LIVE! Doug Stanhope and Xiu Xiu

Two brief live reviews: when I say brief I mean 'I am trying to write them both during one play of 'Marquee Moon' (the song) by Television'.

DOUG STANHOPE + Henry Phillips
6th March 2012
Albert Halls, Bolton 
Doug Stanhope has been rightly resistant to playing too much in Britain. Britain treats comedy differently than the US. Britain intellectualises and demands more than mere clownishness and dick jokes. Her critics sting and barb and carp about stagecraft and insight and conceptual rigour, often without irony at their own situation. Comedy takes place as much in theatres and arenas with strict seating, where social rules about getting hammered kick in that bit harder.

Stanhope is fighting against that. He wants you sneak in your own booze: too late for this show, but if we take to Twitter we can aid his passage through the UK by generating some looser audiences. He also resists a narrative framework for his show, firing a shot across the bows of comedians who doggedly stick to a thematic concept, leaving them powerless when the news demands a comedic response and they're glued to their prepared act about being an imaginary ghost dog. Stanhope revels in playing the guttersnipe, bringing along an opening act that neatly fits the anti-concept concept.

Henry Phillips exudes an easy, erudite charm that neatly veneers a couple of decades of road-weariness. He's funny too: a musical comedian keen to the vagaries and ridiculousness of musical performers, finding joy in a hurricane of hubris. It's a craftsman's performance. The obvious 'jokes' hit home and the song structures are convincing as pastiches, but it's the subtler gestures, such as the facial expressions and altered voice to mock the mode of the 'sincere rock performer' that stay in the mind. He playfully mocks Britain to his friend, the headline act, watching in the wings.

Relatively sober and recently off the plane, Stanhope seems less animated than his years of fiery recordings would have him be. Quick to self-criticise though he is, Stanhope works almost as well when forced into roles he capably plays but never sells himself as: the raconteur, the veteran of clownish showmanship, the contrary armchair politician. Some audience members seem ruffled when Stanhope goes to bat for Republican/libertarian weirdo Ron Paul, but it's all part of the shtick: I am not your Bill Hicks, you cannot easily box me.

The show finale seemed to ruffle more (online, I checked, take my word for it) feathers than any specific political endorsement could. Easy to read as 'flag-waving for the USA' if you ignore the bit where he says 'ignore the whole government, bombs, flag-waving, foreign policy, crazy stuff' and focus on where he says 'AMERICA IS GREAT'. And he's right. Britain is still snooty about the USA. It's a great bit of comedic sleight-of-hand; he appeals to everybody's baser desire to be somewhere warmer, freer, easier, sexier in a way that skilfully insults how Britain culturally romanticises ugliness, stale morality, coldness, and visual austerity as some kind of act of ascetic brilliance. It works because in this bit, as he dreams about cocktails on Floridian sand at sun-up, he's mentally there and we've not taken that journey with him. We're in the stuffy British theatre and he's in the dunes and he is the one laughing at us.


XIU XIU + Trumpets of Death
13th March 2012
Ruby Lounge, Manchester
Running into a friend at the bar, he asks what I think of Trumpets of Death. 'A bit passive-aggressive', I say. This was an imperceptive, first-glance read. The Leeds trio variously recall Windy & Carl, The Telescopes, and late-period Talk Talk in their swooping, elegant set. At worst you could accuse them of lacking identity (and indeed shunning it altogether), but at best they're immersive and hypnotic, working up a cerebral lather with mechanical rhythm and trance-inducing saxophone runs.

There are two Xiu Xius. Alike in dignity, one follows in the mope-rock pantheon of The Smiths, Joy Division, and The Cure. The other owes more to a crossroads between Eastern modes and modern composition, and as such can be easily characterised as 'difficult music'. When Xiu Xiu begin with an abrasive number with bowed electric bass, nerve-jangling percussion, and abstract guitar scribbles, an audience braces itself and checks for the exits.

Three songs later, Jamie Stewart (singer, effectively he IS Xiu Xiu) is politely asking permission to perform a New Order cover that ushers in a full hour of the accessible side of Xiu Xiu to everybody's secret relief. New single 'Hi' is among highlights: an impressive 3-minute stab containing the coiled-up energy and pop nouse of younger bands and their initial efforts. Stewart still wants this.

A curious cove of a performer, Stewart calmly sips tea between songs to preserve his hesitant yelp of a voice, largely refuses audience engagement, and there is no encore. What really surprises to this newcomer to the Xiu Xiu live experience is that the band on record, with its array of ethnic instruments and songs led by autoharp, is reducible to the classic four-piece guitar-band line up without trading any of their signature fragility or tonal idiosyncrasy. This allows for a more direct and familiar experience, comparable to many an outsider band that have insisted upon faithful live recreation of their multi-instrumental experience in a way that induces deep tedium (naming no names).

