avant jazz and grindcore in one weekend.

The festival is now in it’s 8th year, starting out as a 1 day event in 2003 which featured Coil, LCD Sound System, The Bug, DJ Food and many more. Over the years the festival has garnered a worldwide reputation for being one of the most exciting events for experimental music, gathering audiences from all corners of the UK and further a field.

So this is what happens when you give a bunch of douchebags VIP tickets to Primavera with a free bar all weekend. Id tell you about the bands, sunshine, fun etc but i think it would just be rubbing salt in the wounds of those who missed out on the festival event of the summer so far. So here are some pictures that explain themselves. Viva la Barcelona!

Hellfest is more than just another summer festival; it is an apocalyptic heavy metal experience that makes you feel like you have entered the thunderdome from Mad Max.  Wondering around the dust and rock strewn main arena you encounter oiled up Fuel Girls, forests of perfectly groomed mullets, rusty flaming towers, stunt motorbikes in spherical cages, giants, midgets, and whole lotta growling. Hellfest is one of the worlds most revered metal festivals, taking place in the idyllic of Clisson in western France, and 2 weeks ago i had my first taste of hell. And it tasted meaty!

The first thing you notice about Hellfest is the sense of camaraderie. Unlike festivals that have a wide range of music genres, Hellfest brings together like minds from all over the world, united as outcasts in the real world but brothers (and a few sisters) in arms in this world. Rarely a time went by without hearing a gut wrenching roar from someone, promptly followed by response roars from people all around you. In fact, on the friday night a ‘mexican’ roar started on the campsite and seemed to echo from tent to tent well into Saturday morning.

There is of course a wide range of sub genres to metal, and Hellfest goes all out to represent the whole picture. The line up for this year illustrated this, featuring, for the stadium rockers, WASP, Motley Crue & Girlschool. Anthrax and Slayer took up the reigns for the 80′s thrash heads. The Doom plaudits went out to Electric Wizard and Orange Goblin, plus Sludgecore from Eyehategod. And for the younger revellers, there was Cardle of Filth and Saturdays headliner, Marilyn Manson. Also on the bill were Europe (looking scarily young!), Cathedral, Grand Magus, Machine Head, Gama Bomb, and to close the festival, Manowar. Plus a whole heap more.

The first band i saw, having arrived pretty late on the friday, was Motley Crue. I think it may have been unfortunate introduction to Hellfest though, as they were shambolic to say the least, and imbued with an arrogance still strong since their heyday. Particularly cringe-worthy was when Tommy Lee was called from his drums to the front of the stage to greet the fans. Either he wasn’t prepared for this or was so wasted that he couldn’t string anything coherent to say together. But hey, i was pretty tired from driving for 8 hours and was probably being slightly harsh. And who can help but get pumped to ‘Girls Girls Girls’!

There are 3 ways to get your food hit at Hellfest. Either at the stalls in the arena (only for hardcore meat lovers), from the local Supermarche, or from the lone MacDonalds restaurant located behind the car parking. The MacDonalds proved to be the most popular choice and from open to close it was a buzzing next of metal heads demanding big macs and the use of a clean toilet. The staff were very accommodating though, and by Sunday had procured some metal cd’s which they were playing through the sound system at full blast. In fact the whole town seemed to give in to the swathe of  black shirts and skintight jeans, and there was a general air of acceptance. After all, there is serious money to be made from a festival crowd who need to eat, drink and smoke lots of cigarettes.

The first thing you saw when you walked into the main arena was the Monster sponsored stunt ball. You got to watch dudes on motorbikes driving around the inside of the sphere while half naked chicks climbed all over the outside of it. For some it was the ultimate wet dream and they could be seen glued to the same spot, day and night. That is, of course, when they weren’t in the chick wrestling tent.

Grand Magus – Rock Hard Stage

We left on monday morning, battered and bruised, in body and mind. But with a constant feeling of inner glee and fire in the pits of our darkened souls. And smelling of lobster. And we chased a battered white van that had 666 in the number plate and a Slayer logo on the bonnet. Maybe it actually was Slayer? Id like to think so….

Beatmag webmaster, boozehound & questionable disc-jockey, Tim Gomersall, takes us through a night playing alongside the big boys (and girls) in London town…

Firstly, a confession. By the end of this gig I was rather plastered. In fact, I was so inebriated that the fact that i actually saw the last band only came back to me a few days later. Anyhow, I will try my best to fill in the blanks, and provide a balanced review of the night. And if there are any glaring holes in my memory, then I will fill them up with sparkles of imagination.

‘This Is Music’ manage to pull of some pretty special line-ups, and this was far from the exception to the rule. Originally billed as a ‘Secret Headliner’ gig, the info that Felix from Basement Jaxx was playing was released only 5 days before the night. And judging by the massive one-in-one-out queue, that was growing rapidly by 10pm, word had spread pretty fast. Also on the line-up were dj’s Firas, Flexmaster Nylon (that’s me by the way), and Gabriel from Metronomy. And on the live stage were electro-pop-rockers, Crystal Fighters and all-girl hip hop crew, Yo Majesty.

Crystal Fighters were the first live band on, and they lit up the stage with a barrage of high energy electro pop. The lead singer leapt around and bawled out lyrics with Jim Morrison-esque vivacity, while 2 guys pumped out the sounds from what appeared to be suitcases full of bleeps and lasers. I know from experience that taking an electronic band to the stage can be a difficult task. When you don’t have a drum kit and conventional instruments, then it takes some innovation and stage presence to rock a crowd, but Crystal Fighters did this with ease, and roused up a storm with a lively sweaty show.

It was probable that the majority of the crowd had come along to see the secret headliner dj, Felix of Basement Jaxx. This was apparent from the torrent of fans wanting to shake his hand and show some love. I’ll add at this point that my memories start to get a little fuzzy. I’m pretty sure somebody spiked my healthy glass of cranberry juice with a large plop of vodka and being an ardent non-drinker (hic) this sent me a little sideways. I got a little obsessed with Felix’s jacket that looked furry, but wasn’t. It was amazing. But stroking a celebrity when you have just met them surely isn’t the ‘done’ thing, so lets pretend I made that bit up from my imaginary memories. Oh yeah, the music. Ive not been to a ‘Rooty’ night before (that is Basement Jaxx’s’ club night), or seen them dj, but I’d heard that they put on a mean party. Unlike Basement Jaxx’s own music, Felix played a less commercial set of electro and dubstep. I think. I cant really remember too well. But I remember hearing some amazing tunes and a dj maestro at work. He seamlessly threaded tracks together and relentlessly kept the dancers on their toes.

