Mercury Prize 2010. Let it be folk this year.

It's that time of year again: the Mercury Prize nominees have been announced. A few good ones, a few bad ones and an ugly one.

Biffy Clyro (Only Revolutions): Standard festival rock. I do think grunge is making a small revival soon, but perhaps not by September's gala. And this album has come a bit too far from their original edginess. I don't want to use the word tired, but...

Laura Marling (I Speak Because I Can):...I'm using the word tired now. I'm slightly tired of these pretty female singer-songwriters who top every possible list every year. Talented? I guess so. Exciting? No.

Wild Beasts (Two Dancers): Definitely no injustice done if these guys walk away as winners. I do feel this would be a bit of an East London-centric choice (or then it's just my own narrow mind, they have been playing in festivals around the country) but then again, the band and the album are rather stellar indie rock.

I am Kloot (Sky At Night): This could be a dark horse, although pitch dark. I think they've been 'bubbling under' for so long that the proper breakthrough is never going to come. Fits perfectly to the Manchester underground scene and dodgy indie venues, but I don't see them holding any shiny plates while cameras flash around them.

The XX (XX): The XX have claimed so much appraise with their eccentric debut album -and deservedly so- that them winning here would perhaps be too much of a good stuff for Jamie and Romy and their fans. I don't think anyone would have any objections if they won. Which might actually be the problem. Too obvious?

Dizzee Rascal (Tongue N' Cheek): This is the ugly one.

Corinne Bailey Rae (The Sea): Copy paste my Laura Marling rant. Albeit this particular album sounds deeper and more interesting than any florencemarlings together. The albums tells about the death of her husband so no wonder there's some true emotion in it.

Mumford & Sons (Sigh No More): Yes, please. I'm a massive fan of this band (and have a crush on Marcus Mumford, but this does not affect my objective opinion of them, nor of Laura Marling, the girlfriend of Marcus. Seriously, it doesn't.) I remember listening to this album for the first time and being immediately in love. Pure, soulful and cleverly written indie folk that just crawls under your skin a little bit. A very well balanced and wholesome album that would make a beautiful winner.



Villagers (Becoming A Jackal): Who? ...Ok, just checked them out. Not bad, but this would be another Speech Debelle (who?), with the difference that this album could actually be liked by people. But still, too marginal.

Foals (Total Life Forever): Foals used to be 'ok'. Their new album is just bad. Frantic and boring.

Kit Downes (Golden): Who? Ah, must be the mandatory jazz act. Last year saw Speech Debelle (who?) winning the prize so I hope the 'yes, let's shake things up and pick the obscure one' attitude has been buried for the next few years.

Paul Weller (Wake Up The Nation): A legend, no doubt. Legendary names in the album cover, no doubt. But is being a legend enough to win the Mercury? I would gladly hand some sort of a trophy pot to this former The Jam man, but maybe not here. More fresh material on the list.

I knew them before they were superstars.

It's been awhile, but I'm back on track again with my pointless music rant. Great.

This time I do actually have a point. It's about my amazing friend Colette. She is the most beautiful thing you've seen and sings like a fallen angel. She and her gorgeous sister Hannah have a band called 2:54.

But don't let the band name put you off (although there is a good story behind that: it refers to a certain Melvins song and a certain moment in it). Have a listen to their song Creepingly, here. The combination of Colette's soft yet overwhelmingly powerful voice and the raw but dreamy shoegaze guitars gives you a few shivers.

They are still at quite early stages of their path, but these girls are going to get big. I might know something that you don't.

They have charmed a few people at Vice already and been mentioned by a few small publications like NME and The Independent, but you heard it here first!

Melissa Auf der Maur, a certain volcano and low fidelity.

There's a silver lining in that gigantic ash cloud: unexpected, bizarre gigs by stranded rock stars. That's what happened in Helsinki last Saturday. The Canadian rock fairy Melissa Auf der Maur got stuck there after her gig on Thursday, and decided to entertain a few lucky ones with a relatively eccentric afternoon performance. The former bassist of Hole (Courtney Love's alt rock group) threw in a bit of off-tune Iron Maiden. Amongst other things.

For once it would have been cool to be in Helsinki and not in London. Oh well. Check out some footage from the exclusive volcano gig here (scroll down for the video). On the courtesy of Rumba, Finland's indie music oracle.

The new MGMT album. Libertines, Pink Floyd? What?

I've now been listening to the new MGMT album, titled Congratulations, for about 33 minutes. Good vibes. They sound like themselves but a bit more grown up, sophisticated and innovative. I would also throw in 'eclectic', 'challenging', 'arty' and 'intricate'. Putting away the dictionary now.

What I really think is The Libertines singing Puff The Magic Dragon at Woodstock 2016. Except the second last track, Lady Dada's Nightmare, which oozes pure Pink Floyd with its instrumental progressive bleakness.

The album was going to be released in April but oops, it leaked out. Sure. Listen to it here:

www.whoismgmt.com

Anyone else getting somewhat strange audiovisions from this baby?

An audiowhore recognises a magnifique remix when she hears one.

A few months ago I woke up a French beast. SugaMotor, a producer/dj didn't really like my slating of one of his rather obnoxious mashups, La Roux vs The Killers.

Now this same chap is calling me an audiowhore. He also sent me a few of his yet unreleased new tracks. Women in general don't like to be called whores of any kind, but hey, he did put smileys in the email. And I must admit that especially one of his new remixes is bloody brilliant. And that's a lot coming from me, since David Bowie is sacred. Now he meets Muse and the sum is, if not more than the original pieces, at least very, very close. Or wait, has David Bowie ever sounded this good?

You heard it here first. Bowie's Moonage Daydream mixed with Muse's Small Print.

Superbe.

The National: Terrible Love

The opening track of The National's next album, High Violet, released in May. No words needed.

Terrible Love

Brooklyn has done it again.

Working at a live music pub has its benefits. Like getting paid to pour whisky to a bunch of jovial Americans, who actually ask how much they should tip and are genuinely fascinated by this amazing British soap brand, then realising these guys are the night's headlining band and then watching them get on stage and play a set which unexpectedly blows your mind a little bit.

That was Scary Mansion at The Old Blue Last yesterday. A perfect combination of fragile beauty and raw energy, ethereal vocals and some seriously innovative drumming. Apart from Dead Weather, Camera Obscura and The Carpenters I strongly prefer male singing (once a groupie, subconciously always a groupie?) but Leah Hayes has a voice that can mend and break your heart, in the same song; mesmerising and delicate yet powerful and a tiny bit hoarse. Truly halting. If Alison Mosshart took a good helping of Valium she would probably sound something like this.

(Here's one of their slower pieces, Go To Hell. The video is of utterly crap quality, I apologise)


I pinned Leah, Brad (Banks, bass) and Ben (Shapiro, drums) down for a quick chat after their gig. I managed to find out that they have been together for six years, hail from Brooklyn (no kidding), are signed to Talitres Records and search inspiration from for example "terrifying basslines" and grunge, Weezer and other stuff they were into as teenagers. Then Leah, the most sober one of the three, got a phone call from her mother and I was left with the boys. Who, don't get me wrong, were the funniest and most charming chaps ever but as interviewees a bit on the challenging side. So we ended up discussing about the philosophy of binge drinking, naked rampages, The Economist and world economy and the Conservative party, London kebabs and the hipster potential of Austin, Texas. Amongst other things.

