Tuesday, 22 September 2009
The Windmill
I've found another little indie hangout serving up quality music within its grotty stained walls. This place is called The Windmill and can be found about a 15 minute walk from Brixton station up Brixton Hill.
On your first visit you'll find yourself asking an obliging local for directions due to the obscure location of the place, down a quiet residential street. It's an odd looking place daubed in nasty, bright coloured murals with a menacing slobbery mad looking hound standing centry on the roof. (Having visited the place the logo on their website makes sense.)
The building itself is a run down, clapboard clad piece of nasty 80s architecture not disimilar to the Jockey in channel 4's Shameless. Outside is a walled smoking area with a couple of pub benches but don't make the same mistake I did; it doesn't stop there - through the back door is another garden and a wicked little shed room where you might steal a cheeky smoke.
Like all the best music venues in London this place is cavernous and atmospheric with back to back posters on the walls and band stickers on the loo doors. Actually the loo doors are a blog entry themselves as they've proved to be hugely entertaining with epic scrawling discussions (I'm on a date with a complete fuckwit - should I a- get fucked and try and ride this thing out or b - do a runner, c- politely explain that I have a dodgy tummy? Answers below....) Or another classic scrawl simply said "Alive - only just". I don't reckon the back of the loo door is the best place to promote your band though - might seem a bit sordid.
The sort of people at this gaff are quietly in the know. Not your regular Brixton types - they look like they may have strayed from Hoxton, although I'd say that they have less of that Horrors English indie look and a bit more of the Seattle check shirt influence. Or maybe I'm just speculating and talking shit? Maybe it's just because Merge's new indie signing Telekinesis (who hail from Seattle) were billed to play. Additionally I met two perky septics in the toilets who seemed like the sort of characters an actress like Zoey Deschanel would play. God, I'm really rambling now....
All you need to know is that this is a wicked little place to hole up on a weekend day when the venue hosts at least eight to ten bands. Even Friday nights you'll get your four pounds worth with at least four well-sourced bands taking to the stage. Get thee down there (just don't get mugged on your way).
Monday, 14 September 2009
Sunday, 13 September 2009
The Thames Festival and a beach rave up
Yesterday I spent some good times along the river on Southbank at the Thames Festival. This was a free cultural event with live music and other artsy bits and pieces.
For me, the highlight of this festival was undoubtedly The Dukesbox and the beach party. The Dukesbox is a novel little band of travelling musicians who sit in a caravan styled like a juke box and play any tune you ask of them simply by putting your money in the slot. It's a fantastic idea and the band drew a big crowd. They are a talented bunch of lads; capable of remembering thousands of tracks. We had a great time bopping around to them.
The night ended with a mad rave up on beach at about midnight. Now beach rave ups aren't common in London. Firstly where the hell is the beach??? In actual fact at low tide there is a wide beach below the walls near to the London eye. Here some enterprizing types had set up their decks and a wicked sound system. A diverse crowd were grinding closely whilste trying not to stumble over in the sand.
There was a euphoric buzz among the crowd. A lot of drugs were being got through and satellite groups of dodgy looking characters were hanging around with fierce looking dogs on the end of leads. Generally there was a feeling of goodwill amongst the dancers although laced through the energy of the party was a heady concoction of latent sexual tension and violence. We were dancing like there would be no end; it was one of the last warm evenings of the dying summer and we were damn well going to get the best out of it...until the police came to break us all up at around 5am.
For me, the highlight of this festival was undoubtedly The Dukesbox and the beach party. The Dukesbox is a novel little band of travelling musicians who sit in a caravan styled like a juke box and play any tune you ask of them simply by putting your money in the slot. It's a fantastic idea and the band drew a big crowd. They are a talented bunch of lads; capable of remembering thousands of tracks. We had a great time bopping around to them.
The night ended with a mad rave up on beach at about midnight. Now beach rave ups aren't common in London. Firstly where the hell is the beach??? In actual fact at low tide there is a wide beach below the walls near to the London eye. Here some enterprizing types had set up their decks and a wicked sound system. A diverse crowd were grinding closely whilste trying not to stumble over in the sand.
There was a euphoric buzz among the crowd. A lot of drugs were being got through and satellite groups of dodgy looking characters were hanging around with fierce looking dogs on the end of leads. Generally there was a feeling of goodwill amongst the dancers although laced through the energy of the party was a heady concoction of latent sexual tension and violence. We were dancing like there would be no end; it was one of the last warm evenings of the dying summer and we were damn well going to get the best out of it...until the police came to break us all up at around 5am.
Friday, 11 September 2009
An apology.....
Any of you performers out there, I've got an apology for you...
