Missive 94
06-04-2006
Singled Out

Missive 94

For Kelly and Mark - missing you.

Singled Out - finely selected and distilled nuggets of pop home brewed to the highest specifications to be deliberated, dispatched and discussed for your discerning listening pleasure - which in in belts and whistles terminology means we receive, we play, we write about (badly) and tell you what good shit there is about…..

No preambles this time cos we‘re like that and anyhow we can‘t be arsed….just the rekkids…..

Chikinki ‘You said’ (Urban Cow). Continuing apace with their enviable track record for concocting releases that bubble, pop and resonate their way into your life, Chikinki return to the fray with their first batch of new recordings since the sessions for the acclaimed Island debut full length - 2004’s ’Lick your ticket’. A limited release put out own their own Urban Cow imprint this two track offering crawls over you in an instant like a rash, the lead cut an infectious tangle of jerky strut like sharp as knives riffs bled through with wickedly irresistible hip hugging side swerves that prick your ears, give you short sharp heart seizures and have your feet going wantonly crooked while having the skinny tied community sweating hard to arrive with a suitable reply. An intoxicating hybrid of feistily carved pop eruptions spun into an riffing angulated frenz that ultimately sounds like a spiky Joe Jackson being swarmed by the dinky uncompromising simple turn of hook lavished melody as was once the cornerstone of New Musik. Flip over for live favourite ’Nasty Side’ - again another superbly delivered slice of crooked candy pop that if we didn’t know any better we’d say was a mutant offspring resulting from a quick fumble in an after hours studio take between Fonda 500 and Girlinky - all said and done file under wonky and wildly wonderful. Expect an whole full length of similar hi-fi trouncing ear gear to arrive around Autumn time. Recommended. www.chikinki.co.uk

Monolog ‘Stick tease’ EP (Tender). Previously unknown to us, Monolog or Mads Holberg Lindren as he’s better known to family and friends alike has been operating in his own self designed hermetically sealed playroom for the best part of 5 years now. As is the case with these things every so often the door to that playroom creaks open to be bathed in the glowing aura of the real world in return a few crafted electronic gems pass through as though in payment or suggesting some kind of archaic barter system still observed. These secret escapees are diligently collected onto vinyl and have been known to be well received finding loving homes into a select ever widening community. The ’Stick Tease’ EP features 6 such gems and form what is the 6th release in the Tendertronic 12” EP series which to date has provided previous residences for Karsten Pflum, Hakan Lidbo and Mango Delight. Squelching unwholesomely fattened up beats with an unmistakable air of mid period Wagon Christ as though fused with Muslim Gaze is what you get, an aural activity set that freewheels amid abstract tenses to sample from a richly edifying smorgasbord of contrasting generic delights to provide a curious though compulsive myriad of interweaving and shape shifting dynamics that you’d feel would be right up the crooked street of BBC Radio 3’s Mixing It boffins. As said 6 tracks contained within, the first thing that becomes apparent despite the sometimes ad hoc presentation and the disturbing knack for changing direction and focus abruptly is the way the sound-scapes appear fluid in texture with the melodic manipulations at times kept a hairs breadth on the side of the pop fence though daring to orbit the more finite territories of Tigerbeat6. Lindren’s use of sound manipulations as him exploring the darker confines of jazz and blending them with lunar-esque down tempo filmic scores replete with chattering beats and alien conceived designs, the wonderfully scratched though subtly exotic ’Travelsong’ is a bloated and dulling softly treading neo funk cosmic train journey that combines a sense of motion with a deeply rooted hybrid of native memories that flicker and dissolve into the ether. ’Headflush’ has an inviting cartoonish clangers- esque air about it that soon evolves into an icy symphonic transmission from the outer reaches of the cosmos, oddly dislocated as it craftily dissolves to something more of an assemblage of musical memories with a distinctly dub like lysergic edge - wonky - deliberately distracted. ‘Prinshaglgevaer’ has all the hallmarks of an ominous evil march of the typewriters being orchestrated by Add N to X - all teasingly romanced amid a gossamer web of tripping beats and glacially sounding shyness. All said and done it’s ‘Bomb Forecast’ that provides the sets tastiest morsel. An intensely beautiful after hours laid back jam that to these ears sounds at times not unlike a rewired take on Jonas Munk (Manual) replete with Durutti schisms. Pretty smart stuff if you ask me. www.tender.nu