All good. Anyway, if you fancy checking out a fresh-sounding, shoegazy and noisy dreampop/indierock three-piece, head to Camden's Black Heart tonight for their last UK date. Or get your hands on their second album Make Me Cry and put it on while you sneak in to Alton Towers with your secret crush after closing hour. Trust me, this stuff is made for forbidden rollercoaster rides, the haunted house and cotton candy in the moonlight.

Phenomenal?

If not quite then at least interesting. The Phenomenal Handclap Band are playing at Cargo next Tuesday (9th March). Imagine big band funk meets rock'n'roll with some sort of bizarre CSSesque dance twist. That's all your feet need to know. A word of warning though: there's a fine line between charmingly contagious and plain annoying. I haven't decided yet where we stand with these lot.

Fever Ray. I'm speechless. She isn't.

I knew that Swedes are a bit weird but this is a bit too obscure even for them... Check out Fever Ray's speech at P3 Gold awards gala, where she received the prize for the Best Dance Artist of the Year. (You don't need to speak Swedish to understand this. Or not to understand this.)

Hebrew and indie are actually quite a nice match.

I'm not hugely keen on ethnic music; anything beyond Vampire Weekend's easily digestible afro hues has been a bit too nationalgeographic for my liking. Then came Fool's Gold.

My booking agent flatmate fell for this group a year ago at SXSW and now brought them to UK for a mini tour. Monday night at Pure Groove Records in Farringdon: small space, big band, massive tunes. They have banjos and weird percussions and they sing in Hebrew. It's the most contagious feel good music I've encountered for a while.

(Sorry about the quality of the footage. N81 a multimedia phone my ass)

There's rock. And then there's Brit rock.

Even before I moved to London, I had a thing for England. Oasis were my first step towards the sex, drugs and rock lifestyle I still so shamelessly admire, I wore a Union Jack at my high school graduation party (like, erm, Geri Halliwell did) and wanted to put a poster of London tube map on my wall.

Now, I avoid the tube like plague and the map makes me physically sick (as does Geri Halliwell). But the music... where do I start. There's a weird element in Brit rock/pop which completely mesmerises me, time after time. It's almost like you can hear the rain dropping and cutting sarcasm in the songs. You can smell the old pub air and cider-stained carpets. You can see the black skinny jeans and five-day stubble. You can feel the decadence, darkness and wit. And although Brits are not the greatest lovers and the cocaine in London doesn't deliver and you might get mugged by your dealer, there's still the rock'n'roll.

Some kind soul has put together a quite impressive Spotify playlist of one of the greatest eras in music history (I'm serious here). Let the rain fall.

50 anthems that defined Britpop

Eat your heart out, Brian Wilson.

I like sitting in dark corners and drinking whisky to Velvet Underground. So I seldom get massively excited by a dancey (post-80's) synthpop tune. But here's something that doesn't require mohitos or plant food to get you to tap your feet until they bleed and to hum the melody with a ridiculous grin on your face although your grandfather just died. Here's a geniusly written pop song, a proof that (post-80's) dancey synth music deserves a chance after all. Here's Wolf Gang's "King And All Of his Men", The Beach Boys of the 21st century, polished and preppy David Bowie of 2009. Catchy and proud of it.

Single launch party tonight (Tuesday) at Legion, Old Street, London.

Interview with Wild Palms

Another day, another East London indie band. Yawn. Or wait. Poke around long enough and you may unearth a group that does something genuinely interesting, new and edgy; is down to earth, unpretentious and frankly couldn’t give a s**t about the hipster scene. Meet Wild Palms, a genre-defying alternative post-punk band from actually not East but North London. I sat down with their charming front-man Lou Hill to drink Red Stripes and coffee and chat about hard work, Italian politics and Ian Curtis.

Hey Lou. Cheers for coming. What have you been up to lately?
-Helping out my Nan, taking care of my little sister, making music...the basics.

23 years old and a family man! Admirable these days. What's your view on the East London music scene?
-We are not really part of that...Especially Shoreditch is full of average bands who play just because it's cool, and it's all about who you know and where you are seen. Of course there are a few excellent bands as well, like Electricity In Our Homes, but generally we try to stay outside the scene and do our own thing. We don't even know any of the "important" people.

Working ethics is indeed a rare thing around here.
-Yeah, you see a lot of bands walking around like celebrities after they've played one gig at some trendy venue. They forget about the stuff behind it. We've always loved hard work, for example in the studio. That's us, not fashion parties or networking. Hopefully someday somebody finds us and gives us money!

The question all bands hate: what are your influences?
-It's more about the attitude. Uncompromising love for music, for the sake of music. Billy Childish or Captain Beefheart.

How are you live?
-We try to bring art to the shows. Our guitarist Darrell is a mad artist, he's for example done a massive canvas we are going to use as a background. Something different than a smoke machine and spot lights. We have more ideas but I won't give them away yet...

Sounds wicked. Any funny rituals before gigs?
-You mean apart from still being extremely nervous?

Yes. Excessive drinking?
-Can't do that anymore. On our last UK tour I realised that smoking and drinking really do no good to your voice.

Next up is a tour in Italy. How did you land that? What do you think about Silvio Berlusconi?
-Haha, you mean the fat old man that walks around with young blondes and owns half of the media? It's just weird, very weird. But I guess Italians are very open to bands from London and our kind of music. Next year we'll be heading to Europe, USA and Japan.

Big plans. So Wild Palms is your job now?
-Pretty much. You can't really look for another job when the first thing you would do is to take two months off. The downside is that we are all really skint. I'm living at home at the moment, we can't afford to go to bars or gigs. So we end up drinking in parks and going to house parties. Which is still very much fun.

What would you do without music? You've studied English Literature?
-I love writing and books. And I've been working with my dad doing carpentry. So maybe doing that by day and then writing by night.

Romance is not dead. Thanks Lou!

Oh, Ian Curtis. We didn't really chat about him; I compared Lou to him and he went all blushing and adorably confused. So, if any of that scenester talk seemed arrogant to you, I assure you, it's everything but. These guys are the most humble, hard-working and genuine lot East London has seen for awhile.

P.S And if that talk about being found and financed seemed wishful thinking, it's everything but. Literally ten minutes after our interview Wild Palms got signed to a London indie label One Little Indian. Congrats!

Five questions to the dreamy Depreciation Guild.

If you find yourself drooling over the noisy pop of The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart (the fresh-faced New Yorkers with rose-scented sweat), you might want to oil your ears with these guys as well: Depreciation Guild. A tad more ethereal, a tad more dreamy than POBPAH, they do master the same sound scape, the same sweet, uplifting indie geekiness full of jangly guitars and reverbs.

