There’s no doubting the precocious talent of Laura Marling. At just 25 she recently released her fifth album, Short Movie, which matched the spiky introspection of song-writing previously driven by folk melodies with a new rock-orientated sound.
I often think that, once a band hits certain milestones – longevity, moderate commercial success, critical acclaim – it can be difficult to know where to begin. I don’t mean the big bands, with the songs you’d recognise if you heard them in an advert or at a festival, their big hits acting as gateway drugs to those who’d like to find out more; but rather those mid-level indie bands beloved by those in the know and yet whose names prompt glazed looks when your colleagues ask you who you went to see at the weekend.
Flesh Throne Press is the sixth album from heavy doom-rock duo Pombagira. Guitarist and singer Pete and drummer Carolyn Hamilton-Giles’s massive sound is characterised by portentous riffing soaked in reverb, vocals that could easily be mistaken for prime time Ozzy Osbourne, and sluggish but powerful drumming, all basted in early '70s production values. While Flesh Throne Press could, at a stretch, be described as meditative, it’s certainly not unobtrusive background music and needs to be played very loudly indeed.
The best singer-songwriters, you might say, survey life's experiences with a forensic eye. That’s certainly true of Laura Marling. Her new album Short Movie chronicles the singer's recent stint in LA where she'd relocated for a couple of years. Marling's adventures are catalogued with a satisfying mix of introspection and free-form vibes. That, of course, was also partly true of her last offering, Once I Was an Eagle. The difference here is that her hopes and disappointments are expressed with a Seventies rawness that also hints at an inner rock-chick.
Artists rarely progress, though, without a couple of false starts: Here they are to be mainly found in the first half. The album starts confidentally enough with “Warrior”, which features impressive John Martyn-style guitar work. Next up, the telecaster guitars and rock rhythms of “False Hope” have a snarl that sits somewhere between PJ Harvey and Chrissie Hynde. But, after that, things start to meander. “Strange” simply sounds like some beatnik poetry mumbled over improvised chords.
Still, from track seven on the album's defiantly back on course. It’s not just the presence of Marling’s gorgeous melodies – and who couldn't love “Easy” with its Spanish chords with a breezy Californian melody – it's more how she blends all her influences. “Gurdjieff’s Daughter” is a particular treat. Gurdjieff was a kind of early 20th-century Russian mystic-cum-guru, and the song looks at advice and those who would give it. Intriguingly, it does so over chords that could have been lifted from Dire Strait's "Sultans of Swing".
The mystical theme continues on the title track, whose subject is a frazzled "shaman" whom Marling ran into one night. His motto, apparenty, was "life's a short movie, man". As the singer tries to appreciate what life must be like for him she suddenly feels humble and insignificant. It's that sense of wonder that, ultimately, makes Short Movie such a rich experience.
When a documentary about Irish rock music starts with footage of late-period Bono shuffling about awkwardly dressed in black, my first impulse is to check my iTunes in case he’s surreptitiously shat another album into my computer. The second is to reach for the remote. Thankfully though, this was just a glimpse of what was to come down Ireland's rocky road. I had more than enough time to steel myself as we sped back in time to a point when the fledgling blues scene was first making an impact in the country.
I first saw Spectres last October at the 10th birthday celebrations for their label, Sonic Cathedral. That night, they struck me as noisy, spiky and fun. If that sounds like faint praise, it really wasn't meant to be – noisy, spiky fun is in my all-time top three funs. Now, they've gone from bottom of the bill to headline act in less than six months on the back of an album so incendiary it should come wrapped in a fire blanket (well, it beats a tote bag any day) and, oh my… how they have grown. Really, this band’s development needs to be measured in cat years.
It would probably be best to start this review with a mention of the band, The War on Drugs, whose 2014 LP, Lost in the Dream, saw them realise their potential in a flurry of "Best Of" lists and almost unbelievable hyperbole. However, before we get fully into that, I should state, for the record, that I’ve always hated Brixton Academy. The rake plays havoc with my calves and the beer tastes homeopathically weak, while sound spirals and muddies as it travels into the gods before falling back to earth like a plague of shit brown noise.
With The Jesus & Mary Chain reformed and currently touring their epochal debut album, Psychocandy, theartsdesk reaches into its archives to offer up a rare and very extensive interview with lead singer Jim Reid from 2010.
While Julian Cope’s albums are usually fairly expansive affairs which employ a vast array of instruments, an audience with the Arch Drude is a more intimate affair these days. There’s no backing band and the man takes to the stage armed only with a 12-string acoustic guitar, a microphone and a few effects pedals. There’s also a big bass drum set up on stage with “You can’t beat your brain for entertainment” written on the skin – but that’s just a prop and doesn’t get played.
In interviews, Sleater-Kinney have been at pains to point out that their first album in nigh-on a decade is not a “reunion”. It’s certainly not a word I’d reach for to describe No Cities to Love: it’s too cosy a word – one that conjures buried grudges and a comfortable rediscovery of the things that made a band great in its youth. But there were no grudges behind Sleater-Kinney’s “indefinite hiatus” in 2006, and the music across their seven-album discography was never comfortable. There was little chance of them starting now.