Jamie T at Amsterdam's Melkweg

The first time I saw Jamie T was in Sydney's Kings Cross, at Candy's Apartment – a low ceiling basement, jam-packed with up-to-speed Brit backpackers and in-the-know locals not a month after his first album had been released. Jamie took the small stage with only a borrowed acoustic bass guitar. It didn't stop the kids from moshing and crowd surfing - The upstart's urgent, thrashy style transcends instruments, it could have been a ukulele and we'd have still got those scuzzy Pommy pumas in our faces.

The next time was at the Gaelic Club. Word had got round and Jamie had got a band, The Pacemakers. The show this time was a raucous punk show, loose and youthful. T's brash accent spat rhymes like the beer he sprayed on the crowd and everyone was up for it. Panic Prevention was filled with chant-a-longs and a chance for everyone, travellers and locals alike, to become unashamed geezers, from our "screams calling 'London!'" to his cover of Billy Bragg's 'A New England'. He's visited more recent - read these Sydney reviews: Metro & Gaelic Club

For me, three years on and Jamie T and the Pacemakers play Melkweg's Oude Zaal, sold out. Seemingly the support act didn't turn up, giving much time for the packed crowd to get beers under belts before a rowdy night. Jamie, however, starts mellow with 'Emily's Heart' (see the very sweet video below), an acoustic cut from new album 'Kings and Queens' (reviewed here by Bobby Six).

'Atlantic City', a Bruce Springsteen cover follows that may have gone over the heads of kids down the front but hit the balcony of elders (we had a great view). Out to prove his worth and longevity on the second go-round, 'Kings and Queens' brings a more mature side to this Wimbledon youf. Whether he's covering them or just acknowledging them, you can hear the Troubadours before him: Dylan, The Boss, Strummer, Billy Bragg, and Skinner. And when the band kicks you've got the Clash, Beastie Boys and Rancid on up-rocked ska and grinding organs.

Highlights through the set include the 'oh ohs' of 'Chaka Demus', the Balkan ska of 'Dance of the Young Professionals', the back-chat of 'If You Got The Money' and of course 'Shelia'. The Encore, as well as The Clash's '1977', saw Jamie play a double time thrash version of 'Salvador' and cleared the dancefloor for an old school circle pit for the guys. Not to be outdone, two handbag-embracing girls hopped the stage for a skank as Jamie sang 'the ladies dance'. They crowd surfed off without sight of security. Well - that only added fuel to a fire. Closing with the ska-punk of 'Sticks and Stones' turned the circle pit into a frothing mosh until that girl again jumped on stage. Then a girl from the left side. Then a dude in the middle. The three more on the right. Before long the stage was invaded by drunken teenagers as surely Jamie's did in his youth. The star steps aside and lets chaos reign and the kids taste the limelight as more and more clear the pit for momentary fame: front and centre, at the guitarist's mic, on the drum and keyboard risers. Forty people maybe.

It's this energy, frustrated and angsty, rough and tumble, raw and rebel-rousing that Jamie brings to an indie scene too often filled with acts polished and packaged before the ink has even dried on a contract.

An Interview with Jamie T

Midlake at Amsterdam's Paradiso

Last night Texan classic rock revivalists Midlake (interview below) rolled into town. With the band running late, a few of us lucky early ones snuck in and caught their sound-check just before the doors actually opened. It was interesting to watch with the lights on - kinda like sex, there's definitely something missing - and I'm pretty sure they hadn't applied their onstage-beards yet.

A sold out show at the Paradiso promised an enthusiastic crowd while an album just released, The Courage of Others suggested there'd be a mix of new and old songs, for better or for worse.

Midlake came to prominence with 2006's The Trials of Van Occupanther (was he Dutch?) an instant indie classic for both you and yer old man, conjuring the spirits of Crosby Stills & Nash, Neil Young's Harvest-era, Fleetwood Mac and a touch, dare I say, of the Eagles - 'forrest rock' as my girlfriend, Liz calls it.

