Category Archives: Live

Live review: Ghostpoet at Exchange, Bristol

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Originally published at kemptation.com on 07 April 2015. Words by Richard Kemp

Easter Sunday evening: a night that fills Britain’s city streets with bountiful acts of merriment and debauchery. Two bank holidays in one weekend serve almost as an invitation to demonstrate the very best and worst in human behaviour, most of which have piled into Bristol’s pubs and clubs tonight, spilling out into the streets. Such strong visual displays of booze-soaked disorder seem the perfect setting for a visit from one of the country’s leading talents in rhyme-based social commentary.

Ghostpoet, a.k.a. electronic beatsmith/MC Obaro Ejimiwe, graces a sold-out Bristol Exchange to rampant cheers and applause and immediately gets stuck into new track X Marks The Spot. There might be a lot of questionable activity outside, but inside this room tonight there is nothing but love – and this is reciprocated ten-fold by the singer, whose face stays in a permanent grin for the entire occasion.

It is clear with this performance that Ejimiwe has turned a corner in his musical styling. Stark electronic glitches are replaced with straight-up guitar and bass, with long, improv-like guitar solos whipping the crowd into a dancing fever of head-bobs and body jerks. Ejimiwe’s trademark spoken-word lyricism remains a constant, nevertheless, central to the delivery of every dreamy track that propels the night along.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0OmtRTqeW2s

The Exchange’s sparse lighting makes the dark, sweaty venue seem more like a cavern than a nightclub round the corner from the Bristol Evening Post building. Ejimiwe draws attention to this, calling the atmosphere “tropical,” and flashing a knowing smirk. “That was the weather report, by the way” – just in case we didn’t get it, presumably. There are smiles aplenty throughout the night, with most gig-goers simply happy to see him. Ejimiwe must feel the same way, telling the crowd, “it’s been too long, Bristol!”

Latest album Shedding Skin marks an exciting new direction for Ejimiwe ­– and likely a welcome diversion for the singer – but he gracefully accepts that fans are here to hear the old stuff, too and dives into breakout single Survive It. More boogying ensues with this, as if the dancefloor wasn’t sweaty enough, while many more choose to sing along at the MC’s encouragement.

Ejimiwe clearly loves his audience, making sure to thank everyone multiple times during the set. He gives props to his band, too, taking the time to give each member a personal introduction as they offer their own flair to the proceedings.

By the end of things, Ejimiwe is drenched in sweat himself – and rightly so, after grooving up and down the stage, air drumming and jogging along to the beat of his own music, all the while trying to get the whole venue jiving in unison. He breaks the fourth wall at the final song to point out how this is generally the time for an artist to walk off stage and be called back for an encore. Instead he continues for a few more numbers before springing off the stage into the crowd to shake hands, chat and take pictures with as many people as he possibly can.

Anyone going to the Exchange tonight in search of a reason to dislike Ghostpoet would have been sorely disappointed.

St. Vincent at Bristol Academy

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Originally published at kemptation.com on 21 August 2014. Words by Richard Kemp

Bristol Academy, UK

“I’d like to give a warm welcome to all the freaks of Bristol – you’re in good company tonight.”

It’s no wonder the entire world has fallen head-over-heels in love with St Vincent, a.k.a. baroque pop singer, songwriter, multi-instrumentalist and living, breathing surrealist art project, Annie Clark. Even before her arrival at Bristol’s Academy on Thursday night, the buzz of expectation was palpable; this was, after all, the artist who had once been a member of The Polyphonic Spree, played in Sufjan Stevens’ touring band and released an entire album of co-written material with Talking Heads frontman David Byrne. The anticipation was rife.

The lights dim, the PA crackles into life and St Vincent floats across to centre stage, her mouth fixed into a loud, infectious grin; a picture-perfect portrait of elation, she is irresistible from the off.

The band begins with Rattlesnake, the opening track from the new album, while Clark cuts Vogue-like hand movements, jerking at perfect 90-degree turns like a meticulous robot dancer. It’s a remarkably intimate show, with such close quarters that you can pick out the individual sequins on Clark’s thin, knee-length dress – black with bleeding eyes and mouths – and count the strands of curly silver hair that lollop perfectly over the left side of her face. You could have shouted something from the crowd (or even just raised your voice a little) and Clark would have heard – she might even have said something back.

