House Above The Sun live in Camden reviewed by John Robbins

House Above The Sun live at The Monarch, 40 Chalk Farm Road, Camden.

There are lots of things to like about South London four piece House Above The Sun, but probably the thing that makes them most interesting is the lyrical world that lead singer and guitarist Jim Moreton draws you into. 

Take their track Footsteps, which they drop approximately half way through their set in the party like atmosphere of Camden Folk's birthday celebrations. Over a stripped down almost gospel backing that's reminiscent of Spirituilized's Ladies and Gentleman... album, Jim reveals that he's "just doin' time for bad behaviour." Naturally, he leaves it to our collective imagination to guess what that black mark against his character might be, but that only makes it more intriguing. As does the smouldering intensity he delivers such revelatory, redemptive confessions, rhythmically strumming on his Telecaster as though he were off in a universe of his own.

When they play a track from their first EP entitled Still My Flesh and Blood, we witness Jim is coming to terms with a turbulent family life, and, with a Morrissey-esque flourish that brings a smile among such trauma, he shares with us that it's those conversations about the weather that really do him in.

All of which would be great on it's own but not much use without a bit of musical power to bring it up, and House Above The Sun have that too. The first song of the evening, Tamopah has a swooping quality that moves from a whisper to a growl in a mater of seconds, and it rocks out in no uncertain terms. Where The Eagles Dare has a country feel that - somewhat obviously - bring The Eagles to mind, while at other times it's the interplay between Jim and fellow singer and guitarist Ariel Moreton, in terms of gorgeous harmonies and six string interplay, that takes the breath away. 

Celebrating the release of their debut, self-released album, Five Hours North, tonight the band are clearly going places. Their sound is certainly mainstream enough - see also echoes of Fleetwood Mac and The Stones - but there's something individual and distinctive about the messages beneath the surface. 

Catch now before they make it to the enormodomes of this world would be our advice.

houseabovethesun.bandcamp.com

Reviewed by John Robbins 25/10/2017
Photos by Anna Laymond

High Windows by Philip Larkin reviewed by Denni Rusking

Kingsley Amis: "Philip Larkin is a poet who can move a large audience — to laughter and to tears — without betraying the highest artistic standards." 

High Windows was the last collection of poetry that Philip Larkin had published while he was alive. The most famous poem in the collection is This Be The Verse which begins "They fuck you up your mum and Dad, they may not mean to but they do." In a book on his favourite poets, Alan Bennett makes the point that although it's a shame Larkin's parents fucked their son up, at least they gave him something to write about. You can watch Bennett's 1990 Poetry in Motion documentary on Larkin here:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rr0CJ98lIJs

I love Larkin and I love this Springtime poem called The Trees written in 1967 - the year Larkin turned down an OBE. When I first became aware of the poem I was young and green but it still pleases me all these years later. Larkin writes poetry for people like me who didn't know they liked poetry. When Larkin went on Radio 4's Desert Island Discs he was asked how he had come up with one of his poems and he replied: "sheer genius"

The Trees

The trees are coming into leaf

Like something almost being said;

The recent buds relax and spread,

Their greenness is a kind of grief.

Is it that they are born again

And we grow old? No, they die too,

Their yearly trick of looking new

Is written down in rings of grain.

Yet still the unresting castles thresh

In fullgrown thickness every May.

Last year is dead, they seem to say,

Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

Hear Larkin recite The Trees here:

High Windows

When I see a couple of kids

And guess he’s fucking her and she’s   

Taking pills or wearing a diaphragm,   

I know this is paradise

Everyone old has dreamed of all their lives—   

Bonds and gestures pushed to one side

Like an outdated combine harvester,

And everyone young going down the long slide

To happiness, endlessly. I wonder if   

Anyone looked at me, forty years back,   

And thought, That’ll be the life;

No God any more, or sweating in the dark

About hell and that, or having to hide   

What you think of the priest. He

And his lot will all go down the long slide   

Like free bloody birds. And immediately

Rather than words comes the thought of high windows:   

The sun-comprehending glass,

And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows

Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.