When I'm at gigs I tend to be a) very over-excited and b) more than likely tanked up. This is not a great combination to be greeted with if you are in the zone and psyching yourself up for going onstage. The last thing you will want is me bounding up to you and quizzing you or launching into a diatribe about dramatics behind the journey to the gig. Equally, if you are reeling as you come down from your performance buzz you probably won't want me in your face either!
Example of my ill-judged chitter chatter:
Me: Danny! Danny! (Earnest - if he doesn't hear me we may never make contact with there being no mobile phone signal)
D: (Looking a bit shell shocked after playing to massive Glasto crowd.) Oh hi Jude. Glad you made it.
Me: How did it go? How was the audience? Did you get a good vibe up there? What was the sound like? You didn't get a sound check did you?
D: (Completely taken aback) Well, I'm just feeling a bit numb right now.
Cue drivelling apologies from me. Danny makes his excuses and leaves - fair play!
SORRY GUYS. Will try to calm self down in future and not bombard you with eager-beaver questions and puppy-like over enthusiasm!
Jude x
When I'm at gigs I tend to be a) very over-excited and b) more than likely tanked up. This is not a great combination to be greeted with if you are in the zone and psyching yourself up for going onstage. The last thing you will want is me bounding up to you and quizzing you or launching into a diatribe about dramatics behind the journey to the gig. Equally, if you are reeling as you come down from your performance buzz you probably won't want me in your face either!
Example of my ill-judged chitter chatter:
Me: Danny! Danny! (Earnest - if he doesn't hear me we may never make contact with there being no mobile phone signal)
D: (Looking a bit shell shocked after playing to massive Glasto crowd.) Oh hi Jude. Glad you made it.
Me: How did it go? How was the audience? Did you get a good vibe up there? What was the sound like? You didn't get a sound check did you?
D: (Completely taken aback) Well, I'm just feeling a bit numb right now.
Cue drivelling apologies from me. Danny makes his excuses and leaves - fair play!
SORRY GUYS. Will try to calm self down in future and not bombard you with eager-beaver questions and puppy-like over enthusiasm!
Jude x
The worst set of the summer
The out and out worst set of the summer award has to be awarded to Noah and the Whale for their poor effort at The Secret Garden Party. Before I start slating them I've got to confess that I've just read in someone else's blog that Charlie Fink, who heads up the band, had just recovered from a recent bout of the flu.
Well, we didn't know this when we saw the set. My friend Kat had been wanting to see them since the disastrous Bestival '08. We waited in great anticipation, perched in a great spot on the hill, for the band. I know this is ignorant of me but I genuinely didn't know the song they were famous for, 5 Years Time, or indeed any of their music.
They appeared for all of about ten minutes, struggled their way through a couple of tunes before shrivelling up into a wad of gum on the floor - well not quite, but that is how it seemed. It was a complete non-entity of a performance.
Someone should have told these lads about the performance enhancing properties of some of our favourite rock and roll substances.
Also, Noah and the Whale, what a wishy-washy, sappy name for a band!
Well, we didn't know this when we saw the set. My friend Kat had been wanting to see them since the disastrous Bestival '08. We waited in great anticipation, perched in a great spot on the hill, for the band. I know this is ignorant of me but I genuinely didn't know the song they were famous for, 5 Years Time, or indeed any of their music.
They appeared for all of about ten minutes, struggled their way through a couple of tunes before shrivelling up into a wad of gum on the floor - well not quite, but that is how it seemed. It was a complete non-entity of a performance.
Someone should have told these lads about the performance enhancing properties of some of our favourite rock and roll substances.
Also, Noah and the Whale, what a wishy-washy, sappy name for a band!
Thursday, 10 September 2009
Wednesday, 9 September 2009
Battle of the Bands Final at The Pilton Party
One of my favourite bands on the unsigned circuit, Strangefruit (I'll introduce you properly later) had got themselves into the final of RockStar 09, which is a battle of the bands where the winner gets to play Glastonbury 2010 as well as record at Peter Gabriel's Real World Studios. The final was to take place at Worthy Farm, on the Glastonbury site, as part of the Pilton Party. This is given in early September every year to thank the local people for their tolerance during the festival. This year was the first time the party had gone public and had been announced on Radio 1 with the illustrious line up of Florence and the Machine and Dizzy Rascal.
Ali and I decided that this was a great opportunity for a road trip, the only problem being that she wouldn't be able to get out of school until 4pm and Jamie from Strangefruit had told me that they could be up as early as 6:30pm, depending on the draw. Undeterred, we set out on the journey which, according to the AA route planner should take two and a half hours.
We bombed down the motorway doing 90 a lot of the way and relentlessly switching lanes. In the car I'd lined up some quality tunes from the likes of Kasabian and Pendulum and we were both feeling psyched up. We knew it was going to be a mission and a half but we were damn well going to try. It was all a bit like a scene in a Richard Curtis film. (Fuuuuuuuuuck, Fuuuuuuuuck, Fuckety Fuck) At any minute I was expecting Ali to slam the car into reverse and speed back to the overshot slip road doing 50. That didn't happen but we did get stuck behind some bastard rural vehicle thing that was crawling along the country roads down to Shepton Mallet and refused to turn off. Mofo. Things were getting extremely tight.