Linda Draper ‘Needlessly’ (Planting Seeds). A release that we have to say without reservation possesses an absolute master class of exquisitely delivered song craft. Tall words you might think but then this 6 track collection lends itself to such a seldom witnessed breathlessly at ease and inviting nature that once accepted you soon find yourself hopelessly numbed and bewitched under its becoming spell. Linda Draper for those still in the dark has to date recorded three acclaimed full lengths, toured with the likes of Sunshine Fix and Boyracer and heralded as one of the leading lights by the anti-folk scene emanating from her home town New York. ‘Needlessly’ is in a way a kind of ‘bringing the greater public at large up to speed’ exercise as it features - save for the two Pinkie remixes - cuts culled from both 2005’s ’One, Two, Three, Four’ and 2003’s ’Patchwork’ full lengths. Produced by Kramer the reference points it signposts are clear for all to see, Draper gently dips her toes in territories more associated with Mazzy Star, the Delgados, Cat Power, Suzanne Vega and less obviously so - Nick Drake. For your entrance fee you are richly awarded with an array of lovingly considered slices of drifting and dust covered soft centred fancifully frail acoustically hued candy pop. To venture into Drapers’ world is to stumble upon a tiny undiscovered and undisturbed spot so far ignored and missed by pop’s cartographers, a place that’s been left, untouched and allowed to grow as nature intended free from distraction and the pressures, promises and plundering of a cruel uncaring outside society. Here Draper finds safe haven to weave her softly cured genteel craft and bruised personality, from the moment the wistful pop nugget ’Needlessly’ rears into view with its subtle dusting of keys the unrelenting beauty of Drapers’ melodic prowess sets about its task of ensnaring you in its longing headlights. Her chief and unique attribute is her ability to sound so loud when she’s so quiet, the compositions nakedly drawn resonate with a crushing crescendo without ever seemingly needing to stir from their resting slumber and with that in turn force you to gather in closer, none more so is this special knack best exemplified than on the enchanting ‘Super Zero’ and the divine ‘Candle Opera’. ‘Candle Opera’ is a towering and tearfully forlorn colossus of heart hanging arrangements lushly decorated by a angelic vocal delivery and a wintry like aspect reposed with an arresting stately church presence (of the kind that you feel the likes of Low might take one pace back to swoon in admiration at) - the point being that as spectral and hollow as it may seem there’s a sense of lushness at work here as though someone had given over a triangle and a basic two track recorder to Van Dyke Parks and Phil Spector and goaded then to do their worst. While on the attractively crisp but flooring ’Super Zero’ Draper, so it would seem, carves you to the core slowly picking away at your defences thread by thread with a sweetly ventured cortege of sun shining partly ‘so what’ whimsical dreaminess - kind of like being subjected to the delayed effects arising from a sucker punch delivered by a giant velvet gloved fist. Add in the kooky sounding ’The Broken Muzzle’ with its tip toeing spring showered strings and the timelessly honed and hurtingly honeycombed ’A little bit goes’ and you have yourself a remarkable and quite irresistible release of some measure. www.plantingseedsrecords.com

Staying with Planting Seeds for…..