Now, the Yo Majesty set really is a little on the hazy side of my recollection. I’m pretty sure one of them had their tits out. I know it sounds like I’m making this bit up, but no, really. She did. I’ve asked one of the promoters since, and it turns out it’s part of their stage show. Yo Majesty are a scary band. They are aggressive, loud and make you feel slightly on edge. But I get the impression that this is part of their feminist stance. They are all openly lesbian, and their lyrics and stage show depicts an antagonism towards conventional male hip hop sensibilities. They talk about girls in the same way male chauvinistic hip hop might, but from the point of view of a girl. It may be a little uncomfortable to listen to, but then that’s what hip hop is about, challenging popular view and exposing the wrongs of our society. These girls are hard, like public enemy, and their heavy electro hip hop sound made the place feel like a block party.

After this, I have very small nuggets of memory left to write from. I don’t remember leaving. I don’t remember if anyone else played afterwards (I presume Gabriel from Metronomy did). And I don’t remember how I got home. But I do remember the police arresting a guy that I’d befriended on the street, and who was trying to steal my record bag…

by Tim Gomersall

Long after the fuss has died down, as the Winter sets in, we’ve decided to treat you to a little slice of Summer with the ultimate Glastonbury account from our man in the field, Caspar Gomez

Ever read an account of Glastonbury that got it right? They’re almost always some jaded London hack giving a drab concert review of the Pyramid and Other stages, concentrating on a load of samey indie bands, interspersed with comments about mud, whether there is any or not. These hacks, and I see them year after year, spend most of their time in the hospitality area where they’re also camped, which is basically Camden/Shoreditch transposed to Somerset, so they can sit about chatting to the same people they always chat to in the same mildly cynical way, as if they’re really a bit above/outside everything. In the meantime, the rest of us are spread over a vast area, enjoying one billion kinds of mayhem in an entirely different universe from The Fratellis. The best accounts of Glastonbury are badly written blogs all over the ‘net wherein wide-eyed enthusiasts let their amazement take control whilst recounting what they and their mates got up to. Who cares about the Kings of Leon? I mean, really, if it’s all about The Editors live in a field, why don’t you fuck off to Reading/Leeds and eat shit-burgers and drink piss with the NME massive. Anyway, enough ranting, here’s my Glasto for you:

THURSDAY

The day of going to Glastonbury is like Christmas when you’re a kid, adrenalized anticipation at the pit of the stomach. I went down on Thursday. I once arrived onsite Wednesday but was so blasted by Sunday that I didn’t much enjoy the evening’s bands. Four days seems just right (although you may be built differently). The train down gradually filled with revellers, Castle Cary is the station nearest the festival and it was writhing. There had been a fire in a local scrapyard and the buses transporting punters to the site suffered delays. The queue for the bus was a frustrating hour but, once aboard, the buzz of excitement grew, and I shared a bottle of French cider with the guy in the next seat. Upon sight of the multi-coloured canvas city lying in those very English vales, a wave of approving shouts spontaneously burst forth.

After collecting all my passes – the aforementioned hospitality area is very useful for cutting across the site – I pitched up high on the hill opposite the Pyramid stage. The great thing about being this side of the site is there are no sound systems blasting when you finally call it a night. I unpacked all my nong nongs and quiver fizz – hidden as if I were going through customs due to Castle Cary’s occasional tendency towards sniffer dogs, etc – and hit the Burrow Hill Cider Bus. They had a new rule: no filling bottles, flagons, etc, so I bought three pints separately and loaded an empty water bottle.

However many times I go to Glastonbury and however much I think I know the score, I’m always blown away when I first arrive and this year was no different. I wandered for an hour or two, adjusting to the environment, getting my psychic bearings for the oncoming marathon. Stalls selling all manner of tasty food abounded, as ever, and I grabbed a cardboard box of sausage and mashed potato to set me up, washed down with Burrow Hill cider. Then it was time to crack into the quiver fizz and nong nongs. Glasto is, after all, about clambering up the pleasure mountain and any rope-ladders to the peaks are welcome.

The weather, thus far, had been warm and sunny, but suddenly as darkness fell the sky let rip, not just a shower but a full downpour. I swore at the clouds above. Sometimes it really does seem that God himself has it in for Glastonbury. I bought a cheap pink pac-a-mac, which went very nicely with my black cowboy-hatted attire. As it turned out the rain was an aberration and we were saved the Somme-like mudbath of 2007 as the sun arrived from Saturday onwards.

I headed through the rain, past strange Mutoid Waste sculptures of giant creatures made of rusting metal, into the far flung fields where my mate Pedro Negro’s band The Amigos were playing a venue called The Bimble Inn, a small space under canvas with a bar and course mats about which people were sitting chatting, avoiding the drizzle.

The Amigos major in gritty funk grooves, interspersed with ska and hedonic attitude [check http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=59643686] – imagine a frenetic gumbo of The Clash, Alabama 3 and the Blockheads and you’re a fifth of the way there. As they began, another friend Don Carlton suddenly appeared looking faraway-eyed. Turned out he’d drunk a litre of vodka and as soon as the band launched into a cover of ‘White Lines (Don’t Do It)’ he began a frantic dance wherein his backpack bashed into everyone. My pal Tizzy and brother Rev, who had also turned up, had to avoid his rampaging but then Don disappeared, later to lose the backpack and, indeed, all memory of the night. The Amigos entertained but were really just warming up for multiple other dates over the weekend. Afterwards we stood about. The night was warm, the rain had stopped and my brother’s band-mates in the Dead Silence Syndicate appeared. Somehow, hours passed in a pleasing babble of quiver fizz and nong nongs, consumed unsubtly in a huddle behind a trailer to much amusement. As dawn began glowing in the cloudy sky Tizzy produced a stash of some designer powder but I knew it was time to leave or sign up for the long haul. I left her with my bro’s band and headed back to the tent for some sleep so that I could hit the ground running when the festival proper began the next day…

FRIDAY

I’m no fan of Kate Nash but, strangely, performing the morning’s Wet Wipe ablutions to her distant nouveau ladette burblings was pleasant enough. Then the first job of the day was to eat vast quantities of food, as there will come a point when the only thing I can force down will be ‘Chou Chou’ nuts, chocolate-coated peanuts roasted in copper drums by vendors around the site (and a great source of energy, drug monsters). Fuzzy and full, I wandered up to the Park Stage, Emily Eavis’s 2007 innovation that tends towards the trendy and indie, but spliced with unexpected big names (such as this year’s Franz Ferdinand and Last Shadow Puppets surprise sets). Having eaten three meals, lager was in order along with Santogold live. The latter never happened as I’d misread my programme so instead I went to the Oxygen Bar and further cleared my head with five minutes of flavoured O2. This doesn’t exactly give a buzz but reconstitutes the night-damage so fast you can feel it, a pleasant feeling. As I sat with tubes stuck up my nostrils the staff were bopping around to the music of Richard Cheese (www.richardcheese.com), a new one on me, whose sly Vegas-style cover versions put a smile on my face, notably a none-more-Dean-Martin take on Slipknot’s ‘People = Shit’.

