What do you want to read?

More second guessing and self-examination at the flaccid end of the music press

I've just been going through my outbox and a pile of reviews written a while ago when I came across this. I'd been asked to review this single:



At the time, if I remember rightly, I was on a total noise fix: Whitehouse, Masonna, Yellow Swans, Merzbow, Throbbing Gristle - anything that just abandoned technique for brutal jolts of whipping velocity and decibels. I'd lost touch with 'the song'; its capability to hold nuance and shape and a predictability that was somehow cheery and comforting, rather than anaesthetising. Here's what I wrote.

And now for something COMPLETELY different. Tough to imagine which twisted mind saw Wild Beasts, with their idiot-savant soprano wailing coupled to some of the most pedantic hack-and-slash committed to tape, as a singles band. This is three minutes of the weirdest, most daring and brilliant pieces of pop music of the last five years. As it came to a conclusion, I spontaneously rose to applaud.

Have to admit; two and a half years on, I'm still pretty pleased with that. What have we learned? It's 'different' - markedly so. There's a high voice. It's weird, daring and 'pop music'. In case you don't 'get' the reference to 'hack-and-slash', it's just an onomatopaeic phrase I invented for 'guitar music'. There's enough there to merit a curious look-see at YouTube.

It wasn't enough. The editor wrote back.

Hi man.

Really like your single review, very much want to cover it in the paper, just had one issue.. it'd just be nice if you could jig a little more description of the music into your third sentence. Listening to them, it was very different to what I expected from your review. I really like your second and fourth sentences, maybe cut out your thid sentence "This is three minutes of the weirdest, most daring and brilliant pieces of pop music of the last five years." and replace with something a little more definitive of the sound. Or maybe get rid of the first to make some space. Your current second sentence would be pretty punchy as first. Is that ok? Play around with how you like, but I would appreciate a little more feel for the song.

So you want me to drop sentence three? The key line? Just because the song was different to how you expected?

Describing sound is simply just utilising social orthodoxy to explain something that in reality is unique and only really 'explainable' on its own terms (ie. by listening to it). I'd rather read 'this is fucking amazing' and have no idea what it is than say 'this is rock music' and how no idea how good it is.

The finest piece of music writing, for my money, is Lester Bangs' John Coltrane Lives, in which John Coltrane is mentioned in passing and is an unnamed character who appears in a first-person narrative which ends in Bangs blowing a saxophone in his landlady's face.



What Bangs does, better than me - better than any writer on the topic bar perhaps Ralph Ellison - is get straight to the heart of the matter. Sonic detail is for hacks and chumps and fuckshits and dumbbells. OK, I exaggerate, but it's not something to go on about. Bangs and Ellison and even Christgau's little summaries tell you about the world it relates to, rather than the insular jargon a piece or song is formed of.

A record has to exist in a real life populated by a few heroes and a whole lot of plain old shitbags. To exist, to be noticed, it has to justify itself in moments and reactions. It's not enough to rehash the plot and structure: what does it do? Why does it do? Is what and why it does worth anything?

But as a young writer, I acquiesced and wrote three progressively worse versions.

And now for something COMPLETELY different. Romantic baroque wailings attached to vaudeville prog-pop sensibility straight outta Kendal. Not your average 'single' material, but it is three minutes of the weirdest, most daring and brilliant pieces of pop music of the last five years. As it came to a conclusion, I spontaneously rose to applaud.

Not bad. The next one was specifically as the editor requested.

Tough to imagine which twisted mind saw Wild Beasts, with their idiot-savant soprano wailing coupled to some of the most pedantic hack-and-slash committed to tape, as a singles band. Combining vaudeville prog-pop and indie ghetto approval, this is three minutes of the weirdest, most daring and brilliant pieces of pop music of the last five years. As it came to a conclusion, I spontaneously rose to applaud.

The final one is terrible. That whole 'think of a place, you think of this: well here is this' complete fucking BULLSHIT.