1888 ’Abble Goose Dam’ (Planting Seeds). A debut full length waiting in the wings and due for release later in the year ‘Abble Goose Dam’ serves as a taster of what’s to come from this creative quartet. The two tracks that make up this ‘Abble Goose Dam’ release forms the first part of the ’Abble Goose Dam : Mad Abble Goose’ EP - part 2 of which you can apparently pre-order by contacting the ensemble via their website (address at the end) One of those releases that we’d have to say best filed under ’grower’. Unlike the previously featured Planting Seeds release - Linda Draper - opening cut ’Unconscious on the Telephone’ distinguishes itself by not being the most immediate cut you’ll hear for the best part of the year instead preferring to catch you unaware on first introduction yet being savvy enough to enlist more than enough dulled hooks and delightfully crooked melodic twists about its person as to suggest that a little patient time spent in its company may well reap rewards aplenty. Described by the accompanying press release as ’Let it be’ era Beatles dabbling in countrified psychedelics with Wilco - or at least words to that effect you’d be forgiven for thinking that said press release writer had perhaps partaken of some of those self same funny fags themselves when putting together their priceless prose, but once the opening noodlesome entrance that passes for pastoral post rock-isms dissipates then something rather special begins to emerge. Feasting on 70’s soft country rock snack bites, chief songwriters Rosenberg and Driscoll set about weaving a flavoured fabric that sees Moviola’s wintry honed country pop matrix ’Durable Dream’ restructured to incorporate elements of ‘Green Mind’ era Dinosaur JR with a subtle dashing of Mercury Revs’ ’Yerself is Steam’. The resulting soft centred mixture is then whipped up for a whistle-stop tour of the early 70’s whereby the influences of country / MOR forefathers - Buffalo Springfield, the Byrds, the Band et al become ingrained. ‘In a Car’ sees the band wearing their post ‘Dark side of the moon’ Floyd influences proudly on their collective sleeves and why not when it sounds this bloody good - Porcupine Tree eat your heart out. As an additional treat two of the three tracks that featured on the quartet’s debut ‘Panda’ EP show up on the flip. First up - ’Mountain’ just needs to be heard to be believed - up there in terms of excellence with various debuts by Butterflies of Love, Homescience and For Stars, a heavenly hybrid that takes its reference point from 10CC ’I’m not in love’ and bleeds into it the tranquil dreamscapes found within Lennon’s ’Number 9 Dream’, drop in a few hallucinogenic mind bending additives, treat it to a finite blanket of scattering beats and a host of nostalgic 70’s radio memories and leave it to bake for a few hours beneath a 60’s west coast glow and you have yourself something of a tingling treasure that your hi-fi will be hard pressed to let up. ’The clubs you’ll join’ which rounds up the set is more of your slow drip dried porch reclining Floyd -isms as though on some kind of vacation in the open country replete with a stack of wood cutters songs for company all the time being serenaded by swirling soul sapping hammonds. All in all a release so deliberately out of step it could sit happily alongside that lost gem from a few years ago by the Athens ensemble the Eskimos (’Something must be transmitted somehow’) - quite perfect really. Contact the label at www.plantingseedsrecords.com and for the band go to www.eighteeneightyeight.com

The Arm ’He Builds Bombs’ (Speedowax). Casual observers of these pages may well remember us falling over ourselves a little while back when this lot’s debut EP ’Fortune’ reared it’s head into view. Not only was it marked by being - if memory serves - housed in a gatefold sleeve but the vinyl inside was pressed on a rather fetching twin shade of white / clear vinyl by those nice people over at Speedowax. A colossal record all said and done that married all elements from math rock / jazz and punk into a raging discordant melodic brew. Several months down the line sees the Arm returning to the killing fields tightly equipped and chomping at the bit dragging behind them a quartet of speaker melting aural assaults of the highest order - the tracks that make up the ‘He builds bombs’ EP make the aforementioned ‘Fortune’ set seem like a pleasantly casual Sunday afternoon stroll in the park. What you get is an unrelenting heads down white hot mutant of bastardised pummelling blues bruisers that maintain their frenetic post / math / jazz / punk rock seismic onslaughts only this time the dials have been set to maximum in an attempt to achieve a nose bloodying point of meltdown. A viciously unrelenting collection, both the opening ’Bombs’ and ’Anoxia’ literally tear themselves from their imprisoned grooves to throttle the living shit out of you providing an unholy heavy duty mass of overpoweringly ominous aural apparel, the former cut in particular squirms restlessly, a gruelling pit of splinter inducing simmering puss venting fury lined throughout with bone cracking serrated riffs that snarl and growl as though the result of a head buckling union between the Melvins and Fugazi while the latter, the upbeat and dare we say it - up close and personal in your face aggression of ‘Anoxia’ fraught as it is amid its head melting array of deranged skin peeling landscape flattening dynamics could easily be viewed as the demented (and spiteful for it) unloved secret offspring of a seriously wired variant of the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion - rampantly discordant. ’Lang’ catches you on the back foot with its dinky warped lullaby-esque electronic intro before charging out of its blocks, this time possessing a more focused urgency and pretty much still channelling the same staccato jazz / post rock odyssey as befitting both Don Cabellero and San Lorenzo albeit in a wired high voltage schizoid way. Personally though for me it’s ’Blat’ that proves to be the unexpected treat here and in the process revealing a more intimate and introspective facet to the band as a whole. Combining the vague icy grandeur of Budd’s ’Get Carter’, this down cast austere ridden template of an apocalyptic aftermath that’s beset by clambering chamber like atmospherics provides for a strange degree of optimism and with that perhaps the kind of you’d more readily expect to find doing the business on the Ochre label. For further listening pleasure check out ‘Rats’ (from their debut EP) now to be found scattering the pack on the latest Capsule compilation entitled ’Supersonic - Treats from the Heart of England’ collated by those nice people over at Static Caravan, Little Big and the ATP festival and featuring a host of goodies including gear by Pram, Modified Toy Orchestra, Krafla, Copter, Knives and much more. As to ’He Builds Bombs’ - joint deputy single of the missive - what else? www.the-arm.co.uk