Hear Larkin read High Windows here:

Daniel Torday: "Larkin was able to ignore any audience but himself.... That crass, stubborn, and yet unavoidably lovable curmudgeon who tends to poke his head out at the most inopportune times." 

Text by Denni Rusking 2017
High Windows is published by Faber & Faber

The Purple Lights at The Camden Monarch reviewed by Ben Willmott

Mark Beaumont Presents The Purple Lights, London

No-one could ever accuse East London twosome The Purple Lights are taking life too seriously. Bleach haired rock god Rob Fincham, guitarist and lead singer, and their enigmatic dreadlocked drummer Akeba saunter up on stage with all the casual manner of someone having a jam in a mate's garage rather than headlining an NME journalist's personally curated showcase. Nerves? If they're experiencing any then they're pretty good at hiding them.

Nor should they be nervous. They're one of the hardest working underground bands in Britain, both in terms of constant live appearances and new songs. A week before the show they shared the first track from their new EP, the enrapturing Afro-beat infused 'Try So Hard'. There's no room for it in the set tonight though, as they've got another new song on their hands, 'Wake Up', an incitement to rise up and react against the current backsliding political mess of Trump/Brexit we currently find ourselves in.

At least their set opener has remained pretty constant over a summer that's taken them from Glastonbury appearances to the nearby Roundhouse, who have adopted them as resident artists for 2017. 'Rain' fits the bill perfectly, anyway, starting quiet and slowly building to a powerchord-blasting chorus, Fincham's echo-y guitar work no doubt sending shivers down spines across the Monarch. Before long they are locked into a powerful groove, the heavy momentum of Akeba's reggae rhythms finding an unlikely but ultimately very natural sounding counterpoint in Fincham's riffs, flurries and soaring vocals.

They exude the kind of supreme confidence that only constant gigging can provide, but rather than creating arrogance it gives them the space to relax and have fun. Sometimes it even looks like they're playing more to impress each other than the audience, but at the same time they have a strong, serious message wrapped up in all the fun. 'Triggerman' is a great example of this. Yes, it's a passionate plea against the mindlessness of gun crime with a refrain, “triggerman - put that gun down.” But it's also a chance for Akeba to use his drumstick as a pretend gun, shoot Rob to the floor, then emerge from behind his kit to pick him up before they finish off the track in a blizzard of ska skanking.

Undoubtedly the most immediate song in their collection though, is the title track from their forthcoming second EP, 'Not Alone'. It's a sweetly-centred slow reggae workout dripping with the catchiest of hooks, augmented with looped up effects and, as ever, blessed with a chorus to die for.

Is it their best song? It might be. Then again, it's quite possible that they've written an even better one in the time it took you to read this review. It's certainly a good place to start.

Purple Lights on Sound cloud: 

Text by Ben Willmott 11/10/2017

Micko and The Mellotronics live in NW5 reviewed by Humphrey Fordham

Micko and The Mellotronics The Fiddler's Elbow Belsize Park.

A sense of 'full circle' permeates this review both in the musical and biographical sense. In 1997, this writer was an extra in Todd Haynes' celluloid Glam Rock extravaganza, 'Velvet Goldmine'. The eponymous frontman of The Mellotronics - the polymath Micko Westmoreland was also in said film, having the eloquent supporting role of 'Jack Fairy'. A dreamy slender Brian Eno-like figure. But that is another story, and now belongs in reverential Brit Flick history.

Here in this spit 'n' sawdust venue - a stone's throw away from the now generic hubbub of Camden Town. We are distinctly reminded in a 'short sharp shock' sense of what inspired the now 40-something Micko to divert from his electronic music leanings (he has composed film scores) and unashamedly pay homage to the musical heroes that inspired him to pick up a guitar in the first place.