Think of Kendal, Cumbria, you get mint cakes and Alfred Wainwright. Not exactly a hotbed of 30s musichall stylings and angular guitarisms, but that's what we have combined here and it's gosh darn tasty. In fact, I'd go as far to say that this is some of the finest British pop alchemy at present – hooks, idiosyncratic eardrum shattering vocals and a tidy resolution inside three minutes. At the conclusion, I spontaneously rose to applaud.

By which time I'm so racked with doubts about my own ability that I don't write anything else fit for print for a year and a half. Which probably says more about my ego, confidence and level of expectancy than it does about anything else.

Now I'm in the same position as that editor (who is a basically decent chap with whom I just happen to disagree fundamentally), I find myself being able to push my viewpoint - that it's the essence and not the facts that count - across. Often with venom and barely concealed rage, but hey, my prerogative.

With a level of provocation imbued into the fabric of every article, you run the risk of exposure to complaint and the necessity to justify oneself. Such a thing recently happened in response to the print publication of this review.

Dear Sir/Madam

Would somebody please redirect Daniel Brookes to the Opinion section? A music review is supposed to review the music on the CD in question, rather than the supposed class backgrounds of the artists involved. The only thing his review of NME: The Album 2009 told us about the actual music on the CD (y’know, what people would actually buy the CD for…) was that it was ‘identikit sewage’; while the reviewer may feel both Enter Shikari and Little Boots lack his level of musical; sophistication, only the tone-deaf could accuse them of being ‘identikit’. The author seemed much more perturbed by white people daring to be influenced by the music of other cultures, rather than locking themselves into some kind of aural apartheid, as well as musicians refusing to co-opt themselves into a wider class struggle that only exists in the wet dreams of the Socialist Workers’ Party. Most readers would expect a review in the music section to review the music of the artist(s) involved, rather than a review of the (irrelevant) political opinions of the author; if Daniel Brookes could in future remember this, then perhaps he could write an article relevant to the section he is supposed to edit.

Yours sincerely,
Name withheld

This response felt good to receive. That the writing wasn't being passively consumed, but had inflamed a contest of ideas. That said, I completely disagreed. Here is my response in return.

Just writing to say thanks for writing in to the paper re: my review of the NME album. It's totally cool that you chose to take your time to engage with our work; we wish there were more of you. Conversely, have you thought of writing for the music section, or indeed any sections of the paper?

Whilst you may feel the point of reviewing CDs for their content only is the way ahead, I feel that some issues supercede this and that indeed, talking only content in constructive terms about music is insipid hackwork at best. This record serves as an overview of the year, as a constructed entity of what 2009 was; I feel it's something of a right to challenge this.

What I felt I was trying to address here (and I won't accuse you of missing the point; you take what you like from these articles) is the banalisation of a vibrant culture. I'm not saying that there isn't good independent music, it's just that this version of 'indie' is an indie of signifiers.

It's nothing to do with 'aural apartheid' - that's the last thing I'm after. It's just that - in a year of music of the early 21st century - are we really supposed to believe that there were no significant black contributions to independent or guitar music? The one black musician on the 2 discs; Maxim Reality of The Prodigy - doesn't actually play on the included track. Doesn't this trouble you at all?

Also: music IS an opinion section. That's EXACTLY what it is. Please tell me what these objective terms I'm supposed to engage with art are, because I've never seen them before. My political opinions are entirely relevant, as are yours implicitly included in your response.

I'll finish as I began; it's great you wrote. And we'd love to have a passionate voice writing for us (though I don't know how you'd manage to express that seeing as you'd contradict yourself if you ever expressed a subjective opinion) if you can make yourself free on a Monday at 5pm (MR1, upstairs in the Union).

Dan Brookes,
Music Editor

Removed from all this, I need to ask the question: what do people want to read? Fire and brimstone and forthright idea-mapping, or passive descriptives?

Perhaps it is me that is wrong. I read press releases and reviews daily that lean toward the latter, but feel ultimately bored and cold by them - though their unceasing existence gives credence to their existence.