Historically, for me at least, seeing a band live often marks the end of a spurt of a period of time spent listening to their work and sees the band steadily acclimatise into a kind of rota alongside previous likes and loves. The days since Xiu Xiu's performance have been the reverse: a binge across the nooks and crannies of their output, finding previously unheard collaborations and split albums of consistently high merit. A genuine treat.

UK SINGLES CHART 4/3/2012 from #100 to #91

or, WHY THE CHARTS ARE NOW COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY USELESS, EVEN MORE SO THAN THEY WERE WHEN PEOPLE ACTUALLY KNEW WHAT WAS AT #1.

Before I was even a teenager I had a school notebook in which I would write down the Top 40 Singles in the UK as counted down by Mark Goodier on BBC Radio 1 on Sunday evening. It is quite amazing to realise how many of these often transitory and seemingly inconsequential three minutes have stayed in the mind, but a cursory glance at this book in my late teens revealed that the more interesting names that would later be scattered around my record collection were usually found at the lower end of this chart.

We all know that the charts are somewhat meaningless as a gauge of quality but there's a coldness and logic about the format that automatically commands respect: it is undeniably the will of the people writ large. There was also a moment of genuine thrill in the early part of the 21st century when a local band named Moco scraped the lower echelons of the Top 100 on the back of some good reviews. For a moment the gap between the industry largesse and the dudes seen rolling around the local pub in front of 45 people was temporarily reduced. Even though Moco probably sold less than 1500 copies of their single at a time when the music industry was in one of its occasional pituitary funks. Here it is though, for posterity.

Since this occasion the rules on chart eligibility have changed to firstly include downloaded copies of the designated singles and then, before long, the ability to download any individual album track meant that any song on a downloadable album could end up at #1. This is why groups of campaigners for 'real, non-manufactured' music were able to upset the applecart by electing Rage Against The Machine to #1 over the simple pop thrills of Joe McElderry, and less wankerishly, why John Otway was able to get his 50th birthday wish of a second top ten single with 'Bunsen Burner'.

The situationist potential of the charts reduces with time as the charts retain less of a psychic grasp on the public consciousness. More simply put: the charts mean nothing and rigging the thing is a precious waste of time and energy, as amusing as it would be to have somebody like Anal Cunt forced into the nation's ears at Sunday tea-time. We could even have all of I Like It When You Die as the entire Top 40.

It's sad that this battle has been lost precisely because the opening up of chart eligibility theoretically was supposed to allow any old shit a go at the charts. Momentarily it worked: then-unsigned punk trio Koopa organised their fanbase sufficiently to become the first 'unsigned' band to reach the Top 40. However, these appeals and demands and cries to organise oneself shows the fundamental lack of unity, not existence of it, and how ultimately powerless it is for more than one week at a time when faced with the remorseless sense-battery of commercial radio.

The reduced appeal of the singles charts perhaps go some way to explaining why even the lower end of the charts resembles a major label advertorial. Where freaks once roamed on the selling out of their hastily deleted 7", ghosts of banal sentiments past loom at the window on the vicissitudes of commercial appearance: step forward 'Bring Me To Life' by Evanescence, 'Somewhere Only We Know' by Keane, and 'Bittersweet Symphony' by The Verve, appearing at #87, #86, and #59 respectively.

A quick count reveals at least 95 of the top 100 songs to be on major labels. The ones that I can identify as not being are Matt Redman at #12, a heavily campaigned-for Christian artist releasing a single for an anti-slavery charity. Arctic Monkeys are a strange anomaly at #22, being a guitar band with a new single in the charts, though they have major distribution and media on their side.

When an artist hits, they hit big, and often. Ed Sheeran has four singles in the chart. Emeli Sande is at least the featured artist on four, as is Rihanna. Adele has three. Rizzle Kicks have three. LMFAO have three. Nicki Minaj has three. David Guetta has three. Bruno Mars has three. Jessie J, Coldplay, LMFAO, Jennifer Lopez, and Pitbull all have more than one. It represents a real triumph for the grasp of commercial radio and television and the strength of the relationship that major labels maintain with them. Doubly so, considering that it is often considered that we're all supposed to be online with artists such as Harry Pussy and Whitehouse within just as close reach.

This piece isn't so much an argument for the violent overthrow of the ranking system or major label structure as it is a snapshot for anybody who was wondering what is still going on out there. The charts have always favoured those with commercial muscle because that is its function: to map that dispassionately. Besides, the independent community generally focuses upon the the longer format and live performance because it is still where prestige and the ability to make a living (just about) lies, reducing the single to a position of forced fetish product, given the relatively high costs of making such an eminently disposable format seem paradoxically worth owning forever on hard copy.

