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a view of the year
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Another year survived. Another couple of hundred bands seen. Another few thousand brain cells atrophied. And liver cells irreparably damaged. Another year of highs. And lows. Of ecstasy and downright misery. Of life and death. So many taken from us. Friends, ‘stars’, influences, idols, villains, innocents, memories and, sadly, bands. But amid all of the upheaval, there’s been some sensational music. Thank the lord.
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Over the next few pages, I’ve attempted to cobble together a personal snapshot of a turbulent year. My opinion. No one else’s. The gigs, the bands, the festivals, the albums that I think have been the lube for what has been a prickly old annus. The pics are largely shit and taken from my phone while usually pissed. But that’s the point. Honesty. No gloss, hype, polish or artifice. Have a look and a read.
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As weighty as a lead flask full of weapons grade uranium. But also tantalisingly melodic, operatic and, at times neo-classical in its construct, Statues has garnered attention and plaudits from all corners. statues. black peaks.
The Brighton-based boys’ first long player rocks for sure. But it also seduces, snarls, mesmerises and baffles. Any hooks that are in between the riffs are piquantly sharp. And it has Sir Jamie Lenman on it. Boom.
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More of the same? Well, not at all. But, definitely Deftones. Yup there are riffs. Dirty, huge downtuned riffs that we’ve come to expect from Stef Carpenter And yes. the coolest dude on the planet, Mr Moreno does his wonderfully off kilter cleverly atonic screams, croons and whispers. But there is a freshness. A relevance. Something new. Comfortingly uncomfortable, but brilliant. As you’d expect.
IXV gore. deftones.
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XVIII silent earthling. three trapped tigers.
It’s as impossible to work out how to categorise this album as it is to accurately quantise your toe tapping to the polyrhythms and chicanery of much of it’s stunning contents. But that’s a good thing. Oft lazily thrown into the bucket labelled noise rock, TTT are without a doubt three of the most incredible musicians on God’s earth who surely deserve wider regard. Led by Adam Bett’s almost other worldly drum skills, this album is an absolute triumph on the rock side of noise rock. If noise rock is actually a thing. Groove, rhythm, spirit, balls and musicianship. Sheer genius.
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Edgy, smooth, punky, poppy, smart, sarcastic, raw, lubed, clever, blunt, posturing, contemplative, political, fun, human, misanthropic, hairy, shiny, sassy, awkward, aggressive, reective, priapic, vulnerable, butch, beguiling, angry, appealing, light, dark. A simple album of complex and surprising contrasts and contradictions. Brilliant. Not shit. In any way.
VIIV max raptor. max raptor.
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i’m not well. black foxxes.
Well, well, what a delightful surprise the Devonian trio have gone and cooked up. Take a cup or two of unreconstructed testicular rock and roll, throw in a complex melange of flavourings including Brand New, Glassjaw, Biffy, Ash and even a smidge of McClusky and Reuben and my God, what a bowl of heady, unexpected yet unputdownable cake mixture. Dip the finger in lick clean every last dollop. Yum. Bloody yum.
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Not truly a full album according to modern ‘rules’ but just too good to ignore. A collection of spellbinding tunes all played by and sung by one very, very clever young troubadour. Jack is the nearest we’ve got to Dan Lancaster and his sorely missed Proceed. Not that there’s too much immediate similarity in the music itself. More in terms of the musicianship, vision, single-mindedness, dazzling technical prowess, the ability to experiment with time signatures and, of the ear for a tune. Of which there are myriad. At times mathy, at others Jeff Buckleyesque. But a small and perfectly formed masterpiece throughout.
VI disconnect. grumble bee.
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VIV permanent rainbow. nervus.
For me, the most surprising album of the year. Impossible to define or bung into a pigeon’s widened hole. Bit punky. But mathy. Bit emo. Bit rocky. Bit bloody brilliant. Lyrically, it’s laden with questions, angst, confusion, regret, doubt with the odd spiky, sardonic, acerbic tilt at just about everyone. And everything. Musically it proudly musters a free-standing originality while showing hints and signs of support from all manner of influences. But to mention them would drag us back into pigeon’s orifices. So let’s not go there. Just buy the bloody album. It’s fucking great.
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Too smart? Too clever? Too mind-melting? Too wonderful? Too mathy? Too self-regarding? Too much to take in? Too technically brilliant? Whatever. Fuck any excuses from the ninnies who haven’t installed this totally
disappointment island. ttng.
jaw-dropping and beautiful album as an instant classic. It is. So too bad, You small-minded generic pop punk-loving dicks. Recorded live to tape, this beautiful album is genuinely too good for you.