Two out the three members of Depreciation Guild also play in POBPAH, but call it a "side project" and you might see frontman (he's the type of guy you would love to take home to meet your parents, unless you have rebellion issues) Kurt Feldman, 25, frowning. Just a little bit though; I doubt he or his bandmates, twin brothers Christoph and Anton Hochheim, are capable of any kind of even remotely hostile feelings.

Depreciation Guild played a lush gig at The Old Blue Last on a freezing Wednesday night a few days ago (Nov 25th), and I got the chance to talk to Kurt for five quick minutes after their show.

1. So how did Depreciation Guild get started? And what's the deal with The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart?

-We are sometimes seen as a side project of the Pains, since I play drums with them and Christoph is the second guitarist. But Depreciation Guild actually came first. It was 2005, I had been writing down some songs and started playing them with another mate of mine. He's not with us anymore, but I got Christoph and Anton in a few years later and here we are. POBPAH needed a drummer so I joined them as well, although I'm not really a drummer!

2. What inspires you?

-I started making music because of my love for pop, especially synth pop. I listen to a lot of early and late 80's stuff, dreampop, and for example Bill Nelson, Cocteau Twins, The Pastels and Kissing The Pink. We usually have this Japanese Nintendo machine with us to make the electronic sounds.

3. Describe your sound to a ten-year-old?

-Oh god... erm, pretty-sounding rock. Loud, pretty-sounding rock, that's it.

4. Don't take this the wrong way, but the same way as POBPAH, you guys look and sound and seem very innocent, pure and sweet. And this is definitely a compliment. Give me the dirt, you can't be all that nice all the time?

-Haha, I definitely like what I'm hearing here. We are genuinely ourselves, not just pretending to be something. I mean we do maybe a bit of drugs sometimes and that sort of stuff, but we really are mostly good people!

5. Talking about cliches: you're an indie band from Brooklyn. How's London, another alt pop mecca, treating you so far? You've played here quite a lot recently?

-Yeah, an indie group from Brooklyn playing in East London...hah. But it's really good here, we are getting to know the city and the different areas and vibes. I really like Brixton, we've been staying there with a friend and found a few excellent pizza and coffee places.

Ah, Brixton. There came the one little infraction I needed to convince myself these guys aren't just a twee, shiny and picturesque design poster, programmed to allure teenage girls to the dreamland. With track names like Butterfly Kisses and Dream About Me and faces straight from a Clerasil ad, I momentarily got distracted. All good now. They boys gave me their album, annoyingly cleverly and quirkily named In her Gentle Jaws, and I am hooked. Gladly.

Glasto speculations... Jagger? Bowie? TCV? Elvis?

I don't often agree with NME but today I've done it twice, and it's not even 5pm.

First, U2 was announced as Friday's headline act for Glastonbury 2010. Nice. No, I don't like Bono's pretentious save-the whales-or-you-suck attitude or his lethargic dad rock any more than you do. But there are five pretty valid reasons, why the Irish lot make an excellent choice for Pyramid stage. NME states them here. In a nutshell: U2 is a perfect stadium-scale band for a drugged-up and happy crowd more heterogenic than United Nations, since everybody has some sort of relationship with them. They feel familiar with a capital F (this is important when you're high and emotional and wet and having one of those life-defining moments, but can't really see the stage). Plus they have big egos and big sound and big hits that cater beautifully all the big, blurry sing-a-longs. And they play rock music. Fuck Jay-Z and 2008.

Secondly, if U2 headlines on Friday, then who headlines the whole festival on Saturday? NME has two words for you, which I gladly repeat: Rolling Stones. I'll repeat them once again: Rolling Stones. This makes sense; the band are one of the few if not the only band with a greater status than U2 and who still spend more time playing music than in rehab or bingo halls. Then again, U2 can only play on Friday due to their American tour schedule, so Eavis might have been forced to take the mighty name whenever they can play and fill Saturday up with a smaller orchestra.

I will throw in one more name: Them Crooked Vultures. Probably not mainstream enough to take over on Saturday, but these guys kick ass and I have a feeling they'll do it in Glastonbury. David Bowie is also mentioned, but I won't speculate with that yet since I would get a stroke and die and go to heaven.

Anyway, immensity is on the way. And thank god I have no more appendixes to lose this time.

You can take a boy out of East London

Yes, it's me and Big Pink again. This time I've just actually met them. I sat down with Robbie Furze and Milo Cordell at Boston Arms, a proper old man's watering hole in, erm, Tufnell Park. Some serious N19 for you. It wasn't my choice of venue, it clearly wasn't the guys' pick either, but they were about to throw a small, exclusive gig at the Dome next door. I think we blended right in with the hairy punters watching horse race and the morbidly obese pensioners in sweaty track suits.

Well, no we didn't. I have blond hair. The boys looked very East London. The boys acted very East London: bored, funny, cheeky, arrogant, friendly, too cool and a bit spaced out. The boys are East London, no matter if they admit it or not; all the way from the first drug-themed interview with Vice to being signed to one of the sexiest labels and running one themselves, from sporting perfectly ragged leather jackets to djing at warehouse raves to hanging out with Klaxons. Some serious E8 for you.

I whined about how impossible it had been to get the interview, Milo kindly got me a drink. I confessed my passionate love for their music. They didn't care that much. Robbie explained me their manic tour schedule for the past few months. And yes, touring: it includes the sex, drugs and rock'n'roll ("except the sex" as Milo corrected). If you really want to know what's going on on the road and what do the Muse crew eat, check out this blog, by their stage drummer Akiko Matsuura. Brilliant.

We chatted about taking over America, we argued whether Big Pink are partly hip hop or not (the guys reckon yes, but I think they're wrong), we reminisced Flow Festival and Helsinki last August, which Robbie and Milo loved to the extent of pondering to move there (I suggest they wouldn't), we talked about emotions and then I listened to them spitting on Jim Morrison's grave.

All in all, a nice one. You can read the whole tale in the next issue of Rumba.

Why is Big Pink so damn good? I shared my sharp analysis with them, I'm now sharing it with you: here's something that has found the exact, golden spot in the continuum of rock music history. It has the classic element, it derives from the legends, it echoes the first notes of blues and soul, it has roots. And at the same time it has the futuristic touch, it pushes boundaries, it electrifies and excites, it bursts innovation. Should it incline an inch too much to the classic side, it'd sound boring. Should it incline an inch too much to the futuristic side, it'd last a fortnight and then be buried at the cemetery of cutting-edge indie bands in Dalston.

Find the perfect spot, grow your sound, embrace epic, break hearts, misbehave, add some Jesus and Mary Chain, gaze down, trip up, and you are Big Pink.

Three bands at Dublin Castle and how I learned the concept of utter crap.

I went to Dublin Castle. The combination of Wednesday night and a few unsigned young bands could be a hit or a miss but considering the venue, a legendary indie rock cave in Camden, it shouldn't be this big of a miss. I think I witnessed the epitome of crap.

