At The Circus with Falling Lucid' Review

Nestled in a quaint little beer garden setting of Maidstone's Style and Winch, under decorative bunting and amidst the glow of soft candlelight, 2012's first annual Circus night began in earnest. 

With a generous crowd, all supping on well earned drinks and buzzing with Friday night excitement, The Big Tricks Circus Group made sure that the evening got off to spectacular start.
With a rag-tag collection of talented performers, they set about dazzling the onlookers with tricks and skills that took in everything from jugglers to fire breathers. If there were a more fun way to kick off a night of entertainment, then it would have to be something special indeed to top what is on offer. It’s not long, however, before the nights music is under way.

Slipping into the intimate staging area, with its mood lighting and colourful drapes, the first act of the evening to take to the stage is the duo, of guitarist Alex Evans and smooth as silk vocalist Lauren Bateman, and headline act, Falling Lucid. Re-kindling the spirit of 90's alternative stalwarts Mazzy Star, they immediately set to grabbing the attention of the small venue with their mixture of self penned, laid back, acoustic pop numbers. From the dreamy, 'I Don’t Want To Be Adored' to interesting cover versions of acts as diverse as Kate Bush (Running Up That Hill) and Daniel Johnson, (True Love Will Find You In The End) it quickly became apparent that here was an act that, although repetitive at times and in need of a little spark, took their craft very seriously and were well worth their being top of the bill.

As the headliners finished up, and the ever growing crowd awaited with eager anticipation for the next act, making their way to the bar to refresh their glasses, the circus entertainment continued to warm the spirits outside in the cold January night air. It wasn’t long, though, before the strum of a guitar beckoned the revelers back to the music.

With great musicianship and off-kilter lyrics, capturing everything from drunken nights to the Easter bunny, Medway's Chris Weller was by far and away the best act of the evening.
Showcasing a sharp, sardonic wit with a grungy, rough around the edges voice, his relatively short set was awash with songs that bounced from jazz, accompanied with the lovely touch of a little bit of mouth trumpet, to blues and straight up rock, and all encased within melodies that overtook the small venue. It takes something special to stand out from the rather over-populated located music scene, but, Weller, if he continues on this form, showed that he definitely has what it takes to rise to the very top.

The last act of the night, before the headliners took to the stage once again for the nights finalities, were Medway's folk-punkster's, Crybaby Special and the Monsters. With shades of Gogol Bordello and the Swordfishtrombones-era growl of Tom Waits, the two-piece, tonight pared down to vocalist and guitarist Jason Stafford and bassist Josh Carson, had no difficulties in getting the crowd jumping right from the off.
Bouncing around the stage, it is easy to warm the charisma and showmanship of front man Stafford and the overall tightness and musical ability of the ensemble, but, and it is a big but, the songs themselves became, all too quickly, rather tedious in their similarity. This is not to say that there isn’t a lot to like about the band and with their overall energy and likeability, it is hard to see them not go far.

After a short, second set, from Falling Lucid, once again showcasing their laid back pop, the night’s proceedings draw to a close. With the revelers moving away, to continue their drinking or warm themselves at home, it is only left to look back on an evening that has been nothing other than a resounding success.

The final mention, of course, has to go to organiser, and photographer, Zoë Sparkle, for her superb choice of venue and entertainment, and, eye for subtle, yet effective, decoration.

Here's very much looking forward to the next Circus Night. 

Voldemort and Rodney Trotter do Shakespeare's The Tempest.

My earliest recollection of delving into the world of Shakespeare was sat in the front row of third year English while my teacher at the time, Mr Nicholas, bumbled through trying to dissect Macbeth for the understanding of our thirteen year old minds. Unfortunately, for my younger self, his attempts were nothing but futile due to 1) his constantly having to reprimand my classmates, more interested in looking at girls and generally messing around 2) my, said, teacher, seemingly not having any grasp whatsoever in what he was teaching, and 3) well, there is no three, its odd as I thought there was, but I was interrupted and have now forgotten, so, for now, its just going to be two points, but points well worth mentioning I feel. While I do remember, though, I was also interested in looking at girls, but, due to the location of my seat in class, it made it much more difficult. Just wanted to clear that up.Anyway, it goes without saying, that my first foray into the work of the Bard was nothing other than baffling.
I wish that it could have been different, I really do. Obtaining knowledge and gaining insight into the English languages most prominent literary figure at an early age, I feel, is the best time for it. At a time when your mind is ripe and thirsty for learning, like a sponge, ready to soak up all that is thrown at it, and not, as I have to say now, in my (ahem) thirty-third year, a little slow and sluggish. But all this would have meant travelling back in time, passing my 11+ exams, and, therefore, giving myself a shot at attending a better school, with a higher standard of teaching, instead of the hideous feakshow that I ended up at.
This is not to say, of course, that I am, in any way, as you may be thinking, past my sell-by date, it has more to do with, oh, I don't know, a selective mind, these days. Give me a gripping crime caper or an interesting biography then I'm as happy as they come. I've even started taking steps into the world of fantasy fiction, something, not to long ago, that would have been unheard of. But, Shakespeare, well, after that disastrous start, I never came back to it.