The band in question is a no-frills three piece in the template of The Jam and the early Cure. Micko - looking very dapper in vintage Doctor Who style threads - plays Fender Jaguar and sings. Brian Pistolesi is the bassist and Nick Mackay is on drums.

Starting off in an arresting Stooges-like vein, they immediately invite you into their barre-chorded wind tunnel of excellence. 'Sick and Tired' is a downbeat number which certainly channels the intense '77-style facial contortions of MW. 'The Facts of Life' has a great rhythmic sci-fi sounding break. Well into the set, you do get a strong sense of the darkness closing in amid the 'Paint It, Black' vibe of 'Freaksville' (the video reminds me of The Banshees' 'Happy House'). When Micko sings, "I want to get back to Freaksville", you sense he craves a perennial womb-like existence. Definitely convincing.

'What do You Bring to the Party?' is festooned with excellent spidery guitar pickings, and 'The Finger' takes on an an unexpected twist - an instrumental beak a la The Supremes' 'You Can't Hurry Love'. I am left gobsmacked by such eclecticism.

The gig - which ends with the tongue-in-cheek shoplifting opus' Schmescos' - is barely an hour long. But in the grand scheme of things, that's fine. Long gigs usually leave you clock-watching anyway.

Micko has expressed his admiration for artistes as wide-ranging as Jacques Brel, Syd Barrett, Miles Davis and The Silver Apples. Such appreciation is very admirable within the challenging constraints of a three-piece. Micko told me that, pre-gig.

Long may he continue in his current incarnation.

Text by Humphrey Fordham 2017

I, An Actor by Nicholas Craig reviewed by Simone Hoffs

I've read I, An Actor a few times and it's always been a lovely experience. Within a few minutes of picking it up I have a big grin on my face. As well as being amusing it's also very thought provoking. I believe we all have a bit of Nicholas Craig in us and that is no bad thing.

Craig is an actor who has trod the boards at both The Royal Court and "The Nash". He starred in the controversial play Fist F***ing and also as Lord Foppishness in School for Fops. On TV he appeared in both Drizzle at the Bus Queue and Oh No! It's the Neighbours.

In this classic book Craig reveals everything you needs to know about the secret of comedy, Shakespeare, Politics, Improvisation and so much more. Maybe the last word should be from the great man himself? What follows is a tiny extract from Chapter 8: All About Me...

"I suppose the most remarkable thing about me is that although I'm a complete anarchist who totally rejects rules and regulations, although I can carry a packed theatre to the plains of Siberia and back with the flare of my nostril, and although I must seem like a god to some people, I am really a very ordinary sort of sausage-and-mash type of bloke. Just like everyone else, I get drunk, go to the launderette, fall in love. What is godlike about that? No, I'm Mr Normal, I'm afraid. I lose my temper, I run out of milk. And you know those days when you lie in bed till the evening sing 'Fly Me to the Moon' in different accents and flicking bits of chewed up paper with an elastic band? Well, I have them too."

I An Actor is published by Methuen

Text by Simone Hoffs 2017

A Black & White Night with Roy Orbison & Friends reviewed by Denni Ruskin

Roy Orbison's comeback began in 1986 when his beautiful song "In Dreams" was used in the creepy David Lynch film Blue Velvet. Virgin records snapped him up and got him to re-record other classic singles such as "Pretty Woman", "Crying" and "It's Over" for a Greatest Hits compilation. A year later "The Big O" was inducted into The Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame by Bruce Springsteen.

Bruce told the crowd: “I’ll always remember what he means to me and what he meant to me when I was young and afraid to love...In 1975, when I went into the studio to record Born to Run, I wanted to make a record with words like Bob Dylan, that sounded like Phil Spector’s production, but most of all, I wanted to sing like Roy Orbison. Now, everybody knows that nobody sings like Roy Orbison.” 