Last night, the shows' standouts came from said first album, the likes of 'Young Bride', 'Head Home' and the gem 'Roscoe' were all crowd favourites with a rocking end to 'Head Home' courtesy of drummer McKenzie Smith. Likewise, their encore 'Branches' was from Van Occupanther, and a mellow closure to the evening.
At the end of the show the band were openly blown away when the house lights went on to reveal three tiers of fans in rapturous applause.

Maybe that's because the band knew what I knew; where the old songs rocked, the new songs felt awash in sameness. Since Van Occupanther we've seen a swag of fellow vintage rockers lathered with smooth folk vocals and harmonies, check shirts and beards. None derivative, all bring something new to the table (or take away) - the likes of Fleet Foxes, Bon Ivor and Local Natives.
Understandably, in an attempt to distance themselves from the sound, or more appropriately, three more years of touring the same style of songs, Midlake have moved from forrest rock to druid-folk, especially if we're going off their album covers; American woodland the former, robes and celtic symbolism the latter.

The move to British folk territory on The Courage of Others seems to have payed off as well as Michael Jordan's to baseball. Instead of my Dad's Neil Young records I hear my mum's Steeleye Span records. Fair play, they give it ago and have mastered the sound but at what point might one think 'maybe four guitars are too many?' There's also more flute than you can chuck an Enya at. Plus, on the night, Tim's voice was too low in the mix, his mellow tones too easily washed away.

With the best seats in the house (for those in the know, front and centre on the balcony, that almost box-seat part) we were hoping to be blown away, and for the songs from the first album we were by their weaving tapestry and texture. Songs from the second instead blanketed us in druid drone with not enough melodies or rich harmonies. Shame really.

Brown Bird at Amsterdam's Paradiso

Dear Brown Bird

Sometimes when you go to a gig and you know nothing of the support act and the support act sucks it's no great loss other than wondering why the main act selected them. But other times, those glorious and precious times, you catch the support act and it feels like you've struck gold, not always as polished as the main act but all the more satisfying for digging that bit deeper - or at least arrived when the doors opened.

I was taken away by your music, simple and earnest. David's voice, so clear through that beard, what should have muffled actually filtered, Morgan's aching strings and Joan Baez vocal style plus Mike's classic dobro filled the magestic Paradiso's hall with a rustic stomp that bands with more plugs, pedals and pomp have failed to do.

After the show I'd hoped to congratulate you on a fine set. If only I had stopped at the merch desk mid-Low Anthem as I smuggled myself out for a quick piss. Alas, at the end of a spectacular set by your fellow Rhode Islanders it was their turn to meet and greet.

Nevertheless I bought The Devil Dancing on CD - I owed you that much - and added my name to your mailing list (about three quarts the way down on the first page). I popped the disc in my girlfriend's bag and went home to bed.

This morning I woke irrationally early so I hopped up and tackled a mountain of dishes and what better way to help me get through the slog than with some gentle morning music.

I sliced open the plastic seal of my new CD and opened the cardboard sleeve, fired up the computer and tried to pop out the disc from its casing. Like a reluctant virgin the disc wouldn't pop from its centre. It just bent, bowed with a creaking sound, before finally, snap! To quote Dylan, the Brown Bird disc 'breaks, just like a little girl.'

Was it my eagerness and heavy man-handling that broken the CD rather than easing it gently and wooing it from it's casing? Most probably.

Or was it in this day and age, as CD sales drop in the face of downloads, manufacturers cut corners and construction gets flimsy… I don't blame you Brown Bird, I blame the system.

Feeling jilted, I jumped straight online to find your torrent. Alas as a small act, your discovery by a prospecting punter is real gold* and the price of gold is high for its rare and exclusive qualities, not for its ubiquitous torrent. I did dig up a file called 'Brown Bird at the Nave' but the progress bar didn't move beyond infinity. And that's fools gold.

Sadly I've lost my nugget of Brown Bird but I can say I discovered you before the inevitable gold rush. In the interim I'm not so much panning for gold, but washing the pans... in silence.