We had heard from the band that they were up at 7pm, so this bought us an extra half hour. But creeping further west there were more feckin' villages than we had ever anticipated. They just kept coming and what would the set up be like when we got there and where the hell would we park the car???
Finally, after getting swallowed deep into the narrow country lanes, walled by dry stone, we were filtered down to the site at Worthy Farm. We must have come from the wrong direction as no-one else seemed to enter the party from this field. We ditched the car and legged it towards the music. The yokels on the front gate were adamant we couldn't come in without a wristband. We were so close. We asked them about this Dick Vern character who had our wristbands and they directed us to the backstage entrance. Here there was more confusion as we were turned away again.
"Have some fucking compassion, that's our band on up there." we pleaded, hearing Strangefruit belting out their familiar set.
Finally we found this Dick Vern character, got our wristbands, ditched the car in the manner of a drugged up 14-year old joyrider, and headed for the party. The ground was boggy and I stumbled over a rope gashing my leg badly. (But that was OK because I thought the blood dripping from my legged looked pretty rock and roll!!!) Ahead of the barriers we could see the stage was now empty. We had missed them and were absolutely gutted.
I'll be reviewing their next gig next Friday at Bangers & Mash at Proud.
Which brings me onto the act that we did see; Florence and the Machine. Now, I have to admit that hearing this band on the radio I've not been sucked in by the hype. Barring a few exceptions I don't like the sound of female vocalists, preferring the darker gravitas of male voices. I often find female vocals too saccharin and airy fairy. To me, this red-head was another bird who's sound was altogether too frenetic, too feminine and I couldn't figure out what she was singing about.
The crowd was largely made up of Somerset locals and rambunctious teens that smelled of their mother's laundry detergent. They were in high spirits and eager to see this near mythical performer. Buoyed along by the atmosphere they began chanting. "Get your tits out Florence." and the more unsavoury "Will you do me with a dildo Florence?" - nice.
Ali and I were about two rows back in the mosh and fiercely holding our ground where these young whippersnappers would have ploughed through us and taken our spot. It's lucky I hadn't drunk too much because this was not like an audience I'd been in before and I was getting wound up. A 15-year old boy in front of me who was named Conner and who had a mouth full of train tracks valiantly attempted to keep his wanker friends at bay (he thought I was 19 - score!) but the heaving throng got the better of us and we retreated after Flo's set.
Florence herself was inspirational. I was completely taken aback. She emerged like some Tolkein Queen to her specially decorated microphone and put on a show that was breathtaking and otherworldly. I wasn't sure about the whole flowery mic thing; it seemed a bit twee and girly to me. As she performed the cohesion behind her act became obvious. She was like a high-priestess; a touch of Bianca Jackson crossed with Morgan le Fay of Arthurian times - very Glastonbury.
The bat lady cometh
I was thinking this woman must be about 30 as she had a stage presence that commanded the audience, and would have us singing with her or bouncing as per her request. It turns out she's a mere youngster of 22! I couldn't believe it.
Her poise was spectacular and her pitch-perfect and full bodied vocal was punctuated with elegant flicks of the wrist and curves of her long, pale limbs. Like a dark witch she cast a spell over us that even the harshest of critics would be powerless to resist. (The teeny-boppers were still misbehaving). I reckon she must have studied some Arabic dancing because there were definite hints of the East in the way she moved her hips and twisted her hands.
Her set was long, about an hour, and full-bodied. She gave us everything we craved, from the euphoric highs of You've Got The Love to the intensely uplifting Dog Days Are Over (except I thought she was singing "The dark days are over" and I prefer this as a lyric, so there I was carried away with that thought. - Yes, the dark days are over! Rah, a walk in the park has never felt so good.) The drumming of this tune was fantastic; like the mad hypnotic pounding of some tribal ceremony. Of course she had our appetite fully whetted as she finally satisfied us with Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up). I still don't know what this song is about, my sister knows, it's something about raising a gift(?). This was sung an octave lower than you hear on the radio but sounded wicked with us mortals joining her as she lead us to her strange Florence-styled paradise.
This girl-woman is simply remarkable and even if you don't like her tidily produced poppy tracks, live she is a force to be reckoned with.
Ali and I decided that this was a great opportunity for a road trip, the only problem being that she wouldn't be able to get out of school until 4pm and Jamie from Strangefruit had told me that they could be up as early as 6:30pm, depending on the draw. Undeterred, we set out on the journey which, according to the AA route planner should take two and a half hours.