Mildly revitalized I ran into a bleary Don Carlton whose eyes were red, partly from mourning his lost backpack, but mostly because of the litre of vodka. He meandered off, not ready to begin the day’s mission quite yet. Back on the ever-refilling bottle of Burrow Hill Cider I sploshed about the soggy site, watching people-pushed trolleys piled with wood and duvets, checking stalls piled high with artfully faded Mr Men tee-shirts, generally indulging in random autonomy away from the usual schedules.
Down at the East Dance tent I sensed raucousness so paced into the middle of the crowd. A weird thing about gigs is that a third of the way stage-wards there will be a scrum of those who don’t have the psychological impetus to push nearer. Once you’ve passed them, there’s almost always plenty of room. The TCR Allstars were spraying out breakbeat energy, Rennie Pilgrem jumping from instrument to instrument as MC Chickaboo hyped expertly on the mic. Sneaky Sound System were next, Australia’s biggest band who bloomed from a Sydney club night. The crowd was awash with Sneaky-logoed Frisbees, flying hither and thither and a palpable sense of occasion was aided by a vocal Antipodean presence. On record their pop-dance is like an ‘80s-centric Scissor Sisters, but live they emphasise the club grooves. Technical problems at the start soon passed and vocalist Miss Connie is a charismatic front-woman so by the time they reached their anthem ‘UFO’, everyone was belting out, “I saw a UFO and nobody believes me,” and it was only 4.00 PM.

On the way back to the tent for a change of clothes I stopped to check out The Gossip at the Pyramid but, with the exception of ‘Standing In The Way Of Control’, which whipped up a small frenzy, they were just another shouty indie band on a stage way too large for them. With the evening the quiver fizz and nong nongs reappeared, and I stomped purposefully out. First stop, one of the tents in the Dance Village field for New York disco queens Hercules & Love Affair, but despite glamour their every song plods along and they project nothing. Happily I ran into my brother. We walked past the Other Stage where The Hoosiers were doing something inconceivably dull with guitars, something that was tired ten, possibly twenty years ago. We mocked them and made our way to the Shangri La backstage, to a bar where a wasted-looking dude played ancient rockabilly and jump blues, danced to by children and their mums. My brother settled and ate some noodles while I quaffed vodka & cranberry and more quivver fizz. The approaching evening boded well, clouds with sun-glowing fringes glimmering. My bro’ headed back to his tent in a field so far-flung I’d never seen it in all my Glastonbury visits. There we found the drummer from his band, just rising from his post-Tizzy powder session. Now the band needed to regroup and prepare for two gigs so I left them and headed back to the fray.

Nothing quite took off. Mostly because I was at the incorrect location, confusing venues like an amateur. I stood for aeons in a tent wondering why Roisin Murphy had mutated into a couple of blokes playing none-more-Hoxton bootybass electro (it was actually The Count & Sinden I later found out). It was only when prog baby and junior Sasha, James Zabiela, hit the decks that I realised I was in entirely the wrong place for Fatboy Slim. I stuck with it and grooved for a while but then the ‘journey’ grew a little long in the tooth and I hoped Frankfurt electronic veterans Booka Shade would provide sustenance. They didn’t, boasting no showmanship and a deep plodding set that didn’t induce screams or sweat. I headed to Trash City where my bro’s band Dead Silence Syndicate were playing. They major in edgy drum & bass with a furious MC (check http://www.deadsilence.co.uk/). My bro’ plays the cello dressed as if for Wigmore Hall or some classical venue. The band, though, have a snarling underground attitude, perhaps representing the travellers who once were Glasto’s mainstays (on the Dead Silence site Glastonbury is referred to as “just some big commercial fest, selling overpriced food and playing overpaid, overdressed, overrated pop bands”. Truth to tell, though, their bark is worse than their bite and they were all about a rampaging show. This they delivered twice with aplomb, each time with an associate who’s the spit of Michael Eavis coming onstage to break up the party and tell them to “Get off my land,” accompanied by fierce thrash drum and bass. Between gigs, I ended up carrying kit between stages, prodded and pushed by gently over-zealous security. Afterwards Don Carlton reappeared and, along with my bro’, we went into NYC Downlow, the gay disco that by 5.00 in the morning was just perfect, stinking of amyl, with debauched looking trannies lazily cavorting at the front, and sleazy obscure disco-house bouncing away. One Roland 303-addled acid house number completely took my lid off. Then my bro’ said he was going to get on it. I decided I wanted to eat another day whole and sounded the retreat, leaving him to Lord knows what mischief.

SATURDAY

Rising today the bleariness levels had increased but not too detrimentally. The good news was that all traces it had ever rained were gradually disappearing. I began the day with a couple of giant waxed cups of lemonade from a stall that made it from real lemons and loads of glucose. The head started to clear. Unfortunately, what should have been a Pyramid Stage giggle to start the day – a set from rock’n’roll popster Shakin’ Stevens – wasn’t. He may have sold more singles during the ‘80s than anyone else but he’s a miserable sod. A good-natured crowd had gathered, many holding banners, even a life-size cardboard green door in honour of his hit of that name. He didn’t even play it, however, and unsmilingly trawled through a set that at least included ‘Oh Julie’ and ‘This Ole House’.

After a mountain of food, I hit The Park to see Lykke Li who, of course, wasn’t even playing, so I embraced beer and oxygen instead. I found myself staring at some people making large impressive monsters, dragons and alien lobster creatures, out of sand. A voice accosted me. It was Manning, a photographer friend.
The sun was out and we sat on grass, a joy that’s the great loss of muddy festivals. We drank beer, the warmth outside accentuating lazy pleasure. We began telling festival loo anecdotes, laughing often and energetically. Typical of blokes having a drink, everyone tried to outdo the last tale, but such competition only added to the joviality. I told a Bestival tale of when I was in a Portaloo and just as I was about to imbibe some quivver fizz in privacy, there was a rumbling from below and the loo appeared to belch as a big bubble of gas raised the seat slightly. The smell was indescribably unpleasant but I nailed the quiver fizz, retching, and stumbled out into the baffled queue with my eyes watering.

A friend of Manning’s mentioned that he’d always wondered how some of the loos got into the state they did – how did people manage to smear their doings everywhere? Then he told graphically of how, the night before, he’d gone for a poo and, in his addled state, had missed. He looked at the results of his endeavours and realised he’d become one of those people, then ran off in shame.