Kind regards,

Colin.

*I'm dropping the 'virgin' thing and reclaiming the gold analogy 'cos when you start talking about the price of virgins on the internet the FBI start knockin' – or so I've heard.

Review: Dan Deacon live at Paradiso

And what a master stroke it was to let the Pains Of Being Pure At Heart lead off, lulling the crowd into a false sense of security, in harmonies and melodies before Dan Deacon takes the helm and tears everyone new eardrums.
DIY in his set up (pink gaffer tape, a green skull-strobe, an epileptic traffic light and some keyboards on a table) and hilarious in his introduction, Dan Deacon is all about crowd participation. Set off the stage and on the floor in an inclusive manner, he makes requests of his audience, not demands. Before the music gets going he sets the mood with a lesson in crowd participation that sees almost all the audience squat on the floor before, with a raised arm and pointed finger embarrassing those too cool to do as he asks. And then he begins. Like a schizophonic ringtone version of Ministry's "Jesus Built My Hotrod", Deacon's music is intense yet playful, serious yet pisstake, ear piercing and bowel trembling - if there is a funky smell in the hall, it's 'cos he found people's brown notes. He wails into the microphone as effects distorts his voice so he's speaking in tongues. His arm raised to the skies, he is a man possessed like, if you'll pardon it, a fallen deacon. Crowd surfers and moshers rage in the old church, almost falling on his desk as he nearly loses the skull-strobe.

Intermittently, when the crowd needs a break from the intensity, he plays games. Whether it's everyone with their hands on their neighbours heads, or dance offs with the lights on, Deacon keeps it interesting. The most amazing however comes when he pushes everyone to one side of the hall. To an infectious yet repetitive beat, like a sped-up version of the congo-line song he takes two 'volunteers' to form an arc with their arms before another couple move through the arc to form the beginnings of a tunnel. Nearly the entire audience play along and the tunnel worms from his DJ desk out the doors of the main hall, into the foyer, on to the street, around the building, up the wheelchair ramp and back into the hall finishing at the DJ desk. Ridiculous yet amazing.

So amazing is it, we bother not to risk being disappointed by seeing Hatchem Social play in the small hall, and call it a night 'cos Dan Fuckin' Deacon throws parties harder than Kenny Fuckin' Powers throws a fastball.

Review: Pains of Being Pure At Heart live at Paradiso

A little treasure is The Pains of Being Pure at Heart's debut album. They're indie-pop New Yorkers who sway from moments of My Bloody Valentine to the early upbeat riffing of Ash or Siamese Dream-era Smashing Pumpkins. Both catchy and naively sexy - kinda like mono - it makes you pine for your youth, especially if you grew up listening to Siamese Dream or Brisbane's Screamfeeder boy-girl harmonies. And if they didn't spell it out with their name, tracks like "Young Adult Friction", "A Teenager in Love" and "This Love is Fucking Right" make it pretty obvious this young band are wearing their indie-hearts on their sleeves, captured it in three-chord pop and harmonies.



But if you grew up listening to Screamfeeder you'll recall both Tim and Kelly had decent voices. These days you can do a lot in the studio with vocal layering but live you're on your own. And with the Internet sweeping kids too quickly from the garage to the main hall of Amsterdam's Paradiso, they haven't a lot of time to refine their chops - let alone let them stew. Accepting success before maturity is just one of the Pains of Being Pure At Heart. Singer Kip Berman (aka Jason Biggs) lacks the vocal umph on stage, crackling on notes as if his 'taco fell in the fryer'. Likewise keyboardist/singer Peggy Wang's voice can't seem to sing through with her Joey Ramone bangs. It's almost charming in that shy teen thing they go for, but a bum note stinks.
Musically though I really enjoy it. I can't stop my left leg from doing that cool, one legged wobble while right leg stays strong. And if my arm isn't around my baby, then as I've seen the kids do, my right hand is on left elbow in front of torso, lost in the moment, head slightly tilted with a sympathetic nod to their pains... and voices.