Director ‘Reconnect’ (Atlantic). A thumping debut release it has to be said from Malahide based quartet Director. The blood pounding ‘Reconnect’ mainlines straight to your core leaving you in wild disarray, think of 80’s Antipodeans Icehouse c. ‘Primitive Man’ rewiring the Pixies ‘Gauge Away’ to create a buzz sawing lovelorn radio frenzied indie / pop mutant crossover. Borne out of an unforgettably insidious hypnotically catchy circular underpin that’s muddied, scarred and bullied by nagging stalker like hooks that erupt and explode at intervals with a sexually charged impatience that resplendently unfurls into a simmering uber cool. And did we say it’s slyly horny - no - well it’s slyly horny too. Flip over for a demo reading of ’She’s saying things’ which is quite frankly ridiculously infectious, vocals reminiscent of a less spiteful Cathal Coughlan and melody wise sounding overall not a million miles from the kind of smouldering Scott Walker / enigmatic noire-ish 60’s scented softly cured storytelling pop that the likes of Rialto and the Divine Comedy used to kick out for fun. Expect a whole albums worth shortly. Recommended without question. www.directormusic.com

Tender Trap ‘Language Lessons’ EP (Matinee). Woah - damn cute if you ask us. Tender Trap have been plying their brand of teasing guitar pop since 2001, a plethora of singles later and with one album already under their belts ‘Film Molecules’ and an eagerly awaited follow up ‘6 billion people’ due to adorn the shelves of the most discerning record outlets later this year they return to the fold now that the sun is out with the dainty 4 track collection ‘Language Lessons’ EP. ‘Talking Backwards’ a taster for the aforementioned forthcoming full length is three minutes of feverishly honed sweetly turned shimmer like 60’s inflected jangle pop that sees the classic indie glamour of the Primitives curvaceously diluted and lovingly draped by the crisp, breezy Francophile la la bachelor pad mindset of Stereolab all married to an audacious good to be alive melodic thread found casually basking in the softened haze of sultry summer afternoons and garnished with the kind of rash like infectiousness that jabs should at least you’d have thought been an essential requirement. Sweeter still ‘Unputdownable’ though trimmed of its fluffiness has all the teasing shyly wrapped pout of Sleeper at their most off balanced best while ‘Friendster’ is I’m hopefully right in surmising the first homage to the web world devouring My Space - a lazy off kilter, part kooky country part bewildered Strawberry Switchblade after partaking of a few funny fags. For me though best of the set is the curtain closing ’Como te Llamas?’ which features the Pipas’ Lupe Nunez Fernandez being invited along for a spot of vocal duelling with Amelia passing out superbly for a young and seductive sounding Debbie Harry and both being pitted atop a delightfully stripped down and wonky sounding slice of fried electro candy pop - kind of irresistible if you ask me. www.indiepages.com/matinee