We bombed down the motorway doing 90 a lot of the way and relentlessly switching lanes. In the car I'd lined up some quality tunes from the likes of Kasabian and Pendulum and we were both feeling psyched up. We knew it was going to be a mission and a half but we were damn well going to try. It was all a bit like a scene in a Richard Curtis film. (Fuuuuuuuuuck, Fuuuuuuuuck, Fuckety Fuck) At any minute I was expecting Ali to slam the car into reverse and speed back to the overshot slip road doing 50. That didn't happen but we did get stuck behind some bastard rural vehicle thing that was crawling along the country roads down to Shepton Mallet and refused to turn off. Mofo. Things were getting extremely tight.
We had heard from the band that they were up at 7pm, so this bought us an extra half hour. But creeping further west there were more feckin' villages than we had ever anticipated. They just kept coming and what would the set up be like when we got there and where the hell would we park the car???
Finally, after getting swallowed deep into the narrow country lanes, walled by dry stone, we were filtered down to the site at Worthy Farm. We must have come from the wrong direction as no-one else seemed to enter the party from this field. We ditched the car and legged it towards the music. The yokels on the front gate were adamant we couldn't come in without a wristband. We were so close. We asked them about this Dick Vern character who had our wristbands and they directed us to the backstage entrance. Here there was more confusion as we were turned away again.
"Have some fucking compassion, that's our band on up there." we pleaded, hearing Strangefruit belting out their familiar set.
Finally we found this Dick Vern character, got our wristbands, ditched the car in the manner of a drugged up 14-year old joyrider, and headed for the party. The ground was boggy and I stumbled over a rope gashing my leg badly. (But that was OK because I thought the blood dripping from my legged looked pretty rock and roll!!!) Ahead of the barriers we could see the stage was now empty. We had missed them and were absolutely gutted.
This is what Jenny Maxwell looked like up there: Fucking stunning.
I'll be reviewing their next gig next Friday at Bangers & Mash at Proud.
Which brings me onto the act that we did see; Florence and the Machine. Now, I have to admit that hearing this band on the radio I've not been sucked in by the hype. Barring a few exceptions I don't like the sound of female vocalists, preferring the darker gravitas of male voices. I often find female vocals too saccharin and airy fairy. To me, this red-head was another bird who's sound was altogether too frenetic, too feminine and I couldn't figure out what she was singing about.
The crowd was largely made up of Somerset locals and rambunctious teens that smelled of their mother's laundry detergent. They were in high spirits and eager to see this near mythical performer. Buoyed along by the atmosphere they began chanting. "Get your tits out Florence." and the more unsavoury "Will you do me with a dildo Florence?" - nice.
Ali and I were about two rows back in the mosh and fiercely holding our ground where these young whippersnappers would have ploughed through us and taken our spot. It's lucky I hadn't drunk too much because this was not like an audience I'd been in before and I was getting wound up. A 15-year old boy in front of me who was named Conner and who had a mouth full of train tracks valiantly attempted to keep his wanker friends at bay (he thought I was 19 - score!) but the heaving throng got the better of us and we retreated after Flo's set.
Florence herself was inspirational. I was completely taken aback. She emerged like some Tolkein Queen to her specially decorated microphone and put on a show that was breathtaking and otherworldly. I wasn't sure about the whole flowery mic thing; it seemed a bit twee and girly to me. As she performed the cohesion behind her act became obvious. She was like a high-priestess; a touch of Bianca Jackson crossed with Morgan le Fay of Arthurian times - very Glastonbury.
The bat lady cometh
Her poise was spectacular and her pitch-perfect and full bodied vocal was punctuated with elegant flicks of the wrist and curves of her long, pale limbs. Like a dark witch she cast a spell over us that even the harshest of critics would be powerless to resist. (The teeny-boppers were still misbehaving). I reckon she must have studied some Arabic dancing because there were definite hints of the East in the way she moved her hips and twisted her hands.
Her set was long, about an hour, and full-bodied. She gave us everything we craved, from the euphoric highs of You've Got The Love to the intensely uplifting Dog Days Are Over (except I thought she was singing "The dark days are over" and I prefer this as a lyric, so there I was carried away with that thought. - Yes, the dark days are over! Rah, a walk in the park has never felt so good.) The drumming of this tune was fantastic; like the mad hypnotic pounding of some tribal ceremony. Of course she had our appetite fully whetted as she finally satisfied us with Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up). I still don't know what this song is about, my sister knows, it's something about raising a gift(?). This was sung an octave lower than you hear on the radio but sounded wicked with us mortals joining her as she lead us to her strange Florence-styled paradise.
This girl-woman is simply remarkable and even if you don't like her tidily produced poppy tracks, live she is a force to be reckoned with.
Wednesday, 2 September 2009
This week I have been mostly listening to....
Pendulum and The Horrors....not feeling so perky this week.
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