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They’re going. It’s a bloody tragedy. And I’m fucking incandescent. The ‘industry’ let them down. But, as a last and lasting fuck you, this lovable library geeky offbeat quartet have dumped in all of our pockets before they disappear. And what a rich and fulfilling dump. It reeks of dark, brooding torture, displeasure, cynicism, anger, self-doubt and, well, love. Not just i stop somewhere waiting for you. yearbook.
in the chocolates and Sunday spooning way, but in the love for music. The process of putting together a masterpiece. And that is what this is. It may well be filed alongside Reuben, Proceed, MMISL, Colour and a plethora of other ‘forgotten’ works by unfulfilled or fallen geniuses in years to come. But this album is unforgettable. Genuinely.
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all our gods have abandoned us. architects.
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We all know it’s been a well documented year of tragedy for this incredible band. So let’s not dwell. Let’s just rejoice in an album of such consummate brilliance. An album of prescience. Of power. Of despair. Of pathos. Of realism. Of anger. Of consternation. Of inquisition. Of impatience. And of heart. So much fucking heart. If you have to fall into the taxonomy trap, then yes, it’s kind of (post) metalcore, but ultimately who gives a shit? It’s just a goose-bump, throat lump inducing tour de force of energy, angst and emotion. A-fucking-men.
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live highlights. 2016.
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ARCTANGENT Another truly brilliant year for the truly brilliant home of the bearded freak festival. 4/4 beats and vocals were once again in short supply. And every smiling, friendly nerdy musical outcast rejoiced in that fact. Off kilter, off the beaten track, off it’s bonce. A finger in the air to the banal and derivative mainstream. No pop punk. No joyless indie. No wizards and warlocks. Just an incredible diverse line up of everything from huge cinematic post rock through to filling-removing mathy noisiness and bleepy, loopy bedroom noodling. The most friendly, innovative and welcoming festival in the world. Oh yes.
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the mighty arcane roots. stadium ready.
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axes. spellbinding.
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a sensational send o for the ritacular cleft. altogether now: chugga chug. chugga chug de-de-de
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chug!
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asiwyfa. absolutely slayed it. as always.
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another swansong. this time from the mathy magicians mmisl. wow.
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feed the rhino feeding a packed tufnell park dome with face melting brutality. ooh ya kipper.
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Sell outs? Metal traitors? Mainstream bunnies? Emo darlings? Who gives a flying rat’s sphincter. BMTH came of age at the O2 and cemented their place as a truly world class rock act. 20,000 adoring fans proved the narrow-minded haters wrong and were treated to a sensational night of production, emotion, pits, riffs and singalongs. And they brought Don Broco and the always fabulous Enter Shikari along for the ride too. World class.
BMTHO2
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enter shikari. sweeping minds and just about every live band in the world away.
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getoveritYEARBOOKNERVUSWALLFLOWERSTEPHENdavidsonTHEMONARCHCAMDEN
A fundraiser for Stonewall. Good. With Stephen Davidson from the wonderful Tellison opening. Even better. With alt rock noodlers Wallflower. Keep talking. Plus the remarkable emo-infused math punksters Nervus. Better and better. Oh go on then, how about Britain’s best unsigned, undiscovered librarycore darlings Yearbook. Speechless. What a line up. What a cause. What a brilliant show. From brilliant people.
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tellisolo. mr davidson being fabulous.
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nervus. indeďŹ nably brilliant.
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yearbook. being yearbook.
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No record out to tour? No bother. Let’s play both our catchier-than-cholera long players in full on consecutive nights. In an oven. Packed with hot, baying, drooling, moshing, WKD swilling acolytes. Deal? Deal. Two triumphant nights in the steaming capital showed us just how much hot love there is for these home counties honeys. Slick, schmoove, smiley, Sweltering. Things are sure to get even hotter next year.
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Brilliant band. Brilliant tunes. Brilliant crowd. Brilliant night. Packed with emotion, love, singing, smiling and sobbing. Truly a national treasure who deserve to be massive.