TICKLEY FEATHER

A nice rejoinder to not go to a gig based on disliking their Myspace tracks. Though to be fair, you could put up better songs.

TICKLEY FEATHER @ RETRO BAR, 15/1109

Annie Sachs, the name in which Tickley Feather receives pay cheques, is drunk. Not just your common-or-garden drunk either. Smashed on a molecular level. Hammered. Gone. The only surprise is that she doesn't arrive on stage with a traffic cone atop her Minnie Mouse-bowed head.



On record, TF's excursions are so way beyond the static rigidity of the pop format that drunkenness seems like the perfect distillation of her animus; besides, no one in the venue gives a hoot. It's funny. She's funny. Her banter often goes longer than some of her songs. She lights candles on her keyboard stand “because this place smells of toilets”. It really does.

Live, she's flanked by two dudes; one on guitar who flirts and laughs like a current lover, and one who broods over keyboards and samples like a lover spurned. They're winging it all the way; they grin and smile as if to say “I cannot believe we are getting away with this. This is entirely made of awesome.”

The average Tickley Feather tune is just like unearthing a damp, mildewed cassette of '80s pop hits to play back on a '90s cassette player: there's form and recognisable instruments, but it's warped and weird and a little bit sinister. Nostalgic too, if you're of the last generation of cassette mixtapes: lost sentiments buried in corruptible technology.



It's the unintentional comedic flourishes that linger longest; unaffected, a little bit vulnerable and completely human. The mindset of Tickley Feather may be related to the bottle of scotch she carries on stage, but the warmth she generates could never be faked. An original.

PORTICO QUARTET/JAY REATARD

Two live reviews of very different bands in very different environments. I'm probably at my least comfortable when reviewing live performances because I'm aware they change and mutate and sometimes the perceived badness is little to do with the band; bad sound guy, lifeless crowd, ill-chosen venue or promotional decisions. These were my excuses when I perform music anyway.

JAY REATARD @ THE ROADHOUSE, 12/11/09

It's Thursday. It's raining. Shouldn't have to mention it's windy and cold too. It's 7.45, so no one has had time to get even a halfway decent beer buzz going. There are about 20 people present, four of whom write for Student Direct.



To minimise any chance that this night will work on any conceivable level, Reatard's band quit on him a month ago (explained as such via Twitter: “Band quit! Fuck them! They are boring rich kids who can't play for shit anyways. Say hello to your ugly and boring wives”) so he's grabbed a couple of Danish punks to fulfil his obligations.

Thankfully, it works. Reatard's metier, at casual distance, appears to be fun/throwaway garage-rock nonsense. Look closer. There's a twisted pop magician trying to break out, hamstrung by his lack of resistance to coat everything in a dense layer of sonic miasma. Make no mistake, these songs are big hits...in a parallel world where noise and dissonance don't result in radios being turned off or smashed.

There are no breaks between songs either, resulting in a 20 song set being comfortably wrapped up inside 40 minutes. Reatard's famous bad mood surfaces (“hey sound guy, you working tonight? It's feeding back up here”) just once. Talk of highlights doesn't work in a set with no filler. Great songs Reatard has written include 'It Ain't Gonna Save Me' and 'My Shadow', nihilistic pop jams played here with breakneck defiance.



Given the circumstances, it's the songs that shine through. The best sets work on a confluence of atmosphere and brilliance. Though the former was in absentia, the latter worked overtime.

PORTICO QUARTET @ ROYAL NORTHERN COLLEGE OF MUSIC, 02/11/09

To be British and to be jazz is one of the sadder commercial constraints of modern times. It's a straitjacket worn by Portico Quartet, even though theirs is a jazz of signifiers: upright bass, non-linear movement and volcanic drumming. Mostly in 4/4 and solo-free, PQ's unique selling point; the hang, a bowel-shaped object sounding much like a gentrified steel drum.



Their compositions have as much in common with post-rock, ambient and krautrock tropes as they do in jazz. 'Clipper' erupts into a cock-fight between cubist sax, all gung-ho Ornette-inspired octuplet flurries, and a rhythm section tighter than PVA glue leggings.