Meredith Bragg and the Terminals ‘The Departures’ EP (Kora). Bugger - in our typically ad hoc ramshackle state we’ve managed to separate the press release from this cutie but then no worries because the last time we had the pleasure of sampling the delights of Meredith Braggs’ song wares it was with the arrival at our gaff of his lulling debut full length ‘Volume 1’. A wonderfully frail and timeless outing that bled references as far a field as Teenage Fanclub, Go Betweens, Damon and Naomi to Archer Prewitt, Tex La Homa and J Xaverre. Several months down the line he returns with his friends the Terminals to charm us with five more sweetly curling nuggets of introspective whimsical grandeur, this time around the sound is fuller, more fleshed out - where previously the compositions though touchingly infectious appeared like pencilled sketches committed to paper for posterity this time the detail has been fully realised and the spaces dutifully coloured in, what was skeletal before has now been fleshed out with an arresting abundance of softly draped strings, Wurlitzer’s, pianos, organs and in T J Lipple’s case - vibes. Listening to Bragg all these months later I’m reminded slightly of Kevin Tihista in the main, maybe it’s that underlying ability to sweeten the bitter tasting pill of heartache and having an unnerving knack to harness a truly disquieting pop dynamic in the process, whatever it is ’The Departures’ EP is as the title suggests a collection of songs about leaving - mainly a loved one (what else - Greyhound timetables perhaps - come on get a grip). The opening perkily vibed (so that’s where the vibes come in) ‘Empty Beds’ is perhaps the most immediate and hitherto radio friendly cut of the collection that sets itself apart from the usually wretched chime of heartache following the fallout of a relationship by ushering in a deep sense of ‘what shall I do now’ selfishness that’s marked chiefly by the line ‘what shall I do for Christmas’. Superbly beset by the accompaniment of lonesome dustily treated spectral atmospherics, a sweetly souring cortege of string arrangements and a casually reticent simplicity reminiscent of a stipped bare Joe Jackson this cruise controlling slice of prickly night driving pop is as arresting as it is audaciously cheeky. Bragg’s astute development and maturity as a song writer comes to the fore on the achingly blinded with optimistic hope against hope of ‘Talk me down’ which provides a numbing example of his ability to alternate between squeezing lifeless and caressing whatever emotions are in play and distilling the effect into a finitely wholesomely alluring bitter sweet yet ever twisting pop brew. The gorgeously unsettling and near naked battle scarred ‘Let’s start over’ is a monochrome epic in the making that pulls with the kind of resigned intensity that had he still been alive you’d like to bet that Roy Orbison would have masterfully revelled in with the help of the reclaiming productive talents of Rick Rubin. Elsewhere ‘Postcard from Boston’ will literally peel your emotions layer by layer from the inside out while closing the set a near perfect re-reading of Songs: Ohio’s ‘Two blue lights’ (the original can be found on their Secretly Canadian full length ‘Didn’t it rain’) replete with the haunting, world weary grandeur still intact should quell any reservations still held as to Bragg’s undoubted ascending pedigree. www.thekorarecords.com