Funnily enough, when I began writing this piece, I did not begin with the intent of sniping about the charts or confirming what most of you suspected but had not bothered to check out out of the simple desire to not be depressed. Quite the opposite. My intent had been to look at the bottom end of the charts to see whether it was full of off-pop, pop that aims to match the structure and style of its more popular brethren but somehow fails, or to see whether it was full of unheard-of gems and bands like Moco that had risen beyond the position the industry could reasonably expect of them.

So, here is the countdown from #100 to #91 in the charts as compiled 4th March 2012 by the Official Chart Company.

100. Beautiful People, 'Turn Up The Music'

Not much information really exists on this song, other than to say that it is in fact a Chris Brown remix. Perhaps that's another sad-or-as-yet-unexplored consequence of open chart eligibility: remixes of songs forcing their way into the charts as a way of exposing the original to a wider audience. Imagine an anthemic synth version of 'Two Towers' by Lightning Bolt ft. Tinchy Stryder! It could work! Let's get this happening everyone!

99. Bruno Mars, 'Just The Way You Are (Amazing)'

A mere 76 weeks on the chart for Mars. Who is only just getting to this song? The kind of people who still lose their dial-up connection every time someone in the house wants to use the phone, I'll wager.

98. Bruno Mars, 'Marry You'

A mere 58 weeks on the chart for this one. Less memorable than its cousin one place below, though no less saccharine for it.

97. Beyonce, 'Halo'

A mere 97 weeks on the chart for this one. I can't bring myself to hate Beyonce but come on everybody, nearly two years? She has done stuff since!

96. LMFAO, 'Sorry For Party Rocking'

At first with LMFAO I was like 'ok, it's for kids, this is their music, let it go' but this is just BEYOND dismal. I think what annoys me the most is the way they look like they couldn't even be arsed styling themselves convincingly, as if they're saying 'oh, they'll buy any old shit as long as we work it like it's the shiz'. AND THEY WERE RIGHT!

95. Black Keys, 'Lonely Boy'

The kind of 'real rock' that pushes some ardent guitar wankers into pretending that they love 'artificial' pop music more than they really do, because to side with this is siding with white privilege and nostalgia for the unremembered in quite an overt and grotesque fashion. At first it seemed like an anomaly that this song would wind up charting at all in the UK, but it is formulaic and marketable alongside the White Stripes, so perhaps not all that surprising.

94. Monkees, 'I'm A Believer'

It would be churlish to complain about this in the wake of Davy Jones' death. Sometimes it takes a tragedy to make somebody aware of a body of work they may have been unaware of, and besides, 'I'm A Believer' is a fucking TUNE.

93. Skrillex ft. Sirah, 'Bangarang'

The saddest entry in all of the Top 100 is Skrillex and The Doors at #89. That whole 'is Skrillex dubstep' argument is hilarious. The answer was obvious when I got off the train at Wigan Wallgate and saw a 14 year old kid in nu-rock boots, a long leather jacket, and Skrillex t-shirt and realised without hearing a note that Skrillex is essentially 2012's Limp Bizkit and 'real' dubstep will always remain the preserve of people who know the names of the people who work in their local record shop back room, let alone the guy who actually owns the place. They are so far apart, it barely infringes trademark.

92.  Whitney Houston, 'I Will Always Love You'

See #94, only with less enthusiasm.

91. Ed Sheeran, 'You Need Me I Don't Need You'

A pathetic 77 weeks on the chart for this one. I saw Sheeran play this live before he became astronomically popular. It was an industry showcase and in a raft of horseshit rock music, he stood out as being a bit more breezy and self-sufficient, effortlessly singing/rapping/beatboxing/playing guitar. Had I known what I know now, seeing the psychic wreckage wrought upon the daily workplace, I would have rushed the stage.

A Bon Iver review.

- Where have you been?
- I've been learning how to write.  
- But you know how to write.
- Yes. I know that I can write. Sentences are often correct and in the right order but I've never been happy with the things that they say or the style in which they're said. Even this paragraph is disappointing me.
- Then why don't you just write the right thing?
- If only it were that easy.

(almost as if to prove what I am talking about, I have deleted a long confessional paragraph because the wording was making what seemed like a deeply-felt statement into a trite whinge)

Put simply, I have been feeling like there's a disconnect with what feels like a complex and fully-formed thought in my head and the way I put this into language. Not long after writing most things do they begin to gnaw at me. 

There's also the issue of over-analysis and over-thought. For nearly a decade I have been mentally composing what was meant to be an amazing piece of writing for an audience of one. More than a simple letter, it would sever mental defences erected with its clear-blue depthlessness. It turns out all I ever wanted to say was much simpler: I like you, I am sorry, you were right, I was wrong.

For all my arts writing and criticism and moaning, the most significant contribution was actually releasing a record. This has not stopped me lurking around music websites and attempting to create dissensus.

The last 12-18 months has been a very strange ride. The next three years promise to be stranger.

Bon Iver is shit.