That is, until now.

When I was asked by my Fiance if I fancied tickets for the new West-End production of The Tempest, I have to say that, due to the information pointed out in my earlier ramblings, I was, obviously, a little apprehensive. I found myself mulling it over for a few hours, forever delaying my answer, until, finally, with a 'what the heck' attitude, I said yes. So, on Saturday, off we trotted to the Theatre Royal, where the bright lights awaited us, to see Trevor Nunn’s latest.

The thing, I have to say, that helped sway my decision, was the cast. Ralph Fiennes as Prospero? Yes please. James Simmons as Alonso? Why not. Nicholas Lyndhurst as Trinculo? Oh go on then. Having notable and established actors, who you would otherwise associate with mediums such as Television and film, helps, to me anyway, and whether silly or not, to bring a familiarity, which, to this uneducated boy, is a huge bonus.

Despite the ridiculously uncomfortable seats, that caused me to fidget for the nigh on three hour duration, my initial opinions, I'm happy to report, were good. Certainly with respect to Fiennes, who, perhaps unsurprisingly, makes the production shine. Speaking verse like it is his natural tongue, he is completely believable, portraying a commanding Prospero, a man to be feared and obeyed, yet, tender with it. 

Elisabeth Hopper makes an innocent, childlike Miranda. A tiny bit annoying and whiney at times, with a little too much teary-eyed hand-wringing. Nevertheless, she is quite charming, with a winning smile so full of unbridled joy, it’s hard not to warm to her and her character.

One thing I wasn't warned of, however, is that there is a fair bit of singing involved. Something that, and I'm hoping that I'm not alone in this, I hate! The need to chuck in a few songs, seemingly, just for the hell of it, to possibly jazz things up a bit, is totally and utterly pointless, and makes no sense. 

While the odd song might get your feet tapping, most of them are pretty dire. Ariel’s spooky, flat, falsetto warblings are enough to haunt my dreams, and Stephano and Trinculo's bland and tuneless ramblings should have been left, as it were, on the cutting room floor.
The rest of the production is, in equal parts, dark and brooding and a tad twee. In one scene, a fairy actually slides down a rainbow, slides down a rainbow! The spirits, who rarely appear on the stage unaccompanied by the light tinkling of bells, as though to signal the approach of Father Christmas, are actually quite ungainly in their attempts at grace. On more than one occasion I was on the edge of my uncomfortable seat, as they dangled, awkwardly, mid-air, swaying slightly on wires, like in a bad school play
While Ariel’s, and the rest of the fairies, aerial feats were a little farcical, some of the circus-style rope-work was far more effective. In the storm scene, that opened the show, actors were seen tumbling slowly, head over heels, down ropes, as though being plunged into a swirling sea, an illusion aided by Paul Pyant’s beautifully evocative lighting design.
Though, for the greater part, the production was technically polished, I found it somewhat lacking in passion at times. It’s far longer than it needed to be, at three hours, despite the fact that this is, as I'm lead to believe, one of Shakespeare’s shorter plays.
But, despite this, and cynicism aside, I found the whole thing to be rather good, and, despite the seats, I will definitely be keeping my eyes open for some more Shakespeare

The Death Factor, in glorious HD

I had an idea over the weekend. An idea how to spice up Saturday night TV, more specifically, the inane, mind numbing drivel that is X-Factor/Britain's Got Talent.

Those of you over a certain age, say, 30, will remember a great film from the 1980's called 'The Running Man.' Based on Stephen King novel, and set in a futuristic totalitarian police state, the premise of the story centres around convicted criminals fighting for their lives in a twisted game show involving their attempts to evade ruthless killers, or 'stalkers' for a chance to be pardoned and set free. Now, if this idea wouldn't be a welcome edition to the glorified karaoke contests that has become the scourge of the weekend's television schedule, then I don’t know what would.

Picture the scene. The X Factor tour rolls into one of this country’s great cities; we'll say London, for arguments sake. Lining the streets are thousands upon thousands of fake-tanned chavs and middle-aged imbeciles, all with a sob story of broken homes, drug problems or growing up without a brain, and all deluded to the fact that they, for one of the reasons just stated, have (said while annoyingly crossing their arms in an Adam Ant 'Prince Charming' way) the 'X Factor' and deserve to be 'the next big thing.'

Ok, admittedly, and it pains me to say, some of them, a very small percentage, mind, can actually hold a tune and bash out a mildly enjoyable cover version. 