Time flew with such scatological afternoon babble until we took a walk to the Glade where Radioactive Man was mixing old hardcore tunes with breaks and electro. Worn tramp-like ravers were trotting on the spot, their eyes bobbling out of their skulls. Then DJ Rubbish came on. He wandered “across the stage and back again, running around like a farmyard hen,” as he succinctly put it, rhyming oddball inanity off the top of his head, clad in a bandana and boxer’s robe. It was difficult to imagine how Cassetteboy would perform live since their albums consist of puerile, though hilarious, cut-ups poking fun at contemporary culture. They appeared onstage clad as monkey cowboys and clowned around to a CD of their ‘greatest hits’, their filthy version of Harry Potter, their brutal mockery of Jamie Oliver, their fantastic sonic gambit wherein Martin Luther King Jnr appears to play ‘Deal Or No Deal’. It didn’t work as theatre or as a gig, yet as an absurd and very funny Glastonbury interlude it was perfect.

Afterwards we stopped at a trailside bar, far from the festival’s centre, to drink vodka & cranberry juice. Here we saw a fantastic lost-it. This guy was horrendously off it. Lord knows what he was on but he was staggering around with an almost equally deranged pal, practically unable to walk. They saw some hallucination they liked in our area, stopped and wobbled like vagrants in a hurricane, making indecipherable attempts at language. Both were around 40, though it was hard to tell as they were agelessly debauched. My nominee for Damage Case Of The Year 2008 had a thick string of drool hanging from his chin, about 12 inches worth, a hefty wire of it with a blob on the end that, as he grinned and swayed, swung in an arc around him causing those nearby to move swiftly out of his way. Then they were gone, leaving us wondering what their lives were like for the rest of the year.

Parting ways with Manning, I made my way to the open air G Stage in the Dance Village. Here a thick crowd were raving hard to Sub Focus whose style of drum & bass was raw and organic, verging on breakcore. Whatever name you want to give, it was hot popular stuff but, unfortunately, when he left the decks, the crowd disappeared for the band I’d come to see. Japanese Popstars are a big deal in their native Ireland and have the potential to be the first pure electronic dance act to cross over in a while. Theirs is stadium techno that’s yet to find a stadium and those who stayed at the G Stage danced hard in the hazy evening sun, myself included.
Having a press pass I wandered backstage afterwards and Ed, my affable Dance Village connection, pointed me in the band’s direction. It suddenly occurred to me as I clumped up to them, rosy-faced, sweaty, intense, waving my cloudy, toxic-orange water-bottle of Burrow Hill scrumpy, that I must cut a curious figure to those who’d just arrived onsite as they had. It made me think briefly how far from reality Glastonbury can be. Happily the Irish trio were polite. I heard afterwards that later that night they saw UFOs in the sky, so maybe they too got stuck into that Burrow Hill cider. Or something stronger.

The human traffic jam on the way to the Pyramid Stage was extreme, threatening even, but I pushed my way to the middle of the crowd and, in that way which seems flowingly natural when high, made festival friends with a couple of young students called Rowan and Katy who became my accomplices for a couple of hours. Amy Winehouse came on and performed a set that was later slated by the press but which I thought the liveliest and most enjoyable of the times I’ve seen her perform. She usually appears glazed but today her wastedness took ebullient form. She sang beautifully and between songs (and what songs!), she burbled things such as, “Kanye West’s new album should be called ‘Kanye Is A Cunt’,” then towards the end of her set lowered herself into the crowd and had a mild fracas. It was all a bit unhinged but lively, aggressively upbeat and certainly not dull. Isn’t that what Amy Winehouse is supposed to do? Isn’t that what we expect of our rock’n’roll stars? Or is that only the men? Or did I miss a meeting? By the time she strutted offstage the crowd was vast, everybody humming with anticipation. Would Jay Z live up to his reputation and outman Noel Gallagher’s ill-informed remarks.

It was clear from the moment the huge screens either side of the stage blasted into an intense Negativland-style collage of public figures and hip hop associates bigging up the Jiggaman, interspersed with Noel’s disses, that he was onto a winner. He came on and strummed his way through ‘Wonderwall’ to a brain-drowning roar of approval. From then on, without any guests, his set was riveting Las Vegas hip hop, party music which was as boomin’ as it was mostly mindless. Weirdly, this multi-millionaire American businessman was here as the underdog fighting back and the Glasto crowd loved that as much as they loved bellowing along to ‘99 Problems But A Bitch Ain’t One’. Afterwards an elated, bedazzled crowd emigrated to all corners of the site. I headed up to the Shangri-La and Trash City stages where dancing moments were enjoyed on previous nights. It seemed that now everybody was there and the area was so overrun that security had to channel the crowd hither and thither.

Happily I ran into Don Carlton. We spent a good while in the melee blathering cheerily until he expressed enthusiasm for quivver fizz and nong nongs so we indulged accordingly. We sat on a makeshift wall swigging a bottle of Makers Mark bourbon, watching the babbling masses jiggle by to the multiple rhythms of the Glastonbury night, all surrounded by a yellow-orange glow, hedonism haloed by electricity. After a while it became clear we weren’t going to get into any of the venues so we made a pilgrimage to the Stone Circle, high above the festival, a mini-Stonehenge overflowing with jugglers, campfires, acid cases and groups of friends murmuring, laughing, suddenly yelling catchphrases. All sorts are sitting ruminating, the hiss of nitrous oxide gas a constant presence and the comforting glow of spliffs speckling the darkness like fireflies. Don and I sat and talked and talked and talked, a personal moment amidst the chaos, occasionally rushing over to one of the gaggles with their cream-dispensers and balloons, taking a nitrous hit and feeling that rush, like poppers without the headache factor. Dawn arrived eventually as it always must and, final vodka & cranberry in hand, we made our way back to our tents and awaiting sleeping bags.

SUNDAY

I awoke feeling distinctly ropey. My body treats me well, given how I treat it, but physical discomfort was surfacing. The sun aided my cause as did cups of glucose-saturated lemonade and a dripping hunk of apple sauce-lathered hog roast. While my brain chugged to life like a rusty starter motor, I found a friendly stall owner and offered him a couple of quid to let my mobile phone charge. Some stalls were charging £7 and had queues but, since all stalls have electric plugs and I’d brought my charger along, I gave it a shot and the fellow was game. When both my mind and my phone were ready, I strolled over to Balkan Beatbox at the Jazz Stage where I met Manning. Balkan Beatbox made a valiant effort, their punchy club music/world music cocktail was rewarded with pogoing at the front, but most sat with their lunch and grey-socketed eyes in the watery sunshine, recovering.

Manning and I hit a wine bar in a caravan. There were a few wine bars on site and they all played truly awful music, Phil Collinsy, Bryan Adamsy dross that you go to festivals to escape. We bought a couple of brandy-charged champagne cocktails and ran away from the Surrey office party ear carnage. Manning wanted to take some daylight shots of NYC Downlow so we trekked back to the fringes. It’s a Glastonbury Sunday and the committed are really going a bit soft focus, teetering into messiness, even the pro’s, and that’s lovely to see. An aeroplane fuselage that had been deposited next to NYC Downlow was no exception. On top sat an array of queens, besmirched characters and Burlesque fancy dressers chirping been-awake-forever chatter and affable abuse, passing round a bottle of spirits. Manning snapped away.