Darren Hayman ‘Ukulele songs from the North Devon coast’ (Static Caravan). ‘Ukulele songs from the North Devon coast’ mightn’t be one of the most inspiring in a ‘yea let me have it now’ type titles that you’ll probably be faced with all year but then don’t let that mere fact detract from the tasty-ness within. The second of four planned releases in the ‘Holiday’ series (the first of which - ‘Caravan Songs’ much to our bloody annoyance we sadly missed and is now sold out as in gone, vamoosh, no more left etc..etc…). Darren Hyman for those out of love with music or perhaps preferring to listen to shit pop radio instead of the likes of John Peel between the years 1997 and say - 2001 was the one time front man for the criminally undervalued and much overlooked Hefner, variously described as possessing the lyrical wit / sarcasm of the Soft Boys yet welded to a frame more becoming of Built to Spill, in their brief time together the trio served up three full lengths including the fans favourite ‘Fidelity Wars’ and my personal love ‘We love the city’ as well as a shed bulging load of corking singles. We suggest if you’d care to take time out catching up and into the bargain equipping yourself with the beginnings of a pretty neat record collection then the current ‘Best of Hefner’ on Fortune and Glory is as good a place as any to start - also keep the ears peeled for a promised two disc set of unreleased gear entitled ‘Catfight’ due shortly. So where were we - ah yes Mr Hayman - second release in a series of four planned EP’s for those ‘can do no wrong at the moment’ Static Caravan dudes is strictly limited to 500 copies. Four songs contained within that’ll blow your cotton socks straight off and into the bargain serve as to wave a right royal V sign to certain quarters of the press. As is typical with Hayman as evidenced with Hefner, he doesn’t like to play by the rules, as a songwriter he’s always been so out of step with the rest of the pack that you suspect there’s a fine balance at work that suggests that he’s either just sheer bloody minded or indeed so ahead of the game he’s out of sight - it’s something that’s readily brought to bear on the weakest cut of the set - the limply throwaway ‘8 Bit World’ over on the flip (a tale about technology with 8 bit specifications - no less - which sorry to say - start mentioning Commodore 64’s and other such computer-speak and I’m fast losing the will to live) you can’t escape that nagging feeling that Hayman is taking le piss and toying with you big time. Whichever of the two proves to be the case it’s done him no favours to date. With a full length currently doing the rounds for those nice people at Track and Field entitled ‘A Table for One’ this dinkily breezy four track affair kicks off with the delectable ‘Rain all summertime’ and finds Hayman treading territories more associated with early career Of Montreal and all those cutesy twee like campfire pop gems that found loving homes on the HHBTM imprint, a rickety distillation of sea faring dizziness and 70’s themed wonkily soft country psyche set upon an old ‘seen better days’ jumble sale acquired beatbox that at times sounds like a pie eyed Gilbert O’Sullivan now vacated to the West Coast attempting to disassemble Mungo Jerry’s ‘In the Summertime’ and getting hopelessly tangled up, gorgeously off balance, lilting and craftily understated with an alarmingly mercurial pop underpinning. The lovelorn ‘The only kind of light I know’ is colourfully decorated throughout with an enchanting off kilter folky calypso like demeanour that’s not to dissimilar in style and technique as Toshack Highway and the more reclining moments from Tex La Homas back catalogue all metered out in a softly lulling hypnotic weave that dips beneath your defences and under your skin to do things that even certain Scandinavian lagers wouldn’t dare consider let alone reach. Best of the set by a Devonshire mile is ‘Hardcore no more’. Imagine the effect of mistakenly taking paint thinners to an old master for a spot of cleaning and that’s ‘Hardcore no more’ in a nutshell as they say. A scratched and introspective update of the Beach Boys ‘In my room’ if you like - nakedly threadbare but beautifully encoded with a noire-ish spectral appeal that’ll lay you right out flat and in doing so marking up another notch to the post deserving of the classic song craft merit. www.staticcaravan.org

Spray dog ‘Allison Blaire’ (Nirfa). Blimey - befitting of one of those ‘thought you were dead’ spotlights that usually find there way into various publications every now and again, been a fair while since we had the chance of hanging out the bunting and doing a private jig to the sounds of Newcastle’s finest - Spray dog - but hey here it is a new single and woo bloody woo indeed because it don’t disappoint - no siree it don’t. ’Allison Blaire’ is a suitably attired collision of cruise controlled effervescently treated laid back serrated riffs and shimmering fuzzy feedback that to these ears has all the trappings of a lo-fi barely arsed but all the same still shitting on the competition in slumber ‘Goo’ era Sonic Youth swapping studio notes with Quickspace. Buried just beneath the surface wall of softly dulling distortion (a la pre ’Wake Up’ era Boo Radleys) there lies an unrealised sun-burning pop gem slyly chomping at the bit. Flip over for the equally tasty ‘Cut on Down’ all at once cruel and crucial, a throbbing baby that engages in all manner of subtle discordant twists, off kilter hooks and a melody that’ll stalk the space between your ears for days - kind of ’A Catholic Education’ era Teenage Fanclub squaring up to Gumball with Pixies pretensions - unfeasibly fucking cool and don’t the blighters just know it. www.spraydog.co.uk