There was a band whose singer had such big boobs that she couldn't bend over to grab her pint of Guinness from the floor. She asked a guy in the audience (about eight people) to do it. They had a song called Sex, It Rocks. The drummer was wearing one of those neon-coloured construction site vests, and after the first song he took off the shirt he was wearing under it. The singer then asked for some underwear to be thrown on stage. They sounded like a massive cage full of tortured felines. There were only two people on stage.

The next band on consisted of five young boys. Not men, guys or even lads, but boys. And while four of them were actually technically quite good, the fifth one unfortunately wasn't. Sometimes you can hide the weakest link in your group but not when the weakest link happens to be the lead singer. His voice couldn't have carried an anorexic 9-year-old, let alone noisy and energetic rock. Oh, the guitarist of the band had no hand. Literally. I'm a small person and a bit disturbed by it but on the other hand (sorry, couldn't resist) I admire him. The admiration was compensated by his horrendous clothes. Think of American junior high school goes Primark.

At this point I was about to leave but bumped into two mental girls with pink hair. We downed a few sambuccas, trashed the bands and so I stayed. The next guys looked right (you can't go wrong with black skinny jeans and pointy shoes) but that's where the evolution stopped. Another lead singer that should wait until their voice breaks before they grab the mic. And after grabbing the mic, they should grab the pitch. The tune? One note? Whatever it is that you're supposed to be grabbing, it was far out for this guy. Kudos to the mental guitarist who spinned around and tossed and turned like almost an actual punk-rocker. The bassist had a gorgeous face but exchanged smitten looks with the girl drummer, which kind of killed the last incentive I had to watch the rest of the show.

I'm sorry, maybe I had a bad day. I did have a bad day. I love indie bands, good or bad or ugly and I respect their efforts and dedication to make it big, although most of them will never see an audience bigger than their family and cousins. But in a venue that once hosted Madness and Babyshambles, you do expect some kind of quality. And for the bands: yes, you are all mates and have been playing since third grade. But if your lead singer just cannot sing, let them go. It hurts, but it has to be done. Why are they singing in the first place? Is it the case of football goalkeepers? Just pick the guy who draws the shortest stick and make them take the spot since nobody else wants to?

Names of the victims have been intentionally left unrevealed. I'm not that cruel. Just a pretentious, snobbish music writer.

Dead Weather @ Shoreditch Church, 31st October. Wicked.

Halloween, 8.25pm, east London: The moon was full and beer-sipping zombies wide awake when Jack White led his crew to the stage. Or the altar in this case. White, Alison Mosshart, Dean Fertita and Jack Lawrence stood in line, then one by one revealed their faces behind the masks, took their instruments and released the first ominous chords of Forever My Queen. A few hundred lucky fans had got in, at least the same amount of unlucky ones were left outside.

A dingy church makes a rather cool backdrop for any gig, but for a band like Dead Weather it goes beyond cool. Blame it on Mosshart; when this chick grabs the microphone and starts writhing her tiny body, she looks like she is possessed. And when she starts singing with that pitch dark, sweet but vicious voice of hers, occasionally resembling some sort of I-scream-because-I-am-being-tormented-and-I-love-it shrieking, you are certain she is possessed. And having stood about three meters from the stage, I swear her eyes were gleeming abnormally as she flirted with the front row. Add the slightly manic mad man Jack White, two silent but equally manic side men Fertita and Lawrence, a giant icon and an even bigger wooden cross to the background and you'll get the picture. A large-scale game of spiritism, anyone?



I Can't Hear you

While Mosshart is unarguably the queen of alternative, Jack White still carries the shiniest crown in the band: every time he talked or moved away from the drum kit, people went crazy. And I have to admit that his solo piece, a Them cover You Just Can't Win, gave me the chills. Yes, I want Mosshart, I want to kiss her, shag her, I want to be her. But Jack White is Jack White, the guy whose touch turns a piece of copper into gold. The relationship between these two intrigues me. In one moment they seem like rivalling siblings, the next passionate lovers or platonic muses to each other. Whatever it is, it's intense, massively engaging and definitely working.

Other gems on the set list included a new song I Can't Hear You, Mosshart's bravura Hang You From The Heavens, tighter than tight I Cut Like a Buffalo and of course Treat Me Like Your Mother, which wrapped the night up. After eight songs the treat was over and the couple hunderd lucky souls gently pushed out of the church. I think I wasn't the only one feeling a bit religious.


You Just Can't Win

Dead Weather in a church. Near you.

Jack White equals God. And now quite literally: according to my pretty reliable sources (aren't they always?) Dead Weather are playing a secret gig this weekend in Shoreditch Church. White's label Third Man Records are setting up a pop up music store there on Friday and Saturday (the 30th-31st), selling exclusive merchandise and rare vinyls, and to put a cherry on top of this rather cool concept the band will throw a surprise performance at the altar around 7pm on Saturday.

Mr White masters not only the art of rock but also the changing music business: while music sales are struggling and chords have become mere digits on your laptop, one has to invent alternative ways to get some cash in and, more importantly, excite and engage the fans. Dead Weather experimented with Twitter and live-streaming a few months ago, and now they are taking over a church in East London. This is a gospel session not to be missed.

I do wonder where they will put all the hobos residing in the front yard.

I'll smile when La Roux falls off the earth.

Half of the world's population agree that The Killers got it a bit wrong with their latest album, the 80's camp disco compilation about humans and dancers. Still, their first two albums were brilliant. And Brandon Flower's voice still echoes of raw beauty. So, still, The Killers are one of the essential indie rock groups to me. That's why this hurts:




It's a rape. Some French club clown Sugamotor has remixed The Killers' song Smile Like You Mean It with La Roux's Bulletproof. The result is 'Smile Like You're Bulletproof'. The track starts off as the original The Killers track, but just when you expect to hear the incredible Mr Flowers, you get a nasty surprise: the singer is not Brandon but some 15-year-old Essex girl in PMS pains rehearsing for X-Factor auditions...no, wait, it's La Roux. It seriously scared me when she began singing.

And for some reason it's been topping HypeMachine and creating some sort of morbid buzz around the web. To which I'm contributing as well by blogging about this piece of bullcrap. Shame on me.

Gig review: Big Pink @ Electric Ballroom, 22nd Oct

God damn you, Big Pink.

Anyone who knows me or has been following this blog is probably aware of how I feel about this band. I adore them. Not even trying to maintain any kind of journalistic pride here. So, when they come on stage, open with Too Young To Love and Frisk, a tune bigger than an average American arse, throw in tracks like Velvet, Crystal Visions, These Arms of Mine (a ravishing slow piece originally by Otis Redding) and Dominos, exit the stage after about 40 minutes and don't come back for an encore, there's just one thing on my mind: god damn you, Big Pink. I wanted more. (There's an excellent Guardian article on how encores have suffered inflation, by the way.)