The Boss was right - the voice of Roy Orbison is unique - he was the best.

Later that same year Springsteen would join Tom Waits, Elvis Costello, K.D. Lang and others to play alongside Orbison and a house band made up of musicians who'd known Roy since his days on Sun records. Roy's magical powers hadn't faded and he could still sing like an angel.

The venue for this celebratory concert was Ambassador Hotel's Cocoanut Grove night club  in Los Angeles and there are a few celebs in the audience such as Billy Idol and Patrick Swayze. The concert is filmed in an artistic, soft,black and white. The house band feature celebrated musicians who were part of Elvis Presley's "Taking Care of Business" Vegas band. When Springsteen attempts to trade licks with them it's obvious he's not really in their class. Elvis Costello meanwhile spends the evening pretending to be John Lennon. It's amusing to hear his shouty backing vocals on "Pretty Woman", he plays harmonica on both "Candy Man" and "Uptown" and livens things up with some wild organ playing in "Down The Line." K.D. Lang sings beautifully and is a joy to hear. Tom Waits lingers in the background, strumming an acoustic guitar and looking cool. Maybe he's wise not to attempt a duet? Clearly a big fan, Waits explains: “To me, his voice sounds like the wind forming words and being sent to you from across time. There is something so tender, so private about his voice, it confides feelings you keep mostly to yourself.” 

Astonishingly 3 decades have passed since the legendary night of the concert.The Black & White night now comes with a 33 minute documentary and a new version of "Blue Angel." The musical director of the concert was legendary producer T Bone Burnett. The set list includes new material written by Costello and U2 as well as all the hits. It feels like everything about this project was done perfectly. Any Orbison fan (lonely or not) will love this concert. It's a gem. Viva Roy Orbison.  

Text by Denni Rusing 2017

Olly Beck on John Berger

Moments Lived: The Death of John Berger

Marcos, I want to say something about a pocket of resistance. One particular one. My observations may seem remote, but, as you say, ‘A world can contain many worlds, can contain all worlds.’

John Berger in correspondence with Subcomandante Marcos [i]

About Looking (and Listening)

Towards the end of last year, a seismic year if ever there was one, I sat down and watched a film by the Argentinian director Pablo Giorgelli called Las Acacias (2011). The premise was straightforward: A lonely, bitter and begrudging middle –aged truck driver carrying timber from the forests of Paraguay to Argentina’s capital city is instructed by his boss to allow a vulnerable young single mother and her one year old daughter to hitch a ride. With sparse dialogue and shot almost entirely in the cramped cab of the driver’s truck, what unfolded was a moving, humane portrait of two bereft adults and a wide-eyed sometimes crying child stuck on a long journey together. When it had finished I said to myself, ‘I am so glad I watched this’. The film had nourished me in a way that is difficult to put into words. Three days ago when I heard the news that John Berger had died and I started to contemplate what he meant to our culture, this film resurfaced in my mind.

Berger was many things – artist, tutor, art critic, novelist, screenwriter, television presenter, playwright, poet – but for many he was one of our great contemporary essayists; a lucid construer of accessible but meticulously informed exquisite mini-masterpieces. And the thoroughness which underpinned (whether directly or indirectly) these prolific chamber pieces was Berger’s unabashed but at same time adaptable Marxist viewpoint. In an insightful article by Robert Minto celebrating the latest curation of Berger’s essays ‘Landscapes’ Minto points out that Berger’s Marxism was an elastic Marxism: ‘What Landscapes in turn makes clear, through its assemblage of more programmatic pieces – book reviews, manifestos, autobiography – is that Berger is a rigorous thinker with a theory of art. That theory evolved considerably between the 1950s and the 2010s. Yet two threads hold it together with the tenacity of spider silk: a critique of the political economy of art and a sophisticated account of its human value, each rooted in a committed but elastic Marxism.’[ii]