Exploratory it may be, but there's direction to their tangents. Only a few bars after some chaotic mutual scraping of instruments, they'll drop into comfortable grooves and moods as easily as an old man getting into a warm bath.

It's this hand-holding through the murky waters of free jazz that makes Portico Quartet accessible to newcomers, and it's their melodic and rhythmic invention that makes them the darling of aficionados.



Token jazz nominee of the 2008 Mercury Prize they may have been, but they've come on in leaps and bounds since then. Imagine how good they'll be next time.

IN THE CITY

In The City is an annual industry showcase for about 150 bands on the edge of industry-readiness (in theory) which takes place over three days every October in Manchester. Yours truly had one of the £350 delegate passes which allows entry to any show or panel (not that I was terribly interested in the idea of listening to dudes jerk each other off about the industry in extremely boring terms.)

IN THE CITY: SUNDAY

Pen? Check. Guide? Check. Industrial quantities of cheap energy drink? Check.

Identically coiffed and dressed London duo MIDIMIDIS attempt to shake the Electric Boogaloo with their warmed-over cyberpunk. At times they're frenetic and splenetic, but mostly they're lost in their own mannered poses. Get 'em off!

Down the road at Studio, the twelve-legged genre-disregarding misfits Asakusa Jinta flail and twirl like a Japanese Gogol Bordello; enthusiasm becomes an Olympic event and the wackiness dial clocks 11. Continuing the international theme are French trio The Tatianas, whose diet-Strokes filth should have stayed in the garage, possibly with a running car.


Asakusa Jinta

At Cellar Vie, hushed appreciation greets the post-modern folk wanderings of Sweet Baboo, a solo set laced with humour and consummate ease. Fellow Welshmen Dirty Goods receive muted plaudits back at Boogaloo, an apt venue for their Patrick Bateman-approved coke-pop. Problem is, it's all a bit knowing and slick. Where they could rock out and give some catharsis to their tightly-wound tunes, they cop-out with the '80s synth crud.

Sophie Madeleine and her ukulele are badly cast against the echo-doom of Bar 38; the soft wispy matter that makes up half of her material is lost in a cloud of chatter, but she battles on bravely. “This is a song I wrote about knitting” she says, placing her firmly in Camp Twee before a note is plucked. Sparse and lovely, with a backing duo every bit her equal, it's the first discovery of the festival.


Sophie Madeleine

The first existential crisis arrives during Fangs' set. They chase the zeitgeist too hard. They are both flap and doodle. They both fluster and bluster. Their electro-sex-attitude shtick looked a joke on C4's MobileAct Unisgned; up close it's a complete sham. MAY68 patrol a similar musical territory, but their motorik-meets-Heaven 17 jams work for all the reasons Fangs' don't; they look like they're having fun, they bothered to finish writing beyond the first hook, and they're all much better-looking.

Whilst In The City brings together the up-and-coming talent from around the UK and beyond, Sunday night belongs to Mancunian talent. Envy is a fearsome young rhymer with a dizzying, kaleidoscopic flow and adroit stage presence born out of brutalising MC battle opponents. Her put-downs are lacerating enough, but its the sweetness between songs that really disarms. A distinctive production is all that separates her from glory.



You could lob an anti-tank missile in front of Kong and they'd still slay. Their masks make them look like sex tourists and their scathing rock-on-steroids is more divisive than the monarchy, but they couldn't care less, crushing mercilessly all the while. 'Leather Penny' is a punch to the abdomen. 'Blood of a Dove' is a knee to the face. The rest of the set works you over with sadistic delight. By the end, you've either left the venue screaming as if your hair is on fire, or you're a committed masochist.



Dutch Uncles


Band of the night: Dutch Uncles. Frontman Duncan Paton is the first person on stage all evening who radiates star quality; the ignorable smart kid at school all grown-up. His nervous tics and karate dances provide a visual hook for songs prone to tangents; 'Face In' is their version of a pop song, except the verse hook owes more to Steve Reich than Stevie Wonder. Anything difficult is tempered intelligently by Paton's ghostly voice, but no one is left waiting too long for the next rapturous pay-off. A rare find; and they're local. No excuse not to see them at the next opportunity, right?