The gig was as great as expected. The band sounded amazing, their each song rose to epic measures and they looked stunning on stage. The last fact annoys me, since I occasionally would have loved to just close my eyes and feel the music in my bones and ignore the chubby Elvis-doppelganger sweating next to me with his entourage of underaged girls, but with Big Pink you cannot help but stare at the show. It might be the incredible rock'n'roll halo surrounding lead singer Robbie Furze, his manic guitar abusing antics and the signature biker jacket, combined with Milo Cordell's intense keyboard banging and their live-drummer Akiko Matsuura's bitchy bashing and sweet backing vocals. And when all of this happens under an astonishing, carefully planned lightshow which makes the band look like a divine intervention, you cannot not stare. You're rocked out of your skin and mesmerised to a degree of ridiculousness.

They took a part of my life last night, indeed.

Five things you have to hear (and see) this week

1. Those Dancing Days: Home Sweet Home
The track is brilliant. Sturdy cherry pop that will guarantee a smile on yer face. The video is bloody brilliant; Swedes aren't usually the masters of self-irony, but I'm quite sure that the background pictures are from one of the funniest books I've ever read, called "Tråkiga Vykorten", "Horrendous postcards". Sweden at its best.



2. The Flaming Lips with Karen O: I Can Be a Frog
Another mental music video. This one is somehow very disturbing. But the track soothes and haunts, scares and comforts you at the same time. And The Flaming Lips meets Karen O, talking about a match made in heaven. Check out also the new Lips album Embryonic (Guardian review here).

3. Julian Casablancas: 11th Dimension
This song interests me. Not necessarily appeal to me, annoy or dazzle me. But it interests me. I don't know whether that's a good thing or not, but at least I'll be listening to it over and over again. I did like The Strokes (who didn't?) but I never fell for them massively. This solo project of their former front man steps to a different direction from the quintessential indie rock group. As Pitchfork puts it, it does not rock, but 'chirps and buzzes'. Contagious is the expression.

4. Volcano Choir: Island, IS
In addition to the amazing album sleeve (on the right; it might be just a Scandinavian thing, but the cover truly halts me), Volcanic Choir crawls under your skin with their harmonic prog pop they way that Arcade Fire did when you first heard Funeral. And because the mankind shouldn't have to survive without Bon Iver, who recently announced an indefinite hiatus his solo act, him continuing to perform as the lead singer of this orchestra is a small-scale salvation.

5. Cant: Ghosts
For some reason I'm drawn to droning guitars, spooky atmosphere and haunting harmonies this week. Pre-November symptoms? The fifth track of the week is a dreamy ambient folk-rock piece by Chris Taylor from Grizzly Bear, under his new solo moniker Cant. A trip to a house of friendly horrors.

Final Countdown...

...17 days. Until I'm going to dress up as a hairy glam rock monster lady and go see Europe play at The Relentless Garage, Islington. We are trying to persuade our French music snob flatmate to come with us. He said he might consider it, if we indeed masquerade ourselves. He can't be seen in public at Europe gig.

I, on the other hand, can't wait. Yes, their music is pretty, erm, tacky. But I guess there's the same charm to it as there was seeing Bruce Springsteen at Glastonbury, singing Dancing in the Dark (well not actually seeing him, but a tiny black spot that allegedly was The Boss). It's just legendary.

This track might be even bigger than Final Countdown.

Alan, the rock star

This an ad post. Well, not advertising Doritos here (I'm not a fan of crisps; Britons obsession with them is something I've never quite understood) but pointing out an excellent ad for Doritos and Guitar Hero. Meet Alan, a guy who has lost his inner spark to be a rock star. And watch him find it again.

Working in advertising and living for music, I like it when these two worlds collide. In an emotional and amusing way.

Five things that you have to hear this week

There is just too much new(ish) music. To keep track of all the latest and sweetest stuff I'm going to start a weekly post titled 'ifyouaregoingtocheckoutonlyfivenewthingsthisweekthesearetheones'. So, if you are going to check out only five new things this week, these are the ones.

1. The Big Pink's debut album A Brief History of Love (Spotify link). I've been ranting about these guys for a while know, but they top everything. Seriously everything. This album epitomises epic. It's immense. Jangly guitars, grand melodies and shoegazey darkness. The track Frisk will change your life.

2. Monsters of Folk. Supergroups, supergroups... My Morning Jacket plus Bright Eyes plus M. Ward equals extreme niceness. Stream a few songs on their website. The track Say Please is a charming mix of Arcade Fire and 80's glam rock guitars.

3. GIRLS. Indie rock from San Francisco. Or tropical/gothic/trash as their MySpace site suggests. Beach Boys on cocaine in 2036. If you're stuck in a meaningless office job or just a bit suicidal in general, check out especially Hellhole Ratrace.

4. Mumford&Sons. The biggest hype around folk is gone (Fleet Foxes ruled a year ago) but who cares. This week's second helping of gypsyish musica is this.

5. The Drums. Surfy post punk from Brooklyn. Nasal vocals and up-beat tempo. Sounds better than what I just wrote. MySpace here.

It's still Monday and misery. But it's better to cry to a good soundtrack than in silence.

Did The Beatles really define rock?

It's the year of The Beatles. Or better yet their remastered albums.

There has been much debate whether these pop icons are really worthy of all the hype. Is their music truly evergreen? Were they really that talented, progressive or pioneering? Did they define rock music? Did they define pop music?

Albeit I'm not qualified to evaluate the technical superiority of the group, I reckon it wasn´t massively impressive. But I bet my left hand that The Beatles did define something: pop music culture. They were the first one to create mass hysteria, to inspire societal movement with their songs, to start the revolution of the young. They became the voice, the interpreter, the symbol of something bigger.

One could also argue that they were the product of their time; if it hadn't been The Beatles, it would have been someone else. The attitude and atmosphere were screaming for someone to come and epitomise it. And it happened to be these four British gentlemen with hip haircuts and dreamy eyes.

To compare their musical effect to for example Pink Floyd is a bit cruel. Sure, they did have quite a few clever tunes (Yellow Submarine was not one of them) but their brilliance lies in somewhere else than the acid-fuelled, surreal, contagious ringtone rhymes.

An hour with The xx and a few facts that make you smile

I've been doing this music writing thing now for a while. Where the hell are all the arrogant and rude rock stars? I've only met with either proper professionals (Martin Gore from Depeche Mode), hilarious comedians (Beastie Boys), well-behaving and friendly Londoners (New Young Ponies) or nicer-than-nice Americans (The Pains of Being Pure at Heart). And now, sickeningly sweet and humble 20-year-old wunderkids, The xx.

I was warned that these guys might be on the quiet side and give you answers like 'yes' and 'no', 'maybe' if you're lucky. That's bollocks. I just spent a very pleasant hour with Oliver, Romy and Jamie in a design hotel lobby, drinking soft drinks and chatting about love songs, family holidays and Chris Isaak.