How to Resist a State of Forgetfulness

Consider this 2015 meditation from ‘Confabulations’ on the absurdity of Picasso’s painting Las Femmes d’Alger (1955) dedicated by Picasso to the Algerian struggle against French colonialism selling for near on 180 million dollars: ‘During the last week I’ve been drawing mostly flowers, motivated by a curiosity which has little to do with either botany or aesthetics. I have been asking myself whether natural forms – a tree, a cloud, a river, a stone, a flower – can be looked and perceived as messages. Messages – it goes without saying – which can never be verbalized, and are not particularly addressed to us. Is it possible to ‘read’ natural appearances as texts?’ And then a paragraph later he writes: ‘In the totalitarian global-order of speculative capitalism under which we are living the media ceaselessly bombard us with information, yet this information is mostly a planned diversion, distracting us from what is true, essential and urgent. Much of the information is about what was once called politics, but politics have been superseded by the global dictatorship of speculative capitalism with its traders and banking lobbies.’[iii]   

Now consider Syria’s plight through the lens of the recent tragedy of Aleppo; that ongoing, unresolved torturous scream which originated somewhere, sometime in the arrogant Imperial 1800’s. What makes Berger’s written thought boundlessly readable is this striving against a world that is becoming increasingly rigid and trapped again; this time by a capitalist machine that appears to be have been left on autopilot by a driver so drunk on financial excess and their own self-spun disinformation, one wonders what will happen when either the satnav malfunctions or the fossil fuel runs out. It is a world that is often panicked by its own endless feeding of information and the internet curtains we a prone to hide behind. A supple Marxism is merely one of many avenues which might lead us back to our own sense of a shared humanity, grounding us back in the world, rather than this current condition of perpetually lying to ourselves about what achievement and success is or is not; of what it really means to be alive, living, and creative.

Rembrandt and the Body

There is a little bit further to go in this brief adulation of someone who should  be given more than just a forgotten grave in England, for perhaps it will be in equally failed Paris rather than London that Berger will find his resting place. John Berger was a man who took his time on death, restlessly communing and speculating over the mysterium tremendum et fascinans of this inevitably. Not only that, he would write moving obituaries on the most ‘obscure’ of friends, dedicated but unrecognised in their field. When you read about Sven from Sweden in Confabulations you find an artist totally committed and living the life within his meagre means. Berger doesn’t really tell us if he’s a great painter rather he focuses on the Sven’s struggle and how after his the funeral he steps into Sven’s studio: ‘After the funeral, the hundred or so people attending were invited to a buffet meal in the garden, outside which Sven had been allotted a municipal studio. At one moment I left the garden and opened the studio door I remembered on the ground floor. The studio was uncannily tidy. The tidiness bespoke his absence. There was nothing on the easel. A number of canvases were visible instead of being face to the wall; the strong ones looked stronger; and the weaker ones looked desolate. What astounded me most, however, was the large reproduction pinned at eye level to the wall which was facing the easel. It was the Rembrandt Simeon… It is thought to be the last painting Rembrandt worked on.’[iv]

I picture Rembrandt’s unfinished painting of the old man Simeon holding the Christ child while what appears to be a young woman lingers in the background. Rembrandt had made two busier more detailed versions when he was younger but this final attempt is stripped back, muted; almost quivering because of what is suggested rather than defined. I could stare at it for ages. And following Berger perhaps I will make some sketches of it in ink or watercolour; just for me, as a way of passing time, as a way of soaking up experience in time. The image takes me back to the film: the aging muddled man, the young anxious mother, and the beautiful wide-eyed child – her whole life ahead of her.  

(Text by Olly Beck, 5 January 2017)         

---

[i] John Berger, The Shape of a Pocket, Bloomsbury, 2002, p.233

[ii] Robert Minto, A Smuggling Operation, lareviewofbooks.org, 02/01/17

[iii] John Berger, Confabulations, Penguin, 2016, pp.136-137

[iv] Ibid, pp.57-58