However, the majority of these idiots, who, if singing were the only way to a good meal, would waste away to the sound of a Whitney Houston or Boyzone backing track, and die, hideously, in the gutter, wouldn't even be missed by their own families, hence, saving them from any future embarrassment. It's for these people that the new premise will be brought in.

Like John Hurt, riding in from the horizon in Lawrence of Arabia, and, amidst a cloud of dry ice and the clash of loud, dramatic, drums, appears the burly, rough-hewn figures of five crazed killers, all brandishing weapons of torture, and all ready to slay any of the wannabies that stand in their way. Cue the carnage.

Those deemed not good enough, of which there will be more than a few, and, after their unsuccessful stint on stage in front of hundreds of disgruntled people baying for their blood, will be thrown, like a piece of meat to a wild animal, into a grueling assault course, in which they will be pursued, hopefully, to their death by the aforementioned psychopaths.

Those lucky enough, or, unlucky, depending on which side of the fence you fall on, to escape the maniacs claws will be successfully, and sickeningly, al-la 'Surprise Surprise' but minus old mattress face herself, Cilla Black, re-united with their loved ones, and, hopefully, and for the good of mankind and their remaining limbs, be put off from ever applying for the contest in future, or sullying anyone with their awful voices again.

The penalty for those, sadly (I'm in tears just typing this) failing in their bid for freedom, of which every second will be televised in glorious HD, will be to have their mauled carcasses strung up onto the side of ITV headquarters as a gentle reminder of the consequences to any other talentless degenerate thinking of applying in the future, and hopefully spelling the death, not only to themselves, but to the sad sham of X Factor.

Yuck - Yuck

Imagine receiving a gift, go on, picture it in your mind. You sit down in a comfy chair, hold it on your lap and then, slowly, begin to unwrap. Pulling off the fancy ribbon and then peeling back the paper, before opening up the box itself.

Then, inside, imagine discovering odds and ends from all the best alternative music from the past 25 years.

There's the arms and legs of Pavement, the heart of Dinosaur Jr, the brain of Sonic Youth, the lungs of Teenage Fanclub and the soul of The Lemonheads, all collected into a disjointed bundle just bursting to fly free. Bubbling with excitement and anticipation and just waiting to be put together. Waiting for a host to rescue them. Enter a four piece band from Shoreditch, London, called, rather inappropriately, Yuck.

Climbing from the ruins of the much talked about, but extremely short lived, Cajun Dance Party, who's fire extinguished after one album in 2008 under the weight of unreasonable expectations. 20-year-old's Daniel Blumberg and Max Bloom, after a three year hiatus licking their wounds and discovering the music of the 80's post hardcore scene, decided to have another stab at the one thing that they love.

Recruiting drummer Jonny Rogoff, after a chance meeting in, of all places, a kibbutz, and Hiroshima-born bassist Mariko Doi, they hit the road with their bright and shiny new band. Signed to Fat Possum records, the label of American heavyweights Band of Horses, Yuck have delivered an album that is so in debt to the scene unbeknown to them until a few years ago that you find yourself checking the CD that you are listening to to make sure you've the right one and not some 'Best of Alternate America' (if it exists) album.

I say this like its a bad thing, and for that I apologise, because its not! Its a wonderful thing. Its a wonderful thing to find young talent cutting their teeth making music that doesn't bow down to the gods that are the money men with their hellish throw-away music for a quick buck.

Sorry...rant over...back to the review.

From the opening track 'Get Away' with its Dinosaur Jr-esque squall to the dark feedback of 'Operation' evoking memories of Sonic Youths 'Teenage Riot' and the albums highlight, the beautiful Shook Down with its gorgeous harmonies sounding like a lost Teenage Fanclub track, these young upstarts have created a record that reaches the neglected parts of the brain like no other band do.

And it continues through all of the twelve tracks. Skewing from loud distorted guitars and and belting solos (The Wall and Holing Out) to the sparse and hypnotic (Stutter and Rose Gives a Lilly) to make an album that is, to this reviewer anyway, damn near perfect!

The band themselves claim their true influences to be Sparklehorse and Red House Painters, so we can hopefully expect a lot more emotionally oblique, cunning, layered angles to Yuck’s music. Just as long as they don’t get rid of their ability to hit so many of rock’s sweet spots, they’ll be just fine.

Chasing The Dead - Tim Weaver

As an avid, and some may say, obsessive, reader of crime fiction, I am always on the hunt for something new and exciting to wet my appetite. Amazon, Waterstones and, while they still desperately hang onto life, some of the few remaining local indie bookshops, have become my playground to source out the wheat from the chaff and find my next read.

But, and it pains me to say this, I had just recently started to tire of the genre that I so love. I had become bored of reading, seemingly, the same novel re-hashing the same old story of a triple D cop (disheveled, divorced and drunk) and his desperate attempts to hunt down a nasty killer. Even authors billed as 'the next big thing' were treading the same boards and it seemed as though all imagination had disappeared. So, imagine my delight when this little gem of a novel skipped into my hands.