On the way back we pushed through a vast crowd spilling from the Leftfield Tent. Onstage Tony Benn was holding forth in his easy-going, intelligent way. He told us in a roundabout way that we, and I think he referred to the young rather than Manning and I, were the planet’s hope for the future. Perhaps because he’s such a level-headed and piercingly well-informed man, an icon of British socialism from an age when people cared more for their personal beliefs than shopping, the whole tent appeared dumbstruck. No drippy hippy new ager he, but a feisty remnant of a bygone age. When he left to roared approval, Manning and I sneaked into a backstage loading area where gigantic security men chatted as crates and crates of lager were removed from a lorry. Manning was fascinated by the festival’s mundane behind-the-scenes cogs in motion and started snapping away. The mountainous men queried our status and looked quizzically at the grubby-looking Burrow Hill cider but let us stay awhile, observing the comings and goings of those who drably, matter-of-factly make Glastonbury happen.

When we’d had our fill we went to the Pyramid. Neil Diamond was playing. Sometimes these kitschy old dudes on Glastonbury Sunday afternoons can turn out the goods. A few years ago, suavely dressed Tony Bennett had the whole place in the palm of his hand with swing-jazz standards, but Diamond just reminded me of BBC Radio 2 circa 1978, cheesy easy that didn’t grab the lapels. Nonetheless the persistent glow of the sun made up for Neil’s lapses and, as we trotted back to my tent to dig out some late afternoon quivver fizz, ‘Sweet Caroline’ finally swept the crowd up for a sing-along.

Back at the tent Manning suddenly became enamoured of all the rubbish littering the ground. His photographer’s eye had been drawn to it all weekend and we weaved through the tent city as he took shots of detritus that struck him as particularly worthwhile. I could see what he meant. As he readied his camera, crinkled one eye tight shut and concentrated, I too stared at dead campfires surrounded by piles of assorted junk that spoke of pleasures passed, of yesterday’s fun.

Then, suitably bubbling with artificial energy and giddy musical enthusiasm, we made our way back to the main stage. It was time for Leonard Cohen. My fingers were crossed, I had high hopes. I’ve seen heritage turns deliver gold in these fields (Johnny Cash), but I’ve also seen mythic figures crumble to lacklustre dust (The Velvet Underground). Laughin’ Len took things at his own pace – what else would he do at 73? – and his pace is and always has been lugubriously slow. It took a moment to adjust, given the freneticism of the event, but he had the voice, the songs and the legend to drag us all into his twilight world of broken dreams and doomed love. Initially wearing a hat, with a voice of purest gravel, he lifted my soul as the sun so appropriately and beautifully set behind him. He delved particularly into 1988’s ‘I’m Your Man’ album and even played my favourite Cohen song ‘Everybody Knows’. A golden hour or two was spent in his company, never to be repeated for Cohen forbade film cameras.

What could follow that? Maybe some techno and who better to deliver than Derrick May, one of the men who invented it back ‘80s Detroit. Unfortunately, over in the Dance Village, May was haemorrhaging festivallers from his big top. Upon entering it soon became clear why. He was playing a tight set of minimal grooves that would have worked a treat in some German cellar, but there was no elation to it, no sense of occasion, and we were now into the last hours of Glastonbury and wanted more so, after dancing for a while, we too deserted him.

Time then pinched inwards, hours folding into druggy elemental enjoyment. I ran into Don Carlton again and with Manning and his ever present camera we headed one final time into those far-flung fields where The Amigos were playing in the early hours. It was their fifth gig of the weekend, and so tight, so euphorically funky, the small tent became a sweat-pit, jammed to the gills and I danced beyond the burn, a peak moment. Afterwards a very festival thing happened. Don, Manning and I walked from the gig and suddenly they’d disappeared. I stopped and shouted their names and looked and waited but we’d lost each other in the melee, phones now defunct.
I returned to the venue where I’d seen The Amigos and blagged my way backstage. From there it was a short journey through the night sitting in a make-shift meeting place of wooden benches, oil drum litter bins all around, The Amigos ready to party, exhilarated they’d finished their gig stint. Dawn arrived in a blur and everything was revealed for what it was, dirt and pale daylight, a reflection of the impending crash but we ignored it. The Amigos and crew were golden company, determinedly heading for the heights. Unfortunately, as 6.00 AM arrived I knew I must imminently be somewhere back in the real world, that forgotten place. I wrenched myself unwillingly away from my natural instinct to accompany them to their tent enclave and form a bubble, keeping the world out and the laughter in, until every last drop of juice had been squeezed from this annual peach of an occasion. As I made to go Matt, the bass player, tried to call me back but I knew it was time, I really did, I didn’t want it to be but time is relentless, it marches forward and the real world, the rest of life, all that stuff was approaching like a freight train and I needed to be at least half ready to hop back on board. Damn…

MONDAY

My diary for the day says, “Awake a zombie. No pain but a zombie. Journey home. Pretend not to be a zombie.” And I can sum it up no better.

The original ‘Hell raiser’ returns to London for a couple of cliquey dates to intimate crowds of rock and roll yuppies: After all, who else could afford the £100+ tickets for Jerry to show us that he still has it, albeit in a doddery kind of way?! It was 50 years ago he first touched on our British shores shrouded in controversy of the marriage to his 13 year old first cousin removed. Now we have that out of the way, let’s move on to what an absolute legend he is, having bought us ‘Great Balls Of Fire’ and the template of a debauched front man that many have emulated since. Knocking around with the likes of Chuck Berry and Elvis influenced his unconventional style, which was born at a very young age by his parent’s re-mortgaging their farm to buy him a piano and their surrounding him in church music. The Boogie Woogie Rock and Roll styles and some rather risqué lyrics such as ‘Whole Lotta Shakin Going On’ led to him playing what was coined at the time as “Devils music” and lends the opportunity to insert a bygone quote: “Yes, I am. [playing devils music]. But you know its strange, the same music they kicked me out of school for is the same kind of music they play in their churches today. The difference is, I know I am playing for the devil and they don’t’.

The gig was supported by Ricky Cool and the Hoola Boola Boys playing rock and roll fit for the night, it was their 2nd time at the 100 Club having been asked back by popular demand it was more than a pleasure to warm up for Jerry. The silver boy band show their years of cumulated experience in an enigmatic performance that is beautifully in sync and are clearly having a lot of fun. Their personalities show through playing, adorned in themed shirts and leopard skin shoes and the stylised singing, dancing and chatting up the crowd kinda way.