Clark addresses the crowd a few times during her set, each time riffing off whatever manic-yet-delightful thought she’d brought with her that day (we all, at some point, contemplated walking into traffic, as we did burning down an entire cul-de-sac with a super-strength magnifying glass). She delivers each interlude with such confidence that you assume she’s practiced them 100 times before – and, most likely, she has. And yet, when she laughs, tiny giggles between each thought, her smile so wide like a Cheshire cat grin, you begin to wonder whether she’s come up with this on the spot. Whether she recites these lines to every audience, however, is irrelevant as it’s the delivery that makes these words soar. The penny drops and a halo encircles her shimmering head: we might just be in the company of genius tonight.

Clark grabs her guitar and begins to wail like an angel, throwing out cyborg dance moves and alien sequences with the greatest of ease, all the while hitting every single note on guitar. She shuffles along the stage to Digital Witness, her gaze fixed on every single audience member – such immersive eyes that follow you around the room – torso barely moving, as if being towed along on an airport’s flat, moving walkway. Part mannequin, part Stepford Wife, the multi-coloured lights project her as Jekyll and Hyde, though you feel safe in the hands of either one.

St Vincent is not just someone who can perform the hell out of any other artist working today: she nurtures her audience, calmly encouraging everyone to get involved, to start dancing and unleash the freak within. Some of us work harder than others to keep the inner freak contained and St Vincent shows us just how fulfilling life can be if we let our freakiness come out to play.

The stage backdrop is a long velvet curtain with a giant, pastel pink podium in front, which Clark climbs to perform numbers Prince Jonny and Cheerleader. Up top, guitar strapped to her shoulders, the spotlight focuses on Clark, who looks now like she’s set to star in a Broadway musical – perhaps this show would have been better placed at the Hippodrome theatre. This mystique is quickly broken, however, as Clark’s vocals on Cheerleader are swapped for a deep, bottomless, satanic growl that chills the spine and makes you want to shiver until all your bones have separated and fallen to the floor in a deathly clatter.

The rest of the band, while naturally overshadowed by St Vincent’s god-like presence, manage to shine through, too. Drummer Matt Johnson does a solid job of keeping up with every chop and change, while DJ Daniel Mintseris manages to escape his laptop every now and then to throw out a groove of his own. Toko Yasuda carries the ship on bass and Moog, taking care of business whenever Clark’s synchronised dance moves require less guitar work, even joining in for a few steps.

The band finishes and walks off stage, a job well done. The lights aren’t coming on, though, and everyone knows there’s an encore on the way. Even still, the entire venue fills with whoops, hollers, screams, wails and stomps of feet, calling for St Vincent’s imminent return. Clark comes back and climbs the pink podium once more to blast out a jaw-dropping rendition of Strange Mercy while her shadow plays on the velvet curtain behind, distorting her form into that of a Mexican revolutionary holding a bayonet. The crowd is floored in awe; if a flying saucer had beamed down at that moment, with Clark announcing it time for us to leave with her for the new world, not a soul would have argued.

Back on Earth, Clark finishes her set in splendid fashion: perched on the shoulders of a local security official. It looks, for a moment, like she’s about to leap into the crowd, but instead she offers her guitar out to audience members who dutifully hack away at the six strings, Clark throwing her head back, cackling like a maniacal witch. She clambers back on stage and hands her guitar to a roadie, seeming to say, “You play, don’t you? Well, go on, then!” The roadie, unsure whether she really meant it, simply stands there, motionless and painfully awkward – a little, lost lamb in the middle of a rock ‘n’ roll gig – but Clark has moved on, tipping an entire bottle of water out on stage and then proceeding to conduct Johnson’s drum lines. A good minute of flailing arms, Yusuda and Mintseris holding it all together, and then Clark kneels at centre stage, beckoning the roadie to return with her guitar. He lays the strap over her head, like a crown of thorns, and then disappears, Clark left to writhe upon the water-soaked floor.

The end arrives and there is an exhaustion in the air – from the floor as much as the stage – as the people of Bristol begin to process what they have just witnessed; the kind of gig you only see once in a lifetime. The band stands tall as Clark takes a bow and the emotion rises; it’s all anyone can do not to conjure a fresh bouquet of flowers out of thin air and throw them at her feet.

People left Bristol Academy that night with a new idea of what a ‘performer’ can be, the bar undeniably raised to that of St Vincent. She sings. She dances. She plays guitar. Not even Fred Astaire could do all three.