I have to be honest to begin with, that until I came across his, rather excellent, author website, www.timweaverbooks.com, after a boring morning at work trawling the internet, I hadn’t heard of Tim Weaver. But, after a short while reading through it and then checking out the, mainly five star, reviews for this, his debut novel, I had to see what all the fuss was about.

The novel centres on journalist, turned missing persons investigator, David Raker. Reeling from the death of his wife, Derryn, from cancer, he is approached with a request to look into the disappearance of a young man named Alex Towne, who vanished without word five years before, eventually turning up dead a year ago, in a car crash.

But, as Raker soon realises, this isn’t going to be just any run of the mill missing person’s case, because the real issue isn’t the reason why he went missing or indeed where he went. It isn’t even about his death. The real issue is why his mother, Mary, thinks she has recently seen her dead son, alive and well, in the street.

Driven by his own personal loss and the desire to help those in need, Raker agrees to take on the case, only to find himself thrown headlong into a dark world of lies, deceit and brutality, that takes him from the southern coast of Cornwall to Scotland, and pushes him further than he thought possible into a shocking world of human cruelty.

Tim Weaver has written one heck of an impressive novel that plays on the primal fears of darkness and devilry and steps onto the same playing field that authors such as Simon Kernick and Greg Hurwitz occupy, delving into the ordinary man in an extraordinary situation template. When you consider that Chasing the Dead is his debut, it makes it all the more of a marvelous achievement.

He leads the protagonist through a series of brilliant, and, at times, peak through your fingers as they cover your eyes, scary, set pieces that are alive with equal measures of pace and shocks, and read like the work of a seasoned pro.

In Raker he has created a character with a heart, and one that you can almost feel beating in every sentence. He’s a character that doesn’t rely on special skills or powers to fight his fight. He is real, impassioned and vulnerable. And if the opening couple of pages don’t leave you with a lump in your throat, then, well, there’s no hope.

To sum up, Chasing the Dead is a cracking good read, by an accomplished writer who - and I grow weary of writing this - deserves a bigger audience. But, after this, and the recent release of his second novel The Dead Tracks, I’m more than certain that Tim Weaver is here for the duration…or at least, I hope so.

At Dawn - My Morning Jacket

I was scrabbling around this morning, late for work, a dry piece of toast clamped in my mouth, looking for some music to listen to in the car, when, to my delight, I came upon this.

I remembered buying it back in 2001, remembered reading the glowing reviews at the time with references of Neil Young meets the Flaming Lips, holding it in my hand and thinking that I would make time to savour it, but, you know what, ten years later and I dont ever remember really listening to it. So, sliding it into my CD player, I decided that today was going to be the day to change that.

Lets not mess about, its easy to see why this album has been hailed as a modern American classic. From the opening salvo of the title track which eases in with its dreamy, shoegazing refrain to the Lynyrd Skynyrd-esque country rock of 'Honest Man' and the Sabbath-like guitar riffs of "Strangulation" its easy to see that the band, or more so primary songwriter, guitarist and vocalist, Jim James, are heavily indebted to the past and are not in any way shy of wearing their/his heart, and influences, upon their/his plaid sleeves.

At Dawn is full of the same strumming acoustic guitar, hauntingly treated vocals, elements of country and blues, and everything else that made their previous album, The Tennessee Fire, a magnificent country, rock, and Americana stew and one of my favourite albums of the past few years. Only here, they take it up a notch, expanding their sound and throwing a host of different elements in the melting pot. The track 'Lowdown' floats along on chiming guitars and a poppy '60s-inspired vibe. There are hints reggae on 'Phone Went West' (the albums only low point in my view) and R&B on 'Just Because I Do' all of which, to me, only enhance the bands appeal. 

Then, there is the true highlight of this (and every other MMJ album before and after) and that is the truly magnificent voice of James. Sounding like an amalgamation of Neil Young and heartbroken balladeers such as Roy Orbison and Gene Pitney, his reverb drenched vocals soak through every track, his voice steeped in hurt and emotion but nevertheless keeping his songs just the right side of uplifting.

In summing up, this is a great record. Granted, its not wholy original and, as Ive mentioned, the influences are there for anyone to hear. But, I feel that that just adds to its charm. It brims with warmth and excitement, and to know that there are still true musicians out there, honing their craft to the gods of a by-gone era, instead of praying to the money grabbing one hit wonder machine of the music charts, makes it all the better.

Further Listening:

Everything All The Time - Band of Horses

Alligator - The National

Veckatimest - Grizzly Bear

Yonder the Clock - The Felice Brothers

The Trials of Van Occupanter - Midlake