The Playmates ‘Smash Hits’ (Wrath). We fuckin’ love this even despite the fact that we were nearly prepared to dismiss it as some catchy as fuck eye pokingly overt annoying yet loveable Peter and the Test Tubes Babies meets Toy Dolls cartoon punk hybrid. The Playmates are guitar wielding renegades from an era when most sub three minute puke on ya, kick you in the bollocks and run away laughing punk pop was hastily concocted among friends during a prolonged evening session partaking of the fizzy stuff and written on the back of a damp beer mat. No fuss, pack drill or secret agenda just and quick in and out fumble in the sack of pop with no strings attached. More often than not displaying the limited virtuosity of the keynote two chord jab (the Exploited), if lucky and slightly more diligent - three chords anything more was fearfully venturing progressive rock or worse still a musician. Both ’Smash Hits’ and the accompanying flip cut ’Jackie Wright’ have been honed in this nostalgic fashion, the former a spanking lesson in the forgotten art of having a good time, a barbed fuck you to a unit shifting obsessed music industry which wryly manages to name check teen rag Smash Hits though sadly redundant now given its been rightfully put down - still it makes for a suitable nail in the coffin for a periodical so seemingly responsible for the evils taking place in today’s piss poor pop culture (NME - who said that? - ha ha ha). Blessed with a vocalist who sounds like he’s spent his formative years pickling his tonsils in Jack Daniels - a kinda cross between Leatherface’s Frankie Stubbs a la ‘Razorblades and Aspirin’, Jake ’Suspect Device’ Burns and Joe ’Complete Control’ Strummer, the Playmates literally nail your head to the floor with their puss venting mistrust on the fist clenching, three chord skull twatting ’Smash Hits’ - an unholy union if you like of the Parkinson’s at their most scathing in a fist fight with early career Senselsss Things, Secret era Chron Gen and the pre ’Hersham’ street cockiness of Sham 69 - containing the immortal line ‘…playing in a shit band, sleeping with your left hand’ and home to the kind of terrace chanting chorus rediscovered thought lost in recent times by the Libertines. Flip over and you get (not literally you understand) ’Jackie Wright’ a tale of love lost to a, how shall we put this, lady of no morals which for comedic effect manages to include the words knickers and virginity several times which should guarantee apoplectic fits of sniggering from behind the bike shed from our slightly more younger listeners of the parish. Rounding up the pack with the ’Alpengeist Remix’ of ‘Smash Hits’ which debunks the original melody in favour of something that to our normally well trusted ears sounds like the Clash’s ‘English Civil War’ being fed through a wonky sound generator with a mischievous Kraftwerk at the controls only to be sabotaged by, of all people, Air. And with that and just for it’s brazen youthful exuberance and the fact that we pogoed until we were sick - joint deputy single of the missive. www.wrathrecords.co.uk

Calvoon ‘Coming on strong 2 the maximum’ (Joyrider). Oh how we so disapprove of the lazy way people have of reverting to text speak shorthand - tut tut - okay maybe it’s an age thing but…….Okay then first things first - sadly another CD that’s been out for a fair while. Quick follow up to their storming debut ‘Come On’ from early last year - admittedly not as immediate as their aforementioned debut ‘Coming on strong 2 the maximum’ still packs enough of an ear cocking groove that bands currently and undeservedly being the subject of press column inches overkill ought to be blushing profusely for failing to match. ‘Coming on strong 2 the maximum’ is a spiky futuro pop dynamo with a rail buckling rollercoaster for a chorus and frankly more cute hooks than a three minute spine tingling hair at the back of your neck raising pop song should legally possess - probably sold by the barrel load since it’s been out and hell why not - just how can you resist the sneering nasally vocals, the spacey backdrop of whirring electronics and the ever so cute three chord punk pop chorus is pretty much beyond me. Flip side is even better - the sunshine loving kooky ‘Feeling the Feeing’ is your yokels making hay in the sun type affair, a kind of farm conference between the Farmers Boys (on speed), the House martins (with tunes) and Dodgy (with grow bags) and possessing the best farm yard noises committed to recorded tape since XTC’s ‘Love on a farm boys wages’ - and if I mention farm (damn) again in the same sentence I swear I’ll contravene so age old cultural no no - so fuck it - farm, farm, farm, farm, farm and er farm. Smart - www.calvoon.com