Jerry finally made it onto the stage after a couple of tracks from his band (the guitar player sporting what looked like a broken nose, with Jerry’s past reputation one wondered what happened back stage…) who looked like a bunch of Hollywood throw backs and Father Christmas. He looked frail and old yet groomed and immaculate; expensive suite, slicked backed hair and a stern look suggesting that he still had it in him if anyone played up. Once seated at the Baby Grand it was hard to imagine it was the same old man, firstly due to the lay out of the 100 Club you couldn’t bloody see him and secondly his playing was tight and passionate and his voice still strong. As the epic tracks were banged out it became very real what this man has achieved and was really quite humbling, particulay for the hardcore fans. Mixed reviews from them though wth some suggesting disappointment in the lack of charisma – can we still expect dancing on the piano? But for most, (including Mark Lamar rocking it in the DJ Booth) it was an amazing evening and probably the last opportunity to witness this. While his set was short the classics were played, busting out his signature moves, dragging his hands across the keys and building up to a crescendo at the end, the electricity omitted from his presence was felt in the close sweaty atmosphere.

Finally escorted back off the stage amidst a ferocious session of flashing cameras it seemed like a scene of the Sopranos. The “Killer” has left the building.

Words: Catherine Pryce
Photos: Mary Pryce

http://www.jerryleelewis.com

http://www.myspace.com/rickycoolandthehoolaboolaboys

On Tuesday I received a phone call asking if I’d like to go to Jack Daniel’s birthday barbecue in Lynchburg, Tennessee, on Thursday. Since I live on the south coast of the UK, this was rather nice but unexpected. Some people I’d heard of were going to play music too. Sounded like fun. Thus it was that I found myself above the Atlantic less then 48 hours later watching Matthew Broderick in a film called ‘Diminished Capacity’, a contender for the naffest flick of recent years (although I’ve since seen ‘Death Sentence’ with Kevin Bacon which is possibly even worse). If the in-flight films are on overhead screens they’re always edits of the naffest ‘family’ fare but who cares – beer, food, reading and bad movies for eight hours is a wonderful break from the normal demands of life.

We stopped over in Atlanta where I sat with the businessmen bar-hounds for a while drinking Sam Adams. These days you’re as likely to find a decent beer in an American bar as you are in Europe, something that wasn’t the case a few years back.

Then it’s on to Nashville, the country music capital. Rather like a package tour, the JD people have an agenda for us. Fortunately it’s not sporting activities or corporate meet’n’greets, it’s simply lots of eating and drinking. They take us to The Stockyard, one of the oldest steak-houses in the land, where they drown us in booze and steaks the size of mattresses, then when everyone’s bloated to the gills, trays of lobsters are brought on, gratis. I ate as much as I could, then a chocolate pudding, then started on the shots. No point in being backward.

Next day the whole coach party of about 30 of journalists were driven to Lynchburg and given a tour of the JD distillery by the laconic, dungaree-wearing, moustachioed guide ‘Ron’ (pictured), followed by a meal in the perfect picket fenced Norman Rockwell town itself. This was, in turn, followed by a whisky tasting session with head distiller Jeff Arnett, including a commemorative bottle to take away. Sure, we were becoming JD brainwashed but we could handle it. In any case, I departed early from the next organized event, a trip to BB King’s restaurant/bar/venue in Nashville where the music turned out to be a truly appalling blues jam. Some weeks ago I’d interviewed Kurt Wagner of Lambchop and he told me about a bar called Springwater where all the alternative bands play, from country to avant-garde noise. It was a great place. I haven’t the faintest who was playing that night – very unprofessional, I know – but games of pool and jugs of beer put it out of my mind in an alt country blur. At some point a return to Nashville’s main drag signalled a change of music, dancing with tourists to a covers band playing Def Leppard’s ‘Pour Some Sugar On Me’. Even that sounded fine in the warm tequila-soaked Nashville night, although I could have done without some bastard stealing my coat when I was having a dance.

A wander round the Country Music Hall of Fame the next morning could not remove an ingrained hangover, despite a wonderful Hank Williams exhibition and the purchase of a snazzy Johnny Cash tee-shirt. Then it was onto a coach to Lynchburg. Fortunately a session of round table interviews with the evening’s performers featured bottles of JD as photographic props. These soon cured all hangovers. Of the performers, Hugh Cornwall was wary but cheery, Thomas Dartnell (AKA House Of Lords from the Young Knives) was self-depreciating, Roisin Murphy was shrewd but closed, and Tim Wheeler of Ash was affable without saying anything much.

The barbecue itself was, appropriately, on Barbacue Hill, attended by a mass of UK competition winners. The hill has a lovely view over surrounding Tennessee countryside while a barn-like structure hosted the concert as free JD mixer drinks, initially loaded, became gradually weaker over the evening (they obviously know what we Brits are like…).

The gig consisted of Tim Dartnell, Roisin Murphy and Tim Wheeler each doing a brief set of their own songs, plus one cover, then Hugh Cornwall joining them to play a Stranglers number, and played the odd number by himself, all backed by the Silver Cornet Band, a collection of Memphis Muscle Shoals session musicians with an illustrious history. Dartnell opened and came off best, very bumbling and English, Roisin’s set was quality but simply too slow to hold a party crowd, and Wheeler’s was punk fun but functional rather than explosive. Cornwall seasoned the whole thing with classics such as ‘Peaches’ and ‘No More Heroes’ before the whole bunch had an entertainingly shambling crack at the Van Morrison classic, ‘Gloria’.

It may not have been the gig of the year, or even the gig of the month, but JD certainly know how to throw a party and look after a crowd which made the whole trip a real occasion. I thoroughly enjoyed myself and didn’t feel put upon by corporate lackeys. I am not under the delusion that JD is other than a massive company, a consumer giant, but every bottle anywhere in the world hails from that Lynchburg distillery and they make a good hash of retaining the atmosphere of a down-home cottage industry blown into something massive. And then they flew us all home via a seven beer stop-over in Cincinnati that made even the dire Kevin Costner flick ‘Swing Vote’ on the return flight bearable. Just.

Live Highlights of 2007

Heavy Trash / Copter / The Micragirls
The Hare and Hounds, Birmingham, UK
By Guy Oddy

South Birmingham seems to have become the home of some fine garage rock of late, with local bands like the Courtesy Group, The Big Bang and Mills and Boon flying the freak flag for high octane rock ‘n’ roll with a distinctly raw taste. It seemed only fitting, therefore, when Jon Spencer (of Pussy Galore, Boss Hog and the Blues Explosion) turned up to play some tunes with his latest outfit, Heavy Trash, and to check out the scene.

Spencer has come a long way since his time with noise-terrorists Pussy Galore. Whereas his songs were frequently played at break-neck speed and soaked in feedback in the late eighties, Heavy Trash have assumed the mantle of modern-day rockabillies on their new album, “Going Way Out With Heavy Trash”. Their sound incorporates all manner of American roots music, from dirty rhythm and blues to murder ballads and frantic rock ‘n’ roll of the old school. That said, Spencer’s own punk rock roots are still evident in both the songs and the attitude of the band. This is no Johnny Cash tribute show.