If, in fact, the whole world is not yet in love with St Vincent, they certainly should be. She is, without doubt, one of the greatest performers of our generation. A must-see for anyone who has ever dreamt of getting lost in space.

10/10

Smoke Fairies at Band on the Wall

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Originally published on 30 May 2014. Words by Alex Tadros

Smoke Fairies at Band on the Wall, Manchester

Tuesday 27th May 2014

It began with a small collective from the North East called The Lake Poets, opening with an acoustic set and making great use of the pedal guitar. The crowd had gathered and the Smoke Fairies were set to enter. A man with a strong handlebar moustache and a Brian Jones hairdo started setting up guitars and mics. With everything assembled they entered, dressed in matching white dresses to a large welcoming applause, kicking things off with their most recent release Shadow Inversions. Hypnotic and with a heavy bass line, the track got heads nodding in the front row as it transitioned into the first single off Smoke Fairies’ self-titled album, Eclipse Them All. One of their most ethereal songs, making a bit more use of their keyboards, it was easily this crowd’s favourite, and the audience seemed to sway at every note. It wasn’t so much a dancing kind of crowd, however Smoke Fairies are not necessarily a dancing kind of band; their music was mellow, ghostly – even dreamy.

All that changed though as the set moved on; the London duo showed serious prowess on guitar, with a fantastic use of slide on songs like Strange Moon Rising, which had people moving more rhythmically to the intriguing mix of psychedelia and blues.

A lot of credit has to go to the Smoke Fairies – their song writing is brilliant, the melodies they capture truly beautiful – yet their backing band deserve praise in equal measure. The hard-hitting drummer landed every beat in accordance with the song, knowing exactly when and where to take it down and build it back up (an important trait when it comes to music such as this). The revived Brian Jones on bass was no less phenomenal, working alongside the drummer to form a strong backing track to the girls’ elaborate piano and guitar riffs, giving an added boost of blues rock, which really tied the songs together. Likewise, it would be wrong to mention the backing band without their multi-instrumentalist; one minute strumming out rhythm chords on guitar, the next fiddling around with a violin, his input added real value to the country blues feel upon which the duo had clearly built their songs.

With every track so well structured and flawlessly played, one can only imagine how long the Smoke Fairies’ rehearsal sessions must have been. The set was not without its improv and flair, however, and the girls chuckled along with the audience throughout, mainly to calm down a man called Brian who kept shouting out for his favourite tunes.

A phenomenal gig from a phenomenal band – catch the Smoke Fairies on one of their few UK shows over the coming month before it’s too late!

9/10

Live review: Bellowhead at Colston Hall, Bristol

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Originally published at kemptation.com on 23 November 2012. Words by Richard Kemp 

If you happened upon the Colston Hall on Saturday night, amongst its high ceilings and sparkly clean décor, you would have witnessed quite the sight: a full house queuing all the way round the lobby for an English folk band. The word ‘folk’ has experienced a considerable musical revival over the last decade. You can’t go ten pages through a music magazine now without reading about some folk band or other. However, this folksplosion is larger down to contemporary artists, who work their way through acoustic numbers while harking back to the sounds of yore. Acts like Fleet Foxes, Ben Howard and Mumford and Sons have done a fine job of taking the folk name and spinning it in whatever way they like and they deserve all the praise they receive. Nevertheless, it is still a rare thing to find a traditional folk band filling out venues and getting serious radio play. Bellowhead is a perfect example of finding success at such an impossible task.

Started by accordionist/melodeonist John Spiers and fiddler/vocalist Jon Boden, Bellowhead scour the country for English folk songs long forgotten, rework them into old-time jigs, showtunes or dance numbers, and perform them to scores of merry, hopping punters. In 2010, Bellowhead had come to play Bristol in support of their Hedonism record. They took stage at the Old Vic theatre, which offered illustrious acoustics (hearing Boden belt out Amsterdam was a particular favourite that time round), but nowhere to stand. It meant that the closest anyone got to throwing out a jig was giving melodramatic handclaps and foot stomps. Granted, most people were stamping their feet so hard that their bums hovered over their seats for the entire performance.

Two years on and this night promised us a new venue and a brand new album in the form of Broadside. So, naturally, there was raw excitement filling the air of the Colston Hall’s main atrium. The place was so bustling, in fact, that there was a longer line for the men’s loos than there was for the ladies’. It would seem that traditional English folk can do unexpected things.