Started coming down with an illness on Monday; battled through, but couldn't be arsed by Tuesday.

IN THE CITY: MONDAY

People are emerging from The Bay Horse toilets clutching their noses self-consciously at the rock'n'roll hour of half past six. Nonetheless, Dan Melrose ploughs through an intimate set pitched halfway between fearful, earnest blues and ornate folk guitar. Its in the latter mode he really shines; 'The Dove' displays playing chops, detailed arrangement and the knack for an earworm of a melody.


Graphic

A sickeningly hip young chap is hunched over his mate's laptop at TV21, awaiting the start of his set. He is Graphic. There's not much in the way of charisma, or even apparent enthusiasm. It all feels a bit Vice until the former Isaac Llewellyn Holman (ah, a fine working-class lad) rips out a few lines over his summery electro agenda and a star in the Just Jack mode is conceived, if not quite born.

Every song in the set of Copy Haho sounds like a potential winning hit, except the song they announce as being an actual single ('Wrong Direction'), which is brilliant nonetheless. For a band from a pedestrian griefhole in Kincardineshire facing the relentlessly dour North Sea, they've emulated taken great urban guitar scene since 1980 and refracted it through 1000 points of light and a deathless ball of energy. More please.



Culture Reject loops live percussion and does the singer-songwriter bit over the top, but it falls flat a heightened rate of knots. Up the road at Electric Boogaloo, Ed Sheeran does the same kind of loop/guitar/voice as Mr. Reject, but succeeds in every area he fails. An almost unbearably magnetic performer with a knack for a three minute pop job that would rival all of Xenomania. Sheeran's potential is practically criminal; he's 18 and you can sense he'll get better with age. The bastard.

JAMES BLACKSHAW INTERVIEW

They say it's hard to interview or meet a hero, but this talk with James Blackshaw disproved that theory. I've got an MP3 of the conversation that I might edit and post up, but here's the potted/tortured journalese version.

He's in his late 20s. He lives in Hastings, but used to live over in Levenshulme. He plays the 12-string guitar and piano. These are facts, but it's not the facts that are the most interesting things about James Blackshaw.



Here's the heavy editorialising; The Glass Bead Game, his seventh, is the finest record of the year – possibly the decade. So pitch-perfect and nuanced are its compositions, it's made some of my friends purchase 12-string guitars to emulate Blackshaw's deathless sound. As a long-time owner of one, it's made this correspondent completely give up.

“Generally, I'm more attracted to instrumental music.” His albums to date have voices on them, but they don't sing words. They humanise the gnarled, knotted emotive qualities in Blackshaw's work, but they don't reveal themselves completely. “If you add words, then to some degree, you're going to dictate the mood of the music.”

Ambiguity is central to James Blackshaw, not naked truths. You own the meaning as you listen. Take the gut-wrenching 'Key' from Glass Bead...; yes, there's ecclesiastical music there. There's definitely something of the '60s avant-garde and the folk-prodigies Blackshaw adores such as John Fahey or Robbie Basho there too.



To nail Blackshaw down as the sum of his influences would be myopic; there's an emotive quality that here can't be bottled or sentimentalised or replicated for Joe Public. Sure, he's soundtracked a couple of FilmFour advertising spots, but it was as much a surprise to him. “My mum called me up and said she swore she heard my stuff on an advert.”

The reason you're likely not to have heard any of his music has little to do with its accessibility or melodic nature; indeed, plays in the Student Direct office have been met with unanimously positive murmurings. Blackshaw is signed to US indie Young God; whilst good for critical credentials, it does nothing to impact the UK marketplace. “I make money by touring and living cheaply.”

So has he ever considered going for financial gratification, pushing his music under the noses of The Man? No. “I pretty much find that whole industry totally abhorrent. Obviously, I don't think something like X Factor as anything to do with music at all, nor any of the awards like NME or Mercury. It's all about the industry.”