Their recently released debut album, XX (on Young Turks), has caused a small storm. And for a very valid reason: it's ace. Of course, there's a new indie group hyped up to be the most original thing since Pink Floyd every week, but with The xx we are not too far from actually witnessing that happening. They sound bare and vulnerable yet incredibly strong and comforting. They creep you out in the most enjoyable way. Rather than trying to describe their soundscape, I'll let it whisper for itself:



The endearing thing is that these prodigies are as genuine as their music. They seem stunned and grateful by all the sudden attention they are getting. And flattered and surprised by making it number 6 on the NME's Top 50 future list. (The truth being that list would waste every inch of the poor quality paper it's printed on without them, The Big Pink and Micachu.) And when I told them that Drowned in Sound has nominated their album as the soundtrack for bad, earnest sex, they perhaps blushed a little bit but were definitely delighted.

The love songs, Chris Isaak and family holidays? Their every track is a love song and addressed to 'you'. No, they are not a couple, never have been and never will be. As intensely and closely the singers Romy and Oliver are tied together, they are more like siblings.

Which leads us to the family holidays; the two have known each other since the age of three and their families are friends. At that stage it's the parents who dictate who you hang out with at the sandbox. So Romy, probably sporting black overalls, met Oliver, Oliver, probably sporting black overalls, met Romy, and they have been pretty much inseparable ever since. According to Oliver there's a progress book from the nursery school where all the pictures feature the two playing xylophone together. They went on family holidays and through high school together. And they found the world of music together.

Chris Isaak? Their list of influences includes every single genre of music, apart from heavy metal. They've covered Aaliyah's Hot Like Fire, worked with Diplo and listen to 80's pop, folk and a bit of Chris Isaak. They love Massive Attack, Portishead and CocoRosie.

A few other quick facts: the name of the band is intentionally ambiguous but they chose it for its visual appeal and versatility. Oliver would secretly like to be a barber. Romy has just lost her laptop and iPod and new camera (but she refused to reveal the story behind this). They write songs via iChat. They would like to play at The Natural History Museum, but are looking forward to supporting Florence at Shepherd's Bush Empire at the end of this month. Jamie skateboards in Bank. Romy likes The Lexington pub in King's Cross.

And when asked to tell something, anything, about the band, they want you to check out their mates' band Trailer Trash Tracys, which they are hugely into. Talking about sweet and humble.



The interview as a whole in the next issue of Rumba.

It's not that I hate Speech Debelle herself...

Mercury prize evening. The winner is Speech Debelle.

10.45pm: WTF? This is just wrong. God, I hate rap. Fucking idiots. The whole Mercury price has lost its meaning. I hate rap.

10.48pm: Well this is a bit gash. But if I think about it, it's not that big of a surprise. She was high on the betting agencies' lists. She's the perfect newcomer. Critically acclaimed and 'original'. However, The Horrors deserved to win. I hate rap.

10.53pm: I can live with this. I guess the judges wanted to make a statement this year. Not really sure what that would be though. Thank lord La Roux leaves home with empty hands. I wish The Horrors had win. I hate rap.

10.55pm: It's not that bad actually. Now the winner of Mercury 2010 will most likely be again an indie band with at least guitars and lyrics, hopefully also whoreditch haircuts and leather jackets. And hey, now The Horrors will maintain the last crumbles of their indie/underground status. Speech Debelle will go on and record a rap version of Jingle Bells for the Christmas market. I hate rap.

11.01pm: So, I had a second listen to a few of her songs. What can I say? I hate rap.

Party hard to Für Elise but don't trash the record shelves.

Andrew WK is doing an in-store gig at Rough Trade East next Saturday (12th of September).

I saw him play at The Old Blue a while ago and the place was turned into a zoo. Spit, sweat, bruises and ket.

I wonder how he will perform in a civilised environment like a record store. I wonder if the shop will survive. The essence of this joke-like Californian pseudo-punk's performance is to rage with his audience, not at them. I also wonder how come this man is still alive and why he is even remotely popular.

Now he's releasing an instrumental piano album, Cadillac 55. Sic. Sick. I'm not going to listen to it (here's a good one on it). But if the monkey stays behind the piano, at least the record shelves are safe. Though I would still cover the vinyls.

Andrew WK - Party Hard - Punk Rock Holocaust - Warped Tour 2003

The future of music is here. It's not Animal Collective.

So NME's summer interns have again compiled the annual Top 50 list of the shapers and shakers of future's music. It's quite bad. I don't think Little Boots, Dizzee Rascal, a one-off slapstick joke made big by Vice or some crappy kids' TV show are influencing anything. Neither is the number one on the list, Animal Collective.

Slating Animal Collective in an indie rock blog is not wise. But someone has to do it. I've never understood the hype or critics' praise of this Pitchfork pet group. I'm probably not smart or exciting enough. But their music resembles their latest album sleeve: pseudo psychedelic, monotonic, slightly disturbing but most of all just boring. Like backpacking in Thailand. Been there, done that. A full moon party with two hundred chavs from Leeds in their Billabong shorts, high on supermarket shrooms and Imodium. Great.

Yes, Animal Collective have been shaping the genre of experimental noise in the past, majorly so, but who honestly thinks they have cut edge in any way after 2005? Things have moved on, the second wave of experimentalists are here and luckily they simply sound more enjoyable.

Inspired by the above ranting, here's my list of Top 7 music trends right now. Or in a bit. Based on no kind of professional insight or extensive experience or refined taste. In no particular order.

1. Animal Collective 2.0
Deerhoof, Metronomy, Passion Pit, Grizzly Bear, Mew... the new kids of freakish electronic alt pop. Warmer, more genuine and interesting, less forced and ascetic than the progenitor. These are actually a joy to listen to, whereas AC is an endurance test. (Mew may be classified as veterans but bloody fresh ones; album after album, no matter how ridiculously named, they bring smørrebrød and cakes and surprises to the party)

2. Big Pink (NME's 20th),
They just are. They have a classic but contemporary sound, golden 60's rock era meets electric futurism. They look and shoegaze like an iconic rock band should look and shoegaze, but feel intriguingly innovative at the same time. I can't really pinpoint it, they hit a nerve. Test your neuroanatomics with this.

3. Bandstocks (NME's 27th)
MySpace empowered fans to find new acts past official A&Es but it was still the labels who decided what would be produced. With Bandstocks the cash flows now directly from fans to bands, giving fans more opportunities to affect the actual production decision.

4. Mobile applications and services
Changing the way we listen to music. Changing the way we connect with bands. You can already find out the mystery song that's playing at a pub (Shazaam), remix your version of a whole album (Romplr) and tweet your way through a gig (Twitgig). Lily Allen twittering (NME's 19th) what she had for breakfast does not qualify here.

5. White Denim
Could these guys cure 'indie rock' from its current identity crisis? The Killers went mad and bad (though Brandon Flowers still has it), razorlights, plainwhitetees and other fluffy and cutesy pop-punksters lasted about as long as a commercial break during Skins, and the traditional shambolic London rock clan led by the carcass of Peter Doherty is still there but probably in rehab. White Denim already have a steady, devoted listener base and a sound that has huge potential. Classic but with a raw twist, they might be the next benchmark, the new Strokes.