Heavy Trash’s support in Birmingham was provided by Finland’s Micragirls and local boys, Copter, in what proved to be an exhilarating show which pushed introspection and acoustic guitars aside for a hefty dose of kicking out the jams.

The Micragirls screeched and yelped their way through a fine set, culled from their “Feeling Dizzy Honey?” album. Dressed liked waitresses from TV’s “Happy Days”, their guitar, organ and drums set up provided an excellent warm-up with particularly cracking tunes, like “Queen of the Cavemen” and “Whatta way to die”, that often recalled original garage rock pioneers, She.

Copter piled through an amphetamine-paced set of future classics like “Shake it off” and “Testify” from their “Strangest Tales” album, with the fervour of Rocky Erickson, when he was on top form, or even Otis Redding, given the Stax feel of some of their set. While the crowd tore up the dance floor, Stevie Copter and the band were doing much the same on the stage with an enthusiasm that they made no effort to hide.

Headliners, Heavy Trash, took to the stage with a glint in their eyes and tongues firmly placed in their cheeks and let rip with a set of rockabilly mayhem, tempered with the odd murder ballad. With two guitars, an upright bass and drums, the ghosts of Eddie Cochrane and Gene Vincent were conjured up with “They were kings” and “Crazy pretty baby”, and more punk-like fare, like “I want oblivion” was sent skidding across the stage before we were given a douse of heartbreak, country-style, with “That ain’t right” and “You can’t win”.

The proceedings finally came to an end after an hour or so of Heavy Trash, with sweat still cascading down the walls and a room full of smiling faces. But, on the strength of tonight’s show, Jon Spencer’s definitely doing something right these days, and if he keeps it up and someone like Zane Lowe takes an interest, he could even end up with a hit.

Big Chill 2007
By Guy Oddy

As those of us who have suffered it know, Summer 2007 in the UK has been something of a wash-out. So, it was with a degree of trepidation that I headed off for Big Chill 2007. Not least, because it was situated near Ledbury, in the Malvern Hills, a centre of particularly bad flooding and the idea of “chilling out” while knee-deep in liquid mud did not appeal very much. However, 30,000 Big Chillers’ faith was rewarded and a top festival experience coincided with a weekend of serious sunshine, where sun-block and hats were more useful than wellies.

With an ever-more crowded UK festival scene, it would be fair to peg the Big Chill somewhere between Glastonbury’s corporate hoe-down and Cropredy’s folkie picnic. Consequently, the site was flooded with kids of all ages, including some that can’t have been born when their parents shelled out for tickets earlier in the year! Fortunately, the family-friendly atmosphere extended to events and activities to keep tomorrow’s music fans occupied, while their parents and others of drinking-age got down to some, by turns, seriously laid-back, funky, jazzy and all-round groovy music. In fact, just about the only musical constituency that wasn’t represented was the one made up of skinny white boys with guitars – which might have explained a seemingly complete lack of aggro all weekend.

Big Chill could, potentially, be described as “grown up” with a broad choice of good quality (yet pricey) international catering, cocktail bar, Leave No Trace waste minimisation campaign and Body and Soul Area. The musical line-up, however, did not disappoint and there was plenty of opportunity to get loaded and get your hips moving.

The DJ sets were varied and eclectic, with everyone who played outside the Dance Tent falling-in with the laid-back atmosphere. Inside the Dance Tent it was a different matter altogether, however, where the likes of Padded Cell and Black Devil got things moving. Nevertheless, highlights from the DJs on the major stages included Norman Jay’s funky and soulful tunes and Mr Scruff’s chilled beats. Massive Attack’s Daddy G upped the tempo somewhat with an excellent mash-up of reggae and drum and bass stormers, while the ever dub-tastic Mad Professor did not disappoint with his spaced-out and effects-laden sound. There was even room for blues fanatic Joe Cushley. Quite what Mary-Anne Hobbs was doing prancing around like My Little Pony, while playing glorified big beat tunes in the Dub Tent, is anyone’s guess though.

While any number of slants were put on “jazz” during the course of the weekend, it was likes of The Bad Plus, who managed to cover both Aphex Twin and Black Sabbath tunes in their set, and the newly-reformed Red Snapper which impressed the most. It was, however, Seasick Steve who produced the show of the weekend, with his take on country/delta blues and a good line in rambling stories. Played on a handful of cheap guitars, with any number of strings, and stomping on a mic-ed up wooden box for a beat, it was “all good”, as Steve (frequently) announced.

Despite the predominantly laid-back vibe at Big Chill, there was room for energetic upstarts such as New Young Pony Club and The Go! Team, both of whom turned in fantastic sets which got the crowd on their feet and rocking. It wasn’t just the youngsters who got feet moving, however, as the ever-dependable Skatalites, presently with the magnificent Vin Gordon in their ranks, took a sizeable number of people back to 1960s Jamaica. Meanwhile, the Cymande Allstars moved things on a bit and played like Funkadelic at their ’70s best but with less of the wackiness and more of the funk.

As with previous years, Big Chill 2007 also had its fair share of bands from outside the English-speaking world. These ranged from the Macedonian-style wedding music of Naat Veliov’s Original Kocani Orkestar to the Congolese thumb pianos of Konono No 1. However, it was Spanish combo Ojos De Brujo that produced the best show, with an amalgam of gypsy music, flamenco, salsa, hip-hop and numerous other genres that was a revelation.

While there was enough music at Big Chill to comfortably fill three weekends, nevermind three days, there was also comedy (with Sean Hughes and John Shuttleworth turning in particularly entertaining routines), films, poetry and numerous other ways in which to while away your time. In fact, the only possible criticism that you might want to level at Big Chill was that there just wasn’t enough time to fit all the good stuff in. But to be fair, there are usually much worse hardships to be had in the UK festival experience than that.

One word of advice, however, for when you turn up for Big Chill 2008: don’t come with a pirate flag to mark your tent. Not unless it can stand out from the several hundred other ones that you’ll see.

Damo Suzuki
The Hare and Hounds, Birmingham, UK
By Guy Oddy

Is Damo Suzuki the hardest working man in entertainment? On the evidence of his show in Birminham’s Kings Heath in August, you’d imagine that he had a fair claim to the title.

Brought to the Hare and Hounds by local renaissance man, Al Hutchins and his Curate’s Egg night, this diminutive, living legend fronted four quite different local bands over the course of the evening and then sold some of his Damo Suzuki’s Network cds between sets. It’ll be interesting to see if Henry Rollins has still got this kind of energy when he’s 57 years old.