Eight o’clock rolled around and the gates of folkdom opened. People flooded the hall, filling every seat, corner, nook and cranny available. Young, old, fresh and seasoned, the audience included a healthy mix of people from all walks of life.

On first was Mama Rosin, a modest indie-folk three-piece from Switzerland. Complete with guitar, drums and accordion, harmonica, triangle, banjo and washboard, the trio had a surprisingly diverse sound. The frontman, dressed in sailor boy stripes and sporting long, frizzy and wonderfully big hair, led the band through everything from indie-fused dreamfolk to foot-tappin’ bluegrass. During a blues routine, the accordionist switched for a triangle and the drummer picked up a harmonica while proceeding to hammer on the drums one-handed. He later cashed in his drumsticks for a pair of maracas and then, later still, got up to tinkle on the washboard.

These boys are obviously talented and, though they haven’t quite settled on a sound yet, it allows for some pretty fun experimentation. It was simply amazing to hear three people make so much noise. During some numbers they seemed like the soundtrack to life on a desert island, nicely contrasting the maritime influences projected on stage as the backdrop for Bellowhead’s current tour. Every now and then, the band would shoot to an unexpected breakdown and take the audience with them, initiating spontaneous pockets of jig claps and swaying. It made you want to build a big bonfire in the centre of the dancefloor and start skipping, hooting, hollering and laughing like hyenas.

Mama Rosin is still in its infancy and clearly appreciative of the sizeable crowd Bellowhead had drawn for them. This could be seen by the permanent grins slapped on each musician’s face as they stumbled charmingly between English and French. They were sure to have gained some new fans tonight.

A short break, in which the crowd had just enough time to pile as close to the front as possible and observe the absolute zoo of instruments at Bellowhead’s disposal. Violins, trumpets, trombones, drums, guitars, cellos and all manner of accordion, melodeon and squeezebox just waiting for Spiers’ magic touch. The band arrive on stage to raucous applause and immediately jump into new track Black Beetle Pie, a positively ghoulish number that documents the recipes of an old lady who used to stuff her homemade pies with black beetles, stray animals and even her own pants. The lights turn an ominous shade of dark green for the chorus before the band grace into its climax. A little rest and lead vocalist/fiddler extraordinaire Jon Boden proceeds to explain what the song was all about.

Though started by Boden and Spiers, one of the beauties of Bellowhead is that every member, however new, has obvious input into what the band plays. This is no better shown than in the fact that each player gets a chance to introduce or leave an afterword to a song. It’s also evident in how much fun everyone seems to be having. The brass section jig it up like maniacs whenever they get a chance, legs and arms flailing all over. They even slip into slow motion, bullet-time moves at one point and the saxophonist gets blowing on his saxophone and clarinet – at the same time. The fiddlers get down on their knees to serenade the cellist, the only female in the 11-strong troupe, while lead man Boden makes sure to check on the crowd every once in a while, presumably to make sure they’re having as much fun as the band is on stage. They are.

Nevertheless, the good certainly comes with its share of bad. Without doing a full customer survey, it is a fair guess to say that many people came to tonight’s gig to jump, dance and generally frolic to 21st century traditional English folk. While this was eventually delivered, the band took its sweet time getting there, waiting at least half an hour before cracking out anything that was remotely danceable. The crowd was fairly crushed and so having reason to dance around and make some space would have been a welcome relief. By the time the band started with its cavorting high jinks, in fact, it was almost too late, with some audience members wishing they had somewhere to sit after all. A stark contrast from the lack of floor space The Old Vic had to offer in 2010.

The band’s penchant for experimentation didn’t help the cause much either. Bellowhead are no strangers to mixing traditional tunes with modern themes. Funk, blues, electro, rock; it makes for a nice break between the straight-up folk, but it can also end up confusing the audience, who have no idea what they’re trying to achieve. The quick switch in style serves to kill any momentum the band has created and leaves them having to start from scratch to work the crowd back to its original, jig-crazed folly. Still, once the band gets going and reconvinces the crowd to move about, the whole room begins to lift up, painting a childish grin on every punter’s face.

What Bellowhead do well they do very well and they’re getting more exposure for it. Well deserved, it must be said. They form a band that has the ability to entertain effortlessly while keeping alive some of the richest and most rousing folk tales of yore. More than humble folkmasters, Bellowhead are anthropologists of the musical world.