6. Boy girl thing
Following Sonic Youth, The Pixies and The White Stripes, boy/girl groups are finally a growing trend . The XX, Pains Of Being Pure At Heart, Dead Weather, Silversun Pickups, I Heart Hiroshima...The best of both worlds.

7. Dead Weather and other supergroups
Nothing groundbreaking in the concept itself, but Jack White broke the bank and suddenly these superbands seem to be on everyone's lips. TCV causing the latest mayhem. Check out also The Almighty Defenders.

The end of story and glory?

On Friday night, August the 28th, Noel Gallagher stated on Oasis website that he will quit the band.

Oh. Like in 1994 when his bro Liam, off his head on crystal meth, struck him with a tambourine during a gig and making him quit the group? Or like in 1996 when he flew home from a tour on a different plane than rest of the band, allegedly ready to pack in? Or like in 2000 when he walked out on Oasis' massive world tour after Liam had insulted his wife and child on a drunken pub night?

Quittin' ain't easy. Even if you have a brother like Liam. This time apparently, my oracle French flatmate told me after a chat with the festival organisers in Paris, there had been actual fighting and Liam had smashed Noel's most treasured guitar.

Is it definitely over, or maybe? I would be sad to see an end of an era, there aren't that many bands these days that still sound, look and act the way a true rock'n'roll bands used to do.

Them Crooked Vultures @ Brixton Academy. A small piece of rock history?

I think I may have witnessed a tiny bit of rock'n'roll history being written last night. The mother of all of today's supergroups, Them Crooked Vultures, played their unannounced UK debut supporting Arctic Monkeys at Brixton Academy on a rainy wednesday evening.

Well, "supported". When you put these guys together on stage, unless bringing back The Beatles or Ian Curtis to headline, support is not the verb. Josh Homme of Queens of The Stone Age, John Paul Jones of Led Zeppelin and Dave Grohl of Foo Fighters (and Nirvana) played an hour-long set which epitomised rock music. It was tight, tough and technically so advanced, that even the few overly lengthy instrumental bits went down easily and with pleasure. It was prog rock and hard rock, a bit of blues and a hint of jazz. It was fun.

And it was fresh. Joining three immense musicians with backgrounds like these might result in a pompous and recycled collection of yesterday's hits, but not with TCV. It's clear that the gentlemen are driven by ambition and a passion to make good music; not by the fear of being forgotten with their current or past, perhaps somewhat tired, main bands. That's professionalism.

Nobody Loves Me And Neither Do I, Caligulove, Elephants and Gunman raised perhaps the biggest applauds. The audience was there to see Arctic Monkeys but apart from Independent's music journalist, a few mandatory chavs and other unlucky souls I don't think there was anyone who hadn't heard the rumours about the "very special guests"; the queue was massive before 7pm.

And the brightest star of the night? Dave Grohl. I'm not sure if his drum kit was screaming from pain or pleasure, probably both, but that man is a living legend. Grohl is not a drummer; a drummer is Grohl.

Suicide seems to suit at least Bruce, Klaxons and The Horrors.

Listening to covers of classic tracks and iconic bands is like dating your second cousin. It feels a little bit forbidden albeit there's no law against it. It can blow your mind, it can break your heart or it can be awkward. Many times it's disturbing or just dull.

Sometimes the song and the covering artist are an effortless match, in which case the listener is safe from co-humiliation. I just found a bunch of these matches: UK label Blast Petite (first) have been putting out a series of 10''s including covers of Suicide, a legendary synth punk group from the 70s. And they've somehow managed to find the perfect artist for every song.

Each EP includes a cover from a renown artist, an unreleased piece by Suicide from the archives and a cover by a promising newer act. The project, in honour of vocalist Alan Vega's 70th birthday, started a year ago and will continue for another.

"Dream Baby Dream" could be Springsteen's own, as could "Shadazz" by The Horrors. Still these are tributes not thefts. The most recent EP is headlined by the Klaxons. "Sweetheart" sounds nothing like Klaxons but as NME states is well worth a listen. It might break your heart. The best possible way. (Preview/download here)

So far, so good. Still to come are for example Glasvegas, Peaches, Liars, Nick Cave and Mogwai. Intriguing is an understatement.

Sometimes, just sometimes London is easy

Yesterday I heard from a friend that The XX are playing an in-store gig at Rough Trade East later that evening. The shop is around the corner from where I work so I walked down there a few minutes before 6pm to get the free wristband. I went back to work and came down again a few minutes before 7pm. I got smoothly in with my own drink and stood about 8 meters from the stage. The gig started on time. No tall people in front of me, no one's elbow in my mouth, no pushing or shoving. The sound was nice and clear. The XX were really good. After 45 minutes the gig ended. I walked home in the sun.

At Rough Trade

43 hours with New Young Pony Club

Tahita


Being an artist host at a festival can be horrendous: catering some airheaded star's pettiest needs, polishing their shoes with your own saliva and taking the blame for bad weather. It can be challenging: chasing down a missing drummer an hour before stage time, recommending local shops that sell raw bear meat and morphine at 4am and trying to convince the band that 13-year-olds are illegal in this country, despite the push-up bra and slutty lipstick. It can be dull: picking up an anti-social dj from the airport, taking the hungover anti-social dj back to the airport, end of story.

Or it can be fun, easy and interesting; like I had it when I went spent a weekend back in Helsinki volunteering at Flow Festival. My kids were friendly, sweet, polite and almost always on time. We did have some champagne in the dressing room but no one demanded clean needles. I recommended them a few decent bars but didn't have to take anyone to the A&E. No illegal behaviour (stealing a table cloth doesn't count, designer piece or not) or moody tantrums. Instead, there were some hilarious tales from Ibiza, "strong opinions" about a few other unnamed artists, eccentric true stories featuring bananas, potassium and cocaine, and apparently a genuine affection for Moomins. And of course I got the opportunity to ask them a few burning questions during the taxi rides. Like where the hell have you been for the past few years?



Lou


New Young Pony Club, remember them? Exactly. Where the hell have they been for the past few years? They were the name on every indie raver's lips when the genre was blooming, did immense touring with Lily Allen and under NME's wings with fellow glowstick rockers CSS and Klaxons, had hits like Ice-Cream and The Bomb and were Mercury nominees in 2007. Then came silence.

Andy (Spence): We've simply been writing our new record! We didn't really feel like doing anything. Now that I look back, we should've taken at least six months completely off.

If I hadn't already developed a seriously soft spot for these guys, I would have pestered them with evil assumptions of being perhaps just lazy. Or not having been offered any gigs. Or having internal differences of opinion, aka arguing. But I didn't. It doesn't even matter. The ponies are returning, and that's what matters.

Tahita (Bulmer): The album will be out early next year, and it's gonna sound dark. Perfect soundtrack to cut your wrists to!
Andy: Well it's not that dark! But yeah, a bit darker, more mature. The New Old Pony Club!

Old indeed, you guys have been almost too professional here in Helsinki. No mad afterparties or substance abuse.

Tahita: Well we do like to party... but only if there's something special. Not just partying for partying's sake, you know. You have to be a bit sensible these days!