Not that he's worried about his own long-term future. “There'll always be people who love music enough to put it out there without worrying about a profit. The internet is also amazing. We can barely comprehend life without it now, too.” Does he not worry that some people develop a sense of entitlement about music if they continually have access to music – more specifically, his music – for nothing?

“No, I think it's pretty low down on the list of things to get pissed off about. Of course it could be taking money away from an artist who needs the money to either make another record, or pay rent – or even eat – but I think in the long-term people will come to understand these issues better.” See: brilliant and trusting.



That week, some friends & yr corresp. decide to make the daunting journey over Snake Pass to get to Sheffield to see him play in a small vegan cafe. Much as his records, it's a tour de force of understated brilliance. In an October air icy with the oncoming winter, his circular melodies warm the hardest of hearts. Every note floats upward into the rafters and hangs tantalisingly, melancholy and reflective, not a single one wasted.

“I'm blocking November and December off to work on the new album.” There's a long, detail-heavy conversation, in which he documents what this might entail; playing electric 12-string for the first time. The sort of massed open-tuned guitar treatments made famous by Rhys Chatham and Glen Branca. Possibly even vocals, which he's worried about. He should trust himself. He's one of the finest musicians around and he doesn't seem to know it.

BASSHUNTER INTERVIEW

When the opportunity came up to interview the guy who has basically annexed my brother's ringtone for the last year, it was too much to pass up. I wish I had a transcript of the piece because he was genuinely nice, funny and engaging.

“Don’t go home with strangers and don’t forget your scuba gear.” This is how Basshunter (the nom de guerre of one Jonas Altberg, 24, chiselled, handsome) signs off our charming chinwag; with a timely piece of sex education. He’s also calling from his parents’ place on the west coast of Sweden, returning home after an intense bout of writing, record and touring.



We talk about the cranium-rattling new single ‘Every Morning.’ “It’s a true story; I broke up with a girl. On winter mornings I like a cup of coffee, and on one particular day I remember her standing over my bed and smiling, holding a cup for me.” The pair since broke up, and he channelled the wistful sentiment onto the wax that makes up the trailer for the upcoming Bass Generation LP.

His first global smash ‘Now You’re Gone’ told a similar tale of regret married to floor-wobbling bass and unpretentious synth madness. I ask if he’s aware of the clash between uplifting party vibes and sad personal content. “Oh, I guess because I just make music all the time, wherever I can, my personal life just becomes part of it.”

At this point you can see the gears ticking over in his brain. “Yeah, I can see it now. Heh. Yeah, people on the dancefloor having a great time and pointing at each other with smiles on their face singing 'now you're gone'. I suppose it is kind of funny.”



We talk tours; he's going on a nationwide jaunt this October. “There will be special guests, hot girl dancers, and, err, me.” His conversation is full of these slightly self-deprecating nuances, but they're endearing rather than mopy. Basshunter knows who he is, a self-proclaimed computer nerd (many times he speaks with authority on computational matters, keeping the interest of your technophobe hack) who plays on-line games with the same friends he had before the colossal fame.

That said, he doesn't actually like the fame game. “I really fucking hate the celebrity thing.” Wine, women and song – what's to hate? “I've been to a lot of these parties and I've never really had a conversation that interests me.” The tonal shift between talking about his friends, music and gaming (rapture) and the celebrities (purgatory) is pretty palpable. It's hard to feel that sorry for him though.

He uses the same software any Joe Schmo could download in minutes to make his beats with, making his hits some of the most profitable music in history. On top of that he's as unaffected and unpretentious as they come, no more so than when telling a story that indicates where his real priorities lie.

“When a flight gets delayed I always say 'yes!' It means I can get my laptop out and play some games for a while.” It does get him into trouble though. “Sometimes I get too into it and end up shouting “DIE! FUCKING ZOMBIE! DIE !”at the screen, then I look up and realise I'm in the airport and not at home. People don't like that.” No!