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It’s fair to say, Sam’s had his ups and downs. From the world conquering days of his modern masterpiece Chronicles of a Bohemian Teenager and an apparent fast track to world domination to darker days, sullied with serious illness and self doubt. But he has stoically and laudably continued to produce music. Some sublime, some questionable, some meandering. But all infused with heart, passion and integrity. So there can be no criticism of this wonderful young man when he decides to wheel out Chronicles in full after he’d supposedly seemingly sent its corpse on a burning raft out into a lake in Valhalla a couple of years back. Especially when he decides to do it with a full band. On the end of his beloved Sarfend pier. And what a show. An absolute privilege to have been there, Joy, love, tears and singing until speechless. Amazing.
CHRONICLESOFABOHEMIANTEENAGERINFULLATTHEENDOFTHEWORLD’SLONGESTPIERINSUNNYSARFEND
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So many festivals. So many shit festivals. With the same roulette wheel of acts to pick from. So many festivals being closed or going bust. So when the news of another festival hits the grapevine, it’s kind of understandable that the reception maybe a bit tepid. Even cynical. But from the outset, there seemed something different about Fortfest. The line up looked incredible. So many brilliant acts. Black Peaks, Arcane Roots, Xcerts, Max Raptor, Grumble Bee, Press to Meco and many more. Clearly, whoever was behind the curation knows their onions. So it’s a shame that the attendance was more than a tad disappointing and the weather, well, shit. But everything else was gold. The main stage had the best sound I’ve ever heard at a festival. The hospitality, catering and general vibe wonderful. The bands mixing with fans over beers gave it the impression it was like a big private house party. If the same brains get to choose the acts again next year, this could well become the unmissable festival on the circuit. Fingers crossed.
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max raptor. being, well, max raptor. oh yes.
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the uk’s best rock band. proving it. arcane roots sounding better than ever. so just imagine how good that sounds.
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mustn’t grumble. jack and his lads weaving musical magic. spellbinding.
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on the up in the downpour. press to meco destined for huger stages. being huge.
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There are musicians. Then there are brilliant musicians. Then once in a while, there are ridiculously talented technically fantastic virtuoso musicians. So what are the chances of finding two lots of ridiculously talented technically fantastic virtuoso musicians crammed into a venerable old gay club underneath Charing Cross? It happened folks. Mind. Blown. Physics House Band led by Adam Hutchison a latter day mad professorial Stanley Clark and Three Trapped Tigers, the incredible noisy rocky trio skippered by the best drummer in the world, Mr Adam Betts destroy everything: ear drums, dental work, hopes of being a musician. A sensational night of skill, groove, jaw-dropping precision, technicality, soul, passion and a celebration of music for music’s sake. Just fuck what everyone else is doing, we’re going to do this. Wow.
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Up. And up. And up. Not just cuddly wee front man Conor Mason’s incredible gymnastic and spine tingling voice, but the career trajectory of this stadium-bound next generation world beaters. After an astonishingly accomplished debut album last year, this Southend band of brothers continue to get better and better. And bigger and bigger. The fact that they made a sold out show at The Forum earlier this year feel like an intimate karaoke session says all you need to know. And the year being topped with a sold out Brixton Academy glory fest further cements them as the next big thing. If they aren’t indeed that already.
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First the astonishing album. Then the heart-ripping news of Tom’s demise. What a year. What brilliance. What tragedy. What heart. What resolve. What to do? Well, here’s what to do: take the album of the year and tour it’s arse off. Play it with so much passion and heart. Play it loud. Play it to packed houses of adoring fans. Yup. That’s what to do. The sell out show at Brixton was, without a doubt, one of the most emotional nights I’ve even been part of. The dignity and humility of the band, led by the peerless Sam Carter leaves one truly breathless. Dan’s speech was truly one of the most moving things imagineable. But the power and raw energy of the music does the real talking. Who knows where Architects will go next. But on the strength of performances like this, wherever it is, Tom would be so fucking proud.
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I do this purely for fun. No money, beads, shells or mirrors change hands. I’ve never taken a press pass or a guest list place. I buy a ticket. I buy beers. I watch. I smile. I sing. I mosh. I fucking love it. All the shots are taken usually while inebriated on my phone. They’re generally a bit shit. But if you want to use them, please feel free. If I have stepped on any image-rights corporate lawyers’ toes, then apologies. Well, actually fuck you. But I still apologise. All views are my own. Obviously. And I tend only to commit to the page words about bands I like. So forgive any perceived ‘bias’. Get over it. Anyway, I bloody love music. Especially loud live music. Hit me up at bwooor@hotmail.com if you want to. No unsolicited willy pics though. That would be wrong.