Influences? What's on your iPods at the moment?

Tahita: Recently I've been listening to Plastique de Rêve. They are wicked and sound like us but more experimental and mad.
Andy: I'm gonna go with Animal Collective and Subway.

More in-depth stuff in Sunday Times next weekend.

Lee

Oh, the gig. NYPC played on the main stage after Yann Tiersen and before Vampire Weekend. At 21.30 the sky was deep purple, the way that only late summer Finnish sky can be, and the crowd was eager, curious and ready to be smothered with glittery dance punk. The band galloped onto the stage and Tahita was in charge from the very first note, the way that the main dominatrix of furious disco beats should be. They looked delicious and sounded fierce, despite having a substitute drummer (apart from pretty looks, Sarah Jones's boyfriend Alex did an excellent job) and a cute newbie bassplayer Lee. And not having played more than a few gigs this year. It wasn't perhaps ecstatic, but an energetic, fun and strong comeback, that leaves you wanting more.

I reckon the new album is well worth checking out. And in the middle of winter in London what else is there to do than cut your wrists?

I had wicked 43 hours. Thanks Andy (I'll bring your wallet on Tuesday), Tahita, Lou, Lee (you know where to crash now), Alex, Jim (I'll keep my mouth closed about the table cloth), Chris and....hmm, there was one more...yes, Brett. The pain-in-the-ass tour manager, constantly on my back demanding helicopters and oysters. But that's what managers are for, I guess. (Brett you were ace. Ace.)

Helsinki hipsters

Gig review continued: The National @The Royal Festival Hall (Aug 10th)

Emotional vomiting alert.

They might not be the coolest. They might not be the most handsome. They might not be THE name right now. But damn they are cool. Damn they are handsome. And damn, they were THE name on Monday night, and they are THE name for the rest of my life.



The band walked onto the stage at 8.25pm. Starting off with a new song is a bit risky, but in this case Runaway (tv clip above) was beyond stunning. That was already the point where I had "something in my eye". Then the audience was spoilt with Mistaken For Strangers, Start A War, Secret Meeting, just to mention a few. And when I heard the first chords of Slow Show, I felt sick to my stomach. Not the kind of sick I had after my first bottle of sparkling wine in 1994, but the kind of sick you have five minutes before you know you're about to make love to someone for the first time; someone you really, really like.

Squalor Victoria and Fake Empire were guaranteed hits, but it was perhaps Apartment Story that burnt my brains. "Oh we're so disarming darling, everything we did believe is diving diving diving diving off the balcony..." So beautiful, so intense, so raw, so real. And the encore with Green Gloves (dedicated to John Huges), Mr. November and About Today was... needless to say.

(NB. It wasn't all about tears and sickness. There was laughter. Watching a middle-aged American man with a receding hairline slipping on ice cubes that he himself had spread around the stage, and making sarcastic one-liners can be surprisingly amusing.)

Matt Berninger's voice is, again, so beautiful, so intense, so raw and so real. So damn real. Modern day Jeff Buckley. And whenever he let go of the mic he desperately hung on to and walked around the stage like he was in agony, out came the painful piano, drums of death, sad yet joyous trumpets, bleeding violin and guitar riffs bigger than Holmes' balls. I realised what music is. I think I cracked the meaning of life as well. But that felt meaningless at the time, so I forgot it. What do you need life for when you have music?

10.10pm they left the stage. I was in a vacuum. On a record their sound makes you shiver. Live? Their sound peels off your skin and actually, tangibly touches you.

The National is not a band nor is Matt Berninger a rockstar you necessarily want to drink whisky and have sex with backstage after the gig. You just want to look into their eyes for a little bit too long, shake their hands, say 'thank you' and walk away. Alone, in the dark rain, smoking a wet cigarette.

Gig review: The National @The Royal Festival Hall (Aug 10th)

I have never been this close to crying at a gig.

Do not touch the untouchable, unless you do it like this pt.2

This is interesting: Broke Social Scene are covering Love Will Tear Us Apart on soon-to-be-released The Timetraveler's Wife sountrack. I reckon they can be trusted.

As can be this guy:




Even The Cure, who I adore and love and cherish, got it wrong. Gives me slight creeps. So in general I'd still say, do not touch the...

Gig review: The Pains of Being Pure At Heart @The Garage (4th August). And a bit of small talk with the band.

Now I know where their name comes from. Imagine a 20-something newyorker, still fresh-faced and innocent but already halfway to the corrupted world of dirt and temptations. Picture-perfect face and heart full of drive and dreams. Sure, he does a line of coke every now and then but not before Sunday lunch with his grandmother. He swears but apologizes afterwards. And his sweat must smell like rosewater. Now, take five of these cutie pies, put them on a stage at The Garage, newly refurbished livingroom-like venue with shiny floor and clean toilets in Islington and voilà...

And what other band can sing about non-platonic love between brother and sister and manage to sound, well, pure? Having only released one album so far, the set list wasn't too long, but full of gold ingots. The crowd started happily jumping right from the second song, which was the aforementioned incest track, and continued the happy bouncing throughout the 60-minute noise-pop celebration. Other highlights were Come Saturday, a catchy party track with hit potential, and Teenager In Love, a piece with stomping drums and 80's vibe (the good kind). If I were to complain about something, I would perhaps point out the few songs which felt a bit dragging, a bit too long. But I'm not going to. And watching the too-cute-to-be-true gig with two friends, a curly-haired copywriter with arty glasses and his girlfriend, a pretty tv producer/rock chick with red Converse, I felt like I was in a fucking Hollywood movie about indie kids with bad habits but good intentions. Like Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist. Bless.

After the gig I ran into the band at The Buffalo Bar and had a quick chat with Peggy, keyboard and vocals, and Christoph, the second guitarist. Both annoyingly beautiful and super friendly, the way that only an American up-and-coming indie pop star can be. Among the standard chit chat we talked a bit about their influences and stuff they like (e.g. My Favourite, The Pastels, The Vaselines, Nirvana, early My Bloody Valentine, Christoph also listens to "weird stuff", lot's of electronica and early 60's music) and how the ever-so-hard London crowd was surprisingly receptive (hey, getting us moving is an achievement, a small mosh-pit is like concurring the K2). They are releasing a new EP with four tracks in September and will start recording their second album early next year. And the sound will be...? A bit bigger, more full and even epic.

Heading towards stadiums?

The pains of being too damn good

I haven't been this excited about a new (okay, "new", they released their debut album six months ago. I'm slow that way.) band in a while. This brilliantly named Brooklyn gem, The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart, shove Belle & Sebastian off of the throne and set a new benchmark for indie pop: catchier yet underground enough melodies, sharper guitars and more energetic drums. The perfect mix of melancholy and weird joie de vivre, edginess and sugary sweetness. Hi-fi Jesus and Mary Chain but with a delicate touch. Absolutely brilliant.

They are playing in London next week, supported by proper London grungy indie rockers Hatcham Social who alone would be worth the 11 quid, you're fool to miss it.