The first band to take the stage was the Brian Duffy Group, who looked and sounded somewhat like early Kraftwerk. Their grooves were set at the distinctly electronic end of Krautrock and their instruments included a number of miked-up kids toys, but it was an interesting beginning. After a short break, the magnificent Courtesy Group laid down their swampy, psychedelic noise, with added bass clarinet for the occasion. Al Hutchins provided backing vocals, but it wasn’t a night for “The new beef” and “By the time I’ve finished my sentence”, as it was Damo’s night all the way. Next, the sound levels hit 11, with the appearance of Mills and Boon who got into their Beefheart-heavy groove and just kept going. Last up was the bazouki-armed Andy Bole, who chilled things out somewhat until Damo was finally finished. For while these fine bands laid down their own particular schtick, Suzuki came out with a relentless stream of freeform, improvisional lyrics. Sung in an uncodefied language of his own, Damo seemed to resemble some hybrid of Sean Ryder of the Happy Mondays and Yoko Ono almost without pause. For hours.

Whether Suzuki and his various backing bands played any songs from his Can days is anyone’s guess, but it didn’t matter, for this gig seemed to have more in common with Pink Floyd’s Syd-powered freakouts in the UFO Club in 1967 than anything that 2007′s gig-goer might usually expect. While the show, as with all improvisational jams, did wander into somewhat uninteresting noodling from time to time, it was without doubt a real event.

These weren’t songs that will ever get stale through repeated playing because they’ll probably never get played again and you don’t get many musical titans pulling those kind of moves. In fact, in a world where even “independent music” is just another label and has nothing to do with independence, on any level, people like Damo Suzuki are the ones pushing things into new areas. He’ll be old enough to draw a pension in a few years, yet he takes things out further than most of the young turks that silt up the music press month after month. Catch him before this high priest of the psychedelic decides that he’s too old for gigging and throws in the towel.

Jello Biafra
The Glee Club, Birmingham
By Guy Oddy

Lest we forget, Jello Biafra forged his reputation in the early-tomid-‘80s as vocalist with the Dead Kennedys. Since then, he has collaborated musically with the likes of Ministry (as Lard), DOA, Nomeansno and Mojo Nixon. In addition, he has become the head man at Alternative Tentacles Records and even tried his hand at acting. However, it was the messy demise of the Dead Kennedys, under the pressure of the 1986 Frankenchrist/HR Giger obscenity trial, brought about by the US pro-censorship lobby (most especially Tipper Gore’s PMRC) that set him off on his new ‘career’. This he terms as being an “anti-pundit/commentator, breaking new ground in the increasingly important medium of info-tainment”.

For those struggling to understand what Jello Biafra does these days, he appears in shows doing his spoken-word schtick and occasionally releases snippets of them as albums. He is the self-styled High Priest of Harmful Matter and an enduring poster-boy for US anti-censorship groups. In addition to putting aside the guitars for this show at Birmingham’s Glee Club, however, he also put aside punk rock’s keenness on brevity, as he treated his audience to a three-hour exposition of the things that piss off Chairman Jello.
The first part of the show was dominated by his “marshal law has been declared, go home and get ready for work tomorrow” material and there was even an appearance of 1991’s “Die for oil, sucker” routine, which he introduced with “I had hoped that I wouldn’t have to do this one again”.

After this initial burst of Jello’s familiar wit, however, things soon took on the mantle of a rant. That said, the crowd of, primarily, thirty- and forty-something blokes in Black Flag t-shirts and ‘80s-style punk haircuts, seemed to lap up every word, clapping politely as he went for another easy target, such as “King George (Bush) II” or the present Governor of California (and enemy of economic girly-men everywhere), Arnold Schwarzenegger.

His material pretty much centred on the US government and big business generally, or specifically their influence on events in occupied Iraq. It seems that Biafra wishes to show his anti-globalisation credentials these days, by falling into what seems to be a fairly common trap among US commentators: paying little attention to anything that doesn’t involve the USA. Nevertheless, Jello didn’t actually say anything with which your average thinking individual might disagree during the whole of his show. Three hours of having various opinions confirmed by someone else can be a bit dull, however, even when they’re not preaching at you.

It would seem that twenty years after shaking himself free of the “American Johnny Rotten” tag, he has now taken on the mantle of the American Mark Thomas with elements of Michael Moore or even Lenny Bruce (at a pinch). However, while he has soaked up the “worthiness” of all these characters, he seems to have forgotten an essential part of their routines: the jokes.

For future gigs at the Glee Club, check out www.glee.co.uk

Soweto Kinch has a problem. He wants to be part of both the hip hop and the jazz scenes. While the jazzers have embraced his take on the bebop/hip hop nexus, as witnessed by Kinch’s nomination for Album of the Year by the 2007 BBC Jazz Awards, the hip hop community remain largely indifferent.

Kinch is convinced that his lack of recognition as a hip hop artist, as much as a jazzer, is down to “high street record stores [which] still refuse to allow the album into the Urban music section”. But, in reality, how many artists sell lots of CDs while straddling two musical genres? Especially when one of them is jazz.

Kinch, however, is a genuinely interesting musician. His sound is reminiscent of Courtney Pine at his funkiest, but much more ‘street’, or perhaps Charlie Parker up on stage with Roots Manuva.

His second album, ‘A Life in the Day of B19: Tales of the Tower Block’, is a concept album (steady there!). It presents the tale of three individuals, as they face up to career disasters, romantic entanglements, the downside of celebrity and the problems of claiming welfare benefits while attempting to pursue a musical career. It is an interesting stew of rappers, producers and bebop, which unfortunately has the smell of a radio drama – something that is only emphasised by the narrative, provided by BBC News presenter Moira Stuart. Even so, this is no worse than many of the ‘humorous’ skits that appear on so many hip hop albums. In Kinch’s words, “whereas ‘Conversations With The Unseen’ [his first album] took hip hop to a jazz audience, B19 aims to take jazz to the hip hop audience”.

Unfortunately, the failure of Kinch’s self-proclaimed mission to convert itself into huge sales has led to a delay in the release of B19’s long-planned sequel, ‘Basement Fables’. This gig was billed as the launch of the new album, but its failure to appear in the shops meant that we were treated to a rendition of ‘Tales Of The Tower Block’ album in its entirety instead. But without Moira Stuart.

While we didn’t get to hear anything from ‘Basement Fables’, Kinch did not disappoint and was ably backed by Abram Wilson, Michael Olatuja, Femi Temowo, Troy Miller and a couple of local MCs. From jazz to hip hop to poetry and back again, the band put on a terrific show with a narrative structure that still allowed for the kind of jazz improvisation that would have had Jack Kerouac on his feet (‘A Friendly Game Of Basketball’), MCs battling (‘Everybody Raps’) and a club full of jazzers, chanting, “It’s all about the M-O-N-double E” (‘Padz’). All amidst projections and computer-generated graphics that would have Coldcut taking notes.

This was jazz, but it was hip hop too and it was certainly something original that was capable of moving your hips. Thegig, however, took place in a jazz club and did not pull a hip hop crowd. While this remains the case, I fear that Soweto Kinch is destined to remain in the jazz ghetto. However unfair that may seem.