Pistols at Dawn ‘The Reaper’ (Self Released). Unless I’ve had a very serious bang on the head or else I’ve become completely detached from my reading abilities it appears from the press release accompanying this debut self released three track CD that Pistols at Dawn are the resultant offspring of an illicit one night stand bunk up between a she-wolf and the beast who must not be named (aw for fuck’s sake we’re no good with secrets - Beelzebub). Still as odd in a ‘hey where’s that number for the local asylum gone’ way and jokes about pissing up lamp-posts and baying at the moon aside you might at this point be fearing that this is going to places you really don’t want to visit. Hmm me to. But then it does sort of make a change from the usual ‘the band formed when all 77 of us discovered our undying love for chip butties and that we all had pubic hair, bad breath and were like - dur - totally lacking in the social skills department - we thought hey let’s form a band’ added to that the fact that our ever over curious nature got the better of us and instead of flinging said disc in an Olympic discus stylee manoeuvre befitting of Hercules - we actually put the fucker on expecting the worst. Not bad at all though and we do say that with obvious provisos that warrant the setting of a few parameters. Pistols at Dawn are not your average sucking the indie bosom band, the last time we had the pleasure of hearing so similarly rock orientated, yet breathtakingly mature sounding and hitherto out of step was the debut demo by Eye. In fact Pistols at Dawn aren’t indie at all neither do they sit comfortably with any alternative / garage / post punk, rock, jazz / angular / skinny tied / white funk / soul boys or whatever other currently in favour generic descriptions that the industry sees fit to tag onto bands by way of pigeon holing them that you care to throw into the ring. Instead as evidenced by this three track debut release Pistols at Dawn are your definite article classic rock blues gunslingers, any grumbles as to the music within is more readily aimed at the production (first and foremost) and that constantly overwhelming and nagging feeling that they are for now punching way above their weight in so much that it’s plainly obvious what they are trying to achieve it’s just that sometimes it doesn’t always come off that said a sympathetic engineer will stir them in the right direction and tighten up what has all the hallmarks of a truly bastard sound - right so much for the grumbles. ‘The Reaper’ opens the set - by far the most realised cut on show, if you ignore the subtle similarity to Tenacious D’s ‘Tribute’ then be prepared to be treated to the most amazing 6 minutes of retro rock you’re likely to trip over for a fair while. As you’d rightly imagine ‘The Reaper’ is thickly resplendent in gloomy apocalyptic tension so edgy that you swear you can touch and feel its deathly breath upon you let alone cut it with a scythe, the beckoning darkness almost wrapping itself around you like an impenetrable blanket, all the time the claustrophobic calm before the storm floorshow slowly begins to unfurl with an acute majestic malevolence, think Led Zeppelin trading souls with AC/DC at the same crossroads where Robert Johnson bargained some 70 plus years since. Then as though the storm clouds have passed a moment of mellowness peaks through before the onset of a spot of some gruelling nailing down the hatches hip grinding spine tingling boogie a la Queens of the Stone Age at their most fierce some drags you screaming to an inevitable finale. In sharp contrast the downcast sounding ‘Unique’ is an altogether more considered beast, quietly bruised and battered sounding for the best part it idles gently nibbling away with its curvaceous armoury of nullifying yet tingling chords which strangely (for some reason) had me recalling a cross pollination of both Bowie’s ‘Wild is the Wind’ and ‘This is not America’ only truly sparking into life 4 minutes in when the dynamic gets, shall we say, considerable more rattled. Bringing up the rear is ‘Take the Money and Run’ which I guess benefits immeasurably by being free of the full studio ceramics and instead is stripped bare to acoustics only - think upon it as a grooving country blues tinted after hours pub jam between Aerosmith and the Red Hot Chilli Peppers. Expect an album shortly entitled ‘Night Skies and Hooded Eyes’ - well worth seeking out methinks. www.pistolsatdawn.co.uk

Complaints, comments and death threats to the usual address at mark@losingtoday.com - snail mail 105 shaldon drive, morden, surrey, SM4 4BQ, UK - also note we have a super duper my space with bugger all on it (well yet anyway) at www.myspace.com/thesundayexperience - please feel free to drop in - much appreciated.

Well that’s it then for a week or so back again with all the stuff we‘ve promised over the last two / three missives (promise) - have yourselves a great Easter break and take care of yourselves.

Mark
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