"Fuck the Ordinary Boys - We've made the best album of the year!" Now that, dear readers, is just the sort of attitude that The Column That Likes Its Boys Rather More Extraordinary always approves of, so of course we were always going to be taken with the Golden Virgins. These wondrous Sunderlanders have the honour of launching the fortnight for us at the Monarch. We wouldn't entirely agree that 'Songs Of Praise' outclasses the rest of 2004, mind, but they cut an appealingly dapper dash along faintly Rocket From The Crypty lines, and there's a stirring chutzpah to many of the songs (notably the burningly brittle standout 'I Am A Camera'). Their closeness to Tindersticks territory, lyrically, and slightly Bad Seedsesque thunderstorms, musically, is every bit as engaging as it sounds, and very much appreciated by a surprisingly rabid audience. Like ya, Virgins. Hey!
On, then, to Hot Chip, but you've already read about that HERE, right? In that case, let's shuffle instead to the night at the Verge that they call Fan Club, although it clearly hasn't attracted that many fans just yet, seeing as how there are at best thirtysomething people here. Capacity, not age, although there are certainly one or two people here whose days of young persons' railcards are quite a way behind them. And it's to those people that the curiously-monikered duo The Uterus Women are probably appealing the most. They're made up of a svelte and permanently startled woman in a voluminous red cocktail dress whose keyboard technique suggests that touch-typing isn't really in her repertoire, and a striking blond chap in fabulously futile sunglasses and a Manics-style sprayed T-shirt, with a sound that varies from being a more arch Lydon fronting Go West to Soft Cell on social security. Oh, and they cover both Devo and Throbbing Gristle as well. One day they'll either be awesome or awful; right now, they're a transfixing combination of both.
No dalliances with rubbishness for the headliners though. Hoboken's debut album 'Crazy Glue', which we'd highly recommend sticking to your stereo come the end of the month, is a thing of no little wonder anyway, but live they're something of a revelation. Papercuttingly sharp sartorially, they're a starkly electronic affair approaching the giddy drama of - and we're by no means ashamed of saying this - Ultravox at their finest, but with bittersweeter lyrics and a trump card so effective he's practically a trump royal flush. Yes, frontman Jonathon Carr is one of our new favourite pop stars that aren't even nearly pop stars really yet. Vocally, he's caught between the swishness of Neil Hannon and Glenn Gregory, but he also performs with the convincing panache of a Sinatra. Far too astonishing for a crowd this size, and quite an honour to behold.
Later, if it's Tuesday, then it must be about time we hurl ourselves into the ever-welcoming embrace of Club Fandango. Actually, we're not sure it ever has welcomed Embrace. Maybe that happened when we weren't there. Anyway, opening proceedings at the Dublin Castle are London lads The Cold Shoulder, who, with some inevitability, aren't entirely given the most impressively receptive of welcomes. A pity, really, since the threesome are a mildly unique proposition, churning out pristine indie jangles with Billie Joe Green Day-recalling throaty vocals, although admittedly they're yet to really grab. Clearly insanely early days, however.
Mind you, that's something we could say about The Go! Team, who we think might now have played as many as three gigs. Their remarkable forthcoming 'Thunder, Lightning, Strike''s been something of a fixture 'round PlayLouder Towers of late thanks to its ubersummery ramraid joypop thrillage, but in the flesh they're something else again, swapping and introducing instruments as if they'd just learned to play everything in the world about half an hour earlier. Frontwoman Ninja's audience participation shamanism is alarmingly infectious given its gaucheness. There are horns and pianos everywhere (_how_ epically classy does 'Junior Kickstart' sound?), and the double-drum frenzies are adorable. In fact, they're that genius, they're the Avalanches featuring Betty Boo. Why's nobody ever done that before?
And the aceness of the line-up goes on as the never-unlovely Amityville chivvy the evening along in inimitably elegant style. In spite of the fact that, at this stage, 'Pacific Radio Fire' hasn't even been given a full release (yes, readers, we know it has now, but this gig was last week), they're attracting a fairly familiar and increasingly reverential following, and it's richly deserved. 'Shots In The Distance' narrowly nudges ahead as their finest hour this time around with its snarled guitar and vexed bashing, although it's not hard to imagine them crafting a glorious, generation-defying debut album too. Moreover, we know we always say this, but Andrew Montgomery really does have a luminous candyfloss scalpel of a voice, and there are few more combustible performers doing the rounds.
Shame about the headliners though. When this correspondent was but a pre-correspondentling living in Hull in the Britpop era, I was subjected to a veritable horde of local bands who thought they were Blur or Supergrass or, in one memorably horrific case, Gene, and with this year's colossal indie infiltration of the mainstream, it's a trend that seems to be reasserting itself. Humbersiders The Paddingtons do, you'd've thought, have plenty going for them. The haircuts that say "we'd like you to think that we've met the Queens Of Noize, honest". The louchely exuberant dual frontman duels. The fact that many of the songs very nearly sound like major alternative totems from the last thirty years. In short, they are The Band That'd Kill To Be The Libertines. Not an unreasonable ambition, to be honest, but right now they're missing by a mile. Could be a while before The Paddingtons are even bearable, wethinks...