We wrap up our chat with the aforementioned instructions to pop a hat on your chap when doing that. Basshunter leaves, not to go back to his latest buxom Eurodance girlfan to follow his own advice, but to welcome home his parents from work with coffee. Jonas Altberg; the new, respectful face of commercial dance music.

UNPUBLISHED

Or is that 'never published'? For whatever reason this article was excised from print; I think it's alright though.

Peter Broderick @ Academy 3
9th September 2009
http://www.myspace.com/peterbroderick

In retrospect, lying on the sticky floor of Academy 3 whilst singing accompanied only by sleigh bells is pretty unusual for a solo performer. After the show Peter Broderick delivered he could have driven a nail through somebody’s foot and still received a rapturous reception.



This genial American, an occasional member of Danish ensemble Efterklang, makes minor symphonies by looping delicate fragments of piano, violin, voice and guitar, simultaneously haunting and wistful. Stripped of percussion, and with minimal lighting, it is his effortless skill in deftly switching from instrument to instrument that provides all the showmanship necessary.

Comparisons to fellow wunderkind Final Fantasy seem not without merit, though Broderick is less whimsical and ornate; songs such as ‘Games Again’ break into Brian Eno territory: glacial, vast, with an undercurrent of foreboding. The songs, even when they break into violent conclusions, never feel threatening, always playful. Never indulgent and always inclusive, one song even loops spontaneous audience applause to use as its percussive base.



Peter Broderick has flown under the radar for some time now, but his easy charisma, boyish looks and – crucially – his arsenal of excellent material should put paid to this minor injustice. Shows like this certainly won’t harm his cause much either. A rare delight.

These two album reviews did run, however. From the sublime...

Converge, Axe To Fall

Generic conventions aren't transgressed by Converge; they're assaulted. They're smothered, strangled and maimed with broken glass. The fourth in a series of practically flawless '00s releases by the Massachusetts quartet - the seminal Jane Doe, the claustrophobic You Fail Me and the triumphant No Heroes - are now joined by the batshit insanity of Axe To Fall.



Converge cram into the 103 seconds of 'Effigy' as much ingenuity, emotion and surprise as U2 have in their career to date. The title track utilises instruments less for musical ends and more for a trench battle with the other dark forces of mediocrity, winning in an effortless crush. The victory song must be opener 'Dark Horse', an endorphin rush like no other, inducing spontaneous acts of leaping about to anyone within a 200-yard radius. There's no filler to be found; just head-melting precision. Slackness of the jaw is to be expected.

Sure, they're earnest. Some will be put off by the out-and-out heaviness and forays into discordance; that's the nature of complete artistic conviction. It's a record that lacks half-measures and compromises, placing a premium on surprise, integrity and passion. They're telling us they can't be beaten. Records like this make you believe them.

...to the ridiculous.

Fuck Buttons, Tarot Sport

The basic problem with 'noise music'? That it is practically impossible to differentiate between unappreciated genius and anti-social posturing performed by over privileged chancers. Make no mistake, Fuck Buttons are the latter.

The Skins generation's own noise band has the looks, the arms-aloft bonhomie and hipster credentials, but substance is in limited supply. Opening track 'Surf Solar' aims for shape-shifting hypnosis, but falls woefully short: a ten-minute track whose trajectory becomes apparent in as many seconds.



Tarot Sport has two kinds of track: songs that begin annoyingly and crescendo predictably, and songs that don't even build. The latter kind are especially indulgent; 'Phantom Limb' surely must be an art-school in-joke (like their song titles, their name) given its howlingly pretentious nature. Not even a millisecond passes which could be mistaken for a good song on a good record.

Great noise music is a physical experience, not an intellectual one. Genre predecessors Whitehouse and Wolf Eyes whip the body into a physical frenzy with blasts of white noise so cacophonous that the brain is coerced into retreat or acquiescence. Fuck Buttons' gravest error on Tarot Sport is their own calculating restraint, which comes across as predictable and patronising. The emperor's new clothes disrobe.