Break out the bunting! For the first time ever, The Moffat Shows makes its way to the Betsey Trotwood! And what a, er, distinctive venue it is. Why, it feels like it'd host, ooh, maybe as many as twenty-three people on a good night, so we're in for a cosy one. As luck would have it, that enforced intimacy rather suits the evening's turns Nizlopi, who're here in honour of their just-released debut album 'Half These Songs Are About You.' To be honest, we've seen nothing exactly like it. The pair's handsome mouthpiece Luke, though not a wholly comfortable presence on the surreally tiny stage (or even in what we might eyebrows-raisedly term the moshpit), has a terrific voice, rather like the offspring of Paul Simon and Tracy Chapman, but it's combined with cohort John's beatboxing and rhythmically adventurous double bass playing. It's a warming and original spectacle, especially if you happened to be a Day One fan four or five years ago. Which we were. Hugely.
Back to the Barfly again then? Ooh, why not. After all, we were whoppingly impressed with Gisli at Glastonbury not so very long ago, and now we've got the chance to see his six-strong label-mates The Fallout Trust, who are really too short on ideas either. Their overwhelming strength lies in their iridescent harmonies, but there are moments of eerie electronic experimentation throughout and a goodly deal of decidedly propulsive guitar pop. Indeed, their grand finale, and the best moment of their performance, is an unreleased song that makes us think of Crowded House teaming up with 'The Bends'-era Radiohead on a cover of 'The Model'. Coo! Just one thing, though: we're not sure whether it's nerves, but the otherwise excellent lead vocalist Joe Winter does the kind of spasmous, ADD dancing that we haven't seen since the welcome demise of Terris. (Crumbs, we bitched about them last month when we were discussing Ikara Colt too - can a revival be on the cards...?) Somebody! Have words!
Of course, they're still far better than headliners Grand Transmitter and, since we were very kindly admitted gratis this evening, we can actually say that, in this instance, a Grand does come for free. Sadly, it's such tangents of thought that keep us amused for the duration, since it's certainly not the quartet's performance itself. There's something both untimely and ignobly stillborn about their shruggingly muscular new acoustica and there's a festering unstarriness to them that makes Keane look like the Scissor Sisters by comparison. There's nothing wrong per se with modelling yourself on Starsailor, but given the cracking headstart that they've failed quite drastically to capitalise on (in arguably more amenable times) there's no reason to believe the Transmitter'll ever be broadcasting to that hefty an audience. "Woooo!" go some of the somewhat supportive audience. "Whoooo?" go the rest of the world.
Hooray! Further Barfly joy! This time courtesy of a night that we make no apologies for bigging up as a PlayLouder Singles Club gig, one of the finest yet to these ears, and, remember, these are ears that'd be draped in a clean sheet if it wasn't for that one we missed last year. Finka, when they first showed up in this column some months back, were a marvellous refreshment, but, my, how they've grown in the four months since. They rescue that generally beautiful twangly spangle arsenal from the hideous clutches of 'Breakfast At Tiffany's' and wrap themselves in the selfsame billowing grey cloak of drama that U2 and the Bunnymen spent the first half of the 80s tussling bad-naturedly over, delivered with an affectionate punch and audacious ambition. Tablecloth On A Fell Music at its best, we're saying, and look! they can see the stadium from here!
Plus, we'd imagine that it's only a matter of time before The Subways are playing to gigantic crowds, especially given the monumental level of interest they're encouraging at the moment. Their irresistible rise remains virtually vertical, and it's not hard to see why; Billy and Mary-Charlotte have a chemistry onstage you could run a cul-de-sac of lighthouses with, and, lawks, those songs! The more they play, the more it feels like they've managed to tap into something ancient, primal and more than a little arcane, bringing bruised blues sensibilities and Britpoppy grit to the table with expandingly unmistakable results, and they've got at least two songs that would feasibly scrabble at the top three at the very least - the cheeky jitter of 'Mary''s been frothed over here before, but that "You are so cool / You are so rock'n'roll" one they've got's more massive still. Count the days til the signing, you lot...
And they're not even the top draw! No, that honour goes, as well it might, to Dogs Die In Hot Cars, the latest in a now-considerable line of already-top-40 tykes to have graced this stage this year. Doubtless you're aware of the hyperactive hoedown hollered earworm 'Godhopping' and the simple-but-effective jackhammer wallop 'I Love You'Cause I Have to' by now, and it's with delight that we report they both sound downright astonishing. Craig pushes his mighty, Rowlandy pipes almost to the point of puncture, Laurence is something of a charm-filled rattlesnake on the drums, and Lee, Gary and Ruth burn and churn throughout, all in a fashion that's both hungry and deeply satisfying, with 'Paul Newman's Eyes' crackling creepily and the oddly-not-off-the-album 'Please Describe Yourself' reimagining what The Sound Of Young Scotland was when this lot were making The Sounds Of In Nappies Scotland. Dogs Die? The bollocks.
Iain Moffat
COMING UP: Can we stand the heat of the Fiery Furnaces? Will we be overwhelmed by Fierce Girl's power? And what will we make of the Pipettes' sounds? God only knows... Still, all these questions and more may yet be answered next time in... THE MOFFAT SHOWS!
